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.”