Crown of Vengeance

patted Phadullu on the shoulder once more. Obedient to her Magery, the young stallion knelt and she drew her knife.

“Heed me, You Who ride the night winds, who grant triumph in battle and victory in war. I, Vieliessar Farcarinon, Knight and Mage, daughter of Serenthon War Prince and Nataranweiya Ladyholder, come before You here, where the breath of first creation still warms my skin, where You must hear and heed when I call. Take my gift, and give me victory!”

She drew her blade across Phadullu’s throat. Hot blood spattered the standing stones, pooled on the rock between them, and soaked into the earth beyond, but the bespelled animal did not move until his body went lax with death. All around her, Vieliessar could Sense the roar of power roused, assaulting her senses as savagely as an autumn storm might batter her body. It seemed to her she must slit her eyes tightly against a raging wind, but she forced them to open and focus. She felt someone watching her. For one terrible moment she thought the Hunt Lord had come after all, and all her sacrifices had been for nothing.

But it was not He.

At the far edge of the clearing, a little way inside the trees, stood a pale shape that seemed to glow with its own inward radiance. Sending, she thought first, then, deer, since the shape was too small to be a horse and it was undeniably alive.

Then it took a slow step forward and a ray of morning light fell directly on its horn.

A single, sword-straight spike jutting from the center of its forehead, it shone as brightly as if some Lightborn had cast Silverlight upon it—if Silverlight could be whitely radiant and iridescent as a dove’s throat at the same time. It was neither horse nor deer. It had a long, slender neck like a deer’s, but also a mane—not long and flowing like a destrier’s, but roached and bristling like a plowhorse’s. Its white coat did not gleam with the glossy slickness of horse or hound, but seemed as if it must be as thick and soft as a cat’s.

Komen blazoned their shields with them, noble ladies wove tapestries depicting them, craftworkers adorned a thousand different objects with them, from infants’ cradles to shin’zuruf cups to the luck-charms braided into the manes of destriers. The luck-token baked into Midwinter cakes held their image—she had won five of them at the Sanctuary before she had realized it would always come to her and refused to participate any longer. She had sworn to reclaim the throne Amrethion had named for them.

But they are only a legend … Vieliessar thought, stunned.

The Unicorn was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

She did not know how long she stood motionless, held in place by no spell other than the creature’s beauty, but suddenly the Unicorn turned its head, wheeled, and sprang back into the forest.

“No!” Vieliessar shouted. “Wait!”

She did not know why she called out as if it would come to her summons. She only knew she could not bear to lose sight of it. And so she ran. As she entered the trees, she saw it vanish in the distance. She ran faster, dodging recklessly between tree trunks, no thought in her mind but to draw near to that shining shape, to reach it, to touch it …

Even when she could no longer see it among the trees, she ran on in the direction it had fled. When she knew it had gone beyond her reach, she sent out a spell of Summoning—to no avail. It was nearly a candlemark before she could bear to give up the hunt. The thought she had seen it and would never see it again made her want to weep.

It was real, she insisted to herself. I saw the sunlight on its horn, its coat—I heard it crash through the brush as it fled. It was a thing alive, and no Seeming sent by the powers nor an evil illusion of Beastling shamans.

But no matter how hard she tried, she could not fit the sight of it into the world she lived in, the world whose rules she thought she knew.

“The Unicorn is the symbol of the High Kingship.”

This was no lesson from her days at the Sanctuary. Scrolls that spoke of the High Kingship had probably been destroyed, since none of the contenders for the throne would wish to provide arguments their enemies could use to disparage a rival claim and elevate their own.

No, this was a memory of a time so ancient Vieliessar did not know how to number the years.

Lady Indinathiel gazed out the window at the forests of Tildorangelor, beyond the walls of the city that bore both its own name and that of the forest: Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor. “We take the Unicorn as the symbol of the High Kingship,” she said idly, “for the single horn upon its brow symbolizes the High King. There are hundreds of great lords and thousands of knights, but only one to rule over them all. As the horn of the Unicorn is its greatest ornament, so the High King is the greatest jewel of the land.…”

The memory-of-a-dream faded. Lady Indinathiel had spoken of the Unicorn as if she were familiar with it as more than a symbol.…

I don’t understand. Surely the storysingers would have handed down the truth, just as they teach us about all the kinds of Beastling there are in the world, even though—if we are lucky—we will not see most of them.

It was the sort of puzzle she would once have delighted in, following its twists and turns through half- sentences scattered across a thousand different scrolls, questioning other scholars, other students, other lovers of history and truth and knowledge. Now—heartsore at the loss of the beauty she had glimpsed so briefly—Vieliessar told herself it did not matter. The creature was not a danger, nor could a beast of the forest be either enemy or ally. She would take its appearance as an omen from the Silver Hooves that her petition had been heard.

Victory for her cause. Survival for her people.

* * *

“Lord Thoromarth’s anger was great,” Ambrant murmured, his gaze fixed upon the carpet. “He swore you were a most treacherous prince, and that he would cause you to feel the shame you ought to feel for using him in such a deceitful way.”

It was Rain Moon before the party Vieliessar had sent to the Sanctuary returned, and within the candlemark of its arrival, Ambrant Lightbrother had come to give her his report. They’d returned six days earlier than expected —unencumbered by Candidates on the outward journey, Thoromarth had simply pushed his company of knights as hard as if they were riding to war. Since the baggage carts that accompanied them were drawn by sturdy draft horses, not the slower and more massive oxen, the entire group had moved at a breakneck speed.

“Indeed?” Vieliessar answered meaninglessly. While she was certain Thoromarth had been furious, he was … considerably more direct in his speech than this.

“But Thoromarth of Oronviel is your loyal servant, Lord Vieliessar,” Ambrant said grudgingly. “Even before his temper had run its course, he made provision for those whom I placed in his care, and we hastened to return here.”

Thoromarth had left the Sanctuary with eighteen from Ivrithir and Oronviel who had finished their Service Year without being Called to the Light, and twelve more who had just taken the Green Robe. When Ambrant rejoined him, he brought forty-three who belonged to Oronviel, from children who had just completed their first year as Postulants to those who were nearly ready to dare the Shrine.

If the company had not been almost entirely Lightborn, the journey would have been far harsher than it was, for Thoromarth had brought provisions for the thirty returning Candidates and new Lightborn he had expected. Instead, he found he must make provision for seventy-three, many of them children. But even the newest Green Robe could Call game to the slaughter, and most had some facility with spells of misdirection and concealment.

“I thank you for your care of your brethren and the care you have taken to discharge my commands,” Vieliessar said, indicating the interview was at an end.

But: “My lord?” Ambrant said, and now he seemed—for the first time—troubled and uncertain. She waited politely.

“The Astromancer swears that since the days of Mosirinde Peacemaker it has only been the Vilya in the Sanctuary gardens whose fruiting must be taken into account to calculate a reign. And it may be that the Vilya there is of such great age that it fruited in those ancient days, for we speak of them as “ever-living” for good reason. But as I waited to discharge my duty to you, I chanced to walk in the gardens, for I was curious to understand why this tree, of all the Vilya in the Fortunate Lands, should be barren of fruit.” Ambrant looked away, gazing out the window of Vieliessar’s chamber, looking as though he wished he’d never said anything. “It was bespelled,” he blurted out at