That morning, after leaving Fathane, he had decided to head north toward Medras to see what he could learn. He did not plan to go all the way to that city, for there was not sufficient time if he was to be back in Coroth by the following night as Morgan had ordered. But Medras was where Torenthi troops were reputed to be gathering. If he were prudent, he might be able to gain valuable information to relay back to Morgan.

Of course he had reminded himself, as he rode out the gates of Fathane, that he would need to exercise a great deal more caution if he intended to do his work in another establishment like the Jack Dog Tavern of the night before. The altercation in the alley had been far more brutal than he cared to repeat.

That was yet another reason for quitting Fathane as soon as possible. He had no wish to be connected with those two bodies in the alley. He doubted that any of his drinking companions of the previous night would even be able to remember him, much less connect him with the deaths, but witnesses had a bad habit of remembering things at the most inopportune times. And if, by some quirk of fate, those did—well, life would be neither easy nor long for one who had dared to kill two of Wencit’s hand-picked spies.

So he had ridden north and inland toward the city of Medras, stopping occasionally at inns and wells to chat with the local folk and to peddle a few furs from the pack behind his saddle. By noon he had reached the turn-off road to Medras, only minutes behind a large company of foot soldiers bound for that city—and very nearly had been stopped and questioned by a pair of men from the rear guard of that troop.

If he had entertained any uncertainty before, that incipient threat convinced Derry that, indeed, he had best not go on to Medras after all. It was time to head west, back into Corwyn. Dusk found him crossing the rolling northern reaches of Morgan’s territory, the fertile buffer region separating Corwyn from Eastmarch. The roads near the border were notoriously poor, and the one Derry had chosen was no exception, but he had made good time since crossing the Torenth-Corwyn border.

Now, however, as the shadows lengthened and dusk began to settle, his horse stumbled and slowed on the rough footing. Reluctantly Derry forced himself to pay more attention to his riding.

Darkness would soon be upon him, but he had a definite destination in mind before he stopped for the night. For while this was Morgan country, it was also Warin country, if rumor was correct. Ahead lay a town with a passable inn. Besides a hot meal, of which Derry was sorely in need, he might also gain valuable information.

The thought cheered him. Whistling a cheery tune under his breath as he rode, Derry let his gaze continue to scan the terrain ahead, then focused abruptly on the horizon slightly to his left.

That was strange. Unless he was seriously mistaken, the sunset glow behind the next hill was not only in the wrong place—indeed, he had seen the sun set thirty degrees farther to the right—but it was growing brighter instead of darker.

Fire?

Drawing rein to listen and sniff the air, Derry frowned, then struck out across the open fields toward the hill. The bitter, acrid bite of smoke grew stronger in his nostrils as he rode. As he neared the crest of the hill, he could see black clouds of smoke billowing into the still-pale sky ahead. Now, too, he became aware of shouts echoing on the chill night air.

Suspecting the worst, and hoping that he was wrong, Derry slipped from the saddle and covered the remaining few yards on foot. His jaw tightened as he dropped to his stomach to scan the scene below.

Fields were burning. Perhaps thirty or forty acres of winter wheat stubble were smoldering to the south, and actual flames threatened a modest manor house just off the road Derry had left.

But it was not only fire that threatened the inhabitants of the house. He could see armed horsemen plunging about in the manor courtyard, flailing about them with swords and lances, cutting down the green-liveried men on foot who tried futilely to ward off their attack.

All that was noble in Derry cried out in that instant, for it was one of the first precepts of knightly honor to defend the helpless and the innocent. He wished desperately to go to the rescue, yet reason told him, rightly, that there was nothing one man could do against such odds except himself be cut down. And though he might very well take a number of marauders with him to the grave, it would be a useless death. Dying would not get word back to Morgan of what was happening here, or help the manor’s inhabitants.

