“Why couldn’t we see it?” he said aloud. “Why couldn’t I see it?”
“Lord Runacarendalur?” Helecanth said, worried.
“What are you waiting for, Rune?” Ivrulion said, riding up. He looked over the stubble of the fields, the stumps of the orchards, the smoke-blackened shells of the manor house and outbuildings. “If I were Lord Nilkaran, I’d petition Vondaimieriel for a remission of my tithes for the next decade or so.”
Runacarendalur bit back the furious words he wished to say. Ivrulion’s pretence of being a loyal and devoted servant to Caerthalien’s Line Direct galled Runacarendalur like iron chains. On their way here, he’d tested the length of the leash Ivrulion held. So far as he could tell, his will was his own, save in three things.
He could not speak of the Bonding between himself and Vieliessar Farcarinon.
He could not kill Ivrulion.
And he could not kill himself.
He’d tried each of these actions a number of times without success, but did not yet hold himself defeated. Perhaps he could write down what he could not speak of. Perhaps he could order one of his vassals to slay Ivrulion, or tell Bolecthindial some story that would accomplish the same purpose—though even Runacarendalur’s imagination faltered at the prospect of spinning a tale that would cause Bolecthindial Caerthalien to execute one of the Lightborn. He might say anything he liked—so long as he did not speak of his Bonding—but to accuse Ivrulion of treachery would do nothing but make him look disordered in his wits.
“They’re loyal to her,” Runacarendalur said bleakly. The realization came too late.
Ivrulion studied him through narrowed eyes. “They don’t have any choice,” he said after a moment.
“We didn’t give them any,” Runacarendalur answered. As you have given me none, faithless betrayer.
From the moment he first set foot upon the Sword Road, Runacarendalur had ridden to war thinking of victory, not death. Victory was sweet and good, and death, though glorious, put an end to the joys of war. But now death—his death—had become the only possible road to victory.
If he could claim it. For now, he touched his spurs to Gwaenor’s flanks and urged the stallion into a trot. Where are they? Thousands of komen can’t just vanish.
When the riders appeared from behind a distant building, all he could make out at first was their green surcoats. He brought Gwaenor to a stop and raised his hand. The sortie party waited tensely, not knowing whether they would be attacking in the next few moments or fleeing from a superior force.
But …
“That is young Gothael,” Helecanth said suddenly. “I know him.”
She glanced toward Runacarendalur. He nodded, and she raised the warhorn to her lips and sounded the Caerthalien rally call. At the sound, the scouts spurred their mounts from a trot to a gallop.
“Prince Runacarendalur, what news?” Komen Gothael said, as he brought his palfrey to a halt.
“None,” Runacarendalur answered. “We’ve been four days on the road from the southern border. We’ve seen neither Landbond nor enemy.”
Gothael grimaced. “The enemy is at the Great Keep, my lord. We’ve just come from there.”
“Hilgaril, Prince Runacarendalur,” Gothael’s companion said, introducing herself. “The army fought there two days. All the Line Direct lives. Princess Angiothiel distinguished herself greatly.”
“My sister took the field?” Runacarendalur said in disbelief, unable to stop himself. Angiothiel—unlike her twin—had still been a maiden knight, for she’d never ridden to battle.
“What outcome?” Ivrulion asked sharply.
“The army prepares to fight again, Lord Ivrulion,” Hilgaril said.
“We lost,” Runacarendalur said flatly.
There was an awkward silence, as neither komen wanted to agree with him, whether it was true or not. “Report,” Runacarendalur said at last.
Both Gothael and Hilgaril were veteran scouts: their report was brief and to the point. Upon receiving word that Jaeglenhend Great Keep had fallen to the rebels, the army had turned to attack it, and had met the rebel force outside its walls. It had fought two battles there but had not gained the victory. Their losses had been relatively light … but neither army had offered a parley truce for the purpose of prisoner exchange or ransom. The army had decamped at dawn and was heading for the eastern border. Scouting parties were flanking the army’s line of march to collect wandering destriers, locate any komen who might have ridden from the field and been overcome by their wounds, and round up livestock and servants who had been scattered during the battle.
Runacarendalur could fill in the details Gothael and Hilgaril either didn’t know or didn’t wish to repeat: the War Council had decided it couldn’t win while the rebels held the Great Keep, and was hoping to lure them away from it by retreating toward Keindostibaent.
An idiotic plan; they’ll only leave when they’re ready to.
That the livestock had scattered meant either that Rithdeliel had attacked the Alliance’s camp—or that all their servants had simply fled during the battle. Some certainly had, undoubtedly hoping to join the enemy once their masters had left. That was bad enough, but that they had fought without a parley truce was worse. He knew it was unlikely that neither army had taken prisoners and he knew without having to ask that the War Council hadn’t thought of keeping the komen they’d captured alive as bait.
We are becoming lower than the Beastlings, he thought wildly. Slaughtering brave warriors without concern for the Code of Battle, just as if Arilcarion War-Maker had never lived.
Thankfully he’d schooled himself to stoicism by the time the scouts reached the worst of their news, for it was bad indeed. In the course of the fighting, the enemy had managed to retake not only their wagons and supplies, but the captive commons and livestock as well—and when the horses had bolted, they’d taken most of the loose Alliance horses with them.
So all we accomplished in the last fortnight is to harden their resolve—and gift them with some additional horses! He gritted his teeth. The temptation to speak that thought aloud was great.
“And Vieliessar Farcarinon?” he asked.
“They fought in her name, Prince Runacarendalur,” Hilgaril said. “But she did not take the field.”
That’s because she’s still somewhere in the southern Barrens, Runacarendalur thought wearily. We’re between her and her army. And not one member of this so-called War Council will believe that if we just cordon Jaeglenhend from the Tamabeths all the way to Sadrunath Dales, either she or her army will have to try something stupid to get past us. No. They think she’s going somewhere, and they want to stop her. Don’t they see that going somewhere isn’t the point?
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You’ve been very helpful.” Ivrulion looked at him suspiciously; Runacarendalur ignored him. “We ride now to rejoin the army.”
And prepare for the next honorless, graceless slaughter.
He no longer cared how Vieliessar had duped her vassal lords into mindless loyalty, nor cared that he’d become no more than his mad brother’s puppet. While he lived, he would fight. Vieliessar meant to destroy everything the Hundred Houses had spent a hundred centuries building.