In the days that followed, Gaelin wandered the weathered battlements of Caer Winoene, pacing the castle’s walls like an animal measuring the dimensions of a cage. He realized that Bannier had deliberately avoided him except for a few brief conversations; the true Madislav had been absent for weeks.
Over and over, he replayed the confrontation on the hillside in his mind’s eye, trying to imagine how it might have gone differently.
In accordance with the custom of the Vos, Gaelin burned Madislav’s body on a pyre two days after his death, as the moon was rising over the shadowed hills. Gaelin himself set the pile to flame, and he stayed hours after most of the others had left, watching the twisting pall of smoke curling up into the starry sky. It was also a tradition of the Vos to watch over a warrior’s pyre until sunrise, and Gaelin stood by in silence all through the cold night.
As the sky was lightening in the east, Gaelin’s reverie was broken by the arrival of Seriene. She rode up and stopped a respectful distance from the bier, dismounting and leaving her horse with her guards. Since Bannier’s attack, both Gaelin and Seriene had been much more carefully watched by their respective bodyguards, allowing them little time alone with each other.
Seriene was dressed in fine riding clothes, a warm fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She paused for a respectful moment of silence and asked quietly, “Am I intruding? ”
“No, of course not,” Gaelin replied. He shook himself a little and turned away from the smoldering ashes. His limbs ached with cold, and he knew he needed sleep, but he was not tired. Instead, his senses were alert. “I’ve observed the vigil, as he would have liked. I’m just daydreaming now.”
“Thinking of Madislav?”
He nodded. “He was my best friend. I’ll miss him.”
“There was nothing more you could have done, Gaelin.”
He laughed with acidic scorn. “I seem to be hearing that a lot lately. ‘Sorry, Gaelin, it couldn’t be helped.’ It feels like a poor excuse for causing the death of my friend.”
Seriene remained silent for a long time. “What are you going to do about Ilwyn?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “If I do nothing, I don’t doubt that Bannier will do exactly what he threatens. And if I give myself up, how do I know that he’ll keep his word?”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about surrendering yourself!”
He looked into the smoking ashes of Madislav’s pyre.
“How many people have died for me already? Daene, Ruide, Madislav, Tiery, my entire family! All the people who made Shieldhaven my home are gone.” Although he fought to control himself, his voice grew higher and hot tears stung his eyes. “How can I let the last living member of my family die in my place?”
Seriene glared, with no hint of compassion in her face.
“You’re a selfish bastard if you think that you’re the only one with a stake in this,” she said angrily. “Don’t you realize there are thousands of people who are counting on you to see them through to the end of this? What do you think Tuorel will do to those nobles and soldiers, their families, if you abandon them because you feel bad that you’re alive? Tuorel will slaughter them for rebels, and you know it.”
Anger burned in Gaelin’s chest as Seriene finished. Coldly, he said, “Ilwyn is the gentlest soul I know. The thought of Bannier torturing her makes me want to tear my own heart out. But he’ll do it, if I don’t surrender.”
“So you’d place one life against the hopes of an entire kingdom? ”
Gaelin turned away. “What kind of monster would I be if I didn’t, Seriene? What kind of Mhor would I be, to hide here in safety while Bannier holds my sister hostage?”
Seriene snorted and tossed her head. “Gaelin, you’ve got to weigh the consequences of your actions. If that means you have to do things you don’t like, that’s too bad! You have a responsibility to more than your conscience. Ilwyn’s life is nothing compared to the life of Mhoried itself!”
He looked up and met her eyes. “Do you mean the life of Mhoried, or the life of Diemed’s northern ally?”
Seriene’s face turned white, as if from a blow, but her voice remained steady. “Do you think that’s all this is about? An alliance against Ghoere?” Her voice grew colder still. “Do you think I planned to give you my heart, Gaelin?”
Gaelin stared at her, his mind racing. She waited for his answer, fuming, fiercely beautiful. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to take her in his arms and drown his reservations in passion. “No,” he said carefully. “I believe your feelings are sincere. But whether or not you feel anything for me, your interests lie in keeping me alive – no matter what it takes for me to stay on the throne, what I have to give up for the sake of being the Mhor.”
“Of course, you idiot! Gaelin, I care about you! I don’t want to see you dead!” Tears glimmered in Seriene’s eyes. She stood there for a moment, too angry or upset for words, and then stormed off. She caught her horse’s reins and swung back into the saddle, kicking her heels into the animal’s flanks and riding off at a full gallop while her guards followed at a respectful distance.
