With a flirtatious wink, she raced off down the garden path with her golden hair flying, blue skirts whipping seductively around her long legs. As she bolted, Kevin McLain made an initial attempt to grab her arm, missed, then bounded off after her with a delighted laugh. His sheathed sword slapped against his boots, threatening to trip him with every step, but he paid little heed to that minor detail; merely steadied the sword with a hand on the hilt as he chased her across the grass.

The day was fresh, the sun gently warm, and Bronwyn and Kevin had just returned from an early ride in the greening hills outside Culdi. Cavorting in the garden now like a pair of mischievous children, they ran and dodged among the trees and statues of the formal gardens for nearly a quarter of an hour, Kevin the pursuer and Bronwyn the hunted. At length he managed to trap her behind a small fountain, wagged a confident finger at her and chuckled as they circled round and round.

It was Bronwyn who finally broke the impasse. Sticking out her tongue in a defiant gesture, she began a dart for safety, only to slip on the grass and stumble to one knee as she cleared the fountain. Kevin, pressing his advantage, leaped to her side and threw his arms around her, carrying her to the ground with his weight as he bent to steal a kiss. As she relaxed in his arms and her lips parted under his, he almost lost himself in the heady ecstasy of the moment. Until he heard someone clearing his throat meaningfully behind him.

Kevin froze and opened his eyes, knowing he was caught, then ended the kiss. As he pulled away from Bronwyn, he saw her eyes widen slightly as she looked over his shoulder, and she suppressed a giggle. Then he was looking up at the face of his father. Duke Jared was smiling indulgently.

“I thought I might find you two here,” his father said, noting Kevin’s sheepish grin. “Stand up and greet your guests, Kevin.”

As Kevin scrambled to his feet and gave Bronwyn a hand up, he saw that Jared was, indeed, not alone. Jared’s seneschal, Lord Deveril, and the architect Rimmell were with him—Deveril restraining a smile, Rimmell deadly serious as usual—as were King Kelson, Lord Derry, and the red-bearded Duke Ewan, one of Kelson’s council lords.

The king, wind-blown but contented-looking in his scarlet riding leathers, smiled and nodded acknowledgement as Kevin and Bronwyn bowed, then moved aside to reveal a seventh visitor: a small, wiry man with dark features and flamboyant rose and violet garb who could only be the great troubadour Gwydion. A round-bellied lute was slung over the musician’s back by a golden cord, the fretted fingerboard worn satin-smooth by much use. The troubadour’s black eyes glittered attentively as he studied the young couple.

Kevin glanced at Kelson and returned his grin. “Welcome to Culdi, Sire,” he said, brushing the grass from his clothes and including the others in his greeting. “You honor us with your presence.”

“On the contrary, it is Gwydion who honors all of us, my Lord Kevin,” Kelson said with a smile. “And if you would but introduce him to your intended bride, I believe he might be persuaded to give us an impromptu recital this afternoon.”

As Gwydion bowed thanks to Kelson, Kevin grinned and took Bronwyn’s hand.

“Bronwyn, I should like you to meet the incomparable Gwydion ap Plenneth, of whose prowess with lute and song you have already heard. Master Gwydion, the Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, my betrothed. It was she who, on your reputation alone, insisted I persuade Alaric to let you come.”

“Gracious lady,” Gwydion purred, doffing his vibrant rose cap with a flourish and bowing, his long sleeves brushing the grass. “For a glimpse of such rare beauty, I should have risked even the ire of your lord brother.” He bent low to kiss her hand. “Forgive me if I stand speechless in your presence, wondrous lady.”

Bronwyn smiled delightedly and lowered her eyes, a faint blush of color staining her cheeks. “Methinks this minstrel has a courtly air about him, Kevin. Master Gwydion, would you indeed consent to play for us this afternoon? We have waited long to hear you perform.”

Gwydion beamed and made another sweeping bow. “I am yours to command, my lady.” He gestured expansively. “And since this garden is so wondrous fair, and betimes a fit setting for the songs I would play, may we not avail ourselves of the bounteous nature of the Lord and tarry here awhile?”

