He and Duncan were sitting under a tree in the exercise yard adjoining the armory, where they had been sparring with broadswords when Derry thundered through the gates of Castle Coroth half an hour before. Derry was tired and hungry as he squatted on the grass beside his commander, but his face was alight with excitement as he related all that had happened at the Royal Tabard the night before.

Morgan wrapped his towel more closely around his exercise tunic and mopped at his forehead with a corner, for he was still sweating from the workout Duncan had given him. Derry had not challenged his outburst, and after a few seconds the duke shook his head in disbelief.

“Well, this is certainly unexpected,” he said, again wiping at his face. “Derry, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m not sure.” Derry pulled his hunt cap from his tousled brown hair and slapped the dust from it in agitation. “But can humans do what he did, m’lord?”

“No.”

“Father Duncan, do you think Warin is a saint?”

“There have been stranger ones,” Duncan allowed, thinking of his vision on the road.

Derry pursed his lips thoughtfully, then looked back at Morgan. “Well, he did heal that man, m’lord. And from what you’ve told me, I had the impression that only Deryni could do that.”

“I can do that,” Morgan amended, scowling at the ground between his bare legs. “I don’t know that other Deryni can. I’d never heard of it being done in recent times until I used it to save your life last year.”

Derry bowed his head, remembering the attack on the guard detail he had commanded the night before Kelson’s coronation. How they had been taken by surprise and overpowered in the darkness. The searing pain as a sword pierced his side and he fell, thinking never to rise again.

And then waking in his own quarters, his wound gone as though it had never existed. And a puzzled physician bending over him, unable to explain. And Morgan telling him, weeks later, how he had laid his hands on Derry’s brow—and healed him.

Derry looked up again, then nodded. “I’m sorry, m’lord. I meant no disrespect. But you are Deryni, and you can heal. And so can Warin.”

“And so can Warin,” Morgan repeated.

“Well, if he is Deryni, he certainly can’t be aware of what he is,” Duncan said, scratching his leg and cocking his head at his cousin. “Personally, I find it difficult to believe that the man of the rumors I’ve heard could be such a hypocrite—to persecute his own race.”

“It has been done before.”

“Oh, certainly it’s been done before—and by experts. There are always men who will sell anything for the right price. But that isn’t my impression regarding Warin. He’s sincere. He is convinced that his cause is just, that he has a divine calling. And what you’ve just told us, Derry, about him healing the wounded man, his effect on his men—and even his effect on you and the villagers—that simply confirms my impression.”

“The trouble is,” Morgan said, standing and retrieving his sword, “that Warin does do the things saints and messiahs traditionally do. Unfortunately, those same deeds are not commonly attributed to Deryni, even though the legends of many Christian saints may have their origin in Deryni powers. Knowledge of this would certainly quell any thought of rebellion—but how do you impart this knowledge when Warin’s people are as loyal and devoted as Derry says they are?”

Derry nodded his head. “That’s certainly true, my lord. Already, his followers look upon him as a Holy One, a saint. Those villagers in Kingslake are convinced they saw a miracle performed before their eyes, in the finest old biblical tradition. How do you fight something like that? How do you tell people their messiah is a fake? That he’s the very thing he preaches against, only he doesn’t know it? Especially if you want people to come out liking Deryni in the end?”

“You tell them very carefully, and by slow degrees,” Morgan said softly. “And right now, you don’t tell them at all. Because for now, unless we can do something about it, the people are flocking to his cause.”

“And will flock even more, when they find out what the archbishops have planned,” Duncan added. “Derry, you won’t have heard this, but Archbishop Loris has summoned all the bishops of the realm to meet in conclave at Dhassa the day after tomorrow. Bishop Tolliver left this morning—he dared not refuse the summons. Nor will he dare to say no when Loris presents his decree of Interdict before the assembled Curia. I think you know what that means.”

“Can they really lower an Interdict on Corwyn?” Derry asked. They began walking toward the main courtyard, Morgan and Duncan carrying their swords, Derry twirling his cap.

“They can, and they will, unless something is done,” Morgan replied. “Which is why Duncan and I are leaving for Dhassa tonight. Direct appeal to the Curia is probably hopeless; I doubt they would listen, no matter what I had to say. But Loris won’t be expecting it. And I may at least be able to impress them enough to make them think about what they’re doing. If the Interdict falls, with Warin as strong as he is now, I think the countryside might well follow him in a holy war against Deryni. Even if I have to pretend to go along, submit myself to the Curia for penance, I can’t allow that to happen.”