Gaelin pitched a stone aside with a sigh, staring off across the moors. The orange rim of the sun climbed above the horizon.
The vigil was over. He said one last goodbye to Madislav and then walked down the hill to join his guards and return to Caer Winoene for some sleep.
When he woke in the late afternoon, Huire informed him that Erin had returned from Cariele. Gaelin’s dark mood dissipated immediately. He rushed to pull on his boots and throw a clean tunic over his shirt He started toward the great hall with an excited spring in his step, Huire striding quickly to keep up with him. But as Gaelin hurried to greet her, his feet slowed. There was no reason he should feel guilty about his tryst with Seriene. Erin had no claim on Gaelin, and they had never spoken of any feelings between them. But Gaelin still felt as if he had betrayed her.
“I wonder what news Minstrel Erin brings from Cariele?”
Huire offered, as he tried to hurry with dignity.
“We’ll soon see,” Gaelin replied. As usual, several dozen people were scattered throughout the chamber – minor lords, knights, and merchants engaged in settling hundreds of deals and compacts that characterized a royal court. Gaelin spied Erin’s fiery hair gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall, vaulted windows. She wore her traveling clothes, dust and wear from the road marking her garments.
Erin was already engaged in discussions with Seriene and Prelate Edoeren of the Dieman contingent. As Gaelin entered she glanced up, and their eyes met.
Erin excused herself from her conversation and approached, showing just a hint of weariness in her pace. Seriene smoothed her skirts and followed. “My lord Mhor,”
Erin said, curtseying. “I can report success in Cariele. Queen Aerelie has decided to recognize you as the rightful heir to the throne of Mhoried and intends to formalize relations with your court.”
“ Well done!” Gaelin said. “Will she aid us against Ghoere? ”
Erin’s face fell a little. “The queen was unwilling to commit any forces to the conflict, but she did agree to treat her border with your territory as the old border of Mhoried. She returned her tariffs and duties to the normal, prewar level.”
“What did you have to promise her?” asked Gaelin.
“Freedom from tariffs for Carielan merchants bringing wares across the border for ten years. Queen Aerelie’s purse strings are held by the trading costers of Cariele, and I knew they’d jump at the chance to undercut Mhorien merchants.”
Erin grimaced. “I tried to encourage her to show more support than mere recognition, but at least your supply lines are secure. The materials we’ve already purchased are on their way now.”
“I didn’t really expect Aerelie to offer any military help,”
Gaelin said. “We’ll let the Carielans make their money for now – this is still good news. We’ll be able to keep the army supplied, even without the food and arms we lost in our retreat from Castle Ceried.”
Erin smiled in satisfaction. “Maybe events are finally starting to favor us,” she said. “What happened while I was away?”
Gaelin involuntarily glanced at Seriene. The princess met his eyes calmly. He felt his face growing warm. Deliberately, he returned his attention to Erin, searching for words. “Bannier struck at us while you were gone,” he finally said, the words harsh in his mouth.
A flicker of an unreadable expression crossed Erin’s face.
“Bannier? But how?”
Gaelin indicated the crowded hall with the sweep of one hand. “Let’s take up the discussion in the audience chamber,” he suggested. He followed Huire, taking Erin’s arm with one last look at Seriene. The princess coolly returned to her own business. In the privacy of the smaller room, Gaelin related the details of Bannier’s deception and Madislav’s death. He omitted nothing but the passionate encounter with Seriene.
When he finished, Erin measured him intensely, her eyes piercing him like daggers. “What will you do about Bannier’s offer?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully enough. “It seems like the height of folly to deliver myself to his hands… but how can I stand by and do nothing?”
“You force the decision on Bannier by ignoring his threat.
He can carry it out if he wishes, but he loses his hold on you.”
“You’re right, of course. But if Bannier sees that I won’t let myself be threatened with Ilwyn’s life, she becomes useless as a hostage, and he may decide to kill her to claim her portion of the Mhoried bloodline. For that matter, he may kill her to teach me a lesson, or out of sheer spite.” Gaelin paced the small room helplessly. “I’m certain that I won’t like what happens if I call his bluff, Erin. His threat against Ilwyn could very well be the only promise to me that he would keep.”
