DERRY winced and stifled a groan as rough hands rolled him to his back and began probing his wounded arm.

He had passed out briefly as the men manhandled him from his horse, regaining consciousness as he was half-dragged and half-carried to where he now lay on a patch of damp grass. Three armed soldiers pinned his limbs to the ground: three grim men in the harness of war, badged in the royal blue and white of the Earl of Marley.

One of the men held a dagger’s blade casually at his captive’s throat. A fourth man in the tunic of a field surgeon knelt by Derry’s head, clucking to himself disapprovingly as he bared the wound and began to dress it. Derry’s concentration brought a score of additional men into focus, standing watchfully around and staring down at him. With a sinking feeling, Derry realized that escape was now close to impossible.

When the surgeon finished binding up the wound, one of the standing guards pulled a length of rawhide from his belt and looped deft coils around Derry’s wrists, securing them in front of him. After testing the bonds, he straightened and stared at the prisoner suspiciously, almost as though he recognized him, then disappeared from Derry’s range of vision. Derry lifted his head and tried to orient himself as the men who had been holding him got to their feet and joined the watching circle.

He was back in the camp, lying partially in the shade of a low, brown leather tent. He did not recognize the specific place and did not expect to, since he had seen only a small part of the encampment; but there was no doubt in his mind that he was deep within it.

The tent was of the sort used by the plainsmen of Eastmarch, low and squat but finely finished: an officer’s tent by the look of it. He wondered briefly whose tent it was, for he had certainly seen no one of appropriate rank so far. Perhaps these men did not realize the importance of their prisoner. Perhaps he could avoid meeting someone of higher rank who might recognize him.

On the other hand, if they did not realize who he was and believed him to be but a common spy, he might not even get a chance to talk himself out of this one. They might execute him without further ado.

But they had bandaged his wound—a senseless waste of effort if they only meant to kill him. He wondered where the men’s commander was.

As though in response to his thought, a tall, middle-aged man in mail and a blue and gold plaid strode to the green beside the tent and tossed a crested helmet to one of the watching soldiers. He had the lean, assured carriage of aristocracy, a sureness of movement that immediately marked him as an accomplished warrior. Jewels glittered on the pommel of his sword and subtly within the links of a heavy gold neck chain. Derry recognized him immediately: Baron Campbell of Eastmarch. Now, would Campbell recognize him?

“Well, what have we here? Did the king send ye, lad?”

Derry frowned at the condescending tone, wondering whether he was being baited or whether the man already knew who he was.

“Of course the king sent me,” Derry finally decided to say, permitting a trace of indignation to show in his voice. “Is this how you always treat royal messengers?”

“So, it’s a royal messenger you’re claiming to be, is it?” the man asked, cocking his head wistfully. “That isn’t what the guards told me.”

“The guards didn’t ask,” Derry said contemptuously, raising his head in defiance. “Besides, my messages were not intended for guards. I was on my way to Duke Ewan’s army in the north, on king’s business. I stumbled on your encampment quite by mistake.”

“Aye, ’tis indeed a mistake, lad,” Campbell murmured, his eyes sweeping Derry suspiciously. “Ye were taken whilst prowling around the edge of the camp, ye lied to the men who asked your identity, killed a soldier who tried to take you into custody. And ye have no credentials or messages on you, nothing to indicate that you are what you say you are, and not a spy. I think that you are a spy. What’s your name, lad?”

“I am not a spy. I am a royal envoy. And my name and my messages are not for your ears!” Derry said hotly. “When the king finds out how you have treated—”

In a flash, Campbell was on his knees beside Derry, his hand twisted in the neck of Derry’s mail and pulling it choking-tight as he stared his captive in the face.

“You will not speak to me in that tone, young spy! And if you hope to see a ripe old age, which appears unlikely the more ye talk, ye’d best hold yer tongue unless you have civil words upon it! Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Derry winced as the man tightened his grip on the mail, biting back a smoking retort that surely would have been the end of him, if he had voiced it. With a slight inclination of his head, he signaled his acquiescence and took a deep breath as the man released his throat. Even as he wondered what he was going to do next, Campbell took that decision out of his hands.

