“SO, what of Morgan and Duncan?” Arilan asked.

The two rebel bishops were standing once more in Cardiel’s private chapel, the doors closed and barred from within, and an anxious escort from Cardiel’s household guard waited outside. Arilan leaned casually against the altar rail to the left of the center aisle, idly fingering the cross and chain around his neck. Cardiel, restless with nervous energy, was pacing the marble floor and carpet before him, striding back and forth in the narrow transept and gesturing expansively as he spoke.

“I simply am not sure, Denis,” he said perplexedly. “Though I know I should be more cautious, I am inclined to believe them. Their stories are plausible—much more so than many I have heard. And aside from the differing points of view, they even agree with what Gorony told us on the day it all happened. Frankly, I don’t see how they could have done any differently and still lived to tell of it. I probably would have done the same thing.”

“Even to using magic?”

“If I were capable, yes.”

Arilan bit on one of the links of his chain reflectively. “An interesting observation. Thomas, you surprise me. It appears that the question is not so much what they did, but how they did it. The real issue is magic, and the wanton use of it.”

“Is it wanton to defend oneself when attacked?”

“Perhaps, if one uses magic to do it. At least that is what we have always taught and been taught.”

“Well, perhaps we have been wrong.” Cardiel scowled. “It wouldn’t be the first time. You know, if Morgan and Duncan were not Deryni, they would have been absolved by now, after coming to us the way they did—if they had even been excommunicated in the first place, that is.”

“But they are Deryni, they were excommunicated, and they have not been absolved,” Arilan pointed out. “You must admit that the first seems to have a bearing on the second and third.

“And yet, should it? Is it right to deal a different kind of justice to a man just because he happens to be born of the wrong set of parents, because of something over which he has no control, which he cannot change?”

Cardiel shook his head stubbornly. “Certainly not. That would be as ridiculous as your saying you’re a better man than I because your eyes are blue and mine are gray—things which neither of us can change.” He stabbed the air with an emphatic forefinger. “Now, you may be better than I because of what you see with your eyes, or what you do with what you see. But the color of the eyes, or the fact that your mother had one blue eye and one green eye, hasn’t a blessed thing to do with it!”

“My mother’s eyes were gray,” Arilan said with a smile.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I do. But blue eyes versus gray eyes is one thing; good versus evil is quite another. What it comes down to is whether the good or evil of a man has anything to do with the fact that he happens to be born Deryni.”

“You don’t think my analogy holds true?”

“I didn’t say that. Thomas, I told you before that I was not convinced that all Deryni are evil. But how do you convey that simple truth—if, indeed, it is truth—to the common man, who has been taught to hate Deryni for the past three centuries? More specifically, how do you convince him that Alaric Morgan and Duncan McLain are not evil, when the voice of the Church has said otherwise? Are you totally convinced?”

“Perhaps not,” Cardiel murmured, not meeting Arilan’s eyes. “But sometimes, perhaps we must believe in the uncertain. Perhaps we must take some things on faith, even in the real world, away from the metaphysics of religion and doctrine and subjects that we usually associate with what priests teach.”

“Simple faith,” said Arilan. “I wish it were that simple.”

“It has to be that simple. I know that I have to believe it, at least for now; that I want to believe it, desperately. Because if I’m wrong about the Deryni—if they really are as we have believed for all these centuries of hatred—then all of us are lost. If the Deryni as a race are evil, then Morgan and McLain will betray us, as will our king. And that will leave the way open for Wencit of Torenth, who is also Deryni, to ride over us like the revenging wind.”

Arilan stood with his eyes downcast for a long time, his manner solemn as he toyed with the cross on his breast. Then, with a resigned sigh, he beckoned to Cardiel and walked with him, hand on shoulder, toward the left side of the chapel, where a mosaic pattern in the floor awaited.

“Come. There is something you should see.”

Puzzled, Cardiel glanced at his colleague in question as they halted before the stark side altar. The white vigil light cast a silvery glow on the heads of the two prelates. Arilan’s face was unreadable.

“I don’t understand,” Cardiel murmured. “I’ve seen—”

“You’ve not seen what I would show you,” Arilan said almost sharply. “Look up at the ceiling there, where the beams cross.”

“But there’s nothing…” Cardiel began, tilting his head back to squint in the dimness.

