called it a blessing. She could not have taught her knights to become infantry. They would have needed to unlearn too much, and they would have thought fighting on foot to be a foolish and menial task. But she had offered arms to any who asked them—Farmholder, craftworker, or Landbond—and many of the mercenaries who flocked to Oronviel’s standard had learned their battle skills not as children, but as men and women grown. Her ex- mercenaries saw the advantage of a dismounted force, and her Commonfolk had nothing to unlearn.
But even if she had wished to, Vieliessar could not spend all her time teaching her army new ways to fight. If her war for the High Kingship was to be won, it would not be won on the battlefield. It would be won because the people of Jer-a-kalaliel joined her freely. She had never planned to win by defeating or allying with the Ninety-and- Nine. She meant to win by drawing everyone else to her standard.
The folk of Oronviel believed her—believed
And if her knights and lords were disappointed by the fact that they could no longer hang poachers as they wished—or beat their tenants for their amusement—they were reconciled by the knowledge that Oronviel would soon be going to war.
But if her strength and her victory lay in the commons, it did not mean she could neglect either her lords or her knights, for if she won through to peace when she sat upon the Unicorn Throne, she would fulfill the last of Amrethion’s promises to his future:
Vieliessar thought idly of how different Oronviel now was from the other domains of the West. In the springtide the War Princes usually went on a progress, traveling with an escort large enough to protect them from treachery or attack. Bolecthindial Caerthalien had taken no less than five hundred of his Household knights when he rode out, but Vieliessar could ride from corner to corner of her own land alone, certain not she would not be attacked. She thought of the story she had so often been told in her childhood:
In Oronviel, that nursery tale had come true.
Today, in the company of a mixed troop of Oronviel and Ivrithir knights—her own guard, plus a meisne of Ivrithir
Oronviel did not share much border with Araphant—a score of leagues, no more—and Vieliessar’s border lords had little to do, for Araphant’s manors and farms lay in that domain’s southern quadrant. Its northern reaches had been left to the stag and the wolf, for Araphant had long been a limp rag chewed by Caerthalien and Aramenthiali, helplessly ceding territory to each. When War Prince Luthilion died, his House might simply vanish, for Luthilion had lived far beyond his allotted years; fate and chance had taken brothers, sisters, children, and greatchildren all before him.
“My lord, someone comes,”
“They ride one of our horses, whether they are ours or not,” Vieliessar said, peering at the mounted figure in the distance. “Peace, Betharian,” she added, “we are nearly two score.”
“If this is no scout for one of your enemies,” Farathon of Ivrithir said.
“If an enemy comes in force from Araphant, I will hold myself surprised,” Vieliessar said dryly. “But even if Luthilion rides at Bolecthindial’s order, he would head west and come at us over Caerthalien’s border rather than try to bring an army through this forest.” On their own side of the border the trees had been kept thinned by landbond families driven from their homes and forced to labor. On Araphant’s side, they had grown unchecked for centuries.
“That is so, Lord Vieliessar,” Farathon said with a smile, for his meisne had been riding this stretch of border for the past fortnight and had spent much of that time in Araphant’s forest. “Yet no good word ever came swiftly.”
The horseman had closed the distance to them as they spoke. Neither horse nor rider was encumbered by a single ounce they did not need to bear: the animal’s saddle was a thin pad of leather, the stirrups mere flattened rings. And the rider, who was little more than a child, wore no armor. He barely checked the horse’s mad gallop before he flung himself from its saddle and ran forward. His mount, freed of direction, cantered in a wide circle around Vieliessar and her knights, so filled with the excitement of the run that it hardly noticed its exhaustion.
“The War Prince—
“I am here,” Vieliessar said, nudging Sorodiarn forward. “Let him pass,” she said, for when she spoke, the boy had started toward her and Farathon had moved automatically to block him.
“Lord Vieliessar—” the boy began. He was as winded as his mount, but determined to deliver his message at once. “A meisne—from Araphant—my lord Peramarth did not know their intent until today—through the wood —”
“How many?” Bethaerian demanded, but the boy only shook his head.
“Why did your lord not use the sun-signal to warn us?” Farathon demanded, for each of the border towers were equipped with sheets of silvered glass that could be used to flash simple messages to watchers many miles distant. At least during bright, clear days.
“Said—not to warn them,” the boy gasped.
“You have done well,” Vieliessar said, putting warmth into her voice. “Come. You will ride with me. Sorodiarn is a gentle beast and your own steed deserves a rest. We will go to Greenstone Tower and see what there is to see. But first, someone must catch your horse. We are lucky he is tired.”
“My lord, you cannot mean to ride toward this peril, after Lord Peramarth has sent to warn you against it?” Bethaerian said. “We must retreat to a place of safety.”
“Better to ride to than from,” Vieliessar answered. “If knights come through the woods of Araphant, I do not think their number can be a force much larger than our own. Peramarth will be glad of extra swords if it is an attack.”
