IN the cathedral in Dhassa, the ceremony of reconciliation for the two repentant Deryni was underway. After entering the cathedral in full procession, in the company of eight bishops and untold numbers of priests, monks, and other assistants, Morgan and Duncan had been solemnly presented to the presiding Bishop Cardiel and had formally declared their desire to be received back into the communion of Holy Mother Church. After that, they had knelt together on the lowest step of the altar and listened while Cardiel, Arilan, and the others intoned the prescribed formulae to accomplish their purpose.

It had been a time of concentration and of danger, for the two were required to respond often and intricately to the liturgy so sung and spoken. At last a portion approached when there would be little for the penitents to outwardly say or do. The two avoided looking at one another as each was led by two priests to the wide riser before the final approach to the altar and assisted to lower himself to the carpet, there to lie prostrate while the next portion of the ceremony continued.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul,” the bishops chanted, “and forget not all His benefits: Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; Who healeth all thy diseases; Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; Who crowneth thee…”

As the psalm droned on, Morgan shifted his position from where his head rested lightly on his clasped hands and moved them slightly so that he could see his Gryphon ring. Now, while the bishops were absorbed in their sacerdotal function, he must try to contact Derry, even if only fleetingly. For if all were well with Derry and he could make contact, it would be a relatively simple matter to arrange for another contact later this evening, when circumstances were not so dangerous.

He opened his eyes a slit and saw that Duncan was watching him covertly, that no one seemed to be paying much attention to them for the moment. He would have perhaps five minutes. He prayed that it would be enough.

Closing his eyes, he felt the brief touch of Duncan’s presence signaling ready, then slitted his eyes open once again to use his Gryphon as a focal point. Slowly he permitted his senses to close out the candlelight, the drone of the bishops’ voices, the pungent incense smoke swirling around him, the rough scratch of wool carpeting under his chin. Then he was slipping into the initial levels of trance, his mind reaching out for some fleeting contact with the mind of Sean Lord Derry.

“…Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned and done this evil in Thy sight, O Lord,” Cardiel sang, “that Thou mightest be justified when Thou speakest, and be clear when Thou judgest…”

But Morgan did not hear.

DERRY tried to mask any hint of his very real fear as the two men stepped from either side of him in the narrow dungeon. The man on the left was tall and hawk-visaged, with a terrible scar knifing down the aristocratic nose until it disappeared in the neatly trimmed moustache and beard, the dark hair touched with silver at the temples, the eyes pale as silver in the torchlight. He it was who bore the torch whose fire-fled shadows had sparked such dread in Derry minutes before, who terrified Derry anew as he turned casually to set the torch in a wall bracket not far from the one already there.

But this was not Wencit. Derry knew that instinctively, after only a glimpse of the second man. For the man who glided past his right side to pause directly in front of the chair was as different from the tall, scarred stranger as two men could be: trim and angular yet graceful, red of hair and moustache, pale blue eyes gazing unblinking at the frightened captive who sat immobilized before him. Wencit’s attire was informal, a flowing robe of slubbed amber silk pulled on over rich satin damask of the same golden hue. A wide, linked belt of gold girdled his narrow waist, with a jeweled dagger thrust carelessly into the top. Rings glittered on the long, ascetic fingers, but other than those, Wencit wore no jewels. Tawny velvet slippers with pointed toes showed beneath the hem of the long tunic, the fabric gold-embroidered across the instep. So far as Derry could see, the dagger was Wencit’s only weapon. Somehow the thought did little to put his mind at ease.

“So,” the man said. It was the same voice that Derry had identified as Wencit’s earlier, and this but confirmed his growing fear. “So, you are the illustrious Sean Lord Derry. Do you know who I am?”

Derry hesitated, then permitted himself a curt nod.

“Splendid,” Wencit said, much too amiably. “Tell me, have you made the acquaintance of my esteemed colleague? Permit me to introduce Rhydon of Eastmarch. The name may be familiar to you.”

