"It is all these texts you have read which convince you of this," Gunedwaen said crossly. "Very well. Undoubtedly it is as you say." He set down his bowl and got to his feet, walking from the hut. Striker heaved herself to her feet with a long-suffering sigh and followed him.

Vieliessar set down her nearly untouched supper and pushed the heels of her hands wearily against her eyes. Everything ached, and she was no closer to unifying the Hundred than she'd been half a year ago.

And no closer, so it seemed, to becoming a knight.

The minutes passed, and Gunedwaen did not return.

She got to her feet.

When she stepped outside into the night, Gunedwaen was saddling Trouble.

"Where are you going?" she asked. "It's the middle of the night."

"It is barely two candlemarks past sunset," Gunedwaen corrected. He tightened the girth, and swung into the saddle. "And I am going nowhere. We are going somewhere."

"Where?" Vieliessar asked doubtfully.

"Come along and see," Gunedwaen answered. He clicked his tongue at Trouble and the mare moved off.

The broken stones of Farcarinon Keep were ghostly in the moonlight. It was the full moon of Sword, its light so bright there was no need to conjure a globe of Silverlight to show them their way. Gunedwaen had said nothing about their destination, and Vieliessar had not asked. The only time they had spoken was when she stopped him so he could take Striker up on Trouble, for the old hikuliasa had begun to lag behind.

She'd only been here once before in body. In mind, she'd been here a thousand times since the day she'd learned her true name. Promising vengeance. Demanding answers. Mourning the life she could have lived.

She had renounced her vengeance and received her answers, and her mourning time was done.

The watchtowers and the outer wall were nothing more than shattered stones scattered across what had been the meadows and orchards of the keep, and the keep itself, from ramparts to deepest cellars, had been forced to collapse in upon itself, until all that remained was a low hill of stone that time and the seasons had covered with grass and flowers. A small portion of the inner curtain wall remained standing, the only thing to say that once a proud fortress had stood upon this spot.

The road that led to the castel gates was bright in the moonlight; the earth, hard-hammered over the centuries, giving way only grudgingly to the encroachment of the meadow. Trouble's hooves, noiseless on the soft summer earth, clopped faintly as Gunedwaen guided her onto the road. The ditches that had once lined it had fallen inward years before, leaving only shallow depressions in the grass.

As they crossed the boundary where the outer wall had once stood, Striker raised her head from where she lay across Gunedwaen's knees and gave a soft, interrogative bark. An instant later, Vieliessar heard the clink of a bridle and realized there was someone here. She forced herself to pretend she'd heard nothing. Gunedwaen must know someone awaited him-awaited them.

She steeled herself against betrayal. Just as well to see it come now, if that is what comes, for if I cannot bind my House's last vassal to me, what hope do I have of binding princes?

A moment later, a stranger rode out of the shadow.

His grey gelding's coat had been rubbed with powdered charcoal to make it dull and dark, but there was no disguising the quality of the animal, the kind which only a great lord-or a great lord's favorite-might ride. Neither horse nor rider displayed the badge of any House; the rider wore a dark hooded cloak, but Vieliessar could see the unmistakable angled shape of a scabbarded sword beneath the cloak, and her ears brought her the faint sweet jingling of chain mail.

Gunedwaen reined in and waited. Vieliessar stood, silent and watchful, at his knee.

The stranger stopped, pushed back the hood of his cloak. The silver of his mail-shirt gleamed at his throat, and now she could see that the cloak's clasp was enameled. A red otter on a white field. Oronviel.

Farcarinon's Warlord has taken service with Oronviel, for Caerthalien was ever generous with its leavings ...

"Rithdeliel is a friend," Gunedwaen said quietly. He shifted Striker in his arms, and Vieliessar took her and set her on the ground. The hikuliasa wandered over to the grey gelding, who lowered his head to sniff at her, unimpressed.

"An ally-perhaps," Rithdeliel corrected.

"Ally, then," Gunedwaen conceded. "It has been far too long."

"Not as long as I expected, since I thought you dead," Rithdeliel said. "Your message was a surprise."

"As was your answer. I had not thought you saved any of Gwaenabros's Finding charms."

"You will admit it came in useful. I assume this is the girl? Have you proof she is who she claims to be?"

She stepped into the space between the two horses.

