Gaelin started to speak, but Seriene hushed him with a gesture and nodded at the marvelous sunset. With a shrug, Gaelin settled in to enjoy the sight. After another quarterhour, the last sliver of the sun vanished. Gaelin stretched and faced Seriene. “I know you didn’t come up here just for that,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Gaelin, you wound me. Don’t you think that I might have no other motive than just enjoying your company?”

He chose not to reply. With a sigh, Seriene continued. “Tomorrow or the next day, we’ll encounter my father’s army.”

Gaelin nodded. “I can feel them, nearby. They’re a few miles in that direction. My link to the land, I guess.”

“If you lift the siege at Caer Winoene, this war is won.

Have you thought about your alliance with Diemed?”

He glanced at her. Golden light gleamed on her face, and her dark eyes seemed to see right through him. “You mean to say, have I thought about marrying you?”

She leaned forward and brushed her warm, soft lips against his. “Is the prospect that unappealing?”

In truth, Gaelin had to admit that it was not unappealing at all. When Seriene touched him, it set him on fire. But even as she nestled closer in his arms, he found his thoughts turning to Erin and the way she felt next to him. With a deep breath, he managed to pull back. Standing quickly, he paced a step or two away, not looking at her. “I’m sorry. Maybe someday, Seriene, but it wouldn’t be honest or fair to you – or to Erin – for me to take you as my wife now. I can’t honestly say you’re the only woman in my heart.” He started to offer some kind of consolation but stopped before he made a fool of himself.

Seriene rose, avoiding his gaze. “This isn’t about politics and alliances, Gaelin. I truly care for you. I – ” She suddenly gathered her skirt and started to stand. “I won’t trouble you again.”

“Seriene, wait. Don’t leave like this,” Gaelin said. “I care for you, too. We’ve been through a lot together, and no matter what happens, I don’t want to have to avoid you.”

With a bitter smile, she turned back to him. “You couldn’t trust me.” The tears glimmering in her eyes scored Gaelin’s heart.

“Give me time,” he said quietly. “I might find my common sense again. Erin’s told me that she plans to leave.”

Seriene hesitated. “Erin is leaving?”

“I – that is, we – thought it wisest. I know I can’t marry her, Seriene.” He smiled sadly. “I think she’ll go back to the White Hall when the war’s over.”

Seriene looked up at him. “Gaelin, you would do that for me?”

“I couldn’t trust myself if she stayed, Seriene. It’s the best thing to do. Please… I’ll see things more clearly in a few weeks.”

The night was growing cooler as the light faded from the sky. Gaelin shivered lightly, watching Seriene, now a soft white shadow in the dusk. After a long moment, she sighed.

“Common sense isn’t enough, Gaelin. If you send Erin away to make room for me, you’ll hate me for it. Oh, you’d never say it, or even admit it to yourself, but deep in your heart you’d despise me for the rest of your life.” She shook her head and sank to the ground, turning away from him and staring into the crimson sunset. “You’re in love with her, and you can’t ever really get over that.”

Gaelin had no answer. He lifted Seriene to her feet and held her, cradling her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You deserve better than this.”

Her cheek was wet with tears against his neck. He closed his eyes and held her as darkness fell around them, stroking her hair. His heart ached for her, but he couldn’t restrain the sense of freedom, of elation, that flooded him. “I wounded Erin when I told her that we had to stop seeing each other,” he said after a while. “How do I set things right?”

Seriene snorted in the darkness. “I’ll step aside, Gaelin, but don’t ask me to plan the wedding. You’ll have to address that issue for yourself.”

He smiled. “We should get back down to the camp before everyone wonders what we’ve been up to. I have to think about how we’re going to meet up with your father’s army.”

Seriene reached up and shyly kissed his cheek, moving away f rom him. Side by side, they walked back down to the camp as the soft night breeze dampened their hair with cool dew.

Riding a coal-black hellsteed, Bannier galloped into the Ghoeran camp with sparks flying from his mount’s iron-shod hooves. His long black cloak billowed behind him like a dark storm. He loathed the idea of acting as a simple courier for the Gorgon’s purposes, but anything that would restore him to the awnshegh’s good graces was worthwhile and necessary. He could not afford the smallest display of disobedience, and if that meant abasing himself in front of Tuorel, he would do so.

The Ghoeran camp seemed almost empty; few soldiers were in sight, and the ones he encountered were porters and quartermasters, busily ferrying food, water, weapons, and other supplies to the lines in front of Caer Winoene. He also met the litter carriers who dragged the dead and wounded back to the camp from the fight. Despite the grim nature of their work, the Ghoerans seemed cheerful and excited. Bannier deduced that the siege was going well.

Slowing to an easy canter, he passed through the camp and into the maze of ditches and emplacements that ringed the Mhorien lines. From here he could see the battered walls of Caer Winoene rising a half-mile away, and the wreckage of line after line of earthworks between the camp and the castle. Off on the left flank, near the shore of the lake, he spied the banners that marked Tuorel’s headquarters. Swallowing his distaste, he turned toward the pavilion and galloped over to it.

As he approached the tent, the soldiers of the Iron Guard watched him with mixed hostility and suspicion. Bannier dismounted slowly, holding his hands in the air. “Tell Tuorel I have returned and beg an audience with him,” he said to the guards. They surrounded him with bared swords, but the captain disappeared into the tent, presumably to request instructions.

After a quarter-hour, he returned and ordered the soldiers to escort Bannier inside. Although he couldn’t keep the scowl of anger from his face, Bannier accepted with docility.

The soldiers took him through the busy command center to the privacy of a small, empty partition beyond, leaving him there. Bannier resigned himself to a wait.

Nearly an hour later, the canvas flap was drawn aside by a guardsman, and Noered Tuorel entered, with Baehemon a step behind. The baron was dressed in full armor, and from the dust and mud Bannier guessed he’d been near the forefront of the fighting. The wizard bowed carefully. “My lord baron,” he said.

“Bannier. I see that you have returned again. How did you fare at Caer Duirga?” Tuorel handed his helmet to the guard by the door and removed his leather and iron gauntlets. “The guardsmen you requested have not returned with you. Can I assume your adventure was less than successful?”

The wizard’s eyes smoldered, but he kept his temper in check. “Gaelin defeated me,” he said. “He freed Ilwyn, and killed or scattered your guardsmen. I was not able to bring them back.”

Tuorel smiled, savoring Bannier’s discomfiture. “An unfortunate reversal for you, Bannier. However, Gaelin’s heroics will not help him much. His army is dying of thirst even as we speak; in another day, or maybe two, the castle will have to capitulate.” His smile faded and his eyes narrowed. “So, what is it you want of me?”

Baehemon moved around behind Bannier, lurking just at the edge of his peripheral vision, an anvil waiting for the hammer to fall. Ignoring the stocky warrior, Bannier focused on Tuorel. “I have news for you,” he said. Baehemon growled and muttered. “Call it a peace offering, if you will. I was not able to defeat Gaelin, but I may still help you to do so.”