They finally called a halt in the early afternoon to eat a midday meal and allow their horses to graze. As Gaelin gnawed on a hunk of dried whitefish, washing it down with sour beer, Erin walked over to sit on a low stump beside him. She drew back her hood and shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. “A fine day for riding, eh?” she ventured.
Gaelin smiled and shook out his own cloak. Rivulets of water ran down his arms and legs. “At least the weather’s showing signs of warming.” He offered her his flagon, and Erin took a long draught. He watched her drink, and the silence grew uncomfortable. He said, “I’m sorry we’re traveling on a day like this. You shouldn’t have had to spend all night searching for us.”
“It had to be done,” Erin replied with a tired smile. “I’m glad I found you when I did. Another hour and you would have been on the road again. I might never have caught up to you.”
“Still, I can’t help but feel a minstrel of your rank deserves a better welcome than skulking through the countryside in the rain all day.” He took the flagon back, and shrugged. “I haven’t extended a proper welcome.”
“Gaelin, I’d have thought you a damned half-wit if you hadn’t been preoccupied with events at home.” Erin fixed her gaze on him, her eyes flat and hard as iron. “You’ve problems far more pressing than replacing your court bard.”
Gaelin was taken aback by her directness. He had thought a southern minstrel would speak in flowery phrases and weave her words in subtle circles. “Be that as it may,” he began cautiously, “I’m sorry your stay in Mhoried has to start like this. Even at Shieldhaven, there won’t be much of a court for you to attend. The Mhor may be campaigning against Ghoere’s army all summer long.”
“Then I’ll sleep under the stars for a few months,” Erin laughed. “It will do me good.”
Gaelin snorted and gestured towards the gray shores of Ghoere, just visible across the river. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. Tuorel’s already tried to kill me once. And now Daene, a young knight who trusted me, is dead.”
She shook the water out of her hair and regarded him with a steady, clear gaze. Her face was pale in the dim daylight; the rain and mist had dampened her long tresses and flattened them against her shoulders, but there was strength and fire in the delicate lines of her face. “I’ve seen bloodshed before and survived it,” she said. “I know the value of my own life better than you might think.” She glanced away for a moment, busying herself with her cloak’s fastening. Then she looked up at Gaelin again and continued. “You can’t blame yourself for Tuorel’s actions. You’re not responsible for Daene’s death.”
Gaelin started to protest, but bit back his words. Erin had cut to the source of his melancholy. It wasn’t fair or right that he might endanger those near him, but he was a highborn noble, quite fortunate by any account, and his standing brought uncommon perils with it. The idea of Madislav or Ruide – or Erin – meeting Daene’s fate sent a cold blade of anguish into his heart. “Why shouldn’t I be concerned that someone else near me may be hurt or killed?” he answered.
“I’ve only known you a few hours, but I wouldn’t want to see you come to harm.”
Erin smiled and looked out over the river. “I can take care of myself,” she said quietly. She rose and stretched lithely before walking away. “I’d better check my horse’s shoes. I think she might have picked up a stone.”
Gaelin watched after her, his lunch forgotten, until Madislav came over and sat down heavily, chain mail jingling beneath his tunic. “I am wondering where we are going next,” he said, chewing on a piece of hardtack. “The Mhor is expecting you in Endier, no?”
Gaelin tore his gaze from Erin’s form and glanced at the Vos. “Assuming the Mhor received my message yesterday, what would he do?”
Madislav didn’t even pause to consider the question. “He will send a company or two of guards to meet you. And he will be trying to send word to you in Endier, probably to be telling you to stay put until the soldiers arrive.”
Gaelin nodded thoughtfully. “Is there any reason he would want me to stay in Endier? Or would he want me back in Shieldhaven?”
Madislav spread his hands wide. “I am not knowing, but I think he will want you to come home. There are too many Ghoerans between you and Shieldhaven now.”
“If he sends someone after me, we might as well stay on the road. If Riumache is lost, he won’t send them by boat. Any soldiers or messengers will ride through Alamie, instead.”
