“What do we do if he follows us?” Gaelin asked.
“Well, we have a couple of weeks to turn our farmers into soldiers and to see about filling out the ranks with the musters of the northlords. In fact, with your permission, I was going to send our cavalry out to Marloer’s Gap and Torien’s Watch to help the highlanders turn the goblins back for good.
The sooner we end the threat to the northlands, the sooner we can add their levies to our army. And those highlanders know something about fighting, unlike these farmers we’ve collected so far.”
“Do you think we’ll have time to get ready for Baehemon?”
Baesil shrugged. “It will have to do. We’re running out of places to retreat to.”
After spending one cold and uncomfortable night sleeping in the ruins of the castle’s hall, Gaelin found that Huire had requisitioned a small horde of carpenters and masons to set about repairing the worst of the damage and building an improvised keep. Within a couple of days, he was holding court again in a rather drafty hall, but at least it had a roof and wasn’t choked with rubble anymore.
For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Gaelin’s life developed a routine again. The helter-skelter pace of the first weeks of the Ghoeran war slowed to a crawl as spring began to show the first hints of summer. Over the next ten days, the weather became warmer and drier, and the endless rains of Pasiphiel and Sarimiere came to an end as the month of Talienir approached. From day to day, Gaelin spent his time repairing the damaged arms of Mhoried’s government, courting southern and northern lords and requesting their support, dealing with ambassadors from neighboring powers, and consulting with Baesil Ceried on matters of strategy and supply.
Count Baesil’s scouts reported that Baehemon was advancing slowly into the upper reaches of Byrnnor, gathering his strength for a major expedition, but the Ghoeran army was still fifty miles away and traveling only four to six miles a day.
“Should we oppose his march, or wait for him?” Gaelin asked.
Baesil grinned wolfishly. “I mean to dog his every step once he sets foot in the highlands,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got nearly a thousand skirmishers and raiders moving into position, mostly northlanders who know these hills like the backs of their hands. I won’t try to stand against him in open battle, but I’ll make certain that he’s tired of fighting by the time he gets here.”
“You believe he’ll try to finish us off?”
“Well, he can’t let you put together a court-in-exile and gather an army up here, can he? Sooner or later, he’ll want to show everyone that Mhoried belongs to Tuorel.” Baesil smiled. “Of course, he’d be better off to wait us out, even if it took years. But I don’t think Tuorel or Baehemon has the pa- tience for it.”
After Baesil left to attend to other duties, Gaelin spent an hour practicing his swordsmanship, sparring with some of the Knights Guardian who had trickled into Caer Winoene.
He looked forward to his time on the practice field – when he was dodging blows and flailing away with a wooden sword, it felt like he was nothing more than a young squire, just beginning his training.
He finally called the session to a halt when the low-lying mist increased to a steady rain. He discarded his padded aketon, dunked his head in a barrel of cold water, and drew on a worn, loose-fitting shirt of Khinasi cotton. Still sweating, he started back up toward the castle, studying its jagged turrets and piecemeal battlements with a critical eye. He almost walked past Seriene, who sat watching him on her trim roan riding horse. “Seriene! I didn’t even see you there.”
“Some women might take offense at that, Gaelin,” she said with a smile. He noticed that she was dressed in a fine riding outfit, with creased pants, high leather boots, a white cotton blouse, and a long coat of fine blue wool. As always, her appearance was perfect. She rested her eyes on him for a moment before looking back at the field. “You’re quite a swordsman.
Did you fight in many tournaments?”
“Not that many, to be honest. Most of my skill I learned with the Knights Guardian. It’s tradition in Mhoried for the Mhor’ s sons to train in the ord e r.” He held up a hand to catch the rain.
“ You shouldn’t be out riding in this. You’ll catch cold.”
“Will you walk me back to the stable?”
“Certainly.” Seriene slid one leg over the saddle and paused while Gaelin quickly stepped up to take her by the hand and help her down, though he knew she needed no assistance.
