HUGGING the cliff face, Morgan turned his head slowly and peered over the edge to where Duncan pointed. At first he could see nothing out of the ordinary: merely one of the horses placidly cropping grass beside the stream bank below.

Then he realized he couldn’t see the other horse—and caught a flash of movement farther underneath him, closer to the falls. He leaned out farther to see what the motion had been, then froze in astonishment. He could hardly believe what he saw.

Four children, their heads tousled and damp, homespun tunics plastered close to their bodies, were leading the second horse into the water at the edge of the waterfall. The horse was hoodwinked with what looked like the blanket from the saddle’s pack, and one of the children held his hand on the animal’s nose to keep it from nickering as they urged it into the cold stream. The oldest of the four appeared to be a boy of about eleven; the youngest could not have been more than seven.

“What the devil?” Morgan murmured, hazarding an astonished glance at Duncan.

Duncan pursed his lips grimly, then moved as though to start down the slope after them. “Come on. The little thieves are going to steal both horses if we don’t stop them.” Morgan could only barely hear him above the roar of the water.

“No, wait.” Morgan grabbed Duncan’s cloak and halted him in mid-motion, watching as children and horse waded toward the falls in a patch of calm water. “You know, I think those beastly urchins have a way across. Look.”

Even as Morgan spoke, horse and children disappeared behind the falls. Morgan glanced around, then scrambled partway down the side of the cliff, beckoning Duncan to join him behind a rocky outcropping. As they took cover, horse and children reappeared at the other side of the falls, drenched and shivering, but none the worse for wear. The youngest of the four, a girl by the long braids dripping down her back, scrambled up the embankment with some assistance from her companions, then took the reins and led the snorting horse up and out of the water. As the girl calmed the frightened animal, pulling the blanket from its head to begin wiping it down, the other three children disappeared into the falls once more.

With a look of firm resolve, Morgan slapped Duncan on the shoulder as a signal to go, then began clambering down the side of the cliff, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and trusting the roar of the waterfall to cover the sound of their descent. His face was grim but pleased as he and Duncan ducked into cover near the remaining horse, and he controlled the urge to smile again as the three children came out of the falls and hauled themselves dripping onto the bank.

The three glanced back at their friend across the stream, who was letting the captured horse graze while she scanned the cliff far above their heads—looking for them, Morgan realized. Then the other three began moving stealthily toward the remaining horse.

Morgan let them all get within touching distance of the animal, one of them actually taking the reins and reaching to stroke the beast’s nose. Then he and Duncan broke from cover and started grabbing children.

“Michael!” squealed the lone child on the opposite bank. “No! No! Let them go!”

In a flurry of screams, frantic squirming, and flailing arms and legs, the children tried to escape. Morgan succeeded in getting a strong grip on the first boy, who had been gentling the horse, and had a hold on a second for an instant. But the second boy was also the oldest, and strong, struggling hard; and after a few frantic squirms, he was able to wrench loose to flee shrieking toward the falls.

Duncan, his hands controlling the third child, made an effort to capture the second as he shot past, but ended up with only a handful of wet tunic to show for his trouble. The boy—for there was no mistaking that fact with the tunic missing—streaked for the falls and jumped into the water like an eel, disappearing behind the falls before either of the men could take more than a few steps in that direction.

The two children the men had managed to hold onto continued to struggle and scream, and Morgan was forced to silence his with a hastily applied touch. The girl on the opposite bank had scrambled into the saddle of the stolen horse and was guiding it toward the falls, reaching a hand down for her escaping comrade as he scrambled from the water in the buff.

Morgan had no choice but to call up a spell. Magic would but terrify the children more at this point, but he could not permit them to escape and tell tales of the two men trying to ford the stream. Morgan let his child slip limply to the ground and raised his arms.

As the two on the other side tried to flee, drumming thin, bare legs against the heavy saddle in an effort to make the big horse move, a wall of incandescence suddenly sprang up before them, blocking their way. The children pulled their mount to a plunging halt, their eyes wide as saucers as the light extended to a semi-circle hemming them against the bank of the stream. Duncan calmed the child in his grasp and laid his limp form across the saddle of the remaining horse, then nursed a bloodied hand to his lips, bent to plunge it into the rushing water.

“One of the little beggars bit me!” he murmured, as Morgan put his child across the saddle beside the first and glanced anxiously across at the other two children.

