By some miracle, the snowy plume on the cap had emerged unscathed, its whiteness unsullied, unbroken. And as Ewan clutched the cap to his breast, the feathered plume trembled almost hypnotically before Kelson’s eyes.

Ewan suddenly became aware of Kelson’s fascinated stare, and he looked down at the cap, at the waving plume, as though he’d never seen them before. There was a moment of hesitation. And then he slowly closed his huge right hand around the plume, bent it until it snapped.

Kelson started.

“The king is dead—Sire,” Ewan murmured dully, his face ashen beneath the shaggy red beard and hair.

He opened his hand slowly and watched the broken end of the plume drift gently to rest on Brion’s shoulder.

“I know,” Kelson replied.

“What is—” Ewan’s voice broke with emotion, and he began again. “Is there any—”

He could not go on, and his shoulders shuddered convulsively as he shook his head and buried his face in Brion’s cap.

Nigel looked up from the face of his dead brother and touched the old warrior’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Ewan,” he said softly. He dropped his hand, glanced at Brion once more, then met the eyes of his brother’s son.

“You are king now, Kelson,” he said gently. “What is your command?”

Kelson looked down again at the dead king, then disentangled his hand and folded his father’s hands on his chest.

“First of all,” he said steadily, “send for General Morgan.”

CHAPTER ONE - “Princes met and talked against me.” PSALMS 119:23

CHAPTER ONE

“Princes met and talked against me.” PSALMS 119:23

NEARLY two weeks later, Morgan and a single blue-cloaked military aide clattered through the north gate of Rhemuth, Brion’s capital city. Though it was not yet midmorning, the horses were lathered and nearly spent, and their ragged breathing shot dense, snowy plumes of condensation into the cold morning air.

It was market day in Rhemuth, and the streets were even more congested than usual. The coronation on the morrow had brought hundreds of additional visitors to the city, travellers from all the Eleven Kingdoms. They were rendering the narrow, cobbled streets almost impassable. Produce carts and richly curtained sedan chairs, merchants with their pack trains, peddlers hawking over-priced trinkets, bored-looking noblemen with their lavish retinues—all merged and blended in a kaleidoscopic array of color, scent, and sound, vying with the brilliantly decorated buildings and arches of the city itself.

Rhemuth the Beautiful, they called the city. It was easy to see why.

As Morgan guided his weary mount slowly among the milling pedestrians and conveyances, following Lord Derry toward the main palace gate, he glanced down wistfully at his own somber garb, so conspicuous amidst all this garish splendor: dusty black leather covering most of his mail, the heavy black wool and sable cloak enveloping him from helm to knee.