Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (59 page)

The Unicorn’s nostrils flared as at a very bad smell. “What use are your nets against an enemy you can’t touch?” it answered. “As for ‘cleverness’ … well, that’s debatable.”

“I shall rip that horn from your head and skewer you with it!” Virulan roared, lunging for it.

“Oh, please do,” the Unicorn answered. It reared up, raising its head high so that Virulan’s taloned fingers missed their target and buried themselves in the Unicorn’s downy throat.

Pain!
Virulan had often dealt suffering to others, but never had he felt such an unholy agony as he experienced at touching the Unicorn’s body. The pain was so great, and so unexpected, that he could do nothing to conceal it. He roared with agony and sprang backward.

The Unicorn … snickered.

“Foolish Virulan!” it said, its sides heaving with its laughter. “I am purity incarnate! The touch of my horn can turn the most virulent poison into sweet water—shall we see what it will do to a creature whose very thoughts are poison?” It reared again, brandishing its horn menacingly.

Virulan took a slow step backward. He was not foolish enough to order any of his minions to attack. If they tried and failed, such failure would kindle the ember of rebellion in their treacherous hearts. If they tried and succeeded …

It would be not an ember, but a flame.

He smiled.

“Then I shall not touch it—or you. But you will die here this day. And any obstacle you might present to my plans will thus be ended.” He spread his wings and bounded into the sky. “Bind it in the nets!” he cried. “We shall see who is the greater!”

The Endarkened hurried to obey, and in moments the Unicorn was buried beneath several hundredweight of bronze nets. When it lay crushed against the ground Virulan stepped onto the pile of nets that covered it, being careful not to let his feet touch its body—and not to let the others see his care

“Where is your laughter now, Unicorn?” he said cruelly.

“Still here,” the Unicorn answered, though it was gasping for breath. “You see … I am not … the only one … of my kind. They watch … even now. So I must say … King of Shadows … that the last laugh is … mine.”

Virulan gazed around himself in horror, but he saw nothing. “Bring stones!” he screamed. “Heavy stones! Crush the life from this witless talking beast!”

The Endarkened hurried to obey and soon there was nothing to see but a mound of stones and the twisted links of the ruined net.

The creature was dead, but even the scent of its blood did not comfort Virulan.

“So you see, Uralesse, it is a simple matter to slay these creatures,” he said grandly. “I shall expect you to be more efficient about it next time.”

He held Uralesse’s gaze with his own. If this had been some concealed ploy of Uralesses’s to discredit him, it had failed. If it were not, let Uralesse be humbled by this new task his King had set him. If he succeeded, the hateful Unicorns would be scoured from the world. If he failed, then any threat he might have hoped to present would be ended as well.

“Of course, my king. All will be as you say.”

As he watched Uralesse attempt to pretend he was delighted at this new honor, much of Virulan’s good humor was restored. Let Uralesse plot. Let them all plot. Virulan was still the master of Shadow Mountain and all that dwelt within it.

And the time of war—and his ultimate triumph—came nearer with each Brightworld day.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A PARLIAMENT OF GHOSTS

The first was Prince Cirandeiron, who rode a white horse and had armor of gleaming silver. His destrier’s armor was silver, too, and there were diamonds set in his shoes. The second was Queen Telthorelandor, who rode a golden horse and had armor of brightest gold. Her destrier’s armor was golden, too, and he was shod in cairngorms and purest gold. The third was Aramenthiali, with a grey horse and jade armor, and every stitch of his harness was studded with emeralds and green stones. Each was more beautiful than the next, but Queen Pelashia was the most beautiful of all, and her horse was shod with diamonds, and her armor was of crystal, and the sword she bore was brighter than the moon and the sun …

—The Courtship of Amrethion and Pelashia

Candlemarks had passed since Runacarendalur and the other Caerthalien knights had led their exhausted destriers back across Aralhathumindrion and placed them in the care of Horsemaster Filioniel. Today should have been a day of triumph, even though Runacarendalur wouldn’t have been here to see it: Vieliessar dead, the Alliance preparing to march on Mangiralas and smash her army, every encampment bright with torches and lanterns, fragrant with the scent of victory feasts and joyous with songs of celebration.

