Crown of Vengeance (Dragon Prophecy) (76 page)

“With blood,” Rondithiel Lightbrother said, as if she had spoken aloud. He had been studying the cliff face in silence for some time.

“Blood?” Thurion said, startled. “It is forbidden.”

“Do you seek to lesson me in the keeping of Mosirinde’s Covenant?” Rondithiel asked mildly. “I should despair of you, young Thurion. What did Mosirinde say of blood?”

“That blood holds power, and to take power from the blood is to take life,” Thurion said. “To gain power from death brings madness.”

“This much is true,” Rondithiel said. “And yet—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Vieliessar said quietly. She touched the wall again with her bare fingers, and felt the thrumming of response. Ten thousand years ago, some unknown spellbinder had set this spell here, awaiting her touch. But not Vieliessar Farcarinon’s. The touch of the Child of the Prophecy. Amrethion’s chosen heir.

When she’d begun her quest, she’d realized she swam amid tides of power linked to Prophecy—power that gained her belief when it should not have come, trust when she had done little to earn it, success beyond luck and skill. It had shaped her to its needs, moonturn upon moonturn. She had been more than mortal flesh. She had been a tool of ancient power, and that power compelled more than her. It had bent the folk of the Fortunate Lands to its need. Princes had set aside their power for her. Commonfolk had risked their lives.

But not for her. For the Prophecy whose instrument she was. And even as she accepted that, she had fought to remain Vieliessar. No longer. To be less than the Prophecy’s instrument was to doom all who had placed their lives and their trust in her hands.

She took a deep breath, facing the cliff, and released every shield she had lived behind since long before the Light came to her. Wariness, mistrust, suspicion … she released them all into the winter wind. She let go of the masks she wore, concealing her true self from everyone. She unwove and abandoned the shields all Lightborn wrapped themselves in, guarding themselves from the touch of a mind, from an errant Foretelling, from the history borne within the shape and flesh of every thing, living or unliving.…

She was the ancient rock and the blood-soaked earth; the wind above, the unmediated hopes and fears of every living creature in her array, the hand that forged the steel, the beasts and trees slain to make saddle and cart and harness. Serenthon’s heir, Nataranweiya’s child, vanished in that moment, swept away before the need, the insistence, the demand …

The Prophecy.

It is so simple.

She did not know who thought the words, or who heard them, or who laughed in joy to see bright metal sparkle as a sword was drawn ringing from its sheath. She did not know who cried out, who grasped the blade with a naked hand, who thrust hand and blade and blood together against the raw unyielding rock.

And then she was herself again, Vieliessar, staring at the Unicorn Sword where it lay upon the grass, its hilt and pommel shattered, its unhoused blade blood-bright.

“
Run,
” Thurion said.

He grabbed Vieliessar’s arm and yanked her away from the cliff face. Vieliessar stumbled, then ran with him. Around her she could see the other Lightborn running, shouting warnings to the camp beyond. The ground shook as if at the charge of ten thousand
komen,
a hundred thousand, of all the
komen
who had ever lived. The shaking became a rolling that made them trip and stagger as they ran; the ice beneath Vieliessar’s feet cracked, shattered, sprayed up before her. As if a door had opened, she could feel the radiant upwelling of power. Not the familiar and finite power of Janglanipaikharain, but power a thousand times greater—fresh, untapped …

She felt the uprush of spellcraft—someone had managed to cast Shield—and stopped. She yanked her arm from Thurion’s grasp and turned.

A shimmering wall of Shield stood between them and the cliff face. Mounded against it, halfway up its height, was a hill of sand-fine grey dust. The blood mark she had set upon the stone was gone. And where it had been …

Vieliessar ran back until the violet wall of Shield was a cool slickness beneath her hands. Unaccustomed tears prickled at her eyes, and despite everything, she wanted to laugh out loud.

They will all believe I planned this.…

Dargariel Dorankalaliel—the Fireheart Gate—was open for the first time since the Fall of Celephrandullias-Tildorangelor.

Its walls were even and straight, just as the cliff itself had been, but not smooth and unmarked. As far along the passage as she could see they were carved with the images of Unicorns, a herd of Unicorns all running toward the plain.

