The Falcon and The Wolf

by Richard Baker

  “In any event,” Daeric continued, “it’s time you moved on to different responsibilities. You’ve learned how to be a follower, and that’s the first step of learning how to lead.”

  “I had hoped to remain with the Order,” Gaelin said carefully.

  “I think I’ve done well with the Knights Guardian.”

  The Mhor laughed with little humor. “I thought you might say that. It’s a noble sentiment, Gaelin, and one I’d probably have in your place – but there are more important duties for you to attend to. You are far too valuable to spend your days fighting as a foot soldier in Mhoried’s borderlands.”

  Gaelin felt his shoulders tensing. This discussion was taking a turn for the worse. “The Knights Guardian are more than soldiers, Father. It’s not a waste of my time to devote myself to the Order. Isn’t that what you had in mind when you made me a squire?”

  The Mhor ran a hand through his silver hair. “I know that serving as a knight is no small thing, Gaelin. Once I stood where you stand now. But there are hundreds of young lords and nobles who can serve in your Order, and I have only two sons.” He fixed his gaze on Gaelin. “By tradition, you’re granted seven years to be your own man, to look out for no one but yourself, but those years are done now, and I have need of you.” With a heavy sigh, he rose and stared out the window into the snowy night. “I thought we were done with this years ago.”

  Gaelin looked away, fighting down the cold anxiety in his stomach. He drained the brandy in his glass, but the warmth of the liquor did not dispel his unease. “All right. What would you have me do? I have no skill for statecraft or diplomacy. ”

  The Mhor pulled his gaze away from the falling snow and faced him. In anger, he grew colder and more distant, his face setting into a stonelike scowl. “Seven years ago, you didn’t know how to be a knight,” he said. “In time, you learned. I know that thoughts of the throne are far from your mind, Gaelin, but I think it would be good for you to spend time here, with me, learning how to rule. I’ve only two sons, and should anything ever happen to Thendiere, I want to know that there’s another who can take the oaths as the Mhor.” He measured Gaelin with his piercing gaze, until the prince began to feel uncomfortable. “It’s a matter of duty, Gaelin.

  You have a duty to Mhoried to make yourself ready. Who would rule in Shieldhaven if I died and Thendiere couldn’t take my place?”

  Gaelin ground his fists. “That will never happen.”

  “Even if I agreed, Gaelin, I am compelled to ask you to prepare yourself. It’s my duty to ensure that Mhoried will not be left without a Mhor. And it’s your duty to stand ready, should anything ever happen to your brother or myself. I thought that seven years as a Knight Guardian would have helped your sense of responsibility.”

  “I’ve learned more than you thought I might.”

  “You’ll stay, then?” The Mhor’s gaze refused to release him.

  “I will.”

  “And you do so of your own free will, not because I am forcing you to do so?”

  Gaelin grimaced. “Of my own free will,” he said.

  The Mhor did not press his victory. “It may be more important than you think, Gaelin,” he said, relaxing and turning away, his hands clasped behind his back. “You may not have heard, but Thendiere was nearly killed in Riumache a few days ago.”

  “What? How?” As the crown prince, Thendiere was the Mhor’s right hand. He traveled constantly, speaking with his father’s voice. Like Gaelin, he had trained in the Knights Guardian, although Thendiere had always been as responsible as Gaelin had been rebellious.

  “He was thrown in a joust and broke his leg,” the Mhor said, measuring Gaelin’s reaction. “A very bad fall. The priests tended him immediately, of course, but he’ll need some time to recover.”

  Gaelin shrugged. “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Aye, but some accidents are more convenient than most, wouldn’t you say?” the Mhor said darkly.

  It took a moment for the weight of the Mhor’s words to sink into Gaelin’s mind. “You believe someone made a deliberate attempt on Thendiere’s life?”

  “I’ve no proof of it, but I have to consider the possibility.

  We’ve few friends, Gaelin, and many enemies. The goblin kingdoms north and east of us have no love for any Anuireans.

  They’d just as soon lay waste to this land from Riumache to Torien’s Watch. West of us lies Alamie, an ally racked by civil war, and Ghoere is just across the Maesil. Lord Baehemon’s here right now, in fact.”

  “So I’d heard. What does Baehemon want with us?”

