Early in the morning, Gaelin and his advisors joined Baesil Ceried as he left for Marnevale. The Mhorien general had already dispatched his troops; this last group consisted of his officers and the Knights Guardian. They set forth in a drizzle that lasted all morning, soaking them to the skin, but at least the day was fairly warm.
Baesil’s plan was simple. At Marnevale, two steep ridges were separated by rocky walls only three hundred yards apart. The Ghoerans could ignore the gap and skirt the ridges, but this would delay them by at least a day, and the gaps at the far end of the ridges were just as defensible as Marnevale. Baesil’s men had raised a long earthwork across the gap, which they would hold as long as they could. A second line had been built behind the first, so the troops holding the front would have the opportunity to fall back while a rear guard held the Ghoerans. Baehemon’s great advantage – his armored cavalry and knights – would be neutralized by the fortifications, and he would have to take the line by hand-tohand assault in the teeth of four hundred archers and six hundred infantry.
“Should we have committed more men to the defense of the gap?” Gaelin asked Baesil as they rode along. “After all, we have an excellent position here.”
The old count shrugged. “Baehemon might decline the battle and try to flank us. We’d be finished if he managed to engage us here while his cavalry swept around to surround us, which is why I wanted this force to be small and mobile.” He clapped Gaelin on the shoulder. “This isn’t the deciding point, not yet. I’m just going to see if I can blood Baehemon again.”
An hour after noon, they arrived at the gap, riding in a long column of mud-splattered armor and sagging banners.
The rain had continued all day, and the single road that led through the gap was a river of mud. Baesil led the guards into the open stretch between the two walls, and dismounted to climb the earthworks and confer with the captain who commanded the troops on the scene. Gaelin followed, Erin and Seriene a few paces behind him.
“There’s the Ghoeran host, m’lords,” reported the captain.
From their vantage atop the earthen dike – now soft and slippery from the rain – they could see rank upon rank of red and blue soldiery, seven or eight hundred yards downhill, gathering beneath a forest of banners. “As you expected, Count, Baehemon’s dismounted his knights to lead the attack, but he’s kept a number of cavalry mounted behind his lines.”
Baesil nodded. “He’s hoping to run us to ground after we abandon the line. Confident, isn’t he?”
“I’m surprised he’s coming up to meet us,” Gaelin said, as they watched the Ghoerans prepare for battle. “How far did they march today?”
“About five miles, Mhor Gaelin,” the captain replied.
“Baehemon didn’t want to give us the opportunity to strike at his camp again,” Baesil said. He looked up and down the line, surveying the defenses. Gaelin followed him, taking in the preparations. The men who had fortified the position had first dug a wide ditch about six feet deep, heaping the dirt on the far side so an enemy would first scramble down into the bottom of the ditch before climbing back up a slope that was a dozen feet in height. Along the top of the ramparts, hundreds of mantles – huge, stationary wooden shields designed to shelter archers – had been placed to provide cover for the Mhoriens. Baesil grunted in satisfaction. “They’ll remember this place a long time.”
Gaelin looked up at the steep hillsides on either side of them. “Any chance of the Ghoerans scaling the bluffs?”
Baesil grinned. “We have parties of skirmishers holding the hilltops. They’ll have to work to go around us.”
“Mhor Gaelin!” Erin was calling him, from a few yards away. She hadn’t spoken a word to him during their entire ride from Caer Winoene, but now pointed toward one of the banners in the center of the enemy army. “That’s Tuorel’s standard.”
Gaelin squinted at the banner she had indicated. As usual, her half-elven sight was better than his, but he was just barely able to make out the wolf’s head on red and blue. “He’s finally taken the field. I wonder if he’s going to lead the assault.”
“Tuorel’s Iron Guards are as tough as they come,” Baesil grunted. While they watched, drums began to rattle in the Ghoeran ranks, and the enemy started forward. “It seems we got here just in time,” Baesil said. “All right, everyone except the soldiers off the ramparts.”
Although he considered standing his ground, Gaelin decided not to. In the first place, it would give Baesil and Boeric fits, and secondly, risking his own life in this action wasn’t a good idea, considering what would become of Mhoried and Ilwyn if he fell. He could use his personal guard as a reserve, and throw them into the fight if the wall was breached. And he hadn’t forgotten how things had turned out the last time he’d taken the field, in the cavalry raid on Baehemon’s camp.
