The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson of Gwynedd offered him a steaming platter of venison in gravy, but the young king shook his head and pushed his silver trencher aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head bare of any royal ornament, and he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the fire, wiggling his toes contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began to clear the table.

The king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and placed it gently on the table. Fire and taper-light winked from the polished metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of Duncan’s cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled, blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was contending with the seal on a new bottle of wine.

“Do you need help, Nigel?”

“Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer,” Nigel said with a grunt.

“Certainly. Benedicite,” Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that went with the blessing.

The seal chose that minute to give way, allowing the cork to shoot from the neck of the bottle in a shower of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he, too, could be splashed, but Nigel’s best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool carpeting beneath his booted feet.

“Holy Saint Michael, you didn’t have to take me so literally!” the prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over the table while the squire mopped the floor. “As I’ve always said, you cannot trust priests.”

“I was about to say the same for princes,” Duncan observed, winking in Kelson’s direction and watching the boy control a smile.

The squire Richard wiped Kelson’s chair and the bottle, then wrung out his cloth over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped move aside goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its warming rack close by the fire.

Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with the same wide smile, the gray Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked most Haldane males. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core, his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.

As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved in an unconscious gesture to brush back a lock of jet-black hair, and Duncan felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement. Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion’s as well. Brion, whom Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies that even now threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war.

Now Brion was gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew.

Duncan’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson’s crimson livery entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen towel was draped over the lad’s shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached Duncan’s nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl.

Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan’s side, would he look at the priest.

Duncan controlled the urge to smile as he replaced the towel on the boy’s shoulder. But when the boy had scurried from the chamber, he gazed across at Nigel with a mischievous grin.

“Is he one of your pupils, Nigel?” he asked, knowing that it was so. Nigel was in charge of the training of all the pages in the royal household, but Duncan knew that this one was special. In confirmation, Nigel gave a proud nod.

“Payne, my youngest,” he replied. “He has much to learn, but so does every new page. This was his first time to serve officially.”

Kelson smiled and picked up his goblet, idly twirling the stem between his long fingers so that the faceted sides caught the reflection of tunic and fire and tapestried walls.

“I well remember when I was a page, Uncle. Not so very long ago, either. The first time you allowed me to serve my father, I was scared to death.” He leaned his head against the tall chair-back and continued dreamily, “There was no reason to be afraid, of course. He was the same, and I was the same, and the mere fact that I wore court livery shouldn’t have made any difference.

“And yet, it did. Because I was no longer a boy serving his father; I was a royal page serving the king. There’s a big difference.” He glanced across at Nigel. “Payne felt that tonight. Even though I’ve known him all his life, and used to play with him and the other boys, he knew the difference. Tonight I was his king, not a familiar playmate. I wonder if it’s always like that?”

The squire Richard, who had been turning down the state bed on the other side of the room, approached Kelson’s chair and made a short bow.

“Will there be aught else, Sire? Anything I may bring ye?”

“I don’t think so. Uncle? Father Duncan?” The two shook their heads and Kelson nodded. “That’s all for tonight, then, Richard. Check with the household guard before you leave. There should be a coach standing by later on to take Father Duncan back to the basilica.”

“You needn’t bother,” the priest protested. “I’ll be fine on foot.”

“And catch your death of cold? Certainly not. The night’s not fit for man nor beast. Richard, there will be a coach ready for Father Duncan. Understood?”

“Aye, my Liege.”

Nigel drained his goblet and gestured toward the door as it closed behind Richard. “That’s a fine young man, Kelson,” he said, reaching behind to retrieve the wine bottle and pour himself another cup. “He’ll be ready for knighthood soon. One of the finest lads I’ve ever had the pleasure to train. Alaric concurs in that judgment, by the way. Anyone else?”

He proffered the wine bottle, but Kelson shook his head. Duncan inspected his goblet and found it half-empty, held it out for more. As Nigel replaced the bottle, Duncan leaned back in his chair and ruminated aloud.

