Duncan was getting tired of waiting. The rain that had begun at dusk had continued to fall throughout the night, most of which Duncan had spent catching fitful snatches of sleep in a tiny merchant’s stall not far away.

But now a messenger had said that Alaric was on his way, that he would be there very soon. So Duncan stood waiting in the rain, close-wrapped in a rough leather cloak in the fashion of Dhassan hunters, collar and hood muffled close against the icy wind and rain. The garment was already dark across the shoulders where the wet had soaked through, and Duncan could feel the chill of his mail hauberk even through the rough woolen singlet he wore under it. He blew on gloved fingers and stamped his feet impatiently, grimacing at the feel of toes squishing in wet leather, and wondered what was taking Alaric so long.

As though on command, a door opened in the building to his right, momentarily silhouetting a tall, leather-clad figure against a swath of lamplight. Then Alaric was moving between the horses, clasping Duncan’s shoulder reassuringly as he glanced up at the dismal gray sky.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” he murmured, sweeping off the saddle protector and wiping the seat fairly dry. “Were there any problems?”

“Only damp feet and spirits,” Duncan replied lightly, uncovering his own saddle and mounting up. “Nothing that getting out of here won’t remedy. What kept you?”

Morgan gave a grunt as he checked the girth a final time. “The men had a lot of questions. If Warin should decide to move against me while we’re gone, Hamilton will have his hands full. That’s another reason I want to keep our departure a secret. As far as the people of Corwyn are concerned, their duke and his loyal cousin-confessor have gone into seclusion in the depths of the palace, so that said duke can examine his conscience and repent.”

“You, repent?” Duncan snorted as Morgan swung into the saddle.

“Are you implying, dear Cousin, that I lack the proper piety?” Morgan asked with a grin, collecting the pack pony’s lead and moving his horse alongside Duncan’s.

“Not I.” Duncan shook his head unconvincingly. “Now, are we or are we not going to quit this dismal place?”

“We are,” Morgan replied emphatically. “Come. I want us to be at old Saint Neot’s by sundown, and that’s a full day’s ride in good weather.”

“Wonderful,” Duncan murmured under his breath, as they moved out at a trot along the deserted streets of Coroth. “I’ve been looking forward to this all my life.”

His nerve was beginning to desert him. Reason, which had been his refuge through the long and sleepless night, told him he was foolish to be afraid, that he need not tremble before the woman called Bethane, that she was not like that other woman whose magic had touched him years before. But, still . . .

Rimmell shuddered as he remembered that night, now at least twenty years ago, when he and another boy had sneaked into old Dame Elfrida’s yard to steal cabbages and apples. They had known, both of them, that Elfrida was rumored to be a witch-woman, that she despised strangers prowling about on her tiny plot of land. They had felt the swat of her broom often enough in the daytime. But they had been so certain they could outwit the old woman at night, so sure they would not be caught.

But then, there had been old Dame Elfrida, looming up in the darkness with an aura of violet light surrounding her like a halo—and a blinding flash of light and heat from which Rimmell and his mate ran as fast as their legs could carry them.

They had escaped, and the old woman had not followed. But the next morning when Rimmell awoke, his hair had been white, and no amount of washing or scrubbing or poulticing or dyeing could change it back to its original color. His mother had been terrified, had suspected that the old witch-woman had something to do with the affair. But Rimmell had always denied he was even out of the house that night, had always contended that he had simply gone to sleep and awakened that way—nothing more. Nonetheless, it was very shortly after that old Dame Elfrida had been run out of the village, never to return.

Rimmell shivered in the chill morning air, unable to shake the queasy feeling in his stomach that the memory always evoked. Bethane was a witch-woman of sorts—she had to be, to work the favors with which she was credited. Suppose she laughed at Rimmell’s request? Or refused to help? Or demanded a price that Rimmell could not pay?

Or worse, suppose Bethane was evil? Suppose she tried to trick him? Gave him the wrong charm? Or decided, years from now, that payment had not been sufficient? Wreaked grievous harm on Rimmell, on Lord Kevin—even on Bronwyn herself?!

Rimmell shuddered and forced himself to abandon this line of thought. Such hysterics were irrational, with no basis in fact. Rimmell had thoroughly investigated Bethane’s reputation the day before, had talked with several folk who claimed to have used her services. There was no reason to believe she was anything but what people said she was: a harmless old shepherdess who had often succeeded in helping people in need. Besides, she was Rimmell’s only hope for winning the woman he loved.

