The Haelynite column set off for Lake Winoene later in the afternoon, marching out of the abbey’s courtyard in ordered ranks of cavalry and foot soldiers. Gaelin traveled with High Prefect Iviena and the leaders of her army, discussing strategy and preparing rudimentary plans. On Gaelin’s advice, the Haelynite army traveled with doubled scouts and prepared rudimentary defenses every night. He didn’t doubt Ghoeran marauders and spies were everywhere in the highlands – if he had been in Tuorel’s position, he would have placed ambushers along the route of the approaching army.
Balancing the need for caution against the difficulties of moving nearly one thousand men over eighty miles in only four days, the Haelynites were forced to begin their marches well before sunrise, after sleeping only five to six hours a night. At first Gaelin was concerned that the soldiers would be too exhausted to be good for anything at Caer Winoene, but he soon learned they were excellent, well-conditioned troops, and dozens of priests accompanied the march to urge the men forward with their prayers and hymns.
The weather was fair, with warm afternoons and light rainfall, but the journey passed slowly for Gaelin. He was anxious to get back to Caer Winoene and see how matters stood, and Erin continued to hold herself at a distance from him. At least he had the pleasure of watching Ilwyn recover from her ordeal – the princess flourished under the care of both Erin and Seriene, who went out of their way to keep her mind engaged on anything except the nightmare she had endured.
At the end of their second day of travel, they camped along the Northrun, just inside the long, low ridge of hills that marked the border of Dhalsiel and Marloer’s Gap. On the next morning’s march, they would have to leave the road and travel through a series of passes and valleys to reach Lake Winoene.
Tired but satisfied with their progress, Gaelin cantered up the grassy slope of a small rise to watch over the campbuilding and enjoy the sunset. He sat down with his back to a tree, and let Blackbrand graze nearby. The clouds overhead were painted brilliant hues of red, gray, and gold as the sun hovered in the narrow space between the dark horizon and the overcast sky.
“A fair evening, wouldn’t you say?”
Startled, Gaelin scrambled to his feet and reached for his sword, but he realized that it was only Seriene. The Dieman sorceress was watching him with a slight smile on her face.
With a mischievous look to her eye, she rounded the tree and took the spot he’d just occupied, demurely arranging her skirts before looking up at him and asking, “Why don’t you join me? I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He sat down beside her. They watched the sun disappearing behind a distant peak, as the sunset deepened into dusk.
Gaelin started to speak, but Seriene hushed him with a gesture and nodded at the marvelous sunset. With a shrug, Gaelin settled in to enjoy the sight. After another quarterhour, the last sliver of the sun vanished. Gaelin stretched and faced Seriene. “I know you didn’t come up here just for that,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Gaelin, you wound me. Don’t you think that I might have no other motive than just enjoying your company?”
He chose not to reply. With a sigh, Seriene continued. “Tomorrow or the next day, we’ll encounter my father’s army.”
Gaelin nodded. “I can feel them, nearby. They’re a few miles in that direction. My link to the land, I guess.”
“If you lift the siege at Caer Winoene, this war is won.
Have you thought about your alliance with Diemed?”
He glanced at her. Golden light gleamed on her face, and her dark eyes seemed to see right through him. “You mean to say, have I thought about marrying you?”
She leaned forward and brushed her warm, soft lips against his. “Is the prospect that unappealing?”
In truth, Gaelin had to admit that it was not unappealing at all. When Seriene touched him, it set him on fire. But even as she nestled closer in his arms, he found his thoughts turning to Erin and the way she felt next to him. With a deep breath, he managed to pull back. Standing quickly, he paced a step or two away, not looking at her. “I’m sorry. Maybe someday, Seriene, but it wouldn’t be honest or fair to you – or to Erin – for me to take you as my wife now. I can’t honestly say you’re the only woman in my heart.” He started to offer some kind of consolation but stopped before he made a fool of himself.
Seriene rose, avoiding his gaze. “This isn’t about politics and alliances, Gaelin. I truly care for you. I – ” She suddenly gathered her skirt and started to stand. “I won’t trouble you again.”
