Few mourned more profoundly than his king, who knelt beside Ahern's grieving sister and his bride of only hours with his face buried in his hands, pondering what would become of the gaping hole left by the dead man's untimely passing. In his all too short life, Ahern de Corwyn had taken on the mantle of his noble inheritance with passion and courage, overcoming adversities that might have seduced a lesser man into accepting the life of a wealthy and privileged cripple.

Only recently had the first stirrings of a born military genius begun to blossom — along with a quiet self-confidence regarding his Deryni gifts. Both had been of inestimable value in the campaign just past — and both had been lost with his death. Ahern had been but eighteen.

In sum, had he lived, he would have become a formidable Duke of Corwyn, in time. Instead, the mantle of that noble heritage now fell upon his sister Alyce — or rather, her eventual son.

Ensuring that she took a suitable father for that son now became yet another burden that Donal Haldane must bear, for Alyce de Corwyn shared the same blood and heritage as the dead man, and likely with similar potential. Any son of Alyce must be mentored by a father of unimpeachable integrity, with the ability to guide up the boy in the way he should go — a pair of safe hands in which to entrust the power that came with eventually taking the reins of ducal authority in Corwyn.

No such considerations yet stirred the mind of the potential mother of such a duke. For Alyce, the losing of her beloved brother represented a shock not unlike what she had experienced after the death of their father, three years before, and the loss of their sister, not a year past.

Once again, Zoë Morgan knelt at her side, but this time not merely as bosom companion but as sister, briefly bound to Ahern in law and spirit, but fated never to consummate that union. If Alyce now wept, she wept for Zoë as much as for Ahern — and for herself. Her brother's death changed many things. Some things, however, remained sadly and always the same.

The cheerless journey back to Rhemuth with Ahern's body was eased somewhat by Zoë's presence, sharing her grief. Again, the robes of mourning must be pulled from coffers, and again a Requiem was sung for a departed earl of Lendour in the chapel royal, before sending his body home for burial. Though Duke of Corwyn by birth, Ahern de Corwyn had never ruled in his ducal lands, so the decision was taken to inter him at Cynfyn with his father and other scions of the Lendour line.

Much of the next few weeks seemed like a repeat of the obsequies for Keryell three years before, though with an even larger turn-out. Ahern had won the hearts of all his Lendouri subjects during the months of his convalescence and the mastery of his injury’s aftermath, and his people had been well proud when the king consented not only to knight him ahead of custom but to confirm him in his Lendour title, also departing from what the law ordinarily allowed.

Corwyn, too, paid him homage in death, in far greater numbers than they had for his father, for Ahern would have been their duke in fact, had he lived; Keryell had never been aught but caretaker, where Corwyn was concerned.

His young widow they took to their hearts as well, with wistful regret that she now would never carry on his line. The knights who would have been his support and mainstay as he took up his duties — Deinol Hartmann, Jovett Chandos, and even Sé Trelawney come from his unknown duties in far R'Kassi — rallied to the support of his sister, promising to keep safe in trust the lands that now would pass through her line instead of Ahern's.

Both Alyce and Zoë were exhausted by the time they arrived back in Rhemuth, though their return at least was marked by happier anticipation as the time approached for the queen's latest lying-in. In addition, the king had appointed a permanent governor for Ratharkin, a baron from the Purple March called Lucien Talbot, which had relieved Earl Jared to return to Rhemuth and make his formal declaration to Vera to become his wife. Very shortly after, Vera had journeyed to her family home near Cynfyn, there to make preparations for a wedding in Kierney the following spring. Letters were awaiting Alyce and Zoë, telling of the wedding plans and inviting their participation in the happy event.

That news, and the birth of a healthy daughter to the queen, early in September, did much to raise the spirits of the court. The baby's christening a few weeks later, as Silke Anne, was cause for rejoicing: renewal of life in the midst of death. Gradually the pain of Ahern's passing began to fade, and gradually, both Alyce and Zoë began to smile again.

It was early November when what began as a day's pleasant diversion set off a chain of events fated to have far-reaching results. The weather, too, had changed, not many days before, and a light powdering of snow lay on the ground: the first of the season. The king was preparing to lead a hunting expedition out into the forests north of the city, and had invited the queen and her ladies to accompany him. It would be her first such outing since the birth of Princess Silke. Richeldis, a fine rider, had been delighted to agree.

Accordingly, certain of her ladies were asked to ride with the royal party, Alyce and Zoë among them. It was an activity usually declined by the older ladies of the court, but the younger ones always relished a day in the field, surrounded by handsome men and handsome horses and with far less scrutiny than was possible within the castle walls.

On this particular day, the king's party included his handsome and unmarried brother Richard, nearly a dozen of Duke Richard's most promising squires, some to be knighted at the Twelfth Night to come, and many of the members of the king's council — perhaps twenty in all, along with as many huntsmen and men-at-arms. Sir Kenneth Morgan rode at the king's side: steady and reliable, attractive enough, but more of an age with Richard's generation than that of the king's other aides and the squires.

The day was sparkling, the sunshine bright and brisk, the horses frisky. They had a good ride for the first two hours, and good luck against the stag. One of the senior squires in the party brought down an eight-point buck, and the falconers totted up a good day's bag in pigeon and rabbit.

The ambush had been planned by someone with disturbing foreknowledge of the king's movements. Fortunately, the archers who carried out the attack were far less efficient. The first arrow only grazed the back of the king's hand, ruining a perfectly good pair of hawking gloves and his good humor; the second took Sir Kenneth Morgan solidly through the back of his thigh, pinning him to his saddle and sending his mount into a fit of bucking affront at this wound to its back. Before a third could be loosed, the king's men had their master on the ground and protected by a layer of knights and squires, and more of them were surging into the trees to isolate and overwhelm the attackers.