"I am Vieliessar Farcarinon, daughter of Serenthon War Prince and Nataranweiya, his Bondmate and Lady," she said. "Declare yourself, knight of Oronviel."

She saw him smile. "Rithdeliel, Warlord of Oronviel, begs leave to declare himself to you, Vieliessar Lightsister."

She turned her back on him without answering. A bright flash of memory showed her Ladyholder Glorthiachiel doing just this to show her displeasure to one of Caerthalien's court. She had not thought of her childhood in longer than she could remember, and for a moment the memory actually made her want to smile.

"Why should I trust him?" she asked Gunedwaen, her tone just short of a demand. "Who has broken his pledged word once will break it twice."

"Rithdeliel was once Warlord to House Farcarinon," Gunedwaen answered.

She gestured impatiently, brushing away his words. "So much I knew even before I came to you," she answered pitilessly. "And I knew him forsworn of his allegiance to Farcarinon. If he is indeed forsworn by pledging to Oronviel."

"*He' is here," Rithdeliel said. "And were you a true knight I would challenge you for such accusations. Do you think I forswore Farcarinon lightly?"

"I think it is a marvel and a wonder you survived to do so," she answered, turning back to face him.

"Caerthalien did not wish to see too many of its own executed, no matter where their lawful oaths had since been given," Rithdeliel answered. "Or do you not know the whole of this tale? I shall tell it to you. I was chief among the knights in Lord Ethradan's house-unfortunately for us both, for Serenthon Farcarinon had already set himself to walk the road that would slay him, and for this cause he played suitor to Caerthalien. There he met my Lady, and knew her for his Bondmate. And so Lord Ethradan of Caerthalien, Nataranweiya's father, gave her as her dowry as many of his household as he could spare, myself among them, trusting our loyalty and care would keep her alive."

"It did not," Vieliessar observed.

She saw sharp-cut lines appear around Rithdeliel's mouth as he clenched his jaw tight upon his anger. When he spoke again, his words were as cold and stinging as spitting snow.

"I was taken from the battlefield in chains that last day," he said, his words soft and precise. "You live because of what I and my army did upon that field. We held the Alliance there until Lady Nataranweiya could flee Farcarinon Keep, though we were outmatched a hundred to one. To this battle War Prince Serenthon had summoned everyone who had ever borne a blade, or who might do so soon, and they were slain in their hundreds: aged greatmothers and children who had not yet leaped the fire or flown their kites. They are no more than names written on the wind, for no kin survived to place their names upon the Tablet of Memory. We in our hundreds stood against the Alliance in its thousands. Of the flower of Farcarinon, not one in a thousand survived the day. Those of us who did paid dearly, for we languished in chains until the day you returned to the Sanctuary of the Star, and many who had walked from the field did not live to walk beneath the sun again. When I was brought forth from the darkness at last, it was to hear Oronviel would ransom me from Caerthalien, if I would pledge fealty to War Prince Thoromarth. I had seen Serenthon fall, and I knew all of Farcarinon dead with him, for if the House had survived, Bolecthindial would not have sold my name as if I were a Landbond in the field. Farcarinon was dead," he repeated heavily. "And so I pledged to War Prince Thoromarth, and I have served him faithfully since that day. I came here for Gunedwaen's asking, and for my love for Serenthon, but I do not know that I wish to give up either freedom or life to the impatient tantrums of a child."

"I have learned patience from the cradle," Vieliessar answered, her words following his, beat upon beat, as if they clashed with naked blades. "And I am no child-you of all should know this, who so auspiciously marked the day of my birth. Know this as well: I would gladly have ended my days within the Sanctuary of the Star, save that the Hundred Houses face an enemy they are too blind and selfish to see. To prepare them against the day of its coming I must become a knight. And I shall, Rithdeliel of Oronviel. Do not doubt me."

"You speak of the Prophecy. The Song of Amrethion," Rithdeliel said accusingly, and Vieliessar could only stare at him in astonishment. "Oh, come, Lightsister," he added, his tone turning sharper. "Serenthon Farcarinon knew of it. He too said it spoke of an enemy to come, and that his kingship would unite the Hundred Houses against it. And so the Hundred killed him."

