BY dawn there were few in Castle Coroth who did not know at least something of the strange and wondrous vision dreamed by Lord Warin during the night. Warin’s troops, who composed the bulk of Coroth’s defenders, still stood in staunch support of their charismatic leader, though they did not pretend to understand this seeming reversal of his former policy regarding Deryni. The handful of ecclesiastical troops who had come with the archbishops to Coroth were wary of outright resistance to the change, in light of the rebels’ greater numbers. In the early hours of the morning, several of them had made the mistake of questioning the new orders being handed down. Many had found themselves promptly locked up in the castle dungeons by Warin’s loyal followers.

Accordingly, first light found Archbishops Loris and Corrigan and a half-dozen of their colleagues gathered fearfully in the ducal chapel, ostensibly to celebrate morning devotions but in fact to speculate among themselves as to what the night’s developments might mean. Most were dubious about the reports that Warin had had a vision; none had any inkling of what had actually occurred.

“The entire thing has gotten out of hand!” Loris was saying. “This Warin de Grey goes too far. The idea of visions, in these times! Why, it’s unheard of.”

His subordinates sat huddled at the far end of the chapel’s nave, close to the sanctuary, where Loris was pacing the carpeting in obvious spleen. Archbishop Corrigan, looking haggard and aged beyond his sixty years, occupied a stool a little apart from the others, as befitted his station as Loris’s second-in-command. The others—de Lacey, Creoda of Carbury, Carsten of Meara, Ifor, and two of the itinerant bishops, Morris and Conlan—sat facing them anxiously. There was no one else in the chapel, and it was barred from within. Conlan, one of the younger bishops present, cleared his throat in a growl.

“Well, you may say that it is unheard of, my lord, but frankly, it worries me. It appears that Warin is moving toward a more lenient policy toward the Deryni. And what will happen if he decides to support the king?”

“Aye, what does happen?” Ifor agreed. “I have even heard that he is considering it. With a royal army camped right at our gates, we are in serious trouble if he does.”

Loris looked sharply at both bishops and then harumphed. “He wouldn’t dare. Besides, not even Warin commands that much influence among his troops. He cannot change their entire outlook overnight.”

“Perhaps not,” Creoda wheezed. The old bishop’s voice was thin and reedy, and he had to pause often to cough. “Perhaps he cannot, but there is certainly something strange going on this morning. You can feel it in the air. And two of my personal escort, some of the men we brought with us, cannot be found. Many of the guard posts were occupied by unfamiliar faces.”

“Humph!” Loris said again. “I don’t suppose anyone knows for sure just what Warin’s so-called vision was all about.”

“Not precisely,” said de Lacey, toying with the amethyst on his finger. “But my chaplain told me this morning that one of the guards said Warin saw an angel in his dream.”

“An angel?”

“That is preposterous!” Loris huffed.

De Lacey shrugged. “Preposterous or not, that is what I was told. An angel with horns of light appeared to Warin in his sleep and warned him that he must reconsider what he has been doing.”

“Damn him, he goes too far!” Loris exploded. “He cannot just dream a dream and then reverse everything he has stood for. Who does he think—”

At a pounding at the chapel door, all of them fell silent. As the knock was repeated, all eyes turned to Loris. Conlan, at Loris’s signal, got to his feet and padded back to the double doorway. Hand on the bolt, he called, “Who is it?”

“Warin de Grey,” a familiar voice said. “What is the meaning of this? Why are the chapel doors closed?”

At a sign from Loris, Conlan slid aside the heavy metal bolt, then stood aside in consternation as Warin, his lieutenants, and a full dozen armed men pushed their way into the chapel, the men taking up posts along either side of the room. One of Warin’s lieutenants hustled Conlan back to the rest of the bishops as all came to their feet, and Warin followed with another man at his elbow.

“What is the meaning of this?” Loris demanded, drawing himself to his full height in an attempt to overawe.

Warin paused to bow slightly from the waist, his face set and solemn “Good morning, my lord Archbishop,” he said, arms stiffly at his sides. “I trust that you and your colleagues slept well.”