He resolved to leave the fighting to someone who knew what he was doing, and had his guardsmen fall back a short ways behind the rampart. They took up a position on the shoulder of one of Marnevale’s hills.
The Ghoeran ranks advanced, marching uphill in even rows. They were divided into three distinct columns; the left and right flanks were composed of solid Ghoeran infantry, carrying spears and shields, protected by chain and leather armor, while the center consisted of plate-armored knights carrying pikes, halberds, and battle-axes.
The knights were having a hard time of it, slogging uphill in the soft mud, and the other columns slowed their pace to keep close. Between the columns, companies of bowmen marched, but their bows were slung over their shoulders – Mhorien bows were more powerful than the lowland weapons of the Ghoerans, and with the disadvantage of height the Ghoeran archers didn’t even pretend to threaten the Mhorien position. They carried mattocks and short swords for the hand-to-hand assault.
The drums grew louder and deeper, reverberating from the rocky walls of the defile. The shrill sound of Ghoeran fifes drifted through the air, setting ghostly claws to Gaelin’s backbone.
From where he sat on Blackbrand, he could see rank after rank of the enemy army. Tuorel was pulling out all the stops, and he guessed that somewhere between six and eight thousand men were mustered under Tuorel’s banner.
“Ready the archers,” said Baesil. One officer raised a distinctive red flag, and a trumpeter sounded a blast. Along the rampart, the Mhorien archers nocked arrows on their bows.
“Archers, draw,” said Baesil. There was another trumpetcall, and the archers raised their bows, drawing the arrows to their ears. The Ghoerans were still a little far, but the leading troops were well within their range. Baesil started to speak the words to fire, but the Ghoerans halted, with a flourish of trumpets. The last rattling echoes of the drums rolled back from the hillsides, and then the battlefield fell silent. Baesil scowled. “What on earth? Archers, hold.”
Along the line, the bowmen relaxed their aim and lowered their weapons, craning their necks to see what was happening downfield. In the center of the enemy lines, a dark figure stalked forward, leaning on a great staff. The soldiers nearby shifted and muttered restlessly as he passed by.
“Bannier,” said Gaelin. “What is he up to now?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out,” said Baesil.
“Archers, skewer that wizard!”
A moment later, a ragged flight of arrows rose from the Mhorien ranks, lofting high into the air. Bannier continued forward, ignoring the missiles. Hundreds clattered to the ground all around him, but not a single one seemed to touch him, although a number of arrows flew astray and inflicted casualties in the Ghoeran ranks near him. The wizard paused and grounded his staff into the earth, freeing both hands to begin a flamboyant invocation of some kind. I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Gaelin thought. “Seriene? What’s he doing?”
The princess was whispering and making passes with one hand, involved in some spell of her own. She found a moment to reply nonetheless. “I’m not certain, my lord Mhor. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it. I’m taking steps to protect us here, just in case.” She continued her enchantment.
Bannier’s preparations continued for ten minutes or more.
From time to time, a Mhorien archer would loose a carefully aimed arrow at the wizard, but somehow none of these managed to strike Bannier. The Mhorien troops were growing nervous, muttering to each other and subconsciously slinking backward a step or two, fearful of what the wizard’s magic might do. Finally, he finished. With one glance at the Mhorien line, he picked up his staff and turned away, heading back down the hill.
“That was it?” said Erin in disbelief.
Seriene’s face was pale. Her horse picked up on her nervousness and pranced, pawing at the ground. “I don’t think that was it,” the princess said quietly. “We’d better fall back to the second line.”
Count Baesil shot a hard look at her. “Without even fighting for the first line?”
Seriene swallowed. “There’s powerful magic at work here, and I have no idea what it might be,” she said. “Give the signal for retreat. I beg you!”
Baesil looked at Gaelin. “Should I, Mhor Gaelin?”
Gaelin’s stomach was knotted up. “All right. We’ll give Bannier the benefit of the doubt, and assume that he didn’t just bluff us out of our position. Fall back.”
