He had just finished dressing when Seriene appeared at his door. “Gaelin? May I come in?”
“Of course,” he said, settling his doublet over his chest.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. The princess wore a narrow- waisted dress of red brocade and soft wool. She gave him a warm smile and slipped past the door, closing it behind her. He turned to face her.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“When you win this war, we’ll have to find you a southern tailor,” she laughed. “I suppose it’s fine for Mhoried.”
Gaelin glanced down at his clothes, and said, “I prefer to think of them as practical and unassuming.” She advanced and circled him, pretending to admire his choice of tunic. “I doubt that you came here to critique my wardrobe,” he added. “What’s on your mind?”
Seriene moved closer, twining her arms around his torso and delicately brushing her lips against his neck. “Well, you are, Gaelin. You’ve been avoiding me for more than a week now. I didn’t expect you to take up celibacy after our tryst.”
He winced and tried to disengage himself from her embrace.
Despite his feelings for Erin, Seriene’s presence was intoxicating.
His heart was racing as he found his arms starting to return her embrace, and with a deep breath he carefully stepped away. “Seriene, they’re expecting me in the hall any moment now.”
She gave him an unmistakable look. “No one would notice if you were a little late, Gaelin.”
“Seriene, I… I shouldn’t do this. You saw through me the other night, even before I’d seen through myself. You’re beautiful, but I’m not certain you are the only one in my heart.”
Seriene retreated, clasping her hands in front of her and turning away. “I’m sorry, Gaelin.” She moved toward the door, and faced him again. “You know you can’t avoid the question forever.”
Gaelin watched her leave, fighting down the impulse to call her back. He sighed, and looked at himself in the mirror.
“You’re a fool,” he told his reflection. Buckling his sword belt around his waist, he headed down to the hall for the day’s meetings and audiences.
After several hours, Gaelin’s attention wandered, despite his best intentions. He was just about to excuse himself to go see how the troops fared, when there was a commotion in the doorway. Several of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, were engaged in a loud discussion with a highland herdsman.
The fellow seemed half-mad, his actions and voice growing more desperate by the minute. “I must see the Mhor!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “By Haelyn’s mercy, let me in!”
Gaelin stood, muttering a quick apology to the merchant with whom he had been speaking, and glanced at Huire. The priest was heading toward the door to straighten out the matter, but on a sudden impulse Gaelin descended from the dais and followed Huire to the hall’s entrance.
“Listen, friend, there are lots of people who have to see the Mhor,” Bull said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Give me your name and wait outside, and we’ll see what we can do.”
He had one beefy hand clamped firmly on the fellow’s shoulder; the highlander was unconsciously trying to twist away from the guardsman’s grip while he continued to plead.
“By the gods that died, don’t you understand? I’ve got to see the Mhor! It’s killing me!”
“What? What’s wrong?” asked Boeric. He had the man’s other arm. The sturdy sergeant glanced at the other guards in the chamber and jerked his head, signaling. Two more detached themselves from their posts along the chamber’s walls and stepped forward, ready to tackle the man if necessary.
The herdsman coughed and doubled over in agony, falling to his knees. For a moment, Gaelin thought he had been struck by one of the guards, but neither Boeric nor Bull had hit the man, and no one else was near. He stepped forward to see what was wrong and then stopped in horror as the wretch vomited forth a great gout of black blood. The courtiers and knights surrounding the scene paled and stepped back quickly, murmuring in consternation.
“Summon a physician!” said Gaelin. He stood there a moment, staring at the scene. The herdsman – a youth not much older than sixteen or seventeen, with soft blond whiskers on his chin – howled in agony, slumping to the floor, where he vomited again, adding to the pool of corruption on the floor before him. He lapsed into a fit of trembling, his face pale as a sheet. Gaelin wrinkled his nose in disgust, trying to stand his ground.
Then the liquid on the floor seethed and moved. It trembled, and then gathered quickly, drawing itself up into a nightmarish figure that stood up and confronted Gaelin. The thing’s skin was black, gleaming corruption, and the only feature in its misshapen face was a distended maw filled with needlelike teeth.
“Gaelin! Look out! It’s a fiend of some kind!” shouted Seriene.
Gaelin hadn’t even realized she was near, but her warning was unnecessary – like everyone in the room, he had retreated about four or five paces without realizing it, and his sword had found its way into his hand.
On the floor beside the thing, the highlander weakly crawled away, retching in a more human fashion now.
“I bear a message for you, Gaelin Mhoried,” said the creature, its face stretching into an evil grin. Its voice sounded like the mewling of a cat, but it was throatier and burbled and whistled through its foul mouth. “Bannier wishes to remind you that you have six more days to decide your sister’s fate.
You know of a place called Caer Duirga?”
“I know the place,” Gaelin replied.
“Go to Caer Duirga alone if you wish to see your sister alive. Bannier will await you there. If you do not come, she has been promised to me. I will enjoy her a great deal.” It laughed, a particularly horrible sound.
Gaelin took two steps forward, raising his sword. “I’ll see that you won’t have that opportunity, darkling.”
“You would break the tradition that guards a messenger from harm, then, prince of Mhoried?”
“You carry no banner of truce that I see. And I won’t let a thing like you walk out of this hall to terrify my subjects at will.” Gaelin advanced cautiously, and following his example several other knights and guards drew their weapons and began to hedge the creature in. The fiend merely grinned and hissed, dropping into a crouch, its long talons clicking together as it readied itself for the fight.
“Bannier laid no conditions on me after delivering his message, mortals,” the creature said. “I can leave this hall full of dead knights and nobles, and there is nothing to stop me.
Who will be the first to taste my kiss, eh?”
“No one here, fiend!” From behind Gaelin, Brother Huire stepped forward, the golden emblem of Haelyn raised high.
Chanting an ancient prayer, the priest pointed at the monstrous creature, and a ray of brilliant light struck the fiend in the center of its dark torso. The creature shrieked in rage, and sprang to ward the priest with unbelievable swiftness – but in midleap, the golden light seemed to wither its body into ash that drifted away, like a cloud of foul smoke. Not a single trace of the thing survived, except for the hapless herdsman who had been forced to carry it into Gaelin’s presence. Gaelin turned to look at Huire, astonished at the priest’s show of nerve.
“My apologies for interfering,” Huire said humbly, “But I was perhaps the only person here who could have dealt with the creature thus. It might have injured many people if you’d tried to defeat it with common steel.”
“Apology accepted,” Gaelin replied. “What of the lad?”
“A captive used by the monster, probably innocent. I’ll tend to him immediately.” Gaelin nodded his assent, and the priest knelt beside the youth and began to examine him. Letting out a deep breath, Gaelin sheathed his sword and looked around. Most of the court was watching him intently.