That portion of the Marcher highlands where Dhassa nestled among the mountains was a forest area, covered with great trees and plentiful game, with teeming streams and lakes, but with little native stone. To be sure, the highlands rested on a backbone of rock, and there were some areas where stone ruled and nothing would grow. But these were in the high peak lands of the mountain country, far above the timber line, and such places were not suitable for men.

Hence the people of Dhassa built their homes and towns of wood; for wood was plentiful and in great variety, and the dampness of the mountain air all but precluded the danger of fire. Even the shrine before which Morgan and his kinsman would shortly draw rein was built of wood—wood in all the myriad hues and textures the country could provide. It was altogether fitting and proper in this particular place, for Torin had been a forest saint.

Just how Torin had managed to earn his sainthood was a matter of conjecture. There were few facts available about Saint Torin of Dhassa, and many legends, some of dubious origin. He was known to have lived about fifty years before the Restoration, at the height of Deryni power in the Interregnum. It was believed that he had been the scion of a poor but noble family of great hunters whose males had always been hereditary wardens of the vast forest regions to the north. But little else was known for certain.

He was said to have had dominion over the beasts of the forests he guarded, to have performed many miracles. It was also said that he had once saved the life of a legendary king of Gwynedd when that monarch was hunting in the royal forest preserves one stormy October morning—though no one could recall just how he had managed to do this, or which king it had been.

Nonetheless, Saint Torin had been adopted as the patron of Dhassa soon after his death, and his veneration had become an integral part of the life of this mountain people. Women were exempt from service to this particular cult; they had their own Saint Ethelburga to intercede for them. But adult males of whatever country, desiring to enter the city of Dhassa from the south, must first make pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Torin, there to receive the burnished pewter cap-badge identifying them as one of his votaries. Only then, after paying their respects to Saint Torin, might they approach the ferrymen whose task it was to shuttle travelers across the vast Jashan Lake to Dhassa itself.

Not to make the pilgrimage was to court unwelcome attention, to say the least. For even if a boatman could be bribed to provide lake crossing—there was no other way to get around the lake—no innkeeper or tavern master was likely to serve any man not wearing the prescribed pilgrim badge. And it was almost a certainty that attempts to carry on more serious business in the city would be met with similar resistance. Dhassans were very militant about their saint. (An ancillary shrine guarded the approach from the north.) Once it was learned that there were travelers in the city who did not exhibit the proper degree of piety, pressure could and would be brought quickly to bear. As a consequence, travelers rarely ignored the amenities at one of Saint Torin’s shrines.

The waiting area to which Morgan and Duncan guided their horses was grassy and damp, a small, partially enclosed plot of ground just off the main road where travelers might rest themselves and their horses or prepare to pay their respects to Saint Torin. A rough, weathered wooden statue of the forest saint guarded the far side of the enclosure, its arms outstretched in benediction, and huge, dripping trees spread their gnarled branches over the heads of the pilgrims.

There were several other travelers in the enclosure that morning, their cap devices indicating that they had already made the pilgrimage and were merely pausing here. Across the yard, a slight man in hunter’s garb similar to that of Morgan and Duncan doffed his cap and entered the outer door of the shrine.

Exchanging glances, Morgan and Duncan dismounted and secured their horses to an iron ring set in the low stone wall, then settled down to wait their turn. Morgan loosened the chin strap of the close leather cap he had pulled over his bright hair and bent his head to relieve the crick in his neck. He longed to remove the cap, but to do so would be to risk revealing his identity—a chance he could not afford to take if he hoped to reach the archbishops’ Curia in time. Few men of Morgan’s stature sported golden hair, and he dared not be recognized.

Duncan glanced at the travelers on the opposite side of the enclosure, then allowed his eyes to flick back to the shrine as he leaned slightly toward his cousin.

“Strange, the way they use wood in these parts,” he remarked in a low voice. “That chapel almost seems to grow from the ground itself, as though it weren’t fashioned by human hands at all, but just grew up overnight like a mushroom.”

