Without looking further, Morgan knew what it was that Rhydon held. Wordlessly he stretched out his gloved palm and let Rhydon pour the silver into his own hand, felt the fleeting edge of Derry’s essence as his fist closed over the Camber medallion. He allowed himself no trace of emotion in face or voice as he raised his eyes to Rhydon’s.

“Is Derry dead?”

“No. However, you may wish him so, if your king proves unreasonable.”

“You threaten us with Derry’s safety?” Kelson demanded.

Rhydon chuckled, low, dangerous. “Not precisely, my young friend. We have learned—never mind how—that you hold certain high-ranking prisoners who are of great interest to us. My Lord Wencit is willing to negotiate a trade: your Derry, alive and unharmed, in exchange for our people.”

“I am not aware of any Torenthi prisoners in our midst, are you, Morgan?” Kelson frowned. “To whom are you referring, my lord?”

“Did I say that they were Torenthi? Pray, forgive my imprecision. The prisoners are the Countess of Marley and her young son, the Lord Brendan. The Earl Bran wishes the return of his family.”

Morgan’s eyes widened and his heart seemed to rise into his throat, but he dared not look at Kelson. He could sense Kelson’s astonishment at the demand, and knew the young king to be momentarily taken aback by it, but he also knew that this must be Kelson’s decision, regardless of Morgan’s personal involvement. The trade could not be made; Morgan knew that. But he could not be the one to seal Derry’s death warrant. The young Marcher lord deserved better, even if Morgan could not give it to him.

Morgan’s fist tightened around the medallion in his hand—he could feel Kelson’s gaze upon him—but he would not permit his stony gaze to shift from Rhydon’s face. Kelson shifted uneasily in his saddle, glancing both at Morgan and then Arilan, then returned his gaze to Rhydon once more. Arilan said nothing; he, too, aware that this must be Kelson’s decision—and well aware what that decision must be.

“You offer a trade,” Kelson said warily. “Even if we were to consider such an offer, how can we be certain that Derry is still alive and unharmed, as you claim?”

Rhydon made an unctuous bow, then turned to raise an arm to his waiting escort a few hundred yards behind. At once the black-clad figure Kelson had dismissed as a monk detached himself from their company and began riding slowly toward them, his hood falling back on his shoulders as he came. Derry’s eyes met Morgan’s briefly as he drew rein a few yards behind Lionel and Rhydon, but he said nothing. There could be no doubt who he was.

Kelson looked hard at Lionel and Rhydon, then deliberately kneed his horse between them to approach Derry. Derry’s face was like whey as his gaze met the king’s, and Kelson could see that his hands were grasping the high pommel of his saddle in a death grip, that he was well aware what was at stake and what the king’s decision must be. All at once Kelson’s heart went out to the young lord.