Mercedes Lackey: Crown of Vengeance

The Great Wheel was kept differently in Farmhold and village and border keep than it was in the Great Keep, but Varuthir knew nothing of those ways. Rade Moon had come twelve times since she had taken her first breath, and she knew no world but the Great Keep of Caerthalien. As far back as she could remember Varuthir had been told by everyone she should be grateful she had a place at Caerthalien now that her mother and father were dead. In truth, she thought little about her own Line: she was of Caerthalien, and this year at Harvest Court she could make her petition to Lord Bolecthindial to train in arms. Knights didn’t care if they were fosterlings and neither did anyone else. Knights fought for the House they were born into (unless they were captured and had to pledge allegiance to another House) and if they fought well, they could gain rich rewards and even pledge komentai’a to one of the princes of the House, to serve him or her always and ride to war as part of their meisne. They might even be granted estates where they might have dozens of servants, and meisnes of their own, and nobody but the head of the Line Direct could tell them what to do. They sat at the tables at the front of the Great Hall and everyone looked up to them. They had adventures .

She’d paid no attention to the preparations to send the tithe-wagons and the Candidates to Sanctuary, for it didn’t concern her. Ivrulion Light-Prince hadn’t even looked at her at Midwinter.

That was before the day Mistress Nindorogond held her back after the day’s lessons were finished.

All the castel children were schooled to read and write and do sums, for whether one had been born a servant or a lord, such knowledge was useful. Later, those who would become komen and commanders of a taille or a grand-taille would learn maps, geography, and history along with horsemanship and swordcraft, but for now, all learned together, whether their place was castel servant, treaty hostage, or future knight. Perhaps I will not need to petition Lord Bolecthindial, she thought. Perhaps Mistress Nindorogond means to tell me now I am to train as komen.

Mistress Nindorogond waited until the schoolroom was empty and silent. Varuthir waited with her, standing silently before the great table piled with scrolls and wax tablets and ciphering frames. When the last to leave had closed the door behind her, Mistress Nindorogond looked up.

“You have been an apt pupil, Varuthir,” she said at last. “I am pleased that you will be given this opportunity. All know that the Sanctuary is a place of great learning as well as great Magery.”

“I do not understand, Mistress. What has the Sanctuary of the Star to do with me?”

“You know that Storm Moon is nearly fled. Caerthalien sends its tithe early this year. In a fortnight the wagons go. And you go with them.”

“To the Sanctuary?” Varuthir said in horror. “But I—But why , Nindorogond?” she’d stammered in shock. “Prince Ivrulion—”

“This is not a matter that concerns him,” Nindorogond said sharply. “This has been a thing settled since the day you were born. It is for the best.”

“But I—” Varuthir said again. “But they’ll see I have no Light in me! How long do I have to stay there? Do you mean I…”

Her words stumbled to a halt as she stared at Nindorogond’s face, for in the set of her lips, Varuthir could read her answer. Forever. Never to follow the Way of the Sword, to be a great knight, to earn War Prince Bolecthindial’s regard …

“You cannot mean I have to stay there forever!” she’d cried in protest. “I want to be a knight! I want to fight for Caerthalien!” Caerthalien would need her. The Long Peace that had followed the Breaking of Farcarinon had been all she had ever known, but for the last two summers, there’d been raids along the borders as the High Houses gauged one another’s strength. War would come again soon.

“It is for the best,” Nindorogond repeated, and Varuthir had run from the schoolroom before Mistress Nindorogond could see her tears.

When the first shock of Nindorogond’s announcement passed, Varuthir went to everyone she knew among the lesser nobles of the Court trying to find some explanation, some way to undo this terrible fate. Everyone who would answer her said the same thing. It is for the best. It is a matter settled long since.

She would go to the Sanctuary. But she would never leave it.

She thought of simply running away—but where would she go? She couldn’t just walk up to a manor or a farmstead and ask them to take her in: as soon as they discovered she was promised to the Sanctuary, she’d be sent there, for to stint the Sanctuary was to risk the wrath of the Silver Hooves. There were parts of the Fortunate Lands claimed by no House, wild lands that had become the lairs of outlaws and bandits, and she thought of making those her destination. They at least would not send her to the Sanctuary!

But to reach the Wild Lands she’d need a cloak, and good boots, and to steal a horse from the stables—and not just the horse itself, but its saddle and bridle. She had a cloak, gloves, and boots, for in the days that followed the settling of her fate, gifts had come to her from Caerthalien’s Ladyholder—green leather boots with silver heels, the leather stamped in gold with patterns of twining vines; a matching green cloak of the best wool, lined with white fox fur; and fur-lined riding gauntlets to match both boots and cloak. But from the candlemark Nindorogond had told her she was to go to the Sanctuary, Varuthir had always been watched. Four times in the last fortnight she’d nerved herself to slip away to the stables, and four times she’d been stopped, or turned back, or noticed.

And now she’d run out of time.

A sennight ago the Called who were to go to the Sanctuary had arrived at Caerthalien. The preparations for departure had been going on since yesterday’s dawn. They would leave today.

The morning dawned grey and rainy, as if it were late autumn instead of early spring. It was too early for the leaves to have returned to the trees, and the flagstones of the outer courtyard were still covered with straw each night so ice would not form on them by morning.

She had not slept the night before, and had dressed as soon as it was light enough to see. When Mistress Tiradil tapped at the door to summon her, she simply walked out into the hallway, leaving the door open behind her.

“It is for the best, Varuthir,” Mistress Tiradil said quietly. “Someday you will understand that.”

I shall never see this room, this place, these people again, Varuthir thought to herself, and silently set her jaw against her tears of anger and grief.

The time of the morning meal at Caerthalien was a good candlemark away, and the Great Hall was empty except for those who would be riding out today and the servers bringing out pitchers and trays and baskets for the meal to come. Berthon and Athrothir—two of the other Called—were already there, eating bread and cheese, drinking mulled cider, and chattering happily about what was to come. They were Farmfolk, and in the ordinary way might never have expected to see the Great Keep in their lives. But if they gained the Green Robe, they would live in luxury for the rest of their lives. They would live in a Great House even if they did not become Mages, for those who completed their Service Year at the Shrine without becoming Lightborn were eagerly sought after as servants.

Varuthir walked toward them, feeling as if her feet were shod in lead and not in leather. Berthon offered her a tankard of cider, but she had no appetite, and mutely shook her head. A few minutes later Thurion, the last of this year’s Candidates, rushed in. With his arrival, the komen who were to accompany them began getting to their feet.