Nigel, managing Kelson’s affairs in the capital in the absence of his young nephew, had been appalled at the tale Duncan told of the Dhassa debacle, and had agreed that their only course of action now lay in getting to Kelson with the news as soon as possible. Once word of the episode at Saint Torin’s reached Kelson, probably in the form of an official decree of excommunication from the Curia at Dhassa, the young king would be risking much even to receive the two fugitive Deryni. Meanwhile, Nigel would step up his mustering of troops for the coming campaign and prepare the army to move out. If the domestic crisis in the southeast continued to worsen, those troops might be needed to quell internal strife. Gwynedd might well be on the brink of civil war.

So Morgan and Duncan had ridden on toward Culdi, changing horses often, little suspecting what that city held in store for them besides a worried young king. As they reined in before the main gates in the chill, early morning blackness, squinting against the torchlight on the rampart walls, a gate warder slid open a spy hole and inspected them suspiciously. After three days of riding, the two before the gates definitely did not look like types one would want to admit to a walled city in the predawn hours.

“Who seeks admittance to the city of Culdi before the rising of the sun? Identify yourselves or face the judgment of the city.”

“Alaric Duke of Corwyn and Duncan McLain to see the king,” Duncan said in a low voice. “Open quickly, if you please. We’re in a hurry.”

The gate warder held a hurried, whispered conference with someone Duncan could not see, then peered out again and nodded.

“Stand back, please, m’lords. The captain is on his way.”

Morgan and Duncan backed their horses a few paces and slouched in their saddles. Morgan glanced up at the ramparts and noticed a white-haired head on a pike above the gate. He frowned and touched Duncan’s elbow, directing his attention toward the sight with a nod of his head, and Duncan looked up, too.

“I thought that sort of execution was reserved for traitors,” Morgan said, studying the head curiously. “That hasn’t been up there for long, either. It can’t have happened more than a few days ago.”

Duncan furrowed his brow and shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t recognize him. He looks fairly young, too, despite the white hair. I wonder what he did.”

They heard the creak of bars being raised behind the gates, a groan of steel hinges and clanking chains, and then a postern gate opened in the right half of the huge main doors, barely large enough to admit a man on horseback. Morgan glanced quizzically at Duncan, for as far as he remembered, it was not the usual practice to admit visitors through the postern gate. On the other hand, he had never tried to enter the city before dawn, either. And there was no hint of danger behind the door. Morgan’s powers had returned by now, and there was no treachery afoot that he could detect.

Duncan guided his horse through the gate and into the small courtyard beyond, and Morgan followed. Inside, two dark-cloaked city warders were mounting up, holding their skittish horses in check as torches were handed up and a guard captain wearing the insignia of Kelson’s elite corps reached up to take hold of Morgan’s bridle.

“Welcome to Culdi, Your Grace, Monsignor,” he said, bowing slightly but keeping his eyes averted as he moved to keep from being stepped on by Morgan’s horse. “These men will escort you to the main keep.”

The man released Morgan’s bridle and stepped back, signaling the warders to proceed, and Morgan frowned again. It was dark in the tiny courtyard, with only the meager torchlight to illuminate the area, but Morgan thought he had seen black crepe banding the man’s arm above the elbow. It seemed very strange that one of Kelson’s personal household should be in public mourning. He wondered who had died.

The mounted escort rode out, holding their torches aloft, and Morgan and Duncan urged their tired mounts after them. The streets of Culdi were empty at this hour of the morning, and the horses’ hooves echoed on the cobbles and paving stones of the winding streets. They came at length to the main entrance to the keep, and were readily admitted when the guards there saw their escort. But as Morgan and Duncan glanced up at where the royal suite was located, the rooms where the king always stayed when he visited Culdi, they were amazed to see lights burning at the windows there, with still more than an hour until dawn.

Now, that was truly strange. What could have roused the young king at this hour? Both Morgan and Duncan knew full well that the boy was an inveterate late sleeper, and would not willingly have arisen at this hour unless something were urgently requiring his attention. What was going on?

The two of them drew rein and dismounted. A groom walking a sheeted and exhausted horse over to the left was muttering and shaking his head disgustedly every time he stopped to run his hands down the animal’s legs, and the animal itself seemed on the verge of collapse.

A messenger must have arrived on that horse, Morgan concluded. A messenger with news for Kelson that could not wait. That was why the candles burned at Kelson’s window.