As Derry watched, sick at heart, his gaze caught the flicker of new fires starting to the north of the main one, and more men on horseback bearing torches in their hands. As the new riders rallied, gathering at the road, Derry saw that the fighting in the courtyard had finished, that all the liveried men were still. There was, he noted with satisfaction, another figure on the ground—one not in livery—but two of the man’s comrades picked him up and hauled him across the withers of one of their mounts, then waited until two other men with torches came running from the manor house to mount up and ride.

Smoke curled upward from the rear of the house—smoke from a place where there was no chimney—and Derry gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait as the last of the marauders galloped out of the courtyard and joined their companions, before all of them disappeared over the hills to the west.

Cursing softly under his breath, Derry ran back to his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and spurred wildly down the hillside. The manor house was blazing strongly now, and there was no chance that it could be saved. But Derry had to be certain that there was no one left alive in that scene of carnage.

He was able to make his way to within fifty yards of the house before flames from the burning wheat stubble forced him to return to the road. Then he had to blindfold his horse with his cloak before the animal would pass between the flames to either side of the manor gate. He steeled himself as he drew rein.

It had been the manor of a lord of modest means. The house was unpretentious, though well-kept—what was left of it—and the lord’s retainers apparently had made the best stand they could. Half a dozen bodies lay sprawled in the yard, more on the porch; most of them old, all wearing bloodstained livery of the same green and silver as the painted coat of arms above the ruined gate.

Vert, three wheat sheaves proper on a chevron argent. Motto: Non concedo—I do not concede.

Certainly these men did not concede, Derry thought as he picked his way across the courtyard and scanned the bodies. I wonder of their lord, though. Where is he?

He heard a moan from his left and caught movement out of the corner of his eye. As he turned his horse to investigate, he saw a hand lift in supplication. He slipped from his saddle to kneel at the side of an old bearded man who also wore the green and silver livery.

“Who—who are you?” the old man gasped, clutching at Derry’s cloak and pulling him closer to squint at his face in the fire-lit darkness. “You’re not one of them . . .”

Derry shook his head and eased the man’s head against his knee. It was getting darker, and the man’s face was scarcely more than a blur in the failing light, but it was enough for Derry to see that he was dying.

“My name is Sean Derry, friend. I’m the duke’s man. Who did this to you? Where is your lord?”

“Sean Derry,” the man repeated, his eyes closing against the pain. “I’ve heard of you. You—sit on the young king’s council, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Derry said, frowning in the darkness. “But right now it’s more important that you tell me what has happened. Who is responsible for this?”

The old man lifted one hand and gestured vaguely toward the west. “They came out of the hills, my lord: a band of Warin de Grey’s ruffians. My young master, the Sieur de Vali, is gone to Rhelledd to seek the duke’s aid for all of the local landowners, but alas . . .”

His words trailed off, and Derry thought he had lost him, but then the creaky old voice continued.

“Tell the duke we fought loyal to the end, my lord. Though we are but old men and boys, tell him we would not give in to the demands of the ‘Holy One,’ no matter what his minions threatened. We—”

He coughed, bringing up dark blood at one corner of his mouth. But then he seemed to gain strength from somewhere and raised his head a few inches, pulling himself up on Derry’s cloak.

“Your dagger, my lord. May I see it?”

Derry frowned, wondering if the man meant to ask for the coup de grâce. His reluctance must have shown on his face, for the man smiled and shook his head as he relaxed against Derry’s knee once more.

“I will not ask that of you, young lord,” he whispered, his eyes searching Derry’s. “I am old. I do not fear death. I only seek the solace of a cross to ease my passage into that other world.”

Derry nodded, his face grave and solemn, and pulled his dagger from its boot-top sheath. Grasping it by the blade, hilt uppermost, he held it before the man’s eyes, a faint shadow from the flame-light falling across the man’s face. Trembling, the man pulled the cross hilt down to touch it with his lips. Then the hand went slack, and Derry knew the man was dead.

Rest in peace, good and faithful servant, Derry thought, crossing himself with the hilt of the blade before replacing it in its sheath. So Warin de Grey strikes again. Only this time, instead of threats and burning, there’s murder, wholesale slaughter.

