At the far end of the room, a chamberlain stepped forward and announced, “My lord Mhor, the Princess Seriene of Diemed!”

Two footmen opened the doors and bowed. The Dieman entourage filed in, their faces carefully reserved as their eyes darted about, taking in the scene. In the middle of the group, Seriene stood, her hands clasped before her. She was little more than five feet in height, but her cold and regal bearing drew all eyes in the room. A long gown of rich blue silk displayed her figure to great effect, and a small golden tiara gleamed in her raven-dark hair. Gaelin drew in his breath at the sight of her.

Seriene paused for a moment, then advanced to meet Gaelin. Her own guards stopped a good twenty feet short, grounding their gleaming halberds and settling into an impressive parade rest, while a pair of ladies-in-waiting and one silver-haired priest in the robes of the temple of Avanalae followed her. Before the dais, Seriene curtsied while her attendants kneeled. In a cool, clear voice, she said, “Hail, Gaelin of Mhoried. My father, Prince Vandiel Diem of Diemed, sends you his warmest greetings and hopes this day finds you in good health. I am the Princess Seriene Diem, and I am honored by this meeting.”

Gaelin had rehearsed his response. “Welcome, Princess Seriene.

Your presence here graces Mhoried’s rightful court and demonstrates the true friendship of Diemed and Mhoried.

You are our honored guest.” The weight of Seriene’s dark and measuring gaze on him made Gaelin acutely conscious of the words, and he nearly stumbled over them.

The Avanalite priest, a high-ranking clergyman introduced as Prelate Edoeren, began a long-winded oratory on the traditional alliance of the two countries. As Gaelin’s herald, Erin parried with a dignified response. Their words were meaningless in his ears; he couldn’t take his eyes from Seriene’s face, and he thought he saw a hint of interest in the set of her mouth, as she returned his gaze without shying away.

The formalities concluded, Gaelin invited the Dieman emissaries to join him for a light meal to rest from their jour- ney. As they left the room, Baesil Ceried leaned close and said, “Now the real diplomacy begins. We’ll soon see what the Diemans can offer us.”

Withdrawing to the small council room that had been prepared, they made a pretense of light conversation while they dined on roasted venison and capers, potatoes, cabbage, and stuffed pastries. The Diemans had come by boat, sailing up the Maesil and then the Stonebyrn to the western shores of Byrnnor, with a day of hard riding to reach Castle Ceried. All in all, the journey had taken them a week. “You must have left as soon as my letter from the Abbey of the Red Oak arrived,”

Gaelin observed.

“Actually, your father dispatched a letter two weeks ago.

When I heard that Shieldhaven had fallen, I altered my plans and decided to seek you out,” said Seriene. “We made the best time we could.” She raised a glass of south coast wine and sipped at it demurely. “My thanks for your hospitality. I feel I am sufficiently rested to discuss the issues your father raised in his letter, Prince Gaelin.”

Gaelin glanced at Erin, but she was watching the princess.

“Very well. The war has not gone well for Mhoried. Baron Tuorel obtained the services of Bannier, our former court wizard and a very capable mage. In addition, the goblins of Markazor attacked at the same time.”

“Resulting in a catastrophic defeat of the army of Mhoried and the loss of Shieldhaven,” Seriene said evenly. In the corner of his eye, Gaelin could see a thin line of anger cross Count Baesil’s face, but the general held his tongue.

“As matters stand now, Tuorel holds most of the southern provinces as well as Bevaldruor,” Gaelin continued. “The goblins have been pushed back to Markazor, for the most part, and the northlands are still in our hands. We can hold them against Tuorel indefinitely, but Diemed’s aid would help us greatly in winning back the lands we have lost to Ghoere.”

Seriene brushed that aside for the moment. “With all due respect, my lord prince, how is it that you claim the title of Mhor? Tuorel’s ambassadors say your father capitulated to the baron when he took Shieldhaven and that you are nothing more than a disinherited pretender.”

Gaelin didn’t doubt Tuorel was telling all of Anuire about the so-called justice of his actions. He rose from the table.

“Tuorel is lying,” he said quietly. “I can see you have no way of knowing which story is true, so I won’t try to convince you. But I will tell you this: Tuorel murdered my father, my brother, and one of my sisters. The last living member of my family – my other sister, Ilwyn – is held captive in her own home.”

“If Tuorel killed your father, why didn’t he force him to divestiture?

Or try to take his bloodline, for that matter? The Mhoried line is one of the oldest and strongest of all Anuire,” asked the Prelate Edoeren.

Gaelin turned and shook his head. “I don’t know, Prelate. I suspect my father decided his kingship and the continuation of the line of the Mhors were more important than his own life.” He gestured at the white streaks over his temples. “You recognize the bloodmarks of Mhoried?”

“I don’t debate your identity, Prince Gaelin,” the prelate said. “You are who you say you are. My question is, are you what you say you are?”

Erin leaned forward. “For whatever reason, Tuorel obtained neither the Mhor’s blood nor his regency. The Mhor Daeric chose death over divestiture, giving Prince Gaelin a chance to continue the reign of the Mhors.” She nodded at Gaelin. “Aweek ago, he took the oaths of the Mhor before the Red Oak of Mhoried. He is the lawful ruler of this realm, and he still holds the divine right to Mhoried.”

“Granting you that,” Seriene said, “Tuorel is still right about one thing: you are a hunted man in your own kingdom.

His army outnumbers you by three to one, and he holds the richest lands of your realm. You may be able to elude him for a time, but in the long run he will grind you to nothing.”

“That is precisely why we need your help,” Count Baesil replied. “Ghoere has almost his entire army in Mhoried, engaging us on all fronts. If Diemed’s army threatened him, he would be forced to withdraw some of his forces to meet you, giving us the chance to defeat him entirely.”

“ You realize, of course, that we would have to secure the cooperation of Endier or Roesone in order to engage Ghoere? ”

“They’re no friends of Tuorel. They may be willing to help.”

“My father anticipated this request,” Seriene said, her face unmoving. “His reply is this: Assuming Diemed joins you in a war against Ghoere, can you guarantee you will be able to threaten Ghoere enough to hold at least half his army here?

Diemed can muster about four thousand men for an invasion of Ghoere, which means Ghoere can meet and defeat our attack with only a portion of his strength.”

Baesil Ceried snarled in disgust. “In other words, you don’t want to jump in on what you perceive as the losing side, regardless of old friendship or treaties.”

Seriene’s eyes flashed in anger, but her voice remained cool. “You could look at it that way,” she replied. “The truth of the matter is simple – if by helping you we do nothing but become Ghoere’s next victim, we have neither helped you nor served our own purposes. Diemed has enemies of its own to worry about; Prince Avan of Avanil, the new barony of Roesone, even pirates from Mieres across the straits. We dare not weaken ourselves by allying with a weak power.”

Gaelin thought for a moment, staring out over the Mhorien camp from a shuttered arrow embrasure. “Your concerns are understandable,” he said after a moment. “If we were to demonstrate we have at least the capability to keep Ghoere’s attention engaged in Mhoried, would that change your mind?”