“They will be following the old river road,” Madislav agreed. He tapped one finger on his temple. “You are thinking, Gaelin. That is good. River road is shortest route to Endier, and any men the Mhor sends to find you will be trying to make time.”
Gaelin smiled. “We may meet them coming the other way, probably in a day or two.”
“And if you are not finding any of the Mhor’s men?”
“I don’t know.” Gaelin stood and brushed the water from his clothes and cloak. “It won’t slow us down, but if someone’s hoping to find me in Endier, they’ll be disappointed.”
Stepping over to Blackbrand, he saddled the horse again and checked the tack and harness. The stallion snorted in annoyance, tossing his head. Looking over the horse’s back, he caught Erin watching him.
“Ready to go?” he asked. She nodded and set about securing her own saddle. In a few minutes, they were riding, following the Maesil’s broad easterly curve. They rode the rest of the day, through showers and unending mists, until daylight faded for good.
Toward evening, they made a spartan camp in the deserted countryside, just out of sight of the road. Gaelin cringed at the thought of a night of sleeping in the rain, but it seemed safer than advertising their location by staying in a town. Erin sang a couple of short elven ballads to fortify their spirits. Her voice had a high, keening quality that was both sad and beautiful.
The delicate melody lingered in Gaelin’s mind as he fell asleep.
The next day, the weather warmed, although the rain continued, a steady daylong drizzle. Gaelin was used to it; the Anuirean heartlands saw a great deal of rain, especially in the spring and fall. Erin rode beside him for most of the day, quizzing him about the Mhor’s court. Gaelin answered to the best of his ability and surprised himself with what he did and did not remember. Several times he caught her nodding as if to confirm what he was saying. “You’re testing me,” he complained, after she asked him about the history of Mhoried.
“You were trained in the White Hall. You know the histories better than I do.”
“It’s true that I’ve studied them,” Erin said. “The masters of the Hall view the keeping of accurate histories and genealogies as one of our most important tasks. But for all that, they’re only dry old tomes to most of us. For you, they’re the tale of your family, a part of who you are. Even as we speak, you are continuing to shape history.”
“I think you’re exaggerating my importance,” Gaelin replied. “My father’s the Mhor, not me. And my brother will follow him.”
They rode on a time, until Erin spoke again. “What will you do when you get home?” she asked.
“Me? I don’t know.” Gaelin frowned. “I’ll wait to see what my father has in mind. I expect he’ll want me to stay by his side for the campaign. Or he may tell me to stay in Shieldhaven. ”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to keep things running, I suppose. Despite the war, there should still be issues of trade, taxes, laws, diplomacy, and all manner of business for someone to look after.” Gaelin rubbed at his chin. “Maybe Thendiere will run things.”
“What if you had to make all those decisions? Or if your father put you in command of the army?”
Gaelin laughed uneasily. “He won’t. I’ve little skill with affairs of state, or with the running of armies.”
“Why not? It’s tradition for lords to hand responsibility to their sons. After all, what better way for you to learn?” Erin measured Gaelin with a gaze th
at had suddenly grown quite serious. “I think you’re going to find yourself with more to do than you think.” She tapped her heels against her horse’s flanks and rode ahead.
As they traveled north, the road skirted inland to avoid a stretch of marsh by the river. The river road followed the Maesil from the great city of Anuire itself all the way to the hills of Elinie. Once it had been one of the busiest trade routes in Cerilia, but after Michael Roele’s death, the empire had disintegrated into bickering duchies and baronies. As traffic and trade on the river road tapered off, the people had drifted away. The travelers passed dozens of abandoned farms and empty inns, wreathed in thick green vines.
By the end of their second day of travel, they found themselves approaching the Alamien town of Taeren Crossing, lying just across the Maesil from the great Ghoeran port of Ghieste. They reined in their horses a half-mile or so from the crossroads in the crimson gloaming, peering toward the rambling buildings and yellow, mist-wreathed lights of the town.