“Just stay where you are and you won’t be harmed,” Morgan called, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the falls, and brandishing a finger at the two. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you can’t leave yet. Just stay where you are.”

As the children watched, wide-eyed and terrified despite Morgan’s reassurances, Duncan took the reins of the remaining horse and led it toward the falls, hooding it with the tunic he had pulled from the fleeing boy. Morgan walked beside the animal, steadying the two sleeping children in the saddle and watching the other two warily. He gasped involuntarily as he entered the icy water, nearly losing control of the restraining light-ring for an instant, then inched along beside the animal and into the falls. There was a narrow ledge behind the roaring wall of water, waist-deep and covered with green slime and treacherous, stream-polished pebbles that slid under a man’s boot or a horse’s hoof. But they were able to pick their way across without serious incident.

As the nervous horse lurched up the bank, Duncan caught the two children as they slid from the saddle and laid them gently on a patch of grass in the sunshine. Morgan calmed the horse, then raised one eyebrow and strode toward the two children on the other horse. The pair sat stiff in the saddle, petrified but defiant, as Morgan walked through the wall of light and reached a wet hand to the bridle. As he looked up at them, the light behind him died.

“Now, do you want to tell me what you intended to do with my horse?” he asked calmly.

The front child, the girl, glanced behind at her partner and whimpered, then looked wildly back. The older one’s arms tightened around the girl’s waist reassuringly as he returned Morgan’s gaze, a hard gleam flashing through the fear.

“You’re Deryni, aren’t you? You’re spying on my lord bishops.”

Morgan suppressed a smile and pulled the first child from the saddle, without resistance from the boy. The girl went limp as Morgan touched her, from fear rather than any manifestation of Deryni power, and the boy sat a little straighter in the saddle, indigo eyes going cold in the tanned young face. Morgan handed the little girl over to Duncan, exchanging his human armload for a handful of wet tunic, which he tossed to the boy. His gray eyes were slightly amused as the boy took the tunic without a word and slipped it over his head.

“Well?” the boy demanded, tugging his tunic into place with a defiant gesture. “Aren’t you Deryni? Aren’t you spying?”

“I asked you first. What were you going to do with my horse? Sell it?”

“Of course not. My brothers and I were going to take it to our father, so that he could ride with the bishops’ army. The captains told him that our cart horse was too old, and couldn’t keep up on a long march.”

“You were going to take it to your father,” Morgan said, nodding slowly. “Son, do you know what they call people who take things that don’t belong to them?”

“I’m not a thief and I’m not your son!” the boy retorted. “We looked around and didn’t see anyone, so we thought the horses must have strayed from the encampment down below. They are fighting horses, after all.”

“Are they, now?” Morgan mused. “And you thought it quite likely that such horses would be wandering loose.” The boy nodded gravely.

“You’re lying, of course,” Morgan said flatly, grasping the boy by the bicep and swinging him down to the ground. “But, then, that’s to be expected. Tell me, are there any more obstacles between here and the Dhassa gates, or—”

“You are spies! I knew it!” the boy blurted, starting to fight as his feet hit the ground. “Let me go! Ow, you’re hurting me! Stop it!”

Shaking his head in annoyance, Morgan deftly twisted one of the boy’s arms behind his back and held it, increasing his pressure until the boy doubled over with the pain. When he had ceased struggling, his attention wholly on the hurting arm—which he had discovered did not hurt if he stopped struggling—Morgan released him abruptly and swung the boy around to face him.

“Now, relax!” Morgan commanded, turning his gray gaze on the boy to Truth-Read. “I haven’t time to listen to your hysterics.”

The boy tried to resist, but he had no chance against Morgan’s compulsions. Blue eyes met gray ones defiantly for just an instant; but then the young will yielded and the blue eyes blinked and went a little glassy. As the boy calmed enough to be Read, Morgan straightened and released the boy’s arm, letting out a relieved sigh as he tightened his belt and brushed a drying strand of hair back from his face.

“Now,” he said, again looking the boy in the eyes, “what can you tell me about the rest of the trail? Can we get through?”

“Not on horses,” the boy said calmly. “You could probably get through on foot, but the horses—never. There’s a slide area ahead: mud and shale. Not even the mountain ponies can get across.”

