THE next day looked to become unseasonably warm and humid once the sun fully rose, but at dawn it was still pleasant enough as the army of Gwynedd took up its battle formations. Well before first light, the men had been roused, their captains moving among them to supervise rationing and arming before the priests came to perform their sacred functions. Often, final sacraments went hand in hand with final briefings, for there was much to say and little time to say it.

By dawn the men were in position, column on column of them, row on row—nearly two thousand mounted knights, twice that many archers, and the rest foot soldiers. The men were silent as they formed up, even the horses strangely calm in the wan morning light. Of enemy activity there was as yet little sign, though the men of Gwynedd knew that they were there and preparing, less than a mile away. Whispered questions rippled through the ranks as the sun climbed in the eastern sky behind the enemy and there still came no sign whether or when battle would be joined.

On a small knoll to the right of the center lines, King Kelson and his commanders had gathered to survey the site of the coming battle. The dawn had brought with it the not unexpected sight of severed heads stuck on pikes all along the leading edge of the enemy encampment. Warin and Nigel were taking turns scanning the faces of the slain with their glasses, hoping to make positive identifications.

The distance was too great, and decay too far progressed, for any real recognition, but the spectacle was having its desired effect on the waiting men. Though the troops of Gwynedd knew that Wencit was trying to undermine their morale, that the heads might not even belong to slain Cassani men, still they could not be sure. Eyes strained across the mile-wide space separating the two armies, and many lips framed speculations; but it was all futile. Frayed nerves grew yet more ragged as the hour wore on.

Kelson, meanwhile, was absorbed in his own concerns. He studied a map as he sat his horse, a hard biscuit clutched forgotten in one hand as he leaned to hear what Morgan was saying about the location of reserve cavalry units. The young king appeared rested and confident, but his gaze kept returning to the piked heads along the enemy’s front lines. There was, as yet, no sign of Wencit or any of his ranking officers, and the enemy ranks stood at ease, row on row, as the sun rose higher still.

After a while, Bishops Arilan and Cardiel left their troops and rode up the knoll where Kelson sat, joining Duncan and a worried-looking General Gloddruth a few yards from the king’s side. It was Arilan who first noticed the beginnings of movement behind the enemy lines, and kneed his horse closer to touch Kelson’s sleeve and point as a gap opened and a small contingent of horsemen emerged. The lead rider bore a traditional white parley banner.

“Nigel, can you read the others’ devices?” the king said, fumbling at his saddle to draw out his own spyglass.

“Not at this distance, Sire. Shall I send out a party to meet them?”

“Not yet. Let’s be careful on this. Gloddruth, get one of your men ready to ride.”

The horsemen drew to a halt perhaps four hundred yards from their own lines, only the rider with the parley banner continuing toward the center of the field. With a nod, Kelson signaled Gloddruth to send out his own man; and as the Gwynedd rider was dispatched, Kelson lifted his glass to scan the men waiting on the plain beyond.

Seven men sat blooded horses behind the banner rider. Four of them could be mostly dismissed as a military escort of mounted archers, liveried in the tawny orange of Torenth. The men were bearded, turbans swathed around their steel caps, with short recurve bows slung across their backs and short swords at their knees.

But the other three were not mere fighting men. One Kelson judged to be a priest or a monk, black robe kilted up around his knees, a dark cloak muffled and closely hooded around his shoulders. But the other two were High Lords of Torenth, bright as peacocks in their battle silks and steel. Arilan identified one of them as Duke Lionel of Arjenol, kinsman to Wencit himself. He was the one wearing white silk over his armor, the sun gleaming brightly from his gold-washed mail. An ebony braid hung down his back from beneath his mailed coif, and the helm itself was adorned with a ducal coronet set with jewels.

The other—and here, the Deryni bishop’s face hardened—was Rhydon of Eastmarch: a full Deryni, and apparently one whom Arilan had no cause to love, though he did not say so. Rhydon wore a flowing caftan of blue and gold brocade over his armor. Kelson could not see the man’s face at this distance, even through his glass.

Kelson lowered the glass. The two banner riders had met in the center of the plain half a mile away and held their mounts in tight, mincing circles as they conferred. Kelson glanced at Morgan for a reaction but saw that he was staring beyond the front lines of the enemy to where a small forest of bright silk banners was moving onto a small rise. Beneath the banners, Kelson could see a handful of well-born riders. Morgan grunted as he put a spyglass to his eye and brought it into focus.

