surviving knights were injured.
“Ullilion’s Lightborn cast Confusion on the center of the field. It is a minor spell of Overshadowing, bound to an object. We must give thanks their Lightborn are as incompetent at warcraft as ours are—as many of their own knights were bespelled as ours,” Ivrulion said. As he spoke, he carefully sponged the blood away from the cut on his brother’s thigh. If there were a piece of metal or leather left in the injury after it was Healed, wound-rot could set in.
“Oh, stop that!” Runacarendalur snapped irritably, swatting at Ivrulion. He tried to get to his feet but sank back onto the chest with a hiss of pain. The wash water was infused with AllHeal and Night’s Daughter, but they only dulled the pain a little. The gash was the worst of his injuries; the locking-pins holding his right cuisse in place had been sheared through by a previous blow and he was lucky the second strike hadn’t cut through the bone.
“I can certainly take my Magery elsewhere,” Ivrulion said. “But if this isn’t seen to, you won’t be fit to fight for the rest of the season.”
Suddenly there was the sound of a scream, loud enough to be heard over the drumming of the rain. Runacarendalur again tried to struggle to his feet.
“Sit still,” Ivrulion said. “It’s nothing. Dom is torturing the prisoners for information.”
“It makes more work for our Lightborn,” Runacarendalur said uneasily. He’d watched adherence to the Code of Battle slip a little more each War Season since the end of the Long Peace, but he’d never been comfortable with it. He’d made an oath to the Starry Hunt to uphold the Code on the day his father gave him his sword and spurs, and the Silver Hooves spurned oathbreakers.
“No, it doesn’t,” Ivrulion said. “We can’t afford to waste Healing on the enemy and we can’t let Ullilion ransom them. I’ve told him he’s wasting his time questioning them about ’Ragi, but you know how stubborn he is.”
Runacarendalur sighed. “’Ragi still hasn’t come back?”
“No. He might be on the field, but nobody’s going to find him in this rain. We’ll search again in the morning.”
“Wine,” Runacarendalur said, and Serogon jumped to his feet to bring the pitcher. “It’s freezing in here,” he muttered after drinking. “Take some for yourself,” he said to the body servant. “At least it’s something.”
“When my evening’s duties are finished, Prince Runacarendalur,” Serogon answered.
“No one listens to me,” Runacarendalur complained.
“That’s because you have a foul temper when you’re injured,” Ivrulion said. “At least you started that gash bleeding strongly enough that I think it’s clean. Now hold still and shut up.”
Ivrulion placed both hands flat against Runacarendalur’s skin and closed his eyes. There was the familiar flash of panic Runacarendalur always felt at being Healed, the moment of heat that seemed to start at his bones and radiate outward, and then it was done. There was fresh blood still on his skin, but the skin itself was whole and unbroken once more. He leaned over to pluck the cloth from the basin and wipe the skin clean to see.
“You always do that,” Ivrulion said. “Don’t you think I know what I’m doing?”
“Of course,” Runacarendalur said. He yawned. The other thing he hated about Healings was the flat feeling of exhaustion that followed. “It’s just that—” He yawned again.
“Get some sleep,” Ivrulion said.
“Soon,” Runacarendalur promised. He stood, cautiously testing his leg. It was always strange to expect pain that didn’t come. “I need to see Lengiathion first.” He snapped his fingers, and Serogon hurried over, carrying boots and a robe.
“He won’t have answers for you,” Ivrulion said.
“Then at least I can make his life as miserable as everyone else’s,” Runacarendalur answered.
What should have been a long summer twilight was dark with out-of-season rain instead. Globes of Silverlight made the pavilions glow like colored lanterns and more pale azure globes hung in the air above the streets of the camp, but they seemed to give less light than usual. It didn’t matter. Runacarendalur could find his way among the tents blindfolded.
He reached his destination and ducked under the pavilion’s awning, tossing his dripping cloak to a waiting servant. Inside it was as damp as every other place in camp, but Lord Lengiathion had managed to arrange for braziers, so at least his pavilion was warm. The senior commanders were all gathered here: Rolason, Gambrinian, Livarre, Meralastant, even Elrinionion. Caerthalien had sent her finest to this battle.
“Has there been any word?” Runacarendalur asked, walking over to the nearest brazier.
“No.” Lengiathion shook his head. “The servants are out on the field, of course, but—”
“It’s dark and it’s wet,” Runacarendalur finished wearily.
There was another scream, fainter with distance.
“I told him it’s useless,” Elrinionion said. “We could barely mark our own companies on the field today, and after the first charge, no one carried banners. Why does Prince Domcariel think Ullilion’s
“Because he wants them to,” Runacarendalur said. “If we aren’t waiting for anyone but Dom, I will not delay our meal longer. Ivrulion will be some time yet in the Healing tents.”
They seated themselves and the servants brought in the first course. The talk ran much as it would in the evening after any battle, save that tonight it turned upon the Magery used by Ullilion.
“If everyone is going to start throwing thunderbolts at each other, why take the field at all? Just stay home and have your Lightborn reduce your enemy’s keep to slag,” Lord Livarre said irritably.
“I say the Lightborn should keep the beer from spoiling and make my
“If they’re going to throw thunderbolts at us, we need to throw thunderbolts at them,” Lord Lengiathion said. “Will you speak to your brother, Prince Runacarendalur?”
“I can speak to him,” Runacarendalur said. “But he’ll tell you what he told me: we need to think carefully before we overturn ancient customs. Do we really wish to do things just because Lord Vieliessar does them? And we cannot expect the Lightborn to fight all day and then Heal all night. They are stretched thin as it is.”
“You must decide whether you wish to slay your enemy by Magery or have
He walked over to the table and sat down beside Runacar. His hair and robes were as dry as if he hadn’t walked across the camp in a rainstorm and Runacarendalur spared a moment for wistful envy. There were a few spells of Magery he wouldn’t mind being able to cast.
“Yet Vieliessar Oathbreaker’s Lightborn seem to have no difficulty doing so,” Lengiathion said. “Oronviel took Laeldor by Magery—and Mangiralas too.”
“And many
“I shall send for the maps once we have eaten,” Lengiathion said. “Let us see if we can manage not to get the rest of our
But he was afraid that he knew.
Gwaenor shifted nervously beneath him, obviously wondering why they were standing here, rank upon rank in such silence, without horns or drums or the clash of steel. It was late in Fire Moon, a time of hot breathless days and a sky the color of hammered silver. Runacarendalur could look to his left and see the yellow and blue of Aramenthiali, to the right and see the blue and silver of Cirandeiron: two thousand knights, the honored nobility of the High Houses. The lords and ladies of every court west of the Mystrals had come to Farcarinon to see the infamous Vieliessar brought low. In the front rank the War Princes themselves waited, armed and armored, each with their Warlord beside them. A few yards beyond the first rank of silent, waiting horsemen the grass was covered with an enormous white carpet woven with a design of pine boughs in threads of gold and silver, signaling that this was a meeting in truce. Above this was a canopy of white linen as sheer as silk, held up by four poles of ashwood thickly covered in pure gold. The carpet sparkled like winter snow in moonlight, for the canopy did nothing
