MORGAN returned Arilan’s cold stare unflinchingly for several seconds, then nodded slowly.

“Yes, I used my powers tonight. I had no choice.”

“No choice?” Arilan echoed. “You dared to risk this entire operation, the work of weeks of careful planning, by your disobedience, and you say you had no choice?”

He turned on Duncan and held his gaze also. “And you, Father Duncan. As a priest, I would have thought your word would mean more to you than that. I suppose you had no choice either?”

“We did what had to be done, Excellency. If there had not been grave cause, we would not have considered breaking our promises to you.”

“If there was grave cause, I should have been informed of it. If Cardiel and I are to lead this force effectively, we must know what is happening. We cannot have the two of you making what could be critical decisions without our knowledge.”

Morgan only barely held his temper in check. “You would have been told in due time, my lord. As it was, the decision had to be ours to make. If you were Deryni, you would understand!”

“Would I?” Arilan breathed.

He turned away abruptly, hands clasping tightly together, and Morgan hazarded a glance at Duncan. In doing so, he could not help noticing Cardiel, who had gone almost as white as the alb he had just removed. His expression was strained, his eyes riveted on Arilan. Before Morgan could reach any conclusion regarding the bishop’s reaction, Arilan turned and took two long strides toward him, stopped to face him down, hands on hips.

“Very well, Alaric. I had not thought to tell you yet, but perhaps it is time after all. Surely you did not think that you and Duncan were the only Deryni in Gwynedd?”

“The only—” Morgan broke off in consternation, finally understanding why Cardiel was staring at his colleague so intently. “But, you…” he murmured.

Arilan gave a curt nod. “That is correct. I am Deryni also. Now tell me why I should understand what the pair of you did tonight.”

Morgan found himself speechless. Shaking his head in denial and disbelief, he staggered backward several steps and found a chair behind his knees. Gratefully he sank down on it, unable to take his eyes from the Deryni bishop. Duncan, who had retreated as far across the room as he could go, merely stared at Arilan and nodded slowly, as though putting together pieces of a puzzle he had held for a long time and never knew they formed a picture. Cardiel said nothing. Arilan, with a faint, almost self-conscious smile, turned and began removing his vestments, watching all of them out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, can’t one of you say something? Duncan, you must surely have suspected. Am I that good an actor?”

Duncan shook his head, trying to keep an edge of bitterness from his voice. “You are among the best I have ever seen, Excellency. I know from personal experience how difficult it is to live a lie, to keep the secret you and I have kept. But, tell me, did it never bother you to stand idly by while our people suffered and died for lack of your assistance? You were in a position to help them—yet you did nothing.”

Arilan lowered his eyes, then removed his stole and touched it to his lips, hung it carefully on a wooden peg before replying. “I did what I dared. I would it had been more. But being both priest and Deryni is not an easy role, as I’m sure you will agree. So far as I know, you and I are the only men to be ordained in several centuries. I dared not jeopardize what greater good I might achieve by revealing myself prematurely. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Duncan did not answer, and Arilan ventured a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Duncan, I know how it must have been for you. It will not always be as it has been.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know.”

With a patient sigh, Arilan turned his attention back to Morgan, who had not moved. The duke had regained most of his composure while the two priests spoke, and now he lifted his gaze to Arilan almost defiantly. The bishop understood immediately, and moved closer to Morgan’s chair.

“Is it so hard to trust, Alaric? I know that your path has not been easy either. We priests have no monopoly on sorrow.”

“Why should I trust you?” Morgan said. “You deceived us before; why not again? What reassurance do we have that you’ll not betray us?”

“Only my word—and it is at least as good as yours.” Arilan smiled wanly. “Or no, there is another way. Why don’t you let me show you why you should trust? Let me share a little of the other side with you, if you are not afraid. You may be surprised at what you see.”

“You would enter my mind?” Morgan breathed.

“No, you would enter mine. I shall allow it. Do you accept?”

Even as Morgan started to shake his head in instinctive refusal, Arilan abruptly dropped to one knee before him, a hand resting lightly on the arm of Morgan’s chair as he gazed into Morgan’s eyes. It was not an offer of physical contact—a condition that Morgan had always thought essential for a first Mind-Touch between strangers. But he sensed that Arilan did not seem to expect that this would be necessary.

Very tentatively, Morgan sent out a questing tendril of thought—and at once found himself skimming along the outermost levels of Arilan’s consciousness, floating without effort along vistaed halls of ordered, reasoned intellect whose fascination he could not resist. He caught glimpses of Arilan as a young man in seminary, in his first parish, in the chambers of the Curia last March, opposing the Interdict. How much there was that he had not expected!

