It was late, and the wine had gone around many times, but as much of the rowdiness from those present in the hall came as much from relief at finding themselves still alive as from wine. “Not bad,” Gunedwaen said, gesturing toward the Storysinger. “Almost accurate, too. For a change.”
“The comic songs usually have more truth to them than the everlasting praise-singing,” Rithdeliel said judiciously. “They’ll have to work to turn the conquest of Laeldor into something high and heroic, you know.”
As the Storysinger went on, the list of things Caerthalien left behind as it ran from Oronviel’s knights became more and more outrageous and unlikely. A bake-oven. Three hundred live chickens. A bedstead with a feather mattress and blankets.
“As long as they’re singing this nonsense, at least we don’t have to hear ‘The Conquest of Oronviel’ again,” Princess Nothrediel said. “I like a song where you know what’s going on. You can’t tell who you’re supposed to cheer for in that one.” She wrinkled her nose.
“You’re supposed to appreciate their artistry,” her brother pointed out, throwing a piece of bread at her. “They can’t exactly say Father is the blackest monster ever whelped and that Lord Vieliessar did us all a favor by conquering us. Since she didn’t execute him, it would be rude.”
“I appreciate the depth of feeling possessed by both my children,” Thoromarth said. “It occurs to me that our beloved lord and prince executed the wrong members of my family.”
“
“Oh, who cares who rules Oronviel, since it wouldn’t have been me,” Princess Nothrediel said. “We’re going to conquer Mangiralas next! Think of all the horses we can take as spoils of victory!” She leaned across her father and her brother. “When we take Mangiralas, you’ll let Father and me advise you on the horses, won’t you, Lord Vieliessar? Because I know Aranviorch Mangiralas will try to hide all the best bloodstock, and he knows a thousand ways to make a beast look better than it is—or worse!”
But Vieliessar wasn’t listening. She was staring across the hall, into the dimness, with an intent expression on her face. She saw the reflection of the blue-white nimbus on the wall a moment before the cloud of Silverlight drifted through the doorway. If Laeldor’s proper High Table had been here, she might have been able to see who came, but without it her angle of vision—even if she were to stand—was too low.
She waited.
A pool of silence seemed to grow outward from all those touched by the Silverlight, but even such a pool was not enough to quiet the cacophony of the hall. She knew someone was talking to her, trying to get her attention, but the words were meaningless. She only had eyes for the slow procession of the Lightborn.
At last the procession drew level with the high table. Now that Vieliessar could see who had come, her hands gripped each other beneath the fine white cloth and polished wood of the banquet table. Celeharth. It was Celeharth Lightbrother who came.
He did not have the strength to walk unaided. Ambrant supported him on one side, and on the other, a Lightborn Vieliessar did not recognize.
The hall fell silent by degrees. First Edyenias Storysinger stopped, so the singers stopped, and then those talking among themselves slowly fell silent, as if silence were the ripples from a stone dropped into a pond of still water.
“A chair,” Vieliessar said, and though she did not raise her voice, Nothrediel and Monbrauel rose to their feet, stepping back to the wall, and Thoromarth moved aside to leave two empty places beside her. Vieliessar stood as well, waiting, as with agonizing slowness the two Lightborn carried Celeharth to her. She had been one of the greatest Healers the Sanctuary had known in a thousand years, yet Vieliessar knew even she could not Heal Celeharth Lightbrother of that which ailed him.
At last those with him lowered Celeharth carefully into the chair beside her. His head lolled back against the high back of the chair and his legs splayed out as if he was a child’s doll, made of rags.
“You should have summoned me,” Vieliessar said, taking his hand. “I would have come.” His hand was icy in hers.
She did not expect an answer. She was not certain what she expected. But Celeharth drew a deep breath and lifted his head. “There are things … which must be done in the sight of all.” There were pauses between each word, as if they were heavy stones he must roll into hearing, and she could hear the rattle of his breath in his throat between each. “I saw … You broke … the seals and locks.”
“Yes,” Vieliessar said. She dared not look away from his face. She felt as if her gaze was the only thing that gave him the power to go on.
“Celelioniel.” The name seemed to take much of his strength. For a moment Vieliessar thought he would stop breathing. Each breath he took seemed to take all the life he had left. “Did you think … she was … the first? She was … my student.”
Celelioniel had been full of years when she was Astromancer. Celeharth was older still. Old enough to have been Celelioniel’s first teacher. Old enough to have set her feet upon the road that led to the unriddling of Amrethion Aradruiniel’s Curse.
Celeharth’s voice was harsh now, a terrible thing to hear, such a whisper as the dead might make if they were given voice. “Promise … The Covenant…”
“I will always honor and keep the Covenant,” she said. She spoke forcefully, not for the ears of any others here, but because she had the sense that Celeharth was going farther from her with every moment and so she must call out loudly so her voice might reach him.
“The rest does not matter,” he said. For a moment the sudden strength in his voice made her hope he would recover, that exacting her promise could Heal him where the Light could not. But then his eyes closed and his hand did not tighten on hers. Celeharth still breathed, but soon he would walk the Vale of Celenthodiel.
“I told him,” Ambrant said, his voice shaking. “I said to him all as you said it to me, Lord Vieliessar, I swear it! But he said he must come himself—”
“There are things which must be done in the sight of all,” she said, echoing Celeharth’s words. “Come. We will take him to the War Prince’s chambers here.”
“No,” the second Lightbrother said. “He would wish to die in his master’s pavilion. We will carry him there.”
Ambrant gathered the frail body into his arms as easily as he might lift a child. He and the other Lightbrother walked smoothly away, taking Celeharth to Luthilion’s pavilion.
Vieliessar turned back toward the hall.
Suddenly Gunedwaen slammed his cup down on the table hard enough to make plates and eating-knives jump. “You! Edyenias! Give us
Edyenias Storysinger stared at him for one stunned moment, then began to play.
After the banquet had drawn to its end, Vieliessar made her way through the camp to the Healing Tents. She would not intrude upon any of the Lightborn in their own pavilions, for she was still War Prince of Oronviel and they could not refuse to allow her entrance. But any might come to the Healing Tents to see how the wounded fared.
The place where those tents were set, in the center of the camp, was unnaturally spacious, for when camp had been set a day ago, they had expected the usual number of wounded. The tents that had not been filled by the end of the battle had been taken down again by the efficient camp servants, for anything they could pack before the camp prepared to move meant less work for them later. Each tent was lit from within by Silverlight, for they glowed in the dimness like the paper lanterns of the kite-flying festival. She lifted the flap of the door and stepped inside.
The wounded lay in cloth slings suspended on poles laid between two trestles, the same mechanism of cloth and poles the workers used to carry the dead from the field. If any in the Healing Tents died, their beds became transport to their funeral pyre. It was not possible, Vieliessar had learned, to immediately and completely Heal all the injured a great battle might produce. The attempt would drain the life from the land—if one were lucky. If one were not, the attempt would drain the life from the living, setting the Lightborn who had done it on an inexorable
