“Ah,” Madislav said quietly. He followed Gaelin’s gaze to the cold, proud towers of the castle. “You have changed, Gaelin. You have proven yourself as a Mhoried and a knight. Your father is being proud of you.”

“Is he, Madislav? I didn’t say my oaths to the Order to please the Mhor. I did it because I knew that serving as a squire would get me out of my father’s house. I could have gone home the day after I received my spurs, but I’ve stayed away for more than a year now. He has to know I’ve been delaying my return.”

Madislav sighed and began to lace up his leather jerkin again. A fine rime of ice frosted his great beard. After a long moment, he spoke. “Gaelin, it is nature of sons to fight with fathers. With my folk, is war of strength and blades. I tried to be killing my father when I was fifteen.” He smiled and shrugged. “The volnye’vos – we Vos – are strange that way, I am told. Other fathers and other sons, they fight wars with hard words and anger. Let me tell you Vos saying: ‘When I was man of twenty years, I could not believe how foolish was my father. When I was man of thirty years, I could not believe how much the old fool had learned in ten years.’ ”

Gaelin smiled despite himself. “I’ve heard that before.”

Madislav leaned out of the saddle to clap Gaelin on the shoulder. “I am thinking that you will be surprised to be seeing how much your father has learned in seven winters, Gaelin.”

The prince nodded, and drew in a deep breath. “It’s a league and a half from here. We won’t make it before dark, but we won’t miss supper.” He tapped his heels on Blackbrand’s flanks, and the warhorse pranced forward, kicking up slush and mud. Thin, dry flakes began to drift from the sky, swirling and darting with the wind, as the snow finally began to fall.

By the time Gaelin and Madislav reached Shieldhaven’s gatehouse, daylight was an hour gone and the first small snowflakes had grown into a stinging onslaught of icy shards. For all of Madislav’s bluster, Gaelin thought the Vos looked happy to be out of the weather. A dozen proud guards in the forest green and argent of Mhoried stood on duty at the gate, wrapped in thick cloaks against the weather. As the riders approached, Madislav cupped his hands to call out, “Hallo the gatehouse! The Second Prince arrives!”

The guardsmen clattered to attention, striking the butts of their halberds against the cold stone in salute. Shieldhaven was a fine old castle, one of the strongest in the northern marches. Tower on tower rose up from the sheer hilltop, soaring into the sky from the dark bluffs below. The gatehouse was the only vulnerable point in the castle’s defenses, since a rocky bluff a hundred feet or more in height ringed the rest of the castle. The Mhors had held court on this hilltop for more than a dozen centuries, and a castle of one form or another had stood on this site for most of that time. The current structure had been started in Gaelin’s grandfather’s reign and finished only a dozen years ago.

The outer ramparts were low and thick, built to withstand bombardment by even the heaviest trebuchets, and the gatehouse itself was partitioned into an outer courtyard and an inner gate that was as strong as the first. The inner buildings of the castle were light and airy, decorated with intricate carvings and proud banners; they soared into the sky, marking the heart of the duchy of Mhoried. Gaelin let his eyes roam over the familiar battlements as he dismounted and shook the snow from his battered cloak. He gave Blackbrand an affectionate rub on the neck, and let a liveried groom lead the horse away.

Madislav dismounted and stretched, rubbing his backside.

“Is good to be home,” he said with a tired grin. “Let us see what Master Miethen has in his kitchens, eh?”

Gaelin noticed a hollow pang in his stomach and realized he was famished. “A sound plan, Madislav,” he replied. He passed by the great hall and headed for the small door leading to the castle’s kitchens. Catching the eye of the hall’s doorman, Gaelin called, “Oesed! Please notify the Mhor of my return. I’ll have a bite in the kitchen and call on my father shortly.”

The doorman stood and faced Gaelin, drawing his cloak around his battered old frame. He held up his hand, shaking his head. “My apologies, Prince Gaelin, but the Mhor wishes to see you at once. He’s been waiting on your return.”

The spring faded from Gaelin’s steps. “At once?” The warm yellow light and friendly clatter of the kitchens tempted him. He sensed Madislav a pace behind him, waiting to hear his response.

“Lord Baehemon of Ghoere arrived today, my prince,” Oesed continued. “I am sorry.”

Biting back angry words, Gaelin glanced up at the castle’s pennons and noticed the red and blue banner of Ghoere’s ambassador, almost lost in the darkening skies. Lord Baehemon was one of the high nobles of Ghoere, Mhoried’s southern neighbor. Baehemon was known as the Hound of Ghoere; he was the captain of Ghoere’s army and a powerful figure in Ghoere’s court. Tuorel would not have sent him on any common errand.

“You’ll find appropriate dress laid out in your bedchamber,” Oesed added. “If you please, my lord?”

Gaelin sighed. “Very well. I’ll be there in a quarter-hour. Please have someone unpack my kit and bring my saddlebags to my chambers. They should be in the stables.” The chamberlain nodded and withdrew.

Madislav clapped him on the shoulder. “I will be in the hall, Gaelin. I am thinking there must be a pretty lass who is missing my company, no?” He set his face in a wry smile, and added, “Be glad you are home, eh?”

“Thanks, Madislav. I’ll be fine.” Steeling himself with one last glance at the door to the kitchens, Gaelin turned and set off toward his rooms. He passed a dozen or more familiar faces on the way to his apartment, along with a few he didn’t know – courtiers, guards, and servants who were new in Shieldhaven. Gaelin avoided conversations along the way; he didn’t want to keep the Mhor waiting.

Gaelin’s rooms were two floors up, in the southern tower of the keep. A doublet in green lay on the bed, with tight-fitting breeches, fine leather boots, and a shirt of Khinasi cotton to wear beneath the doublet. He peeled off the half-plate he’d been wearing since sunrise, relishing the relief that flooded his limbs. He’d have to clean and oil the mail and plate before he went to sleep. Then Gaelin washed his face and quickly dressed.

He stepped into the hall that linked the studies, parlors, and private chambers of the royal family. It was a dark and quiet corridor, panelled with rich teak from the forests of far Khinasi, decorated with portraits and tapestries illustrating the history of the Mhor’s line. Gaelin always felt uneasy be- fore the eyes of his ancestors, as if he didn’t measure up to their standards. Shrugging his shoulders and tugging at his waist to smooth the doublet’s fit, he rapped at the door of his father’s study.

“Enter.”

If the corridor represented Gaelin’s heritage, the Mhor’s study embodied everything that was his father. Tall bookshelves lined the room, crowded with samples of the finest literature offered by the fractured Anuirean kingdoms. A great fireplace of black marble filled one end of the room.

Keepsakes and mementos of the Mhor’s own travels from before the time he had inherited the crown cluttered the room, but it was a familiar and intimate clutter; each piece belonged in its own place. Opposite the fireplace, high, dark windows of leaded glass rattled with gusts of wind.

The Mhor stood before the fireplace, one arm propped on the mantle, gazing into the flames. Like his sons, Daeric Mhoried was tall and rangy, although the first touches of old age had brought a stoop to his shoulder and a softening of his muscles. His hair was silver, and he wore no beard or moustache.

He resembled an old, proud eagle, with a fierce but deliberate strength of character in his face and gestures. The Mhor was dressed in a fine gray doublet that resembled Gaelin’s in cut and fashion, but on his breast the emblem of a silver falcon was embroidered on a black patch. He glanced up as Gaelin entered.