“What can I do? Mhoried’s beaten. I’ll be lucky if I escape the country with my head still on my shoulders.”
“You’re going to flee? Why?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Ghoere’s won. Tuorel crushed the army, he captured the capital, half of the Mhorien lords have abandoned the fight or been overrun, and the Mhor’s dead – ”
Erin cut him off. “No, he’s not.” She glared into his face with a fiery intensity. “I’m talking to him.”
“Who in their right mind would call me the Mhor now?”
“If you’re not the Mhor, then who is?” Erin countered.
Gaelin stopped, a scowl twisting his face as he searched for a response. “Well?” Erin continued. “Two or three of the Mhorien lords have forsworn their oaths, but what of the others?
Some will recognize you, if you claim the throne.”
“If I claim the throne, Tuorel will hunt me down and kill me,” Gaelin said. “He’ll destroy anyone who supports me.”
“If you don’t claim the throne, Tuorel wins without opposition.
Your family dies unavenged, your lands become part of Ghoere.” She reached out and grasped his good hand.
“Could you live with yourself if you let that happen?”
At the barn door, Boeric stood suddenly and drew back into the darkness. “Someone’s coming, my lord,” he said quietly.
Gaelin twisted to look. “Ghoerans?”
Boeric shook his head with a smile. “Not unless Tuorel’s sent farmers to invade us.” He quickly roused Niesa, who started pulling her mail shirt back over her tunic.
Gaelin pushed himself to his feet and moved up beside Boeric, peering through a missing board in the wall. A dozen men were walking across the fields toward the barn, led by a stout old fellow in a leather jerkin studded with small bronze plates. They carried an assortment of weapons; about half were armed with powerful longbows, a couple carried old woodaxes or boarspears, and one ham-fisted giant carried a twenty-pound mattock over his shoulder. The motley band halted about thirty yards from the barn, and the leader stepped forward.
“All right, then, you in the barn! Come on out and show yourselves!”
Gaelin looked at Boeric and shrugged. He stayed back in the shadows. “Who are you?” he called.
“I’m Piere of Sirilmeet. These are my fields, and that’s my barn you slept in. Now show yourself, or I’ll shoot you for a goblin.” The archers among the band nocked arrows and held them half-drawn, searching the shadows for targets.
“The town militia,” Boeric observed. “What do we do?”
“I can’t believe that they’d hand us over to the Ghoerans,”
Gaelin said. He nodded at the others, and stepped out into the morning sunlight. “My thanks for your hospitality, Master Piere, and I apologize for not asking your leave first,”
Gaelin said. “We were pursued by Ghoere’s men.”
Piere nodded. “I knew that someone’d borrowed my barn this morning, so I rounded up some lads to see who was sleeping under my roof.” The farmer squinted and peered at Gaelin’s surcoat, examining the device. “Begging your pardon, Sir Knight, but I can’t make out your heraldry. You’ve got the emblem of the Guardians, I can see that much.”
“I’m Gaelin Mhoried, son of the Mhor Daeric.”
Some of the townsmen and farmers stood gaping, while Piere awkwardly went to one knee. The others followed suit.
Piere looked up at Gaelin, and asked, “My lord, is it true that the Mhor’s dead, and Prince Thendiere too? And that Shieldhaven’s held by the Ghoerans?”
Gaelin nodded, meeting Piere’s gaze evenly. “I’m afraid it’s all true, Master Piere. How did you hear of it?”
“Word’s been around the countryside, my lord. Ghoere’s soldiers hold the roads leading into Bevaldruor, but I guess they couldn’t keep the rumors from leaving.” The old farmer shook his head. “Even seeing you here, my lord, I can’t believe it.”
Gaelin recalled the Mhorien servants he had seen in Shieldhaven.
I don’t expect he brought many from his own castle, he thought. Even if the Mhoriens weren’t allowed to leave Shieldhaven, they’d have family and friends in Bevaldruor-town who would hear what happened. And every road in Mhoried leads to Bevaldruor. He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “By now, the news of the Mhor’s death must be all over the countryside,” he said, musing aloud. “The only reason we missed it is because we were moving fast and riding through regions that had been abandoned to Ghoere’s armies.”
