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their master!”
    The prince paused, willing each of the lords to recall the Darkwalker War. “Many are the wounds that remain with us to this day, suffered in that struggle. Galric, whose cantrev was ravaged by the hungry wolfpack.… Fergus, and Macshea—their homes burned by the invading Northmen. Corwell itself, held by the narrowest of margins.
    “While others of us, such as Pontswain, were more fortunate. Not only were they spared the destruction of their homes, but they did not suffer the deaths of their people in combat.” He paused again, allowing the facts to sink in.
    Before Tristan could continue, however, Lord Pontswain rose smoothly to his feet, smiling politely around the table before nodding quickly at the prince.
    “My … prince,” he began. The pause was long enough that none could miss its significance. “Your gracious hospitality and entertainment is greatly appreciated. It is time, however, that we arrived at the true purpose of this council.
    “Leave us, please, to attend to the man’s task of selecting the next king of Corwell.” Pontswain turned back to the lords, his gesture emphasizing the prince’s dismissal.
    Tristan had been prepared for a maneuver of some kind, but the bluntness of it took him by surprise. He found his voice a second later.
    “My … lord.” He mimicked Pontswain’s pause perfectly. “I have earned the right to attend this council, as much as any other man here—perhaps more than some, if such earning is measured in blood shed for the kingdom.” He saw the lords who had suffered during the war nodding in mute agreement, as attention turned back to Pontswain.
    “Now, now, lad …” Pontswain’s patronizing tone gave Tristan his opening.
    “Where do you earn the right to condescend?” he growled. “The laws of the Ffolk provide that my fitness to rule will be judged alongsideyours, old man—and it may be that it will be judged superior to yours!”
    In a brief minute, the field of candidates for the kingship had been narrowed to two. Both men understood this and sized each other up for a moment before proceeding.
    “None would deny,” began Pontswain, “that, under the guidance of your father, you made some remarkable contributions to the realm. But your father is gone now—”
    “Which is why we are here.…” Tristan interrupted flatly. “I stood without my father upon Freeman’s Down, where my troops stopped an army of Northmen numbering four times our own! I found the Sword of Cymrych Hugh without my father, returning that weapon to the Ffolk after it had been lost for centuries! My father lay wounded within these walls when I faced the Beast in the courtyard and drove it from this castle. And it was also without my father that I pursued and slayed the Beast in mortal combat!”
    “And since that time you have wasted your time drinking and carousing, and not done a single thing to better yourself!” accused Pontswain. Several of the lords turned to regard the prince somewhat critically, and he paused. It had not occurred to Tristan that his reputation would have reached these men.
    “Perhaps I have enjoyed myself,” Tristan finally conceded. “But it was at my own expense. I have not been collecting and hoarding a fortune by overtaxing the peasants of Corwell!” Now several lords regarded Pontswain accusingly, for it was well known that Lord Pontswain was a harsh taxer and miserly with his expenses.
    “My experience as the administrator of a cantrev has given me an opportunity to prepare for the kingship. My cantrev has been prosperous beyond the norm—”
    “Because you stood behind your stone walls while war ravaged the cantrevs of your neighbors and countrymen!”
    “That accusation is not true,” Pontswain returned, “and I’m glad you’ve given me the opportunity to respond.
    “During the Darkwalker War, my troops diligently patrolled the southern shore of Corwell Firth. I myself rode at their head as we combed the moors,