“Treachery enough afoot,” Morgan muttered under his breath, slinging a black cloak around his shoulders. “After seeing what Wencit did to Derry, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“Evil will be repaid,” Arilan said mildly. “Come. Our escort awaits us.”

Outside, Nigel and the generals waited with the horses, silent as the four emerged from the tent. Kelson was the last one out, and at his appearance his troops, to the man, dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in respect. Kelson tugged at the cuff of one red leather glove as he surveyed them, moved by their loyalty. With a curt nod to mask his true emotion, he signed for them to rise.

“I thank you, my lords,” he said quietly. “I do not know when I shall see you again, if ever. This morning’s battle is to the death, as you are well aware. If we prevail, we are assured that there will never again be invasion from the east. The power of Wencit of Torenth shall be crushed forever. If we lose—” He paused to wet his lips. “If we lose, it will fall to others to lead you after that. Part of the stipulation of this battle is that the winner shall spare the opposing army, since neither Wencit nor I have any wish to rule over a dead kingdom, despoiled of the flower of its knighthood. Beyond that, I cannot promise you anything except my best effort. I ask your prayers in return.”

He lowered his gaze, as though finished, but Morgan leaned close and whispered something in his ear. Kelson listened, then nodded.

“I am reminded of one last duty before I take my leave from you, my lords: the naming of my successor. Know that it is our wish that our uncle, Prince Nigel Haldane, succeed us on the throne of Gwynedd, should we not return today. After him, the succession passes to his sons, and to their children after them. If we—” He paused and then began again. “If I do not return, you are to accord him the same respect and honor which you have graciously shown to me, and which was my father’s due. Nigel will make you a noble king.”

There was a heavy silence, and then Nigel himself moved to Kelson’s side, dropped to both knees.

“You are our king, Sire—and so you shall remain! God save King Kelson!”

“God save King Kelson!” came the thunderous reply.

Kelson looked at his uncle, at the trusting and hopeful faces upturned toward him, then nodded briskly and turned to mount, accepted a leg up from Morgan. The big black charger pranced and curvetted as Kelson settled into the saddle and gathered up the red leather reins, snorted defiantly as the others mounted up around him.

Then Nigel took the animal’s bridle and led them slowly through the camp to the edge of the battle lines, where a small group of mounted observers waited. Young Prince Conall was there, bearing the royal Gwynedd standard, along with Morgan’s Hamilton, Bishop Wolfram, General Gloddruth, half a dozen others.