The sooner we end the threat to the northlands, the sooner we can add their levies to our army. And those highlanders know something about fighting, unlike these farmers we’ve collected so far.”

“Do you think we’ll have time to get ready for Baehemon?”

Baesil shrugged. “It will have to do. We’re running out of places to retreat to.”

After spending one cold and uncomfortable night sleeping in the ruins of the castle’s hall, Gaelin found that Huire had requisitioned a small horde of carpenters and masons to set about repairing the worst of the damage and building an improvised keep. Within a couple of days, he was holding court again in a rather drafty hall, but at least it had a roof and wasn’t choked with rubble anymore.

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Gaelin’s life developed a routine again. The helter-skelter pace of the first weeks of the Ghoeran war slowed to a crawl as spring began to show the first hints of summer. Over the next ten days, the weather became warmer and drier, and the endless rains of Pasiphiel and Sarimiere came to an end as the month of Talienir approached. From day to day, Gaelin spent his time repairing the damaged arms of Mhoried’s government, courting southern and northern lords and requesting their support, dealing with ambassadors from neighboring powers, and consulting with Baesil Ceried on matters of strategy and supply.

Count Baesil’s scouts reported that Baehemon was advancing slowly into the upper reaches of Byrnnor, gathering his strength for a major expedition, but the Ghoeran army was still fifty miles away and traveling only four to six miles a day.

“Should we oppose his march, or wait for him?” Gaelin asked.

Baesil grinned wolfishly. “I mean to dog his every step once he sets foot in the highlands,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got nearly a thousand skirmishers and raiders moving into position, mostly northlanders who know these hills like the backs of their hands. I won’t try to stand against him in open battle, but I’ll make certain that he’s tired of fighting by the time he gets here.”

“You believe he’ll try to finish us off?”

“Well, he can’t let you put together a court-in-exile and gather an army up here, can he? Sooner or later, he’ll want to show everyone that Mhoried belongs to Tuorel.” Baesil smiled. “Of course, he’d be better off to wait us out, even if it took years. But I don’t think Tuorel or Baehemon has the pa- tience for it.”

After Baesil left to attend to other duties, Gaelin spent an hour practicing his swordsmanship, sparring with some of the Knights Guardian who had trickled into Caer Winoene.

He looked forward to his time on the practice field – when he was dodging blows and flailing away with a wooden sword, it felt like he was nothing more than a young squire, just beginning his training.

He finally called the session to a halt when the low-lying mist increased to a steady rain. He discarded his padded aketon, dunked his head in a barrel of cold water, and drew on a worn, loose-fitting shirt of Khinasi cotton. Still sweating, he started back up toward the castle, studying its jagged turrets and piecemeal battlements with a critical eye. He almost walked past Seriene, who sat watching him on her trim roan riding horse. “Seriene! I didn’t even see you there.”

“Some women might take offense at that, Gaelin,” she said with a smile. He noticed that she was dressed in a fine riding outfit, with creased pants, high leather boots, a white cotton blouse, and a long coat of fine blue wool. As always, her appearance was perfect. She rested her eyes on him for a moment before looking back at the field. “You’re quite a swordsman.

Did you fight in many tournaments?”

“Not that many, to be honest. Most of my skill I learned with the Knights Guardian. It’s tradition in Mhoried for the Mhor’ s sons to train in the ord e r.” He held up a hand to catch the rain.

“ You shouldn’t be out riding in this. You’ll catch cold.”

“Will you walk me back to the stable?”

“Certainly.” Seriene slid one leg over the saddle and paused while Gaelin quickly stepped up to take her by the hand and help her down, though he knew she needed no assistance.

She flashed a quick smile and, with her horse’s reins in hand, started toward the castle’s yard. Gaelin stole a sidelong glance at her, admiring the delicate trickle of rainwater on the side of her smooth, even face.

She looked up, noticing his attention. Their eyes met, and Gaelin felt an unmistakable spark that set his heart racing.

“I’ve noticed that you spend most of your time alone,” she said.

“You must be joking. I’m surrounded by people all day long. Lords, knights, messengers, diplomats… every time I turn around, there’s someone waiting to talk to me.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t busy. I mean, outside of your immediate advisors, you don’t seem to have many friends. Or any romantic interests.”

“I haven’t had time to even think about that,” Gaelin laughed.

Seriene looked him full in the face. Her eyes were blue and clear, burning through his casual facade. “Not even a thought?”

He found the easy laugh fading in his throat. She was breathtaking, and the way she looked at him, thoughts of her were crowding everything else out of his mind. “I suppose the thought’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.

Seriene reached out and touched his hand. Her skin was cool and wet with rain. “I don’t meet many men like you, Gaelin. I wouldn’t say that my father shelters me, but some of the suitors who have called on me seemed so insincere. They wore their chivalry, their victories in the tournaments, like a cloak of nobility. I think they’ve forgotten why they practice the so-called knightly virtues.”

“And I am refreshingly free of social graces?”

Seriene laughed, a light and sweet sound. “No, not at all.

Watching your swordplay, I realized you learned how to fight to stay alive in a real battle, not to win tournaments. When you meet with some lord or ambassador, you don’t try to demonstrate your courtliness. Yo u ’ re courteous because that’s what you think is right.”

“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”

Seriene glanced up at him with a smile. “You’d be surprised at how many noblemen I’ve met who don’t know that.”

Gaelin’s head whirled as they strolled into the open courtyard of the ruined castle. “It seems we’re here,” he said.

Seriene stepped close and pressed her lips to his cheek.

“Thank you, Gaelin. I enjoyed our walk.” She led her horse into the stable, with one last look over her shoulder. Gaelin stood looking after her, not even feeling the rain, for a long moment before he shook himself and headed back to his chambers to change.

Over the next few days, Gaelin and Seriene met for short walks around the battlements or rides about the camp, watching the practice of the army. Gaelin discovered there were few places he could go to get away from the various errands and messages that always found him, and despite his best intentions, he was summoned away to deal with one matter or another. He found he was absentminded and distracted when she wasn’t around, and her smile or the touch of her hand could tie his tongue in knots. Gaelin tried not to let it affect the serious tasks that he waded through each day, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

One day, Madislav appeared on his doorstep, a lecherous grin on his bearded face. Gaelin suddenly realized he hadn’t spoken to his old friend much in the last couple of weeks, although he’d seen Madislav hovering near him constantly.

The Vos winked and said, “Gaelin, I am thinking that you are needing some time alone with the Princess Seriene, eh? Is a fine evening, and you have been working too hard! Go out and relax! You can ask Seriene to ride with you.”

“Well, you may be right.” Gaelin glanced out the window at the sun setting out over the moors and gave in with a shrug. He sent a page to Seriene, inviting her to take a short ride away from the castle, and as the daylight faded into a warm, starlit evening, they rode up into the hills overlooking the lake, accompanied by only a handful of guards. Madislav and his men drifted back out of earshot, trailing them at a discreet distance.