While the army prepared to move, Gaelin found an increasing amount of time was taken up in dealing with matters of court. In peacetime, the Mhor heard cases of high justice, authorized the use of royal lands for private enterprises, granted special dispensations such as licenses and agreements, and juggled the fragile alliances and fealty of the lords around him. The routine business of the kingdom had consumed hours of Mhor Daeric’s time in the form of audiences, hearings, and meetings each day. Still, it astonished Gaelin that there were nobles, merchants, and royal officers who expected him to deal with these mundane affairs. “Doesn’t anyone realize that we have a war to fight?” he complained to Erin and Huire after one lengthy session.
Erin’s advice on this matter was direct. “Declare a royal stay on matters of state,” she said. “All permits, sentences, pardons, and other agreements are to continue in force until you declare the emergency has come to an end.”
Gaelin agreed wholeheartedly and had Huire prepare the pronouncements. Naturally, most of the petitioners were unhappy with this arrangement, but for the most part they understood the reasons behind it. Some ministers and officials persisted in trying to get Gaelin to review their troubles, but the royal stay reduced the torrent to a reasonable number of requests and interviews.
A similar problem existed with the handful of foreign diplomats who drifted into Castle Ceried by ones and twos.
These were people Gaelin dared not offend, and most had their own agendas they were determined to present, regardless of the demands on Gaelin’s time. Fortunately, most of the diplomats and ambassadors of Mhoried’s court remained in Shieldhaven, the recognized capital of the country, and bided their time – they dealt with neither Gaelin nor Tuorel.
Last, and certainly not least, Baesil Ceried thrust Gaelin immediately into the bottomless morass of problems involved in the war effort. The volatile old general, still smoldering with resentment, took a diabolical pleasure in browbeating Gaelin with a barrage of technical details and issues.
He claimed he was trying to school Gaelin in the art of war between nations and give him an appreciation for the obstacles that faced the losing side. Simply feeding the three thousand soldiers, camp followers, and courtiers who filled Castle Ceried and its surroundings was a problem of nearly insoluble dimensions. With the fall of Shieldhaven and the southern provinces, vast amounts of supplies had fallen into Tuorel’s hands. “Early spring’s a miserable time to fight a war,” Baesil told Gaelin. “The granaries and storehouses are empty from winter, and the first plantings won’t be ready for weeks. In fact, even if Ghoere’s army wasn’t coming here, we might have to move just to find food.”
Somehow, Gaelin muddled through the longest three days of his life and survived it. There were many people who were unhappy with the way things were run, but at least they were being run, and Gaelin had to satisfy himself with that. On the morning of his third day in Castle Ceried, he was in the mid- dle of an audience with a southern lord, discussing the possibility of raising the countryside against Ghoere, when Erin gracefully entered the room, dressed in her finest White Hall garb.
Words died in Gaelin’s throat when he caught sight of her.
Erin’s red hair cascaded to her shoulders, and she wore a sweeping gown of brocade and silk that accented her tall, graceful body without seeming festive or overly decorative.
“Please excuse me, my lords,” she said, “but I have learned that an emissary from Diemed is on the way here at this very moment.”
“Diemed!” said Gaelin. “Vandiel’s reply, already? Lord Waere, I hope you’ll forgive me for taking my leave?”
“Of course, my lord Mhor,” the nobleman replied. “l know how important Diemed may be to our cause.” He bowed and made his way out of the chamber.
“You may want to change,” Erin said. “By all accounts, Baron Tuorel is declaring to anyone who will listen that you are a bloodthirsty brigand. There’s no reason to look the part.”
“Do we know anything about Diemed’s ambassador?”
“I believe it’s the Princess Seriene,” Erin replied.
“Vandiel’s daughter?” Gaelin stopped and glanced at Erin.
“That’s surprising.”
“I’ll leave you to prepare, my lord,” Erin said frostily. She slipped out the door, not even sparing him another look.