“Well enough,” Loris said coldly. “Why have you interrupted our morning devotions with armed men? Such have no place in a house of the Lord.”

“Sometimes such actions are necessary, Archbishop,” Warin replied evenly. “I have come to ask that you lift an excommunication.”

“With armed men?” Loris began indignantly.

“Hear me, my lord. I wish you to lift the excommunication you placed upon Alaric Morgan, Duncan McLain, and the king, and also the Interdict that you imposed on Corwyn.”

“Why on earth would I do that? Are you mad?”

“Not mad, my lord. But I shall be very angry if you do not accede to this request.”

Loris sputtered and grew red in the face. “You are mad! Conlan, call the guards. We need not subject ourselves to this—”

“Paul, bar the door,” Warin countered, cutting across Loris’s fulminations. “And you, my lord Archbishop, hold your tongue and listen. Your Majesty, would you care to join us now?”

Warin’s words elicited a gasp from the prelates, as a sacristy door beside the altar opened. Through it stepped a red-cloaked Kelson, followed closely by Morgan, Duncan, Cardiel, and several of Morgan’s rescued castle officers.

Kelson’s raven head was crowned with a golden circlet, and silk and cloth-of-gold gleamed beneath the crimson cloak. Morgan had donned one of his formal gryphon tunics, the winged beast worked in gold and emeralds on the breast of the silken cloth. Duncan was in black, with the bright plaid of his McLain ancestors secured to one shoulder with a heavy silver brooch. Cardiel wore clerical attire again, black under a magnificent cloth-of-silver cope, with a miter of silver and white on his steel-gray hair.

The significance of this unexpected intrusion took but an instant to register with the watching prelates. Conlan and Corrigan had gone noticeably pale, several other bishops crossed themselves furtively, and even Loris was at least momentarily speechless.

Before that could change, Warin and his men sank to one knee in homage, the armed men raising mailed fists to chests in earnest salute. Kelson let his gaze touch on the motionless bishops, who could not seem to move from their places, then signed for Warin and his men to rise. As he and his followers moved across the chapel floor to join Warin, the bishops shrank back uneasily. When Kelson had gained the company of Warin, he turned to face Loris and the others, his people grouping themselves at his back in a show of solidarity.

“So, my lords, have you forgotten the oaths of allegiance you swore to us and our crown?” He surveyed them from beneath the golden circlet with cold gray eyes.

Loris drew himself a little straighter and gathered up the shreds of his dignity with visible effort.

“Sire, with all due respect, you are excommunicate. Excommunication removes from you certain prerogatives that would ordinarily be yours to command. You are dead to us, Sire.”

“Ah, but I am not dead, Archbishop, in body or in soul,” Kelson countered. “Nor are Morgan, nor Father McLain, nor any of the others whom you have anathematized on the basis of one misunderstood incident. Even Warin now does us honor.”

“Warin is a traitor,” Loris said coldly, with a sidelong glance at the rebel leader. “He has been deceived by your Deryni tricks. You have corrupted him!”

“On the contrary, Warin de Grey is a loyal subject,” Kelson replied. “He now understands the error of his previous belief, and has voluntarily joined us. The unfortunate incident at Saint Torin’s, upon which you appear to base your retribution against my loyal subjects, has been explained to his satisfaction and that of the bishops at Dhassa. The matter is closed. If you continue to justify your disobedience by dwelling on that incident, we can only conclude that there is some other overriding motive behind your continued defiance of your king. It is not Warin who is the traitor. He has not chosen to continue to defy us.”

“You have done something to him!” Loris whispered, pointing a shaking finger at Warin. “You have used your vile powers to corrupt his mind. He would not have had this change of heart if you had not meddled.”

Morgan took a step forward, restrained menace in every line of his body. “Do not forget to whom you speak, Archbishop,” he said, his voice silky but deadly. “Even a king’s patience can reach the breaking point.”

“Ach!” Loris flung up his hands in disgust and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Must we listen to this heretic? I have nothing more to say to either of you. We will not be shaken in our faith.”