“A slide area? Is there any other way around?”

“Not to Dhassa. The way you came leads back to Garwode. Hardly anyone ever uses this trail, because you can’t get through with pack animals or baggage.”

“I see. Anything else you can tell us about the slide area?”

“Not really. The worst part is about a hundred yards across, but you can see the other end of the trail before you start across. It’ll be muddy this time of year. You’ll just have to pick your way across as best you can.”

Morgan glanced at Duncan, who had moved to his side during the interrogation. “Anything else?”

“How about the gates at Dhassa?” Duncan asked. “Will we have any trouble getting in?”

The boy glanced at the Saint Torin badge pinned to Duncan’s cap, then shook his head. “Your badges will pass you. Just mingle with other people who get on the ferries. There are scores of strangers in Dhassa these days.”

“Excellent. Any more questions, Duncan?”

“No. What are we going to do with them, though?”

“We’ll leave them here with the horses and a few false memories to explain how they got them.”

“You’re going to let them have the horses,” Duncan said incredulously.

Morgan touched the boy’s forehead lightly and caught him as he crumpled, then picked him up to move him beside the other children.

“We can’t take them with us, it seems.”

“But—you’re encouraging their thievery!” Duncan began.

Morgan shrugged as he laid the boy beside the other children. “You heard what he said about why he was stealing the horses.”

“Yes. So that their father can join the bishops’ army and maybe kill us later on!”

“Not if we win over the bishops.” Morgan smiled as he smoothed a lock of hair off the boy’s forehead and straightened up.

“Feisty little devil, isn’t he?”

Duncan gave a grudging smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he were the one who bit me.”

“Humph, I’d probably have bitten you, too,” Morgan said. He touched the boy’s forehead again for just an instant, setting the memories straight, then pulled the saddlebags from his saddle and slung them over his shoulder with a grin.

“Ready to go sliding, Cousin?”

THE sliding about which Morgan joked so lightly came very near to costing them their lives. The portion of trail affected by the slide, though shorter by a third than they had been led to expect, was also at least twice as treacherous and steep. Besides being slick with sand and shale, it was also muddy.

Nor was this a thick mud, which might impede motion, should a climber start to slip. Instead, it was a viscous quagmire, capable of turning semi-liquid in the twinkling of an eye. Duncan’s saddlebags were lost in the crossing, and very nearly Duncan himself. But once the slope had been traversed, the way onward was as easy as the boy had predicted. When, around midafternoon, they reached the Dhassa side of Lake Jashan, they found it a comparatively easy task to slip through the gates among a group of new arrivals just off the ferries. Today and the next were market days, and there were, indeed, many strangers in Dhassa. Dhassa’s newest arrivals had little difficulty making their way from the gates to the crowded market square outside the Bishop’s Palace.

Morgan picked up several pieces of fruit from a market stall and flipped a small coin to the proprietor, then pushed his way back into the crowd and continued to watch and listen. He and Duncan had been in the square for nearly an hour now, mingling with the local citizens and asking the occasional question; but thus far, they had been unable to discover a way to get into the Bishop’s Palace undetected. It was essential that they guard their tongues, for there were soldiers scattered all through the crowded marketplace. But they dared not wait too long to act, or the square would clear with the coming darkness and they would risk exposure. As things now stood, they had no place to go once darkness fell.

The sights and smells and sounds of market day pervaded the square in a tangle of brilliant color, boisterous voices and complaining pack animals, the smells of spice and dung and new-baked bread, meat roasting on spits, the squeals of pigs and sheep, the frantic cackling of chickens and other feathered things.

Morgan glanced idly at a troupe of jugglers performing outside a silk-hung pavilion, catching a whiff of overly sweet perfume as a soldier lurched through an opening in the curtains. An airy, tinkling music and the sound of female laughter floated from beyond the silk, and the man had a slightly glassy look to his eyes as he staggered into the crowd and was lost from sight. A pair of saucy serving maids jostled him from behind, their laden baskets pushing a wide swath through the crowd, but the girls were unkempt and dirty looking; definitely not to Morgan’s taste.

Morgan shifted the saddlebags slung across his shoulder, then bit into one of the apples in his hand, savoring the tart crispness between his teeth. Continuing to glance around as he walked, he spotted his cousin a few stalls down, buying fresh bread and a slab of crusty country cheese. Duncan paused to peer at the stall of the sweet smells and tinkling music for just a moment; then he frowned and began to move away.

