Richard snorted. «Meara was hardly sovereign, even then, Andrew. It's been a vassal state for more than two hundred years».

«A vassal state, yes», said Ursic of Claibourne. «But still with its own prince, its own court. A royal governor is hardly the same, no matter how well liked he may be — and Iolo Melandry, while loyal and competent, has hardly been well-liked in Meara, as you know».

Duke Andrew grimaced and shook his head. «They wouldn't have liked any royal governor. You know that, Ursic. These stiff-necked Mearans only understand force».

Donal's sharp glance forestalled any further digression into what was agreed by all present. He was well aware that most of the troubles with Meara during his lifetime could be laid at the feet of the maternal grandmother he had never known. Widowed in the Great War, and beloved of the Mearan people, the Princess Urracca had disowned Donal's mother when, seeking an end to the slaughter, her daughter Roisian had fled to Gwynedd and wed Gwynedd's king. Annalind, she declared, was Meara's true heiress; and by that reckoning, many Mearans regarded Annalind's son Judhael as Meara's true prince. It was Judhael who had sparked the present insurrection, as he had the previous one.

«It won't end, you know», Ursic said. «Not until you've killed off the rest of the line».

Several of the others nodded in vehement agreement, a few murmuring to one another, but Donal set his jaw defiantly, raking them all with his gray Haldane gaze.

«Ursic, these are my own people, my mother's blood kin. I have no wish to slay them».

«But slay them you must, Sire — if not now, then at some time in the future», Ursic replied. «For Mearans will never let go of what they regard as theirs. They are a people of honor and passion, with a vehement hatred for what they regard as betrayal of loyalty. And in their eyes, that was the crime of your mother — that she should abandon her lands and people and give herself in marriage to an enemy of Meara».

«We were never enemies of Meara!» Donal snapped, slapping the flat of his hand against the map table. «And my mother was trying to avert the very kind of bloodshed that seems inevitable on the morrow — for I will have what is mine!»

«That may exact a heavy price, Sire», Duke Andrew said.

Then so be it!» Donal retorted, lurching to his feet. «Leave us — all of you!» His ringed hand stabbed emphatically at the tent flap, where Ahern stood guard with Sir Jovett Chandos. «Except for Richard and Morian — and Ahern. You stay. And someone have that scout sent in, who saw the Mearan array at Ratharkin».

In a shuffle of booted feet and creaking harness, the others filed out, leaving Richard, Morian, and Ahern to settle on camp stools as the king motioned them closer and sank into his own chair.

«Well, what is to be done?» he murmured, searching all three attentive faces.

Richard glanced furtively at the two Deryni, then at the carpet beneath his feet, faint apprehension in his expression. At thirty-three, he was just coming into his prime: lean and fit, his shock of sable hair only beginning to silver at the temples, and visible mainly in his close-trimmed beard and mustache.

«It appears you have already decided what is to be done», Richard said quietly, looking up at his brother.

«And you don't approve».

Glancing again at the two Deryni, Richard gave a shrug.

«That isn't for me to say. I'm not the king».

«No. You aren't».

Footsteps and the clink and creak of harness approached outside the tent flap, just before one of the king's bodyguards pulled back the heavy canvas to admit a nondescript-looking scout in dusty tan riding leathers.

«You sent for me, Sire?»

«I did. Sit here, please». Donal hooked a stool closer with a booted toe and indicated it with his chin. «It's Josquin Gramercy, isn't it? Ahern, bring him that writing desk and light, if you will».

Ahern complied without comment, moving the small campaign chest before the stool and setting out parchment, pen, and ink, then bringing a lit candlestick, which he set to the left. Morian had risen to make room, and moved behind the scout as he settled on the stool, one hand casually coming to rest on the man's shoulder. The man started to look up, then seemed to deflate slightly, chin sinking to his chest and eyes closing. Ahern, unaccustomed to seeing a Deryni work so openly, raised one eyebrow.

«Josquin, the king wishes you to sketch out as much as you can remember of the rebel defenses», Morian said in a low voice. «While you are doing that, you will see nothing else and you will hear nothing until I touch you on the shoulder again. Do you understand?»

«Aye, sir», came the whispered reply.

«Good man».

As Morian's hand left his shoulder, the man immediately opened his eyes, took up a quill and carefully inked it, then began sketching out a rough map of the area around Ratharkin, his concentration evidenced by his tongue contortions as he traced each line and letter. After watching him a moment, Donal glanced at Richard and gave a nod.

At once, Duke Richard drew the ebon-hilted dagger from his belt and casually passed its blade close beside the scout's eyes, then let its point sink to lightly touch the man's cheek beneath one eye. Eliciting no reaction, he sighed and resheathed the weapon with a purposeful snick of metal sliding on metal. At no time had the entranced Josquin indicated in any way that he was aware of the test.

«I still find it amazing when he does that», the king said aside to Ahern, as Morian smiled faintly and merely folded his arms, overseeing the scout's work from behind.

Richard gave a snort that was at once skeptical and resigned, casting a furtive glance at Morian as he crouched down beside his brother. «I somehow doubt that yon Josquin would find it so amazing, if he knew. Appalled, perhaps. Donal, does it never give you even the smallest pang of conscience, that you're obliging innocent souls to be party to practices forbidden by the church?»

Donal gave a droll shrug.

«Does the church need to know? Surely, extraordinary measures are justified, to protect the crown I swore to defend».

«Still…»

They were watching the map take shape under Josquin's pen when a guard called from beyond the tent flap and then admitted another man to the royal tent, firmly escorted by Sir Kenneth Morgan. This one was a nervous, bandy-legged little individual of middle years, swathed in the upland tweeds widely worn by the local inhabitants. As he caught sight of the king, he snatched off a shapeless tweed cap to reveal a balding pate and twin braids falling to either side of his neck.

«Sire, this is Nidian ap Pedr», Kenneth said, keeping his hand on the man's elbow. «He says he has ridden from Ratharkin, and he claims to have important information for you. He's unarmed».

«Indeed?»

With a glance at his three companions, Donal shifted his camp stool a little to one side of where Josquin was working and gestured for Kenneth to release the newcomer.

«Very well, Nidian ap Pedr, what is it you wish to tell me?» he said.

Biting at his lower lip, cap clamped close to his breast, Nidian dropped to his knees before the king, too frightened to meet his gaze.

«Have mercy, Sire!» he blurted. «I beg you, do not punish Ratharkin for the sins of only a few. I swear to you that we are loyal there! It is the Lord Judhael who makes war against you, and would deny you what is yours. He has men before the city gates, and more who have occupied the fortifications of the gatehouse and keep, against the wishes of Ratharkin's loyal folk. I am come to offer you the assistance of those who keep their oaths».

«Indeed. And how did Judhael manage to gain such a foothold?» Donal asked.

Nidian ventured a quick, desperate glance at the king, then ducked his head again, cheeks flaming.