Again her answer was swift. "They killed him for fear of a collar about their throats, and for the promises he made to gain and keep his allies. I will not bribe as if I am weak; I will not flatter as if I must beg victory to favor me. I will triumph or I will die-and on the day I am crowned, there will be no High House or Low, nor will there be noble and Landbond. There will be one land and one people, and they will be mine."

For a long moment they stared at each other in silence.

"It has been too long since I have risked my life for something worth the risk," Rithdeliel said at last. He nodded slowly, as if sealing an unspoken bargain. "Very well. Say what you would have of me."

The ring and hiss of steel was loud in the practice ring, where two knights mounted on destriers backed and circled for advantage. The rich smell of ripening hay filled the still air and motes of dust pounded from the straw underfoot turned the air to gold. The sun beat down on the combatants, turning the layers of metal and padding they wore into instruments of torture. Fire Moon was the hottest moonturn of the year, as if summer expended all her heat in one last profligacy before the cool of autumn and the long slow slide into winter.

One combatant rode a muscular roan, the shields of his pearl-enameled armor enameled in the red-and-white of Oronviel. The other, mounted on a bay mare, wore the bare-metal armor and bare shields of a maiden knight. Neither spared a hand to the reins, for destriers were trained from foalhood to answer to the weight and pressure of an armored rider, to move as an extension of the knight on their back, to kill if asked.

Both destriers knew that today was not a day for killing. Neither animal had taken the field in years, too old to bear up under the rigors of a full campaign and long days of war. They spent their peaceful retirement training future knights in the deadly equestrian dance of horse and rider.

Rithdeliel gave his mount the signal to back out of range. Were this a battle-and were he mounted on Varagil-he would signal Varagil to spin and kick. Such a blow from a hoof could shatter bone, even through armor. Since this was not true battle, he brought his mount instead around to his opponent's off side, so that she would have to strike across herself to defend or attack. If she turned in the saddle to strike a better blow-a common beginner's mistake-she would be off-balance, unable to properly signal her mount and vulnerable to being either dragged or shoved from the saddle. He was looking forward to a swift conclusion to the mock-combat-this was his opponent's first fight from the back of a destrier-but as he urged his stallion forward again, his opponent's mare spun, slamming her rump against his stallion's neck. Reflexively, the animal beneath him sprang sideways-only a moment of distraction, but time enough for his opponent to go on the attack once more.

Rithdeliel backed the stallion quickly out of range and raised his sword, indicating the match was over. To continue would be to risk injury, even with peacebonded blades, for a fall or unintended kick could be as fatal here as on the field.

For a moment his adversary sat frozen, as if she wished to continue the attack. Then she saluted in turn.

"A good beginning," Rithdeliel said. He patted the stallion's shoulder and the roan stretched his neck and shook his head, as if shaking off the glamour of battle.

"What more is there?" Vieliessar's voice was sharp.

"Come. Let us return the horses to the stable and get ourselves out of this armor," Rithdeliel said, not answering.

He swung down from the stallion's back in the stableyard, moving lithely in the many-jointed flexible armor, and tossed the reins to one of the ostlers. When he turned to help Vieliessar down, he saw that she had vaulted from the saddle as lightly as he, and for a moment, Rithdeliel felt the same unease he'd felt the first time he'd watched her spar on foot against Gunedwaen. Three moonturns is not time enough to make a knight, or even three years. And Gunedwaen swears she had not even held a practice sword until last Hearth Moon. She is unnatural....

Her back was to him; she had drawn off one heavy gauntlet to scratch her mare behind the hinge of her jaw. "I am who I need to be," she answered as if he'd spoken.

He was uneasy enough that he might have questioned her further, but Varagil had sensed his presence, and a loud, demanding neigh now came from within the stable. "I am summoned," he said briefly, walking quickly away.

A few moments later, Vieliessar joined Rithdeliel at Varagil's loose-box. She'd removed her helmet; her sweat-sodden hair, still too short to braid properly, was plastered flat against her skull.

"Raemeros is a gallant steed, and she has taught me well," Vieliessar said, watching him with Varagil. "But she cannot serve me in battle."

"She'll do well enough to get you killed," Rithdeliel said brusquely. "Even if you believe that by some fortune you can declare against the High Houses and gain anything but your death."

