THAT night, a thousand watch fires burned on the windswept plain before Coroth, their flickering lights like a thousand eyes watching the besieged city. Outside the king’s tent, five specially prepared horses waited, their harness and hooves muffled against telltale sounds, their trappings dull and dark.

Nigel’s son Conall stood watch over the horses. It would be his task to bring the animals back, once he had completed his mission. The boy gathered a black cloak around himself and scuffed the toe of a boot against the sandy soil beneath his feet, then looked up abruptly as the tent flap was withdrawn. His father stood in the opening, back still to the outside, and Conall moved a little closer as Morgan, Duncan, the king, and finally the two bishops came into the space before the tent.

“You understand my orders, in case we fail, then, Uncle,” the king was saying.

Nigel nodded gravely. “I understand.”

“And you, Bishop Arilan,” the young king continued. “I know I can count on you.”

“I doubt my aid will be necessary, Sire,” the bishop said, permitting a smile to cross his lips. “Your plan seems sound. But you know how to reach me, should the need arise.”

“We will pray that will not be needed,” Kelson replied. He dropped to one knee, as did Morgan and Duncan. After a slight hesitation, Conall, too, knelt, and Cardiel bowed his head.

“God go with all of you, my prince,” Arilan murmured, blessing them with the sign of their faith. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

The blessing completed, the men rose and began mounting up, taking reins silently in gloved hands. As Morgan began to lead out, Duncan following, Arilan laid a hand on Cardiel’s bridle and motioned him to bend nearer.

“God keep you, my friend,” he said in a low voice. “I should hate to see you perish before your time. We have much work to do, you and I.”

Cardiel nodded gravely, not trusting himself to speak, and Arilan smiled.

“You do know why it is you who are going instead of I, do you not?”

“I understood that you are to aid Prince Nigel, should the need arise. Someone has to be here to assist him, should anything happen to Kelson, God forbid.”

Arilan smiled and inclined his head slightly. “That is part of the reason. However, has it occurred to you that, of the four going on this mission, you alone are fully human?”

Cardiel stared at his colleague for a moment, then lowered his eyes. “I had gathered that it was because I am at least the outward leader of the rebel bishops, and that the others might listen to me. There is another reason as well, though, isn’t there?”

Arilan clasped his friend on the shoulder in reassurance. “There is, indeed, another reason—but no sinister purpose, I assure you. I am merely hoping that you will have the opportunity to observe some very fine Deryni practitioners in action. And while I know that you believe what I have told you about the Deryni, at least with your mind, I want you to see it at first hand, and believe with your heart as well.”

Cardiel raised his eyes to meet Arilan’s and smiled a wan smile. “Thank you, Denis. I—I shall try to keep an open mind—and heart.”

“I ask no more,” Arilan said with a nod.

Nodding in return, Cardiel turned his horse’s head and followed after the others at a trot. Even as he rode, he seemed to melt into the flickering shadows cast by the myriad campfires. Arilan continued to smile as he turned back to Nigel, who still waited in the entryway to the royal tent.

PERHAPS half an hour later, the five riders drew rein in a deep defile southwest of Castle Coroth and dismounted. They had ridden far to the west initially, then had cut in a southerly direction until they could make their way along the shelter of the rocky coastline.

Now, perhaps half a mile from the outermost defenses of the city, Morgan motioned for silence in the slight moonlight, fastening his reins to the saddle of another horse and then repeating the process until all four of the extra horses were in a single line. When that had been accomplished, he returned to the head of the line, where Duncan was giving young Conall a leg up, and handed him the lead rein of the extra horses.

“Godspeed, young prince,” he whispered. “Be certain you don’t cut inland until you reach the place where we entered on the way here. I don’t want you spotted from the castle.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Take care.”

“And you. Off with you, then,” Morgan whispered, slapping the flank of the boy’s horse in acknowledgement and stepping back. “Duncan, my lords, let’s go.”

As Conall turned his horse and began to make his way back up the beach, the string of horses following docilely behind, Morgan strode to a tumble of wave-smooth rocks near the high-water mark and began climbing into them. The others followed him to the edge of the rocks and stood watching, dark cloaks wrapped close, until Morgan finally raised a dark, gloved hand in the moonlight and motioned them to follow.

