“SO, you are Kelson Haldane,” Wencit said. His voice was smooth, cultured, his manner supremely confident, and Kelson instantly despised him.

“It pleases me that we can discuss the matter at hand in a civilized fashion, like two grown men,” Wencit continued, eyeing Kelson up and down disdainfully. “Or, nearly grown.”

Kelson would not permit himself the luxury of the scathing retort he longed to unleash. Instead, he made himself return his enemy’s scrutiny, gray eyes noting every aspect of the lean, red-haired Deryni known as Wencit of Torenth.

Wencit sat his great golden steed as though born in the saddle, gloved hands lightly holding wide velvet reins embellished with burnished golden bosses. A frothy purple plume fastened in the headstall of the golden bridle trembled and floated on the breeze as the golden charger shook its head and snorted at Kelson’s black.

Wencit himself was attired all in gold and purple, every part of his body save his head either encased in gilt-washed mail or adorned with cloth of gold or the rich purple and gold brocade of the mantle that swirled from his jeweled gold collar. Gem-studded wrist guards met supple kidskin gloves on his hands, and a heavy neck chain lay aglitter on the breast of his golden surcoat. His brow bore an ornate coronet of chased gold set with pearls and tawny-colored gems. On any other man, the cumulative effect might have seemed ludicrous, but on Wencit it but underlined his potency.

Almost, Kelson felt himself beginning to respond to the sheer visual presence of the man seated on the warhorse before him, and he forced himself to shake the feeling, drawing himself a little straighter and lifting his chin. Coolly he permitted his gaze to touch on Wencit’s companions: the unctuous Lionel, the scowling Rhydon, traitor Bran, who would not meet his eyes just yet. Then he returned his full attention to Wencit. His eyes were flint-hard as he met the sorcerer’s gaze, and he did not flinch at the contact.

“I assume, by your statement, that you consider yourself a civilized man,” Kelson said carefully. “On the other hand, the brutal killing of scores of helpless prisoners hardly seems calculated to demonstrate any high degree of civilization.”

“No, it was not,” Wencit agreed amiably enough. “But it was calculated to demonstrate the extent to which I would go, if necessary, to ensure that you carefully consider the proposal I am about to make to you.”

“Proposal?” Kelson snorted contemptuously. “Surely you don’t think I’m of a mind to bargain, after the brutality I have just witnessed. What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

“Oh, not a fool,” Wencit laughed. “Not the son of Brion Haldane. Nor am I so witless as to underestimate the threat you pose to me, even though you are contending outside your class. It is almost a pity that you shall have to die.”

“Until that is an accomplished fact, I suggest that you turn your words to other topics. Say what you have to say, Wencit. The day grows later.”

Wencit smiled and bowed slightly in the saddle. “Tell me, how is my young friend, Lord Derry?”

“How should he be?”

Wencit clucked his tongue in disapproval and shook his head. “Now, young Haldane, please give me credit for a little intelligence. Why would I have ordered Derry’s death? He was the token I had hoped to play for the recovery of my Lord Bran’s family. I assure you, the archers acted wholly without my orders and have been punished. Is Derry alive?”

“That is not your concern,” Kelson answered curtly.

“Then, he lives. That is well.” Wencit nodded. He smiled lightly, glancing down at his gloves, then looked up at Kelson again. “Very well, what I have come to say is this: So far as I am concerned, there need be no great battle between our respective armies. Men need not die in masses for us to settle our differences.”

Kelson’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Just what did you have in mind as an alternative?”

“Personal combat,” Wencit replied. “Or, to be more specific, personal combat on a group level: a duel to the death by magic, Deryni against Deryni. Myself, Rhydon, Lionel, and Bran against you and any other three whom you may designate. I would assume that Morgan and McLain and perhaps your royal uncle would be your logical choice—but of course, you are free to choose whomever you wish. In ancient days, such combat was called the Duel Arcane.”

Kelson scowled and glanced at Morgan, then at Arilan and Duncan. He was suddenly uneasy at Wencit’s proposal, and the notion of another Duel Arcane filled him with dread; the one with Charissa had been bad enough. There was a trick involved, there had to be. He must discover what it was.

“Your advantage in such a contest is obvious, my lord. You and yours are trained Deryni; most of us are not. And yet, even with these advantages, it does not strike me that you are the sort of man to risk so much on one battle. What is it that you neglect to tell me?”