“Richard FitzWilliam. He must be about seventeen now, isn’t he?”

“Very nearly eighteen,” Kelson amended. “He’s the only son of Baron Fulk FitzWilliam, up in the Kheldish Riding. I’d planned to knight him and a dozen others before we begin the summer campaign. His father will be pleased.”

Nigel nodded. “He’s one of the best. What news of Wencit of Torenth, by the way? Any further word from Cardosa?”

“Not for the past three months,” Kelson replied. “The city has a strong garrison, as you know, but they’ll be snow-bound for a few more weeks at least. And once the high passes are clear, Wencit will be hammering at the gates again. We can’t possibly get relief troops there until the spring flooding is done, and it will be too late by then.”

“So we lose Cardosa.” Nigel sighed, gazing into the depths of his cup.

“And the treaty dies, and war comes,” Duncan added.

Nigel shrugged and began running the tip of his finger along the rim of his goblet. “Hasn’t that been apparent from the start? Brion certainly knew there was that danger when he sent Alaric to Cardosa last summer. And when Brion died and we had to recall Alaric or lose you, Kelson—well, I still think it was a fair exchange: a city for a king. Besides, we haven’t lost Cardosa yet.”

“But we will,” Kelson murmured, lowering his eyes. “And how many lives will be lost in the exchange?” He twined his fingers together and studied them for a moment before continuing. “I sometimes wonder how to weigh those lives against my own. Sometimes I wonder if I’m worth it.”

Duncan exchanged a troubled glance with the king’s uncle, then turned a more reassuring one on Kelson. “Wise kings will always wonder about such things, my prince. The day you stop wondering, stop weighing the lives that hang in the balance—on that day, I shall mourn.”

The young king looked up with a wry grin. “You always know what to say, don’t you? It may not save cities or lives, but at least it soothes the conscience of the king who must decide who survives.” He lowered his eyes again. “I’m sorry. That sounded bitter, didn’t it?”

Duncan’s reply was cut short by a knock at the door, followed by the immediate entrance of young Richard FitzWilliam. Richard’s handsome face was tense, even perplexed, and his dark eyes flashed as he made an apologetic bow.

“Begging your pardon, Sire, but there’s a priest outside who insists he must see ye. I told him ye’d retired for the night, that he should come back tomorrow, but he’s most persistent.”

Before Kelson could reply, a dark-cloaked cleric shouldered past Richard and hurried across the room to kneel at Kelson’s feet. A stiletto had appeared unobtrusively in Kelson’s hand as the man first burst through the doorway, and Nigel half rose from his chair, also reaching for a weapon. But even as the man’s knees hit the floor, Richard was straddling his back, one arm across the intruder’s throat in a choke hold and a knee in the small of the man’s back, the other hand with a dagger at the jugular.

The man grimaced under Richard’s rough handling but made no move to defend himself or to threaten Kelson. Instead, he screwed his eyes shut and extended his empty hands to either side, doing his best to ignore the pressure of Richard’s arm hard across his windpipe.

“Please, Sire, I wish you no harm,” he croaked, grimacing as Richard’s cold blade touched the side of his neck. “I’m Father Hugh de Berry, Archbishop Corrigan’s secretary.”

“Hugh!” Duncan exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously as he recognized the man and signaling Richard to release him. “What the devil? Why didn’t you say so?”

Hugh had opened his eyes with a start at Duncan’s voice, and now he stared pleadingly at his brother priest, his eyes betraying his fear but also his resolution. Richard released his stranglehold and stepped back a pace at Duncan’s repeated gesture, but he did not relax his vigilant pose, nor did he sheath his dagger. Nigel warily took his seat again, but Kelson continued to finger the stiletto he had produced when the man approached.

“You know this man, Father?” Kelson asked.

“He is who he claims to be,” Duncan replied cautiously, “though I cannot speak for his intent after such an entrance. An explanation, Hugh?”

