Suddenly the faint halo blazed furiously into a brilliant corona of searing fire. The heat and light flooded through his body, tearing from him an inhuman scream of ecstasy as his blood became liquid fire, hotter and purer than molten silver.
In a moment of transcendent lucidity, he saw the great sweep of Mhoried, from the rich and ancient lands by the river through belts of forest and into the wild, snow-capped highlands of the north. He felt the pulse of life and vitality that swelled as the land itself welcomed and acknowledged him, a supernal extension of his own senses and body to include everything from the tiny circle of firelight where he knelt to the farthest reaches of the Mhor’s domain.
“YOU ARE THE MHOR.” A thousand voices spoke in his mind. “YOU ARE THE BLOOD OF MHORIED, THE HEIR TO THE THRONE OF BEVALDRUOR. YOU ARE THE MHOR.”
The fire, its beauty, its awesome scope, terrified him. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a bright abyss. He understood that if he embraced it, he would surrender his soul to an ancient and unknowable mystery. He covered his eyes to block out the raging brilliance. “I refuse,” he said, his voice small and discordant. “YOU CANNOT REFUSE.”
“No! By Haelyn’s grace, I beg you, find another!”
“YOU MUST BE THE ONE.” The chorus was implacable, surrounding and crushing him with its power. A thousand rivulets of fire streamed from the ground over his body, crackling with a brilliance and heat that threatened to sear his mortal flesh to ash and desiccate his soul. Gaelin screamed, a howl of living fire that blazed like a beacon in the night.
And suddenly there was silence and darkness, and Gaelin found himself kneeling in the wet dirt of the Stonebyrn’s banks. Madislav knelt to one side, shouting his name over and over, while Erin held his hand, weeping in fright. His vision cleared, and he slumped forward into her arms, exhausted.
He could feel his blood, the ancient blood of the Mhorieds that had gained the divine fire of the fallen god Anduiras fifteen centuries ago. It raced through his veins and hammered in his heart and his temples, singing in his ears.
Everywhere he looked, a shimmering violet tracery surrounded him, clinging to the earth like dew, streaming through the trees like sunshine.
Erin’s voice called him back to the present. “Gaelin! What happened? Are you all right?” Her long red hair hung over her shoulders, cowling her face as she leaned over him.
He closed his eyes, slowly sat up, and then climbed to his feet.
His companions stepped back as he moved away, staggering into the night. He tried to gather his thoughts, to turn and face the others, but his legs gave out and he fell to his knees again.
“What did you see and hear?” he asked over his shoulder.
Madislav was the first to answer. “We heard you speaking, and then you cried out,” he said. “When I looked… you will say I am losing my mind, but I thought you were talking with your father.”
“I saw someone, too,” Erin said. “And then a moment later, there was a fire all around you. You fell to your knees, and… I don’t know what I saw. Gaelin, what does it mean?
What was it?”
He looked down, studying his fist. “My father has fallen by a traitor’s hand,” he said, “and my brother with him. The Mhor is dead.” He raised his eyes and met their gazes, and he could tell that they sensed the truth of it too.
“Daeric and Thendiere are dead,” Madislav said slowly.
The Vos warrior rolled the words from his mouth, as if speaking them made it so. “Gaelin, you are Mhor.”
There was a long silence then, broken only by the whispering of the wind in the trees. Then, toward the back of the group, one of the guards – a young woman named Niesa, whom Gaelin barely knew – suddenly drew her sword. The rasp of the steel on leather seemed harsh and loud. She pushed her way forward to stand in front of Gaelin and then dropped to one knee, offering her sword by the hilt. “By the Lord Haelyn and the Red Oak, I pledge my faith and service to you, Mhor Gaelin,” she declared. Niesa looked up, and tears streaked her face. “For all my living days, I am your servant.”
The other guards glanced at each other, and one by one they dropped to their knees and drew their swords, offering their oaths. Madislav and Ruide joined them a moment later, and then Erin knelt too. “By the White Hall, I pledge my faith and service to you,” she said in a clear voice. Gaelin accepted their oaths, moving with a curious detachment, almost as if he were walking in a waking dream. When the last of his companions had stood again, he was surprised to see the first gray light of dawn tint the eastern sky.