Taking a last glance around the desolate courtyard, now illuminated only by the growing flames in the manor house, Derry stood and toyed with the ends of his reins in indecision, then remounted.

He really should not do what he was about to do. By all rights, he should go to a safe place and wait until it was time to contact Morgan. His commander definitely would not approve of the risk Derry was now considering.

But logic was not always the best decision, Derry had found. Sometimes, in order to get things done, unorthodox methods must be used. Even at the risk of great personal danger.

Touching spurs to his mount, he clattered out of the courtyard and headed down the road the marauders had taken. If he was any judge of mobs, Warin’s raiders would not go far tonight. It was late for travel on these roads, and there was no moon. Besides that, the riders had a dead or wounded man on their hands; if merely wounded, there was an excellent chance that they would stop before too long to tend his hurt.

In addition, there was the question of Warin himself. He had not been among the raiders at the manor. Derry had been fairly certain of that as he watched the carnage done. Nor had the old man in the courtyard mentioned the presence of the dynamic rebel leader—only his men. Derry was certain Warin would have been recognized, had he been present.

Which meant that Warin possibly was somewhere else in the vicinity, perhaps with another band—and might rendezvous with the rest of his men before the night was through. If he did, Derry must try to be there.

The next hour was treacherous for rider and mount. As night descended, the sparsely populated countryside grew darker and darker. The quality of the roads had not improved on leaving the manor of the Sieur de Vali, either.

He apparently made much better time than he thought, however. Long before he expected, the sparse, flickering lights of the village of Kingslake became dimly visible in the darkness ahead. As Derry guided his footsore mount along the main road through the village, he became suddenly aware of the hulking silhouette of the Royal Tabard Inn looming against the night sky. Here, if he were lucky, he could get a fresh horse before continuing his pursuit, perhaps even learn which direction the riders had taken—for the road forked beyond Kingslake.

The Royal Tabard Inn was a sturdy wooden building nearly two hundred years old, with accommodations on an upper level for forty guests and a taproom renowned for miles around. It had been Derry’s intended destination before he came upon the burning manor, and now he wished he dared stop for a tankard of ale before continuing.

But as he approached the livery stable adjoining the inn, he noticed several dozen steaming horses tethered outside, with a single man standing guard. The man was well armed, which was unusual since he wore only nondescript peasant garb. But he had a fierce, confident air about him, an aura of deadly purpose that made Derry look twice.

Was it possible that this was one of Warin’s raiders? That they had chosen the Royal Tabard as a resting place?

Scarcely daring to believe his unexpected good fortune, Derry dismounted and led his mount into the livery stable. Arrangements for a fresh horse took only minutes, after which Derry headed over to the inn: his purpose, a mug of ale, in case the guard should ask. He touched his cap and nodded amiably as he passed the man, and the man nodded pleasantly enough. But there was something strange about him, about the embroidered badges on his left shoulder and cap depicting a falcon. Derry was thoughtful as he entered the inn.

Inside, the scene was not at all what he had expected. It had occurred to him, as he approached, that the inn was far too quiet for the number of horses tied outside. That many drinking men should have been noisier. Even the mere patronage of local townsfolk should have provided at least a low hum of conversation on any ordinary night.

But this was no ordinary night. There were, indeed, a few locals; and they were drinking quietly on one side of the room, giving wide berth to a larger group of men gathered on the other side: men who wore the same falcon badge as the one outside with the horses. A few were clustered quietly around one of the long trestle tables, on which lay a still, bloodstained form. Some of them Derry had watched at the de Vali manor. None of them were speaking.

As unobtrusively as he could, Derry made his way to a chair that seemed to be in neutral territory and sat, looking around for a barkeep or tavern maid; he nodded as he caught the eye of one. The man on the table—perhaps the same he had thought killed by de Vali’s defenders—apparently was not dead yet. As Derry watched, a thin girl in peasant garb came to bathe the injured man’s forehead with a cloth wrung from a wooden basin at her side. He moaned as she worked, and her eyes darted nervously over the men who surrounded and watched her. But there, too, no word was spoken.

