At the center of attention, he found his sisters, the twins Liesele and Ilwyn. When he’d left Shieldhaven to begin training with the Guardians, they’d been a pair of giggling twelveyear- olds with a streak of calculated mischievousness. Now both were beautiful, intelligent, and witty ladies, unquestioned jewels of the Mhor’s court. Despite Gaelin’s exhaustion, Liesele and Ilwyn captured him for more than an hour with their tales of the doings of the court and their horde of suitors.
He was a little surprised to find his old friend Cuille Dhalsiel was especially interested in Ilwyn. Two years past, Cuille’s father had died, leaving him the count of Dhalsiel – one of the wealthiest nobles of Mhoried. Gaelin was cheered by Cuille’s presence, but he detected a note of cynicism and insincerity in his old friend’s repartee. No one had ever made Cuille muck out a stall or stand shoulder-to-shoulder against a goblin charge. Cuille’s banter held an undercurrent of contempt for Mhoried’s institutions. It was a tone Gaelin found disconcerting, and he hoped Ilwyn would see through Cuille’s practiced charm.
The next day, Gaelin spent the morning wandering through Shieldhaven’s halls, rediscovering his home. He knew every passageway and chamber, and each one brought its own tale or memory to mind. In one parlor, Gaelin recalled a time when he and Thendiere had been thrashed for breaking a Khinasi vase.
In another study, Gaelin had kissed his first girl when he was thirteen, the enthusiastic daughter of one of the guardsmen.
That incident had led to a long and serious discussion with his father about the responsibilities of young noblemen in regard to young women of common lineage.
Gaelin was nosing through a favorite book in the library, when he was surprised by the appearance of his father, accompanied by the old minstrel Tiery. The bard’s seamed face lit up as he caught sight of Gaelin, and he placed his bony hands on Gaelin’s shoulders. “Prince Gaelin! By Sarimie, it’s good to see you again! Look how you’ve grown!”
“Master Tiery,” Gaelin said with a laugh. “I finished my growing five years ago.” Tiery was the minstrel of the Mhorieds, the herald of Shieldhaven. He wore the colors of the White Hall of Endier, a prestigious college of bards whose members served throughout the Heartlands. Tiery had been with the Mhors for almost fifty years, and if his voice no longer soared the way it had when Gaelin was a boy, his wit and wisdom remained undiminished. Gaelin knew that his father valued Tiery for his insight and years of experience far more than he valued him as an entertainer and poet. Looking closer at his old teacher, Gaelin was suddenly struck by Tiery’s age and frailness. Tiery seemed as thin and dry as an autumn leaf.
“You’ve added twenty pounds of muscle since I last saw you, or my eyes are worse than I thought,” Tiery said.
The Mhor smiled. “A few years with the Guardians will do that for a lad, Tiery.”
“Aye, that they will. You turned out much the same, my lord.” Tiery stepped back and appraised Gaelin from head to toe. “He bears a striking resemblance to you thirty years ago, Daeric.”
The bard paced to the window, admiring the snow-covered countryside. The tower library had a commanding view over the highest part of the castle’s bluffs, and sun on the pristine snowfall dazzled the eye. With a weak cough, Tiery settled himself into a chair in the sunlight. His gaze sharpened as he looked at Gaelin, and the light humor in his expression fell away. “Gaelin, I’ve a favor to ask of you,” he said.
“Anything, Tiery.” The bard’s manner was beginning to disturb Gaelin. He sensed that not all was well with his old friend.
“It’s time for me to find a successor,” Tiery said. “My health is failing; this winter took it out of me. I’ve been corresponding with the White Hall, and I’ve chosen a bard to take my place. The Mhor shouldn’t be without a White Hall minstrel, after all.”
“You’re in fine health, Tiery,” Gaelin protested. “You’ll be around to teach my children the harp and the old poems.”
Tiery shook his head sadly. “No, Gaelin. There’ll be another to teach them. Don’t be sad; I’ve lived a decade longer than most men do, and I’ve had good friends and fine deeds to sing. Now it’s time to see to the one who follows me.” He leaned forward to put a hand on Gaelin’s knee. “Would you do me the honor of bringing the next White Hall bard here?”
Gaelin glanced at his father, who nodded. “Of course, Tiery. It’s no trouble at all. Who is your successor?”
“A young bard named Erin Graysong. She is one of the most talented the White Hall has ever produced, I’m told.”
He coughed again, and then stood. He clasped Gaelin’s hand and then the Mhor’s. “My thanks, sire. It’s a great honor you show me, by placing your son at my service.”
“Think nothing of it, Tiery. It is the least I can do.” The old bard smiled and shuffled out of the room, leaning on his cane.
His father, lost in thought, watched Tiery leave.
“I’m surprised you’re sending me away from Shieldhaven so soon,” Gaelin offered.
The Mhor sighed. “It’s only for a couple of weeks. Besides, Tiery suggested you could use a little time to unwind after the winter’s fighting. I can do without you for a fortnight.”
He stood and straightened his tunic. “Well, that’s in good hands, then. Oh, one more thing – I’ll need you in the council chamber in half an hour. Lord Baehemon’s requested a private audience. It seems a messenger rode three horses to ruin bringing Baehemon instructions from Tuorel last night.” He smiled, but his eyes remained hard. “We’ll soon see what the Hound of Ghoere has to say.”
Chapter Two
The Mhor’s council chamber was spartan compared to the rest of Shieldhaven. Unlike the other rooms favored by the lord of the castle, the council chamber was buried deep in the fortress, surrounded by massive stone walls. It was a brooding, threatening room that dampened levity and lent itself to dark designs. The Mhor sat at the head of an ancient oak table, flanked by old Tiery and the court wizard, Bannier.
Gaelin greeted Bannier warmly. Before he’d been sent away to the Knights Guardian, Gaelin had studied under the mage when his other duties and commitments allowed. The magician was just as tall as Gaelin or his father, but he was gaunt and bony, with a clean-shaven face and a receding hairline trimmed to stubble. His eyes burned with intelligence and force of will, giving him a hollow-cheeked, almost feverish, appearance. The wizard’s face split into a wide grin when he spotted Gaelin, and he caught the young man’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Gaelin! Are you back from the northern marches already?”
“Aye, and this time to stay,” the prince replied. “My years with the Guardians are at an end. You’ll see much more of me here in Shieldhaven, I suspect.”
“Excellent! Will you resume your magical studies?”
“I don’t know about that,” Gaelin laughed. “I don’t recall that I had much aptitude for your arts.”
“On the contrary, you were a quick study. You have the intelligence to grasp the principles of thaumaturgy, and your Mhoried blood gives you the potential for harnessing true magic, not just illusions.”
Gaelin noticed his father looking in their direction, and he nodded toward the table. “Baehemon’s almost here. Let’s see what he has to say.” They found places by the Mhor’s side, and Gaelin tugged at his tunic and squared his shoulders. He was a little flattered that his father had invited him to sit in on the audience, but he guessed he’d probably tire of such things in a few weeks.
A moment later, a chamberlain opened the panelled door and stood aside for the Ghoeran lord and his small entourage.
Baehemon was a short, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head and a thick neck that vanished into knots of muscle around his shoulders. He was nicknamed the Hound of Ghoere, but he resembled a human bulldog, with a wide and powerful jaw and deep-set eyes that gleamed like frosted steel. Baehemon’s gestures and speech were short and clipped, and his posture suggested explosive violence barely held in check. With a bare nod of his head, he took a seat at the opposite end of the table. The Mhor had deliberately kept him waiting an extra quarter-hour as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was master of Shieldhaven.