Then he was back in his own mind, and Arilan was merely looking up at him. Without a word, the bishop stood and resumed removing his vestments, finally finishing in his familiar purple cassock and cloak. Only then did he meet Morgan’s eyes again, his manner now totally serene and matter-of-fact, as though nothing had happened.

“Shall we go?” he said easily, gliding to the door and shooting back the bolt.

As Arilan pulled the door wide and stood aside, Morgan nodded sheepishly and got to his feet, Duncan and Cardiel falling in quietly behind him.

“And you might tell us, as we walk, of what you learned in the cathedral tonight,” Arilan added, spreading his arms to include them all in his comradely embrace. “After that, I think we all had best retire to rest. We march at first light, and we wouldn’t want to keep Kelson waiting.”

TWO days later, Kelson received the homage of the rebel bishops at Dol Shaia, and himself knelt to the formal absolution they pronounced to free him of the taint of consorting with former excommunicants and heretics. Two days after that, they were at the gates of Coroth.

Strangely enough, Kelson had not seemed terribly surprised to learn that Arilan was Deryni. He had been aware, from the minute that Morgan and Duncan and the rebel bishops joined him, that something vital had changed. Other than Cardiel, none of the other bishops knew of Arilan’s newly revealed status; but even so, there was a subtle difference in the way they deferred to him as opposed to Cardiel, almost as though they felt his power without actually being aware.

Kelson, long a student of the subtle nuance in speech and movement, had even noticed a difference in Morgan and Duncan’s attitude toward Arilan; something that even he, after long association with both men, could not fully explain.

Once Arilan was revealed to him, however, it was a simple matter merely to take the information in stride, accepting Arilan’s Deryniness as an old and established fact. This ready acceptance worked much to his favor, for by the time the royal army came within sight of Coroth late the next afternoon, the four Deryni were a team. Kelson felt relaxed and confident as they drew rein at the top of a rise and watched the army deploying around Morgan’s occupied city.

They had flushed out several bands of gray-clad rebel horsemen as they advanced toward Coroth, so any element of surprise they might have had was long gone by the time the first royal advance scouts sighted the city.

Now the plain outside Coroth lay empty, deserted, the late-afternoon breeze rippling the sea grass to a gently undulating ocean of pale green. To the southeast, down a wide stretch of ocean strand, they could see the flat crinkle of the sea, green and silver in the mist-shrouded afternoon sun. The tang of salt was in the air, along with the slightly sharp scent of decaying seaweed, a whiff of the castle middens with their ripe decay.

Kelson surveyed the scene for several minutes, eyeing the blank castle walls, the empty expanse of plain and sand dunes, bare except for the rapidly advancing royal army. Far to the northwest, he could see the violet banners of Cardiel’s Joshuic Foot, war standards slowly giving way to spears and then to armed foot soldiers with tall, kite-shaped shields as they came over the rise.

Closer on his left flank, Prince Nigel’s crack Haldane archers were taking positions at a point of vantage atop a cluster of sand dunes. The regiment’s drummers, garish in their lowland dress of green and violet stripes, were hammering out a fast, complicated marching beat, twirling their sticks above their heads and shouting occasionally as they marked time with their feet. Each archer was partnered with a foot soldier armed with spear and shield, whose duty it would be to protect his archer during a rain of enemy bow-fire. All the men in the regiment wore the green and violet feather cockades of the Haldane Archers Corps in the front of their hard leather fighting caps.

At Kelson’s back, the flower of Gwynedd’s cavalry waited, knights and squires, pages and men-at-arms pulling quickly into position behind their king. The banners of the Lords of Horthness and Varian, Lindestark and Rhorau, Bethenar and Pelagog, floated above the heads of the royal knights: leaders of the greatest houses in Gwynedd, scions of families loyal to the Crown through all of Gwynedd’s noble history, since the inception of the Eleven Kingdoms. Morgan’s black gryphon banner could be seen off to the right, where Morgan was conferring with several of his officers on some minor point of strategy.

And riding toward Kelson was Duncan, accompanied by a squire carrying his McLain banner of sleeping lions and roses, the banner marked with the red label of three points that identified him as the heir to Cassan and also, since the death of his elder brother Kevin, Earl of Kierney. Duncan wore a fighting harness as he joined Kelson atop the command rise, only a small, plain silver pectoral cross denoting his priestly calling in the midst of McLain plaid and fighting gear.