Another girl brought a tray of earthen mugs filled with ale and distributed them to the riders, and some of them sat quietly and sipped at their drinks. But there was no conversation, no excessive movement. It was as though the men were waiting, listening. The townsfolk on the other side of the room sensed it, too, and also waited.

Nodding thanks, Derry picked up the tankard of ale the proprietor brought him and took a long pull, forced himself to gaze into the depths of the ale rather than stare at the raiders.

What was going on? he wondered. Were they waiting for Warin to come? And what did they hope to do for the man on the table, who clearly was very badly injured?

There was the sound of horsemen drawing rein outside, perhaps as many as twenty, and shortly a second group of riders entered. These, too, wore the falcon badge on cloaks and hats. Their leader, after a whispered conference with one of the men attending the wounded man on the table, gestured for his own men to join their colleagues. Again, tankards were brought, and again, there was no further conversation. Apparently the new man was not Warin either.

Thus the situation remained for nearly half an hour, while Derry downed a second and then a third tankard of ale and tried to fathom what they were waiting for—until there was once again the sound of hoofbeats on the road outside, this time only about a dozen. As the horses halted, amid snorts and jingling harness hardware, the room grew suddenly stiller yet. A new tension suddenly set the air a-tingle. As Derry turned slowly toward the entryway, the door swung back to frame a figure who could only be Warin himself. Derry froze with everyone else in the room, not daring to breathe.

Warin was not a large man. In fact, were it not for his erect bearing, he might have been considered short. But this was totally overshadowed by the fact that the man had presence , which radiated outward from his person like a living entity as he stepped into the room.

The eyes were dark, almost black, with a wild, even reckless intensity that sent a shiver up Derry’s spine as the man’s glance touched him in scanning the room. (Derry once had seen that look on Morgan’s face, and shivered anew as he recalled the consequences of the deeds that had followed.) Warin’s hair was brown and crinkled, a dusty dun color, closely cropped; and he wore a very short beard and mustache of the same dun hue.

Alone of all his men, Warin wore what might have been styled a uniform: a solid gray leather jerkin over tunic, hose, and high boots of the same shade—except that the falcon badge on his breast was large, covering most of his broad chest, and the cap badge on his close gray hat was silver rather than sewn. His gray leather riding cloak was full and long, almost brushing the floor. So far as Derry could see, he bore no weapons.

Faint movement whispered through the room, and Derry suddenly found himself able to breathe again. Hazarding a glance at Warin’s men clustered around the table, he saw that all had bowed their heads and brought closed right fists to their hearts as their leader entered. They parted before him as he nodded acknowledgement and strode briskly into their midst. The townspeople gathered courage and moved to the center of the room to see what the rebel leader would do, and Derry cautiously made himself a part of that group.

“What has happened?” Warin asked. His voice was low, measured, crackling with authority.

“He was wounded, Holy One—at the manor of the Sieur de Vali,” the spokesman of the first group said meekly. “De Vali had ridden to ask the duke’s aid, and his men resisted. We had to put the manor to the torch.”

Warin turned wide, dark eyes on the man. “That was less than wise, Ros.”

Ros fell to his knees, cowering, and buried his face in his hands. “Forgive me, Holy One, I have not your wisdom,” he whispered.

“See it does not happen again,” Warin replied, though he touched the man’s shoulder in a gesture of acceptance.

As the man scrambled to his feet, face transfigured with awe, Warin returned his attention to the wounded man and began stripping off his gray leather gloves.

“Where is the injury?”

“In his side, lord,” a man on the opposite side of the table murmured, drawing aside the man’s rent tunic to show the wound. “I fear the lung may be pierced.”

Warin leaned in to inspect the wound, then moved to the man’s head and lifted an eyelid. He nodded to himself, then straightened and tucked his gloves into his belt, glanced at the men who watched him so eagerly.