“We’ll take him to his lordship,” he said, getting to his feet with a sigh. “I have nae the time to fool with him. Mayhap the Lord’s Deryni friends can weasel the truth out of him.”

As his words sank in, Derry was dragged to his feet and herded along a muddy path toward the center of the camp. There were questioning looks as they went, and several times Derry thought he saw faces turn toward him with near-recognition in their eyes. But no one approached them, and Derry was too busy trying to stay on his feet to look at anyone too closely. Besides, it didn’t much matter whether he was recognized now or not. Bran Coris would know him instantly, and what he was about. Nor was the reference to Bran’s Deryni allies comforting.

They skirted a sparse grove of oaks to emerge in the headquarters area, where a splendid tent of royal blue and white dominated the center of a broad patch of velvet green. Other tents of only slightly lesser size and splendor surrounded the central area, their brilliant colors and standards vying with one another for attention. Not far away, the wash of the great Cardosa River ran its swollen course across the plain, the water high and muddy-brown in this run-off season.

Derry’s escort yanked him along as his steps faltered, at last throwing him to his knees before a black and silver tent next to Bran’s royal blue one. His wounded arm had started to ache abominably from the men’s rough handling, and his wrists chafed in their rawhide bonds. From inside the tent, he could hear men’s voices arguing loudly, though the words were muffled and indistinguishable behind the thick fabric of the tent walls.

Baron Campbell paused for just a moment, apparently weighing the advisability of entering, then shrugged and disappeared through the open tent flap. From within came an explosive exclamation of indignation, a murmured curse in an accent foreign to Derry’s ears, and then the sound of Bran Coris’s voice.

“A spy? Damn it, Campbell, you interrupted me to say you’ve captured a spy?”

“I’m thinking he’s more than a spy, m’lord. He’s—well, you’d best see for yourself.”

“Oh, very well. Duke Lionel, I’ll return shortly.”

Derry’s heart sank as Campbell emerged from the tent, and he averted his face as a slender figure in a blue tunic stepped into the sunlight behind Campbell. Derry heard a muffled intake of breath from Bran’s direction, and then he was aware of two pairs of boots standing a few paces before him, one pair black and shining and spurred with silver.

It would do no good to postpone the inevitable. With a resigned sigh, Derry lifted his head to behold the familiar face of Bran Coris.

“Sean Lord Derry!” Bran blurted. The golden eyes went cold. “So! How does my dubious colleague, outside the king’s Council chambers? You haven’t deserted your precious Morgan, have you?” Derry’s eyes flashed defiance. “No, I didn’t think so. My Lord Lionel, come and see what the Duke of Corwyn has sent us,” he called. “I do believe it’s his favorite spy.”

As he spoke, Lionel Duke d’Arjenol emerged from the tent and joined Bran, staring hard at Derry all the while. He was tall and regal and looked vaguely foreign, dark beard and moustache trimmed close to his face to emphasize thin, cruel lips.

A robe of faintly rustling white silk flowed from the duke’s broad shoulders to sweep the toes of claret velvet boots. But there was the gleam of a mail-backed crimson tunic where the robe parted in front, the flash of a curved dagger thrust through his sash. The hair was long and black, pulled in a lock at the back of his neck and held across the brow by a broad fillet of silver. Jeweled wrist guards glittered red and green and violet as he folded silk-sleeved arms across his chest.

“So, this is Morgan’s minion,” Lionel said, his cool gaze sweeping Derry with disdain.

“The Earl of Derry,” Bran replied with a nod. “Kelson appointed him to Lord Ralson’s vacant Council seat last fall. He was Morgan’s military aide for some time before that. Where did you find him, Campbell?”