“Do you suspect me of subterfuge?” Wencit asked, raising an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Well, perhaps you are well-advised. But I had thought the other advantages of such a resolution would be quite clear. If we join battle here, army against army, the flower of knighthood from both our sides will be destroyed. Of what use to me is a dead kingdom? A kingdom inhabited only by old men, young boys, women and children.”

Kelson eyed the enemy king shrewdly. “I have no more wish than you to lose my finest fighting men in battle. If we fight here today, the impact will be felt for a generation to come. But I cannot trust you, Wencit of Torenth. Even if I defeat you here, who is to say what next spring will bring? Who is—”

Wencit threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoed lightly by his companions. Kelson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, for he was not aware that he had said anything particularly amusing. But one glance at Morgan convinced him that the general knew. He was about to say something when Wencit suddenly stopped laughing and moved his horse a few steps closer.

“Forgive me, young prince, but your naïveté is touching. I offered a four-way battle to the death. Under those circumstances, the losers would hardly be in any position to threaten the victors—unless, of course, you believe that some men can return from the grave.”

Kelson scowled at that, for far more bizarre things had been hinted about Wencit of Torenth over the years. But then he forced himself to dismiss the thought and return to what Wencit had actually proposed: a duel to the death by magic. His hesitation apparently did not set well with the Torenthi king, however, for Wencit abruptly frowned and kneed his horse still closer to reach out a gloved hand to Kelson’s reins.

“If you have not already noticed, I am an impatient man, Kelson Haldane. I do not brook interference with my plans. If you are considering rejecting my proposal, I suggest that you put it out of your mind immediately. I remind you that I still hold nearly a thousand of your men captive—and there are far worse ways to die than by simple hanging.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Kelson whispered icily.

“It means that if you do not accept my challenge, what you saw in the last hour will be as nothing. Unless your word prevents it, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered before your army at dusk, and two hundred more impaled alive and left to die at the rising of the moon. If you hope to save them, I would not advise procrastination.”

Kelson’s face had blanched at Wencit’s description of the intended fate of the prisoners, and his hands clenched tightly as he jerked his reins from Wencit’s grasp. He glared across at the Deryni sorcerer as though to destroy him with a single thought as Wencit backed his mount a few casual steps, and would have moved after him, had not Morgan held out a restraining arm and kneed his own horse to block the king’s. Kelson glanced at Morgan angrily, intending to order him back, but something in Morgan’s expression made the young king hesitate. Morgan’s eyes were cold as the midnight fog as he met Wencit’s haughty gaze.

“You are trying to force us into a hasty decision,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know why. Why is it so important that we accept the challenge on your terms?” He paused only slightly. “Or is there some new treachery afoot?”

Wencit turned his head deliberately to stare directly at Morgan, as though incensed that Morgan had dared to interrupt his negotiations with Kelson. Then he ran his glance disdainfully over the other’s form. His voice was mocking when he finally spoke.

“You have much to learn of the Deryni, Alaric Morgan, for all that you claim that heritage for yourself. You will find, if you survive, that there are ancient codes of honor concerning our powers which even I would not willingly transgress.” He returned his gaze to Kelson. “I have offered you formal duel under the laws set forth by the Camberian Council more than two centuries ago, Kelson Haldane. There are other laws, far older, which I am also bound to obey. I have sought and received permission from the Council to wage this duel with you on the terms that I have already specified, and to have Council arbitrators present. I assure you, there could be no treachery where the Council is concerned.”

Kelson’s brows furrowed in consternation. “The Camberian Coun—”

Arilan interrupted for the first time, cutting across Kelson’s response. “My lord, you will forgive my intrusion, but His Majesty was not prepared to answer a challenge such as you have proposed to him today. You will understand that he must have time to consult with his advisors before giving you a final answer. If he accepts, the lives and fortunes of many thousands of his people will hang upon the talents of four men. You will appreciate that it is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

Wencit turned to study Arilan as though he were some particularly noxious form of lower life. “If the King of Gwynedd feels that he cannot make a decision without consulting his inferiors, Bishop, that is his weakness, not mine. However, my original warning still stands. If I do not have the decision I require by nightfall, two hundred prisoners will be drawn and quartered where we now stand, and two hundred more impaled alive at the rising of the moon. Such measures will continue until all of the prisoners are dead, and then I shall take even sterner measures. See that you do not provoke me overmuch, Kelson of Gwynedd.”