The bannerman raised the signal. Along the rampart, the Mhorien soldiers stepped back, hesitating. A few began to slide down the near side of the rampart, or milled about trying to keep in ranks.
In that moment, a black mist began to rise from the ground, surrounding the earthworks. Dark corruption welled silently out of the ground, a spring of blackness, as if the ground itself was burning and giving off smoke of purest midnight.
The stuff swelled up from the earth, sending tendrils of inky fog racing ahead to catch and envelop the re t reating Mhoriens.
Men shouted and screamed in fright. Many broke and ran rather than face the darkness, while others held their ground on the ramparts while the sea of ebon mists lapped around their feet and then rose to overwhelm them.
“By Haelyn! What sorcery is this?” said Gaelin.
Seriene’s eyes were wide with terror. “It cannot be! No one is strong enough to do that!”
“Seriene! What is it? What’s he doing?”
The princess only shook her head in horror. “We must flee.
Now! Or we are lost, too!”
Gaelin looked out over the battlefield, where his men were vanishing into the dark mists. He heard their screams and shouts, and a dim clangor that might have been the clash of arms heard from an impossible distance. Here and there, a few men were outdistancing the encroaching mist, fleeing the scene. Even as he watched, the center of his line was overwhelmed; a knot of sixty or seventy men stood on top of the rampart, back to back, while the mist surged and seethed over them. With the earthworks inundated in darkness, the mist started rolling uphill toward the rise where Gaelin and his guards waited. It moved with malign intelligence and speed. “I can’t leave them here!” Gaelin cried. “I can’t abandon them!”
Baesil Ceried leaned over and caught Blackbrand’s reins, turning the horse toward the rear. “That’s fine, my lord Mhor, but I don’t know how we can fight that. Let’s go!”
Gaelin threw one more glance over his shoulder. The mist was receding from the earthworks now, having flowed over and past the ditch and dike. There was no one there. The mantles and stakes still stood where they had been, unharmed, and here and there he saw a discarded helmet or a dropped bow – but of the men themselves, there was no sign. Eight hundred men had just vanished without a trace. And the thing that had taken them was now only a few yards short of Gaelin’s position, and gathering itself to lunge up the hill after him.
Gaelin spurred Blackbrand hard and fled for his life. Behind him, the Ghoerans cheered raggedly and ran forward in pursuit of the few Mhoriens that remained, although they were careful not to follow the darkness too closely. Within another two hundred yards, the mist suddenly halted, roiling in place for a long moment, and then it sank down into the ground as quickly as it had risen. But now the Ghoeran cavalry was sweeping forward, charging ahead to ride down the surviving Mhoriens. They’d just barely missed annihilation by Bannier’s spell, but Tuorel’s horsemen would quickly overtake them. Gaelin cursed viciously.
Erin halted abruptly, wheeling to one side as the rest of the royal party streamed by. She took in the scene with one quick glance, and then raised her hands, singing under her breath.
In a moment, the coiling blackness returned, surging back up from the ground in the path of the Ghoerans who pursued them. In panic, Tuorel’s troops bolted back the way they had come.
Gaelin stopped in amazement. “Erin! How did you – ”
“It’s an illusion!” she replied. “I guessed that the Ghoerans would want nothing to do with that mist, after watching what it did to us.” She permitted herself a brief smile. “Let’s get out of here while it lasts.”
Beside her, Seriene nodded in appreciation. “Well done, Erin. I underestimated your talents for the Art.”
Erin glared at the princess, but did not reply. As they cantered away from the gap, Gaelin asked, “What was that, Seriene?
What did Bannier do?”
The princess shook her head. “I don’t know how he did it, Gaelin, but he summoned the Shadow World here. He must have a potent source of magic, in order to wield spells of that magnitude. And a dark source, at that.”
“Source? What do you mean?” Gaelin knew they should be making the best distance they could while Erin’s spell lasted, but this seemed important. He slowed down and stayed near the two women, as they picked their way back down the reverse slope of the pass.
