“Are you in pain?” Kelson murmured, his face impassive.

Wencit tried to move and could not, then tried to speak. It cost him great effort, but the words managed to escape, low and rasping.

“You could ask such a thing, knowing how Rhydon died?”

Kelson turned his face away uncomfortably. “That was not my doing. I had no wish to win by treachery. Better the clean death of honest defeat than a tainted victory.”

“If you think I believe that, you must take me for an even greater fool than I have been,” Wencit said bitterly. “At any rate, you will not walk away from this victory and forget what you have done, however much your precious pride detests what you must do.”

“What do you mean, what I must do?” Kelson said, his gaze snapping back to Wencit.

“Well, I cannot think you truly mean to let us lie here until we die.” Wencit made a weak attempt at a chuckle. “Your father was not one to let even a wounded hawk or stag hound suffer needlessly. Would you do less for a man?”

“Are you saying that you want to die, that you don’t care if I must kill you?”

Wencit coughed weakly and tensed, as though the movement had cost him even more pain. When he looked up at Kelson again, there was a pleading in his eyes, even though he tried to bite back the words he now spoke.

“You little fool, of course I care,” he whispered. “But I cannot live; I know that. Rhydon—or rather, Coram—did his work well. And I know what lies ahead of me before the end, if I receive not the coup. Coram has already killed me. My body is dead, though my mind does not know it yet. Spare me the awful agony of finding out for certain.”

Kelson swallowed with difficulty, then knelt down beside Wencit. He did not yet know what he was going to do. A part of him was moved by the agony of this fellow being in pain, but another part rejoiced to see his father’s murderer brought thus to his fate. He started to reach out his hand, then stopped and clenched his fist against his chest, bowed his head as Wencit’s whisper repeated itself in his ear: “Release me…please….”

Kelson heard the shift of feet behind him and knew that the others were standing now at his back, ready to support him—could almost feel their thoughts beating at the back of his head. Resolutely he closed them out, and his eyes went dark and hooded as he stretched forth his right hand over Wencit’s chest. He started to move, then caught himself as another, final thought came to mind.

“Wencit of Torenth, do you claim the solace of Holy Church?”

Wencit blinked and would have smiled if the move had not cost him so much pain. “I claim only death, Kelson of Gwynedd, and welcome it. Spare me further torment. Do what you must do.”