Crown of Vengeance

until eventually the whole of our force was engaged, and what had been elements of Oronviel’s rear guard were facing our camp.” Helecanth shrugged. “So they rode down into it.”

They cleared the edge of the battle and rode wide to avoid its outliers. In the dusk, neither destrier wished to gallop, and Runacarendalur thought dismally of what would happen if they went lame or broke a leg. But it wasn’t until they reached the place where Caerthalien had made camp only a few scant candlemarks before that Runacarendalur realized the full scope of his failure.

No horses. No pavilions. No servants. Nothing, in fact, that he recognized as being the neatly organized camp with its pavilions of bright silk. Even the Lightborn were gone, and—

“Ladyholder Glorthiachiel!” Runacarendalur said in horror. For just one instant, he forgot about being Soulbonded. “They’ve taken her prisoner!”

“I don’t know,” Helecanth said, troubled. “I do know we need to retreat—if we can. I don’t think you were near any of them during the fighting, but— Did you see any knights on the field wearing Oronviel colors, but in brown armor?”

“Mercenaries,” Runacarendalur said realizing what she meant. Few sellswords began their lives as komen of the Hundred Houses, and those who did were often fortunate to escape their former masters with their lives, let alone with armor, sword, and destrier. Mercenaries did not wear armor in the bright colors of the komen. They greased their armor lavishly and then roasted it carefully; the burned-on grease created a weatherproof coating that made them nearly invisible at night. “We knew she was taking them into her army.”

“And adopting their tactics,” Helecanth said grimly. “Oh, they abide by the Code of Battle if they’re paid to. And if they’re paid to ignore it, they do that too.”

“Sound the retreat,” Runacarendalur said. He’d never imagined a simple sentence could hurt so much to say. “We need to find our Lightborn. They’ll be able to find Mother.”

Now that he stood looking down into the chasm of this disaster, Runacarendalur could see so very clearly all the steps that had led him here. Dismissing the lack of information from within Oronviel as unimportant. Dismissing the alliance between Oronviel and Ivrithir as meaningless. Believing Thoromarth still ruled Oronviel when every action Oronviel took was one Thoromarth would never have considered taking even if he’d managed to think of it. Riding heedlessly to the attack when Oronviel moved to engage, even though that was the final warning of how changed things were in Oronviel since Harvest.

In the distance, Runacarendalur heard another warhorn take up the call to retreat. For a moment it was drowned out by a mocking volley from the enemy: No quarter—No quarter—No quarter— echoed across the battlefield like the sound of a scolding jackdaw. He’d thought riding under the red pennion would be a useful convention that would allow him to execute any prisoners he took without breaking with the Code of Battle. But once he’d displayed the red pennion, his enemy was not bound to show mercy any more than he was.

His army would be slaughtered where it fell.

“I must—” Runacarendalur began, about to urge Gwaenor forward.

“You must not,” Helecanth said urgently, reaching out and placing her hand on his destrier’s rein. “We do not know how many we have lost. But if you are lost, Prince Runacarendalur, the army will have no leader. And all will be lost.”

Wise as it was, Helecanth’s counsel was bitter to hear.

And now there was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Every Lightborn studied the Soulbond, for it was a riddle and a mystery: a thing of the Light—of Magery—that appeared among the Lightless. Without warning, without explanation. It behaved as if it were a spell, but unlike a spell, it could not be broken.

She’d known what was happening. Trapped in the midst of the melee, there’d been nothing she could do. She was already Warded against the thoughts of the injured and dying. There were no more powerful Wards she could summon.

It might have been delayed, even averted entirely, for all those who wrote of Soulbonding agreed that for the Bond to form, the two halves of the Bonding must be near each other. The scholars also spoke of desire, but the only desire she’d possessed was to win the battle.

Perhaps that had been all that was needed.

But those were things she thought of much later, when it was not necessary to spend every beat of her heart on surviving—and not merely surviving, but winning in the best way to further her need. The land’s need.

She’d prepared her commanders carefully on the journey here, from those who commanded a twelve to those who commanded twelve times twelve, so each would know what must be done before they engaged the enemy. She was grateful she’d done so much, for once the battle began it was impossible to know what was going on more than a few feet away. Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen and even Thoromarth had spoken of battles into which a commander could send a messenger to order a meisne to withdraw and could direct the battle as the huntsman directed the hunting pack. But those were not the sort of battles she was fighting.

The orders she had given to Nadalforo as she set her company to ride in the army’s fantail had surprised the former mercenary commander but had not shocked her.

“Loot the camp and take their horses?” she said, looking pleased. “Ah, Lord Vieliessar, you’re wasted as a War Prince!”

“There will be Lightborn and servants in the camp,” Vieliessar said. “Harm none of them. Offer them sanctuary. Drive those who will not accept it far from the camp.”

She did not know, in the press of the fighting, whether Nadalforo had been successful or not. Just as it became too dark to see, she heard the Caerthalien warhorns signaling retreat, and the flurry of mockery from her own knights-herald in reply.

If Caerthalien retreats, it means I have won.

“Disengage!” she shouted into Bethaerian’s ear. Bethaerian shoved back her visor and raised her warhorn to her lips. The signal echoed around the field: as it was received, her knights stopped pursuing the enemy.

* * *

There should have been bright, cheerful torches, servants offering cups of mulled wine or tall tankards of ale, cloudy globes of Silverlight shedding their eldritch radiance over the camp and the battlefield. Instead, there was cold and darkness and the screaming of wounded horses. At least the Oronviel forces were signaling to disengage. He could be grateful for that much.

As more of Caerthalien’s knights rode to where the camp should have been—and wasn’t—Helecanth switched from sounding the retreat to sounding the call to muster. At last there came the welcome glow of Silverlight through the trees. Runacarendalur let out a long breath of relief. He had not thought his Lightborn would be harmed, but when he had seen what had happened to the camp …

The tale the returning servants and Lightborn told was as grim as the battle itself. Knights in Oronviel colors rode down on the camp as soon as the last of the Caerthalien knights had entered the battle. They struck down the guards on the horselines, and as some gathered the livestock together, others ordered all who wished to live to run for their lives. Then they drove the horses and oxen through the camp. The pavilions and their contents were wrecked. The few wagons of supplies—mostly grain for the destriers—were carried off.

“And Ladyholder Glorthiachiel?” Runacarendalur asked, his mouth dry with fear.

“Here.”

Her voice was brittle with rage, but Runacarendalur had never heard any sound so welcome. She was riding the destrier of some slain knight, with Carangil Lightbrother leading it.

“I think we can safely consider your betrothal to Oronviel at an end,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel said waspishly. “Your betrothed is gone.”

“She ran away?” He’d seen Princess Nanduil only a handful of times—including his betrothal ceremony—and could not imagine …

“Had your witless komentai’a not ordered my guard to hold us both prisoner,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel spat, “I might yet have preserved her for your wedding. But first we retreated—” the word was a vile curse in her mouth “—and then