As they hurried up the main steps, Morgan glanced at his cousin and surmised that Duncan had reached the same conclusion. An ancient doorkeep whom both men recognized from their childhood admitted them and bowed, signaling a young page to light their way to the upper floor. The doorkeep was Jared’s man, a faithful servant of the McLain family all his life, but he, too, would not meet their eyes or speak. And he, too, wore a black crepe armband.

Who has died? Morgan asked himself again, a chill suspicion touching his heart. Not the king, please God!

Casting an anguished look toward Duncan, Morgan pushed past the page and bounded up the stairs three at a time, Duncan right at his heels. Both knew the way to their destination, for Castle Culdi was a familiar childhood haunt. But Morgan reached the door first and wrenched at the latch. The door flew open and crashed back against the wall.

Kelson sat in a nightrobe at a writing desk near the windows, haggard-looking and with raven hair disheveled. The desk was banked by candles to either side, their light dancing over the table as the door flew open, and Kelson was writing absorbedly on a scrap of paper as he referred to a parchment document on the table before him. Behind him and to his left, Derry stood leaning over Kelson’s shoulder to point out something on the parchment, clad in a hastily donned blue dressing gown. An exhausted looking squire sat slumped on a hassock by the fire, one of Kelson’s crimson cloaks thrown around his shoulders. He stared dully into the flames and sipped hot wine as a page pulled off his boots and another tried to offer him food.

Kelson looked up with a start as the door flew open, and his eyes widened as he saw Morgan and Duncan. Derry, too, had glanced at the doorway as the two entered, and now stepped back to watch silently as Kelson stood and laid aside his pen. Even in the candlelight, it was evident that something was grossly wrong.

With a glance and a gesture, Kelson signaled the pages and the squire to withdraw, not moving further until the door had closed behind them. Only then did he step from behind the table to lean dejectedly against the edge. No word had yet been spoken, and Morgan glanced first at Derry, then at Kelson.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Kelson studied the toes of his slippers, would not meet Morgan’s eyes. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Alaric, Father Duncan. You’d better both sit down.”

As Derry pulled chairs closer, Morgan and Duncan exchanged apprehensive glances and sat. Derry resumed his place beside Kelson’s chair, his face unreadable, and Morgan returned his attention to Kelson as the boy sighed.

“First of all, there’s this,” Kelson said, gesturing behind him to where the parchment lay on the table. “I don’t know what you did at Saint Torin’s—Father Hugh didn’t give the details—but I think it will come as no surprise that both of you have been declared excommunicate.”

Morgan and Duncan exchanged glances again, and Duncan nodded.

“By Loris?”

“By the entire Gwynedd Curia.”

Duncan sat back and sighed. “No, I can’t say we’re surprised. Gorony must have had some tales to tell. I suppose they mentioned that I had to reveal myself as Deryni?”

“It’s all here,” Kelson said, gesturing vaguely toward the parchment again.

Morgan frowned and sat forward in his chair, studying Kelson shrewdly. “There’s something you haven’t told us, something you found out before you got that message. What’s wrong? Why is the staff in mourning? Whose head was that on the gate?”

“The man’s name was Rimmell,” Kelson said, not meeting Morgan’s eyes. “You may remember him, Father Duncan.”

“My father’s architect.” Duncan looked surprised. “But what did he do? Murder? Treason?”

“He was in love with your sister, Alaric,” Kelson said dully. “He found an old witch-woman in the hills to cast a love spell on her. Only the spell was badly done, and instead of making her love Rimmell, it—killed.”

“Bronwyn?”

Kelson nodded miserably. “And Kevin. Both.”

“Dear God!” Duncan murmured, his voice choking off as he buried his face in his hands. Morgan, dazed, touched Duncan’s shoulder in a mindless gesture intended to comfort and sank back in his chair.

“Bronwyn is dead? By magic?”

“A jerramán crystal,” Kelson replied in a low voice. “Alone, she might have been able to overcome it. It was very poorly set. But it wasn’t fashioned for a human’s interference, and Kevin was there when it struck. That was two days ago. The funeral is to be today. I might have tried to get a message to you, but I knew you’d already be on your way. The least I could do was to spare you the same anguished kind of ride you had when my father died.”

Morgan shook his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t make sense. She should have been able to—who is this witch-woman Rimmell contacted? Deryni?”

Derry stepped forward and bowed his head sympathetically. “We don’t know for certain, m’lord. Gwydion and I spent the rest of that afternoon and all day yesterday searching the hills where Rimmell said to look. Nothing.”

“It’s partly my fault,” Kelson added. “I should have questioned Rimmell more closely, Truth-Read him. As it was, all I could think was that—”

There was a knock at the door, and Kelson looked up.

