Kenneth straightened from his post against the door and bent his head in agreement. «I am yours to command, my prince».

Brion only just recalled his manners enough to give his father a perfunctory bow before fleeing through the door that Kenneth hastily opened. When they had gone, Richard poured a cup of mulled wine for himself and another for his brother, setting the warm cup in the king’s hand.

«Should I go with them?» he asked. «After he has seen the queen, of course».

Donal shook his head wearily. «Kenneth is good with helping men deal with their grief. And you have left me with little doubt but that Brion is a man now».

«Still», Richard breathed, «it is hard to lose a brother».

Donal shrugged, sipping at his wine. «No harder, surely, than to lose a son».

«I wouldn’t know, on either count», Richard said. «I do know that I shall lose you some day — if you don’t lose me first! But as for sons…Well, let us just say that I should probably find a wife before I worry about that».

Donal leaned back in his chair and drank again, somewhat recovering what composure he still could summon and smiling faintly. «I have given you little time to think of that, have I? I’m sorry. I truly do recommend it, Richard — and fatherhood».

Richard also smiled, lifting his cup in salute, relieved that his brother’s melancholy seemed to be lifting, if only momentarily. «I shall take you at your word on both counts. You may certainly be proud of your son. He truly did handle the situation in Eastmarch with a wisdom far beyond his years».

«I am very glad to hear you say that», Donal replied. «And I’m sure the men will be very glad that they don’t have to go out in this weather. I must confess that I wasn’t all that keen, though I would have done it. If we are very, very fortunate, I think we can breathe a sigh of relief now, and mostly relax until the spring, when time will have eased our grief».

It was a noble aspiration, but one fated not to be obtainable. After a somewhat subdued supper with his brother and his queen, and indulgence in the hot bath Richeldis had recommended earlier, the king retired with sufficient determination to tackle several pieces of important correspondence before making his way to the queen’s bed, where he managed to exercise his conjugal duties with considerable vigor. Afterward, both he and Richeldis attributed his heated state to the ardor of their coupling, meant to exorcise some of their grief of the past week.

But it became clear, the next morning, that the heat of the night before was more than passion. He awoke feverish and achy, with a scratchy throat and the beginnings of a runny nose, all of which got worse as the day progressed, though he insisted on keeping to his usual schedule.

«You’ve taken a chill, Sire», Kenneth said reproachfully. «You should wrap up in bed and stay warm».

«A king has no time for that!» the king declared, though the declaration would have carried more weight, had he not been obliged to wipe at his nose and running eyes with a soggy square of linen.

«Donal, don’t be a dolt!» Richeldis told him later that afternoon, noting his peaked appearance when they returned to the withdrawing room from hearing the younger children recite their catechism for Father Anselm. Brion and Richard were seated at the work table nearer the fire, taking turns dictating a report to a scribe concerning their actions in Eastmarch, and Kenneth was bent over several maps with Tiarnán and Jiri Redfearn.

«Donal!» the queen repeated, tugging at his arm. «You’ve overdone, and not taken proper care of yourself, and now you’ve caught a cold. You’re going to be miserable, whatever you do».

She slid her arms around his neck, leaning closer to whisper as she nuzzled near the Eye of Rom glittering in his right earlobe. «Darling, why don’t you come to bed with me?» she whispered. «Good gracious, you’re burning up! But no matter; we could try to sweat it out, the way we did last night, mmm?»

He snorted, both pleased and scandalized that she would speak of it, but also mindful that they were not alone.

«Perhaps I should retire early», he said casually. «Our son seems to have handled things well enough without my presence».

«Sire, shall I send for your physician?» Tiarnán asked.

«No doctors», Donal said gruffly. «I’ll take supper in my lady’s chamber, and make an early night of it».

But though the king did preside briefly at the high table in the great hall that evening — an informal meal always set out for those resident in the castle — he only picked at his food. Richeldis did her best to tempt him — with the promise of further romantic dalliance as well as delicacies sent up from the kitchen, once they retired, though both had lost their appeal as he crawled, shivering, into the queen’s bed and curled up beside her.

His condition worsened during the night, and had become full-blown misery by morning. Delegating the day’s appointments to Prince Brion and his brother Richard, the king stayed abed and slept for most of the day, wheezing when he was asleep and wheezing, sneezing, and coughing when awake. That evening he did allow the royal physician to examine him, but Master Cillian could only recommend a light diet and plenty of fluids, and herbal remedies to hopefully lower his fever and ease his aching joints.

All of which was of little avail, for his condition declined with each passing day, as increasing congestion impaired his breathing and fever fuddled his mind. His wife rarely left his side in the next week, and Prince Brion likewise spent hours in waiting, lest his father rally enough to summon him. Kenneth, for his part, fretted for the king’s health not only for the sake of Donal himself, and the welfare of the kingdom, but also for the impact this illness might have on Alaric, if the king should fail to recover.

After the first few days, the priests began a campaign of prayers for the king’s recovery, while the king’s council uneasily saw to the business of running the kingdom with Duke Richard at the helm and Prince Brion at his right hand. At least in public, no one dared to speculate on how things might change under the direction of a new king only just come of age.

The king lingered hardly a fortnight, drifting in and out of consciousness but never really lucid enough to convey proper instructions to his heir. He slipped away in the early morning hours of the fourteenth of November, cradled in the arms of his beloved queen and surrounded by his two surviving sons, his half-brother, and most of the members of the royal council, with two archbishops praying for the repose of his soul.

«He’s gone», the royal physician murmured, when a final breath rattled from Donal’s lips and no more followed. As he leaned closer to confirm, then gently closed the king’s eyes, Richeldis gave a tiny sob, turning her head away. Duke Richard drew himself to attention and made a final bow to his dead brother, then a deeper one to his nephew, who was now become Gwynedd’s sovereign lord at fourteen years of age.

«The king is dead», Richard said steadily. «Long live the king!»

Looking dazed, the new king bent to kiss his sire’s hand a final time, then slipped the Haldane Ring of Fire from a slack finger, though he did not put it on, only closed it in his fist, which he then brought to his chest in salute, head bowed.

The eight-year-old Prince Nigel, now become heir presumptive until his brother should produce an heir, came next to pay his respects, urged forward by Kenneth, tears trickling down his cheeks as he bent to kiss his father’s cheek. His two sisters had said good-bye a few hours before and been taken to their rooms, though it was doubtful whether they slept. The two archbishops, after approaching to bow deeply to the silent figure in the queen’s arms, then withdrew a short distance and knelt in prayer, beginning the traditional litany for the dead.