“My lord Archbishop?” the lad called. His tone was slightly sharp, his boy’s voice high-pitched with nervousness.

“I am Archbishop Loris, and Warin de Grey stands beside me. What message have you?”

The young man bowed slightly in the saddle, then gazed up at the two. “My lord cousin, Kelson King of Gwynedd, bids me say that he wishes parley with you. He asks only that the truce marked by this banner be upheld so that he and several of his retainers may approach to speaking distance. Will you grant this request in honor?”

Loris cast a sidelong glance at Warin, then nodded. “I will grant it in honor,” he replied formally. “But tell His Majesty that unless he has a mind to make peace with the Church he has forsworn, and to surrender into our jurisdiction the two Deryni he harbors, this talk will do little good. There are certain things about which we are adamant.”

“I will so inform him, my lord,” the lad said with a bow.

With that, he wheeled his horse and cantered back to his escort, the white silk banner snapping in the breeze. Warin and Loris watched him go, watched as he and his escort approached the crimson-clad figure waiting in the front lines of the enemy army. Then Loris made a fist and hit his hand lightly against the stone merlon beside him.

“I like it not, Warin,” he murmured. “I like it not at all. You’d best send your lieutenants among the men, just in case there is treachery afoot. I fear I do not trust our king any longer.”

WITH the royal army, Kelson gazed up at the two figures standing on the distant castle parapet, sacerdotal purple and rebel gray, then replaced his crowned helmet and signed for the parley-banner to strike out again. As the lad rode out—he was but a year younger than Kelson—the king touched spurs to his mount and began to follow, flanked on his left by Morgan and on his right by Bishop Cardiel. The royal standard-bearer cut ahead of them and moved into position directly in front of Kelson and a little to the right, and two noble men-at-arms ranged themselves at the king’s back. The wan sunlight gleamed on the narrow gold coronet circling Kelson’s helmet, on the green-plumed helm of Morgan, and on Cardiel’s simple miter.

As he rode, Kelson glanced up at the golden Haldane lion snapping in the breeze, aware of the lion device repeated on the crimson surcoat he wore. Morgan, on his left, wore a cloak of brilliant green over his leather surcoat and mail. Cardiel, to his right, carried a bishop’s crozier footed in his stirrup instead of a lance. Ahead, his cousin Conall bore the white parley banner as though it, too, were a royal one, his raven head held high and proud. As they approached the wall to where Conall had halted before, Kelson looked up to see Loris staring down at him, Warin beside him, and swallowed a little nervously as the rebel leader’s eyes touched his for just an instant.