“Well, you have two more weeks to decide. With your per- mission, I’ll retire to my chambers. I’ve had five long days of riding, and I’m exhausted. My ear is yours, if you need to talk.” She rose, stretched, and turned her back on Gaelin. “Although I suspect that Seriene would be glad to counsel you, too,” she added from the door. She swept out of the room with regal disdain.
*****
For the next week, Gaelin avoided both Seriene and Erin.
Although he had to speak with both women several times each day, he was careful to keep the conversation purely impersonal.
Seriene accepted his distance with nothing more than a slight, knowing smile, as if she saw through his tactic and was willing to wait him out. Erin, on the other hand, seemed confused at first and grew angry at him as he dodged her day after day. Gaelin threw himself into his duties, working from sunup to midnight with a madman’s energy, but Bannier’s ultimatum weighed on him, lurking spiderlike in his mind. Gaelin was delaying the inevitable decision, and he knew it. Hiding behind the title of Mhor was nothing more than an excuse not to think about the alternatives.
M o re troops trickled into Caer Winoene, and Gaelin noticed a grim smile on Baesil Ceried’s face when he reviewed the army instead of the sullen scowl that had marked the general’s features before. They were still desperately short on equipment, but Baesil had taken the most experienced men and broken them up among units of raw recruits to speed up the training process. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the trained men and the recruits segregated on the battlefield?” Gaelin asked him one afternoon. “If you have a company of archers, and half of them run away, won’t the whole unit break? Aren’t we taking a chance by dispersing our veterans like this?”
“Certainly we are,” Baesil replied. “But, I’ve got no choice.
Baehemon’s on his way, and I have to be able to put as many men as possible into the field. I can’t mollycoddle the recruits any more. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the experienced men, they’ll learn faster than they would by training alone.”
“I don’t doubt that, Count Baesil. But a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link.”
The grizzled old count gave Gaelin a measuring look.
“This is the best answer I can find, my lord,” he said. “I plan to put it to the test when the Ghoeran army reaches Marnevale. I want to see if we can stop Baehemon in his tracks at the high pass.”
“You’re not going to commit everyone, are you?”
Baesil barked laughter. “No, of course not. But a thousand men can hold the pass for three or four days, and I’m tired of Ghoeran soldiers marching about Mhoried with impunity.
Let’s make him fight for it.”
By the end of the week, Gaelin found sleep was becoming impossible. On the surface, it seemed an easy choice to make.
After all, Seriene’s arguments were sound. It was best to consider Ilwyn dead and continue to lead the fight to free the country. The surviving forces of Mhoried had a chance, especially if Diemed were drawn into the conflict as an ally. And Gaelin knew that it would be irresponsible of him to risk his own life and the end of the Mhoried line if there was no one who could swear the oaths before the Oak. The southern lords wavered; their lands had been occupied for six weeks now, and they were beginning to question their fealty to Gaelin. If they didn’t have an unchallenged Mhor to rally behind, they would fall to pieces. Some would fight among themselves for the title, others would kneel to Tuorel and give up hope of a free Mhoried, and a loyal few would fight to the bitter end. Seriene was not exaggerating when she said that Gaelin was the hope of his country.
On the other hand, Gaelin felt cold and sick when he thought about allowing Ilwyn to die through his inactivity.
While he’d seen little enough of his sisters in the years he had been training with the Knights Guardian, he couldn’t bear to decide whether Ilwyn lived or died. Seriene’s words haunted him day and night. It was a matter of pride, of duty, and of doing the right thing. The Mhor should be prepared to lay down his life for any of his subjects, let alone his family. Deciding that his own life was of greater value than someone else’s represented the first step down a long, dark road of expediency and excuses.
At night, he paced the battlements restlessly until the gray light of dawn seeped into the sky from the east. By day, he found it harder and harder to pay attention to his duties.
Countless times he glanced at the sky to see where the moon stood.
A week after Madislav’s pyre, Gaelin stood on the battlements in the hours before sunrise. It was a cold, clammy morning; thick mists wreathed the cool, still waters of the lake before the castle, but from the heights of the ancient battlements the stars were clear overhead. He paused by one turret, leaning on the parapet and staring moodily out over the dark countryside. His reverie was disturbed by the light footfalls of someone approaching. Gaelin could make out a dark, slender figure advancing toward him along the walkway; frowning, he drew back into the shadows of a ruined cupola and set his hand to his sword.
A moment later, Erin appeared, gliding forward to stand where he had been just a moment ago. She looked out over the darkened landscape, engaged in her own silent reflections.