Scrambling after him, they soon spied a deep, narrow cleft, nearly hidden amidst the rocks and the tangle of shoreline scrub encroaching from the sand dunes inland and above their heads. Into this cleft Morgan lowered himself, feet first, disappearing into some hidden recess even as they watched. The three remaining, Duncan, Kelson, and Cardiel, exchanged uncertain glances; then Duncan climbed up and stuck his head inside to look around. It was pitch-black inside, and he gasped when Morgan’s face suddenly appeared in the darkness below.

“Jesu, you gave me a fright!” Duncan muttered, as the others crowded nearer. “You just disappeared.”

Morgan grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “It’s a bit of a drop, but come ahead. Send Kelson first.”

“Me?”

“Hurry up, hurry up. Duncan will give you a hand, and I’ll help you down. We don’t need any injuries.”

As Morgan disappeared from sight, Kelson obeyed, bracing himself on his elbows and then letting Duncan lower him by his hands. His face flashed pale in the moonlight as he glanced anxiously toward the promised floor he could not see. Then, abruptly, he disappeared as Duncan released him.

There was a muffled oof! from the darkness below, a muted scuffling, and then Duncan could see Kelson’s face beside Morgan’s in the darkness below.

With a grin, Duncan motioned Cardiel to follow. Very shortly, all four of them were standing in the nearly total darkness of the subterranean chamber. Morgan let them all stand for several seconds while their eyes adjusted to the lack of light, then felt along the wall until his hand found an opening into even deeper darkness. Grinning, he returned to his three colleagues and gathered them closer around him.

“So far, so good. It’s exactly as I remembered it. I don’t dare show a light until we get around a bend or two, though—you can never tell who might be patrolling above—so we’ll just link on one another’s belts and go a while in darkness. I can feel my way for the first few dozen yards.”

There were grunts of assent, and then the four were inching forward in single file, Morgan in the lead and followed by Kelson, Cardiel, and Duncan. As they edged into the deeper darkness, Kelson cast one last look back at the wan moon-and starlight framed by the entrance to the chamber, then began resolutely to follow Morgan.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in fact encompassed only minutes, Morgan halted. The blackness was total now, no hint of light reaching them from where they had come.

“Everyone all right?” Morgan whispered sotto voce.

Hearing murmurs of assent, he disengaged Kelson’s hand and stepped away from them. Kelson strained to see in the darkness, then raised an eyebrow in understanding as a faint glow began to emanate from behind Morgan’s body. He heard Cardiel gasp, but by then Morgan was turning to face them, a sphere of softly glowing verdant light cupped in the hollow of his left hand.

“Relax, Bishop,” Morgan murmured, making his way back to Cardiel with the light in his outstretched hand. “It’s only light, neither good nor evil. Here, touch it. It’s cool, perfectly harmless.”

Cardiel stood his ground as Morgan approached, watching Morgan’s face, not the light itself. When the young general at last halted before him, only then did the bishop lower his eyes to look at the light again. It was cool and green, a softly shimmering glow like that which had surrounded Arilan’s head the night he revealed himself as Deryni.

Very tentatively Cardiel put out his hand. There was nothing there to touch per se; only the cool illusion of a breath of breeze as his hand passed through where the light should be and then touched Morgan’s hand. At that touch, Cardiel let his eyes lift to meet Morgan’s and forced himself to smile.

“You must forgive me if I seem a little squeamish, but—”

Morgan smiled. “Believe me, I quite understand. Come. It isn’t far, now that we have light.”

Morgan was as good as his word. It was not far—except that the end of the tunnel came all too soon, in a pile of rock and rubble tumbled into a wide tidal pool that Morgan clearly had not expected. With a pass of his hand above the sphere of green light, Morgan made it hover in mid-air, then moved to the wall of rock and motioned Duncan and Kelson to join him.

The three laid their hands on the rocks and closed their eyes, minds probing outward and beyond to the clear corridor beyond. As they worked their way down the obstacle, finding no opening, Morgan opened his eyes and edged closer to the tidal pool, staring into the depths for some minutes, then began stripping off his cloak and gloves.

“What are you doing?” Cardiel asked, moving to Morgan’s side and also peering into the pool.

His question brought the other two as well, and they, too, watched as Morgan stripped off mail and leathers until he was left with only a sleeveless linen singlet and his belt dagger.

“I think there’s a passage underneath,” Morgan said, lowering himself into the water and easing himself over to the rock face blocking their way. “I’ll be back shortly.”