“May I come with you, m’lord?” Derry asked, glancing up hopefully as they walked along. “I could be a bit of help, I think.”

“No, you’ve already been a great deal of help, and I have a more important task for you. After you’ve gotten a few hours’ sleep, I want you to ride for Rhemuth. Kelson must be told what has happened, and Duncan and I can’t do it if we’re to reach the Curia before it’s too late. If Kelson has already left for Culdi by the time you arrive, follow him there. It’s vital that he be made aware of all you’ve told us this afternoon.”

“Aye, m’lord. Shall I try to contact you?”

Morgan shook his head. “If there’s need, we’ll contact you. Meanwhile, get some sleep. I want you on your way by dark.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

As Derry hurried away, Duncan shook his head and sighed.

“What’s the matter?” Morgan asked. “You aren’t discouraged, are you?”

“I am certainly not encouraged.”

“Nor am I, but we’ll do what we can. Come. We’d better get cleaned up. Hamilton should have my officers ready for briefing in about an hour. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a very long afternoon.”

Bronwyn paused at the balustrade and leaned over to look at a fishpond a few feet below, then resumed her stroll, luxuriating in the sweet, warm air and comfortable surroundings of the ancient palace. Smiling, she twirled a strand of burnished hair between her fingers and let her thoughts ramble as she continued to walk.

The wedding party had arrived in the mountain city of Culdi the night before, after a pleasant, if damp, day’s ride from Kevin’s capital in Kierney. There had been a ball, and this morning had been spent in a hunt in honor of the bride and groom to be. She and Lady Margaret had passed the earlier part of the afternoon inspecting the budding gardens, with Bronwyn showing her future mother-in-law all the best-loved features of the familiar area.

Culdi held many fond memories for Bronwyn, for she and Alaric, Kevin, and Duncan had spent many happy summers here in their childhood. The Lady Vera McLain, who had been a second mother to Bronwyn and her brother, had often brought the McLain and Morgan children to Castle Culdi in the summer.

Bronwyn remembered the romps through the flowering gardens, always in bloom at the time of the year they were there; the summer Alaric fell out of a tree and broke his arm; the stoic bravery with which the eight-year-old bore the pain. She remembered the many secret passages within the walls of the castle where she and the boys used to play hide and seek. And the quiet and serene chapel where their mother was buried—a place Bronwyn still liked to go to for meditation.

She had never known her mother. Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had died only a few weeks after the birth of her tiny daughter, victim of the milk fever, which so often claimed the lives of young mothers. Alaric remembered her—or said he did. But Bronwyn’s memories were only of the marvelous tales that Lady Vera spun about the woman who had borne them, and a hint of sadness that she had never been permitted to know this wonderful and shining lady.

Remembering the past, Bronwyn paused on the terrace, then headed resolutely back toward her chambers. It was still fairly early. If she did not dawdle, there would be ample time to visit the little chapel before she had to dress for dinner. But the chapel would be cool and damp this time of day. She would need her cloak.

She had almost reached the terrace doors to her chamber when she stumbled on a crack in the flagstone terracing, then recovered. As she leaned down to rub her ankle in annoyance, she was not consciously listening for anything, but she suddenly became aware that there were voices—female voices—coming from her chamber.

“Well, I simply don’t understand why you defend her so,” one was saying.

Bronwyn recognized the voice as that of Lady Agnes, one of her ladies-in-waiting, and she straightened and moved a little closer to the doorway as she realized they were talking about her.

“Agnes is right,” another said. “It isn’t as though she’s one of us.”

That was Lady Martha.

“She’s a woman like us,” a third voice protested softly, unmistakably that of Mary Elizabeth, Bronwyn’s favorite. “And if she’s in love with him, and he with her, I see no shame in it for anyone.”

“No shame?” Agnes gasped. “But she’s—she’s—”

“Oh, just say it!” Martha said flatly. “The heir to the Duchy of Cassan ought to marry far higher than the daughter of a—”

“Than the daughter of a Deryni!” Agnes chimed in.

