Somehow, Gaelin muddled through the longest three days of his life and survived it. There were many people who were unhappy with the way things were run, but at least they were being run, and Gaelin had to satisfy himself with that. On the morning of his third day in Castle Ceried, he was in the mid- dle of an audience with a southern lord, discussing the possibility of raising the countryside against Ghoere, when Erin gracefully entered the room, dressed in her finest White Hall garb.
Words died in Gaelin’s throat when he caught sight of her.
Erin’s red hair cascaded to her shoulders, and she wore a sweeping gown of brocade and silk that accented her tall, graceful body without seeming festive or overly decorative.
“Please excuse me, my lords,” she said, “but I have learned that an emissary from Diemed is on the way here at this very moment.”
“Diemed!” said Gaelin. “Vandiel’s reply, already? Lord Waere, I hope you’ll forgive me for taking my leave?”
“Of course, my lord Mhor,” the nobleman replied. “l know how important Diemed may be to our cause.” He bowed and made his way out of the chamber.
“You may want to change,” Erin said. “By all accounts, Baron Tuorel is declaring to anyone who will listen that you are a bloodthirsty brigand. There’s no reason to look the part.”
“Do we know anything about Diemed’s ambassador?”
“I believe it’s the Princess Seriene,” Erin replied.
“Vandiel’s daughter?” Gaelin stopped and glanced at Erin.
“That’s surprising.”
“I’ll leave you to prepare, my lord,” Erin said frostily. She slipped out the door, not even sparing him another look.
Now what in Cerilia was that about? he wondered, staring after her. In a moment, he gave up trying to decipher her words and actions, and set about pulling out his finest robes of state. Huire had found decent clothing for the new Mhor, and he settled for a tunic of dark green to wear over soft gray hose and fine black boots. He buckled on his sword belt and wore his long sword by his side. He didn’t want Seriene to think he was a bandit lord, but neither did he want her to think he was a helpless dandy who survived only by the wit of his generals.
Checking his appearance one last time in a small mirror by the door, he left the room and headed for Castle Ceried’s hall.
Brother Superior Huire fell in beside him. They entered the great hall, which was unusually full – a number of minor lords and knights had apparently found some business at the court in order to be on hand for the meeting between Gaelin and Princess Seriene. The conversation came to a halt as Gaelin appeared and stepped up to the dais.
At the far end of the room, a chamberlain stepped forward and announced, “My lord Mhor, the Princess Seriene of Diemed!”
Two footmen opened the doors and bowed. The Dieman entourage filed in, their faces carefully reserved as their eyes darted about, taking in the scene. In the middle of the group, Seriene stood, her hands clasped before her. She was little more than five feet in height, but her cold and regal bearing drew all eyes in the room. A long gown of rich blue silk displayed her figure to great effect, and a small golden tiara gleamed in her raven-dark hair. Gaelin drew in his breath at the sight of her.
Seriene paused for a moment, then advanced to meet Gaelin. Her own guards stopped a good twenty feet short, grounding their gleaming halberds and settling into an impressive parade rest, while a pair of ladies-in-waiting and one silver-haired priest in the robes of the temple of Avanalae followed her. Before the dais, Seriene curtsied while her attendants kneeled. In a cool, clear voice, she said, “Hail, Gaelin of Mhoried. My father, Prince Vandiel Diem of Diemed, sends you his warmest greetings and hopes this day finds you in good health. I am the Princess Seriene Diem, and I am honored by this meeting.”
Gaelin had rehearsed his response. “Welcome, Princess Seriene.
Your presence here graces Mhoried’s rightful court and demonstrates the true friendship of Diemed and Mhoried.
You are our honored guest.” The weight of Seriene’s dark and measuring gaze on him made Gaelin acutely conscious of the words, and he nearly stumbled over them.
The Avanalite priest, a high-ranking clergyman introduced as Prelate Edoeren, began a long-winded oratory on the traditional alliance of the two countries. As Gaelin’s herald, Erin parried with a dignified response. Their words were meaningless in his ears; he couldn’t take his eyes from Seriene’s face, and he thought he saw a hint of interest in the set of her mouth, as she returned his gaze without shying away.
The formalities concluded, Gaelin invited the Dieman emissaries to join him for a light meal to rest from their jour- ney. As they left the room, Baesil Ceried leaned close and said, “Now the real diplomacy begins. We’ll soon see what the Diemans can offer us.”
Withdrawing to the small council room that had been prepared, they made a pretense of light conversation while they dined on roasted venison and capers, potatoes, cabbage, and stuffed pastries. The Diemans had come by boat, sailing up the Maesil and then the Stonebyrn to the western shores of Byrnnor, with a day of hard riding to reach Castle Ceried. All in all, the journey had taken them a week. “You must have left as soon as my letter from the Abbey of the Red Oak arrived,”
Gaelin observed.
“Actually, your father dispatched a letter two weeks ago.
When I heard that Shieldhaven had fallen, I altered my plans and decided to seek you out,” said Seriene. “We made the best time we could.” She raised a glass of south coast wine and sipped at it demurely. “My thanks for your hospitality. I feel I am sufficiently rested to discuss the issues your father raised in his letter, Prince Gaelin.”
Gaelin glanced at Erin, but she was watching the princess.
“Very well. The war has not gone well for Mhoried. Baron Tuorel obtained the services of Bannier, our former court wizard and a very capable mage. In addition, the goblins of Markazor attacked at the same time.”
“Resulting in a catastrophic defeat of the army of Mhoried and the loss of Shieldhaven,” Seriene said evenly. In the corner of his eye, Gaelin could see a thin line of anger cross Count Baesil’s face, but the general held his tongue.
“As matters stand now, Tuorel holds most of the southern provinces as well as Bevaldruor,” Gaelin continued. “The goblins have been pushed back to Markazor, for the most part, and the northlands are still in our hands. We can hold them against Tuorel indefinitely, but Diemed’s aid would help us greatly in winning back the lands we have lost to Ghoere.”
Seriene brushed that aside for the moment. “With all due respect, my lord prince, how is it that you claim the title of Mhor? Tuorel’s ambassadors say your father capitulated to the baron when he took Shieldhaven and that you are nothing more than a disinherited pretender.”
Gaelin didn’t doubt Tuorel was telling all of Anuire about the so-called justice of his actions. He rose from the table.
“Tuorel is lying,” he said quietly. “I can see you have no way of knowing which story is true, so I won’t try to convince you. But I will tell you this: Tuorel murdered my father, my brother, and one of my sisters. The last living member of my family – my other sister, Ilwyn – is held captive in her own home.”
“If Tuorel killed your father, why didn’t he force him to divestiture?
Or try to take his bloodline, for that matter? The Mhoried line is one of the oldest and strongest of all Anuire,” asked the Prelate Edoeren.
Gaelin turned and shook his head. “I don’t know, Prelate. I suspect my father decided his kingship and the continuation of the line of the Mhors were more important than his own life.” He gestured at the white streaks over his temples. “You recognize the bloodmarks of Mhoried?”