“There’s Wencit,” he said in a low voice. “I thought it was about time for him to make an appearance. I believe that’s Bran Coris to his left.”

Kelson studied the group for a moment with his own glass, then glanced at Morgan once more.

“Morgan, I think we’d better abandon the idea of the Lady Richenda trying to sway her husband. I have never liked the idea—and this is no place for a woman. I never should have brought her here.”

Morgan shrugged and slipped his glass into the case at his knee. “I think you would have been hard-pressed to dissuade her, my prince. I tried to talk her out of it last night, and she—well, she is a very determined woman.”

“So I have gathered. “Kelson sighed, turning in his saddle as Duncan conferred briefly with a guard captain and then moved his roan near. The banner riders were now galloping toward the Gwynedd lines, their white pennants snapping in the breeze.

“Our spotters identify Wencit’s man as Baron Torval of Netterhaven,” Duncan said. “He is one of Wencit’s elite officers. They’ll be bringing him here under guard to deliver his message.”

Kelson nodded and turned to Morgan. “You don’t suppose Wencit wants to offer terms already, do you?”

“Unlikely, my prince. And if so, they will be terms you could not think of accepting. That’s the way the game is played. My guess is that this will be yet another attempt to keep us off balance. Watch what you say to him.”

“Don’t worry.”

As the two riders approached, the Gwynedd men parted, and a band of Kelson’s crack cavalry fell in with the enemy messenger to escort him up the rise to the king. The man was bareheaded, his manner arrogant and assured as he reined his horse to a halt a few yards away. His jeweled satin surcoat glittered in the sunlight as he bowed slightly in the saddle. He could not have been more than twenty.

“Kelson of Gwynedd?”

“I am he. Speak your message.”

The young man bowed again, an unctuous smile touching his lips. “Torval of Netterhaven, my lord. I bear greetings from my Lord Duke Lionel, kinsman to our king.” He wagged his head toward the party still sitting their horses near the center of the plain. “His Grace comes at the behest of King Wencit to propose terms for the coming battle. He desires that you and a like number of your men ride out to discuss the matter.”

“Indeed?” Kelson said evenly. “And why should I parley with a mere duke? Why should I risk my safety if your king will not do the same? I do not see Wencit there on the plain.”

“Then name another in your stead,” Torval said glibly. “I am to remain hostage until their safe return.”

“I see.” Kelson’s tone was glacial, his eyes hard and cold, and he stared pointedly at Torval until the young Torenthi lord was finally obliged to lower his gaze. At that, Kelson glanced at Morgan, at his other commanders, then gathered up his reins.

“Very well, we will parley with your Duke Lionel. Uncle Nigel, you are in command until we return. Morgan, you and Arilan will accompany me to the actual meeting in mid-field. Father Duncan and Warin will ride with us partway with an escort.” He gestured toward two of the riders who had accompanied Torval up the rise. “Sergeant, please relieve the baron of his weapons and then bring him along with us.”

Torval chuckled as he handed over the short dagger at his belt and let himself be surrounded by the two burly cavalrymen, retaining an insolent smile as his guards guided him to follow Kelson and the others down the slope. Kelson’s men cheered as he rode by, but the ranks closed and were silent as the party rode out onto the plain.

About four hundred yards out, the group drew rein momentarily, with only Kelson, Morgan, and Arilan continuing out toward the center of the plain. Duncan and Warin remained with the hostage and his guards. Almost immediately, Lionel and Rhydon broke away from their guardian archers and began riding out to meet them. The quiet drumming of the horses’ hooves on the turf was the only sound in the still morning air.

Kelson kept his gaze on the pair as they galloped toward him, trying to keep his head erect and his hands steady on the reins. Even so, his hands must have telegraphed his tension to his mount, for the high-strung black warhorse began prancing sideways and curvetting against the bit as the two riders approached. Kelson chanced a look at Morgan to his right, but the Deryni duke’s attention seemed riveted on the approaching riders. Arilan, to Kelson’s other side, seemed serene and unruffled, his handsome features betraying no hint of emotion. He might almost have been riding to church, so calm was he—or so it appeared.

“Hail, Kelson of Gwynedd!” Rhydon called, giving a slight bow as the two groups met and drew rein. “I was not altogether certain that you would come to treat with us personally. But, no matter. My king sends cordial greetings.”

