Crown of Vengeance

spurs.”

“I listen,” Vieliessar answered. Lord Luthilion’s speech was slow and measured, couched in the courtly and careful phrasing of centuries past.

“Celeharth tells me you were a great scholar in your time at the Sanctuary. Granting this truth, you will know how many days’ travel it is from Araphant’s Great Keep to where you find me now. And I am far too old to delight in sleeping on the ground rolled in my cloak. I ask your leave to summon my servants to erect my pavilion, so we may be comfortable together.”

“I shall be most grateful for your care,” Vieliessar said, doing her best to match the mode in which the War Prince of Araphant spoke. “I ask only to send Komen Bethaerian with whom you will, so your meisne and mine know we may be easy together.”

“This thought is both wise and cordial,” Luthilion answered. He raised a hand and beckoned, and one of his knights urged his destrier forward. Vieliessar heard Farathon draw breath with a hiss, and saw Luthilion’s eyes flicker with amusement—The child prays none of her hot-blooded young swords seeks to protect her, and that is a good sign. The knight reached for the pennion.

“I commend to you and your komen’tai’a Komen Diorthiel, who serves me far more faithfully than I deserve. Diorthiel, here is Komen Bethaerian, who will accompany you as you give your word to my servants to bring my pavilion here to me.”

Diorthiel looked very much as if he wished to argue. Instead, he simply bowed to Lord Luthilion and rode away with Bethaerian at his side.

Where others might have filled the wait with inconsequential observations on the weather or the hunting, or even with some talk of horses, Luthilion simply sat, as silent and composed as a Lightborn in meditation. So Vieliessar sat quietly as well, wondering with faint curiosity how Luthilion had managed to bring baggage wagons through the dense northern forest. The waiting was broken once by a messenger riding out from Greenstone Tower to ask what was happening—for of course Lord Peramarth was watching all that went on—and being sent back with a curt reply: War Prince Luthilion and I discuss a treaty under truce-bough.

When the pavilion arrived, Vieliessar discovered Luthilion had not, after all, found some new way of getting large and unwieldy sumpter wagons through a dense forest. Instead, Luthilion’s pavilion was bound to the back of mules. Each mule wore a sturdy saddle with wooden legs atop it—much as if someone had taken a common chair and turned it upside down—and this odd device held heavy packs easily and securely. Vieliessar filed away the information for later use: mules could go where heavy wagons could not, and they moved faster.

The servants worked with quick efficiency. They did not care whether they worked in Araphant, Oronviel, or the Vale of Celenthodiel: servants were invisible, and even in battle were rarely an enemy’s target.

“All is ready, Lord Luthilion,” Celeharth said at last. Diorthiel stepped to Luthilion’s side, managing to give the impression he attended his lord out of courtesy, and not because Lord Luthilion required aid to dismount. Vieliessar allowed Bethaerian to do the same for her, then beckoned to Farathon to join them.

“Come,” she said quietly. “If you attend, you may say to Lord Atholfol you know all that took place here today.”

Farathon’s face went blank with surprise at being so trusted—and perhaps also because she spoke so frankly of mistrust. “Ivrithir is loyal,” he answered.

“I trust Lord Atholfol,” Vieliessar answered simply. “And was there ever a War Prince who did not wish half his great lords would conveniently die in battle?”

Farathon gave a muffled cough of laughter, and Vieliessar turned away, following Lord Luthilion into the pavilion, seeing that it was much like her own: two rooms, the outer one dominated by a sizable table. There were scrolls in a wooden rack at one side of the table and a tea brazier on the other side; a shin’zuruf pot and cups waited beside the steaming kettle. There were two chairs, precisely equal in ornamentation, set so that neither of the lords would sit with their back to the door. Nearby was another seat: a padded stool without a back. Vieliessar could feel that the pavilion had been bespelled to keep sound from passing its walls.

“My Healer tells me wine is not good for me any longer,” Lord Luthilion said, lowering himself heavily into a chair and gesturing toward the brazier. Now that he was afoot, the frailties of age seemed more pronounced.