She flashed a quick smile and, with her horse’s reins in hand, started toward the castle’s yard. Gaelin stole a sidelong glance at her, admiring the delicate trickle of rainwater on the side of her smooth, even face.
She looked up, noticing his attention. Their eyes met, and Gaelin felt an unmistakable spark that set his heart racing.
“I’ve noticed that you spend most of your time alone,” she said.
“You must be joking. I’m surrounded by people all day long. Lords, knights, messengers, diplomats… every time I turn around, there’s someone waiting to talk to me.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t busy. I mean, outside of your immediate advisors, you don’t seem to have many friends. Or any romantic interests.”
“I haven’t had time to even think about that,” Gaelin laughed.
Seriene looked him full in the face. Her eyes were blue and clear, burning through his casual facade. “Not even a thought?”
He found the easy laugh fading in his throat. She was breathtaking, and the way she looked at him, thoughts of her were crowding everything else out of his mind. “I suppose the thought’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.
Seriene reached out and touched his hand. Her skin was cool and wet with rain. “I don’t meet many men like you, Gaelin. I wouldn’t say that my father shelters me, but some of the suitors who have called on me seemed so insincere. They wore their chivalry, their victories in the tournaments, like a cloak of nobility. I think they’ve forgotten why they practice the so-called knightly virtues.”
“And I am refreshingly free of social graces?”
Seriene laughed, a light and sweet sound. “No, not at all.
Watching your swordplay, I realized you learned how to fight to stay alive in a real battle, not to win tournaments. When you meet with some lord or ambassador, you don’t try to demonstrate your courtliness. Yo u ’ re courteous because that’s what you think is right.”
“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”
Seriene glanced up at him with a smile. “You’d be surprised at how many noblemen I’ve met who don’t know that.”
Gaelin’s head whirled as they strolled into the open courtyard of the ruined castle. “It seems we’re here,” he said.
Seriene stepped close and pressed her lips to his cheek.
“Thank you, Gaelin. I enjoyed our walk.” She led her horse into the stable, with one last look over her shoulder. Gaelin stood looking after her, not even feeling the rain, for a long moment before he shook himself and headed back to his chambers to change.
Over the next few days, Gaelin and Seriene met for short walks around the battlements or rides about the camp, watching the practice of the army. Gaelin discovered there were few places he could go to get away from the various errands and messages that always found him, and despite his best intentions, he was summoned away to deal with one matter or another. He found he was absentminded and distracted when she wasn’t around, and her smile or the touch of her hand could tie his tongue in knots. Gaelin tried not to let it affect the serious tasks that he waded through each day, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
One day, Madislav appeared on his doorstep, a lecherous grin on his bearded face. Gaelin suddenly realized he hadn’t spoken to his old friend much in the last couple of weeks, although he’d seen Madislav hovering near him constantly.
The Vos winked and said, “Gaelin, I am thinking that you are needing some time alone with the Princess Seriene, eh? Is a fine evening, and you have been working too h
ard! Go out and relax! You can ask Seriene to ride with you.”
“Well, you may be right.” Gaelin glanced out the window at the sun setting out over the moors and gave in with a shrug. He sent a page to Seriene, inviting her to take a short ride away from the castle, and as the daylight faded into a warm, starlit evening, they rode up into the hills overlooking the lake, accompanied by only a handful of guards. Madislav and his men drifted back out of earshot, trailing them at a discreet distance.
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Gaelin,” Seriene said quietly, as they stopped to admire the view.
“I’ve been cooped up in the castle for weeks now,” he replied. “I love these highlands. The air is so crisp and cool… the smell of the heather and the rain… I could get lost up here, and never come back.”
Seriene tossed her head, her dark hair streaming in the wind. “I almost feel jealous,” she said, smiling. They rode a little further, just over a hilltop, and Madislav caught Gaelin’s eye with a quick, approving nod. The Vos and his guardsmen casually fell back out of earshot, leaving Gaelin and Seriene to ride over the hillcrest and continue alone on the other side.