“Seriene, wait. Don’t leave like this,” Gaelin said. “I care for you, too. We’ve been through a lot together, and no matter what happens, I don’t want to have to avoid you.”
With a bitter smile, she turned back to him. “You couldn’t trust me.” The tears glimmering in her eyes scored Gaelin’s heart.
“Give me time,” he said quietly. “I might find my common sense again. Erin’s told me that she plans to leave.”
Seriene hesitated. “Erin is leaving?”
“I – that is, we – thought it wisest. I know I can’t marry her, Seriene.” He smiled sadly. “I think she’ll go back to the White Hall when the war’s over.”
Seriene looked up at him. “Gaelin, you would do that for me?”
“I couldn’t trust myself if she stayed, Seriene. It’s the best thing to do. Please… I’ll see things more clearly in a few weeks.”
The night was growing cooler as the light faded from the sky. Gaelin shivered lightly, watching Seriene, now a soft white shadow in the dusk. After a long moment, she sighed.
“Common sense isn’t enough, Gaelin. If you send Erin away to make room for me, you’ll hate me for it. Oh, you’d never say it, or even admit it to yourself, but deep in your heart you’d despise me for the rest of your life.” She shook her head and sank to the ground, turning away from him and staring into the crimson sunset. “You’re in love with her, and you can’t ever really get over that.”
Gaelin had no answer. He lifted Seriene to her feet and held her, cradling her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You deserve better than this.”
Her cheek was wet with tears against his neck. He closed his eyes and held her as darkness fell around them, stroking her hair. His heart ached for her, but he couldn’t restrain the sense of freedom, of elation, that flooded him. “I wounded Erin when I told her that we had to stop seeing each other,” he said after a while. “How do I set things right?”
Seriene snorted in the darkness. “I’ll step aside, Gaelin, but don’t ask me to plan the wedding. You’ll have to address that issue for yourself.”
He smiled. “We should get back down to the camp before everyone wonders what we’ve been up to. I have to think about how we’re going to meet up with your father’s army.”
Seriene reached up and shyly kissed his cheek, moving away f rom him. Side by side, they walked back down to the camp as the soft night breeze dampened their hair with cool dew.
*****
Riding a coal-black hellsteed, Bannier galloped into the Ghoeran camp with sparks flying from his mount’s iron-shod hooves. His long black cloak billowed behind him like a dark storm. He loathed the idea of acting as a simple courier for the Gorgon’s purposes, but anything that would restore him to the awnshegh’s good graces was worthwhile and necessary. He could not afford the smallest display of disobedience, and if that meant abasing himself in front of Tuorel, he would do so.
The Ghoeran camp seemed almost empty; few soldiers were in sight, and the ones he encountered were porters and quartermasters, busily ferrying food, water, weapons, and other supplies to the lines in front of Caer Winoene. He also met the litter carriers who dragged the dead and wounded back to the camp from the fight. Despite the grim nature of their work, the Ghoerans seemed cheerful and excited. Bannier deduced that the siege was going well.
Slowing to an easy canter, he passed through the camp and into the maze of ditches and emplacements that ringed the Mhorien lines. From here he could see the battered walls of Caer Winoene rising a half-mile away, and the wreckage of line after line of earthworks between the camp and the castle. Off on the left flank, near the shore of the lake, he spied the banners that marked Tuorel’s headquarters. Swallowing his distaste, he turned toward the pavilion and galloped over to it.
As he approached the tent, the soldiers of the Iron Guard watched him with mixed hostility and suspicion. Bannier dismounted slowly, holding his hands in the air. “Tell Tuorel I have returned and beg an audience with him,” he said to the guards. They surrounded him with bared swords, but the captain disappeared into the tent, presumably to request instructions.
After a quarter-hour, he returned and ordered the soldiers to escort Bannier inside. Although he couldn’t keep the scowl of anger from his face, Bannier accepted with docility.
The soldiers took him through the busy command center to the privacy of a small, empty partition beyond, leaving him there. Bannier resigned himself to a wait.
