Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan acknowledged. Which was probably a good thing, since someone had to do the blasted things. It didn’t seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his job . . .

Morgan sighed and tried to force himself to return to his job. As Duke of Corwyn, one of his primary duties when he was in residence was to hear local court presentments once a week and render decisions. He usually enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects.

But he had been restless even before Duncan’s arrival. The long inactivity forced by almost two months of nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the edge off his discomfiture.

He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue of the four-day ride would be a welcome change after the glittering but sterile life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to see old friends again—not least, the young king. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and reassuring him in the face of the new crises that were developing daily. Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries must be going through the boy’s mind right now.

Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some of his beasts to graze on another man’s lands. As he recalled, the man had actually been resentful over the judgment, even though there was no contesting that he had been in the wrong.

No matter, friend Harold, Morgan thought to himself. If you think you have troubles now, just wait until Loris and Corrigan lower the Interdict. You have no idea what trouble is.

It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict. Yesterday morning, after seeing off the last of his guests, Morgan had sent Duncan to see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the archbishops’ messenger had said when he delivered their missive the night before. Duncan had returned hours later with a long face and a troubled mind, for Tolliver had been almost evasive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently the messenger had frightened Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to discover nothing.

As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there came a quick, sharp knock at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the common folk this afternoon, his swarthy face streaked with dust and perspiration. He looked very serious as he came to bow curtly by Morgan’s chair.

“Your Grace, may I have a word?” He glanced at Robert. “In private?”

Morgan leaned back and put his pen down, then gave Gwydion a long, searching look. The foppish popinjay that was the public Gwydion had been replaced by a thin-lipped, determined little man who several times had proven his worth as a gatherer of useful intelligence. Indeed, there was something in his manner, in the look of his black eyes, that made Morgan guess that Gwydion had been about just such a mission. He glanced at Robert and nodded for him to leave, but the chancellor only pursed his lips sourly and did not move.

“My lord, I must protest. Whatever it is, can it not wait? We have only a few more rolls to go, and after that—”

“Sorry, Robert.” Morgan replied, looking back at Gwydion. “I must be the judge of whether it can wait or not. You may come back as soon as we’re finished.”

Robert said nothing, but he scowled vexedly as he stacked his papers and pushed back his chair. Gwydion watched until he had gone and closed the door behind him, then strolled toward the window and eased himself down on the padded window seat.

“I thank you, Your Grace. There are many lords who would not have taken the time to indulge the whims of a mere spinner of tales.”

“I sense you have more than tales to spin,” Morgan said quietly. “What is it you wished to tell me?”

Gwydion unslung his lute and began tuning it, gazing out the window languorously as he spoke.

“I was out in the city this morning, my lord,” he said, strumming his instrument and toying with the pegs. “I have been collecting songs that I thought might please Your Grace’s ears. I fear, now that I’ve found them, though, that they won’t please you at all. Would you like to hear one?”

He turned and looked Morgan full in the eyes, his own gaze glittering with anticipation, and Morgan nodded slowly.

“Very well. This song is one I thought would be of particular interest, since it’s about Deryni. I cannot vouch for the tune or the lyrics, since they are not of my composing, but the concept is . . . disquieting.”

He strummed a few introductory bars, then launched into a spirited and lively melody reminiscent of a child’s play tune.

As Gwydion finished the verse, Morgan sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his eyes hooded, dark. He sat quietly for a moment, gray eyes studying the singer, then spoke in a low tone.

“Is there more of this?”

The troubadour shrugged. “There are other verses, my lord, other versions. But the poetry is inferior, and I fear they all display more or less the same vitriolic sentiment. Perhaps you would be more interested in the ballad of Duke Cirala.”

“Cirala?”

“Aye, my lord. Apparently he is a villain in every sense of the word—evil, blasphemous, heretical, a liar who deludes his subjects. Fortunately, the song does offer some hope for his poor, oppressed people. I might also suggest that the name Cirala will become quite familiar, if one only spells it backward: A-L-A-R-I-C. At any rate, the poetry is somewhat better than the previous one.”