Morgan chuckled, then glanced around to see if any of the other pilgrims had heard him. “Your imagination is running rampant this morning,” he chided mildly, hardly moving his lips as he continued looking around. “The Dhassans have been renowned for woodcraft for centuries.”

“That may be,” Duncan said. “Still, there’s something eerie about this place. Don’t you feel it?”

“Only the same aura of sanctity that surrounds any holy place,” Morgan replied, glancing sidelong at his cousin. “In fact, there’s perhaps less of that than usual. Are you sure you aren’t suffering pangs of priestly conscience?”

Duncan snorted softly under his breath. “You’re impossible. Do you know that? Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Quite often, and with startling regularity,” Morgan admitted with a smile. He glanced around the enclosure to see if they were attracting undue attention, then moved closer to Duncan, his face taking on a more serious expression.

“By the way,” he murmured, not looking at his cousin, “I neglected to tell you about the fright I had last night.”

“Oh?”

“It seems that the side altar at Saint Neot’s was once sacred to Saint Camber. For a few moments there, I was afraid I was going to have another visitation.”

Duncan controlled the impulse to turn and stare. “And did you?” he asked, keeping his voice low only with an effort.

“I surprised a rat,” Morgan quipped. “Other than that, I’m afraid it was just a case of nerves. So you see, you are not alone.”

He glanced at a movement down the road that had caught his eye, nudged Duncan in the ribs.

Two horsemen had just rounded the bend—a commonplace enough event that probably had first caught Morgan’s attention because the men wore uniform livery of royal blue and white. As he and Duncan watched, the men were joined by a second pair, and then another and another.

They counted six pairs of outriders before the small coach rounded the curve: a well-appointed vehicle paneled with blue between the dark sections of frame and drawn by four matched roans, the horses blanketed and plumed in blue and white. On their own, the liveried men-at-arms would have attracted enough attention on the muddy Dhassa road this spring morning. Their escort of such a lavish coach simply confirmed that someone of importance was en route to Dhassa—probably not a bishop, though that was Morgan’s first thought. But the livery was wrong for an episcopal escort. Considering the city’s neutral status, it could be anyone.

As the coach and escort drew nearer, the pilgrim came out of the shrine and returned, the bright Torin badge winking softly from his peaked leather cap. Since Morgan had shown no sign of being ready to go next, Duncan unbuckled his sword and hung it over his saddle bow, then headed briskly toward the shrine—for one did not bear steel into Saint Torin’s shrine.

The riders had drawn almost abreast of Morgan. As they moved past, he could see the gleam of mail beneath their tabards, heard its muffled clink, the jingle of bits and spurs and harness. The coach horses foundered in mud nearly to their knees as they drew even with the waiting enclosure, and then the coach lurched to a jolting stop. A wheel had bogged in the mud, and the horses could not pull it out.

The driver whipped at the horses and shouted—though he did not swear, which Morgan thought in passing strange. A pair of riders took the bridles of the lead horses and attempted to urge them forward, but it was no use. The coach was stuck.

The riders glanced his way, and Morgan jumped down from his wall perch, peering attentively at the stalled cavalcade. He was about to be pressed into service, he knew. The liveried riders would not want to muddy themselves getting the coach free—not when there were common folk to provide that service. And to all outward appearances, the Duke of Corwyn was a commoner today. He must act no differently.

“You there,” one of the riders called, moving his mount toward Morgan and the other travelers and gesturing with his riding crop. “Come and give a hand with her ladyship’s carriage.”

So, it was a lady who rode behind the coach’s curtained windows. No wonder the coachman had not sworn at his team.

With a deferential bow, Morgan hurried to the wheel and put his shoulder behind it, gave a mighty heave. The carriage did not budge. Another man braced himself against the wheel below Morgan and tensed for the next trial as several others joined on the other side.

“When I give the word,” the lead rider called, moving to the front of the coach, “give the horses their heads and a little whip, and you men push. Ready, driver?”

