Gaelin stood unsteadily, one hand clamped over the burning wounds in the middle of his body, his sword still in his hand. The Vos was still more than fifty feet away, and uphill at that; he’d never reach him in time to prevent the spell, and he couldn’t throw his sword with any accuracy. He took a step forward and demanded, “Who are you? What have you done with Madislav?”
Bannier paused, his hands still ready with the spell. Behind him, the horses still plunged and danced, whinnying in fright. He grinned at Gaelin. “This body is indeed Madislav, but I am not,” he said. “The barbarian’s mind is entrapped in a gem in my stronghold, and my own body sleeps there too.”
“Bannier,” breathed Gaelin. “I should have known.”
“Your observation is correct,” Bannier said. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I need to deprive you of your powers of movement and speech.” He raised his hands again.
For an instant, Gaelin was transfixed by panic. Then he cried out, “Blackbrand! Kick!”
Behind Bannier, the great black war-horse reared and lashed out with his hooves, hammering the Vos with a pair of crushing blows. One hoof clipped the side of Bannier’s head, and he pitched forward, rolling down the hillside in a nerveless tangle of arms and legs. He came to a stop spread-eagled on his back, a few yards away from Gaelin. Even before he stopped sliding, Gaelin was standing over him, sword poised at his friend’s throat. Blood streamed down the side of Bannier’s face. “Bannier! Release your hold on Madislav, or I swear by Haelyn, I’ll – ”
“You’ll what?” coughed Bannier weakly. “Run your friend through? Open his throat, instead? What will you do, Gaelin?” Bannier’s eyes were unfocused and filming, and his arms and legs trembled uselessly.
Gaelin blinked, still holding the sword at his throat. Tears blurred his vision. “I’ll cut his tongue out before I let you speak another spell with his mouth,” he promised darkly.
Bannier managed a weak chuckle. “Don’t bother. You’ve broken his back. Can’t move. And my head feels funny… this body’s ruined, I think.”
Gaelin dropped to his knees, still threatening Madislav with the sword. “Be damned to Azrai’s hells, then, Bannier. If Madislav dies, he’ll be glad to know you’re dying with him!”
“Sorry, Gaelin… doesn’t work that way. My own body’s just fine… I’ll be back there in a flash, faster than thought… though you’ve parried this thrust nicely.”
Gaelin’s voice broke in a heaving sob. “Damn you! Why?”
“Needed the Mhoried bloodline.” With a great effort, Bannier held off dying for a few more minutes, his eyes burning brightly in Madislav’s sagging face.
“Bannier, you were my friend, my teacher! How could you do this to my family?”
“If you’d continued your studies, I would have shown you marvels, Gaelin. Terrors and glories unimaginable. I made a bargain, and the Mhorieds were the price I was to pay.” He sagged back, blood welling up in his mouth. “Listen to me, Gaelin. I have your sister. And I’m growing tired of trying to catch you. Surrender yourself to me, or she will die in ways that you can’t even imagine. It’s you I want. Give up, and I’ll let her go. I’ll even make sure Tuorel never finds her.” He coughed and spat blood. “I swear by the Face of Evil that she’ll die by the next full moon if you don’t leave this place and come to me.” His eyes burned intensely into Gaelin’s own for a moment and then began to fade. “Your choice, Gaelin,” he breathed, and fell still.
Gaelin looked up as Seriene slid down the hillside toward him. An ugly purple bruise was already forming on her jaw.
She knelt beside him, and looked up at his face. “Gaelin, I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He cradled Madislav’s head in his lap and leaned forward, tears falling on the warrior’s face. There was one brief flicker of life, the eyes opened, and for a moment the old Madislav was looking up at him. The expression, the cast of his eyes -
Gaelin knew at a glance his friend had returned. Madislav breathed softly, “Gaelin?”
“Madislav! You’re back!” Gaelin tried to show him a reassuring smile, but he bowed his head instead, weeping.
“Bannier is dead?”
“No. He said that he’d return to his own body when…”
Gaelin couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I saw his stronghold. He took me into the Shadow World.” Madislav’s voice was growing weak. “He has Ilwyn… it is a cold place, Gaelin. I am glad I am not being there.”
