And yet the man before him had called him by his secret name. How could he know?

“What do you mean?” he managed to whisper, his voice a quarter octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat. “I am a McLain, of the lords of Kierney and Cassan.”

“And you are also a Corwyn, of your sainted mother’s right,” the stranger contradicted gently. “There is no shame in being half-Deryni, my son.”

Duncan closed his mouth and managed to regain most of his composure, then wet his lips nervously. “Who are you?” he asked, holding his ground but unconsciously letting his hand drift from the sword hilt he had clutched until now. “What do you want?”

The man chuckled amiably and shook his head. “No, of course you do not understand, do you?” he murmured almost to himself, still smiling easily. “You needn’t be afraid. Your secret is sealed within me. But, come. Dismount and walk with me awhile. There is something I would have you know.”

Duncan hesitated for an instant, still uneasy under the man’s serene gaze, then complied. The man nodded gravely.

“You may consider this a warning, Duncan of Corwyn—not a threat from me, for it is not that, but for your own good. In the weeks to come, your powers will be sorely tested. More and more you will be called upon to use your magic in the open, either to accept your birthright and take up the fight as is your duty, or else forever renounce it. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do not,” Duncan whispered, his eyes narrowing. “To begin with, I am a priest. I am forbidden to practice the occult arts.”

“Are you?” the man asked quietly.

“Of course I am forbidden to practice magic.”

“No. I mean, are you a priest?”

Duncan felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he had to avert his eyes. “According to the rite by which I was ordained, I am a priest forever, unto—”

“ ‘Unto the order of Melchizedek,’ ” the man quoted. “I know what the scripture says. But are you really a priest? What happened two days ago?”

Duncan looked up defiantly. “I am merely suspended. I’ve not been degraded from the priesthood, nor excommunicated.”

“And yet, you yourself said that the suspension didn’t really worry you, that the more you use your powers, the less important your vows become.”

Duncan stifled a gasp, instinctively drawing closer to the man, and his horse tossed its head in alarm. “How do you know that?”

The man smiled gently and reached his hand to the horse’s bridle to keep it from stepping on his sandaled feet. “I know many things.”

“We were alone,” Duncan murmured, almost to himself. “I would have staked my life on it. Who are you?”

“The power of the Deryni is by no means evil, my son,” the man said in a conversational tone. He dropped his hand and began walking slowly down the road. Duncan shook his head in dismay and moved his horse along with him, straining to hear what he was saying.

“. . . necessarily good, either. The good or evil is in the soul and mind of him who uses the powers. Only an evil mind can corrupt the power for evil.” He turned to glance at Duncan as they walked—and continued.

“I have observed your use of the power thus far, and I find it most judicious. You need have no qualms as to whether your motivation is righteous. I understand the struggle you have undergone to be able to use it at all.”

“But—”

“No more,” the man said, holding up his hand for silence. “I must leave you now. I ask only that you continue to examine your motives in that other matter I mentioned. It may well be that you are called in other ways than you had thought. Think you on it; and the Light go with you.”

With that, the man was simply—gone. Duncan stopped in confusion.

How could that be? Gone! Without a trace!

He looked down at the ground beside him where the man had been walking, but he could see no footprints. Even with the lowering darkness, he could make out his own tracks extending back the way he had come, the horse’s hoof marks firmly imprinted in the damp clay of the road.

But of the other’s passage there was no trace.

Had he only imagined it?

It had been too real, too chillingly threatening to have been in his mind alone. Now he knew what Alaric must have felt like when he’d had his visions: that sense of unreality, yet the certainty that he had been touched by someone or something. Why, this had been as real as—as that shining apparition that he and others of Deryni blood had seen at Kelson’s coronation, supporting the crown of Gwynedd. Now that he thought about it, it could even have been the same being! And if so—

Duncan shivered and pulled his cloak more closely around himself again, then mounted and touched spurs to his beast. He wasn’t going to find any more answers on this deserted road. And he had to tell Alaric what had happened. His cousin’s visions had come at times of cusp, when grave crises were brewing. He hoped this wasn’t a portent.

It was three miles back to the courtyard of Castle Coroth. It would seem like thirty.

Beaten bronze chandeliers suspended from the ceiling blazed with the light of a hundred tall candles. Light gleamed from the facets of fine crystal and silver goblets, reflected on the mellow wink of polished pewter and silver service on the dark tables. A dozen pages and squires in emerald green livery scurried around the long trencher tables setting out bread and decanters of mellow Fianna wine. Lute and recorder warbled as a festive undertone to the chatter of the guests, and Lord Robert, stationed near the head of the table, kept a watchful eye out for his lord’s appearance as he chatted with two comely ladies.

