Gaelin found this inexplicable. Bannier must have struck down his father and brother in Shieldhaven’s halls, but what about the loyal guards and knights all around them? Even if they had been killed, why had the army of Shieldhaven missed the march? More than ever, he needed to get back to the capital and learn for himself what had happened. For the moment, he set the issue aside. “What about Baesil? What’s his plan?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord,” the captain replied. “He’s drawing back, though. The army’s been mauled, and he doesn’t stand a chance of engaging Ghoere’s host and winning.

He’s running for the highlands, to hole up and lick his wounds. Our orders were to screen the retreat.”

Gaelin asked, “You said the losses were bad. How bad?”

The captain shook his head. “Baesil led six thousand men onto the field, including the levies of Tenarien and Cwlldon.

I don’t think half that number escaped.” He glanced at his men, and lowered his voice. “There were lords who didn’t show up for the battle, my lord. Maesilar, Balteruine, and Dhalsiel didn’t answer the call to arms.”

“Dhalsiel, too?” Gaelin closed his eyes. If the army of Mhoried had been beaten that badly, it would be nearly impossible to hold the river provinces against Ghoere’s attack -

Tenarien and Cwlldon were lost for sure, and probably Byrnnor as well.

Madislav spoke up. “What happened to you?” he said, sweeping a thick-muscled arm to indicate the squadron.

“We met up with a squadron of Ghoeran marauders last night. They’re all over the province, riding down stragglers from the battle, encircling the wagons and footsoldiers in the rear.” The captain grinned fiercely. “Cwlldon Field might have been a disaster, but there’s a hundred less Ghoerans to boast of it. We cut’em to pieces, my lord. I don’t believe they thought we’d have any fight left.”

“Good work,” said Gaelin, raising his head. These men deserved whatever praise he could give them; they had a long, hard fight ahead of them. “We’re heading for Shieldhaven to find out what’s keeping them out of the fight. Send a messenger to Count Baesil tonight, telling him that I’ve returned.

I’ll try to join him in a couple of days, or send word if I can’t.”

“I’ll send a man right now, if you like.”

“Very well. Good luck, Captain.” Gaelin swung himself back up into Blackbrand’s saddle, and waited for Sergeant Toere’s men to set out along the Pike. For the rest of the day, they followed the Cwlldon Pike east from the village, striking across the fields and forests of Mhoried’s heartland. They passed a great number of farms, bordered by ivy-grown walls of fieldstone and broad thickets or copses. They encountered no more Mhorien soldiers, or any scouts or marauders from Ghoere’s forces, but Gaelin was conscious of tension in the air. Too many fields and houses were empty. Even the small animals and birds seemed scarce.

By the day’s end, they were near the ancient belt of forest that ran through Mhoried’s heart; the hills in the middle distance were dark with woods. Madislav found a good campsite in a hollow a little way off the road, screened by a large copse. After tending to Blackbrand and eating a light supper, Gaelin excused himself and wandered away from the red glow of the campfire. Idly, he wondered how far away the light could be seen. It was a clear night, but the trees would screen the light well.

Just over the hollow’s lip, he encountered the sergeant’s pickets, two young soldiers who stood silently under the shadow of the trees, keeping watch. Gaelin greeted them quietly and moved on, letting his feet carry him where they would. He tried to think ahead to what he would do when he returned to Shieldhaven. Thendiere, Liesele, his father… Gaelin realized he had not even begun to confront their deaths. He’d lost few friends or relations in his lifetime, not since his mother had died, and suddenly, in the space of one week, his life seemed three-quarters emptied. He slumped to the ground, leaning against a weathered oak. “What am I going to do?” he said aloud.

The silence and darkness held no answers for him. He buried his head in his hands and tried to fight through the grief, feeling hot tears escaping from the corners of his eyes.

A long time later, Gaelin was roused from his thoughts by excited cries from the camp. He shook himself, rubbed his face, and rose to face the dim firelight. “What on earth?” he muttered. He made his way back toward the hollow, picking up speed. A man on horseback sat across the fire fro m Gaelin, speaking urgently with the soldiers nearby. Erin and Madislav crowded close, questioning the fellow. “I must be getting Gaelin,” the Vos said.

“No need, Madislav, I’m here.” Hearing his voice, the other soldiers edged back, clearing his path.

“Prince Gaelin,” said the man on horseback, bowing deeply. “I’m glad I found you.” He was dressed in a doublet of green and white, and wore a slender sword by his side. A courier from Shieldhaven! Gaelin realized. Of course. The Cwlldon Pike would be the fastest route between the capital and Baesil’s army. “I am Walden of Bevaldruor, my lord. I bear messages for Count Baesil, from Lord Anduine.”

“What news have you of the Mhor?” Gaelin demanded.

The courier’s face fell. “My lord prince, I don’t know how to tell you, but… the Mhor is dead. Ghoeran assassins slew him in Shieldhaven, last night. These are the tidings I bring Count Baesil.”

“I know,” Gaelin replied. “How did it happen?”

Walden struggled to find words. “A traitor opened the postern gate to a band of cutthroats, in the dark of night. They overcame the Mhor’s guards before anyone realized they were in the castle.”

“What of Thendiere?”

“The First Prince requires your presence immediately, my lord,” the courier said. “He is holding Shieldhaven now.”

“Thendiere is not dead?” Erin’s brow furrowed, and she stole a glance at Gaelin.

“No, my lady.” Walden returned his attention to Gaelin.

“My lord prince, Count Baesil must hear my tidings. I am sorry for the Mhor’s death, but I must go.”

Stunned, Gaelin dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“Of course. You’ll find Baesil retreating to Byrnnor.” Without another word, the courier rode out of the camp and spurred his horse to a gallop once he reached the pike. The hoofbeats faded quickly in the heavy night air. Gaelin felt his way to a seat by the fire and sat down, staring into the flames.

“Could you have been mistaken, Gaelin?” Erin sat down beside him. “You were right about the Mhor, but maybe you misunderstood about Thendiere.”

“No, I know what I heard,” he answered. “And I felt the land’s power, too. You saw that. It wouldn’t have happened if Thendiere still lived.”

He stared into the fire. “We have to get to Shieldhaven to find out what happened.”

The evening of the following day, Gaelin and his friends caught sight of the proud towers of Shieldhaven, the Mhor’s banners fluttering overhead in a stiff breeze. They’d found the road empty of traffic, meeting only a handful of peasants and woodsmen during their ride.

The day was brisk and slightly overcast, returning to the common weather of a Mhorien spring – cool and wet. Gaelin was looking forward to a night of sleeping in a real bed after a week of traveling, although he knew he’d be lucky to find the time to sleep at all for the next few days. The sun was setting as they emerged from the forests and started across the broad belt of farmland that surrounded the city of Bevaldruor and Shieldhaven itself. The valley seemed empty as well, although they could see a few people abroad.

At the foot of the causeway, Gaelin paused for a moment, gazing up at the fortress on its rocky hilltop. The road snaked back and forth under the commanding gaze of the battlements, climbing a hundred feet to the hilltop in four stonebuttressed switchbacks. Atop the gatehouse towers floated the twin standards of Mhoried and the Mhor.