Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (66 page)

At last he ran his tongue over his split lip and pushed himself to his feet. “Tell me you’ll listen. Or I’ll go to Manderechiel and see if Aramenthiali will.”

“He will feed your liver to his dogs,” Lord Bolecthindial said, his words falling like slow and measured blows.

“Perhaps,” Runacarendalur said evenly. “Or perhaps he’ll pay heed. Aramenthiali is used to groveling. I’m sure Manderechiel isn’t nearly as annoyed to be here as you are.”

Lord Bolecthindial turned away and walked to a chair. He sat heavily, as if the need to sit were another enemy he wished to slay. Runacarendalur did not follow.

“My son. You are young yet. You do not understand what a labyrinth of promises and lies rulership is.” Bolecthindial was most unsettling when he attempted to be conciliatory. He did not do it well. “Caerthalien’s future hangs by the most fragile of threads. It is no secret.”

Because three of my brothers are dead and the fourth is Lightborn and I shall be dead before the springtide and who is left? Ivrulion could be Regent for Demi-Princess Mindolin, but she is a child, and the daughter of an elder son at that—and both her aunts must take the throne before her. And they are idiots, but neither is such an idiot as not to see that becoming War Prince would allow them to send Mother from the keep so they need not suffer her interference—and she is a serpent, but she’s smart.

“Oh, I see your plan at last!” Runacarendalur announced as if struck by sudden inspiration. “You have a bride in mind for me, and we will all sit here until she has presented me with an heir. An interesting strategy, but do you think the rest of the Alliance will endorse it?”

“Yap on,” Bolecthindial answered crushingly. “I am used to barking dogs.”

“Very well. Since you invite me to, I shall. Every moment we waste—and we have wasted three
interminable
days already—is another moment in which Vieliessar can hide herself and her army can regroup to attack us again. Rithdeliel Warlord rode north—do you think he won’t take Jaeglenhend Great Keep when he reaches it?”

“I think we have his supplies, and his servants, and his remounts, and half his army will be dead long before they see the walls of the keep,” Bolecthindial said. “Another sennight, and we’ll have every
komen
who can still sit a horse at the bounds of our encampment, begging for pardon. As for the keep—all it need do is shut its gates and wait.”

Runacarendalur drew a deep breath to keep himself from shouting. Again. They’d seen Vieliessar claim two dozen Less Houses in one War Season. The commons had risen up for her. The Lightborn had abandoned their homes. War Princes had willingly relinquished their domains to her. If the surviving Houses of the West had not banded together—If they had not moved to follow her with incredible speed—If Runacarendalur had not turned her own tactics against her to take her supply train …

… this so-called Alliance would be fighting for its life right now.

He was certain of it. What he was
not
certain of was that they’d seen Vieliessar fleeing from an army that had turned against her. If that were truly the case, why hadn’t its commanders tried to seek pardon? They’d had Lightborn with them. They could have sent envoys.

“And if you’re right, what then?” Runacarendalur said wearily. “True, we said we’d execute everyone who pledged to her. And true, perhaps they don’t believe it. But the War Princes? When we took Vieliessar’s baggage train we executed their entire
households,
and the Lightborn will bear them word of that—or do you, perhaps, think they have simply ridden off to the lost city of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor? The War Princes won’t sue for pardon, and thanks to us, they have no lands to return to. What they
do
have is tailles, and grand-tailles, and entire meisnes that are still loyal to them.

“Did you think we had trouble with outlaws after the Scouring of Farcarinon? This will be a thousand times worse.” He walked over to the table beside his father’s chair and picked up a cup from the tray. Without asking permission, he poured it full of wine from the pitcher there and walked away again.

Lord Bolecthindial waved Runacarendalur’s comments away irritably. “I never thought you such an idealist. A War Prince without lands is just another landless knight. They can’t hold the loyalty of nobles they can’t reward—you’ll find that’s true when you come to rule. Their
komen
will desert them, if they haven’t already, and come begging for the scraps from our tables. We have their commons. We have their supplies. We have the Mangiralas bloodstock. We can declare them outlaw and let the Uradabhur deal with a pack of outlaws.”