Hugh swallowed with difficulty, then glanced at Kelson and bowed his head. “I beg forgiveness, Sire, but I had to see you. I have certain information I could trust to no one else, and—”

He hazarded another glance at Kelson, then cautiously withdrew a folded piece of parchment from inside the breast of his cassock. His heavy black cloak was dark across the shoulders where the rain had soaked through, and his thinning brown hair glistened with a mist of fine droplets in the dancing taper-light. His fingers trembled as he handed the parchment across to the king. He averted his eyes again as he folded his hands inside his sleeves to hide their shaking.

Kelson frowned and replaced his dagger in its hidden wrist sheath before unfolding the parchment. As Nigel moved a candle closer, Duncan came around to read over the boy’s shoulder. The priest’s face hardened as he scanned the lines, for the formula was familiar, and what he had often feared. Tight-reining his rising alarm, he straightened and glanced at Richard, his blue eyes stormy, grim.

“Richard, would you please wait outside,” he murmured, flicking his gaze to Hugh’s bowed head. “I will vouch for this man’s conduct.”

“Aye, Father.”

As the door closed behind Richard, Duncan returned to his chair and sat, taking the opportunity to fortify himself with several swallows of wine. He continued to study Hugh across the goblet between his hands, looking up as Kelson finished reading and laid the parchment on the table.

“I thank you for this information, Father,” Kelson said, motioning Hugh to rise. “And I apologize for your rough handling. I hope you will understand the necessity, under the circumstances.”

“Of course, Sire,” Hugh murmured self-consciously. “You had no way of knowing what I was. I thank God that Duncan was here to save me from my own impetuosity.”

Duncan nodded, his eyes hooded and dark, but it was obvious he was not thinking about Hugh. His hands were clasped tightly around the silver goblet on the table before him, and the knuckles were white. Kelson did not seem to notice as he glanced at the parchment again.

“I assume this letter has gone out by now,” he said, catching Hugh’s affirmative nod. “Father Duncan, does this mean what I think it does?”

“May Satan doom them both to nine eternal torments,” Duncan whispered under his breath. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud, then shook his head and released the goblet. It was oval now instead of round.

“Forgive me, my prince,” he murmured. “It means that Loris and Corrigan have finally decided to do something about Alaric. I’ve been expecting some kind of action for months now, but I never dreamed they’d dare to interdict all of Corwyn for the actions of one man.”

“Well, apparently they have dared,” Kelson said uneasily. “Can we stop them?”

Duncan took a deep breath and forced himself to control his anger. “Not directly. We must remember that Loris and Corrigan see Alaric as the key to the whole Deryni question. He’s the highest placed of any known Deryni in the kingdom, and he has never tried to hide what he is. That said, he was never blatant in his use of his powers. But when Brion died, circumstances forced his hand, and he had to use his powers or see you die.”

“And to the archbishops,” Nigel interjected, “magic is evil, and that is that. Also, don’t forget how Alaric made fools of them at the coronation last fall. I rather imagine that has as much to do with the present crisis as any high-sounding motives they may say are behind the move.”

Kelson slouched in his chair and studied a ruby ring on his right forefinger. “So it’s to be war against the Deryni, is it? Father Duncan, we can’t afford a religious dispute on the eve of a major war. What can we do to stop them?”

Duncan shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll need to discuss it with Alaric. Hugh, can you tell us anything else about this? Who is delivering the letter? And how?”

“Monsignor Gorony is being sent, from Loris’s staff,” Hugh replied promptly. His eyes were round with wonder at what he had just seen and heard. “He and an armed escort are to take a barge as far as the Free Port of Concaradine, and will sail with a merchantman from there.”

“I know Gorony.” Duncan grimaced faintly. “Was anything added to the final draft of the letter? Anything that isn’t in here?” He tapped the parchment with a well-manicured forefinger.

“Nothing,” Hugh replied. “I made the final copy from that draft,” he gestured toward the letter on the table, “and I watched both of them sign and seal it. I don’t know what they told Gorony after I left. And of course I have no idea what they may have said to him earlier.”