Now what in Cerilia was that about? he wondered, staring after her. In a moment, he gave up trying to decipher her words and actions, and set about pulling out his finest robes of state. Huire had found decent clothing for the new Mhor, and he settled for a tunic of dark green to wear over soft gray hose and fine black boots. He buckled on his sword belt and wore his long sword by his side. He didn’t want Seriene to think he was a bandit lord, but neither did he want her to think he was a helpless dandy who survived only by the wit of his generals.
Checking his appearance one last time in a small mirror by the door, he left the room and headed for Castle Ceried’s hall.
Brother Superior Huire fell in beside him. They entered the great hall, which was unusually full – a number of minor lords and knights had apparently found some business at the court in order to be on hand for the meeting between Gaelin and Princess Seriene. The conversation came to a halt as Gaelin appeared and stepped up to the dais.
At the far end of the room, a chamberlain stepped forward and announced, “My lord Mhor, the Princess Seriene of Diemed!”
Two footmen opened the doors and bowed. The Dieman entourage filed in, their faces carefully reserved as their eyes darted about, taking in the scene. In the middle of the group, Seriene stood, her hands clasped before her. She was little more than five feet in height, but her cold and regal bearing drew all eyes in the room. A long gown of rich blue silk displayed her figure to great effect, and a small golden tiara gleamed in her raven-dark hair. Gaelin drew in his breath at the sight of her.
Seriene paused for a moment, then advanced to meet Gaelin. Her own guards stopped a good twenty feet short, grounding their gleaming halberds and settling into an impressive parade rest, while a pair of ladies-in-waiting and one silver-haired priest in the robes of the temple of Avanalae followed her. Before the dais, Seriene curtsied while her attendants kneeled. In a cool, clear voice, she said, “Hail, Gaelin of Mhoried. My father, Prince Vandiel Diem of Diemed, sends you his warmest greetings and hopes this day finds you in good health. I am the Princess Seriene Diem, and I am honored by this meeting.”
Gaelin had rehearsed his response. “Welcome, Princess Seriene.
Your presence here graces Mhoried’s rightful court and demonstrates the true friendship of Diemed and Mhoried.
You are our honored guest.” The weight of Seriene’s dark and measuring gaze on him made Gaelin acutely conscious of the words, and he nearly stumbled over them.
The Avanalite priest, a high-ranking clergyman introduced as Prelate Edoeren, began a long-winded oratory on the traditional alliance of the two countries. As Gaelin’s herald, Erin parried with a dignified response. Their words were meaningless in his ears; he couldn’t take his eyes from Seriene’s face, and he thought he saw a hint of interest in the set of her mouth, as she returned his gaze without shying away.
The formalities concluded, Gaelin invited the Dieman emissaries to join him for a light meal to rest from their jour- ney. As they left the room, Baesil Ceried leaned close and said, “Now the real diplomacy begins. We’ll soon see what the Diemans can offer us.”
Withdrawing to the small council room that had been prepared, they made a pretense of light conversation while they dined on roasted venison and capers, potatoes, cabbage, and stuffed pastries. The Diemans had come by boat, sailing up the Maesil and then the Stonebyrn to the western shores of Byrnnor, with a day of hard riding to reach Castle Ceried. All in all, the journey had taken them a week. “You must have left as soon as my letter from the Abbey of the Red Oak arrived,”
Gaelin observed.
“Actually, your father dispatched a letter two
weeks ago.
When I heard that Shieldhaven had fallen, I altered my plans and decided to seek you out,” said Seriene. “We made the best time we could.” She raised a glass of south coast wine and sipped at it demurely. “My thanks for your hospitality. I feel I am sufficiently rested to discuss the issues your father raised in his letter, Prince Gaelin.”
Gaelin glanced at Erin, but she was watching the princess.
“Very well. The war has not gone well for Mhoried. Baron Tuorel obtained the services of Bannier, our former court wizard and a very capable mage. In addition, the goblins of Markazor attacked at the same time.”
“Resulting in a catastrophic defeat of the army of Mhoried and the loss of Shieldhaven,” Seriene said evenly. In the corner of his eye, Gaelin could see a thin line of anger cross Count Baesil’s face, but the general held his tongue.