Morgan suppressed a grin and began to stroll in the direction Duncan had gone, watching and munching as he walked. At length, Duncan settled on a ledge beside a public well and began eating bread and cheese, cutting off thick chunks of the cheese with his dagger. Morgan made his way to the well and deposited saddlebags and fruit on the ledge beside Duncan. As he leaned against the wall and continued to scan the busy market square, it was a distinct effort to keep his manner casual. One could never tell who might be watching.

“Busy place, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice, finishing his apple and tossing the core to where a heavily laden donkey could reach it. He tore off a chunk of bread and cut himself some cheese, gray eyes continuing to scan as he tucked into the more substantial fare. “I hope you’ve found out more than I did.”

Duncan swallowed a mouthful of bread and cheese and looked around cautiously. “Little of any immediate use, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell you this: the bishops are going to have trouble on their hands, if they don’t do something fairly soon. Popular support is with Cardiel and his army right now, but there are many who aren’t happy about his plans. They consider it a disgrace that leaders of the Church should quarrel among themselves to the point of schism, and I can’t say that I blame them. Especially on the eve of war.”

“Humph.” Morgan cut off another piece of cheese and glanced behind him before leaning closer to Duncan. “Did you hear about old Bishop Wolfram?”

“No, what happened?”

“There was an assassination attempt a few weeks ago. It didn’t succeed, but—” He broke off as a pair of soldiers strolled nearby, and took another bite of bread, chewing nonchalantly until the two men were out of earshot.

“Anyway, that’s why the gates to the palace are so closely guarded. Cardiel doesn’t dare risk anything happening to one of his bishops. If one of the Six were to be killed now, Loris and Corrigan in Coroth would appoint his successor. And we all know to whom that successor would owe his loyalty.”

“Thereby giving Loris the twelve voices he needs to make his decretals legal in fact as well as in name,” Duncan whispered.

Morgan finished his cheese and dusted his gloved hands against his thighs, then turned to dip water from the well. His eyes flicked to the palace gates as he drank, and then to the towers of the palace beyond. He filled the dipper again and handed it across to his cousin, sinking down on the ledge once again as Duncan drank.

“Y’know,” Morgan murmured, studying the crowd in the square, “I think the crowd is beginning to thin. We’re going to be conspicuous soon, if we don’t decide what to do.”

Duncan handed the dipper back to Morgan and wiped his mouth against his sleeve. “I know. Fewer soldiers, and more and more clergy.”

Bells began to chime in a tower far away and to the rear of them, and were soon echoed by the great bells within the walls of the Bishop’s Palace. Duncan paused as the bells began to ring, his eyes still scanning the crowd, then slowly straightened, an intense look coming upon his face.

“What is it?” Morgan murmured, careful not to betray his emotion by voice or gesture. There were soldiers striding by again.

“The monks, Alaric,” Duncan whispered, nodding toward the gates. “Look where they’re going.”

Morgan turned slowly and let his eyes follow the direction of his kinsman’s gaze. A postern gate had opened in the lower left portion of the huge palace gates to permit a handful of cowled monks to enter. He glanced back at Duncan to find his cousin stuffing the last of the bread and cheese into the saddlebags. As he looked askance, Duncan shot him a quick, conspiratorial wink and took the last apple, polishing it against his sleeve. Mystified, Morgan picked up the saddlebags and followed as Duncan started to stroll slowly in the direction of the gates. He touched his cousin’s right elbow in question as the two of them headed along the edge of the square.

“Do you see where the monks are going?” Duncan murmured around a bite of apple.

“Yes.”

Duncan took another bite and continued walking. “And they aren’t being challenged, are they?” he said. “Now, look where they’re coming from, around to your left. Mind you don’t stare.”

Morgan glanced casually in the direction indicated and finally saw a door leading into a deeply shadowed background, apparently the side door to a monastic church. Periodically, the door would open to disgorge one or two monks in cowled black habits. As far as Morgan could see, all the monks who left the church were heading toward the palace gates. And none of them were being turned away.

“Where are they all going?” Morgan murmured, as his cousin finished his apple and hitched up his sword under his cloak. The main doors to the church were farther to the left, below the stubby stone towers, and they could see townspeople going in, several monks standing at the church doors to greet those who entered.