  The Mhor scowled. “I’ve no idea, but I expect him to bring it up soon. We’ll be entertaining him with a banquet, and I want you by my side.” His face grew hard. “If Baehemon had anything to do with Thendiere’s accident, I want him to see that I’ve another son.”

  “I’ll be there,” Gaelin said.

  “It’s growing late,” the Mhor said. “I know you’ve been traveling all day, and you probably want to get some sleep.”

  Gaelin let out a small knot of breath he’d been holding clenched under his breastbone and headed for the door. Before he left, his father stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “One more thing, Gaelin,” he said. “Be careful. Shieldhaven is not as safe as it used to be.”

  After leaving the Mhor, Gaelin stopped by the great hall.

  Since Baehemon’s entourage had come to Shieldhaven, the Mhor’s court stayed active until late at night, dancing, drinking, and making merry. The great audience hall, reserved for state business during the day, shifted to warm revelry by lantern light. Many of Mhoried’s noble-born and wealthy visited the court for weeks at a time, and these lords and ladies missed no opportunity to be seen in the Mhor’s hall. Despite Gaelin’s virtual absence from Shieldhaven for years, he was quickly recognized and besieged by dozens of well-wishers and a handful of old friends and acquaintances.

  At the center of attention, he found his sisters, the twins Liesele and Ilwyn. When he’d left Shieldhaven to begin training with the Guardians, they’d been a pair of giggling twelveyear- olds with a streak of calculated mischievousness. Now both were beautiful, intelligent, and witty ladies, unquestioned jewels of the Mhor’s court. Despite Gaelin’s exhaustion, Liesele and Ilwyn captured him for more than an hour with their tales of the doings of the court and their horde of suitors.

  He was a little surprised to find his old friend Cuille Dhalsiel was especially interested in Ilwyn. Two years past, Cuille’s father had died, leaving him the count of Dhalsiel – one of the wealthiest nobles of Mhoried. Gaelin was cheered by Cuille’s presence, but he detected a note of cynicism and insincerity in his old friend’s repartee. No one had ever made Cuille muck out a stall or stand shoulder-to-shoulder against a goblin charge. Cuille’s banter held an undercurrent of contempt for Mhoried’s institutions. It was a tone Gaelin found disconcerting, and he hoped Ilwyn would see through Cuille’s practiced charm.

  The next day, Gaelin spent the morning wandering through Shieldhaven’s halls, rediscovering his home. He knew every passageway and chamber, and each one brought its own tale or memory to mind. In one parlor, Gaelin recalled a time when he and Thendiere had been thrashed for breaking a Khinasi vase.

  In another study, Gaelin had kissed his first girl when he was thirteen, the enthusiastic daughter of one of the guardsmen.

  That incident had led to a long and serious discussion with his father about the responsibilities of young noblemen in regard to young women of common lineage.

  Gaelin was nosing through a favorite book in the library, when he was surprised by the appearance of his father, accompanied by the old minstrel Tiery. The bard’s seamed face lit up as he caught sight of Gaelin, and he placed his bony hands on Gaelin’s shoulders. “Prince Gaelin! By Sarimie, it’s good to see you again! Look how you’ve grown!”

  “Master Tiery,” Gaelin said with a laugh. “I finished my growing five years ago.” Tiery was the mins
trel of the Mhorieds, the herald of Shieldhaven. He wore the colors of the White Hall of Endier, a prestigious college of bards whose members served throughout the Heartlands. Tiery had been with the Mhors for almost fifty years, and if his voice no longer soared the way it had when Gaelin was a boy, his wit and wisdom remained undiminished. Gaelin knew that his father valued Tiery for his insight and years of experience far more than he valued him as an entertainer and poet. Looking closer at his old teacher, Gaelin was suddenly struck by Tiery’s age and frailness. Tiery seemed as thin and dry as an autumn leaf.

  “You’ve added twenty pounds of muscle since I last saw you, or my eyes are worse than I thought,” Tiery said.

  The Mhor smiled. “A few years with the Guardians will do that for a lad, Tiery.”

  “Aye, that they will. You turned out much the same, my lord.” Tiery stepped back and appraised Gaelin from head to toe. “He bears a striking resemblance to you thirty years ago, Daeric.”