“What shall we do, Mhor Gaelin?” asked one of the guards.
Gaelin looked around, searching for an answer. Finally, he said, “We’ll wait one hour and see if Captain Maesan and the rest of the troop join us. Then we ride for Shieldhaven.”
Chapter Eight
Bannier stormed through the halls of Shieldhaven, his black cloak trailing behind him. His customary reserve was gone, and raw fury contorted his face. Dawn was an hour away, but Ghoere’s soldiers crowded the passageways. The entire fortress had been roused by the fighting and alarms, and parties of armed Ghoerans still roamed the castle, seeking spies or collaborators who might have aided the Mhor’s escape attempt.
The wizard swept around a corner and came to the door leading to the Mhor’s audience hall. Noered Tuorel had claimed the chamber as his own headquarters and oversaw the occupation of Shieldhaven and the progress of the war from the room. Half a dozen of Tuorel’s finest guards stood before the door. “Out of my way!” Bannier hissed.
The lieutenant sketched a shallow bow. “The Baron can see you now,” he said. Bannier strode forward and roughly shouldered the man aside, ignoring the murderous looks Tuorel’s guards shot at his back. Inside, he found Tuorel standing beside a table of rich, ancient wood, a parchment map of Mhoried pinioned to its surface by sturdy knives. Officers of the baron’s army were gathered there.
Tuorel glanced up, his face betraying no annoyance at the interruption. “Well, Bannier, I see that you survived your encounter with the Mhor without injury. Quite remarkable, considering the fall.” His smile vanished and a hard look came into his eyes. “What do you want with me this morning?”
“Do you have any idea what your bungling cost me today?” Bannier said in a loud voice. The officers fell silent.
Some took a step or two back, fingering the hilts of their swords. “The Mhor and his son lie dead, you idiot! All we have to show for it is one frightened girl, and she’s of absolutely no value to us as long as Gaelin remains free!”
Tuorel’s face tightened. “I don’t care for your tone of voice,” he said. “Remember your manners, Bannier.”
“And you remember that we had a bargain, Tuorel! The Mhor was to be delivered to my hands!” Bannier took a step forward, sweeping his staff over the table with a two-handed swing. The map tore in half, the wooden markers flying across the room. “All this is meaningless now!”
“Not to me, it isn’t,” Tuorel snapped. “Instead of running around screaming like a child, I’m planning to take this wretched land with or without the Mhoried line. It may be long, and difficult, and bloody, but if I have to put half of Mhoried to the sword to rule the other half, I can and I will.
Now, make yourself useful, or get out of my way! I’ll not be threatened, wizard.”
“Is this how you keep your word, Tuorel?”
“Bannier, as I recall, Thendiere died by your hand, and the Mhor met his death while locked in hand-to-hand battle with you. If you find the Mhorieds are dying too quickly, perhaps you should stop killing them.”
The wizard’s eyes narrowed. “Strange, isn’t it? I help you to take Shieldhaven, fulfilling my part of the bargain, but before you live up to your end, the Mhor and his son meet their deaths. An unfortunate coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’ve had them for three days and done nothing with them.”
Bannier exploded. “Because I need all the Mhorieds, you dolt!”
/>
“For what? You must be blooded, or you could not wield the sorcery I have seen you employ. And you have an impressive command of the magical arts. How much more can you want?”
“I have a debt to pay,” Bannier hissed. “And I fulfill my obligations, no matter what it takes. You would be wise to do the same.”
Tuorel folded his arms in front of his armored chest and regarded the wizard evenly. “If you must take the bloodline of the Mhorieds, you need only slay the last living Mhoried.
There are two left now: Princess Ilwyn, here in Shieldhaven, and Prince Gaelin. Your designs haven’t been thwarted, Bannier, merely delayed. For that matter, I can still invest myself as king of this miserable land. I couldn’t coerce the Mhor into handing me the kingdom, but I may break Gaelin.”