Nearly an hour later, the canvas flap was drawn aside by a guardsman, and Noered Tuorel entered, with Baehemon a step behind. The baron was dressed in full armor, and from the dust and mud Bannier guessed he’d been near the forefront of the fighting. The wizard bowed carefully. “My lord baron,” he said.
“Bannier. I see that you have returned again. How did you fare at Caer Duirga?” Tuorel handed his helmet to the guard by the door and removed his leather and iron gauntlets. “The guardsmen you requested have not returned with you. Can I assume your adventure was less than successful?”
The wizard’s eyes smoldered, but he kept his temper in check. “Gaelin defeated me,” he said. “He freed Ilwyn, and killed or scattered your guardsmen. I was not able to bring them back.”
Tuorel smiled, savoring Bannier’s discomfiture. “An unfortunate reversal for you, Bannier. However, Gaelin’s heroics will not help him much. His army is dying of thirst even as we speak; in another day, or maybe two, the castle will have to capitulate.” His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. “So, what is it you want of me?”
Baehemon moved around behind Bannier, lurking just at the edge of his peripheral vision, an anvil waiting for the hammer to fall. Ignoring the stocky warrior, Bannier focused on Tuorel. “I have news for you,” he said. Baehemon growled and muttered. “Call it a peace offering, if you will. I was not able to defeat Gaelin, but I may still help you to do so.”
Tuorel frowned. “I’m not inclined to accept your ‘gifts’ at this point, Bannier. It seems to me I can finish Gaelin Mhoried without any more of your help.”
“Even if I can place Warlord Kraith’s army at your command?”
“Kraith is at least ten days away, in Thak Mor Kadan. If you summoned him this instant, he’d be here too late to aid me in the fight ahead. Besides, I like the terms of my existing bargain with the goblin. If he helps me again, he’ll exact a price I may not want to meet, especially since it looks as if I’ll be able to crush the Diemans without giving up the siege.”
“Kraith must abide by your agreement, Baron. He can demand nothing from you.”
Baehemon rasped, “We neither need nor want him here, Bannier. Even if he could be here in time to help us.”
“That is regrettable, Lord Baehemon. Kraith and his warband should be here on the morrow.”
Tuorel’s face was hot with indignation. “You presumed to summon Kraith without asking me? Bannier, you idiot! If the goblins appear on the battlefield, Kraith can hold me at sword point with the threat of changing sides! Do you have any idea of what that might cost me?”
Baehemon’s fists clenched Bannier’s arm with bone-crushing force. The stocky general spun the wizard about and glared into his face. “I told you this one would bring trouble, Tuorel,” he grated.
Ignoring Baehemon, Bannier turned back to Tuorel. “Kraith will do whatever you bid him to. He has his orders.”
The baron’s eyes narrowed. “Orders? From whom?”
Bannier considered some kind of lie, but then it occurred to him that Tuorel would be shaken to the core by the revelation of the Gorgon’s involvement. Bannier was damned, anyway – why let Tuorel believe he was his own master? He grinned at the idea of the mighty warlord, the great reunifier of the empire, learning that he was nothing more than a pawn. Deliberately, he said, “Kraith marches at the Gorgon’s command, Tuorel. You are to do as Prince Raesene bids and cooperate with Kraith of Markazor.”
Absolute silence reigned in the tent for a long moment.
Tuorel’s face was pale, and he blinked twice. Behind him, Baehemon gasped as if he’d been punched. Delighting in their horror, Bannier continued, “Why do you think Kraith was so eager to ally with you earlier this year, Tuorel? Not because he has any love for you, but because his master – and yours, now – commands it. You have championed the Gorgon’s cause for years.”
Behind him, Baehemon drew in a long, hissing breath. If Tuorel was shaken by Bannier’s revelations, Baehemon was destroyed by them. The lord general might have been a faithful follower of Tuorel the warlord, but aiding Tuorel the Gorgon’s pawn was something else entirely. Baehemon took one small step back, distancing himself from the truth.