“On the ridge just south of here, m’lord. A patrol spotted his horse and just waited for him to come back. He cut up some of our men when they tried to take him, though. Peter Davency is dead.”

“Davency? Heavy-set fellow, rather quick-tempered?”

“The same, m’lord.”

Bran hooked his thumbs in the jeweled belt at his waist and stared down at Derry for a long time, slowly rising up and down on the balls of his feet, jaw clenching and unclenching as he stared. For a moment, Derry feared that Bran would kick him, and he steeled himself for the blow; but it did not come. After what seemed like an eternity, Bran curbed his anger and turned slowly to face Lionel, not daring to look at Derry any longer.

“If this man were wholly my prisoner, he would be dead by now for what he has done,” Bran said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “However, I am not so blinded by anger that I cannot realize the value he may have to you and Lord Wencit. Will you ask your kinsman what he wishes me to do with this offal?”

With a curt bow, Lionel turned on his heel and glided into the tent, Bran following a step behind. They paused just inside the opening, their shapes silhouetted against the inner darkness. Just before Bran twitched the tent flap over the opening, a faint play of light flared somewhere above the men’s heads, suggesting that they intended using some kind of magic to contact Wencit. After a few minutes, Bran emerged from the tent alone, his manner thoughtful and a bit amused.

“Well, Sean Lord Derry, it appears that my new allies are inclined to be merciful. You are to be spared a spy’s execution and instead are to be the guest tonight of His Majesty, King Wencit, in Cardosa. Personally, I cannot vouch for the quality of entertainment you will find there; Torenthi sport can be a bit bizarre for my tastes, I must confess. But perhaps you will enjoy it. Campbell?”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Bran’s face hardened as he stared down at the helpless Derry. “Put him on a horse and get him out of here. The sight of him sickens me!”

MORGAN paced the length of the tiny anteroom in the bishop’s palace in Dhassa and rubbed a hand across his newly shaven jaw, then turned to peer impatiently through the bottom of the high, grilled window. Outside, darkness was falling, the night mists moving in swiftly as they often did in this mountain country, cloaking all of Dhassa in an eerie, clammy shroud. Though it was not yet fully dark, torches were beginning to appear in the lowering dimness, their wavering flames pale and ghostly against the twilight.

The streets that had teemed with soldiers an hour earlier were almost silent now. Over to the left, he could see an honor guard lined up before the doors of Dhassa’s cathedral, and scores of mailed and cloaked fighting men and city burghers making their way into the high nave beyond. Occasionally, when a lull came in the arrivals at the cathedral, he could see through the open doors and into the great nave itself, catching the gleam of many candles lighting the place nearly as bright as day. In a little while, he and Duncan would be entering that cathedral with the bishops. He wondered what their reception would be.

With a sigh, Morgan turned away from the window and glanced across the room to where Duncan sat quietly on a low wooden bench. A candle burned at Duncan’s end of the bench, and the priest seemed absorbed in the content of a small, leather-bound book with gilt-edged pages. Like Morgan, he was robed in penitential violet, clean-shaven, his face oddly pale where his beard had been. He had not yet bothered to secure the front of his robe, for it was warm in the tiny chamber, close with the night air that drifted on the mists outside. A white tunic, hose, and soft leather boots shone stark beneath the robe, the pristine whiteness unrelieved by any jewel or adornment.

With another sigh, Morgan glanced down at his own robe and tunic, at the gryphon and lion rings winking on his hands, then moved slowly to Duncan’s side of the room and looked down at him. Duncan did not seem in the least concerned that his kinsman had been pacing in precisely the same manner for the past quarter hour, or even to have noticed that he had finally stopped.

“Don’t you ever get tired of waiting?” Morgan asked.

Duncan looked up from his reading with a faint smile. “Sometimes. But it’s a skill that priests must learn quite early in their careers, or else become good actors. Why don’t you stop pacing and try to relax?”

So, he had noticed.

