Since the visit to the Hort of Orsal was to be an official one, Morgan was decked out in quasi-formal attire: knee-length black leather surcoat with the Corwyn gryphon emblazoned on the chest in green suede, this over a black fine wool tunic and light mail encasing his body from neck to knee. Hard leather boots took up where the mail left off, the heels adorned with silver ceremonial spurs—though Morgan would not be going near a horse. A heavy cloak of a rich, nubby green wool hung from his broad shoulders, secured right of center with a carved silver clasp. And since this was a state visit and not a military maneuver, the ducal coronet of Corwyn crowned his golden head. His broadsword hung at his side in a well-worn leather scabbard.

Duncan, too, had made dress concessions for his visit to the Hort of Orsal, finally discarding all pretense of clerical garb in favor of a high-collared black doublet and cloak over mail. He had debated whether he should don the plaid of his McLain ancestors—he knew that Alaric kept one on hand for just such occasions—but he had decided that such a move might be premature. Few people knew of his suspension as yet. And until they did learn of it, there was no need to advertise the fact. As long as he wore black, he would arouse no attention. People would see what they expected to see—and priests wore black.

But meanwhile, he realized wryly, he would have little difficulty fitting into society as a layman again. Lord Duncan Howard McLain was first and foremost a nobleman’s son, well-schooled in the fighting traditions of the aristocracy. And though the new blade hanging at his waist might be virgin just now, there was little doubt in Duncan’s mind that it would serve him well the first time the need arose.

The dense coastal fog was lifting as Morgan and Duncan approached the Rhafallia, and they could see her tall mast looming suddenly in the grayness. The brightly painted mainsail was furled loosely along the single wide yardarm, and Morgan’s black-green-black maritime banner hung limply from a short standard at the bow. As they watched, a sailor ran up Kelson’s colors on the mast, a flash of crimson and gold against the gray morning sky.

Rhafallia was not Morgan’s largest ship, though at a mere fifty tons she was one of the fastest. Double-ended and clinker-built like most ships that plied the Southern Sea in trade, she carried a crew of thirty men and four officers, with room for perhaps half that many men-at-arms or passengers, in addition to cargo. When the wind blew, and blew from the right direction, she could make four to six knots with little difficulty. Recent rigging innovations copied from the Bremagni merchant fleets to the south now made it possible to tack as close as forty degrees to the wind with a new forward sail called a jib.

If the wind failed, or did not blow from the proper direction, there were always the oars. And even without sail, the narrow and high-riding Rhafallia could easily make the crossing to the Hort of Orsal’s island port and back in less than a day.

Morgan glanced up at the mast again as he and Duncan approached the gangplank, and noticed that sailors were already swarming the rigging in preparation for departure. A lookout was supervising from a vantage point in the fighting castle at the top of the mast, and Morgan could just see the bright knit caps of the deck crew scurrying in the slightly lower level of the rowing gallery. He hoped that they would not have to rely too heavily on oars this morning, though. He wanted to be back on land well before noon.

As he considered the dismal possibility of a protracted crossing, a tall man in well-worn brown leather breeches and jerkin came striding up, his neck and shoulders muffled by a rough wool cloak of faded crimson. He wore the peaked leather cap of a ship’s master, with the green cockade of Morgan’s sea service jutting gaily from the brim. He grinned broadly as he saw Morgan, and a bushy rust-colored mustache and beard bristled when he talked.

“Good morning, Your Grace!” he boomed, rubbing his hands together briskly and glancing around as though he were thoroughly enjoying the cold, the fog, and the early hour. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

Morgan raised a droll eyebrow. “It is if you like to sail blind, Henry. Will the wind pick up by the time the tide shifts, or are we going to have to row?”

“Oh, there’ll be wind,” the captain assured him. “It’s going to be a beautiful day for sailing. Only one tack out of the harbor. How many are you bringing aboard, by the way?”

“There’ll be nine in all,” Morgan replied, glancing around distractedly. “Ah, this is my cousin, Monsignor Duncan McLain. Duncan, Captain Henry Kirby, Master of the Rhafallia.”

Kirby touched the brim of his hat. “Honored to meet you, Monsignor.” He turned back to Morgan. “Are you ready to come aboard then, m’lord?”

