Gaelin was stunned. “You just acknowledged my claim, not a moment ago! Tuorel is a usurper, a murderer! You can’t allow him to take this land as his own!”
“I acknowledge that you have a claim to the Mhoried, Gaelin.
B a ron Tuorel is no friend of mine. But I have a responsibility to the temple, an entity that exists above and beyond the duchy. We may be your subjects, but we must accept the fact that with the fall of House Mhoried we could become subjects of Ghoere, whether or not we find that a pleasant development.”
Gaelin rose from his seat. “What of Haelyn’s tenets? You owe fealty to the lawful lord of Bevaldruor. If you acknowledge that I am the Mhor, then aid me!”
The dignified priestess flushed, but kept her own temper in check. “You are not yet the Mhor, Prince Gaelin. You may recall you are only a claimant to the throne until you speak the oaths before the Red Oak. As the leader of Haelyn’s temple in Mhoried, I will decide if and when you may do so.” She regarded him with an even gaze. “I will offer you shelter and help you if I can, Prince Gaelin. However, I will not risk the destruction of Haelyn’s faith by setting it in opposition to Baron Tuorel.”
Gaelin drew in a breath to continue, but Erin caught his arm with her hand. “Excuse me, your Grace,” she said, “But will you administer the oaths to Gaelin?”
Iviena frowned. “I have here a letter from Baron Noered Tuorel. He refers to the tragic circumstances of the Mhor’s death and also claims that through a marriage made two hundred years ago he is a legal claimant to the throne of Bevaldruor.”
She picked up a parchment from her writing desk and tapped it against her palm. “While it is customary for the Mhor’s eldest son to be recognized as the foremost claimant, it is not necessarily the law. In fact, there are dozens of nobles throughout Anuire who can lay claim to Mhoried’s throne, just as Gaelin here could lay claim to the throne of Diemed or Alamie through old marriages.”
“In other words,” Erin said, “anyone who can prove a blood tie to House Mhoried can claim the throne, but the person with the best claim normally becomes the Mhor.”
“Precisely,” Iviena agreed. “My scholars have already investigated the genealogical records. Tuorel’s claim is legitimate, if somewhat tenuous.”
“Clearly, Gaelin’s claim is superior to Tuorel’s.”
“It would be, if he chose to claim the throne.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Gaelin asked.
“Gaelin, once you swear the oaths Tuorel will have no choice but to hunt you down. Mhoried can have no other legal ruler while you live. If you do not press your claim, you are not truly the Mhor, and you could flee. There are many courts where you could live in safety.” Iviena’s face softened.
“I have no wish to see the last of the Mhorieds dead. Do not force Tuorel’s hand, I beg you.”
“What happens if two people claim the throne?” asked Erin.
“By law, all candidates stand before the Red Oak to see which claimant the Red Oak recognizes. I must tell you that there has been no contested succession in many centuries. For hundreds of years, each Mhor has stood alone before the Oak.”
“Does the law require both candidates to take the test of the Oak at the same time?” Erin asked quickly.
“I do not believe so,” Iviena said, watching the bard.
“I see your point, Erin,” Gaelin said. “I could attempt the Red Oak this very moment, while the high prefect could say she was merely observing the ancient laws for resolving rival claims. Tuorel couldn’t argue against her ruling, since it’s perfectly legal.” He smiled and turned back to the priestess.
“Very well, then. I claim the throne of Mhoried and request the test of the Oak as soon as possible, your Grace.”
Iviena held up a hand. “It will anger Tuorel, but if Prince Gaelin has already received the land’s blessing, the Red Oak is sure to recognize him.” She looked at Gaelin. “I may not be able to give you swords and gold, but that does not mean I will not look for other ways to oppose Tuorel’s taking of this land. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Think before you answer.”
Gaelin glanced down at his hands again, scratching unconsciously at the ache in the center of his injured hand. He had no doubt the priests of Haelyn could find a way to spirit him out of the country if he did not claim his father’s throne.
