THE young man with the night-black hair sat at ease on a low camp stool, a kite-shaped shield balanced face-down across his knees and on the edge of the velvet-draped bed. His slender fingers worked slowly, painstakingly, as they wove a new strip of rawhide round and round the hand-grip. His gray eyes were hooded beneath long, dark lashes.

However, the young man’s mind was not on the repairs he made. Nor was he concerned just now that the device on the reverse of the shield was rich and finely crafted, the royal lion of Gwynedd gleaming gold on red beneath its canvas cover. He was equally oblivious to the priceless Kheldish carpet beneath his dusty boots, the jewel-hilted broadsword hanging within easy reach in its plain leather scabbard.

For the young man who worked alone in his tent at Dol Shaia was Kelson Haldane, son of the late King Brion of Gwynedd. And this same Kelson Haldane, but a few months past his fourteenth birthday, was now himself King of Gwynedd and ruler in his own right of a score of lesser duchies and baronies. At this moment, he was also a worried young man.

Kelson glanced at the doorway of the tent and scowled. The flap was pulled over the entrance for privacy, but there was enough light seeping beneath the flap to tell him that the afternoon was fast slipping away. Outside he could hear the measured tread of sentries patrolling beside his tent, the rustle of silk pennons snapping in the breeze, the stamping and snorting of the great warhorses as they tugged at their picket ropes beneath the trees not far away. He returned resignedly to his task, working on in silence for some minutes, then looked up expectantly as the tent flap was drawn aside and a mailed and blue-cloaked young man entered. The king’s eyes lit with pleasure.

“Derry!”

Sean Lord Derry paused to sketch a casual bow as Kelson spoke his name, then came to perch uneasily on the edge of the state bed. He was not much older than Kelson—in his mid-twenties, perhaps—but his blue eyes were grim beneath the shock of curly brown hair. A narrow length of leather dangled from his calloused fingertips, and he laid it on the shield with a slight nod as he glanced at Kelson’s handiwork.

“I could have done that for you, Sire. Mending armor is not a king’s work.”

Kelson shrugged and pulled the last of the rawhide lacing taut, then began trimming at the ends of the leather with a silver-chased dagger.

“I had nothing better to do this afternoon. If I were doing what a king should be doing, I’d be long into Corwyn by now, putting down Warin’s revolt and forcing the archbishops to resolve their petty quarrel.”

He ran his fingers along the shield grip and sheathed his dagger with a sigh. “But Alaric tells me I must not do that—at least not yet. And so I wait, and bide my time, and try to cultivate the patience I know he would want me to display.” He shoved the shield back onto the bed and rested his hands lightly on his knees. “I also try to refrain from asking the questions I know you are reluctant to answer. Except that now the time has come when I must ask. What was the price of Jennan Vale?”

The price had been high. Of the thirty who had ridden out with Nigel two days before, less than a score had returned. The remnants of his patrol had limped into Dol Shaia at midmorning, angry and footsore; and several of those who returned did not live past noon. In addition to the loss of life, Jennan Vale had taken a heavy toll in morale. As Kelson listened to Derry’s report, his fourteen years weighed heavily upon him.

“This is even worse than I feared,” Kelson finally murmured, when the last grim details of the rout had been told. “First the archbishops and their hatred of the Deryni, then this fanatic Warin de Grey…. And the people support him, Derry! Even if I can stop Warin, reconcile with the archbishops, I can’t defeat the entire duchy.”

Derry shook his head emphatically. “I think you misjudge Warin’s influence, Sire. His appeal is powerful when he is nearby, and after a few miracles the people flock to his side. But the tradition of loyalty to kings is older and, I believe, stronger than the lure of a new prophet—especially one who proposes holy war. Once Warin is removed, and the peasants leaderless, their impetus will be gone. His fatal mistake was to take up residence in Coroth with the archbishops. Now he’s practically counted as one of the archbishops’ followers.”

“There’s still the matter of the Interdict,” Kelson said doubtfully. “Will the common folk forget that so quickly?”

Derry flashed him a reassuring smile. “Our reports indicate that the rebels in the outlying areas are poorly armed and only loosely organized, Sire. When they have to face the reality of a royal army marching through their midst, they’ll scatter like mice!”

“I didn’t hear of them scattering like mice at Jennan Vale,” Kelson said with a snort. “In fact, I still fail to understand how poorly armed peasants were able to take an entire patrol by surprise. Where is my uncle? I should like to hear his explanation of what happened yesterday.”

