“Thendiere must still live,” Ruide observed. “The Mhor’s banner is still flying.”

“I know it happened,” Gaelin said, almost speaking to himself. “There can’t be any doubt of it, can there?”

“Or they’ve been deceived,” Erin said.

Gaelin scowled. “There are hundreds of minor lords, menat- arms, courtiers, and attendants in and around the castle. I can’t conceive of a conspiracy so far-reaching that my father and brother could be killed and the assassins would be able to hide the truth.”

They started up the causeway, following Toere’s guards.

The brooding battlements possessed an air of watchfulness that Gaelin found threatening. He found himself looking at the fortifications and noticing just how formidable were the castle’s defenses. At the top of the causeway, they found a detachment of guards, dressed in the ceremonial arms of House Mhoried. They snapped to attention and saluted as Gaelin rode past. He followed Toere and his men into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, and started to dismount.

In the lengthening shadows, it took him a moment to spot the gibbet that stood at the far end of the court, beside the entrance to the great hall. A dozen bodies hung from the gallows, turning slowly from creaking nooses. He stopped dead, one foot still in the stirrup. “What happened here?” he said softly.

He recognized several of the men – the Brecht smith, Hans, was hanging at one end, with the groom Caede beside him. In the center, one frail body twisted far enough on its rope, and despite the coming darkness Gaelin knew it was Tiery.

A terrible suspicion was dawning in Gaelin’s heart, but it was Madislav who caught on first. “Vstaivyate l’yud!” he shouted. “It is a trap! The castle has been taken!”

From the innermost arch of the gatehouse, the mighty portcullis dropped. The capstans clattered in protest as the gate fell, striking the ground with a deafening crash. Three or four of Toere’s guards were trapped inside the gatehouse tunnel; a moment after the gate’s fall, their screams rang in the stone passageway as hidden archers cut them to pieces.

Gaelin whirled in panic; everywhere Ghoeran soldiers were appearing on the battlements, crossbows at the ready.

Shieldhaven’s battlements and towers may have been primarily intended for defense against a foe outside the walls, but as last resort the battlements also faced inward, providing overlapping fields of fire and channeling an enemy into a great stone coffin from which there was no escape.

Gaelin swung himself back into the saddle and cast about desperately, seeking some way out. With the portcullis in place behind them, a dash back out the front gate was out of the question – and even if it weren’t down, it would be suicide to run the gauntlet of arrow slits that lined the passage. Blackbrand reared and snorted, all too aware of Gaelin’s panic as he wheeled the horse, his eyes darting everywhere. Toere and his guards backed themselves into a tight circle around Gaelin, Erin, and Ruide.

How did Shieldhaven fall? thought Gaelin. How could Tu o re l have brought this many men to take the castle?

“Lord Gaelin! What do we do?” called Toere, his voice hard and shrill. A few of his men had their own crossbows ready, pointing ten bows against the hundred or more that held the battlements against them.

“Why aren’t they shooting?” Erin muttered beside him.

“I don’t know,” he said, responding to both questions.

There was a sudden stir on the battlements of the keep itself, overlooking the great hall. Bannier strode out onto the wall, flanked by a distinctive figure in black armor, decorated with a wolf’s-head symbol.

Tuorel of Ghoere raised his arm, and the sharpshooters on the battlements placed their weapons to their shoulders. He lifted his visor and leaned forward, studying the tiny knot of Mhoriens in the center of the courtyard. “So, Prince Gaelin, you have returned home at last!” he called. “I am Baron Noered Tuorel, lord of Ghoere.” He gestured at the wizard standing beside him, and added, “I presume you already know Bannier. ”

“I see my courier found you,” the wizard observed. “Good.

It saves me the trouble of tracking you down.”

“I’ve nothing to say to you, traitor!” Gaelin called. A brilliant, white-hot fury was building in his heart. The sight of Tuorel and Bannier standing on the battlements of his home, beneath his father’s banner, and playing at courtesy suddenly inflamed Gaelin past all semblance of fear or reason. He met Tuorel’s eyes. “Tell your men to shoot, jackal! I’ll not plead for my life with you!”

Erin whispered, “Gaelin, I grant you we’re in trouble, but don’t give him ideas! Hear him out first. You never know what he might have to say.” She grasped his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “You can’t avenge your family if you’re dead.”

Tuorel smiled at Gaelin’s defiance, but his eyes remained cold as marble. “All right, Gaelin. I can see that you’re not without courage, and I respect that, so I’ll get to the point.

You hold the key to Mhoried; I want you to surrender your regency of Mhoried to me in a ceremony of investiture. If you agree, I will spare your companions and your guardsmen.

They will be free to leave Mhoried, unmolested.”

“And what of Prince Gaelin?” Erin called. “After he gives you the land his family has ruled for a thousand years, what then?”

Tuorel shrugged. “He knows I can’t allow him to leave. He will be Bannier’s prisoner. But he can spare many lives by cooperating, I assure you. Including your own, woman.” Tuorel paused a moment. “Gaelin, your sister Ilwyn still lives. She will be spared with the others.”

Gaelin’s fury burned brighter and purer, like a song of rage that danced in his blood, infusing his whole body with iron strength. Distantly, he recognized this must be a blood-gift brought about by the inheritance of Mhoried’s power. But while his muscles seemed almost ready to burst with the brilliant fire, his mind transcended the anger that had sparked him. His thoughts ran with a clarity and depth he had never before experienced, a marvelous comprehension that worked so swiftly it seemed that time itself had slowed. And in this state, an idea came to him, an idea so desperate and mad that it must have been born of insanity. He spoke quietly, carefully pitching his voice to carry only a few feet: “Listen, everyone.

In a moment or two, on my signal, we’re all going to charge the great hall. Stay on your horses and follow me. We’ve got to get out of the courtyard.”

Madislav chuckled drily. “We’ll be killed for certain. Ah, well, I am not trusting Tuorel to let us go, anyway.”

Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, that’s insane.”

“I can’t give this bastard Mhoried. My life’s nothing against that.” He tapped Blackbrand’s flanks and walked the horse a step or two ahead, glaring up at Tuorel. “Tell me one thing, Tuorel: What happened to my father and brother? How did they die?” Toere and Madislav sidled close up beside him. He realized that they intended to use their own bodies to screen him from the hail of crossbow fire that would follow his first move.

The baron frowned, and weighed his words. “Very well, Gaelin. Bannier helped us take Shieldhaven almost a week ago.

We captured your father, your brother, and your sister then, although Liesele died in the attack. My apologies – that was an accident. Two days ago, your father and brother managed to escape their cells. They died in the attempt to leave Shieldhaven.”

He shook his head. “I regret their deaths, Gaelin.”

“Baron, you invaded Mhoried, and you picked this fight.

There are no accidents here – the blood of my family is on your hands, and I intend to see you dead for it!”

“Brave words, Prince Gaelin, for a man who stands a word away from death. Now, lay down your weapons and dismount. I’m growing tired of this conversation.”