The Deryni priest nodded greeting to Kelson as he drew rein, then turned to watch Morgan now riding toward them. The gryphon banner joined sleeping lion and roses and the Gwynedd lion, followed shortly by Arilan’s episcopal banner of Rhemuth and Cardiel’s Dhassa banner. Nigel’s crescent-charged demi-lion was also approaching.

“Well, what think you, Morgan?” Kelson asked. He pulled off his helmet and ruffled at damp raven hair with one gloved hand. “You best know the strength of your own seat. Can it be taken?”

Morgan sighed and slouched in the saddle, resting crossed forearms across the high, tooled pommel.

“I should hate to try to take it by force of arms, Sire. Any wall can be breached, given time and the proper equipment. I would prefer to have my city back intact, of course, but I realize that may not be possible. We haven’t a great deal of time.”

Arilan cocked an eye at the lowering sun, increasingly shrouded in mist, then turned in his saddle to glance at Kelson. Leather creaked as he moved, and his bishop’s cope gleamed in the weakening sunlight. Both he and Cardiel were mailed and armed beneath their bishops’ robes: two fighting bishops ready to fight for the Church Militant. Arilan’s keen eyes sought out Kelson’s in question.

“It will soon be dark, Sire. Unless you mean to engage in night battle, we should begin making arrangements for camp.”

“No, you’re right. It’s too late to make our move today.” Kelson flicked a fly away from his horse’s ears. “I do want to parley with them, though. There is a chance, though only a slim one, that we can reach agreement without raising a sword.”

“Very little chance of that, I should think,” Duncan retorted. “Not while Warin has anything to say about it, at least. The man is obsessed with his hatred of Deryni. He’ll take a lot of convincing.”

Kelson frowned. “I know, but we have to try. Cardiel, call the rest of the bishops to assemble with us here in front of the lines. Morgan and Father Duncan, I’d like you to spread the word that we’ll be camping here tonight, and have the men start making preparations. You might also set the watches before we try to parley. I don’t want the outlying camps harassed during the night by rebel patrols.”

“Aye, my prince.”

HIGH on the rampart walls, the activities of the royal army were being watched by other eyes. In the shelter of a merlon near the great portcullis gate, Warin de Grey and several of his lieutenants peered down from the castle wall and observed the preparations being made. Warin’s gray eyes searched the plain carefully, noting and recording the banners of the great lords assembled there, mentally tallying the hundreds of soldiers who appeared to be encamping on the plain below.

Warin had not the appearance one might expect in a man who had brought half of Corwyn to its knees. He was only middling of height, with close-trimmed hair and beard of a nondescript dun color. Gray was his tunic and cap, gray the cloak he now pulled more closely around his narrow shoulders. Only the stark black of the falcon badge emblazoned on the chest of his leather tunic broke the monotony of it all, black and white against the dull, plain gray. Steel gleamed at throat and wrists and on greaved legs, but even that was muted, satin-bright. Only the eyes were truly outstanding about this man now known as the Lord Warin: the eyes of a mystic, a seer, some said, a saint.

With those eyes, Warin could bore into a man’s soul, they said; could heal in the manner of the ancient prophets and holy men. Out of the north had he come, preaching a violent end for those of Deryni blood, calling for holy war to rid the people of the Deryni scourge that had lain too long upon the land.

Warin was appointed by God—or so he believed. At any rate, his successes, the charismatic leadership he seemed to display over his men, all appeared to point to the truth of that statement. Even the Curia of Gwynedd had been swayed to his cause, though Gwynedd’s Primate, Archbishop Edmund Loris, had been himself a foe of the Deryni for lo, these many years.

Now militant rebels and curial forces stood shoulder to shoulder behind the walls of Castle Coroth, ready to wage war against the city’s lawful lord and her king. They had captured the castle through the trickery of a few key men inside the walls, had taken proud Coroth without a single death or major injury.

Morgan’s staunchest adherents now lay in the dungeons deep below Coroth Keep, fed and cared for, but nonetheless prisoners of the fanatical religious forces that had occupied the city. Warin’s charisma had swayed even the citizens of Coroth, winning them over from their age-old loyalty to duke and king.

Now, peering down from his sheltered vantage point atop the walls of Coroth, Warin surveyed the enemy anew. A scabbard scraped against the wall behind him, and one of his lieutenants coughed to clear his throat.

“They bring many men, Lord. Will the walls keep them out?”