Arilan closed his eyes and let the words begin to shape inside his head, felt the tingle of the Portal beneath his feet. Pulling Cardiel abruptly against him in an iron grip, he reached out with his mind and wrenched the spell into being.

He heard Cardiel gasp. And then they jumped, and the chapel vanished, and they were standing in total darkness.

Cardiel staggered drunkenly as the darkness hit, arms reaching out blindly as he regained his balance. Arilan was gone from behind him, and he could see nothing in the blackness. His mind churned chaotically, trying to put some rational explanation to what he had just experienced, trying to orient itself to the darkness, the utter silence. He straightened in the blackness, cautiously, one arm sweeping the air before him while the other guarded his eyes. Finally, he got up the courage to speak, a terrifying suspicion growing in his mind.

“Denis?” he whispered meekly, almost afraid he would receive an answer.

“Here, my friend.”

There was a faint rustle of fabric a few yards behind him, and then a flare of white light. Cardiel turned slowly, his face draining of color as he spied the source.

Arilan stood in a soft glow of silver, his face framed in a silvery aureole, which waxed and waned and flickered almost as a thing alive. His expression was calm and serene in the silver light, the violet-blue eyes gentle and reassuring. In his hands he held a sphere of bright, cold fire whose quicksilver glow spilled sharp radiance on his face, his hands, and down the violet folds of his bishop’s cassock. Cardiel stared at him in astonishment for perhaps five heartbeats, his eyes growing wider, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Then the room was spinning and the darkness was swirling around him and he was falling. He was next aware that he was lying on something soft yet unyielding, eyes tightly closed, and that a gentle hand was raising his head to put a cup to his lips.

He drank, hardly aware that he did so, then opened his eyes as cool wine trickled down his throat. Arilan was bending over him anxiously, a blown-glass goblet in his hand. He gave a wan, tentative smile as Cardiel opened his eyes.

Cardiel blinked and peered at Arilan again, but the image did not disappear. There was no silvery nimbus around his head, however, and the room was now lighted by perfectly ordinary candles in many-armed candlesticks. A low fire burned in a fireplace off to the left, and he could make out the dim shapes of furniture around the perimeter of the room. He was lying on a fur of some sort. As he raised himself to his elbows, he could see that it was the skin of a great black bear, the head grimacing fiercely to one side. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, his eyes still wide with shock. Memory returned in a rush.

“You,” he whispered, looking slowly at Arilan with awe and a little fear. “Did I really see…?”

Arilan nodded, his face carefully neutral, and stood. “I am Deryni,” he said softly.

“You’re Deryni,” Cardiel repeated. “Then, all of the things you said about Morgan and McLain—”

“—were true,” said Arilan. “Or else they were things it was imperative you consider before making a decision on the Deryni question.”

“You’re Deryni,” Cardiel repeated, slowly regaining his composure. “Then, Morgan and McLain—they don’t know?”

Arilan shook his head. “They do not. And though I regret the mental anguish I have undoubtedly caused them through my secrecy, they are not to be told. Only you, among humans, know my true identity. It is not a secret I share lightly.”

“But, if you’re Deryni…”

“Try, if you can, to imagine my position,” Arilan said with a patient sigh. “I am the only Deryni to wear the episcopal purple in nearly two hundred years—the only one. I am also the youngest of Gwynedd’s twenty-two bishops, which again puts me in a historically precarious position.” He lowered his eyes before continuing.

“I know what you must be thinking: that my inaction for the Deryni cause has probably permitted countless deaths, untold suffering at the hands of persecutors like Loris and others of his ilk. I know, and I ask the forgiveness of every one of those unfortunate victims in my prayers each night.” He raised his eyes to meet Cardiel’s unflinchingly. “But I believe that the greater virtue sometimes lies in knowing how to wait. Sometimes, though the price be almost unbearable, and though a man’s mind and soul and heart cry out in protest, even then must he wait until the time is right. I only hope that I’ve not waited too long.”

Cardiel looked away, unable to bear the blue-violet gaze any longer. “What is this place? How did we get here?”

“We came by means of a Transfer Portal,” Arilan replied neutrally. “The way lies through the floor design in your chapel. It is very old.”

“Deryni magic?”

“Yes.”

Cardiel eased himself to a full sitting position, turning that bit of information over in his mind. “Then, is this where you came after I left you in the chapel the other night? When I looked in a few minutes later, you were gone.”