Derry glanced instinctively at the other man, who was leaning casually against the wall to his left, and the man dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Rhydon was dressed much like Wencit but in midnight blue and silver instead of the amber gold. The more somber attire, the shadow-side of Wencit’s sunlit hues, seemed to suggest that it was Rhydon who should be more feared, made Wencit seem almost a trifle soft and even effeminate by comparison.

But, no! Derry sharply reminded himself that he must not allow himself to be lured into that illusion. Wencit was to be feared more than ten Rhydons, regardless of Rhydon’s reputation as a Deryni of the highest powers. Derry must not let them throw him off his balance. It was Wencit who was to be feared.

Wencit gazed at his prisoner for a long moment, noting Derry’s reaction to the darker man, then smiled faintly and crossed his arms on his chest. The soft rustling sound of the long silk robe instantly brought back Derry’s attention. Wencit’s broadening smile worried Derry even more than had his sterner countenance.

“Sean Lord Derry,” Wencit said again. “I have heard much of you, my young friend. I am given to understand that you once served as Alaric Morgan’s military aide, that you now sit on the Haldane kinglet’s royal council. Well, not precisely now, I suppose.” He watched Derry bite his lip at that.

“Yes, indeed, I have heard a great deal about the derring-do of Sean Lord Derry. It appears that we shall soon be in a position to learn whether that sterling reputation of yours is merited. Pray, tell me about yourself, Sean Lord Derry.”

Derry tried not to let his consternation show, but he feared he was not succeeding. Very well, let Wencit know that it was not going to be easy. Why, if Wencit thought he was going to give in without a fight, he was sadly mistak—

Very suddenly Wencit moved a step closer. Derry tensed and froze, but he forced himself to meet the sorcerer’s gaze defiantly, hardly daring to breathe—and was surprised when Wencit drew back slightly, was a bit dismayed to see that the sorcerer had dropped one hand to the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

“I see,” Wencit said, casually withdrawing the dagger to turn it between his two hands. “You presume to resist me, eh? I think it only fair to warn you that I am delighted. After everything I had heard about you, I was beginning to fear you would disappoint me. I so dislike disappointments.”

Before Derry could react to that declaration, Wencit suddenly crossed the remaining two paces to Derry’s chair and laid the edge of his dagger hard against Derry’s throat. Derry’s eyes closed briefly as he braced himself for death, but he knew this was not yet his time—as did Wencit. The Torenthi sorcerer watched Derry’s face carefully for some sign of yielding as he exerted pressure, but there was none, and none expected.

With a slight smile, Wencit withdrew the blade and set its tip under the top lacing of Derry’s leather jerkin—and cut the thong. Derry started as the leather gave, but he forced himself to remain impassive as Wencit continued moving slowly down the row of lacings, cutting each in turn.

“Do you know, Derry,” cut, “I have often wondered what it is about Alaric Morgan that inspires such loyalty in his followers,” cut. “Or Kelson and those other rather strange Haldane predecessors of his,” cut. “Not too many men could sit here silently as you do,” cut, “refusing to talk, though they surely can guess what unpleasantness awaits them,” cut, “and still remain loyal to a leader who is far away and can never hope to help them out of this, even if he knew.”

Wencit’s blade hooked in another thong and moved to cut, but this time the blade was stopped by something that clinked metallic. Wencit had reached mid-chest level, and he raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise as he looked up at Derry.

“Why, what is this?” he asked, cocking his head wistfully. “Why, Derry, there seems to be something stopping my blade, doesn’t there?” He tried a few more sharp, downward strokes, again with no other result than a dull clink.

“Rhydon, what do you suppose it is?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Sire,” the darker man murmured, collecting himself and strolling to Derry’s other side.

“Nor I,” Wencit purred, using the dagger as a retractor to pull aside the edge of the jerkin until a sturdy silver chain was revealed. The ends of the chain disappeared under Derry’s shirt. “Why, look at this.”

