border keeps who first rode out against them.
But the border lords did not ride out against anything but a troop of enemy knights. It was considered dishonorable to ride to battle in disguise, and so they would go in bright silks and gleaming armor. Their passage could be seen for a great distance.
The raiders who preyed upon the outlying farms had neither bright silks nor gleaming armor, and well knew the value of concealment.
From Rade to Frost, Vieliessar met with the lords of all of her border keeps. To all of them she gave new orders: to ride to the aid of the border farmsteads when they were attacked. Many of her border lords were indignant at these commands, for they considered the border steadings to be there for little reason other than to provide sport for raiding parties from either side of the border. Vieliessar had removed some lords from their appointments and made it clear to all who remained that there would be no raiding, no brigandage, no “sport” in Oronviel.
When the border lords saw that her army patrolled as well—and saw what diversion there was in hunting brigands—Oronviel became a place of peace, not of raids and night terrors, until the pennion of Oronviel, with its red otter on a white field, brought the Farmfolk of Araphant, Ivrithir, and Laeldor—and Caerthalien and Aramenthiali as well—running to their dooryards to greet the patrols; to offer cider, bread, or honeycomb; to ask for aid.
Rithdeliel had sworn her plan would never work. Vieliessar had known it would. The
By Frost Moon, the land Oronviel controlled was twice again what it had been in Harvest, for once her treaty was made with Ivrithir, Vieliessar’s knights rode its bounds just as they had ridden hers. Ivrithir’s knights were no more immune to the astonishing experience of being welcomed by the Farmfolk than their brothers and sisters of Oronviel had been, and word of the alliance had run ahead of them, so the people of the borders greeted the pennion bearing Ivrithir’s tawny bear with as much enthusiasm as they’d greeted the red otter.
Hearth Moon became Frost Moon, and each day that did not bring word of armies marching toward Oronviel’s borders seemed to Vieliessar like a reprieve. There was much to do to in order to turn the impossible to the improbable. Candlemark by candlemark she lived with the temptation to change her course to one that wouldn’t seem so much like madness. There was still time to compose a document explaining how she had discovered the meaning behind
No one would believe her. No matter what she did, her fellow War Princes would seek for the hidden motive, the trap, the betrayal. And even if they did not, they would still squabble over who should be War King over the combined army of the Hundred Houses just as they now battled over who was to be High King.
Mangiralas, Daroldan, Caerthalien, Ivrithir, Oronviel … a thousand threads from which she must weave her future.
Everyone’s future.
And so, with a thousand bad choices and no good ones before her, Vieliessar sent messengers to those Houses which had once supported her father’s bid to make himself High King, offering their War Princes safe passage and a Midwinter Truce if they would send representatives to Oronviel. Oronviel’s Midwinter Feast would be—must be—extraordinary, for Vieliessar must both display her power and take the next step toward what would inevitably seem as a revival of Serenthon’s royal ambitions. Worst of all, she could not count on any of the alliances she made this Snow Moon—if any—to stand one moment past the time Hamphuliadiel Astromancer made it known that she believed herself to be the Child of the Prophecy. If the War Princes hated the thought of a High King, they hated the thought of a mystical madwoman even more.
Celelioniel Astromancer had done Vieliessar no favors by her obsession with Amrethion’s Curse.
Though Midwinter was still sennights away, preparations for it were already under way. A feasting-hall crafted entirely of ice was taking form upon the meadow beyond Oronviel Castel. The kitchens were busy day and night. As each dish was finished, the last touches applied by Oronviel’s Master of Kitchens, it was cloaked in a Preservation Spell by a waiting Lightborn so that a sennight or a fortnight hence it could be brought to the feasting table as fresh and savory as if it had just been cooked. Unused chambers within the castel were aired and refurbished, temporary stables and paddocks erected, provision made for a full sennight of lavish spectacle.
It was a bit like going to war, Vieliessar thought. And in truth, this was the opening movement of her campaign, for Oronviel would keep Midwinter as if Vieliessar were already High King. In counterpoint to the lavish feasting of the nobles, she would feast the commons as well—and not upon the leavings of the great feasts, but upon bread and mutton and beer, given without stint.
Nor would her Lightborn Call the Light only upon the Fourth Night of the Festival, but upon all seven, turning away none who sought them out and taking none who refused them.
These things were new and strange enough that her ears had grown weary of hearing Gunedwaen, or Rithdeliel, or Thoromarth tell her why they must not be, and now she added one thing more: for the whole of the Festival, all within Oronviel, no matter their degree, had full right of woodland and lesser forest. They might gather what they chose, cut standing trees, and take game.
And take no hurt of it.
But she was not High King yet.
Today she faced
Her own reputation among her knights was neither bad or good, but Vieliessar had not led them into battle for season after season. She must convince any who watched that she had set aside her Magery along with her Green Robe. And so Vieliessar met all who wished to do battle within the Great Hall’s circle, calling it sport to liven the dull days of winter.
Bethaerian was the commander of Vieliessar’s personal guard. It had taken Bethaerian sennights to challenge her, though she had watched the bouts from the beginning. She had put that time to good use, studying Vieliessar’s skills. Though Oronviel’s War Prince had disarmed Bethaerian quickly, when she slammed her shoulder against Bethaerian’s chestpiece to thrust her from the circle and end the bout, Bethaerian stepped into the blow, pulling Vieliessar against her, front to back. Neither of them could launch a further attack in that position, but Bethaerian had not lost.
“I yield,” Vieliessar said, laughter bubbling up beneath her words.
Bethaerian released her, stepping across the boundary of the Challenge Circle. Only when Vieliessar was pulling off her helm did she see Aradreleg awaiting her.
“My prince,” the Lightsister said, “a Lightborn envoy comes from Caerthalien.”
“Is he escorted?” she asked. Her people were smart and loyal, but no one in the Fortunate Lands—save, perhaps, the War Princes themselves—would go against the wishes of a Green Robe. If Ivrulion Light-Prince had refused escort …
“Indeed,” Aradreleg said, putting Vieliessar’s worry to rest. “Peryn Lightsister sends to say
It wasn’t customary for a Lightborn traveling as envoy of a War Prince to give his name, only his House, so