With that, Wencit backed his horse a few more deft paces, then whirled the animal on its haunches to begin cantering back toward his own lines. His companions wheeled with him in perfect formation and followed, leaving a stunned Kelson staring after their retreating forms.

Kelson was angry at Arilan for interrupting, at Morgan for provoking Wencit, at himself for his indecision, but he did not trust himself to speak until they, too, had returned to their own lines and were dismounting outside the royal pavilion. He gave orders for the battle lines to be put at ease, since there was obviously to be no fighting until the morrow, at the earliest, then motioned the three who had ridden with him to follow him inside.

He decided to deal with the bishop first, since he was within reach, but as they entered the tent they found nearly a dozen men clustered around the unmoving form of Derry, stretched on a pallet to the left of the chamber. A bloodstained Warin was bending over him, and Nigel’s son Conall was kneeling beside him with a reddened basin of water, a look of awe on his face as he watched the former rebel leader wipe his bloody hands on a piece of towelling. Derry’s eyes were closed and his head was rolling back and forth as though still in some pain, but there were fragments of a half-shattered arrow shaft on the floor beside him.

As Kelson and the bishop entered, Morgan and Duncan right behind them, Warin looked up and nodded greeting. He was wan and obviously exhausted, but there was also satisfaction in his eyes.

“He should be all right, Sire. I withdrew the arrow and healed the wound. He is still feverish from whatever happened earlier, however. General Morgan, he keeps murmuring your name. Perhaps you should take a look at him.”

Morgan moved quickly to Derry’s side and dropped to one knee, laying a gentle hand on the young man’s brow. Derry’s eyes flickered open at the touch and looked up at the ceiling for just an instant; then he turned his head to gaze at Morgan, a frightened shadow flitting behind his eyes.

“Be easy, Sean,” Morgan murmured. “You’re safe now.”

“My lord…You’re all right.” Then, “I didn’t betr—”

He broke off and stiffened for just an instant, as though remembering something terrifying, then shuddered in revulsion and jerked his head away. Frowning, Morgan moved his fingertips to Derry’s temples, intending to exert his powers and calm him, but met resistance there that he had never encountered in Derry before.

“Just relax,” he whispered. “The worst is over. Rest now. You’ll feel better after you’ve slept—”

“No! I mustn’t sleep!”

The very thought seemed to terrify Derry, who began tossing his head from side to side so wildly that it was all Morgan could do to maintain contact. The younger man’s eyes blazed with an animal fear, all reason gone, and Morgan realized that he was going to have to do something quickly or Derry would burn himself out in his exhausted state.

“Sean, relax. Don’t fight me! It’s all right, you’re safe. Duncan, give me a hand here!”

“No! You mustn’t make me sleep! You mustn’t!” Derry caught a handful of Morgan’s cloak and struggled to rise as Duncan scrambled in to grab his arms and Warin backed away.

“No! Let me go! You don’t understand. Oh, God help me, what am I going to do?”

“It’s all right—”

“No, it isn’t all right! You don’t understand! Wencit—”

Derry’s expression became even more stricken, and he lifted his head to stare wildly into Morgan’s eyes, his right hand still twined desperately in the edge of Morgan’s cloak, despite Duncan’s efforts to free it.

“Morgan, listen! They say there’s no Devil, but they’re wrong! I saw him! He has red hair and calls himself Wencit of Torenth, but he lies. He’s the Devil himself! He made me—he made me—”

“Not now….” Morgan shook his head and forced Derry’s shoulders back against the pallet. “No more for now. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you’re weak from your wounds and captivity. You must rest. When you wake, you’ll feel better. I promise nothing will happen to you. Trust me, Sean.”

As Morgan spoke, imposing more and more control against Derry’s weakening will, the younger man suddenly went limp, eyes closing and muscles going slack as he sank back against the pallet. Morgan disengaged his cloak from Derry’s grasp, then laid the young lord’s hands loosely across his chest and straightened the angle of his head. Conall, still watching from nearby, brought a sleeping-fur, which Morgan tucked loosely around the still form. Warin had retreated to stand against one of the walls of the tent. Morgan studied the sleeping Derry for several seconds, as though assuring himself that the sleep was deep enough, then exchanged a worried glance with Duncan before looking up at Kelson and the circle of anxious faces.