As the guests mingled, Morgan’s trusted surgeon, Master Randolph, circulated casually among the assembled nobility and gentry, nodding greeting and pausing occasionally to chat with those he knew. His task tonight, as it usually was on such occasions, was to feel out the mood of his master’s subjects and later to report items of interest. As he made his way across the room, he picked up snatches of conversation.

“Well, I wouldn’t give ye two coppers fer a Bremagni mercenary,” one portly lord was saying to another as his eyes followed a stately brunette across the room. “They can nae be trusted!”

“An’ what about a Bremagni lady?” the other murmured, nudging his companion in the ribs and raising an eyebrow. “Do you think they can be trusted?”

“Ah—”

The two exchanged knowing nods and continued to inspect the lady in question, not noticing Master Randolph’s slight smile as he moved on.

“And that’s what the king just doesn’t seem to understand,” said a bright-faced young knight who looked barely old enough to have won his spurs. “It’s all so very simple. Kelson knows how Wencit will move once the thaws begin. Why doesn’t he just—”

Yes, why doesn’t he? Randolph thought with a wry smile. It’s all so very simple. This young man has the answer to everything.

“And not only that,” a striking red-haired lady was saying to her companion, “it’s rumored that he only stayed long enough to change, and then he was back on a horse and riding out for God knows where. I do hope he returns in time for dinner. You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

“Ummm,” the blond woman sighed approvingly. “I certainly have. What a pity he’s a priest.”

Master Randolph rolled his eyes in dismay as he continued past the women. Poor Father Duncan was always being sought after by the ladies of the court—almost as much as the duke himself. It was positively disgraceful. It might be a different matter if the priest encouraged them, as some did; but he didn’t. If the good father was lucky, he would manage not to return until dinner was over.

Still scanning the crowd casually, Randolph noticed three of Morgan’s border lords in an earnest conversation over to his right. Morgan, he knew, would be vitally interested in what they had to say. But Randolph dared not go too close. The men knew him to be in Morgan’s confidence and would surely change the subject if they thought they were being too candid for outside listeners. He edged as close as he dared and pretended to listen to two older men discussing falcons.

“Aye, ye dasn’t hae th’ jesses too tight, or tha bird’ll—”

“. . . and so this Warin fellow rides right into my granary yard and says, ‘Do ye like paying taxes to His Grace?’ Well, I sez ta him that sure, nobody likes taxes, but by God, the duke’s tenants gets their money’s worth o’ protection and good government!”

“Humph!” another growled. “Hurd de Blake was telling me just the other day how he’d had four acres of spring wheat burned out by the scoundrel. It’s been a dry winter up north by de Blake’s place, and the wheat burned like Hades. Warin demanded that he make a contribution to the cause, and de Blake told him to go to the devil!”

“. . . nah, I like th’ smaller tyrrits mysel’, so ye can get yer hands around th’ jesses rightlike . . .”

The third man scratched at his beard and shrugged as Randolph strained to hear. “Still, this Warin fellow has a point. The duke is half Deryni, an’ makes no secret o’ the fact. Suppose he’s plannin’ to join with Wencit in another Deryni coup, t’put Corwyn under another Interregnum? I dinnae want my manors blasted with heathen Deryni magic when I deny their heresies.”

“Ah, now, ye know our duke would never do a thing like that,” the first lord objected. “Why only the other day . . .”

“My peregrine . . .”

Master Randolph nodded to himself and moved on at that, satisfied that the lords were no immediate threat; were, indeed, only talking about the things others were discussing tonight. Certainly, the people had every right to be curious about their duke’s plans, especially since he was getting ready to go off to war again, taking the flower of Corwyn’s fighting men and leaving the others to more or less fend for themselves.

This continued mention of the troublesome Warin was disturbing, though. In the past month, Randolph had heard far more about the rebel leader and his band than he cared to remember. And apparently the problem was getting worse rather than better. Hurd de Blake’s lands, for example, were more than thirty miles inside the border, much deeper than Randolph had ever heard Warin to penetrate before. The situation was becoming more than just a border problem. Morgan would have to be briefed before court in the morning.

Randolph glanced across the room to see slight movement behind the drapes from which Morgan would make his entrance—the duke’s signal that he was about ready to come in. Randolph nodded and saw the curtain move again as he began to make his way slowly back in that direction.

Morgan let the heavy velvet drapes fall back into place and straightened, satisfied that Randolph had seen his signal and was on his way. Behind him, Gwydion was bickering with Lord Hamilton again, in a low but penetrating tone. Morgan glanced around.

