“My lord Mhor, is it really necessary for me to remind you that I hold your children, your servants, and hundreds of your subjects here? I will have my way. Sooner or later, you will stand before Cuiraecen’s altar and you will speak the oaths that will make me the ruler of Mhoried.”
“After which, of course, you will slay me for my bloodline. I expected no less.”
Tuorel’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Actually, no. Our friend Bannier has requested that you be delivered into his hands, without a blade in your heart. Your bloodline would be quite a prize, but I decided it was a fair price.”
The Mhor considered his words. Tuorel was more ambitious than he had thought. The kingdom would be virtually worthless to him until he subdued the provinces that still held out for the House Mhoried. It was a surprising strategy, a move that declared his intent to fight for and keep his conquests in Mhoried. I expected him to kill me and then exact tribute and allegiance from Thendiere or whoever succeeds me, he thought, but I never believed that he would seek the throne for himself. Given that, the idea that Tuorel would simply allow Daeric himself to fall into Bannier’s hands was equally surprising. The baron need Daeric’s blood to strengthen himself enough to rule two kingdoms. “I’m surprised you haven’t run me through already, bargain or no bargain,” he said. “No one feels bound to keep his word to a traitor, after all.”
Tuorel actually looked as if he’d been wounded by the Mhor’s words. “I made a promise. I shall keep it. If Bannier desires the power of the Mhoried blood, it’s his hand that will claim it. For my own part, I am satisfied with the taking of your kingdom.”
“I am the invested ruler of Mhoried,” Daeric said. “You cannot divest me as long as I do not allow you to.”
Tuorel only smiled. He moved closer, lowering his voice so that only Daeric could hear him. “There’s our struggle, now, eh? I don’t doubt that you’d withstand any duress I could bring to bear against you – the stubbornness of the Mhors is legendary. But let’s dispense with civility for a moment: your children are in my hands. And I’ve more than one, which means I could torture Ilwyn to death in front of your eyes, and then promise to do the same for Thendiere or Gaelin.” He reached one gauntleted fist to Daeric’s face and seized his jaw in a viselike grip. Daeric reeled and gasped in pain as Tuorel’s thumb g round into his swollen jaw. “I don’t believe any man could watch more than one of his children die that way, do you?”
“Bastard,” choked the Mhor. “When did you capture Gaelin?”
“My men took him at Iered. They’re bringing him here now.”
With crystalline certainty, Daeric knew Tuorel had lied.
“You don’t have Gaelin,” he said. “He’s still free.”
Tuorel’s eyes went hard. “I forgot about that damned truth-ear of yours,” he muttered quietly. He let go of Daeric’s face and turned away, only to bring his other hand flashing in a silver arc to slam into the Mhor’s jaw. Daeric spun and fell to the cold marble of the floor, lights flaring in his eyes as he gasped in shock. He coughed blood and broken teeth onto the chapel floor, and then the pain came, burning hot and white in his mouth and jaw. Tears leaked past his swollen eyelids, but he didn’t cry out. With the pain came a fierce joy and hope: if he could resist, if he could find death before Tuorel wrested his kingdom away from him, Gaelin would have a chance to win it back. As long as Gaelin remained alive and free, Ghoere’s victory was incomplete.
Tuorel stalked away. He glared at the priests and the guards in the chapel, daring them to speak. He reached the open area before the altar and wheeled. “Take what comfort you can now, old man,” he spat. “With your son roaming the land, I’ve no choice but to break you with torture until you scream for the chance to hand me your lands. And you won’t be the only one to suffer, I promise. Thendiere and Ilwyn will pay for every heartbeat of your silence.” He nodded to the guards on either side of Daeric. “Take him away,” he said.
“Give him some time to consider the circumstances of our next encounter.”
The guards lifted Mhor Daeric by his arms and dragged him to his feet. He stumbled between them as they led him to the door and back down to the dark dungeons. Despite the pain that filled his mind, a sense of purpose dawned in his heart. If I find death before Tuorel breaks me, he thought, the divine right passes to Thendiere, and from him to Gaelin. A Mhor will follow me to rule Mhoried, even if the land is held by our enemies.
He held on to that thought as they dragged him back to his cell. Again, he was chained in the dark and left to the silence and the pain of his injuries. Hours or days passed, as he waited for his next meeting with Tuorel. He left his aching body and wandered in the corridors of his memory. Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he slept again.
Mhor Daeric was awakened by a clatter and thump outside his cell. Even as his eyes opened, he knew he’d just heard the guard fall to the floor, and he shook the cobwebs from his head.
The sound of the lock turning brought him to full consciousness.
Although spears of agony pinioned his arms and legs, he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs to the floor. “Who’s there?” he asked quietly, eyes straining into the darkness.
“It’s Thendiere, Father. Can you walk?” The door eased open, and the first prince appeared. His hand was heavily bandaged, and his face was bruised. Despite his injuries, a fierce gleam burned in his eyes, and in his good hand he held a highland fighting-knife, a long blade nearly the size of a small sword.
“Whether I can or not, I’m bloody well going to now,”
Daeric answered. He pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain that flared in his joints. “How did you get out of your cell?”
“I’m afraid it’s my work, my lord.” Tiery shuffled past Thendiere to take Daeric’s hand. “I couldn’t leave you in Tuorel’s hands for another day.” The old minstrel was pale with fatigue, and his breath whistled unevenly between his teeth. Behind him, a pair of Mhorien servants – a gaunt stablekeeper named Caede, and a short but powerful Brecht fletcher named Hans – bowed as Daeric emerged. Two Ghoerans lay sprawled on the floor. With a grimace of pain, the Mhor stooped to take one man’s sword.
“Excellent work, Tiery,” he said.
“Hold your thanks until we escape,” Tiery replied.
“Tuorel’s doubled the guard by night, just to make sure things like this don’t happen. Getting out of Shieldhaven without a fight is going to be damned hard.”
“How about Ilwyn?”
“She’s being held in the south tower, my lord.”
The Mhor frowned, peering down the shadowy corridor as he weighed his options. He loathed the idea of leaving his daughter in Tuorel’s hands, but getting himself and Thendiere killed in an attempt to rescue her was certainly no better. Besides, if he and his son escaped, Ilwyn became a valuable hostage against the Mhorieds. Killing her after they escaped would be spiteful and shortsighted, even for Tuorel. “We’ll have to leave her for now, then,” he said at last. “We may be able to ransom her later. ”
Thendiere’s face grew grim, but the prince nodded. “We should get moving,” he said.
With Caede leading the way and Hans bringing up the rear, they hurried down the hallway to the guardroom that controlled the dungeons. No less than six Ghoerans were there, but they were sprawled on the floor or slumped by tables, snoring loudly. The Mhor gave Tiery a strange look.
“This is your doing?”
“Aye. In my younger days, I learned a trick or two of the magician’s art. Many bards do, you know.” Tiery chuckled.