PANIC! No! He could not do it!

As the blade began to press deeper against Derry’s flesh, again drawing blood, his arms suddenly stiffened, bearing him up and to one side, away from the death he sought, to collapse into the straw. With an agonized moan, he wrenched the weapon from the floor and tried to slash it against his wrists, against his choking throat.

But it was no use. He could do nothing to injure himself. It was as though an unseen hand deflected every attempt, always guiding the blade to harmless destinations.

Wencit! Wencit had been right! Derry could not even kill himself!

Weeping uncontrollable tears of frustration, Derry flung himself onto his stomach and sobbed, his wounds burning with his exertion and his head ringing. The dagger was still in his hand, and he stabbed it hysterically into the straw-covered clay floor, again and again, until, after a while, the flailing ceased and the sobs subsided. Fading consciousness took with it some of the futility of his situation.

Once he thought he came to. Or perhaps he only dreamed it. He thought he had been asleep for only a few minutes when he became aware of a gentle touch on his shoulder—the tentative probe of a human hand.

He flinched and tensed, fearing that it was Wencit, come back to torment him, but the hand did not punish, and the pain did not come. When Derry finally gathered the courage to turn his head toward the intruder, he was astonished to see a gray-cowled stranger gazing down at him in concern. Somehow he was not afraid, though he knew he probably ought to be.

He started to open his mouth to speak, but the stranger shook his head and placed a cool, warning hand over his mouth. The stranger’s eyes glowed with a silver, smoky hue, a frosty light in the shadow of the monkish hood; and Derry had the impression of silvered-gold hair, that he had seen the face somewhere before, though he could not remember where. But then his vision blurred, and he began to drift again.

He became vaguely aware of the man’s hands gliding over his body, probing at his wounds, and of a lessening of the hurt from those wounds, but he could not seem to focus his eyes anymore. He felt the man’s touch on his right hand and thought he heard a sigh of dismay as the man lifted the hand to inspect something cold and silvery on the right forefinger; but he could not seem to move a muscle to resist.

He started to drift again as the stranger rose. He wondered idly if he was truly seeing a nimbus of light around the man’s head, or if he was only hallucinating. Somehow, even that did not seem to matter.

Then the man was backing toward the door, staring at him strangely. Derry had the distinct impression, as the door closed behind the gray-clad figure, that there was a touch of blue to the man’s apparel, that a darker countenance flickered beneath the façade of fairness. The thought crossed his mind that something very odd had just occurred, that there was something he ought to be able to deduce regarding what had just happened.

But he could not make the connection. With that, his head fell back on the straw in merciful oblivion again, and he slept.

DERRY could not have known that Kelson’s army even then was drawing near to the plain of Llyndruth. Since Kelson was eager to reach the proposed battle site before dark, the royal army had been on the march since before dawn. Reconnaissance patrols and single scouts had been sent ahead throughout the day, hoping to gain intelligence of the surrounding area before the entire army should come upon danger unprepared. But nothing out of the ordinary had been reported until late afternoon, when they were within three hours’ march of the Cardosa plain. The news, when it did come, was most unsettling.

One of the patrols had been casting ahead and slightly to the west of the main line of march when they spotted what appeared to be a skirmish band of foot soldiers waiting silently in a brush-filled ravine: perhaps fifty men, with sunlight glinting off the polished steel of cuirass, helmet, and lance—an apparent ambush. Not wishing to reveal their own presence, the outriders had refrained from going close enough to make positive identification of the troop’s battle pennons and returned immediately to inform the King.

Kelson frowned as he tried to fathom the enemy’s intent. The planned ambush could only be a diversionary tactic of some sort, for so small a band could not hope to inflict serious damage on the entire combined forces of Gwynedd. But such a mission would be suicide for the ambushers—unless, of course, there was sorcery afoot to protect the men and change the seemingly impossible odds.

That thought sobered Kelson immediately, and after a moment’s reflection he called General Gloddruth to his side. Gloddruth had been acting as Kelson’s aide-de-camp since his return from the Rengarth treachery, and he listened carefully as the young commander-in-chief gave revised marching orders to be passed down the chain of command. Then, as Gloddruth turned to go, Kelson rode forward to locate Morgan and seek his opinion.

Kelson found the Deryni duke at the head of the main column astride a great white destrier, with Duncan, Nigel, and Bishop Cardiel gathered at his side. Morgan was questioning a frightened-looking scout on a bay rouncy, who seemed barely able to keep his skittish mount in check. Beyond, half a dozen more horsemen milled in a tight circle, churning up dust, their leather jerkins and badges identifying them as scouts of the same unit as the man with Morgan. The Deryni general looked annoyed as he talked to the scout, and Cardiel was fidgeting nervously with the ends of his reins.