He also realized Iviena was risking the destruction of her order by defying Tuorel. She was doing as much to help him as he could reasonably expect, so he did as she asked and carefully considered the question of whether or not to press his claim. He tried to imagine leaving Mhoried to live in exile, but his heart told him that was the easy way out. It felt like giving up, and Gaelin knew he would be dishonoring his family and his country by abandoning Mhoried to Tuorel. “I am certain,” he said. “I don’t know how I can defeat Ghoere, but I refuse to let him seize the throne while I live.”
“Then we shall perform the ceremony at sunrise,” Iviena replied. “You may remain here as long as you like, but I cannot guarantee your safety. The temple’s sanctuary is worth only whatever Tuorel decides it is worth.”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Gaelin said. “In the meantime, I would like to borrow the services of your messengers or carrier pigeons; I’ve some letters to draft. And could one of your brothers tend Erin’s wound?”
“Of course,” Iviena said. A sad smile creased her face, and she sat down again. “Gaelin, you know I bear you no ill will.
I have found the Mhors to be honest and honorable rulers. I hope you understand that I cannot help you if I provoke Tuorel’s wrath and bring about the ruin of my temple.”
“It’s not the answer I hoped for, but I understand it,” Gaelin said. He knelt and kissed her hand again. “I suspect that Tuorel may force you to take sides sooner or later, anyway. ”
“I will deal with that when it happens,” she replied. With a nod to the brother superior, she dismissed them. Huire held the door open for Gaelin and Erin, and drew it shut behind them. The grave monk paused just outside the high prefect’s chambers, and faced Gaelin.
“Be patient, Prince Gaelin,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“The high prefect charts a cautious course, but many of us feel that we owe the Mhor any help he asks of us. In time, we may be able to change the high prefect’s mind.” With a slight bow, he turned and led them back to the visitors’ rooms.
*****
Argent moonlight and cool shadow surrounded Gaelin. He was standing in a courtyard in the heart of the abbey, the most sacred spot in all of Mhoried. He remembered being here before – on one or two special occasions, his father had brought him to this place. It was silent and still, with a gleaming silver dew beginning to form on the grassy lawn. He turned and looked on the Red Oak, spreading its mighty branches from the center of the yard. It stood more than one hundred feet in height, and its bark gleamed white in the moonlight.
He was aware he was dreaming again. Everything had a strange, ephemeral quality, a sense of unreality about it.
Gaelin could see through his own body as if looking through a silk screen. The abbey walls shimmered and danced as if to indicate they, too, were not permanent. But the Red Oak glowed with strength and endurance. Everything Gaelin could see would pass in time, but the tree would remain.
He felt a presence near him. Beside him, a silver shadow materialized into the form of his father. Daeric stood still for a long time, gazing upon the tree. “Do you know why it is named the Red Oak, Gaelin?”
“No. I thought no one knew.”
His father smiled. “I do, now. Hundreds of years before Deismaar, this land was settled by our ancestors, the Mhora.
It was a wild and fair land, and the forests around Bevaldruor covered all of it, from the Stonebyrn to the Maesil. Elves lived here, and goblins in the north, but the Mhora drove out the goblins, and this became their land. This tree was old even then, and each Mhor came here to swear his oath of loyalty before Reynir and Anduiras, the a
ncient gods.
“After Deismaar, Prince Raedan returned to speak his oaths beneath the tree. Raedan had been close by Roele and Haelyn when they battled Azrai’s champions, and like many who survived that dreadful battle, Raedan had been infused with the remnants of the divine power. When his blood fell on the roots of this ancient oak and he spoke his oath, something miraculous happened. The Mhor and Mhoried became linked, joined by a drop of blood that carried the power of the gods themselves.” Daeric paused, his eyes fixed on events far beyond Gaelin’s knowledge. “This is the blood that runs in your veins, Gaelin.”
Gaelin discovered the abbey itself had almost faded away.
The open fields and hillsides gleamed as far as he could see.
Two shining silver rivers traced the borders of the land, each a hundred miles away, and to the north, dark, forbidding mountains raised fierce stone battlements over the forested foothills. “I will take the oaths tomorrow,” he said.