“Three things the Light cannot Heal: age, death, and fate,” Celeharth answered. It had the air of a well-loved and long-familiar argument.

“As you know, Lord Luthilion, I was many years in the Sanctuary,” Vieliessar replied. “We did not drink wine there.” She took the second chair and Celeharth settled himself upon the padded stool. Once they were seated, one of the servants came forward to pour the boiling water into the pot.

“And then you left,” Luthilion said, surprising her with his directness. “And next we heard of a challenge in Oronviel, unwisely accepted, and now you say you will be High King.”

“Yes,” Vieliessar said simply.

“We also hear that you do not promise favors to those who aid you. Nor wealth. That you open Oronviel to outlaws and offer to raise up any Landbonds who come to you to the estate of nobles and great knights.”

“I do not promise favors to those who fight for me. Neither do I promise vengeance on those who do not. I offer sanctuary to any who will pledge true fealty to me.”

“And the Landbond? Who will till your fields if you fill their heads with dreams of knighthood?” Luthilion demanded, his black eyes sharp. Before she could answer, he raised a hand. “Celeharth, oblige me if you would.”

The Lightbrother rose to his feet, and poured tea into three delicate cups. “In my youth,” Luthilion said, “a heart for war was measured by the graces of peace. It was not enough to ride well and fight well—one had to dance gracefully, play harp or flute or cithern, compose poetry and copy it out in a fair hand, or craft tea. That art is lost, I fear. Today they rip some weeds from the kitchen garden, boil them into an undrinkable mess, and call it the heritage of Mosirinde Peacemaker.”

“They still teach the art at the Sanctuary,” Vieliessar said, holding the cup so she could inhale its fragrant steam. “Vilya,” she said in surprise, smelling the unmistakable perfume.

Luthilion radiated pleasure, though his face remained impassive. “Had we met some time ago, and in a different way, I believe I might have made a proper knight of you, Oronviel. Yes, there is Vilya in this blend. The fruit, not the flower. I thought it somehow appropriate for our meeting.”

“It is a fruiting year everywhere but the Sanctuary gardens,” Vieliessar commented dryly.

“Hamphuliadiel cannot expect whatever trick he has used to endure for long,” Celeharth said. His eyes flicked to where Vieliessar’s knights stood. “Some say he wishes to make the Sanctuary into the Hundredth House, to replace Lost Farcarinon, thinking by that means to avert the Curse of Amrethion Aradruiniel.”

“If it were so easy to avert our hradan, High King Amrethion would not have needed to prophecy at all,” Vieliessar answered. “But I would answer Araphant concerning my Landbonds.”

Luthilion waved that away with faint irritation. “I know already you arm them. But what next?”

“I take the High Kingship,” Vieliessar answered simply. She did not believe her arguments would sway Lord Luthilion. He was less interested in knowing what she meant to do than in knowing her, for she could see in his mind he meant to pledge Araphant to her alliance simply to leave Aramenthiali and Caerthalien a greater thorn in both their paws than Araphant could be otherwise.

She did not have time to hear him say so.

“My lord! A messenger!” Against all proper protocol and courtesy, Komen Janondiel burst through the doorway. “We are attacked! Caerthalien attacks!”

* * *

The battle standards carried by the Caerthalien force each flew a narrow red pennion as well the Caerthalien banner, signifying that the army would accept neither surrender nor truce from the enemy. The best thing about going to war in this fashion, Runacarendalur decided, though it was not so much true war as it was the chance to lead a raiding party of truly stunning size, was that he did not have to wait. War itself was a thing of temporary truces, of parleys, of days spent doing nothing more exciting than moving the army and the camp to the next battlefield and waiting for the enemy to arrive. There was no need for any of that in this expedition against Oronviel. The only thing he’d had to wait on were the travel wagons of Ladyholder Glorthiachiel and his recent betrothed. It had been a very long time since Mother rode on campaign, and as for Princess Nanduil … treaty hostages were not encouraged to develop any useful skills.

Runacarendalur had chosen as his entrance point a place along Oronviel’s border where there was no clear