“Well?” Gaelin asked his companions. “Do we take the chance of meeting Ghoerans who might be looking for us, or do we skirt the town and miss out on any news?”
“The town may be watched,” Madislav observed with a dour look. “Is safer to camp someplace out of the way.”
Erin rode over and responded, “That may be true, but we could learn a lot from the merchants and teamsters who pass through Taered Crossing.”
Beside her, Ruide cleared his throat. “You’re probably right, my lady. I’ll attract the least attention. I’ll go on into town and see what there is to see.” The valet quickly threw an old cloak over his fine clothes and rode into the town, while Gaelin, Erin, and Madislav rode their horses beneath the trees. They waited for an hour or so as gloom settled over the countryside. The light drizzle grew into a hard, steady rain, and the temperature began to drop again. Gaelin waited in silence.
Finally, as the wait dragged on, he began to wonder whether they should follow Ruide to make certain that he was all right. Before he decided to do so, Erin hissed quietly and pointed at the road.
“Lanterns, coming toward us,” she said.
They retreated farther from the road, watching the lights bobbing up and down in the gray twilight. It was a large party of horsemen, riding south from Taeren Crossing. Gaelin peered through the rain and shadows, trying to make out their numbers and arms. There were several dozen of them, horsemen armed with crossbows and lances.
“Who are they?” he said.
“They’re Ghoeran regulars,” Erin whispered. “Hold still, or they may spot us.”
“What? Are you certain?”
Erin gestured at her delicately sloped eyes, not quite human. “You forget, I’ve more than a little of the Sidhelien in my blood. I can make out their coats of arms. Let them pass.”
Gaelin glanced at her, and then stepped back into the shadows.
The horsemen thundered past. The lanterns they carried illuminated their kettle helmets, favored by Ghoeran cavalry, and Ghoere’s red and blue banner furled on a staff. He watched after them until they were gone around a bend in the road and their hoofbeats faded to silence. “They were Ghoerans, all right,” he said into the rain.
Erin nodded. Madislav scratched his bristling beard and grunted. “They are being on the wrong side of the river.”
“Why am I so important to him?” asked Gaelin, half to himself. “What’s he want with me? Does he hope to hold me as a hostage against my father?”
“There’s another possibility,” Erin said, close behind him.
He twisted in the saddle to look at her. “It could be that he wants to claim the power of your bloodline by killing you. If you were to die by his hand, he’d gain a portion of the power of your line.”
“Bloodtheft,” Gaelin said. He had viewed bloodtheft as a thing of stories and legends. But… even if it was not common, it was still true that a noble’s divine heritage could be wrested away by a blooded rival.
He stared down at his hands, trying to imagine the divine spark or essence that flowed through his veins. Gaelin had never thought much about it. His extraordinary ability to recover from injury had only manifested four or five times in his life, but now his wrists seemed to itch with the hidden risk they contained. “Wait, that doesn’t make sense. When we were attacked on the river, the brigands were trying to kill me. There was no attempt to take me alive. In fact, they only retreated when they were certain they’d mortally wounded me. If Ghoere – or whoever was behind them – wanted my bloodline, he would have to kill me by his own hand.”
Erin leaned forward to keep her words quiet. “If you were dead, that would be one less Mhoried to slay if he wanted to extinguish the entire line.” Killing the last living scion of a bloodline conferred all of that line’s power on the victor, instead of the portion one could claim by slaying an individual.
Erin paused, and then finished her thought. “Ask yourself what could happen if your brother and father were to fall into his hands.”
“You’re suggesting that Tuorel wants nothing less than the annexation of all of Mhoried and the power of the Mhoried blood?” he said slowly. “But why start with us? Why not Elinie, a land he’s already defeated? Or Roesone or Endier, lands far less able to defend themselves?”
“Tuorel intends to build his strength as quickly as possible,” Erin said. “Therefore, he’s going to seize the most powerful bloodline he can reach – why go to all the trouble for a bastard line like Daen Roesone’s, or a weak one like Richard Endier’s?”
