Crown of Vengeance

He began to fight his way toward it.

* * *

It had taken Vieliessar two days to reach her army, and two days more for her army to reach Caerthalien’s force. Lord Luthilion had announced his desire to fight at her side—audacious, for it would show Caerthalien Araphant’s disloyalty—and rather than subject the aged War Prince to the long and grueling ride to her western border, she’d told Celeharth to Send to her Lightborn and bring Lord Luthilion west by Mage Door. Then Vieliessar rode west as fast as she could. It was frustrating, for there was a Flower Forest half a day’s ride from Greenstone Tower, and she might have walked into it and out into Mornenamei in the same candlemark. But accompanied by her komen, she could not—she could not raise the matter of changing what the Lightborn were permitted to do at the same moment Caerthalien was invading in force.

She left Sorodiarn behind at the first change of horses. The journey was not a matter of pleasant rides and soft beds, but of galloping from manor house to manor house, bringing word of the attack and leaving with fresh mounts. Messengers from Thoromarth, from Rithdeliel, from Gunedwaen met her on the road, and so she learned her army already marched to meet Caerthalien. Lord Thoromarth had put them underway the moment word had come to Oronviel Keep.

Gunedwaen led her infantry in Thoromarth’s wake, but not to the battlefield. Gunedwaen’s place would be a day’s ride from Oronviel Keep, for Hawkwind’s sentries had not seen a supply train traveling with Caerthalien’s army, and if Caerthalien defeated Vieliessar’s army—or simply broke through it—the farmsteads of the Manorial Lands would be their target.

Since the moment she became War Prince, Vieliessar had been accustoming her army to the idea that it was more important to win a battle than to adhere to the ceremonial Code of Battle designed to turn war into an eternal game. Once she reached her army, she reinforced that lesson one more time: The purpose of war is to win so no more battles need to be fought. To win a battle, you must hurt your enemy. Not in some agreed-upon way Healers can put right so his knights can attack you again—but hurt him so he will never want to face you again.

In this battle, all her teaching, all her hopes, were to be tested. If they lost here, her army would go back to fighting in the ways it knew, and carry with it the seeds of their defeat. But when the enemy was in sight, her komen did everything in the way she had taught them. At her order, they attacked at once rather than allowing Caerthalien a night of rest and planning. When Caerthalien took the field with only a fraction of their own numbers, they did not attempt to break off the battle and offer the chance of a negotiated surrender.

And when the enemy’s camp was within reach, Vieliessar’s komen didn’t pretend it wasn’t because it would be discourteous to spoil the enemy’s comfort.

* * *

Gwaenor reared, striking out at the enemy knight with steel-shod forehooves. The enemy knight’s destrier tried to escape, but there was nowhere to go in the press of warriors and horses. The armored figure toppled from the saddle. If he made any sound as he died, it was lost in the clangor of battle.

Runacarendalur no longer knew how long he’d been fighting, nor if Caerthalien was winning. He only knew Oronviel’s standard was near, that the maddening figure in the blood-spattered silver armor was beneath it, and that he must see her slain if he was ever to know peace again. He roweled Gwaenor’s flanks mercilessly, asking the impossible from the great black stallion. Gwaenor snapped and kicked, forcing his way ever closer to Runacarendalur’s goal. Runacarendalur tightened the fingers of his free hand around his dagger, his eyes fixed upon Vieliessar. He could not stab her, but he could stab her mount. In the heat of battle destriers rarely noticed injuries, but a fatal blow—something that would bring the golden stallion to his knees—would fling Vieliessar to the ground to be trampled to death.…

As if his thoughts were a shout she could hear, Vieliessar turned and stared directly at him. Even with her visor in place, Runacarendalur imagined he could see her eyes.

No.

Some thought of Bonding as a gift, the greatest gift Queen Pelashia had given the children of the Fortunate Lands. Some thought of it as a curse, for it linked two souls together—no matter what heart and mind might wish —so tightly that if one half of a Bonding died, the other would soon follow. Still others, more cynical, thought of it as a myth, either lie or delusion or something crafted of both.

Runacarendalur of Caerthalien looked into the eyes of Vieliessar, born of Farcarinon, now War Prince of Oronviel, and knew the Soulbond of Pelashia Celenthodiel for a curse and no delusion. He felt as if he’d been struck over the heart with a hammer and he knew with a certainty that transcended thought that Vieliessar was as furious, as horrified, as he was.

It cannot be set aside, it cannot be undone—one may delay it, knowing what is to come—refuse it—and live all one’s years as a hungry ghost—but that is all.

He could not even tell, in this single blinding moment of oneness, which of them was thinking.

He’d been warned, seeing her in the distance as she led her army to battle. He hadn’t recognized the warning.

Bonded.

Soulbonded.

Bonded forever.

If he’d managed to kill Vieliessar before that horrifying flash of understanding, could he have kept this from happening?

The moment was so terrible and all-consuming that Runacarendalur did something he’d hadn’t done since long before he won his spurs: he forgot he was in the middle of a battle surrounded by armed and armored knights who were using all of their considerable skill to try to kill him. He wasn’t sure how long his inattention lasted. All he knew was that someone was hitting him on the rerebrace that covered his upper arm —not to injure him, but to gain his attention. He started in surprise, turning in his seat, clutching his sword. He’d dropped his dagger.

Helecanth pointed back toward the camp. She didn’t bother to speak; it would have been impossible to hear her. Hurry, she signaled, and Runacarendalur signed assent.

Haste was a thing easier asked than provided, however. They moved away from the standards of Oronviel, Ivrithir, and Araphant in whatever direction offered them space to maneuver. But the farther they got from the tight cluster of knights, the more they drew the attention of the enemy, and the more often they had to stop to fight their way free. It was only when Runacarendalur realized he could barely tell Caerthalien’s green and gold from Ivrithir’s black and tawny that he realized they’d fought on past sunset. The false day of twilight would vanish swiftly and without warning, but Runacarendalur was no longer certain that darkness would bring an end to Oronviel’s attack.

He was no longer certain about anything.

His life was in the keeping of one whom everyone from the Astromancer to his mother wanted dead. More than anything, he wanted to ride back to her side. But what he’d do when he got there, Runacarendalur didn’t know.

“You have to call the retreat!” Helecanth shouted when they had a moment’s breathing space.

“They’ll call the night halt soon, and—” Even as he spoke, Runacarendalur realized his words were ridiculous. Was he actually suggesting that an army that attacked in mid-afternoon without stopping to announce the terms of battle would call off the fighting with nightfall simply because it was civilized and customary?

“There’s no camp for us to go back to!” Helecanth shouted.

The unbelievable statement shocked Runacarendalur’s mind from the last of its daze, and in a few brief sentences, Helecanth explained.

When they’d struck the tuathal flank of Oronviel’s army, the army had pivoted in place to encircle Runacarendalur’s force. By that time, the rest of his knights were aware they were under attack and they took the field even though they had no clear plan of battle to guide them. In its absence, they’d done what seemed to be the most sensible thing: avoiding the center and the heavily reinforced right flank, they rode to attack the left.

“—and Oronviel’s tuathal wing continued to retreat, pulling our army in after it,