“TELL your men to surrender, Warin,” Kelson said. “I am assuming command here.”

“I cannot permit that, Sire.” Warin’s brown eyes met the king’s without a flicker of fear. “Paul, summon the guards.”

“Paul, stay away from the door,” the king said before the man could move to obey.

The rebel lieutenant froze at the sound of his name on the royal lips, then glanced beseechingly at Warin. Behind Duncan, the door still glowed with a faint, greenish light, and the priest minutely shifted his grip on his bared sword in a gesture calculated to instill hesitation.

Warin glanced at the door, the look of indecision and fear on Paul’s face, the unreadable eyes of Morgan standing close by the king. Then, with a sigh, he dropped his gaze to the floor at his feet, his shoulders drooping dejectedly.

“We are undone, my friends,” he said in a weary voice. “Put aside your weapons and stand away. We cannot resist Deryni sorcery with mere steel.”

“But, my lord,” one of the men started to protest.

“Enough, James.” Warin lifted his gaze to Kelson’s once more. “All know the fate of men who defy their king and fail. At least you and I and the others will die in the certain knowledge that we fought on the side of God. And you, O King, will pay a high price for our lives in the Hereafter.”

There was a scarcely concealed murmur of consternation from the four men grouped behind him, but then they began slowly unbuckling sword belts and baldrics. The dull thud of sheathed steel on carpet was the only sound in the firelight as the men put down their weapons and bunched closer behind their leader. Even so, their manner was defiant.

Kelson noted this and many other things as he signed for Duncan to collect the weapons. And while the new captives were at least partially diverted by Duncan’s movement, he caught Morgan’s subtle nod toward the low armchair by the fireplace.

With a slight inclination of his head, Kelson moved toward the chair, waiting while Morgan turned it to face Warin and his men, then sitting and adjusting the folds of his borrowed cloak. When Kelson had seated himself, Morgan retired to a position just behind and to the right of the king’s chair. Cardiel remained in the shadows to the left of the fireplace. The tableau immediately took on the aspect of a king holding court, even in the very informal setting of a castle bedchamber, and in borrowed clothes. Nor was the effect lost on Warin’s men, who watched apprehensively to learn what this bold young king would do.

“We do not require your life or the lives of your men,” Kelson said to Warin, deliberately adopting the royal “we.” “We require only your loyalty from this time on—or, if not your loyalty, at least your willingness to consider what we are about to tell you.”

“I owe no allegiance to any Deryni king,” Warin said baldly. “Nor am I any longer intimidated by your royal birth. You Deryni are very bold when you have your magic to defend you.”

“Indeed?” said Kelson, raising an arched brow. “We seem to recall that you once placed our General Morgan at your mercy in a similar manner, stripped him even of most human faculties, that he might not defend himself in any fashion. The tendency to press one’s advantage is a human trait as well as a Deryni one, it seems.”

“I do not associate with those who traffic in magic,” Warin retorted, beard jutting stubbornly as he half-turned away.

“Do you not?” Morgan’s retort was more a statement than a question, and he controlled an impulse to smile, for Warin had just given him the very opening they needed. “How, then, do you manage to keep faith with yourself? The gift of healing is, after all, a kind of magic, is it not?”

“Magic?” Warin bristled as he whirled back to face Morgan. “That is blasphemy! How dare you profane so holy a sign of God’s favor by comparison with your foul and heretical powers?! Our Lord was a healer. Why, you are not worthy even to breathe the same air as He!”

“That may well be,” Morgan replied neutrally. “Such is not for me to judge—or you, I think. But, tell me. What is your understanding of the gift of healing?”

“My—?” Warin blinked and hurriedly glanced at the others, but could discern no hint as to the purpose of the question. “Why, Holy Scripture tells us that Our Lord healed the sick, as did His disciples after He was gone. Surely, even you are aware of that.”

Morgan nodded. “And my Lord Bishop Cardiel, do you concur with Warin’s answer?”

Cardiel, who by choice had remained in the background until now, started as his name was spoken, then moved hesitantly into the firelight beside Morgan. The flickering light caught a heart of amethyst in his ring as he fingered the wooden crucifix around his neck and gazed across at the rebel leader.

“It has always been my belief that Our Lord and His disciples healed the sick and the lame,” he agreed cautiously.

