“Interdict for Corwyn,” the man murmured. “Now, that is an intriguing notion.”

“But will it make a difference?” Wencit countered.

“Perhaps.” The dark man jutted his chin toward their ensorcelled informant and raised an eyebrow in query as the Torenthi king glanced in his direction. “If I may, Sire, I should like to explore an earlier point,” he murmured.

At Wencit’s nod of agreement, the man eased a trifle closer.

“I would hear more about this attempt on Bishop Wolfram,” he said softly. “Were the assassins truly in the service of Archbishop Loris?”

The messenger’s expression did not change save for a flicker of comprehension behind the blank eyes. “It may be that they were…encouraged to take such action,” he stated baldly.

Wencit’s lips curled in a sardonic smile beneath the fox-colored moustache. “My dear cousin, I sometimes think you are altogether too devious, even for one of our kind. Have you no shame?”

The reply came in the same monotone as before, but still managed to convey a hint of smug satisfaction. “I was under the impression that my lord held little regard for Gwynedd’s religious authorities.”

“Not for Edmund Loris,” Wencit’s companion murmured almost inaudibly.

Wencit clucked his tongue in an indication of mild chastisement. “Now, now, Rhydon. You are a son of Gwynedd. A man should have some faith.”

“He serves your purpose, I suppose, my lord,” Rhydon allowed, returning his gaze to the face of their intermediary. “My Lord Volmer, do you know whether the Six at Dhassa have gained any further support?”

“Only the two I have already reported, my lord,” came the uninflected reply. “However, there is word from elsewhere that the Haldane’s troops are on the move. The Dukes of Cassan and Claibourne have been sent to secure the northern borders, and the Earl of Eastmarch occupies the plain below the city, where the king will bring his royal armies. Nigel Haldane is said to be probing into Corwyn.”

“And the Duke of Corwyn?” Wencit asked, allowing himself a tiny, satisfied smile.

This time, their intermediary’s tone suggested that he shared the opinion of the man whose voice he provided.

“Apparently on the run, my lord, along with the discredited McLain.”

“Excellent,” Wencit said softly. “Then it appears that we may proceed exactly as the Haldane has been fearing. How fortunate for us that the thaws come so late to Gwynedd’s side of the mountains.”

“And how unfortunate for Kelson of Gwynedd,” his informant replied, a trace of smugness coming through the uninflected tone.

CHAPTER ONE

“Abroad the sword bereaveth, at home there is death.”

LAMENTATIONS 1:20

THE name they had given the boy was Royston—Royston Richardson, after his father—and the dagger he clutched so fearfully in the deepening twilight was not his own. Around him in the fields of Jennan Vale, the bodies of the dead lay stiffening among the rows of newly ripening grain. Night birds hooted in the deathly silence, and wolves yipped in the hills away and to the north. Far across the fields, torches were being lit along the streets of the town, beckoning the living toward what slim comfort numbers might afford. Too many dead of both sides lay cold at Jennan Vale tonight. The battle had been brutal and bloody, even by peasant standards.