“Try not to be too hard on him, Sire,” Derry murmured, lowering his eyes uncomfortably. “He has been with the surgeons and his wounded since he rode in this morning. It was only an hour ago that I was able to persuade him to let the surgeons see to his own injuries.”

“He’s hurt?” The king’s eyes were suddenly concerned. “How badly? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He ordered me not to, Sire. It isn’t serious. His left shoulder is badly wrenched, and he has a few superficial cuts and bruises. But he would rather have died than lose those men.”

Kelson’s mouth twitched in sympathy and he forced a wan smile. “I know that. The fault is not his.”

“Be sure to remind him of that, then,” Derry said quietly. “He feels he has personally failed you.”

“Not Nigel. Never him.”

The young king stood wearily and flexed his shoulders in his white linen tunic, stretching his neck backward to gaze at the ceiling of the tent a few feet above his head. His straight black hair, cropped close above his ears for battle, was disheveled, and he ran a tanned hand through it once again as he turned back to Derry.

“What further news from the three armies in the north?”

Derry stood attentively. “Little you haven’t already heard. The Duke of Claibourne reports that he should be able to hold the Arranal Canyon approach indefinitely, so long as he isn’t attacked from the south simultaneously. His Grace estimates that Wencit will make his main drive farther south, probably at the Cardosa Pass. There’s only a token force readied at Arranal.”

Kelson nodded slowly and brushed bits of leather scrap from his tunic as he moved toward a campaign table spread with maps. “No word from Duke Jared or Bran Coris?”

“None, Sire.”

Kelson picked up a pair of calipers and sighed, chewing on one end of the instrument reflectively. “You don’t suppose something has gone wrong, do you? Suppose the spring thaws finish earlier than we predicted—suppose they’ve already finished? For all we know, Wencit could already be on his way into Eastmarch.”

“We would have heard, Sire. At least one courier would have gotten through.”

“Would he? I wonder.”

The king studied the map before him for several minutes, gray eyes narrowing as he considered his possible strategies for at least the hundredth time. He spread the calipers and measured off several distances, mentally recalculating his original figures, then stood back to weigh the possibilities again. He only reconfirmed what he already knew.

“Derry,” he gestured to the young lord to join him as he bent again over the maps, “tell me again what Lord Perris said about this road.” He used one arm of the calipers to trace out a thin, wiggly line that meandered across the western slopes of the mountain chain dividing Gwynedd from Torenth. “If this road were passable even a week sooner, we could—”

Further discussion was curtailed at the sound of a galloping horse being brought sharply to rein outside the tent, followed by the precipitate entrance of a red-cloaked sentry. Derry moved slightly closer, ready to protect the king if necessary, but the man sketched a hasty salute as Kelson spun in query.

“Sire, General Morgan and Father McLain are on their way in. They’ve just passed the eastern guard post.”

With a wordless cry of delight, Kelson flung down his calipers and bolted for the exit, nearly bowling over the surprised sentry. As he burst into the sunlight, closely followed by Derry, a pair of leather-clad riders drew rein before the royal pavilion in a cloud of dust and dismounted, only wide grins and scruffy beards visible beneath their plain steel helms. The gray cloaks and falcon insignia of the day before were long gone. But as the two pulled off dusty helmets, there was no mistaking the pale gold head of Alaric Morgan or the darker one of Duncan McLain.

“Morgan! Father Duncan! Where have you been?” Kelson drew back in faint distaste as the two slapped the worst of the dust from their riding leathers.

“Sorry, my prince,” Morgan said with a chuckle. He blew dust from his helmet and shook dust from his bright hair. “Holy Michael and all the saints, it’s dry around here! Whatever made us pick Dol Shaia for a campsite?”

Kelson folded his arms across his chest and tried unsuccessfully to control a smile. “As I recall, it was one Alaric Morgan who said we should camp close to the border, as near as possible without being seen. Dol Shaia was the logical spot. Now, do you want to tell me what took you so long? Nigel and the last stragglers got back earlier this morning.”

Morgan cast a resigned look at Duncan, then threw an arm around Kelson’s shoulders in a comradely gesture and began walking him back into the tent.

“Suppose we talk about it over some food, my prince?” He signaled Derry to see to it. “And if someone could call Nigel and his captains, I’ll brief everyone at the same time. I have neither the time nor the desire to tell this tale more than once.”