“Who is it?”

“Jared, Sire.”

Kelson glanced at Morgan and Duncan, then crossed to the door to admit Jared. As he did so, Morgan rose and moved dazedly toward the window behind Kelson’s desk, staring out through the streaked glass at the lightening eastern sky. Duncan was sitting slouched in his chair, hands clasped between his knees and staring at the floor. He looked up with a pained expression as he heard his father’s voice, composed himself, and stood to face the door as Jared entered.

Jared seemed to have aged years in the past few days. His usually immaculate hair was disheveled, streaked with more gray than Duncan remembered, and the heavy brown dressing gown with dark fur collar and cuffs only accentuated the new lines on his haggard face, added more years to a frame that now seemed almost unable to bear them.

He met Duncan’s eyes briefly as he crossed the room, then looked away to avoid breaking down in his son’s presence. His hands wrung together uneasily in the long velvet sleeves.

“I—was with him when they brought word that you had come, Duncan. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I know,” Duncan whispered. “Nor could I, in your position.”

Kelson had moved back to the table to stand beside Morgan now, and Jared glanced at him before turning to his son.

“Duncan, I must ask a favor of you.”

“Whatever I can do,” Duncan replied.

“Would you preside at your brother’s requiem this morning?”

Duncan lowered his eyes, taken aback at the request. Apparently Jared had not been told of the suspension, much less the excommunication, or he would not have asked. A suspended priest was not supposed to exercise the powers of his sacred orders. And an excommunicated one . . .

He glanced at Kelson to confirm his surmise about Jared, and Kelson deliberately turned the parchment face-down and shook his head slightly.

So. Jared did not know. Apparently the only ones in Culdi who did know were in this room right now.

But Duncan knew. Of course, until the official notification of excommunication arrived from Dhassa, that could be construed to be mere rumor, and therefore not binding—though Duncan knew better. But the suspension—well, even that would not invalidate the sacraments Duncan was being asked to perform. Suspension did not take away a priest’s sacerdotal ability; only his right to exercise it. And if he chose to defy suspension and perform his sacred functions anyway—well, that was between the priest and his God.

Duncan swallowed and glanced up at Jared, then put his arm around his father’s shoulders in comfort.

“Of course I’ll do it, Father,” he said quietly. “Now, why don’t we go back and see Kevin together this time?”

Jared nodded and blinked, trying to keep back the tears, and Duncan glanced at Morgan and Kelson. As Kelson nodded, Duncan inclined his head and moved on toward the door with his father. Derry caught Kelson’s eye and raised an eyebrow, inquiring whether he, too, should leave, and Kelson nodded yes. Derry followed Duncan and Jared and closed the door behind him softly, leaving Kelson and Morgan alone in the room.

Kelson watched Morgan from behind for a moment, then bent to blow out the candles on the desk. The sky was brightening steadily as dawn approached, and the light coming through the windows now was just sufficient to discern vague shadow-shapes, some features. Kelson leaned against the window casement to Morgan’s right and gazed out over the city, warming his hands in the sleeves of his robe, not looking directly at Morgan. He could find no words to speak of Bronwyn.

“We have a few hours before you must make an appearance,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you rest?”

Morgan seemed not to have heard. “You cannot imagine what these past three days have been like, my prince. Like a very bad dream, almost as bad as when your father died—perhaps worse, in some respects. I keep thinking I’ll wake up, that it cannot possibly get any worse—but then it does.”

Kelson lowered his head and started to speak, distressed to hear his mentor in such low spirits, but Morgan resumed almost as though Kelson were not there.

“Once the official notice of excommunication arrives, you are bound not to receive us, on pain of coming under excommunication yourself. Nor may you accept our aid in any way, for the same reason. And if Interdict falls in Corwyn, which it almost certainly will, I cannot even promise you the aid of my countrymen. Indeed, you may be faced with civil war. I—don’t know what to tell you to do.”

Kelson pushed himself away from the casement and touched Morgan’s elbow, gesturing toward the state bed in the far corner. “Let’s agree not to worry about that for now. You’re exhausted and you need rest. Why don’t you lie down for a while, and I’ll wake you when it’s time. We can decide what to do later.”

Morgan nodded and let himself be guided to the bed, unbuckling his sword and letting it slip to the floor as he sank down on the edge. Only then did he speak of Bronwyn.

