“What is it?” asked Erin.
“Torien says there’s trouble with Cariele. The queen doesn’t want to take sides by supporting my claim or allowing food and arms to cross her borders,” Gaelin said. He crumpled the letter and threw it to the ground in disgust. “We need her complicity, if not her active cooperation. Damn!” He sighed. “Well, Baesil’s going to tell me that we’ve got to have those supplies. I’ll have to go on up to Cariele and call on Queen Aerelie, see if I can talk some reason into her.”
“You don’t have time for that,” Erin said. “If you leave Mhoried for any reason, nobles will desert your banner.
They’ll think you’re running out on them.”
“I don’t see that I have a choice.”
“I’m your herald, Gaelin. It’s my job to represent you when you can’t be there yourself. I’ll go.” Erin stood and tucked her riding pants back into her boots.
Gaelin grimaced. “You’re right. Convince Aerelie to open her borders, and offer her whatever you think is reasonable. I trust your judgment.”
Erin smiled. “Three days there, three days back, and I’ll figure on a week or so to convince the queen to see reason. I should be back in two weeks. Can you manage without me?”
“I’ll have to. Take a detachment of guards with you, at least ten men. I don’t want you to run into trouble in the Stonecrowns.”
The bard gracefully swung herself onto her horse and bowed low from the saddle. “It shall be as you wish, my lord Mhor.” Then she turned and rode off, heading down toward the road. Gaelin watched her leave, unease shadowing his heart.
On the fourth day of their march, one day after Erin’s departure for Cariele, they came into a small region of gentler hills and sparse forestland, the southern fringes of the mighty Aelvinnwode. Here they found a ruined keep by a cold lake.
“The old Caer Winoene,” Baesil told them. “Sacked and burned four hundred years ago, by goblin tribes out of the Five Peaks, during the chaos that surrounded the fall of the Roele line in Anuire. House Winoene met its end here, and much of the land was never restored. Lord Hastaes holds the county now, but it’s only a shadow of what it once was.” He took a deep breath. “It’s home for a time. My scouts report that Baehemon’s a good ten days behind us, and probably more like three weeks if he waits for reinforcements to come after us up here.”
“What do we do if he follows us?” Gaelin asked.
“Well, we have a couple of weeks to turn our farmers into soldiers and to see about filling out the ranks with the musters of the northlords. In fact, with your permission, I was going to send our cavalry out to Marloer’s Gap and Torien’s Watch to help the highlanders turn the goblins back for good.
The sooner we end the threat to the northlands, the sooner we can add their levies to our army. And those highlanders know something about fighting, unlike these farmers we’ve collected so far.”
“Do you think we’ll have time to get ready for Baehemon?”
Baesil shrugged. “It will have to do. We’re running out of places to retreat to.”
After spending one cold and uncomfortable night sleeping in the ruins of the castle’s hall, Gaelin found that Huire had requisitioned a small horde of carpenters and masons to set about repairing the worst of the damage and building an improvised keep. Within a couple of days, he was holding court again in a rather drafty hall, but at least it had a roof and wasn’t choked with rubble anymore.
For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Gaelin’s life developed a routine again. The helter-skelter pace of the first weeks of the Ghoeran war slowed to a crawl as spring began to show the first hints of summer. Over the next ten days, the weather became warmer and drier, and the endless rains of Pasiphiel and Sarimiere came to an end as the month of Talienir approached. From day to day, Gaelin spent his time repairing the damaged arms of Mhoried’s government, courting southern and northern lords and requesting their support, dealing with ambassadors from neighboring powers, and consulting with Baesil Ceried on matters of strategy and supply.
Count Baesil’s scouts reported that Baehemon was advancing slowly into the upper reaches of Byrnnor, gathering his strength for a major expedition, but the Ghoeran army was still fifty miles away and traveling only four to six miles a day.
“Should we oppose his march, or wait for him?” Gaelin asked.
Baesil grinned wolfishly. “I mean to dog his every step once he sets foot in the highlands,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got nearly a thousand skirmishers and raiders moving into position, mostly northlanders who know these hills like the backs of their hands. I won’t try to stand against him in open battle, but I’ll make certain that he’s tired of fighting by the time he gets here.”
“You believe he’ll try to finish us off?”
“Well, he can’t let you put together a court-in-exile and gather an army up here, can he? Sooner or later, he’ll want to show everyone that Mhoried belongs to Tuorel.” Baesil smiled. “Of course, he’d be better off to wait us out, even if it took years. But I don’t think Tuorel or Baehemon has the pa- tience for it.”
After Baesil left to attend to other duties, Gaelin spent an hour practicing his swordsmanship, sparring with some of the Knights Guardian who had trickled into Caer Winoene.
He looked forward to his time on the practice field – when he was dodging blows and flailing away with a wooden sword, it felt like he was nothing more than a young squire, just beginning his training.
He finally called the session to a halt when the low-lying mist increased to a steady rain. He discarded his padded aketon, dunked his head in a barrel of cold water, and drew on a worn, loose-fitting shirt of Khinasi cotton. Still sweating, he started back up toward the castle, studying its jagged turrets and piecemeal battlements with a critical eye. He almost walked past Seriene, who sat watching him on her trim roan riding horse. “Seriene! I didn’t even see you there.”
“Some women might take offense at that, Gaelin,” she said with a smile. He noticed that she was dressed in a fine riding outfit, with creased pants, high leather boots, a white cotton blouse, and a long coat of fine blue wool. As always, her appearance was perfect. She rested her eyes on him for a moment before looking back at the field. “You’re quite a swordsman.
Did you fight in many tournaments?”
“Not that many, to be honest. Most of my skill I learned with the Knights Guardian. It’s tradition in Mhoried for the Mhor’ s sons to train in the ord e r.” He held up a hand to catch the rain.
“ You shouldn’t be out riding in this. You’ll catch cold.”
“Will you walk me back to the stable?”
“Certainly.” Seriene slid one leg over the saddle and paused while Gaelin quickly stepped up to take her by the hand and help her down, though he knew she needed no assistance.
She flashed a quick smile and, with her horse’s reins in hand, started toward the castle’s yard. Gaelin stole a sidelong glance at her, admiring the delicate trickle of rainwater on the side of her smooth, even face.
She looked up, noticing his attention. Their eyes met, and Gaelin felt an unmistakable spark that set his heart racing.
“I’ve noticed that you spend most of your time alone,” she said.
“You must be joking. I’m surrounded by people all day long. Lords, knights, messengers, diplomats… every time I turn around, there’s someone waiting to talk to me.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t busy. I mean, outside of your immediate advisors, you don’t seem to have many friends. Or any romantic interests.”