Bannier turned to confront Tuorel, but found a gleaming sword point at his throat. The baron was standing before him, his weapon at the ready. “Most impressive, Bannier. You are truly a master of your art. But this sword is Calruile, one of the heirlooms of my family, and enchanted to boot. I suspect its bite might sting more than the swords of my guards.”

Bannier held still, and raised his hands in a placating fashion.

“In this, you are correct, my lord baron. However, before you do something rash, I must in turn inform you that the spell that felled your guards is still in effect. If you touch me with that blade, you will be slain as well.”

Tuorel smiled. “An impasse, then.”

“Indeed. Baron, I am willing to overlook this incident, and our previous difficulties, in order to see Gaelin Mhoried destroyed.”

“What kind of deal do you want this time?”

“None at all. It suits my purposes to bring Gaelin down, and I realize that it is a matter of some importance to you as well.”

Tuorel drew his sword back a handsbreadth. “Why on earth should I trust you?”

Bannier snapped, “You’ve tried to kill me, Tuorel, and you wrecked my home as well. However, I will offer you a token of my good faith. Tomorrow afternoon, you will meet Gaelin’s army in Marnevale, where he will try to make you pay for your passage into the highlands.”

Tuorel nodded. “My scouts have reported this, Bannier.”

“In order to secure your cooperation, I offer to destroy the Mhorien army for you. You will not lose a single man.”

Tuorel lowered his sword. “It will take me three days to fight through the pass, with heavy losses. Can you really do this?”

“I can. As a gesture of my good faith. All I ask is that you continue to press the attack – an action that you are even now undertaking.”

Tuorel shook his head. “I don’t see how this would profit you at all, Bannier. Are you so vindictive that you want to see Gaelin dead just for the sake of spite?”

Bannier lowered his hands and smoothed his robes. “You might say that,” he replied. “But, consider this: When Gaelin dies, Ilwyn becomes the last of Mhoried’s blood, which means that the bloodline can be extinguished – or usurped – by killing one girl who is already in my power. I would have preferred to take them both alive, but I am beginning to doubt we will get the opportunity.”

“Ah. Now I see.” Tuorel grinned, appreciating the wiza rd’s ruthlessness. “I thought you would be subtler than that, Bannier. ”

Bannier smiled in return; the lie he’d just told the baron was the right thing to say. Tuorel needed some motive for Bannier’ s actions, but now that he thought he was dealing with simple lust for power and gain, he would treat Bannier accordingly.

“Gaelin’s death helps both of us, my lord baron,” he continued.

“And I see that you are in need of a mage again.”

Tuorel glanced out the opening of the tent. The half-eaten shape of a nightmare huddled on the ground before the tent.

“All right, Bannier, we have a deal. If you destroy Mhoried’s army tomorrow, as you say, then I will agree to cooperate with you in finishing Gaelin Mhoried once and for all. If you fail to deliver on your promise…” Tuorel left the threat unspoken.

“I understand, my lord baron,” Bannier replied. “Now, with your permission, there is much I must do to prepare my spell. May I withdraw?”

Tuorel watched him a moment longer. “Of course. I shall be interested to see what you have in mind.”

Gaelin finally enjoyed a restful sleep. He woke starving, and ate a huge breakfast of sausages, eggs, and biscuits in his own chamber. He knew he had been neglecting his duties lately – brooding sullenly for hours was no excuse for not paying attention to the important matters he was confronted with each day. He resolved to do better in the time he had left.

He had just finished dressing when Seriene appeared at his door. “Gaelin? May I come in?”

“Of course,” he said, settling his doublet over his chest.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. The princess wore a narrow- waisted dress of red brocade and soft wool. She gave him a warm smile and slipped past the door, closing it behind her. He turned to face her.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“When you win this war, we’ll have to find you a southern tailor,” she laughed. “I suppose it’s fine for Mhoried.”

Gaelin glanced down at his clothes, and said, “I prefer to think of them as practical and unassuming.” She advanced and circled him, pretending to admire his choice of tunic. “I doubt that you came here to critique my wardrobe,” he added. “What’s on your mind?”

Seriene moved closer, twining her arms around his torso and delicately brushing her lips against his neck. “Well, you are, Gaelin. You’ve been avoiding me for more than a week now. I didn’t expect you to take up celibacy after our tryst.”

He winced and tried to disengage himself from her embrace.

Despite his feelings for Erin, Seriene’s presence was intoxicating.

His heart was racing as he found his arms starting to return her embrace, and with a deep breath he carefully stepped away. “Seriene, they’re expecting me in the hall any moment now.”

She gave him an unmistakable look. “No one would notice if you were a little late, Gaelin.”

“Seriene, I… I shouldn’t do this. You saw through me the other night, even before I’d seen through myself. You’re beautiful, but I’m not certain you are the only one in my heart.”

Seriene retreated, clasping her hands in front of her and turning away. “I’m sorry, Gaelin.” She moved toward the door, and faced him again. “You know you can’t avoid the question forever.”

Gaelin watched her leave, fighting down the impulse to call her back. He sighed, and looked at himself in the mirror.

“You’re a fool,” he told his reflection. Buckling his sword belt around his waist, he headed down to the hall for the day’s meetings and audiences.

After several hours, Gaelin’s attention wandered, despite his best intentions. He was just about to excuse himself to go see how the troops fared, when there was a commotion in the doorway. Several of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, were engaged in a loud discussion with a highland herdsman.

The fellow seemed half-mad, his actions and voice growing more desperate by the minute. “I must see the Mhor!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “By Haelyn’s mercy, let me in!”

Gaelin stood, muttering a quick apology to the merchant with whom he had been speaking, and glanced at Huire. The priest was heading toward the door to straighten out the matter, but on a sudden impulse Gaelin descended from the dais and followed Huire to the hall’s entrance.

“Listen, friend, there are lots of people who have to see the Mhor,” Bull said, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Give me your name and wait outside, and we’ll see what we can do.”

He had one beefy hand clamped firmly on the fellow’s shoulder; the highlander was unconsciously trying to twist away from the guardsman’s grip while he continued to plead.

“By the gods that died, don’t you understand? I’ve got to see the Mhor! It’s killing me!”

“What? What’s wrong?” asked Boeric. He had the man’s other arm. The sturdy sergeant glanced at the other guards in the chamber and jerked his head, signaling. Two more detached themselves from their posts along the chamber’s walls and stepped forward, ready to tackle the man if necessary.

The herdsman coughed and doubled over in agony, falling to his knees. For a moment, Gaelin thought he had been struck by one of the guards, but neither Boeric nor Bull had hit the man, and no one else was near. He stepped forward to see what was wrong and then stopped in horror as the wretch vomited forth a great gout of black blood. The courtiers and knights surrounding the scene paled and stepped back quickly, murmuring in consternation.