Warin nodded. “For now, Michael. At least for now. This Morgan was no fool when he fortified his city. He is certain to have defended it against every kind of attack he could foresee. How, then, can he breach his own defenses?”

A second man, Paul de Gendas, shook his head. “I like it not, Lord. You know what kind of villain this Morgan is. Remember what he did at Saint Torin’s, while not even in full command of his powers. Now he is joined by more Deryni: the priest McLain, the king himself, perhaps even the king’s uncle and his uncle’s sons. All of the Haldane line are to be feared, Lord.”

“Be not anxious,” Warin said softly. “I have reason to believe that even Deryni powers cannot broach these walls without considerable difficulty. Where are my lord archbishops, by the way? Have they been informed of what is happening here?”

“They’re coming, Lord,” said a third man, bowing slightly in response to the question. “His Grace of Valoret was infuriated when he heard.”

“No doubt he was,” Warin murmured, allowing the briefest of smiles to cross his lips. “His Grace of Valoret is a man of violent appetites. Happily, he is not afraid of Morgan face-to-face. He will be our most formidable spokesman this afternoon.”

Around him, all along the wide battlements, archers and spearmen were taking their positions on the castle ramparts. Great piles of stones had been readied in the days just past, and now strong men in sweat-stained jerkins stood ready to hurl the missiles down on unprotected attackers, should the need arise. As Warin turned to scan the towers to his rear, he saw the archbishops’ colors break from the top of the highest tower. His own falcon standard already whipped in the brisk sea breeze on a less lofty tower. And as he watched, the banners of nine more bishops appeared along the ramparts proper, interspersed with the lesser banners of nobles who had been persuaded to join the holy cause.

Warin returned his attention to the plain below and noted that the enemy leaders were assembling before the massed army, a white-cloaked rider approaching the king. At that moment, Warin was joined by Archbishops Loris and Corrigan and several of the lesser bishops. Loris was dressed in a plain working cassock of somber purple, a cloak of the same fabric pulled around his shoulders against the chill sea air. A skullcap made a halo of what wispy white hair could escape from beneath its confines, and Warin found himself idly wondering what kept the cap on in this breeze. A silver pectoral cross and a bishop’s ring were Loris’s only adornment against the somber violet of his robes, and his face was set and pale.

Corrigan, at his side, had put on flesh since Dhassa, three months prior, and his pale, fearful eyes darted nervously past Loris and Warin to the array on the plain below.

Warin’s lieutenants bowed from the waist as the prelates joined them, and Warin inclined his head in greeting. Loris gave a curt nod as he moved closer to the parapet wall.

“I was on my way when your messenger arrived,” he said, eyeing the army that surrounded them on three sides. “How do you think they will move?”

“They appear to be preparing to parley, Excellency. I doubt they would attack this close to dark. There at the front, though, you can see the king in the crimson, there beside a white rider. And over there, Bishops Cardiel and Arilan and the rest of the rebels, the prince Nigel. And of course, Morgan and the priest McLain are with them, as we expected they would be. Apparently they have induced the rebel bishops to believe in their innocence, since they wear normal battle attire.”

“Their ‘innocence,’ indeed!” Loris snorted. “God knows, I don’t have to tell you of their ‘innocence,’ Warin. You were at Saint Torin’s!”

“So I was, my lord,” Warin said mildly. “And the fact remains that the ‘innocents’ are now camped before us, and apparently wish to parley. Is this agreeable to you?”

Loris flounced to the edge of the parapet and leaned out briefly for a better look, then rejoined Warin. A small party was detaching itself from the rest and beginning to ride slowly toward the city walls. The white-cloaked rider now bore a white parley banner.

“Very well, we will at least listen. Signal your men to hold their fire and honor the flag of truce.”

As Loris spoke, the white-cloaked rider broke from the parley party and began riding a slow zig-zag pattern toward the castle walls. Bareheaded and, to all outward appearances, unarmed, he bore a banner of white silk, the staff gleaming silver and gold in the wan sunlight that yet remained. As Warin lifted a spyglass to his eye, reading the device on the rider’s surcoat, he identified the youth to be Prince Nigel’s eldest son.

Warin put the glass from his eye and watched as the young man drew rein perhaps fifty yards from the wall. Warin raised a hand to stay his men from hostile action, and bows and spears were lowered all along the wall. The young rider resumed his approach, this time at a walk, to draw rein perhaps twenty yards out from the walls. Warin watched as the youth scanned the parapets, guessing that he was looking for someone of rank to address.

“I bear a message for Archbishop Loris and the man called Warin de Grey,” the lad called, his raven head raised defiantly to search the faces appearing along the battlement.

