Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (33 page)

Everyone’s future.

And so, with a thousand bad choices and no good ones before her, Vieliessar sent messengers to those Houses which had once supported her father’s bid to make himself High King, offering their War Princes safe passage and a Midwinter Truce if they would send representatives to Oronviel. Oronviel’s Midwinter Feast would be—must be—extraordinary, for Vieliessar must both display her power and take the next step toward what would inevitably seem as a revival of Serenthon’s royal ambitions. Worst of all, she could not count on any of the alliances she made this Snow Moon—if any—to stand one moment past the time Hamphuliadiel Astromancer made it known that she believed herself to be the Child of the Prophecy. If the War Princes hated the thought of a High King, they hated the thought of a mystical madwoman even more.

Celelioniel Astromancer had done Vieliessar no favors by her obsession with Amrethion’s Curse.

*   *   *

Though Midwinter was still sennights away, preparations for it were already under way. A feasting-hall crafted entirely of ice was taking form upon the meadow beyond Oronviel Castel. The kitchens were busy day and night. As each dish was finished, the last touches applied by Oronviel’s Master of Kitchens, it was cloaked in a Preservation Spell by a waiting Lightborn so that a sennight or a fortnight hence it could be brought to the feasting table as fresh and savory as if it had just been cooked. Unused chambers within the castel were aired and refurbished, temporary stables and paddocks erected, provision made for a full sennight of lavish spectacle.

It was a bit like going to war, Vieliessar thought. And in truth, this was the opening movement of her campaign, for Oronviel would keep Midwinter as if Vieliessar were already High King. In counterpoint to the lavish feasting of the nobles, she would feast the commons as well—and not upon the leavings of the great feasts, but upon bread and mutton and beer, given without stint.

Nor would her Lightborn Call the Light only upon the Fourth Night of the Festival, but upon all seven, turning away none who sought them out and taking none who refused them.

These things were new and strange enough that her ears had grown weary of hearing Gunedwaen, or Rithdeliel, or Thoromarth tell her why they must not be, and now she added one thing more: for the whole of the Festival, all within Oronviel, no matter their degree, had full right of woodland and lesser forest. They might gather what they chose, cut standing trees, and take game.

And take no hurt of it.

When I am High King, none shall starve and shiver in fear through the winter moonturns to enrich those who have no care for them.

But she was not High King yet.

*   *   *

Today she faced
Komen
Bethaerian in the circle. As with all the Great Keeps, a Challenge Circle had been set into the stone of the Great Hall when it was built: a ring of white granite set into the smooth, dark, Mage-forged slate. Here the knights of the War Prince’s household demonstrated their skill and settled quarrels. Here, too, a disgraced knight might regain lost honor and earn a place with the Starry Hunt by facing all challengers until death’s blood rinsed reputation clean once more.

Her own reputation among her knights was neither bad or good, but Vieliessar had not led them into battle for season after season. She must convince any who watched that she had set aside her Magery along with her Green Robe. And so Vieliessar met all who wished to do battle within the Great Hall’s circle, calling it sport to liven the dull days of winter.

Bethaerian was the commander of Vieliessar’s personal guard. It had taken Bethaerian sennights to challenge her, though she had watched the bouts from the beginning. She had put that time to good use, studying Vieliessar’s skills. Though Oronviel’s War Prince had disarmed Bethaerian quickly, when she slammed her shoulder against Bethaerian’s chestpiece to thrust her from the circle and end the bout, Bethaerian stepped into the blow, pulling Vieliessar against her, front to back. Neither of them could launch a further attack in that position, but Bethaerian had not lost.

“I yield,” Vieliessar said, laughter bubbling up beneath her words.

Bethaerian released her, stepping across the boundary of the Challenge Circle. Only when Vieliessar was pulling off her helm did she see Aradreleg awaiting her.

“My prince,” the Lightsister said, “a Lightborn envoy comes from Caerthalien.”

“Is he escorted?” she asked. Her people were smart and loyal, but no one in the Fortunate Lands—save, perhaps, the War Princes themselves—would go against the wishes of a Green Robe. If Ivrulion Light-Prince had refused escort …

“Indeed,” Aradreleg said, putting Vieliessar’s worry to rest. “Peryn Lightsister sends to say
Komen
Berlaindist brings the Lightbrother with all haste.”