Tuorel’s eyes flickered past Bannier, and without warning he struck like a serpent, leaping forward to thrust his sword into Baehemon’s throat. The blade passed only an inch or two from Bannier’s face, and the wizard flinched as hot blood splattered the back of his neck. He gagged in revulsion and twisted away, while Tuorel followed Baehemon to the ground, clamping a hand over the general’s mouth to silence the choking sounds of his death.
When it was over, he glanced up at Bannier with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Baehemon could never stand to serve me, after hearing that,” he said. “For years he was content to follow without question, but he would have done everything in his power to bring me down, instead of serving the Gorgon.”
Bannier turned to look at Baehemon’s body. Bright red blood stained the general’s gorget and surcoat. “Well, he’ll never speak of it,” the wizard said, returning his attention to the baron.
“Nor will you,” Tuorel replied. He stood and with both hands drove Calruile, his fathers’ sword, through Bannier’s chest. The force of the blow actually lifted the sorcerer from his feet and slammed him to the ground. “That’s for making me kill Baehemon,” Tuorel hissed. “I’ll have to think of a way to explain Kraith’s involvement, but you won’t blackmail me with tales of your dark master. Betrayal’s a dangerous path, Bannier. Here’s what lies at the end of it.”
Bannier coughed once, his hand pushing at the sword that pierced his breastbone. Almost an arm’s length of steel protruded from his back. Darkness was coming for him, dimming his sight, and the light was whirling away from him. He reached out with one bloody hand and gripped Tuorel’s shoulder, a horrible smile on his face. “Bastard,” he coughed.
“Hear my words: You’ll never see the Iron Throne.” Then the light faded, and he slipped off the cold steel as he fell to the ground.
Noered Tuorel studied the scene in silence for a moment.
Outside, the guard called to see if he was well. His face twisting in barely controlled rage, the baron called the guards in.
When they burst through the door and took in the scene, the soldiers halted in astonishment. “Are you hurt, baron?” asked one.
“No, I am uninjured,” Tuorel replied. “But the traitor attacked and killed Lord Baehemon before I managed to cut him down. Treat Lord Baehemon with the appropriate honors and respect.”
“And the wizard?”
“Quarter his body and throw it in with the rest of the offal,” Tuorel said. “Then leave me be.”
*****
The weather was fine, cool, and clear as Gaelin rode into the Mhorien camp, beside the placid waters of Lake Winoene.
Nearly two thousand men followed him. The armored soldiers of the Temple of Haelyn had been joined by hundreds of villagers and freesteaders answering the call to arms. It had been a hard march, but they’d made it with half a day to spare. A lthough the men were tired, Gaelin set them to fortifying the camp immediately – he didn’t want his army smashed by a Ghoeran attack before they’d organized themselves.
On the bright side, their position was defensible. The southern end of Lake Winoene was boxed in tightly by the surrounding hills, unlike the open terrain by the castle of Caer Winoene, and strategically placed earthworks would suffice to guard the Mhorien muster. A long time ago, there had been a small village on this site and an old monastery high on a hill overlooking the lake. From the ruins of the monastery, Gaelin could make out the distant walls and towers of Caer Winoene, about seven miles away. Threads of dark, ominous smoke rose from the site of the siege. Gaelin found it unsettling to think the Ghoeran army lurked only a day’s march distant.
Agreat number of Mhoriens had answered Gaelin’s call in just five days. The ancient Count Torien had brought threequarters of his fighting strength, five hundred cavalrymen and a levy of nine hundred archers, leaving only a handful of men to hold the precarious northern borders of Mhoried.
Lord Ghaele, the husband of the Countess Marloer, led two hundred heavy knights and four hundred pikemen. A dozen more highland lords totaled about three hundred knights and retainers. However, the most impressive turnout came from the common folk of Winoene, Byrnnor, and Dhalsiel. Clan by clan, village by village, they came in bands of twenty or thirty, until more than two thousand were waiting for Gaelin to arrive. Many of these men were untrained and poorly equipped, but almost all carried the powerful Mhorien longbow, and knew how to use it.