Shading his eyes against the sun, Rimmell paused to gaze up the trail. Beyond a scrubby stand of pines a few yards ahead, he could see a high, narrow opening in the barren rock, with a curtain of animal skins hanging just inside. A number of scrawny-looking sheep—mostly lambs and ewes—pulled at tufts of frost-burned grass among the rocky outcroppings to either side of the cave. A shepherd’s crook leaned against the rocks to the left, but there was no sign of the owner.

Rimmell took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then scrambled the few remaining yards to the level space just before the cave entrance.

“Is anyone there?” he called, his voice quavering slightly in his uneasiness. “I—I seek Dame Bethane, the shepherdess. I mean her no harm.”

There was a long silence in which Rimmell could hear only the faint spring sounds of insects and birds, the sheep tugging at the tough grass all around him, his own harsh breathing. Then a voice rumbled, “Enter.”

Rimmell started at the sound. Controlling his surprise, and swallowing hard, he moved closer to the cave entrance and carefully pulled the curtain aside, noting that it looked—and smelled—like untanned goatskin. He glanced nervously around him a final time as the insane notion rippled through his mind that he might never see the sun again, then peered into the interior. It was pitch dark.

“Enter!” the voice commanded again as Rimmell hesitated.

Rimmell edged his way inside, still holding back the curtain to let light and air enter, and glanced around furtively for the source of the voice. It seemed to come from all around him, reverberating in the confines of the filthy cave, but of course he could see nothing in the darkness.

“Release the curtain and stand where you are.”

The voice startled Rimmell even though he was expecting it, and he jumped and released the curtain in consternation. The voice had been in the darkness to his left that time—he was certain of it. But he dared not move a muscle in that direction, for fear of disobeying the disembodied voice. He swallowed with difficulty, forced himself to stand straight and drop his hands to his sides. His knees were shaking and his palms felt damp, but he knew he must not move.

“Who are you?” the voice demanded. This time the words seemed to come from behind him, a low and rasping tone, indeterminate of sex. Rimmell wet his lips nervously.

“My name is Rimmell. I am chief architect to His Grace the Duke of Cassan.”

“In whose name do you come, Rimmell the architect? Your own or your duke’s?”

“My—my own.”

“And what is it you desire of Bethane?” the voice demanded. “Do not move until you are told to do so.”

Rimmell had been about to turn, but now he froze again and tried to force himself to relax. Apparently the body connected to the voice could see in the dark. Rimmell certainly couldn’t.

“Are you Dame Bethane?” he asked timidly.

“I am.”

“I—” He swallowed. “I have brought you food,” he said. “And I—”

“Drop the food beside you.”

Rimmell quickly obeyed.

“Now, what is it you wish of Bethane?”

Rimmell swallowed again. He could feel sweat pouring from his brow and running into his eyes, but he dared not raise his hand to wipe it away. He blinked hard and forced himself to continue.

“There—there is a woman, Dame Bethane. She—I—”

“Spit it out, man!”

Rimmell took a deep breath. “I desire this woman for my wife, Dame Bethane. But she—she is promised to another. She—will marry him unless you can help. You can help, can’t you?”

He was aware of light growing behind him, and then he could see his own shadow dancing on the rock wall before him. The light was orange, fire-born, dispelling some of the gloom and fear of the narrow cavern.

“You may turn and approach.”

With a scarce-breathed sigh of relief, Rimmell turned slowly toward the source of light. A lantern was resting on the stony floor perhaps a dozen paces away, an ancient crone in tattered rags sitting cross-legged behind it. Her face was seamed and weathered, surrounded by a mane of matted gray hair, once dark, and she was meticulously folding a dark cloth with which she presumably had muffled the lantern light.

Rimmell wiped his sleeve across his brow and crossed hesitantly toward the lantern, stood looking down apprehensively at the woman called Bethane.

“So, Master Rimmell,” the woman said, her black eyes flashing and glowing in the flickering lantern-light. “Do you find my appearance offensive?”

Her teeth were yellowed and rotted, her breath foul, and Rimmell had to control the impulse to back away in disgust. Bethane chuckled—a reedy, wheezing sound—and gestured toward the floor with a sweep of a scrawny arm. Gold winked on her hand as she gestured, and Rimmell realized it must be a wedding ring. Yes, the townspeople had said she was a widow. He wondered who her husband had been.