Arilan stared across at him coldly, a muscle rippling in his clenched jaw. “Guard your tongue, Rhydon. If you are the bearer of greetings, we may be assured that they are not cordial. Your reputation is well-known, as is your master’s.”

Rhydon turned in the saddle to bow silkily to Arilan, then gestured gracefully to Lionel as he returned his attention to Kelson. “Allow me to present His Grace the Duke of Arjenol, kinsman to Wencit, as you may be aware—and I am Rhydon of Eastmarch. I know my lord Bishop Arilan from other days of which we dare not speak, so the other man who rides at your side can only be the infamous Alaric Morgan. My master of Torenth sends special greetings to you, Your Grace—and a gift.”

He reached into the front of his tunic and withdrew something which he closed in his leather-covered fist, then touched heels gently to his horse’s flanks and moved knee to knee by Morgan’s right. As Rhydon held out his hand, Morgan made a tentative probe to be certain no treachery was involved, then let his gaze come to rest on the slowly opening hand.

“I believe this is may be yours,” Rhydon said softly as he revealed a shining mass of silver and chain. “Wencit thought you would like to have it back. He who wore it meant something to you at one time, I think. I fear that the chain is broken.”

Without looking further, Morgan knew what it was that Rhydon held. Wordlessly he stretched out his gloved palm and let Rhydon pour the silver into his own hand, felt the fleeting edge of Derry’s essence as his fist closed over the Camber medallion. He allowed himself no trace of emotion in face or voice as he raised his eyes to Rhydon’s.

“Is Derry dead?”

“No. However, you may wish him so, if your king proves unreasonable.”

“You threaten us with Derry’s safety?” Kelson demanded.

Rhydon chuckled, low, dangerous. “Not precisely, my young friend. We have learned—never mind how—that you hold certain high-ranking prisoners who are of great interest to us. My Lord Wencit is willing to negotiate a trade: your Derry, alive and unharmed, in exchange for our people.”

“I am not aware of any Torenthi prisoners in our midst, are you, Morgan?” Kelson frowned. “To whom are you referring, my lord?”

“Did I say that they were Torenthi? Pray, forgive my imprecision. The prisoners are the Countess of Marley and her young son, the Lord Brendan. The Earl Bran wishes the return of his family.”

Morgan’s eyes widened and his heart seemed to rise into his throat, but he dared not look at Kelson. He could sense Kelson’s astonishment at the demand, and knew the young king to be momentarily taken aback by it, but he also knew that this must be Kelson’s decision, regardless of Morgan’s personal involvement. The trade could not be made; Morgan knew that. But he could not be the one to seal Derry’s death warrant. The young Marcher lord deserved better, even if Morgan could not give it to him.

Morgan’s fist tightened around the medallion in his hand—he could feel Kelson’s gaze upon him—but he would not permit his stony gaze to shift from Rhydon’s face. Kelson shifted uneasily in his saddle, glancing both at Morgan and then Arilan, then returned his gaze to Rhydon once more. Arilan said nothing; he, too, aware that this must be Kelson’s decision—and well aware what that decision must be.

“You offer a trade,” Kelson said warily. “Even if we were to consider such an offer, how can we be certain that Derry is still alive and unharmed, as you claim?”

Rhydon made an unctuous bow, then turned to raise an arm to his waiting escort a few hundred yards behind. At once the black-clad figure Kelson had dismissed as a monk detached himself from their company and began riding slowly toward them, his hood falling back on his shoulders as he came. Derry’s eyes met Morgan’s briefly as he drew rein a few yards behind Lionel and Rhydon, but he said nothing. There could be no doubt who he was.

Kelson looked hard at Lionel and Rhydon, then deliberately kneed his horse between them to approach Derry. Derry’s face was like whey as his gaze met the king’s, and Kelson could see that his hands were grasping the high pommel of his saddle in a death grip, that he was well aware what was at stake and what the king’s decision must be. All at once Kelson’s heart went out to the young lord.

“Derry, is it truly you?” he asked softly.

“Alas, I fear it is, Sire. I—I was captured shortly after I learned of Bran’s defection. There was no way I could warn you. I am truly sorry.”

“I know,” Kelson whispered. He reached across to touch Derry’s wrist in sympathy, his eyes averted, then backed his horse from between Lionel and Rhydon to rejoin Morgan and Arilan. His face was pale against the crimson surcoat he wore, but his hands were steady on the reins now.