Inside, Morgan collapsed into a camp chair beside the campaign table and swung his boots up on a footstool with a grunt, letting his helmet slide to the ground beside him. Duncan, a bit more mindful of social amenities, waited until Kelson had seated himself opposite before sinking into another camp chair beside Morgan, laying his helmet at his feet.

“You look terrible,” Kelson finally said, surveying them critically. “Both of you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of you with beards before, either.”

Duncan smiled and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stretched. “Quite likely not, my prince. But you must admit, we fooled the rebels. Even Alaric, with his brazen manner and outrageous yellow hair, was able to pass as a simple soldier when he put on his act. And riding for the past two weeks in rebel uniforms was nothing short of inspired.”

“And dangerous,” Nigel said, slipping into a chair at Kelson’s left and motioning three red-cloaked captains to positions around the table. “I hope you made it worth the risk. Our venture certainly wasn’t.”

Morgan sobered instantly and took his feet down from the stool, all levity gone now that the complement was complete. Nigel’s left arm was supported by a black silk sling, a dark bruise purpling his right cheekbone. Other than that, he was almost the image of the dead Brion. Morgan had to make a conscious effort to force that image out of his head.

“Nigel, I am sorry. I heard what happened. In fact, we saw the aftermath at Jennan Vale. We couldn’t have been more than a few hours behind you.”

Nigel grunted noncommittally and lowered his eyes, and Morgan realized that he would have to do something to lighten the mood.

“It has been an instructive few weeks in other respects, however,” he continued brightly. “Some of the information we picked up in talking to rebel soldiers was very enlightening, even if useless strategically. It’s amazing the number of rumors and semi-legendary notions the common folk seem to have concocted about us.”

He folded his hands across his waist and sat back in his chair, smiling faintly. “Did you know, for example, that I am rumored to have cloven hooves?” He stretched out his booted feet before him and glanced at them wistfully as the eyes of all present followed his gaze.

“Of course, few people have ever seen my feet without shoes of some sort—especially peasants. Do you suppose it could be true?”

Kelson grinned in spite of himself, and the three captains exchanged uneasy glances.

“You’re joking, surely,” Kelson said. “Who could believe a thing like that?”

“Have you ever seen Alaric without shoes, Sire?” Duncan inquired slyly.

At that moment Derry intruded with a platter of meat, cheese, and bread and extended it with a grin.

“I’ve seen his feet, Sire,” he said, as Morgan speared a gobbet of cold beef on his dagger and took a chunk of bread. “And regardless of what they say, I can assure you that he has no cloven hooves—not even an extra toe.”

Morgan saluted Derry with the skewered meat and took a bite, then cast an inquiring look at Kelson and Nigel. The royal duke was himself again, sitting back in his chair and smiling faintly, well aware of what Morgan had been trying to do, and that it had succeeded. Kelson, somewhat taken aback at the exchange, glanced from one to the other of them several times before he finally concluded that they were sporting with him. At length, he shook his head and broke into a grin, making a shooing motion toward the three captains, who were only too happy to absent themselves.

“Cloven hooves, indeed!” He snorted. “Morgan, for a moment you almost had me believing you.”

“One cannot labor under tension all the time, Sire,” Morgan said with a shrug and a faint smile. “Now, what news since we left? What has been happening to put you in this agitated frame of mind?”

Kelson shook his head. “There’s nothing new, really. That may be why I’m so uneasy. I am still trying to decide the best way to end this internal contention, and that brings us back to the basic question of how best to honorably reconcile ourselves with my clergy and my rebellious subjects.”

Duncan washed down the last of his meat with a swallow of wine and nodded in Kelson’s direction. “We have also given that matter considerable thought in the past few days, my prince. And we’ve about reached the conclusion that the most reasonable approach is first to attempt a reconciliation with the six rebel bishops in Dhassa. They want to help you; their quarrel is with Alaric and me only. You are not involved.”

“That’s true,” Kelson agreed, considering. “If you could be formally reinstated and cleared of the charges that the Curia brought against you, I could accept their aid without worrying about compromising their honor. I have been reluctant until now to even communicate with them because of just that factor. If they have been loyal to me so far, it’s because I am the king—and maybe a little because they know and trust me personally. At least Bishop Arilan does.”

Morgan wiped the blade of his dagger against the side of his boot and returned it to its sheath. “That is certainly a factor, my prince. It is one reason we considered this proposition so carefully, before even discussing it with you. Whatever we do, we would not wish to endanger that trust which the Six in Dhassa still hold for you.”