“As matters stand now, Tuorel holds most of the southern provinces as well as Bevaldruor,” Gaelin continued. “The goblins have been pushed back to Markazor, for the most part, and the northlands are still in our hands. We can hold them against Tuorel indefinitely, but Diemed’s aid would help us greatly in winning back the lands we have lost to Ghoere.”
Seriene brushed that aside for the moment. “With all due respect, my lord prince, how is it that you claim the title of Mhor? Tuorel’s ambassadors say your father capitulated to the baron when he took Shieldhaven and that you are nothing more than a disinherited pretender.”
Gaelin didn’t doubt Tuorel was telling all of Anuire about the so-called justice of his actions. He rose from the table.
“Tuorel is lying,” he said quietly. “I can see you have no way of knowing which story is true, so I won’t try to convince you. But I will tell you this: Tuorel murdered my father, my brother, and one of my sisters. The last living member of my family – my other sister, Ilwyn – is held captive in her own home.”
“If Tuorel killed your father, why didn’t he force him to divestiture?
Or try to take his bloodline, for that matter? The Mhoried line is one of the oldest and strongest of all Anuire,” asked the Prelate Edoeren.
Gaelin turned and shook his head. “I don’t know, Prelate. I suspect my father decided his kingship and the continuation of the line of the Mhors were more important than his own life.” He gestured at the white streaks over his temples. “You recognize the bloodmarks of Mhoried?”
“I don’t debate your identity, Prince Gaelin,” the prelate said. “You are who you say you are. My question is, are you what you say you are?”
Erin leaned forward. “For whatever reason, Tuorel obtained neither the Mhor’s blood nor his regency. The Mhor Daeric chose death over divestiture, giving Prince Gaelin a chance to continue the reign of the Mhors.” She nodded at Gaelin. “Aweek ago, he took the oaths of the Mhor before the Red Oak of Mhoried. He is the lawful ruler of this realm, and he still holds the divine right to Mhoried.”
“Granting you that,” Seriene said, “Tuorel is still right about one thing: you are a hunted man in your own kingdom.
His army outnumbers you by three to one, and he holds the richest lands of your realm. You may be able to elude him for a time, but in the long run he will grind you to nothing.”
“That is precisely why we need your help,” Count Baesil replied. “Ghoere has almost his entire army in Mhoried, engaging us on all fronts. If Diemed’s army threatened him, he would be forced to withdraw some of his forces to meet you, giving us the chance to defeat him entirely.”
“ You realize, of course, that we would have to secure the cooperation of Endier or Roesone in order to engage Ghoere? ”
“They’re no friends of Tuorel. They may be willing to help.”
“My father anticipated this request,” Seriene said, her face unmoving. “His reply is this: Assuming Diemed joins you in a war against Ghoere, can you guarantee you will be able to threaten Ghoere enough to hold at least half his army here?
Diemed can muster about four thousand men for an invasion of Ghoere, which means Ghoere can meet and defeat our attack with only a portion of his strength.”
Baesil Ceried snarled in disgust. “In other words, you don’t want to jump in on what you perceive as the losing side, regardless of old friendship or treaties.”
Seriene’s eyes flashed in anger, but her voice remained cool. “You could look at it that way,” she replied. “The truth of the matter is simple – if by helping you we do nothing but become Ghoere’s next victim, we have neither helped you nor served our own purposes. Diemed has enemies of its own to worry about; Prince Avan of Avanil, the new barony of Roesone, even pirates from Mieres across the straits. We dare not weaken ourselves by allying with a weak power.”
Gaelin thought for a moment, staring out over the Mhorien camp from a shuttered arrow embrasure. “Your concerns are understandable,” he said after a moment. “If we were to demonstrate we have at least the capability to keep Ghoere’s attention engaged in Mhoried, would that change your mind?”
Seriene glanced at the prelate before answering. “My lord Mhor, we would have to see you make some effort to retake the lands you’ve lost. So far, you have not been able to stand up to Ghoere’s army. Show us at least the promise of success in a future campaign, and we will do what we can.”
