Corrigan, at his side, had put on flesh since Dhassa, three months prior, and his pale, fearful eyes darted nervously past Loris and Warin to the array on the plain below.

Warin’s lieutenants bowed from the waist as the prelates joined them, and Warin inclined his head in greeting. Loris gave a curt nod as he moved closer to the parapet wall.

“I was on my way when your messenger arrived,” he said, eyeing the army that surrounded them on three sides. “How do you think they will move?”

“They appear to be preparing to parley, Excellency. I doubt they would attack this close to dark. There at the front, though, you can see the king in the crimson, there beside a white rider. And over there, Bishops Cardiel and Arilan and the rest of the rebels, the prince Nigel. And of course, Morgan and the priest McLain are with them, as we expected they would be. Apparently they have induced the rebel bishops to believe in their innocence, since they wear normal battle attire.”

“Their ‘innocence,’ indeed!” Loris snorted. “God knows, I don’t have to tell you of their ‘innocence,’ Warin. You were at Saint Torin’s!”

“So I was, my lord,” Warin said mildly. “And the fact remains that the ‘innocents’ are now camped before us, and apparently wish to parley. Is this agreeable to you?”

Loris flounced to the edge of the parapet and leaned out briefly for a better look, then rejoined Warin. A small party was detaching itself from the rest and beginning to ride slowly toward the city walls. The white-cloaked rider now bore a white parley banner.

“Very well, we will at least listen. Signal your men to hold their fire and honor the flag of truce.”

As Loris spoke, the white-cloaked rider broke from the parley party and began riding a slow zig-zag pattern toward the castle walls. Bareheaded and, to all outward appearances, unarmed, he bore a banner of white silk, the staff gleaming silver and gold in the wan sunlight that yet remained. As Warin lifted a spyglass to his eye, reading the device on the rider’s surcoat, he identified the youth to be Prince Nigel’s eldest son.

Warin put the glass from his eye and watched as the young man drew rein perhaps fifty yards from the wall. Warin raised a hand to stay his men from hostile action, and bows and spears were lowered all along the wall. The young rider resumed his approach, this time at a walk, to draw rein perhaps twenty yards out from the walls. Warin watched as the youth scanned the parapets, guessing that he was looking for someone of rank to address.

“I bear a message for Archbishop Loris and the man called Warin de Grey,” the lad called, his raven head raised defiantly to search the faces appearing along the battlement.

Loris stiffened slightly, then moved forward, Warin at his elbow. The lad saw them and made his horse prance sideways, closer to their position. Even Warin had to admit that he was a fine rider.