Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (28 page)

Four great feasts turned the wheel of the year: the Kite Festival of Flower Moon, the Fire Festival of Fire Moon, the Midwinter Feast of Snow Moon, and Harvest Court.

Unlike the other festivals, its time was not fixed: Harvest Court fell upon the first full moon after the Fire Festival, whether that lay in the moonturn of Harvest or not. Loremasters said it was the oldest of the festivals; storysingers spoke of a time before the building of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor by the first High King, when the folk had not lived beneath roofs of stone, but roamed the land following the great horse herds, a time when the harvest the name spoke of was not grain, but souls—for it was their claim that Harvest Court had once marked the half of the year in which the Starry Hunt had ridden over the land, taking whom it would as its prey.

At Harvest Court, by ancient custom, any might approach the War Prince to receive justice, no matter how humble their degree.

*   *   *

The gates of Oronviel Keep stood open. Across the outer courtyard—a space designed to box in attackers so they could be slain from above—the massive doors of the Great Hall stood open as well. Trestle tables were set out beneath the fruit-heavy trees of the castel orchard as well as in the Great Hall, for at Harvest Court, War Prince Thoromarth held a great feast for all who wished to attend. There would be horse races and foot races; prizes given for the most elaborately decorated loaf of bread, the most enticing new tea blend, the most beautiful weaving, the best new song and poem and tale—even for the most elaborate illusion cast by Oronviel’s Lightborn. The feasting and games would begin at dawn the morning after the full moon and continue until sunset on the seventh day afterward, and in between the contests and the celebrations, War Prince Thoromarth would hear the petitions of any who came before him. Even an outlaw or a traitor knight could come to Harvest Court and be heard, for all the Houses of the Fortunate Lands declared peace and truce for the whole of the festival.

The day was summer-warm, and the high windows in the Great Hall had been flung open to let the last of summer into the keep. From the makeshift race course laid out between the orchard and the craftworkers’ village—a space more often used to muster Oronviel’s troops for battle—came the sound of cheering and hornsong. Horses raced in the morning when it was cooler; in the afternoon, once the prizes for the winning horses had been given, there would be footraces.

Within the Great Hall, Oronviel’s great lords, and any others who wished to see, were gathered to hear their master give justice. Rithdeliel watched impassively as yet another petitioner stepped forward. He’d considered and discarded the idea of bringing Vieliessar and Gunedwaen to Harvest Court to beg sanctuary. It was true that Harvest Court was the time when banishings and outlawing could be set aside and pardoned, but Gunedwaen had been Caerthalien’s prisoner and Vieliessar fell under the Sanctuary’s dominion. And Thoromarth of Oronviel was no fool.

The clatter of sabatons against the stone of the outer courtyard roused him to instant alertness.

The figure who appeared in the doorway wore armor enameled in silver, as if to mock the unadorned plate of the unfledged knight. Her tabard and cloak were pure white, as if she came to Harvest Court to seek knighthood, but silver spurs gleamed on her feet and she wore swordbelt and scabbard. The empty scabbard was the only concession she made to the fact that she was entering the presence of a War Prince, for her helm was locked into place, rendering her anonymous.

“Rithdeliel—who comes?” Thoromarth asked.

“I do not know, Lord Thoromarth,” Rithdeliel answered, forcing his voice to show none of the anger he felt. He was not forsworn—in truth, he did not
know
.

All around the hall, watchers flurried like a cote of doves and whispered urgently to each other. But no one tried to impede the silver knight’s progress as she walked slowly and deliberately the full length of the hall.

“I give you good greeting, stranger knight,” Thoromarth said, as she stopped before him. “Remove your helm so I may look upon your face, and say what justice you would have of Oronviel.”

“I would have Oronviel’s lands, her knights, and all who lie in your hand. By the most ancient law of the princes who rule, I challenge you to single combat without quarter, and when I win your nobles will yield Oronviel to me and your heir will swear fealty.”

“You are mad!” Thoromarth hissed.

“Your pardon, my lord prince,” Eiron Lightbrother, Chief of Oronviel’s Lightborn, said quietly, leaning over to speak softly in Thoromarth’s ear. “This is law, made in the time of Mosirinde Peacemaker, and all the princes bound themselves to obey. At Harvest Court, such a challenge can be made. It must be accepted.”