“I see.” Duncan turned the information over in his mind and nodded. “Is there anything else we should know?”

Hugh looked at his feet and wrung his hands together. There was, indeed, something else. But he had not reckoned on the vehemence of Duncan’s earlier reaction, and he was not sure just how he should phrase the second matter now. It would not be easy, no matter how he said it.

“There—is something else you should know, Duncan.” He paused, reluctant to look up. “I had not thought to find you here, but—there is another matter that came under my pen tonight. It—concerns you personally.”

“Me?” Duncan glanced at Kelson and Nigel. “Go on. You may speak freely here.”

“It—isn’t that.” Hugh swallowed with difficulty. “Duncan, Corrigan is suspending you. He’s calling you to answer before his ecclesiastical court for dereliction of duty, probably tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

Duncan stood, hardly aware that he did so, his face ashen against the black of his cassock. Hugh could not raise his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Apparently the archbishop thinks you were responsible for some of what happened at His Majesty’s coronation last fall—begging your pardon, Sire.” He nodded toward Kelson. “He gave me his draft of the writ not an hour ago, asking to have it as soon as possible. I gave it to one of my clerks to copy and came straight here, intending to find you after I’d told the king about the other matters.”

He finally dared to look at Duncan, and whispered, “Duncan, are you mixed up in magic?”

Duncan moved toward the fireplace as one in a trance, his blue eyes wide, all pupil. “Suspended,” he murmured disbelievingly, ignoring Hugh’s question. “And called before his court.”

He turned toward Kelson. “My prince, I must not be here tomorrow when that writ is served. It isn’t that I’m afraid—you know that. But if Corrigan takes me into custody just now . . .”

Kelson nodded gravely. “I understand. What do you want me to do?”

Duncan thought a moment, looked guardedly at Nigel, then back at Kelson. “Send me to Alaric, Sire. He must be warned of the threat of Interdict anyway, and I’ll be safe from Corrigan at his court. It may even be that I can sway Bishop Tolliver to delay implementation of the Interdict.”

“I’ll give you a dozen of my best men,” Kelson agreed. “What else?”

Duncan shook his head, trying to formulate a plan of action. “Hugh, you say that Gorony took the sea route. That’s a three-day journey by ship, possibly less in storm weather, if they pile on all canvas. Nigel, how are the roads between here and Alaric’s capital this time of year?”

“Terrible. But if you change horses along the way, you should be able to make it ahead of Gorony. Also, the weather will improve a little as you go south.”

Duncan ran a weary hand through his short brown hair and nodded. “All right, I’ll have to try it. At least I’ll be out of Corrigan’s jurisdiction, once I cross the Corwyn border. Bishop Tolliver has been a friend, of sorts, in the past. I doubt he’d arrest me on Gorony’s word alone. Besides that, Gorony hopefully won’t know about Corrigan’s summons, even if he does get there ahead of me.”

“It’s settled, then,” Kelson said, standing and nodding in Hugh’s direction. “Father, I thank you for your loyalty. It shall not go unrewarded. But will it be safe for you to return to the archbishop’s palace, after what you’ve told us? I can offer my protection, if you like. Or you could go with Father Duncan.”

Hugh gave a wan smile. “My thanks for your concern, Sire, but I believe I can serve you best if I return to my duties. I’ll not have been missed yet, and I may be able to tell you more at a later date.”

“Very well.” Kelson nodded. “Good luck to you, Father.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Hugh bowed. “And Duncan,” he paused to clasp Duncan’s hand and search his eyes, “be careful, my friend. I don’t know what you’ve done, and I don’t want to know, but my prayers will be with you.”

Duncan touched his shoulder in reassurance and nodded, and then Hugh was gone. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Duncan picked up the parchment and began refolding it, the crisp rustle the only sound in the silence. Now that he had a plan, his initial anger and shock were well under control, but he watched Kelson as he slipped the letter into his cincture. The boy was standing beside his chair, staring unseeing at the door and apparently oblivious to the presence of anyone else in the room. Nigel still sat at the table across from Duncan, but he, too, had withdrawn into a private world.