  The bard paced to the window, admiring the snow-covered countryside. The tower library had a commanding view over the highest part of the castle’s bluffs, and sun on the pristine snowfall dazzled the eye. With a weak cough, Tiery settled himself into a chair in the sunlight. His gaze sharpened as he looked at Gaelin, and the light humor in his expression fell away. “Gaelin, I’ve a favor to ask of you,” he said.

  “Anything, Tiery.” The bard’s manner was beginning to disturb Gaelin. He sensed that not all was well with his old friend.

  “It’s time for me to find a successor,” Tiery said. “My health is failing; this winter took it out of me. I’ve been corresponding with the White Hall, and I’ve chosen a bard to take my place. The Mhor shouldn’t be without a White Hall minstrel, after all.”

  “You’re in fine health, Tiery,” Gaelin protested. “You’ll be around to teach my children the harp and the old poems.”

  Tiery shook his head sadly. “No, Gaelin. There’ll be another to teach them. Don’t be sad; I’ve lived a decade longer than most men do, and I’ve had good friends and fine deeds to sing. Now it’s time to see to the one who follows me.” He leaned forward to put a hand on Gaelin’s knee. “Would you do me the honor of bringing the next White Hall bard here?”

  Gaelin glanced at his father, who nodded. “Of course, Tiery. It’s no trouble at all. Who is your successor?”

  “A young bard named Erin Graysong. She is one of the most talented the White Hall has ever produced, I’m told.”

  He coughed again, and then stood. He clasped Gaelin’s hand and then the Mhor’s. “My thanks, sire. It’s a great honor you show me, by placing your son at my service.”

  “Think nothing of it, Tiery. It is the least I can do.” The old bard smiled and shuffled out of the room, leaning on his cane.

  His father, lost in thought, watched Tiery leave.

  “I’m surprised you’re sending me away from Shieldhaven so soon,” Gaelin offered.

  The Mhor sighed. “It’s only for a couple of weeks. Besides, Tiery suggested you could use a little time to unwind after the winter’s fighting. I can do without you for a fortnight.”

  He stood and straightened his tunic. “Well, that’s in good hands, then. Oh, one more thing – I’ll need you in the council chamber in half an hour. Lord Baehemon’s requested a private audience. It seems a messenger rode three horses to ruin bringing Baehemon instructions from Tuorel last night.” He smiled, but his eyes remained hard. “We’ll soon see what the Hound of Ghoere has to say.”

  Chapter Two

  The Mhor’s council chamber was spartan compared to the rest of Shieldhaven. Unlike the other rooms favored by the lord of the castle, the council chamber was buried deep in the fortress, surrounded by massive stone walls. It was a brooding, threatening room that dampened levity and lent itself to dark designs. The Mhor sat at the head of an ancient oak table, flanked by old Tiery and the court wizard, Bannier.

  Gaelin greeted Bannier warmly. Before he’d been sent away to the Knights Guardian, Gaelin had studied under the mage when his other duties and commitments allowed. The magician was just as tall as Gaelin or his father, but he was gaunt and bony, with a clean-shaven face and a receding hairline trimmed to stubble. His eyes burned with intelligence and force of will, giving him a hollow-cheeked, almost feverish, appearance. The wizard’s face split into a wide grin when he spotted Gaelin, and he caught the young man’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Gaelin! Are you back from the northern marches already?”

  “Aye, and this time to stay,” the prince replied. “My years with the Guardians are at an end. You’ll see much more of me here in Shieldhaven, I suspect.”

  “Excellent! Will you resume your magical studies?”

  “I don’t know about that,” Gaelin laughed. “I don’t recall that I had much aptitude for your arts.”

  “On the contrary, you were a quick study. You have the intelligence to grasp the principles of thaumaturgy, and your Mhoried blood gives you the potential for harnessing true magic, not just illusions.”

  Gaelin noticed his father looking in their direction, and he nodded toward the table. “Baehemon’s almost here. Let’s see what he has to say.” They found places by the Mhor’s side, and Gaelin tugged at his tunic and squared his shoulders. He was a little flattered that his father had invited him to sit in on the audience, but he guessed he’d probably tire of such things in a few weeks.

  A moment later, a chamberlain opened the panelled door and stood aside for the Ghoeran lord and his small entourage.

