Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (26 page)

Mornings were for drill, the same drills every
komen
-to-be practiced from their tenth, twelfth, fourteenth year. Endurance, speed, awareness of the sword’s position, its range, the guards and counters and strikes.

Afternoons were for turning those drills into practice against a living opponent.

Vieliessar circled him, searching for an opening. Gunedwaen gave her none. Each time he felt her settle into a pattern he would attack, striking at her sword, her body. Some of the attacks got through. Fewer than yesterday. Fewer than a sennight ago.

Pride had carried him through the long cold years of being a pensioner of Caerthalien, and pride demanded—on the day she placed the wooden sword in the hand she had given him—he be all he had once been.

He had hoped—still—to teach her that determination was not enough. Desire could not replace the years of training she should have had. And so, that first day, he had attacked with all his skill. The practice swords were strong enough to break bones—she had crafted them from ahata—and he did not pull his strikes. Each time their swords clashed he’d disarmed her. The practice had gone on until her hands were too bruised and weary to clasp her sword’s hilt, until exhausted muscles would not obey her command.

She’d offered no word of complaint.

On the second day, she managed to retain her sword during one engagement in ten.

By the fifth day, Gunedwaen searched his heart: was he giving her false confidence in her skills? Was he allowing her success she did not deserve? He redoubled his efforts to overwhelm her.

It worked—for a time.

She was better than she ought to be. Better than she
could
be. She wasn’t his equal, but the skill she now possessed should have taken her years, not sennights, to achieve.

But wars are not fought afoot by knights with wooden swords.

He knew her hope of uniting the Hundred Houses was madness. It did not matter. What mattered was that she had come to him to be made a knight. And he could not do it. The training of a knight began afoot, it was true, but it continued on the back of a palfrey, translating the patterns already graven in muscle and nerve to fighting from the saddle. Last of all, with a destrier, learning to ride a weapon as well as wield one.

He could not give her the armor that would fit her like a second skin, the destrier who would be her companion and salvation on the field. But it was good to hold a sword again, even if it was merely a wooden one.

Just as it was good to teach his prince that she was not—yet—his equal.

He did not manage to disarm her again. But he could tire her, forcing her to attack while he merely defended, attacking in return only when she let her attention lapse. They fought on until she was staggering with exhaustion. But he was equally weary, and if he struck her unconscious, she might die before she woke. So he stepped back, across the edge of the circle, raising his sword in salute to signal the end of the bout. For a moment he thought she might follow and press the attack, for her gaze was fixed and distant and she swayed on her feet. But a moment later he saw her chest heave, a stuttering interruption to her ragged panting, and she stepped back as well, lowering the tip of her sword to the earth to keep her steady.

“A good day’s work. I am looking forward to a good hot bath,” Gunedwaen said mildly.

*   *   *

There had been one thing Gunedwaen had insisted on before he’d begun to teach Vieliessar swordcraft, and it was not for self-indulgence’s sake. A body bruised from a long day of practice must be given a chance to relax instead of stiffening. Stiff muscles tore and sprains and bruises then led to further injuries. He’d thought of nothing more esoteric than a deep tub, for Lightborn magic could easily heat water.

Instead, she had made a hot spring within the Flower Forest.

The surface steamed pleasantly, for even within Eldanwarasse the evening air was cool. He sighed in content as he stepped into the water and settled himself. Vieliessar sat opposite him, sighing as she raked splayed fingers through her hair. It was nearly chin-length by now, still much too short, but far longer than he’d ever seen a Lightborn wear it.

“You will weary of teaching me long before I have gained the skill I must have,” she said with a sigh.

“You are a promising pupil,” he answered neutrally. He hesitated over what he must say next, but she was not only his student, but his liege: he owed her truth. “And I have said before: I cannot give you all that you must have.”

“How not?” she asked, as if his answer might have changed in the past sennights.

“Lord Vieliessar, with my time and your patience, I can make you the equal of any knight afoot. But a knight does not fight afoot. And I cannot give you—”

“Sword, or armor, or warhorse.” She sighed deeply. “So you have said. And I have listened.”

