Bannier caught up with the retreating army of Mhoried in the southern borderlands of Winoene. The gem in which the warrior’s soul resided, the princess Ilwyn, and Bannier’s own mindless body were safely hidden in his secret place of power, deep within the Shadow World. It was a mere step away from the world of sunlight, but no one save a wizard or a halfling could ever locate Bannier’s retreat. For two days he had ridden Madislav’s body mercilessly to catch up to the Mhorien army.
It was the evening of the day after the raid, and the Mhoriens were strung out over ten miles of winding track as they climbed north into the highlands of the country. As he joined the main body of the march, Bannier glanced at the troops with a critical eye. They seemed exhausted, and many struggled along with wounds or battered gear. But there was a spring in their step, a rough and ready wit in their speech, that Bannier didn’t like. The Mhoriens were beaten, but they hadn’t been broken yet. He snorted in disgust – that was Tuorel’s problem, not his.
He settled into an easy canter and rode alongside the army as it snaked up into the green, rocky hills. Now and then he was hailed by a passing soldier or knight familiar with Madislav, but to each he waved and called out, “I cannot be talking now!” as he cantered past. In a mile, he came upon a knot of knights and lords, the banners of Mhoried flying proudly from the standard-bearers. It was late in the evening, and the vanguard was already stopped for the night.
He spied Gaelin sitting atop his horse beside a nobleman he recognized as Baesil Ceried, with a small number of guards watching over him. In fact, one of these watched him approach for a long moment before raising his visor for a better look, blinking in disbelief. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Mhor Gaelin! It’s Madislav!”
Gaelin turned at Boeric’s call, breaking off in midsentence.
“Madislav! Is that you? By Haelyn, how did you escape?
Where have you been?”
Bannier pasted a broad grin on his features and focused on Gaelin. The prince knew Madislav as well as anyone, and if he’d inherited any of his father’s talent for seeing through deceptions… the wizard would have to be careful to speak no lies. “Hah! Is good to see you, Gaelin! I could not believe you got away!”
Gaelin swung down from the saddle, and Bannier did likewise.
The prince hugged him, slapping his back. “How did you manage it, Madislav? I thought you’d been shot dead in the courtyard.”
Bannier showed an exaggerated wince. “I thought so too, but this body is harder to kill than most. I just was looking dead.”
Gaelin drew back, concern on his face. “I’m sorry, I should have been careful of your wounds. Do you need someone to look after them?”
“I have seen to them already. I will live.”
“So they took you for dead? Did you just get up and walk away when no one was looking?”
Bannier smiled broadly and clapped Gaelin on the shoulder.
“How were you getting away, Gaelin?”
The prince missed the reversal and quickly related the story of his escape with Erin, Boeric, and Niesa and their subsequent journey. “So, here we are,” he concluded. “I’ll be glad to have your counsel again, my friend.”
Bannier bowed. “Is yours as long as you need it,” he answered.
“Now, begging your pardon, where can I find something to eat?”
Gaelin smiled. “Same old Madislav,” he laughed. “Boeric, have one of your men show Madislav to the mess tent. I’m sure they can find something for him.” He turned back to Bannier and grinned. “Get yourself something to eat, a little sleep if you need it, and come by later. I’ll want to hear all about your escape.”
“You will be seeing me later,” Bannier promised. “We are having much to discuss, no?” He noticed Erin was staring at him, an odd look on her face. He looked away and rode off in search of the mess tent.
They climbed higher into the downs and hills of upper Winoene.
Unlike the lowlands of Mhoried, these regions were mostly wild; villages and farms were few and far between.
Often they found themselves flanked by rocky foothills whose sheer sides streamed water from patches of melting snow high on their barren crowns. It was a desolate and unforgiving land, but Gaelin loved the wild beauty and solitude.
Baesil led them into deep, trackless valleys hidden in the hills, places of heather and boulders where they encountered no one save a few shepherds with their flocks. Gaelin quickly understood why Baesil had run for the highlands – it was hard going for an army, and forage was even scarcer than it had been in the lowlands. They could outwait and outmaneuver any larger force that pursued them into the hills. In fact, Gaelin spotted a dozen or more good places to make stands or set ambushes for the armies that followed.