The driver nodded and raised his whip, and Morgan took a deep breath.

“Now, go!”

The horses pulled, Morgan and his colleagues pushed with all their might, the wheel strained. At first nothing moved, but then the coach started climbing slowly out of the pothole. The driver let the coach roll forward a few feet, then pulled up. The lead rider backed his mount a few paces toward Morgan and the other pilgrims.

“Her ladyship’s thanks to all of you,” the man called, raising his crop in friendly salute.

Morgan and the other pilgrims bowed and started to back off.

“And her ladyship wishes to add her personal thanks,” said a light, musical voice from inside the coach.

Morgan looked up, startled, into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen, set in a pale, heart-shaped face of incomparable beauty. That face was surrounded by a smooth cloud of red-golden hair, swooped down on either side like twin wings of fire and then twisted into a coiled coronet around her head. The nose was delicate and slightly upturned, the mouth wide, generous, tinged with a blush of color that by rights should have belonged only to a rose.

Those unbelievably blue eyes locked on his for just an instant—long enough only to forever engrave her likeness on his mind. Then time resumed, and Morgan recovered his wits enough to stand back and make an awkward bow. He remembered only just in time that he was not supposed to be the suave and polished Lord Alaric Morgan, and modified what he had been about to say accordingly.

“It is the pleasure of Alain the hunter to serve you, my lady,” he murmured, trying unsuccessfully not to let his eyes meet hers again.

The head rider cleared his throat and shouldered his mount between the coach and the men who had freed it, setting the tip of his riding crop lightly but firmly against Morgan’s shoulder.

“That will be all, hunter,” he said. His voice had taken on that edge associated with authority that fears it is about to be usurped. “Her ladyship is impatient to be off.”

“Certainly, good sir,” Morgan murmured, backing off from the coach but not quite taking his eyes from the lady as he did so. “God speed her ladyship.”

As the lady nodded and started to withdraw behind the curtains once more, a small, tousled red head poked up from below the window to stare wide-eyed at Morgan. The lady shook her head and whispered something in the child’s ear, then smiled at Morgan as both disappeared from sight.

Morgan, too, grinned as the coach pulled out and continued down the road. Very shortly, Duncan came out of the shrine with a Saint Torin badge affixed to his hunter’s cap and retrieved his sword from his saddle. With a sigh, Morgan returned to the horses to remove his own blade. Then, with resolute step, he crossed the wide yard to enter the antechamber of the shrine.

The room was tiny and dim. As Morgan stepped inside, he noted the hollow echo of parquet flooring under his boots, surveyed the carved and pierced grillwork masking the walls on either side. Heavily carved double doors lay at the other end of the chamber, leading into the shrine itself. He could sense a presence behind the grille on the right, and he glanced in that direction and nodded.

That would be the monk who was always stationed in the antechamber—both to hear the confessions of penitents who wished to unburden their souls, and to serve as guardian of the shrine, that only one unarmed pilgrim might enter at any one time.

“God’s blessings on thee, Holy Brother,” Morgan murmured, in what he hoped was his most pious tone.

“And upon thee and thine,” the monk replied, his voice a harsh whisper.

Morgan made a short bow acknowledging the blessing, then moved toward the double doors. As he set his hands on the door handles, he heard the monk shift position in his wooden cubbyhole and cough, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he had rushed matters. He turned to glance in the man’s direction, hoping he had not aroused the wrong kind of interest, and the monk cleared his throat.

“Didst thou wish to shrive thyself, my son?” the voice grated hopefully.

Morgan started to shake his head and go through the doors, then paused to cock his head thoughtfully in the direction of the grille. Perhaps he had forgotten something. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he reached into his belt and withdrew a small gold coin.

“I thank thee, no, good brother,” he said, controlling the urge to smile. “But here’s for thy holy work.”

