“Yet you propose to go to Dhassa and attempt a reconciliation,” the king said. “Suppose you don’t succeed? Suppose the Six cannot be persuaded?”

“I believe I can put your mind at ease on that matter, Sire,” Duncan said. “If you’ll recall, I was on Bishop Arilan’s staff for some time. I know him fairly well. I believe he will deal fairly with us, and in doing so, will persuade his colleagues to do likewise.”

“I wish I could be as sure.”

Kelson drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair, then folded them together in his lap. “So you would throw yourselves on the mercy of the bishops, on the strength of your trust in one man.” His grimace of distaste showed reluctance as well. “Yet, the fact is that both of you are guilty of the charges for which you were excommunicated. There is no denying the events at Saint Torin’s. To be sure, there were extenuating circumstances—and hopefully, canon law will support your defense, at least in the major issues. But if you should fail, if the excommunication should stand, what then? Do you think the Six will let you walk out of there?”

There were the sounds of low voices outside the tent, a verbal altercation of some sort going on, and Kelson paused to glance in the direction of the doorway. As he did, a sentry withdrew the flap and stepped inside.

“Sire, Bishop Istelyn wishes to see you. He insists it cannot wait.”

Kelson frowned. “Admit him.”

As the guard stepped back into the dusk, Kelson glanced quickly at the faces of his companions, especially Morgan and Duncan. Istelyn was one of Gwynedd’s twelve itinerant bishops with no fixed see, one of those who had not been in Dhassa when the Curia had split last winter.

But Istelyn, on hearing of the events in Dhassa, had declared himself to be on the side of Arilan and Cardiel and the rest of the Six, and several weeks ago had attached himself to Kelson’s army here at the Corwyn border. He was regarded as a sober, even-tempered prelate, not given to flexing his ecclesiastical power. For him to force himself on a royal meeting as he was about to do was quite out of character unless something were drastically wrong. Kelson’s face almost betrayed his anxiety as the bishop stepped through the tent opening, a sheaf of parchment in his hand and a very solemn expression on his face.

“Your Majesty,” Istelyn said with a grave bow.

“My Lord Bishop,” Kelson replied, standing slowly at his place as the rest followed suit.

Istelyn glanced around the tent and nodded acknowledgement, and Kelson motioned the rest of his menie to be seated.

“I surmise that your news is not good, my lord,” the king murmured, not taking his eyes from Istelyn’s.

“You surmise correctly, Sire.” The bishop moved closer to the king and extended the sheaf of parchments. “I—regret being the bearer of these, but I felt you should have them.”