Examining the Mhorien lines, Gaelin realized the outer ramparts – the first line of defense – had been abandoned already and incorporated into the siege lines of the attackers.

He was appalled; the earthworks had been wrecked in only three days! No artillery he knew of could level an earthen dike that quickly. “They’ve lost the first line,” he breathed aloud.

Beside him, the Mhor Daeric nodded. “Bannier’s sorcery wreaked a great deal of harm before he left to confront you at Caer Duirga. The Ghoeran army numbers more than seven thousand veterans. Baesil has a shade over three thousand men still, enough to hold the ruins and the earthworks for some time. But he has another, more pressing problem. If Tuorel exploits Bannier’s work, he can drive Baesil’s men from the lakeshore, which would deprive Baesil of the water and food he needs to keep fighting. Caer Winoene won’t last a week after that.”

“I have to find a way to break the siege. I can’t lose Caer Winoene or the people who are trapped here.”

Daeric glimmered in the red torchlight of the hilltop. “I am afraid I cannot help you more,” he said. “You’re the Mhor now, and this is your battle to win or lose. But I have news that may hearten you.” He reached forward to clasp Gaelin’s arm, and the ramparts of Caer Winoene faded from view again.

This time, they appeared in a shadowed copse of trees, by the banks of a great river. Gaelin recognized it as the Stonebyrn, at a place close to where he had crossed into Mhoried while fleeing Tuorel’s hunters. All around them, an army had set its camp for the night. Tents and fires filled a large field, and Gaelin noticed the black and silver standard of Diemed hanging from a pole before a great pavilion nearby. A slight, graceful man with aquiline features and midnight hair stood nearby, dressed in the armor of a great noble. “It’s Vandiel of Diemed!” Gaelin said. “He’s coming to our aid!”

“He’s at least a week away from engaging Tuorel, and he only brought half of his army with him,” said Daeric. “Ghoere’s army outnumbers both the Mhoriens and the Diemans together.”

“Seriene said her father wouldn’t come until we’d shown that we can defeat Tuorel. What changed his mind?”

“Apparently, Seriene did. She’s much taken with you, Gaelin. She’s employed her magic to speak with her father several times since coming to your court, begging him to intervene.”

Daeric faced Gaelin, his silver gaze weighing on Gaelin’s conscience. “You should consider the advantages of a marriage to her.”

“I’m not sure that I love her,” Gaelin replied slowly.

“Love? That’s beside the point. You have a duty to Mhoried.”

“I know my duty.” Gaelin squared his shoulders and faced his father. “I know what you would do in my place. But I am not you, and I will have to find my own way.”

Daeric frowned, and their surroundings shifted again. They were in Shieldhaven once more, in the panelled study with its shelves of books and great leather chairs. His father sat in his customary place, a thoughtful look on his face. “I think this is the last time you’ll see me,” Daeric said. “You’ll make a good Mhor, Gaelin. You’ve been making your own decisions ever since the divine right passed to you on the banks of the Stonebyrn. Some have been bad, and some have been good, but they’ve been yours to make, and I won’t question them.

You are the Mhor now, not I, and Mhoried rests in your hands.” Daeric’s shade began to grow brighter and more translucent, while the study swirled away in mist and shadow.

“Wait! Please! How can I beat Tuorel?”

His father’s voice was growing fainter. “During my life and reign, I was ruled by duty. You, Gaelin, take after your mother.You are ruled by your heart. I won’t say which is better than the other… but I believe you should follow your heart. Duty never led me astray. I doubt your heart will betray you.”

Gaelin found himself standing on the slopes of Caer Duirga, looking down on their campsite. The sunrise was not far off; he could feel the warm light glinting on the easternmost peaks of the land, even though it would be a few minutes yet before the sun rose where he stood. He heard one last, distant whisper: “Farewell.” Then he knew that his father was gone.

A moment later, the sun touched his walking spirit, and Gaelin awoke again, this time in his own physical body. He sat up, alert and refreshed, looking around at the faces of his friends and companions. As dawn broke, Bull sighed and stood from where he’d been keeping watch, moving over to begin rousing the rest of the group. He stopped, surprised to find Gaelin already awake. “Good morning, my lord,” he said. “You’re quick to rise.”

“Tell everyone to pack as soon as they can,” Gaelin said.

“We have a long ride ahead of us today.”

Bull nodded. “If we push the horses, I reckon we can make Caer Winoene by nightfall tomorrow.”

“We’re not going to Caer Winoene,” Gaelin told him. “At least, not right away. The time’s come to raise the countryside against Tuorel.”

From Caer Duirga, Gaelin led them southeast through the wild reaches of the highlands. He pushed them hard, knowing his friends and soldiers were exhausted. The haunting images of his vision and his father’s words lingered in his mind, steeling him to do whatever was necessary to reach Caer Winoene with help. The brooding that had weighed on Gaelin during the ride to Bannier’s stronghold was gone, replaced by a sense of urgency and desperation. Mhoried was running out of time.

Through the morning, they picked their way through the stone-toothed hills and trackless heather-grown valleys. As they descended into the densely populated heartlands of Mhoried, Gaelin paused at each village and homestead to spread a call to arms. These people were highlanders, tough and quick to defend their scattered farms and herds. The lords, their knights, and their men-at-arms represented only a fraction of Mhoried’s fighting strength; by raising the countryside Gaelin was drawing hundreds or possibly thousands of men to his banner. Each time he stopped, he asked the people to send someone to the next village so the summons would spread throughout the northlands.

“Why have we waited so long to do this?” Seriene asked as they rode away from a freestead. Behind them, the twentyodd clansmen of fighting age were already scrambling to collect their weapons and begin their march. “Every village we’ve passed has answered your call, Gaelin.”

“I wanted to, when we first settled in at Caer Winoene,” Gaelin replied. “But how could we have fed them all? We needed these men at home, tending their crops and herds.

And you might remember, Mhoried’s levy was already decimated once, at Cwlldon Field. The folk of the southern counties were slaughtered there, and I didn’t want to repeat that mistake.”

“Goblin bands were riding roughshod over these freeholds and villages just a month ago,” Bull added. “Many of these men have been fighting since early spring, looking out after their own homes.”

By nightfall, Gaelin guessed they had ridden twenty or twenty-five miles. Although he was anxious to continue, he realized his companions were exhausted. He wondered if the strength of the Mhoried bloodline was buoying him, now that he needed every last reserve of his physical abilities, but even if that was the case, Erin, Ilwyn, Seriene, and his guards required rest. They hadn’t recovered from their harrowing ordeal in the Shadow World. As the sun sank in the green hills to the west, they camped in a stand of beech on a forested hillside.

Over a cold dinner, Gaelin noticed Ilwyn was a little more responsive, as if waking from a long sleep. When he finished eating, he brought her a tin cup of strong coffee and sat down beside her. “Ilwyn?” he said softly. “How do you feel?”

She shivered and looked up at him. For the first time since he’d brought her out of the darkness, he saw recognition in her eyes. “Gaelin? Where are we? What happened to me?”