Only Nigel nodded greeting as Kelson joined them. The king noted with a shock that Duncan was fingering the tattered remnants of a bloodstained battle pennon with the crimson roses and sleeping lion of Clan McLain. Wordlessly he kneed his mount closer to Morgan, his eyebrows lifting in question.

“I am not able to tell you what has happened, my prince,” Morgan said, curbing his horse sharply as it reached out to nip at Kelson’s black. “Apparently someone has left us a none-too-subtle warning on the other side of the rise. Dobbs brought back that banner,” he gestured toward the silk in Duncan’s hands, “but he seems reluctant to say much about it. I think we’d better investigate.”

“Do you think it’s a trap?” Kelson asked, shivering as he glanced again at the banner. “Dobbs, what did you see out there?”

Dobbs chanced a furtive look at his king, then gathered his reins more tightly in his fist and crossed himself with a shudder.

“God hae mercy on ’em, Sire, it—I cannae speak of it,” he whispered, his voice rasping in his throat. “It was hideous, obscene. Sire, let us be away from this place now, while we still may! We cannae fight an enemy what would do this to its foes!”

“Let’s go,” Morgan said, shaking his head firmly to cut off further protests.

With an impatient yank at the bit, Morgan whirled his mount and urged it up the near side of the rise, followed closely by Kelson, Duncan, and the others. At the top, Warin and two of his lieutenants were already waiting. Bishop Arilan was with them, standing in his stirrups to stare out over the plain, and Warin nodded curtly as the others drew rein beside him.

“Something is very wrong, Sire,” he said in a low voice, nodding toward the plain stretching before them. “Look at the kites and the hawks circling. There are some of them on the ground as well. I do not like it.”

As Kelson followed Warin’s gaze, a gasp escaped his lips. Out on the plain, perhaps half a mile away, he could see what appeared to be a band of armed men standing at attention amid a cluster of low brush. The men cast long, lean shadows in the late afternoon sun, and the sunlight turned their armor and helmets to a ruddy gold.

But he could see no movement save for the ceaseless wheeling of the carrion birds. As Kelson squinted against the sinking sun he could make out more of the birds, gorged and bloated, waddling drunkenly among the men standing there—and no man moved. Farther to the west, yet more of the carrion eaters darkened the sky above the small ravine where Kelson’s scouts had first reported activity. It required little effort to imagine what was going on in the ravine, and Kelson ducked his head and swallowed visibly.

“Are—are all the banners ours?” he asked in a small voice.

One of Warin’s lieutenants closed a spyglass and gave a curt nod. “Aye, Sire—an’ they’re all dead. Or at least I hope they are,” he added in a lower voice, choking back an involuntary sob.

“Enough of this,” Morgan said, momentarily taking command. “Wencit has left us a grisly message—that much is clear. The extent of that message remains to be read. Nigel, signal an escort to join us. The rest of you, come with me.”

With that he touched spurs to his mount and began cantering down the slope, Duncan and the bishops falling in behind. Kelson glanced hesitantly at Nigel, who seemed to be waiting for some confirmation from his royal nephew, who nodded and then fell in behind Morgan and the others. Warin rode down the shallow slope at his side, as Nigel turned to summon the required escort. Though the beginning of their ride was brisk enough, the horses slowed as they drew near the gory scene, for the stench of death was heavy in the air. Several of the horses shied as the great, gorged carrion birds took wing and deserted their feast.

The fate of the men beneath the circling birds now became all too clear. The men wore the blue, silver, and crimson of Kierney and Cassan—Duncan’s house—and each had been impaled upon a narrow wooden stake set firmly into the ground, driving the sharpened point of the stake upward into the body cavity. Several of the bodies—those originally protected by less armor than the others—had been almost completely devoured by the carrion eaters. The air reeked with the stench of sun-ripened flesh and bird droppings.

Kelson blanched whiter than the egret feather that trembled in the badge on his cap, and the others were pale and silent as they drew rein. Duncan shook his head and closed his eyes against the gory sight, and even Warin reeled in the saddle, as though he might faint away at any second.

Cardiel pulled a square of white linen from his sleeve and pressed it hard against his nose and mouth for a long moment, obviously fighting a rebellious stomach, then turned dull eyes on Kelson.