Duncan picked up his goblet and drained it, noticing the bent rim and realizing that he must have done it. He replaced the goblet silently and looked toward Kelson.

“Sire, I should like to take Hugh’s letter with me, if you have no objections. Alaric will wish to see it.”

“Yes, of course,” Kelson replied, shaking himself out of his reverie. “Uncle, will you see about the escort? And tell Richard he’s to go along. Father Duncan may have need of a good man.”

“Certainly, Kelson.”

Nigel rose gracefully and moved toward the door, clasping Duncan’s shoulder as he passed. Then the door was closed, and there were only the two of them. Kelson had moved to the fireplace as Nigel left, and now he stared moodily into the flames, resting his forehead on folded forearms along the edge of the mantel.

Duncan clasped his hands behind him and studied the floor uncertainly. There were things that only he and Kelson and Alaric had ever talked about, and he sensed it was something of this nature that was troubling the boy now. He had thought, at the time, that Kelson had taken this evening’s events far too calmly, but he didn’t dare wait much longer to get on the road. Corrigan just might decide to serve that writ tonight. And the longer Duncan waited, the farther ahead Gorony would be with the fateful letter.

Duncan cleared his throat gently, saw Kelson’s shoulders stiffen at the sound.

“Kelson,” he said quietly, “I have to go now.”

“I know.”

“Is there—any message I should take for Alaric?”

“No.” The boy’s voice was husky, strained. “Just tell him—tell him—”

He turned toward Duncan, his face pale, desperate. Concerned, Duncan moved closer and took him by the shoulders to gaze searchingly into the wide, frightened eyes. The boy stood stiff and straight, fists clenched tightly at his sides, not in defiance but in dread. The gray eyes filling with unbidden tears were no longer the eyes of a brave young king who had vanquished evil to keep his throne, but those of a child forced too soon and too long to function as an adult in a complex world.

Duncan sensed all of this in less than a heartbeat, and he stared down at the boy in compassion. For all the young king’s maturity, he was still a boy of fourteen—and a frightened one, at that.

“Kelson?”

“Please be careful, Father,” the boy whispered, his voice a little strangled with emotion.

On impulse, Duncan pulled the boy to him and held him close, felt the proud young shoulders shudder convulsively as he surrendered to the rare luxury of tears. As Duncan stroked the silky raven hair, he felt the boy relax, heard the stifled sobbing gradually diminish. He hugged the boy closer still, in a short gesture of comfort, then began to speak softly.

“Shall we talk about it, son? It isn’t nearly as terrifying if you look it in the eye.”

“Yes it is,” Kelson sniffed, his voice muffled against Duncan’s shoulder.

“Oh. Well, now, I don’t like to contradict kings, but I’m afraid I must disagree. Suppose we consider the worst that can possibly happen, and work up from there.”

“V-very well.”

“All right, then. What’s on your mind?”

Kelson pulled away slightly and looked up at Duncan, then wiped his eyes on his sleeve and turned toward the fireplace, still in the protective circle of Duncan’s left arm.

“What—” he whispered tremulously, “what will happen if you and Alaric are taken, Father?”

“Hmm, that depends on when and by whom,” Duncan answered lightly, trying to reassure the boy.

“Suppose Loris captures you?”

Duncan considered the question. “Well, first I’d have to answer before the ecclesiastical court. If they could prove anything, which is open to debate, they could degrade me from the priesthood, strip away my orders. I might even be excommunicated.”

“What if they found out you were half-Deryni?” the boy persisted. “Would they try to kill you?”

Duncan raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “They wouldn’t like it at all if they were to discover that,” he agreed, skirting the issue. “I should imagine I’d be excommunicated for sure, if that were to happen. However, that’s one very good reason I don’t plan to let myself be taken. It would be very awkward, to say the least.”