Arilan crooked a hint of a smile. “I see that I was wise not to linger.” He sighed. “Thomas, I am sorry, but I cannot tell you where I went.” He held out his hand to assist Cardiel to his feet, but Cardiel ignored it.

“Cannot or will not?”

“May not,” Arilan replied sympathetically. “At least not yet. Try to be patient with me.”

“Implying that there are others with authority over you?”

“Implying that there are things I may not tell you,” Arilan whispered, a pleading look on his face as he continued to extend his hand. “Trust me, Thomas? I swear I’ll not betray that trust.”

Cardiel stared for a long time at the outstretched arm, at the eyes slightly fearful in the long-familiar face. Then he reached out slowly to grasp Arilan’s hand, letting the younger bishop pull him to his feet. They stood hand-clasped that way for several seconds, each reading what he could in the other’s eyes. Then Arilan smiled and clapped Cardiel on the shoulder.

“Come, my brother, we have work to do this night. If you truly mean to receive Morgan and Duncan back among us, then they must be told, and preparations made. Also, there remains the matter of our recalcitrant brethren of the convocation, who will be wondering what makes us so long overdue. They must still be persuaded, though I suspect they’ll follow your lead readily enough.”

Cardiel ran a nervous hand through steel-gray hair and shook his head incredulously. “You do move quickly when you want to, don’t you, Denis? You’ll pardon me if I seem to react a bit stupidly for a few minutes, but this is going to take a little getting used to.”

“Of course it is.” Arilan chuckled, guiding Cardiel back to the center of the room where a design embossed the floor. “And we might as well start by getting back to your chapel. The guards will be getting edgy.”

Cardiel glanced apprehensively at the floor. “The Transfer Portal you spoke of?”

“Indeed,” Arilan replied, moving behind Cardiel to place his hands on the other’s shoulders once more. “Now, just relax and let me do the work. There’s nothing to it. Relax and let your mind go blank.”

“I’ll try,” Cardiel whispered.

And the floor tipped out from under him and Arilan in a soft, black blur.

IN the next hour, Morgan and Duncan were told of the bishops’ decision.

It was not a cordial meeting; all were too wary, too guarded for that. The former fugitives had been outcast from the Church for too many months not to feel some mistrust of a pair of that Church’s most powerful prelates; and the feeling was somewhat mutual.

But the bishops’ attitude was not hostile. It was as if the two were testing the penitents, probing their reaction to the decision. They had, after all, been charged with the spiritual well-being of these dissident sons of the Church.

Cardiel was markedly silent and said little, which Morgan thought a bit strange when he remembered some of the brilliant letters that had come to Kelson from the man’s pen in the past three months. The Dhassan bishop kept glancing at Arilan with a strange, questioning expression, which Morgan could not interpret: a look that sometimes raised the hackles on Morgan’s neck, though he could not say just why.

Arilan, on the other hand, was now relaxed, witty, and seemingly unaffected by the gravity of the situation. He was also quick to point out, however, just before the four entered the room where the convocation waited, that the real dangers were only beginning. There were still half a dozen bishops in the chamber who must be convinced of the innocence and penitence of the two Deryni lords—and then the eleven grim men in Coroth. And all of this must be resolved before they could even think about any confrontation with Wencit of Torenth.

There were a few mild protests when the four entered the chamber. Siward had gasped; Gilbert had crossed himself furtively, his small, pig-eyes darting to his companions for support; and even the peppery old Wolfram de Blanet, staunchest opponent of the Interdict, had gone a little white. None of them had ever knowingly been in the presence of even one Deryni, much less two.

But they were reasonable men, these bishops of Gwynedd. And while not entirely convinced of the beneficence of Deryni in general, they were at least willing to concede that perhaps these particular Deryni had been more wronged than wronging. The excommunication must be lifted and absolution given, now that repentance had been shown.

The situation was by no means resolved with that decision. For, while the bishops at Dhassa were, for the most part, reasonably educated and sensible men, not overly given to superstition and certainly not inclined to hysteria, convincing the common folk would be quite another matter, and one which must be carefully considered. The average man had long harbored the belief that the Deryni were an accursed race, whose very presence in a place could bring ruin and death. And while Morgan had managed to keep a relatively neutral name while in the service of Brion and Kelson, and Duncan’s reputation had been impeccable until the Saint Torin affair, these facts had been largely overshadowed in the greater knowledge that both men were Deryni.