“We’ll find a priest, Madislav, one of the Haelynites who knows the healing spells!” Gaelin started to pick him up, to carry him to help. “Don’t give up!”
“Burn my body, Gaelin, in the Vos way,” the warrior whispered.
“Destevnye duma, my friend.”
Gaelin laid Madislav back to the ground and turned away.
He knelt in the cold, wet grass of the hillside, his hands over his eyes. After a long time, Seriene put her hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Gaelin. It’s time for us to go.”
Chapter Thirteen
In the days that followed, Gaelin wandered the weathered battlements of Caer Winoene, pacing the castle’s walls like an animal measuring the dimensions of a cage. He realized that Bannier had deliberately avoided him except for a few brief conversations; the true Madislav had been absent for weeks.
Over and over, he replayed the confrontation on the hillside in his mind’s eye, trying to imagine how it might have gone differently.
In accordance with the custom of the Vos, Gaelin burned Madislav’s body on a pyre two days after his death, as the moon was rising over the shadowed hills. Gaelin himself set the pile to flame, and he stayed hours after most of the others had left, watching the twisting pall of smoke curling up into the starry sky. It was also a tradition of the Vos to watch over a warrior’s pyre until sunrise, and Gaelin stood by in silence all through the cold night.
As the sky was lightening in the east, Gaelin’s reverie was broken by the arrival of Seriene. She rode up and stopped a respectful distance from the bier, dismounting and leaving her horse with her guards. Since Bannier’s attack, both Gaelin and Seriene had been much more carefully watched by their respective bodyguards, allowing them little time alone with each other.
Seriene was dressed in fine riding clothes, a warm fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She paused for a respectful moment of silence and asked quietly, “Am I intruding? ”
“No, of course not,” Gaelin replied. He shook himself a little and turned away from the smoldering ashes. His limbs ached with cold, and he knew he needed sleep, but he was not tired. Instead, his senses were alert. “I’ve observed the vigil, as he would have liked. I’m just daydreaming now.”
“Thinking of Madislav?”
He nodded. “He was my best friend. I’ll miss him.”
“There was nothing more you could have done, Gaelin.”
He laughed with acidic scorn. “I seem to be hearing that a lot lately. ‘Sorry, Gaelin, it couldn’t be helped.’ It feels like a poor excuse for causing the death of my friend.”
Seriene remained silent for a long time. “What are you going to do about Ilwyn?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “If I do nothing, I don’t doubt that Bannier will do exactly what he threatens. And if I give myself up, how do I know that he’ll keep his word?”
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about surrendering yourself!”
He looked into the smoking ashes of Madislav’s pyre.
“How many people have died for me already? Daene, Ruide, Madislav, Tiery, my entire family! All the people who made Shieldhaven my home are gone.” Although he fought to control himself, his voice grew higher and hot tears stung his eyes. “How can I let the last living member of my family die in my place?”
Seriene glared, with no hint of compassion in her face.
“You’re a selfish bastard if you think that you’re the only one with a stake in this,” she said angrily. “Don’t you realize there are
thousands of people who are counting on you to see them through to the end of this? What do you think Tuorel will do to those nobles and soldiers, their families, if you abandon them because you feel bad that you’re alive? Tuorel will slaughter them for rebels, and you know it.”
Anger burned in Gaelin’s chest as Seriene finished. Coldly, he said, “Ilwyn is the gentlest soul I know. The thought of Bannier torturing her makes me want to tear my own heart out. But he’ll do it, if I don’t surrender.”
“So you’d place one life against the hopes of an entire kingdom? ”
Gaelin turned away. “What kind of monster would I be if I didn’t, Seriene? What kind of Mhor would I be, to hide here in safety while Bannier holds my sister hostage?”
Seriene snorted and tossed her head. “Gaelin, you’ve got to weigh the consequences of your actions. If that means you have to do things you don’t like, that’s too bad! You have a responsibility to more than your conscience. Ilwyn’s life is nothing compared to the life of Mhoried itself!”
He looked up and met her eyes. “Do you mean the life of Mhoried, or the life of Diemed’s northern ally?”