“We might as well. How long before the tide?”

“Oh, a quarter hour or so. We can start casting off and getting sail set as soon as you’re aboard.”

“Very well.” Morgan turned and gestured to the knot of men standing farther back on the quay, then followed Duncan and Kirby aboard. Behind him, Lord Hamilton and Morgan’s escort came trudging down the quay seven strong.

Hamilton looked much more confident now that he was back in fighting harness. He was a warrior, not a courtier. His close association with Gwydion and other more cultured personages for the past few days had been nerve-wracking, to say the least. Certainly none had been happier than he to see the fiery little troubadour packed off for Culdi this morning. It had started Hamilton’s day most propitiously, and he was now in his element, presiding with singular aplomb as he herded his contingent aboard the ship.

Master Randolph was the first of the ducal party to board, his handsome face alight with pleasure at the thought of the adventure he hoped awaited. As a physician, he was seldom included in court intrigue beyond that of the sort he had handled at the state banquet. The fact that Morgan had invited him along on this trip was a source of wonder and delight.

At his side was young Richard FitzWilliam, the royal squire Duncan had brought with him from Rhemuth. Richard was enthralled with the prospect of seeing the Hort of Orsal’s legendary court in person. Further, he idolized Morgan, had trained under his supervision at the court in Rhemuth. Fiercely loyal to the duke, he had risked harsh words and physical danger more than once to warn his mentor of impending danger.

In addition, there were four of Morgan’s staff officers from the castle garrison, serving the dual purpose of honor guard and military advisors for the strategy sessions that were the object of the visit. It would be the job of these men, under the leadership of Lord Hamilton who brought up the rear, to command the local defenses while Morgan was away leading the royal armies in the north. As such, they were a vital link in the defense of Corwyn.

When the last man was aboard, two crewmen in faded blue breeches and linen shirts drew in the gangplank and secured the rail on the side. Even now, a breeze was rising as Kirby had predicted, the mist beginning to disperse in tattered strips. Kirby began shouting orders, and lines were cast off, sails unfurled. As Rhafallia drifted out from the dock, a dozen rowers broke out their oars and began guiding her toward a patch of wind perhaps fifty yards from the quay. When she cleared the last ships anchored in the vicinity of the quay and entered the wind, her sails began to fill.

The breeze stiffened as Rhafallia cleared the harbor mouth, and she began to pick up speed. After a few hundred yards, she came about smartly and set a course for the Orsal’s island capital. If the wind held, she would arrive at the other side in less than four hours, with a steady cross-wind all the way.

As soon as the mechanics of getting underway were finished, Captain Kirby joined Morgan, Duncan, and Randolph on the afterdeck. Though Rhafallia was technically a merchant ship, she carried raised fighting platforms fore and aft. The helmsman steered the ship from the rear of the aft platform with a broad starboard steering oar, but the rest of the platform was ordinarily captain’s country, used as a lounge and observation deck.

Sailors had brought folding camp stools of finely tooled Forcinn leather up the access ladder, and the four made themselves comfortable. The sun was shining strongly now, and as they gazed back toward Coroth, they could see the fog still shrouding the high cliffs of the coast, yet already beginning to melt away in the spring sunlight. Hamilton, the four lieutenants, and young Richard were lounging on the main deck about amidships, and those crewmen not engaged in the actual sailing of the ship were relaxing in the narrow, indented rowing galleries that ran the length of the ship on either side. A lookout stood watch on the forward fighting platform, and another in the castle atop the mast. The huge expanse of mainsail and wide jib obscured a large portion of the sky, the painted gryphon on the main fiercely surveying the entire scene.

Kirby sighed and leaned back against the railing on the aft platform as he inspected his ship.

“Ah, ’tis a beautiful day, just as I promised, m’lord. You really have to get out on the sea and taste the salt air to appreciate life. Can I interest you in a bit of wine to take the chill from your bones, perhaps?”

“You might, if you have Fianna wine,” Morgan allowed, aware that the vintage he had named was the most expensive, and also well aware that Kirby drank nothing else.

Kirby gave a wry grin and gestured expansively. “For you, m’lord, nothing but the best.” He glanced over his right shoulder and into the starboard rowing gallery where a boy of seven or eight was whittling. “Dickon, come here a minute, lad.”

