“Is he dead?” Kelson asked quietly.

Morgan shook his head and motioned for two men-at-arms to lift Derry down from the saddle. “No, he’s alive, but the wound is serious. Call Warin, will you, Captain?”

“See to it,” Kelson said with a nod, returning his glance toward the distant Torenthi army. “Morgan, what think you of the little display that has just been staged for our benefit?”

Morgan quickly changed mental gears, a little surprised that Kelson could dismiss his own actions so quickly and get back to the heart of the matter.

“Wencit wished to goad us into battle before we were ready, my prince. And yet, I am not certain he is ready to fight, either. I confess that I do not understand why.”

“Nor do I—and that was also my impression,” Kelson agreed. He turned in his saddle to glance at Duncan. “Father Duncan, I very much regret what happened to your father—and all those other men of Cassan and Kierney. Are you all right?”

Duncan raised his head and stared dully at the king for a moment, then nodded slowly. He had sheathed his sword, but his hands were still red with the blood of the hostage he and Warin had slain. He glanced out at the enemy lines, at the dangling bodies, then down at his bloodstained hands.

“I—I killed that hostage in anger, Sire. It was not my place to do so. I should have stayed my sword.”

“Not so.” Kelson shook his head solemnly. “You and Warin have saved me the task of killing him myself. Torval knew, when he rode out here, that his life would be forfeit if there was treachery.”

“Right deed, wrong reason.” Duncan smiled cynically. “That does not make it right for me, my prince.”

“Perhaps not, but it is forgivable. I would—”

“Sire! Wencit rides toward us!” a man suddenly gasped.

Kelson whirled in his saddle, half expecting to see the entire Torenthi horde advancing. Instead, there was only a handful of riders breaking away from the Torenthi lines now: a bannerman bearing Wencit’s leaping hart standard, black on silver; Lionel and Rhydon; a slender, proud figure who could only be Bran Coris; and Wencit himself. The riders advanced at a brisk walk, drawing purposefully toward the center of the field once more. Kelson’s eyes narrowed as he watched the advance.

“It’s a trap,” Duncan murmured, glaring at the riders through ice-blue eyes. “They wish no parley—only trickery. Do not trust them, Sire.”

“Morgan, what say you?” Kelson asked, not taking his eyes from the advancing King of Torenth.

“I agree that they are not to be trusted, my prince. But I fear we must parley again—though I have no more cause than Duncan to love these treacherous foes.”

“Very well.” Kelson nodded. “Bishop Arilan, will you ride out with me again? I value your counsel.”

“I will, Sire.”

“Good. And Father Duncan—I value your counsel as well, and would desire your company, but I shall not command you, under the circumstances. Can you keep your righteous wrath in check for a while longer?”