She fell to her knees, laughing in relief, in joy, in homecoming, knowing this was not the end of Amrethion’s Prophecy but finally, at last, its beginning. The night was filled with shouting and the sounds of warhorns as her people armed and rallied against an unknown foe. She could hear hoofbeats as the first
komen
rode toward the cliff shouting questions, the babble of voices as the Lightborn answered. Silverlight flared, turning the face of the Shield-wall to a bright mirror, hiding what lay behind.

She got to her feet and turned to face the camp.
Komen
were riding toward her. Behind them, the camp itself was alive with light and movement.

“What have you done?” Thoromarth bellowed as he reached her, his voice a battlefield shout.

I have found the Unicorn Throne.

“I claim this place—it is mine—and yours. All of you—go through it—everyone—” Her tongue tripped and stuttered over a thousand commands. “Clear the rock—set my marker stones—!”

Pelashia’s Children had come home at last.

*   *   *

A sennight ago, the victory song had been in every throat. The Alliance scouts had brought the same word for a fortnight: Vieliessar drove her army directly toward an unbroken cliff wall. She would be trapped against it, unable to retreat, and when they held her at bay, they would drain the Southern Flower Forest—it did not truly matter which army accomplished that—and then the Alliance would drive the rebel’s army of losels and rabble down into dust.

Then, astonishingly, instead of preparing for battle, Vieliessar had set a wall twelve cubits high around the whole of her encampment—and to mock them, set such doors in its gate as might grace any High House Great Hall.

“Siege,” Bolecthindial growled. “She can’t be serious.”

“You keep saying that,” Runacarendalur said. His smile was bitter. “She has always done exactly what she says she will.”

Bolecthindial gazed into the distance. Behind him, the Alliance camp spread over miles of this desolate plain. Shield shimmered above and around them, a constant unwelcome reminder that this was a war of Magery and not of honest skill. In the distance, the last light of day turned the silver gates of Vieliessar’s encampment to fire and blood.

“Once the Light fails, we can starve them out,” Bolecthindial said.

“If we have, oh … ten times their supplies,” Runacarendalur answered lightly. “I trust our Lightborn are moved to prepare such bounty? Or does the War Council mean us to die here in the moment of our victory?”

“That is hardly your concern,” Bolecthindial said repressively.

“No,” Runacarendalur said quietly. “It won’t be.”

Bolecthindial regarded his son narrowly. Since the retreat from Jaeglenhend Keep, the Heir-Prince had been in a strange humor, by turns rebellious and reckless.
He sees the disaster this war has brought, and what it has cost us,
Bolecthindial thought grimly. Half a year ago the War Princes had made grand promises to one another—of setting aside old grievances, of unifying in the face of a grave threat, of increased wealth and dominion and security for them all. And at first it had seemed an easy thing, a possible thing, to strike down Serenthon’s mad whelp and thus secure their safety and prosperity forever.

But disaster had followed disaster. In Jaeglenhend she gained victories where she should have suffered defeats. The Alliance might have turned back then, awaiting a more fortunate moment to smash Vieliessar’s ambitions., but the secret the High Houses held silent in their throats was that Windsward Rebellion was too recent, too nearly successful, for them to permit Vieliessar even the illusion of victory.

And so the Alliance had followed Vieliessar beyond the edge of the world.

We were fools,
Bolecthindial Caerthalien thought bleakly.
Better to have let her claim the Uradabhur, the Arzhana, the Grand Windsward. Such a “kingdom” would never endure. We could have crossed the Mystrals in spring, taken the Uradabhur back domain by domain, gaining wealth and provisions and sending a vast sea of commonfolk running to their “High King.” If she rejected them, her claim of being their savior would vanish. If she claimed them, she would be forced to feed them in their thousands and ten thousands, and thus render herself vulnerable.

The thoughts were bitter, for they were not his own words Bolecthindial called to mind, but his son’s. His Runacarendalur, the flower of the Caerthalien Line—the glorious prince who could have made Caerthalien’s long-held dream a reality and claimed the Unicorn Throne for himself. From the time Vieliessar had gained Oronviel, Runacarendalur had warned and pleaded and badgered him, until Bolecthindial had shut his councils from his ears and his son from his sight.