With a deliberately awkward and embarrassed movement, he reached across to the grille and placed the coin in a small slot. As he turned back to the doors, he heard the soft ring of the coin rolling down a groove, and then a not too carefully masked sigh of relief.

“Go in peace, my son,” he heard the monk murmur as he stepped through the doors. “Mayst thou find what thou seekest.”

Morgan closed the doors behind him and allowed his eyes to adjust to the even dimmer light. As shrines went, Saint Torin’s seemed not terribly impressive. Morgan had been in larger and more splendid ones, and ones built to far more august and holy personages than the obscure and strictly local forest saint. But the place had a certain charm that almost appealed to Morgan.

To begin with, the chapel was constructed entirely of wood. The walls and ceiling were wood; the altar was a huge slab cut from a giant oak. Even the floor was formed of thin strips of many different kinds and textures of wood, all inlaid in a striking chevron and cross-hatch pattern. The walls were rough-hewn, carved crudely with life-sized stations of the cross. The high, vaulted ceiling was likewise beamed with rough cross-members.

It was the eastern end of the chapel that impressed Morgan the most, however. Whoever had fashioned the wall behind the altar had been a master craftsman, had known every kind of wood his land had to offer and how best to display and contrast each. Inlaid strips ran inward from the sides and fountained behind the crucifix like a burst of wooden water frozen timeless there, symbol of the eternal life awaiting. The statue of Saint Torin, to the left, had been carved from a single, gnarled branch of a great oak.

In contrast was the crucifix before the altar—dark wood, pale figure; stiff, formal, the outstretched upper limbs in a perfect T, the head upraised and gazing straight ahead. King Regnant, not the suffering Man on the tree.

Morgan decided he didn’t much like this cold depiction of his Lord. It sucked away the humanness, almost nullified the air of life and warmth the living walls provided. Even the glow of blue vigil and votive lights, the golden wash of pilgrim candles, could scarcely soften the cold, unyielding countenance of the King of Heaven.

Distractedly Morgan dipped his fingers into a font of holy water to the right of the doors and crossed himself as he started down the narrow aisle. His initial impression of serenity had been shattered by his closer scrutiny of the chapel, to be replaced by an air of uneasiness. He missed the weight of his blade at his side. He would be glad to be away from this place.

Pausing at a small table in the center of the aisle, he lit a yellow taper, which he was required to carry to the front of the chapel and leave by the altar. As the wick flared, his mind flicked back for just an instant to that same color of flame in sunlight that had been the hair of the woman in the coach. Then his candle was lit, and wax was dripping down his fingers, reminding him that it was time to continue.

The candles of other pilgrims flickered on stands behind the altar rail, before the image of the saint, but the gate in the altar rail was closed. Nodding respect to the altar, Morgan dropped to one knee and reached for the latch behind the gate, stood as it released with an audible click. As he pulled away, the back of his hand scraped against something sharp enough to draw blood. Instinctively he put the wounded spot to his mouth, thinking as he stepped through the gate that this was a strange place for something that sharp.

He leaned down to take a closer look, still nursing his wounded hand—and the whole room began to spin. Before he could even straighten, he felt himself being drawn into a whirling maelstrom laced with all the colors of time.

Merasha! his mind shrieked.

It must have been on the gate latch—and then he had further carried it to his mouth! Worse, it was not just the mind-numbing effect of the Deryni-sensitive merasha he was fighting. Another force was impinging upon his consciousness: a surging, powerful presence that threatened to surround him, to drag him into oblivion.

He fell to hands and knees and fought to resist it, fearing as he did that it was too late, that the attack had been too sudden, the drug too powerful. It was like a huge hand reaching down for him, a hand that filled the room, blotting out the swimming, trembling light as it curled around him.

He tried to cry out to Duncan as pain engulfed his mind, tried in a final effort to shake the sinister force that was overpowering him. But it was no use. Though it seemed his screams could split the firmament, a detached part of him knew that they, too, were being absorbed by this thing.

He felt himself falling, and his scream was soundless, frozen, as he slipped into the void.