Piere glanced at his fellows, and said carefully, “So, my lord, you are the Mhor now?”
Gaelin looked across the fields, to where the sun was coming up. The morning was slightly overcast, and the clouds painted the sky in scarlet and gold. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “For now I am, Piere. You said that Sirilmeet was near?”
“Only a mile west, my lord.”
“Castle Dhalsiel’s a few miles north of the town,” Gaelin said to Erin. “We may be closer to help than we thought we were.” He turned back to Piere and asked, “Have Ghoere’s armies moved into Dhalsiel yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard, my lord.” Piere glanced at the men around him and added, “They haven’t done much about the Ghoerans, though. It seems that Tuorel’s scouts and raiders have free passage of Dhalsiel for now, even if the main armies haven’t come any farther than Shieldhaven.”
Gaelin scowled, looking away over the fields, now red and gold with the sunrise. The brittle husks of last year’s corn littered the field; in a week or two, it would be time for the year’s crops to go into the ground.
“Where will you go now, my lord Mhor?” Piere asked.
“Castle Dhalsiel,” Gaelin said. “We’ll see what we can learn from the count.” From the way the Sirilmeet men shifted and exchanged looks with each other, Gaelin suspected that they weren’t particularly fond of their lord or the stand he’d taken so far in the war. Erin gave him a cautious look as well, but she didn’t say anything.
“We’ll see you to the castle, my lord,” Piere said. “Don’t worry about any Ghoerans.”
“My thanks, Master Piere.” In a few minutes, they had the remnants of their gear gathered together. Gaelin insisted that Erin ride Blackbrand as they followed Piere and the militiamen.
The other horses were still exhausted, but the big stallion possessed a remarkable endurance. On either side, the Sirilmeeters escorted them like palace guards on parade, swinging their arms with their tools and rusty old weapons slung over their shoulders.
As they started off across the fields, Gaelin walking beside Erin, she leaned down and said quietly, “Count Dhalsiel didn’t send any troops to the Mhor’s muster. Do you trust him?”
“Before I started my training in the Knights Guardian, Cuille Dhalsiel was one of my best friends. We got into all kinds of trouble together when we were fourteen or fifteen.”
Gaelin smiled for a moment, recalling some of their escapades.
“He’s a rake and a rogue, but I don’t believe he would hand me over to Ghoere.”
“I hope you’re right,” Erin said.
They crossed the fields worked by the villagers, and then took to winding cart tracks that led to outlying farms and shepherds’ pastures. About an hour after noon, they reached the town of Beldwyn, the site of Castle Dhalsiel. The castle was modest compared to Shieldhaven, consisting of a keep, hall, and chapel surrounded by a low stone wall, pierced by several small gatehouses. It was familiar to Gaelin; he had visited frequently when he was younger. Now, studying the battlements, he found he was hesitant to enter.
“Do you expect another ambush?” Erin asked.
“No, but still…” Gaelin forced a smile onto his face. “Let’s go on inside. We have nothing to fear here.” Piere and his fellows turned back for home as Gaelin, Erin, and their two guardsmen rode up to one of the castle’s side gates.
A pair of guards manned the portcullis. They watched with studied disinterest
as Gaelin led his small party into the courtyard. He noted as they entered that the interior wall dividing the upper bailey from the lower bailey had been torn down to increase the size of the castle’s hall, and new construction had also masked the fields of fire of several towers.
Gaelin caught a scowl of contempt on Boeric’s face, and realized the soldier had reached the same conclusions: Dhalsiel had neglected the fortifications in his care.
Still unchallenged and unannounced, they stabled their horses and entered the castle’s hall, guarded by two more lackadaisical halberdiers. A chamberlain finally stopped them as they stood in the doorway. “You’re just in time for the noontime meal, Sir Knight,” he said. “May I announce you to the count? Your retainers can find something to eat in the servant’s quarters.”
“Tell the count I bear a message from Shieldhaven for his ears alone,” Gaelin said to the chamberlain. “Can you show me a private room in which to wait?”