“I think he’ll be all right when he’s rested, Sire. But right now, I’d rather not think about what he must have gone through.” His eyes darkened and took on a far-away look, and under his breath he murmured, “God help Wencit, when I find out, though.”

He shuddered as the mood passed, then swept a strand of pale hair out of his eyes and got to his feet with a sigh. Duncan, after another look at the sleeping Derry, kept his eyes averted as he stood. Kelson, too, was much subdued and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as his gaze wavered between the two of them.

“What do you think Wencit did do to him?” he finally asked in a small voice.

Morgan shook his head. “It’s difficult to say at this point, my prince. Later I’ll probe him more deeply, if it’s indicated, but he’s too weak now. He really fought me.”

“I see.”

Kelson studied the toes of his boots for several seconds, then looked up again. All eyes were now upon him, waiting for his next instructions, and he remembered abruptly what must be the next topic of discussion.

“Very well, gentlemen. There is nothing further we can do for Derry at this time, so I suggest that we get back to the business at hand.” He glanced at Arilan and cocked his head. “Bishop Arilan, could you tell us about this Cam—”

Arilan cleared his throat and shook his head meaningfully, glancing at Warin’s retainers, at young Conall, at the few guards, and Kelson stopped in mid-word. Nodding slightly, the king moved to Conall’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder, for he understood that Arilan did not wish to discuss the matter before comparative outsiders.

“Thanks for your aid, Cousin. Would you please send your father and Bishop Cardiel to me before returning to your duties? And gentlemen,” he included Warin’s men and the guards in his gesture, “I must ask that you likewise return to your posts. Thank you for your concern.”

Conall and the others bowed and made their way out of the tent, and Warin watched them go, straightening and moving slightly as though to follow them.

“I sense that this is something not for the ears of outsiders, so I’ll leave if you wish. I am not offended,” Warin added hastily.

Kelson glanced at Arilan, but the bishop shook his head.

“No, you have a right to be present, just as we have called for Bishop Cardiel, who is perhaps less Deryni than any of us. Kelson, if you don’t mind, I shall wait until Thomas and Nigel arrive before answering your questions. It will save me having to repeat myself.”

“Of course.”

The king made his way to his chair and sat, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall over the back of his chair. Then he sat back and stretched out his long legs on the fine Kheldish carpeting. Morgan and Duncan took seats on a pair of folding camp stools to Kelson’s right, and Morgan unslung his sword from its hangers and laid it on the carpet between his feet. After a moment’s thought, Duncan did the same, shifting his stool slightly to the left to accommodate Warin, who was propping a cushion so that he could lean against the tent’s center pole. Arilan remained standing in the center of the carpet, pretending to be absorbed in the intricate design woven beneath his feet. He scarcely looked up as Cardiel and then Nigel entered the tent, and it was Kelson who had to direct the newcomers to take seats. When they were settled, the king looked up at Arilan expectantly. The bishop’s blue-violet eyes were hooded as he met Kelson’s gray gaze.

“Do you wish me to review what has happened, Sire, for the sake of Thomas and your uncle?”

“Please do.”

“Very well.” Arilan folded his hands and stared hard at his thumbnails for several seconds, then looked up.

“My lords, Wencit of Torenth has presented us with an ultimatum. His Majesty wished to consult with all of us before replying. If he does not respond by sunset, Wencit will begin slaying more hostages.”

“Name of God, the man is a monster!” Nigel exclaimed, stiffening in anger.

“Agreed,” Arilan replied. “But his ultimatum was quite specific and quite adamant. He has issued Kelson a challenge to the Duel Arcane: himself and his three henchmen, Rhydon, Lionel, and Bran Coris, against Kelson and any three Kelson chooses to name. I think I need not tell you that two of Kelson’s three will be Morgan and Duncan; what may surprise some of you is that I am to be the third.”

Warin looked up with a start

“That is correct, Warin. I am Deryni.”

Warin swallowed hard, but Nigel only nodded his head slowly and raised an eyebrow.

“You speak as though my nephew’s acceptance is an accomplished fact,” he said.

“I believe that this can be his only decision,” Arilan said quietly. “If he does not accept the challenge by nightfall, two hundred hostages will be drawn and quartered on the plain before our army. Any further delay, and two hundred more will be impaled and left to die at the rising of the moon. Tonight that occurs about four hours after sunset. This appears inescapable if Kelson refuses the challenge.”