With that, he took a deep breath and ducked his head under water, up-ending and sending himself downward with a stroke of his arms and a powerful frog kick. The three watched as he disappeared into the murky depths, then waited as he did not surface.

With a frown, Duncan herded the light sphere closer and peered into the pool. Finally, they saw bubbles breaking the surface a few yards out from where Morgan had disappeared, and then a sleek golden head broke the surface. Morgan grinned as he shook the hair from his eyes and swam toward them.

“I found a way through,” he said, shaking his head again to clear the water from his ears. “It’s only a few feet long, but it’s at least my height down. Bishop Cardiel, can you swim?”

“Well, I—yes, a little. But I never…”

“That’s all right, you’ll do fine. I’ll help you.” Morgan grinned and reached up to slap the bishop’s ankle reassuringly. “Kelson, I’ll let you go first. It’s dark on the other side, of course, but the edge of the pool is only a few yards away. As soon as you make shore, conjure up a light and then get back in the water to help the bishop. I’ll wait with him until you’ve had a chance to finish.”

Kelson nodded, shrugging out of the last of his outer garments as Morgan finished.

“What about our weapons? We can’t take them with us, and we may need them on the other side.”

“We can get more in my tower chamber. We’ll go there first,” Morgan replied, reaching out a hand to assist Kelson into the water.

“All right, show me this underwater passage of yours.”

With a nod, Morgan took a deep breath and dived, Kelson following right beside and slightly behind him. Both disappeared from sight almost immediately, and after several seconds Morgan alone surfaced. Duncan was ready by then, so Morgan motioned him into the water and repeated the process.

When he surfaced, a white-faced Cardiel was standing on the edge of the pool, clad only in a long white singlet. He carried no weapon, but he had tucked the long tail of the singlet up between his legs and secured it under a cord belt around his waist. Stripping down had revealed a very plain wooden crucifix hanging on a cord around his neck, which he fingered anxiously as Morgan swam to the edge of the pool and grinned up at him.

“Now?” Cardiel murmured sheepishly.

Morgan nodded and held out a wet hand, still smiling, and Cardiel, with a sigh, lowered himself to sit on the edge of the pool. He shivered as his legs entered the cold water, his eyes wide and faintly luminous in the greenish light shed by Morgan’s glow sphere.

Patiently, Morgan held out his hand, nodding encouragement as Cardiel grasped his wrist and slid into the water with a sharp gasp. Then they were treading water above the place where Duncan and Kelson had disappeared. Cardiel swallowed nervously and craned his neck out of the water in an effort to peer downward as Morgan beckoned the light closer.

“Do you think you can make it?” Morgan asked in a low voice.

“Have I any choice?” the bishop retorted. He was pale with fright, but he appeared resigned to his fate. “Just show me what I’m to do.”

Morgan nodded. “The entrance is a goodly distance down, directly below and ahead of you there. Do you see it?”

“Not really.”

“Never mind. Just do what the others did. I’ll dive with you and propel you along. The main thing to remember is not to breathe until we’re on the other side. All right?”

“I’ll try,” the bishop said doubtfully.

With a silent prayer to whatever saint protected inept bishops, Morgan beckoned his light closer and made a pass over it. The light dimmed as Morgan touched Cardiel’s shoulder in signal to go. With an audible gulp, Cardiel screwed his eyes tightly closed, held his breath, and tried to dive, Morgan right beside him.

But it became immediately obvious to Morgan that this was not going to work. Though Cardiel kicked with all his might, and flailed earnestly with his arms, he could not go deeply enough. Morgan grasped the bishop by the waist and tried to propel both of them downward toward the sought-after passage, but it was no use. Cardiel simply did not know enough about what he was doing.

With a slight shake of his head, Morgan began tugging Cardiel back toward the surface. The light had gone out as they dived, and thus they surfaced in total darkness, Cardiel thrashing his arms in a panic until Morgan could put reassuring arms around his shoulders and buoy him up.

“Easy, my lord, you’re all right.”

Cardiel panted for breath, his breathing ragged and labored as he trod water beside the young Deryni.

“Did we make it through?” he asked.

Morgan was glad that Cardiel could not see his face in the darkness.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied, trying to sound more positive than he felt. “But we’ll make it this time, don’t worry. You need to kick off harder this time.”

