“I wonder what news Minstrel Erin brings from Cariele?”
Huire offered, as he tried to hurry with dignity.
“We’ll soon see,” Gaelin replied. As usual, several dozen people were scattered throughout the chamber – minor lords, knights, and merchants engaged in settling hundreds of deals and compacts that characterized a royal court. Gaelin spied Erin’s fiery hair gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the tall, vaulted windows. She wore her traveling clothes, dust and wear from the road marking her garments.
Erin was already engaged in discussions with Seriene and Prelate Edoeren of the Dieman contingent. As Gaelin entered she glanced up, and their eyes met.
Erin excused herself from her conversation and approached, showing just a hint of weariness in her pace. Seriene smoothed her skirts and followed. “My lord Mhor,”
Erin said, curtseying. “I can report success in Cariele. Queen Aerelie has decided to recognize you as the rightful heir to the throne of Mhoried and intends to formalize relations with your court.”
“ Well done!” Gaelin said. “Will she aid us against Ghoere? ”
Erin’s face fell a little. “The queen was unwilling to commit any forces to the conflict, but she did agree to treat her border with your territory as the old border of Mhoried. She returned her tariffs and duties to the normal, prewar level.”
“What did you have to promise her?” asked Gaelin.
“Freedom from tariffs for Carielan merchants bringing wares across the border for ten years. Queen Aerelie’s purse strings are held by the trading costers of Cariele, and I knew they’d jump at the chance to undercut Mhorien merchants.”
Erin grimaced. “I tried to encourage her to show more support than mere recognition, but at least your supply lines are secure. The materials we’ve already purchased are on their way now.”
“I didn’t really expect Aerelie to offer any military help,”
Gaelin said. “We’ll let the Carielans make their money for now – this is still good news. We’ll be able to keep the army supplied, even without the food and arms we lost in our retreat from Castle Ceried.”
Erin smiled in satisfaction. “Maybe events are finally starting to favor us,” she said. “What happened while I was away?”
Gaelin involuntarily glanced at Seriene. The princess met his eyes calmly. He felt his face growing warm. Deliberately, he returned his attention to Erin, searching for words. “Bannier struck at us while you were gone,” he finally said, the words harsh in his mouth.
A flicker of an unreadable expression crossed Erin’s face.
“Bannier? But how?”
Gaelin indicated the crowded hall with the sweep of one hand. “Let’s take up the discussion in the audience chamber,” he suggested. He followed Huire, taking Erin’s arm with one last look at Seriene. The princess coolly returned to her own business. In the privacy of the smaller room, Gaelin related the details of Bannier’s deception and Madislav’s death. He omitted nothing but the passionate encounter with Seriene.
When he finished, Erin measured him intensely, her eyes piercing him like daggers. “What will you do about Bannier’s offer?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully enough. “It seems like the height of folly to deliver myself to his hands… but how can I stand by and do nothing?”
“You force the decision on Bannier by ignoring his threat.
He can carry it out if he wishes, but he loses his hold on you.”
“You’re right, of course. But if Bannier sees that I won’t let myself be threatened with Ilwyn’s life, she becomes useless as a hostage, and he may decide to kill her to claim her portion of the Mhoried bloodline. For that matter, he may kill her to teach me a lesson, or out of sheer spite.” Gaelin paced the small room helplessly. “I’m certain that I won’t like what happens if I call his bluff, Erin. His threat against Ilwyn could very well be the only promise to me that he would keep.”
“Well, you have two more weeks to decide. With your per- mission, I’ll retire to my chambers. I’ve had five long days of riding, and I’m exhausted. My ear is yours, if you need to talk.” She rose, stretched, and turned her back on Gaelin. “Although I suspect that Seriene would be glad to counsel you, too,” she added from the door. She swept out of the room with regal disdain.
For the next week, Gaelin avoided both Seriene and Erin.
Although he had to speak with both women several times each day, he was careful to keep the conversation purely impersonal.
Seriene accepted his distance with nothing more than a slight, knowing smile, as if she saw through his tactic and was willing to wait him out. Erin, on the other hand, seemed confused at first and grew angry at him as he dodged her day after day. Gaelin threw himself into his duties, working from sunup to midnight with a madman’s energy, but Bannier’s ultimatum weighed on him, lurking spiderlike in his mind. Gaelin was delaying the inevitable decision, and he knew it. Hiding behind the title of Mhor was nothing more than an excuse not to think about the alternatives.
M o re troops trickled into Caer Winoene, and Gaelin noticed a grim smile on Baesil Ceried’s face when he reviewed the army instead of the sullen scowl that had marked the general’s features before. They were still desperately short on equipment, but Baesil had taken the most experienced men and broken them up among units of raw recruits to speed up the training process. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the trained men and the recruits segregated on the battlefield?” Gaelin asked him one afternoon. “If you have a company of archers, and half of them run away, won’t the whole unit break? Aren’t we taking a chance by dispersing our veterans like this?”
“Certainly we are,” Baesil replied. “But, I’ve got no choice.
Baehemon’s on his way, and I have to be able to put as many men as possible into the field. I can’t mollycoddle the recruits any more. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the experienced men, they’ll learn faster than they would by training alone.”
“I don’t doubt that, Count Baesil. But a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link.”
The grizzled old count gave Gaelin a measuring look.
“This is the best answer I can find, my lord,” he said. “I plan to put it to the test when the Ghoeran army reaches Marnevale. I want to see if we can stop Baehemon in his tracks at the high pass.”
“You’re not going to commit everyone, are you?”
Baesil barked laughter. “No, of course not. But a thousand men can hold the pass for three or four days, and I’m tired of Ghoeran soldiers marching about Mhoried with impunity.
Let’s make him fight for it.”
By the end of the week, Gaelin found sleep was becoming impossible. On the surface, it seemed an easy choice to make.
After all, Seriene’s arguments were sound. It was best to consider Ilwyn dead and continue to lead the fight to free the country. The surviving forces of Mhoried had a chance, especially if Diemed were drawn into the conflict as an ally. And Gaelin knew that it would be irresponsible of him to risk his own life and the end of the Mhoried line if there was no one who could swear the oaths before the Oak. The southern lords wavered; their lands had been occupied for six weeks now, and they were beginning to question their fealty to Gaelin. If they didn’t have an unchallenged Mhor to rally behind, they would fall to pieces. Some would fight among themselves for the title, others would kneel to Tuorel and give up hope of a free Mhoried, and a loyal few would fight to the bitter end. Seriene was not exaggerating when she said that Gaelin was the hope of his country.