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was unheard of.
    So the two rode on, ever faster, ever closer, to rendezvous next day at Dol Shaia with their young Deryni king.

CHAPTER TWO
    â€œThy princes are rebellious, and companions of thieves.”
    ISAIAH 1:23
    THE young man with the night-black hair sat at ease on a low camp stool, a kite-shaped shield balanced face-down across his knees and on the edge of the velvet-draped bed. His slender fingers worked slowly, painstakingly, as they wove a new strip of rawhide round and round the hand-grip. His gray eyes were hooded beneath long, dark lashes.
    However, the young man’s mind was not on the repairs he made. Nor was he concerned just now that the device on the reverse of the shield was rich and finely crafted, the royal lion of Gwynedd gleaming gold on red beneath its canvas cover. He was equally oblivious to the priceless Kheldish carpet beneath his dusty boots, the jewel-hilted broadsword hanging within easy reach in its plain leather scabbard.
    For the young man who worked alone in his tent at Dol Shaia was Kelson Haldane, son of the late King Brion of Gwynedd. And this same Kelson Haldane, but a few months past his fourteenth birthday, was now himself King of Gwynedd and ruler in his own right of a score of lesser duchies and baronies. At this moment, he was also a worried young man.
    Kelson glanced at the doorway of the tent and scowled. The flap was pulled over the entrance for privacy, but there was enough light seeping beneath the flap to tell him that the afternoon was fast slipping away. Outside he could hear the measured tread of sentries patrolling beside his tent, the rustle of silk pennons snapping in the breeze, the stamping and snorting of the great warhorses as they tugged at their picket ropes beneath the trees not far away. He returned resignedly to his task, working on in silence for some minutes, then looked up expectantly as the tent flap was drawn aside and a mailed and blue-cloaked young man entered. The king’s eyes lit with pleasure.
    â€œDerry!”
    Sean Lord Derry paused to sketch a casual bow as Kelson spoke his name, then came to perch uneasily on the edge of the state bed. He was not much older than Kelson—in his mid-twenties, perhaps—but his blue eyes were grim beneath the shock of curly brown hair. A narrow length of leather dangled from his calloused fingertips, and he laid it on the shield with a slight nod as he glanced at Kelson’s handiwork.
    â€œI could have done that for you, Sire. Mending armor is not a king’s work.”
    Kelson shrugged and pulled the last of the rawhide lacing taut, then began trimming at the ends of the leather with a silver-chased dagger.
    â€œI had nothing better to do this afternoon. If I were doing what a king should be doing, I’d be long into Corwyn by now, putting down Warin’s revolt and forcing the archbishops to resolve their petty quarrel.”
    He ran his fingers along the shield grip and sheathed his dagger with a sigh. “But Alaric tells me I must not do that—at least not yet. And so I wait, and bide my time, and try to cultivate the patience I know he would want me to display.” He shoved the shield back onto the bed and rested his hands lightly on his knees. “I also try to refrain from asking the questions I know you are reluctant to answer. Except that now the time has come when I must ask. What was the price of Jennan Vale?”
    The price had been high. Of the thirty who had ridden out with Nigel two days before, less than a score had returned. The remnants of his patrol had limped into Dol Shaia at midmorning, angry and footsore; and several of those who returned did not live past noon. In addition to the loss of life, Jennan Vale had taken a heavy toll in morale. As Kelson listened to Derry’s report, his fourteen years weighed heavily upon him.
    â€œThis is even worse than I feared,” Kelson finally murmured, when the last grim details of the rout had been