Seriene replied, “A source is a place strong in magic, a place where a blooded wizard – or someone of elven descent, for that matter, since they’re magical in their own right – can tap into the power of the land itself to cast spells. Most spells, such as the shields you’ve seen me cast, draw their power from the caster’s skill and strength. But that’s nothing compared to the power of mebhaighl, the land’s magic.” She looked at him oddly. “Why do you ask?”
Gaelin shook his head. “When you mentioned the idea of a source, a thought occurred to me: Why would Bannier want to meet me at Caer Duirga? It’s in the middle of nowhere.
And I have this sense that something’s there. I can feel Mhoried, ever since I stood before the Red Oak, and now that I think about Caer Duirga, it feels like a sore that won’t heal.”
He tried to find the words to continue, but gave up. “I guess that’s not much help.”
Seriene reached out and took his hand. “On the contrary, Gaelin, if Caer Duirga hides the source of Bannier’s magic, I may be able to strike at him in a way he doesn’t expect. Can you take us there now?”
“We’re going there in a day or two anyway.”
“The sooner, the better,” Seriene said. “What I’ve got in mind could take several days.”
“Even if there’s nothing at Caer Duirga, we could use the time to prepare for your meeting with Bannier,” Erin pointed out. “Maybe we can set a trap for him.”
Gaelin considered it. “All right. We’d have to leave for Caer Duirga soon, in any event. We can cut across the highlands and make for it now.” He rode ahead to where Count Baesil was, surrounded by a few surviving officers, and matched Blackbrand’s pace with the general’s. Baesil’s face was an ashen mask of horror, but somehow he managed to keep control of himself and marshal the escaping Mhoriens.
With curt orders, he hammered at the fleeing men and directed their retreat. The survivors – mostly men of the reserve – were quickly forming into patchwork companies and abandoning the camp as it lay.
“Go back to Caer Winoene, and organize a retreat,” he told Baesil.
“Retreat? Where?” Baesil waved a hand at the northlands.
“If we have to flee into Torien or Marloer, we won’t be able to supply the army. We can’t give up Caer Winoene.”
“Well, what do you advise?”
“If I have some hope of relief, I’ll try to wait out a siege.”
Gaelin turned Blackbrand, circling Baesil as he looked for signs of the Ghoeran pursuit. Over the last month, he’d spoken with a hundred or more different lords, knights, and captains, but he had no idea how many would answer his call when the time came. “All right, then. Pull back to Caer Winoene and get ready to stand a siege. Somehow I’ll find a way to relieve you, hopefully within a couple of weeks.”
Baesil nodded. “I’ll hold the ruins at least that long. Where are you going?”
“I’m heading for Caer Duirga. Do me a favor, and try to maintain the illusion that I’m still with your army for a few days.” He grasped Baesil’s hand. “Haelyn light your path, Baesil.”
“And yours, Gaelin. We’ll hold as long as we can.”
Two miles farther on, Gaelin briefly rounded up ten of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, as well as Seriene and Erin.
While Baesil led the remnants of the army back to Caer Winoene, Gaelin and his band split off from the main group and headed east, into the wilds and highlands, as darkness began to fall.
*****
Two days after the victory at Marnevale, the Ghoeran army arrived at Caer Winoene and set siege to the ancient castle. Instead of retreating again, as Bannier expected, the Mhoriens stood their ground. Almost three thousand men garrisoned the ruins, a number far greater than the old castle could comfortably support, so the Mhoriens had expanded the fortifications to cover a good portion of their camp. Earthworks and newly repaired walls of stone surrounded the gray old towers in ring after ring of ditch and palisade.
Bannier was no judge of such things, but it looked as though Gaelin’s army would be difficult to dig out of the ruins. Worse yet, the Mhoriens still held a part of the lakeshore and could pass supplies or small parties out of the siege lines by boat; Lake Winoene was almost ten miles long, which meant Lord Baehemon’s men would have to patrol the shores vigilantly to keep the castle truly isolated.
After touring the camp and inspecting the preparations, Bannier returned to Tuorel’s headquarters. The baron stood aside from the chaos outside the tent and surveyed the Mhorien defenses while discussing the strategy of the siege with Lord Baehemon. The squat general fell silent as Bannier approached, his impassive face displaying nothing more than a flicker of contempt. “Master Bannier,” he said gruffly, tilting his head by way of a greeting.