“I should have realized,” Duncan said under his breath, “that in any city where there’s a large monastic community, it’s customary for the brethren to attend services in the bishop’s basilica, if there is one. They’re on their way to Vespers.”

“Vespers,” Morgan breathed. He kept silent as they continued to walk toward the church, now heading away from the palace gates. Then: “Duncan, we are not going to attend Vespers in that church, are we?” It was less a question than a statement.

Duncan shook his head lightly, and Morgan had to control a smile.

“That’s what I thought.”

Ten minutes later, two more monks joined the line of brethren filing slowly into the Bishop’s Palace. They walked briskly to catch up with their fellows, these two laggard monks in their tall, black cowls and floor-length robes. They bowed their heads humbly as they passed between the sentries guarding the postern gate, hands piously folded in long, loose sleeves. Inside, as they passed sedately along the glistening corridors, an occasional footstep sounded oddly hollow amidst the sandaled tread of their brother monks.

But the two moved with care, anxious to do nothing that might cause them to stand out from their fellows, for these were no ordinary monks. They bore steel beneath their coarse black robes: swords girded close against their sides, and daggers in boots and sleeves and belts, and bright mail beneath the riding leathers the robes covered.

And something more telling there was, to distinguish these particular monks, had anyone known. For the two at the end of the line were Deryni, and carried magic in their souls.

Morgan and Duncan drew aside as the rest filed into the basilica, blending into the shadows of a cul-de-sac at the end of a nearby corridor. After a short while, they could hear the sound of the monks’ voices raised in song and praise, and then the sung responses of the service itself. Several times the doors opened to admit latecomers, and once Duncan thought he heard Cardiel’s voice within.

Finally the office of Vespers ended, and the doors were flung wide. Servants of the bishop’s household, pages and squires, several lords and their ladies, and several prelates filed from the chapel, some engaged in low conversation, all heading in different directions where the corridor branched before the doors. In the midst of them all came Bishops Cardiel and Arilan themselves, followed shortly by a number of priests and clerks and then more lords and their ladies.

Duncan nudged Morgan in the ribs as the two bishops appeared, for he knew Arilan and had seen Cardiel at a distance before. But Morgan froze with an intake of breath at the sight of a woman and child who followed a short distance behind the lords and ladies. The woman, dressed all in sky blue, was speaking in a low voice to another, darker lady, her hand on the shoulder of a boy about four years of age. She was tall and slim, her carriage regal without being imposing, and Morgan’s eyes widened almost involuntarily as he drank in every detail of her presence.

Deep, wide eyes of a cornflower hue, set in a heart-shaped face framed by gossamer silk; hair the color of flame in sunlight, swept wing-like past her temples and caught in a loose knot at the nape; the nose delicate and slightly upturned; the cheekbones high and touched with a blush of rose; the mouth full, generous, tinged with color and inviting; the redheaded child at her side was sleepy-eyed, his silken hair tousled.

Except in his dreams, Morgan had seen the pair only once, what seemed like an eternity ago, in a coach outside the ruined shrine not far from here. But on that occasion their image had been graven on his memory for all time to come. He reminded himself that the woman was married, the child some other man’s son, then wondered anew who they might be.

He felt a slight pressure at his left elbow and turned to find Duncan looking at him rather oddly. Morgan flashed him an apologetic look as he gathered his wits about him, then hazarded one last glance back at the corridor before returning his attention to the two bishops. But the woman and her child were gone.

As Duncan drew his hood farther onto his forehead and stepped out sedately, Morgan followed, trying to assume as near a copy of Duncan’s humble walk and manner as possible. The two bishops had rounded the turn of the next intersection, but they came back into sight as Morgan and Duncan followed at a discreet distance until the two prelates disappeared through a set of double doors. Uncertainly, the two Deryni came to a halt a short distance from the doors and considered their next move.

“What’s in there, do you know?” Morgan whispered.

Duncan shook his head. “I’ve never been here before either. It could be the Curia chamber, for all I know. We’ll just have to chance—”

He broke off as a group of soldiers came around the corner and halted in front of the doors. As one of them knocked respectfully, another glanced aside and saw the two monks loitering there. With a slight frown, he turned to murmur something to one of his companions, then headed toward them purposefully. Morgan and Duncan, with an exchange of apprehensive glances, attempted to appear as innocuous as possible.