"Ah, but I will not do it alone," she said, grave laughter in her voice. "There is Gunedwaen."

"You cannot just ask for the Unicorn Throne," Rithdeliel said.

The three of them were in Rithdeliel's own rooms rather than Candlebrook Manor's Great Hall. A half-played game of xaique was set out on a nearby board; a tea service waited on the sideboard, the pot already filled with its infusion and awaiting hot water. He lived in the clutter of one who lived surrounded by servants but who had no wife and family to nag him to tidiness: half-read scrolls, half-mended bits of tack, and delicate, broken pieces of armor littered every surface except the dining table.

"So you and Gunedwaen have said before," Vieliessar pointed out. "And I shall not merely ask. One army takes another, just as in xaique. If I defeat the War Prince of a House and gain his domain, I gain his army as well. With each War Prince I defeat, my cause grows stronger."

"This plan only works if you have an army to begin with, and I do not see one," Gunedwaen said.

"You might once have persuaded the Free Companies to back your cause-if you promised them lands and estates and the settlement of old grievances," Rithdeliel added. "But now..."

Vieliessar's flight from the Sanctuary over a year earlier had borne bitter fruit. Goaded by Hamphuliadiel Astromancer's claim that she sought vengeance on the Old Alliance, and fearing that she would seek to bring the Free Companies under her banner, Caerthalien and Aramenthiali-of all unlikely allies-had joined Ullilion and Cirandeiron to scour Farcarinon of those who made it their refuge. The Harrowing of Farcarinon had begun at the end of Sword-a few bare sennights after she and Gunedwaen had come to Oronviel-and stretched through Thunder into Fire.

The power of the Free Companies had been broken decisively. Of the hundreds of mercenary companies that had once sold their services to the highest payer, only Foxhallow and Glasshaven remained-surviving because these two, the largest Free Companies, possessed granted lands far to the east of Farcarinon.

"Their combined force would not have been sufficient to take even Oronviel," Vieliessar pointed out reasonably. "The Free Companies do not have Lightborn to Heal their warriors; Oronviel could put every knight they'd wounded back into the field the following day, and so stand against them forever-and if they acted outside the Code in order to win, Oronviel could declare them Outlaw. We have seen this War Season how outlaws are dealt with."

Those who had escaped the Harrowing were now outlaws in truth. No War Prince would offer them a place. The shattered remnants of the Free Companies had turned to banditry to survive.

Rithdeliel glanced toward Gunedwaen. The old Swordmaster's eyes held an expression that was half exasperation, half resignation. He knew as well as Rithdeliel did that a lone knight had no hope of conquering the Hundred Houses and making them crown her king. And both of them knew it was impossible to persuade Vieliessar of that. All she would say was that she must unite the Hundred Houses, therefore she would unite the Hundred Houses.

"Mercenaries, or the army of a single House-both approaches are too conservative," Vieliessar added, twisting the stem of her winecup between her hands. She glanced from Gunedwaen to Rithdeliel. "Would you trust any of the War Princes to honor their pledged word?"

Gunedwaen's answer was a bark of derisive laughter. "Your life is the answer to that, my prince!"

Vieliessar nodded. "Just so. No matter what they say-what guarantees, what pledges, what hostages they give-any of the War Princes will break their sworn oath. Do you not see what that implies?"

There was a moment of silence. "To me, it implies I would sign no treaty with them if my life depended on their keeping of it. But I am sure this is not what you mean us to understand," Rithdeliel said with ponderous sarcasm.

There was a brief flash of laughter in Vieliessar's eyes, though her face remained composed. "But you are right, good master Rithdeliel. No treaty with any of the Hundred has worth. So from declaration to victory, my campaign can run only one War Season."

Gunedwaen threw up his hands in exasperation. "It is not enough for you to say you will make the Hundred declare you High King-now you will defeat them all in one summer!" At his feet, Striker raised her head inquisitively, then lowered it again, seeing nothing interesting was happening.

"As you say," Vieliessar said mildly, raising her cup to drink. She refused to speak further of her plans that evening, and the talk turned to gossip of the coming Harvest Court.

Four great feasts turned the wheel of the year: the Kite Festival of Flower Moon, the Fire Festival of Fire Moon, the Midwinter Feast of Snow Moon, and Harvest Court.