Seriene’s face turned white, as if from a blow, but her voice remained steady. “Do you think that’s all this is about? An alliance against Ghoere?” Her voice grew colder still. “Do you think I planned to give you my heart, Gaelin?”
Gaelin stared at her, his mind racing. She waited for his answer, fuming, fiercely beautiful. He was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to take her in his arms and drown his reservations in passion. “No,” he said carefully. “I believe your feelings are sincere. But whether or not you feel anything for me, your interests lie in keeping me alive – no matter what it takes for me to stay on the throne, what I have to give up for the sake of being the Mhor.”
“Of course, you idiot! Gaelin, I care about you! I don’t want to see you dead!” Tears glimmered in Seriene’s eyes. She stood there for a moment, too angry or upset for words, and then stormed off. She caught her horse’s reins and swung back into the saddle, kicking her heels into the animal’s flanks and riding off at a full gallop while her guards followed at a respectful distance.
Gaelin pitched a stone aside with a sigh, staring off across the moors. The orange rim of the sun climbed above the horizon.
The vigil was over. He said one last goodbye to Madislav and then walked down the hill to join his guards and return to Caer Winoene for some sleep.
When he woke in the late afternoon, Huire informed him that Erin had returned from Cariele. Gaelin’s dark mood dissipated immediately. He rushed to pull on his boots and throw a clean tunic over his shirt He started toward the great hall with an excited spring in his step, Huire striding quickly to keep up with him. But as Gaelin hurried to greet her, his feet slowed. There was no reason he should feel guilty about his tryst with Seriene. Erin had no claim on Gaelin, and they had never spoken of any feelings between them. But Gaelin still felt as if he had betrayed her.
“I wonder what news Minstrel Erin brings from Cariele?”
Huire offered, as he tried to hurry with dignity.
“We’ll soon see,” Gaelin replied. As usual, several dozen people were scattered throughout the chamber – minor lords, knights, and merchants engaged in settling hundreds of deals and compacts that characterized a royal court. Gaelin spied Erin’s fiery hair gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall, vaulted windows. She wore her traveling clothes, dust and wear from the road marking her garments.
Erin was already engaged in discussions with Seriene and Prelate Edoeren of the Dieman contingent. As Gaelin entered she glanced up, and their eyes met.
Erin excused herself from her conversation and approached, showing just a hint of weariness in her pace. Seriene smoothed her skirts and followed. “My lord Mhor,”
Erin said, curtseying. “I can report success in Cariele. Queen Aerelie has decided to recognize you as the rightful heir to the throne of Mhoried and intends to formalize relations with your court.”
“ Well done!” Gaelin said. “Will she aid us against Ghoere? ”
Erin’s face fell a little. “The queen was unwilling to commit any forces to the conflict, but she did agree to treat her border with your territory as the old border of Mhoried. She returned her tariffs and duties to the normal, prewar level.”
“What did you have to promise her?” asked Gaelin.
“Freedom from tariffs for Carielan merchants bringing wares across the border for ten years. Queen Aerelie’s purse strings are held by the trading costers of Cariele, and I knew they’d jump at the chance to undercut Mhorien merchants.”
Erin grimaced. “I tried to encourage her to show more support than mere recognition, but at least your supply lines are secure. The materials we’ve already purchased are on their way now.”
“I didn’t really expect Aerelie to offer any military help,”
Gaelin said. “We’ll let the Carielans make their money for now – this is still good news. We’ll be able to keep the army supplied, even without the food and arms we lost in our retreat from Castle Ceried.”
Erin smiled in satisfaction. “Maybe events are finally starting to favor us,” she said. “What happened while I was away?”
Gaelin involuntarily glanced at Seriene. The princess met his eyes calmly. He felt his face growing warm. Deliberately, he returned his attention to Erin, searching for words. “Bannier struck at us while you were gone,” he finally said, the words harsh in his mouth.
A flicker of an unreadable expression crossed Erin’s face.
“Bannier? But how?”
Gaelin indicated the crowded hall with the sweep of one hand. “Let’s take up the discussion in the audience chamber,” he suggested. He followed Huire, taking Erin’s arm with one last look at Seriene. The princess coolly returned to her own business. In the privacy of the smaller room, Gaelin related the details of Bannier’s deception and Madislav’s death. He omitted nothing but the passionate encounter with Seriene.
