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mustache across his upper lip hardly more than adolescent down. But the eyes which met Kelson’s were no longer those of a child.
    The two young men embraced exuberantly, thumping each other on the back and then drawing apart to study the other more soberly. Kelson did not resist as Dhugal took his hand and pressed fervent lips to the back of the gauntlet in homage before looking back at him.
    â€œHow are you, Dhugal?” he murmured.
    â€œI am well, my prince, now that you are here,” Dhugal replied softly, in the cultured court accents he had learned so many years before. “We have heard stories here in the west, of course, but—” He shrugged and grinned broadly. “Well, frankly, I did not think to see Your Grace in person until the day I came to claim my earldom. The borders and highlands have never been a favorite haunt of Haldane kings.”
    â€œThe borders are loved by this Haldane,” Kelson said, flashing with fond remembrance on the image of Dhugal’s elderly father, who had fostered Dhugal to court when he was seven and Kelson nine. “And praise God it did not take your father’s death to bring us back together after all. How is old Caulay?”
    â€œHe does as well as one might hope,” Dhugal replied, a trifle more subdued. “He’s not travelled since your coronation, though. I’ve spent the past three years standing in for him, learning a proper border soldier’s trade. I—don’t suppose my apprenticeship can last much longer now.”
    â€œHis illness is worse, then. Dhugal, I’m sorry,” Kelson murmured. But before he could continue, Gendon, the Trurill sergeant, cleared his throat.
    â€œYour pardon, Lord King, but young MacArdry does have duties. Dhugal, there are wounded.”
    â€œAye, Sergeant, I’ll see to them directly.” Dhugal gave Kelson a short bow of apology. “By your leave, Sire.”
    â€œOf course. My men will assist.”
    Most of the injuries were slight—the minor cuts and bruises expected of any rough and tumble altercation—but a few of the men, Trurill and prisoners alike, sported more serious wounds. One man was dead, despite the apparent restraint shown by all. Kelson detailed his battle surgeon and the squires to work with the bordermen and, when it became clear that Gendon did not intend to return to Trurill that night, gave orders for camp to be made. Conall he assigned to Ewan’s supervision, to observe how the old duke integrated his command with Gendon’s.
    Kelson himself wandered in the forming Trurill camp with only Jodrell for escort, saying little but watching everything with interest. Recalling Dhugal’s comment about the “stories” which had come westward in the past three years, he wondered what preconceptions these highland men might have about him as a result. In the eyes of men such as these, that Kelson was a Haldane was reason enough to suspect him. What further suspicion might have been generated by tales of his magic?
    But when he tried chatting with a few of them, he sensed that their reticence had as much to do with his lowland origins as with his rank or any vague uneasiness they might have because he was part Deryni. They were respectful enough, in their rough, border way, but they offered no more than was asked for, never volunteering information.
    The prisoners volunteered no information either, though that was hardly surprising. Nor was the information which was extracted, sometimes forcefully, of anything but local interest. Kelson Truth-Read a few of them while others asked the questions, but there seemed no point in flaunting his Deryni abilities when the interrogators were getting exactly the same answers he was. The distance between these men and himself had little to do with magic, but the loneliness was just as real. Eventually he found himself watching Dhugal from behind and signalled Jodrell not to speak.
    Dhugal