Tuorel turned and greeted him as well. “Good evening, Bannier. What’s on your mind?”
“How goes the siege?”
Tuorel snorted at Bannier’s ignorance of military affairs.
“It’s hardly started. Ask me again in a month.”
“A month?” Bannier affected mild astonishment. “It will take that long to overwhelm the Mhoriens?”
“At least that long,” snapped Baehemon, allowing his temper to show. “Ceried has created formidable defenses for his army.”
“Defenses?” Bannier chuckled. “Those ditches and banks of earth can keep your vaunted Iron Guard at bay?”
Baehemon’s face darkened. “Go back to your books and spells, wizard. This is man’s work.”
“It sounds like a tedious process,” Bannier observed. “You wish to be done with this sooner than that?”
Tuorel glanced at him. “Of course. What do you have in mind? More of your sorcery?”
The wizard smiled coldly. “Not the same enchantment I used at Marnevale, but a powerful one nonetheless. I can open a hundred-yard gap in the earthworks.”
Tuorel exchanged a look with Baehemon. “All right, Bannier.
When can you do it?”
“I’ll need a day or two to prepare. This is potent sorcery, and I’ve exhausted my reserves over these past months.”
The baron returned his gaze to the Mhorien defenses, now cloaked by the falling twilight. Orange torches burned on the battlements. He looked back to the wizard. “I’m not certain I want to meet your price, Bannier. Your charity alarms me.”
“There is no price, baron. The sooner you break through the Mhorien lines, the sooner I will see Gaelin Mhoried dead.” The wizard paused, and then added, “There is one condition for my service. There is a chance that Gaelin may come to us or seek to cross your lines under a flag of truce. If he does, summon me immediately.”
“Very well. It shall be as you say.”
Baehemon scowled. “My lord, do not trust him!”
“Baehemon, I’ve never trusted him.” He met Bannier’s gaze without a trace of fear. “We have an understanding?”
Bannier returned his predatory smile. “I believe we do.”
Satisfied, he turned and strode away, leaning on his ironshod staff. Again, he’d been less than honest with Tuorel. The spell he had in mind would require a few hours’ preparation and no more. Before he set to work on the enchantment, he intended to visit Caer Duirga and make sure everything was ready. If he knew Gaelin, the prince would show up at the appointed time. The only question was how Bannier could deal with any guards or escorts who followed Gaelin to his doom.
*****
Gaelin, Erin, and Seriene rode until moonrise, accompanied by their guards. They watched for signs of pursuit, but after six hours of picking their way through the darkness, they were certain the Ghoeran skirmishers and scouts had missed their trail. Gaelin called a halt only after one unfortunate trooper fell asleep in his saddle and tumbled off his horse in exhaustion.
It drizzled until dawn, and they were caught in the open with only bedrolls and cold supplies. They did not dare light a fire, and no one was equipped for more than a day in the field – an oversight on Gaelin’s part, since he had expected to be back at Caer Winoene already. Still, they were so tired that most of them found a way to sleep for a few hours despite the rain and the mud.
By morning, the rain diminished into an early morning highland fog that lay thick and cold in the green glens between the hills. They were well into the wilds of Mhoried’s foothills, with knife-edged ridges rising on all sides of them, flanked in fields of heather and draped with white-running streams. They struck across the most desolate territory of Mhoried, a trackless maze of stark hills and high, misty vales.
Over the course of the morning’s ride they passed only a handful of herdsmen’s huts and the occasional turf lodge of a hunter or trapper.
Gaelin found the wildness and the chill, bracing air to be restful. Like a starving man, he drank in the scent and the feel of the rich heather and grass, a green so vivid it seemed more alive than he was. The mist that crowned the peaks around him was a cool touch on his face, and the water that gathered on his cloak and ran down his face tasted sweeter than wine.
He wondered if the others felt it, too, or if his bond to the land gave him a sense they did not share.
When they finally halted at midday to rest the horses and chew on stale rations, Gaelin rode ahead a few hundred yards to be alone with his thoughts. He sat down on a grassy hillside, looking out over a broad gray valley, and listened to the trickle of water splashing downhill in a dozen tiny torrents.
