Ilwyn rallied once they left the Shadow, but she was still semiconscious, as if black and hidden ice in her heart had only now begun to thaw. She couldn’t manage anything more than monosyllables and was too frail to stand or walk unaided.
But through the night she made progress, gripping a steaming mug of coffee and staring into the fire with wide, dark eyes. Erin looked after the Mhorien princess, staying close beside her and comforting her.
That night, Gaelin slept alone. Erin stayed beside Ilwyn, holding her through the night as if the princess were a lost and damaged child. Even if Erin hadn’t been looking after Ilwyn, he wasn’t certain that their relationship was going to continue in the same manner as before. Already he felt an exquisite ache in his heart at the thought that he might not hold her in his arms again. He could see her from where he had set his sleeping blankets, facing away from him with her arms around the girl, and he gazed at the curve of Erin’s hip and the firelight dancing in her hair until he fell asleep.
He opened his eyes in the great hall of Shieldhaven, a high chamber graced with tall, carven pillars and proud banners and tapestries. The hall was suffused with a soft, silver light, and things seemed dim or indistinct, as if he viewed only possibilities and not the hall as it really was. He was dreaming again, but the accuracy and strength of the phantasm were remarkable; the air was cold but clear, and he could feel each breath he took.
His feet carried him away from the hall, wandering the corridors and chambers of the castle. He explored many of his childhood haunts, drifting ghostlike through his memories.
At length he found himself on the windswept battlements of the castle, but the air was still and quiet. His footfalls died away, and he had the strange impression that very little he did could disturb the silence of his dream. Gazing over the countryside, he saw little more than silver fog, and hints of dark forest beyond.
“Hello, Gaelin. I’ve been waiting for you.” The Mhor Daeric stepped out of nothingness to join him on the battlement.
His father appeared much as he had in life, dressed in the garments of soft gray that he preferred. But he seemed younger than Gaelin remembered, a tall, broad-shouldered man in the prime of his life, his hair streaked with silver, his face unmarked by the years that had worn him down. Daeric appeared as tangible as Gaelin himself, although limned by argent light.
“I haven’t met you in my dreams for many weeks now,”
Gaelin answered. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Your attention was elsewhere, Gaelin. You had little time or need for me.”
“I didn’t mean to forget you so soon.”
“The living go on with their cares and burdens, and yours have been heavier than most.” Daeric’s face glowed with a warm smile, and a humorous light danced in his eyes. “Be- sides, you haven’t forgotten me. Every day for months now, you’ve stood forward and done your best to heal Mhoried’s injuries. As long as you do that, I’ll never be forgotten.”
Daeric held out his hand to Gaelin. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” asked Gaelin.
“To Caer Winoene. You summoned me here because you needed me again. This is a way I can help you.”
Gaelin tentatively reached out to take his father’s hand.
The moment he touched the phantasm, the castle of Shieldhaven melted into silver mists, and he found himself standing on the hillsides overlooking Caer Winoene, under the starlit night. The ethereal quality of Shieldhaven was gone; now he was the one who shimmered with silver light, much like his father beside him. Gaelin suddenly understood that they existed as phantoms in the real world, the waking world.
He could make out the trenches excavated by the Ghoeran soldiers, ringing the Mhorien stronghold. Campfires dotted the plain beyond, surrounding batteries of siege engines. He turned his attention to Caer Winoene itself. The castle had only been partially repaired in the time Gaelin had occupied it, and under the Ghoeran bombardment, it was not faring well. If Caer Winoene had been garrisoned by anything less than a full army, the Ghoerans would have been able to press the attack and storm the breached defenses. But the castle itself formed only the centerpiece of a ring of ramparts, trenches, and redoubts that concealed the Mhorien army.
Examining the Mhorien lines, Gaelin realized the outer ramparts – the first line of defense – had been abandoned already and incorporated into the siege lines of the attackers.
He was appalled; the earthworks had been wrecked in only three days! No artillery he knew of could level an earthen dike that quickly. “They’ve lost the first line,” he breathed aloud.
Beside him, the Mhor Daeric nodded. “Bannier’s sorcery wreaked a great deal of harm before he left to confront you at Caer Duirga. The Ghoeran army numbers more than seven thousand veterans. Baesil has a shade over three thousand men still, enough to hold the ruins and the earthworks for some time. But he has another, more pressing problem. If Tuorel exploits Bannier’s work, he can drive Baesil’s men from the lakeshore, which would deprive Baesil of the water and food he needs to keep fighting. Caer Winoene won’t last a week after that.”
“I have to find a way to break the siege. I can’t lose Caer Winoene or the people who are trapped here.”
Daeric glimmered in the red torchlight of the hilltop. “I am afraid I cannot help you more,” he said. “You’re the Mhor now, and this is your battle to win or lose. But I have news that may hearten you.” He reached forward to clasp Gaelin’s arm, and the ramparts of Caer Winoene faded from view again.
This time, they appeared in a shadowed copse of trees, by the banks of a great river. Gaelin recognized it as the Stonebyrn, at a place close to where he had crossed into Mhoried while fleeing Tuorel’s hunters. All around them, an army had set its camp for the night. Tents and fires filled a large field, and Gaelin noticed the black and silver standard of Diemed hanging from a pole before a great pavilion nearby. A slight, graceful man with aquiline features and midnight hair stood nearby, dressed in the armor of a great noble. “It’s Vandiel of Diemed!” Gaelin said. “He’s coming to our aid!”
“He’s at least a week away from engaging Tuorel, and he only brought half of his army with him,” said Daeric. “Ghoere’s army outnumbers both the Mhoriens and the Diemans together.”
“Seriene said her father wouldn’t come until we’d shown that we can defeat Tuorel. What changed his mind?”
“Apparently, Seriene did. She’s much taken with you, Gaelin. She’s employed her magic to speak with her father several times since coming to your court, begging him to intervene.”
Daeric faced Gaelin, his silver gaze weighing on Gaelin’s conscience. “You should consider the advantages of a marriage to her.”
“I’m not sure that I love her,” Gaelin replied slowly.
“Love? That’s beside the point. You have a duty to Mhoried.”
“I know my duty.” Gaelin squared his shoulders and faced his father. “I know what you would do in my place. But I am not you, and I will have to find my own way.”
Daeric frowned, and their surroundings shifted again. They were in Shieldhaven once more, in the panelled study with its shelves of books and great leather chairs. His father sat in his customary place, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think this is the last time you’ll see me,” Daeric said. “You’ll make a good Mhor, Gaelin. You’ve been making your own decisions ever since the divine right passed to you on the banks of the Stonebyrn. Some have been bad, and some have been good, but they’ve been yours to make, and I won’t question them.
You are the Mhor now, not I, and Mhoried rests in your hands.” Daeric’s shade began to grow brighter and more translucent, while the study swirled away in mist and shadow.