The guards were out of sight, a couple of hundred yards away, but not too far for peace of mind.
“Your friend seems to want us to be alone,” she observed with a shy smile. “Or was it your doing?”
“Madislav’s trying to encourage me to be more direct with you,” Gaelin answered. “Don’t pay him any mind.”
In a sheltered hollow, they dismounted and sat together on a mossy boulder, watching the stars come out one by one as the evening faded toward night.
As darkness began to fall, Seriene leaned close, and Gaelin kissed her, a long, slow kiss that seemed to last forever. Silently she drew away, and Gaelin found himself beginning to undo the fastenings of her dress, letting it fall from her white shoulders.
Her body was soft and pale in the starlight, and Gaelin’s mouth went dry at the sight of her. “Seriene, I…”
“Shh.” She moved closer, touching her hand to his face. She nestled into his arms and guided his hands as he caressed her.
Gaelin drank another long kiss from her perfect lips, and then pulled himself away, quickly standing and stepping away from her, his eyes on the distant hills. “Seriene, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d like to be your lover, even if it’s just for this night – but I can’t promise you anything. It’s just not right for me to do this.”
He heard her as she stood and followed him, the soft whisper of her dress sliding away from her entirely, and she came up behind him and pressed herself close, her arms around his shoulders. “Gaelin, I’m not asking anything of you. I know you’re married to Mhoried, and that’s why I care for you.”
Gaelin was intensely aware of her closeness. Seriene’s arms were circling his body again, unfastening his shirt. “Seriene, I’m nobody. If I win back my father’s throne, then this would be a fine idea, a wonderful idea, but all this could be over in days.”
Seriene reached up to his shoulders and turned him to face her. “That doesn’t matter to me,” she said, and kissed him again, with a fierce abandon that swept his resistance away.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was lowering her to the cool heather, and for a time the world ceased to be as he took her in his arms.
After a time, they lay side by side, looking up at the sky and the glorious vault of stars overhead. Seriene was warm and soft against him, breathing slowly. “Gaelin, do you love Erin?” she asked in a small voice.
“No, of course not,” he said. “I’ve never – ” But even as he spoke, his conscience strummed a discordant note in his heart. He’d never kissed Erin, or seen anything more than hints that she might have feelings for him… but there in the moonlight, with Seriene right there beside him more beautiful than a goddess, the image of Erin’s face and her long, redgolden hair floated in his mind. “I’ve never held her like this, I promise you.”
Seriene sighed, her breath warm on the back of his neck.
“As a famous bard once said, ‘I think thou dost protest too much.’ ” She let him go and moved away. Gaelin heard her dressing again.
He stood, reaching for his own clothes. “Seriene, she’s a friend, and I’ve been through a lot with her, but I’m not lying to you. I haven’t even kissed her,” he said over his shoulder.
She laughed softly in the darkness. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Gaelin. It’s not in your nature. But anyone can lie to himself.”
He turned and stepped forward, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her tenderly. Her bodice was still partly undone, but the princess was decently covered. He gazed directly into her eyes and said earnestly, “Seriene, I’m falling in love with you. But you’re right, in a way. My heart’s confused. It’s not right for me to make any commitments until I’m certain of where my heart lies. There’s so much happening to me… I don’t want to make this decision in haste.”
She smiled wistfully, and quickly kissed him on the cheek.
“I suppose you know how I feel,” she said. “As long as you’re not certain of what is in your heart, then I should keep my distance. But when you think you’ve decided…” She laid her hand on his chest and swayed suggestively close. “I’ll be waiting.”
Gaelin flushed and carefully stepped back. “I feel like a fool,” he said to no one in particular.