Loris stiffened slightly, then moved forward, Warin at his elbow. The lad saw them and made his horse prance sideways, closer to their position. Even Warin had to admit that he was a fine rider.

“My lord Archbishop?” the lad called. His tone was slightly sharp, his boy’s voice high-pitched with nervousness.

“I am Archbishop Loris, and Warin de Grey stands beside me. What message have you?”

The young man bowed slightly in the saddle, then gazed up at the two. “My lord cousin, Kelson King of Gwynedd, bids me say that he wishes parley with you. He asks only that the truce marked by this banner be upheld so that he and several of his retainers may approach to speaking distance. Will you grant this request in honor?”

Loris cast a sidelong glance at Warin, then nodded. “I will grant it in honor,” he replied formally. “But tell His Majesty that unless he has a mind to make peace with the Church he has forsworn, and to surrender into our jurisdiction the two Deryni he harbors, this talk will do little good. There are certain things about which we are adamant.”

“I will so inform him, my lord,” the lad said with a bow.

With that, he wheeled his horse and cantered back to his escort, the white silk banner snapping in the breeze. Warin and Loris watched him go, watched as he and his escort approached the crimson-clad figure waiting in the front lines of the enemy army. Then Loris made a fist and hit his hand lightly against the stone merlon beside him.

“I like it not, Warin,” he murmured. “I like it not at all. You’d best send your lieutenants among the men, just in case there is treachery afoot. I fear I do not trust our king any longer.”

WITH the royal army, Kelson gazed up at the two figures standing on the distant castle parapet, sacerdotal purple and rebel gray, then replaced his crowned helmet and signed for the parley-banner to strike out again. As the lad rode out—he was but a year younger than Kelson—the king touched spurs to his mount and began to follow, flanked on his left by Morgan and on his right by Bishop Cardiel. The royal standard-bearer cut ahead of them and moved into position directly in front of Kelson and a little to the right, and two noble men-at-arms ranged themselves at the king’s back. The wan sunlight gleamed on the narrow gold coronet circling Kelson’s helmet, on the green-plumed helm of Morgan, and on Cardiel’s simple miter.

As he rode, Kelson glanced up at the golden Haldane lion snapping in the breeze, aware of the lion device repeated on the crimson surcoat he wore. Morgan, on his left, wore a cloak of brilliant green over his leather surcoat and mail. Cardiel, to his right, carried a bishop’s crozier footed in his stirrup instead of a lance. Ahead, his cousin Conall bore the white parley banner as though it, too, were a royal one, his raven head held high and proud. As they approached the wall to where Conall had halted before, Kelson looked up to see Loris staring down at him, Warin beside him, and swallowed a little nervously as the rebel leader’s eyes touched his for just an instant.

Then the standards, white and crimson, were drawing aside to flank him and his noble escort, and other faces were peering through gaps in the crenellated battlement above. Squaring his courage with a slow, measured breath, the temporal ruler of Gwynedd stared up at the spiritual ruler of Gwynedd and spoke.

“Good greeting to you, my lord Archbishop. My thanks for your permission to approach.”

Loris inclined his head slightly. “When a king approaches in true contrition, Sire, what priest could refuse?”

“Contrition, Archbishop?” Kelson glanced to Cardiel for reassurance, then returned his attention to Loris. “My Lord, I will not quibble over words. I have resolved to reconcile our differences and be one again in mind for Gwynedd. This internecine bickering must cease, and now, or we shall all be overcome by the peril in the north.”

Loris folded his arms across his chest and raised his chin a trifle higher. “I will be pleased to make a reconciliation with you, Sire, if you will do me the courtesy to explain why you consort with heretics and traitors. Or can you have forgotten what has brought us where we are? Those who ride beside you know whereof I speak.”

Cardiel cleared his throat and eased his horse a pace forward. “My lord, I and my brothers in Christ are satisfied that Duke Alaric and his cousin have returned to us in true contrition. They have been received back into the communion of Holy Mother Church, and with that, all strife among us is resolved.”

“That is absurd,” Loris said flatly. “Morgan and McLain were excommunicated by lawful action of the Gwynedd Curia. Even they are aware of that. You and your rebellious colleagues were party to that action.” He glanced toward the assembled bishops back at the front lines, dismissing their presence with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “And now you presume to rescind the action of that Curia by the will of six men? I will not hear of it.”