“Your Majesty?” Bronwyn asked.

“He came to play for you, my lady,” Kelson replied with a smile, folding his arms across his chest as he watched her delight. “If you wish it here in the garden, then here it shall be.”

“Oh, yes!”

With a short bow, Gwydion gestured to the grass beside the fountain and invited his audience to sit. As he unslung his instrument and sat on the edge of the fountain, Kevin removed his riding cloak and spread it on the ground. Bronwyn sank down on the plaid and curled her feet under her skirts contentedly while Derry and Deveril and Ewan made themselves comfortable. Kevin started to take his place beside Bronwyn, then saw Kelson trying to catch his eye and gave his place to his father. As Kevin and Kelson moved slowly away from the group, Gwydion strummed a chord and began delicately tuning his instrument. His audience listened with rapt attention as he told of the song he would sing.

Kelson glanced at the group assembled on the grass, then turned back to Kevin again as they walked. His face was serious, thoughtful, as he addressed the older man.

“Have you heard aught from your brother these past weeks, my lord?”

The king’s manner seemed casual enough, but Kevin felt his body go tense, forced himself to control his apprehension. “You speak as though you have not either, Sire,” he said evenly. “Has he not been with you?”

“Not for the past week and a half,” Kelson said. “Ten days ago we received certain information that Duncan was to be suspended and called before the ecclesiastical court in Rhemuth. There was nothing we could do about the suspension, of course. That is a purely religious matter, one between Duncan and his superior. But all of us—Duncan, Nigel, and I—were in agreement that he should not stand before the court.”

Kelson stopped and studied the tips of his black leather boots before continuing.

“There was another matter that came to our attention at the same time: one of an even more serious nature than Duncan’s suspension. Loris and Corrigan plan to place Corwyn under Interdict. This is their means to retaliate against Morgan and to end the Deryni controversy, which has split these Eleven Kingdoms for the past two hundred years—or so the archbishops believe. Under the circumstances, Duncan felt that his place was with Alaric, both to deliver the news of the Interdict threat and to absent himself from the reach of Loris’s ecclesiastical court. When Lord Derry left them four days ago, both were well, but they were preparing to ride to Dhassa to make direct appeal to the Curia against the Interdict. I have had no word since then.”

Kevin grimaced. “Suspension and Interdict. Has anything else gone wrong while I’ve been away from court?”

Kelson gave a wry smile. “Since you ask, yes. There is a rebel force rising in the hills north of Corwyn, bent on starting a holy war against Deryni. They, of course, will be immensely aided if the Interdict falls. And Wencit of Torenth will begin his siege of Cardosa any day now. Other than that, everything is wonderful. Your esteemed brother told me to remain calm, to bide my time, not to make any disturbances until he and Morgan can get back to advise me. He’s right, of course. Despite my rank and power, I am still too young in many ways, and he knows it—I’m being very candid with you, Kevin. But it makes things very difficult, just to sit and wait.”

Kevin nodded slowly, then glanced casually back over his shoulder to where Gwydion was now singing. He could not distinguish the words, but the melody floated over the still spring air, pure and sweet. He shuffled his feet against the grass, arms folded across his chest, lowered his eyes.

“I assume the others don’t know about all of this.”

“Derry knows everything. And Gwydion suspects what he is not sure of. But the others—no. I’d appreciate it if you keep it that way. At this point, their worrying cannot alleviate the situation, and I would not wish to spoil your wedding celebration more than I already have.”

Kevin smiled slightly. “Thank you for telling me, Sire. I’ll say nothing to the others. And if there is anything I may do to help, you know my sword and my fortune are yours to command.”

“I would not have confided in you, had I not known you were to be trusted,” Kelson said. “Come. Let’s go back and listen to Gwydion. This is supposed to be your celebration, after all.”

