Crown of Vengeance

Runacarendalur answered. He turned back to his father. “A moonturn—no more—and I shall bring you Thoromarth’s and Vieliessar’s heads. I will even drive their rabble-army across the border to prey upon Aramenthiali, if that would please you.”

“If you do not do this thing,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said in a steel-hard voice, “Aramenthiali, Cirandeiron, and Telthorelandor will surely wonder if you have made a secret treaty with Oronviel’s so-called War Prince. Holding Oronviel, why should she not assert her claim to Farcarinon as well?”

“Because she will be dead!” Bolecthindial roared.

There was a moment of silence.

“You—” he said, glaring balefully at Runacarendalur, “you ride one sennight from today. Tomorrow you are betrothed to Princess Nanduil. She will accompany you to Oronviel. And you, my lady wife,” Bolecthindial said, turning to Glorthiachiel, “you will accompany the princess—and the army—so you can have the pleasure of seeing Nataranweiya’s brat slain.” Bolecthindial returned his attention to Runacarendalur. “I expect you to return with every knight you ride with. I expect my army back a moonturn after it rides, whether you have yet engaged Oronviel or no. And I say this: if this campaign you so ardently desire costs me my victory over Ullilion, you will heartily wish you had died in Oronviel.”

Bolecthindial didn’t wait for an answer, but pushed himself to his feet. The others—all save Glorthiachiel— rose hastily, standing in silence as the War Prince strode from the room.

The door slammed.

“Dining with Father is always so interesting,” Princess Angiothiel said happily.

INTERLUDE TWO

KNOWLEDGE AND TREACHERY

To discover how the Elfling had managed to escape into death in the heart of the World Without Sun became King Virulan’s obsession. He gave Uralesse command of the Dark Guard and sent it forth to hunt—this time not for sport nor for food, but for knowledge.

First Uralesse scoured the Goldengrass, and found it empty from the Winnowing Sea in the east to the shores of Graythunder Glairyrill. West of the Glairyrill, he found those creatures he was accustomed to find: Centaur and Minotaur, Bearward and Faun, Hippogriff and Aesalion and Gryphon. All of these were of the Silver, and to each of them had been given some spark of Light. Many of them had fanned that spark into magic, though no sorcery they possessed was so much as a guttering ember by comparison to that with which He Who Is had blessed His most glorious creation. The merest touch of the Endarkened had always been enough to drain their power to nothing.

Uralesse went next to the cities and great castels of the Teeth of the Moon, and found them deserted, crumbling away to dust.

There were no answers there. And so he sought his answers in the only place that remained.

* * *

The Elfling died in silence. Every scream, every whimper, every tear had been taken from him during the moonturns of his agony. Uralesse gazed into the sightless eyes, already clouding in death.

He was no closer to an answer.

He had discovered the silver cord that linked the Elven spellcrafters to the source of their power. He had traced that cord back to its wellspring, summoned Lesser Endarkened to the World Above and drove them with whips and threats into each one. Sometimes the Lesser Endarkened died. Sometimes the Flower Forest died. Uralesse was no closer to the answer King Virulan had demanded of him. That the Elflings wielded any magic at all was nothing more than a mockery of the Endarkened. Once the Elflings had possessed no magic. Then they did.

Some unknown enemy challenged the inevitable victory of the Endarkened.

* * *

“We must attack now, my liege,” Uralesse said. “We are many and powerful. Surely victory will be ours.”

“Do you say so, dear Uralesse?” King Virulan answered. “Then tell me this: who gave to the Elflings the sorcery that courses through their veins?”

“It is but weak…” Uralesse said, daring to protest.

“You do not answer me, my dear brother,” Virulan said. He cupped Uralesse’s face in his taloned hand caressingly—then clamped his hand tight, his talons shearing through scarlet flesh. Golden ichor welled over his fingers, his claws grated over bone and fang. Uralesse did not dare even to whimper in pain.

Virulan released his grip with a shove that sent Uralesse sprawling to the blood-sanctified floor of the Heart of Darkness.

“Find my answers,” Virulan said softly, beginning to lick his fingers clean.

* * *

Uralesse came no more to the Audience Chamber, nor was he to be found anywhere within the World Without Sun, and Virulan came to believe he had chosen exile over confession of failure. Virulan sought him in the Obsidian Mirror and discovered there were now places he could not see. It had been a long time—hundreds of centuries, as the Brightworlders reckoned time—since he had gazed into the Mirror, and now there were places of … blankness.

A Brightworlder would have said they were dark, but there was no darkness to those who lived in the World Without Sun. The blankness spread, he discovered, from those places where the Elfling Mages drew their power. Some, Virulan’s sorcery permitted him to penetrate, allowing the Obsidian Mirror to show him vague and misty shadows. Others remained blank no matter his efforts.

If Uralesse seeks to hide in such a place, that is nearly punishment enough, Virulan thought. But he cannot conceal himself in such stinking precincts forever. And when he emerges …

Then Virulan would teach Uralesse the true cost of disappointing his king.

But that was a pleasure he was willing to defer for a time, for there were other matters to concern him. The Endarkened continued to hunt the Elflings for sport, but now, the hunting parties began to report failure where they had once only boasted of success. They had become used to tracking their quarry by the stink of Brightworld sorcery flowing through its veins, for the stench was unmistakable and penetrating. But now, fewer and fewer of the Elvenkind reeked of magic. It was another change in creatures that already changed far too fast for Virulan’s taste. He distrusted it.

And at last, Uralesse returned to Shadow Mountain.

Virulan had him dragged to the foot of the Shadow Throne in iron chains heated red-hot by magic. The stink of Uralesse’s eternally burning eternally regenerating flesh was sweet incense in his nostrils.

“You left me, my brother,” Virulan said, pouting. “You left me for a long time.”

“I … sought to fulfill your command, my liege, my master, my king,” Uralesse answered, gasping with pain. “I have discovered what you seek. I have found that power which granted magic to the Elflings.”

Virulan raised his lambent gaze from the sweet spectacle of Uralesse’s suffering, frowning in thought. There was no power in the universe as great as the power He Who Is had given to the Endarkened … but it was not any part of Virulan’s plans to provide his subjects with every sharp stick and large stone of the Brightworlders’ armory. He inspected the avidly curious expressions of his courtiers’ faces for a long moment before coming to a decision.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

His court obeyed him reluctantly. Uralesse was not the first of the Endarkened to be erased from existence by their king’s wrath, nor even the first of the Thirteen to suffer his fury. But Uralesse was surely the greatest of them to be brought low, and all the Endarkened wished to relish his pain and his punishment.

“Now,” Virulan said, when they were alone. “Speak.”

“I cannot—” Uralesse began, his words strangled by agony as a gesture from Virulan caused the chains to tighten around him, their heat kindling from red to orange. His skin split from the heat and the pressure; drops of golden ichor welled up to be charred to ash instantly. “I must— The Mirror! The Mirror!