There was a short, painful silence, and then Cardiel coughed, the only sound in the echoing cavern save for the occasional splash from them treading water.

“I am sorry, Alaric. I—I warned you that I was no swimmer. I don’t think I can go that deep.”

“You’re going to have to,” Morgan said in a low voice. “Either that, or I’m going to have to leave you behind. And I can’t do that.”

“No, I suppose not,” Cardiel agreed in a weak voice.

Morgan sighed. “All right, let’s try it again. This time, I want you to take a very deep breath and then let out most of it before you dive. That will help you to get the depth we need. I’ll help you get up the other side.”

“But if I breathe out all my air before I dive, won’t I drown?” The bishop’s question had a plaintive ring to it. Morgan could tell that the man was more frightened than he would ever admit.

“Don’t worry. Just don’t breathe in,” he murmured, grasping the bishop’s shoulder. “Now, a deep breath, exhale—and go!”

He heard the bishop’s gasp for air, the slow exhale, and then Cardiel was sinking, making a feeble attempt at a proper dive into the darkness below. Morgan grasped his shoulders and propelled him along, guiding him toward where he knew the opening to be, but as they reached the near side opening of the passage, he felt Cardiel begin to panic.

With a resigned shake of his head, he forced the bishop’s body into the opening and propelled it on through. But as he followed him out the other side, he felt Cardiel cease his struggling and go limp. With a silent call to Duncan and Kelson, he began towing Cardiel toward the surface where he could see a faint light, praying that Cardiel had not inhaled too much water.

But however much or little water Cardiel had breathed, he was quite unconscious when Morgan brought him to the surface. As Morgan’s head broke the water, he simultaneously shook the hair from his eyes and shouted for Duncan and Kelson to assist him.

The two were already in the water and were grasping at Cardiel even as he called out, but even so, it took them precious seconds to drag the limp bishop to the edge of the pool and haul him out of the water. Morgan turned him on his stomach and began pressing the water from his lungs with strong, rhythmic movements, shook his head as water poured from the bishop’s mouth and nose.

“Damn!” he cursed, as the man refused to breathe on his own. “I told him not to breathe down there! What does he think he is, a fish?”

He turned Cardiel face-up, but the bishop’s chest was still motionless. Muffling another curse under his breath, he began slapping the man’s face, Kelson chafing at his wrists while Duncan blew directly into his lungs.

After what seemed like an eternity, Cardiel’s chest heaved once out of sequence with Duncan’s breathing, and the three resumed their efforts. Eventually they were rewarded by a faint cough, which erupted quickly into a wracking paroxysm of uncontrollable hacking. Cardiel rolled onto his side and spewed out more water, then finally opened his eyes and turned his head to gaze up at them weakly.

“Are you sure I didn’t die?” he croaked, “I was having the most terrible nightmares.”

“Well, you almost did die,” Morgan said gruffly, shaking his head with relief. “Someone must surely favor you in Heaven, my lord.”

“Pray God they always do,” Cardiel murmured, crossing himself quickly. “Thank you, all of you.”

He struggled to a sitting position with a little help from Duncan and coughed again, then gestured for them to help him to his feet. Without a word, but with a pleased smile at the bishop’s pluck, Morgan held out his hand and helped Cardiel to rise. Within a few minutes, the four of them were standing at a fork in the rough stone corridor. Darkness lay beyond in the corridor to the left, but the one to the right was blocked by a dense fall of rock. Probing it gingerly with hands and powers, Morgan straightened resignedly and dusted his hands together.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. I had hoped to use that passage to get us to my quarters, after we clothe and arm ourselves in my tower room.”

“Can’t we get to the tower room from here?” Kelson asked.

“Oh, certainly. But we can’t get anywhere else from there. We’ll have to go into the regular corridors and risk being spotted. Come on, now. We’ve got a bit of a maze ahead of us, and then some steps. Be quiet, as our voices may carry.”

After a few yards, Morgan led them up a long, extremely narrow stairway, no wider than a man’s shoulders. The stairway spiraled gently to the right, a steep, stony passageway that seemed to go on forever. But finally Morgan came to a halt and motioned them to silence.

Hushing the hand-fire to a low, eerie glow, he stepped ahead of them for perhaps six steps, just far enough so they could not see precisely what he did in the stairway ahead of him. The remaining three caught traces of a low-muttered phrase that they could not quite understand. Ghostly lights played on the passage walls, shielded behind Morgan’s body.

