to bear up under the rigors of a full campaign and long days of war. They spent their peaceful retirement training future knights in the deadly equestrian dance of horse and rider.
Rithdeliel gave his mount the signal to back out of range. Were this a battle—and were he mounted on Varagil—he would signal Varagil to spin and kick. Such a blow from a hoof could shatter bone, even through armor. Since this was not true battle, he brought his mount instead around to his opponent’s off side, so that she would have to strike across herself to defend or attack. If she turned in the saddle to strike a better blow—a common beginner’s mistake—she would be off-balance, unable to properly signal her mount and vulnerable to being either dragged or shoved from the saddle. He was looking forward to a swift conclusion to the mock-combat—this was his opponent’s first fight from the back of a destrier—but as he urged his stallion forward again, his opponent’s mare spun, slamming her rump against his stallion’s neck. Reflexively, the animal beneath him sprang sideways—only a moment of distraction, but time enough for his opponent to go on the attack once more.
Rithdeliel backed the stallion quickly out of range and raised his sword, indicating the match was over. To continue would be to risk injury, even with peacebonded blades, for a fall or unintended kick could be as fatal here as on the field.
For a moment his adversary sat frozen, as if she wished to continue the attack. Then she saluted in turn.
“A good beginning,” Rithdeliel said. He patted the stallion’s shoulder and the roan stretched his neck and shook his head, as if shaking off the glamour of battle.
“What more is there?” Vieliessar’s voice was sharp.
“Come. Let us return the horses to the stable and get ourselves out of this armor,” Rithdeliel said, not answering.
He swung down from the stallion’s back in the stableyard, moving lithely in the many-jointed flexible armor, and tossed the reins to one of the ostlers. When he turned to help Vieliessar down, he saw that she had vaulted from the saddle as lightly as he, and for a moment, Rithdeliel felt the same unease he’d felt the first time he’d watched her spar on foot against Gunedwaen.
Her back was to him; she had drawn off one heavy gauntlet to scratch her mare behind the hinge of her jaw. “I am who I need to be,” she answered as if he’d spoken.
He was uneasy enough that he might have questioned her further, but Varagil had sensed his presence, and a loud, demanding neigh now came from within the stable. “I am summoned,” he said briefly, walking quickly away.
A few moments later, Vieliessar joined Rithdeliel at Varagil’s loose-box. She’d removed her helmet; her sweat-sodden hair, still too short to braid properly, was plastered flat against her skull.
“Raemeros is a gallant steed, and she has taught me well,” Vieliessar said, watching him with Varagil. “But she cannot serve me in battle.”
“She’ll do well enough to get you killed,” Rithdeliel said brusquely. “Even if you believe that by some fortune you can declare against the High Houses and gain anything but your death.”
“Ah, but I will not do it alone,” she said, grave laughter in her voice. “There is Gunedwaen.”
“You cannot just
The three of them were in Rithdeliel’s own rooms rather than Candlebrook Manor’s Great Hall. A half-played game of
“So you and Gunedwaen have said before,” Vieliessar pointed out. “And I shall not merely ask. One army takes another, just as in
“This plan only works if you
“You might once have persuaded the Free Companies to back your cause—if you promised them lands and estates and the settlement of old grievances,” Rithdeliel added. “But now…”
Vieliessar’s flight from the Sanctuary over a year earlier had borne bitter fruit. Goaded by Hamphuliadiel Astromancer’s claim that she sought vengeance on the Old Alliance, and fearing that she would seek to bring the Free Companies under her banner, Caerthalien and Aramenthiali—of all unlikely allies—had joined Ullilion and Cirandeiron to scour Farcarinon of those who made it their refuge. The Harrowing of Farcarinon had begun at the end of Sword—a few bare sennights after she and Gunedwaen had come to Oronviel—and stretched through Thunder into Fire.
The power of the Free Companies had been broken decisively. Of the hundreds of mercenary companies that had once sold their services to the highest payer, only Foxhallow and Glasshaven remained—surviving because these two, the largest Free Companies, possessed granted lands far to the east of Farcarinon.
“Their combined force would not have been sufficient to take even Oronviel,” Vieliessar pointed out reasonably. “The Free Companies do not have Lightborn to Heal their warriors; Oronviel could put every knight they’d wounded back into the field the following day, and so stand against them forever—and if they acted outside the Code in order to win, Oronviel could declare them Outlaw. We have seen this War Season how outlaws are dealt with.”
Those who had escaped the Harrowing were now outlaws in truth. No War Prince would offer them a place. The shattered remnants of the Free Companies had turned to banditry to survive.
Rithdeliel glanced toward Gunedwaen. The old Swordmaster’s eyes held an expression that was half exasperation, half resignation. He knew as well as Rithdeliel did that a lone knight had no hope of conquering the Hundred Houses and making them crown her king. And both of them knew it was impossible to persuade Vieliessar of that. All she would say was that she
“Mercenaries, or the army of a single House—both approaches are too conservative,” Vieliessar added, twisting the stem of her winecup between her hands. She glanced from Gunedwaen to Rithdeliel. “Would you trust any of the War Princes to honor their pledged word?”
Gunedwaen’s answer was a bark of derisive laughter. “Your life is the answer to that, my prince!”
Vieliessar nodded. “Just so. No matter what they say—what guarantees, what pledges, what hostages they give—any of the War Princes will break their sworn oath. Do you not see what that implies?”
There was a moment of silence. “To me, it implies I would sign no treaty with them if my life depended on their keeping of it. But I am sure this is not what you mean us to understand,” Rithdeliel said with ponderous sarcasm.
There was a brief flash of laughter in Vieliessar’s eyes, though her face remained composed. “But you are right, good master Rithdeliel. No treaty with any of the Hundred has worth. So from declaration to victory, my campaign can run only one War Season.”
Gunedwaen threw up his hands in exasperation. “It is not enough for you to say you will make the Hundred declare you High King—now you will defeat them all in one summer!” At his feet, Striker raised her head inquisitively, then lowered it again, seeing nothing interesting was happening.
“As you say,” Vieliessar said mildly, raising her cup to drink. She refused to speak further of her plans that evening, and the talk turned to gossip of the coming Harvest Court.
Four great feasts turned the wheel of the year: the Kite Festival of Flower Moon, the Fire Festival of Fire Moon, the Midwinter Feast of Snow Moon, and Harvest Court.
Unlike the other festivals, its time was not fixed: Harvest Court fell upon the first full moon after the Fire Festival, whether that lay in the moonturn of Harvest or not. Loremasters said it was the oldest of the festivals; storysingers spoke of a time before the building of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor by the first High King, when the folk had not lived beneath roofs of stone, but roamed the land following the great horse herds, a time when the harvest the name spoke of was not grain, but souls—for it was their claim that Harvest Court had once marked the
