Kelson nodded slowly and brushed bits of leather scrap from his tunic as he moved toward a campaign table spread with maps. “No word from Duke Jared or Bran Coris?”

“None, Sire.”

Kelson picked up a pair of calipers and sighed, chewing on one end of the instrument reflectively. “You don’t suppose something has gone wrong, do you? Suppose the spring thaws finish earlier than we predicted—suppose they’ve already finished? For all we know, Wencit could already be on his way into Eastmarch.”

“We would have heard, Sire. At least one courier would have gotten through.”

“Would he? I wonder.”

The king studied the map before him for several minutes, gray eyes narrowing as he considered his possible strategies for at least the hundredth time. He spread the calipers and measured off several distances, mentally recalculating his original figures, then stood back to weigh the possibilities again. He only reconfirmed what he already knew.

“Derry,” he gestured to the young lord to join him as he bent again over the maps, “tell me again what Lord Perris said about this road.” He used one arm of the calipers to trace out a thin, wiggly line that meandered across the western slopes of the mountain chain dividing Gwynedd from Torenth. “If this road were passable even a week sooner, we could—”

Further discussion was curtailed at the sound of a galloping horse being brought sharply to rein outside the tent, followed by the precipitate entrance of a red-cloaked sentry. Derry moved slightly closer, ready to protect the king if necessary, but the man sketched a hasty salute as Kelson spun in query.

“Sire, General Morgan and Father McLain are on their way in. They’ve just passed the eastern guard post.”

With a wordless cry of delight, Kelson flung down his calipers and bolted for the exit, nearly bowling over the surprised sentry. As he burst into the sunlight, closely followed by Derry, a pair of leather-clad riders drew rein before the royal pavilion in a cloud of dust and dismounted, only wide grins and scruffy beards visible beneath their plain steel helms. The gray cloaks and falcon insignia of the day before were long gone. But as the two pulled off dusty helmets, there was no mistaking the pale gold head of Alaric Morgan or the darker one of Duncan McLain.

“Morgan! Father Duncan! Where have you been?” Kelson drew back in faint distaste as the two slapped the worst of the dust from their riding leathers.

“Sorry, my prince,” Morgan said with a chuckle. He blew dust from his helmet and shook dust from his bright hair. “Holy Michael and all the saints, it’s dry around here! Whatever made us pick Dol Shaia for a campsite?”

Kelson folded his arms across his chest and tried unsuccessfully to control a smile. “As I recall, it was one Alaric Morgan who said we should camp close to the border, as near as possible without being seen. Dol Shaia was the logical spot. Now, do you want to tell me what took you so long? Nigel and the last stragglers got back earlier this morning.”