Again he strummed an introductory chord, this time setting the mood for a slow, sedate, almost hymn-like piece.

“Humph!” Morgan snorted when the troubadour had finished. “Where the devil did you ever dredge that one up?”

“In a tavern, lord,” the troubadour replied with a dour grin. “And the first was taught me by a ragged street singer near Saint Matthew’s Gate. Is my lord pleased with what I have brought him?”

“Not pleased with the content, but I am pleased that you told me. How much of this is about, do you think?”

Gwydion gently placed his lute on the cushioned seat beside him and leaned back against the side of the window, hands clasped behind his head. “It is difficult to say, my lord. I was out for only a few hours, but there are several versions of both songs, and probably others totally different that I did not hear. If my lord will heed some advice from a spinner of tales, you should combat this with other songs. Shall I attempt to compose something suitable?”

“I’m not certain that would be wise just now,” Morgan said. “What would you say is the—”

There was a discreet knock at the door, and Morgan looked up in annoyance. “Come.”

Robert opened the door and stepped through, disapproval written all across his face. “Lord Rather de Corbie is here to see you, Your Grace.”

“Ah, send him in.”

Robert stepped aside to admit a double file of men in the sea green livery of the Hort of Orsal. Behind them walked the redoubtable Rather de Corbie, ambassador extraordinaire of the Hort of Orsal. Morgan stood at his place and smiled as the files parted and lined up to either side of Rather, who stopped and bowed.

“Duke Alaric,” the man boomed in a voice that simply did not match his five-foot stature. “I bring felicitations from His Hortic Highness. He trusts you are well.”

“Indeed, I am,” Morgan said, clasping the man’s hand enthusiastically. “It is very good to see you, Rather. And how is the old sea lion?”

Rather rumbled in laughter. “The Orsal’s family has just been blessed with yet another heir, my lord, and the Orsal himself hopes that you will soon be able to come to see him.” He glanced at Gwydion and Robert and then continued. “There are certain matters of navigation rights and defense he wishes to discuss, and he asks that you bring your military advisors with you. Spring is upon us, as you are aware.”

Morgan nodded knowingly. Between the two of them, he and the Hort of Orsal controlled water passage from the Twin Rivers to the sea, a route of extreme tactical advantage should Wencit of Torenth decide to invade along the coast. And since Morgan would be away with the army in a matter of weeks, arrangements must be made with the Orsal to protect Corwyn’s sea approaches in his absence.

“When does he wish me to come?” Morgan asked, knowing that the Orsal’s request was fairly urgent, yet aware that he could not go until tomorrow at the earliest, because of the impending contact with Derry tonight.

“Today, with me?” Rather asked cagily, watching Morgan for reaction.

Morgan shook his head. “I cannot. Would tomorrow suit?” He motioned Robert and Gwydion to leave them. “Rhafallia is in port. I can sail with the morning tide and be there by Terce. That would give us the rest of the morning and all afternoon until I must return. What do you say?”

Rather shrugged. “’Tis all the same to me, Alaric. You know that. I only carry messages back and forth. Whether the Orsal will agree or not is something only the Orsal knows.”

“Good, then,” Morgan said, clasping Rather on the shoulder in a comradely gesture. “How about something to eat before you and your men leave? My cousin is visiting, and I should like you to meet him.”

Rather made a short bow. “I accept with pleasure. And you must promise to tell me what news you hear from your young king. The Orsal still regrets that he was obliged to miss the coronation, you know.”

As Robert’s voice droned on, Morgan tried to force himself to pay attention. He reminded himself for at least the fifteenth time this week that this was a necessary if tedious part of governing, and the realization did about as much good as the previous fourteen reminders. He would rather have been doing just about anything else at the moment.

