Crown of Vengeance

High King. Whether they wore leather and rough homespun or the silken livery of household servants, the expression on every face was the same.

Hope.

Seeing them and realizing that her promise had been heard and taken to heart even in the stronghold of her enemy, Vieliessar suddenly knew victory was possible. To all who begged for aid, Bethaerian made the same reply as before: their supplies followed.

“They will only steal all they can lay hands on and flee,” Bethaerian grumbled as they rode on.

“Back to masters who have abandoned them?” Vieliessar asked. “No. They are my people now.”

At midmorning, a cloud of dust hanging above the road before them signaled the passage of Caerthalien’s army. “Sound the call to battle.”

The enemy forces seemed to scatter in all directions at the first notes of the warhorn, but Vieliessar knew that was merely those afoot moving out of the way of the knights. When they were yet a mile distant, Vieliessar ordered Bethaerian to sound the charge, and they moved from trot, to canter, to gallop. The Caerthalien knights turned in column to face them, and Vieliessar could see Prince Runacarendalur’s standard in the first rank.

But he is not here. I can tell it. She could not say how she knew, for it was not possible to see anything clearly in the moment the point of her formation struck their ranks. But she was as certain of it as she was of the count of her own fingers and toes. There was an instant for relief that she did not need to fear for her hated enemy’s safety—and anger, for he had abandoned his army and fled, perhaps beyond her reach —and then she was embattled.

She had not let herself think about what had happened on yesterday’s battlefield. The storysingers made of Soulbonding a thing that overshadowed both will and common sense, and in the instant she had seen him, she had known both were true, for from the moment the Bond had been formed, she had thought of nothing but killing him. Death would be kinder than a lifetime linked to one who embodied everything she had come to despise—princely arrogance and royal ambition. She remembered Prince Runacarendalur from her childhood: a shining, distant figure who was the embodiment of all she wished to become.

I will not be his consort. I cannot take him as mine—I cannot say to Rithdeliel and Gunedwaen and Thoromarth and all who may come to fight for me: spare Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, for if he should die, I die as well.…

She led her company to the left of Caerthalien’s center. Gunedwaen had often said a Swordmaster took the greatest hurts from his most unskilled students, simply because they did that which no training could predict. Exhaustion and desperation in the Caerthalien knights lent their attacks the same unpredictability: the blow against which one defended might go high, or low, or strike the knight beside one instead. Worse yet was the moment the back of the Caerthalien column—inspired by some masterful leader—began to swing to deosil, for if the column could turn, it might manage to bring forward a large enough force to block her line of retreat and encircle her force.

But the battleground was hemmed in by those who were not lawful targets under the Code of Battle, and knights and destriers collided disastrously with servants and pages who had thought themselves safely on the sidelines of the field. The obvious thing for Caerthalien to do was retreat up the road—the knights might not care about the lives of their servants, but the confusion left them vulnerable to enemy attack. But Vieliessar heard no Caerthalien signal to retreat and regroup, and suddenly she realized that Caerthalien could not withdraw. She’d seen no Green Robes in the crowds at the edges of the column and that meant that if any Lightborn had been part of the retreat, they had been leading it, and were now behind the army. Even Lightborn could not outrun blood-maddened warhorses. If the Caerthalien knights broke and fled—if the rearward ranks retreated—the Lightborn would be trampled to death.

She could not afford to care. Could not retreat, hoping Caerthalien would follow, and thus ensure the safety of those who might have been her friends, her comrades, her students. The purpose of war is to win, she told herself bleakly, and banished thoughts of the Lightborn from her mind.

Then, as if Caerthalien was a river and a dam had burst, the knights facing Oronviel’s swords simply fell away. Vieliessar struck the foe before her hard enough to topple him from the saddle. His destrier reared up, menacing her with its forehooves, but her mount sprang backward with ease, for there was suddenly space through which to maneuver.

She raised her bloodied sword, brandishing it in the direction of the enemy, and spurred Grillet in pursuit. The bay stallion danced along the road, springing into the air to vault fallen bodies, dodging around injured horses. Behind her, Vieliessar heard the call for the chase: follow, follow, follow. It was not a battle call, but a hunting call: there was never any need to chase a force of enemy knights on the field. She could hear the thunder of hooves; slowly the front rank of her knights drew level with her. Before them, Caerthalien fled as if it ran with the Starry Hunt Itself. They could not keep to such a bruising pace for long, but it would not matter. Vieliessar galloped her company after them until she judged they had covered several miles, then began to rein Grillet in. It was difficult to do, for he wanted to run, but she managed it at last, sending him onward at a slow trot until the company had reformed behind her.

“We could have run them until their horses were blown!” one of her komen objected when they were moving at a slow walk.

“Yes,” Vieliessar agreed. “But—did you see? They held their place during the battle for fear of overrunning those behind them: their Lightborn, it must be. And then they ran. So let us go back and find those Lightborn. Once they are in my care, we may harass Caerthalien as we wish.”

“That is a good thought, Lord Vieliessar,” Bethaerian said, plainly relieved at her reason for abandoning the chase. “Let us seek them out.”

When they retraced their steps, they reached a place where the dead had been moved aside, servant and knight piled together, and the road had been filled with the injured. The Lightborn moved among the wounded, offering Healing. Vieliessar counted no more than a dozen of them. A force the size of Caerthalien’s would have traveled with fifty Lightborn, perhaps more.

“Who is senior among you?” Vieliessar called, reining in.

By their reaction, the Lightborn had expected her to pass without stopping. There was a quick murmured colloquy between three of them, then one walked forward. “I am Pantaradet Lightsister,” she said.

“You are not all the Lightborn that traveled with Runacarendalur’s army,” Vieliessar said.

Pantaradet shook her head. “We are all who returned to aid the injured,” she said simply. “Lord Vieliessar, you were once one of us. Please. We must have food, shelter, a place where these injured may rest. They have done you no harm.”

“Summon to you all the Lightborn who rode with Caerthalien,” Vieliessar answered. “Give yourselves into my care, and I will care for those you have Healed as well. All may come to me who were in Caerthalien’s service.”

A look almost of awe broke over Pantaradet’s features. “It is true,” she said, as if the words were torn from her all unwilling. “I had heard— I did not believe—”

“I shall be High King, Pantaradet Lightsister,” Vieliessar said. “And you will be my people. I would have you safe while I make war on those who would make war upon me.”

Pantaradet nodded, and for a moment it seemed she might speak further. Whatever she thought of saying, she decided against it. She nodded again instead. “I will summon them, Lord Vieliessar. We are sixty in number.”

It was a reasonable count of Lightborn Healers to accompany three thousand knights—especially if one did not intend to have any enemy wounded to Heal. Vieliessar sent Orannet and Janondiel back to her supply wagons to bring supplies for the Healers, then sent two hundred of her komen to follow the Caerthalien knights and keep them moving. She waited until the wagons had arrived and the wounded were loaded. Then, at last, she pursued Caerthalien once more.

If only she had been able to take Runacarendalur of Caerthalien prisoner this morning, the day would have held nothing but joy.

* * *

After eight interminable days spent fleeing Oronviel, Runacarendalur was filthy and tired, and he ached. The four of them had been met at the border by a demi-taille of komen—Father’s personal guard—and a dozen Lightborn. With fresh mounts, they