“I’ll not disgrace you, my prince.”

“Then let us ride. Nigel, you are in command until I return.”

“As you will, Sire.”

Kelson wrapped his reins around his left hand, then glanced aside to where a young baron on foot held the royal lion banner. With a grim smile, Kelson sidestepped his horse toward the man, then reached out a gloved hand and closed his fist around the staff. The baron froze for just an instant, then broke into a wide grin and hefted the end of the standard up to rest in Kelson’s stirrup. As Kelson steadied the standard at his right side, a cheer went up among his men, and the morning breeze picked up the crimson silk and spread it in the sun.

Then, with the lion banner snapping in the rising breeze, Kelson turned his horse toward the enemy and touched spurs to his mount. The great black warhorse minced and pranced as it led Morgan, Duncan, and the Bishop Arilan out to meet the Deryni enemy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“They shall hold the bow and the lance: they are cruel, and will not shew mercy: their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses, every one put in array, like a man to the battle, against thee.”

JEREMIAH 50:42

“SO, you are Kelson Haldane,” Wencit said. His voice was smooth, cultured, his manner supremely confident, and Kelson instantly despised him.

“It pleases me that we can discuss the matter at hand in a civilized fashion, like two grown men,” Wencit continued, eyeing Kelson up and down disdainfully. “Or, nearly grown.”

Kelson would not permit himself the luxury of the scathing retort he longed to unleash. Instead, he made himself return his enemy’s scrutiny, gray eyes noting every aspect of the lean, red-haired Deryni known as Wencit of Torenth.

Wencit sat his great golden steed as though born in the saddle, gloved hands lightly holding wide velvet reins embellished with burnished golden bosses. A frothy purple plume fastened in the headstall of the golden bridle trembled and floated on the breeze as the golden charger shook its head and snorted at Kelson’s black.

Wencit himself was attired all in gold and purple, every part of his body save his head either encased in gilt-washed mail or adorned with cloth of gold or the rich purple and gold brocade of the mantle that swirled from his jeweled gold collar. Gem-studded wrist guards met supple kidskin gloves on his hands, and a heavy neck chain lay aglitter on the breast of his golden surcoat. His brow bore an ornate coronet of chased gold set with pearls and tawny-colored gems. On any other man, the cumulative effect might have seemed ludicrous, but on Wencit it but underlined his potency.

Almost, Kelson felt himself beginning to respond to the sheer visual presence of the man seated on the warhorse before him, and he forced himself to shake the feeling, drawing himself a little straighter and lifting his chin. Coolly he permitted his gaze to touch on Wencit’s companions: the unctuous Lionel, the scowling Rhydon, traitor Bran, who would not meet his eyes just yet. Then he returned his full attention to Wencit. His eyes were flint-hard as he met the sorcerer’s gaze, and he did not flinch at the contact.