Gaelin started to speak out, but decided not to startle her, and remained silent and unmoving in the darkness, watching her. Dew glistened in her long hair, now a gray sheen of shadow in the night, and her alabaster features seemed almost to glow with an inner radiance in the starlight.
Her elven features were unmistakable, now that he studied her – the slender build, the easy grace of her movements, and the faerie quality of her face and long white hands.
“Spying on me, Gaelin?” she asked, speaking into the night.
For a moment, he felt embarrassed. Flushing, he stepped out into the open. “I might ask the same of you,” he said quietly.
“I’m surprised you noticed me. I thought I was well-concealed.”
She laughed softly. “You forget my heritage,” she said, gesturing at the subtle points of her ears.
“On the contrary, it’s obvious in the starlight,” he replied.
“I could believe you to be a princess of the Sidhelien. The dew shines in your hair like diamonds.” He stepped closer, leaning against the cold stone embrasure to enjoy the view while facing her. Before he knew what he was saying, he added, “I’ve never seen your equal.”
Erin smiled and glanced at him. “Not even Seriene?”
“She’s beautiful, too. But there’s a hardness in her heart that I don’t see in you.”
“You should fall in love with her, Gaelin. It’s the best thing you could do right now, for yourself and for your kingdom.
She already loves you.”
“Why do you say that?”
Erin shrugged, glancing down at her hands as she twisted a fine gold chain that was draped around her neck. “You’re the Mhor. That defines you. And you’re too good a ruler to do anything except what’s best for Mhoried. You know that you’ll have to marry Seriene. It’s an alliance you have to make.” She smiled. “And she’s beautiful, too. It works out well, wouldn’t you say?”
Gaelin thought for a time, looking out over the white blanket of fog. “Not as well as I might like,” he said.
“Don’t lie to me, Gaelin.” Erin started to turn away, straightening up and pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “I know what happened between you and Seriene.”
He felt as if he’d been struck. “You do?”
“I’m not stupid. The way you’ve been acting, the way she looks at you… it’s not hard to figure it out.” Erin laughed bitterly. “I wish the two of you well.”
“I don’t think I love her, Erin.”
“What’s that matter? She’s a beautiful woman from a family as noble as your own. And you must have feelings for her, if…”
Gaelin looked away, watching the mists rising from the lake. The cold and damp had chilled him to the bone, but the dark ache in the center of his chest held him transfixed, unwilling to leave and unable to face Erin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let things happen the way they did.”
“Why apologize? You don’t owe me your faithfulness.”
Erin tried to maintain her sarcasm, but her voice broke. “I have no claim on you.”
“Erin” he said softly. “I may have been Seriene’s lover, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her head dropped as she hugged herself against the cold stone, her hair spilling down around her face. Her voice a whisper, she said, “Gaelin, don’t. Please. It’s not in my heart to stop you.” She straightened and turned away.
“Wait, Erin. Please don’t go yet.” He reached out and caught her arm gently. Erin let him turn her back to face him, looking past him, refusing to meet his eyes. He searched for something to say, but nothing came to mind as he held her, looking into her face. Her self-assurance was gone, stripped away, and she was trembling like a vulnerable child. “You told me that I could have your counsel when I needed it. I don’t know what to do. I know what I should do – my duty – and I know what I think is right – my heart, my conscience – but they’re not the same.”
Erin glanced up, and a flicker of a smile showed itself on her face. “You’re becoming familiar with that dilemma, aren’t you?”
“I’m twice caught in it,” he answered. “Do I do my duty to Mhoried, marrying Seriene and refusing to allow Bannier to threaten me with Ilwyn’s life? Or do I do what’s in my heart, making sure that Ilwyn is safe?” He stepped closer, looking into her eyes. “And falling in love with you?”
“Gaelin, please. Don’t say that.” She moved away, circling the ruined parapets, looking down at the wet stone of the turret.
Her hair fell around her face.
“It’s in my heart, Erin.”
She drew back another step and sighed, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Listen to your heart, Gaelin,” she whispered.
“Somehow it will work out.” She slipped past him and disappeared into the shadows, like a wisp of silver moonlight.
*****
Bannier caught up to the Ghoeran army at dawn, riding a coal-black gelding he’d appropriated from Shieldhaven’s stables.