“Dear God, she was so young,” he murmured, letting Kelson unfasten the cloak at his throat and take it from his shoulders. “And Kevin—he wasn’t even Deryni, yet he died, too. And all because of this senseless hatred, this differentness . . .”

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes briefly, then gazed up exhaustedly at the brocaded canopy overhead. “The darkness closes in more every day, Kelson,” he murmured, forcing himself to relax. “It comes from every side, all at once. And the only thing holding it back is me, and Duncan, and you . . .”

As he drifted into exhausted sleep, Kelson watched anxiously, easing himself to sit on the edge of the bed when he was sure Morgan was asleep. He studied his friend’s face for a long time, clutching Morgan’s mud-stained leather cloak against his chest, then reached out cautiously to place his hand on Morgan’s forehead. Clearing his mind carefully, he closed his eyes and extended his senses.

Fatigue . . . grief . . . pain . . . beginning with the first news when Duncan had appeared at Coroth . . . The peril of impending Interdict and Morgan’s concern for his people . . . Derry’s scouting expedition . . . The assassination attempt and the sorrow of young Richard FitzWilliam’s death. Derry’s report of Warin and the miracle of healing . . . Remembrances of Brion, of the king’s pride the day Kelson was born . . . The eerie search in the ruined chapel, disclosing nothing . . .

Saint Torin’s . . . deception, treachery, whirling chaos and blackness, dimly remembered . . . The chill fear of awakening totally powerless, in the grip of merasha, of knowing you are the captive of one who has vowed to destroy you and all your kind . . . Escape: a long, numb ride, mostly in a merciful haze of semi-consciousness while mind and powers return . . . And then grief at the loss of a beloved sister, a much-loved cousin . . . And sleep, merciful oblivion, at least for a few hours, secure . . . safe . . .

With a shiver, Kelson withdrew mind and hand and opened his eyes. Morgan slept peacefully now, sprawled on his back in the center of the wide state bed, oblivious to all. Kelson stood and shook out the cloak he had been holding, spread it over the sleeping form, then snuffed out the candles beside the bed and returned to his desk.

The next hours would not be easy for anyone, least of all Morgan—and Duncan. But meanwhile, the business of trying to preserve order in chaos must go on; and he must be strong now, while Morgan could not help him.

With a last glance at the sleeping Morgan, Kelson settled at the desk and pulled the parchment document toward him, turned it face-up, picked up pen and the scrap of paper he and Derry had been working on when Morgan came.

Nigel must be told now: the whole grim business. He must be told of Bronwyn and Kevin’s deaths, of the excommunication, of the impending danger on two fronts, once the Interdict fell. For Wencit of Torenth would not wait while Gwynedd ironed out its domestic problems. The Deryni warlord would take full advantage of the confusion in Gwynedd, the threat of holy war.

Kelson sighed and reread the letter. The news was grim, no matter how one tried to approach it. There was no way to tell it but to begin.

Celebrate, he thought ironically. There was more than one reason he was reluctant to vest. For he knew in the back of his mind that this would likely be the last time, that he might never again be permitted to participate in the sacraments of the Church that had been his life for all his twenty-nine years.

He bowed his head and tried to pray, but the words would not come. Or rather, the words came, but they rolled through his mind as meaningless phrases, bringing no comfort. Who would ever have thought he would have to be the one to consign his own brother and Morgan’s sister to the grave? Who would have thought it would come to this?

He heard the door open softly behind him and turned his head. Old Father Anselm was standing in the doorway in cassock, surplice, and black stole, his head bowed in apology at having disturbed Duncan. He glanced at the vestment rack beside Duncan, at the black silk chasuble hanging there, still undonned, then looked at Duncan.

“I don’t wish to rush you, Monsignor, but it’s nearly time. Is there anything I may do to help?”

Duncan shook his head and turned back to face the altar.

“Are they ready to begin?”

“Very nearly. The family is in place, the procession is forming. But you have a few more minutes.”

Duncan bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Father. I’ll be there directly.”

He heard the door close softly behind him and lifted his head. The figure above the altar was a beneficent, loving God, he was sure. He would understand what Duncan was about to do, why he must defy ecclesiastical authority just this once. Surely He would not judge Duncan too harshly.

With a sigh, Duncan rose and pulled the black stole from its peg, touched it to his lips, and looped it over his head, secured the crossed ends under the silk cord binding the waist of his alb. Then he donned the chasuble, adjusting the folds to fall as they should. He paused and looked down at himself for a long moment, smoothed the silver-outlined cross emblazoned heavy on the front of the black silk. Then he bowed toward the altar and moved to the door to join the procession, a prayer on his lips.