Instead, the long summer twilight saw a gathering of the lords and high nobles of the High Houses. Such an assemblage was too large for any single pavilion to host it, even if the War Princes could have agreed on who that host should be. Instead, they, their consorts, and their heirs met beneath an enormous canopy in the meadow, set, ironically, where the parley carpet had been laid that morning.
Komen
stood guard at the edges of the meadow so that the lords’ speech could not be overheard or interrupted.

“What happened?” Lord Bolecthindial demanded.

“Magery,” Ivrulion Light-Prince answered superfluously. “I believe it is possible to Ward our destriers so what happened today cannot happen again, but that will take time. And it will take more time if you want every beast in the army Warded as well.”

“Do you think they’ll do it again?” Gimragiel asked.

“Since it worked so well the first time, yes.” Ivrulion didn’t have to add the obvious: that Vieliessar’s Lightborn not only had more incentive to use Magery on the field, they’d almost certainly had more practice.

“Has anyone seen little Prince Gatriadde lately?” Lord Girelrian asked archly, gazing ostentatiously about herself. “Didn’t he ride with you, my dear Prince Runacarendalur?”

“Dead, I suppose,” Runacarendalur said, shrugging. “The carts we sent to retrieve our fallen and wounded should be back soon.”
If there
are
any wounded,
he added mentally. The mercenaries had fought like cornered weasels and neither side had offered quarter.

“I only ask,” Lord Girelrian continued, “because I could not fail to notice Camaibien Lightbrother is also missing. Unless you believe he, too, was killed in the fighting?”

“You believe this was a trap from the very beginning,” Lord Ivaloriel said calmly.

“Well of course it was a trap—only we were supposed to be the ones who set it!” Ladyholder Dormorothon snapped. “Prince Gatriadde told us the truth. I heard his thoughts myself. And so did you, Prince Ivrulion.”

Ivrulion bowed, acknowledging the truth of her words. “Prince Gatriadde wished vengeance. The information he provided was in accordance with the thoughts of his heart. The maps Camaibien Lightbrother drew were accurate.”

“But you never set a spell of Heart-Seeing on either of them,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion said. “So you don’t actually know.”

“
No one
set a spell of Heart-Seeing on Gatriadde Mangiralas,” Runacarendalur said, locking his gaze with Irindandirion’s. “Everyone agreed that True Speech was sufficient. If Gatriadde was not who he seemed, none of us is more to blame than any other.”

Runacarendalur held Irindandirion’s eyes in blatant challenge. Lord Girelrian was the War Prince of Cirandeiron; Irindandirion was only her Consort-Prince. It did not make Runacarendalur’s tacit challenge any less a violation of protocol, and it meant Consort-Prince Irindandirion was more likely to accept: if Runacarendalur won, he gained nothing but Irindandirion’s personal possessions, not Cirandeiron itself.

“An important point we would all do well to remember,” Ladyholder Edheleorn said, her light voice breaking the tension of the moment. “Prince Runacarendalur is to be commended for bringing it to our attention.”

“I still find it hard to understand what the upstart gains,” War Prince Clacheu Denegathaiel said. “She approached us asking to surrender. Why these sennights of games if she never meant to negotiate in good faith?”

“It bought her time,” War Prince Ferorthaniel Sarmiorion said. Sarmiorion was one of two High Houses east of the Mystrals. “She took Mangiralas. The Less Houses of the West went mad. We heard rumors of treaties with the Houses of the Western Shore, though we could not confirm that. Then … nothing. Until Gatriadde arrives, offering to give us her army. And suddenly she begs to parley.”

“But what has she done with this time?” Lady Girelrian asked. “She cannot expect us to leave her in peace to winter in Mangiralas.”

“I’m not finished,” Ferorthaniel said. “Her treaty with Ivrithir required them to assign their claim to the Unicorn Throne to her, as did her treaty with Laeldor. We can assume her treaties with Amrolion and Daroldan are similar. She’s counting on us not attacking the Western Shore, and she’s right, for it would be madness to weaken our only defenders against the Beastlings. Araphant she holds absolutely, as she does Oronviel. Ullilion has declared for her, and as for the rest of the Western Less Houses …

“Either they have declared for her or are simply in rebellion. We do not know, and if we do not,
she
does not. But their rebellion caused us to form this unprecedented alliance, and once she got word of our alliance, she knew she couldn’t risk being attacked by our conjoined force. That’s why she offered a surrender.”