Gingerly Rimmell lowered himself to the rough stone floor of the cave and sat cross-legged in imitation of his hostess. When he had settled, Bethane gazed across at him for several moments without speaking, her eyes bright, compelling. Then she nodded.

“This woman: Tell me about her. Is she beautiful?”

“She—” Rimmell croaked, his throat going dry. “This is her likeness,” he said more positively, withdrawing Bronwyn’s locket and holding it out timidly.

Bethane extended a gnarled hand and took the locket, opening it with a deft flick of one twisted and yellowed fingernail. One eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly as she saw the portrait, and she glanced back at Rimmell shrewdly.

“This is the woman?”

Rimmell nodded fearfully.

“And the locket is hers?”

“It was,” Rimmell replied. “He who would wed her wore it last.”

“And what of him who would wed her?” Bethane persisted. “Does he love her?”

Rimmell nodded.

“And she him?”

Rimmell nodded again.

“But, you love her, too: so much that you would risk your life to have her.”

Rimmell nodded a third time, his eyes wide.

Bethane smiled, a ragged parody of mirth. “I had such a man once, who risked his life to have me. Does that surprise you? No matter. He would approve, I think.”

She closed the locket again with a click, held it by the chain in a gnarled left hand, reached behind and brought out a yellow gourd with a slender neck. Rimmell caught his breath and watched wide-eyed as Bethane removed the stopper with a flick of her thumb and moved the gourd toward him. The faint foreboding that had plagued him all morning again niggled at the back of his mind, but he forced himself to disregard it.

“Hold out thy hands, Rimmell the architect, that the water may not spill to the thirsty rock and be forever lost.”

Rimmell obeyed as Bethane poured water from the gourd into his cupped hands.

“Now,” Bethane continued, setting the gourd aside and holding up the locket by its chain. “Watch as I trace the sacred signs above the water. Watch as the eddies of time and holy love breathe upon the waters and mark their passage. Watch as this which was hers now generates that which will be her downfall and make her that which is thine.”

As she spun and swung the locket above Rimmell’s cupped hands, tracing intricate patterns and symbols with its path above the water, she muttered an incantation that rose and fell, watched her subject’s eyes as they trembled, heavy-lidded, and finally closed. Palming the locket, she dried away the water from Rimmell’s hands with the dark cloth, that no moisture might escape while she worked and thus reveal the passage of time. Then she sighed and opened the locket again, searching her mind for a suitable charm.

A love charm. And not just a love charm, but a charm to transfer a woman’s love from one man to another. Yes, she had worked a charm like that before—many times.

But that had been long ago, when Bethane was not so old, or toothless, or forgetful. She wasn’t sure she could remember just how it went.

No, that was a charm for a good harvest. True, it might be applied to the lady at a later date, perhaps even to produce a son, if that was what Rimmell wanted. But it was not the charm that Bethane needed now.

There was the call to Baazam—that was very powerful. But, no, she shook her head disapprovingly. That was a dark charm, a killing charm. Darrell had made her give up those things long ago. Besides, she would never wish that on the beautiful young woman of the locket. She herself might have looked much like that lady once. Darrell had told her she was beautiful, at any rate.

She squinted down at the portrait again as a ghost of remembrance flitted across her mind.

The woman in the locket: Had she not seen her before? It had been years ago, when her sight was better and she was not so old and crippled, but—yes! She remembered now.

There had been a beautiful blond girl-child, with three older boys who must have been her brothers or cousins. There had been a ride on mountain ponies, a leisurely meal on the green grass carpet that covered Bethane’s hillside in the summer months. And the children were noble children, sons of the mighty Duke of Cassan: that same duke whose servant now sat entranced on Bethane’s floor!

Bronwyn! Now she remembered. The girl-child’s name had been Bronwyn. The Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, Duke Jared’s niece, and half-Deryni. And she was the lady of the portrait!

Bethane cringed and looked around guiltily. A Deryni lady. And now she, Bethane, had promised to work a charm against her. Did she dare? Would her charm even work against a Deryni? Bethane would not want to hurt her. The child Bronwyn had smiled at her in the meadow many years ago, like the daughter Bethane had never had. She had petted the lambs and ewes and talked to Bethane, had not been afraid of the wizened old widow who watched her flocks on the hillside. No, Bethane could not forget that.

