With a feral grin, Bannier let the spell lapse and stepped away from the silver basin. “So, you’re coming to me, are you?” he said quietly. “You’ll save me a great deal of trouble, Gaelin. Now, how do I set the hook?” Bannier descended into the darkness of his chambers to prepare for Gaelin’s return.

The dawn soon cleared the mists from the Stonebyrn, burning the fog away within an hour of sunrise. Gaelin felt more alert and alive than he could ever remember; he wondered if some new legacy of the Mhoried bloodline was now emerging, or if it was nothing more than exhaustion and delirium that lied to his senses. Something in his perception, in his mind, was different this morning – he knew that much. The air seemed crisper, the sounds and sights registering in his eyes and ears with preternatural clarity.

When the fog cleared, Madislav sent two scouts back across the river. They landed and met with some of the townspeople, then returned almost immediately. “I’m sorry, my lord, but neither our men nor Ghoere’s hold the town now,” they reported.

“The townsfolk say that Captain Maesan was forced to flee, but the Ghoerans rode off soon afterward. ”

“They may have been worried that the Alamiens would come after them,” said the first sergeant of the guards, a weather-beaten old war-hound named Toere. With Maesan out of reach, he commanded the remnants of Gaelin’s escort.

“Maesan might be trying for the next landing,” Gaelin said. “Failing that, he could probably swim the horses across the river to Winoene. Either way, we’d only be guessing if we tried to meet up with him again.” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Sergeant, give the order to mount up.”

In a few minutes, they were on their way again. For the first time in a week or more, the weather was good; the temperatures were cool, but not unseasonable, and the rains of the last few days were gone. The guards formed a close cordon around Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide, while Madislav scouted ahead. The gentle, rolling hills and broad farmlands of Cwlldon were a welcome sight for Gaelin. For a brief moment, he could pretend that all was well in Mhoried.

They followed a worn cart track leading away from the ferry landing and quickly found themselves on the Old Stoneway, an ancient road that followed the Stonebyrn’s path from Riumache all the way through Torien’s Watch to the passes of the Stonecrowns. “Let’s head south,” Gaelin said.

“If I remember right, the Cwlldon Pike meets this road about ten miles down the Stoneway. I don’t know this area well enough to head cross-country.”

“The pike leads to Shieldhaven?” Erin asked.

Gaelin nodded. “It’s the quickest way from here.”

“What do you expect to find there?”

Gaelin gave her a helpless look. “How should I know?

Once I get home, maybe I can decide what to do.” He looked away, studying the road. Lord Anduine, Count Baesil, Tiery… someone at Shieldhaven would be able to tell him what he should do next. Erin watched him, but she kept her opinions to herself.

To keep up a fast pace, the party alternated between easy canters and walking. After an hour, they spied a gray smudge in the sky to the south. Eventually, they made out a halfdozen or more twisting pillars of smoke.

“There has been fighting,” Madislav observed. “We are maybe riding into trouble, no?”

“Those are homes and farms burning.” Gaelin frowned.

“Better keep our scouts on their toes.”

“I will check on them,” Madislav said. He spurred his horse and rode ahead, vanishing over the next rise.

The pillars of smoke drew Gaelin’s eye like an accusation.

Can I live up to this burden? he thought. I know nothing of ruling. He dropped his eyes as he considered what had happened.

His mind kept returning to one thought: Why did this have to fall to me?

He didn’t notice Erin riding closer until she reached out to touch his shoulder. Startled, he straightened and met her eyes.

Her red hair gleamed in the sun, wreathing her head in a copper halo. “Your heart is heavy this morning, my lord Mhor?”

The title set his stomach to fluttering. He could believe it had all been a dream, as long as he was left to his own reflections, but hearing the words on Erin’s lips made it real.

“Don’t call me that, please. I’m no different than I was yesterday.

‘Gaelin’ was fine then, and it’s fine now.” He looked away, studying the young green fields around them.

“That’s not true, you know,” said Erin quietly. “Whether you wanted it or not, you have inherited this land. Of course you are different. Your bloodline, the blood of the House Mhoried, is inextricably linked with the land. I saw it happen, last night; the land poured out its power, waking your blood, and today you are the Mhor, for better or worse. Until you die or forswear your birthright, there can be no other. You must face that, for yourself and for your homeland.”

He turned to face her. “And how should you know? My heart, my mind, my body, they’re all the same. I haven’t become anything I wasn’t a day ago, Erin. And even if I’ve inherited my father’s throne, no one came along last night to tell me how to rule. Haelyn didn’t appear from the skies while I was sleeping to give me the courage of a legendary hero or the wisdom of one of the ancient kings. I don’t know anything more than I did before this happened.” He twisted his arm out of her grasp.

Erin’s eyes flashed. “If you feel that way, I suggest you learn, and fast. You’re the Mhor, and these people need you.”

She kicked her mare into a trot and rode away.

In another mile, they came to the crossroads of Pikesend. In the village green, at the meeting of the Pike and the Stoneway, they found a battered group of Mhorien cavalry. There were more than one hundred men on the green, many wounded, and it only took a glance to tell they’d recently fought and lost. The set of their shoulders and their haunted eyes were signs enough. Gaelin absorbed their injuries, the ragged look of the men and the bloodstained surcoats, and did not allow himself to look away.

Sergeant Toere led the party through the scattered squadron to an open space near the village’s covered well. A muddied standard was thrust into the ground at a slight angle, marking the location of the commander. A captain with a bandaged torso watched them ride up, his eyes searching the group for another officer. When he spied Gaelin’s armor and coat of arms, he saluted. “Welcome, Sir Knight,” he said.

“You’re a long way from the army.”

Gaelin returned his salute. “What unit is this, Captain?”

“Lord Caered’s cavalry, under Count Baesil. You are?”

“I’m Prince Gaelin.” He ignored the captain’s startled look.

“We’ve just returned to Mhoried. Can you tell me where Ghoere’s army is now? Or Count Baesil?”

“Of course, my lord.” The captain stood and pointed south. “The main body of Ghoere’s army camped about seven miles that way last night, though I expect they’re moving by now. Count Baesil’s withdrawing north.” He looked back the way Gaelin had come, but farther east. “I’d guess he’s maybe twelve miles off in that direction.” The captain dropped his arm, and seemed to sag a little before meeting Gaelin’s eyes. “The war’s not going well, my lord. Baesil tried to stand against Ghoere at Cwlldon Field, yesterday morning.

It was a hard fight, and we lost a lot of men. It’s a miracle Baesil saved any of us from that disaster.”

Gaelin felt his heart lurch. He swung himself out of the saddle and dropped to the ground, taking Blackbrand’s reins in his hand. “And the Mhor, and Prince Thendiere?”

The captain blinked. “They weren’t there, Prince Gaelin.

Count Baesil brought Shieldhaven’s muster to Cwlldon, but the Mhor’s party never arrived. We guessed they’d been held up somewhere.”