Morgan sat heavily on the bench beside Duncan and leaned his head against the wall behind, arms folded across his chest in an attitude of utter tedium.

“Relax? That’s easy enough for you to say. You like ritual. You’re used to dealing with ecclesiastical pageantry. Me, I’m as edgy as a squire at his first tournament. Not only that, but I think I’m going to die of hunger. I haven’t had a thing to eat all day.”

“Nor have I.”

“No, but you’re better used to it than I. You tend to forget that I am a degenerate nobleman, accustomed to indulging myself whenever the whim strikes me. Even some of that wretched Dhassa wine would be almost welcome.”

Duncan closed his book and leaned back against the wall with a smile. “Think about what you’re saying. Think what wine would do to our clear-headedness after two days with only bread and water—and nothing today. Besides, knowing Dhassa wine, I personally would rather die of thirst.”

“I concede you the point.” Morgan smiled and closed his eyes. “Goes to show you what fasting will do. It doesn’t mortify the soul, it corrodes the brain.”

“Well, perhaps the bishops wouldn’t be averse to a touch of something,” Duncan said with a chuckle. “More bread and water, maybe? I hardly think they’d want us fainting away during the ceremony, for lack of food.”

Morgan grinned, getting up to resume his pacing. “Shows how much you know. Fainting might be the best thing we could do out there. Just think: The penitent Deryni, weakened by fasting, their spirits chastened and their hearts purified, faint away in the presence of the Lord.”

“Actually, that’s an interesting—”

A soft knock at the door interrupted whatever Duncan had thought might be interesting, and he broke off expectantly, glancing toward Morgan as he got to his feet. Bishop Cardiel swept into the room in a rustle of purple silk, the hood of his cape thrown back on his shoulders. He waved dismissal to the black-cowled monk who had accompanied him as Duncan and Morgan bent to kiss his ring, then pulled the door softly to. Then he reached beneath his cloak to produce a folded piece of parchment.

“This came an hour ago,” he said in a low voice, handing it to Morgan and glancing out the window uneasily. “It’s from the king. He wishes us well in tonight’s endeavors and looks forward to meeting us at Cor Ramet the day after tomorrow. I hope we shall not have to disappoint him.”

“Disappoint him?” Morgan, who had moved closer to the candle to scan the letter, looked up with a start. “Why? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong—yet,” Cardiel said. He held out his hand for the letter and Morgan gave it over without a word. “Does either of you have any question about what is to happen tonight?”

“Father Hugh briefed us several hours ago, Excellency,” Duncan said carefully, studying Cardiel’s face. “My lord, if there is some difficulty that concerns us, we should know about it.”

Cardiel eyed them both for a long moment, then turned to rest one gloved hand against the high windowsill. He stared at the barred window for several seconds, as though choosing his words with care, then turned his head partially toward the two in the room. His steel-gray head was silhouetted against the darkening sky, his cloak parted slightly by his upraised arm. Beneath the cloak, a spotless alb gleamed like silver against the gray stone wall, and Morgan suddenly realized that the bishop had interrupted his vesting to come to them. He wondered what Cardiel was trying to say.

“You made a good impression this afternoon in the procession. Are you aware of that?” the bishop said lightly. “The people love to see penitents make public demonstration of their contrition. It makes them feel more righteous. Fortunately, the majority of those who will attend us tonight are willing to believe in the sincerity of your reconciliation.”

“However…” Morgan ventured.

Cardiel lowered his eyes and smiled in spite of himself. “Yes, there is usually a ‘however,’ isn’t there?” He looked up, directly into Morgan’s eyes. “Alaric, try to believe that I do trust you—both of you.” He glanced at Duncan. “Unfortunately, there are many who will attend tonight who remain unconvinced. No matter how repentant you may appear to be, I’m afraid it would take a miracle to persuade some of them that you mean no harm.”

“Are you asking us to provide a miracle, Excellency?” Morgan murmured, returning Cardiel’s gaze.