“And that might work,” Runacarendalur said.
I don’t think it will, but it might.
“
If
we have Vieliessar too. They followed her because she claimed to be Amrethion High King’s anointed heir. Oh, and because she promised to free the Landbonds and kill all of us, but the important point is, her army
will
become a pack of landless outlaws without her. But while she’s alive—or they think she is—they’ll fight.” He drained his cup.

“They’ve already deserted her,” Bolecthindial said.

“They haven’t,” Runacarendalur countered. “If her cause were lost, her Lightborn wouldn’t have fled. Why should they? Of all who’ve defied us,
they
don’t need to fear punishment. But think whatever you like. I won’t convince you, and for the loyalty I bear Caerthalien I won’t try to convince anyone else—if you let me go after her.”

Bolecthindial got to his feet. “Think carefully, before I forget you are my heir and remember you are my vassal.” Bolecthindial’s voice was so quiet that it took as much courage as Runacarendalur had ever mustered to meet his eyes calmly. Bolecthindial in a shouting rage could be dealt with. Bolecthindial soft-voiced and unmoving was unpredictable and deadly.

“Lengiathion Warlord, Elrinonion Swordmaster, Lord Mordrogen—I could name a score of your vassals who would speak hard words to you for Caerthalien’s safety,” Runacarendalur said steadily. “While Vieliessar is free she is a danger. For who she is. For who the people will believe she is. For what their belief will make them do. If you will not hear these words from your son, Lord Bolecthindial, hear them from your vassal—” Runacarendalur crossed the space between them in three swift strides and knelt before his father, head bowed “—and ask yourself: would Serenthon Farcarinon have balked at a ruse upon the battlefield if it would gain him time to rally his
komen
?”

There was nothing but silence for long moments, but Runacarendalur did not dare raise his head. He had risked all on this last throw of the dice. If his father would not listen, he would have to seek out those who would. After that, he could never return to Caerthalien while his father lived.

It does not matter,
he reminded himself.
I shall never rule Caerthalien. My only gift to her next prince can be the death of that monster who wishes to destroy everything that is fine and noble in the Fortunate Lands.

Perhaps Vieliessar was right about the meaning of
The Song of Amrethion
. Perhaps some great doom
was
coming. He didn’t know. What he knew was that if it did come, it couldn’t be fought by Landbonds with reaping hooks. And the war against it couldn’t be led by anyone who thought it could.

“I do not say you are right,” Bolecthindial said at last, “but a small force set to hunt Lord Vieliessar down is no bad notion. Her execution will serve as a suitable display of strength to the remnants of her army, when we come upon them.” He rested his hand on the crown of Runacarendalur’s head for a moment, then withdrew it. “But come! Get up! It is unseemly for one born to rule to grovel at my feet as if he were—As if he were of
Aramenthiali
lineage!” Bolecthindial gave a short, sharp bark of mirth at his own joke. “And summon the servants! You’ve drunk all the wine.”

The matter wasn’t settled so simply, of course. If Bolecthindial set a search party hunting Vieliessar without the consent of the other War Princes, he’d be violating the protocols under which they’d all come to war, and even Caerthalien could not stand against the power of the rest of the Alliance. The great cloth-of-gold pavilion in which the War Princes dined each evening was occupied long into the night as they argued; Runacarendalur occupied himself by deciding who he’d take with him if he were allowed to go at all.

His own guard, of course: Helecanth and his Twelve. Five more tailles beyond that, as he’d need to deal with any fighters Vieliessar had with her. His brother Ivrulion and as many more Lightborn as Bolecthindial would let him have—twenty would be good, forty would be better—to manage her Magery and the Lightborn with her. Supplies and servants. And once he had the bitch in chains, he’d tell Ivrulion the truth about being Bonded to her. He’d have to. Runacarendalur would need someone to help make sure his death when Vieliessar was executed did as little harm to Caerthalien as possible.

Every time Runacarendalur thought about being Bondmate to Vieliessar Farcarinon (Oronviel no longer existed; let the rebel be ruined under the name she’d been born to) he became so furious he could barely see. To have had his fate involuntarily linked to hers was cruelly wrong.

When dawn outshone the glow of the Silverlight, Runacarendalur still did not know what decision had been reached. The War Council had ended its deliberations some candlemarks before, but Bolecthindial had not seen fit to inform him of their decision and Runacarendalur knew better than to try his father’s temper by sending a servant to ask.