“At least you’re an honest one.” Seriene stooped to gather her things, and in a few moments they were leading their horses back over the crest of the hill. Gaelin could have sworn that Blackbrand was snorting derisively at him, as if to say, What on earth is wrong with you, Gaelin?
Seriene suddenly stopped, reaching up to catch Gaelin’s arm. He glanced over at her. She nodded down the slope of the hill. “Where are the guards?” she whispered.
It was dark, but Gaelin’s eyes were well adjusted to the gloaming, and the hillside was fairly clear. Down a little far- ther, he could see the half-dozen horses of their escort, standing around with their reins hanging loose. They hadn’t been tied off or secured, just left to wander. And there was no sign of their escort, except for one dark form that rose and stretched as the two of them watched. “What is going on here?” Gaelin said quietly.
The man below them turned and started up the hillside at a steady pace, glancing up at them. It was Madislav, his features dark and shadowed in the starlight.
“Madislav, what’s going on?” Gaelin called, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry. “Where are the others?”
“Them? Oh, I sent them away,” the Vos replied cheerfully.
“I did not need them around for this. I was getting bored waiting for you two.”
Gaelin sensed something terribly wrong. Something about the way Madislav looked at them, the easy swing of his arms, the purposeful stride… there was danger here. He took a half-step back and reached across Blackbrand’s saddle to put his hand on the sword hanging from the pommel. Seriene caught his worried look and stepped clear. “Madislav, what’s going on?” he said.
The Vos climbed toward them. “I will explain in a moment,” he said with an upward glance.
Gaelin drew his sword with one fluid motion, the steel ringing from the sheath. “Why don’t you stop there and explain?” he said, his voice steady.
Madislav raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Quick to draw steel on an old friend, are you not?” With an exaggerated gesture, he raised his hands and spread them open. “After all, I am unarmed.” He mumbled something under his breath.
Seriene shrieked. “Gaelin! Watch out!”
With a word, the wizard circled his hands and flung a gesture at Gaelin. From his outstretched fingertips five coruscating spheres of blue light leapt away from him. Four spheres raced at the young prince, while one altered course and streaked toward Seriene. Before Gaelin could even blink, the bolts crashed into his body, striking the center of his torso. He barely noticed when the bolt directed at Seriene suddenly vanished in
a flash of silent light.
Pain doubled Gaelin up and sent him tumbling headlong down the hill. He fell and rolled about twenty yards, sliding to a stop against a set of low, mossy rocks that caught and turned his ankle viciously. His stomach burned as if he’d been branded with a torch, and the smell of burnt cloth and flesh reeked in his nostrils.
Dizzily, he rolled over and looked back uphill. He saw Madislav staring at the princess, a deep scowl on his face. “I did not know you were a mage,” the Vos said in a menacing voice.
Seriene still stood between the horses, near the hill’s crest.
There was fear on her face, but she controlled it. “Nor had I thought you might study the art,” she replied. “Or are you really Madislav at all?”
The Vos boomed laughter. “You are not thinking that I am being someone else in here?” he said. With deliberation, he began another enchantment, letting the ancient words roll forth in a resounding cadence. Seriene began one of her own, her voice high, shrill, and desperate. A heartbeat later, the night was split by a brilliant flash of light as a great bolt of lightning stabbed at Seriene with a crackling roar. But the spell did not strike her, as an invisible shield parried the blow and sent it streaking wide. Beside her, both horses reared in panic, and she ducked out of the way of their flailing hooves.
In that instant, Bannier sprang like a tiger, surging up the hill in three great bounds. Seriene saw him charging and started to bark out the words of another spell, but Bannier hammered her with one colossal fist. The sorceress spun and fell, knocked senseless by the blow. “Fight wizards with swords, and fight swords with wizardry,” he remarked. He glanced down the hill at where Gaelin was just now regaining his feet. “Don’t leave yet, Gaelin. We’ve places to go, you and I.” He raised his hands, preparing another spell.
The Falcon and The Wolf Page 21