For that reason, a more tangible affirmation must be offered to show that Morgan and Duncan had, indeed, mended their Deryni ways. So simple a measure as absolution and penance would not do for the common folk: the townspeople, soldiers, artisans, and craftsmen who make up and support an army. Their simple faith demanded a more exacting reconciliation, more substantial proof of the humility and repentance of the two Deryni lords. A public ceremony was called for, which would graphically demonstrate to the people that the bishops and the two Deryni were now in complete accord in the sight of Almighty God.

It would be nearly two days before final battle plans could be formalized; two days before the bishops’ army could be ready to move out, in any case. Also, Morgan and Duncan had brought word that Kelson could not be at the planned rendezvous point before the end of the fourth day anyway. It took but two days to reach that point.

Taking all of that into account, the time for formal reconciliation had been set for the evening hours two nights hence, on the eve of departure for the meeting with the king. During those two days, the two Deryni would confer with the bishops and their highest military advisors and plan the strategy of the war to come. And Bishop Cardiel’s monks would go out among the people and spread the word of Morgan and Duncan’s surrender and subsequent repentance. The evening of the second day would see their official reception back into the Church, before as many of the army and citizenry as could crowd themselves into Dhassa’s great cathedral. There, in a solemn display of episcopal authority, Morgan and Duncan would be taken back into the fold with all the pageantry the Church could muster. The people would approve.

TWO days later, at the edge of the great Llyndruth Plain below Cardosa, Sean Lord Derry pulled off his helmet and wiped a tanned forearm across his brow. It was warm here at Llyndruth Meadows, the air already charged with the sticky heat of approaching summer. Derry’s hair was damp where the helmet had matted it to his head, and his body itched between the shoulder blades beneath its leather and mail.

Restraining a sigh, Derry shrugged his shoulders to ease the itch and slung the helmet over his left arm by the chin strap. As he started back toward the clearing where he had left his horse tethered, he moved stealthily, treading as soundlessly as possible in the new spring grass. He had chosen this meadow return with care, for the footing among the trees was treacherous with the threat of snapping twigs and branches left from the long winter. To be captured now could mean a painful and lingering death at the hands of those who camped on the plain below.

Derry reviewed what he had learned as he worked his way in the direction of the thicket. Off to the east, the Rheljan Mountain Range reared its jagged peaks more than a mile above the plain, sheltering the walled city of Cardosa in the cut of the Cardosa Pass. Wencit of Torenth was there, or so men said. But to the west, Derry’s right, the Llyndruth Plain stretched on for miles and miles. And just over the ridge behind him lay the massed armies of Bran Coris, the traitorous Earl of Marley, now the ally of that same Wencit of Torenth whose presence at Cardosa threatened the very existence of Gwynedd.

The picture taking shape in Derry’s mind was not a pleasant one; nor could he expect it to improve in the near future. After leaving Morgan and Duncan two days earlier, Derry had headed northeast through the greening, boulder-strewn hills of northern Corwyn, making his way toward Rengarth and the supposed campsite of Duke Jared McLain and his army.

But there was no ducal army at Rengarth; only a handful of peasants who told him the army had gone north five days before. He rode on, and the gently rolling green of Corwyn slowly gave way to the bare, silent plains of Eastmarch. Instead of the expected army, he found only the aftermath of a terrible battle: terrified villagers huddled in the ruins of sacked and burned-out towns; the hacked bodies of men and horses lying unburied, rotting in the sun, the McLain tartan on their saddles dark with blood and gore; broken standards of red, blue, and silver trampled in the dusty, blood-drenched fields.

He questioned those of the villagers he could lure out of hiding. Yes, the duke’s army had come this way. They had joined with another army that had seemed friendly at first. The two leaders had clasped arms across their saddles as the two armies met.

But then the carnage had begun. One man thought he had seen the green and yellow banner of Lord Macanter, a northern border lord who had often ridden with Ian Howell, late the Lord of Eastmarch. Another told of a preponderance of royal blue and white among the standards: the Earl of Marley’s colors.

But whoever led the opposing army, the blue-and-whites fell upon the duke’s men without mercy, cutting down the ducal army almost to the man, and taking captive those they did not slay. When the battle was over, some remembered black-and-white banners among the riders of the rear guard, and the leaping hart badge of the House of Furstán. Treachery was definitely afoot.

