To the side, Kelson was aware of Lionel and Bran gazing silently at him, the pleading evident also in their pain-wracked eyes. Slowly, deliberately, Kelson turned his gaze back to Wencit, his right hand contracting slowly over Wencit’s heart as he whispered low:

“Then, die, Wencit. Obtain release. Feel the cold hand of death at your heart, and the rustle of the death-angel’s wings. Thus share you the death of my father Brion. Thus is the heart of Wencit stopped!”

At the last word, his fist clenched convulsively. Wencit stiffened, a faintly startled look in his eyes. Then the proud body of the one-time King of Torenth was but an empty shell, life and intelligence—and agony—now past.

Before the others could react, Kelson moved between Lionel and Bran and this time stretched forth both his hands, one above the heart of each man.

“Go with your master and the angel of death, Lionel of Arjenol and Bran Coris Earl of Marley. And may God, in His infinite wisdom, find you more mercy than I have been able to bestow upon you. Be still!”

Again, there was the convulsive clench of fists, the jerk of anguished bodies. Then all was still.

Slowly Kelson let his hands sink to his sides, to rest heavily against the grass beneath his knees. When he looked up, it was to search the three grave faces of his friends. But as he got to his feet, he drew away from the hand Arilan stretched out to assist him.

“Don’t, Excellency. It is not fitting that a holy man should touch me. I have just killed, and my hands are bloody.”

“You had no choice, my prince,” Arilan said quietly, understanding, but lowering his hand just the same. “You rendered an act of mercy. And these men were your enemies. They deserved to die.”

“Perhaps. But not like this. I would not have had it end this way.”

Morgan looked down at the toes of his boots. “We are not always masters of our destinies, Sire. You know that. It is sometimes the awful duty of a king, that he must kill.”

“But he is not obliged to like it,” Kelson whispered. “It is not something of which he should be proud.”

“And are you proud?” Duncan replied. “I think not. I have known you too long and too well to believe that of you.”

“But I’m glad they are dead,” Kelson said stiffly. “How do I reconcile that? And at the time, I wanted them to die. I willed it, and they died. No man should have that power, Father.”

“But some men do,” Morgan said. “Wencit had it once—and used it.”

“Does that make it right?”

“No.”

There was a long silence in which no one dared to speak; then Kelson moved slowly back to Wencit’s side. He stared down at the body for a long moment, scarcely breathing, then bent slowly to take the crown from Wencit’s head.

“This is our prize this day, my friends,” he said bitterly. “The crown of a kingdom I never wished to rule, the death of a friend I had hardly come to know,” he gestured toward Coram’s body, “and a legacy of disappointment in myself, that there could be no other way.”