“Good evening, Brothers,” the soldier said, eyeing them curiously. “May I ask what you’re doing here? Unless you have permission from your superior, you’re not permitted in this part of the palace. You know that.”

Duncan bowed slightly, keeping his face carefully averted. “We have urgent business with His Grace of Dhassa, sir. It is vital that we see him.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Brother,” the soldier said, shaking his head. “Their Excellencies are already overdue at a convocation meeting.”

“We only need a moment of his time,” Duncan ventured, glancing at Morgan and wondering how they were going to extricate themselves from this one. “Perhaps if we could speak with them as they walked…I know they will wish to see us.”

“I hardly think that likely,” the soldier began, beginning to get a little irritated with these two insistent monks. His prolonged conversation had attracted the attention of several of his colleagues, including the officer of the guard. “However, if you’d care to give me your names, I could—”

“What seems to be the trouble, Selden?” the guard officer asked, approaching slowly with several of his men at his back. “You brothers know you’re not meant to be here. Didn’t Selden tell you that?”

“Oh, he did, sir,” Duncan mumbled, bowing again. “But—”

“Sir,” one of the guards staring at Morgan interrupted suspiciously, “that man looks like he has something under his robe. Brother, what is th—”

As the man reached for his elbow, Morgan’s hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his sword, and he stepped back. The movement was sufficient to swirl the robes closer around the sheathed blade, silhouetting it beneath the cloth, and to show the toe of a riding boot instead of the sandals that should have gone with monastic attire.

Several of the soldiers gave a concerted gasp as the implication registered, and then they were rushing to grab Morgan’s arms, pinning him against the wall and entangling his sword arm. He was aware that Duncan, too, was under assault; and then someone got a grip on the shoulder of his robe and yanked until the fabric parted with a muffled, ripping sound. Morgan’s hair gleamed like a sleek golden helmet as the cowl fell away.

“God in Heaven, this is no monk!” one of the soldiers gasped, recoiling involuntarily from the impact of the cold gray eyes.

Even as Morgan was borne to the floor by the massed weight of five or six bodies, he continued to struggle, almost throwing off their restraints at one point. But then he was pinned, helpless, swords leveled at throat and side, one blade pressing dangerously hard against his jugular.

Abruptly he stopped fighting and let them disarm him, biting his lip as they removed even the stiletto in its slim wrist sheath. As they pulled away the black robes and discovered the mail beneath his riding leathers, he forced himself to relax, hoping to allay any senseless brutality. His captors appeared to appreciate the cooperation, for they merely consolidated their hold on him, one man sitting on each of his limbs while a fifth continued to hold a dagger to his throat. He decided against trying to raise his head to see what had happened to Duncan. He dared not risk getting his throat cut before he could talk his way out of this mess.

The guard officer straightened, breathing hard, and sheathed his sword in disgust as he glared down at the two prisoners.

“Who are you? Assassins?” He prodded Morgan in the ribs with the toe of his boot, none too gently. “What’s your name?”

“My name is for the bishops only,” Morgan said softly, staring up at the ceiling and forcing himself to remain calm.

“Oh, it is, is it? Selden, search him. Davis, what about the other one?”

“Nothing to identify him, sir,” a guard replied from Duncan’s side.

“Selden?”

Selden fumbled with the pouch at Morgan’s belt, then opened it and extracted a number of small gold and silver coins and a small doeskin bag with drawstrings. The bag was heavy in his hand as he lifted it from the pouch, and the guard officer saw something change in his captive’s face as the guard handed it up.

“Something more important than gold, isn’t it?” the officer guessed shrewdly, loosening the ties and opening the bag.

Two golden rings tumbled out into his hand as he turned the bag bottom-up. One was a heavy gold band set with an onyx, the black stone etched with the golden Lion of Gwynedd: the ring of the King’s Champion. The other showed an emerald gryphon set in an onyx face: the seal of Alaric Morgan, Duke of Corwyn.

The man’s eyes widened as he recognized the devices, his mouth going agape. Then he glanced down at his captive once more, squinting through the beard. A gasp escaped his lips as he recognized the man lying at his feet.

“Dear God, it’s Morgan!” he whispered, his eyes going wider still.