He was preparing to don his armor for the day when one of his father’s servants arrived, summoning him to Lord Bolecthindial’s pavilion. Runacarendalur hastily flung on an overrobe and camp boots and hurried to the meeting. It was still a candlemark before dawn, but the air was already appreciably warmer than it had been at this time the previous day, and his boots squelched over muddy ground—a worrisome foretelling for the day’s travel.

When he entered the pavilion he found both Lord Bolecthindial and Ladyholder Glorthiachiel seated at the long table in the outer room. Servants were setting out breakfast breads and meats. Ivrulion followed on Runacarendalur’s heels a moment later.

“Here we are,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “A happy family, all together.”

“My commiserations upon the unexpected loss of Princess Angiothiel and Princess Ciliphirilir, in that case,” Runacarendalur said dryly, gazing around ostentatiously.

“Still asleep,” Ivrulion said. He walked past Runacarendalur to take a seat at the table, gesturing to a servant to pour him a cup of hot cider.

“Well, Runacar, sit down,” Glorthiachiel said irritably. “Don’t make me gape up at you. Lord Bolecthindial has distressing news.”

“You’re deaf, you addled viper,” her husband said, as Runacarendalur found a chair. “This was his idea. And since apparently Caerthalien is to be held at fault forever for anything Farcarinon’s whelp may do—”

“You should have let me bribe someone at the Sanctuary to poison her,” Glorthiachiel interrupted.

“—you will be hunting her down,” Lord Bolecthindial finished, speaking louder to drown out his wife’s words. “I strongly suggest you succeed.”

“What
komen
and supplies does the
Alliance
say I am permitted to take? I shall want Lightborn as well. And Ivrulion.”

“They offer
me
a free hand in provisioning this expedition,” Lord Bolecthindial said with heavy emphasis. “Undoubtedly they hope I will strip Caerthalien utterly of warriors, supplies, and Lightborn. You may take a grand-taille of
komen
and three score Lightborn, no more. And what supplies you will.”

It was more than generous, given that Lord Bolecthindial did not think he should go at all. Runacarendalur inclined his head. “I thank you, Father.” Quickly he outlined what he wanted.

“So little?” Lord Bolecthindial said, surprised.

“She had only a taille of
komen
with her, and perhaps some mercenaries. If the mercenaries haven’t already run off, I’ll hire them. For the rest, I want to travel as fast as possible. She already—”

“—has many days start. Yes. My ears are weary of hearing it,” Lord Bolecthindial said. “And before you ask—no, you do not have my leave to go. Send a servant to prepare your wagons. Are you some hedge knight who must do everything yourself?”

*   *   *

While the wagons were being loaded, Runacarendalur sent Ivrulion to Jaeglenhend’s Chief Huntsman. Ivrulion could be both charming and persuasive, and from Lady Valariel, he obtained her best tracker, a Landbond named Lidwal. It was nearly midday by the time Runacarendalur’s sortie party drew clear of the main force, for the morning had been a nightmare of stopping and starting and unsticking wagons mired in mud. His meisne rode fully armed and mounted on their destriers—Runacarendalur wouldn’t make the mistake of assuming Jaeglenhend wasn’t hostile; if there was anything the War Princes should have learned from this War Season, it was that the commons and the Landbonds were treacherous and untrustworthy. Beyond that, it wouldn’t hurt to give the destriers a little exercise before asking them to plod along under saddle while Lidwal searched for Vieliessar’s trail. They gave the horses a good gallop, and then reined them to a walk to let the wagons catch up.

“Maybe you’ll be fit to speak to now. My Lord,” Helecanth said, once the destriers had slowed.

Runacarendalur grinned at the captain of his personal guard. “Maybe I will. And even more so once we’ve dragged our so-called High King back to her execution!”

Helecanth laughed and set Rochonan dancing simply because she could. The day was bright and the air was cool.
It’s a shame we don’t go to war in autumn more often,
Runacarendalur thought.
The weather’s perfect for it, and the days run short enough that fighting dawn to dusk wouldn’t be any hardship.

“Time to earn your bread,” Runacarendalur said to Lidwal. “What lies south of here?”