“Yet you propose to go to Dhassa and attempt a reconciliation,” the king said. “Suppose you don’t succeed? Suppose the Six cannot be persuaded?”

“I believe I can put your mind at ease on that matter, Sire,” Duncan said. “If you’ll recall, I was on Bishop Arilan’s staff for some time. I know him fairly well. I believe he will deal fairly with us, and in doing so, will persuade his colleagues to do likewise.”

“I wish I could be as sure.”

Kelson drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair, then folded them together in his lap. “So you would throw yourselves on the mercy of the bishops, on the strength of your trust in one man.” His grimace of distaste showed reluctance as well. “Yet, the fact is that both of you are guilty of the charges for which you were excommunicated. There is no denying the events at Saint Torin’s. To be sure, there were extenuating circumstances—and hopefully, canon law will support your defense, at least in the major issues. But if you should fail, if the excommunication should stand, what then? Do you think the Six will let you walk out of there?”

There were the sounds of low voices outside the tent, a verbal altercation of some sort going on, and Kelson paused to glance in the direction of the doorway. As he did, a sentry withdrew the flap and stepped inside.

“Sire, Bishop Istelyn wishes to see you. He insists it cannot wait.”

Kelson frowned. “Admit him.”

As the guard stepped back into the dusk, Kelson glanced quickly at the faces of his companions, especially Morgan and Duncan. Istelyn was one of Gwynedd’s twelve itinerant bishops with no fixed see, one of those who had not been in Dhassa when the Curia had split last winter.

But Istelyn, on hearing of the events in Dhassa, had declared himself to be on the side of Arilan and Cardiel and the rest of the Six, and several weeks ago had attached himself to Kelson’s army here at the Corwyn border. He was regarded as a sober, even-tempered prelate, not given to flexing his ecclesiastical power. For him to force himself on a royal meeting as he was about to do was quite out of character unless something were drastically wrong. Kelson’s face almost betrayed his anxiety as the bishop stepped through the tent opening, a sheaf of parchment in his hand and a very solemn expression on his face.

“Your Majesty,” Istelyn said with a grave bow.

“My Lord Bishop,” Kelson replied, standing slowly at his place as the rest followed suit.

Istelyn glanced around the tent and nodded acknowledgement, and Kelson motioned the rest of his menie to be seated.

“I surmise that your news is not good, my lord,” the king murmured, not taking his eyes from Istelyn’s.

“You surmise correctly, Sire.” The bishop moved closer to the king and extended the sheaf of parchments. “I—regret being the bearer of these, but I felt you should have them.”

As Kelson took the pages Istelyn offered, the bishop bowed and backed off a few paces, unwilling to meet the young monarch’s eyes any longer. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Kelson scanned the top sheet, his lips compressing in a thin, white line as he read. The gray eyes grew colder by the second as he flicked over the too-familiar seal at the bottom of the page and then skipped to the second sheet.

His face blanched as he read, and it was with a visible control of emotion that he kept his hands from crumpling the parchment then and there. Veiling the icy Haldane eyes beneath long lashes, he began to bend the parchment sheets into a fat roll, not looking up as he spoke.

“Leave us, please—all of you.” His voice was chill, deadly, not to be disobeyed. “And Istelyn, you are to speak of this to no one until we give you leave. Is that clear?”

Istelyn paused to bow as he moved toward the doorway. “Of course, Sire.”

“Thank you. On second thought, Morgan and Father Duncan, please stay.”

The pair had been moving toward the doorway with the others, but paused to exchange puzzled glances before turning to regard their undoubtedly distressed sovereign lord. Kelson had turned his back on the departing lords and stood rising up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, tapping the roll of parchment lightly against the palm of his left hand.

Morgan and Duncan returned to stand expectantly by their former places, but when Nigel paused as though to join them, Duncan lifted a restraining hand and shook his head. Morgan, too, moved as though to bar the way, and with a resigned shrug Nigel turned on his heel to follow the others from the pavilion. His departure left only the three of them within the blue canvas walls.

“Are they all gone?” Kelson whispered. He had not moved during the silent exchange with Nigel, and his only movement now was the slight tap-tap of the parchment roll against his hand—that and his controlled breathing.

Duncan raised an eyebrow at Morgan and glanced again at the king.

“Yes, they’re gone, Sire. What is it?”

Kelson turned to eye both of them, the gray Haldane eyes lighting with a fire the two men had not seen since Brion’s time. Then he half-crumpled the parchment sheets and flung them to the floor in disgust.

