“Hush. You’re all right. Bannier took you away, but now you’re back.” He glanced around and noticed that his traveling companions had drawn back a little to give him some privacy.

“We’re in Dhalsiel, maybe twenty miles or so from the Abbey of the Oak. I’m trying to raise an army to fight Tuorel.”

“I dreamed that you stood before the Red Oak. Father and Thendiere died, but you’re the Mhor now, aren’t you?”

“I am. I wish I could have helped them, Ilwyn.”

“It’s not your fault. Father sent you away. I wonder if somehow he knew what was going to happen.”

Gaelin shook his head. “I think he would have sent you and Liesele away, too, if that were true.”

“What are you going to do, Gaelin? Have you been fighting on all this time?”

He sighed and sat down beside her. “All spring and summer, it seems. But it’s nearly over. In five days, we’ll either break the siege of Caer Winoene, or Tuorel will crush us for good.”

Ilwyn put her hand on his shoulder. Somewhere behind her battered eyes, a flicker of her old fire and life showed.

“You’ll do it. After all, you were able to rescue me.”

“I had a lot of help,” he said, abashed. “I’m sorry I didn’t try to help you sooner than I did. I should have found some way to get you out of Bannier’s hands.”

Steadying her coffee tin with both hands, Ilwyn took a long drink, staring down into the cup. “I thought I was dead,” she said quietly. “It was so cold, and so quiet, and those stones all around me… it was as if I were in a great, dark tomb.” She closed her eyes, her face pale and still. “I don’t know if I will ever be free of it,” she whispered.

Gaelin put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s done now.

Bannier is gone, and you’re free. We’ll stay clear of the Shadow World for some time, I think,” he said with a weary smile. “Now, put it out of your mind, and get some rest.

We’ve a long way to travel tomorrow.”

Ilwyn soon fell asleep, her cheeks regaining a hint of their normal color.

The next morning, they continued into the rolling plains of central Mhoried, leaving the hills behind them. They soon came across the muddy path of the Northrun, in the southwest corner of the province of Dhalsiel. The road seemed clear, and from a quick examination, Gaelin guessed it hadn’t seen much use lately. Anyone who had fled from the Ghoeran occupation of the southlands would have passed this way a long time ago, and the road didn’t lead near enough to Caer Winoene to be useful as a supply route for Ghoere’s armies.

Still, there was a chance that Ghoeran marauders might be loitering in the area, trying to disrupt Mhorien movements and looking for easy loot.

Gaelin decided to risk the road, since time was of the essence. Again, he raised the countryside as he passed, although many of the towns and settlements near the road had been abandoned because they were too easy for the Ghoerans to find and attack. He rode the others into the ground, keeping up a grueling pace that left both humans and horses exhausted; even Blackbrand’s remarkable stamina was tested by the ride. Late in the day, Gaelin rode up beside Bull and asked, “How much farther to Sirilmeet?”

“About two miles ahead, there’s a trail that cuts crosscountry,”

Bull said. “If we hold this pace, we’ll be there a little after dark.”

The skies began to grow cloudy as they turned off onto Bull’s path, and darkened throughout the remainder of the afternoon. For a time, they passed through wild, untended lands, held by no lords and only sparsely settled. The going was difficult, and they were tired; Boeric endured the pain of his wounded leg, but every now and then a hiss escaped through his teeth as his horse took a bad jolt. By sunset, they were stumbling along, too tired to think of anything except the next step. Gaelin welcomed the sight of Sirilmeet’s quiet fields and farmhouses.

Riding into the center of the town, Gaelin discovered that word of his arrival had preceded him. A hundred or more of the villagers were assembled on the commons by torchlight, the fires leaping and crackling beneath the stars, and as the battered group appeared, the Sirilmeeters raised a resounding cheer. “Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin! Mhor Gaelin!”

Even in his exhaustion, Gaelin was profoundly moved.

The crowd swirled around him, dozens of people pressing close to offer their hands. Blackbrand neighed nervously and pranced back as the crowd engulfed him. “What’s going on?”

Gaelin shouted to Bull.

“I guess Dhalsiel’s lack of loyalty didn’t sit well with them,” the big farmer replied. “I told you Sirilmeet would fight!”

Gaelin glanced over at Erin. Her face shone in the firelight, and tears glistened in her eyes. Seriene sat a little way beyond her, a puzzled look on her face. He realized that the princess had a hard time understanding the loyalty commoners could feel for their lords. He reached down to return the handshakes and greetings as best he could. “Thank you,” he murmured, over and over again.

“We’re ready to march under the falcon banner, Mhor Gaelin!” Pushing his way through the crowd, Master Piere and his sons fought their way to Gaelin’s side. “Just tell us where and when!”

“Piere! It’s good to see you!” Gaelin leaned down and clasped the farmer’s hand in a stout grip. “I need you at Caer Winoene, in five days’ time. How many men can you bring?”

“Five hundred, or my name’s not Piere,” the farmer replied.

“Good,” Gaelin replied. He was starting to feel that there might be a chance. “Now, can – ”

“The count! The count is here!” From the edge of the commons, a confused cry arose as people turned to catch a glimpse of a long column of riders approaching the green.

Gaelin looked over the crowd surrounding him. He could make out the red and blue of Ghoeran cavalry, a patrol of sixty or more riding into the village. His heart sank; they were too tired to flee, and the Ghoerans were already upon them.

If he ordered the Sirilmeeters to attack, they would be slaughtered by the mounted troops in close combat.

Erin drew in her breath. “Gaelin, look!”

Cuille Dhalsiel and a handful of his retainers rode in the center of the Ghoeran column. The Mhorien lord was armed for battle in a light suit of half-plate, wearing the yellow and black of Dhalsiel over his arms. The Ghoeran captain beside him spotted Gaelin and began to bark out orders, but Cuille caught his arm and silenced him.

“What do we do, Mhor Gaelin?” Piere was grimacing, his hand on the rusty old short sword on his belt. “Do we attack?”

“Wait a moment,” Gaelin said quietly. He trotted ahead a couple of steps, and raised his voice. “Cuille! I want to talk!”

“Your fame’s growing by leaps and bounds, Gaelin,” Cuille replied, doffing his helmet and shaking out his mane of hair. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a look of bitterness and defeat. He laughed hollowly. “We heard you were coming here hours ago. Why Sirilmeet?”

“I knew there were loyal Mhoriens here,” Gaelin answered.

“I need them at Caer Winoene.”

The Ghoeran captain growled in agitation. “That’s the Mhor’s son, Dhalsiel! We must take him!”

Cuille gave the fellow a pained look. “You are my guest, sir, and not my lord. Wait a moment.” He looked back at Gaelin. “Tuorel’s placed quite a bounty on your head. If I brought you to him, I’d triple my lands and holdings.”

“Do you really want to betray me, Cuille? You let me leave your castle before.”

Cuille fell silent for a moment, studying Gaelin. Their eyes locked, and he flushed and looked away. “Princess Ilwyn! I am delighted to see you alive and well. I feared that you had come to harm in Bannier’s hands.”

Ilwyn somehow drew herself up, banishing the exhaustion with an unconscious will and throwing back her head. “Lord Cuille. I see you’ve reached an accommodation with Ghoere.”