“No, that’s not why we’re here,” Gaelin said. He chewed his lip, thinking. “Ruide, do you still have that atlas?”

“Of course, my lord.” Ruide rifled through his saddlebags for a moment before handing the well-worn book to Gaelin.

Alamie’s page was marked. Gaelin studied it for a moment, examining the lands along the Stonebyrn.

“Here,” he said, pointing at a village called Norbank.

“There’s another ferry here, one Ghoere may not be using yet.

It looks like a ride of forty or forty-five miles.” He thought for a moment, considering times and distances. “All right, we’ll keep going north, and we’ll cross at Norbank.”

In the cold hours before dawn, the Mhoriens broke camp, rode past Iered, and headed north at a breakneck pace.

Horses stumbling in exhaustion, Gaelin and his company reached the tiny landing of Norbank hours after sunset. They sighted a handful of pickets or outriders through the course of the day, but no one had tried to stop them.

“If they kept up with that day’s ride, they deserve to catch us,” Gaelin announced as they trotted into the village. Despite the cool drizzle that had fallen all day, he felt hot, sweaty, and dirty. Forty miles in a single day was hard on both men and horses.

Madislav dismounted with a groan of relief and kneaded his backside with his hands. “Looks quiet enough,” he said, nodding toward the village.

Gaelin agreed. In the darkness, he could make out a cluster of four or five small buildings by the riverbank. A blanket of fog covered the river, masking the cold waters under a field of white mist. The ferry itself was little more than a roughhewn raft hauled up on the shoreline beside one of the buildings.

“Well, let’s wake the ferryman,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of waiting till morning to cross.”

Maesan called out orders to several of his men, who began to thump on doors in search of the ferrymaster’s home. As the soldiers woke the townsmen, Maesan posted guards to watch the road, and then divided his men into sixes to organize their crossing. “I want to get some of my men over before I send you, my lord,” he said to Gaelin. “I’ve no idea what could be hiding on the far bank in the darkness.”

“That’s not necessary, Captain.”

“My lord prince, your father instructed the countess to guard you well,” Maesan said. “Please, let me do my job.”

Gaelin scowled. “Very well. Send your scouts first. I’ll wait until you’re ready.” Dismounting, Gaelin led Blackbrand over to an open stable in the courtyard of a small inn, off to one side of the ferry landing. He found some warm straw and started to rub the horse’s legs down while the stallion happily drank his fill from a watering trough. In the darkness, he could hear voices rising in anger as the ferryman protested the hour and Maesan politely insisted on crossing immediately.

A moment later, Erin appeared at the stable door, lead – ing her own mount.

“It seems we have a little time before we cross,” she said.

Her face was pale and drawn in the darkness, and Gaelin imagined his own fatigue must be showing as well. With a sigh, Erin began to tend to her horse. “Poor girl,” she murmured.

“You’ve had a long day.”

“We’ll be able to rest a bit when we cross into Mhoried,” Gaelin offered. “A few hours, at least. For that matter, we’ll have an hour or so right now.”

Erin looked up and smiled. “Right now, I think I’m too tired to sleep, if you can imagine such a thing.”

A companionable silence fell between them as they both worked on their horses, rubbing the animals’ legs and brushing their coats. After a time, Gaelin said, “You know, I don’t know much about you. We’ve spent days talking about Shieldhaven and my family, but you’ve said nothing of yourself.”

Erin glanced at him over her horse’s back. “There’s not much to tell. My mother was a minor noblewoman of Coeranys, and my father was an elf of Siellaghriod. A mixed heritage isn’t looked on too kindly in some lands, but I was well cared for.”

“I traveled through Coeranys once, a few years ago.”

“I haven’t been back there for years.” Erin paused. “I miss the place. It doesn’t rain as much as it does here, and the winters aren’t as cold. There’s something about the land that you’re raised in. It becomes a part of you.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I suppose you would, prince of Mhoried. I’m looking forward to seeing your homeland.” Erin loosened the saddle straps for her horse, but left the saddle in place.

“Don’t you miss your family?” Gaelin asked. The minstrel stopped for a moment. Her back was to him, and even in the darkness Gaelin could see her shoulders tense. He straightened from his work.

“My mother died some time ago,” she said carefully, resuming her work. “I’ve never met my father. My mother’s kin sent me away as soon as they could, rather than raise a halfelven child born out of wedlock. The White Hall was the only place that would take me in.” She turned her head, glancing over her shoulder at Gaelin. “Keep that to yourself, if you don’t mind. I’d rather not be the talk of the court.”

“I’m sorry for bringing it up.” Erin didn’t reply, and Gaelin finished his work on Blackbrand in silence.

“My lord Gaelin!” Ruide called from the ferry landing, his voice high and clear.

Gaelin took up Blackbrand’s reins. “Ready?”

Erin turned away and led her mare back into the mist and the night. Gaelin followed with Blackbrand a moment later.

At the landing, they found Maesan directing a small knot of his men as they boarded the ferry. Half a dozen grumbling villagers worked the boat, waiting for the next load of soldiers.

Maesan saluted as Gaelin approached. “Your turn next,” he said. “I’ve sent twenty men over, and they signal that all’s quiet on the Mhorien bank.”

“Good. Let’s hope it stays that way,” Gaelin said. He coaxed Blackbrand onto the boat, leading the horse to a hitching post at one end. The boat rocked beneath the animal’s weight, and Blackbrand snorted distrustfully. Erin, Madislav, and two of Maesan’s soldiers filed in behind him to fill the boat.

“All right, that’s enough for this trip,” the ferrymaster barked. “Shove off!” Grunting with effort, the villagers leaned into their poles and pushed into the current. The river fog closed in around them almost immediately, and it seemed to Gaelin that he was drifting in some mournful netherworld, cold, wet, and lightless.

“Gaelin, look!” Erin clutched his arm and pointed back toward the Alamien village. He peered into the darkness and saw dozens of bobbing orange haloes sweeping into the town. The fog obscured the details, but he could see that riders bearing torches were rushing onto the landing. Shouts and the ringing of weapons reached his ears, muffled and distorted by the clinging mists.

“The Ghoerans must have been closer than we thought,” rumbled Madislav.

“Ferryman! Take us back!” Gaelin said. “We’ve got to get the rest of the guards out of there!”

“I counted thirty-odd soldiers with horses waiting to cross, boy,” said the master of the boat. “We can’t take them all in one trip. Besides, you probably don’t want to be in the middle of that.”

Gaelin gripped the rail. “Half my men are back there!”

“So? The six men in this boat won’t make a difference, Mhorien. I’m not putting this ferry about until the fighting’s over.” The ferryman challenged Gaelin with an angry glare.

“Thanks for bringing your war down on my head.”

Gaelin took a step toward the man without realizing what he was doing, balling his fist. The fellow stood his ground defiantly.

For a tense moment, Gaelin held his gaze, until a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

“He is right, Gaelin,” Madislav said. “We must be keeping you away from Ghoere, and Captain Maesan will have to fight without us.” He peered off into the darkness. “I think he is not outnumbered too badly. He may drive them off yet, eh?”