The army was camped in a high valley, surrounded by dark peaks and fells, and in the gray distance Bannier could make out the distinctive gap of Marnevale, a day’s march ahead. Cantering past endless rings of earthworks and palisades, manned by vigilant sentries, he continued without challenge into the camp itself. It was a cool, foggy morning, and the acrid smoke of cooking fires stung his nose as the camp around him began to stir.
Near the center of the camp, he spied the wolf standard of Noered Tuorel. Bannier smiled grimly; this should be an entertaining encounter. After he had slipped out of Shieldhaven with Ilwyn, Tuorel’s men had literally razed his tower, pulling it down stone by stone. He’d found armed guards standing watch over the ruins – the baron’s men must have set off the traps and wards with which he guarded his tower.
Fortunately, his shadow portal couldn’t be damaged by petty vandalism, but many other possessions of value to him had not fared so well.
He cantered up to a large red pavilion surrounded by guards, and dismounted. A footman took the reins from his hand and led the horse away, while he briefly indulged in a stretch. “Tell Baron Tuorel that I have returned,” he said. The officer glared at him but turned to perform his duties. A few moments later, he emerged from the tent.
“The baron will see you now,” he said.
Bannier noted the man’s abrupt manner and made a point of remembering his face, in the event the captain crossed his path again. “Very well.” The officer led him into the command tent, ducking beneath the outer flap.
“Well, well,” Tuorel said. “You’ve some nerve to show up on my doorstep, Bannier.”
Four of the elite Iron Guards stood by the door, their swords bared; the nearest were already within striking range, but they made no move to attack. Across the tent from him stood Tuorel, dressed in his striking wolf-emblazoned armor.
Bannier noticed a pair of small holes in the tent’s far wall.
With his preternatural senses, he detected a pair of sharpshooters training their crossbows on him from their concealed positions. More importantly, a slight woman in the robes of a Khinasi mage stood beside Tuorel. Although the spell would be invisible to the untrained eyes of normal men, Bannier noticed a subtle shield of some kind surrounding her.
For the moment, Bannier ignored Tuorel’s assassins and his hired mage. “My lord baron,” he said, bowing. “While our relations have not been cordial lately, I believe we still share a common cause.”
Tuorel regarded him suspiciously. “And what do you want me to do for you this time?”
“Nothing you wouldn’t do for yourself, baron. You march on Caer Winoene, the seat of Gaelin’s government in exile. I wish to see the renegade Mhor’s power destroyed as well, and I offer you my services toward this end.”
Tuorel frowned. “As you can see, Bannier, I have already retained the services of another wizard. I didn’t believe we shared any more common purposes.”
“I can assure your victory, my lord.”
“Just as you assured my conquest of Mhoried?”
Bannier shrugged. “I delivered Shieldhaven into your hands, as I promised. You haven’t even bothered to attempt the test of the Oak. I can’t understand why you’re surprised that the Mhoriens choose to dispute your righteous rule.”
“You know the Red Oak would never have acknowledged me, not with the blooded heir to the Mhor alive and at liberty.
I would have made a fool of myself if I’d tried! Now Gaelin has rallied the northlands against me. I would hardly say that you fulfilled your part of our pact.”
“Nor did you fulfill your part of the bargain, by allowing Gaelin to escape when we had him in our clutches!”
Tuorel’s eyes narrowed. “It would seem neither of us wishes to deal with the other any longer. Bannier, your presence here is no longer required.” He dropped one hand, signaling.
Instantly, two crossbows thrummed, while the Iron Guards nearest Bannier turned and raised their swords to cut him down. The Khinasi standing beside Tuorel raised her hands and started chanting. Bannier merely smiled.
The bolts struck Bannier clean in the chest but passed completely through his body without resistance, leaving the wizard untouched. The Iron Guards who struck at him were not so lucky. Their blades tore great rents in Bannier’s clothing but passed through his flesh as if he were insubstantial. Even as the swords slashed through his body, a double flash of virulent green energy blinded the Ghoerans standing nearby, and the guards screamed as their swords were blasted from their hands, the energy leaping up their sword-arms and shattering their very bones with a stink of burning flesh. Both men were thrown backward into the guards behind them, spinning like nerveless dolls.
