“And yours, Gaelin. We’ll hold as long as we can.”

Two miles farther on, Gaelin briefly rounded up ten of his guards, including Boeric and Bull, as well as Seriene and Erin.

While Baesil led the remnants of the army back to Caer Winoene, Gaelin and his band split off from the main group and headed east, into the wilds and highlands, as darkness began to fall.

Two days after the victory at Marnevale, the Ghoeran army arrived at Caer Winoene and set siege to the ancient castle. Instead of retreating again, as Bannier expected, the Mhoriens stood their ground. Almost three thousand men garrisoned the ruins, a number far greater than the old castle could comfortably support, so the Mhoriens had expanded the fortifications to cover a good portion of their camp. Earthworks and newly repaired walls of stone surrounded the gray old towers in ring after ring of ditch and palisade.

Bannier was no judge of such things, but it looked as though Gaelin’s army would be difficult to dig out of the ruins. Worse yet, the Mhoriens still held a part of the lakeshore and could pass supplies or small parties out of the siege lines by boat; Lake Winoene was almost ten miles long, which meant Lord Baehemon’s men would have to patrol the shores vigilantly to keep the castle truly isolated.

After touring the camp and inspecting the preparations, Bannier returned to Tuorel’s headquarters. The baron stood aside from the chaos outside the tent and surveyed the Mhorien defenses while discussing the strategy of the siege with Lord Baehemon. The squat general fell silent as Bannier approached, his impassive face displaying nothing more than a flicker of contempt. “Master Bannier,” he said gruffly, tilting his head by way of a greeting.

Tuorel turned and greeted him as well. “Good evening, Bannier. What’s on your mind?”

“How goes the siege?”

Tuorel snorted at Bannier’s ignorance of military affairs.

“It’s hardly started. Ask me again in a month.”

“A month?” Bannier affected mild astonishment. “It will take that long to overwhelm the Mhoriens?”

“At least that long,” snapped Baehemon, allowing his temper to show. “Ceried has created formidable defenses for his army.”

“Defenses?” Bannier chuckled. “Those ditches and banks of earth can keep your vaunted Iron Guard at bay?”

Baehemon’s face darkened. “Go back to your books and spells, wizard. This is man’s work.”

“It sounds like a tedious process,” Bannier observed. “You wish to be done with this sooner than that?”

Tuorel glanced at him. “Of course. What do you have in mind? More of your sorcery?”

The wizard smiled coldly. “Not the same enchantment I used at Marnevale, but a powerful one nonetheless. I can open a hundred-yard gap in the earthworks.”

Tuorel exchanged a look with Baehemon. “All right, Bannier.

When can you do it?”

“I’ll need a day or two to prepare. This is potent sorcery, and I’ve exhausted my reserves over these past months.”

The baron returned his gaze to the Mhorien defenses, now cloaked by the falling twilight. Orange torches burned on the battlements. He looked back to the wizard. “I’m not certain I want to meet your price, Bannier. Your charity alarms me.”

“There is no price, baron. The sooner you break through the Mhorien lines, the sooner I will see Gaelin Mhoried dead.” The wizard paused, and then added, “There is one condition for my service. There is a chance that Gaelin may come to us or seek to cross your lines under a flag of truce. If he does, summon me immediately.”

“Very well. It shall be as you say.”

Baehemon scowled. “My lord, do not trust him!”

“Baehemon, I’ve never trusted him.” He met Bannier’s gaze without a trace of fear. “We have an understanding?”

Bannier returned his predatory smile. “I believe we do.”

Satisfied, he turned and strode away, leaning on his ironshod staff. Again, he’d been less than honest with Tuorel. The spell he had in mind would require a few hours’ preparation and no more. Before he set to work on the enchantment, he intended to visit Caer Duirga and make sure everything was ready. If he knew Gaelin, the prince would show up at the appointed time. The only question was how Bannier could deal with any guards or escorts who followed Gaelin to his doom.

Gaelin, Erin, and Seriene rode until moonrise, accompanied by their guards. They watched for signs of pursuit, but after six hours of picking their way through the darkness, they were certain the Ghoeran skirmishers and scouts had missed their trail. Gaelin called a halt only after one unfortunate trooper fell asleep in his saddle and tumbled off his horse in exhaustion.

It drizzled until dawn, and they were caught in the open with only bedrolls and cold supplies. They did not dare light a fire, and no one was equipped for more than a day in the field – an oversight on Gaelin’s part, since he had expected to be back at Caer Winoene already. Still, they were so tired that most of them found a way to sleep for a few hours despite the rain and the mud.

By morning, the rain diminished into an early morning highland fog that lay thick and cold in the green glens between the hills. They were well into the wilds of Mhoried’s foothills, with knife-edged ridges rising on all sides of them, flanked in fields of heather and draped with white-running streams. They struck across the most desolate territory of Mhoried, a trackless maze of stark hills and high, misty vales.

Over the course of the morning’s ride they passed only a handful of herdsmen’s huts and the occasional turf lodge of a hunter or trapper.

Gaelin found the wildness and the chill, bracing air to be restful. Like a starving man, he drank in the scent and the feel of the rich heather and grass, a green so vivid it seemed more alive than he was. The mist that crowned the peaks around him was a cool touch on his face, and the water that gathered on his cloak and ran down his face tasted sweeter than wine.

He wondered if the others felt it, too, or if his bond to the land gave him a sense they did not share.

When they finally halted at midday to rest the horses and chew on stale rations, Gaelin rode ahead a few hundred yards to be alone with his thoughts. He sat down on a grassy hillside, looking out over a broad gray valley, and listened to the trickle of water splashing downhill in a dozen tiny torrents.

After a time, he became aware of someone’s approach.

“Hello, Erin,” he said quietly.

“Gaelin? May I join you?”

He gestured at a small boulder beside him, and the minstrel sat down, looking out over the fields and the hills. They sat in silence for a time, taking in the view. Erin’s eyes were bright and open, and her breath streamed away from her.

“This is a beautiful spot,” she murmured. “It makes me feel… alive, somehow.”

Gaelin nodded. “I’ve always felt that way about the highlands.”

Erin shifted to look at him. “Do you want me here?”

Sighing, Gaelin stood and shook out his rain-wet hair.

“This is a dangerous business, Erin. You’ve seen how powerful Bannier is. Chances are, I’m leading you all into disaster.”

He raised his eyes to hers, vulnerable and guileless. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“That didn’t stop you from bringing Seriene along.”

“She’s skilled in the magical arts. If anyone can figure out a way to defeat Bannier, she can.” Gaelin picked up a rock and idly tossed it downhill, watching it clatter away. The drizzle was growing heavier, becoming a steady rainfall. “Besides, if nothing else works and I have to deliver myself to Bannier, Seriene’s status may protect her; Bannier may not want to earn Diemed’s hate by harming Vandiel’s daughter.