“Surely there is … some other who might aid you in your hope?” Gunedwaen asked cautiously. It was the first time he had. Before he’d begun to train her, he’d thought her purpose to be unattainable. Now he thought her success merely doubtful.

“Some other of my father’s meisne—who yet live?” she asked, her voice wavering between scorn and weariness. “Think you that I do not know where each of them bides? All have sworn fealty to new lords, Master Gunedwaen. To Farcarinon’s honor and theirs, there were not many who survived to do so. No quarter was offered on Farcarinon’s last battlefield, and those
komen
who survived the day were slain if they would not swear. Filioniel was Farcarinon’s Horsemaster—he toils now for Caerthalien. Farcarinon’s Warlord has taken service with Oronviel, for Caerthalien was ever generous with its leavings. Gwaenabros Lightsister cannot aid me—in truth, she may stand now my enemy, by Hamphuliadiel’s grace. To which of these should I present myself, saying I mean to cast down the lord to whom they have pledged?”

Gunedwaen said nothing. He’d known Farcarinon’s last day had gone badly, but never—even in legend—had one of the Hundred Houses been
erased
. If he had not been sick and crippled when he was brought to Caerthalien’s Great Hall, he, too, would have been given the choice between pledging fealty to Caerthalien and swift execution. But it had amused Bolecthindial to have a Binding set upon him and to force him to live as his supplicant, and so Gunedwaen had not been sworn.

Vieliessar shook her head wearily, and poured water from her cupped hands over her face and neck. “They will not follow a Green Robe,” she repeated stubbornly.

Nor will the Hundred follow a lone knight, no matter how brilliant her armor and sharp her sword.
He did not speak the words. She knew that truth as well as he did.

*   *   *

Rain became Flower became Sword.

The tasks Gunedwaen set Vieliessar became more demanding, her training nearly brutal, and nothing she did seemed to please him. Where they had once shared the simple chores of their little homestead equally, now every one of them fell to her: wood gathering and water fetching, hunting game and cleaning and cooking what she caught. She rose even earlier than before. Her morning runs stretched for many leagues and she ran now with a pack of stones upon her back. Nor did she run alone, for as often as not Gunedwaen paced her on horseback—forcing her to a faster pace, chivvying her onto uneven ground, even striking at her with his practice sword as she ran. In the practice circle his attacks had become unremittingly savage, targeting elbow, knee, shoulder, every vulnerable point. Their bouts began when she was tired and ended when she was staggering with exhaustion. The only task he had not assigned to her was the crafting of the shields he now wore in their practice—a
komen
’s shields for forearm and shoulder. He had burned them from ahata-wood and bound them to his arm with strips of buckskin, and no matter how hard Vieliessar tried, it was a rare day when she could land a blow anywhere but upon the ahata’s unyielding surface.

She wore no shields.

On any occasion Gunedwaen did not have a weapon in his hand—and many when he did—he would badger her with questions.

She commanded the center of the army. She had ridden to the attack. The enemy’s center line collapsed instead of engaging, and reserve forces her scouts had not seen swept in from both sides. What did she do?

She commanded a reserve force. She could see the main force was outmatched, but she had not received the command to engage. What did she do?

She commanded the
deosil
wing of the army. The enemy charged, attacking the
tuathal
wing instead of the center. She gave the order to support the
tuathal
commander, and just as she did, a force twice the size of her own attacked her from behind. What did she do?

“I order my force to take to the air and fly out of danger, of course, which is as likely as my being attacked from behind!” she snapped. “Gunedwaen, this cannot happen! I would have seen them—they could not get behind our lines, or—”

“It is all these
texts
you have read which convince you of this,” Gunedwaen said crossly. “Very well. Undoubtedly it is as you say.” He set down his bowl and got to his feet, walking from the hut. Striker heaved herself to her feet with a long-suffering sigh and followed him.

Vieliessar set down her nearly untouched supper and pushed the heels of her hands wearily against her eyes. Everything ached, and she was no closer to unifying the Hundred than she’d been half a year ago.

