THE day dawned unseasonably chill. There had been a heavy dew in the early morning hours, and the air still was heavy, oppressive, laden with the moisture of approaching weather. Sunrise was fiery, the east beyond the high Cardosa peaks slashed with crimson and gold and the gaunt gray of lowscudding clouds. In Kelson’s camp, men looked up at the leaden sky and crossed themselves furtively, for the strange dawn seemed an evil portent. Sunlight would have made the day easier to bear.

Kelson frowned as he buckled a golden belt around his crimson lion tunic.

“This is ridiculous, Arilan. You say we can’t go armed, we cannot wear steel or iron of any sort. I didn’t have to go through all of this when I fought Charissa.”

Arilan shook his head and smiled slightly, glancing at Morgan and Duncan. The four of them were the only ones in the royal pavilion; they had wished it that way, in light of what was to come. Earlier, Cardiel had celebrated Mass for them here, attended by Nigel, Warin, and a few of Kelson’s most trusted and well-loved generals.

But now, by choice, they were alone, well aware that, once they left the solitude of this enclosure, there might never be the chance for solitude again. With a sigh of finality, Arilan tied the ribbons of his bishop’s cloak under his chin, then crossed to set a reassuring hand on Kelson’s shoulder.

“I know this all seems strange, Sire. But you must remember that, when you fought Charissa, you were not dueling under the formal protection and supervision of the Council. The rules are much more stringent for group challenges, because there are more chances for treachery.”

“Treachery enough afoot,” Morgan muttered under his breath, slinging a black cloak around his shoulders. “After seeing what Wencit did to Derry, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“Evil will be repaid,” Arilan said mildly. “Come. Our escort awaits us.”

Outside, Nigel and the generals waited with the horses, silent as the four emerged from the tent. Kelson was the last one out, and at his appearance his troops, to the man, dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in respect. Kelson tugged at the cuff of one red leather glove as he surveyed them, moved by their loyalty. With a curt nod to mask his true emotion, he signed for them to rise.

“I thank you, my lords,” he said quietly. “I do not know when I shall see you again, if ever. This morning’s battle is to the death, as you are well aware. If we prevail, we are assured that there will never again be invasion from the east. The power of Wencit of Torenth shall be crushed forever. If we lose—” He paused to wet his lips. “If we lose, it will fall to others to lead you after that. Part of the stipulation of this battle is that the winner shall spare the opposing army, since neither Wencit nor I have any wish to rule over a dead kingdom, despoiled of the flower of its knighthood. Beyond that, I cannot promise you anything except my best effort. I ask your prayers in return.”

He lowered his gaze, as though finished, but Morgan leaned close and whispered something in his ear. Kelson listened, then nodded.

“I am reminded of one last duty before I take my leave from you, my lords: the naming of my successor. Know that it is our wish that our uncle, Prince Nigel Haldane, succeed us on the throne of Gwynedd, should we not return today. After him, the succession passes to his sons, and to their children after them. If we—” He paused and then began again. “If I do not return, you are to accord him the same respect and honor which you have graciously shown to me, and which was my father’s due. Nigel will make you a noble king.”

There was a heavy silence, and then Nigel himself moved to Kelson’s side, dropped to both knees.

“You are our king, Sire—and so you shall remain! God save King Kelson!”

“God save King Kelson!” came the thunderous reply.

Kelson looked at his uncle, at the trusting and hopeful faces upturned toward him, then nodded briskly and turned to mount, accepted a leg up from Morgan. The big black charger pranced and curvetted as Kelson settled into the saddle and gathered up the red leather reins, snorted defiantly as the others mounted up around him.

Then Nigel took the animal’s bridle and led them slowly through the camp to the edge of the battle lines, where a small group of mounted observers waited. Young Prince Conall was there, bearing the royal Gwynedd standard, along with Morgan’s Hamilton, Bishop Wolfram, General Gloddruth, half a dozen others.

The Lady Richenda was also with them, muffled in a cloak of blue, her head bowed, sitting sidesaddle beside her kinsman Cardiel. She did not meet Morgan’s eyes as he and the king passed, though she did glance at Duncan. Somehow Morgan knew that she would have to be there. Resolutely he put her out of his mind and turned to face the enemy.

Across the field, more than half a mile away, a similar group of horsemen was already drawing away from the enemy lines, riding out under a glowering, watery sun. Morgan glanced aside at Kelson, at Duncan, who seemed to have attained a new inner peace in the past twenty-four hours, at Arilan, calm and serene in his episcopal violet. Then he faced straight ahead, sensing Kelson’s slow move forward from the corner of his eye and moving his horse to match pace. Duncan was at his right knee, Kelson to his left, with Arilan to Kelson’s left. Behind them, at a respectful distance, followed Nigel and the others, the royal Gwynedd banner in their midst. Before them lay the enemy and his train.