“Sire—” Cardiel’s voice choked, and he had to begin again.

“Sire, what manner of man could do such a thing to fellow creatures? Has such a man no soul? Does he summon demons from the black reaches to serve him with magic?”

Kelson shook his head bitterly. “Not magic, Bishop,” he whispered. “This is human horror, calculated to terrify far more than any mere magic Wencit could leave us at this distance.”

“But, why this?”

Morgan curbed his skittish horse and swallowed with an effort. “Wencit knows human fears,” he said in a low voice. “To see our own, maimed and mutilated unto death like this—what greater horror can there be for fighting men? The man who conceived this—”

“No mere man—a Deryni!” Warin spat, jerking his horse around to glare at Morgan. “One who is Deryni and deranged! Sire”—his eyes flashed a fanatic fire that Kelson had thought to see quenched forever—” you see now what the Deryni are capable of! No human lord would have visited such wrath upon an enemy. It was a Deryni who has done this thing! I told you that they were not to be trust—”

“Hold your tongue!” Kelson snapped, cutting him off. “I do not condone such an act, but there is ample historical precedent among humans for such atrocity—much to all our shame. You are not to bring up the Deryni matter for the duration. Is that clear?”

“Sire!” Warin began indignantly. “You wrong me. I never meant that you—”

“His Majesty knows what you meant,” Arilan said wearily, shifting his weight in his saddle and scanning the scene before them. “What is more important at this point, however, is that…”

His voice trailed off thoughtfully as he glanced again at the impaled corpses, and he suddenly shifted his cloak to the horse’s near side and swung down to the ground. As the others watched uncomprehendingly, the bishop approached the nearest corpse and pulled aside a fold of its cloak. After a reflective pause, he moved to another one and repeated the process. His head was cocked in consternation as he turned back to Kelson and the others, who still watched from their horses, mystified.

“Sire, would you come here a moment? This is very odd.”

“Come and look at dead men? Arilan, I don’t need to see them closer. They’re dead, horribly murdered. Is that not enough?”

Arilan shook his head. “No, I do not think it is. Morgan, Duncan, come with him, if you please. I believe these men were dead before they were placed here—and likely not from impaling. Perhaps they even died in battle. All of them have massive wounds, but there is very little blood.”

Exchanging puzzled glances, Morgan and Duncan dismounted and joined the Deryni bishop, Kelson scurrying after them. Nigel and an armed escort thundered down the slope from the army, drawing up in horror as they saw what lay before them. On the rise in the background, more of Kelson’s officers were gathering on the crest, curious as to what was happening on the plain below. As Nigel swung down from his horse, Arilan beckoned him to join them and pointed to a third body.

“Look at this. Now I am certain they did not die here. Many of the wounds do not even match the blood and rents on the clothing. They may even have had their uniforms changed to make them look better at a distance. For that matter,” he started to remove the helmet of the next man, “some of these men might not even be our—”

As he tugged at the helmet, he gave a sudden, horrified gasp as it came away empty in his hands. The corpse that had borne the helmet was headless, with a blackened stump of neck extending where the head should have been.

Arilan attempted to cover his consternation by moving on to the next corpse, but removal of this helmet produced the same result: another headless body. With a muffled curse, Arilan moved to another and another yet, each time knocking empty helmets from headless shoulders. In fury he turned away from the others and slammed a fist into an open palm.

“Damn them all to eternal perdition! I knew him ruthless, but I did not think even Wencit capable of this!”

“This—this is Wencit’s work?” Nigel managed to stammer, swallowing down bile as he surveyed the carnage.

“So we must assume,” Arilan murmured.

Nigel shook his head in disbelief. “My God, there must be half a hundred men here.” He had to struggle to choke back a sob. “And I would be willing to wager that every one of them is headless. These men were our friends, our comrades in arms. Why, we don’t even know who they are! We—”

He broke off and turned away abruptly to bury his face in one gloved hand, and Kelson dared a quick look at Morgan. Other than the nervous clenching and unclenching of gloved fists, the Deryni duke was standing impassively, showing no outward sign of emotion. Duncan, too, was controlling his anguish well—though at what cost, Kelson could not even begin to guess, for they had believed these to be Cassani and Kierney men, Duncan’s own.

Morgan must have sensed Kelson’s eyes upon him then, for at that moment he looked up, brushing Kelson’s shoulder in reassurance as he moved past to confront the rest of the company.

“A burial detail will be required, gentlemen—no, a funeral pyre. There is no time to bury this many men. Someone must see to the ones across the plain, in the ravine, too. Sire,” he turned slightly toward the king, “what is your feeling about informing the men what has happened?”

