Charissa put her fingers across his lips. “Now, you know I detest pleading. I can’t help you, and that’s that. And you can’t help yourself, either. Can you, poor little mortal? I shall miss you, Ian—even though you did think to defeat me eventually.”

As Ian tried to speak again, his eyes wide with horror that she knew what he had thought secret, Charissa’s other hand moved in another spell. For a few seconds, Ian struggled to breathe, his hand clutching at her cloak in desperation, but then he relaxed, the life gone. Casually, Charissa stood up again.

“Well, Kelson?” she said, an edge of mockery in her voice. “It appears that our duel of Champions has decided nothing. Mine is dead—granted—but yours is so sorely wounded, his fate, too, is doubtful. It appears I must challenge you anew, if I am to gain satisfaction.”

Morgan glanced up sharply at those words, winced as the movement caused him considerable pain. Perspiration sheened his face as Duncan probed with gentle fingers at the bloody flesh around the dagger, but Morgan motioned Kelson to lean down closer. Kelson gathered his heavy crimson cloak over his left arm and knelt by Morgan’s side, his eyes grave with concern for the wounded man.

“Kelson,” Morgan murmured through clenched teeth, biting off a gasp as Duncan withdrew the dagger and began to bind up the wound. “Kelson, be very careful. She’ll try to trick you. Your only hope now is to play for time, to somehow find the key to your own powers. I’m convinced it has to be here somewhere. We’ve simply overlooked it.”

“I’ll try,” Kelson whispered.

“I wish we could have helped you more, my prince,” Morgan continued. He sank back weakly, half fainting, and Kelson reached across to touch his hand reassuringly.

“Don’t worry.”

Kelson stood up, let the crimson velvet of the state cloak fall properly from where it had been gathered over his arm. He felt all eyes upon him as he walked the few steps back to the center of the chancel steps, sensed rather than saw the archbishops and bishops move out of the way behind him, clearing a space around him for whatever battle might come next.

He glanced around the nave, noting the tense faces in the congregation, the menace of the armed men still standing in the aisle behind Charissa, caught the wave of quiet confidence and hope coming from Nigel, standing there beside his mother—and Jehana, pale and taut in the awful silence, her hands clenched stiffly at her sides, her eyes feverish, pleading.

“Well, Kelson of Gwynedd?” Charissa’s low voice echoed through the nave, reverberated in the hushed sanctuary. “You seem to be hesitating, my precocious princeling. What can the matter be?” Her full lips curved in a sneer.