“Forgive me, Lord Derry, but I know you will understand what I must do,” he said formally. “I cannot allow women and children under my protection to be used as pawns in this game.” He turned his gaze squarely on Rhydon and Lionel.

“My lords, you may tell your master that a prisoner exchange is not acceptable. The Lady Richenda and her son are, indeed, in my care and will come to no harm, but I will not surrender them to you under any circumstances. They have naught to do with Lord Bran’s treason, and I would neither ask nor permit them to give themselves into the control of my enemy—even to save the life of one of my most trusted and well-loved lords.”

Derry flashed a brave and slightly defiant smile at that, then bowed his head in resignation. Rhydon nodded slowly.

“I expected your reply, young lord. I quite understand. It is, of course, quite futile to hope that my Lord Wencit will not be angry and seek retribution. He is not accustomed to breaking promises he has made to those who serve him well. I fear there will be a high price to pay for your decision.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

“Very well, then.”

Rhydon bowed again in his saddle, then gestured curtly for Derry to return to the waiting guards. Derry took a last look over his shoulder at Morgan and the king as he obeyed, but his head was high as he began his ride back toward the enemy lines, Rhydon and Lionel following half a dozen lengths behind. Morgan felt a pang of grief as the three moved away, for he knew that Derry was riding to his death. Unable to look anymore, he, too, turned his horse back toward his own lines, Kelson and Arilan falling in wordlessly beside him. Like Derry, they did not look back.

From midway back to the Gwynedd lines, Duncan McLain watched as the three riders started toward him and his hostage, knowing by their carriage that the meeting had not gone well. He knew that the third rider with the enemy party had been Derry—he had seen him through his glass—and he knew the decision which must have been taken by the king.

Beside Duncan, the haughty Lord Torval sat his horse unmoving, his satin surcoat still a-gleam in the morning sun. The young lord’s face was serene and almost trancelike, his hands resting lightly on the pommel of his saddle; and just for an instant Duncan had the impression that the Torenthi lord was not really there in mind, so little concern did he seem to have for his own safety.

To Torval’s right, Warin was fidgeting with the hilt of his sword, nervous as a cat in the aftermath of what had just been played out in the center of the field. The two guards sat their horses behind, grim eyes darting from their prisoner to the returning king and his companions. The tableau seemed strangely calm and peaceful, almost like a dream. Abruptly, Duncan knew that it could not last.

Nor did it. Before the retreating riders had ridden more than a dozen yards from their meeting place, a sudden flurry of activity boiled up behind the enemy lines. Dozens of sturdy poles were hoisted briskly upright and seated in holes dug to receive them, each pole bearing a stoutly nailed crossbar at the top. Over each arm of the crossbars trailed a rope ending in a noose. As the poles thudded into their sockets, Duncan stood in his stirrups and brought his spyglass to bear, unable to control a gasp as pairs of prisoners in the blue and silver livery of Cassan—scores of them!—were forced to stand up beneath the poles, hands lashed cruelly behind their backs.

Even as this occurred, a banner was unfurled toward the center of the line: the banner of the Duke of Cassan, Duncan’s father. At the same time, a tall, graying man wearing Cassan’s sleeping lion and roses on his surcoat was prodded up a short platform beneath one of the crossbars, hands bound behind him, and a rope halter was made fast around his neck, his feet also bound. Duncan let out a groan, for it was Duke Jared himself!

Frozen with horror, Duncan watched as more ropes were secured around the necks of the rest of the men with Jared, two men beneath each pole, and a great cheer erupted from the enemy lines as all the ropes were pulled taut, the prisoners briskly hoisted off their feet to dangle and die. At the same time Duncan saw Morgan, Kelson, and Arilan pausing in the field a few hundred yards away to turn and gape, Kelson’s horse plunging and rearing as he tried to control it.

A roar of disbelieving rage went up from the massed army of Gwynedd, and the front ranks began to waver. And then three things happened simultaneously. Warin, with a strangled cry of outrage, drew his sword and plunged it into the side of the smirking Lord Torval, striking but an instant ahead of Duncan, whose face had gone savage with the horror of his father’s brutal death.

Kelson, white-lipped as he tried to control his plunging mount, bolted with Arilan and Morgan for his own lines, frantically signaling Warin and Duncan to retreat.

But Morgan, after only an instant’s hesitation, wrenched his mount on its haunches and began spurring straight for the retreating Rhydon and Lionel, his drawn sword like lightning in his hand.