Erin was moved by the beautiful scenery, as well. One morning, when the frost was thick on the grass and the red light of dawn shone from the stark peaks that fenced them in, she asked, “How much of Mhoried is like this, Gaelin?”
“The highlands run a hundred miles or more, from the headwaters of the Stonebyrn to the springs of the Maesil,” he told her. “And from here it’s still fifty miles north to the Stonecrowns and Torien’s Watch. It’s the better part of a third of the kingdom, and most of it’s just like this.”
“It’s spectacular,” she murmured, drawing a deep breath.
“I’m glad I got a chance to see it, regardless of the circumstances.”
“I could stay up here forever,” Gaelin agreed. He stretched and worked his knuckles into the small of his back. “Well, we’ll see more of the scenery over the next day or two.” He gave her a tired smile and saddled Blackbrand for the day’s ride.
During a halt on the third day of the march, Gaelin and his usual riding companions – Erin, Huire, Madislav, and the Princess Seriene – climbed a short way from the track to eat a light meal of cheese and bread on a hillside. Gaelin’s back still hurt from the fall he’d taken during the raid, and he didn’t mind finding an excuse to rest between marches. Erin softly strummed her lute as they ate. After a quarter-hour or so, Seriene reached over and touched Gaelin’s arm. “It seems that your lunch is about to be interrupted. There’s a messenger heading this way.”
Gaelin groaned and stood up. “It never stops.” The rider, a young northland lad with a mud-splattered tunic, slid off his horse a few yards away and presented a wax-sealed parchment to Gaelin with a bow. Gaelin thanked him and moved away, examining the seal. “It’s from the Count Rieve of Torien’s Watch,” he announced. He opened it, read the letter, and reread it to make sure he understood.
“What is it?” asked Erin.
“Torien says there’s trouble with Cariele. The queen doesn’t want to take sides by supporting my claim or allowing food and arms to cross her borders,” Gaelin said. He crumpled the letter and threw it to the ground in disgust. “We need her complicity, if not her active cooperation. Damn!” He sighed. “Well, Baesil’s going to tell me that we’ve got to have those supplies. I’ll have to go on up to Cariele and call on Queen Aerelie, see if I can talk some reason into her.”
“You don’t have time for that,” Erin said. “If you leave Mhoried for any reason, nobles will desert your banner.
They’ll think you’re running out on them.”
“I don’t see that I have a choice.”
“I’m your herald, Gaelin. It’s my job to represent you when you can’t be there yourself. I’ll go.” Erin stood and tucked her riding pants back into her boots.
Gaelin grimaced. “You’re right. Convince Aerelie to open her borders, and offer her whatever you think is reasonable. I trust your judgment.”
Erin smiled. “Three days there, three days back, and I’ll figure on a week or so to convince the queen to see reason. I should be back in two weeks. Can you manage without me?”
“I’ll have to. Take a detachment of guards with you, at least ten men. I don’t want you to run into trouble in the Stonecrowns.”
The bard gracefully swung herself onto her horse and bowed low from the saddle. “It shall be as you wish, my lord Mhor.” Then she turned and rode off, heading down toward the road. Gaelin watched her leave, unease shadowing his heart.
On the fourth day of their march, one day after Erin’s departure for Cariele, they came into a small region of gentler hills and sparse forestland, the southern fringes of the mighty Aelvinnwode. Here they found a ruined keep by a cold lake.
“The old Caer Winoene,” Baesil told them. “Sacked and burned four hundred years ago, by goblin tribes out of the Five Peaks, during the chaos that surrounded the fall of the Roele line in Anuire. House Winoene met its end here, and much of the land was never restored. Lord Hastaes holds the county now, but it’s only a shadow of what it once was.” He took a deep breath. “It’s home for a time. My scouts report that Baehemon’s a good ten days behind us, and probably more like three weeks if he waits for reinforcements to come after us up here.”