Unlike the other festivals, its time was not fixed: Harvest Court fell upon the first full moon after the Fire Festival, whether that lay in the moonturn of Harvest or not. Loremasters said it was the oldest of the festivals; storysingers spoke of a time before the building of Celephriandullias-Tildorangelor by the first High King, when the folk had not lived beneath roofs of stone, but roamed the land following the great horse herds, a time when the harvest the name spoke of was not grain, but souls-for it was their claim that Harvest Court had once marked the half of the year in which the Starry Hunt had ridden over the land, taking whom it would as its prey.

At Harvest Court, by ancient custom, any might approach the War Prince to receive justice, no matter how humble their degree.

The gates of Oronviel Keep stood open. Across the outer courtyard-a space designed to box in attackers so they could be slain from above-the massive doors of the Great Hall stood open as well. Trestle tables were set out beneath the fruit-heavy trees of the castel orchard as well as in the Great Hall, for at Harvest Court, War Prince Thoromarth held a great feast for all who wished to attend. There would be horse races and foot races; prizes given for the most elaborately decorated loaf of bread, the most enticing new tea blend, the most beautiful weaving, the best new song and poem and tale-even for the most elaborate illusion cast by Oronviel's Lightborn. The feasting and games would begin at dawn the morning after the full moon and continue until sunset on the seventh day afterward, and in between the contests and the celebrations, War Prince Thoromarth would hear the petitions of any who came before him. Even an outlaw or a traitor knight could come to Harvest Court and be heard, for all the Houses of the Fortunate Lands declared peace and truce for the whole of the festival.

The day was summer-warm, and the high windows in the Great Hall had been flung open to let the last of summer into the keep. From the makeshift race course laid out between the orchard and the craftworkers' village-a space more often used to muster Oronviel's troops for battle-came the sound of cheering and hornsong. Horses raced in the morning when it was cooler; in the afternoon, once the prizes for the winning horses had been given, there would be footraces.

Within the Great Hall, Oronviel's great lords, and any others who wished to see, were gathered to hear their master give justice. Rithdeliel watched impassively as yet another petitioner stepped forward. He'd considered and discarded the idea of bringing Vieliessar and Gunedwaen to Harvest Court to beg sanctuary. It was true that Harvest Court was the time when banishings and outlawing could be set aside and pardoned, but Gunedwaen had been Caerthalien's prisoner and Vieliessar fell under the Sanctuary's dominion. And Thoromarth of Oronviel was no fool.

The clatter of sabatons against the stone of the outer courtyard roused him to instant alertness.

The figure who appeared in the doorway wore armor enameled in silver, as if to mock the unadorned plate of the unfledged knight. Her tabard and cloak were pure white, as if she came to Harvest Court to seek knighthood, but silver spurs gleamed on her feet and she wore swordbelt and scabbard. The empty scabbard was the only concession she made to the fact that she was entering the presence of a War Prince, for her helm was locked into place, rendering her anonymous.

"Rithdeliel-who comes?" Thoromarth asked.

"I do not know, Lord Thoromarth," Rithdeliel answered, forcing his voice to show none of the anger he felt. He was not forsworn-in truth, he did not know.

All around the hall, watchers flurried like a cote of doves and whispered urgently to each other. But no one tried to impede the silver knight's progress as she walked slowly and deliberately the full length of the hall.

"I give you good greeting, stranger knight," Thoromarth said, as she stopped before him. "Remove your helm so I may look upon your face, and say what justice you would have of Oronviel."

"I would have Oronviel's lands, her knights, and all who lie in your hand. By the most ancient law of the princes who rule, I challenge you to single combat without quarter, and when I win your nobles will yield Oronviel to me and your heir will swear fealty."

"You are mad!" Thoromarth hissed.

"Your pardon, my lord prince," Eiron Lightbrother, Chief of Oronviel's Lightborn, said quietly, leaning over to speak softly in Thoromarth's ear. "This is law, made in the time of Mosirinde Peacemaker, and all the princes bound themselves to obey. At Harvest Court, such a challenge can be made. It must be accepted."

Rithdeliel knew that what Eiron said was far from impossible: the Hundred Houses had bound themselves to many rulings in Mosirinde's time. None could be set aside without the agreement of all the Houses together, something unlikely to be forthcoming.