With a questioning glance at Derry, Wencit flicked the end of his blade under the chain and began slowly withdrawing it until a heavy silver medallion appeared.

“A holy medal?” Wencit asked, his mouth twitching at the corners. “How touching, Rhydon. He carries it next to his heart.”

Rhydon chuckled. “One is tempted to ask what saint he believes could protect him from you, Sire. But I daresay, there is none.”

“No, there is not,” Wencit agreed, glancing at the medal, then lifting it closer with the tip of his blade for a better look. “Saint Camber?”

His eyes seemed to darken to pools of indigo as he glanced up at Derry’s face, and Derry felt his heart miss a beat. Slowly, deliberately, Wencit bent to scan the words incised around the rim, scorn edging his voice as he read them aloud.

“Sanctus Camberus, libera nos ab omnibus malis—deliver us from every evil….”

Very deliberately, not taking his gaze from Derry’s, Wencit closed his hand around the silver disc and wrapped the chain around two fingers, pulling it taut around Derry’s neck until their faces were but a hand-span apart.

“Art thou Deryni, then, youngling?” Wencit whispered harshly, his words chill as ice. “Thou invokest a Deryni saint, my foolish young friend. Dost believe he can protect thee from me?”

Derry’s stomach did a slow, queasy roll as Wencit gave the chain a slight twist.

“Wilt not answer, Sean Lord Derry?”

The terrible eyes seemed to be boring into Derry’s, and the young Marcher lord wrenched his gaze away with a shudder. He heard Wencit’s snort of disgust, but he would not permit himself to be drawn back into that potent glance.

“I see,” Wencit breathed softly.

The pressure on the chain around Derry’s neck lessened slightly. But then Wencit’s hand was moving in a lightning blur, snapping the chain and jerking Derry’s neck with the sudden tension before one of the metal links gave. With a gasp, Derry stared at the sorcerer again, at the broken chain spilling from between long, white fingers. The back of his neck stung where the chain had burned him with the friction of passing, and he realized, with a sinking sensation in his stomach, that Wencit now held the Camber medallion.

Now he could never hope to stand up to Wencit. His link with Morgan was broken. The magic was gone. He was all alone now, and Morgan would never know.

He managed to swallow, though with difficulty, and tried, unsuccessfully, to calm his pounding heart.

AS the long prayers ended in Dhassa Cathedral, Morgan dragged himself from the depths of trance and forced himself to open his eyes. He must be very careful, for in a very short time he was going to have to get to his feet and proceed with the ceremony, make coherent responses. There must be no sign that the past five minutes had been in any way out of the ordinary. No one must suspect.

He thought, though, that he had briefly touched Derry’s mind. He wished he could be certain. He had been left with the distinct impression that Derry had tried to reach him but had been interrupted. And then, just now, he had been nearly overcome by a mind-numbing flare of fear as he tried to extend even further; and he very nearly had been unable to come back unaided.

He made himself draw a deep, settling breath and slowly let it out, applying one of the Deryni aids to banish fatigue, and forced himself to lift his head, to rise to his knees as the priests lifted him up. He caught Duncan looking at him as he stood to be divested of the violet robe covering his white tunic, and tried to flash him some sign of reassurance; but Duncan knew that something was wrong. He could sense the tension in every line of his kinsman’s body as the two of them knelt again before the high altar. Morgan tried again to gather his wits about him as Cardiel began another prayer.

“Ego te absolvo…” I absolve you, Alaric Anthony and Duncan Howard, and do absolve and deliver you from all heresy and schism, and from every and all judgment, censure, and pain for that cause incurred. So do we restore you into the unity of our Mother, Holy Church….

Morgan humbly bowed his head and folded his hands in an attitude of piety and tried to formulate some new plan of action. Having made contact once, however fleeting, he knew that he would have to try again, that something must be drastically wrong wherever Derry was.

But what? And how much harder did he dare to try, here within the confines of the cathedral?