It wasn’t customary for a Lightborn traveling as envoy of a War Prince to give his name, only his House, so neither Peryn nor Berlaindist would know it. “‘All haste’ is…?” Vieliessar prompted.

“A sennight,
Komen
Berlaindist promises, no more.”

“Then there is barely sufficient time to prepare to receive him,” Vieliessar answered. She had invited Caerthalien to attend her Winter Court, of course, but an envoy arriving a fortnight before the start of the Festival could mean only one thing: Caerthalien meant her to pledge fealty. Word of her ambition would already have reached Bolecthindial. The emissary from Caerthalien must be its attempt to overturn her plans.

They will send Ivrulion, of course. Who else? And Lightborn or no, he will speak among my guests with princely authority.…

But when Caerthalien’s Lightborn envoy walked into Oronviel’s Great Hall at last, it wasn’t Ivrulion.

“Thurion!” Vieliessar exclaimed, struggling to keep all the welcome she felt out of her voice.

“War Prince Vieliessar,” he answered, his voice steady. “War Prince Bolecthindial sends me to you, for Caerthalien has always stood friend to Oronviel.”

“Oronviel thanks Caerthalien for her gentle care of her neighbor. We rejoice in your visit to us and hope you will find all you seek.”

“I am certain I shall,” Thurion answered, bowing.

“I pray your visit will allow you to partake of our hospitality this Midwinter, as well.” She did not ask if he was Caerthalien’s envoy to her Midwinter Court, for that would reveal too much. This meeting was a formality, a show enacted for those watching. Later they would have the chance to speak privately.

*   *   *

“Caerthalien sends me to discover if you mean to keep to your own borders and honor the treaties Lord Bolecthindial held of War Prince Thoromarth,” Thurion said, the words bursting from his lips in a rush almost before the door had closed behind him. “Of course I’ll tell him whatever you like, but—that was Lord Gunedwaen of Farcarinon at table tonight, wasn’t it?”

The evening meal had been a long and lavish one, but it would be only prudent for any new lord of a small and embattled domain to wish to impress the emissaries of her large and powerful neighbors. Thurion had been seated upon her left hand, in the place of honor.

That he would see what he had seen was inevitable. But only one who still counted himself her friend would have broached the subject so openly.

Vieliessar waved him to a seat as she finished skimming the scroll she held—Gunedwaen’s sennightly analysis of the information he’d gleaned from her knights as well as from a number of Oronviel folk who had gone secretly where they would not have been welcomed openly.

Thurion flung himself into a low chair, kicking the hem of his robes out of the way with the negligent ease of long practice. “It was, wasn’t it?
The
Gunedwaen?”

“Does it matter?” Vieliessar asked, setting the report aside. There was nothing new there. The War Princes were obviously waiting for Midwinter before declaring for or against Oronviel. At least openly.

Thurion sat upright so abruptly that Striker raised her elegant head. “Of
course
it matters! Vielle! He lost his arm years—decades ago! No Healer has
ever
—” He stopped abruptly, gazing at her with disbelief. “You knew. You knew what you’d done when you Healed him.”

She met his gaze squarely.
This,
her instincts said.
This is more important than anything else we will say to one another about my plans and the lies he will tell his Caerthalien masters.
“I knew I could do it before I began,” she answered simply. “It was hard, and painful, but it was not impossible.”

“It should have been,” Thurion answered quietly. His words were not a rebuke. They were uttered in tones of one who looked upon the impossible. “I know of no Healer who could have done it.”

“You know what
hradan
Celelioniel laid upon me at my birth,” Vieliessar answered.

“‘Death against Darkness, blood expunge blood, burn the stars and save a brand from the burning,’” Thurion quoted. It was the beginning of the passage about the destruction of the Hundred Houses. “Is that what you mean to do?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that I am the Child of the Prophecy, the Doom of the Hundred Houses. It took me so long to admit it that I do not know if there is enough time left.”

