Crown of Vengeance

orders from its captains the night before, and in the dim light before dawn its warriors moved into position around the keep. The craftworkers’ village was empty when the army reached it, and so were the stables. The craftworkers would have fled to the keep for safety at the army’s approach, but the absence of the horses implied a mounted force waiting to strike.

The only problem with that is none of my scouts have seen any indication of such a force, Vieliessar thought in irritation. There were surprises awaiting her today, and she hated that thought. She had done all she could against it: Nadalforo and her First Sword, Faranglis, commanded between them four grand-tailles, all former mercenaries. They did not stand with the main force, but instead rode in a wide circle around it, searching for the secret exit from Laeldor Great Keep and any who might use it.

The rest of the army was gathered before the keep.

From her visions of ancient times, Vieliessar knew that “infantry” had been placed in the first ranks of the army, and had attacked the enemy before the knights charged. But she hadn’t had enough time to spend working with either her army or the new infantry to feel confident in such tactics, so she placed them at the far edges of her formation. If the enemy attempted to flank her forces, her infantry could attack. For now she simply wanted them present, both to season them and to let her knights know they would be expected to fight in concert with troops fighting afoot.

War Prince Luthilion led Araphant’s Household guard. She had placed his forces on her tuathal side to honor him, knowing it was the dearest wish of his heart to die with a sword in his hand. She was certain the Araphant Guard would stand no matter what, for Luthilion was greatly loved and every one of his komen would die rather than dishonor him. The knight-levies of Araphant were soft with long absence from the field; she had separated the rest of them into single tailles and scattered them among her troops.

Ivrithir held the deosil, led into battle by Caragond Heir-Princess and her brothers and sisters. Vieliessar had left Ivrithir’s dispositions up to those who for years had led her knights into battle—or on raids across Oronviel’s border—taking only a few tailles to directly support her center. Doing so showed Ivrithir honor, since the tuathal side was Araphant’s.

Oronviel’s knights supported the tuathal side and made up the rest of the center. Two of Thoromarth’s four surviving children each led a grand-taille, one hundred forty-four knights. Prince Frochoriel of Oronviel had been left to hold Oronviel Keep in her absence and to keep guard over Princess Nanduil, who was still prisoner there—and who had no warcraft in any event.

Bethaerian raised her warhorn to her lips and blew the signal. From Vieliessar’s camp, the war drums boomed out their challenge: come and fight, come and fight, come and fight—

For many minutes, as the sun climbed higher and the day brightened into color, there was no response, and Vieliessar entertained the mad fantasy that the castel was empty, that Ablenariel and all his people had simply fled, leaving her to cry challenge to the empty stones. Perhaps Rithdeliel had been right and Ambrant Lightbrother had never reached Laeldor. Perhaps he had been summoned back to the Sanctuary to account for his actions in Rain Moon.

Perhaps the Starry Hunt has carried all of them off, and Laeldor will fall to me without a blow struck!

But at last there was movement upon the wall above the gatehouse. Lord Ablenariel had arrived.

The War Prince of Laeldor stood flanked by two warriors in the distinctive round cap-helm and mail shirt of castel guardsmen. He wore armor, but no helm. His Lady, Gemmaire, stood beside him, brilliant in silks and jewels, her long hair blowing in the morning breeze. Bethaerian blew another call on her warhorn, and in obedience, the drums rumbled into silence.

There were custom-hallowed words to speak now. Vieliessar would have ignored them, except that Ablenariel was inside his keep and she wanted him to come out. For one appalled moment she thought she had forgotten them, then she rose to standing in Sorodiarn’s stirrups and took a deep breath.

“Ablenariel Laeldor! I, Vieliessar Oronviel, challenge you to lawful battle! Come forth, for your honor and your lands! If you will not set your steel against mine, be known forever as coward!”