“Ah, my lady,” Gwydion was saying as they returned, “modesty is most becoming in a woman, but allow me to entreat you further. Lord Alaric has boasted so of your skill with the lute. Will you not send someone to bring your instrument?”

“Kevin?”

Before Kevin could respond, Rimmell roused himself from where he had been leaning against a nearby tree and bowed slightly.

“Permit me the honor, my lady,” he said, trying not to let his eagerness show. “Lord Kevin has missed one song already. ’Twould not be fitting that he miss a second.”

“My lady?” Gwydion questioned.

“Oh, very well,” Bronwyn laughed. “Rimmell, Mary Elizabeth knows where I keep my lute. You may tell her I said to let you fetch it for me.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

Gwydion strummed another chord, modulated to a minor, and ran down a scale as Rimmell strode away. “ ‘A faithful servant is a true and valued treasure,’ ” he quoted, caressing the strings and surveying his audience with a contented smile. “And now, while we wait, I would endeavor to sing another song: a love song this time, dedicated to the happy couple.”

He rippled off a few introductory bars and began to sing. Strains of Gwydion’s new song echoed in Rimmell’s hearing as he hurried across the palace courtyard. He had not wanted to leave Bronwyn there listening to love songs with Kevin; there were few enough times when he could be in her presence and watch her without being obvious. But he would never have a better chance than now to place the charm Bethane had given him. At this time of day, Bronwyn’s ladies would be finished in her rooms for the next few hours. The next person to enter once he left was sure to be the lady herself.

As he bounded up the steps to the terrace level and Bronwyn’s chambers, he pressed his hand against his chest and felt his heart pounding, felt the reassuring pressure of the pouch Bethane had given him the day before. In a few hours it would all be over, and Bronwyn would be his. He could hardly believe it was really happening.

He hesitated and glanced around self-consciously before entering the chamber, for he had been told to look for Mary Elizabeth; but no one had seen him approach. Nor was there anyone in the room itself. He spied Bronwyn’s lute hanging on a wooden peg beside the bed, but he ignored that for the present. First he must find a place to leave the crystal. Somewhere that Bronwyn would not notice until it was too late and the charm had worked its spell.

The dresser was the place, he decided, as he crossed to it and withdrew the pouch. Surely a woman would go to her dresser first when she entered her chamber, especially when she had been riding for most of the day. Moreover, there were other glittering things already on the dresser top. They would help to camouflage what he would leave.

Placing the pouch gently on the dresser, he started to untie the leather thongs, paused as he remembered he would have only a few seconds in which to get himself out of range. He crossed to the peg and took down the lute, slung it over his shoulder, then returned to the dresser and loosed the thongs of the pouch, slid the cold blue-red crystal out on the surface.

Heart in throat, Rimmell snatched the leather bag and fled to the door, slowing to compose himself only as he reached the doorjamb. He hazarded a single look back at the dresser, but he could see no trace of blue amid all the other glitter there.

Whistling a triumphant little marching tune, he walked casually back along the terrace walkway toward the garden, Bronwyn’s lute slung over his shoulder. As he walked, he carefully withdrew the locket from his tunic, opened it, and gazed fondly at the portrait inside, then closed it with a tiny click and replaced it in his tunic with a sigh. As he reentered the garden, he could hear Gwydion’s song floating in the sunlight.

An hour later, Bronwyn paused in the doorway to her chamber to smile as Kevin pressed his lips to her palm.

“Half an hour?” she whispered.

“Half an hour,” he agreed solemnly. “And if you’re late—” He broke into a grin. “I’ll come and dress you myself!”

Bronwyn wrinkled her nose mischievously and made a face. “Two more days, Kevin McLain,” she teased. “You’ll survive until then.”

“Will I?” he murmured, drawing her close and looking down at her with only partially feigned passion.

She giggled and hugged him briefly, then slipped out of his grasp and through the partially opened door.

“Half an hour,” she admonished. “And see that you’re not late, or I’ll come and help you dress!”

“Do!” came Kevin’s enthusiastic reply as she closed the door.