Bethane screwed up her face and wrung her hands. She had promised Rimmell, too. She did not like being put in a position like this. If she helped the architect, she might harm the girl, and she did not want to do that.

She glanced at Rimmell, and practicality crept back into her thoughts. The pouch at the builder’s waist was heavy with gold, and the sack he had dropped on the floor by the entrance was filled with bread and cheese and other good things she had not tasted in months. Bethane could smell the fresh, savory aroma permeating the cavern while she debated with herself. If she did not keep her promise, Rimmell would take the food, the gold, and go.

Very well. It would only be a little charm. Perhaps even a charm of indecision would do. Yes, that was the solution. A charm of indecision, so that the lovely Bronwyn would not be in such a hurry to marry her intended.

And who was her intended? Bethane wondered. A known Deryni woman could not expect to marry high. Such was not the lot of that long-persecuted race in these troubled times. For that matter, so long as there was no high-born lord to risk offending, why couldn’t Bethane work a more powerful charm, give Rimmell the results he desired?

With a decisive nod, Bethane climbed painfully to her feet and began rummaging through a battered trunk against the rear wall of the cave. There were dozens of items in the trunk that Bethane might use in her task, and she hunted agitatedly through an assortment of baubles, strangely worked stones, feathers, powders, potions, and other tools of her trade.

She pulled out a small, polished bone and cocked her gray head at it thoughtfully, then shook her head and discarded it. The same process was repeated for a dried leaf, a small carved figure of a lamb, a handful of herbs bound with a twist of plaited grass, and a small earthen pot.

Finally she reached the bottom of the chest and found what she was looking for: a large leather sack filled with stones. She dragged the sack to the side of the chest, grunted as she hoisted it out and let it half fall to the floor, then untied the thongs binding the bag and began sorting through the contents.

Charms for love and charms for hate. Charms for death and charms for life. Charms to make the crops grow tall. Charms to bring pestilence to an enemy’s fields. Simple charms to guard the health. Complex charms to guard the soul. Charms for the rich. Charms for the poor. Charms yet unborn, but waiting for the touch of the woman.

Humming a broken tune under her breath, Bethane selected a large blue stone embedded with blood-colored flecks, of a size to fit just comfortably in a man’s hand. She rummaged in the chest until she found a small goatskin bag that would hold the stone, then replaced the large sack in the trunk and closed it. Then, taking stone and bag back to the lantern, she sat down in front of Rimmell once more and tucked stone and bag beneath the folds of her tattered robe.

Rimmell sat entranced in front of the guttering lantern, his cupped hands held empty before him, eyes closed and relaxed. Bethane took the yellow gourd, poured water into Rimmell’s hands, and once again held the locket swinging above the water. As she resumed her chant, she reached gently to Rimmell’s forehead and touched his brow. The architect nodded as though catching himself falling asleep, then began watching the locket once more, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had happened, that minutes had passed of which he had no knowledge.

Bethane finished the chant and palmed the locket, then reached beside her and produced the blood-flecked stone. She pressed the stone between her hands for a moment, her eyes hooded as she murmured something Rimmell could not catch. Then she placed the stone on the floor beneath Rimmell’s hands, rested her taloned fingers on Rimmell’s, and looked him in the eyes.

“Open thy hands to let the water wash the stone,” she said, her voice rasping in Rimmell’s ears. “With that, the charm is accomplished, and the stage is prepared.”

Rimmell swallowed and blinked rapidly several times, then obeyed. The water washed over the stone and was absorbed by it, and Rimmell dried his hands against his thighs in amazement.

“It is done, then?” he whispered incredulously. “My lady loves me?”

“Not yet, she does not,” Bethane replied, scooping up the stone and placing it in the goatskin bag. “But she will.” She dropped the bag into Rimmell’s hands and sat back.

“Take you this pouch. Inside is that which you have seen, which you are not to remove until you may safely leave it where the lady is sure to come alone. Then you must open the pouch and remove what is inside without touching it. Once the stone is exposed to light, from this moment on, you will have only seconds in which to remove yourself from its influence. Then the charm is primed, and wants only the lady’s presence to be complete.”

“And she will be mine?”

