Crown of Vengeance

to block the sun.

Beyond the canopy was a wide, shallow brook. The Toharthay was the division they’d agreed on; the far side was Vieliessar’s sovereign territory, the near side was theirs. Runacarendalur remembered fighting across the Meadows of Aralhathumindrion years earlier. Then it had been a broad, pleasant meadow edged with mature forest. Now the forest had been cut back until only the Flower Forest remained, to accommodate the pavilions of all who gathered here. They stretched on for miles, a joyous fair. Children flew kites and nobles flew hawks; there had been great feasts held every night and contests of skill each day for the past fortnight. If not for the fact that the thousands gathered here had scared away any game worth hunting, it would have been idyllic—war without pain and loss.

She will come soon, Runacarendalur told himself. The day, the candlemark, every detail of this meeting had been worked out in advance, during a moonturn of arguing with intermediaries. There had not even been an exchange of hostages; if Vieliessar did not come to parley, the Alliance’s armies would attack.

So she will die, and I will die with her, for we are bound together and our hearts beat as one. Surely it is some curse placed upon Caerthalien that I should be so bound to this enemy. At least her death will buy a time of peace in which Domcariel can learn how to rule.

Prince Gatriadde had come to Cirandeiron sennights ago, begging for the chance to take revenge upon the monster who had slain his sister and parents and stolen his domain. He knew every secret place where Vieliessar’s army lodged, and Camaibien Lightbrother, who had accompanied him, had drawn detailed maps.

The few scouts the High Houses had dared to send into Mangiralas confirmed Prince Gatriadde’s story, so the Alliance had sent an envoy to Vieliessar, offering her and everyone in her army a full pardon in exchange for surrender, saying the disposition of her forces was known and War Season was drawing to a close.

And instead of seeking honorable battle, the Child of the Prophecy, the “destined High King” wept like a child and begged to be allowed to surrender. Now all that remained was the parley, under flags of a truce the Alliance meant to break.

Finally there was the distant sound of a horn. Vieliessar and her escort were approaching. They rode from the trees at the far edge of Aralhathumindrion: Vieliessar and two tailles of knights. She carried the parley banner on a slender ashwood rod, the enormous rectangle of white silk floating on the summer breeze. Each side would carry such a banner: the parley truce was in effect so long as both were held high.

Vieliessar’s helmet was crowned with a wreath of pine boughs and there was another garland of them about her destrier’s neck. She had changed her armor—instead of the familiar silver, she and all her knights wore green armor and were mounted on white destriers, and Runacarendalur saw, with a sensation of incredulity, that she and her komen wore the silver and green of Farcarinon. That was bad enough, but instead of Farcarinon’s silver wolf, she claimed the Unicorn as her badge.

Wait, he thought in sudden alarm. That isn’t her.

He could not say how he knew, but he was certain. Does she think she can meet under a truce- flag without letting us see her face?

Even if Runacarendalur wanted to give warning, he could not. The protocol for a Parley of Surrender was rigid and exact, its form unchanged for thousands of years. A shout of warning, an unexpected movement from any of the attendants on either side would be considered an attack. If the Alliance did not abide by the protocols Vieliessar would still be dead … but they would never regain the Houses of the East.

And so he could only watch helplessly as the False Vieliessar and her escort rode at a slow walk toward the Toharthay. At the edge of the stream they stopped and the woman raised her visor, exposing her face for all to see.

She looked like Vieliessar. Runacarendalur leaned forward in disbelief. It is not her! he insisted to himself.

The massed knights-herald of the Alliance sounded a set of signals. Truce—the foe is in sight— the foe awaits—the parley begins. The knight at the False Vieliessar’s side raised his visor and put his own warhorn to his lips, sounding an identical set of calls.

A Lightborn Runacarendalur did not know came from the Alliance side to test for spellcraft. The False Vieliessar had brought a Lightborn as well. Both indicated there was no Magery being used here. Runacarendalur ground his teeth in frustration. How could the man not see?

As the two Lightborn retreated, the first rank of riders set their horses walking slowly forward.

Bolecthindial Caerthalien, Manderechiel Aramenthiali, Girelrian Cirandeiron, Clacheu Denegathaiel, Chardararg Lalmilgethior, Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion … every High House War Prince in the West was in the group riding slowly toward the canopy and the carpet. Each was accompanied by their Warlord, and Caerthalien had supplied the knight-herald, so the numbers on both sides were identical.

And to think, I was proud when Father won the right to carry the truce banner by arguing that Vieliessar would expect Caerthalien—where she was fostered—to take control of the parley. Now he wondered if Domcariel would be War Prince of Caerthalien by sunset … or if he would be.

Kerothay was a young stallion, temperamental and excitable. It was pure vanity for Lord Bolecthindial to keep a destrier when he no longer rode to war, but today his hot-blooded mount served his purposes well. Caerthalien’s War Prince was cueing Kerothay to fidget and the bay stallion was playing up magnificently—dancing skittishly, twisting his neck to snap at the animals walking at either side. When the truce banner Bolecthindial carried fluttered, Kerothay sprang sideways.

Bolecthindial dropped the banner, as anyone might.

The knights-herald of both sides sounded a warning call. A banner of parley is down.

Kerothay bounded into the stream, apparently out of control. Lord Lengiathion’s mount followed instantly, and a heartbeat later, the other War Princes gave chase. Most of the waiting lords komen knew nothing of the secret plans woven around this parley, but the Heirs, the Swordmasters, and a few others did.

The party on the far bank scattered as the Alliance horses charged them. As they exploded into movement, the shimmering white banner the False Vieliessar carried burst into flame. The knights-herald of the Alliance sounded their horns again. A banner of parley is down. And then: Attack.

The woman who had pretended to be Vieliessar slammed down her visor. In that instant, the glamourie on her and her escort vanished. Their horses were no longer white, nor were they destriers—Runacarendalur recognized the long-legged, deep-chested bodies of animals built for speed and endurance. The twenty-five members of the False Vieliessar’s party turned and galloped for the trees.

Runacarendalur took a scant moment to shout a few words to Helecanth even as he spurred Gwaenor forward. We can catch them—they’ll never reach the trees in time to hide themselves! But before he reached the stream, the sky went from heat-burnished silver to black. Thunder-crack and lighting- flash came almost together and despite himself Runacarendalur flinched, but the enemy Lightborn had called a storm, not a lightning strike. Icy autumn rain sheeted down out of the sky, destroying visibility and making the grass as slippery as ice.

But the komen knew the terrain and destriers were trained to run blind if they must, guided by the hands, knees, and voices of their riders. The charging knights barely slowed as they crossed the stream. The tight column spread until the line of knights extended the full width of the meadow. Around and behind him Runacarendalur could hear shouts of glee—if the War Princes wanted to claim victory without battle, their komen wanted to fight.

He’d seen an opening ahead, and was just about to spur Gwaenor through it, when Runacarendalur heard screams of agony, close enough and loud enough to slice through the thunder of hooves and the hiss of the rain. He couldn’t rein in without being instantly trampled, but he slowed as much as he could, though Gwaenor fought him. There was another flash of lightning—it seemed to make the raindrops hang unmoving in mid-air—and he saw horses down, too many to count.

Trying to jump the downed animals was madness. Anything else was certain death.

With hands and heels he gathered Gwaenor up, and the destrier soared over the obstacles in front of him,