“Forgive me, you shouldn’t have seen that show of temper.” He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. “I am a king. I should know better. It’s a fault, I know.”

“And what of the fault with the message?” Morgan urged, glancing at Duncan’s calm face as he scanned the documents. “Come, tell us what has happened.”

“I’m excommunicated, that’s what’s happened,” Kelson replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “In addition, my entire kingdom is under Interdict, and any who continue to pay me fealty are likewise excommunicated.”

“Is that all?” Morgan exhaled, a long, relieved sigh, and beckoned Duncan to bring the documents Kelson had discarded in such heat. “By your reaction, I thought it to be truly horrible news.”

Kelson sat up straight in the center of the bed. “Is that all?” he repeated incredulously. “You obviously don’t understand. Father Duncan, explain it to him in words of one syllable. I am excommunicated, and everyone who remains with me! And Gwynedd is under Interdict!”

Duncan folded the parchment sheaf in half and creased the center sharply, tossed it lightly to the bed. “Worthless, my prince.”

“What?”

“It is worthless,” he repeated calmly. “The eleven bishops sitting in conclave at Coroth still have not gleaned a twelfth: a requirement that is as firmly fixed in our canon law as any dogma of faith. The eleven at Coroth cannot bind you or anyone else unless they gain a twelfth.”

“A twelfth—by God, you’re right!” Kelson exclaimed, scrambling upright to snatch up the offending documents and stare at them again. “How could I have forgotten?”

Morgan smiled and returned to his chair, where a half-finished cup of wine awaited him. “It is understandable, my prince. You are not as accustomed to anathema as we are. Remember that Duncan and I have been truly and legally excommunicated for nearly three months now, and are little the worse for wear—which brings us back to our original discussion.”

“Yes, of course.” Kelson got to his feet and returned to his chair, still shaking his head as he stared at the documents in his hand. Duncan, too, returned to the circle of chairs and sat down, helping himself to a small apple as Kelson finally put the parchment sheaf aside.

“What you are implying, then,” the king said, “is that this makes it all the more urgent that you get to Dhassa as quickly as possible. Am I correct?”

“You are, my prince,” Morgan said with a nod.

“But suppose Arilan’s colleagues won’t follow his lead? They are our only hope for reconciliation with the rest of the clergy, and if they should fail us, especially with this new Interdict and excommunication hanging over us—why, we’d never be able to make Loris and Corrigan listen.”

Morgan made a steeple of his forefingers and tapped them lightly against his lips for a moment, then glanced at Duncan. The priest had not changed his relaxed position next to him, and appeared to be chewing unconcernedly on a bite of apple, but Morgan knew that he was thinking much the same thing. Unless they could eventually reach an agreement with Loris and Corrigan, the ringleaders of the curial hostility against Duncan and himself, Gwynedd was doomed. Once the spring flooding was done, Wencit of Torenth would be sweeping into Gwynedd along the Rheljan Range, using high Cardosa as a base. And with internal factions warring in the south and no reinforcements available, it would be a relatively simple matter to cut off Kelson’s three armies and destroy them at leisure. The controversy in Corwyn must be resolved, and soon.