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construed as a formal declaration of hostilities between our two kingdoms. Pray, what is his intention, sir herald?”
    The herald inclined his head. “My master has not confided his deeper motivations regarding such matters, my lord. I am instructed merely to convey his intentions regarding Culliecairn.”
    So saying, he reached casually to the small of his back, up under his tabard, and slowly withdrew a brown leather gauntlet, which he tossed almost offhandedly on the carpet at Rhys Michael’s feet.
    â€œIf you wish a more formal declaration,” the herald went on, “there is a gage in token of my master’s claim. You may take it up or not, as pleases you, but to take back Culliecairn, you will have to discuss the terms with my master.”
    The gage lay a handspan from Rhys Michael’s left boot. The challenge was not unexpected, and he had in mind what he must say, once he picked it up, but he knew he must confirm the terms with the great lords before he acted. He must also make himself calm down.
    â€œLet my ministers attend me,” he said, getting smoothly to his feet and glancing at Hubert, who nodded minutely. “The Lord Constable will see to our guests while we confer. Let refreshment be brought if they desire it. My lords, attend.”
    Within minutes, he was facing the agitated handful of them in the little withdrawing room behind the dais, one forefinger punching the air for emphasis as he argued his point.
    â€œThis news changes the entire focus of what was told me before court,” he was saying. “It’s a direct challenge to the sovereignty of this kingdom. You must let me answer it. If I don’t, I lose all credibility; Gwynedd loses all credibility.”
    â€œSire, we aren’t prepared to go to war with Torenth,” Tammaron began.
    â€œThat’s fine, since this isn’t about a war with Torenth. Arion isn’t behind this. It’s Miklos, on behalf of Marek of Festil, and it isn’t even a war with Marek. Do you really think he’d make a true bid to take back the throne? Not now. Not with only one infant son between him and the obliteration of his house.”
    â€œHas it occurred to you,” Paulin said, “that this could be a ruse to lure you from safety? You aren’t that much more secure than Marek, with only one heir living and hope of another. The man is Deryni, Sire. So is Miklos. So is Arion. What if they mean to use their accursed magic against you?”
    Rhys Michael turned away with a faintly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, for he had no answer for that argument.
    â€œI can’t worry about that just now,” he said softly. “As an anointed king, I believe and hope that divine grace will be granted me to withstand even their magic. It may also be that, against an army, magic is not so effective as it is against an individual man. ’Tis said that an arrow or a sword can be faster and more deadly than a spell—I don’t know.
    â€œBut this I do know: If you allow any foreign prince to take and keep Culliecairn, which belongs to Gwynedd, then the very sovereignty of the Crown of Gwynedd is a sham, never mind the man who wears that crown. I’ve learned to accept my own impotence as a man, but I beg you not to further hollow away the crown you hope someday to put upon my son’s head. What kind of a kingdom would you leave to your sons?”
    The question took Richard sufficiently off guard to silence him. Rhun and Tammaron were also at a loss for words, for all three had sons who stood to inherit the power wielded by their fathers. Manfred exchanged a glance with Hubert, for his sons, too—Hubert’s nephews—had also benefited from the power wielded by their kin at court. Even Albertus became more subdued, for in order to become Grand Master of the Custodes knights, he had resigned his title early to a son already at court—Bonner Sinclair, the young