“What do we do if he follows us?” Gaelin asked.
“Well, we have a couple of weeks to turn our farmers into soldiers and to see about filling out the ranks with the musters of the northlords. In fact, with your permission, I was going to send our cavalry out to Marloer’s Gap and Torien’s Watch to help the highlanders turn the goblins back for good.
The sooner we end the threat to the northlands, the sooner we can add their levies to our army. And those highlanders know something about fighting, unlike these farmers we’ve collected so far.”
“Do you think we’ll have time to get ready for Baehemon?”
Baesil shrugged. “It will have to do. We’re running out of places to retreat to.”
After spending one cold and uncomfortable night sleeping in the ruins of the castle’s hall, Gaelin found that Huire had requisitioned a small horde of carpenters and masons to set about repairing the worst of the damage and building an improvised keep. Within a couple of days, he was holding court again in a rather drafty hall, but at least it had a roof and wasn’t choked with rubble anymore.
For the first time in what seemed an eternity, Gaelin’s life developed a routine again. The helter-skelter pace of the first weeks of the Ghoeran war slowed to a crawl as spring began to show the first hints of summer. Over the next ten days, the weather became warmer and drier, and the endless rains of Pasiphiel and Sarimiere came to an end as the month of Talienir approached. From day to day, Gaelin spent his time repairing the damaged arms of Mhoried’s government, courting southern and northern lords and requesting their support, dealing with ambassadors from neighboring powers, and consulting with Baesil Ceried on matters of strategy and supply.
Count Baesil’s scouts reported that Baehemon was advancing slowly into the upper reaches of Byrnnor, gathering his strength for a major expedition, but the Ghoeran army was still fifty miles away and traveling only four to six miles a day.
“Should we oppose his march, or wait for him?” Gaelin asked.
Baesil grinned wolfishly. “I mean to dog his every step once he sets foot in the highlands,” he said. “In fact, I’ve got nearly a thousand skirmishers and raiders moving into position, mostly northlanders who know these hills like the backs of their hands. I won’t try to stand against him in open battle, but I’ll make certain that he’s tired of fighting by the time he gets here.”
“You believe he’ll try to finish us off?”
“Well, he can’t let you put together a court-in-exile and gather an army up here, can he? Sooner or later, he’ll want to show everyone that Mhoried belongs to Tuorel.” Baesil smiled. “Of course, he’d be better off to wait us out, even if it took years. But I don’t think Tuorel or Baehemon has the pa- tience for it.”
After Baesil left to attend to other duties, Gaelin spent an hour practicing his swordsmanship, sparring with some of the Knights Guardian who had trickled into Caer Winoene.
He looked forward to his time on the practice field – when he was dodging blows and flailing away with a wooden sword, it felt like he was nothing more than a young squire, just beginning his training.
He finally called the session to a halt when the low-lying mist increased to a steady rain. He discarded his padded aketon, dunked his head in a barrel of cold water, and drew on a worn, loose-fitting shirt of Khinasi cotton. Still sweating, he started back up toward the castle, studying its jagged turrets and piecemeal battlements with a critical eye. He almost walked past Seriene, who sat watching him on her trim roan riding horse. “Seriene! I didn’t even see you there.”
“Some women might take offense at that, Gaelin,” she said with a smile. He noticed that she was dressed in a fine riding outfit, with creased pants, high leather boots, a white cotton blouse, and a long coat of fine blue wool. As always, her appearance was perfect. She rested her eyes on him for a moment before looking back at the field. “You’re quite a swordsman.
Did you fight in many tournaments?”
“Not that many, to be honest. Most of my skill I learned with the Knights Guardian. It’s tradition in Mhoried for the Mhor’ s sons to train in the ord e r.” He held up a hand to catch the rain.
“ You shouldn’t be out riding in this. You’ll catch cold.”
“Will you walk me back to the stable?”
“Certainly.” Seriene slid one leg over the saddle and paused while Gaelin quickly stepped up to take her by the hand and help her down, though he knew she needed no assistance.