He scanned the chamber slowly, but no one made a move to speak. “If, on the other hand, Kelson accepts, the battle will be to the death, the survivor or survivors to take all. Wencit obviously believes he will win, or he would not have proposed this sort of contest.”

Warin had paled at the mention of drawing and quartering, but Nigel, better accustomed to the horrors of war, only repeated his knowing nod. After a few seconds’ pause, he raised his hand slightly to speak.

“This Duel Arcane—would it be similar to the challenge issued to Kelson at his coronation?”

“Well, it would be governed by the same ancient laws of challenge,” Arilan said with a nod, “except, of course, that it would be four against four instead of the single combat fought by Kelson and Charissa. There are fairly rigid rules governing the arbitration of a Duel Arcane, and Wencit has—ah—apparently received official sanction to hold the duel according to the ancient laws.”

“Official sanction from whom?” Kelson interrupted eagerly. “This Camberian Council he mentioned? Why do you evade the issue when I…”

His voice trailed off as he saw Arilan had stiffened at the mention of the name, and he glanced at Morgan in surprise. Morgan was gazing at the bishop with rapt attention, apparently no more informed than Kelson, yet suddenly keenly interested in what the bishop would say. Duncan, too, had started at the sound of the name and now watched Arilan intently. Abruptly, Kelson wondered what he had stumbled onto.

“Arilan,” he whispered softly, “what is the Camberian Council? Is it…Deryni?”

Arilan glanced at his feet, then raised his head to stare past Kelson as though in a daze. “Forgive me, my prince. It is difficult to break a lifetime of conditioning, but Wencit has left me no alternative. It was he who first mentioned the Council. It is only fair, since you must meet him in battle, that I tell you what I can.” He glanced down at his hands, which were clasped tightly together, and forced himself to relax.

“There exists a secret organization of full Deryni called the Camberian Council. Its origins lie in the times immediately after the Haldane Restoration, when those of high Deryni blood were called to somehow regulate and protect those who remained after the great persecutions. Only past and present members know the composition of the Council, and they are sworn by an oath of blood and power never to divulge the identity of their fellows.

“As you may be aware, very few Deryni have had the opportunity to fully develop their powers in recent times,” he went on. “Many of our talents were lost in the persecutions—or at least our knowledge of how to use those powers was lost. Morgan’s gift of healing may be a rediscovery of one of those lost talents.

“But there are some of us who are loosely organized and in regular communication with one another. The Council acts as a regulating body for those known Deryni, keeping the old laws and arbitrating in disputes of magic such as may arise from time to time. A Duel Arcane such as Wencit proposes would fall under the Council’s jurisdiction.”

“The Council determines the validity of duels?” Morgan asked suspiciously.

Arilan turned to look at Morgan rather strangely. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“How about those not of full Deryni blood, like myself and Duncan?” Morgan persisted. “Are they also under the jurisdiction of the Council?”

Arilan’s face blanched slightly. “Why do you ask?” he repeated in a strained voice.

Morgan glanced at Duncan and Duncan nodded.

“Tell him.”

“Bishop Arilan, I think that Duncan and I may have had contact with one of your Camberian Council. In fact, I think it may have happened several times. At least the implication of our last encounter was similar to what you have just outlined.”

“What happened?” Arilan whispered. His face was expressionless above his purple cassock.

“Well, we had a—a visitation is the best way to describe it, I suppose, when we were on our way to you at Dhassa. When we stopped at Saint Neot’s to rest our horses, he appeared.”

“He?”

Morgan nodded carefully. “We still don’t know who he was. But each of us had seen him before in separate situations, which I haven’t the time to enumerate just now. He looks like—well, let us simply say that he bears a striking resemblance to the portraits and written descriptions of Camber of Culdi.”

“Saint Camber?” Arilan murmured, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Duncan shifted in his chair uneasily. “Please don’t misunderstand, Excellency. We are not claiming that he was Saint Camber. He never said he was. In fact, this last time when Alaric and I finally saw him at the same time, he said that he wasn’t Saint Camber—‘only one of his faithful servants,’ I believe he put it. From what you have just told us of the Camberian Council, perhaps it was one of them.”