Kelson smiled in spite of himself. “Awkward. Yes, I suppose it would be. Could you kill them if you had to?”

“I’d rather not,” Duncan replied. “Another reason for not allowing them to catch me in the first place.”

“What about Alaric?”

“Alaric?” Duncan shrugged. “It’s difficult to say. So far, Loris seems willing to settle for repentance. If Alaric renounces his powers and vows never to use them again, Loris will call off the Interdict.”

“Alaric will never recant,” Kelson said fiercely.

“Oh, I’m certain he won’t,” Duncan agreed. “In that case, the Interdict falls on Corwyn, and we will begin to get political as well as religious repercussions.”

Kelson looked up, startled. “Why political? What will happen?”

“Well, since Alaric is the stated cause of the Interdict, the men of Corwyn might well refuse to rally under his banner for the summer campaign, thus costing you approximately twenty percent of your fighting force. Alaric will be excommunicated—along with me, I’m sure. And that brings you further into the picture.”

“Me? How?”

“Simple. Once Alaric and I are anathema, we carry excommunication with us like a plague. Anyone who associates with us is included in the decree. So that leaves you with two choices. You can obey the dictates of the archbishops and banish me and Alaric, thereby losing your best general on the eve of war. Or you can say the devil with the archbishops, and receive Alaric—and end up with all of Gwynedd under Interdict.”

“They wouldn’t dare!”

“Ah, but they would. Up until now, your rank has protected you, my prince. But I fear even that will end shortly. Your mother has seen to that.”

Kelson hung his head, remembering the scene a week before—how, unwittingly perhaps, his mother had set the stage for all that was now happening...

Jehana had calmly continued her packing, choosing garments from her wardrobe and handing them to a lady-in-waiting who was putting them in a leather-bound trunk. She was still in mourning for her dead husband, for it had been only four months since Brion’s death; but her shining head was uncovered, the long auburn hair cascading smoothly down her back in a streak of red-gold, held only by a simple gold clasp at the nape of the neck. She turned to glance at Kelson, and Nigel frowning behind him, then returned to her work, her outward manner calm and dispassionate.

“Why Saint Giles?” she answered. “I suppose because I stayed there for a few months many years ago, Kelson—before you were born. It’s—something I have to do, if I’m to be able to live with myself.”

“There are a dozen other places that would be safer, if you feel you absolutely have to go,” Nigel replied, restless fingers pleating and un-pleating a fold of his dark blue cloak. “We’re going to have enough to worry about, without wondering if some raiding party has come and carried you off—or worse.”

Jehana smiled and shook her head gently, looking the royal duke in the eyes. “Dear Nigel, Brother, how can I make you understand? I have to go. And I have to go to Shannis Meer. If I were to stay here, knowing what’s coming, knowing that Kelson will use his powers when and where he must, I would be tempted to use my own to try to stop him.

“I know in my mind that I dare not do that—not if he’s to survive. And yet my heart, my soul, everything I’ve ever been taught—all tell me that he must not be permitted to use those powers under any circumstances, that they’re corrupt, evil.” She turned to Kelson. “If I stayed, I might destroy you.”

“I don’t believe that!” Kelson said flatly. “Could you—a full Deryni, despite your efforts to renounce that fact—truly destroy your own son because he is forced by circumstances to use the powers you gave him?”

Jehana reacted as though she had been struck, turning her back to Kelson and leaning heavily against a chair, head bowed as she strove to control her trembling.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” she began, her voice small, childlike. “I may be Deryni, but I don’t feel Deryni. I feel human. I think human. And as a human, I’ve been taught all my life that to be Deryni is to be evil, wrong.” She turned back to Kelson, tears welling in her frightened eyes.

“And if the person I love most is Deryni, and uses Deryni powers—don’t you see how it’s tearing me apart? Kelson, I desperately fear that it’s going to be human against Deryni again, as it was two centuries ago. I don’t think I can bear to be in the middle of it.”