“They must be told.”

“I agree,” Morgan said with a nod. “And I think we must stress that these men were dead before they were brought here; that in all likelihood, they died in honorable battle—not spitted like so many wild animals.”

“That should give some measure of comfort,” Arilan agreed, “yet still remind them why we are fighting—and the measures a ruthless enemy may take to achieve his ends.”

Kelson nodded, his composure returning. “Very well. Uncle Nigel, have your men take them down and prepare a funeral pyre.”

Nigel nodded agreement.

“And Warin, if you and such of your men as you feel necessary would attend to the others in the ravine…”

Warin bowed stiffly in the saddle. “As you wish, Sire.”

“Bishop Arilan, Bishop Cardiel—there will be no time for proper services just now, but perhaps you and your brethren can say a few words while the men prepare the pyres. And if any of you should find any indication of the identities of the victims, I—I should like to be informed. It is difficult, I know, without the heads, but—” He shuddered and averted his face slightly. “Please do what you can.”

With his head lowered, Kelson walked briskly back to his horse, turning the animal’s head as he mounted so that he would not have to look for even a second longer at the terrible sight he was leaving. As he cantered up the slope alone to rejoin his other generals and bishops, Arilan watched him go, watched Warin and his men start toward the ravine with Cardiel, watched the men of Nigel’s escort dismount and begin the grisly task of laying the slaughtered men to rest. As the soldiers spread through the ranks of the dead to gently lift each man to the ground, Arilan moved slowly to where Morgan and Duncan stood watching dumbly, coming between them to lay a comforting arm across the shoulder of each.

“Our young king is sorely troubled, my friends, as am I,” he said in a low voice, watching with morbid fascination as the soldiers slowly cleared a path in the terrible forest of stakes. “How do you think this will affect him in the days to come?”

Morgan snorted and crossed his arms across his chest. “You have a talent for asking questions I cannot answer, Bishop. How will any of us react? Do you know what worries me more than this?”

Arilan shook his head, and Duncan looked at him in apprehension.

“Well,” Morgan continued in a low voice, “for now these are just bodies—horribly defiled, I will grant you, but still only bodies. For all we know, they could be dead Torenthi soldiers dressed in captured Cassani livery—though I doubt it.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed.

“But somewhere, someone knows who those men really are. The bodies may be here, but the heads are somewhere else—and I dread what may happen when we find those heads.”

THEIR departure from that place was delayed yet another hour while the funeral pyres were lit, and then each column of soldiers must make its final salute as it passed the smoking pyres of the dead men. There had been rumblings among the ranks as the news of the slaughter spread, and the expected fears and speculations as to the identities of both victims and perpetrators. But in all, the army had taken the incident in stride. None could now question the evil of Wencit of Torenth, who could condone such atrocities upon a vanquished enemy—even if the mutilations had been done after the men were dead. Such a man deserved no mercy from the King of Gwynedd. When battle was joined in the morning, it was certain to be hard and bloody.

So the army had marched on, leaving in its wake two smoldering beacons whose greasy smoke spiralled upward in an ever-widening swath of black against the sky. They encountered no further harassment as they went, perhaps because the enemy had deemed the spectacle of the previous hour sufficient; or perhaps they were merely saving their strength for the battle in the morning.

Whatever their reason, Kelson was glad of it as they reached their final campsite, for darkness was falling. The day had been long and grueling, the past hours emotionally draining. The army would need all of the rest they could get.

It took nearly three hours to make camp, but finally Kelson was sufficiently satisfied with the camp’s defenses to retire to his tent for a light supper. Morgan, Duncan, and Nigel joined him, but they kept the tone light all through the meal, none of them wishing to discuss the day in detail. After the last glasses of wine had been poured, Kelson stood and held his goblet aloft, the others rising as well.

“Gentlemen, I give you a final toast. To the loyal dead—and to victory: may it come tomorrow to the just!”

“And to the King!” Nigel added quickly, before Kelson could raise the cup to his lips. “Long may he reign!”

“To victory and the King!” the others repeated, and tossed off their drinks.

Kelson allowed himself a wan smile, then raised his own cup and drank, finally setting it on a small table and sinking back into his chair. He glanced at each of them wearily, then shook his head and sighed.

“If any of you are half as tired as I am…” He sighed again. “But, no matter. We all have further duties to attend to. Morgan, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Certainly, my prince.”