“Derry!” he screamed as he rode, his face gray with helpless rage. Behind him, the front ranks of the royal army were heaving forward, ready to break and attack, but again and again Morgan screamed Derry’s name.

Derry somehow heard him. At Morgan’s shout, Derry glanced over his shoulder and pulled up to gape openmouthed, instantly assessing the situation: Rhydon and Lionel spurring toward him as they saw him wavering, the bodies jerking at the ends of ropes behind him, and Morgan thundering toward all of that disaster at a dead gallop, sword in fist and shouting defiance.

At once Derry spun his horse on its haunches and bolted toward Morgan and the Gwynedd lines, instinctively cutting a diagonal slightly away from Rhydon and Lionel. The enemy lords were close—they could not have been more than ten yards behind when Derry turned—and they were closing fast. He saw that Morgan was fast gaining on the heavier Torenthi warhorses, that he was now almost neck and neck with Lionel’s big bay charger; but behind Derry, Rhydon’s mounted archers were nocking arrows to their bowstrings.

Lionel tried to turn across Derry’s path to block his escape, but Morgan was already abreast of him, yanking his horse’s head to the left and throwing its weight against Lionel’s. Lionel’s horse missed a stride and stumbled, then went down as Morgan’s spurred boot lashed out in a vicious kick.

Lionel was pitched head over heels as his mount hit the turf, and Morgan thundered on past to gain on Rhydon as Lionel picked himself up and snatched at the reins of his staggering horse. A hail of arrows began to rain down on them from the Torenthi escort. The arrows glanced off harmlessly against the steel helmets and mail hauberks of Morgan and Rhydon, but the horses were unprotected; a chance bolt transfixed Rhydon’s mount through the throat and sent it screaming to its knees.

Rhydon landed on his feet as the horse collapsed under him, already running toward the now remounted Lionel and waving his arms frantically for the archers to cease fire. But another arrow caught Derry in the back even as Morgan was drawing abreast of him and the archers were lowering their bows. With an oath, Morgan yanked the faltering Derry across his saddle and wheeled to race back toward his own lines. At the same time, Rhydon scrambled up behind Lionel and the pair of them spurred back toward the east. Morgan, with a fearful glance back over his shoulder, could see Rhydon mouthing maledictions as he and Lionel rode for safety. Morgan steadied Derry’s limp form across his saddle and crouched low as he rode for the Gwynedd army.

But the army was in turmoil, the men milling angrily behind the front lines, naked swords and axes brandished against the noonday sun. In a determined effort to restrain his officers, Kelson was galloping up and down the center of the line, but even he could not be everywhere at once. The troops’ outrage was rising in a roaring crescendo as they angrily shook their weapons at what the treacherous enemy had just done to their comrades.

“Lower your weapons!” Kelson was shouting. “Hold, I say! Don’t you see? He wants us to attack. Sheathe your weapons! I command you to hold!”

His words could scarcely be heard against the din. As the lines parted to admit Morgan and the limp Derry, the line to the left began to surge forward of its own accord, its officers no longer able to maintain control. Kelson saw their intention and made one last, futile attempt to order them back, then jerked his horse’s head around and began galloping out ahead of the men. He pulled up short and whirled his black charger in a perfect levade, then dropped the reins as the animal stood stock-still. Standing slightly in the stirrups, he threw back his head and thrust his arms heavenward, pronouncing forbidden words that only the wind heard.

Light flashed from his fingertips like crimson fire as he thrust his arms upward again, flaring to sear a crimson line of warning in the spring turf. The riders who had broken from the line pulled up in fear and confusion, their crazed horses plunging wildly before the wall of flame that had sprung up where the red fire seared.

To Kelson’s amazement and relief, the Torenthi lines held behind him. Rhydon, Lionel, and their archer escort had reached the safety of their own lines even as Kelson’s army started to break.

But Kelson was not concerned with that just now. As he lowered his arms and glared at the men with his proud Haldane eyes, his soldiers managed to bring their terrified mounts under control and sped back to their places in the ranks, trying once more to bring some order out of chaos.

Quiet descended on both the armies as Kelson spread his arms again and passed his hands palm-down above the fire he had made. The flames died, the seared lines faded away. As he lowered his arms, the crimson aura that had surrounded him like a royal mantle fell away and disappeared, leaving the King of Gwynedd human once more.