“I suppose that’s the best we will get for now,” Gaelin said with a sigh. “Would you consider aid that didn’t directly involve your forces in the fight?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We can use arms, equipment, and supplies of all kinds,” Gaelin said. “If you want to see us become strong enough to stand up to Ghoere, deliver these things to us. Of course, we will pay for them when we can.”
Seriene’s eyes narrowed. “I feel confident that my father will be willing to help you in this fashion, but you must realize that there’s no easy way to reach you. It may be a while.”
“Then the sooner we start, the better,” Baesil replied.
Seriene stood and smoothed her gown. “I will prepare a dispatch for my father,” she said. “We are agreed that Diemed will wait until Mhoried is in a better position before committing troops to the war? And that we shall undertake to help you with arms and equipment as we can?”
Gaelin nodded. “I wouldn’t say we’re agreed on both points, but we will accept it.”
Seriene smiled a little more warmly. “It’s a fair measure of what my father thinks of Tuorel that I’m here talking to you at all,” she continued. “In fact, he has requested I remain here for a time to act as Diemed’s representative at the court of the Mhor in exile.” She dropped her gaze demurely.
“We will be delighted by your company,” Gaelin replied.
“As you see firsthand how things are going, you may be moved to increase your efforts to help us throw Tuorel back across the Maesil.”
Seriene bowed gracefully. “Then we shall withdraw for now.” She paused a moment before addressing Gaelin by his rightful title. “Mhor Gaelin, my time is at your disposal.” She raised her eyes to Gaelin’s with a direct, disarming expression and a slight smile on her perfect lips before turning away. Gaelin watched the Diemans leave, holding his thoughts until they were gone.
Later that same day, in the evening, Baesil reported that the footsoldiers and the remaining baggage train were on their way, and Baehemon was camped only four miles away. As the sun set, he took Gaelin up to the battlements and pointed out the twisting lines of smoke that marked the Ghoerans’ cooking-fires. “We’ll give them a couple of hours to get nice and comfortable, and then we’ll hit them,” the general said.
“I’ll ride with you on the raid,” Gaelin said. His stomach was twisted and tight with nervousness, but he offered Baesil a smile. “I want the men to know I won’t send them someplace I wouldn’t send myself.”
The general scowled. “Damn it, Gaelin, this isn’t some kind of game! There’s every chance Baehemon might have caught wind of our plans and we’ll be riding into an ambush! Or even if he hasn’t,
some Ghoeran might pop up when you’re looking elsewhere, and then where will we be? You’re the last hope we have of getting the throne back, lad. Don’t take it into your head to get yourself killed in a raid that won’t matter one way or the other!”
“I’ll be careful and keep out of the thick of things,” Gaelin promised. “Sorry, Baesil, but my mind’s made up.”
The general snorted. “Bah! I should have known you’d be thinking of this.” He turned and poked Gaelin in the chest with one finger. “You’d better not be doing this to impress that Dieman princess who showed up today!”
Gaelin returned to his borrowed chambers and managed two hours of sleep in the early evening. As the hour of the raid app roached, he rose and began to arm himself. Boeric appeared as he struggled with the last awkward pieces. The guardsman had been promoted to sergeant and would carry Gaelin’s standard in the upcoming fight. “Are you ready, my lord?”
“Almost. Here, give me a hand.” Flanked by his guards, he strode into the courtyard and found Blackbrand had already been dressed for battle in a skirt of chain mail and stiff, metalstudded leather. He mounted smoothly, took up the reins, and rode into the night with his guards arrayed around him.
They, too, were dressed in their heaviest armor, with lances stepped by their stirrups and swords hanging in easy reach by the saddlehorns. He noticed Bull among his personal guards; two days before, the beefy farmer had decided to enlist in Gaelin’s cause.
Outside, they joined Count Baesil’s command group, a knot of fifty or so guards, officers, and messengers, along with standard-bearers and musicians. All around the field, knights and cavalrymen sat in even ranks. There were three divisions, each marshalled together under a standard. Even as Gaelin rode up, the first division was moving away into the darkness, riding slowly with no lights showing.
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 19