Trying to make sense of the milling crowds of men and keep peace among those who weren’t friendly with each other consumed most of Gaelin’s afternoon. Since the Haelynites were the most organized unit on the field, he had Iviena’s officers divided among the detachments of the Mhorien lords and the horde of militiamen. The temple knights could use their common sets of orders and chain of command to control the various bands and militias they were attached to, although the Mhorien leaders kept command of their own units. Some of the minor lords and the villagers complained, but Gaelin realized it was the best he was going to come up with in the half-day he had to assemble the army.
Controlling the army was one thing; dividing his forces proved much more difficult. Even with the help of Iviena’s knights, Gaelin was reduced to riding about, ordering each group of men to go stand on a different part of the field. Eventually, he hammered together something resembling military units from the freemen and managed to assign them to different commanders. It was a chaotic, frustrating afternoon;
Gaelin was besieged with questions, demands, and helpful suggestions one after the other, the whole time shouting at the top of his lungs to make himself heard.
By the end of the day, Gaelin guessed that he had about three thousand trained, armored troops for the heart of his army, plus the same number of militiamen without companies or organization. Along with the Diemans, that would give him an edge over the Ghoerans. If he could coordinate a sortie from the defenders of Caer Winoene, he could create a significant advantage in numbers. But the Ghoeran army was generally better-equipped than the forces Gaelin had at his disposal, and, more importantly, they were one army to his motley assortment of highlanders, temple soldiers, and castle defenders.
Late in the day, the commander of scouts – an old Knight Guardian who led a tough band of highland freesteaders and huntsmen – reported they’d been able to signal Caer Winoene from a hilltop overlooking the castle. As Gaelin feared, Baesil’s army had been pushed off the lakeshore and cut off from their main source of water and the hope of resupply. The scouts reported that Count Baesil had managed to stretch his water and food for a couple of days by catching rainwater in makeshift cisterns and going to short rations, but the Mhoriens couldn’t hold out much longer.
Gaelin was much heartened by the arrival of a Dieman envoy around sunset. He reported the Dieman army was camped only a couple of miles away, tired but ready to fight after their march up along the Stonebyrn. Gaelin returned to the monastery and gathered Seriene, Erin, Count Torien, Lord Ghaele, and Prefect Iviena to visit Prince Vandiel.
“I never knew that assembling an army could be such a tedious task,” he grumbled as they left, riding through the cool evening shadows. “We could be weeks getting ready.”
“Regrettably, that’s not an option for us,” observed Lord Ghaele. “If we don’t relieve Ceried soon, he’s finished.”
The Diemans were camped in a vale about three miles from the Mhorien camp. As they approached, Gaelin envied the clean order and discipline of their camp. Escorted by Dieman guards, they were led to Prince Vandiel’s pavilion. Gaelin was greeted by the lord of Diemed as he dismounted. With a slight shiver, he realized that the dream he’d had the other night had been uncannily accurate; Vandiel looked exactly as he expected him to. Dressed in a comfortable tunic of black and silver, Vandiel sketched a bow and said, “Welcome to my camp, Mhor Gaelin. It’s good to finally meet you – Seriene speaks quite highly of you.”
Returning his bow, Gaelin said, “Prince Vandiel, I am honored to be here. Thank you for coming to our aid. I am sorry that we had to meet under these circumstances.” He nodded to Erin, and the bard made all the introductions of the Mhorien party; then Vandiel’s own herald introduced the Dieman officers who accompanied the prince.
After the introductions, Vandiel took a moment to greet his daughter and then gestured toward his pavilion. “I understand that time is pressing,” he said. “Let’s step inside and discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”
They followed him into the spacious tent and gathered around a sturdy table. Over a goblet of wine, Gaelin briefed Vandiel on the course of the war to date, beginning with the Ghoeran invasion and the treachery of Bannier, the disaster of Cwlldon Field, and the destruction of the army at Marnevale by Bannier’s black sorcery.
“Do you have any plans for dealing with this necromancer, if he should employ his sorcery against you tomorrow?”
Vandiel asked. “From what you’ve told me, we don’t have a chance if he takes the field against us.”