She flashed a quick smile and, with her horse’s reins in hand, started toward the castle’s yard. Gaelin stole a sidelong glance at her, admiring the delicate trickle of rainwater on the side of her smooth, even face.
She looked up, noticing his attention. Their eyes met, and Gaelin felt an unmistakable spark that set his heart racing.
“I’ve noticed that you spend most of your time alone,” she said.
“You must be joking. I’m surrounded by people all day long. Lords, knights, messengers, diplomats… every time I turn around, there’s someone waiting to talk to me.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t busy. I mean, outside of your immediate advisors, you don’t seem to have many friends. Or any romantic interests.”
“I haven’t had time to even think about that,” Gaelin laughed.
Seriene looked him full in the face. Her eyes were blue and clear, burning through his casual facade. “Not even a thought?”
He found the easy laugh fading in his throat. She was breathtaking, and the way she looked at him, thoughts of her were crowding everything else out of his mind. “I suppose the thought’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.
Seriene reached out and touched his hand. Her skin was cool and wet with rain. “I don’t meet many men like you, Gaelin. I wouldn’t say that my father shelters me, but some of the suitors who have called on me seemed so insincere. They wore their chivalry, their victories in the tournaments, like a cloak of nobility. I think they’ve forgotten why they practice the so-called knightly virtues.”
“And I am refreshingly free of social graces?”
Seriene laughed, a light and sweet sound. “No, not at all.
Watching your swordplay, I realized you learned how to fight to stay alive in a real battle, not to win tournaments. When you meet with some lord or ambassador, you don’t try to demonstrate your courtliness. Yo u ’ re courteous because that’s what you think is right.”
“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”
Seriene glanced up at him with a smile. “You’d be surprised at how many noblemen I’ve met who don’t know that.”
Gaelin’s head whirled as they strolled into the open courtyard of the ruined castle. “It seems we’re here,” he said.
Seriene stepped close and pressed her lips to his cheek.
“Thank you, Gaelin. I enjoyed our walk.” She led her horse into the stable, with one last look over her shoulder. Gaelin stood looking after her, not even feeling the rain, for a long moment before he shook himself and headed back to his chambers to change.
Over the next few days, Gaelin and Seriene met for short walks around the battlements or rides about the camp, watching the practice of the army. Gaelin discovered there were few places he could go to get away from the various errands and messages that always found him, and despite his best intentions, he was summoned away to deal with one matter or another. He found he was absentminded and distracted when she wasn’t around, and her smile or the touch of her hand could tie his tongue in knots. Gaelin tried not to let it affect the serious tasks that he waded through each day, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
One day, Madislav appeared on his doorstep, a lecherous grin on his bearded face. Gaelin suddenly realized he hadn’t spoken to his old friend much in the last couple of weeks, although he’d seen Madislav hovering near him constantly.
The Vos winked and said, “Gaelin, I am thinking that you are needing some time alone with the Princess Seriene, eh? Is a fine evening, and you have been working too hard! Go out and relax! You can ask Seriene to ride with you.”
“Well, you may be right.” Gaelin glanced out the window at the sun setting out over the moors and gave in with a shrug. He sent a page to Seriene, inviting her to take a short ride away from the castle, and as the daylight faded into a warm, starlit evening, they rode up into the hills overlooking the lake, accompanied by only a handful of guards. Madislav and his men drifted back out of earshot, trailing them at a discreet distance.
“I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Gaelin,” Seriene said quietly, as they stopped to admire the view.
“I’ve been cooped up in the castle for weeks now,” he replied. “I love these highlands. The air is so crisp and cool… the smell of the heather and the rain… I could get lost up here, and never come back.”
Seriene tossed her head, her dark hair streaming in the wind. “I almost feel jealous,” she said, smiling. They rode a little further, just over a hilltop, and Madislav caught Gaelin’s eye with a quick, approving nod. The Vos and his guardsmen casually fell back out of earshot, leaving Gaelin and Seriene to ride over the hillcrest and continue alone on the other side.
The guards were out of sight, a couple of hundred yards away, but not too far for peace of mind.