The priests were at his elbows again, pressing him forward, and to his left he could see Duncan receiving the same guidance. He moved to the first step before him and knelt again, Duncan to his left. Cardiel stood directly before them. Now came the imposition of hands, the central part of the ceremony. Morgan bowed his head and tried to clear his mind, to make his response not altogether unworthy, and listened as the age-old phrases rolled from Cardiel’s lips, his outstretched hands slowly descending toward their heads.

“Dominus Sanctus, Patri Omnipotenti, Deus Aeternum….” Holy Lord, Father Omnipotent, Eternal God, who coverest the earth with Thy favor, Thee we Thy lowly priests as suppliants ask and entreat, that Thou wilt deign to incline the ear of Thy mercy and remit every offense and forgive all the sins of these, Thy servants, Alaric Anthony and Duncan Howard; and give unto them pardon in exchange for their afflictions, joy for sorrow, life for death.

Cardiel’s hands came to rest lightly on their heads.

“Lord, grant that they, though fallen from the celestial heights, may be found worthy to persevere by Thy rewards unto good peace and unto the heavenly places unto life eternal. Per eumdem Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum Filium tuum, qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitate Spiritus Sancti Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum…. Amen.”

There was a great shuffling of feet and clearing of throats and rustling of garments as the congregation got to its feet, and Morgan let his attending priests guide him and Duncan to the side of the chancel. Now would follow a special Mass of thanksgiving, in celebration of their return to the fold. Morgan glanced covertly at his kinsman as they took their places at a wide prie-dieu, where they were expected to remain during the Mass. His eyes sought Duncan’s as they knelt side by side.

“Something has happened,” Morgan murmured, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know what, but I’m going to have to try to find out. And I’m going to have to go deeper into trance to do it. If I go too deep, and lose track of what’s going on here, bring me back, and we’ll use the ruse we discussed earlier. I’ll even arrange to faint, if necessary.”

Duncan nodded slightly, his eyes grave as he scanned the cathedral. “All right, I’ll do my best to cover you. But be careful.”

What might have been a faint answering nod descended into Morgan’s hands as he closed his eyes, feigning an attitude of prayer. Again he triggered the first stage of the Thuryn trance, this time going almost immediately into deeper and deeper levels, reaching, questing…

WENCIT opened his hand and gazed at Derry’s Camber medallion again, then passed it to Rhydon, who slipped it into a pouch at his belt. The Deryni sorcerer still seemed calm, composed, but Derry thought he detected a touch of irritation, a hint of unease. The torchlight cast ruddy highlights on Wencit’s hair, making him seem even more malefic in the wavering shadow-play, and Derry was suddenly reminded that he was playing for his life. The thought sobered him as nothing else could have done at that moment, for he could no longer entertain any doubt that Wencit would kill him without a qualm if it suited his purpose. He felt the icy gaze upon him again and forced himself to meet it, tried to will his growing dread to recede.

“So,” Wencit said with a sinister calm to his voice, “I wonder what we should do with this bold interloper, Rhydon. This spy in our midst. Shall we kill him?” He leaned both hands on the arms of Derry’s chair, his face very close to Derry’s.

“I suppose we could feed him to the caradots,” Wencit continued conversationally. “Do you know what a caradot is, little lordling?”

Derry swallowed with difficulty but would not trust himself to answer. He had a suspicion. Wencit smiled.

“I gather that you are not acquainted with caradots,” Wencit murmured, looking pleased. “I fear ’tis a subject sadly lacking in your education, young Derry. This Morgan of yours has been very lax. Rhydon, would you be so good as to show him a caradot?”

With a sly, languid nod, Rhydon moved closer to Derry’s left side and drew himself erect, then traced a peculiar symbol in the air with his forefinger as Wencit moved behind the chair to Derry’s right. At the same time, Rhydon murmured words of an ancient spell under his breath, uttered in an alien tongue whose sound grated on the senses.