Everything must be perfect this time, all as it should be: a perfect offering for what would, in all probability, be the last time.

Morgan sat numbly in the second pew behind the coffins, Kelson to his right, Jared and Margaret to his left, all of them dressed in black. Behind were Derry, Gwydion, a host of Duke Jared’s councilors and retainers, members of the ducal household; and behind them, as many of the people of Culdi as could squeeze into the tiny church. Both Bronwyn and Kevin had been well-loved in Culdi, and the people now mourned their deaths as did their families.

The morning was sunny but fog-shrouded outside, the air nipped with the last cold of the season. But inside, Saint Teilo’s was dark, solemn, ghostly, with the dim flicker of funeral tapers instead of the nuptial candles that would have burned if things had happened differently.

Heavy funeral candlesticks were ranged to either side of the two coffins set side by side in the center of the transept, and the coffins themselves were draped with black velvet palls. A painted shield of the appropriate family rested on each sable-draped coffin, and Morgan forced himself to blazon each one in his mind, in grieving memory of those who lay within.

McLain: Argent, three roses gules; on a chief azure, a lion dormant argent, the whole surmounted by Kevin’s mark of cadency—an argent label of three points.

Morgan: (Morgan’s throat constricted, and he forced himself to go on.) Sable, a gryphon sergeant vert, within a double tressure flory counter-flory or—this on a lozenge instead of a shield. For Bronwyn.

Unbidden tears blurred Morgan’s vision, and he forced himself to gaze beyond the coffins to where candles blazed on the altar, their golden glow reflected in the polished silver and gold of the candlesticks and altar furnishings.

But the altar frontal was black, the gilded figures shrouded in black. And as the choir began to intone the entrance chant, there was no way that Morgan could convince himself that this was anything but what it was: a funeral.

The celebrants began to process: cassocked and surpliced thurifer swinging pungent incense, crucifer with black-shrouded processional cross, altar boys bearing glowing silver candlesticks. Then the monks of Saint Teilo’s, with black stoles of mourning over their white habits and choir surplices; and Duncan, who would celebrate the Mass, pale in his black and silver vestments.

As the procession reached the chancel, splitting to either side so the celebrant could approach the altar, Morgan watched dully, made automatic responses as his cousin began the liturgy.

“Introibo ad altare Dei.” I will go up to the altar of God.

Morgan sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, unwilling to witness these last rites for those he loved. Only a few weeks ago, his sister had been alive and brimming with joy over her coming marriage to Kevin. Now, to be struck down in the fullness of her youth by magic, by one of her own kind . . .

Morgan decided he didn’t much like himself just now. He didn’t like Deryni, he didn’t like his powers, and he resented highly the fact that half the blood flowing in his veins came from that accursed race.

Why did it have to be this way? Why should one’s Deryni nature have to be hidden, forbidden, so that one felt ashamed of one’s powers, learned to hide them, perhaps for so long that, generations later, the skill to use those powers wisely was lost, but the power remained? Power that sometimes found its way to the hands of ignorant or deranged practitioners who would use it as something else, not even suspecting that the power came from an ancient and noble heritage, from a people called the Deryni.

And so an ignorant old Deryni woman who had not known, who had been forced, years ago perhaps, to sublimate her powers—or whose parents had—had tried to work simple magic for a lovesick young man—and had killed instead.

Nor was that the worst of it. Of all the problems facing them in the weeks and months to come, every single one could be traced in some way to the Deryni question. Deryniness was the issue that had put the Church at odds with magic for over three centuries, now threatening to rend it further in all ill-timed holy war. Deryniness, and the violent hatreds it evoked in ordinary men, had led Warin de Grey to imagine himself called to destroy Deryni, starting with Alaric Morgan. And that had brought them to the disastrous episode at Saint Torin’s, culminating in his and Duncan’s excommunications.

Deryniness had led to the crisis at Kelson’s coronation last fall, when the sorceress Charissa had made her bid to “regain” the throne she believed her Deryni father should have occupied; had led Kelson to assume his father’s Deryni-given powers to defeat her; had made Jehana, fiercely loyal mother of the young king, stop at nothing to try to protect her son from the evil she believed inherent in the Deryni—though she herself was of the high Deryni born, and had not known.

And who could say that the impending war with Wencit of Torenth was not related to the Deryni question, as well? Was not Wencit a full Deryni lord, born to the total power of his ancient race in a land that accepted that magic? And was it not rumored that he was allying himself with other Deryni, that there might be truth to the fears of the common folk that a rise of Deryni power in the east might lead once more to a Deryni dictatorship like the one three hundred years ago?—to the detriment of the human population, it might be added.