Bronwyn pirouetted gracefully and cradled her lute to her breast as she spun across the room, blissful in the sheer joy of being alive and loved. As she paused by her dresser, humming a few bars from Gwydion’s last song, she bent to glance at herself in the mirror, smoothed a strand of dark golden hair off her forehead. Even as she began to straighten, the stone’s spell began its work, catching her in a wave of dizziness.

Bronwyn stumbled and clutched at the dresser edge for support, barely managing to keep her feet as she was engulfed a second time. In her desperate fight to retain consciousness, she let the lute slip from her numbed grasp and fall to the floor. The neck cracked in the fall, and one of the strings snapped with a taut ping.

The sound was sufficient to jar her Deryni senses into play, to set her analyzing even as her outer mind spun. Eyes searching blankly, almost mindlessly, for a clue to the attack, she spotted the blue crystal pulsing amid the clutter of her dresser.

Magic! her mind shrieked. Dear God, who has done this thing?

“Kevin! Kevin!” she managed to scream.

Kevin had not had time to go far. Hearing Bronwyn’s terrified scream, he raced back down the corridor and flung himself at her door. It gave without resistance, and he staggered into the room—halted in horror at what he saw.

Bronwyn had sunk to her knees beside the dresser, fingers white-knuckled against the edge of the dark-stained top. The object of her terrified gaze was a strange blue crystal that glowed and pulsed among the jewels and trinkets on the dresser. As Kevin watched, she reached slowly toward the thing to touch it, her lips moving in a silent repetition of Kevin’s name.

Kevin acted. With a wordless cry, and without further thought than the need to get the crystal away from his beloved, he shoved her aside and scooped the thing off the dresser with both hands, intending to fling it through the open terrace doors and out of range.

It was not to be. The spell had been ill-set to start, and never for the likes of a human like Kevin—indeed, the more deadly for that. As Kevin lifted the crystal, he froze in mid-motion, his features contorting in a terrible expression of fear and pain. In that same instant Bronwyn realized what he had done and tried to wrest the crystal from him, hoping that her Deryni blood would afford at least partial immunity where Kevin had none. But she, too, was transfixed as she touched him, the crystal beginning to pulsate wildly with their dual heartbeats.

Then both were engulfed in a flash of harsh white light that illuminated the entire room. It seared the carpets and the very air with its brilliance, cutting off the screams that reverberated through the palace as the white light faded.

Then there was only silence . . . until the guards, streaming into the room in response to the screams, halted aghast at the sight that awaited, drew back in confusion as Kelson arrived at a dead run, and jerked to a stop in the doorway, Derry right behind him.

“Get back, all of you!” Kelson commanded, staring wide-eyed through the open door and motioning them to withdraw. “Hurry! There’s magic afoot!”

As the guards obeyed, Kelson stepped cautiously into the room and spread his arms to the sides, lips moving in a counter-spell. As he finished, light flared faintly in the center of the room and died. He bit his lip and closed his eyes briefly, damping down his growing apprehension, then forced himself to move slowly closer.

The couple lay sprawled near the open terrace doors, Kevin on his back, Bronwyn slumped face-down across his chest, her golden hair spilling across his face in disarray. Kevin’s arms outstretched to either side were blackened, the hands charred and burned with the terrible energy he had tried to quench. The McLain plaid fastened to his shoulder was singed at the edge where it lay partially across one slack hand. Neither of them showed any sign of life.

Swallowing with difficulty, Kelson dropped to his knees beside the two and reached out to touch them, winced as his fingers brushed Kevin’s arm, Bronwyn’s silken hair. Then he sank back on his heels and bowed his head in sorrow, hands resting helplessly on his thighs. There was nothing he or anyone else could do for the two lovers now.

At Kelson’s gesture of finality, Derry and the guards and Jared’s Lord Deveril began to filter into the room, hushed and stunned in the wake of the unexpected tragedy. Lord Deveril’s face went white as he saw the crumpled bodies, and then he was pushing his way back through the growing crowd to try to stop Duke Jared. He was too late.

