The royal army rode through the night, and hrough the dawn, and well into the forenoon, accompanied by a steady drizzle.  Though the rain was not as heavy as it had been, still it soaked the horses and it soaked the men, and eventually soaked even and the great lords in their oiled cloaks of leather and fur.  Damp horses and men steamed in the watery sunshine as the sun rose higher in the summer sky.

They stopped just before noon to rest the men and to feed and water the horses, having traversed nearly the half of Gwynedd in their march toward the border.  Though the pace had been stiff, however, not even the foot soldiers were unduly wearied; Imre had at least left a legacy of well-trained and conditioned men.  It was their present king who was feeling the worst effects of the journey.

Cinhil's every muscle ached with the slightest movement, and tortured thighs and buttocks had long since lost their ability to torment him to any greater degree.  Still ill accustomed to riding any great distance, though his general horsemanship had improved considerably, Cinhil had tried to catch what jolting sleep he could during the night, when the horses walked, knowing that those whose job it was would keep his horse with the others.  But every session of trotting would jar his entire body anew.  Compared to that, the few times of travel at the canter were sheerest bliss.

When they had stopped, Cinhil sat his horse unmoving for several seconds, wondering whether he still had the strength to swing down from the saddle without out falling.  He could not delay too long, for Jebediah and his lieutenants were dismounting all around him, and Cinhil knew that someone would be there shortly to take his horse.

He saw Guaire make his way among the other milling men and animals and approach, to lay his hand Cinhil's reins.  The young lord's earnest, human face was upturned in genuine sympathy.

"Do you need assistance, Sire?"

With a sigh, Cinhil shook his head and started to dismount, the sigh turning to groan as he tried to swing his right leg clear of the high cantle.  He succeeded, but his face was white with the effort by the time he got on the ground, his legs trembling beneath him as he supported himself briefly against the stirrup.

"Are you all right, Sire?"  Guaire asked.

"I'm fine," Cinhil whispered.

The area in his immediate vicinity was clearing rapidly, as his companions led their horses away to be watered, and almost before he realized, Sorle was beside him and unfolding a portable stool.  As soon as its legs were seated in the muddy grass, Cinhil sank down gratefully, stretching out first one leg and then the other, wincing as cramped muscles protested.  Guaire took his horse away, and Cinhil closed his eyes and tried to make himself relax.  When he looked up again, Rhys was crouching beside him with bread and cheese and a cup of wine.  The Healer looked tired but relaxed as he put the cup in Cinhil s hand.

"Drink, Sire.  A little food and wine will help revive you."