All in all, whether or not one believed in the inherent evil of Deryniness, it was a difficult time to be Deryni, a difficult time to have to accept oneself as a member of that magical race. Right now, if Morgan had had the choice, he might very well have been tempted to cast out the Deryni part of himself and be just human, to deny his powers and renounce them forever, as Archbishop Loris had demanded.

Morgan raised his head and tried to pull himself together, forced himself to watch and listen as Duncan continued with the Mass.

He had been very selfish during the past few minutes, he realized. He was not the only Deryni suffering agonies of the soul right now. What of Duncan? What angel must he be wrestling, as he defied suspension and excommunication to appear in the guise and function of a priest?

Morgan was far too distraught to try to catch Duncan’s thoughts as he presided at what might well be his last liturgical function. Besides, he would not have thought of intruding on Duncan’s private grief. But there was no question in Morgan’s mind that his cousin was enduring much as he went through the ritual of the Mass. The Church had been Duncan’s life until today. Now he was defying that Church, even though only Morgan, Kelson, and Derry knew he did so, to pay this last token of respect and love for a brother and an almost sister who were dead. Duncan, too, would be finding it difficult to be Deryni.

“Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis,” Duncan intoned. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us . . .

Morgan bowed his head and repeated the words under his breath with the congregation, though the words brought little comfort. It would be long before he would be able to reconcile what had happened two days ago with the will of God; long before he would be able to be as certain again that there was good in the powers he had carried all his life. Right now, responsibility for what had happened to Bronwyn and Kevin weighed heavy on his soul.

Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.

The Mass wound on to its conclusion, but Morgan was aware of little of it. Fatigue, despair, numb grief, and a dozen lesser emotions washed over his mind instead, and it was with some surprise that he found himself standing outside the gate to the crypt below Saint Teilo’s with the others; and knew that the gate had closed behind Bronwyn and Kevin for the last time.

He glanced around and realized that the gathering was dispersing, that the few members of the family and household who had been permitted at the interment were drifting away in little knots and talking among themselves. Kelson was still with Duke Jared and Lady Margaret, but Derry stood attentively at his elbow and nodded sympathetically as Morgan looked up.

“Don’t you think you should get some rest, sir? It’s been a long few days, and soon you won’t have the opportunity.”

Morgan closed his eyes and rubbed the back of a gloved hand across his forehead, in vain hope of blurring the sorrow of the past few hours, then shook his head.

“Make some excuse for me, will you, Derry? I need a few minutes to myself.”

“Of course, sir.”

As Derry stared after him with concern, Morgan slipped away from the other mourners and made his way into the gardens that adjoined the church. Wandering unseeing along the graveled paths, he came at last to his mother’s chapel and let himself in through the heavy wooden door.

He had not been here for a long time—how long, he could not recall—but the chapel was a refuge, light and airy and shining; and someone had opened the stained-glass panel above his mother’s sepulcher so that the sunlight streamed in rich and golden, touching the alabaster effigy with warmth.

The sight conjured up happier memories, for this had always been Morgan’s favorite time of day to visit his mother’s tomb. He could remember coming here as a child with Bronwyn and his Aunt Vera to lay flowers at the feet of the effigy, and the heady, wondrous tales his aunt had told them of the Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan. Then, as now, he had had the feeling that his mother had never really left them, that her presence had lingered and watched over him and his sister as they played in the chapel and in the gardens outside.

He remembered the quiet times—sitting alone in the cool sanctuary of the chapel when the world outside became too unbearable; or lying on his back in a pool of color from the window above the sepulcher, listening to the sounds of his breathing, to the wind in the trees outside, to the stillness of his own soul. The memory somehow brought a measure of comfort even now. Absurdly he found himself wondering whether his mother knew that her only daughter now lay in a stone tomb not far away.

The wide brass railing surrounding the sepulcher shone in the sunlight, and Morgan let his hands linger there for a long moment as he bowed his head in grief. After a while, he slipped the hook of the chain that formed the railing across one end of the enclosure and stepped inside, let the chain slither leadenly to the marble floor. As he ran a gentle finger along the carved hand of his mother’s effigy, he became aware of someone humming brokenly in the garden outside.

It was a familiar tune—one of Gwydion’s most haunting melodies—but as he closed his eyes to listen, the voice began to sing new words to the song: words he had never heard before.

