Gaelin designated Huire as his secretary, and within hours a semblance of order crept back into his life. The monk was intelligent and thorough, carefully organizing appointments and recording Gaelin’s pledges and requests, helping him keep track of what he said to whom. While Gaelin relied on Huire to help him manage his time and the day-to-day business of gaining control of Mhoried’s government, Erin helped him in his diplomatic correspondence and meetings with other nobles. She spent two days canvassing Mhoried’s counts and lesser lords, writing dozens of letters and dispatching messengers to all corners of the kingdom.

Late in their second night at Castle Ceried, she appeare d in Gaelin’s private chambers, dark circles under her eyes.

“I’ve dispatched letters to every lord worth writing and talked to every lord or envoy here,” she informed him. “Of the counts, Torien, Marloer, Ceried, and Hastaes acknowledge your coronation.”

“That means that I hold the counties of Torien, Marloer, Byrnnor, and Winoene,” Gaelin mused. “That’s only four out of ten. What of Tenarien, Cwlldon, and Bevaldruor itself?”

“I can’t say. They’re all occupied by Ghoeran troops, so their sympathies are probably of no matter.” Erin shrugged.

“Sir Vaerad Cwll is here with a company of sixty-odd Cwlldoners.

He may be the count, if old Count Cwll is dead. He’s on your side.”

“What of the lesser lords?” asked Gaelin. Just as the Mhor commanded the allegiance of the counts, each count had dozens of minor estates, titled peers, knights, and other such lesser nobles who owed him fealty.

“Almost all the lesser lords of the four counties you hold are with you,” Erin told him. “Asmall number from the overrun counties have joined your banner – like Vaerad Cwll – and a handful who didn’t shift their allegiance, though their counts turned their coats.”

“I have to find a way to bring more of these men to my side. Especially the ones who are backing Ghoere.” Gaelin buried his head in his hands and sighed. “How on earth do I do that?”

Erin only shrugged. “You knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Gaelin. It’s hard to convince people to join the losing side.”

When the army of Ghoere was two days away, Count Baesil sent footsoldiers north by tens and twenties, slipping out of the camp in small groups to maintain the illusion that all of Mhoried’s soldiers were still there. His men made a show of constructing earthen ramparts and fieldworks outside the castle, as if they were planning to engage Baehemon’s army from fortified positions. To add detail to the deception, Gaelin toured the defenses, pretending to inspect them.

While the army prepared to move, Gaelin found an increasing amount of time was taken up in dealing with matters of court. In peacetime, the Mhor heard cases of high justice, authorized the use of royal lands for private enterprises, granted special dispensations such as licenses and agreements, and juggled the fragile alliances and fealty of the lords around him. The routine business of the kingdom had consumed hours of Mhor Daeric’s time in the form of audiences, hearings, and meetings each day. Still, it astonished Gaelin that there were nobles, merchants, and royal officers who expected him to deal with these mundane affairs. “Doesn’t anyone realize that we have a war to fight?” he complained to Erin and Huire after one lengthy session.

Erin’s advice on this matter was direct. “Declare a royal stay on matters of state,” she said. “All permits, sentences, pardons, and other agreements are to continue in force until you declare the emergency has come to an end.”

Gaelin agreed wholeheartedly and had Huire prepare the pronouncements. Naturally, most of the petitioners were unhappy with this arrangement, but for the most part they understood the reasons behind it. Some ministers and officials persisted in trying to get Gaelin to review their troubles, but the royal stay reduced the torrent to a reasonable number of requests and interviews.

A similar problem existed with the handful of foreign diplomats who drifted into Castle Ceried by ones and twos.

These were people Gaelin dared not offend, and most had their own agendas they were determined to present, regardless of the demands on Gaelin’s time. Fortunately, most of the diplomats and ambassadors of Mhoried’s court remained in Shieldhaven, the recognized capital of the country, and bided their time – they dealt with neither Gaelin nor Tuorel.

Last, and certainly not least, Baesil Ceried thrust Gaelin immediately into the bottomless morass of problems involved in the war effort. The volatile old general, still smoldering with resentment, took a diabolical pleasure in browbeating Gaelin with a barrage of technical details and issues.

He claimed he was trying to school Gaelin in the art of war between nations and give him an appreciation for the obstacles that faced the losing side. Simply feeding the three thousand soldiers, camp followers, and courtiers who filled Castle Ceried and its surroundings was a problem of nearly insoluble dimensions. With the fall of Shieldhaven and the southern provinces, vast amounts of supplies had fallen into Tuorel’s hands. “Early spring’s a miserable time to fight a war,” Baesil told Gaelin. “The granaries and storehouses are empty from winter, and the first plantings won’t be ready for weeks. In fact, even if Ghoere’s army wasn’t coming here, we might have to move just to find food.”

Somehow, Gaelin muddled through the longest three days of his life and survived it. There were many people who were unhappy with the way things were run, but at least they were being run, and Gaelin had to satisfy himself with that. On the morning of his third day in Castle Ceried, he was in the mid- dle of an audience with a southern lord, discussing the possibility of raising the countryside against Ghoere, when Erin gracefully entered the room, dressed in her finest White Hall garb.

Words died in Gaelin’s throat when he caught sight of her.

Erin’s red hair cascaded to her shoulders, and she wore a sweeping gown of brocade and silk that accented her tall, graceful body without seeming festive or overly decorative.

“Please excuse me, my lords,” she said, “but I have learned that an emissary from Diemed is on the way here at this very moment.”

“Diemed!” said Gaelin. “Vandiel’s reply, already? Lord Waere, I hope you’ll forgive me for taking my leave?”

“Of course, my lord Mhor,” the nobleman replied. “l know how important Diemed may be to our cause.” He bowed and made his way out of the chamber.

“You may want to change,” Erin said. “By all accounts, Baron Tuorel is declaring to anyone who will listen that you are a bloodthirsty brigand. There’s no reason to look the part.”

“Do we know anything about Diemed’s ambassador?”

“I believe it’s the Princess Seriene,” Erin replied.

“Vandiel’s daughter?” Gaelin stopped and glanced at Erin.

“That’s surprising.”

“I’ll leave you to prepare, my lord,” Erin said frostily. She slipped out the door, not even sparing him another look.

Now what in Cerilia was that about? he wondered, staring after her. In a moment, he gave up trying to decipher her words and actions, and set about pulling out his finest robes of state. Huire had found decent clothing for the new Mhor, and he settled for a tunic of dark green to wear over soft gray hose and fine black boots. He buckled on his sword belt and wore his long sword by his side. He didn’t want Seriene to think he was a bandit lord, but neither did he want her to think he was a helpless dandy who survived only by the wit of his generals.

Checking his appearance one last time in a small mirror by the door, he left the room and headed for Castle Ceried’s hall.

Brother Superior Huire fell in beside him. They entered the great hall, which was unusually full – a number of minor lords and knights had apparently found some business at the court in order to be on hand for the meeting between Gaelin and Princess Seriene. The conversation came to a halt as Gaelin appeared and stepped up to the dais.