The very air crackled at the sorcerer’s fingertips, and a noxious scent of molten lead tickled at Derry’s nostrils. In that instant, which seemed all too endless, Derry caught a glimpse of a creature straight from Hell: a shrieking, mawing terror of green and crimson and gore, with a gnashing, ravening mouth and undulating tentacles that reached hungrily toward his face, closer, closer…

Derry screamed, squeezing his eyes closed and struggling hysterically in his bonds as he fancied he could feel the creature’s acid breath on his face. He heard the monster roar, the hot, leaden smell almost overpowering in his nostrils.

Then there was only a sudden, deathly silence, a breath of fresh breeze; and he knew that it was gone. He opened his eyes to find Wencit and Rhydon gazing down at him in wry amusement, Rhydon’s pale eyes still veiled with a hint of dark, unspeakable power. Derry’s breath came in ragged, terror-fueled shudders as he stared up at the pair of them in horror. Wencit’s mouth twitched in satisfaction, a patronizing little smirk, as he turned to Rhydon and made him a short, casual bow.

“I thank you, Rhydon.”

“It was my pleasure, Sire.”

Derry swallowed hard, not trusting himself to do more, and tried to still the gibbering fear that still nipped at the edge of his mind. He told himself that they would not let that thing have him, at least not until they learned from him what they wanted to know, but the thought did little to ease his fear. Gradually he willed his ragged breathing to slow. His head ached with the effort the whole thing had cost him.

“So, my young friend,” Wencit said silkily, leaning his hands on Derry’s chair arms once more, “do we feed you to the caradots? Or do we find some better use for you? I rather got the impression that you didn’t like our little pet…though I’m certain he liked you.”

Derry swallowed again, overcoming a wave of nausea, and Wencit chuckled.

“No caradots? What do you think, Rhydon?”

Rhydon’s voice was sleek and cold. “Methinks a more suitable fate might be found for him, Sire. I like this sport as well as you, but we must not forget that Sean Lord Derry is an earl and the son of an earl, a man of gentle birth. Hardly proper caradot fare, do you not agree?”

“But the beast seemed so taken with him,” Wencit pouted, his eyes laughing as Derry shrank back in the chair. “Still, you are doubtless right. Sean Lord Derry alive is a far more valuable commodity to me than Sean Lord Derry dead—though he may wish for death before this night is done.” He straightened to fold his arms across his chest and stare down at Derry with an indulgent smile.

“Now, you will begin by telling us everything you know of King Kelson’s strength, both military and arcane. And when you have finished that, you will tell us all there is to know about this Morgan of yours.”

Derry stiffened in outrage, his blue eyes flashing defiance. “Never! I’ll not betray—”

“Enough!” Wencit did not raise his voice, but his single word lashed Derry into silence. “Do not tell me what you will and will not do!” So saying, he leaned down closer to Derry with a terrible intensity. For an instant, the gaze caught and held, the pale eyes swimming in Derry’s vision like twin pools of molten metal. Then Derry was wrenching his gaze away, turning his head to squeeze his eyes shut in desperation, knowing—but not knowing how he knew—that Wencit had tried to Truth-Read him. He could not bear the touch of that alien mind.

He risked opening his eyes a crack and saw Wencit straightening in faint disbelief, the rust-colored brows slightly furrowed. The sorcerer eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then crossed the chamber to the leather-bound trunk set against the right-hand wall. Lifting the lid, he rummaged inside for a long moment.

When he straightened and turned, one hand held a small crystal vial filled with a white, opalescent liquid. His other hand held one of earthenware, from which he decanted four golden drops of a clear fluid into the opalescent white. The opaline fluid turned a glittering, swirling red, like luminous blood, as Wencit held it to the torchlight. He swirled the contents of the vial with slow, circular movements of his hand as he turned and strolled back toward his captive.