Rithdeliel knew that what Eiron said was far from impossible: the Hundred Houses had bound themselves to many rulings in Mosirinde’s time. None could be set aside without the agreement of all the Houses together, something unlikely to be forthcoming.

“Withdraw your petition, stranger knight, and you may leave my hall unharmed,” Thoromarth said when Eiron stepped back.

“I do not withdraw it,” the silver knight said. “I demand of you combat for all you hold. This is the second time of asking.”

There was a long moment of charged silence, then Thoromarth laughed. “You shall have your battle—” he said.

“Father!”
Princess Mialvialla had half risen from her seat.

“Silence!” Thoromarth snapped. “I say, you may have your battle, stranger knight. But I know the old law as well as you. My champion will meet you, not I. By the law you so imprudently invoke, mine is the right to choose the time and place. On the last day of the Festival, on the assembly field at midday. Present yourself then or hold yourself foresworn, and a coward.”

The silver knight bowed. “I shall be there, Thoromarth Oronviel.”

She turned and strode from the hall. Neirenmeirith Lightsister separated herself from the onlookers and followed.

“An amusing end to a tedious morning,” Thoromarth said brusquely, getting to his feet. “Come. We may be in time for the last of the racing.”

*   *   *

On the day appointed, five days after Thoromarth’s morning court had been so rudely interrupted, the nobles of Oronviel gathered on the assembly field.

The craftworkers had enclosed the space Eiron Lightbrother had indicated with strong wooden panels painted in the red-and-white of Oronviel, leaving two gaps in the panels wide enough to ride a horse through. The barrier would keep onlookers away from the two combatants. A raised platform had also been constructed; a framework above it hung with pavilion-weight silk to shelter those below from the midday sun. Lord Thoromarth and his favorites would have an excellent view of the battle.

How could she do such a thing as this?
The question repeated endlessly in Rithdeliel’s mind as he waited just outside the arena. It was a betrayal that hurt more keenly than being sold to Oronviel so many years ago. He had trusted her. He had loved her for Nataranweiya’s sake. She held Gunedwaen’s life in her hands.
And this is what she does with it!

His edginess communicated itself to his mount; Varagil sidled and tossed his head nervously.

“Be easy, old friend. It will be over soon,” Rithdeliel said, patting the burly grey’s neck. He was Thoromarth’s champion, as the Warlord always was. If he had been free to do so, he would have ridden to Candlebrook and laid her in chains, Lightborn or no, but even if Thoromarth were willing to excuse him from his Harvest Court duties, he would certainly have Rithdeliel followed, and then all would come out regardless.

Perhaps she will not come,
he thought, glancing toward the sky.
If she has told Gunedwaen of her plans— If he found them out by some other means—

Then he heard the roar of the onlookers and knew he was not to be spared. He spurred Varagil forward.

She walked into the arena as calmly as she had walked into Harvest Court. The only change was that she now carried weapons: broadsword and dagger. The dagger was not to fight with; it was carried by the
komen
to cut themselves free of harness or even their own armor on the field. Rithdeliel was grateful she had not come mounted, for Thoromarth would instantly recognize any animal she rode. He supposed it wouldn’t make a great deal of difference once her identity was discovered.

Rithdeliel was sworn to Oronviel. He would not foreswear himself. For oath and for honor, he would have to kill her.

She stood facing the dais on which Thoromarth sat. “I have come at the day and candlemark appointed, Thoromarth of Oronviel, to fulfill my promise to you. Here, in the third time of asking, I challenge you in the person of your champion, for all you hold within your hands!”

Rithdeliel saw Thoromarth smile. “Speak to me of that again, stranger knight, when my champion lies dead by your hand,” Oronviel’s War Prince called. “Begin!”

Any reply she might have made was drowned in the cheering of the crowd.

Rithdeliel spurred Varagil forward. There was not enough room for him to reach a full gallop, but there was certainly enough room to maneuver. Rithdeliel’s blade was poised. He had every advantage: height, speed, and a trained destrier. His first blow should shear through her armor between cullet and helm. Varagil would do the rest.

I will make this quick, for your lady mother’s sake.