The boy looked up attentively at the sound of his name, then put away his knife and scampered to the foot of the ladder. The ship rolled slightly in the brisk wind, but the boy held onto the ladder steadily. There was a look of pure hero worship in his eyes as he looked up at Kirby.

“Sir?”

“Bring up some cups and a new flask of that Fianna wine, will you, lad? Ask one of the hands to help you lift it down.”

“My squire can give him a hand,” Morgan said, moving to the rail beside the captain. “Richard, would you go with this lad, please? Captain Kirby has graciously consented to treat us from his private stock of Fianna wine.”

Richard looked up inquiringly from his post with the castle lieutenants and Lord Hamilton, then grinned and bowed acknowledgement. As Dickon turned on his heel and clambered down another ladder and into the hold, Richard glanced after him rather incredulously. He seemed somewhat taken aback at the boy’s agility, for Richard himself did not profess to be a sailor, but he followed obediently, if a bit more gingerly.

Kirby watched the two disappear belowdecks and smiled. “My son,” he stated proudly.

There was nothing Morgan could add to that.

Toward the bow, one of the crew had watched the preceding exchange with more than casual interest. His name was Andrew, auxiliary helmsman aboard the Rhafallia. His features hardened as he turned back to glower over the rail, squinting intently into the mist far ahead that shrouded the Hortic coast.

He would never reach those foam-drenched shores, he knew. Nor would he ever see his native Fianna again—that same Fianna whence came the wine that had just been the topic of discussion on the afterdeck. But he was resigned to that. It was small enough price to pay for the deed he was about to do. He had been ready for a long time.

He stood without moving for several minutes, then reached casually into his bleached homespun shirt and removed a small, crumpled scrap of cloth. Glancing around to be sure he was not being observed, he unfolded the cloth and cupped it in his hand, mouthing the syllables as he reread the words for the fifth or sixth time.

Below was an “R” and the sketchy emblem of a falcon.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder at the afterdeck, then turned back to face the sea. The message had arrived last night as the sun was sinking behind the misty mountains. As he and his colleagues had planned so long ago, the time at last had come when Morgan would sail again aboard his flagship Rhafallia—and there meet his destiny. It would not be a pleasant death—not that for the Lord Alaric. But death it would be, and soon.

Andrew pressed his right hand against his chest and felt the reassuring pressure of the vial on the cord around his neck. He would not shrink from his duty. Though his own death was certain, he had sworn the oath of the Sons of Heaven, and he would keep it. Besides, Warin himself had promised that the end would not be painful. And Andrew would be richly rewarded in the Hereafter for killing the hated Deryni duke.

What matter if, in killing Morgan, he must take his own life? There could be no escape from the ship, even if he succeeded. And if he failed—well, he had heard what the Deryni could do to a man: how they could twist his mind, force him to open his soul to the powers of evil, even betray the cause.

No, far better to drink the faithful poison and then strike down the Deryni. What price life, if a man’s soul be damned?

With a decisive gesture, Andrew crumpled the scrap of cloth in his hand and let it flutter down into the water below. He watched until it was lost from sight in the froth of the ship’s wake, then reached inside his shirt again and withdrew the tiny poison vial.

The elixir was very potent, Warin had told him. A few drops on the blade of his dagger, a small scratch on unprotected hands or face, and all the magic and mail in the world would not save the traitor Morgan.

Andrew worried the stopper out of the vial, glancing around surreptitiously to be sure no one was watching, then let a few drops trickle down the blade stuck through his leather belt.

There. Let the Deryni defeat that, he thought to himself. For, as I live and breathe, his blood will spill today. And with it spills his life.

He recorked the vial and hid it in his hand, then turned and strolled casually toward the aft fighting platform to relieve at the helm. As he climbed the ladder and slipped past the captain and his companions to take the tiller, he tried to avoid looking at Morgan, as though a mere glance from the sorcerer might fathom his intent and foil the coming deed. His passage was hardly noticed, for at that moment Richard and the cabin boy returned with worn wooden cups and a flask of wine. The flask, Andrew noted bitterly, still bore the Fianna seal of quality.