“What has happened?” Jared whispered, craning his neck to see past his seneschal. “Has something happened to Bronwyn?”

“Don’t, m’lord, please!”

“Let me through, Dev. I want to see what’s—Dear God, it’s my son! Sweet Lord in Heaven, it’s both of them!”

As the guards parted to admit Jared, Rimmell arrived and eased his way to the back of the crowd, gasped and clenched a fist to his open mouth as he saw what had happened. A violent fit of trembling overcame him as his other fist tightened convulsively on Bronwyn’s gold locket, and he was desperately afraid he was going to be sick.

As more guards and courtiers spilled into the chamber, Rimmell tried to shrink back against the wall and melt into the stonework, tried to force his gaze away from the awful sight, but could not. Then he crumpled to his knees and sobbed in bitter despair, not knowing or caring that the locket cut his palm as he wrung his hands in anguish.

Lady Margaret arrived with Gwydion. She paled as she saw the bodies and looked as though she might faint. But then she was moving toward her husband, who stood numb and motionless beside them. She put her arms around him and clung wordlessly for a long moment, then led him gently to the terrace doors and turned him so he would not have to see the thing that tore at his heart. She talked to him then, softly, in words no one else could hear.

Gwydion picked up Bronwyn’s discarded lute and looked at it wordlessly, its neck cracked and belly smashed from its fall. Moving slowly to Kelson’s side, the little troubadour watched without comment as the young king unfastened his scarlet cloak and draped it over the two bodies, then absently plucked at one of the remaining strings. The note echoed discordantly in the stillness, and Kelson looked up with a start.

“I fear the music is shattered forever, Sire,” Gwydion murmured sadly, kneeling beside Kelson to lay the lute gently by Bronwyn’s hand. “Nor can it ever be mended.”

Kelson averted his gaze, knowing it was not the lute Gwydion spoke of. Gwydion allowed his slender fingers to caress the lute a final time, then folded his hands before him.

“May one ask how this came to pass, Sire?”

Kelson shrugged dully. “Someone set a jerramán crystal in the room. By itself, that would not be terribly significant; jerramáni can be used for many things, some of them quite beneficial. You may have heard mention of them in some of the old ballads you sing.”

His voice faltered as he went on. “But this one was not beneficial—at least it wasn’t once a human like Kevin entered the picture. Alone, Bronwyn might have been able to overcome the spell, whatever its intent. She would have had the power, if her training was sufficient. But she must have called out or screamed, and no doubt Kevin heard and came to her aid. She could not save herself and him; and in the end, she saved neither.”

“Could she not have—”

Kelson cut off further discussion with a warning look and got to his feet, for Jared and Margaret had been joined on the terrace by the white-robed Father Anselm, Castle Culdi’s aging chaplain. The young king bowed respectfully as Anselm approached with the bereaved parents, then stepped back to let them kneel beside the bodies. He crossed himself as Anselm began to pray, then began backing off slowly, signaling Gwydion to accompany him.

“Gwydion, Derry, let’s clear away the unnecessary spectators, shall we? The family need some privacy just now.”

As the men followed Kelson’s orders, gently shepherding soldiers and weeping ladies-in-waiting from the room, Derry came at last to Rimmell. The architect knelt moaning softly in a corner, his white hair shaking as he wept, a fine golden chain spilling through his clasped fingers as he rocked slowly back and forth. As Derry touched his shoulder, Rimmell looked up with a start, his eyes red and streaming. Derry, ill-accustomed to dealing with hysterical men, noticed the golden chain and seized on it as an excuse to distract the man.

“Eh, what’s this? Rimmell, what have you got there?”

As Derry caught his wrist, Rimmell tried to pull away, eyes wide as saucers as he staggered to his feet. His resistance only heightened Derry’s interest, and the young Marcher lord renewed his efforts to pry open the hand.