“‘A rendering of the account of Corwode Manor,’” Robert read. “ ‘They say that Corwode was wont to be in the hands of the king. And the Lord King Brion, father of the king who now is, gave the aforesaid manor to Lord Kenneth Morgan and his heirs. And it is held of the king by service of three men at arms in time of war.’ ”

Just as Robert drew breath to begin the next paragraph, the solarium door opened without preamble and Duncan padded in, breathing heavily. Bare-legged and clad only in a damp linen exercise tunic and soft boots, the priest evidently had been trying the balance of his new blade with the armorer. He had flung a rough gray towel around his shoulders, and wiped his face with a corner of it as he strode across the room, his left hand clutching a folded and sealed parchment packet.

“This just came in by courier from Kierney,” he said, grinning and tossing the parchment to the table. “It appears to be from Bronwyn.”

He perched on the table edge and nodded greeting to Robert, but the chancellor laid his pen aside with a sigh and sat back with a very vexed expression. Morgan chose to ignore the reaction and broke the seal in a shower of red wax shards. His eyes lit with pleasure as he scanned the first few lines, and he leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Your illustrious brother definitely has a way with women, Duncan,” the duke said. “Listen to this. It’s so typical of Bronwyn.”

He looked up at Duncan and raised an indulgent eyebrow, and Duncan shook his head and grinned.

Duncan wiped his sweaty face again and smiled, then took the letter and scanned it for himself.

“You know, I never really believed I’d see Kevin so domesticated. At thirty-three and still unmarried, I was beginning to think he should have been the priest instead of me.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t Bronwyn’s fault,” Morgan said with a laugh. “I think she decided when she was about ten that Kevin was to be the only man in her life. Only a provision of our mother’s will has kept them apart this long. The McLains may be hardheaded, but they can’t compare to the stubbornness of a half-Deryni wench who’s determined to get what she wants.”

Duncan snorted and headed for the door. “I think I’ll go and badger the armorer some more. Anything is easier than trying to argue with a man who thinks his sister is perfect!”

With a chuckle, Morgan leaned back in his chair and swung his booted feet up on the leather stool, his spirits restored.

“Robert,” he said, smiling out the window at nothing in particular, “remind me to tell Gwydion that he’s leaving for Culdi in the morning, will you?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“And let’s get back to those accounts, shall we? Really, Robert, you’re getting insufferably lax these days.”

“I, Your Grace?” Robert murmured, looking up from the note he had made.

“Yes, yes, let’s get on with it. If we work hard, I think we can finish these blasted things by nightfall, and I can ship them out with Gwydion in the morning. I can’t remember when I’ve been more bored.”

Several other bright garments were also laid out neatly on the bed. Beside it were two leather-bound trunks, one of which was nearly packed and ready to be closed. Two serving maids were busy adding the final touches to that chest before starting on the second, but Bronwyn kept finding last-minute items to add that forced the maids to redo half the packing.

It was an unusually sunny day for March. Though it had rained hard during the night, the morning had dawned in a burst of lemon-streaked glory. Now, at mid-afternoon, the ground was almost dry. Pale sunlight streamed into the chamber through open balcony doors, near which three ladies-in-waiting stitched busily on Bronwyn’s trousseau, their fingers moving nimbly over the fine linens and silks. Two of them worked on the fine gauze veil their mistress would wear for her marriage, deftly applying delicate lace to the edges. The third was embroidering Bronwyn’s new McLain crest in gold on the cuff of a leather glove.

Behind the ladies, next to the fire, two young girls sat curled up on velvet cushions, the older of the two strumming a crwth. As she caressed the strings and hummed an accompaniment, her younger companion kept time with a timbrel and sang the lower, contrapuntal portion of the song. A fat orange cat dozed peacefully at their feet, only a slightly twitching tail betraying the fact that he was alive.

Brides, of course, are traditionally beautiful, especially daughters of nobility. Bronwyn de Morgan was certainly no exception. But of all the ladies in the room that afternoon, even the bride-to-be, it would have been difficult to find a lady of gentler breeding or more sterling character than Lady Margaret McLain.