“Go ahead, read them,” he blurted, turning then to fling himself across his bed on his stomach. He slammed a lean fist into the mattress with all his might.

“Damn those bishops to thrice-cursed perdition, what are we to do? My God, we are undone!”

Morgan blinked at Duncan in blank amazement, then moved closer to the king in concern as Duncan retrieved the discarded documents.

“Kelson, what is it? Tell us what has happened. Are you all right?”

With a sigh, Kelson rolled over to prop himself on his elbows and gaze up more blandly at the pair, the anger in his eyes now damped to a slight, cold fire.

“Forgive me, you shouldn’t have seen that show of temper.” He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling of the tent. “I am a king. I should know better. It’s a fault, I know.”

“And what of the fault with the message?” Morgan urged, glancing at Duncan’s calm face as he scanned the documents. “Come, tell us what has happened.”

“I’m excommunicated, that’s what’s happened,” Kelson replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “In addition, my entire kingdom is under Interdict, and any who continue to pay me fealty are likewise excommunicated.”

“Is that all?” Morgan exhaled, a long, relieved sigh, and beckoned Duncan to bring the documents Kelson had discarded in such heat. “By your reaction, I thought it to be truly horrible news.”

Kelson sat up straight in the center of the bed. “Is that all?” he repeated incredulously. “You obviously don’t understand. Father Duncan, explain it to him in words of one syllable. I am excommunicated, and everyone who remains with me! And Gwynedd is under Interdict!”

Duncan folded the parchment sheaf in half and creased the center sharply, tossed it lightly to the bed. “Worthless, my prince.”

“What?”

“It is worthless,” he repeated calmly. “The eleven bishops sitting in conclave at Coroth still have not gleaned a twelfth: a requirement that is as firmly fixed in our canon law as any dogma of faith. The eleven at Coroth cannot bind you or anyone else unless they gain a twelfth.”

“A twelfth—by God, you’re right!” Kelson exclaimed, scrambling upright to snatch up the offending documents and stare at them again. “How could I have forgotten?”

Morgan smiled and returned to his chair, where a half-finished cup of wine awaited him. “It is understandable, my prince. You are not as accustomed to anathema as we are. Remember that Duncan and I have been truly and legally excommunicated for nearly three months now, and are little the worse for wear—which brings us back to our original discussion.”

“Yes, of course.” Kelson got to his feet and returned to his chair, still shaking his head as he stared at the documents in his hand. Duncan, too, returned to the circle of chairs and sat down, helping himself to a small apple as Kelson finally put the parchment sheaf aside.

“What you are implying, then,” the king said, “is that this makes it all the more urgent that you get to Dhassa as quickly as possible. Am I correct?”

“You are, my prince,” Morgan said with a nod.

“But suppose Arilan’s colleagues won’t follow his lead? They are our only hope for reconciliation with the rest of the clergy, and if they should fail us, especially with this new Interdict and excommunication hanging over us—why, we’d never be able to make Loris and Corrigan listen.”

Morgan made a steeple of his forefingers and tapped them lightly against his lips for a moment, then glanced at Duncan. The priest had not changed his relaxed position next to him, and appeared to be chewing unconcernedly on a bite of apple, but Morgan knew that he was thinking much the same thing. Unless they could eventually reach an agreement with Loris and Corrigan, the ringleaders of the curial hostility against Duncan and himself, Gwynedd was doomed. Once the spring flooding was done, Wencit of Torenth would be sweeping into Gwynedd along the Rheljan Range, using high Cardosa as a base. And with internal factions warring in the south and no reinforcements available, it would be a relatively simple matter to cut off Kelson’s three armies and destroy them at leisure. The controversy in Corwyn must be resolved, and soon.

Morgan shifted forward in his chair and retrieved his helmet from the floor where he had dropped it. “We shall do the best we can, my prince. In the meantime, what are your plans while we’re gone? I know how this inactivity must be fretting you.”

Kelson studied a ruby on his forefinger and shook his head. “It is.” He looked up and managed a slight smile. “But for the time being, I shall just have to put up with my impatience and stand where I am, won’t I? As soon as you have reached agreement with the Six in Dhassa, will you send word?”

“Certainly. And we are still agreed on our rendezvous point?”

“Yes—and I should like to send Derry north for part of the way with you, too, if you don’t mind. I need word of the three armies.”

“Agreed.” Morgan nodded, fingering the chin strap of his helmet. “If you like, we can arrange for you to keep in touch with him through his medallion, the way we did before. Is that agreeable?”