“A few days ago we struck at the source of his power,” Gaelin told him. “Seriene was indispensable. Without her courage and her skill, Bannier would still hold my sister prisoner, and he would have the full command of his powers to use against us. But as far as we know, we either killed or wounded him so badly that we don’t expect him to be able to oppose us tomorrow. We only have to worry about the Ghoerans – and that’s enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
Vandiel nodded. “That’s one piece of good news, anyway.
So what’s our plan of battle?”
“It occurs to me that Tuorel has the edge in a set-piece bat- tle,” Gaelin said. “Too many of our men are not trained or equipped for a fight on an open battlefield, so we have to give Tuorel a different kind of battle, a fight where he can’t use massed horsemen to smash us to pieces.”
“Unfortunately, Tuorel also has the advantage in one other regard,” Lord Ghaele added. “He can sit where he is and still win. The burden of action is on our side, which means we will have to go to him.”
“You are right, of course,” Gaelin said. “Here’s the plan I’ve come up with: First, we’ll divide into two forces, one to circle Lake Winoene to the north and thus come upon Caer Winoene from the back side of the siege lines, and one to circle the lake to the south and threaten Tuorel’s camp. Since the terrain to the south is more open, we’ll show Tuorel our heaviest forces there – the Dieman army, the Haelynites, and the Mhorien lords. To the north, we’ll use our militias. Since they’ll be fighting in and among the siege lines, we might as well use the men who aren’t used to fighting as part of an army on an open field.”
The room fell silent as the commanders and officers weighed Gaelin’s plan. Vandiel spoke first, frowning. “If Tuorel keeps his army together, he’ll outnumber either of your two forces.”
“You’re right,” Gaelin conceded, “but here’s Tuorel’s problem:
He has to defend two places. You see, the northern force can break his siege lines and relieve the army in Caer Winoene, while the southern force threatens his camp. If he tries to smash just the one or the other, he will either lose the siege lines or he’ll lose his camp.”
Vandiel leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “Ah. I see. You’re right, Gaelin.”
“Well, he’ll have two choices,” Seriene observed. “He can split his army to meet each threat, or he can ignore one to face the other. From what I know of the baron, I don’t think he’ll just wait where he is.”
“If he splits his army, I’ll be happy. We’ll outnumber him on both sides, and I think we can win a hard fight,” Gaelin replied.
“But I don’t think he’ll divide his forces. It’s a better move for him to pick one or the other and destroy it outright. I don’t think he’ll attack the northern army, because the terrain won’t favor his cavalry. He’ll probably try to isolate and destroy the southern army in the open terrain south of his camp.”
Vandiel grimaced. “It could be a long day for my army, Gaelin. If Tuorel abandons the siege lines in order to throw everything he has at me, what will you do?”
“First, you’ll give ground in order to draw him out, and to preserve your own army as a fighting force,” Gaelin said, thinking. “Then, I’ll advance past Caer Winoene to attack his camp. I’ll also see if I can sortie the Caer Winoene army. We should have close to three thousand men behind those lines.
If Tuorel doesn’t keep them engaged with his army, I’ll turn them to the attack as soon as I can.”
“What if Tuorel surprises you by attacking the northern army?” asked Erin.
“Then we’ll do the same thing from the south,” Vandiel answered.
“We’ll burn his camp and go on to break the siege lines, while Gaelin backs away. We can bait Tuorel like a badger caught in a trap.” He looked at Gaelin with newfound respect.
“I can see why Tuorel’s so desperate to finish you off, Mhor Gaelin. You’re a formidable enemy.”
“It seemed like the best plan,” Gaelin said, shrugging.
Weeks of working with Baesil Ceried had given him a knowledge of military strategy. Or was there something else at work, another hidden legacy of the Mhoried blood? He deferred his curiosity to another time – a good plan was one thing, but there was still a battle to be fought. “We’ll see whether or not it works. I haven’t beaten Tuorel yet. He’ll think of something that we haven’t, and we’ll have to adjust to it quickly.”
“There’s no way to anticipate inspiration,” Vandiel said.
