“Derry, is it truly you?” he asked softly.

“Alas, I fear it is, Sire. I—I was captured shortly after I learned of Bran’s defection. There was no way I could warn you. I am truly sorry.”

“I know,” Kelson whispered. He reached across to touch Derry’s wrist in sympathy, his eyes averted, then backed his horse from between Lionel and Rhydon to rejoin Morgan and Arilan. His face was pale against the crimson surcoat he wore, but his hands were steady on the reins now.

“Forgive me, Lord Derry, but I know you will understand what I must do,” he said formally. “I cannot allow women and children under my protection to be used as pawns in this game.” He turned his gaze squarely on Rhydon and Lionel.

“My lords, you may tell your master that a prisoner exchange is not acceptable. The Lady Richenda and her son are, indeed, in my care and will come to no harm, but I will not surrender them to you under any circumstances. They have naught to do with Lord Bran’s treason, and I would neither ask nor permit them to give themselves into the control of my enemy—even to save the life of one of my most trusted and well-loved lords.”

Derry flashed a brave and slightly defiant smile at that, then bowed his head in resignation. Rhydon nodded slowly.

“I expected your reply, young lord. I quite understand. It is, of course, quite futile to hope that my Lord Wencit will not be angry and seek retribution. He is not accustomed to breaking promises he has made to those who serve him well. I fear there will be a high price to pay for your decision.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

“Very well, then.”

Rhydon bowed again in his saddle, then gestured curtly for Derry to return to the waiting guards. Derry took a last look over his shoulder at Morgan and the king as he obeyed, but his head was high as he began his ride back toward the enemy lines, Rhydon and Lionel following half a dozen lengths behind. Morgan felt a pang of grief as the three moved away, for he knew that Derry was riding to his death. Unable to look anymore, he, too, turned his horse back toward his own lines, Kelson and Arilan falling in wordlessly beside him. Like Derry, they did not look back.

From midway back to the Gwynedd lines, Duncan McLain watched as the three riders started toward him and his hostage, knowing by their carriage that the meeting had not gone well. He knew that the third rider with the enemy party had been Derry—he had seen him through his glass—and he knew the decision which must have been taken by the king.

Beside Duncan, the haughty Lord Torval sat his horse unmoving, his satin surcoat still a-gleam in the morning sun. The young lord’s face was serene and almost trancelike, his hands resting lightly on the pommel of his saddle; and just for an instant Duncan had the impression that the Torenthi lord was not really there in mind, so little concern did he seem to have for his own safety.