  Baehemon was a short, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head and a thick neck that vanished into knots of muscle around his shoulders. He was nicknamed the Hound of Ghoere, but he resembled a human bulldog, with a wide and powerful jaw and deep-set eyes that gleamed like frosted steel. Baehemon’s gestures and speech were short and clipped, and his posture suggested explosive violence barely held in check. With a bare nod of his head, he took a seat at the opposite end of the table. The Mhor had deliberately kept him waiting an extra quarter-hour as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was master of Shieldhaven.

  “Well, my lord Baehemon, you have requested this audience.

  How may we be of service to you?” the Mhor began.

  “My lord Mhor, Baron Tuorel of Ghoere sends his greetings,” Baehemon said. His voice was thick and gravelly, but his words were measured carefully. His eyes never left the Mhor’s face. “He hopes this day finds you well and your duchy at peace.”

  “It does, Lord Baehemon. Please proceed.”

  The Ghoeran nodded briefly and continued. “Baron Tuorel praises the peaceful relations of our two countries, and sends his sincere wishes that our future dealings will be similarly blessed. However, he is also forced to observe that dark times have come upon the empire. Enemies are gathering who could destroy us all. Goblins and elves beset our borderlands.

  The Gorgon’s armies grow stronger. The old outposts of the empire are falling to savages and outlanders. And in the midst of this storm, the lords of Anuire turn upon each other, engaging in petty squabbles when all are threatened by the forces of chaos and darkness.” Clearly, Baehemon had rehearsed this speech. Gaelin’s brows drew together, as he tried to puzzle out where the Ghoeran was going with all this.

  “So you say, Lord Baehemon,” replied the Mhor. “I must point out that Ghoere was recently engaged in one of these petty squabbles with the lord of Elinie.”

  Again, Baehemon nodded, as if to concede a point. “Be that as it may, darkness still threatens our land, a darkness against which we must stand together or fall. But who has stepped forward to lead us? Who can claim the Iron Throne?”

  Mhor Daeric spoke dryly. “Your presence here makes it obvious, but I’ll ask anyway: Who is this contestant for the Iron Throne?”

  “You have guessed my purpose already,” Baehemon said.

  “My lord Mhor, the Baron Noered Tuorel humbly advances his name as the next rightful emperor of Anuire and asks that you consider an oath of fealty to his
cause.”

  The Mhor leaned forward, giving emphasis to his words.

  “Before I swear support to a candidate, he’ll have to swear support to me. I agree that strife between Anuirean lands is terrible, but I stand on the borderlands of the empire, and I’ve no time, money, nor troops to spare in wars beyond my border. It’s Mhorien soldiers who keep the goblins of the Stonecrowns at bay, Lord Baehemon.”

  Tiery snorted and added, “My lord Baehemon, you ask us to create another contender for the throne? Ghoere can’t muster the support the claimants from Avanil or Boeruine already have.”

  “Ah, but Mhoried is one of the most prestigious neutrals in Anuire. Should the Mhor endorse Baron Tuorel’s claim, others will follow.” Baehemon leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on the table. The Mhor eyed him, a thoughtful look on his face.

  Bannier leaned close to speak quietly. “My lord, Ghoere’s offer may be worth considering. Avanil and Boeruine have nothing to offer you, but should you support Ghoere, you’ll anchor your southern flank forever. Ghoere has strength enough to seize the Iron Throne. Mhoried would be well-off as an ally of Ghoere when that happens.”

  The Mhor glanced at Bannier. When he spoke, he made certain that Baehemon could overhear him, without directly addressing the Ghoeran. “I’ll grant you that Avanil and Boeruine have done nothing for Mhoried, but neither has Ghoere. The only courtesy he’s shown Mhoried has been in not starting a war with us.”

  Bannier persisted. “It costs you nothing to offer him allegiance, my lord.”

  The Mhor’s face hardened. “On the contrary, it costs me a great deal to swear an oath of fealty to a cause I’ve little use for. I’ve seen nothing that indicates that Ghoere would be a better emperor than Avanil or Boeruine, and I’ll have no hand in putting an unworthy successor in Roele’s seat. The legends say that someday the line of Roele will reappear, but Baron Tuorel is not the emperor returned. I will not pretend that he is for the convenience of his friendship.”