Torval chuckled as he handed over the short dagger at his belt and let himself be surrounded by the two burly cavalrymen, retaining an insolent smile as his guards guided him to follow Kelson and the others down the slope. Kelson’s men cheered as he rode by, but the ranks closed and were silent as the party rode out onto the plain.

About four hundred yards out, the group drew rein momentarily, with only Kelson, Morgan, and Arilan continuing out toward the center of the plain. Duncan and Warin remained with the hostage and his guards. Almost immediately, Lionel and Rhydon broke away from their guardian archers and began riding out to meet them. The quiet drumming of the horses’ hooves on the turf was the only sound in the still morning air.

Kelson kept his gaze on the pair as they galloped toward him, trying to keep his head erect and his hands steady on the reins. Even so, his hands must have telegraphed his tension to his mount, for the high-strung black warhorse began prancing sideways and curvetting against the bit as the two riders approached. Kelson chanced a look at Morgan to his right, but the Deryni duke’s attention seemed riveted on the approaching riders. Arilan, to Kelson’s other side, seemed serene and unruffled, his handsome features betraying no hint of emotion. He might almost have been riding to church, so calm was he—or so it appeared.

“Hail, Kelson of Gwynedd!” Rhydon called, giving a slight bow as the two groups met and drew rein. “I was not altogether certain that you would come to treat with us personally. But, no matter. My king sends cordial greetings.”

Arilan stared across at him coldly, a muscle rippling in his clenched jaw. “Guard your tongue, Rhydon. If you are the bearer of greetings, we may be assured that they are not cordial. Your reputation is well-known, as is your master’s.”

Rhydon turned in the saddle to bow silkily to Arilan, then gestured gracefully to Lionel as he returned his attention to Kelson. “Allow me to present His Grace the Duke of Arjenol, kinsman to Wencit, as you may be aware—and I am Rhydon of Eastmarch. I know my lord Bishop Arilan from other days of which we dare not speak, so the other man who rides at your side can only be the infamous Alaric Morgan. My master of Torenth sends special greetings to you, Your Grace—and a gift.”

He reached into the front of his tunic and withdrew something which he closed in his leather-covered fist, then touched heels gently to his horse’s flanks and moved knee to knee by Morgan’s right. As Rhydon held out his hand, Morgan made a tentative probe to be certain no treachery was involved, then let his gaze come to rest on the slowly opening hand.

“I believe this is may be yours,” Rhydon said softly as he revealed a shining mass of silver and chain. “Wencit thought you would like to have it back. He who wore it meant something to you at one time, I think. I fear that the chain is broken.”