After a time, he became aware of someone’s approach.
“Hello, Erin,” he said quietly.
“Gaelin? May I join you?”
He gestured at a small boulder beside him, and the minstrel sat down, looking out over the fields and the hills. They sat in silence for a time, taking in the view. Erin’s eyes were bright and open, and her breath streamed away from her.
“This is a beautiful spot,” she murmured. “It makes me feel… alive, somehow.”
Gaelin nodded. “I’ve always felt that way about the highlands.”
Erin shifted to look at him. “Do you want me here?”
Sighing, Gaelin stood and shook out his rain-wet hair.
“This is a dangerous business, Erin. You’ve seen how powerful Bannier is. Chances are, I’m leading you all into disaster.”
He raised his eyes to hers, vulnerable and guileless. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“That didn’t stop you from bringing Seriene along.”
“She’s skilled in the magical arts. If anyone can figure out a way to defeat Bannier, she can.” Gaelin picked up a rock and idly tossed it downhill, watching it clatter away. The drizzle was growing heavier, becoming a steady rainfall. “Besides, if nothing else works and I have to deliver myself to Bannier, Seriene’s status may protect her; Bannier may not want to earn Diemed’s hate by harming Vandiel’s daughter.
At the least, he’d consider holding her for ransom. The rest of you don’t have that kind of protection. Bannier may do you harm just to spite me. I couldn’t bear that, Erin.”
Erin stood abruptly and walked away, turning her back to him. “This may be my last chance to see you, Gaelin. I know it’s dangerous, but please don’t send me away.”
He moved over to where she stood, hugging her arms to her body, and gently turned her to face him, resting his hands on her shoulders. The rain streamed down her face and plastered her hair to her skin. It made her look pale, fragile, as if all the barriers she created between herself and the outside world had been washed away. Beneath Erin’s graceful and confident facade, Gaelin caught a glimpse of the frightened girl. His heart ached at her haunted eyes, and without thinking he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. “Swear to me you’ll be careful. That no matter what happens to me, you’ll still be safe.”
She leaned against his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. “Gaelin, I don’t know if I can,” she said.
“It’s the only way you can stay near me. I’ll do what I have to do. Just promise me there’s a reason for me to hope, that somewhere you’re alive and well.”
Erin didn’t reply. They held each other for a long moment, as water ran from their cloaks and ran in icy trickles beneath their clothes, and then it was time to head back and ride on.
Before they left, Gaelin kissed her again, and Erin responded with fire, locking her arms around his broad shoulders for a brief moment that seemed to last forever.
They continued for about fifteen miles more that day, p ressing on until sundown. That night, they camped in the w reckage of an old freehold in the shadow of a steep-sided hill crowned with bare rock. The place had been deserted for decades, but the signs of a bloody fight or raid could still be found – doors kicked off their hinges, stone blackened with soot from a fire, a half-dozen stone cairns marked with goblin runes in the field behind the house. It seemed an ill omen, but no one complained about sleeping with cover over their heads.
After an unappealing dinner of hardtack and a bit of cold rabbit stew, Gaelin and his companions sought their bedrolls.
The day’s hard travel had tired everyone – no one was inclined to sit up around the small fire and make small talk.
Gaelin fought off his drowsiness long enough to pull out a whetstone and sharpen his blade, just in case he might need it soon. The smooth repetition and scrape of stone on steel sometimes steadied his mind and helped him to think. When he finished, he applied a light touch of oil from a flask at his scabbard. He stood, stretched, and stepped outside for a breath of air before seeking his bedroll.
The rain had slackened to a fine mist, and the night was cool and wet on his face. He drew in a deep breath, checking over the position of the sentries. Then he noticed that Seriene and Erin were standing nearby, engaged in a quiet but forceful discussion. Against his better judgment, Gaelin took two quiet steps to draw within earshot.
“Don’t you see what you’re doing to him?” Seriene was saying. “He loves you, and it’s tearing him to pieces.” Her voice seemed to catch in the darkness. “I beg you, Erin. You know that there can’t be anything for you and Gaelin in a long romance.”
“Can I help the way he feels?” Erin answered. “Or the way I feel? I can’t walk away from him, Seriene.”