“Come, now, Rimmell, I want to see what it is,” Derry said, becoming a little irritated as Rimmell resisted all efforts to distract him. “Why, it’s a locket. Where did you get—”

As he spoke, the locket slipped from Rimmell’s grasp and fell to the floor, springing open even as Derry scooped it up. He started to return it to Rimmell, giving it only a cursory glance, then gasped as the portrait registered.

“Khadasa! It’s my lady!”

At Derry’s oath, Kelson frowned and turned, intending to reprimand Derry for his unseemly outburst. When he saw the stunned look on Derry’s face, however, he crossed to the young lord and took the locket instead. Just as he realized who the portrait was intended to be, Lady Margaret saw the locket and dashed to his side, clutching at his arm in horror.

“Where did you get that locket, Sire?”

“This?” Kelson looked confused. “Why, apparently Rimmell had it, my lady. Though how he came by it, I cannot imagine.”

Margaret’s hand trembled as she took the locket from Kelson, and she flinched as the metal touched her hands. She gazed at the portrait inside for just an instant, then clutched it to her bosom with a moan.

“Where—” She swallowed with difficulty. “Rimmell, where did you get this?”

“My lady, I—”

“Bronwyn gave this locket to Kevin on the day of their betrothal. Where did you get it?”

With a wail of despair, Rimmell flung himself to his knees and clutched at her skirts in supplication, his white head shaking as he poured out his misery.

“Oh, my dearest lady, please believe that I never meant for this to happen!” he sobbed. “I loved her so much! I only wanted her to love me in return. Surely you can understand what it is to love!”

Margaret shrieked, drawing away in abhorrence as she realized the implication of Rimmell’s words, and Derry and several guards grabbed the architect and forced him to release Margaret’s skirts. Jared, who had watched the exchange uncomprehendingly, murmured his dead son’s name once, but could not seem to make further sound or action.

“You!” Kelson gasped, hardly daring to believe what he had just heard. “You set the jerramán, Rimmell?”

“Oh, Sire, you must believe me!” Rimmell babbled, shaking his head pleadingly. “It was only to have been a love charm. Dame Bethane said—”

“Dame Bethane?” Kelson snapped, grabbing Rimmell’s hair and yanking his head up to look him in the eyes. “Rimmell, this was Deryni magic. I know, because I had to neutralize what was left after it had done its work. Now, who is this Dame Bethane you speak of? Is she Deryni?”

“I—do not know, Sire,” Rimmell stammered. He winced as his head was pulled back by the hair. “She lives in the hills north of the city, in—in a cave. The villagers say she is a holy woman, that she has often worked love charms and other favors in return for food and—and gold.” He swallowed and blinked his eyes tightly. “I only wanted Bronwyn to love me, Sire. Besides, it was but simple magic Bethane used.”

“Simple magic does not kill!” Kelson fairly spat the words as he released Rimmell’s hair abruptly and wiped his hand against his thigh. “You, too, bear responsibility for those deaths, Rimmell. Just as surely as if you yourself had set the magic and watched them burn!”

“I’ll kill him!” Jared screamed, flinging himself at a guard and snatching out the man’s sword. “As God is my witness, he shall die for this wretched deed!”

As he darted toward Rimmell, glassy-eyed and with sword upraised, Margaret screamed “No!” and threw herself between them. Derry and a guard captain grabbed Jared’s sword arm and forced it down as Margaret clung sobbing to his chest, but Jared continued to struggle and shout: “Take your hands off me, you fools! I shall kill him! Margaret, he has murdered my son! Do not interfere!”

“Jared, no! Hasn’t there been enough of killing? At least wait until you’re not so distraught. Sire, don’t let him do this thing, I beg of you!”

“Stop it, all of you!”

Kelson’s words cut through the shouting like a sword, bringing instant silence save for the forlorn sobbing of Rimmell. All eyes turned to the young king as he let his stern glance roam the waiting faces, and there was much of his father in him as he turned to Derry.

“Release Jared.”

“Sire?” Derry looked incredulous, and Lady Margaret stared at the king in horror.

“I asked you to release him, Derry,” Kelson repeated evenly. “I believe the order was plain enough.”

