“I beg you, do not go,” he said. “The spell still runs.”
Vieliessar nodded curtly. “I could ask no one to face such foulness again,” she said. “Do not reproach yourself for not doing a thing no one could do.”
But I must try.
He saw her fall.
It did not matter that it was dark, that the air was fouled with smoke and fog, that her surcoat was in rags and her armor besmirched with mud and blood. He would have known her anywhere.
His lord. His liege. His life.
She had lifted him out of disgrace and exile with a tale he did not credit for a cause he did not believe in. But she was Farcarinon, and Gunedwaen Swordmaster would have followed her to the Vale of Celenthodiel if she had asked.
He barked out a shout of hoarse laughter. She had asked. And now they would all die here, her cause unwon.
No.
I failed the father. I shall not fail the daughter.
He handed his mare’s reins to the komen beside him and swung down from the saddle. He flicked his cervelière from his head, dropped swords and daggers, stripped his armor from his body. “Tell Harwing he is my heir,” he said, and began to walk across the broken ground.
All his life he’d known the Green Robes spoke of their Magery as Light, but this light was not the cool radiance of the moon. It the unforgiving blaze of sun, of fire.
He passed the place where Vieliessar lay, still fighting to rise, to go on. He thought he heard her cry out at the sight of him, but he did not stop. To stop would only be to draw attention to her; her safety lay in misdirection, and misdirection was a Swordmaster’s greatest skill. He raised his hand to close it about the amulet at his throat. A silver nail within a drop of amber, Mage-crafted, bespelled. Harwing had given it to him, last night as they lay together. For luck, he said. For protection. He had not asked then what spells it held, and now it was too late.
He would not see Harwing again.
One step, then another. And another. Forward. His heart thundered in his chest as if it were a war drum. Each beat was a stabbing agony behind his eyes. Gunedwaen felt a rush of wetness upon his face as blood burst from his nostrils, rilling steadily over his face with every painful heartbeat.
Only a little farther.
Let the mazhnune give their attention to the army instead of a lone man afoot and moving slowly. Let none of the new-risen dead stand between him and his goal. He’d thought for some time it was possible to move across the field unopposed. All it required was skill and nerve.
He had both. He had thought them lost, once. She had restored him.
He had pledged himself her sworn vassal.
All he had was hers.
Every step was agony. His vision fogged, his chest burned as if he starved for air. The pain was the pain of beating, freezing, burning. Blood-tinged tears burst from his eyes. There was a brief, lancing agony as his eardrums burst and blood trickled down his neck.
Pain was an old friend. Year by year, Caerthalien had taught him its true meaning. Hunger and cold and the lonely anguish of survival. The pain of maimed limbs that could do nothing. Death was a small thing, for he only went to keep an appointment far too long delayed. Dust filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth, blinding and fine. He staggered against the storm, forcing his eyes to slits.
Not far now.
He could smell burning, as some forgotten bit of metal heated forge-hot, but where it burned him, he did not know, for his whole body thrilled with agony. His mouth filled with the metal taste of blood. His progress slowed to a spasming shamble, as if his body had become a mazhnune’s dead flesh. He raised clawed and shaking hands to wipe his eyes, to see what lay ahead.
From the center of a widening circle of desolation, Ivrulion gazed upon him with eyes that were black and sightless with blood. His mouth drooled dark ichor in the green-violet light, blood gushed from his nose, dripped from his ears, sketched dark tear-tracks over his face. The wind whipped the blood away; where it struck Gunedwaen, it smoked and burned. Gunedwaen staggered into the whirlwind across scorched and smoking dust. His body shook and trembled, each beat of his heart so violent his chest felt bruised from within. What was this pain in comparison to all he had suffered through the years until Serenthon’s daughter recalled him to life?
It does not matter if I die. It matters where I die.
Not far now.
He could no longer see. Over the howling of the maelstrom he heard the wild silver bells of the Hunt riding across the sky.
I come, Huntsman. I come.
A body beneath his hands. A throat. The touch of Ivrulion’s flesh seared his skin as if he grasped forge-hot iron, but he did not feel the fire. He was far away, on a battlefield in autumn, where Farcarinon’s silver wolves howled against the sky.
Then there was nothingness.
There was a bright flash, as if a kindled pyre suddenly fed upon oil. There was a great trembling as all the mazhnune fell in the same moment, and suddenly, across the whole expanse of Ifjalasairaet, there was utter silence and stillness. For a heartbeat there was darkness, but as Rithdeliel gazed toward the sky, the clouds began to scud away.
The spell was broken.
With a weary exhalation, he leaned on his swordhilt. Only the silhouettes of horses and riders standing motionless upon the plain let Rithdeliel know he was not the last living thing in all the land. He did not know how long he stood watching the sky above lighten into blue before he heard the first warhorn sound. It was no call he knew, merely a single note, sustained for as long as the knight-herald had breath. But its meaning was plain.
We live.
He passed the War Princes as they rode toward whatever remained of Vieliessar Farcarinon’s army. They paid no attention to him; he was just another filthy, exhausted warrior making his way to camp. They rode without armor or escort, and Runacarendalur knew then that Vieliessar had won. The War Princes were riding to surrender. He did not see his father among them. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps they’d slain him when they saw what Ivrulion had done.
He should ride after them—ask—claim Caerthalien if Bolecthindial was dead. But what then? He could not bear the thought of kneeling to Vieliessar and offering her Caerthalien’s fealty, and his.
He could not bear the thought of taking her as his Bondmate.
The encampment seemed utterly deserted, the sight of his own pavilion like something out of another lifetime. Slowly and stiffly he slipped from Bentrain’s back; the destrier stood wearily, head hanging. He looped the animal’s reins over the saddle and patted him on the shoulder. “Go find someone to take care of you,” he said. “You deserve it.”
As if he understood, Bentrain sighed gustily and began walking slowly toward the horselines. Runacarendalur entered his pavilion. It was deserted, but there was food and drink laid out on the table, and a bowl of washing water stood beside Runacarendalur’s favorite chair. He wondered who had left it for him.
He poured a tankard full of weak beer and drained it twice before he began the long work of removing his armor. It was sheer bliss to unlace his aketon and peel it away from his bruised and sweat-fouled skin. He sopped one of the cloths waiting neatly folded beside the washing bowl, and scrubbed himself as clean as he could.
I am Prince Runacarendalur of Caerthalien, he told himself. Caerthalien, greatest of the High Houses.