When he finished, Erin measured him intensely, her eyes piercing him like daggers. “What will you do about Bannier’s offer?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully enough. “It seems like the height of folly to deliver myself to his hands… but how can I stand by and do nothing?”
“You force the decision on Bannier by ignoring his threat.
He can carry it out if he wishes, but he loses his hold on you.”
“You’re right, of course. But if Bannier sees that I won’t let myself be threatened with Ilwyn’s life, she becomes useless as a hostage, and he may decide to kill her to claim her portion of the Mhoried bloodline. For that matter, he may kill her to teach me a lesson, or out of sheer spite.” Gaelin paced the small room helplessly. “I’m certain that I won’t like what happens if I call his bluff, Erin. His threat against Ilwyn could very well be the only promise to me that he would keep.”
“Well, you have two more weeks to decide. With your per- mission, I’ll retire to my chambers. I’ve had five long days of riding, and I’m exhausted. My ear is yours, if you need to talk.” She rose, stretched, and turned her back on Gaelin. “Although I suspect that Seriene would be glad to counsel you, too,” she added from the door. She swept out of the room with regal disdain.
*****
For the next week, Gaelin avoided both Seriene and Erin.
Although he had to speak with both women several times each day, he was careful to keep the conversation purely impersonal.
Seriene accepted his distance with nothing more than a slight, knowing smile, as if she saw through his tactic and was willing to wait him out. Erin, on the other hand, seemed confused at first and grew angry at him as he dodged her day after day. Gaelin threw himself into his duties, working from sunup to midnight with a madman’s energy, but Bannier’s ultimatum weighed on him, lurking spiderlike in his mind. Gaelin was delaying the inevitable decision, and he knew it. Hiding behind the title o
f Mhor was nothing more than an excuse not to think about the alternatives.
M o re troops trickled into Caer Winoene, and Gaelin noticed a grim smile on Baesil Ceried’s face when he reviewed the army instead of the sullen scowl that had marked the general’s features before. They were still desperately short on equipment, but Baesil had taken the most experienced men and broken them up among units of raw recruits to speed up the training process. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the trained men and the recruits segregated on the battlefield?” Gaelin asked him one afternoon. “If you have a company of archers, and half of them run away, won’t the whole unit break? Aren’t we taking a chance by dispersing our veterans like this?”
“Certainly we are,” Baesil replied. “But, I’ve got no choice.
Baehemon’s on his way, and I have to be able to put as many men as possible into the field. I can’t mollycoddle the recruits any more. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the experienced men, they’ll learn faster than they would by training alone.”
“I don’t doubt that, Count Baesil. But a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link.”
The grizzled old count gave Gaelin a measuring look.
“This is the best answer I can find, my lord,” he said. “I plan to put it to the test when the Ghoeran army reaches Marnevale. I want to see if we can stop Baehemon in his tracks at the high pass.”
“You’re not going to commit everyone, are you?”
Baesil barked laughter. “No, of course not. But a thousand men can hold the pass for three or four days, and I’m tired of Ghoeran soldiers marching about Mhoried with impunity.
Let’s make him fight for it.”
By the end of the week, Gaelin found sleep was becoming impossible. On the surface, it seemed an easy choice to make.
After all, Seriene’s arguments were sound. It was best to consider Ilwyn dead and continue to lead the fight to free the country. The surviving forces of Mhoried had a chance, especially if Diemed were drawn into the conflict as an ally. And Gaelin knew that it would be irresponsible of him to risk his own life and the end of the Mhoried line if there was no one who could swear the oaths before the Oak. The southern lords wavered; their lands had been occupied for six weeks now, and they were beginning to question their fealty to Gaelin. If they didn’t have an unchallenged Mhor to rally behind, they would fall to pieces. Some would fight among themselves for the title, others would kneel to Tuorel and give up hope of a free Mhoried, and a loyal few would fight to the bitter end. Seriene was not exaggerating when she said that Gaelin was the hope of his country.
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 22
