last, turning back to gaze at her. “I think. I don’t— A subtle spell, my lord—had it been a spell of preservation it would have been easily noted. I did not mean to speak of it, for I know that you and the Astromancer are enemies. But I am troubled.”
“Ambrant,” Vieliessar said, oddly moved by his stammering confession, “I believe you have sensed what is indeed there. I shall tell you why I believe it to be so, and it is a thing I have told few of my people. Yet you have earned my trust.”
“I hope I shall always deserve it, Lord Vieliessar,” Ambrant said, and what might have been pomposity on any other day came out raw and honest.
“You were at the Sanctuary under Celelioniel Astromancer, were you not?” she asked, and when he nodded, she continued. “Celelioniel left her great work unfinished when the Vilya called her home. She entrusted its completion to Hamphuliadiel, who had been her student for many years. But Hamphuliadiel told Celelioniel what she wished to hear, not what he meant to do. He broke every vow he made to her once he had what he desired.”
What she had said was truth, but she would not tell Ambrant the whole. Not yet. It was a heavy weight, and she would place it upon as few as she could.
“That— It is an ill thing to hear of the Guardian of the Shrine, but it comforts me,” Ambrant answered. “Only let his madness be overthrown.”
“It will be,” Vieliessar said with grim honesty.
The road to peace would be long and edged with swords, and led as readily to death and failure as it did to the glorious end Oronviel’s new War Prince dreamed of. Half her plans were utter madness; the other half, so cunning they chilled the marrow. Thoromarth had known since the day she spared his life that the game she played was deep and secret. He had not known how deep until he rode to the Sanctuary of the Star.
But once he was alone in his own rooms in Oronviel Keep, fed and bathed and wrapped in a chamber robe, his armor taken away to be cleaned, Thoromarth was too restless to sleep. He summoned a servant to bear away the debris of the meal and bring wine, and sat, cup in hand, gazing into the flames dancing upon the coals of the stove.
What did he want? Not now, nor even a moonturn from now, but before he went to ride the night winds? He did not want power—at least, not in the way Bolecthindial or Manderechiel did. His new rooms were spacious enough, he could throw his boots at his servants and be certain his wishes would be followed, and he could go from his morning meal to the stables unhindered to spend a day with his beloved horses. What more could a lord of the Fortunate Lands desire? It had been his duty to rule Oronviel, and so he had, just as it had been his duty to marry Daustifalal.
Thoromarth set down his cup, got to his feet, and began to pace.
When he turned about at the end of the room, Vieliessar was standing in the doorway.
The overtunic and undertunic and underskirts she wore—each layer slashed and parted to show the contrasting fabric beneath—were as decorous and correct as anything his wife or mother might have worn. She was decked with the jewels of her rank and those of a War Prince, heavy rings, bracelets, and linked collar. The veil upon her hair, held in place by a thin band of gold, hung to her waist; the heavy silk swaying with her movements. But somehow no amount of finery could erase his clearest image of her: muddy and bruised and dangerous as a drawn sword, standing before him and demanding he yield everything he was to her.
“My lord,” he said, “your message must have gone astray—” He could only imagine he’d been bidden to attend her, and when he had not appeared, she’d come looking for him.
“I sent no message,” she answered. “May I enter? I wished to see you before you slept. You must be weary. Ambrant looked as if he might collapse at any moment.”
“It was a hard journey,” Thoromarth said curtly, gesturing for her to enter.
“And you do not know—still—what prompted me to such foolishness. Did Ambrant tell you of the Astromancer’s decision?”
“That he will not step down and that I must ask you for the rest. My lord, the plots of the Hundred Houses are enough—I do not wish to know the intrigues the Green Robes may have.”
“And yet you must,” Lord Vieliessar answered, seating herself, “for it concerns Oronviel most of all. Sit.”
He would have been happier, Thoromarth decided when she had finished the tale, never to know these things at all, though in the end it was as simple a matter as a border war between Ullilion and Caerthalien. The Chief Astromancer intrigued to make himself a power in the land. Lord Vieliessar feared Oronviel would become culpable for his deeds in the eyes of the Hundred Houses. She had taken steps to make it seem she and the Astromancer plotted together, and so avert attack upon Oronviel before she was ready to move.
“I thank you for this word to me,” Thoromarth said.
Unexpectedly, she laughed. It was neither bitter nor mocking, but full, and bright, and joyous.
“No you do not, Lord Thoromarth! You wish I had never come to trouble you and fill your head with a thousand unthinkable things you must think about! Now you wonder what I will do next, and hope you do not know. But I have troubled your rest enough. And so I leave you in peace.”
She got to her feet in a swish of silk, and before he could rise in deference, was out the door and gone. And suddenly Thoromarth hoped the Silver Hooves would grant him years enough to see Lord Vieliessar upon the Unicorn Throne, for he yearned to hear the squalls and protests of his fellow princes as she made a Code of Peace like the Code of Battle and held every soul in the land to its observance, whether they were of high birth or low
Lord Bolecthindial unrolled the map Lengiathion Warlord had prepared and spread it flat against the surface of his table. The drawing was so careful and detailed it might almost have been the thing itself, seen as a hawk upon the wing would see it. The map showed Caerthalien and the western lands as far as the Sanctuary. Ullilion’s defenses were painted in purple and saffron, Caerthalien’s in gold and green, Cirandeiron’s in blue and silver. The ruins of Farcarinon’s border keeps were sketched in a dull grey.
In War Season, Caerthalien rode to war. Other Houses might refrain from sending challenges with their Midwinter envoys, might spend the summer moonturns battling the Beastlings—as did Daroldan or the domains of the East—or in hunting outlaws or putting down rebellion among their own lords, seeking to grow wealthy and strong by avoiding battle.
Not Caerthalien. Caerthalien rode to war. Even last year, when Runacarendalur had led Caerthalien’s meisne against the Free Companies, Bolecthindial and his other sons had taken the field against their enemies. Each successful campaign brought wealth, and sometimes land, and often surrender-pledges from its defeated enemies. Among the twelve High Houses, only three had ever rivaled Caerthalien in wealth and power: Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Farcarinon.
Farcarinon was gone, and this season Lord Bolecthindial meant to take Ullilion from Cirandeiron. War Prince Dendinirchiel Ullilion held the southern border of Farcarinon, and Dendinirchiel looked to Cirandeiron. But between Ullilion and Cirandeiron lay the vast wilderness of Farcarinon. To come to Ullilion’s aid, Lord Girelrian would have to cross the whole of Farcarinon. It would give Caerthalien the advantage.
If Caerthalien could force Ullilion to cede enough territory, Ullilion’s only recourse would be to expand her borders west and claim Farcarinon land. Censure for the act of claiming a part of Lost Farcarinon would fall on Dendinirchiel’s head, not Bolecthindial’s—and each season he could force Ullilion farther west, claiming always that he seized Ullilion lands, and not Farcarinon’s.
And if the sight of Ullilion’s example made High Houses agree it was a ruinous danger to leave so great an area of land unclaimed, Caerthalien would benefit twice over, for by the agreement the Grand Alliance had made in Serenthon’s time, Caerthalien could claim the third part of Farcarinon if it were claimed at all.
He turned to the report Elrinonion Swordmaster had prepared for him. Bolecthindial had little patience with sneaking about in the kitchens of his enemies, hoping someone would drop a word of their plans, but as