With a puzzled nod Derry relinquished his grip on Jared’s arm and stepped back, holding Margaret gently by the shoulders to keep her from interfering. She watched horrified as Jared raised his sword again and moved toward the cowering Rimmell.

“Sire, I beseech you, do not let Jared kill him! He—”

“No, let him kill me, Sire!” Rimmell cried, shaking his head and tightly closing his eyes. “I do not deserve mercy, wretched man that I am! I am unworthy to live. Kill me, Your Grace! I have destroyed the woman I love! Kill me horribly! I deserve to suffer!”

Jared faltered, the glazed look leaving his eyes, then slowly straightened up and lowered the sword in his hand. After a glance at Kelson, at Margaret’s taut, anxious face, he dropped the sword to the floor with a clatter and half turned away in disgust.

“Lord Fergus?” he said, gazing calmly out the door to the garden beyond.

A heavy-set man wearing a baldric of minor command stepped from the throng and saluted with fist to chest.

“Your Grace?”

“This man is an admitted murderer. I want his head on Traitor’s Gate within the hour. Do you understand?”

Fergus’s face showed no emotion as he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well. I would see the evidence of your work before you leave the garden, Fergus.”

Fergus nodded again. “I understand.”

“Go then.”

With a curt nod, Fergus signaled a pair of his men to take custody of the prisoner and began heading toward the terrace doors. As they walked away, Rimmell continued to whimper, “I deserve to die, I have killed her, I deserve to die.” Fergus loosened his broadsword in its leather scabbard.

Jared waited until they were gone, then staggered back to the two bodies, knelt to draw aside the scarlet cloak and stroke his dead son’s cheek, straightening the strand of Bronwyn’s golden hair that still lay across Kevin’s face. Margaret gazed after the departing soldiers and their prisoner disbelievingly, at her husband and Anselm kneeling beside the bodies, then moved before Kelson to wring her hands.

“Sire, you must not permit this! The man is guilty, of course. No one could deny that. But to slay him in cold blood—”

“It is Duke Jared’s execution, my lady. Do not ask me to intervene.”

“But you are king, Sire. You can—”

“I came not as king but as a wedding guest,” Kelson pointed out coolly, turning his gray glance on Margaret and fixing her with his gaze. “I would not usurp Duke Jared’s authority in his own house.”

“But Sire—”

“I understand what motivates Jared, my lady,” Kelson said firmly, looking at the kneeling duke. “He has lost a son. I have no sons yet, and like may never have one if the forces of darkness have their way. But I think I know how he feels. I have lost a father and many more. I think the anguish cannot be too different.”

“But—”

There was a sickening thud from the terrace outside, the clang of steel striking stone flagstones, and Margaret’s face went white. Footsteps approached the terrace doors with a measured tread, and then Lord Fergus was standing in the doorway with a heavy, dripping burden held by a shock of red-stained white hair. It was Rimmell’s head.

Jared looked up impassively as Fergus displayed the head aloft, only his hands clenching and unclenching in the folds of the crimson cloak to betray his emotion. Then his face blanched, and he nodded dismissal. Fergus bowed and backed away from the doorway, leaving a trail of red that soaked into the stone paving as he disappeared around the corner. Only then did Jared lower his eyes to the two beneath the cloak again.

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” Father Anselm murmured, his voice slightly chiding as he gazed across at Jared.

“And I have avenged my children,” Jared replied, reaching out a trembling hand to touch Kevin’s shoulder. “My son, my beloved daughter who was to be . . . Now you shall sleep together forever, as was your wish. Yet, upon my soul and by everything I hold precious, I never dreamed a tomb would be your bridal bed. I had thought to see you married two days hence.”

His voice caught, and he began to weep then—dry, wracking sobs that shook the proud old body in grief. With a muffled cry, Margaret ran to her husband and knelt beside him, wordlessly cradling his head against her breast and weeping with him. Kelson stared after them, reliving for a moment the anguish and despair that each one felt, then shook himself free and signaled Derry to come to his side.