“I know,” Daeric said. “And now you know why the Mhors come here to speak the oaths of service.” With a smile, he began to fade away, his form becoming translucent. “Rule well, Mhor Gaelin,” he said, and then he was gone.
Gaelin’s eyes snapped open, and he stared up into the darkness of his chamber. The last slivers of moonlight were stretching across the floor of the room. He quietly rose and moved over to peer out the window, into the night. His window looked over a rooftop and down into the Court of the Oak, and he gazed at the tree, his thoughts still and deep, before returning to bed.
He woke in the cold darkness before dawn and dressed himself. After a cold breakfast in the hostel’s refectory, he went to the inner courtyard, where Iviena waited, attended by a pair of lesser priests. He found his own entourage in attendance – Erin, Bull, Boeric, and Niesa stood back respectfully, witnessing the event.
The ceremony was swift. Iviena led him through the oaths, first in Old Andu, then again in the modern dialect. As he spoke the words, Gaelin found that a strange, otherworldly vision came over him. He vividly imagined the ancient scene of Mhor Raedan touching the Oak with his bloodied hand, and the Oak stirring with the land’s acknowledgement of the Mhoried blood. At the end of the invocation, Iviena offered Gaelin a dagger, holding it across her palm. He took the weapon and cut his hand. Stepping forward to touch his bloodied hand to the smooth old bark, he spoke the words of his oath as the first rays of the sun set the Oak’s leaves to a brilliant, burning scarlet. With that, the oath was finished, and Gaelin was Mhor.
An hour after sunrise, the companions were on their way again, riding west from the abbey toward the Ceried estate.
The entourage surrounding Gaelin was growing. On Iviena’s insistence, the dour Brother Superior Huire had joined his party – ostensibly to provide spiritual guidance in Gaelin’s hour of need and maintain a representative of the Temple of Haelyn in the Mhor’s court. Gaelin guessed Huire was assigned to report his plans and situation to the high prefect at the earliest opportunity, but he accepted the gaunt monk into his confidence. Four Haelynite soldiers templar accompanied the priest.
Count Baesil’s castle and lands were located in the western reaches of the province of Byrnnor, and no major roads crossed this region. They traveled from village to village along muddy cart tracks and overgrown paths. Most people here were still in their homes and continued their daily work, watching over rolling fields of grain and corn or tending sheep on green hillsides.
The fine weather faded through the day as a leaden overcast darkened the sky, threatening rain. The wind turned to the north and cooled noticeably, and by the time they halted to water the horses and eat a scanty lunch from their packs, Gaelin’s face was red with windburn. While they ate, he motioned for Erin to join him on a lichen-frosted boulder, a short distance from the others. “I saw my father again last night,” he said quietly.
Erin bit into a small green apple and gave him a thoughtful look. “Go on,” she said.
“We were standing in the Court of the Oak. He showed me how the Oak was named, hundreds of years ago.” He paused, then turned to the bard. “Am I losing my mind? Or is my father’s spirit still watching over me?”
“The Mhor Daeric perished with Mhoried in great danger,” Erin said. “Perhaps he watches over you, hoping to see you restored to your rightful place, and the enemies of the land defeated.” She shrugged, and took another bite of her apple.
“And even if you’re imagining these meetings, what does it matter? You are as sane as I am, or just about anyone I know, for that matter. At worst this is your own way of saying goodbye to your father.”
They sat a while in a companionable silence. They had stopped by an abandoned farmhouse, its roof long since gone. The fields were strewn with boulders and the remnants of an old stone wall. Gaelin stood, stretched, and brushed off his breeches.
Erin started to stand as well, but she suddenly stopped and cocked her head. Then she scrambled for her horse. “Riders coming!” she cried. There was a moment of blank confusion, as some of the Haelynites looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Gaelin dropped his food and ran for Blackbrand. In one smooth motion, he pulled himself into the saddle.
At the top of the hill, Boeric was standing watch. He leaped to his feet and zigzagged down the grassy slope. “Ghoerans, just behind us, and coming fast!” he yelled.
“How many?” Gaelin called.