“Then you will be incarcerated here at Coroth until you reach a change of heart,” Kelson said quietly. “We will not brook defiance from any subject, even an archbishop. Guards, take Archbishop Loris into custody and escort him to a suitable place of confinement. Bishop Cardiel, we hereby designate you as acting Primate of Gwynedd, until such time as the Curia can meet officially to either ratify your appointment or choose some other loyal bishop more to their liking. Archbishop Edmund Loris is no longer acceptable in the eyes of the Crown.”

“You cannot do that!” Loris raged, as two guards restrained him. “This is absurd!”

“Hold you tongue, Archbishop, or we shall have you gagged. Now, those of you who do not wish to share His Excellency’s fate have but two alternatives. If you feel that you cannot, in good conscience, unite with us to repel the invader Wencit, we shall free you to retire to the sanctuary of your respective sees, on condition that you swear neutrality until this conflict is resolved.

“But if you cannot give us that pledge of neutrality, we ask that you not forswear yourselves by pretending that you can. You would be far better off in custody here at Coroth than to face our wrath when we discover that you have broken faith with us.

“For the rest of you—and we pray that there may be some—we offer an opportunity to renounce the actions you have pursued for these past months and restore your good names. If any of you will bend your knee to us now and renew your allegiance to the Crown, we will be pleased to grant full pardon for past offenses and welcome you back into our company. Your prayers and support will be sorely needed when we face Wencit of Torenth a few days hence.”

He let his gaze search the faces of the watching prelates once again. “Well, my Lords? Which is it to be? The dungeon, the monastery, or the Crown? You have no other choices.”

The conditions Kelson had offered were too much for the infuriated Loris.

“He offers you no choice,” the archbishop ranted. “There can be no other choice where heresy is concerned! Corrigan, you will not betray your faith, will you? Creoda, Conlan, surely you do not mean to bend to this brash young king’s mistaken will?”

Kelson gave a curt hand signal, and one of the guards holding Loris pulled a cloth from his tunic so that his colleague could begin gagging the archbishop.

“You were warned,” Kelson said, eyeing Loris, then the rest of them, with a cold intensity. “Now, which is it to be? We have not the time to delay any longer while you ponder.”

Bishop Creoda coughed nervously and glanced at his colleagues, then stepped forward. “Sire, I cannot speak for my brethren, but I wish no further argument with you. If it please Your Majesty, I shall retire to Carbury for the duration. I do not really know what I believe anymore.”

Kelson nodded curtly, then scanned the rest. After a slight hesitation, Ifor and Carsten also stepped forward, Ifor bowing slightly before he spoke. “We, too, ask your indulgence, Sire. We accept your offer, and will retire to our respective sees. You have our word on it.”

Kelson nodded. “What of the rest of you? I told you, I haven’t all day.”

Bishop Conlan, with a decisive movement, crossed to Kelson and dropped to one knee before him. “I kneel to you once more, Sire. I abjure my support of what followed the Saint Torin affair. If you believe in the innocence of Morgan and McLain, that is sufficient for me. We were all of us caught up in what happened there. Pray, forgive us, Sire.”

“I forgive you freely, Bishop Conlan.” Kelson reached down to touch Conlan lightly on the shoulder. “Do you ride north with us, then?”

“With all my heart, Sire.”

“Thank you.” Kelson returned his gaze to the rest of them: to Loris, struggling in the hands of his captors, making incoherent noises behind his gag; to Creoda and Ifor and Carsten, who would be going into seclusion; then to the two remaining prelates who had not yet declared themselves.

“De Lacey, I have not heard your answer.”

De Lacey averted his eyes for a long moment, then rose stiffly from his seat and slowly sank to his knees in place. “Forgive my seeming indecision, young Sire, but I am an old man, and the old ways die slowly. I am not accustomed to disobeying either my archbishop or my king.”

“Unfortunately, it appears that you shall be obliged to disobey one of us, my lord. Who is it to be?”