Margaret was Duke Jared’s third duchess—lady of that twice-bereft lord who had thought that he could never love again after the death of his beloved second wife Vera, the mother of Duncan. He had hardly known his first bride, for the Duchess Elaine had lived but a day after the birth of Jared’s first son, Kevin. But his marriage to the Lady Vera Howard three years later had been a long and happy one—twenty-six years of joy in an age when marriages of state were rarely more than affectionate matches of convenience, and almost never touched by romantic love.

The marriage had brought more children: first Duncan, then a daughter who had died in infancy, and then young Alaric and Bronwyn Morgan, when their wardship descended to Jared on the death of his cousin Kenneth, the children’s father.

Then, four years ago, all that had ended. Lady Vera had contracted a strange wasting disease that drained her of vitality and left her helpless. Not even her Deryni powers (for she was full Deryni, the sister of Morgan’s mother, though no one knew) could keep life from gradually ebbing away.

After her, in time, had come the Lady Margaret—a woman of no great physical beauty, a childless widow of forty who would never bear Jared another heir, but a quiet lady of gentle soul who could offer the one thing Jared sought above all else: Lady Margaret, who had taught him how to love again.

Now that same lady fussed over Bronwyn’s wedding arrangements as though Bronwyn were her own daughter, watching over the serving maids and supervising activities with a mother’s sharp eye. Since Duncan had chosen not to wed, only Kevin and his wife would carry on the McLain line now. Until Bronwyn bore heirs, there would be no more McLain daughters born or married into the family, so memories of the preparations for this marriage would have to last a long time.

Margaret glanced aside at Bronwyn and smiled, then went to a heavy wooden cabinet and unlocked it with a key from the silver chatelaine at her waist. As she began searching its shelves, Bronwyn took up a jeweled kirtle of rose watered silk and held it in front of herself, walking thoughtfully to a large mirror standing in the corner of the room.

Without doubt, Bronwyn de Morgan was a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, with sleek golden hair flowing down her back like water, she was the embodiment of all the best qualities of her Deryni mother, the Lady Alyce. The wide eyes in the oval face were a pale blue, bordering on gray when her moods changed. The rose gown she held in front of her accentuated the pale, flawless complexion, the bloom of roses in cheek and lip.

She studied her reflection carefully for a moment, weighing the effect the garment could be expected to produce, then nodded approval and laid it on the bed beside her wedding gown.

“I like this one for the ball on the night we arrive in Culdi, don’t you, Lady Margaret?” she asked, smoothing the folds of the dress and looking across to see what Margaret was doing. “Kevin has seen it before, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, here it is.” Smiling, Margaret took a gold velvet-covered box from a shelf in the cabinet and brought it over to Bronwyn. It was about ten inches square and a hand’s-width deep, with the McLain arms embossed on the lid.

“Here is something else Kevin has seen before, my dear,” she said gently, watching for Bronwyn’s reaction as the girl began to open it. “It has been in the McLain family for many generations. I like to think that it brings luck to the women who wear it. It has brought me luck.”

Bronwyn lifted the lid and gasped in wonder. A high tiara heavy with diamonds glittered against a bed of black velvet, throwing a shower of flashing fire on Bronwyn’s simple blue gown.

“How magnificent!” Bronwyn breathed, carefully setting the box on the bed and lifting out the tiara. “This is the McLain nuptial crown, isn’t it?”

Margaret nodded. “Why don’t you try it on? I want to see how it will look with your veil. Martha, bring the veil, will you, please?”

As Lady Martha and her companion brought the veil, Bronwyn moved to the mirror again and stared at the reflection of the tiara in her hands. Margaret and Martha draped the unfinished veil over Bronwyn’s golden hair and fussed with it until it hung to suit them, then Margaret took the tiara and set it gently atop the veil, nodding her approval.

“It’s beautiful!” Bronwyn exclaimed.

Lady Martha handed her a smaller mirror so she could see the back, and as Bronwyn turned to look, she was startled to see two men standing in the doorway of the room. One was her future father-in-law, Duke Jared. The other was only vaguely familiar.