“There is a mission to be undertaken which, by rights, should fall to me,” Kelson murmured, “but I must not leave Lord Jared alone at this time. Will you undertake it for me, Derry?”

Derry nodded gravely. “You know I will, Sire. What would you have me do?”

“Go into the hills and search out this Dame Bethane. If she is Deryni, there may be danger. But I know that you are not afraid of magic. You’re the only one here I would trust to go in my place.”

Derry bowed. “It will be my honor, Sire.”

Kelson glanced around the room, then moved to the corner and signaled Derry to follow. The guards and ladies had all withdrawn, and only Gwydion and Lord Deveril and a few special servants still remained with the family. Father Anselm’s prayers drifted in the stillness as Kelson looked Derry in the eyes.

“I would ask you this now as your friend, not as your king,” Kelson said in a low voice. “I ask it as I believe Morgan would ask, giving full freedom to refuse, if you so choose.”

“Ask, then . . . Kelson,” Derry replied softly, returning the king’s gaze measure for measure.

Kelson inclined his head. “Will you allow me to place magical protection upon you before you seek Bethane? I hesitate to send you against her without some defense.”

Derry lowered his gaze, considering, his right hand moving to his chest where Morgan’s Saint Camber medallion still hung. He weighed Kelson’s words for a long moment, then pulled the chain from beneath his tunic to cup the medallion in his hand.

“I am not totally uninitiated in the arts of magic, Sire. This medal was the instrument of Morgan’s instruction. It seems that Saint Camber offers his protection even to humans.”

Kelson glanced sharply at the medallion, then at Derry. “May I touch it? Perhaps my power can augment what you already have.”

Derry nodded, and Kelson took the medallion in his hands. He stared at it in concentration for several seconds, then placed his right hand lightly on Derry’s shoulder. His left hand still cupped the medal.

“Relax and close your eyes as Morgan has taught you,” Kelson instructed. “Open your thoughts to me.”

As Derry obeyed, Kelson wet his lips and began to concentrate, a crimson aura forming around the medal as Kelson held it. Green flared with the crimson as Kelson’s spell merged with that of Morgan. Then the light died, and Kelson dropped his hands and sighed. The medallion gleamed silver against Derry’s blue tunic.

“Well, that should be some help.” Kelson half smiled as he glanced at the medallion again. “Derry, are you sure you don’t have any Deryni blood?”

“None that I know of, Sire. I think that has Morgan puzzled, too.” He smiled, then lowered his eyes and sobered.

“And what about Morgan, Sire? Should he not be told what has happened?”

Kelson shook his head. “What purpose would it serve? Would it bring him any faster? He is already on his way here, surely—riding once more to the scene of death, as he did for my father. At least let his ride be peaceful this time.”

“Very well, Sire. And if I find this Bethane, and can capture her, shall I bring her back?”

“Yes. I want to know what her part was in all of this. But be careful. There was a mistake in her magic before, whether accidental or intentional. I would rather have you alive than she, if it comes to a choice.”

“I can take care of myself,” Derry said.

“So I have been told,” Kelson replied, a halfhearted smile escaping his lips in spite of himself. “You’d best go now.”

“At once, Sire.”

As Derry disappeared to do his king’s bidding, Kelson turned once more to gaze at the scene of sorrow. Father Anselm still knelt with the family and household servants beside the bodies, and his voice whispered through the hushed room in the timeless words of the litany:

Kelson dropped to one knee and let the familiar phrases wash over him as they had another time, when he knelt by the body of another on the field of Candor Rhea. The man then had been his father, Brion, also struck down untimely by magic. And the words now brought little more comfort than they had when he knelt on that windswept plain five months before.

“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord.”

“And let perpetual light shine upon them . . .”

Kelson suppressed a resigned sigh and rose, slipped out of the room to escape the murmur of death. He would hear the words again, two days hence; and they would be no easier to accept then than they were now.

He wondered again if they would ever be easy to accept.