“That’s a good lad.” Kirby smiled, taking the flask and pouring all around after he broke the seal. “M’lord, you invariably have good taste in wine.”

“I only follow your lead, Henry.” Morgan smiled before taking a long draught. “After all, if I had no captains like you to import it, I’d never know such heaven on earth existed. An excellent year—but then, they all are.” He sighed and stretched his legs in front of him, the sun gleaming on his mail and his golden hair. He took the gold coronet from his head and laid it casually on the deck beside his stool.

Andrew took advantage of the activity to work the stopper out of the vial again with his thumb, then lifted it to his lips under the pretext of covering a yawn. The yawn quickly assumed the appearance of a cough as the liquid burned down his throat, and Andrew was hard pressed to cover his extreme discomfort. Kirby looked at him strangely, then returned his attention to his conversation. Andrew swallowed again with difficulty, but managed at last to regain his composure.

Hell’s demons! Andrew thought as he wiped his streaming eyes. Warin hadn’t warned him it would taste like that! He had almost given away the whole plan. He would have to act quickly now.

Straightening, he studied the configuration of men on the platform. Morgan was sitting on a stool only a few paces away, his back toward the helm. Kirby stood a little to his left, facing slightly sideways. The priest, Master Randolph, and the squire Richard were grouped to Morgan’s right, also seated, and all were much more interested in their wine and the slowly emerging land to the east than in the movements of the ship’s helmsman.

Andrew’s lip curled in a sardonic smile as his hand crept to the hilt of his long dagger, and he carefully chose his target—the unprotected back of Morgan’s head. Then, abandoning the tiller, he drew his knife and leaped toward his intended victim.

The outcome was not as anyone had planned. As Andrew leaped, young Richard FitzWilliam turned and caught the movement. In that fatal instant before Andrew could reach his target, Richard simultaneously shouted and launched himself between the two, throwing Morgan from his seat and sending leather stools flying. The ship lurched as it came around into the wind, throwing Andrew off balance and preventing him from stopping in time.

Even as Duncan and Kirby were leaping to disarm and subdue him, Andrew crashed into Richard and Morgan, his momentum carrying all three to the deck in a heap. Morgan ended up on the bottom of that heap, with Richard in his arms and a terrified Andrew on top of that.

He had failed!

Duncan and Kirby grabbed Andrew by the arms and wrenched him away as Hamilton and the four lieutenants swarmed up the access ladder to aid in the capture. Once Kirby saw that their attacker was in custody, he scrambled to the tiller and steered the ship back on course, shouting urgently for another seaman to come and take the helm. Randolph, who had pulled the boy Dickon to safety at the outset of the attack, watched half in a daze as Morgan struggled to a sitting position, fighting for wind and incredulously shifting Richard in his lap.

“Richard?” Morgan gasped, shaking the young man’s shoulder urgently. The youth was a dead weight in Morgan’s arms, and the duke’s eyes went wide as he saw the hilt of the dagger jutting from Richard’s side.

“Randolph, come here! He’s hurt!”

Randolph was instantly at his side, kneeling to inspect the wound, and Richard moaned and opened his eyes with great effort. His face had an ashen, cyanic tinge to it, and he gasped as the physician touched the dagger. Duncan made certain his prisoner was secure, then hurriedly joined Randolph at the wounded man’s side.

“I—I stopped him, m’lord,” Richard gasped weakly, looking up at Morgan with trusting eyes. “He was going to kill ye.”

“You did well,” Morgan murmured, smoothing the youth’s dark hair off his forehead and reading the agony etched there. “How bad is it, Ran?”

Randolph shook his head bitterly. “I think he’s poisoned, m’lord. Even if the wound were not so critical, I—” He bowed his head in defeat. “I’m sorry, m’lord.”

“Your Grace,” Richard whispered, “may I ask a boon?”

“Whatever is in my power, Richard,” Morgan said gently.

“Would you—would you tell my father I fell in your service, as your liege man? He—” Richard had to cough, and the movement sent another wave of pain wracking through his body. “He hoped I would be a knight someday,” he finished weakly.

Morgan nodded, biting his lip and trying to keep his vision from blurring.