But then the lights died and Morgan was turning to beckon them after him. A door swung open ahead, giving direct access to the tower room: Morgan’s private sanctuary, where no man might enter without his express consent.

The room was ghostly silent as they entered, lit only by the starlight and waning moonlight that filtered faintly through the skylight and the seven green glass windows piercing the tower walls. As Morgan padded across the tapestry carpet, bare feet making no sound, he gestured absently with one hand, blanking the windows and bringing the fire to life on the hearth.

As the others paused, blinking in the sudden firelight, Morgan scooped up a brand from the fire and lit candles on a free-standing candelabrum and on a small circular table near the fireplace. The flickering light winked and gathered in a fist-sized amber sphere in the center of the table, a polished orb supported by a golden gryphon. Cardiel caught his breath in wonder as he spied the sphere, starting toward it in fascination until Duncan’s low-voiced call brought his attention away.

Then he and the others were rummaging in coffers and chests, stripping off wet garments and exchanging them for dry. When they had finished, only Morgan and Duncan looked as though they were properly dressed. Kelson had managed to find a short tunic of Morgan’s that made a passable one of knee-length on him, and a dark cloak that trailed the ground only a little. Morgan completed the ensemble by handing him a plain circlet of hammered silver.

Bishop Cardiel had contrived to put together an outfit all of black, though there the resemblance to clerical attire ended. The tunic was tight in the waist, and the boots were a bit narrow for his feet, but a long black cloak covered a multitude of sartorial anomalies. He dried his wooden crucifix as best he could, then buffed his bishop’s ring against his dry tunic and touched it to his lips for reassurance. Around him, Morgan and Duncan were buckling on swords and daggers from the store of weapons kept in the chamber.

Finally, Morgan cautioned for silence and beckoned them toward the main door: a wide, deep-carved thing of dark-stained oak signed with a great green gryphon. He put his eye to the gryphon’s eye and peered through to the other side, then held a finger to his lips for silence and eased the door open. There was another door beyond that, and he listened at that second door for a long while before returning and closing the first one securely behind him.

“There’s a guard out there, just as I feared,” he whispered. “Duncan, will you come and listen with me? If he’s receptive enough, we may be able to control him through the door. Otherwise…”

“It’s worth a try,” Duncan said with a nod, before Cardiel could think too much about what had just been said. So saying, he joined Morgan close before the door.

The two stood with heads and hands against the second door for a long time, eyes closed, their breathing light and controlled. But finally Morgan shook his head and opened his eyes, drawing a thin-bladed stiletto and testing its point against the end of his thumb. His lips mouthed Ready? to Duncan, and the priest nodded grim assent as his hand moved to the lock on the door.

As Kelson and Cardiel moved closer, drawn by morbid fascination, Morgan sank to one knee and ran the fingers of his left hand along the door until he found a narrow crack. The blade of the knife was put to the crack, poised for just an instant, then thrust through in a clean, sure stroke.

The blade glinted darker when it was withdrawn, accompanied by a faint moan and a sliding sound from the other side of the door. With a shake of his head, Duncan set his shoulder against the door and pushed it open against some resistance. Slumped outside lay the limp body of a rebel guard, blood welling slowly from a red-stained spot on his lower back. Morgan felt at the man’s throat, then grasped him under the arms and began pulling him into the chamber. Cardiel’s face clouded as the body was deposited on a portion of floor uncovered by carpet, and he signed the air above the man’s head with a cross before stepping across to join the others.

“I’m sorry, but it was necessary, Bishop,” Morgan murmured, closing the door behind them and motioning them to follow. Cardiel said nothing, but merely nodded and did as he was told.

Five minutes of stealthy meandering took them to a series of ornately carved panels at the end of a hallway. A torch burned in a brass cresset beside the panels, and Morgan snatched it up in one gloved hand as the fingers of the other moved across the panels in a quick, agile pattern.

The center panel slid aside, receding far enough for them to pass through, one at a time. Morgan motioned them through, then followed and closed the panel behind them. He led them several dozen yards before pausing to turn toward them once again.

“Now, listen, and listen carefully, because I probably won’t have time to repeat this. The place where we are now is the beginning of a series of secret passages that honeycomb the walls of this castle. The branch we’re going to take leads to my personal living quarters, where I’d be willing to wager that either Warin or the archbishops have taken up residence. Now, stay silent until I say otherwise. Agreed?”