“’Tis a pity you have decided not to cooperate, my young friend,” Wencit said, leaning one elbow on the back of Derry’s chair and holding the vial to the light to admire the color—in front of Derry’s face, where he could also see it. “Still, I suppose you have no more choice than I. They have managed to shield you well, this Morgan and his upstart prince. But alas, Deryni-given powers are subject to the same limitations as those Deryni-born—alas for you, that is. The contents of this vial will strip away all resistance.”

Derry swallowed dry-throated and stared at the vial. “What is it?” he found himself whispering.

“So, curiosity is not dead after all, is it? Frankly, though, you would know little more after I told you than before. The merasha is fairly common, but the rest…” Wencit chuckled as Derry clenched his teeth in apprehension. “Yes, you’ve heard about merasha, haven’t you? No matter. Rhydon, hold his head.”

As Derry’s head whipped around to search wildly for the second Deryni, he was already too late. Rhydon’s hands were immobilizing his head in a vise-like grip, pinning his head brutally against Rhydon’s chest. Rhydon knew the pressure points and applied them, and Derry felt his mouth opening, helpless as a baby’s.

Then the crimson fluid was rushing down his throat, searing his tongue and choking him as he fought not to swallow. He felt the blackness swoop down on him as Rhydon applied more pressure to force him to swallow. And then he was gulping it down, despite his best efforts to the contrary—once, twice, finally exploding in a frantic cough as his head was released.

His tongue was numb, a flat, metallic taste in his mouth, his lungs burning with the fire of the fluid that had passed so near. He coughed again and shook his head in an attempt to clear it, tried to will himself to vomit back what Wencit had forced upon him, but it was no use. As his coughing ceased and the fire subsided, he sensed his vision blurring, his limbs going slack. There came a great roaring in his ears, as though the most powerful wind in all creation were trying to blow him from time and space. Colors flashed and fused before his eyes, and yet it seemed to be growing darker.

He tried to lift his head, but it was too much effort. He tried to force his eyes to focus but could not. He saw the tips of Wencit’s velvet slippers by his chair legs as his head lolled helplessly to the right; heard the hated voice murmur something he should have been able to understand but could not.

Then the darkness claimed him.

THE cathedral had grown hushed as the Mass approached its climax, and Morgan tried desperately to force himself back to consciousness. He had caught a fleeting taste of the darkness just before it overwhelmed Derry, though he could not pinpoint its source or its subject, only knew that it had to be somehow connected with Derry, and that something was horribly wrong.

But he could learn no more. He tensed with the effort of disentangling himself from that instant of terror, reeling slightly on the prie-dieu as he slipped at last from his trance. Duncan felt him waver and cast him a furtive glance as he tried to remain unobtrusive.

“Alaric, are you all right?” he asked. His blue eyes said, Are you playing, or is this for real?

Morgan swallowed and shook his head, trying to regain his equilibrium, but his recent exertions, coupled with his recent fast, really had addled his wits. Given time, he could recover, he knew; but here, surrounded by men who were already predisposed to suspicion, he was altogether vulnerable. He sat back on his hunkers and groped blindly for the support of Duncan’s arm as his senses reeled again, knowing he would not be able to stay conscious much longer.

Duncan glanced at the bishops, several of whom were staring in their direction, then leaned closer to Morgan’s ear.

“They’ve noticed, Alaric. If you really need help, tell me. The bishops are—uh-oh, Cardiel has stopped the Mass. He’s coming this way.”

“Take over, then,” Morgan whispered, closing his eyes and swaying again. “I really am going to pass out.” He swallowed. “Be caref…”

His whisper trailed off in mid-syllable as he crumpled against Duncan’s shoulder and went limp. Duncan eased him to the floor and felt his forehead, then looked up to see Cardiel, Arilan, and two of the other bishops staring down at them in various attitudes of concern. He must divert their attention as quickly as he could.

“It’s the fasting; he’s not accustomed to it,” he said, bending over the unconscious man to loosen his collar. “Can someone please bring him some wine? He needs nourishment.”