“Good heavens, no! That’s the last thing I want.” Cardiel shook his head emphatically. “In fact, that is perhaps the crux of what I must say to you now.” He laced his fingers together and stared down at his bishop’s ring.

“Alaric, I have been Bishop of Dhassa for four years now. During those four years, and during the tenures of at least the last five of my predecessors, there has never been a breath of scandal associated with the See of Dhassa.”

“Perhaps you should have considered that point before joining the schism, my lord,” Morgan said softly.

Cardiel looked pained. “I did as my conscience bade.”

“Your mind agrees,” Duncan said. “But your heart is afraid of what two Deryni might do. Is that it?”

Cardiel glanced up at them and stifled a nervous cough. “I—perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is.” He paused.

“Duncan, I require your promise that you’ll not use your powers tonight—either of you. Whatever happens, I must have your solemn assurance that you’ll do nothing, nothing whatsoever, to make you appear different from any other penitent who has ever entered my cathedral to make his peace with the Church. Surely you understand the importance of what I am asking.”

Morgan looked at the floor and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I assume that Arilan knows you’ve come to us?”

“He does.”

“And the subject of conversation?”

“He agrees. There must be no magic.”

Duncan shrugged and glanced at Morgan. “Then, it appears that you must have our word on it, my lord. You have mine.”

“And mine,” Morgan said, after an almost imperceptible pause.

Cardiel gave a low sigh of relief. “Thank you. I shall leave you alone for a few more minutes, then. I suspect you will wish to prepare yourselves for the ceremony. Denis and I will return for you shortly.”

As the door closed behind Cardiel, Duncan glanced at his cousin. Morgan had turned away as the bishop left, and now the single candle at the end of the bench was casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, planing Morgan’s face into a mask of concentration. Duncan stared at him for a long moment, a thread of unease rippling through his mind, then started to move across the chamber to Morgan’s side.

“Alaric?” he said in a low voice. “What—”

Morgan snapped out of his reverie and held a finger to his lips, then eyed the door as he crossed to the bench and dropped to his knees in front of it.

“Duncan, I fear that I have been a stranger to prayer in these past weeks,” he murmured, motioning for Duncan to join him, and glancing at the door again. “Will you pray with me?”

Wordlessly Duncan knelt at his kinsman’s side, his eyes narrowing in question as he made the sign of the cross. He started to speak again, hazarding another glance at the door, but he saw Morgan’s lips shape the single syllable, No, and he bowed his head instead. Watching Morgan from the corner of his eye, he formed his words so that he was certain only Morgan could hear. He was reluctant to use mind-speech when they had promised Cardiel they would use no magic.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” he murmured. “I know you’re concerned that we may be watched, but there’s more to it than that. You were reluctant to give your promise to Cardiel. Why?”

“Because I may not be able to keep that promise,” Morgan whispered.

“Not keep it?” Duncan replied, remembering just in time to keep his head bowed. “Why on earth not? What’s wrong?”

Morgan leaned forward slightly to glance at the door past Duncan, then sat back on his heels. “Derry. He was supposed to contact us either last night or tonight. Last night he didn’t. When the time comes tonight, we’ll be right in the middle of the ceremony.”

“Sweet Jesu!” Duncan exploded under his breath, crossing himself as he remembered he was supposed to be praying, and bowing his head once more.

“Alaric, we can’t listen for Derry’s call in the cathedral—not after we promised Cardiel that we wouldn’t use our powers. If we’re caught—”

Morgan nodded slightly. “I know. But there isn’t any other way. I’m afraid something may have happened to Derry. We’ll just have to take the chance and hope we won’t be caught.”

Duncan buried his face in his hands and sighed. “I sense that you’ve thought about this at length. You have a plan?”