“That is my belief as well,” Morgan said, turning back to Warin. “May I take it, then, that both of you would agree that healing is a God-given gift, one not to be trifled with?”

“It is,” Cardiel said.

“Certainly,” Warin replied, not batting an eye.

“And your personal power of healing,” Morgan said softly. “Would that also be considered a gift of God?”

“My pers—”

Kelson allowed himself a perturbed sigh and crossed his legs in exasperation. “Come now, Warin, don’t be coy. We know that you can heal. We saw you, minutes ago. We also have certain knowledge that you healed a man in Kingslake last spring. Do you deny it?”

“I—certainly not.” Warin reddened a little as he held himself more erect, chin lifting. “And if the Lord has appointed me to be His instrument, who am I to question His word?”

“Yes, I know,” Morgan said, nodding impatiently and holding up a hand for silence. “What you are saying, then, is that healing is a sign of God’s favor.”

“Yes.”

“And that only those favored by God can heal?”

“Yes.”

“Then, suppose that a Deryni were able to heal?” Morgan asked quietly.

“A Deryni?!”

“I have healed, Warin. And there can be no doubt that I am Deryni. Do you suppose it is possible, then, that God does favor at least some Deryni by giving them the healing gift? For that matter, perhaps the healing gift is actually a Deryni power….”

“That cannot be,” Warin whispered.

His men stood stunned, and Warin himself had turned as pale as whey, his face so blanched of color that the blank, uncomprehending eyes were the only things even remotely alive in the frozen face. There was a flurry of furtive whispering among Warin’s men at their leader’s reaction, quickly cut off when Warin suddenly reeled against one of them and had to clutch at his arm for momentary support. Then the rebel leader, no longer quite so rebellious, was blinking life back into his face, staring disbelievingly at Morgan with a look almost of terror on his face.

“You are mad!” he whispered when he was finally able to speak. “The Deryni corruption has addled your mind. Deryni cannot heal!”

“I healed Sean Lord Derry as he lay dying of an assassin’s blade in Rhemuth last fall,” Morgan said quietly. “Later, in the cathedral, I healed my own wounds. I speak the truth, Warin, though I cannot explain how I have done this. Both human and Deryni have felt my healing.”

“That is impossible,” Warin murmured, almost to himself. “It cannot be. The Deryni are spawn of Satan. So we have always been taught.”

Morgan laced his fingers together and studied his two thumbnails. “I was taught that as well, by some. At times, I have almost been willing to believe it, when I consider the terrible punishments meted out to Deryni in past years.

“But, I, too, was taught that healing comes of God. And if my hands can heal…well, then, perhaps God favors me as well, at least in this small way.”

“No, you lie!” Warin shook his head emphatically. “You lie—and you attempt to draw me into your lies!”

Morgan sighed and glanced at Kelson, at Cardiel and Duncan, then noticed that Duncan was sheathing his sword, a tiny, odd smile quirking at his lips. The priest raised an eyebrow at his cousin as he strode casually to join his colleagues before the fire. Warin and his men drew back suspiciously, a few of them eyeing the now unguarded door.

“Alaric Morgan does not lie,” Duncan said easily. “And if you are willing to listen instead of plotting an impossible escape, perhaps I can prove that to your satisfaction.”

Warin’s men quickly returned their attention to Duncan, and the rebel leader looked suspiciously at the priest.

“What, would you have him heal for us?” Warin asked contemptuously.

“That is precisely what I propose,” Duncan replied, his slight smile returning.

Morgan’s brow furrowed, and Cardiel shifted uneasily, his hand tightening on his crucifix. Kelson sat spellbound, for even he had never actually seen Morgan heal before. Duncan now had all of their undivided attention.

“Well, Warin?”

“But—whom should he heal?”

Duncan smiled his secret smile again. “I do have a proposal that may resolve our apparent dilemma. Warin, you refuse to listen to us unless Alaric can prove to your satisfaction that he speaks the truth. Alaric, you in turn cannot give Warin the proof he requires without someone to heal. I submit that one of us should allow himself to be slightly wounded, so that you may demonstrate your healing power and Warin may be satisfied. Since it was my idea, I offer myself to be the subject.”

“What?” said Kelson.

“It’s out of the question,” Morgan said flatly.

“Duncan, you must not!” came Cardiel’s simultaneous reply.

