“When all is quiet, I crawl from beneath my dead knight and stagger to my feet. I start to whisper a prayer for the dead knight’s soul, for he has unwittingly saved me from the enemy.” Morgan’s face contorted and his right hand crumpled the silken banner still across the boy’s chest. “But then I see the black hart banner in the dead knight’s hands, the blue eagles of Marley sprinkling the leather of his surcoat.” He stifled a sob.

“I take the banner as proof of what I have seen, and then I stumble into the night. Two—no, three horses die beneath me before I reach the gates of Dhassa with the news.”

His eyes glazed slightly, and Duncan thought he was about to come out of it, but then the strange voice spoke again, Morgan’s lips curving in a strained smile.

“But, I have accomplished my mission. The king knows of Bran Coris’s treachery. Even if my Lord Jared lies dead, our liege lord the king will avenge him. God save…the king!”

With that, Morgan’s head slumped once more against his chest, and this time Duncan did not stop Kelson as he reached across to lay a trembling hand on Morgan’s arm.

After a few seconds, the tense shoulders relaxed and Morgan breathed a great sigh. Then his right hand flexed against the tattered silk he still clutched, and he opened his eyes. He stared at the still form of the boy in his arms for a long moment, remembering the horror he had shared, then disengaged his hand from the silk and laid his hand across the boy’s forehead.

The gray eyes closed momentarily and opened again, and then Morgan straightened and raised his eyes to meet Kelson’s. His cheeks still glistened with the tears he had shared with the boy, but he made no move to wipe them away.

“He has borne a heavy burden for you, my prince,” Morgan said quietly. “Nor do I welcome the news he has brought us.”

“One is not expected to welcome the news of treachery,” Kelson murmured, his eyes distant and hooded. “Are you all right?”

“Only a little tired, Sire. Duncan, I am sorry about your father. I wish the boy could have seen what became of him.”

“I am his only remaining son,” Duncan whispered dully. “I should have been out there, at his side. He was getting too old to lead armies.”

Morgan nodded, knowing the guilt his kinsman must be feeling, then looked up at the assembled lords and bishops. Two squires came to take the boy away to rest, but they would not meet his eyes as they took the boy from his arms. Morgan got to his feet, steadying himself against Kelson’s shoulder, then swept the torchlit room with his cool gaze. The eyes were dark, mostly pupil in the flickering torchlight—inky pools of power and mystery, even though the body behind them was exhausted.

But to his surprise, as his gaze touched the men, they did not shrink from the contact. The bishops shuffled feet, twisted nervous fingers in the folds of purple cassocks, but they did not retreat. The generals and captains, too, stared at Morgan with a new look of grudging respect, fearful but now willing to trust. In all, there was not a man in the room who would not have gone on his knee to Morgan in an instant, had he requested it—notwithstanding Kelson’s presence in the room.