The chamberlain gave him a skeptical look but did as he was asked. “Gather what supplies you can,” Gaelin whispered to Boeric. “Make sure we’re ready to remount and leave within minutes, if necessary.” The soldier nodded and trotted back into the courtyard, Niesa in tow. Then Gaelin and Erin followed the chamberlain to a small, disused shrine in the castle’s old hall.
After a quarter-hour Gaelin caught the footfalls of several people in the hall outside, with the tones of Cuille’s voice. A moment later the young lord appeared, dressed in his usual finery. As hort knight in blue-lacquered armor and a middle-aged woman in a brocade dress followed him. Cuille took one step into the room, and his jaw dropped in astonishment as he met Gaelin’s eyes. “Gaelin! What on earth are you doing here? ”
“It’s good to see you, too, Cuille. Is this a safe place to talk?”
“Of course.” The count quickly recovered. He waved a hand to indicate his two advisors. “I have the utmost faith in Trebelaen and Viersha, here.” He moved forward and took Gaelin’s hand in a firm grip, vigorously shaking his hand. “I can’t believe you’re alive, Gaelin. This is great news!”
“You expected to hear of his death, instead?” Erin asked.
“Why would you have thought Gaelin dead, Count Dhalsiel?”
Cuille pulled away and examined Erin. “I do not believe I have the honor of your acquaintance, my lady.”
“This is Erin Graysong, of the White Hall,” Gaelin said.
“You may recall that I traveled to Endier to escort her to Mhoried.”
“Ah! Of course!”
“She raises an interesting question, Cuille,” Gaelin continued.
“Why should you expect me dead?”
“Well, I heard of the fall of Shieldhaven and the Mhor’s death. I thought you might have been taken as well.”
“You knew I was in Endier,” Gaelin pointed out. “I told you I was going, the last time I saw you in Shieldhaven.”
“Gaelin, I don’t know what to say, where to begin. So much has happened, in the space of a single week.” Cuille clasped his hands behind his back and paced away. “What are you going to do? I mean, where are you going to go?”
“My father and brother are dead. I am the Mhor.”
Cuille glanced at Gaelin. “You don’t want to be the Mhor.
You were never interested in statesmanship. Besides, if you go about saying that you’re the Mhor, Tuorel’s going to run you to ground. You’d be wise to leave Mhoried while you can. Seek shelter in Diemed – you’ve family there – or maybe the city of Anuire. Better yet, head east and lay low in Brechtur somewhere. Get out of Tuorel’s reach.”
“ A life in exile, always waiting for Tuorel’s assassins to strike again?” Erin observed. “That’s not particularly courageous.”
“Courage is a mask for stupidity,” Cuille retorted. “Tuorel’s got all of the southlands, from Tenarien to Balteruine, and he’ll hold Cwlldon and Byrnnor before the month’s out. The war’s done with already.”
“Would you back me if I decided to fight?” Gaelin asked.
“Gaelin, that’s – ”
“Answer the question, Cuille! If I declare myself the Mhor and fight Tuorel, would you stand behind me?”
“I don’t know, Gaelin,” the lord replied uneasily.
“Which means no, except you don’t have the stomach to say it to my face.”
“Gaelin, be realistic. Your entire army consists of two soldiers down in the stables, and your court is one bard. How can I set myself against Ghoere now? I would be crushed.”
“Then you should have thought of that before you elected to keep your soldiers at home instead of sending them to Cwlldon!” snapped Gaelin. “Cuille, you wouldn’t have to be afraid of Tuorel if you had helped my father stand against him. Some of his blood is on your hands.”
“Wait! Gaelin, I had nothing to do with his death!”
“It seems you had nothing to do with anything,” Gaelin replied.
“How could I know Tuorel meant to kill him?” Cuille said, throwing his hands in the air and turning away.
There was a moment of silence in the room. In a small, cold voice, Erin said, “What did you say, my lord count?”
“I said, ‘How could I know – ’ ”
“You knew Tuorel was going to attack Shieldhaven,”
Gaelin said. “You knew, and you didn’t say anything.” He turned away, his chest aching as if he’d been physically struck. “Let me guess. Ghoeran emissaries promised you something if you would just stand aside. Was it money? Lands? Or something else?”