“You stepped on me!” the little troubadour was whispering furiously, pointing down at one elegantly pointed shoe that now bore a decided scuff mark on the side of the toe. His entire outfit was in shades of deep violet and rose, and the dust of Hamilton’s misstep shone like a beacon on the rich suede of the left shoe. Gwydion’s lute was slung across his back with a golden cord, and a sweeping hat with a white cockade was perched atop his thick black curls. The black eyes danced angrily in the swarthy face.

“Sorry,” Hamilton murmured, starting to bend down and brush off the offending dust rather than argue in Morgan’s presence.

“Don’t touch me!” Gwydion yelped, dancing back a few steps and drawing his hands up against his chest in a show of horrified distaste. “You blundering fool, you’ll only make it worse!”

He bent down to dust his own shoe, and the long tippets on his flowing violet sleeves dragged the floor so that he had to dust those, too. Hamilton looked vindictive and grinned malice as Gwydion discovered the new dust, then realized Morgan had seen the whole proceedings and cleared his throat apologetically.

“Sorry, m’lord,” he muttered. “It really wasn’t intentional.” Before Morgan could comment, the curtains parted briefly and Randolph slipped into the alcove.

“Nothing urgent to report, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “There’s a lot of talk about this Warin character, but nothing that can’t wait until morning.”

“Very well.” Morgan nodded toward Gwydion and Hamilton. “If the two of you are quite finished bickering, we’ll go in now.”

“My lord!” Gwydion gasped, drawing himself up indignantly. “It was not I who started this silly quarrel. This oaf—”

“Your Grace,” Hamilton cut in, “am I required to endure—”

“That’s enough—both of you! I don’t want to hear another word!”

At Morgan’s exasperated nod, Lord Hamilton slipped out through the curtains. The lord chamberlain came to attention as the curtains moved beside him, and the room began to hush. Three slow raps of the long staff of office echoed hollowly through the quieting hall, and the chamberlain’s voice rang out.

“His Grace, the Duke of Corwyn: Master of Coroth, Lord General of the Royal Armies, and Champion of the King!”

As the musicians played a short fanfare, Morgan stepped through the parted curtains and paused in the doorway. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the assembled guests as all bowed respectfully. Then, as the musicians resumed their playing, Morgan acknowledged the tribute with a nod and began to move slowly toward his place at table, his entourage falling into place behind him.

Morgan was all in black tonight. Duncan’s unsettling news from Rhemuth had brought with it a note of solemnity that had put him totally out of the mood for following the dictates of a temperamental master of wardrobes. Accordingly, he had put aside the brilliant green of Lord Rathold’s choice and worn black instead, and the devil with what anyone thought.

Severely plain undertunic of slubbed black silk, sleek and close to body and wrists; over that, a sumptuous doublet of black velvet trimmed in jet, high-collared and close around his neck, and with wide sleeves slashed to the elbow to show the silk of the tunic beneath; silk hose disappearing into short black boots of softest leather.

And against this setting, the few articles of jewelry that Morgan permitted himself in such a mood: his gryphon signet on the right hand, emerald inlay of the beast glowing out against its onyx background; on his left, Kelson’s Champion ring with the golden lion of Gwynedd etched on a field of black and gleaming gold. And on his head, the ducal coronet of Corwyn, hammered gold in seven delicate points, crowning the golden head of the Deryni Lord of Corwyn.

He appeared to be unarmed as he strolled toward his place at the head of the tables, for the ruler of Corwyn traditionally had no need to go armed among his dinner guests. But hidden beneath Morgan’s rich attire was the gleam of supple mail protecting vital organs, the slim stiletto in its worn wrist sheath. And the cloak of his Deryni power surrounded him like an invisible mantle wherever he went.

Now he must play the gracious host and settle down to the bore of a state banquet, while inwardly he seethed with impatience and wondered what had happened to Duncan.

And so, when he and the animal finally limped into the courtyard, he leading, the tired horse following slowly, it was to find the area almost entirely deserted. The gate guards had passed him without question, since they had been warned to expect his return, but it took him several minutes to find anyone in the stable yard to take his horse. At the invitation of the duke, the squires and pages who normally would have been manning the stable had slipped inside to the back of the hall to hear Gwydion sing.

Dinner was over, he soon discovered; and as he passed among the servants crowded in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already well underway. Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved the reputation he held throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.

It was a slow, measured melody, born of the highlands of Carthmoor to the west, the land of Gwydion’s youth, filled with the rhythms, the modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the mountain folk.

Gwydion’s clear tenor floated through the still hall, weaving the bittersweet tale of Mathurin and Derverguille, the lovers of legend who had perished in Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as the troubadour spun his song.

As Duncan scanned the hall, he spied Morgan lounging in his ducal throne at the head of the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan’s left, Lord Robert sat flanked by two beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the seat to Morgan’s right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought that, if he were careful, he might be able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance.