Bannier stopped his pacing to glare at the baron. “He’s mine, Tuorel. I’ve already seen how your prisoners fare.”
Tuorel’s eyes blazed, but he spoke quietly. “Then go get him yourself. Clearly, you’ve no further use for my cavalry. I’ll find more pressing business for those soldiers, I think. Good luck in your search for the prince.” He turned away deliberately, taking up the study of a map hanging on the wall.
Bannier fumed in silence. Finally he scowled and said, “You said Gaelin could hold the key to a quick victory, Tuorel.
How long will it take you to reduce Mhoried town by town?”
The baron didn’t turn, but he shrugged in his heavy armor.
“A few months, I would think.”
“And what will Mhoried be worth to you, if you have to rule every square foot of it with a soldier? Will the Mhoriens march under your banner, or murder your soldiers in the dark of night?”
“I’ll not argue the point, Bannier. The crown is no mere symbol – if I wrest the right to rule from Gaelin, my victory is complete.”
“Then you’ll agree that it suits both our purposes to capture the prince as swiftly as possible.”
Tuorel eyed the wizard contemptuously. “Considering the way you’ve threatened me, I’m not sure how much longer I should trust you. But, for the sake of argument: Yes, I agree Gaelin must be captured. Do you have any suggestions?”
Bannier smiled, a serpentine expression that showed no hint of warmth. “Sooner or later, the prince will surface. I know Gaelin; he won’t stay away from Mhoried, not if he thinks the land is in danger. Give him time to get his feet under him, and he may even claim the Mhor’s seat and stand against you, Tuorel.”
“That would be unacceptable. It will take long enough to pacify this land without a figure like the Mhor’s son for the Mhoriens to rally around. Even if he’s an idiot, he’ll be dangerous to me.”
“Make certain Gaelin isn’t killed, baron,” Bannier said quickly. “Remember our bargain – do not deny me the prince.
Believe me, it’s in your best interest to make certain I remain your ally. You can’t even guess at the resources I command.”
The wizard whirled in a flutter of night-black cloak and strode away, leaving a noticeable chill lingering in the air.
Ignoring hostile glares from the Ghoeran lords and officers he encountered, Bannier stormed back to his tower. He passed the wards that guarded his chambers and barred the door behind him. Pacing his chamber absently, he considered his options. After a moment’s thought, he selected a book of divinations from the shelf and paged through until he found the spell he wanted. “It will do,” he murmured. He sat down to study the spell’s cryptic symbology.
By sunrise, he was ready to begin. The first rays of dawn streamed into Bannier’s conjuring chamber, striking fiery gleams from a spiral of argent runes inlaid in the floor of the room. The wizard circled the design, pausing to speak a phrase or two of a forgotten language or throw a pinch of metallic powder into the air. In the center of the design stood a black bowl, filled with a dark liquid. Reading from a book cradled in his left arm, Bannier circled the bowl one last time, and spoke the spell’s final word. Gleaming silver energy coalesced around the spiraling runes, swirling toward the center where the bowl waited.
Bannier set down his tome of spells, and hurried over to peer into the dark pool within the bowl. Spells of seeking and spying did not come easily to him. This enchantment was the most potent scrying-spell he knew. Inside the bowl, the dark fluid rippled strangely, and its surface suddenly became a single sheet of gleaming silver.
The wizard rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, and then gazed into the reflective surface. In his mind’s eye, he conjured an image of Gaelin as he had last seen him – a tall, broad-shouldered man, dark hair marked by the white streak of the Mhoried blood. As his mind brought the image to life, an identical image appeared in the pool before his eyes. The face was a little more drawn and unkempt, and the image of the pool showed Gaelin saddling his horse, preparing for the day’s journey. Behind the prince, Bannier spied the sparkle of water. He recognized the Stonebyrn’s mighty flow. He returns to Mhoried already! the wizard thought.
With a feral grin, Bannier let the spell lapse and stepped away from the silver basin. “So, you’re coming to me, are you?” he said quietly. “You’ll save me a great deal of trouble, Gaelin. Now, how do I set the hook?” Bannier descended into the darkness of his chambers to prepare for Gaelin’s return.
