CHAPTER TWELVE
AN EMPIRE BOUGHT WITH MAGIC
“You’ve looked better,” Nadalforo said, walking into Vieliessar’s pavilion.
“I’ve been on the field for three days,” Vieliessar answered. “They killed my horse. Three times,” she clarified. She was so tired she was light-headed.
Nadalforo picked up the pitcher on the table and sniffed at it to check its contents, then poured Vieliessar a cup of watered beer. “Drink this,” she said. “It must have been some horse, but never mind. You have thousands to choose from now. You could even ride Aranviorch into battle, but I don’t advise it.”
Vieliessar started to giggle with relief and exhaustion, then covered her mouth with her hand to stop herself. “You got him? Them? All of them?” she asked. Beer was better than water when one had been laboring long and hard in the hot sun, but even diluted, it made her giddy.
“We got Aranviorch out of his keep—not that hard, once you’re inside they think you belong there—and your Lightborn got everything with hooves within fifty miles of the keep. Aranviorch is here somewhere. The horses are heading for Ivrithir. I hope you trust Atholfol.”
“Yes. We won.”
“Don’t sound so surprised, your lords will think you didn’t intend to,” Nadalforo advised. “Now I’m going to bed. The only time I’ve been out of the saddle in the last ten days was when we were breaking into the keep.”
“Go,” Vieliessar said. “And Nadalforo … thank you.”
“I am your sworn vassal,” Nadalforo said, bowing.
It had been an outrageous gamble, but the only true way of winning not merely a battle, but a war. Aranviorch wished to fight far from his Great Keep to protect his herds, for they were the wealth and power of Mangiralas. It didn’t matter how many of his nobles Vieliessar slew or captured if she did not have the War Prince himself. And he could easily gain allies against her if he used his herds to bargain with.
So Vieliessar had conceived a double trap. She’d sent nearly all her Lightborn to bespell—and steal—every single animal Aranviorch owned. And she’d sent her former mercenaries to take his keep and bring him to her. Doing that had left her with barely enough Lightborn to keep those seriously wounded in battle from dying—and not enough to Heal the less badly injured so they could fight again the next day.
Victory left her—as she thought it always would—mourning those who had died so she could gain it. She could not say the cost was too high. But it saddened her. She sent Harwing Lightbrother to the Mangiralas camp to summon Ladyholder Faurilduin to make her formal surrender. Harwing had never done envoy work before, and he was so nervous that Aradreleg finally wrote out for him what he must say. He regarded the sheet of vellum owlishly before nodding and saying he would say it off just as it was written. He walked into the center pole of the pavilion as he was leaving, and then simply fled.
“Will your Storysingers include that, when they make their songs of this day?” Aradreleg asked, trying hard not to laugh.
“I don’t think they’d believe it,” Vieliessar said gravely. “Oh, and now I must go and see War Prince Aranviorch.” She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
“No,” Aradreleg corrected. “First you will bathe—you smell like a wet horse—and then you will eat, and then I will find Brinnie and see if
“Where is my son?” Aranviorch demanded the moment he was brought into Vieliessar’s pavilion. “Prince Gatriadde—where is he?”
“Why do you think I have him?” Vieliessar answered, just as bluntly.
“Because he was taken from the keep when I was. I want him brought here at once!”
“Ah.” That answered one question that had been puzzling her—why Mangiralas had left the field in the middle of the battle, without her needing to demand a parley-halt to tell them she held the War Prince. Nadalforo must have taken Gatriadde as well as Aranviorch in order to have as a messenger someone whose word Ladyholder Faurilduin—or those in her camp—would believe. “Perhaps his mother will bring him, for I have sent for her. But you and I have unfinished business, Lord Aranviorch. I mean to have Mangiralas and your oath. Give them to me.”
“And if I do not?” Aranviorch said.
“Then you will die, and your wife will die, and your son will die, and I shall go to your keep and take it a second time, and slay all who will not swear to me. And if your army wishes to go to war with me, then it must do so afoot, for I have taken from you all the horses which are your great wealth, and they are mine already.”
“Why?” Aranviorch roared. “Mangiralas has done nothing to you!”
“Mangiralas did not surrender when I required it,” Vieliessar answered bleakly.
Ladyholder Faurilduin and Prince Gatriadde arrived within the candlemark, accompanied by Harwing Lightbrother and Camaibien Lightbrother. Vieliessar was shocked and saddened by how young the prince—now the Heir-Prince, as he must know—was, and remembered again that he and Princess Maerengiel had been of one birth.
“So you have won,” Ladyholder Faurilduin said bleakly, looking from Vieliessar to Aranviorch.
“I have,” Vieliessar said. “And now I take fealty of your husband. But not of you. Not yet. Did Camaibien give my words to you?”
“As you said them,” Lady Faurilduin said, her voice unyielding. “You did not abide by the Code of Battle!” she said accusingly.
“And yet, your knights who rode to my lines in surrender were returned to you.” Those who could still ride had been sent back to Mangiralas on palfreys after the end of each day’s battle. Those who were too badly wounded to ride had been carried onto the field on litters and left for Mangiralas to retrieve.
“You would have held them to ransom if you’d possessed Lightborn enough to Heal them,” Lady Faurilduin said accusingly.
“War is not a game,” Vieliessar said sharply. “Nor will I treat it as a game. When I have searched your camp and satisfied myself, then will I take your oath, if you will give it.”
“Never,” Lady Faurilduin said flatly.
“Faurilduin!” Aranviorch cried.
“Husband, you must do what is best for our lands. But Maerengiel has gone to ride with the Silver Hooves— slain by the cowardly weapons Lord Vieliessar sees fit to bring to the field of honor—and I will not live in a world forged upon the anvil of her devising.”
“Do not—!” Aranviorch said, and his plea was to Vieliessar, not to his wife.
“She may die with honor,” Vieliessar said, “but if she will not swear to me, she will die. And I will not take her oath until I know any of my people she took prisoner are well, for I swore to her that if she caused the deaths of any who lay helpless in her hands, she would die.”
“Then … Gatriadde, Mangiralas is yours now. Guard her well,” Aranviorch said.
“Father!” Prince Gatriadde said, horrified.
“I know you did not look for this,” Aranviorch said with dignity, “but we cannot choose our fates. Only the Silver Hooves may do that.”
“Is that your last word to me?” Vieliessar asked. Aranviorch inclined his head. Faurilduin ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. “Then let a Circle be made for Aranviorch’s death. Gatriadde, will you renounce your claim to the