There was no dissent. Silent as the grave, the four began moving once more, coming at length to a portion of the passage that was heavily carpeted and hung with thick draperies along the walls. Morgan handed the torch to Duncan and moved to the left-hand wall, where he drew aside a fold of the drape and peered through a peephole. Carefully he scanned the room beyond, taking in all the familiar accoutrements of the chamber that had been his own until a few short months ago, then drew back with a look of grim determination. As he had suspected, Warin de Grey now occupied the chamber and seemed to be in conference with some of his men.

With a curt gesture, Morgan pointed out several other peepholes, then motioned for Duncan to douse the light. They would try to learn what the rebel leader was saying to his men before barging in unannounced.

“Well, we don’t really know what he can do, now do we?” one of the men with Warin was saying plaintively. “I know we have a holy mission, and I’m prepared to die for our cause, if need be, but what if the duke conjures magic against us? We dinnae have any defense against that, save our faith.”

“Is that not enough?” Warin replied, sitting back in the chair beside the fireplace and lacing his fingers together.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Trust the right of our mission, Marcus,” a second man said. “Did God not protect us when Lord Warin had the Deryni cornered at Saint Torin’s? His magic was of no avail that day.”

Warin shook his head and stared into the flames. “A poor analogy, Paul. Morgan was drugged when we captured him at Saint Torin’s. I even believe he told the truth that day—that he could not have used his magic while he was under the influence of the mind-twisting Deryni drug. Otherwise, his cousin would not have revealed himself. Duncan McLain had kept his secret far too long to reveal himself for any other than dire reasons.”

“Then, we dinnae know what the duke might do,” Marcus interjected. “Mayhap he could bring this whole castle tumbling down around us, if he chose. He could—”

“No, he is a rational man, for all that he is Deryni. He would not destroy his own house unless there were no other way. He—”

There was a staccato knock at the door, followed by a repeat of the knock before anyone could react. Warin broke off what he had been about to say and glanced at his two lieutenants.

“Come,” he called.

The knocking was repeated, more insistently this time, even as Paul strode quickly to the door.

“I doubt they can hear you, Lord. This room is well soundproofed. I’ll let them in.”

As Paul reached the door, the knock was repeated, even more urgently, if that were possible, and as he drew back the latch, a sergeant in the garb of Warin’s militia almost fell into the room.

“Lord, Lord, you must help us!” he sobbed, dashing across the room to throw himself at Warin’s feet. “Some of my men were stacking stones near the north rampart, when the entire pile collapsed.”

Warin sat upright in his chair, staring at the man intently.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Yes, Lord: Owen Mathisson. Everyone else managed to get out of the way in time, but Owen—his legs were caught under the slide, Lord. His legs are crushed!”

Warin stood as four more men shuffled in through the still-open door carrying the limp form of the unfortunate Owen. As they entered, the sergeant grasped the hem of Warin’s robe and touched it to his lips, crumpled it against his chest as he whispered, “Help him, Lord. If you will it, he can be saved.”

The four men paused uncertainly in the center of the room, and Warin nodded slowly, motioning them to lay the injured man on the state bed at the other side of the room. The men quickly left their limp burden where they were told, then withdrew at Warin’s signal. As Warin moved closer to the bed, he motioned Marcus to close the door behind the departing soldiers, gazing down at the man with compassion.

Owen Mathisson had been a strong man, but that had not saved him when the rocks began sliding down on him. From the waist up he was still intact, no mark upon him to show that he had suffered any injury. But his legs inside his leather leggings were twisted and contorted into angles never meant for human appendages. He groaned as he became aware of his surroundings again, and Warin motioned for Paul to bring the candles closer, laying his hand on Owen’s forehead as the man’s gnarled face grimaced in pain.

“Can you hear me, Owen?”

Owen’s gaze wandered slightly, then focused on Warin’s face. A whisper of recognition flitted past, just before he closed his eyes again.

“Forgive me, Lord. I should have been more careful.”

Warin glanced over the man’s battered form, then returned his attention to the man’s face.

“Are you in great pain, Owen?”

Owen swallowed hard and nodded, jaws set tight against the pain, then opened his eyes to stare at Warin again. There was no need for verbal confirmation of what Warin saw in those pleading eyes.