“That is impossible,” Arilan murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. “What did he say to you?”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Well, he implied that we had Deryni enemies that we didn’t know about. He said that ‘those whose business it was to know such things’ believed that Duncan and I might have more powers than we think, and that we might be challenged to a Duel Arcane to discover our strength. He seemed concerned that this not happen, though.”

Arilan’s face had gone white, and he had to reach out to the center pole to support himself. “It’s impossible,” he whispered, not listening anymore. “And yet, it almost has to be one of the Council.” He groped his way to an empty stool and sat heavily.

“This puts an entirely different light on matters. Alaric, you and Duncan were made liable for challenge by any full Deryni—and for the reasons your visitant stated. I sit on the Council; I was there when it happened, though I could not prevent it. But who could have come to you in that guise? Who would even have a motive? It simply does not make sense.”

Arilan looked up at them, at all of them in the room, and realized he had been rambling on. Warin and Cardiel were staring at him with wide, faintly frightened eyes, unable in their humanness to comprehend; and even Nigel was regarding him in stunned confusion, only partially understanding the implications of the Deryni bishop’s words. Morgan and Duncan measured him carefully, trying to reconcile what he was saying with all they could remember of their encounters with the stranger in Camber’s guise. Kelson alone remained aloof, the sudden uncertainty of the situation seeming to isolate him, to infuse him with a cold sobriety, a logical detachment that enabled him to assess the growing crisis with a semblance of objectivity.

“Very well,” Arilan said, shaking off his sense of foreboding and returning to the matter at hand. “Alaric, Duncan, I cannot explain the visitations you have had, but I intend, at least, to find out whether Wencit really has been in contact with the Council and coerced them into arbitrating a Duel Arcane. I know of no such ruling, and as a member of the Council directly involved in this matter, I should have been consulted. However, I have missed a few routine meetings lately because of our forced march, so it is possible. Morgan, do you possess a set of Ward cubes, and do you carry them with you?”

“Ward cubes? I—” Morgan hesitated and Arilan shook his head.

“Do not be coy with me; there isn’t time. Do you or do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then, get them. Duncan, I shall need eight white candles, all about the same size. See what you can find.”

“At once.”

“Thank you. Thomas, help Warin and Nigel roll back the carpet to expose bare earth. Kelson, I shall need something from the old times. May I borrow your Ring of Fire?”

“Certainly. What are you going to do?” Kelson asked, pulling off his ring and watching, mystified, as the carpet was pulled back to expose bare, matted grass.

Arilan slipped the Ring of Fire on his little finger and motioned for Morgan and Duncan to be off on their own errands. “I intend to construct a Transfer Portal, with your help. Happily, that is one of the old talents that has not been entirely lost. Nigel, I shall need a different sort of help from you and Warin and Thomas in a few moments. Can all of you obey me without question?”

The three exchanged apprehensive glances, but even Warin nodded. Arilan flashed them a fleeting smile of reassurance as he stepped onto the patch of grass and dropped to his knees. After raking through the grass with his fingertips and removing several small stones and bits of brush, he held out his hand for Nigel’s dagger, which the prince handed over without a word. Then, with the four of them looking on, he began cutting a six-foot octagon in the turf.

“I can only imagine how strange this must seem to you,” he said, cutting the second of the sides and moving on to the third. “Warin, I shall explain for your benefit and Nigel’s that a Transfer Portal is a device whereby Deryni can travel from point to point without the passage of time. The process is instantaneous. Unfortunately, we cannot exercise this remarkable talent without a Portal—and that takes a great deal of power to construct.

“Which is where the three of you come in. What I should like to do is to place each of you in a deep trance and then draw on your strength to help us activate the Portal. I promise you’ll be none the worse for it.”

He had finished cutting the sixth side of the octagon and looked up to see Warin fidgeting in his place, obviously more than a little uncomfortable at the idea of being used in magic.

“You are uneasy at this thought, and I cannot say I blame you, Warin. But there is nothing to be alarmed about, really. It will hardly be any different from when Morgan read you, except that you shan’t remember anything.”

“You swear it?”

Arilan nodded, and Warin shrugged nervously.

“Very well, I’ll do what I can.”

Arilan continued cutting his octagon, coming down the final facet as Morgan returned with a small, red leather box. Morgan halted at the edge of the octagon and watched as Arilan made his last cut and then straightened to dust his hands against his cassock. The dagger he returned to Nigel.