The trail of blood and death ended at Llyndruth Meadows. Derry had arrived at dawn to find the army of Bran Coris encamped in concentric circles around the mouth of the great Cardosa defile. He knew he should report what he saw and get out while he could, but he knew that there would be no chance to speak with Morgan by the prearranged Mind-Speaking until later tonight; and Derry might learn much more by then.

Discreet wandering among the outlying camps of the army revealed even more disturbing information. For apparently Bran Coris had switched his allegiance to Wencit of Torenth on the very eve of war, not more than a week ago, tempted and held by dark promises whose implications were too horrible to even contemplate. Even Bran’s men grew uneasy when they talked about it, if they talked about it; though they, too, were lured by the promise of fame and fortune which Wencit seemed to offer.

Now, if only Derry could stay free long enough to tell Morgan tonight. If only he could last until a few hours after sunset, it would be a simple matter to slip into that strange Deryni sleep by which he and his lord could communicate even at this distance. The king must be told of Bran’s treachery before it was too late. And something must be done to determine the fate of Duke Jared and the remnants of his army.

Derry had re-entered the trees and was almost to his horse when the faint crackle of a breaking twig put him on his guard. He froze and listened, hand creeping to the hilt of his broadsword, but heard nothing further. He had nearly decided that the sound had been nothing, that his taut nerves were playing tricks on him, when he heard a horse snort and shuffle its feet in the clearing ahead.

Could the animal have smelled him?

No, he was downwind of the thicket. The situation was showing all the signs of a trap.

A faint rustling sound repeated itself slightly to his left, and he was sure of the trap. But he could not hope to escape without a horse. He had to brazen it out. There lay his only chance.

Hand resting warily on sword hilt, he strode into the clearing ahead where his horse was tied, making no effort now to go quietly. As he had feared, there were soldiers there waiting for him: three of them. He rather expected that there were others that he could not see: perhaps even bowmen with feathered death aimed at his back right now. He must act as though he belonged here.

“Are you looking for something?” Derry asked, coming to a cautious halt a few yards inside the clearing.

“What’s your regiment, soldier?” the foremost of the three men asked. His tone was casual and only faintly suspicious, but there was something vaguely menacing in the way his thumbs were thrust under his belt to either side. One of his companions, the shortest and heaviest of the three, was more openly hostile, and toyed with the hilt of his weapon as he glared across at Derry.

Derry put on one of his more innocent expressions and spread his arms in a wary gesture of conciliation, his helmet dangling by its leather chin strap.

“Why, the Fifth, of course,” he dared, guessing that there had to be at least eight horse-regiments in Bran’s army. “What is this, anyway?”

“Wrong,” the third man glared, his hand also going to the sword at his belt as his eyes flicked over Derry’s form. “The Fifth wears yellow buskins; yours are brown. Who’s your commanding officer?”

“Now, gentlemen,” Derry soothed, edging his way backward and calculating the distance to his horse. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You’ve already got that, son,” the first man muttered, thumbs still hooked nonchalantly in his belt. “Now, are you going to come peacefully or not?”

“Not, I should think!”

Flinging his helmet into the face of the startled man, Derry whipped his sword from its scabbard and lunged forward, dispatching the short, fat soldier with his first deft thrust. Even as he wrenched his blade free, the two remaining guardsmen were shouting and attacking, leaping over the body of their slain comrade to charge him with drawn swords. He could hear shouts in the distance and knew that help was being summoned. He must get away now, or it would be too late.

He dropped momentarily to one knee and came up slashing with the dagger he had drawn from his boot top, raking the blade across the knuckles of one of his attackers. The man screamed and dropped his weapon, but Derry was beset by the fellow’s partner and another pair of swordsmen before he could press the advantage. A glance hazarded over his shoulder revealed half a dozen more armed men approaching at a dead run, swords already drawn, and Derry cursed under his breath as he slashed his way to his horse’s side.

He lashed out with the dagger and one booted heel as he tried to scramble to the horse’s back, but someone had loosened the girth and the saddle went out from under him. Even as he flailed for balance, reaching hands were grabbing at him, pulling at clothes and hair, hooking into his belt to drag him from the saddle.

He felt a lancing pain in his right bicep as someone’s dagger caught him, and his sword slid from fingers that were suddenly slippery with blood: his own. Then he was being borne to the ground under a crush of mailed bodies, his limbs pressed down spread-eagled against the new spring grass, the breath being choked out of him.