But he’d been right.

“We shall not gain the victory by gazing upon the foe,” Bolecthindial said. “I shall take my leave. You are expected, of course, to dine with us.”

“Of course,” Runacarendalur said. But he did not look away from the distant walls.

*   *   *

That night, the Alliance War Council debated long into the night. The strategy was clear: drain the Southern Flower Forest so it could not be used, then besiege Vieliessar and take her fortress by traditional means. In the end, the Alliance would triumph. The War Council had even agreed that they would question Vieliessar before executing her, to see if Celelioniel had told the truth about being able to interpret the prophecy contained within
The Song of Amrethion
. Once Vieliessar was dead and her Lightborn reclaimed or executed, the Twelve could set to work discovering the source of this “Darkness” and deciding—if it existed at all—how best to crush it.

Implementation of this simple plan, however, was a matter for endless debate. What spells should they order their Lightborn to cast to achieve this? What stockpiles should they conjure? How would their injured be tended, if only Lightless healing could be offered to them?

The War Pavilion was Shielded by the conjoined spells of a thousand Lightborn. No spell could be worked within it, no listener could eavesdrop upon it, no blade could pierce its fabric, no fire could burn it.

No sound could penetrate its walls.

But even its labyrinth of bespellings was not proof against the shaking of the earth that came in the darkest candlemark of night. Cups fell from tables. Tent pegs worked free of the earth, until the gold fabric hung limply from its wooden framework and the slender shafts creaked alarmingly. It took candlemarks to restore order in the camp, and it was not until dawn that they understood what had happened.

The distant cliff was no longer a seamless unblemished sweep of stone.

There was a pass.

*   *   *

For the next six days, as the army advanced, the Alliance Lightborn attacked the High King’s keep. They scoured the ground with winds that ripped the grass from the soil and the soil from the stone beneath. They struck the cliff face with Thunderbolts until the vitrified stone glittered like ice. Waterspouts ripped from underground rivers spun across the gutted land, turning the churned earth to mud. Hyperborean winds turned mud to ice. Fire seared the very air, turning ice to steam, turning steam to blinding blizzards that left the walls of Vieliessar’s fortress drifted high with snow.

The fortress itself was untouched, and on the evening of the sixth day, there was no more prairie to cross.

“This is madness!” Sedreret Aramenthiali said, when the War Council had gathered once more. “We have achieved nothing!”

“Oh, I hardly think it is nothing,” Consort-Prince Irindandirion of Cirandeiron said, fanning himself languidly. “It is entertaining, after all.”

“And useless!” Sedreret snapped. Bolecthindial found himself wishing for his old enemy’s return. Manderechiel had been a bloody-minded brigand, but he’d never belabored the obvious.

Dead. Like Jaeglenhend, Mangiralas, Araphant, Ingelthendragir, and half the Houses of the Uradabhur.

“What do you suggest, Lord Sedreret?” Edheleorn Telthorelandor asked. “With a pass through the Southern Wall available to her, we must assume Vieliessar retreats through it. Once she has accomplished that, she has won. Or do you mean you will send Aramenthiali into such a killing box—in the event her walls fall?”

“I am saddened to hear such …
prudence
 … from your lips, Lord Edelhorn,” Dormorothon said, the twist of her lips indicating she meant another word entirely. “My son is correct: we have thrown the whole power of our Lightborn against her fortress and done nothing but make a waste of the land. And what shall we do tomorrow? We are within the shadow of her walls. Do we ask her politely to ride forth and give battle?”

“I’m surprised you dare rebuke us, Lightsister, when the failure is yours,” Girelain Cirandeiron said silkily. “The walls were raised by Magery. The pass created by Magery. Yet your own spells have been … surprisingly ineffective.”

“How dare you so insult my lady mother?” Sedreret demanded, rising to his feet. “I demand—”

“Aramenthiali
demands
?” Girelain asked in feigned disbelief, her lips curved in a chill smile. “I did not know you had such a sense of humor, Lord Sedreret.”

Bolecthindial rose to his feet. Around him, conversation died.

“Call me,” he said heavily, “when you have discovered something that will work.”

He turned and strode from the tent.

*   *   *