“Which was a ruse. But what does a moonturn or two of delay gain her?” Lord Clacheu said. “It isn’t as if we’ll forget about her.”

Ferorthaniel smiled. “No. But you’ve forgotten one thing Sarmiorion never can. In three moonturns, the passes over the Mystrals become difficult. In two more, impassable. I’ll wager anything you like she’s taken her army east, whether you’ve seen it move or not. She’ll winter in the Uradabhur, and I don’t think she’ll sit quiet when the end of War Season comes. I think she’ll fight through the winter. By spring, she’ll probably hold the thirty Houses of the Uradabhur in vassalage.

“If you can’t keep your client domains loyal when you’re camped on their doorstep, what success will you have when she is there and you’re on the other side of the mountains, waiting for spring thaw?”

“How kind of you to warn us in advance you’re planning to betray us,” Ladyholder Glorthiachiel snapped.

“If you think that, you are truly mad,” Ferorthaniel said. “Do you think I came west for my health? Even a lion cannot stand against a pack of wolves. Sarmiorion is the only High House in the Uradabhur, and the Uradabhur will fall by spring. Mark me when I say it.”

“So do we all surrender now?” Runacarendalur asked angrily. “Bend the knee and bow the neck to a madwoman of an erased House who thinks she’s the fulfillment of a prophecy that no one’s ever been able to make sense of? And what happens to us—to everything—when we crown her High King?”

“It is not my intention to permit Serenthon’s daughter to claim the prize we denied to Serenthon,” Lord Bolecthindial growled.

“Then choose,” Ferorthaniel said inexorably. “Follow her across the Mystrals now, knowing you must fight through the winter—and know you will have the west to reconquer next springtide—or let her take the Uradabhur while you make sure of the west, and know she will meet you next War Season with an unstoppable army at her back.”

“Aramenthiali rides east at once,” Lord Manderechiel said, getting to his feet.

“As does Caerthalien,” Lord Bolecthindial said, answering the unspoken challenge. He too rose to his feet.

“—Vondaimieriel—”

“—Cirandeiron—”

“—Telthorelandor—”

“—Denegathaiel—”

“—Lalmilgethior—”

“—Rolumienion—”

In moments all the High Houses present had pledged themselves to war.

*   *   *

From the moment she had conceived the plan, she had known it was more dangerous than any of her commanders could imagine. Caerthalien would be there. Caerthalien’s Heir-Prince would be there. Runacarendalur might be slain, and his death would mean hers as well. Caerthalien’s Heir-Prince knew of the Bond as surely as she did, and could slay her with a blade to his own throat. The Caerthalien lords were cold and proud, and their hatred for Farcarinon endured a century after its erasure. Did they hold such a weapon as the life of her Bondmate in their hands, they would not abstain from its wielding.

And yet he had. It was the greatest, strangest gift she had ever taken from the hands of a sworn foe. How long could she count upon such forbearance? What was its source?

She did not know.

Nor could she know, until the day she held Heir-Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien in bondage. If that day came.

If it does not …

Then she would have failed. And Darkness would take them all.

But today, I fight.

In another few sennights it would be a full Wheel of the Year since she had challenged Thoromarth for possession of Oronviel and taken her first step upon the road to the High Kingship. It was nearly two years since the Rain Moon when she had walked from the Sanctuary of the Star for the last time. In all those moonturns she had imagined both defeat and victory. But her imagined path to victory had been nothing like this.

She had meant to gather up a handful of Less Houses—as she had done. She had meant to call mercenary and outlaw to her banner—as she had done. She had meant to lift the heavy yoke of custom from the necks of Farmhold and Landbond and teach them the ways of war—as she had done. She had meant to shatter custom and bring Pelashia’s Children to the battlefield—and now the Warhunt rode with her. But never in hope or in madness had she thought that War Princes unconquered would rally to her banner, freely pledging to support her as High King.

Yet beneath her hand she held twenty-five of the Houses of the West in vassalage: their princes, their
komen,
their folk. It was as if her vow to make herself High King had been spark to tinder that had waited long for the kiss of flame. As if Amrethion’s Prophecy did not shape only her to its needs, but the folk of all the land.