“Erin, you have to. If you care for him as much as you say you do, you can’t let him wreck Mhoried by falling in love with you.”
Erin’s voice was bitter. “It would certainly be convenient for you if I abandoned the fight.”
Gaelin knew that he should slip away before they noticed him, but he couldn’t stop himself from listening.
“What if you had no rival, Erin? You’re a commoner, unblooded.
Mhoried is a grand duchy, and Gaelin must someday find a queen. Would you still hold his love, knowing that someday he must find a wife and raise children to continue the Mhoried line? Have you thought that far ahead?”
“What about you, Seriene? Would you love him if he had already won his kingdom back? If you didn’t know that he may be gone in a few weeks, if things go badly?” Erin paced away, her arms crossed in front of her. “Are you just infatuated with him?”
Seriene was quiet for a long time. “I’ve never met anyone like him,” she said at last. “Erin, you’re ruining Gaelin’s chance to be happy, and mine as well. He can’t rule his own heart – no man can. You must show him you aren’t interested.”
“What if I can’t?” Erin retorted, fire in her voice. “I’m not strong enough to deny my feelings.”
“Then you must leave. Not right now, but sometime soon.
If you truly care for him, Erin, you’ll understand you can’t keep his heart. It will hurt less if you do it sooner instead of later.” Seriene settled into the logic of her argument. “You know it must be this way,” she added.
Erin paced anxiously, a dark shape against the dim sky. She did not speak, but she hugged her arms tightly around her body, as if containing a violent outburst. Gaelin strained to listen closer, but she remained silent. Finally, her shoulders slumped and she turned away. “I’ll go,” she said quietly.
“Thank you, Erin. You’re doing the right – ”
“Don’t thank me, Seriene. I’m not doing it for you.” Erin squared her shoulders and wheeled toward the open fields.
Gaelin fled just in time, retreating to the campfire. He took out his whetstone and set to work on his sword, ignoring the fact that it was perfectly honed already. When Erin and Seriene came back inside about a quarter-hour later, neither even glanced at him. Gaelin abandoned the field altogether and retreated to the small chamber he’d appropriated for his own, a little way from the crowded main hall.
He found it difficult to sleep, and tossed and turned restlessly for an hour or more before falling into a fitful doze. In the middle of the night, Gaelin found himself lying awake, listening to the soft rain falling against the ruined roof. He could hear water trickling through the old beams and stones of the building. The moon had risen late, and a dim silver halo illuminated the room, barely penetrating the endless clouds overhead. Gradually, his eyes became accustomed to the light, and he lay back tracing patterns of light and shadow with his eyes.
A furtive movement by the chamber’s entrance caught his attention. Strangely, he was not alarmed; there was a dreamlike quality in his awareness, as if he still slept and only imagined that he was awake. He turned his head to look at the doorway. Erin crept into the room, moving with the silence of a falling leaf. She stopped a little distance short of his blankets, surprised to find him awake. Then, quite deliberately, she disrobed as he watched, until she stood revealed to his eyes, her long, slender body gleaming silver in the moonlight.
She kneeled beside his pallet, gazing at his face. “We’ll reach Caer Duirga tomorrow,” she whispered. “We may never have this time again.”
Gaelin sat up, leaning on one elbow. He let his eyes drink in her beauty, the soft curves and the fiery passion in her face.
She glimmered in the moonlight, like one of the fabled queens of the Sidhelien. His heart thundered in his chest.
“Erin, I – ” He swallowed and tried again. “What did you and Seriene – ”
She leaned forward, placing her fingers on his lips.
“Shhhh. There’s nothing to say.” Slipping beneath the blanket, she drew his face close to hers and kissed him with fierce abandon.
Some time later, they lay quietly with their limbs tangled together, listening to the rain without speaking. There were all sorts of reasons why he shouldn’t have made love to her.
It was cruel of him to accept her love when he knew he could be dead in a matter of days; he had nothing to offer her except struggle and risk, and even if he recovered Mhoried, it was inconceivable he could marry a half-elf with no lands or titles of her own. Yet all these objections seemed insubstantial as he listened to her heart beating, close to his own. For the first time in a long time, Gaelin felt at peace.