Warin straightened and glanced down at the man’s legs again, then reached his hand toward Paul.

“Your dagger.”

As Paul handed over the weapon, Owen’s eyes widened and he looked as though he might try to rise, but Warin pushed him gently back on the bed.

“Peace, my friend. This is not the coup. I fear it will cost you your breeches, but I pray not your life. Bear with me.”

As the man lay back, stunned, Warin caught the blade of the dagger under the bottom of one scuffed and bloodstained leather legging and began to cut, extending the gap all the way to the man’s waist. At his first touch, Owen cried out in pain as the shattered limb was moved; then he mercifully passed out. The second legging was opened in the same manner to reveal the twisted, bloody limbs.

Warin dropped the knife on the bed beside Owen and silently gazed down at the injuries for a moment, then motioned for Marcus and Paul to help him straighten out first one leg, then the other. When it was done, he paused for just an instant, hands clasped together, then addressed the three men watching.

“He is very badly injured,” he said in a low voice. “If he is not helped soon, he will die.” There was a long silence in which the only sounds were their breathing, before Warin continued.

“I have never attempted to heal so great a hurt before.” He paused. “Will you pray with me, my friends? Even if it is God’s will that this man be made whole again, I shall need your support.”

As one man, Paul, Marcus, and the sergeant dropped to their knees to watch in awe, hands clasped fervently at their breasts. Warin continued to stare at his patient for a moment, almost as though there were no one else in the room, then looked up and spread his arms to either side.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Oremus.”

As Warin began to pray, shifting to the common tongue, his eyes closed and a faint aura began to take form around his head. His words were murmured, hushed, in the stillness of the chamber, so that the watchers behind the panels could not hear all that he said. But they could not mistake the aura surrounding the rebel leader as he prayed, or ignore his calm assurance as he stretched forth his hands over the injured man’s legs and touched them.

In silence they watched as Warin’s hands passed along the surface of the man’s legs, watched as the jagged breaks, discernible even from across the room, grew smooth under his touch.

Then the rebel leader was murmuring an end to his prayers, lifting the man’s legs—first one and then the other. The legs were whole again, straight, as though they had never felt the ruin of the crushing stones.

“Per Ipsum, et cum Ipsum, et in Ipso, est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti in unitate Spiritus Sancti, omnis honor et gloria. Per omnia saecula saeculorum, Amen.”

As Warin’s words whispered into silence, Owen’s eyes flicked open and he carefully sat up. He stared in amazement at his legs, running his hands up and down them in anxious reassurance as the others rose from their knees. Warin watched him for a moment in silence, then crossed himself piously and murmured, “Deo gratias.” The miracle was complete.

Behind the panels, Morgan prepared to make his move. Motioning Duncan and Kelson to draw near, he whispered a few words, then straightened and glanced through the spy hole again. As he did so, Duncan drew his sword and slipped away in the darkness to the left. Morgan let the wall-hanging fall and motioned Cardiel to come to him.

“We’ll go in now, Excellency. Follow my lead as much as possible. They have unwittingly set the stage for a very effective entrance, and I want to preserve the mood for as long as possible. Agreed?”

Cardiel nodded solemnly.

“Kelson?”

“Ready.”

As Warin and his lieutenants murmured over the restored Owen, helping him to his feet, some slight sound must have come from the direction of the fireplace. Only Paul was facing in that direction, and as his glance shifted toward the sound, he froze and gasped unbelievingly, his eyes wide with horror.

“My lord!”

At his exclamation, Warin and the others turned to see a shadowed doorway opening in the wall to the left of the fireplace, only faintly visible by the light of the low fire burning on the hearth. Blank disbelief froze them all in their places as Kelson emerged from the opening, his young face unmistakable in the red firelight. A collective gasp of anguish accompanied the appearance of Morgan, right behind the king; they did not recognize the third figure, whose steel-gray hair caught the firelight as the opening closed behind him.

All at once, Warin was glancing around wildly, his men scrambling toward the door only to pull up short at the sight of Duncan standing against the green-glowing doorway, a naked sword held across his body in a non-threatening but vigilant pose.

Warin froze and stared at Duncan wild-eyed for an instant, remembering his last encounter with this proud young Deryni who now stood so confidently before him, then closed his eyes and tried with a visible effort to compose himself. Only then did he turn to face his nemesis and his king.