Challenge Circle or the executioner’s sword?”
Ablenariel did not answer. The chains clinked with his trembling, and he seemed both old and ill, though he had looked hale enough when she had taken him prisoner.
“Come, my lord. Silence will gain you nothing. You must choose, or I shall choose for you,” Vieliessar said, as gently as she could.
“I had thought to withstand a siege and so save my honor,” Ablenariel answered, his voice weary.
“Be silent!” Ladyholder Gemmaire cried. “If you must die, do not shame us in your death!”
Her words seemed to have some effect, though undoubtedly not the effect she had hoped for. Ablenariel pulled himself upright and faced Vieliessar squarely.
“You have wondered, perhaps, why I did not meet you on the field, when you sent an envoy to challenge me,” he said. “You have wondered why I did not send your envoy back to you to offer parley.”
Vieliessar nodded slowly. No answer he could make would change his fate, for she could not trust him, and she could not hold Araphant if she pardoned him. But she would not deny him his last words.
“I could not,” he said, and now anger lent strength to his voice. “I could not! I summoned my levy knights— my lords—my great meisne—and
There was a long moment of silence, and then someone in the hall laughed.
“Silence!” Vieliessar shouted. “Is betrayal a cause for laughter?”
“But they took your side, Lord Vieliessar!” The hall was dark, for the Lightborn had not come to fill it with Silverlight, and she could not see who spoke.
“Each swordblade has two edges,” she said. “If the nobles of Laeldor have taken my side, then I shall be pleased to accept their fealty. But in doing so, they have betrayed their sworn lord, and that is a sad thing.” She returned her attention to Ablenariel. “My lord, how will you die?” she asked again.
“I would die at your hands, Lord Vieliessar,” Lord Ablenariel said. “It is how I should have died.” He knelt stiffly, made awkward by the weight of the chain that bound his hands, and gazed up at her.
“A sword,” Vieliessar said, getting to her feet.
It took an awkward time to bring one, for no one in the Great Hall had come armed to the victory feast, and when Avedana arrived at last, the sword the arming page carried was not Vieliessar’s. The quillons were wrought of gold and ornamented with moonstones, white sapphires, and diamonds as clear and bright as winter moonlight. The pommel stone was made of two half-spheres of clear crystal, and between them was laid a thin leaf of moonsilver cut into the shape of a rearing Unicorn, its detail as elaborate and delicate as lace. But it was the hilt itself that was the true marvel, for it was a soft, iridescent white, as if it were made of shell-nacre. It had a twisted spiral to its shape to provide a firm grip for the hand that held it, but it seemed, when she took it, that it was no carving of stone or shell or ivory, but a thing placed upon the sword hilt nearly as it had grown.
It was Ablenariel’s sword. Vieliessar knew this the moment she saw it.
“I shall carry this blade always,” Vieliessar told him, taking it up. “In memory of loyalty—and betrayal.”
Lord Ablenariel bowed his head, saying nothing. And she struck.
“Alas, you have spoiled your gown,” Ladyholder Gemmaire said into the silence that followed. “But perhaps you do not care for fine things.”
“I know that you do not,” Vieliessar answered, handing the sword back to Avedana, “for you have spoiled something finer than any jewels you own.” She did not step back, but forward, and her long skirts trailed through the spreading pool of blood. “Tell me, Lady-Abeyant Gemmaire, do you swear fealty to me?” she asked, her voice soft and cold.
“My husband is dead. I demand to be returned to my father’s house,” Gemmaire said. Her eyes flickered from side to side as she sought allies, and for the first time, there was fear in her voice.
“Your father’s house lies in Caerthalien, does it not?” Vieliessar asked. She knew it did. Everyone here knew it did. The pedigrees and marriage-alliances of the War Princes were as well known as the bloodlines of a favored horse or hound.
Servants had come to roll Lord Ablenariel’s body into a cloth to carry it out and to sprinkle sand over the blood on the floor. Vieliessar stepped past them and resumed her chair.
“My father is Lord Mordrogen, brother to Lord Bolecthindial,” Lady-Abeyant Gemmaire answered.
“Then I see no reason to deprive Caerthalien of your presence. Lord Rithdeliel, assist Aradreleg to remove the lady’s chains. You may go.”
Rithdeliel stepped forward, a thousand questions on his face, but he held his tongue as Aradreleg reached out to touch the shackles. Lady Gemmaire shook the manacles from her wrists, lifted her chin, and turned away from Vieliessar, moving toward the archway that led into the keep. Vieliessar raised her hand, and Rithdeliel stepped forward to take the Lady’s arm, halting her.
“You said I could go to Caerthalien!” Gemmaire said, turning back to face Vieliessar.
“So I did,” Vieliessar said. “Lord Rithdeliel will conduct you to the horselines and have a palfrey saddled for you, and I shall provide you a warm cloak, for the night is cool.”
“I have cloaks and palfreys of my own!” Ladyholder Gemmaire said. “What of my servants, my jewels, my clothes, my—”
“Everything that was yours is now mine,” Vieliessar said. “I give you your life. And a horse. And a cloak. It is only a few days’ ride to the border. Ask for hospitality along your way, and you may receive it. I shall order a safe- conduct sealed for you, so all whom you meet know you ride free by my will. I am sure you would find it inconvenient to be taken prisoner and returned here.”
Gemmaire looked around again seeking someone who would take her part. At last she stepped away from Rithdeliel, shaking her skirts out as if the touch of his hand had soiled her, and began to walk toward the outer doors. There was a moment of even more profound silence, as if everyone there awaited some defiant words from her, but none came.
“Now, Prince Avirnesse, will you swear fealty to me? Or will you die?” Vieliessar asked, turning to the next prisoner.
“I always find a few executions sets a tone for a banquet,” Thoromarth said, pouring wine into two goblets.
“I am surprised you have managed to stay awake through any of mine, in that case,” Vieliessar answered tartly.
Executions were something any castel’s servants knew how to deal with. Some were bringing out tables even while other were clearing the bodies away, and soon after that the first dishes were carried in, just as if Laeldor Keep hadn’t fallen that day.
“Ah, my lord, in your case it’s never been the executions as much as the possibility of being executed by your many enemies that lent spice to your banquets,” Thoromarth said blandly. “Here. Drink. We won today, you know. Drink. Or everyone watching will think we have lost and that they’re to be dead by morning.”
Vieliessar sipped her wine. She’d never managed to get used to the taste—wine was either thin and sour or thick and over-sweet.
But there was nothing Vieliessar could do now to change what would be. And thinking of swords only made her think of Lord Ablenariel’s sword, and of his death. So she drank wine, and did her best to present an untroubled face to her commanders, as if this had truly been a day of triumph and joy.