Morgan bowed his head again and edged slightly closer to Duncan. “Of sorts, yes. There are several places in the liturgy, both in the ceremony itself and in the Mass which follows, when we won’t have many responses to make. I’ll try to listen for Derry, while you keep watch. If it looks like we’re about to be detected, I’ll break off. You can—”

He broke off and bowed his head deeply as he heard the latch being lifted on the door. Then both men crossed themselves and rose as Cardiel stepped into the open doorway, followed closely by Arilan. Both men were solemnly vested in violet, croziers in hands and jeweled miters on heads. In the corridor behind them stood a long line of black-cowled monks, each holding a lighted candle.

“We are ready to begin, if you are,” Arilan said. The violet silk of his cope caught the deep blue-violet of his eyes and turned them to sparkling jewels in the candlelight, like the amethyst on his hand.

With a bow, Morgan and Duncan moved to join the procession. It would soon be quite dark.

IT was already dark in the Rheljan Mountains when Derry and his captors at last reached Cardosa. Derry had been tied across a saddle like a piece of baggage rather than being permitted to ride upright like a man—an embellishment calculated, he was sure, to further divest the prisoner of any false sense of dignity. Riding up the defile in this position, his head half-way down his horse’s side, had been a wet, cold, and often terrifying experience; for the horses had, at times, plunged through water almost up to their withers. Several times Derry’s head had been under water, lungs strained almost to the bursting point as he tried to keep from drowning. His wrists were numb and raw from the chafe of the rawhide thongs that bound him, his feet like lead from the cold and lack of circulation.

But these small details seemed to bother Derry’s escort not in the least. As soon as the little band had reined in, just within a small, dark courtyard, Derry’s bonds were cut and he was pulled roughly from the saddle. His wounded arm had gone stiff during the long, cramped ride, and he nearly passed out with the pain as his wrists were roughly bound in front of him once more. The fire of circulation returning to cramped and tortured limbs was almost more than he could bear, and he was almost glad for the support of the two guards who held his elbows to either side.

Derry tried to take notice of his surroundings, hoping that this would help him to ignore the pain. He was outside Esgair Ddu, the black-cliff fortress that protected the walled city of Cardosa. He could see the stark, barren ramparts looming above his head as he forced himself to remain standing, but he was not permitted a more leisurely inspection of the place. A pair of guards in the black and white Furstán livery came and took him from his original escort, and he was hurried down a flight of rough stone stairs. He tried to force himself to pay attention to the route they took, mentally charting each twist and turn in the dim corridor through which they dragged him. But his feet would hardly obey him, and he was too tired, and his pains too great, to pay heed the way he ought to.

When at length they came to an iron-bound door, and one man held him up while the other worked the key in the lock, it was all he could do merely to remain conscious. He was never certain how he got from the doorway to the carved armchair in which they sat him.

The men lashed his wrists to the chair arms and passed leather straps around waist and chest and ankles. Then they left him. Slowly his more immediate pains subsided, to be replaced by a dull, aching fatigue and an even more mind-numbing dread. After a few minutes, he finally opened his eyes and forced himself to take stock of the room.

The chamber appeared to be one of Esgair Ddu’s better dungeons. By the light of the single torch set in a cresset to his left, he could see that the floor, though strewn with straw, was at least not muddy, and the straw was clean. Nor were the walls dank and dripping—a feature which, in his meager experience with dungeons, he had often dreaded.

But the walls were still dungeon walls, adorned here and there with iron rings set at strategic locations, with bright, well-used chains, with other instruments whose purpose Derry preferred not to think about. Along similar lines, there was also a rather large leather-bound trunk set against the wall to Derry’s right: a squat, sinister-looking thing that seemed out of place. It bore an engraved crest below the hasp on the trunk: an ornate, vaguely alien badge etched in gold against the dark, polished leather. But the light was too dim, the trunk too far away, for Derry to be able to read the crest clearly. He had the feeling, however, that the trunk was a recent addition to the room, and that he did not want to meet its owner. He forced himself to leave the trunk and continue his inspection of the room.