Warin and his men could only stare in utter disbelief.

“Well, why not?” Duncan asked. “Unless one of you has a better alternative, I think we have no choice. We are deadlocked unless one of us can break the impasse. And it needn’t be a serious wound. A scratch would suffice to prove our point. What say you, Warin? Would this satisfy you?”

“I—” Warin was speechless.

“And just who do you propose shall make this ‘scratch’?” Morgan finally asked, his gray eyes clearly showing his disapproval.

“You, or Kelson—it makes little difference,” Duncan replied, keeping his tone light.

Cardiel shook his head adamantly. “I cannot permit it. You are a priest. To shed a priest’s blood—”

“I am a suspended priest, Excellency. And you know that I must do what I must do.”

He hesitated for just an instant, then pulled his dagger from his belt and extended it across his forearm toward the three of them, hilt first.

“Come. One of you do the deed, and let’s be done with it. Otherwise, I may lose my nerve.”

“No!” Warin said suddenly. He took several steps toward the four but then stopped, strained but erect as he stared fearfully across at them.

“You have some objection?” Kelson asked, standing slowly in his place.

Warin wrung his hands together and then began pacing the room explosively, shaking his head and gesturing to punctuate his speech.

“’Tis treachery, treachery! I dare not trust you! If I did, I should never know if you had staged the entire thing for my benefit, if you had only appeared to wound this man and then appeared to heal him. That is no proof. Satan is a master of lies and illusions.”

Duncan glanced at his companions, then abruptly turned and extended the dagger’s hilt toward Warin.

“Then, you draw my blood,” he said evenly. “You make the wound whose healing will convince you that we speak the truth.”

“I?” Warin paled. “But, I have never—”

“Surely you do not claim that you have never shed blood,” Morgan retorted. “I very much doubt that. But if ’tis true, then it is even more important that you do the deed. If you want proof, you shall have it. But you yourself must be a part of the proving.”

Warin stared at them searchingly, clearly grappling with some inner demon, then took a step backward and eyed the dagger distastefully.

“Very well, I will do it. But not with that dagger. I must have one of our own, that I know to be untainted by Deryni sorcery.”

“As you wish,” Duncan said.

As he sheathed his dagger and began unbuckling his sword belt, Warin edged cautiously toward the pile of weapons confiscated earlier and sank to one knee beside it. He glanced over the assortment of weapons for several seconds, then selected a slender, cross-hilted dagger with ivory fittings. Firelight flashed on the polished blade as he unsheathed it and kissed the relic enclosed in the hilt. Then he rose wordlessly.

“I must ask,” said Duncan, “that you limit yourself to a wound which you yourself could heal.” His linen shirt was half-unlaced, and he pulled it from the waistband of his breeches preparatory to removing it. “Also, if you choose to deliver a potentially lethal wound, I must insist that it be a slow one. I shouldn’t like to bleed out before Alaric can bring his powers into play.”

Warin glanced away uncomfortably, tightening his sweaty grip on the dagger’s hilt. “I shall not wound you beyond my own power to heal.”

Nodding his acceptance, Duncan pulled his shirt off over his head and handed it to Morgan, who draped it over the back of the chair Kelson had vacated. The priest was pale but unafraid as he turned to face Warin.

Warin was trembling as he brought the dagger to waist level and approached—cautious, reluctant, yet drawn in horrified fascination that this enemy would permit what he was about to do. The thought crossed his mind that he could, if he chose, kill at least this one Deryni, but another part of him strangely shrank from that thought, as though already entertaining the possibility that these particular Deryni were telling the truth, terrifying though that was to contemplate.

When he had come within an arm’s length of Duncan, he stopped and forced himself to meet the calm blue eyes that gazed back at him, then shifted his focus downward. The priest’s torso, rarely exposed to the sun, was a pale ivory, almost like a woman’s, though there the similarity ended. The shoulders were broad and powerful, sleek with well-tempered muscles, with little body hair. A faint scar crossed the ribs below the left breast, another on the right bicep—training scars, probably.

Slowly Warin lifted the dagger point to eye level and brought it lightly to rest against Duncan’s left shoulder. The priest did not flinch as the steel touched his skin, but Warin could no longer meet the eyes.

“Do what you must do,” Duncan whispered, bracing himself for the thrust.