Kelson nodded. “I should like you to see the Lady Richenda and inform her what has happened today—without elaborating on the graphic details, of course. She is a very refined lady. Tell her that I shall think no less of her if she chooses not to try appealing to her husband tomorrow.”

“From what I have heard,” Duncan said with a wry chuckle, “he will have his hands full convincing her of that. The Lady Richenda may be a very refined lady, but she seems to me a very stubborn one.”

Kelson smiled. “So I have come to suspect. But I cannot fault her when that stubbornness is for the Crown. Morgan, try to make her understand what we are up against. I have no right to ask her assistance under the circumstances. I shouldn’t even have allowed her to come.”

“I shall do my best, my prince,” Morgan agreed.

“Thank you. Now, Uncle Nigel, I wonder if you would come with me to look over the northernmost defenses. I am not convinced that they are adequate, and I should like your opinion.”

As Kelson pulled out several maps to show to his uncle and went on with his briefing, Morgan took his leave and slipped out of the royal pavilion. Kelson’s request both pleased and troubled him, for he had not been at all certain it was wise to seek out Richenda of Marley again—not after their all too brief but emotionally potent meeting at Dhassa.

A part of him, of course, positively yearned to see her again; but another, more cautious part of him—a part which, he strongly suspected, was closely bound up with his personal sense of honor—that part warned him to stay away, warned that no honor could come of permitting himself to become more emotionally involved with another man’s wife—especially if he might have to kill that man on the morrow.

But now the matter had been taken out of his hands. He had been given an order by his king, and he must obey. Pushing aside a curious sense of elation at being thus forced to circumvent the proddings of his conscience, he made his way through the camp until he came to Bishop Cardiel’s compound.

The bishop had not yet returned, was probably overseeing troop placement with Warin and Arilan somewhere, but the bishop’s guards passed the King’s Champion unchallenged. Very shortly Morgan was moving across the torchlit common before the Countess of Marley’s bright blue tent. Torches blazed to either side of the entry-way, but he could see through the open flap that the interior was lit by the softer glow of candles.

Swallowing nervously, Morgan stepped to the open flap of the tent and cleared his throat.

“My lady countess?” he called softly.

He heard a faint rustle of fabric, heralding the appearance of a tall, dark form in the opening to the tent. Morgan’s heart missed a beat for just an instant, then resumed its normal pace, for the woman was a sister, not the Lady Richenda.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” the sister murmured, inclining her wimpled head. “Her Ladyship is within, putting the young master to bed. Did you wish to speak with her?”

“If you please, Sister. I have a message for her from the king.”

“I shall tell her, Your Grace. Wait here, please.” As the sister withdrew, Morgan turned to gaze out into the darkness beyond the circle of torchlight. After what seemed like only a few seconds, another rustling heralded the appearance of a different form: Richenda of Marley, with a sky-blue mantle drawn over a flowing white under-robe, her flame-colored hair trailing loosely down her back. A single candle held in a silver holder shed a golden light across her face.

“My lady.” Morgan inclined his head in salute, trying not to look too closely at her. Richenda dropped him the slightest of curtsies and also inclined her head.

“Good evening, Your Grace. Sister Luke mentioned something about a message from the king?”

“Yes, my lady. I suppose you have heard somewhat regarding the delay this afternoon, before we reached our campsite?”

“I have.” The answer was quiet, direct, and the woman lowered her eyes, gesturing for him to enter. “Please come in, Your Grace. Your Deryni reputation will not be enhanced if you are seen loitering outside my tent. Nor will mine.”

“Would you rather have me seen entering your tent, my lady?” Morgan quipped, ducking his head to step inside.

“I am certain that Sister Luke can attest to the propriety of our meeting,” she replied with a slight smile. “Pray, excuse me a moment while I make certain my son is asleep.”

“Of course.”

The pavilion was divided within by a dense but faintly translucent curtain of royal blue. He could follow Richenda’s movements behind the curtain by the glow of her candle, but he could not make out details. Presumably the sleeping accommodations for the countess, her son, and the sister were in the second chamber, since he could see no such preparations on the side where he was now standing.

The furnishings of his present location seemed to consist of two folding camp chairs, a few small trunks, and a rack of yellow candles set near the center pole. Carpets had been laid underfoot to keep the dampness out, but they were not of any special quality—doubtless borrowed from Cardiel’s stores, with such short notice. He hoped that the lady and her boy were not enduring too much discomfort.

Richenda slipped back into the outer chamber and held a finger to her lips, a tender smile on her face.