“But she never even knew her mother,” Mary Elizabeth protested. “And her father was a well-respected lord. Besides, she’s only half-Deryni.”

“Half a Deryni too much to suit me!” Martha stated emphatically. “Not to mention that unspeakable brother of hers!”

“She cannot help who her brother is,” Mary Elizabeth interrupted, forceful but calm even in the midst of argument. “And other than being a bit more open with his powers than is, perhaps, wise, there is nothing wrong with Duke Alaric. He cannot help being born Deryni any more than Lady Bronwyn can. And if it weren’t for the duke, there is no telling who might be ruler of Gwynedd today. Besides that, he’s very attractive,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“Are you defending him?” Agnes retorted. “That’s blasphemy!”

“Treason, more like,” Martha muttered.

Bronwyn had heard quite enough. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned away from the chamber and moved quietly back along the terrace, finally going down the steps in the direction of the far garden.

Something like this always seemed to happen. She would go along for weeks, sometimes even months, without being reminded of that one dark spectre in her background.

And then, just when she began to feel she had perhaps lived down her Deryni heritage, that she had been accepted as herself, not some kind of scheming witch, an incident like this would occur. Someone would remember, and use that remembrance to twist and turn the truth until it was something ugly, unclean. Why were humans so cruel?

Humans! she thought—then smiled bitterly as she hurried along the path. There she was, thinking in terms of them and us again. It happened every time she had an encounter like this, and made her little better than her tormentors.

But why did it have to start in the first place? Surely there was nothing wrong with being Deryni, despite Church dictates to the contrary. As Mary Elizabeth had pointed out, one could not control the circumstances of one’s own birth. Besides, she had never really used her powers.

Well, almost never.

She scowled as she walked along toward her mother’s chapel, folding her arms across her chest against the sudden chill of the afternoon.

She had to admit that she had occasionally called on her powers to heighten her senses of sight, hearing, smell, when the need arose. And she had formed a mind link with Kevin once, years ago when they were both young and the sport of doing something forbidden had outweighed their fear of punishment had they been caught.

Just as she sometimes called the birds to her hands in the gardens to feed them—though she made very certain that no one was watching when she did so.

But what could be wrong with that kind of magic anyway? How could they say it was wrong, evil? They were jealous—that was all!

As she reached this conclusion, she became aware of a tall figure approaching her on the path, his white hair and gray doublet identifying him unmistakably as the architect Rimmell. As she came abreast of him, the man withdrew to one side to let her pass, bowed low from the waist.

“My lady,” he murmured as Bronwyn started to go by.

Bronwyn nodded pleasantly and continued walking.

“My lady, might I have a word with you?” Rimmell persisted, walking after her a few paces and stopping to bow again as Bronwyn turned to face him.

“Of course. Master Rimmell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, m’lady,” Rimmell replied nervously, nodding again. “I wondered how your ladyship liked the plans for the palace in Kierney. I did not have the opportunity to ask before, but I thought to ask your ladyship’s opinion while there is still time to make alterations in the plans.”

Bronwyn smiled and nodded agreement. “Thank you, Rimmell, that’s very kind. Actually, I was very pleased with the plans. Perhaps we could go over them some time tomorrow, if you like. I can’t think of anything I’d want changed, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Your ladyship is most gracious,” Rimmell murmured, bowing again and trying to conceal his joy that Bronwyn was actually talking with him. “May—may I escort your ladyship anywhere? The afternoon grows chilly, and the mist comes early here in Culdi.”

“Thank you, no,” Bronwyn replied, shaking her head and rubbing her arms as though in response to the suggestion of chill. “I was going to pay a visit to my mother’s tomb. I’d rather go alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Rimmell nodded understandingly. “Would your ladyship care to borrow my cloak, then? The chapel will be drafty this time of day, and your ladyship’s gown, while perfectly suited to the warm sunshine, is hardly ample protection in the crypt.”

“Why, thank you, Rimmell,” Bronwyn said, smiling gratefully as Rimmell hung the gray cloak around her shoulders. “I’ll have one of my servants return it later this evening.”

“There’s no hurry, my lady,” Rimmell replied, backing off and bowing deferentially. “Good afternoon.”