“With God’s help we shall save this man,” he said, spreading his arms to either side in a gesture of supplication. “Will you pray with me, my brothers?”

To a man, Warin’s followers sank to their knees, their eyes riveted on their leader as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

As Warin intoned the Latin phrases, Derry watched wide-eyed and then forced himself to look even more closely. For unless he, too, was falling under the powerful charisma of the rebel leader, a faint glow was beginning to surround Warin’s head: a misty blue-violet aura that resembled nothing so much as a halo!

Derry controlled a gasp, then bit his lip and tried to use the pain to break the illusion. There was no way this could be happening. Human beings did not have halos, and there were no more saints. But neither was his mind playing tricks on him. Morgan had taught him to see through illusion; but this was real, no matter how hard Derry tried to make it disappear.

“...And therefore, O God, send Thy healing spirit through these hands, that Thy servant Martin may live to glorify Thee. Through Jesus Christ Thy Son, our Lord, Who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever, Amen.”

As Warin finished speaking, he lowered his right hand to rest lightly on the wounded man’s forehead, his left slipping inside the torn tunic to cover the blood-frothed wound in the man’s side. There was deathly silence for nearly a minute, and Derry’s heart pounded as the light he was sure couldn’t really be there seemed to extend itself down Warin’s arms and into the still form beneath.

Then the man called Martin shuddered and exhaled a long sigh, opened his eyes, and blinked in amazement to find his leader standing over him.

Warin opened his eyes and smiled, then helped Martin to sit. There was a long murmur of awe as Martin stood down from the table and took the tankard someone offered. As he drained it, one of the townspeople gasped and pointed to the man’s side. No sign of any wound could be seen save the bloody tear in his homespun tunic.

“Deo gratias,” Warin murmured, crossing himself and lowering his eyes. The aura had all but dissipated now, and he glanced around curiously as he pulled his gloves from his belt and began to don them. There was blood on his left hand where he had touched Martin’s wound, and one of the men kneeling beside him reached up to wipe it clean with a corner of his cloak. Warin smiled and rested his hand on the man’s head for just an instant, as though in blessing, then returned to his gloving without comment. The man rose with a look of pure adoration on his face, and the others rose as well.

Warin’s glance swept the room once more, and again Derry felt that chill sensation as the dark eyes touched his. Then the rebel leader was moving toward the door. At his movement, his men gathered the belongings they had brought with them, hurriedly finished drinks, and crowded after him, one of them pulling gold coins from a pouch to pay the innkeeper. As Warin reached the door, one of the townsfolk suddenly threw himself to his knees and cried, “It’s a miracle! The Lord has sent us a new messiah!”

Almost instantly, his words were taken up by others in the tavern, many of whom fell to their knees and crossed themselves fervently. As Warin turned in the doorway, Derry knelt, too—though he most certainly did not believe there had been any miracle involved.

The rebel leader scanned the room a final time, his gaze calm, beneficent, then raised a hand in benediction before disappearing into the darkness. As soon as the last Warin retainer had filed from the tavern, Derry jumped to his feet and ran to the window.

Now that Warin was out of the room and Derry could think clearly again, he realized what it was about the man that had been so disconcertingly familiar. It was the same sort of presence he had felt in men like Morgan, Duncan, Brion, the young King Kelson: that impression of raw power and command that almost always went with a talent not in the best of repute these days.

He peered through the misty glass of the tavern window and watched as Warin and his band mounted up and disappeared down the road in a glow of torchlight. He would not follow them. With what he had learned, there was no need of that right now. Besides, he had to get this new information to Morgan as soon as possible.

It was quite late. He knew he had missed the appointed time for contact with his commander by well over an hour, but no matter. If he rode hard and met no further mishap, he could be back in Coroth shortly after noon tomorrow.

He could hardly wait to see Morgan’s face when he told him he thought Warin might be Deryni!