They rode forward until the distance had closed to two hundred yards, then drew rein. For a handful of heartbeats Kelson sat his horse statue-like, staring at four similar riders across the stretch of damp grass. Then he and his three companions swung down from their horses as one, handing over the reins to a squire who rode forward and then retreated. His departure left the four of them standing alone, shivering slightly in the damp morning air despite their heavy cloaks, the wind ruffling Kelson’s raven hair beneath his simple golden circlet.

“Where is the Council?” Morgan murmured, turning slightly toward Arilan as they began walking toward the enemy.

Arilan smiled slightly. “They are en route. They located those who were to impersonate them. The imposters have been dealt with, and the Council will appear on schedule. Except that they will not be those whom Wencit is expecting.”

Kelson scowled. “I hope it does some good. I don’t mind telling you—all of you!—that I am frightened.”

“So are we all, my prince,” Arilan murmured gently. “We can but do our best and trust to Divine Providence. The Lord will not suffer us to die the death if our faith is strong and our cause just.”

“Pray God those are not empty words, Bishop,” Kelson murmured. The four advancing enemy were within fifty yards now, and Kelson could begin to see their faces.

Wencit looked dour and almost worried this morning. He had appeared in something less than his usual splendor, choosing a simple tunic of violet velvet with his leaping hart on the chest, instead of more resplendent attire, and his kingly diadem was only slightly more ornate than Kelson’s own plain circlet. Lionel, on the left, was garbed in his customary black and silver, though his flame-bladed dagger was conspicuously absent; Bran, to Wencit’s immediate right, looked pale and nervous in royal blue. Rhydon, to the right of Bran, wore a plain tunic and cloak of midnight blue, his dark hair confined by a silver fillet across the brow. He and Wencit both kept glancing toward the hillocks to the north, as though expecting something—undoubtedly watching for the Council to arrive. Kelson wondered if they were getting suspicious.

He did not have long to speculate. Before the eight had come within thirty feet of each other, there came a rumble of hoofbeats from the north, and then the spectacle of four richly garbed riders cresting the rise. The white horses looked like ghosts beneath the sickly sun, and their riders wore the white and gold raiment of the ancient Deryni lords. As the eight watched the riders draw nearer, Kelson heard a whispered exchange between Wencit and Rhydon and glanced aside to see Wencit’s face gray with fury, Rhydon’s untouched by outward emotion.

But then the four newcomers were dismounting: blind Barrett, the physician Laran—and young Tiercel de Claron helping the Lady Vivienne from her mount. The white horses stood like statues as their riders gathered momentarily before them and adjusted their golden mantles. Blind Barrett’s emerald eyes swept the waiting eight imperiously as he and his colleagues came within a few yards.

“Who has called the Camberian Council to this field of honor?”

Wencit, with a look of pure loathing at Kelson, stepped forward and dropped to one knee, his chin dipping stiffly in grudging salute. His voice was controlled but edged with suspicion as he spoke.

“Worthy Councilor, I, Wencit King of Torenth, a full Deryni of the blood, claim Council protection and arbitration for a Duel Arcane in challenge against that man.” He pointed toward Kelson, his accusing finger like a lance. “I claim the Council’s protection against treachery for myself and my colleagues: Duke Lionel”—the duke knelt, bowing his head—“the Earl of Marley, and Lord Rhydon of Eastmarch, who was once of your company.” At the speaking of their names, Bran and Rhydon also knelt, and Wencit continued.

“We stipulate that this shall be a battle to the death, we four against the four others who stand before you—and that the circle be not broken until all of one side have perished. To this do we pledge our powers and our lives.”

Barrett’s emerald eyes turned slowly from Wencit to Kelson. “Is this likewise thy desire?”

Kelson, swallowing nervously, knelt also before the Deryni lords.

“My lord, I, Kelson Haldane King of Gwynedd, counted a full Deryni by thy reckoning, do affirm my acceptance of the challenge laid down by Wencit of Torenth, that no more blood be spilled between us in war. I also claim thy protection against treachery for myself, for my Lord Duke Alaric, for Bishop Arilan, and for Monsignor McLain.” The three likewise knelt. “We do reluctantly agree that this shall be a battle to the death, the four of us against the other four who kneel before you—and that the circle be not broken until all of one side are dead. To this we pledge our powers and our lives.”

Barrett nodded, then tapped the end of his tall ivory staff against the grass once. “So be it. Now, to the victors, what fruits are proposed? Have the lords of both thine armies agreed to abide by the outcome of this contest?”