“We’ll respond when we see how the battle lies. Where will you be?”
“I’ll lead the northern force. They’re the troops that are most likely to break and run against hard opposition, and they’ll be encouraged more than the trained soldiers by my presence. If we can’t bring them to grips with the enemy, the battle’s lost.” He looked around the room at the various officers.
“Prince Vandiel will command the southern army. But I’ll ask you to share your command with the high prefect, since her officers will be the liaison between your forces and the rest of the army.”
“Very well,” Vandiel said. “Now, I suggest we let our offi- cers work out the signals and other details. We’ve a lot of planning to do.”
The discussions and debates lasted for hours, until well after midnight. Even when the last of the major problems had been worked out, there were still dozens of contingencies that could not be accounted for. When they finally returned to the Mhorien camp by the lake, dawn was only four or five hours away.
Despite the hour, Gaelin wasn’t tired. The skies were clear, and the new moon was a bright sliver of warm light in the sky. A shallow ground mist blanketed the hillsides and valleys in shining silver. The night was still, and those around him seemed to sense his desire for reflection. The white falcon embroidered on his surcoat gleamed in the moonlight, and he found himself thinking of his father, and his fathers before him, all the men and women who had worn the falcon in the long years of Mhoried’s proud history.
When they returned to the camp, Gaelin let a groom lead Blackbrand away and wandered to a hillside overlooking the lake, in the shadow of the old monastery. Light sparkled on the lake’s placid waters, a shining trail of silver that dappled the dark bluffs and hills with beautiful reflections. It struck him as disrespectful to make a battlefield of such breathtaking beauty.
After a time, he heard Erin’s light footfalls. She sat down on the cold grass beside him, admiring the view. They looked out over the landscape together in a companionable silence for some time before she spoke. “You should try to get some sleep,” she said quietly.
He smiled. “It won’t happen tonight. I’m not anxious, or frightened – well, a little frightened, perhaps. I feel as if this may be my last night, so why spend it sleeping?” He looked at Erin. Her hair seemed to gleam with its own fire in the moonlight, and her face was silver and perfect. Her Sidhelien blood was very noticeable, in the cast of her eyes, the delicacy and strength of her features, and the almost tangible aura of otherworldliness that seemed to dance around her. He found his heart racing, as he moved closer and took her hand. “Erin, if we triumph tomorrow, I want you to be my wife.”
“Oh, Gaelin, why did you have to say that?” She leaned forward, hiding her face. “You know you can’t promise any- thing to me. You’re the Mhor. Mhoried will demand you marry a princess of your own status, not a half-breed minstrel without a trace of the ancient blood.”
“If all that didn’t matter, what would you say?”
She looked up at him, a sad smile on her face. “You know already, or you wouldn’t have asked. My heart has been yours, almost from the first time I saw you.”
“Then I’ll find a way to make it work.”
Erin started to speak but hesitated. After a moment, her face darkened, and she stood up abruptly. “We might pretend for a while that it doesn’t matter, Gaelin, but you know as well as I that it will. What will you do when someone like Baesil tells you he’ll foreswear his allegiance before taking a half-elf nobody for his queen? What will you say when Iviena declares you a heretic or tries to disinherit you?” She turned away.
“Why are you looking for a reason not to marry me?”
She stopped and whirled to face him, pulling her arm away. “It’s not that! It’s – you wouldn’t understand!”
“Erin, I love you, and I want you to be my wife. I don’t think I could ever give my heart to another woman, not after loving you.” He touched her face, and raised her head to look into her eyes. “If I win tomorrow, and we drive Tuorel out of Mhoried, the lords and common folk will support me. They know you, and they like you.” He lifted her chin and kissed her tenderly. “I don’t need an answer tonight, Erin. Just promise me you’ll think on it.”
Erin laughed softly through her tears. “I don’t see how I can avoid it.” Sighing, she stood and paced away, pulling her cloak around her shoulders, silhouetted against the lightening gray of the eastern sky. “Dawn’s not far off.”
Gaelin nodded soberly. He stood and stretched. “I suppose it’s time to get to work.”