Thurion drew a deep, shaking breath, summoning calm, summoning reason. “You think you have deciphered Amrethion’s Prophecy,” he said, but once again Vieliessar shook her head.

“Celelioniel Astromancer deciphered it. It was why I was allowed to live. ‘When stars and clouds together point the way / And of a hundred deer one doe can no longer counted be’—Farcarinon’s destruction. Thurion, it does not
matter
whether I am the only one it could be, or simply the one Celelioniel chose. What matters is the
rest
of the Prophecy.”

Thurion studied her face. “The Prophecy foretells a time when the Hundred Houses are ended by the prophesied child who becomes High King. It says a Darkness is gathering armies against that day and talks of a false promise coming true and two becoming one. If Celelioniel Astromancer decided
you
were the Child of the Prophecy, she must have believed that the false promise that becomes true means you will become High King, as Serenthon War Prince tried to. But … Vielle … How
can
you?”

“You are Green Robe and scholar, and once you were friend to me, when I had none. I would tell you a story that is no story. Will you hear?”

“Yes,” he answered heavily. “I will hear.”

*   *   *

Almost he could imagine himself back at the Sanctuary of the Star on some lazy afternoon when there was nothing better to do than to try to unravel the mysteries of their long and unfathomable history. Vieliessar spoke not of herself, but of Celelioniel’s quest to discover the beginnings of the Lightborn, of how they had learned to wield their power.

“In the Sanctuary we are taught that each thing implies its opposite,” Vieliessar said. “It is the foundation of our spellcraft. Heal or harm. Make fertile or blight. And not only in our Magery: we see in the world around us that each thing possesses its opposite. Creatures who fly and creatures who burrow, grass eaters and flesh eaters, and for this cause we have always been taught that the Beastlings are the shadow of all we are—but Celelioniel did not believe that could be so. If the Beastlings possessed a Darkness as great as our Light, surely they would have used it to make a desert of all the Fortunate Lands.”

“Not if they want to live here,” Thurion commented dryly, and Vieliessar made a rude snort of amusement.

“Perhaps. But surely they would make
some
desert. And they would feed their spellcraft upon blood. And we would have learned that those things are wrong from their example. We have learned those things are wrong, but not from the Beastlings. From who, then?”

“Everyone knows the Lightborn—
some
Lightborn—break the Covenant,” Thurion said hesitantly.

“And why is there a Covenant?” she asked implacably.

For a moment Thurion was a Postulant still. “Because—it must have been a long time ago—some Lightborn did those things, and…” He stopped, because Vieliessar was shaking her head.

“Each thing there is implies—creates—its opposite,” she reminded him.

“Theory is no validation of prophecy,” Thurion answered, almost sputtering.

“No,” Vieliessar agreed. “And Celelioniel did not begin with the Prophecy, but with an attempt to discover how we learned to do as we do. It was Mosirinde Peacemaker who first taught the Covenant—and she also who founded the Sanctuary of the Star.”

“But—” Thurion said.

“But no one knows why, or how the Light came to us before the founding of the Sanctuary,” Vieliessar agreed. “I will ask you to simply take as true that Celelioniel searched for that answer for years, that
The Song of Amrethion
was the end of her quest and not the beginning, that she discovered that what seems like nonsense to our eyes is instead a simple list of events that will come to pass before…” She stopped, and when she went on, her voice held sudden urgency. “Thurion, do you believe that evil can be done in the service of good?”

“Of course not,” he answered promptly. “By its very nature, evil destroys and taints all it touches, so anything it touches cannot be good.”

Vieliessar bowed her head, and Thurion didn’t think he’d given her the answer she hoped to hear. But it was what they had both been taught in the Sanctuary.

“Imagine all the good things in the world. Everything you can. Everything that has given you joy, or a moment’s pleasure, or made you happy,” she said.

“The Light,” Thurion answered softly. The look on Vieliessar’s face frightened him, though he could not say why.

“Now imagine that all these good things have an opposite. Not the petty cruelty of the Hundred Houses—for the War Princes may be as kind and generous as they are cruel and petty—but
an
opposite. A being. A race that can only be named
Darkness
.”

“You cannot know this!” Thurion exclaimed.