“The Wards?” Arilan asked, looking up.

Nodding, Morgan opened the box to spill eight tiny black and white cubes into his cupped hand, four each of black and white, each about the size of the end of his little finger. They glistened in the wan light as Morgan extended them on his open palm.

Arilan passed a hand over the cubes and cocked his head as though listening to something, then nodded and motioned for Morgan to proceed. As he moved clear of the octagon, Morgan stepped inside and dropped to his knees to begin laying out the cubes on the grass. Arilan watched him in silence for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Can you set them up except for the last step, and then trigger the Ward from inside?”

Morgan looked up and nodded.

“Excellent. When Duncan comes back with the candles, you can have him set one at each angle of the octagon. Nigel, suppose you and Warin come over here now and make yourselves comfortable. Kelson, would you shift some of those sleeping-furs for them to lie on?”

As the two humans moved to their appointed places, Duncan returned with the required candles and knelt outside the octagon, trimming the candles to size with his dagger. Morgan watched him for a moment, indicating where the candles should be placed, then cast a last glance at the others and returned to setting out his cubes.

The black and white cubes were called Wards, the entire composite called a Ward Major, once activated; and each step must be performed correctly in order to make the Ward Major come alive. The four white cubes must first be arranged in a square, two sides of each cube touching its neighbors; and then the black cubes must be placed, one at each corner of the large square formed by the white ones, black and white not quite touching.

Morgan arranged the cubes in the requisite pattern, then reached out his right forefinger to rest lightly on the white cube at the upper left of the square, glancing up at Arilan as he whispered the nomen, “Prime.” None of the others had been watching, and as Morgan glanced back down at his Wards, he was pleased to see that the first cube now glowed with a faint, milky light. He had not lost his touch.

“Seconde,” Morgan whispered, touching the white cube in the upper right of the square. “Tierce, Quarte,” he repeated in rapid succession, touching the remaining white cubes.

The four white cubes now glowed in a single, larger square, which reflected coldly off the four black cubes remaining. Morgan moved his finger to the black cube in the upper left corner and drew a deep breath, then murmured, “Quinte.” The process was quickly repeated for the three remaining black cubes as he hurried past their names, “Sixte, Septime, Octave.” The black cubes now glowed from within with a deep, green-black flame. Where the light of the black cubes met the light of the white, there was a vague, shimmering area of darkness, as though the one cancelled out the effect of the other.

Morgan glanced up and was surprised to find that the others were well about their own tasks. Duncan had finished with his candles and set them in place without Morgan even being aware, and now knelt calmly beside the entranced Warin, the rebel leader’s slack head resting against his knee, his own eyes closed. Arilan and Kelson were kneeling on either side of a sleeping Nigel, Arilan apparently assisting the young king with mastering a fine point of control.

But Cardiel was sitting apart from the others, one arm cradled around his upraised knee as he crouched on the rugs folded back at the edge of the octagon. He apparently had been watching Morgan closely for some time, and he looked down in embarrassment as Morgan caught his eye. The downward glance did not last for long, though, for Cardiel was clearly fascinated by what he had just seen.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” he said in a low voice. “Do you mind if I watch?”

Morgan hesitated for just an instant, weighing the advisability of permitting the bishop to learn more than he already knew, then shrugged. “If you wish. Please don’t interrupt me, though. The next part is a bit tedious, and I need to concentrate.”

“Whatever you say,” Cardiel murmured, sidling closer for a better view.

Suppressing a smile, Morgan wiped the palms of both hands against his thighs, then picked up Prime, the first white cube. Bringing it carefully to Quinte, its black counterpart, he let the two touch gently as he murmured, “Primus!”

With a muffled click, the two cubes merged into a silvery-gray oblong, which Morgan gently put aside before picking up Seconde. With a glance at the frozen Cardiel, he touched it to Sixte and whispered, “Secundus!” A second glowing oblong was formed, and Cardiel stifled a gasp as Morgan put the second one aside and picked up Tierce.

Morgan was beginning to feel the energy drain now, and he passed a hand lightly over his eyes as he fingered the third white cube. The weariness faded as he applied the Deryni technique for banishing fatigue, though he knew he would have to pay later. For now, though, the Wards must be set, whatever the cost in power. Quickly he steeled himself to touch Tierce to Septime.

“Tertius!”

The third oblong glowed. The Ward was now three-quarters complete.