“You look absolutely enchanting, my dear,” Jared said, crossing toward her with a smile. “If I were Kevin, I’d have carried you off years ago, and damn your mother’s will!”

Bronwyn lowered her eyes self-consciously, then ran to Jared and flung her arms around him in an affectionate hug.

“Papa Jared, you are the most wonderful man in the whole world! Next to Kevin, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Jared replied, kissing her forehead and then holding her carefully away from him to avoid crushing the veil. “I must say, my dear, you make a lovely McLain. This tiara only graces the heads of the Eleven Kingdoms’ comeliest ladies, you know.” He joined Margaret and kissed her hand affectionately, eliciting a blush.

Jared had been holding court for most of the day. Like most land magnates of his stature, much of his time was not his own and must be spent attending to the official duties of his overlordship. He had come directly from a session of the ducal court this afternoon, and he still wore his ducal coronet and a brown velvet robe with McLain tartan sweeping from the shoulder. An enameled silver brooch with the McLain lion dormant secured the plaid on the left shoulder, and a heavy silver chain of office with links the size of a man’s hand lay around his broad shoulders. His blue eyes were mild and relaxed in the lined face, and he brushed aside a stray lock of graying hair as he gestured toward the other man who had remained standing in the doorway.

“Rimmell, come in here. I want you to meet my future daughter-in-law.”

Rimmell bowed and crossed toward his master.

The most extraordinary single feature about Rimmell at first glance was his snow-white hair. Rimmell was not an old man—he had but eight-and-twenty years—nor was he an albino. He had, in fact, had perfectly ordinary brown hair until the age of ten when, on one warm summer night, it had suddenly and inexplicably turned white while he slept.

His mother had always blamed it on the “Deryni witch” who was permitted to live on the outskirts of the village. The village priest had vowed the boy was possessed and had tried to exorcise the evil spirits. But whatever the reason, and despite all they did to try to change it, Rimmell’s hair had remained white. It was only this, coupled with eyes of a startlingly brilliant blue, that rescued him from the anonymity of very ordinary features and a slightly stooped posture.

He wore a gray tunic and high boots, a gray velvet cap with Jared’s sleeping lion badge sewn to the front, and carried a scuffed gray leather equipment pouch slung across his chest on a long leather strap. Several long rolls of parchment were tucked under his arm, and he clutched them nervously as he reached Jared’s side and bowed again.

“Your Grace,” he murmured, removing his cap and keeping his eyes lowered. “Ladies.”

Jared glanced conspiratorially at his wife and smiled. “Bronwyn, this is my architect, Master Rimmell. He has drawn up a few sketches on which I should like your opinion.” He gestured toward a table near the fire. “Rimmell, let’s spread them out over there.”

As Rimmell crossed to the table and began unrolling his parchments, Bronwyn took off the tiara and veil and handed them to a serving maid, then walked curiously to the table. Jared and Rimmell were opening out a number of parchment documents that appeared to be plans of some sort, and Bronwyn’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement as she leaned closer to inspect them.

“Well, what do you think?”

“What are they?”

Jared grinned and straightened, folded his arms across his chest in anticipation. “They’re plans for your new winter palace in Kierney, my dear. Construction has already begun. You and Kevin should be able to hold Christmas Court there next year!”

“A winter palace?” Bronwyn gasped. “For us? Oh, Jared, thank you!”

“Consider it the only proper wedding present we could think of for the future duke and duchess of Cassan,” Jared replied. He put an affectionate arm around his wife and smiled down at her. “Margaret and I wanted you to have somewhere for the grandchildren to play, something to remember us by when we’re gone.”

“You!” Bronwyn teased, hugging them both. “As if we needed a drafty old palace to remember you by! Come! Show me the plans! I want to know about every last cubbyhole and stairway.”

