On the other hand, Gaelin felt cold and sick when he thought about allowing Ilwyn to die through his inactivity.
While he’d seen little enough of his sisters in the years he had been training with the Knights Guardian, he couldn’t bear to decide whether Ilwyn lived or died. Seriene’s words haunted him day and night. It was a matter of pride, of duty, and of doing the right thing. The Mhor should be prepared to lay down his life for any of his subjects, let alone his family. Deciding that his own life was of greater value than someone else’s represented the first step down a long, dark road of expediency and excuses.
At night, he paced the battlements restlessly until the gray light of dawn seeped into the sky from the east. By day, he found it harder and harder to pay attention to his duties.
Countless times he glanced at the sky to see where the moon stood.
A week after Madislav’s pyre, Gaelin stood on the battlements in the hours before sunrise. It was a cold, clammy morning; thick mists wreathed the cool, still waters of the lake before the castle, but from the heights of the ancient battlements the stars were clear overhead. He paused by one turret, leaning on the parapet and staring moodily out over the dark countryside. His reverie was disturbed by the light footfalls of someone approaching. Gaelin could make out a dark, slender figure advancing toward him along the walkway; frowning, he drew back into the shadows of a ruined cupola and set his hand to his sword.
A moment later, Erin appeared, gliding forward to stand where he had been just a moment ago. She looked out over the darkened landscape, engaged in her own silent reflections.
Gaelin started to speak out, but decided not to startle her, and remained silent and unmoving in the darkness, watching her. Dew glistened in her long hair, now a gray sheen of shadow in the night, and her alabaster features seemed almost to glow with an inner radiance in the starlight.
Her elven features were unmistakable, now that he studied her – the slender build, the easy grace of her movements, and the faerie quality of her face and long white hands.
“Spying on me, Gaelin?” she asked, speaking into the night.
For a moment, he felt embarrassed. Flushing, he stepped out into the open. “I might ask the same of you,” he said quietly.
“I’m surprised you noticed me. I thought I was well-concealed.”
She laughed softly. “You forget my heritage,” she said, gesturing at the subtle points of her ears.
“On the contrary, it’s obvious in the starlight,” he replied.
“I could believe you to be a princess of the Sidhelien. The dew shines in your hair like diamonds.” He stepped closer, leaning against the cold stone embrasure to enjoy the view while facing her. Before he knew what he was saying, he added, “I’ve never seen your equal.”
Erin smiled and glanced at him. “Not even Seriene?”
“She’s beautiful, too. But there’s a hardness in her heart that I don’t see in you.”
“You should fall in love with her, Gaelin. It’s the best thing you could do right now, for yourself and for your kingdom.
She already loves you.”
“Why do you say that?”
Erin shrugged, glancing down at her hands as she twisted a fine gold chain that was draped around her neck. “You’re the Mhor. That defines you. And you’re too good a ruler to do anything except what’s best for Mhoried. You know that you’ll have to marry Seriene. It’s an alliance you have to make.” She smiled. “And she’s beautiful, too. It works out well, wouldn’t you say?”
Gaelin thought for a time, looking out over the white blanket of fog. “Not as well as I might like,” he said.
“Don’t lie to me, Gaelin.” Erin started to turn away, straightening up and pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “I know what happened between you and Seriene.”
He felt as if he’d been struck. “You do?”
“I’m not stupid. The way you’ve been acting, the way she looks at you… it’s not hard to figure it out.” Erin laughed bitterly. “I wish the two of you well.”
“I don’t think I love her, Erin.”
“What’s that matter? She’s a beautiful woman from a family as noble as your own. And you must have feelings for her, if…”
Gaelin looked away, watching the mists rising from the lake. The cold and damp had chilled him to the bone, but the dark ache in the center of his chest held him transfixed, unwilling to leave and unable to face Erin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let things happen the way they did.”
“Why apologize? You don’t owe me your faithfulness.”
Erin tried to maintain her sarcasm, but her voice broke. “I have no claim on you.”
“Erin” he said softly. “I may have been Seriene’s lover, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Her head dropped as she hugged herself against the cold stone, her hair spilling down around her face. Her voice a whisper, she said, “Gaelin, don’t. Please. It’s not in my heart to stop you.” She straightened and turned away.
“Wait, Erin. Please don’t go yet.” He reached out and caught her arm gently. Erin let him turn her back to face him, looking past him, refusing to meet his eyes. He searched for something to say, but nothing came to mind as he held her, looking into her face. Her self-assurance was gone, stripped away, and she was trembling like a vulnerable child. “You told me that I could have your counsel when I needed it. I don’t know what to do. I know what I should do – my duty – and I know what I think is right – my heart, my conscience – but they’re not the same.”
Erin glanced up, and a flicker of a smile showed itself on her face. “You’re becoming familiar with that dilemma, aren’t you?”
“I’m twice caught in it,” he answered. “Do I do my duty to Mhoried, marrying Seriene and refusing to allow Bannier to threaten me with Ilwyn’s life? Or do I do what’s in my heart, making sure that Ilwyn is safe?” He stepped closer, looking into her eyes. “And falling in love with you?”
“Gaelin, please. Don’t say that.” She moved away, circling the ruined parapets, looking down at the wet stone of the turret.
Her hair fell around her face.
“It’s in my heart, Erin.”
She drew back another step and sighed, glancing up to meet his eyes. “Listen to your heart, Gaelin,” she whispered.
“Somehow it will work out.” She slipped past him and disappeared into the shadows, like a wisp of silver moonlight.
Bannier caught up to the Ghoeran army at dawn, riding a coal-black gelding he’d appropriated from Shieldhaven’s stables.
The army was camped in a high valley, surrounded by dark peaks and fells, and in the gray distance Bannier could make out the distinctive gap of Marnevale, a day’s march ahead. Cantering past endless rings of earthworks and palisades, manned by vigilant sentries, he continued without challenge into the camp itself. It was a cool, foggy morning, and the acrid smoke of cooking fires stung his nose as the camp around him began to stir.
Near the center of the camp, he spied the wolf standard of Noered Tuorel. Bannier smiled grimly; this should be an entertaining encounter. After he had slipped out of Shieldhaven with Ilwyn, Tuorel’s men had literally razed his tower, pulling it down stone by stone. He’d found armed guards standing watch over the ruins – the baron’s men must have set off the traps and wards with which he guarded his tower.
Fortunately, his shadow portal couldn’t be damaged by petty vandalism, but many other possessions of value to him had not fared so well.
He cantered up to a large red pavilion surrounded by guards, and dismounted. A footman took the reins from his hand and led the horse away, while he briefly indulged in a stretch. “Tell Baron Tuorel that I have returned,” he said. The officer glared at him but turned to perform his duties. A few moments later, he emerged from the tent.