De Lacey bowed his head. “I shall ride with you, Sire. If I might have a horse-litter instead of a warhorse, however…I fear that my bones are too old to travel astride a horse at the pace you will demand.”

Kelson inclined his head in agreement. “Captain, see to a litter for His Excellency. And Archbishop Corrigan—what about you? Must I ask each of you individually? Surely you have had time to decide by now.”

Corrigan was ashen, his fat face clammy and glistening with perspiration. He cast long looks at his colleagues, at his henchman Loris in the soldiers’ bonds, then pulled a large handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his face as he lumbered slowly toward Kelson. When he had come to within a few paces of the young king, he cast a final look behind him at Loris, then cast his eyes down and studied his hands, twisting his handkerchief between stubby fingers.

“Forgive me, Sire, but I am old and tired and unable to fight any longer. Much as I fear you are wrong, I have not the strength to oppose you—and I fear I could not survive your dungeon. I ask permission to return to my estates outside Rhemuth. I—I am not well, Sire.”

“Very well,” Kelson said quietly. “If I have your word that you’ll not oppose me, you are free to go. My lords, I thank you for not making this any more difficult than it had to be. And now, Morgan, Warin, Lord Hamilton, I wish to be riding out of here by noon, if at all possible. Please see to whatever needs to be done.”

IT was late afternoon, not midday, before the combined armies were ready to move out, but Kelson gave the marching orders anyway. By traveling through the night and not stopping until the following midday, they could hope to cross most of Corwyn before having to rest. Then, a short stop until the early morning hours of the next day, and they could be in Dhassa by noon of the second day.

From there, it would take at least another two days to combine this army with the other already waiting outside Dhassa. In all, it would be nearly a week before they could hope to meet Wencit’s forces farther north. Kelson prayed that it would be soon enough,

The shadows were lengthening, but no one felt the slightest urge to complain at the late start as the advance battalions pulled out of Coroth and began their trek to the northwest. Royal lion banners vied with the gray and black falcon standards of Warin’s former rebels, both flags interspersed with the episcopal purple of Cardiel’s elite troops brought down from Dhassa. Supply carts creaked their way along the roads, while mounted cavalry thundered across the grass-green of the fields through which they passed. Pack animals snorted and squealed as their drovers bullied them along in the wake of the main army, gay tassels and braid bright and cheerful in the afternoon sun. The richly embroidered surcoats of Morgan’s rescued liegeman were interspersed with the uniform tunics of the Royal Haldane Lancers, the Joshuic Foot, the Haldane Archers Corps, lord and commoner alike bound in the common tie of loyalty to the young king who rode in the vanguard.

On returning to his camp, Kelson had once again donned the gold-washed mail of the kings of Gwynedd, had laced his boots with cords of gold, bound his slim waist with a belt of snow-white leather edged with gold, on which hung the gold-chased greatsword that his father had carried in war at a similar young age. Kelson’s golden helmet glowed like burnished sunlight as he rode out that afternoon, a jeweled golden circlet fixed to the helm and a crimson plume bobbing jauntily from the top.

Around his shoulders was a cloak of scarlet, on his hands gloves of scarlet leather. The white charger between his thighs pranced and arched its neck as Kelson curbed it, red leather reins supple and sleek between its rider’s gloved fingers. At Kelson’s side rode his lords: Morgan, Duncan, Cardiel and Arilan, Nigel and his son Conall, Morgan’s lieutenants, a host of others.

So they were arrayed as they rode out of Coroth that day. So they would appear when they joined battle with Wencit a few days hence. But for now, it was enough that they were united and riding once more, heading toward a rendezvous with other loyal troops, secure in the knowledge that at least a moral victory had been won within Coroth’s walls.

There would be other, more glorious days for Kelson King of Gwynedd. But doubtful it was that any of the others would be remembered with quite such fondness in years to come. For the day that King Kelson rode out of Coroth at the head of an army marked his first true military victory, despite the fact that not a sword had been raised. Spirits would still be high when they reached the gates of Dhassa two days hence.