“Your friend seems to want us to be alone,” she observed with a shy smile. “Or was it your doing?”
“Madislav’s trying to encourage me to be more direct with you,” Gaelin answered. “Don’t pay him any mind.”
In a sheltered hollow, they dismounted and sat together on a mossy boulder, watching the stars come out one by one as the evening faded toward night.
As darkness began to fall, Seriene leaned close, and Gaelin kissed her, a long, slow kiss that seemed to last forever. Silently she drew away, and Gaelin found himself beginning to undo the fastenings of her dress, letting it fall from her white shoulders.
Her body was soft and pale in the starlight, and Gaelin’s mouth went dry at the sight of her. “Seriene, I…”
“Shh.” She moved closer, touching her hand to his face. She nestled into his arms and guided his hands as he caressed her.
Gaelin drank another long kiss from her perfect lips, and then pulled himself away, quickly standing and stepping away from her, his eyes on the distant hills. “Seriene, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d like to be your lover, even if it’s just for this night – but I can’t promise you anything. It’s just not right for me to do this.”
He heard her as she stood and followed him, the soft whisper of her dress sliding away from her entirely, and she came up behind him and pressed herself close, her arms around his shoulders. “Gaelin, I’m not asking anything of you. I know you’re married to Mhoried, and that’s why I care for you.”
Gaelin was intensely aware of her closeness. Seriene’s arms were circling his body again, unfastening his shirt. “Seriene, I’m nobody. If I win back my father’s throne, then this would be a fine idea, a wonderful idea, but all this could be over in days.”
Seriene reached up to his shoulders and turned him to face her. “That doesn’t matter to me,” she said, and kissed him again, with a fierce abandon that swept his resistance away.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was lowering her to the cool heather, and for a time the world ceased to be as he took her in his arms.
After a time, they lay side by side, looking up at the sky and the glorious vault of stars overhead. Seriene was warm and soft against him, breathing slowly. “Gaelin, do you love Erin?” she asked in a small voice.
“No, of course not,” he said. “I’ve never – ” But even as he spoke, his conscience strummed a discordant note in his heart. He’d never kissed Erin, or seen anything more than hints that she might have feelings for him… but there in the moonlight, with Seriene right there beside him more beautiful than a goddess, the image of Erin’s face and her long, redgolden hair floated in his mind. “I’ve never held her like this, I promise you.”
Seriene sighed, her breath warm on the back of his neck.
“As a famous bard once said, ‘I think thou dost protest too much.’ ” She let him go and moved away. Gaelin heard her dressing again.
He stood, reaching for his own clothes. “Seriene, she’s a friend, and I’ve been through a lot with her, but I’m not lying to you. I haven’t even kissed her,” he said over his shoulder.
She laughed softly in the darkness. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Gaelin. It’s not in your nature. But anyone can lie to himself.”
He turned and stepped forward, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing her tenderly. Her bodice was still partly undone, but the princess was decently covered. He gazed directly into her eyes and said earnestly, “Seriene, I’m falling in love with you. But you’re right, in a way. My heart’s confused. It’s not right for me to make any commitments until I’m certain of where my heart lies. There’s so much happening to me… I don’t want to make this decision in haste.”
She smiled wistfully, and quickly kissed him on the cheek.
“I suppose you know how I feel,” she said. “As long as you’re not certain of what is in your heart, then I should keep my distance. But when you think you’ve decided…” She laid her hand on his chest and swayed suggestively close. “I’ll be waiting.”
Gaelin flushed and carefully stepped back. “I feel like a fool,” he said to no one in particular.
“At least you’re an honest one.” Seriene stooped to gather her things, and in a few moments they were leading their horses back over the crest of the hill. Gaelin could have sworn that Blackbrand was snorting derisively at him, as if to say, What on earth is wrong with you, Gaelin?
Seriene suddenly stopped, reaching up to catch Gaelin’s arm. He glanced over at her. She nodded down the slope of the hill. “Where are the guards?” she whispered.
