“You force the decision on Bannier by ignoring his threat.

He can carry it out if he wishes, but he loses his hold on you.”

“You’re right, of course. But if Bannier sees that I won’t let myself be threatened with Ilwyn’s life, she becomes useless as a hostage, and he may decide to kill her to claim her portion of the Mhoried bloodline. For that matter, he may kill her to teach me a lesson, or out of sheer spite.” Gaelin paced the small room helplessly. “I’m certain that I won’t like what happens if I call his bluff, Erin. His threat against Ilwyn could very well be the only promise to me that he would keep.”

“Well, you have two more weeks to decide. With your per- mission, I’ll retire to my chambers. I’ve had five long days of riding, and I’m exhausted. My ear is yours, if you need to talk.” She rose, stretched, and turned her back on Gaelin. “Although I suspect that Seriene would be glad to counsel you, too,” she added from the door. She swept out of the room with regal disdain.

For the next week, Gaelin avoided both Seriene and Erin.

Although he had to speak with both women several times each day, he was careful to keep the conversation purely impersonal.

Seriene accepted his distance with nothing more than a slight, knowing smile, as if she saw through his tactic and was willing to wait him out. Erin, on the other hand, seemed confused at first and grew angry at him as he dodged her day after day. Gaelin threw himself into his duties, working from sunup to midnight with a madman’s energy, but Bannier’s ultimatum weighed on him, lurking spiderlike in his mind. Gaelin was delaying the inevitable decision, and he knew it. Hiding behind the title of Mhor was nothing more than an excuse not to think about the alternatives.

M o re troops trickled into Caer Winoene, and Gaelin noticed a grim smile on Baesil Ceried’s face when he reviewed the army instead of the sullen scowl that had marked the general’s features before. They were still desperately short on equipment, but Baesil had taken the most experienced men and broken them up among units of raw recruits to speed up the training process. “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the trained men and the recruits segregated on the battlefield?” Gaelin asked him one afternoon. “If you have a company of archers, and half of them run away, won’t the whole unit break? Aren’t we taking a chance by dispersing our veterans like this?”

“Certainly we are,” Baesil replied. “But, I’ve got no choice.

Baehemon’s on his way, and I have to be able to put as many men as possible into the field. I can’t mollycoddle the recruits any more. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the experienced men, they’ll learn faster than they would by training alone.”

“I don’t doubt that, Count Baesil. But a chain’s only as strong as its weakest link.”

The grizzled old count gave Gaelin a measuring look.

“This is the best answer I can find, my lord,” he said. “I plan to put it to the test when the Ghoeran army reaches Marnevale. I want to see if we can stop Baehemon in his tracks at the high pass.”

“You’re not going to commit everyone, are you?”

Baesil barked laughter. “No, of course not. But a thousand men can hold the pass for three or four days, and I’m tired of Ghoeran soldiers marching about Mhoried with impunity.

Let’s make him fight for it.”

By the end of the week, Gaelin found sleep was becoming impossible. On the surface, it seemed an easy choice to make.

After all, Seriene’s arguments were sound. It was best to consider Ilwyn dead and continue to lead the fight to free the country. The surviving forces of Mhoried had a chance, especially if Diemed were drawn into the conflict as an ally. And Gaelin knew that it would be irresponsible of him to risk his own life and the end of the Mhoried line if there was no one who could swear the oaths before the Oak. The southern lords wavered; their lands had been occupied for six weeks now, and they were beginning to question their fealty to Gaelin. If they didn’t have an unchallenged Mhor to rally behind, they would fall to pieces. Some would fight among themselves for the title, others would kneel to Tuorel and give up hope of a free Mhoried, and a loyal few would fight to the bitter end. Seriene was not exaggerating when she said that Gaelin was the hope of his country.

On the other hand, Gaelin felt cold and sick when he thought about allowing Ilwyn to die through his inactivity.

While he’d seen little enough of his sisters in the years he had been training with the Knights Guardian, he couldn’t bear to decide whether Ilwyn lived or died. Seriene’s words haunted him day and night. It was a matter of pride, of duty, and of doing the right thing. The Mhor should be prepared to lay down his life for any of his subjects, let alone his family. Deciding that his own life was of greater value than someone else’s represented the first step down a long, dark road of expediency and excuses.

At night, he paced the battlements restlessly until the gray light of dawn seeped into the sky from the east. By day, he found it harder and harder to pay attention to his duties.

Countless times he glanced at the sky to see where the moon stood.

A week after Madislav’s pyre, Gaelin stood on the battlements in the hours before sunrise. It was a cold, clammy morning; thick mists wreathed the cool, still waters of the lake before the castle, but from the heights of the ancient battlements the stars were clear overhead. He paused by one turret, leaning on the parapet and staring moodily out over the dark countryside. His reverie was disturbed by the light footfalls of someone approaching. Gaelin could make out a dark, slender figure advancing toward him along the walkway; frowning, he drew back into the shadows of a ruined cupola and set his hand to his sword.

A moment later, Erin appeared, gliding forward to stand where he had been just a moment ago. She looked out over the darkened landscape, engaged in her own silent reflections.

Gaelin started to speak out, but decided not to startle her, and remained silent and unmoving in the darkness, watching her. Dew glistened in her long hair, now a gray sheen of shadow in the night, and her alabaster features seemed almost to glow with an inner radiance in the starlight.

Her elven features were unmistakable, now that he studied her – the slender build, the easy grace of her movements, and the faerie quality of her face and long white hands.

“Spying on me, Gaelin?” she asked, speaking into the night.

For a moment, he felt embarrassed. Flushing, he stepped out into the open. “I might ask the same of you,” he said quietly.

“I’m surprised you noticed me. I thought I was well-concealed.”

She laughed softly. “You forget my heritage,” she said, gesturing at the subtle points of her ears.

“On the contrary, it’s obvious in the starlight,” he replied.

“I could believe you to be a princess of the Sidhelien. The dew shines in your hair like diamonds.” He stepped closer, leaning against the cold stone embrasure to enjoy the view while facing her. Before he knew what he was saying, he added, “I’ve never seen your equal.”

Erin smiled and glanced at him. “Not even Seriene?”

“She’s beautiful, too. But there’s a hardness in her heart that I don’t see in you.”

“You should fall in love with her, Gaelin. It’s the best thing you could do right now, for yourself and for your kingdom.

She already loves you.”

“Why do you say that?”

Erin shrugged, glancing down at her hands as she twisted a fine gold chain that was draped around her neck. “You’re the Mhor. That defines you. And you’re too good a ruler to do anything except what’s best for Mhoried. You know that you’ll have to marry Seriene. It’s an alliance you have to make.” She smiled. “And she’s beautiful, too. It works out well, wouldn’t you say?”