Before he could do more than move in that direction, however, Morgan saw him and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the hall.

“What happened?” he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and glancing around to be certain they were not being overheard.

“The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough,” Duncan murmured. “He wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he makes a decision.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do you think he’s on our side?”

Duncan shrugged. “You know Tolliver. He’s squeamish about the whole Deryni aspect of things—but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us. There’s something else, though.”

“Oh?”

“I—ah—think we’d better not talk about it here,” Duncan said, glancing around meaningfully. “I had a visitor on the way back.”

“A vi—” Morgan’s eyes went wide. “You mean, like mine?”

Duncan nodded soberly. “Shall I meet you in the tower room?”

“As soon as I can get away,” Morgan agreed, handing him his signet. “Here, you’d better take this.”

As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would be before he could extricate himself gracefully.

He was much more upset than he had wanted to admit, he knew now. In fact, when he had first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had been overcome by a violent fit of shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road, almost as though an icy wind had blown across his neck.

The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had sunk down at the prie-dieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for once, his meditations had brought him little comfort. He couldn’t force himself to concentrate on the words he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the moment.

The pacing was not helping either, he realized. As he stopped before the fireplace and held out one hand, he realized that he was still shaking in a delayed reaction to what had happened earlier.

Taking hold of himself sternly, he passed a hand above the kindling laid ready in the fireplace, bringing it to flame, then crossed to Alaric’s desk and unstoppered a crystal decanter there, poured himself a small glass of the strong red wine that Alaric kept for just such emergencies. He drained that glass and poured another, then took it over beside the fur-draped couch. Unbuttoning his cassock halfway to the waist, he loosened his collar and stretched his neck backward to get the kinks out, then lay back on the couch, the glass of wine in his hand. As he rested there, sipping the wine and forcing himself to review what had happened, he began to relax. By the time the gryphon door opened and Alaric entered, he was feeling much better—almost unwilling to get up or talk at all.

“Are you all right?” Morgan asked, crossing to the couch and sitting down beside him.

“Just now, I think I may survive,” Duncan replied dreamily. “A little while ago, I wouldn’t have been so sure. This thing really disturbed me.”

Morgan nodded. “I know the feeling. Do you want to talk about it?”

Duncan sighed heavily. “He was there. I was riding along, I rounded a bend in the road a few miles from here, and there he was, standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing a gray monk’s habit, holding a staff in his hand, and—well, his face was almost identical to those portraits we’ve found in the old breviaries and history books.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Oh, yes,” Duncan agreed heartily. “Just as clearly as you and I are speaking right now. And not only that, he knows what I am. He called me by my mother’s name—Duncan of Corwyn. When I objected and said I was a McLain, he told me that I was also a Corwyn—‘of my sainted mother’s right,’ I believe he put it.”

“Go on,” Morgan said, getting up to pour himself a glass of the red wine.

“Ah . . . next he said that the time was approaching when I would be sorely tested, and would be forced to either accept my powers and begin to use them out in the open, or else forget them. When I objected and told him that as a priest I was forbidden to use those powers, he asked if I were really a priest. He knew about the suspension, and he—somehow knew what you and I discussed earlier this afternoon. Remember, when I said that the suspension didn’t really matter that much, that the more I used my Deryni powers, the less important my vows seemed to be? Alaric, I’ve never told that to anyone else, and I know you didn’t. How could he have known that?”

“He knew what we talked about this afternoon?” Morgan said, sitting down again in amazement.

“Almost verbatim. And he didn’t Truth-Read me, either. Alaric, what am I going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Morgan said slowly. “I’m not sure what to think. He’s never been that talkative with me.” He rubbed his eyes and thought a minute. “Tell me, do you think he was human? I mean, do you think he was really there? Or just an apparition, a visual phenomenon?”

“He was there in the flesh,” Duncan said promptly. “He put his hand on the bridle to keep from getting stepped on.” He frowned. “And yet, there were no footprints where he walked. After he’d disappeared, there was still enough light to see my tracks going back the way I’d come, and the horse’s. But none of his.”

Duncan raised up on one elbow. “Now I really don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t there at all. Maybe I imagined all of it.”

Morgan shook his head and stood abruptly. “No, I’m sure you saw something. I wouldn’t even presume to guess what, at this point, but I think something was there.” He stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up. “Why don’t we sleep on it, eh? You can stay here, if you like. You look as though you’re very comfortable.”

“I doubt I could move if I wanted to,” Duncan said with a grin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached to the floor beside the couch and set aside his glass.

He had seen someone on the road back to Castle Coroth. He wondered again who it could have been.

And why?