“You sound as though you doubt me, my lord.”
Mhor Daeric looked over his shoulder, one eye fixing the wizard where he stood. “Bannier, you left without notice at a time when I desperately needed your counsel. As it turns out, you probably did exactly what I would have wanted of you in exploring Tuorel’s method of invasion, but the point remains that I had no idea where you were. In fact, in recent years I’ve seen less and less of you. I know you’re no liegeman of mine, but I expect some degree of loyalty from you.”
“My studies have consumed much of my time,” Bannier answered, truthfully enough. “And, to be honest, with Mhoried at peace there’s been little for me to advise you about. Dealing with Markazor’s raids or Alamie’s troubles wouldn’t have been the best use of my time.”
The Mhor held his eye for a long moment, studying Bannier’s face. Despite himself, Bannier grew uncomfortable beneath his unwavering gaze. Finally, the Mhor looked away, and Bannier began to relax. Then Tiery spoke up from the corner of the room. “How did you know to go to the Maesil?”
Bannier was not expecting the question. “What?”
“We received word of the invasion yesterday, but no one has seen you for days. You’ve been to the Maesil and back already?”
“I have my own sources of information,” Bannier replied.
“I left when I suspected trouble.”
“And you didn’t see fit to warn us before you left?”
“They were only suspicions, unconfirmed. I had only the merest indication of sorcery at work and thought to investigate.
I didn’t know it was a prelude to war.” Bannier restrained a scowl. Tiery’s questioning was placing him in danger. Even now, the Mhor contemplated him with renewed interest.
“That might have been a reasonable assumption,” the Mhor said. He gave Bannier one more hard look. “Well, it’s in the past now. Tell me, Bannier, can you aid us in driving Ghoere back across the river? If the Sword Mage is helping him, can you defend us?”
Bannier took up a cautious pacing, circling the room as he pretended to study the map. “I believe so,” he said after a suitable length of time. “But I will need a day or two to consider my options.”
The Mhor seemed to hope for something more substantial, but he knew magic of the sort that could affect the course of a war was dangerous and hard to come by. “Very well, then,” he said. “I plan to ride for Riumache tomorrow, but if you think you might have some answers for me by tomorrow evening, I will delay my departure.”
“Please, proceed as you have planned,” Bannier said. “I can always contact you if I think of something.” He feigned a yawn. “My lord, my journey was quite tiring, and I have much work to do. Would you please excuse me?”
The Mhor nodded. With a shallow bow, Bannier took his leave. The guards who had escorted him to the Mhor’s quarters had left already; a bit of good fortune, since it indicated he wasn’t under any serious suspicion. He made a conscious effort to suppress the spring in his step as he left.
Bannier first headed back toward his tower, threading his way through the great hall, taking care to be seen by a number of people. Then he abruptly changed his heading and turned to a set of disused stairs that led into the castle’s lower levels. Shieldhaven’s storerooms, wells, and cellars were carved into the heart of the rocky tor on which it rested. Vault after vault lay beneath the Mhor’s halls. Only a few were in use, and Bannier avoided these as he descended into the belly of the fortress.
In a few minutes, he found the room he had marked. It was an old wine cellar, long and low, most of its tuns long since removed.
Exits on opposite sides of the chamber led up to the cellars of the gatehouse and the keep itself. Bannier checked to make certain no one was within earshot and satisfied himself that he was unobserved.
Crossing the chamber, Bannier examined the few remaining tuns and found the one for which he was looking. He opened it with a hidden catch. Inside lay a small satchel of canvas.
From the satchel, Bannier retrieved a dozen small pots of paint, along with an assortment of brushes. He selected a bare stretch of wall in the center of the room and quickly wiped it free of cobwebs and dust with the sleeve of his robe. Then, humming a strange and discordant melody, he began to create a pattern on the wall. First he drew a man-high circle of silvered paint and a second circle a handspan outside that one. Then, using first one paint and then another, he began to mark runes and diagrams around the ring. Some required him to chant spells of warding or passage softly under his breath; others he simply marked with rapid precision.
It took hours of exacting work to finish the gate’s border and to speak the words that brought it to life. The last few words left him so weak that he could not stand; an enchantment of this power was never easy, and even more difficult considering the effort he had expended earlier. Somehow, he found the force of will to speak the last syllable.
A thin, blue aura sprang into being around the gateway, shimmering and dancing. The wall enclosed by the ring seemed to fade or vanish, and in its place a portal of swirling darkness and streaming azure fire opened. The air of the old cellar crackled with energy, and Bannier’s breath was sucked away by the force of the air rushing past. He scrambled farther away, dragging himself to his feet by the row of great tuns opposite the gate.
With a flash of light, a man in armor appeared. He stood, disoriented for a moment, and then he spied Bannier and strode over to him. Before he reached the wizard, the gate flashed again, and another man – a common soldier – stood in the archway. The armored man reached Bannier, and with one gauntleted hand he raised his visor. Baron Noered Tuorel grinned at Bannier. “Well met, master wizard!” he said, speaking loudly to carry over the chaos of the gateway. “You were only a quarter-hour late.”
“That door leads to the gatehouse,” Bannier said, pointing.
“The other leads to the keep. You know where the Mhor’s chambers are?”
Tuorel nodded. “Baehemon’s men mapped the castle when he visited. They’ll be able to lead us. How long can you keep the gate open? I’ve five hundred men to bring through.”
“If they move smartly, I’ll hold it for them all,” Bannier answered. Tuorel grinned again, and then wheeled about to give orders to the Ghoeran soldiers who were massing in the vault. With grim determination, Bannier concentrated on maintaining the gate to the end of his strength.
The small hours of the morning found the Mhor Daeric pacing restlessly in his chambers. In recent years, the nights had held less and less sleep for him; some would have said the cares of ruling a kingdom were wearing him down, but Daeric knew it was a deepening sense of loneliness. He missed his wife terribly, even after all these years. “Aesele, I could use your strength now,” he murmured. “I’ve a long, hard labor before me, and I’m feeling my years tonight.”
Daeric paused in front of the great shuttered window that looked out over the city of Bevaldruor, a glass of brandy in his hand. In the warm darkness of the chamber, he almost imagined he could hear her light footfalls. He cocked his head, listening, but decided his ears had been playing tricks on him. He sipped the liquor, hoping to calm his racing mind and find some semblance of rest before joining his army in the field on the morrow. Instead of drowsiness the brandy brought him a supernatural clarity of thought. With a sigh, he set down the empty glass and peered out into the darkness.
His chamber overlooked the castle’s courtyard, the gatehouse, and the fields beyond.
Shadows flitted along the battlements, and one of the lantern lights of the gatehouse flickered and went out. Daeric frowned. He’d almost thought he had seen armed men on the battlements, moving stealthily toward the gates. He extinguished his own light, an oil lamp, and stepped back to the window, using the shutter for concealment. As his eyes attuned themselves to the darkness, he searched the battlements for signs of movement.