I was her age. Such pretty dreams wither at the first touch of a swordblade.”
“And the time I dreamt the dreams of a child is long past, Lord Atholfol. We have lived a score of generations in exile, at war among ourselves, for the inability to agree on who should have the Unicorn Throne after Amrethion and Pelashia. In the west, the Beastlings seek to drive us into the sea. The south is bordered by impassable desert, the north, by mountains so high and cold that nothing can live there. The eastern lands are more embattled than the west, settled only because the alternative was extinction.” She stopped, studying him in silence for a long moment. “They speak of you as one who rejoices in war for the sport it offers. I ask you: where is the sport in the slaughter of helpless innocents? You took no new wife after Ninianael’s death. Will you see Caragond also face the day when she must sue Caerthalien, or Aramenthiali, or Cirandeiron, to receive her consort’s bones for burning?”
“When that day comes—if it does—I shall be dead long since,” Atholfol said harshly. “This is a strange wooing, Lord Vieliessar, accompanied as it is by neither gifts nor threats.”
“I do offer you a gift. I offer truth,” Vieliessar answered.
This time Atholfol roared with laughter, until he had to clutch at the cantle of his destrier’s saddle to steady himself. The animal craned its head around to regard him, ears flicking with curiosity.
“By the Hunt!” he said, when he had gained control of his mirth. “I had forgotten you were raised a Green Robe! I cannot eat truth or ride it—what use is it to me?”
Vieliessar had watched the display in silence, knowing it was at least partly an act for her benefit. “Truth is a weapon, Lord Atholfol. I offer you more truth—as a gift. The Free Companies were hunted out of Farcarinon. Such scraps as remain have turned to brigandage. Those outlaws who would once have joined Free Companies and been kept to discipline now have no place to offer their services save to bandits. Nor can Ivrithir, or Oronviel, or any other Less House hire the services of that which does not exist. But that is not the truth I offer—it is a poor thing, and you must know it yourself. What I offer is this: consider the alliance that made it possible.
“A century and more ago Farcarinon was erased and no retribution followed. My present ambitions are known. The Twelve will move to erase Oronviel next. Suppose they succeeded—though I say to you they will not. You know as well as I that no dog’s appetite is slaked by one meal. The High Houses would learn that they might expand their lands at the expense of those who cannot stand against them. Not this year. Not even while you yet live. But the day would come when Ivrithir, too, was erased, or forced to flee eastward to the Grand Windsward in hopes of establishing a domain there with what scraps it had retained in its flight.”
“You will not terrify me with fearful nursery tales, Lord Vieliessar,” Atholfol scoffed.
“How should I, when I have said you will not live to see the day? But once there were a Hundred Houses, and each War Prince possessed an equal claim to the Unicorn Throne. That is why we fight, you know,” she added kindly. “Then the Grand Alliance did the unthinkable and now there are only Ninety-and-Nine. With Oronviel’s erasure there would be Ninety-and-Eight. Do you think it would not occur to the High Houses that by eliminating the Less Houses they can claim wealth, armies, and land—and eliminate rivals for the High Kingship?”
Plainly Atholfol did not like what he heard, but he was too stubborn to admit it. “Less Houses have risen up before—what care I if fifty Lines are erased, if Ivrithir is not? You ask for an alliance and offer nothing but dreams and promises. Think you I do not know Oronviel’s muster to the last maiden knight? You do not have sufficient forces to take Ivrithir in the field, let alone a Great House.”
Vieliessar smiled. “Do you think you know the full force I can summon to my call? I tell you this as a further gift, since you must be wooed as if you are a blushing child. I will take all who will swear fealty to me—the raiders who harry your borders, the craftworkers who flee your harsh justice, the Landbonds you tithe into starvation. I shall forge them into a weapon. And I shall take up that weapon, and win.”
“Oronviel cannot stand against the Twelve,” Atholfol said flatly.
“You speak of the Twelve in alliance and call
“Why not?” Atholfol asked. He seemed torn between curiosity and disbelief.
“You have not agreed to an alliance,” Vieliessar answered.
“You offer a storysinger’s tale of peace and justice, but conjure Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor as you will, what you truly offer is death.”
“Is it?” Vieliessar asked. “Perhaps it seems so to you. Tell me, Lord Atholfol, what does an army need in order to fight?”
“Knights, horses, supply trains, Lightborn—” Atholfol began.
Vieliessar silenced him with a gesture. “No. They need to believe they can win. And to want the victory.
“When you ride to battle, your Landbonds pray you will not fight across their fields. Your craftworkers pray you will not demand the impossible and punish them when they cannot achieve it. Your
“You mean to arm your Landbonds,” Atholfol said slowly. “They will not fight for you. And even if they would, the Code of Battle—”
“—is a toy. I set my toys aside long ago. I will arm my Landbonds, and my Landholders, and my craftworkers. They will fight for me. All in the Fortunate Lands whom you in your wastrel lives have cast aside will fight for me, for I will offer them justice.”
“An army of rabble and outlaws,” Atholfol said, but he sounded uncertain for the first time. “They will never prevail against trained knights.”
“Come against us and see. Though if you join us, you will probably get a better view,” she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her.
“I … believe I shall,” Atholfol said slowly. “If only to see that haughty pup Runacarendalur’s face when he realizes he is to take the field against hayforks and blacksmith’s hammers.” He let out a deep breath, as if he had been holding it for much longer than they’d stood here. “Very well. Alliance. Safe passage across my borders; my army to call. I am not certain I can promise the brigands, though. My
“No matter,” Vieliessar answered lightly. “Send your knights to me and I will instruct them properly. And so that your lands do not lie undefended, I shall send my army to you, to keep your borders and bring me your outlaws.”
“You truly mean to do this,” Atholfol said, as if only now realizing it.
“I do,” Vieliessar answered.
“Very well. We have no Lightborn here, but once they were not needed for the swearing of oaths.” He drew the dagger from his belt and pulled off his heavy leather hunting gloves. Holding the blade steady, he scored a long even gash across the palm of his hand, then held the blade out to her.
The kiss of the steel against her skin was first cold, then burning. She held out her hand, and he clasped it.
“Vieliessar Oronviel, I renounce my claim upon the Unicorn Throne and swear that while I yet draw breath I shall do all that lies within my power to deliver it into your hand,” Atholfol said.
“Atholfol Ivrithir, I take your oath, and for this pledge of loyalty I swear I will not allow you to lie unransomed in the halls of my enemies, nor languish a prisoner in their dungeons, nor permit your body to be dishonored in death.”
They stood a moment longer, hands clasped, then Atholfol let go and stepped back. “I suppose I should go and tell Bedreithir Warlord she will not be spending the winter beneath the comfort of her own roof. You may expect the first of my levies within the sennight.”
“I shall leave them escort at Torchwood,” she answered. “You are welcome to come yourself, of course,” she added, knowing the offer would not be accepted.
“I think it will be more entertaining to keep Bolecthindial in suspense some while longer. I believe he wishes to try Lady Dendinirchiel’s patience next summer, and does not wish Lord Manderechiel to take overmuch notice