And no closer, so it seemed, to becoming a knight.

The minutes passed, and Gunedwaen did not return.

She got to her feet.

When she stepped outside into the night, Gunedwaen was saddling Trouble.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“It is barely two candlemarks past sunset,” Gunedwaen corrected. He tightened the girth, and swung into the saddle. “And
I
am going nowhere.
We
are going somewhere.”

“Where?” Vieliessar asked doubtfully.

“Come along and see,” Gunedwaen answered. He clicked his tongue at Trouble and the mare moved off.

*   *   *

The broken stones of Farcarinon Keep were ghostly in the moonlight. It was the full moon of Sword, its light so bright there was no need to conjure a globe of Silverlight to show them their way. Gunedwaen had said nothing about their destination, and Vieliessar had not asked. The only time they had spoken was when she stopped him so he could take Striker up on Trouble, for the old
hikuliasa
had begun to lag behind.

She’d only been here once before in body. In mind, she’d been here a thousand times since the day she’d learned her true name. Promising vengeance. Demanding answers. Mourning the life she could have lived.

She had renounced her vengeance and received her answers, and her mourning time was done.

The watchtowers and the outer wall were nothing more than shattered stones scattered across what had been the meadows and orchards of the keep, and the keep itself, from ramparts to deepest cellars, had been forced to collapse in upon itself, until all that remained was a low hill of stone that time and the seasons had covered with grass and flowers. A small portion of the inner curtain wall remained standing, the only thing to say that once a proud fortress had stood upon this spot.

The road that led to the castel gates was bright in the moonlight; the earth, hard-hammered over the centuries, giving way only grudgingly to the encroachment of the meadow. Trouble’s hooves, noiseless on the soft summer earth, clopped faintly as Gunedwaen guided her onto the road. The ditches that had once lined it had fallen inward years before, leaving only shallow depressions in the grass.

As they crossed the boundary where the outer wall had once stood, Striker raised her head from where she lay across Gunedwaen’s knees and gave a soft, interrogative bark. An instant later, Vieliessar heard the clink of a bridle and realized there was someone here. She forced herself to pretend she’d heard nothing. Gunedwaen must know someone awaited him—awaited them.

She steeled herself against betrayal.
Just as well to see it come now, if that is what comes, for if I cannot bind my House’s last vassal to me, what hope do I have of binding princes?

A moment later, a stranger rode out of the shadow.

His grey gelding’s coat had been rubbed with powdered charcoal to make it dull and dark, but there was no disguising the quality of the animal, the kind which only a great lord—or a great lord’s favorite—might ride. Neither horse nor rider displayed the badge of any House; the rider wore a dark hooded cloak, but Vieliessar could see the unmistakable angled shape of a scabbarded sword beneath the cloak, and her ears brought her the faint sweet jingling of chain mail.

Gunedwaen reined in and waited. Vieliessar stood, silent and watchful, at his knee.

The stranger stopped, pushed back the hood of his cloak. The silver of his mail-shirt gleamed at his throat, and now she could see that the cloak’s clasp was enameled. A red otter on a white field. Oronviel.

Farcarinon’s Warlord has taken service with Oronviel, for Caerthalien was ever generous with its leavings …

“Rithdeliel is a friend,” Gunedwaen said quietly. He shifted Striker in his arms, and Vieliessar took her and set her on the ground. The
hikuliasa
wandered over to the grey gelding, who lowered his head to sniff at her, unimpressed.

“An ally—perhaps,” Rithdeliel corrected.

“Ally, then,” Gunedwaen conceded. “It has been far too long.”

“Not as long as I expected, since I thought you dead,” Rithdeliel said. “Your message was a surprise.”

“As was your answer. I had not thought you saved any of Gwaenabros’s Finding charms.”

“You will admit it came in useful. I assume this is the girl? Have you proof she is who she claims to be?”

She stepped into the space between the two horses.

“I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, daughter of Serenthon War Prince and Nataranweiya, his Bondmate and Lady,” she said. “Declare yourself, knight of Oronviel.”