It was dark, but Gaelin’s eyes were well adjusted to the gloaming, and the hillside was fairly clear. Down a little far- ther, he could see the half-dozen horses of their escort, standing around with their reins hanging loose. They hadn’t been tied off or secured, just left to wander. And there was no sign of their escort, except for one dark form that rose and stretched as the two of them watched. “What is going on here?” Gaelin said quietly.
The man below them turned and started up the hillside at a steady pace, glancing up at them. It was Madislav, his features dark and shadowed in the starlight.
“Madislav, what’s going on?” Gaelin called, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry. “Where are the others?”
“Them? Oh, I sent them away,” the Vos replied cheerfully.
“I did not need them around for this. I was getting bored waiting for you two.”
Gaelin sensed something terribly wrong. Something about the way Madislav looked at them, the easy swing of his arms, the purposeful stride… there was danger here. He took a half-step back and reached across Blackbrand’s saddle to put his hand on the sword hanging from the pommel. Seriene caught his worried look and stepped clear. “Madislav, what’s going on?” he said.
The Vos climbed toward them. “I will explain in a moment,” he said with an upward glance.
Gaelin drew his sword with one fluid motion, the steel ringing from the sheath. “Why don’t you stop there and explain?” he said, his voice steady.
Madislav raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Quick to draw steel on an old friend, are you not?” With an exaggerated gesture, he raised his hands and spread them open. “After all, I am unarmed.” He mumbled something under his breath.
Seriene shrieked. “Gaelin! Watch out!”
With a word, the wizard circled his hands and flung a gesture at Gaelin. From his outstretched fingertips five coruscating spheres of blue light leapt away from him. Four spheres raced at the young prince, while one altered course and streaked toward Seriene. Before Gaelin could even blink, the bolts crashed into his body, striking the center of his torso. He barely noticed when the bolt directed at Seriene suddenly vanished in a flash of silent light.
Pain doubled Gaelin up and sent him tumbling headlong down the hill. He fell and rolled about twenty yards, sliding to a stop against a set of low, mossy rocks that caught and turned his ankle viciously. His stomach burned as if he’d been branded with a torch, and the smell of burnt cloth and flesh reeked in his nostrils.
Dizzily, he rolled over and looked back uphill. He saw Madislav staring at the princess, a deep scowl on his face. “I did not know you were a mage,” the Vos said in a menacing voice.
Seriene still stood between the horses, near the hill’s crest.
There was fear on her face, but she controlled it. “Nor had I thought you might study the art,” she replied. “Or are you really Madislav at all?”
The Vos boomed laughter. “You are not thinking that I am being someone else in here?” he said. With deliberation, he began another enchantment, letting the ancient words roll forth in a resounding cadence. Seriene began one of her own, her voice high, shrill, and desperate. A heartbeat later, the night was split by a brilliant flash of light as a great bolt of lightning stabbed at Seriene with a crackling roar. But the spell did not strike her, as an invisible shield parried the blow and sent it streaking wide. Beside her, both horses reared in panic, and she ducked out of the way of their flailing hooves.
In that instant, Bannier sprang like a tiger, surging up the hill in three great bounds. Seriene saw him charging and started to bark out the words of another spell, but Bannier hammered her with one colossal fist. The sorceress spun and fell, knocked senseless by the blow. “Fight wizards with swords, and fight swords with wizardry,” he remarked. He glanced down the hill at where Gaelin was just now regaining his feet. “Don’t leave yet, Gaelin. We’ve places to go, you and I.” He raised his hands, preparing another spell.
Gaelin stood unsteadily, one hand clamped over the burning wounds in the middle of his body, his sword still in his hand. The Vos was still more than fifty feet away, and uphill at that; he’d never reach him in time to prevent the spell, and he couldn’t throw his sword with any accuracy. He took a step forward and demanded, “Who are you? What have you done with Madislav?”
Bannier paused, his hands still ready with the spell. Behind him, the horses still plunged and danced, whinnying in fright. He grinned at Gaelin. “This body is indeed Madislav, but I am not,” he said. “The barbarian’s mind is entrapped in a gem in my stronghold, and my own body sleeps there too.”