Ignoring these distractions, Bannier concentrated on the mage. Speaking one quick word, his body shimmered and disappeared even as a bright blue flash of lightning snapped forward from her fingertips. It snaked through the doorway to strike some unfortunate guards standing just outside. Bannier appeared again an arm’s reach from the sorceress, and he lunged forward, invoking one of the most damaging spells he knew. Even as she tried to twist away, a seething sphere of burning acid struck her right shoulder, instantly eating into her body. Bannier stepped back and let her go; shrieking in pain, she stumbled out of the tent. Her cries diminished within a matter of seconds.
Bannier turned to confront Tuorel, but found a gleaming sword point at his throat. The baron was standing before him, his weapon at the ready. “Most impressive, Bannier. You are truly a master of your art. But this sword is Calruile, one of the heirlooms of my family, and enchanted to boot. I suspect its bite might sting more than the swords of my guards.”
Bannier held still, and raised his hands in a placating fashion.
“In this, you are correct, my lord baron. However, before you do something rash, I must in turn inform you that the spell that felled your guards is still in effect. If you touch me with that blade, you will be slain as well.”
Tuorel smiled. “An impasse, then.”
“Indeed. Baron, I am willing to overlook this incident, and our previous difficulties, in order to see Gaelin Mhoried destroyed.”
“What kind of deal do you want this time?”
“None at all. It suits my purposes to bring Gaelin down, and I realize that it is a matter of some importance to you as well.”
Tuorel drew his sword back a handsbreadth. “Why on earth should I trust you?”
Bannier snapped, “You’ve tried to kill me, Tuorel, and you wrecked my home as well. However, I will offer you a token of my good faith. Tomorrow afternoon, you will meet Gaelin’s army in Marnevale, where he will try to make you pay for your passage into the highlands.”
Tuorel nodded. “My scouts have reported this, Bannier.”
“In order to secure your cooperation, I offer to destroy the Mhorien army for you. You will not lose a single man.”
Tuorel lowered his sword. “It will take me three days to fight through the pass, with heavy losses. Can you really do this?”
“I can. As a gesture of my good faith. All I ask is that you continue to press the attack – an action that you are even now undertaking.”
Tuorel shook his head. “I don’t see how this would profit you at all, Bannier. Are you so vindictive that you want to see Gaelin dead just for the sake of spite?”
Bannier lowered his hands and smoothed his robes. “You might say that,” he replied. “But, consider this: When Gaelin dies, Ilwyn becomes the last of Mhoried’s blood, which means that the bloodline can be extinguished – or usurped – by killing one girl who is already in my power. I would have preferred to take them both alive, but I am beginning to doubt we will get the opportunity.”
“Ah. Now I see.” Tuorel grinned, appreciating the wiza rd’s ruthlessness. “I thought you would be subtler than that, Bannier. ”
Bannier smiled in return; the lie he’d just told the baron was the right thing to say. Tuorel needed some motive for Bannier’ s actions, but now that he thought he was dealing with simple lust for power and gain, he would treat Bannier accordingly.
“Gaelin’s death helps both of us, my lord baron,” he continued.
“And I see that you are in need of a mage again.”
Tuorel glanced out the opening of the tent. The half-eaten shape of a nightmare huddled on the ground before the tent.
“All right, Bannier, we have a deal. If you destroy Mhoried’s army tomorrow, as you say, then I will agree to cooperate with you in finishing Gaelin Mhoried once and for all. If you fail to deliver on your promise…” Tuorel left the threat unspoken.
“I understand, my lord baron,” Bannier replied. “Now, with your permission, there is much I must do to prepare my spell. May I withdraw?”
Tuorel watched him a moment longer. “Of course. I shall be interested to see what you have in mind.”
*****
Gaelin finally enjoyed a restful sleep. He woke starving, and ate a huge breakfast of sausages, eggs, and biscuits in his own chamber. He knew he had been neglecting his duties lately – brooding sullenly for hours was no excuse for not paying attention to the important matters he was confronted with each day. He resolved to do better in the time he had left.
He had just finished dressing when Seriene appeared at his door. “Gaelin? May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said, settling his doublet over his chest.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. The princess wore a narrow- waisted dress of red brocade and soft wool. She gave him a warm smile and slipped past the door, closing it behind her. He turned to face her.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“When you win this war, we’ll have to find you a southern tailor,” she laughed. “I suppose it’s fine for Mhoried.”
Gaelin glanced down at his clothes, and said, “I prefer to think of them as practical and unassuming.” She advanced and circled him, pretending to admire his choice of tunic. “I doubt that you came here to critique my wardrobe,” he added. “What’s on your mind?”
