Nadalforo—once First Sword of Stonehorse Free Company—was neither the first nor the last to pledge to Vieliessar. Taille by taille, Vieliessar built her army through the sennights of winter. Snow Moon became Cold Moon, Ice Moon, Storm Moon. By Storm, nine moonturns had passed since she had claimed Oronviel and the other War Princes had done little to indicate they feared her. Now the Ninety-and-Nine were preparing for War Season once more—and not with Oronviel. They would discuss her plans with one another beneath truce-flags all summer, and then plot at Midwinter Court to
In another wheel of the seasons, she would be High King, or she would be dead.
The scent of fresh-cut timber filled her nostrils as Vieliessar rode along the road which led to the keep. The village she had designed to hold—and train—her patchwork army was rising as quickly as grain stalks in summer. The village now occupied both sides of the road—vulnerable and indefensible if an enemy army or even raiders came; a liability in the defense of the keep itself, for it sprawled across the open land that had once surrounded Oronviel Keep, providing concealment for enemies and a hazard to defenders. But if the winter moonturns had brought a trickle of exiles flocking to Oronviel’s standard, then Storm brought a flood. Not merely outlaws and Landbonds, now, but craftworkers and Farmholders and Lightborn. Even lesser knights, coming with wives, husbands, children, and all they could bring away from their own domains. They came—every one of them—to fight not for Oronviel, but for Vieliessar.
Vieliessar High King, who promised them justice and an end to war.
She had spent the morning riding the bounds of the Battle City. The whole of it extended through the manor houses and farmsteads nearest the keep; a large area, and one where it was important that she show herself frequently. Those who occupied the city—former mercenaries, former outlaws, the children of Farmholders—would not approach her stewards or
The weight of their trust was sometimes the most oppressive thing of all. She longed for a day or two of quiet that she knew she would not get. Her court understood the business of treaties and alliances and pacts, but Serenthon had never asked Farcarinon to host the armies of his allies as if they were his own, nor sent his own knights to serve at the courts of his sometime-enemies. If that had been all she asked of them, it would have been difficult enough—but she also wished them to welcome, and even fight beside, those whom they would have gladly whipped from their halls for the presumption of speaking. As a child and even as a Green Robe, she had thought the War Princes lived lives of leisure and freedom. Now she knew that was only an illusion, a shadow cast by the power each domain lord held in his or her hands. Power could gain one a great many things, but it must be carefully and consciously nurtured.
She swung down from Sorodiarn’s back in the castel stables, fleetingly grateful for the privilege of rank that permitted her to keep her horses close to hand. There was little room within a Great Keep’s walls for beasts. Leaving the destrier in the hands of Fierdind Horsemaster, she proceeded to her rooms, cloaking herself in Shadow as she strode from the stable. It was a dangerous indulgence, but she had no desire to be stopped to answer a hundred questions today. She reached her rooms—there were no Guardsmen at her door when she was believed to be elsewhere—and stepped inside.
As the door closed behind her, she felt a sudden surge of the Light. She dropped her hand to her swordhilt, preparing every defense she could. She still dared do nothing that would mark her as Lightborn, even if it meant injury or worse. But the figure who appeared as the Cloakspell vanished was …
“Thurion!” she exclaimed.
He was muddy and bedraggled, and—more alarming than that—dressed not in the Green Robes of Magery, but clothes such as any upper servant might wear.
“I cry Sanctuary of Oronviel,” he said, in a voice that shook with exhaustion. “Will Prince Vieliessar grant this boon?”
“Of course,” she said instantly. “But— What is it? What has happened?”
“Hamphuliadiel…” Thurion said. He fell gracelessly into the nearest chair.
“What has Hamphuliadiel done?” she demanded.
“He has said he will not step aside as Astromancer,” Thurion said numbly. “He says he will surrender his place only when the Vilya in the Sanctuary’s own garden bears fruit—and he would not even have said so much so soon if Ivrulion Light-Prince had not been there to compel him! He swears this is no new ruling, but a return to the earliest practice by which the reigns of the Astromancers were calculated.”
“Mosirinde Peacemaker would be surprised to hear it,” Vieliessar answered dryly.
She sent for food, made tea, and learned the whole of what Thurion had to tell. Forester Lonthorn was not the only one in the Fortunate Lands who could predict the fruiting of the Vilya. Caerthalien, seeing a new Astromancer was imminent, had sent Ivrulion Light-Prince to the Sanctuary as soon as the roads could be traveled. He had obtained Hamphuliadiel’s answer in secret, but he’d Farspoken it to Carangil Lightbrother, and the news had spread from there to most of the castel Lightborn.
And Thurion had risked everything to bring it to her.
“He’s lying! There was never such a practice! And I don’t think the Vilya in the Sanctuary garden will ever fruit!” Thurion announced, pacing in agitation.
“I’d be very surprised if it did,” Vieliessar replied, raising her eyebrows. “What I wonder is why he wants to remain Astromancer. It isn’t a position that holds a great deal of power, and if he wants riches and luxury, he can get that at any court.”
“No,” Thurion said, his voice troubled. “You’re wrong, Vielle. There
“When he charged the Lightborn of all the land to deliver me to his hand?” she asked, for that was what was foremost in Thurion’s thoughts. “What I have seen is Hamphuliadiel showing himself a fool.”
“No,” Thurion said patiently. “It did not work, that is true, for we swear fealty to our lords, not to the Astromancer. But if Hamphuliadiel has century after century to convince all who are trained at the Sanctuary that their first loyalty must be to the Light Itself, and that he knows better than they how they may best serve it—”
“I would be more troubled by Hamphuliadiel of Haldil’s ambitions if I thought he had a chance of achieving them,” Vieliessar answered bluntly. “Thurion,” she said gently, “if I am High King, I will deal with Hamphuliadiel. If I am not, the Darkness surely will. His ambitions do not matter, save in how we can make use of them.”
“And if he moves more quickly than you think?” Thurion demanded. “It is true that those who are sent to the Sanctuary each spring are unimportant in the eyes of the War Princes—save for whom we might become if the Light favors us—but if Hamphuliadiel holds the Candidates hostage, the War Princes must attack or they will seem timid and weak. They cannot attack the Sanctuary, so they will seek another target against which to display their power. And if refusing to give up the Candidates is not enough, Hamphuliadiel can deny access to the Shrine of the Star.”
“Arevethmonion is not the only Shrine,” Vieliessar said.
“I suppose you think the Hundred Houses will go to Tilinaparanwira the Lost to make their offerings?” Thurion said in exasperation. “Most of them don’t even know there
“Nomiatemil is in the Mystrals, and I suppose you will go on to say that because there is no guesthouse at Manostar nor pleasant gardens at Earime’kalareinya they will not do either?”
Thurion flung himself into a chair and regarded her with irritation. “I say that since the time of Mosirinde