As Bronwyn continued on down the path, wrapped in Rimmell’s cloak, he looked fondly after her for a moment, then turned back in the direction he had been going. As he was about to mount the steps to the terrace level, he saw Kevin come out of his quarters on the end and head down the steps.

Kevin was clean-shaven, his brown hair neatly combed, and he had exchanged his dusty hunt clothes of the morning and early afternoon for a short brown velvet doublet with the McLain tartan swinging jauntily from the left shoulder. As he clattered down the steps in a flash of freshly polished boots and spurs, scabbard and chains a-jingle, he saw Rimmell and hailed him, coming to a halt in the center of the stairway.

“Rimmell, I’ve finished with those plans you left me this morning. You can fetch them from my quarters, if you like. You did a marvelous job, by the way.”

“Thank you, m’lord.”

Kevin started on, then paused. “Rimmell, have you, by any chance, seen my Lady Bronwyn? I can’t seem to find her anywhere.”

“I believe you’ll find her at her mother’s tomb, m’lord,” Rimmell answered. “When I met her on the path a few minutes ago, she said she was on her way there. I gave her my cloak against the chill. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Kevin said. He briefly clasped Rimmell’s shoulder in a casual gesture of friendship. “Thank you.”

With a further nod of gratitude, Kevin bounded down the remaining steps and disappeared around a bend in the path, and Rimmell continued toward his master’s quarters.

He had about decided the course of action he would have to take. Outright violence against this gracious young lord was out of the question. Besides, Rimmell was not a violent man. But he was in love.

That morning, Rimmell had spent several hours talking with some of the local townspeople about this dilemma—without, of course, naming the object of his heady passions. Being mountain folk, and living here on the edge of the Connait and wild Meara, they sometimes had rather curious notions about how a man might woo his ladylove.

Rimmell hardly believed, for example, that hanging carilus flowers on Bronwyn’s door and chanting the Ave seven times was likely to sway a Deryni girl in any way. Nor would putting a toad in Kevin’s goblet help. The earl would simply fly into a rage that his servants had not been more careful.

But a number of folk had suggested that if Rimmell really wanted to win a lady’s love, there was an old widow woman who lived in the hills—a holy shepherdess called Bethane—who reputedly had helped similarly distraught and lovesick young men. If Rimmell would take a sack of food and some gold up into the hills, perhaps Bethane could solve his problem.

So Rimmell had decided to try it. He had not paused to consider that he was indulging in a bit of superstitious practice he would never have considered, had he not been smitten with love for the beautiful Bronwyn de Morgan. He was convinced that the widow Bethane would be his salvation, the way to win this fair creature he must either have or die. With a love potion or trinket from that esteemed and venerable holy woman, Rimmell could woo Bronwyn away from the Lord Kevin, make her love the builder instead of the baron.

He stepped into Kevin’s quarters and glanced around, looking for his plans. There was little to distinguish the room from any other sleeping room in the castle, since all were merely temporary abodes for the current visitors. But there were a few things Rimmell could pick out as belonging to Kevin: the folding stool covered in McLain tartan, the tapestried rug on the floor beside the bed, the comforters on the bed itself—rich silk embroidered with the earl’s crest—the bed where Kevin would bring his beloved Bronwyn in three days, if Rimmell did not act soon.

He looked away from the bed, preferring not to consider the possibility any further for the moment, then saw his plans lying rolled up on a table near the door. He had picked them up and was about to exit the way he had come when his eye was drawn to something glittering atop a small chest.

There were the usual jewels and badges of office lying there: rings, brooches, chains. But one thing, in particular, had caught his eye: a small oval locket on a golden chain, too delicate and fragile to belong to a man.

Without thinking about what he was doing, he picked up the locket gingerly and opened it, glancing out the door to make certain he was not being observed; then he looked inside.

It was Bronwyn: the most beautiful likeness Rimmell had ever seen, her golden hair cascading down her perfect shoulders, lips parted slightly as she gazed fondly out of the portrait.

Not permitting himself to consider what he was about to do, Rimmell stuffed the locket into his tunic and bolted for the door, the rolled-up plans almost crushed under his arm. He looked neither left nor right as he fled down the stairs toward his own quarters. Observers, had they seen him, would have said he went as a man possessed.

She realized now that she was much more deeply troubled by the overheard conversation than she had allowed herself to believe at first. But she didn’t know quite what to do about it. She couldn’t really confront the women and demand that they cease their gossiping. That would solve nothing.