Jared chuckled and bent down beside her, began pointing out the features of the structure. As he proceeded to regale his eager audience with tales of the palace’s splendor, Rimmell withdrew a few paces and tried to study Bronwyn unobtrusively.

He did not approve of the coming marriage of his master’s heir with this Deryni woman. He had never approved, from the first time he set eyes on her seven months ago. In those seven months he had never spoken to Bronwyn. Indeed, he had only glimpsed her a handful of times. But those were enough.

They were enough to make him realize the gap between them—she a lord’s daughter and heiress of many lands; he a commoner, an architect, of no family at all. And they were enough for him to realize that, against all reason, he was falling hopelessly, helplessly in love with this exquisite creature.

He told himself that he disapproved of the coming match for other, more aesthetic reasons than the true ones. He told himself he disapproved because Bronwyn was half-Deryni, and therefore had no business marrying the young Earl Kevin, that she was not good enough for one so high. But whatever his objections, they always came back to the one inescapable, irreconcilable fact: he was in love with Bronwyn de Morgan, Deryni or no. And he must have her or die.

He had no quarrel with Kevin. Lord Kevin McLain was his future master, and Rimmell owed him the same allegiance that he did Duke Jared. But neither could he allow the earl to marry Bronwyn. Why, even the thought was beginning to make him hate the very sight of Earl Kevin.

His pondering was interrupted by a voice outside the balcony window—the voice of the hated earl himself.

“Bronwyn?” the voice called. “Bronwyn, come to the window. I want to show you something.”

At his call, Bronwyn hurried through the balcony doors and peered over the edge of the railing. From his spot near the table, Rimmell could just see the tips of pennants on lances above the balcony, and the shadowy shapes of riders on horseback through the narrow slits in the balcony railing. Lord Kevin had returned with his men.

“Oh!” Bronwyn called out, her face bright with excitement. “Papa Jared, Lady Margaret, come and see what he’s brought! Oh, Kevin, she’s the most beautiful palfrey I’ve ever seen!”

“Come down and try her, then,” Kevin shouted. “I bought her for you.”

“For me?” Bronwyn squealed, clapping her hands like an excited child. She glanced back at Jared and Margaret, then turned back to blow Kevin a kiss.

“We’re coming right down!” she called, gathering her skirts around her as she flew across the room to join the McLains. “Don’t go away!”

As the three hurried from the room, Rimmell stared after Bronwyn longingly for a moment, then moved slowly across to the balcony. There in the courtyard below, Earl Kevin, in full skirmish attire, was seated on a great roan destrier with McLain tartan on the saddle. A page had taken his lance and helmet, and he had pushed back his camail so that his brown hair was rumpled and tousled. In his right hand he held the lead rein of a cream-colored palfrey, caparisoned with green velvet hangings and a white leather sidesaddle. As Bronwyn appeared at the head of the stairs, he tossed the lead to another page and moved his destrier to the steps, then reached up and lifted Bronwyn to the saddle in front of him.

“Come here, wench! What do you think of that?” he laughed, crushing her against his mailed chest and kissing her heartily. “Is that or is that not a horse fit for a queen? Or a future duchess, at any rate.”

Bronwyn giggled and snuggled closer in the protective circle of his arm, and Kevin guided his mount back toward the palfrey. As Bronwyn reached out to touch her new prize, Rimmell turned away in disgust and stalked back to the table.

He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he must stop this wedding from taking place. Bronwyn was his. She must be his. If only he could find the right moment, he was sure he could convince her of that, could make her love him. It did not occur to him that he had just stepped across the border from fantasy into madness.

He rolled up his plans and scanned the room carefully, noting that all the ladies-in-waiting and servants had moved to the balcony to watch the spectacle in the courtyard below. Unless he was gravely mistaken, some of the women watched with more than a little jealousy. Could he, perhaps, play on that jealousy in some way? Perhaps one of the ladies could tell of a way to win a woman’s love. At any rate, it bore closer watching. Since he truly meant to stop the marriage and take Bronwyn for himself, he must not miss a single possibility. Bronwyn must be his!