“Let me say the words, then, m’lord,” Richard whispered, seizing one of Morgan’s hands and gripping it fiercely. “I, Richard FitzWilliam, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship.” His eyes opened wider and his voice steadied as he continued. “Faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk—” He grimaced in pain, his eyes squeezing shut. “So help me, God . . .”

His voice trailed off with the end of the oath and his grip relaxed. The last breath died slowly. With a convulsive shudder Morgan held the dead youth to his chest for a moment, his eyes closed in sorrow. Beside him, he could hear Duncan murmuring the words of absolution.

He looked up at Kirby’s drawn face, at his lieutenants holding the prisoner, at the prisoner himself, and his eyes went steely gray. Not taking his gaze from the man who stood there glaring down so defiantly, he gently lowered Richard to the deck and got to his feet. An overturned stool lay between him and the prisoner, and he forced himself to right it and set it carefully in place before moving closer to the man. His hands clenched and unclenched several times as he stood looking at the man, and he had to restrain the urge to smash the sneering face with his fist.

“Why?” he said in a low voice, not trusting himself to say any more at this point.

“Because you’re Deryni, and all Deryni must die!” The man spat, his eyes flashing with a fanatic fire. “The Devil take you, you’ll not escape next time! And there will be a next time, I guarantee it!”

Morgan stared at the man for a long moment, not saying a word, until the man at last swallowed and dropped his gaze.

“Is that all you have to say?” Morgan said quietly, his eyes dark and dangerous.

The man looked up at him again, and a strange expression came across his face.

“You can’t hurt me, Morgan,” he said in a steady voice. “I tried to kill you, and I’m glad. I’d do it again if I had the chance.”

“What chance did Richard have?” Morgan said icily, watching as the man’s eyes flicked nervously to the body lying behind him.

“He consorted with a Deryni,” the man murmured. “He deserved what he got.”

“The Devil take you, he deserved no such thing!” Morgan cursed, grabbing the front of the man’s shirt and jerking his head to within inches of his own. “Who sent you to do this?”

The man grimaced with pain and shook his head, but managed a defiant smile. “It’s no good, Morgan. I’m not telling you anything. I know I’m a dead man.”

“You’re not dead yet!” Morgan muttered through clenched teeth, giving the man’s collar a slight twist. “Now who sent you? Who’s behind this?”

As Morgan turned his Deryni gaze on the man, intending to Truth-Read, Andrew’s blue eyes widened and a look of stark terror replaced the belligerence.

“Not my soul, you Deryni bastard!” the man croaked, wrenching his gaze from Morgan’s and closing his eyes tightly. “Leave me alone!”

A shudder wracked through his body as he fought Morgan’s power, and he moaned in agony as he struggled to escape. Then he suddenly relaxed and slumped in the arms of his captors, head lolling loosely. Morgan made one last effort to probe his mind as he slipped away, but it was no use. The man was dead. Releasing the shirt, Morgan turned away to Randolph in disgust.

“Well, did I kill him, or did he scare himself to death, or what?”

Randolph inspected the body the lieutenants lowered to the deck, then pried open the man’s left hand. He took the vial and sniffed it, then stood up and held it out to Morgan.

“Poison, m’lord. Probably the same that was on the knife. He must have realized there was no hope of escape, even if he’d succeeded in killing you.”

Morgan glanced down at one of the lieutenants who was searching the body. “Anything else?”

“Sorry, m’lord. Nothing.”

Morgan looked down at the body for a moment, then prodded it with his toe. “Get rid of that,” he said finally. “And take care of Richard. He’ll be buried in Coroth with full honors, as my liege man.”

“Yes, m’lord,” a lieutenant said, taking off his green cloak and spreading it over the fallen squire.

Morgan turned away and walked to the rail, as far as possible from the two bodies, frowned as a splash told him there were no longer two. Duncan joined him and leaned against the rail to his left, watching for a long moment before breaking the silence.

“ ‘All Deryni must die!’ ” Duncan quoted softly. “Shades of the Inquisition. Does it remind you of anything else?”

Morgan nodded. “The songs they’ve been singing in the streets. Ran’s reports from the banquet about the border raids. It adds up to one thing: This Warin affair is getting out of hand.”

