Morgan shifted forward in his chair and retrieved his helmet from the floor where he had dropped it. “We shall do the best we can, my prince. In the meantime, what are your plans while we’re gone? I know how this inactivity must be fretting you.”

Kelson studied a ruby on his forefinger and shook his head. “It is.” He looked up and managed a slight smile. “But for the time being, I shall just have to put up with my impatience and stand where I am, won’t I? As soon as you have reached agreement with the Six in Dhassa, will you send word?”

“Certainly. And we are still agreed on our rendezvous point?”

“Yes—and I should like to send Derry north for part of the way with you, too, if you don’t mind. I need word of the three armies.”

“Agreed.” Morgan nodded, fingering the chin strap of his helmet. “If you like, we can arrange for you to keep in touch with him through his medallion, the way we did before. Is that agreeable?”

“Of course. Perhaps Father Duncan could brief him, then, and make preparations for you to leave. You’ll need fresh horses, supplies….”

“I’ll be happy to see to it, Sire,” Duncan said, draining the last of his wine and picking up his helmet as he got to his feet. “I shall look in on Bishop Istelyn and reassure him, as well.”

Kelson stared after the departing priest for a long moment, then returned his gaze to Morgan, studying the trim form relaxed in the chair there, the hooded gray eyes that watched him in much the same way. As he glanced down at his own hands, he was surprised to find that his fingers were trembling, and he twined them together in annoyance.

“Ah—how long do you think it will take to reach the bishops and…resolve things?” he asked. “I’ll—need to know when to meet you with the army.”

Morgan smiled and lightly touched the pouch at his belt. “I carry your Lion Seal, my prince. I am your Champion, sworn to protect you.”

“That isn’t what I asked, and you know it!” Kelson said. He rose and began to pace nervously. “You’re about to throw yourselves on the mercy of a handful of bishops who could just as easily cut your throat as hear you out, and you prattle on about being my Champion, sworn to protect me. The Devil take you, Morgan, I want to know how you feel about this thing. Do I have to spell it out? I want to know if you trust Arilan and Cardiel!”

Morgan’s eyes had followed the young king in his pacing, and now swept him from head to toe as he came to a halt behind his chair and leaned both hands against the back. The gray Haldane eyes were dancing with intelligence, apprehension, and a little annoyance, and Morgan suppressed a smile. Kelson, though he was king in his own right and held the throne by powers as awesome as any Morgan could muster up, was still a boy in many ways. At times, his brash outspokenness reminded Morgan a little of his own youth.