“We are eight now, my lord, not six. Two more have joined us, who were not present that day. And we freely acknowledge that we were in error. Accordingly, the Duke of Corwyn and Father McLain have been reinstated in our grace, as have His Majesty and all his loyal followers who suffered by our judgment.”

Loris half-turned away in disgust. “That is preposterous. You cannot overturn the Curia’s ruling. Why should I even listen to you? You are clearly mad!”

“Then, listen to your king, Archbishop,” Kelson said, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he stared up at Loris. “We have another quarrel with you: namely, the actions of your supposed supporter and ally, Warin. His bands have been marauding through Corwyn for nearly six months now, intimidating my barons, burning fields, preaching insurrection against me—”

“Not against you, Sire,” Warin said stiffly. “Against the Deryni.”

“And am I not half-Deryni?” Kelson countered. “And if you preach against them, do you not also preach against me?”

Warin stared down at Kelson with cold gray eyes. “It is regrettable that you bear Deryni blood, Sire; but we choose to overlook that, because you are our king. We crusade against the true Deryni, like the one who sits there at your side. You should not be in such company, Sire.”

“Do you presume to rebuke your king?” Kelson snapped. “Warin, I have not the time nor the inclination to debate the Deryni question with you. Wencit of Torenth is poised on our borders, ready to invade—and he is an evil man, even were he not Deryni. The civil strife that you and the archbishops have raised must please him beyond all accounting.”

Loris shook his head angrily, striking a defiant pose. “Do not blame us for Wencit of Torenth, Sire. Wencit is not the issue. I will not compromise the will of the Lord, not even for the will of the king.”

“Then, you had best hear me as king,” Kelson said evenly. “As you have pointed out, I am lawful king in Gwynedd. You yourself poured the consecrated oil upon my head and crowned me; and what has been done in that manner cannot be undone by men.

“Therefore, by the authority which you bestowed upon me in the name of our Lord, I command that you lay down your weapons and surrender this city to its lawful lord. Later, when there is more time, we will discuss your differences in this Deryni matter.”

There was the rumble of dissent behind Loris, and the prelate shook his head. “I recognize your authority, Sire, but I regret that it is impossible for me to obey you in this matter. I cannot surrender the city. Further, I must urgently suggest that you and your party withdraw before some of my people anger at your words and shame us all by an attempted regicide. Much as I am forced by conscience to disobey you, I would not have your royal blood upon my hands.”

Kelson stared up at the archbishop for a full ten seconds, speechless with anger, then wheeled his horse sharply and began galloping back toward his lines. His companions rode hard behind him, keeping careful watch for some overzealous bowman such as Loris had warned of. Only when they had reached the safety of his own army did Kelson rein in and trust himself to speak. He did not seem even to be aware of his other generals and warlords crowding around to hear what had happened.

“Well, Morgan? What should I have said to that insolent priest?” Kelson pulled off his helmet in a furious gesture and threw it to a waiting squire. “Well, speak, King’s Champion. What ought I to have said? The sheer gall of that man, threatening me!”

“Peace, my prince,” Morgan murmured. Kelson’s horse was dancing and curvetting, reacting to Kelson’s anger, and Morgan laid a hand on the reins to still it. “My lords, pray, excuse us,” he said to the watching officers. “There is no immediate cause for alarm. Nigel, if you would continue to oversee the making of camp, my lord bishops, the same. Duncan, you and Arilan and Cardiel, come with us, please. His Majesty has need of our counsel.”

“I am not a child,” Kelson murmured. He jerked the reins away from Morgan and glanced at him sharply. “I’ll thank you not to treat me like one.”

“But my Liege will surely listen to the counsel of his trusted advisors,” Morgan continued, crowding his horse against Kelson’s and herding it away from the officers, in the direction of the royal pavilion. “Duncan, you are aware of most of the layout of Castle Coroth, are you not?”

“Certainly,” Duncan agreed, aware that Morgan was trying to get Kelson out of the center of attention. “My prince, I believe that Alaric has a plan.”

Kelson reluctantly let himself be guided off to the side, where soldiers had finished erecting his pavilion and were setting up other tents, then glanced at Morgan once again, his anger apparently abated.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a scene,” he said in a low voice. “It’s just that Loris infuriates me so. Do you really have a plan?”

Morgan inclined his head, a faint smile on his lips. “I do.” He glanced around covertly, then dismounted and motioned the rest to do the same. When they had all entered the royal pavilion, he gestured for them to take seats, then stood with his hands on his hips.

“Now, we can do nothing yet, since we require the cover of darkness and time to prepare for what I have in mind. But once night falls, here is what I propose.”