“That was a dedicated man standing there just now,” Duncan observed. “This Warin fellow must have a great deal of charisma. I wonder what he told that sailor to make him take his own life for the cause?”

Morgan snorted. “It isn’t difficult to imagine. ‘By killing the Deryni monster, you aid all of humankind. There will be rewards for you in the Hereafter. Only through death can you escape the wrath of the Deryni, and prevent him from defiling your immortal soul!’ ”

“Powerful persuasion for the common man, where superstition already runs rampant,” Duncan allowed. “And I’m afraid we’re going to see a lot more of it, if and when the Interdict falls. It will bring all of this out in the open. This is only a taste.”

“Well, I can’t say I like the flavor,” Morgan said. “We’ll not stay long at the Orsal’s court today, Duncan. I may not be able to do any more at home than I can there, but I at least want to be present when things start falling apart.”

“Then you’re finally convinced the Interdict is a serious threat.”

“I never thought any different,” Morgan replied.

It had not been a good day. Aside from the obvious horror of attempted assassination and the death of Richard, even the meeting with the Hort of Orsal had been less than satisfying. His Hortic Highness had been in a terrible disposition, for he had just received word that five of his prized R’Kassan stallions had been stolen from a breeding farm in one of his northern provinces. Torenthi border raiders had been responsible for the theft, and when Morgan and Duncan arrived, the Orsal had been much more interested in recovering the animals and wreaking vengeance than in discussing mutual defense in a war that was still three months hence.

So the meeting had not been fruitful in that respect. Morgan visited with his old friend and his family and was coerced into allowing the Orsal’s second heir, the eleven-year-old Rogan, to return with him to the ducal court for knightly training. But the defense plans so vital in the coming months were never settled to Morgan’s satisfaction. When the duke boarded Rhafallia to go home, two of his castle lieutenants had stayed behind to wrangle with the Orsal’s advisors and sea captains and work out final details of the protective alliance. Morgan did not like delegating such crucial responsibilities to others, but he could see no real choice in this particular case. He could not personally afford to spend at the Orsal’s court the days necessary to come to a final agreement.

The weather, too, had deteriorated during the day. When Morgan sailed at sunset, it was in name only. The air was so still that the ship could not even leave the quay without the aid of oars. The crew, with the good-natured resignation that was characteristic of the men on Morgan’s ships, unshipped their oars and settled down to row. As stars began to appear in the east, the crew’s rough voices sang and hummed sea chanties as old as man’s first ventures on the sea.

The ship was dark except for green steering lanterns fore and aft. On the afterdeck, Captain Kirby stood watchful guard beside the helmsman. Beneath him, under the shelter of the afterdeck, Master Randolph and the others of Morgan’s party reclined on hard pallets and tried to sleep. The duke and Duncan were bedded down on the forward platform, sheltered against a light drizzle by a canvas canopy Kirby had rigged before they set sail.

But Morgan could not sleep. Gathering his cloak around him more closely, he leaned out from under the canopy to scan the stars. The Hunter had risen from the sea in the east, and his bright belt winked frostily in the chill March air. Morgan studied the other constellations distractedly, not thinking about what he saw, before settling back on his pallet to sigh, hands clasped behind his head.

“Duncan?”

“Hmmm.”

“Are you asleep?”

“Not now.” Duncan sat up and rubbed a knuckled hand across his eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

Morgan sighed again and clasped his knees against his chest, chin resting on folded arms. “Tell me, Duncan. Did we accomplish anything today besides the loss of a good man?”

Duncan grimaced, tight-lipped in the darkness, then tried to force a light tone. “Well, we saw the Orsal’s latest offspring—number seven, I make it. And a ‘lusty bairn,’ as we say in Kierney.”

“Hurrah for the lusty bairn.” Morgan smiled halfheartedly. “We also saw little Orsals one through six, number three of whom is now part of my entourage. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I?” Duncan chuckled. “I thought you were dying for a new Hortic squire at Castle Coroth, my Lord General. Just think—you can take the Orsal’s son into battle with you.”

