Mercedes Lackey - Crown of Vengeance

“Master Thurion! You should have sent for me!”

Thurion blinked, realizing he’d reached his own pavilion.

“I’ve told you how many times not to call me that?” he asked, with no hope his wish would be heeded any more on this occassion than it’d been the last thousand times.

“As many times as I’ve ignored you, Master Thurion,” Denerarth answered. “As you would know full well had the cold not addled your wits. But I suppose if you are too cloudwitted to send a servant for me—and for your cloak—you cannot be expected to remember such things. Come! Inside before you freeze quite to death! And I suppose you have not eaten since this morning?”

Thurion’s tent was a pavilion only by courtesy, for it was so small that there was only room for him and Denerarth, but compared to the hut Thurion had grown up in, it was both spacious and private. Silverlight made the interior as bright as day, and a brazier lent it welcome heat. He sniffed, catching the scents of both Summerbark tea and pear cider on the warm air.

“You know I have not,” he answered, sitting down on a stool to pull off his boots. “I was working. But I hope you have.”

“Oh indeed. Fine feeding from the prince’s own victory table,” Denerarth said. “Where you should have been.”

“I told you, I was busy,” Thurion answered mildly. Denerarth made an exasperated noise and paused to drape Thurion’s warmed cloak about his shoulders before pouring a mug of steaming cider and placing it in his hand.

“And will be just as busy come the morrow,” Denerarth said.

“If the Flower Forest is restored. If we are not to move the camp. If—”

“As you know full well, we’ll be here another fortnight, while Ullilion ransoms its knights and settles the surrender provisions. And as you know that, why try to Heal everyone now? There’s plenty of time before we break camp.”

“Yes, yes, yes—plenty of time. But why should they suffer longer than they must?” It was an argument they had each time—and would probably have until one or the other of them died. Thurion supposed he was lucky to have a servant who was neither overawed by him nor who refused to serve a Landbond’s son.

“If they’re suffering, Master Thurion, then Night’s Daughter is not the anodyne she is rumored to be. Now drink. I’ve warmed your bed for you, and there’s cheese and meat pie if you’ve any appetite.”

Thurion smiled faintly. He never had any appetite after a day in the Healing Tents. At least she is spared this, he thought vaguely.

Perhaps—in another year or two—he might petition Lord Bolecthindial to allow him to return to the Sanctuary for a time.

If Caerthalien did not receive any great challenges.

If its eternal wars and intrigues went well enough to grant House Caerthalien a season or two of quiet.

If.

As Vieliessar settled once more into the life of the Sanctuary, she found it had become yet again a different place, for now she joined a company that had no match anywhere in all the Fortunate Lands: those Lightborn who made the Sanctuary of the Star their home.

At first, her mind was filled with what she had seen within the Shrine. She spent candlemarks in the Great Library scouring the books of prophecy and legend for some explanation. The Jade Mirror spoke of the interpretation of dreams or visions. The Book of Veils recounted those methods that could be used to evoke a foretelling or even a prophecy. The Fire Alphabet listed fulfilled prophecies that were the fruit of more than one fortelling. None of them held any hint of what the Huntsman had spoken of, so she turned again to The Song of Amrethion , only to find it as cryptic as before.

Slowly the urgency of her vision faded. It began to seen like a storysong she had once heard, a matter which had little to do with the life she lived. She had wondered, before she dared the Shrine, if taking the Green Robe would mean a life of idleness, but no. There were tasks to perform such as she might have found beneath the roof of any noble house: spells must be set, woven into clothing or horse harness or any of a dozen homely objects; cordials must be compounded and en-Lightened, food preserved.

When all who had known her as a fellow Postulant were gone, there would be teaching and guiding for her to do, but for now, her hands were deft in Healing, her mind quick and clever at Warding; she could conjure impenetrable invisibility about herself, Call forth storms and lightning, tame the fiercest creatures of forest and plain and Summon them to her hand, and those things were enough for her.

There were times the acceptance of her fate troubled her: to die forsworn was a terrible thing, unless one could pass the unkept vow on to another, but who could she lay such an impossible task upon? Who would take it up? Was it right to compass the weaving of Caerthalien’s utter destruction at all?

She no longer knew. The vengeance her child-self had yearned for had been in her power for many years. Even before she had taken the Green Robe she could have stepped from Arevethmonion to Rimroheth and gone to Caerthalien Great Keep. There she could have Unmade Caerthalien’s stones into mist and shadow, struck Bolecthindial and all his Line dead with Mage-conjured lightning.…

And she had not, for even then, each year she had passed taught her more of the Light. She had learned at last to see it in the way Thurion had spoken of so long ago—and to see the world as a vast machine, a flour mill or cistern pump made up of lives and years, meant for no other purpose than to hold and reveal the Light. Set against that, the death of Caerthalien seemed a small and useless thing. It would not raise Farcarinon from the dust, nor check a single prince’s greed and ambition.

Perhaps, she thought, Maeredhiel was right, when she told me my greatest vengeance would be simply to live.

And so the years spun onward, first at a stately measured pace, then faster—so it seemed—as Vieliessar gained greater years of her own. Each springtide was a new surprise, each summer a wonder, each autumn a glory and a sadness, each gem-bright winter a new mystery.

She was content.

“Come! Vieliessar, you must come! Now! A Healing is needed!”

For a moment Vieliessar was dazed with sleep. She had only reached her bed a few candlemarks ago, for someone had been needed to bespell Rosemoss Farm to ensure good harvest, and no one else knew the delicate spells as well as she. Hearing Hervilafimir’s voice did nothing to ease her confusion, for Hervilafimir had been called back to Nantirworiel years before, leaving the healing rooms in charge of Lightbrother Thelifent. But none of the Lightborn left the Sanctuary forever, and Hervilafimir had recently returned, for Healing was her great love.

And in this time, it was needed more than ever before, for the Hundred Houses fought one another from Sword to Harvest, and the Beastlings pressed hard upon their borders, searching for any sign of weakness.

“I am awake, ’Fimir,” Vieliessar sighed, sitting up in her bed and running her hands through her short-clipped hair. She snapped her fingers and the room blinked into brightness. It was still at least a candlemark till dawn. Hervilafimir’s grey tabard, worn to protect her green robes from the blood and dirt of the healing chambers, was spattered with blood and muck. She looked tired and frightened.

“Please, Vielle. I know you are weary, but if you do not come, Amlunan will die, and I know not what Lord Manderechiel will do!”

“I am coming now,” Vieliessar protested, getting to her feet and reaching for her robe. “How is it that Ladyholder Dormorothon could not aid him?” she asked, her voice only slightly muffled by the robe she was pulling over her head. Ladyholder Dormorothon of Aramenthiali was also Dormorothon Lightsister, and Vieliessar could not believe that Aramenthiali’s Lady would not Heal Aramenthiali’s Warlord.