Strange, how quickly the atmosphere of a city could change. Only weeks ago, he was sure almost all of the gaily clad citizens around him had been similarly dressed, genuinely mourning the loss of their monarch. Now all wore the colors of festival, of celebration.

Was it a shorter memory, or the blessed blurring of the senses as the days passed, or simply the excitement of a coming coronation that let the common people put aside their grief and resume the business of living? Perhaps for these, who had never known Brion, it was simply a matter of changing habit, of putting another name after the title “King.”

Another name . . . another king . . . a kingdom without Brion . . .

Memories . . . nine long days . . . dusk . . . four travel-worn riders drawing rein in the Cardosa camp . . . the ashen faces of Lord Ralson, Colin, the two guards, as they gasped out the horrible news . . . the anguished futility of trying to reach across the miles and touch a mind that could no longer respond, even if it had been in range . . . the numbness that set in as they began covering the frantic miles to Rhemuth . . . spent horses, changed along the way for new . . . the nightmare of ambush, massacre, from which only he and Derry emerged alive . . . more dulling miles . . .

And now, the sickening realization that it had all been real, that an era had passed, that he and Brion would never again ride the hills of Gwynedd . . .

The totality of his grief washed over Morgan like a physical thing, threatening to overwhelm him as it had not in nine long days of riding. Gasping, he clung to the pommel of his saddle for support.

No!

He must not allow his own emotions to interfere with the work ahead! There was power to be secured, a king to be crowned, a battle to be won.

He forced himself to relax and take a deep, controlled breath, willed the anguish to subside. Later, there would be time enough for private grief—indeed, perhaps no need, if he should fail in his task and join Brion in death.

But enough of such thoughts. Right now, grief was a luxury he could ill afford.

The moment past, he suddenly found himself acutely self-conscious, and he glanced ahead to see whether Derry had noticed his internal struggle.

But Derry hadn’t, or at least pretended not to. The young Marcher lord was too busy staying in the saddle and avoiding pedestrians to pay much attention to anything else. And Morgan knew the young man’s injuries must be giving him more than a little discomfort, though Derry would never admit it.

Morgan worked his way alongside his companion and was about to speak when the other’s horse suddenly stumbled. Morgan grabbed for the reins, and miraculously the animal did not go down, but its rider lurched heavily against the front of his saddle, hissed with sudden pain, and only barely managed to keep his seat.