Behind her, around her, her knights and warriors erupted in wild cheering. Ablenariel stood silent as the cheering crested and died away, then he leaned over the battlements. “I see no War Prince here! Only a Sanctuary Mage who has forgotten her robes! Go home, little Lightborn! War is not for you!”

“Idiot,” Thoromarth muttered, just loud enough for Vieliessar to hear.

“Come forth, Ablenariel Laeldor! This is the second time of asking. Or do you refuse lawful challenge?” she called.

“If you won’t come yourself, send your old wet nurse!” Thoromarth bawled. “She’s probably a more valiant knight!” He looked toward Vieliessar, his eyes alight with the anticipation of battle. There was laughter from the massed ranks behind them. So far this was sport, as it had always been.

“It has been long since I rode to war,” Lord Luthilion said happily. “I thank you for this entertainment, Lord Vieliessar.”

“If there is pleasure to be had in it,” she said, turning toward him, “the pleasure is—”

Suddenly there was an arrow where no arrow had been, protruding from Lord Luthilion’s eye socket and quivering faintly. His hands came up, scrabbling at his face and knocking down the visor of his helm, and then he fell from the back of his destrier. The animal started forward, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood, then stopped—as it had been trained to—at the absence of weight in its saddle.

There was a ragged cheer from the wall above the castel. At the sound, Vieliessar looked up. Ablenariel and his lady were gone, and one of the castel guard brandished his bow tauntingly.

Sound grew behind her as knowledge of what had happened spread. Cries built to shouts to a roar. She did not know if Ablenariel had given the archer the order to attack. She did not know if Lord Luthilion had been the target or if she had. She did not know whether Ablenariel had left the ramparts because he had been coming to parley or surrender, or trying to flee. None of those things mattered now. She had the sudden sense that this was a moment she could not control any more than she could control the storms of autumn. She might turn it to serve her purpose. Or she might be crushed beneath it. She had taken a thousand steps along this path, and each had been irreversible, but this would be the greatest. She raised her hand. All she felt was terror.

Preservation was a spell every Lightborn knew. It kept food from spoiling, meat from rotting, even ice from melting. But every spell had its opposite.

Rot.

The spell sped from her fingers as the arrow had sped from the bow. There had been a hundred spells laid on every element of the castel’s entrance. Vieliessar’s spell unmade them all, whether for preservation, for strength, or for endurance. Chains holding the doors of the Great Keep closed rusted away in instants. Bronze gears pitted and shattered. Rope frayed and snapped.

The doors of Laeldor Keep sprang open.

The force of their opening caused them to fall from age-crumbling hinges, caused the great doors to explode into rotted wood and splinters. The outer court was exposed. At its far end, the portcullis that blocked entrance to the Great Hall crashed down, its corroded bronze shattering on impact, leaving the castel defenseless. In that instant, Vieliessar spurred Sorodiarn forward. Behind her, howling for vengeance, came the knights of Araphant.

The outer courtyard was filled with mounted knights. Araphant’s knights—Luthilion’s personal meisne—closed with them, forcing them back in a tangle of swords and limbs and hooves. Beyond them, the doorway of the Great Hall gaped wide, its doors and bars shattered by decay. Vieliessar’s army pushed its way past the knights in the outer courtyard to gain the interior, and within moments, the Great Hall, too, was a battleground.

Vieliessar spared a thought for Ambrant—was he here? a prisoner?—but she could not stop to search for him and she did not stop to fight. Lord Ablenariel had been on the battlements only moments before: he could not have gone far. But every castel’s design was unique, and she did not know where the steps and the passageways were in Laeldor Keep. Abelnariel Laeldor might escape the castel entirely as she searched for him.

No! He will not!

She vaulted from Sorodiarn’s back, her steel sabatons ringing and slipping on the stone floor. She yanked off her gauntlet and slapped her bare hand against the wall, summoning the Light as she did. Knowing. With the casting of that spell, the whole shape of the castel unfolded behind her