Madislav’s face was inscrutable in the shadows beneath the trees. “Erin may be right, Gaelin,” he said, his voice deep and slow. “The facts fit. He would not be caring whether you are dead now or later.”
“No, you’re both missing one important piece of the puzzle,” Gaelin said. “If Tuorel’s out to divest my family of lands and power, he must also have Thendiere and the Mhor in his hands. They’re surrounded by an army of loyal guards and servants.”
“Aye, they are, but Tuorel knows where to find them,” Madislav said. “You, he must look for.”
Erin forced a smile and swung herself up into the saddle.
“Then we are just making sure that Gaelin is not to be getting found,” she said, doing her best to mimic Madislav’s rumbling basso. Suddenly, she cut off their laughter with a flash of her hand. “More riders are coming.”
Again, they retreated into the covering darkness. Gaelin mounted too, sitting on Blackbrand well behind a great oak.
This party came from the crossing as well, but they were riding without lights, and it seemed like a great number of them.
“More horsemen? How many Ghoerans are riding around here, anyway?” Gaelin breathed quietly.
Erin stood in her stirrups, peering toward the road. “This is a larger party than the first,” she said. “They’re turning this way. Wait, there’s Ruide. He’s leading them.”
“Are they in Ghoeran colors?” Madislav asked.
Erin sat back down and cantered out to meet the approaching horsemen. Madislav and Gaelin exchanged a look in the shadows. “Guess not,” Gaelin said, and he followed Erin out onto the road.
In a few moments, they greeted a bedraggled Ruide, surrounded by five dozen Mhorien guards. The men had a tired, nervous look to them, and Gaelin could tell at a glance they’d seen fighting recently. Several horses with empty saddles were led by the men at the back at the column, and others wore bandages or splints over wounds. They were led by a young officer not too much older than Gaelin himself, with a long ponytail worn highland-style and a crooked grin. The captain’s arm was in a sling, and he had a small cut over one eye. When he caught sight of Gaelin, he bowed from the saddle.
“My lord prince,” he said. “Captain Maesan of Riumache reporting, sir.”
“Riumache? You’re one of Lady Tenarien’s men?”
The captain nodded. “She told me to tell you the Mhor received your message. He asked the countess to send some guards after you
, since it would have taken an extra three or four days to send a party from Shieldhaven.”
Madislav caught Gaelin’s attention. “Does he know yet?”
The prince turned back to Maesan. “You know that Ghoere has invaded Mhoried?”
A shadow crossed Maesan’s face. “We heard,” he replied.
“It’s the talk of the heartlands already. We’ve been riding away from the fight for two days now, and it hasn’t been easy.
If we hadn’t found you, my lord prince… it would have been hard to go home empty-handed, knowing we’d missed the fight.”
“I know you were following orders, Captain,” Gaelin answered carefully. He gestured at Maesan’s wounded arm. “I see you haven’t missed all of the fighting.”
The captain pointed back the way they had come. “There are several parties of Ghoeran scouts and guardsmen scouring the old river road.”
“A squadron of cavalrymen rode south not ten minutes ago.”
Maesan spat. “We fought the first two bands we came across, but after that I detoured to the pike to avoid trouble.
It wasn’t in my orders to ride around Alamie sparring with Tuorel’s troops wherever I happened to find them. Though I didn’t think to see them on this side of the Maesil.”
“Nor did I,” Gaelin said. He rubbed his jaw as he considered Maesan’s news. Tuorel had him marked, that was for certain.
He realized the soldiers as well as his riding companions were waiting for him to speak. Gaelin tugged on Blackbrand’s reins and turned the horse toward the north. “Let’s get a few miles away from here, and then we’ll camp till sunrise.”
Maesan saluted and called, “All right, boys! We’re on our way home!” With a few barked commands, he turned the column around and formed them around Gaelin and his party.
They circled the town, staying well out in the fields, and picked up the road again on the other side of Taeren Crossing.
After that they picked up the pace and rode about five or six hours more, until Maesan’s men were almost falling from their horses in exhaustion. Gaelin finally called a halt at moonset.
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 9