Bethane nodded. “The charm will bind her. Go now.” She picked up the locket and dropped it into Rimmell’s hand, and Rimmell tucked it and the pouch into his tunic.

“I thank you most humbly, Dame Bethane,” he muttered, swallowing as he fingered the pouch at his waist. “How—how may I repay you? I have brought food, as is the custom, but—”

“You have gold at your belt?”

“Aye,” Rimmell whispered, fumbling with the pouch and withdrawing a small, heavy bag. “I have not much, but—” He put the bag down gingerly on the floor beside the lantern and looked at Bethane fearfully.

Bethane glanced at the bag, then returned her gaze to Rimmell.

“Empty the bag.”

With a gulp that was audible in the still cavern, Rimmell opened the bag and spilled the contents on the floor before him. The coins rang with the chime of fine gold, but Bethane’s gaze did not waver from the architect’s face.

“Now, what think you the worth of my services, Master Rimmell?” she asked, watching his face for telltale signs of emotion.

Rimmell wet his lips, and his eyes flickered to the pile of gold, which was fairly substantial. Then, with an abrupt motion he swept the entire amount closer to Bethane. The woman smiled her snaggled smile and nodded, then reached down and withdrew but six coins. The rest she pushed back to Rimmell. The architect was astonished.

“I—I don’t understand.” His voice quavered. “Will you not take more?”

“I have taken ample for my needs,” Bethane croaked. “I but wished to test that you do, indeed, value my services. As for the rest, perhaps you will remember the widow Bethane in your prayers. In these twilight years, I fear I may need supplications to the Almighty far more than gold.”

“I—I shall do that, I promise,” Rimmell stammered, scooping up his gold and returning it to his pouch. “But, is there nothing else I may do for you?”

Bethane shook her head. “Bring your children to visit me, Architect Rimmell. Now leave me. You have what you asked, and so have I.”

“Thank you, Dame Bethane,” Rimmell murmured, scrambling to his feet and marveling at his luck. “And I shall pray for you,” his voice floated back through the cave entrance as he slipped through the goatskin curtain.

“Well, my Darrell,” she whispered, rubbing the gold band on her hand against her lips, “it is done. I have set the charm to give the young man his wish. You don’t think I did wrong, do you, to work against a Deryni?”

She paused, as though listening for a reply, then nodded.

“I know, my darling. I have never used a charm against one of that race before. But it should work. I think I remembered all the proper words.

“It doesn’t matter anyway—as long as we’re together.” IT was nearly dark when Morgan finally signaled for a stop. He and Duncan had been riding steadily since leaving Coroth early that morning, stopping at noon only long enough to water the horses and gulp down a few handfuls of travel rations.

Now they were approaching the crest of the Lendour mountain range, beyond which lay the fabled Gunury Pass. At the end of that pass lay the shrine of Saint Torin, southern gateway to the free holy city of Dhassa. In the morning, when men and horses were rested, both men would pay their respects at Saint Torin’s shrine—a necessary procedure before being permitted to cross the wide lake to Dhassa. Then they would enter the free city of Dhassa, where no crowned head dared go without approval of the city burghers, but where Morgan would enter anyway, in disguise. There they hoped to confront the Gwynedd Curia.

Ruins became vaguely visible through the gloom of drizzle and lowering dusk, and Morgan reined his horse to a walk, shielding his eyes against the mist with a gloved hand. His gray gaze flicked from tower to steps to top of ruined wall, searching for signs of other occupancy, but there were no signs of recent habitation. They could safely stay the night.

Morgan slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs, sat back in the saddle and let his feet dangle as his mount picked its way across the rough terrain leading to the gateway. Behind him, Duncan steadied his own mount as the animal slipped on a patch of mud and recovered. The pack pony, following Duncan now, peered suspiciously at each new shadow-shape in the darkness ahead, shying and jerking at its lead with every new sound or hint of movement on the windswept plateau. Men and beasts were travel-weary and chilled to the bone.

“Well, this is about as far as we go for tonight,” Morgan said as they neared the ruined gateway. The hollow squishplop of the horses’ feet in the mud changed to a simple splash as they reached the cobbled path entering the ancient courtyard. An eerie silence permeated the place despite the steady rain, and Duncan whispered almost in spite of himself as he moved his horse closer to Morgan’s.

“What is this place?”