“He is asleep now, Your Grace. Would you care to look in on him? He is only four, you know, but I’m afraid I am terribly proud of him.”

Seeing that she wished it, Morgan nodded acquiescence and followed her into the inner chamber. As they entered, the sister looked up from a stack of bedclothes she was sorting and bowed slightly as though to leave, but Richenda shook her head and led Morgan to the small pallet where her son slept.

Brendan Coris had his mother’s reddish-golden hair and, as far as Morgan could see, resembled his father Bran Coris very little. Certainly, there was a familial resemblance around the nose, but the rest was his mother’s influence, delicate features almost too fragile for a man-child. The boy’s long, thick lashes lay on his cheeks like cobwebs, and the rumpled, bright hair that Morgan had first seen in a coach by Saint Torin’s was gold-rich in the candlelight. Morgan could not remember the color of the boy’s eyes, but he suddenly knew that if the boy opened them, they would be the same cornflower hue as his mother’s.

Richenda smiled and tucked the sleeping furs more closely around her slumbering son, then signed for Morgan to withdraw with her to the outer chamber. As Morgan followed, he could not help noticing another sleeping-pallet in the inner chamber, this one canopied with blue and cream silk. Resolutely he put it from his mind as Richenda turned to face him again.

“I thank you for coming, Your Grace,” Richenda said, sitting in one of the chairs and motioning him to the other. “I must confess, I have felt the lack of human company these past days since Dhassa. Sister Luke is a dear, but she says little beyond what is required. The others prefer not to associate with a traitor’s wife.”

“Even when the traitor’s wife has offered to aid the Crown, and is a young and helpless woman?” Morgan asked softly.

“Even then.”

Morgan lowered his head, wondering what he dared say to this exquisite creature to whom he was so strongly drawn.

“Your homeland—is it like Corwyn?” he asked abruptly, rising to begin pacing the confines of the outer chamber.

Richenda’s eyes followed him as he paced, her face expressionless. “Somewhat. Not so hilly, though. It is said that Corwyn has a monopoly on the most beautiful mountains in this region. Bran says that—” Her voice faltered, and she began again.

“My husband says that our Marley has rich farmland, though—some of the richest in all the Eleven Kingdoms. Did you know that there has never been a serious famine in Marley, going back more than four hundred years? Even when there is drought and pestilence in other lands, Marley at least survives. I used to think it was a sign of divine favor.”

“And now?”

Richenda studied her hands clasped in her lap and shrugged. “Oh, it changes nothing of the past, I suppose, but now that Bran—oh, what’s the use? I keep coming back to the same subject, don’t I? And I know that the last thing you wish to talk about on the eve of battle is a traitor earl. Why did the king send you, Your Grace?”

“Partly because of what we found today, my lady,” he replied, after only the briefest of pauses. “You indicated that you had heard the reason for our delay. Are you aware of the extent—”

“Headless corpses impaled on wooden stakes,” she interrupted in a clipped voice. “Cassani uniforms on hacked bodies whose wounds do not match their clothing.” She looked him full in the eyes.

“Did the king send you to ask whether I thought my husband did these things? Do you wish me to say that, yes, Bran is at least capable of such acts? You must know that I have been in the king’s custody for many days now, and hence cannot say whether my husband actually participated in the day’s work!”

Morgan found himself momentarily speechless, taken aback both by her candor and by the tenor of her outburst.

“Forgive me, my lady, but you misjudge both the king and myself. No one ever meant to imply that you had knowledge of what your husband planned. Indeed, all signs point to his defection being strictly a matter of opportunity. A man who planned to betray his king would hardly leave his wife and heir in jeopardy. If you have received the impression that your loyalty is in question, I do apologize. It was not intended.”

Richenda looked across at him for a long time, her blue eyes never wavering from his, then shifted her glance to her lap. Her betrothal ring gleamed dully in the candlelight.

“Pray, forgive me. I should not have taken out my frustration on you. Nor is the king to blame for my apprehensions.” Her voice was rock-steady.

“As for Bran, I cannot say whether you are correct or not. I pray that his betrayal was not planned, yet I know that he was—is—ambitious. Even our marriage was largely brought about to consolidate vague claims he had for several manors adjoining Marley, that he knew would be part of my dowry.

“But he was a good father, if not a model husband. He loves Brendan dearly, even if our relationship is largely one of state.” She paused, then shook her head. “No, that is hardly fair. I think that Bran did come to love me after a time, in his own fashion. After what has happened today, though, I hardly think that makes much difference.”