“We’re almost ready,” Arilan said, moving quietly to Cardiel’s side as Morgan picked up Quinte. “Thomas, I need you now.”

With an apprehensive swallow, Cardiel let himself be guided to a place on the rolled-up carpet, lying back as Arilan directed and letting the Deryni place a cool hand on his forehead. His eyelids fluttered briefly as he drifted into Arilan’s trance. Morgan shook his head and took a deep breath, steeling his strength to meld the final pair of cubes.

“Quartus!”

Light flashed again as the two cubes became one; and then there were four silvery oblongs on the ground before him.

Morgan sat back on his haunches and glanced around him, then began moving the oblongs to the four compass points of the octagon. As he laid out the limits of the Ward’s protection, Arilan moved within the circle and motioned Kelson and Duncan to do the same, each of them still retaining control of his charge at a distance. Morgan crouched in the center of the octagon and glanced around warily as the other three crowded close around him, then readjusted the position of a Ward that had gotten jostled in the process of moving into the circle.

“Go ahead and set the Wards,” Arilan murmured, nodding toward their three entranced colleagues. “Include them in the protection, too. I’ll light the candles as soon as you’re done.”

Morgan glanced at the circle, at the sleeping men just outside its confines, then raised his right hand to point in succession to the four wards.

“Primus, Secundus, Tertius, et Quartus, fiat lux!”

His words caused the light of the Wards to flare to a misty web of luminescence that bathed the seven men in faint milky-white light. As the net stabilized around them, Arilan reached out a tentative hand to probe the net, then passed his hands over the candles set at the points of the octagon, setting them alight. He then edged himself slightly closer to the center of the octagon and placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

“Very well. As soon as the four of us have linked minds, I shall guide all of us through the Portal-setting process. It will not be particularly pleasant—we must pull and focus a considerable amount of energy—but we can do it. I shall do what I can to shield you from the worst of any fluctuations. Any questions?”

There were none. With a short nod, Arilan reached out his free hand to grasp Duncan’s and Kelson’s, then bowed his head. A breath of wind stirred through the tent, making the candles gutter and flare, and then a pure white light began to grow around Arilan’s head. The light brightened, becoming gradually diffused with swirls of crimson and green, and the three in thrall shuddered as power was drawn inexorably from minds and bodies.

Mists swirled and surged around the seven, beginning to spin in an ever-widening vortex as the light crackled and arced, until finally a blinding flash filled the entire tent for just an instant and then was gone.

Kelson cried out, and Morgan swayed near fainting as Duncan let out a moan. But even then the moment was past, the white light gone. As the four Deryni shakily opened their eyes, they felt the faint tingle of a viable Transfer Portal beneath their knees—a sensation familiar to all of them. With a satisfied sigh, Arilan got to his feet and began to pull Cardiel back and away from the circle, motioning for Duncan and Kelson to do the same for Nigel and Warin. Soon the circle was clear except for the hunched form of Morgan kneeling still in the center with bowed head. Biting at his lip, Arilan dropped to his knees beside Morgan and again put a hand on his shoulder.

“I know how tired you are, but I must ask one more favor before I go. The Wards must be extended to protect the whole tent. All of you are seriously depleted, and when I come back for you and Kelson and Duncan, we shall want to leave the others protected. They should sleep until midnight or so, but they might not rouse to defend themselves if someone were to come upon them unawares.”

“I understand.”

With a faint groan of fatigue, Morgan lurched to his feet and spread his hands to either side, palms up. He drew in his breath and exhaled heavily, marshalling new strength from somewhere deep within, then began the low words of the appropriate spell. As he spoke, he turned his hands to make a slight warding-off gesture, as though pushing back something with his palms. Then, when the net of light had extended to the tent walls, he turned his hands palms-up once again, lowering them slowly.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asked dully.

Arilan nodded carefully and motioned for Kelson and Duncan to help Morgan sit beside the circle.

“I shouldn’t be gone for very long,” he said, stepping into the center of the figure. “In the meantime, the two of you might try to help Alaric replenish his strength, insofar as that is possible at this time. Try to be ready to move as soon as I return, though. The Council is not going to like this at all, and I don’t want to give them time to think about it.”

“We’ll be ready,” Kelson replied.

Arilan nodded, then crossed his arms across his chest and bowed his head—and abruptly was gone.