Morgan guided his mount through a ruined doorway and ducked as he passed beneath a partially fallen beam.

“Saint Neot’s. It was a flourishing monastery school before the Restoration, run by an all-Deryni brotherhood. The chapel was desecrated during the sacking, and several of the brothers were slain right on the altar steps. Local folk, such as there are, avoid it like the plague. Brion and I used to ride out here.”

Morgan moved his mount into a dry, partially roofed corner and began pushing at random beams above his head, testing their stability, as he continued. “From what I’ve been able to learn, Saint Neot’s ranked with the great university at Concaradine, or the Varnarite School at Grecotha when it was in its prime. Of course, being Deryni was respectable in those days.”

He pushed at a final beam and grunted in satisfaction as it held. Then he sat back in the saddle and dusted his gloved hands together in a gesture of finality.

“Well, I guess this will do for a dry place to sleep. At least the roof won’t collapse on us.”

As he dismounted, he glanced around easily, obviously familiar with the ruin. In a few minutes he and Duncan had unsaddled the horses and heaped their gear against a dry wall. By the time Morgan returned from tethering the animals in a stabling area farther back in the ruins, Duncan had started the evening meal over a carefully tended fire in the corner. Morgan sniffed appreciatively as he stripped off his dripping cloak and gloves and rubbed his hands briskly over the fire.

“Hmmm, I was beginning to think I’d never be warm again. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Duncan gave the pot a stir, then began digging through one of the sets of saddlebags. “You don’t know how close we came to not having a fire, my friend. Between the wet wood, and having to choose a place where no one could see the fire from outside—what was this room?”

“The refectory, I think.” Morgan pulled several handfuls of branches out of dry crevasses and piled them near the fire. “Over to the right there were kitchens, stable facilities, and the brothers’ sleeping quarters. It’s in a worse state than I remembered. They must have had some hard winters up here since my last visit.” He rubbed his hands together again and blew on them. “Any chance of building up the fire a little more?”

Duncan chuckled as he uncorked a wine flask. “Not unless you want everyone in Dhassa to know we’re coming. I’m telling you, I had a devil of a time finding a place for even a piddling fire like this one. Count your blessings.”

Morgan laughed. “I can’t fault your logic. I have no more wish than the next man to have my neck stretched or my throat slit.” He watched as Duncan poured wine into two small copper cups, then dropped a small, glowing stone into each. The stones steamed and hissed as they hit the cold wine, and Morgan added, “As I recall, the Dhassans have some rather novel ways of dealing with spies, especially Deryni ones.”

“Spare me the details!” Duncan retorted. He plucked the stones from the cups and handed one across to his cousin. “Here, drink up. This is the last of the Fianna wine.”

Morgan flopped down beside the fire with a sigh and sipped the wine, hot and potent and warming all the way down.

“Too bad they don’t drink this in Dhassa. There’s nothing like Fianna wine when you’re cold and tired. I gag even to contemplate the brew we’ll be forced to imbibe for the next few days.”

“You’re assuming, of course, that we’ll live that long,” Duncan said with a grin. “And that the holy Dhassans won’t recognize you before we can reach our esteemed archbishops.” He leaned back against the wall to savor his drink. “Did you know that it’s rumored the Dhassans sometimes use ale in their sacrament, because the wine is so bad?”

“A poor joke, surely?”

“No, I have it on excellent authority. They use sacramental ale.” He leaned forward to poke at the stew. “Are you ready to eat?”

A quarter hour later, the two had found the driest spots for their bedrolls and were preparing for sleep. Duncan was trying to read his breviary by the dying firelight, and Morgan removed his sword and sat on his haunches staring out into the darkness. The wind whined through the ruins and mingled with the slackening sounds of rainfall. Closer by, Morgan could hear the scrape of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles in the stable area. From somewhere far in the distance, a night bird twittered once and then was silent. Morgan stared into the dying embers for a few more minutes, then stood abruptly and pulled his cloak around himself.

“I think I’ll take a short walk,” he murmured, fastening his cloak and moving away from the fire.

“Is anything wrong?”

Morgan glanced down awkwardly at his booted feet and shook his head. “Brion and I used to ride in these mountains—that’s all. I was suddenly reminded of that.”

“I think I understand.”