“Then, you think he is beyond your reach?” Morgan said quietly, not wishing to touch further on her personal relationship with Bran.

Richenda shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, my lord. If he would agree to what happened today, then anything I might say will probably make little difference to him. Perhaps he would listen for Brendan’s sake. I am still willing to make the effort, if the king will permit it.”

“It is a needless risk, my lady.”

“Perhaps. But we must, each of us, play out our parts as they have been written for us. Mine, it seems, is to play the traitor’s wife and beg for my husband’s life. And yet, I cannot expect the king to sacrifice whole armies for my sake. When all is said and done, Brendan and I can expect to be left with nothing but a traitor’s name, regardless of the outcome of the battle. It is not a pleasant state to contemplate, is it?”

“No, it is not,” Morgan agreed gently.

Sighing, Richenda rose to lean against the center pole of the tent, then turned to gaze across at Morgan.

“And you, Your Grace—what is it you hope to gain from all of this? You have great powers and much wealth, the king favors you, and yet you gamble everything on a single throw of the dice. If Gwynedd loses this war, you cannot possibly survive. It is well known that Wencit will not tolerate conquered Deryni in his dominions. Such men would always be a threat to his power.”

Morgan lowered his eyes and studied the toes of his dusty boots.

“I am not certain I can answer that, my lady. As you doubtless know, I have been something of a rebel all my life. I have never made any secret of my Deryni heritage. I first used my powers openly to help King Brion keep his throne—more than fifteen years ago. Since then, I suppose my aim, in an indirect way, has been to continue using my powers openly, in the hope that one day all Deryni could be as free as I. Yet, even in that, there is irony—for when have I, as a Deryni, ever been entirely free?”

“But you have used your powers, have you not?”

“On occasion, and with great care.” He waved a ringed hand depreciatingly. “But I must confess that such use has often brought about more ruin than reward. This present quarrel with the archbishops can be traced directly to my actions at Kelson’s coronation, and then at Saint Torin’s. If there had been no magic, we might all now be safely at home in our beds.”

“We might,” Richenda agreed. “Yet, if we were, Kelson would not now be king. And I doubt very much whether you and others of your kind would ever sleep well at night.”

Morgan chuckled ironically, then sobered as Richenda remained silent.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I so seldom encounter a sympathetic stranger that I scarcely know how to behave. Most folk find it difficult to conceive how I can even admit to some of the things I have done. I sometimes wonder myself. It takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Why should it? Are you ashamed of what you have done?”

Morgan cocked his head at her in faint surprise. “No, I am not. If I had to choose over again, I think I should make mostly the same choices. Of course, since that is not possible, the question is academic anyway, is it not?”

“Perhaps—though one must base future decisions on the past, do you not agree?”

“Your logic is flawless,” Morgan admitted reluctantly. “But perhaps the problem goes deeper than you dream. We Deryni are somewhat different from ordinary men, as you no doubt have gathered.”

“That different?”

Richenda smiled at him rather oddly, then half-turned away from him. Against the light of the rack of candles behind her, Morgan could see her profile outlined in gold. After a moment she turned toward him again, her face unreadable against the brightness of the candlelight.

“My lord, may I make a confession to you?”

“I am not your priest, my lady,” Morgan said lightly, leaning against the edge of a leather-bound trunk.

Richenda took a few steps toward him, her face still a gray blur against the candlelight, “Thank God and all the saints that you are not my priest, my lord! For if you were, I should never dare to say what is in my mind. I sense a bond between us that draws us close: fate, destiny, the will of God—call it what you will, though I think I—please don’t look at me that way, my lord!”

Morgan had frozen with her first words and now sat in stunned silence, staring. That Richenda had spoken thus was at once too wondrous and too terrible to contemplate. He had thought his own emotions neatly tucked away and under control. But now, to have Richenda echoing those feelings…

He turned his face away and averted his eyes, trying to force himself to composure. “My lady, we must not. I—” He paused, then began again in words he hoped she would understand.

“My lady, long ago you took vows with a man. You bore his son. That man still lives. Regardless of the feelings, or their lack, that you and he shared, you still are—Richenda, I may have to kill your husband tomorrow. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Her voice was a whisper in the dim, flickering candlelight. “My husband is a traitor and must die, one way or another; I know that. I will mourn the goodness in him—for there was some of that. And I shall mourn that my son shall have no father, for Bran was that, too. But if fate guides your sword,” her voice became softer still, “or your powers, to take his life tomorrow, I shall not hate you for it. How could I? You are my heart.”