Seriene moved closer, twining her arms around his torso and delicately brushing her lips against his neck. “Well, you are, Gaelin. You’ve been avoiding me for more than a week now. I didn’t expect you to take up celibacy after our tryst.”
He winced and tried to disengage himself from her embrace.
Despite his feelings for Erin, Seriene’s presence was intoxicating.
His heart was racing as he found his arms starting to return her embrace, and with a deep breath he carefully stepped away. “Seriene, they’re expecting me in the hall any moment now.”
She gave him an unmistakable look. “No one would notice if you were a little late, Gaelin.”
“Seriene, I… I shouldn’t do this. You saw through me the other night, even before I’d seen through myself. You’re beautiful, but I’m not certain you are the only one in my heart.”
Seriene retreated, clasping her hands in front of her and turning away. “I’m sorry, Gaelin.” She moved toward the door, and faced him again. “You know you can’t avoid the question forever.”
Gaelin watched her leave, fighting down the impulse to call her back. He sighed, and looked at himself in the mirror.
“You’re a fool,” he told his reflection. Buckling his sword belt around his waist, he headed down to the hall for the day’s meetings and audiences.
After several hours, Gaelin’s attention wandered, despite his best intentions. He was just about to excuse himself to go see how the troops fared, when there was a commotion in the doorway. Several of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, were engaged in a loud discussion with a highland herdsman.
The fellow seemed half-mad, his actions and voice growing more desperate by the minute. “I must see the Mhor!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “By Haelyn’s mercy, let me in!”
Gaelin stood, muttering a quick apology to the merchant with whom he had been speaking, and glanced at Huire. The priest was heading toward the door to straighten out the matter, but on a sudden impulse Gaelin descended from the dais and followed Huire to the hall’s entrance.
“Listen, friend, there are lots of people who have to see the Mhor,” Bull said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Give me your name and wait outside, and we’ll see what we can do.”
He had one beefy hand clamped firmly on the fellow’s shoulder; the highlander was unconsciously trying to twist away from the guardsman’s grip while he continued to plead.
“By the gods that died, don’t you understand? I’ve got to see the Mhor! It’s killing me!”
“What? What’s wrong?” asked Boeric. He had the man’s other arm. The sturdy sergeant glanced at the other guards in the chamber and jerked his head, signaling. Two more detached themselves from their posts along the chamber’s walls and stepped forward, ready to tackle the man if necessary.
The herdsman coughed and doubled over in agony, falling to his knees. For a moment, Gaelin thought he had been struck by one of the guards, but neither Boeric nor Bull had hit the man, and no one else was near. He stepped forward to see what was wrong and then stopped in horror as the wretch vomited forth a great gout of black blood. The courtiers and knights surrounding the scene paled and stepped back quickly, murmuring in consternation.
“Summon a physician!” said Gaelin. He stood there a moment, staring at the scene. The herdsman – a youth not much older than sixteen or seventeen, with soft blond whiskers on his chin – howled in agony, slumping to the floor, where he vomited again, adding to the pool of corruption on the floor before him. He lapsed into a fit of trembling, his face pale as a sheet. Gaelin wrinkled his nose in disgust, trying to stand his ground.
Then the liquid on the floor seethed and moved. It trembled, and then gathered quickly, drawing itself up into a nightmarish figure that stood up and confronted Gaelin. The thing’s skin was black, gleaming corruption, and the only feature in its misshapen face was a distended maw filled with needlelike teeth.
“Gaelin! Look out! It’s a fiend of some kind!” shouted Seriene.
Gaelin hadn’t even realized she was near, but her warning was unnecessary – like everyone in the room, he had retreated about four or five paces without realizing it, and his sword had found its way into his hand.
On the floor beside the thing, the highlander weakly crawled away, retching in a more human fashion now.
“I bear a message for you, Gaelin Mhoried,” said the creature, its face stretching into an evil grin. Its voice sounded like the mewling of a cat, but it was throatier and burbled and whistled through its foul mouth. “Bannier wishes to remind you that you have six more days to decide your sister’s fate.
You know of a place called Caer Duirga?”
“I know the place,” Gaelin replied.
“Go to Caer Duirga alone if you wish to see your sister alive. Bannier will await you there. If you do not come, she has been promised to me. I will enjoy her a great deal.” It laughed, a particularly horrible sound.
Gaelin took two steps forward, raising his sword. “I’ll see that you won’t have that opportunity, darkling.”