“Too many to fight, that’s for sure,” Boeric replied. He hauled himself into his saddle and seized the reins. His placid expression was gone, replaced by a bright-eyed alertness.
Gaelin glanced around. Most of the party was mounted again. “We’ll try to outrun them!” he said. “After me!” He kicked his heels into Blackbrand’s flanks and let the stallion have his head. Mud and turf flying from his hooves, the horse b roke into a strong gallop down the rutted cart track. In ones and twos, the others followed, spurring their own steeds after him. In a matter of moments, they were strung out over a couple of hundred yards of countryside, each rider coaxing the best speed he could from his animal. Blackbrand outpaced the others, and Gaelin stood in his stirrups to look over his shoulder.
Black-clad cavalrymen swept through the old homestead, in hot pursuit. The trailing riders, a pair of Huire’s guardsmen, were only a hundred yards or so ahead of the Ghoerans, but they seemed to be holding their lead. Some of the Ghoerans were firing after the Haelynites, but their bolts flew wide of the mark.
Gaelin turned back to mind his own path. If the Ghoerans had been riding hard all morning to catch up to them, they might not be able to sustain this pace for long, especially since Gaelin and his band had just rested their horses. “Keep up the pace!” he called. “We’ll wear them down!”
Blackbrand’s hooves thundered beneath him. The track wound over several shallow hills, then plunged into a dense thicket, the trees pressing close in a dark tunnel. Gaelin risked another backward glance. Some of the Ghoerans were falling out of the race, but a few still clung doggedly to their trail, whipping their horses like madmen.
They burst from the copse into an open field, horses foaming at the mouth. The lead Ghoerans finally began to fall back. One persistent fellow stayed with them for another mile, but eventually he too dropped out, shaking his fist as his horse pulled up limping. Gaelin slowed his own pace and settled into an easy canter for another couple of miles, the rest of the Mhoriens following suit. Finally they turned off the road, finding another track leading in the general direction in which they wanted to travel.
“Think they’re still with us?” Erin asked. Clods of mud were stuck in her hair, and she grimaced as she pulled one from her tresses and dropped it to the ground.
“They won’t give up so easily, now that they’ve caught our trail,” Gaelin said. “We’d better keep moving quickly. That band may not catch us, but they’ll report to their superiors.”
The horses were exhausted from the long run, and Gaelin decided to dismount and lead them for a bit. They should have let the animals rest
, but he didn’t think it would be wise.
He patted Blackbrand’s neck and promised himself he’d find an extra apple for the big stallion that night. Baesil Ceried’s army was still somewhere ahead, but he noticed everyone was looking over their shoulders as they marched on in the gray drizzle.
Chapter Eleven
Riding as fast as they dared push the horses, Gaelin and his companions covered fifty miles on the first day of travel from the abbey. They encountered no more Ghoerans, but they ran across the work of marauders and raiders in several places.
Gaelin was surprised to find black-feathered goblin arrows by one homestead near the border of Dhalsiel and Byrnnor.
Even in the worst winter raids, the goblins of Markazor didn’t come this far west into Mhoried.
They camped for a few hours in the ruins of a long-abandoned estate in the countryside, stabling their mounts in the wreckage of the manor’s hall. Before sunrise, they rose and continued on their way, blundering through a dense, wet fog that shrouded them in gray mist.
After a morning of cutting across the broad, open fields of Byrnnor, Gaelin spied the dark turrets of a castle looming out of the rain, a few hundred yards ahead. Castle Ceried was not as large or modern as Shieldhaven, but it was still a well-built motte-and-bailey fortress, slowly improved over the years by the counts of Ceried. The fields around the castle were crowded with the white tents and smoky fires of the army of Mhoried.
They rode beneath the castle’s rain-streaked battlements.
Gaelin led the way under the castle’s gatehouse, followed by the rest of his entourage. Adetachment of men-at-arms in the colors of House Ceried manned the gate. The sergeant in charge held up his hand to stop Gaelin as he rode into the courtyard. “Halt, sir,” he said in a rough voice. “Your name?”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 17