She continued to study the effigy before her, finally seeing features now, and wondered what she would have done, marvelling at the extraordinary woman who had been her mother.

Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had been an exceptionally beautiful woman in life, and her sarcophagus more than did her justice. Master craftsmen from the Connait had carved the smooth alabaster with consummate skill, down to the most minute detail. It was so lifelike that even now, though Bronwyn was grown, she still had the feeling she’d had as a child: that the effigy only slept; that only the right words need be spoken to make the statue breathe and the woman come alive.

The wide stained-glass window above the tomb was ablaze with light from the slowly sinking sun, bathing the small chapel with gold and orange and red, spreading a wash of color on the tomb, on Bronwyn’s borrowed gray cloak, on the tiny ivory altar a few yards to her right.

Bronwyn heard the creak of the door opening behind her, and she turned slightly to see Kevin poke his head curiously through the doorway. His face brightened as he saw her, and he stepped inside and pulled the door shut. He bent his knee before the tiny altar before coming to kneel by her side at the tomb.

“I was wondering where you were,” he said in a low voice, placing his right hand gently on hers. “Is anything wrong?”

“No—yes.” Bronwyn shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked down at her hands and swallowed with difficulty, and Kevin suddenly realized she was on the verge of tears.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her toward him.

With a muffled sob, Bronwyn burst into tears and buried her face against his chest. Kevin held her close and let her cry for a few minutes, stroking her soft hair with a soothing hand. At length, he eased himself to a sitting position on the step and pulled her into his lap, there to cradle her in his arms like a frightened child.

“There, now,” he murmured in a low, calming voice. “It’s all right. Let’s talk about it, shall we?”

As her sobbing diminished, Kevin relaxed and leaned back against the railing, still stroking her hair as he watched their silhouettes blocking the jewel-light that spilled over their shoulders and onto the white marble floor.

“Remember when we were children and we used to come here to play?” he asked. He glanced down at her and was relieved to see that she was drying her eyes. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and gave it to her as he continued.

“I think we nearly drove my mother crazy, that last summer before Alaric went to court. He and Duncan were eight, and I was eleven, and you were all of four or so, and very precocious. We were playing hide and seek in the garden, and Alaric and I hid in here, behind the altar cloth where it hangs down on the ends. Old Father Anselm came in and caught us, and threatened to tell Mother.” He chuckled. “And I remember, he’d no sooner finished scolding us when you came wandering in with a handful of Mother’s best roses, crying because the thorns had pricked your little fingers.”

“I remember,” Bronwyn said, smiling through her tears. “And a few summers later, when I was ten and you were a very grown-up seventeen and we—” She lowered her eyes. “You persuaded me to form a mind link with you.”

“And I’ve never regretted it for an instant,” Kevin said, smiling as he kissed her forehead. “What’s the matter, Bron? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” Bronwyn said, smiling wanly. “I was just feeling sorry for myself, I guess. I overheard some things I didn’t want to hear earlier this afternoon, and it upset me more than I thought.”

“What did you hear?” he asked, frowning and holding her away from him so he could see her face. “If anyone is bothering you, so help me, I’ll—”

She shook her head resignedly. “There’s nothing anyone can do, love. I simply can’t help being what I am. Some of the ladies were talking, that’s all. They—don’t approve of their future duke marrying a Deryni.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Kevin said, holding her close again and kissing the top of her head. “I happen to love that Deryni very much, and I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

Bronwyn smiled appreciatively, then stood up and straightened her dress, wiped her eyes again. “You know just what to say, don’t you?” she murmured, holding out her hand. “Come. I’m through feeling sorry for myself. We must hurry, or we’ll be late for dinner.”

“The devil with dinner.”

Kevin pushed himself to his feet and stretched, then put his arms around Bronwyn. “Do you want to know something?”

“What?” She put her arms around his waist and looked up at him fondly.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

“That’s strange.”

“Why?”

“Because I think I’m in love with you, too,” she said with a smile.

Kevin grinned, then leaned down and kissed her soundly.

“It’s a good thing you said that, wench!” he said, as they headed for the door. “Because three days from now, you are going to be my wife!”

Then the shepherdess would work her miracle. And the lady would be Rimmell’s.