At the last moment, just before he reached striking range, Varagil shied.

There was laughter from the dais as Varagil crabbed sideways and back. Rithdeliel dug his spurs into the stallion’s flanks, forcing him to settle. He trotted the destrier around the circumference of the ring to settle him further: this was a strange situation, and Varagil had always been high-strung. As Varagil moved in a wide circle around Vieliessar, she turned so she was always facing her enemy. Rithdeliel pressed his heels into the stallion’s sides and shifted his weight forward. Varagil answered the command easily, cantering forward. Once again Rithdeliel raised his sword to deliver the fatal blow.

Once again Varagil plunged sideways, carrying Rithdeliel out of reach.

Exasperated, he snatched at the reins and hauled back savagely. Varagil reared, shaking his head, kicking out harmlessly with his fore hooves as he staggered a few steps backward.

This cannot be Magery! Eiron stands beside Lord Thoromarth—he would sense it!
This time Rithdeliel kept a tight hand on the rein, hauling the destrier’s head down as he spurred him forward.

The outcome was the same.

“Are we to sit here all day watching you show off, Lord Rithdeliel?” Princess Mialvialla called down.

Without answering, Rithdeliel turned Varagil back toward the opening in the barrier. He swung down from the saddle, leaving the reins hanging: Varagil would be quiet enough if no stranger approached him.

When he walked back into the arena, Vieliessar waited for him in silence: the Lightsister who wished to become a knight, who had struck the spark to kindle the tinder of his resentment of Farcarinon’s destruction. Rithdeliel had believed in Amrethion’s Prophecy because Nataranweiya had, and had always believed that when the day and the enemy came—if they did—the Hundred Houses would band together to face it.

And now it did not matter. When the day came, if it came, he would not see it.

War was the art, the duty, and the recreation of every child of the Hundred Houses. Their artificers forged unbreakable swords, crafted armor as pliant as heavy silk. A knight who wore it could run in it—as long as his strength held out—could even dance in it.

Today’s dance would be brief.

He expected to strike the first blow. Not to wait for the enemy to strike was the hardest lesson to teach to the young trainees. Whatever advantage you gained from learning how the enemy fought was negated by the fact that you’d taken the first hit.

Vieliessar did not wait. As he was still walking toward her, she sprang forward. She did not bring her blade down from above as if she were chopping wood—an attack which would have given Rithdeliel precious seconds of warning—but swept it up from below as he was still registering the movement.

He caught the blow on his shield. The force of the impact jarred down his spine. He turned the parry into an attack, aiming a midline strike at her ribs, where dozens of narrow plates gave the armor flexibility at the cost of strength.
Anywhere your body flexes is where you should attack your opponent.
The lecture he had delivered to thousands of children of Caerthalien, Farcarinon, and Oronviel played through his mind as his blade rang and slid over hers—parry, disengage—and each of them sprang back. Fighting mounted, the blade’s length was an advantage. On foot, it meant they could not close with one another.

The next exchanges came punishingly fast, blade meeting blade, meeting armor, the blows ringing out like the hammer of the smith at the forge. A part of his mind registered the noise of the crowd ebbing away to silence. They had expected a swift butchery. He was Rithdeliel of Oronviel, Warlord to Thoromarth Oronviel. Bruised vanity made him redouble the speed and fury of his attacks.

He would not think of what he had learned in these scant minutes in the arena. He was a master of war, his skills honed for centuries, honed by a thousand battles.

She was his match.

There are things I have not taught you yet!

He turned to catch her blade, not on the face of his lower shield, but behind it, trapping it between the lip of the shield and his metal gauntlet. Such a maneuver was risky: the sword would shear through the bolts holding the shield in place if they took the full force of the blow. This move was nothing one would use in battle, but a duelist’s maneuver. A trick for entertaining one’s comrades.
I remember Serenthon, bright as a new blade, conceding his defeat at Nataranweiya’s hands.…

Rithdeliel had spent his life assembling miracles. Only one time had he failed. Now he caught Vieliessar’s blade, let it slip behind his shield to catch and hold, let it slide past him as he swept forward. He flung his sword into the air, and the moment it left his free hand, he struck her on the side of her helm with all the power in his clenched fist, then seized his weapon as it fell.