“Of course. Perhaps Father Duncan could brief him, then, and make preparations for you to leave. You’ll need fresh horses, supplies….”

“I’ll be happy to see to it, Sire,” Duncan said, draining the last of his wine and picking up his helmet as he got to his feet. “I shall look in on Bishop Istelyn and reassure him, as well.”

Kelson stared after the departing priest for a long moment, then returned his gaze to Morgan, studying the trim form relaxed in the chair there, the hooded gray eyes that watched him in much the same way. As he glanced down at his own hands, he was surprised to find that his fingers were trembling, and he twined them together in annoyance.

“Ah—how long do you think it will take to reach the bishops and…resolve things?” he asked. “I’ll—need to know when to meet you with the army.”

Morgan smiled and lightly touched the pouch at his belt. “I carry your Lion Seal, my prince. I am your Champion, sworn to protect you.”

“That isn’t what I asked, and you know it!” Kelson said. He rose and began to pace nervously. “You’re about to throw yourselves on the mercy of a handful of bishops who could just as easily cut your throat as hear you out, and you prattle on about being my Champion, sworn to protect me. The Devil take you, Morgan, I want to know how you feel about this thing. Do I have to spell it out? I want to know if you trust Arilan and Cardiel!”

Morgan’s eyes had followed the young king in his pacing, and now swept him from head to toe as he came to a halt behind his chair and leaned both hands against the back. The gray Haldane eyes were dancing with intelligence, apprehension, and a little annoyance, and Morgan suppressed a smile. Kelson, though he was king in his own right and held the throne by powers as awesome as any Morgan could muster up, was still a boy in many ways. At times, his brash outspokenness reminded Morgan a little of his own youth.

But Morgan also had the good sense to know when his king was serious, as he had known for the boy’s father. This was one of those times. He let his glance drop to the helmet he still held in his lap, then met the king’s gaze once more.

“I have met Arilan only once, my prince—at least to talk to—and Cardiel, never. But as I see it, they may be our only hope. Arilan has always seemed to be at least tolerant where Deryni are concerned; he stood by you at your coronation and did not denounce me or Duncan, even though he must have suspected that there was magic afoot besides yours and Charissa’s. I am also told that he and Cardiel were among our staunchest supporters when the Interdict question arose regarding Corwyn. I think we have no choice but to trust them.”

“But, to walk right into Dhassa, when there is a price on your heads…” Kelson began.

“Do you really think anyone is likely to recognize us?” Morgan snorted. “Look at me. When has the Duke of Corwyn ever worn a beard, or gone about in peasant garb, or even been to Dhassa, for that matter? And what excommunicate fugitive in his right mind would even consider entering the holiest city in Gwynedd when he knows that everyone in the kingdom is looking for him?”

“Alaric Morgan would.” Kelson sighed resignedly. “But suppose that you do reach Dhassa safely, you enter the city, you somehow manage to get inside the episcopal palace undetected—then what? You just told me that you’ve never been to Dhassa. How do you even begin to find Arilan and Cardiel? And if you’re captured before you can find them, then what? Suppose some overzealous guardsman decides he wants all the glory for himself, and kills you before you’re even taken before the bishops?”

Morgan smiled and wrapped his hands complacently around his helmet. “You forget one thing, my prince. Duncan and I are Deryni. The last time I heard, that still counted for something.”

Kelson stared at Morgan speechlessly for an instant, disbelief and astonishment writ all across his face, then threw his head back and laughed delightedly as he sat down again.

“You are very good for me, Alaric Morgan, do you know that? Without preaching, you somehow manage to tell your king that he has been thinking like a fool, but without being the least bit annoying about it. I think it comes of letting me ramble on and on until I run down and realize how ridiculous I’ve been. Why is that?”

“Why do you ramble on and on, my prince? Or why do I let you?”

Kelson grinned. “You know what I mean.”

Morgan stood and brushed dust from his clothing again, then polished across the front of his helmet with his sleeve.

“You are young, you have a natural curiosity, and you lack the experience that only years can bring, my prince,” he said easily. “That is why you ramble on and on. As for why I let you…” He considered it for a moment. “I let you because it is the best cure I know for anxiety: to get one’s fears out in the open and face up to them. Once you realize which are the irrational fears and which are the real ones, you have come a long way toward conquering both kinds. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Kelson replied, getting up and moving with Morgan toward the exit. “You will be careful, though, won’t you?” The statement ended on a doubtful note.

“On my honor, I will, Sire.”