“Sweet Jesu, you must not say these things,” he murmured, closing his eyes against the sight of her. “We must not, we dare not…”

“Oh, must I spell it out?” she whispered, taking one of his hands in hers and brushing her lips against its tanned back.

Morgan flinched at the contact of her flesh against his but forced himself to look down at her as she took his other hand in hers. As her hands closed over his, it was as though a great light glowed around them, and suddenly their minds were one.

Richenda was Deryni—Deryni in all the fullness born to those eldritch lords of old. Deryni—in all its splendor and pride and fulfilled power, with no guilt attached. In the first heady ecstasy of union with her mind, he was filled with a sense of wonder so profound that, in that instant, he knew with a certainty born at the root of all his powers that he had found that other part of himself, missing all his life. That whatever happened tomorrow, and for all the days of his life, he could endure it with this blessed woman at his side.

At length he saw her again through eyes instead of mind, and he staggered back a step and pulled his hands free in amazement. He stared at her for a long moment in awe, a part of him wondering idly if the sister in the next chamber was asleep—and praying that she was!—then lowered his eyes to stare blindly at the carpet beneath his feet. Reality had returned with a rush, and with it all the problems of the morrow.

“What has happened—this will make it that much more difficult for me tomorrow—you know that,” he murmured reluctantly. “I have responsibilities which I assumed long before this burden was laid upon my heart. I have been the catalyst for much of what has happened.”

“Then I have given you that much more to fight for,” she said softly.

“Yes. And if I am forced to kill Bran tomorrow, or am instrumental in his death, then what?”

“We both will know that you do it for the right reasons, if it comes to that,” she replied.

“Will we?”

Before she could answer, there was the slight clatter of guards coming to attention across the common outside, and then low voices in the darkness. Recalled to duty with a start, Morgan moved to the entryway and pulled back the flap farther to see who approached. At length a vague shadow dressed in black emerged from the ring of darkness beyond the torches and strode toward the tent: Duncan. And by the expression on his face, something was amiss.

“What is it?” Morgan asked, stepping into the entryway and blocking Duncan’s view of the interior.

Duncan ducked his head apologetically. “Sorry to intrude, but I checked your tent and you weren’t there. The king wishes you to see something.”

With a clipped nod of agreement, Morgan turned back briefly to meet Richenda’s eyes once more—there was no need for further words—then inclined his head in leave-taking and joined Duncan.

“Sorry. It took a bit longer than I expected. What have you got?”

Duncan’s voice was carefully neutral, avoiding any reference to the place Morgan had just left. “I’m not sure. We are hoping you can tell us. It sounds like Wencit’s men are building something.”

“Building something?” They were passing a guard post, and Morgan almost missed the salute as he turned to stare at his cousin. Duncan shrugged.

“This way. We can hear it best from over here.”

As they approached the northern limits of the camp, one of the guards from the last outpost detached himself from his comrades and headed into the darkness ahead, which was lightened only by starlight. Morgan and Duncan followed, dropping to a crouch at his gesture to snake along the last few yards on their bellies.

At the crest of the ridge, they found Kelson, Nigel, and a pair of scouts already there, lying on their stomachs and gazing out over the plain of the enemy encampment. The enemy watch fires stretched north as far as the eye could see, and high above at the summit of the pass, the torches on the rampart walls of captive Cardosa twinkled in the thin air.

Morgan scanned the array quickly, for he had inspected the plain earlier; then he squirmed into place beside Kelson and nudged the young king with his elbow.

“What’s this about them building something?” he whispered.

Kelson shook his head slightly and nodded toward the enemy camp. “Listen. It’s very faint, but sometimes the wind carries it better. What does it sound like to you?”

Morgan listened, slowly extending his Deryni senses to heighten his hearing. He was aware at first only of the normal sounds of military encampment, both from their camp and from the enemy below: the usual sounds of low voices, of horses blowing and stamping in the quiet, the call of the watch changing, the rattle of mess kits and weapons being cleaned.

But then he was able to filter out the ordinary sounds until he detected another which was far and strange. He cocked his head and closed his eyes to listen better, then glanced at Kelson with an odd expression on his face.

“You’re right. It sounds like someone hammering on wood. And sometimes I hear what sounds like chopping.”

“That’s what it sounded like to us, too,” Kelson replied, resting his chin on his hands and staring into the night once more.

“Now, the next question is, what is Wencit building? What is he doing with wood and hammers and axes in the middle of the night before battle? And why?”