There was a window in the place, he realized now. He had almost missed it in the dim light, set deep in the wall opposite him. But almost immediately he saw that it would do him little good. It was high and narrow, several feet wide on the inside, but narrowing to hardly more than a handspan or so at the outer limit. An iron lattice guarded the window rather than the more usual bars, and Derry realized, as he peered at the grille, that even if he could somehow remove it, he could never slip through the narrow window itself. Besides that—if he had not lost all sense of direction—the window looked out over a sheer cliff face, completely smooth. Even if he could get through the window, there would be no place to go once he got there—unless, of course, he chose another sort of escape. The rocks at the base of Esgair Ddu could give release of a kind, if it came to that.

Derry sighed and turned his attention back to the chamber itself. It served no useful purpose to contemplate the sort of freedom that might lie outside that window, since he could never get through there to begin with. Besides, apart from his personal aversion to the very thought of suicide, he knew that he was of no use to anyone dead. Alive, if he could withstand whatever his captors had in store for him, there was always the possibility that he could somehow escape, however slim that chance. Alive, he might yet be able to tell Morgan what he had learned, before it was too late.

The thought brought with it the stunning realization that he had the means to tell Morgan, if he could but use it. Morgan’s Saint Camber medallion still hung undiscovered around his neck. As long as they did not take that from him, there was a chance that he could still make contact with Morgan on schedule.

He did a rapid mental calculation and decided that it was about the time when Morgan would be expecting his call; forced out of his mind what would happen if he were wrong. The spell would work; it must work—though, trussed and helpless as he was, he wasn’t sure exactly how he was going to do it yet.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, and praying that he would be permitted the time to do what he had to do, Derry wriggled his torso in its bonds and concentrated on locating the medallion against his chest. Morgan had told him that he should hold the medallion in his hands when trying to establish contact, but since that was out of the question, he would have to hope that the touch of medallion on bare chest would suffice.

There! He could feel the medallion, warmed to body temperature, resting slightly left of center. Now, if only such a touch were sufficient, as well as the touch of hand….

Derry closed his eyes and tried to visualize the medallion as it lay against his chest, imagining that he was holding it in his hands, the incised carving sleek beneath his right thumb. Then he calmed his mind and let the words of the spell Morgan had taught him begin to roll through his mind, concentrating on his memory of how he had cupped the Camber medallion in the hollow of his hand.

He felt himself verging on the sleep-like trance that accompanied the spell, started to let himself slip into its cool depths—then tensed at the sound behind him of the door bolt scraping in its guides. Hinges creaked as the door swung back, and he could hear booted footsteps approaching. He controlled the impulse to twist his head around in an effort to see.

“Very well, tell him I’ll take care of it,” said a cool, cultured voice. “Deegan, did you have something?”

“Only this dispatch from Duke Lionel, Sire,” a second voice replied, an underling by the tone.

There was a murmur of assent, followed by the brittle crack of a seal being broken, the faint rustle of parchment. Derry’s stomach had begun a queasy churning as the voices spoke, for there was only one man in Esgair Ddu who would be addressed as “Sire.” As he registered this grim fact, someone stepped into the doorway with another torch, casting grotesque, misshapen shadows on the dungeon wall.

The hackles rose at the back of Derry’s neck, and he felt his heart begin to race. He told himself that the shadows did not reflect their owners’ true appearance, that it was a trick of the torchlight that struck such a note of mortal fear. But another corner of his mind whispered what he already knew: that one of the men had to be Wencit of Torenth. Now he would never get through to Morgan.

“I’ll deal with this later, Deegan. Leave us now,” the smooth voice said.

There was the rattle of parchment being folded, of leather creaking and harness jingling as someone withdrew. Then the door hinges were rasping closed, the bolt being shot into place. The torchlight began to intensify to his left, though he was certain that someone came from the right as well.

The faint rustling of the footsteps in the straw set frantic alarm bells clanging in Derry’s head.