Taut and stiff with repressed anger, Kelson gathered up his reins and turned his head to slowly survey the enemy. Not a sound disturbed the silence save the snorting and blowing of horses and the jingle and creak of harness. Kelson searched them long with his gray Haldane eyes, memorizing every banner, every detail of the awful fruit of the gallows trees.

Then, after a moment, he turned his face back toward his own army and began riding slowly back to them: regal, meticulous. The deadly silence persisted until he had nearly reached the lines; then a lone sword began beating against a shield in approval—an emphatic commentary that was quickly picked up and echoed by more and more men, until the entire army was vibrating to the music of steel on leather-covered wood and steel.

Kelson held his head high as he drew rein before them. After a moment he raised one hand for silence. Morgan, the limp form of Derry still held across his saddle, could only stare in amazement, watching in wonder as the royal eyes slowly became fully human once more.

“Is he dead?” Kelson asked quietly.

Morgan shook his head and motioned for two men-at-arms to lift Derry down from the saddle. “No, he’s alive, but the wound is serious. Call Warin, will you, Captain?”

“See to it,” Kelson said with a nod, returning his glance toward the distant Torenthi army. “Morgan, what think you of the little display that has just been staged for our benefit?”

Morgan quickly changed mental gears, a little surprised that Kelson could dismiss his own actions so quickly and get back to the heart of the matter.

“Wencit wished to goad us into battle before we were ready, my prince. And yet, I am not certain he is ready to fight, either. I confess that I do not understand why.”

“Nor do I—and that was also my impression,” Kelson agreed. He turned in his saddle to glance at Duncan. “Father Duncan, I very much regret what happened to your father—and all those other men of Cassan and Kierney. Are you all right?”

Duncan raised his head and stared dully at the king for a moment, then nodded slowly. He had sheathed his sword, but his hands were still red with the blood of the hostage he and Warin had slain. He glanced out at the enemy lines, at the dangling bodies, then down at his bloodstained hands.

“I—I killed that hostage in anger, Sire. It was not my place to do so. I should have stayed my sword.”

“Not so.” Kelson shook his head solemnly. “You and Warin have saved me the task of killing him myself. Torval knew, when he rode out here, that his life would be forfeit if there was treachery.”

“Right deed, wrong reason.” Duncan smiled cynically. “That does not make it right for me, my prince.”

“Perhaps not, but it is forgivable. I would—”

“Sire! Wencit rides toward us!” a man suddenly gasped.

Kelson whirled in his saddle, half expecting to see the entire Torenthi horde advancing. Instead, there was only a handful of riders breaking away from the Torenthi lines now: a bannerman bearing Wencit’s leaping hart standard, black on silver; Lionel and Rhydon; a slender, proud figure who could only be Bran Coris; and Wencit himself. The riders advanced at a brisk walk, drawing purposefully toward the center of the field once more. Kelson’s eyes narrowed as he watched the advance.

“It’s a trap,” Duncan murmured, glaring at the riders through ice-blue eyes. “They wish no parley—only trickery. Do not trust them, Sire.”

“Morgan, what say you?” Kelson asked, not taking his eyes from the advancing King of Torenth.

“I agree that they are not to be trusted, my prince. But I fear we must parley again—though I have no more cause than Duncan to love these treacherous foes.”

“Very well.” Kelson nodded. “Bishop Arilan, will you ride out with me again? I value your counsel.”

“I will, Sire.”

“Good. And Father Duncan—I value your counsel as well, and would desire your company, but I shall not command you, under the circumstances. Can you keep your righteous wrath in check for a while longer?”

“I’ll not disgrace you, my prince.”

“Then let us ride. Nigel, you are in command until I return.”

“As you will, Sire.”

Kelson wrapped his reins around his left hand, then glanced aside to where a young baron on foot held the royal lion banner. With a grim smile, Kelson sidestepped his horse toward the man, then reached out a gloved hand and closed his fist around the staff. The baron froze for just an instant, then broke into a wide grin and hefted the end of the standard up to rest in Kelson’s stirrup. As Kelson steadied the standard at his right side, a cheer went up among his men, and the morning breeze picked up the crimson silk and spread it in the sun.

Then, with the lion banner snapping in the rising breeze, Kelson turned his horse toward the enemy and touched spurs to his mount. The great black warhorse minced and pranced as it led Morgan, Duncan, and the Bishop Arilan out to meet the Deryni enemy.