Gaelin smiled. “We may meet them coming the other way, probably in a day or two.”

“And if you are not finding any of the Mhor’s men?”

“I don’t know.” Gaelin stood and brushed the water from his clothes and cloak. “It won’t slow us down, but if someone’s hoping to find me in Endier, they’ll be disappointed.”

Stepping over to Blackbrand, he saddled the horse again and checked the tack and harness. The stallion snorted in annoyance, tossing his head. Looking over the horse’s back, he caught Erin watching him.

“Ready to go?” he asked. She nodded and set about securing her own saddle. In a few minutes, they were riding, following the Maesil’s broad easterly curve. They rode the rest of the day, through showers and unending mists, until daylight faded for good.

Toward evening, they made a spartan camp in the deserted countryside, just out of sight of the road. Gaelin cringed at the thought of a night of sleeping in the rain, but it seemed safer than advertising their location by staying in a town. Erin sang a couple of short elven ballads to fortify their spirits. Her voice had a high, keening quality that was both sad and beautiful.

The delicate melody lingered in Gaelin’s mind as he fell asleep.

The next day, the weather warmed, although the rain continued, a steady daylong drizzle. Gaelin was used to it; the Anuirean heartlands saw a great deal of rain, especially in the spring and fall. Erin rode beside him for most of the day, quizzing him about the Mhor’s court. Gaelin answered to the best of his ability and surprised himself with what he did and did not remember. Several times he caught her nodding as if to confirm what he was saying. “You’re testing me,” he complained, after she asked him about the history of Mhoried.

“You were trained in the White Hall. You know the histories better than I do.”

“It’s true that I’ve studied them,” Erin said. “The masters of the Hall view the keeping of accurate histories and genealogies as one of our most important tasks. But for all that, they’re only dry old tomes to most of us. For you, they’re the tale of your family, a part of who you are. Even as we speak, you are continuing to shape history.”

“I think you’re exaggerating my importance,” Gaelin replied. “My father’s the Mhor, not me. And my brother will follow him.”

They rode on a time, until Erin spoke again. “What will you do when you get home?” she asked.

“Me? I don’t know.” Gaelin frowned. “I’ll wait to see what my father has in mind. I expect he’ll want me to stay by his side for the campaign. Or he may tell me to stay in Shieldhaven. ”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to keep things running, I suppose. Despite the war, there should still be issues of trade, taxes, laws, diplomacy, and all manner of business for someone to look after.” Gaelin rubbed at his chin. “Maybe Thendiere will run things.”

“What if you had to make all those decisions? Or if your father put you in command of the army?”

Gaelin laughed uneasily. “He won’t. I’ve little skill with affairs of state, or with the running of armies.”

“Why not? It’s tradition for lords to hand responsibility to their sons. After all, what better way for you to learn?” Erin measured Gaelin with a gaze that had suddenly grown quite serious. “I think you’re going to find yourself with more to do than you think.” She tapped her heels against her horse’s flanks and rode ahead.

As they traveled north, the road skirted inland to avoid a stretch of marsh by the river. The river road followed the Maesil from the great city of Anuire itself all the way to the hills of Elinie. Once it had been one of the busiest trade routes in Cerilia, but after Michael Roele’s death, the empire had disintegrated into bickering duchies and baronies. As traffic and trade on the river road tapered off, the people had drifted away. The travelers passed dozens of abandoned farms and empty inns, wreathed in thick green vines.

By the end of their second day of travel, they found themselves approaching the Alamien town of Taeren Crossing, lying just across the Maesil from the great Ghoeran port of Ghieste. They reined in their horses a half-mile or so from the crossroads in the crimson gloaming, peering toward the rambling buildings and yellow, mist-wreathed lights of the town.

“Well?” Gaelin asked his companions. “Do we take the chance of meeting Ghoerans who might be looking for us, or do we skirt the town and miss out on any news?”

“The town may be watched,” Madislav observed with a dour look. “Is safer to camp someplace out of the way.”

Erin rode over and responded, “That may be true, but we could learn a lot from the merchants and teamsters who pass through Taered Crossing.”

Beside her, Ruide cleared his throat. “You’re probably right, my lady. I’ll attract the least attention. I’ll go on into town and see what there is to see.” The valet quickly threw an old cloak over his fine clothes and rode into the town, while Gaelin, Erin, and Madislav rode their horses beneath the trees. They waited for an hour or so as gloom settled over the countryside. The light drizzle grew into a hard, steady rain, and the temperature began to drop again. Gaelin waited in silence.

Finally, as the wait dragged on, he began to wonder whether they should follow Ruide to make certain that he was all right. Before he decided to do so, Erin hissed quietly and pointed at the road.

“Lanterns, coming toward us,” she said.

They retreated farther from the road, watching the lights bobbing up and down in the gray twilight. It was a large party of horsemen, riding south from Taeren Crossing. Gaelin peered through the rain and shadows, trying to make out their numbers and arms. There were several dozen of them, horsemen armed with crossbows and lances.

“Who are they?” he said.

“They’re Ghoeran regulars,” Erin whispered. “Hold still, or they may spot us.”

“What? Are you certain?”

Erin gestured at her delicately sloped eyes, not quite human. “You forget, I’ve more than a little of the Sidhelien in my blood. I can make out their coats of arms. Let them pass.”

Gaelin glanced at her, and then stepped back into the shadows.

The horsemen thundered past. The lanterns they carried illuminated their kettle helmets, favored by Ghoeran cavalry, and Ghoere’s red and blue banner furled on a staff. He watched after them until they were gone around a bend in the road and their hoofbeats faded to silence. “They were Ghoerans, all right,” he said into the rain.

Erin nodded. Madislav scratched his bristling beard and grunted. “They are being on the wrong side of the river.”

“Why am I so important to him?” asked Gaelin, half to himself. “What’s he want with me? Does he hope to hold me as a hostage against my father?”

“There’s another possibility,” Erin said, close behind him.

He twisted in the saddle to look at her. “It could be that he wants to claim the power of your bloodline by killing you. If you were to die by his hand, he’d gain a portion of the power of your line.”

“Bloodtheft,” Gaelin said. He had viewed bloodtheft as a thing of stories and legends. But… even if it was not common, it was still true that a noble’s divine heritage could be wrested away by a blooded rival.

He stared down at his hands, trying to imagine the divine spark or essence that flowed through his veins. Gaelin had never thought much about it. His extraordinary ability to recover from injury had only manifested four or five times in his life, but now his wrists seemed to itch with the hidden risk they contained. “Wait, that doesn’t make sense. When we were attacked on the river, the brigands were trying to kill me. There was no attempt to take me alive. In fact, they only retreated when they were certain they’d mortally wounded me. If Ghoere – or whoever was behind them – wanted my bloodline, he would have to kill me by his own hand.”