A monk was dispatched to fetch the wine, and Duncan ventured a quick, clandestine probe of Morgan’s mind. Morgan really had fainted; there was no doubt about that now. His face was pale, his pulse rapid and ragged, his breathing shallow. Duncan knew he would eventually come around of his own accord, none the worse for the experience, but he dared not prolong this scene any longer than necessary. Cardiel had crouched beside him, also reaching out to touch Morgan’s wrist, Arilan and another of the bishops behind him. And several of the barons and generals and warlords nearest the chancel had left their places to stand uncertainly in the aisle, some fingering the hilts of swords and daggers suspiciously. These men must be reassured, and at once, or there would be trouble.

With a look of concern that was not entirely feigned, Duncan took Morgan’s head between his hands, thumbs massaging at the temples, at the same time silently applying the Deryni spell to banish fatigue. He felt Morgan’s stirring in his mind long before the slack body moved slightly.

Then Morgan gave a low moan and rolled his head to one side, eyelids fluttering as consciousness returned. A monk knelt with a hanaper of wine, and Duncan lifted his cousin’s head against his knee to bring the wine to his lips. Morgan’s eyes slowly opened.

“Drink this,” Duncan ordered.

Morgan nodded meekly and allowed himself to be given several swallows of the wine, steadying Duncan’s grip on the hanaper with both hands, then passed one hand before his eyes as though to clear away a troublesome memory. As he did, his other hand contracted almost infinitesimally on Duncan’s, reassuring him that the danger was past. Morgan was once more in control.

Morgan took another swallow of the wine, swirling it around his tongue and judging it too sweet, then pushed the hanaper aside and sat up. The bishops hovered over him with a mixture of concern, indignation, and suspicion, and several of the barons crowded closer to the altar rail to hear what Morgan would say by way of explanation.

“You must pardon me, my lords. A silly thing to do,” he murmured, allowing the real fatigue that remained to tinge his speech with hesitation. “I fear I am not accustomed to fasting…”

He let his voice trail off dazedly, permitting himself to swallow with effort, eyes downcast, and the bishops nodded. The effects of fasting were something they could understand. Under the strain of the past three days, it was not altogether inappropriate that the Duke of Corwyn should faint away at Mass. Cardiel touched Morgan’s shoulder lightly in acquiescence, then stood to reassure the waiting barons and warlords as Morgan and Duncan resumed their places at the prie-dieu.

Arilan stayed looking down at them for long seconds as they knelt again, returning to his place only when Cardiel mounted the altar steps once more. The objects of his scrutiny noted this hesitation and exchanged wary glances as the Mass got underway once more.

From that point, however, the Mass continued to its conclusion without further incident. The two penitents received communion and a blessing, final prayers were said, and at length populace and prelates filed from the cathedral, with Cardiel, Arilan, and the two Deryni ending up in the sacristy with the rest of the bishops. Arilan removed his miter and retired to the tiny vesting chapel off the sacristy while the rest of the prelates finished their business in the room and finally were gone. Only then did he rejoin them, still vested, to move slowly to the door and bolt it.

“Is there something you wish to tell me, Duke of Corwyn?” he asked softly, not turning toward them from his place before the bolted door.

Morgan glanced at Duncan, then at Cardiel, who was standing quietly to one side and looking very uncomfortable.

“I am not certain that I understand your implication, my lord,” Morgan replied carefully.

“Is it usual for the Duke of Corwyn to faint at Mass?” Arilan asked, turning to face Morgan with cold, blue-violet eyes.

“I—as I have said, my lord, I am unaccustomed to fasting. It is little done in my household. And the late hours we have kept these three days, the little sleep, the lack of food—”

“—do not constitute an acceptable excuse!” the bishop snapped, crossing to look Morgan in the eyes. “You gave your word. You lied to us. You used your Deryni powers in the very cathedral, even though we forbade it both of you! I trust that you can produce a justification that seemed valid at the time!”