“You would break the tradition that guards a messenger from harm, then, prince of Mhoried?”
“You carry no banner of truce that I see. And I won’t let a thing like you walk out of this hall to terrify my subjects at will.” Gaelin advanced cautiously, and following his example several other knights and guards drew their weapons and began to hedge the creature in. The fiend merely grinned and hissed, dropping into a crouch, its long talons clicking together as it readied itself for the fight.
“Bannier laid no conditions on me after delivering his message, mortals,” the creature said. “I can leave this hall full of dead knights and nobles, and there is nothing to stop me.
Who will be the first to taste my kiss, eh?”
“No one here, fiend!” From behind Gaelin, Brother Huire stepped forward, the golden emblem of Haelyn raised high.
Chanting an ancient prayer, the priest pointed at the monstrous creature, and a ray of brilliant light struck the fiend in the center of its dark torso. The creature shrieked in rage, and sprang to ward the priest with unbelievable swiftness – but in midleap, the golden light seemed to wither its body into ash that drifted away, like a cloud of foul smoke. Not a single trace of the thing survived, except for the hapless herdsman who had been forced to carry it into Gaelin’s presence. Gaelin turned to look at Huire, astonished at the priest’s show of nerve.
“My apologies for interfering,” Huire said humbly, “But I was perhaps the only person here who could have dealt with the creature thus. It might have injured many people if you’d tried to defeat it with common steel.”
“Apology accepted,” Gaelin replied. “What of the lad?”
“A captive used by the monster, probably innocent. I’ll tend to him immediately.” Gaelin nodded his assent, and the priest knelt beside the youth and began to examine him. Letting out a deep breath, Gaelin sheathed his sword and looked around. Most of the court was watching him intently.
“Enough of this,” he muttered. “I’m tired of Bannier’s attentions.
Princess Seriene, Erin, would you come with me?
Boeric, you as well. Send word to Count Baesil that I need to see him at once. And Huire, please join us as soon as you can.” He turned and strode away, heading for the room he had appropriated as his private audience chamber, while the others followed.
Gaelin stared out the window, deep in thought, waiting for the rest to arrive. Behind him, he noticed a pronounced silence between Erin and Seriene, while Boeric simply waited.
In a quarter-hour, Huire and Baesil both appeared. Running his hand through his hair, Gaelin turned and faced his friends and advisors. “How is the herdsman?”
“He should be fine, my lord. He feels terrible about carrying that thing into your presence.” The priest steepled his hands before him. “He’s had a terrible fright, but the brave lad won’t admit it. I hope he’ll be all right.” He tapped his temple.
“Do what you can for him.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Gaelin glanced over the others, and took a seat at the head of the table. “You are all aware of my predicament,” he began.
“Bannier holds my sister hostage and threatens to kill her if I don’t surrender. If only my life were at stake, I would honor his bargain and deliver myself to his hands. But it would be wrong of me to leave Mhoried without a Mhor at a time like this, just as wrong as it would be to do nothing and allow Ilwyn to die at Bannier’s hands.”
“You’ve made a decision?” asked Seriene.
“Yes,” Gaelin replied. “I will go to Caer Duirga. But I won’t go alone, because I don’t trust Bannier. If it lies within my power, I mean to free Ilwyn.”
“What if you can’t free her?” said Baesil.
“Then I will surrender myself to Bannier, and hope that he’s more trustworthy than I shall have proved myself to be.”
Gaelin looked around the table. “If that happens, there must be another Mhor. That will be Count Baesil Ceried.”
Baesil protested. “Gaelin, I can’t! There’s no way all the lords will follow me! When the Mhoried line dies, so does Mhoried!”
Gaelin looked into his face. “You’re the finest noble in Mhoried. If it comes to it, Baesil, I know you’ll do your best.
Who knows, maybe enough of the nobles will follow you to keep Mhoried in the fight. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He smiled with grim humor. “I’ve something to live for myself, and I don’t want to die unless I have to.”
Without looking up, Erin said, “When will you leave, Gaelin?”
“Count Baesil’s scouts report that we’ll be fighting in the Marnevale pass tomorrow. I mean to be there, to see how that goes. It’s two days’ ride to Caer Duirga, so I expect I’ll leave either the day after tomorrow, or the day after that. As to what happens next… I don’t know. But I’m going to get Ilwyn out of Bannier’s reach, or die trying.”