The singing itself was also Gwydion’s, he realized after a while, the troubadour’s mellow voice blending with the rich lute chords in a golden meld of sheer beauty. But there was something wrong with Gwydion’s voice as he sang. And it took Morgan several minutes to realize that the little troubadour was crying.

He could not catch all the words. The lilting lyrics were often lost in Gwydion’s sobs. But the nimble fingers filled in where the singer’s voice failed, underscoring the phrasing with a tender caring.

He sang of spring and he sang of war. He sang of a golden maiden who had stolen his heart and was no more; of a noble’s son who had dared to love the maid and had died. Sorrow must come, the poet sang. For war was blind, striking down the innocent as well as those who waged the war. And if dying must come, then man should take the time to mourn his losses. Only grief gave meaning to the deaths, made the need for final victory real.

Morgan’s breath caught as he listened to Gwydion’s song, and he bowed his head over his mother’s tomb. The troubadour was right. It was a war they waged; and many more would die before battle was done. It was necessary if Light was to prevail, if the Darkness was to be overcome.

But those who fought must never forget why they held back the Darkness, or that the price of victory might often be measured in human tears. And that the tears, too, were necessary: to wash away the pain, the guilt, to free the heart and let the human part mourn.

He opened his eyes and stared up into the sunlight, then let the hollow emptiness wash over him, felt his throat constrict as he tasted bitter loss.

Bronwyn, Kevin, the beloved Brion, whom he had loved as father and brother, young Richard FitzWilliam—all were gone, all victims of this mad, senseless conflict that raged even now.

But now—now, when a lull in the storm gave brief respite from the fury of the wind—now a man might let himself mourn at last, and lay the ghosts to rest.

The golden light swam before Morgan’s eyes, and his vision blurred. And this time he did not try to hold back the tears that welled up. It was some minutes before he was aware that the singer was gone, that footsteps were approaching on the gravel path outside.

He heard them coming long before they reached the door and knew it was he they sought. By the time the door was swung hesitantly open, he had had time to compose himself again, to don the face he must show to the outside world.

He took a deep breath to steel himself and turned to see Kelson framed in the bright doorway, a muddy, red-tuniced courier just behind him. Jared, Ewan, Derry, and a handful of other military advisors had accompanied Kelson, but they kept a respectful distance as their young monarch stepped into the tiny chapel. A much-folded square of parchment with many pendant seals was in the royal hand.

“The Curia at Dhassa has split over the Interdict question,” the king said, his gray eyes searching Morgan’s carefully. “Bishops Cardiel, Arilan, Tolliver, and three others have broken with Loris in defiance of the Interdict decree and are prepared to meet us at Dhassa within a fortnight. Arilan believes he can raise an army of fifty thousand by the end of the month.”

Morgan lowered his eyes and turned partially away, twining his gloved fingers together uneasily. “That is well, my prince.”

“Yes, it is,” Kelson said, frowning slightly at the brief answer and taking a few steps toward his general. “Do you think they would dare to go against Warin? And if so, do you think that Jared and Ewan can hold Wencit in the north, if we must aid the rebel bishops?”

“I don’t know, my prince,” Morgan said in a low voice. He raised his head to gaze distractedly out the open window at the sky beyond. “I doubt Arilan would go against Warin actively. To do so would, in effect, acknowledge that the Church’s stand on magic has been mistaken for two hundred years, that Warin’s crusade against the Deryni is wrong. I’m not certain that any of our bishops are willing to go that far—not even Arilan.”

Kelson waited, hoping Morgan would add something more, but the young general seemed to have finished.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Kelson asked impatiently. “Arilan’s faction has expressed a willingness to help us. Morgan, we need all the help we can get!”

Morgan lowered his eyes uncomfortably, reluctant to remind Kelson of the reason for his hesitation. If the young king continued to support Duncan and himself, excommunication and Interdict would fall on all of Gwynedd before the archbishops were finished. He could not allow—

“Morgan, I’m waiting!”

“Forgive me, Sire, but you should not be asking me these things. I should not even be here. I cannot allow you to compromise your position by associating with one who—”

“You stop that!” Kelson hissed, grabbing Morgan’s forearm to stare at him angrily. “There’s been no official word of your excommunication from the Curia yet. And until there is—and maybe not even then—I don’t intend to lose your services just because of some stupid archbishop’s decree. Now, damn you, Morgan, you will do as I say! I need you!”

