Far ahead with the hounds, Kelson saw rather than heard the commotion back at the center of the hunt and returned at the gallop, certain only that something was seriously wrong. But when he reached the group gathered noisily around the king and saw his father sprawled on the ground in their midst, he jerked his horse to a sliding halt on the slick grass, flinging himself from the saddle to push his way through the onlookers.

Brion’s breathing was labored, his teeth clenched tightly against the searing pain that came now at every heartbeat. His eyes darted back and forth feverishly, trying to locate his son. And he was concertedly ignoring all efforts of Ewan, or Rogier, or even Bishop Arilan to comfort him.

All he could see was Kelson as the boy dropped to his knees at his father’s right. And he gasped and clutched for Kelson’s hand as another wave of pain engulfed him.

“So soon!” he managed to whisper, his hand almost crushing Kelson’s in the intensity of its grip. “Kelson, remember what you promised. Remember. . . .”

The eyes half closed, and his hand went limp in Kelson’s as the pain-wracked body relaxed. As Nigel and Ewan searched frantically for a pulse, some sign of life, Kelson watched in stunned disbelief. But no reassuring sign came. With a muffled sob, Kelson collapsed to rest his forehead against his sire’s hand.

Beside him, Bishop Arilan crossed himself and began reciting the Office for the Dead, his voice low and steady in the terrible stillness. All around, Brion’s lords and vassals dropped to their knees, one by one, to echo the bishop.

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”

“And let perpetual light shine upon him.”

“Kyrie eleison. . . .”

“Christe eleison. . . .”

Kelson let the familiar phrases wash over him, let the cadence lull the sickening, sinking emptiness in the pit of his stomach to a more bearable numbness, willed the tight constriction of his throat to relax. After a long moment, he was able to raise his head and look dazedly around him.

Nigel seemed calm, almost serene, as he knelt with Brion’s lifeless head in his lap. Again and again, his long fingers smoothed the straight black hair across the still brow—gently, almost tenderly—his thoughts in some place that only Nigel knew.

And Rogier—Rogier stared unseeing, his eyes following Nigel’s fingers, his lips moving automatically in the litany, but not knowing what he saw or said.

But it was Ewan that the young prince would remember later, long after other details of the day had faded mercifully from his mind. From somewhere, Ewan had retrieved Brion’s red leather hunt cap, now stained and trampled in the confusion and horror of the past minutes.