Daeric blew out his breath and stood, scraping his chair across the stone floor. “Well, we’ll see how it falls out. Tiery, send word to our men in Endier and Ghieste. I want to know where Ghoere’s troops are. And send for Count Baesil, I want to discuss our troop dispositions.” He smoothed the front of his tunic and turned to Gaelin. “Congratulations, Gaelin.
Tonight’s banquet is now in celebration of your return. I’ll not cancel my plans because of Baehemon’s rudeness. See to the preparations, gentlemen.”
The banquet was one of the most extravagant events in the Mhor’s court that Gaelin could recall. Literally hundreds of people stopped by the high table to welcome him back to Shieldhaven. He recognized only a few dozen of them. Some of the old faces he’d known were gone, and strangers held their places. Tiery sang a couple of sonnets for the court, his hands still quick and certain, though his voice quavered on the high notes. Gaelin sat beside his father, watching the crowded hall with a strange mixture of wonder and anxiety – it had been a long time since he’d been at the Mhor’s side.
He caught himself studying his father, as the Mhor talked with an old courtier. The lantern light showed the deep lines in the Mhor’s face and the subtle stoop to his shoulders. For the first time, he realized that the Mhor Daeric was growing old. Thirty years of rulership, vision, and strength in the treacherous morass of Anuirean politics had exacted their toll from the man, let alone the cost of raising four children without their mother – Aesele Mhoried had died giving birth to Liesele and Ilwyn. For the first time in a long time, Gaelin felt as if he understood his father and the uncompromising passion that drove him. He flashed a crooked smile at the Mhor.
“I suspect you never thought to see this day.”
“There were times that I doubted you would ever come home, Gaelin, but I hoped you’d return if I tried to stay out of your way.” The Mhor signaled to a steward, who began to refill the goblets of the guests at the high table. “When do you plan to leave for Endier?”
“First thing tomorrow morning,” Gaelin said. “It’s four days to Riumache, and then a couple of days’ sail to Endier.
I’d like to get started.”
“Take Madislav with you,” the Mhor said.
Gaelin glanced at his father. “Do you expect trouble?”
The Mhor shook his head. “Just a feeling. I know Daene’s a fine squire, and Ruide’s along too, but I’d like another good man with you while you’re away from Shieldhaven.
Besides, Madislav’s in the habit of watching your back. He wouldn’t know what to do if the castellan returned him to the duty roster. ”
“I’ll be glad for Madislav’s company,” Gaelin said with a frown, “but I’m capable of taking care of myself. I’ve ridden to Endier before with no more company than a friend or two and Ruide to look after my things.”
“The world’s not as safe as it used to be.” The Mhor’s face darkened, but his voice did not betray anger. “Humor me, Gaelin. Some men in your position aren’t allowed to leave their homes without a company of soldiers. I know you’d rather not make this visit a grand procession, and I’d rather not show everyone that I don’t think my roads are safe enough for my son to travel. But I’d still like Madislav to go with you, and to tell the truth I’d feel comfortable with ten or fifteen guards more.”
Gaelin forced a shrug. “Madislav’s enough company. I’ll have Ruide draw some extra provisions.”
The Mhor nodded without looking at him. “Remember, Gaelin, you’ve a duty to the realm; not only to me, but to all Mhoried. You must expect me to be careful with you, not only for your own sake, but for the kingdom’s sake.”
Gaelin chose not to respond. The Mhor might be right, but the prince didn’t have to like it. He was going to have to get used to entourages and affairs of state. Fortunately, the years of training and study with the Guardians had taught him to accept onerous tasks in the name of duty. Mucking out stables or cleaning armor was never much fun, but he’d been able to make himself do it. That must have been part of the Mhor’ s plans, he thought as he glanced over the crowd of well-wishers.
I never learned to take orders from him, so he had Anduine take me under his wing, so I could learn from someone else.
His musings were interrupted by a ripple of applause that caught hold and grew throughout the room. By popular demand, Bannier rose with a rueful grimace and created a variety of spectacular and terrifying illusions to thrill the banquet-goers. The images fascinated Gaelin. Bannier’s hands flashed as he commanded one illusion after the next to appear, each one greeted by gasps of shock or roars of approval.
The mage may have dismissed illusion as mere fancy and trickery, but in watching him Gaelin recalled that Bannier mastered any skill that caught his interest.
After Bannier’s display of magic, Gaelin excused himself to clear his head on the windswept battlements. The cold air refreshed him after the smoke and press of the great hall.
Here and there, lords and ladies seeking some space to walk followed Gaelin’s example. As he paced along the wall top, looking out over the yellow lights and snow-capped roofs of Bevaldruor-town, he found he was reluctant to go back inside.
In his years as a Guardian, he’d been a guest of most of the landholding lords of Mhoried, and the houses of the highland lords seemed hopelessly rustic by comparison with Shieldhaven.
“Hey there, Gaelin! You look as though you need a drink!”
Cuille Dhalsiel ambled toward him, at the center of a glittering ensemble of laughing rakes and beautiful ladies. The nobleman retained the nimble, athletic frame he’d had as a teenager, but Gaelin couldn’t shake the impression that Cuille’s silken grace and cynical smirk marked a decay of the spirit, if not of the body. Cuille disentangled himself from the slight girl by his side and came forward to throw his arm around Gaelin’s shoulder. “Back from the northern wars a single day, and already brooding about something! The Gaelin I used to know wasn’t half this serious!”
“Cuille. I see you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Of course! That’s the point of nobility, isn’t it?” Cuille laughed and pressed a flagon of wine into Gaelin’s hand.
Gaelin raised it to Cuille and his companions and took a swallow, finding the vintage excellent. “Now that you’ve finished your penance as a soldier, you’ll have an opportunity to do some catching up.”
“Well, I’m heading to Endier tomorrow,” Gaelin replied.
Moment by moment he was realizing just how far apart he’d grown from his old friend. He temporized. “After that, we’ll have to see, although I don’t think I’ll be left to my own devices anymore. My father intends to keep me busy.”
“The Mhor’s keeping us all busy these days, it seems.”
“What do you mean?”
Cuille waved his hand in the air. “You don’t want to hear about it. It’ll only put you in an awkward spot.”
“No, go on.”
“Well, the word’s out that your father sent Baehemon back to Ghoere with nothing but angry words. I expect that he’ll be withdrawing troops from the Markazoran border, which means that my farms and towns will be burned while the Mhor’s army is waiting on the Maesil’s bank.” Cuille scowled. “And he’s moved up the spring muster, too. I have to send a thousand more men or pay a fortune in scutage to keep them at home.”
“Well, that’s the point of nobility, isn’t it?” Gaelin asked.
He didn’t like the way Cuille referred to ‘his’ farms and towns. The Mhor had taught Gaelin that nobility was a privilege and a duty, not an inheritance. Cuille and the other Mhorien nobles were bound by law to place their swords at the Mhor’s service and provide armed and trained soldiers when called upon. Gaelin doubted Cuille remembered this obligation was the very reason lords had been granted their titles and lands in the first place.