“Gaelin, you have to understand the position I was in. You don’t know everything that was going on!”
“Cuille, I don’t want to know what your price was. I hope that whatever Tuorel gave you was worth it.” Gaelin looked at Erin and said, “Come on, let’s go. There’s nothing here for us.”
He pivoted and marched to the door, turning his back on the count. He didn’t even glance over his shoulder, but suddenly Cuille muttered a vicious oath under his breath and spoke.
“It was Ilwyn,” Cuille said. “I asked Tuorel to spare her. I knew he was going to attack, and I told him I’d refuse the Mhor’s summons if he didn’t harm her.”
Gaelin stopped and turned to face Cuille. The count shifted his weight nervously. Quite deliberately, Gaelin drew his sword, the steel hissing as it slid out of the sheath. “You bought my sister by betraying my father?”
Erin stepped forward quickly and grabbed Gaelin’s sword arm. “Gaelin, don’t! If you kill him, you’ll be dead in minutes.”
She spared the count a single contemptuous glance.
“Besides, he’s miserable already. Look at him, Gaelin!”
Cuille made no move to defend himself. His advisors, Trebelaen and the Lady Viersha, stood frozen. Gaelin took another half-step forward, feeling cold and sick inside. He raised the sword, and held it for a moment before slamming it back into its sheath and turning away in disgust. Without a word he left Cuille standing in the center of the room. Erin gave the count one last withering glare and then followed him out.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” Gaelin replied. “I can’t stay here, though.”
In the courtyard, Gaelin found Boeric and Niesa waiting, their horses laden with full saddlebags. He patted Blackbrand on the neck, swung up into the saddle, and rode out of the castle without looking back.
*****
Bannier stood in the dark heart of his tower, contemplating the work that lay before him. The door into night stood waiting in the corner of the chamber, and before the shadow the Princess Ilwyn trembled like a pale white flower. Her head was bowed, and her hands were bound behind her back with thin silver chains, looped gracefully over one wrist and under the other. The cold metal was far too delicate to restrain her physically, but it concealed powerful enchantments that deadened Ilwyn’s will. Her blank gaze wandered off into the darkness. “Wait here, Ilwyn, and do not move,” Bannier said.
It might have b
een a trick of his eyes, but the girl’s shoulders seemed to sag a little lower, and her head nodded forward.
The wizard smiled with satisfaction and left the room. In the chamber below, his sitting room, Bannier entertained another guest. Sprawled out in the center of the room lay Madislav, his chest slowly rising and falling.
The wizard examined Madislav again, reassuring himself that all was ready. He had been able to preserve the Vos warrior’s life the night before, using an elixir that was nearly irreplaceable.
Still, he considered it a worthwhile investment. Tuorel had goaded him into taking matters into his own hands; Bannier was determined to do so in the time and manner he saw fit.
He reached into the pouch at his belt and withdrew an acrid red powder. Measuring just a pinch, he tossed it into Madislav’s face. The warrior’s eyes flew open, and he drew in a great breath, then spat out a string of Vos oaths. “ Slavnyi boi! Where am I?”
Bannier leaned into his field of view. “You’re in my tower, Madislav. You recognize me, don’t you?”
Anger contorted the Vos’s face. “Bannier,” he snarled.
Then, a moment later, his face paled. “I cannot move.”
“Aye,” the wizard agreed. “Not until I allow you to, and I’ve no wish to see whether or not you have enough strength left to break me like a stick.”
Madislav closed his eyes. A moment later, he seemed to regain some of his composure. “What is it you are wanting of me?”
“I have a task for you,” Bannier said. “You are going to help me track down Gaelin and capture him.”
The Vos laughed, but the sound came out as a ghastly chuckle. “I am not thinking so,” he said after he finished.
“Trust me, Madislav, you’ll have little choice in the matter.
In fact, I intend to borrow your body for a time. Your mind will be held in this gem.” Bannier held up a large emerald, perfectly cut, with myriad flashing facets. “I will send my mind into your body. To all outward appearances, I will be Madislav. That may allow me to find our elusive prince and get close to him before Tuorel’s hounds run him to ground.”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 15