Pulling his hood close around his head, Morgan moved slowly out of the circle of firelight and into the damp darkness beyond. He thought vaguely about Brion, not yet willing to unleash the memories associated with this place; found himself at length standing beneath the open, burned-out ceiling of the old chapel. He glanced around almost surprised, for he had not intended to come here.

It had been a large chapel once. Though the right-hand wall and most of the chancel back had long since crumbled, either from the original fire or from the weight of years, and though the last shards of glass had fallen long ago from the high clerestories, there was still an odor of sanctity about this place. Even the sacrilegious murder of Deryni brothers in this very chamber had not entirely destroyed the pervading calm that Morgan always associated with consecrated ground.

He looked toward the ruined altar area, almost fancying he could discern darker stains on the steps before it, then shook his head at his own imagination. The Deryni monks who had died here were two hundred years dead, their blood long since washed away by the torrential rains that swept the mountains every spring and autumn. If the monks had ever haunted Saint Neot’s, as the peasants’ legends suggested, they had long ago found peace.

He turned and wandered through a doorway still standing at the rear of the ruined nave, then smiled as he saw that the stairway to the bell tower, though crumbling at the edges, was still passable. He eased his way up that stairway, staying close to the outer wall and picking his footing carefully, for it was dark and the treads were littered with debris. Then, when he reached the first landing, he inched along the outer wall to the window there, gathered his leather cloak more closely around him, and sat down.

How long had it been since he’d last sat in this window, he wondered, as he looked around him in the darkness. Ten years? Twenty?

No, he reminded himself. It had been fourteen—and a few months.

He pulled his feet up and propped them against the opposite side of the window jamb, knees hugged against his chest—and remembered.

It had been autumn—midway through November. Autumn had come late that year, and he and Brion had ridden out of Coroth early that morning for one of their rare jaunts into the countryside before the bad weather set in. It was a clear, brisk day, just beginning to be tinged with the promise of winter to come, and Brion had been in his usual good humor. Thus, when he had suggested that Morgan show him through the old ruins, the young Deryni lord was quick to agree.

Morgan was no longer Brion’s squire by then. He had proven himself at Brion’s side the year before in the battle with the Marluk. Further, he was fifteen, a year past legal age by Gwynedd law, and Duke of Corwyn in his own right.

So now, riding beside the king on a favorite black war-horse, he wore the emerald gryphon of Corwyn on his black leather tabard instead of Brion’s crimson livery. The horses blew and snorted contentedly as their riders drew rein at the entrance to the old chapel.

“Well, look at this,” Brion exclaimed. He urged his white stallion into the doorway and shaded his eyes with a gloved hand to peer into the interior. “Alaric, the stairs to the bell tower seem to be sound. Let’s have a look.”

He backed his mount a few paces and jumped from the saddle, dropped the red leather reins so the animal could graze while they explored. Smiling, Morgan dismounted and followed Brion into the ruined chapel.

“This must have been quite a place in its time,” Brion said, climbing over a fallen beam and picking his way across the rubble. “How many were here, do you think?”

“In the whole monastery? About two or three hundred, I should think, Sire. That’s counting brothers, servants, and students all together, of course. As I recall, there were well over a hundred in the order.”

Brion scrambled up the first few steps of the stairway, his boots sending shards of stone and mortar flying as he found each precarious foothold. His bright riding leathers were a splash of crimson against the weathered gray of the tower, and his scarlet hunt cap sported a snowy feather that bobbed jauntily over his shoulder as he climbed. He grunted as his boot slipped and he nearly lost his footing, then recovered and continued.

“Mind where you step, Sire,” Morgan called, watching Brion anxiously as he followed. “Remember that these steps are more than four hundred years old. If they collapse, Gwynedd could be minus a king.”

“Hah, you worry too much!” Brion exclaimed. He reached the first landing and crossed to the window. “Look out there. You can see halfway back to Coroth.”

As Morgan reached his side, Brion cleared the windowsill of rubble and shattered glass with a sweep of his gloved hand, then sat easily, one booted foot propped against the opposite side.

“Look at that!” he said, gesturing toward the mountains to the north with his riding crop. “Another month and that will be covered with snow. And it will be just as beautiful then, in its snow-covered way, as it is right now, with just the first burn of frost on the meadows.”

Morgan smiled and leaned against the window jamb. “There would be good hunting up there about now, Sire. Are you sure you don’t want to stay in Coroth a while longer?”