*****
The dawn soon cleared the mists from the Stonebyrn, burning the fog away within an hour of sunrise. Gaelin felt more alert and alive than he could ever remember; he wondered if some new legacy of the Mhoried bloodline was now emerging, or if it was nothing more than exhaustion and delirium that lied to his senses. Something in his perception, in his mind, was different this morning – he knew that much. The air seemed crisper, the sounds and sights registering in his eyes and ears with preternatural clarity.
When the fog cleared, Madislav sent two scouts back across the river. They landed and met with some of the townspeople, then returned almost immediately. “I’m sorry, my lord, but neither our men nor Ghoere’s hold the town now,” they reported.
“The townsfolk say that Captain Maesan was forced to flee, but the Ghoerans rode off soon afterward. ”
“They may have been worried that the Alamiens would come after them,” said the first sergeant of the guards, a weather-beaten old war-hound named Toere. With Maesan out of reach, he commanded the remnants of Gaelin’s escort.
“Maesan might be trying for the next landing,” Gaelin said. “Failing that, he could probably swim the horses across the river to Winoene. Either way, we’d only be guessing if we tried to meet up with him again.” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Sergeant, give the order to mount up.”
In a few minutes, they were on their way again. For the first time in a week or more, the weather was good; the temperatures were cool, but not unseasonable, and the rains of the last few days were gone. The guards formed a close cordon around Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide, while Madislav scouted ahead. The gentle, rolling hills and broad farmlands of Cwlldon were a welcome sight for Gaelin. For a brief moment, he could pretend that all was well in Mhoried.
They followed a worn cart track leading away from the ferry landing and quickly found themselves on the Old Stoneway, an ancient road that followed the Stonebyrn’s path from Riumache all the way through Torien’s Watch to the passes of the Stonecrowns. “Let’s head south,” Gaelin said.
“If I remember right, the Cwlldon Pike meets this road about ten miles down the Stoneway. I don’t know this area well enough to head cross-country.”
“The pike leads to Shieldhaven?” Erin asked.
Gaelin nodded. “It’s the quickest way from here.”
“What do you expect to find there?”
Gaelin gave her a helpless look. “How should I know?
Once I get home, maybe I can decide what to do.” He looked away, studying the road. Lord Anduine, Count Baesil, Tiery… someone at Shieldhaven would be able to tell him what he should do next. Erin watched him, but she kept her opinions to herself.
To keep up a fast pace, the party alternated between easy canters and walking. After an hour, they spied a gray smudge in the sky to the south. Eventually, they made out a halfdozen or more twisting pillars of smoke.
“There has been fighting,” Madislav observed. “We are maybe riding into trouble, no?”
“Those are homes and farms burning.” Gaelin frowned.
“Better keep our scouts on their toes.”
“I will check on them,” Madislav said. He spurred his horse and rode ahead, vanishing over the next rise.
The pillars of smoke drew Gaelin’s eye like an accusation.
Can I live up to this burden? he thought. I know nothing of ruling. He dropped his eyes as he considered what had happened.
His mind kept returning to one thought: Why did this have to fall to me?
He didn’t notice Erin riding closer until she reached out to touch his shoulder. Startled, he straightened and met her eyes.
Her red hair gleamed in the sun, wreathing her head in a copper halo. “Your heart is heavy this morning, my lord Mhor?”
The title set his stomach to fluttering. He could believe it had all been a dream, as long as he was left to his own reflections, but hearing the words on Erin’s lips made it real.
“Don’t call me that, please. I’m no different than I was yesterday.
‘Gaelin’ was fine then, and it’s fine now.” He looked away, studying the young green fields around them.
“That’s not true, you know,” said Erin quietly. “Whether you wanted it or not, you have inherited this land. Of course you are different. Your bloodline, the blood of the House Mhoried, is inextricably linked with the land. I saw it happen, last night; the land poured out its power, waking your blood, and today you are the Mhor, for better or worse. Until you die or forswear your birthright, there can be no other. You must face that, for yourself and for your homeland.”
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 12