“You’re already in the middle of it,” Nigel retorted, “whether you like it or not. And if it does come to human against Deryni, you don’t even have a side!”

“I know,” Jehana whispered.

“Then why Saint Giles?” Nigel continued angrily. “That’s Archbishop Loris’s bailiwick. Do you think he can help you resolve your conflict—an archbishop who is known for his anti-Deryni persecutions in the north? He’s going to act soon, Jehana. He can’t ignore what happened at the coronation much longer. And when he does make his move, I doubt that even Kelson’s position will protect him for long.”

“You cannot change my resolve,” Jehana said steadily. “I leave for Shannis Meer today. I intend to go to the sisters of Saint Giles to fast and pray for guidance. But it has to be that way, Nigel. Right now, I am nothing. I can’t be human and I can’t be Deryni. And until I can discover which I am, I’m of no use to anyone.”

“You’re of use to me,” Kelson said quietly, gazing across at her with hurt gray eyes. “Please stay.”

“I cannot,” Jehana whispered, choking back a sob.

“If—if I commanded you as king,” Kelson quavered, the cords in his neck rippling as he fought back the tears, “would you stay then?”

Jehana stiffened for an instant, her eyes clouding with pain, then turned away, her shoulders shaking. “Don’t make me answer that,” she managed to whisper. “Please don’t ask me.”

Kelson started to move toward her, to try to entreat her further, but Nigel put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Motioning Kelson to follow, he had moved to the door and opened it quietly, waited as Kelson reluctantly joined him.

But the steps of both had been slow and heavy as they left the room. And the quiet sobbing behind the closed door still lingered in Kelson’s mind...

“Perhaps not for a while,” Duncan said. “So far, they’ve chosen to ignore the fact that you’re Deryni, too. But they won’t ignore it if you defy an Interdict.”

“I could destroy them!” Kelson murmured, fists clenching and eyes narrowing as he considered his powers.

“But you won’t,” Duncan stated emphatically. “Because if you use your powers against the archbishops—whether or not they deserve it—that will be final proof to the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms that the Deryni do, indeed, intend to destroy Church and State and set up a new Deryni dictatorship. You must give the lie to that charge by avoiding a confrontation at all costs.”

“Then, is it stalemate? Me against the Church?”

“Not the Church, my prince.”

“Very well, then. The men who control the Church. It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.” Duncan shook his head. “It isn’t the Church we fight, though it may seem that way at first glance. It’s an idea: the idea that different is evil. That because some men are born with extraordinary powers and talents, those men are evil, no matter to what purpose they put those powers.

“We’re fighting the idiotic notion that a man is responsible for the accident of his birth. That because a few men made grave errors in the name of a race over three hundred years ago, the whole race is damned and must forever suffer the consequences, generation after generation.

“That is what we’re fighting, Kelson. Corrigan, Loris, even Wencit of Torenth—they’re merely pawns in the larger struggle to prove that a man is worth something for himself alone, for what he does with his life, whether for good or for evil, with the talents he was born with, whatever he may be. Does any of that make sense?”

Kelson smiled self-consciously and lowered his gaze. “You sounded like Alaric just then. Or my father. He used to talk to me that way.”

“He would be very proud of you, my prince. He was very fortunate to have a son like you. If I had a son . . .” He looked down at Kelson and a glance passed between them. Then Duncan squeezed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly and stepped back to the table.

“I’ll go, then. Alaric and I will make every effort to keep you informed of our progress or lack thereof. Meanwhile, trust Nigel. Rely on him. And whatever you do, don’t intimidate the archbishops until Alaric and I have time to circumvent them.”

“Don’t worry.” Kelson smiled. “I won’t do anything hasty. I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Just as long as that Haldane temper doesn’t get out of hand,” Duncan admonished with a grin. “God willing, I shall see you in Culdi in a week or so. The Lord keep you safe until then, my prince.”

“And you, Father,” Kelson whispered as the priest disappeared through the door.