“Bannier,” breathed Gaelin. “I should have known.”
“Your observation is correct,” Bannier said. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, I need to deprive you of your powers of movement and speech.” He raised his hands again.
For an instant, Gaelin was transfixed by panic. Then he cried out, “Blackbrand! Kick!”
Behind Bannier, the great black war-horse reared and lashed out with his hooves, hammering the Vos with a pair of crushing blows. One hoof clipped the side of Bannier’s head, and he pitched forward, rolling down the hillside in a nerveless tangle of arms and legs. He came to a stop spread-eagled on his back, a few yards away from Gaelin. Even before he stopped sliding, Gaelin was standing over him, sword poised at his friend’s throat. Blood streamed down the side of Bannier’s face. “Bannier! Release your hold on Madislav, or I swear by Haelyn, I’ll – ”
“You’ll what?” coughed Bannier weakly. “Run your friend through? Open his throat, instead? What will you do, Gaelin?” Bannier’s eyes were unfocused and filming, and his arms and legs trembled uselessly.
Gaelin blinked, still holding the sword at his throat. Tears blurred his vision. “I’ll cut his tongue out before I let you speak another spell with his mouth,” he promised darkly.
Bannier managed a weak chuckle. “Don’t bother. You’ve broken his back. Can’t move. And my head feels funny… this body’s ruined, I think.”
Gaelin dropped to his knees, still threatening Madislav with the sword. “Be damned to Azrai’s hells, then, Bannier. If Madislav dies, he’ll be glad to know you’re dying with him!”
“Sorry, Gaelin… doesn’t work that way. My own body’s just fine… I’ll be back there in a flash, faster than thought… though you’ve parried this thrust nicely.”
Gaelin’s voice broke in a heaving sob. “Damn you! Why?”
“Needed the Mhoried bloodline.” With a great effort, Bannier held off dying for a few more minutes, his eyes burning brightly in Madislav’s sagging face.
“Bannier, you were my friend, my teacher! How could you do this to my family?”
“If you’d continued your studies, I would have shown you marvels, Gaelin. Terrors and glories unimaginable. I made a bargain, and the Mhorieds were the price I was to pay.” He sagged back, blood welling up in his mouth. “Listen to me, Gaelin. I have your sister. And I’m growing tired of trying to catch you. Surrender yourself to me, or she will die in ways that you can’t even imagine. It’s you I want. Give up, and I’ll let her go. I’ll even make sure Tuorel never finds her.” He coughed and spat blood. “I swear by the Face of Evil that she’ll die by the next full moon if you don’t leave this place and come to me.” His eyes burned intensely into Gaelin’s own for a moment and then began to fade. “Your choice, Gaelin,” he breathed, and fell still.
Gaelin looked up as Seriene slid down the hillside toward him. An ugly purple bruise was already forming on her jaw.
She knelt beside him, and looked up at his face. “Gaelin, I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
He cradled Madislav’s head in his lap and leaned forward, tears falling on the warrior’s face. There was one brief flicker of life, the eyes opened, and for a moment the old Madislav was looking up at him. The expression, the cast of his eyes -
Gaelin knew at a glance his friend had returned. Madislav breathed softly, “Gaelin?”
“Madislav! You’re back!” Gaelin tried to show him a reassuring smile, but he bowed his head instead, weeping.
“Bannier is dead?”
“No. He said that he’d return to his own body when…”
Gaelin couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I saw his stronghold. He took me into the Shadow World.” Madislav’s voice was growing weak. “He has Ilwyn… it is a cold place, Gaelin. I am glad I am not being there.”
“We’ll find a priest, Madislav, one of the Haelynites who knows the healing spells!” Gaelin started to pick him up, to carry him to help. “Don’t give up!”
“Burn my body, Gaelin, in the Vos way,” the warrior whispered.
“Destevnye duma, my friend.”
Gaelin laid Madislav back to the ground and turned away.
He knelt in the cold, wet grass of the hillside, his hands over his eyes. After a long time, Seriene put her hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Gaelin. It’s time for us to go.”