“Ah, you know I can’t,” Brion replied with a resigned shrug. “Duty calls with a loud and persistent voice. If I’m not back in Rhemuth within a week, my Council lords will go into a twitter like a pack of nervous women. I don’t think they really believe that the Marluk is dead, that we’re no longer at war. And then there’s Jehana.”

Yes, and then there’s Jehana, Morgan thought morosely.

For an instant he allowed himself to visualize Brion’s auburn-haired young queen—then dismissed the image from his mind. Any hope of a civil relationship between himself and Jehana had ended the day she learned he was Deryni. She would never forgive him that, and it was the one thing he could not change, even had he wished to. It was pointless to belabor the issue. It would only remind Brion again of the disappointment over which he had no control: that there could never be anything but loathing between his queen and his closest friend.

Morgan leaned out over Brion’s outstretched foot to look over the windowsill.

“Look there, Sire,” he said, changing the subject. “Al-Derah’s found some grass that didn’t get burned by the frost.”

Brion looked. Below, Morgan’s black destrier was busily pulling at a patch of verdant grass some twenty feet from the base of the tower. Brion’s stallion had strayed a few yards to the right and was contenting himself with nosing halfheartedly in a patch of brownish clover grass, one big hoof planted firmly on his red leather reins.

Brion snorted and leaned back in the window, folding his arms across his chest. “Humph. That Kedrach is so dumb, I sometimes wonder how he finds his own nose. You’d think the stupid beast would have enough sense to pick up his big feet and move. He thinks he’s tied.”

“I did urge you not to buy horses from Llannedd,” Morgan said with a chuckle, “but you wouldn’t listen. The Llanneddites breed for looks and speed, but they don’t care much about brains. Now, the horses of R’Kassi—”

“Quiet!” Brion ordered, feigning indignation. “You’re making me feel inferior. And a king must never feel inferior.”

As Morgan tried to restrain a grin, he glanced out across the plain again. Half a dozen horsemen could be seen approaching now, and he touched Brion’s elbow lightly as he came to full alertness.

“Sire?”

As the two watched, they were able to make out Brion’s crimson lion banner in the hands of the lead rider. Beside him rode a stocky figure in brilliant orange who could only be Lord Ewan, the powerful Duke of Claibourne. Ewan must have seen the flash of Brion’s crimson leathers in the window at about the same time, for he abruptly stood in his stirrups and began a raucous highland war whoop as he and his band thundered toward the tower.

“What the devil—?” Brion murmured, standing to peer down as Ewan and his companions drew rein in a cloud of dust.

“Sire!” Ewan yelled, his eyes sparkling with merriment and his red beard and hair blowing in the wind as he grabbed Brion’s banner and brandished it aloft in triumph. “Sire, you have a son! An heir for the throne of Gwynedd!”

“A son!” Brion gasped, his jaw dropping in awe. “My God, it was supposed to be another month!” His eyes lit in elation. “A son! Alaric, do you hear?” he shouted, grabbing Morgan’s arms and dancing him around in a half circle. “I’m a father! I have a son!”

Releasing Morgan, he looked jubilantly out of the window at his cheering escort and shouted again: “I have a son!” Then he scrambled back down the stairs, Morgan close at his heels, his voice echoing through the ruins in a paean of joy: “A son! A son! Alaric, do you hear? I have a son!”

And Brion’s son—“A son! A son! Alaric, do you hear? I have a son!”—Brion’s son was fourteen now, a man, and King of Gwynedd.

Morgan looked out across the plain the way he and Brion had done so many years before, fancying he could see the riders again, coming across the plain, then gazed up into the misty night sky. A gibbous moon was rising in the east, paling the few stars bright enough to penetrate the overcast. Morgan gazed up at those stars for a long moment, savoring the serenity of the night, before turning his feet back to the floor to return to camp.

It grew late. Duncan would be worrying for his safety soon. And tomorrow, with its subterfuge and obdurate archbishops, would come all too early.

He picked his way back down the staircase, his footing easier now that the moon was beginning to light the ruins, and headed back through the standing doorway to cut through the nave. He was perhaps halfway through that chamber when his eye caught a faint flicker of light in the far recesses of the nave—there, to the left of the ruined altar.

He froze and turned his head toward the light, frowned as it did not disappear.