Morgan blinked in astonishment at the boy’s outburst, almost fancying for an instant that it was Brion standing before him, king admonishing a blundering page. He swallowed and lowered his eyes, realizing how close he had come to dragging Kelson’s safety into his own self-pity. He realized, too, that Kelson recognized the danger approaching—and was willing to accept it. As he gazed into the stormy gray eyes, he saw a familiar, determined look he had never seen there before. And Morgan knew that he would never think of Kelson as a boy again.

“You are your father’s son, my prince,” he whispered. “Forgive me for forgetting, even for an instant. I—” He paused. “You do understand what this decision means?”

Kelson nodded solemnly. “It means that I trust you implicitly,” he said softly, “though ten thousand archbishops speak against you. It means that we are Deryni and must stand together, you and I, even as you stood by my father. Will you stay, Alaric? Will you ride the storm with me?”

Morgan smiled slowly and then nodded. “Very well, my prince. These are my recommendations. Use Arilan’s troops to protect the northeast border of Corwyn against Wencit’s armies. There is a clear-cut danger there. They need not be compromised by being drawn further into the Deryni question.

“For Corwyn itself, use Nigel’s troops if there is internal strife because of Warin. Nigel is loved and respected throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. There is no taint to his name.

“As for the north,” he glanced toward Jared and smiled reassuringly, “I believe that Dukes Jared and Ewan can defend us adequately on that front. The Earl of Marley can be recruited also. That still leaves us the crack Haldane troops in reserve, for wherever they’re needed. What think you, my prince?”

Kelson grinned and released Morgan’s arm, slapped his shoulder enthusiastically. “Now, that’s what I wanted to hear. Jared, Derry, Deveril, come with me, please,” he called over his shoulder. “We must get dispatches off to Nigel and the rebel bishops within the hour. Morgan, are you coming?”

“Shortly, my prince. I wanted to wait for Duncan.”

“I understand. Whenever you’re ready.”

As Kelson and the rest departed, Morgan turned and retraced his steps to the Church of Saint Teilo. Treading softly, so as not to disturb the few mourners still praying in the stillness, he made his way down the clerestory aisle and along the ambulatory until he reached the vesting chapel where he knew Duncan would be. Pausing, he peered through the open door.

Duncan was alone in the chamber. He had put aside his priestly garb and was lacing the front of a plain leather doublet, his back to the doorway. As he finished with the lacings, he reached for his sword and belt lying across a table beside him. His movement stirred the vestments on the rack to his right, jarring the silken stole from its peg.

Duncan froze as the stole slid to the floor, then bent slowly to retrieve it. He straightened and stood without moving for several seconds, the stole clasped in stiff fingers, then touched it to his lips and returned it to its place on the rack. The silver embroidery caught the light from a high window as Morgan stepped quietly into the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb.

“It hurts more than you thought it would, doesn’t it?” he observed in a low voice.

Duncan’s back tensed for just an instant, and then he bowed his head.

“I don’t know what I thought. Perhaps I believed that the answer would come to me of its own accord, that it would make the parting easier. It doesn’t.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does.”

Duncan gave a sigh and picked up his sword belt, turned to glance at Morgan as he buckled it around his slim waist.

“Well, what now?” he asked. “When you’re Deryni, excommunicated from your Church, and exiled from your king, where can you go?”

“Who said anything about exile?”

Duncan picked up his cloak and flung it around his shoulders, furrowing his brow and glancing down as he fumbled with the clasp.

“Come, now, let’s be realistic. He doesn’t have to say it, does he? You and I both know he can’t let us stay when we’re under the ban of the Church. If the archbishops found out, they’d excommunicate him, too.” The components of the cloak clasp snapped together with an audible click, and Morgan smiled.

“They may do that anyway. Under the circumstances, he really doesn’t have much to lose.”

“Not much to—” Duncan broke off in amazement as he realized what Morgan was implying. “He’s already decided to take the risk?” he asked, watching his cousin’s face for confirmation. Morgan nodded.

“And he doesn’t care?” Duncan still seemed unable to believe what he was hearing.

Morgan smiled. “Of course he cares. But he recognizes the priorities, too, Duncan. And he’s willing to take that risk. He wants us to stay.”

Duncan stared at his cousin for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“We ride against tremendous odds—you know that,” he said tentatively.

“We are Deryni. Such has always been our lot.”

Duncan took a final look around the chapel, allowing his eyes to touch lingeringly on the altar, on the silk vestments hanging on their rack, then walked slowly to join Morgan in the doorway.

“I’m ready,” he said, not looking back.

“Then let us join Kelson,” Morgan said with a smile. “Our Deryni king has need of us.”