Morgan snorted. “The Devil I can! If I take the second heir to the Hortic throne into battle and something happens to him—God forbid—I’ll end up dying for my new squire, all right. But what could I say? I owed the Orsal a favor. He’s fostered enough of my retainers. And it would have been very difficult to bow out gracefully with the boy standing right there.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Duncan replied. “If there’s trouble, you can always put the lad on the first ship for home. I get the impression that young Rogan would like that anyway,” he continued wistfully. “I don’t think he’s the warrior type.”

“Yes, hardly the sort of son I’d pictured for the Hort of Orsal. He’s second in line, and I have the feeling he isn’t even happy about being that close.”

Duncan nodded. “A potential scholar or physician or monk, if I ever saw one. It’s a pity he’ll probably never have the chance to pursue his true calling. Instead, when the time comes, he’ll become some sort of minor functionary in his older brother’s court—never really happy, never knowing why. Or perhaps knowing why, yet unable to do anything about it. That’s the saddest part of all, I think. I grieve for him, Alaric.”

“So do I,” Morgan agreed, knowing that Duncan, too, must be feeling the futility of being trapped in a role he did not wish to play, forced by circumstances to veil his true potential and masquerade in a world he had not asked for or made.

With a sigh, Morgan leaned out of his pallet to study the stars once more, then edged closer to the bow where light was streaming from the forward steering lantern. Sitting back against the railing, he stripped off his right glove, smiled at the gryphon signet gleaming coldly in the green-tinged lantern light.

Duncan scooted across the deck on hands and knees to crouch beside his cousin. “What are you doing?”

“It’s time for Derry’s report, if he’s going to make one,” Morgan replied, polishing the ring against a corner of his cloak. “Do you want to listen with me? I’m only going to first-level trance unless he calls.”

“Go,” Duncan said, sitting cross-legged beside Morgan and nodding his readiness. “I’ll be one step behind you.”

As both men fixed their attention on the ring, Morgan inhaled deeply to trigger the earliest stage of the Deryni Mind-Touch, then exhaled slowly as he entered trance. His eyes closed; his breathing became slow and controlled. Then Duncan was reaching across to cover the gryphon seal with his cupped hand, to join in the rapport.

They cast around for perhaps a quarter hour, at first touching only the consciousness of crewmen and members of the ducal party aboard. As they extended their awareness, they caught the ghostly flickers of other minds, contacts so fleeting as to be almost undetectable, and certainly unreadable. But nowhere was there any sign of Derry. With a sigh, Morgan withdrew from his trance, Duncan following.

“Well, I suppose he’s all right,” Morgan said, shaking his head lightly to dispel the last vestiges of fogginess that such a search usually left behind. “Unless he’s in serious trouble, I know he would have called if he’d had anything to report.” He smiled. “I’m afraid our young friend Derry liked his first taste of magic far too much to pass up the opportunity for a repeat performance, if there was the slightest excuse he could use. I think he’s probably safe.”

Duncan chuckled as he crawled back to his pallet. “It’s a little surprising how easily he took to magic, don’t you agree? He acted as though he’d been doing it all his life, hardly batted an eye when he found out about me.”

“Product of long indoctrination.” Morgan smiled. “Derry has been my aide for nearly six years. And up until two nights ago, I never let him see me use my powers directly. He saw the fruits of those powers on occasion, though, if not the methods. So when the time finally came to get involved himself, there was no question in his mind as to whether being Deryni was a bad thing. He knew better. He shows remarkable potential, too.”

“Could he be part Deryni?”

Morgan shook his head and lay down. “I’m afraid not. Which raises another interesting question. It makes one wonder what other humans could do, given the chance, if they weren’t so damned convinced that magic is evil. Derry, for example, shows remarkable adaptability. There are a number of simple spells I could teach him right now, if he were here, and he’d have no difficulty whatever in mastering them. And he doesn’t even have ancestry through one of the original human families that carries the potential for receiving power—like Brion did, or like the Orsal’s line.”

“Well, I hope he’s careful,” Duncan murmured, rolling over and pulling his cloak around himself with a grunt. “A little knowledge can be dangerous, especially if it happens to be Deryni knowledge. And right now, the world can be a very dangerous place for Deryni sympathizers.”

“Derry can take care of himself,” Morgan said. “He thrives on danger. Besides, I’m sure he’s safe.”

But Derry was not safe.