“They have, my lord,” Kelson spoke up, before Wencit could reply. “My men have been informed that, should we lose, their lives will be spared and that my heirs shall, in perpetuity, swear fealty to the Kings of Torenth, that there may be peace between our nations. Does the King of Torenth agree?”

Wencit glanced at his colleagues, then at Barrett. “I agree to the terms, my lord. If we should not prevail, I vow that my heirs shall, in perpetuity, swear fealty to the Crown of Gwynedd as their overlord.”

Barrett nodded. “Who is thine heir, Wencit of Torenth?”

Wencit nodded toward Lionel. “Prince Alroy Furstán, eldest son of my sister Morag and my kinsman Lionel. After Alroy, his brothers Liam and Ronal.”

“And Prince Alroy is prepared to swear fealty to Kelson of Gwynedd, if you and his father should perish today?”

Wencit nodded, tight-lipped. “He is.”

Barrett turned to Kelson. “And you, Kelson of Gwynedd. Is your successor prepared to swear fealty to Wencit of Torenth, if you should perish?”

Kelson swallowed. “My heir is my father’s brother, Prince Nigel Haldane, and after him, his sons, the Princes Conall, Rory, and Payne. Prince Nigel knows his duty, should I be killed.”

“Very well,” said Barrett. “And will these terms completely satisfy both sides?”

“Not entirely,” Kelson found himself saying. “I have one further stipulation, my lord.”

Wencit’s eyes widened, but he checked himself from moving closer as Barrett’s staff moved in his direction.

“State your stipulation, Kelson of Gwynedd,” Barrett said.

“Last night, Wencit of Torenth and Bran Coris entered my camp and stole a lady’s child. If I and mine prevail, I would require that the child be forfeit and given to me, that I may return him to his mother.”

“No!” Bran cried, starting to get to his feet, “Brendan is my son! He belongs to me! She shall not have him!”

“Hold your peace, Bran Coris!” Vivienne snapped, speaking for the first time. “If Kelson wins, what matters it to you who gets the child? You will be dead.”

“She speaks the truth, Bran,” Wencit added, before Bran could object. “On the other hand, if I am victorious, I might stipulate that the boy’s mother be returned to her husband, who stands here.” He gestured toward Bran, and Bran nodded. “If Kelson will agree to that, I will agree to the return of the boy. I will also agree to return unharmed all the remaining prisoners I hold alive, if that will help to sweeten the terms.”

“Kelson of Gwynedd?” Barrett said.

Kelson hesitated hardly an instant. “This is agreeable. I have no further terms.”

“And you, Wencit of Torenth?”

“No further stipulations.”

“Then, you may rise.”

The eight got to their feet in a rustle of silks and velvets.

“You may now form the circle of combat,” Barrett continued, walking between the two groups with Laran at his elbow. “We perceive that you have heeded our admonition against steel or weapons, so no further inspection will be necessary on that count. But if any man has question on how this duel is to be conducted, let him raise it now, before the Council closes the first circle.”

Laran and Barrett had reached a point perhaps forty feet from their colleagues, and the four were now separating and going to the cardinal compass points, marking off a square perhaps forty feet on a side. When they had taken their positions, the eight combatants ranged themselves in two arcs of a smaller circle within the square. The two kings looked expectantly toward Barrett, but it was Tiercel who left his place and strode confidently into the center of the figure.

“Thus saith the Lord Camber of blessed memory, thus saith the Holy One, who taught us the Way. Thus it has been written, thus it shall be done. Blessed be the Name of the Most High,” he said.

He knelt on one knee and, extending his right forefinger, began to trace a sign on the ground. Where his finger passed, the grass turned golden.

“Blessed be the Creator, yesterday and today, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega.” His finger had traced a cross, with the Greek letters inscribed at the top and bottom of the figure. “His are the seasons and the ages, to Him glory and dominion through all the ages of eternity. Blessed be the Lord, blessed be Holy Camber.”

As he rose, more symbols could be seen inscribed in the four angles of the cross: the sigils of the four councilors, signifying their protection over this circle. As soon as Tiercel had returned to his place, Barrett picked up the chant, raising his hands beside his head.

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End, saith the Lord,” Barrett intoned. “He that overcometh, the same shall be clothed in white raiment; and I will not blot out his name in the Book of Life, but I will confess his name before My Father, and before His angels.”

“Blessing, and honor, and glory, and power, be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb for ever and ever,” Vivienne said, raising her arms heavenward. “Let the Lord lend His countenance to the virtuous and defend the cause of the just. Raise the light of Thy favor upon this circle, O Lord, that they who stand within shall know Thy majesty and shrink not from Thy judgement.”

Laran formed the last link in the circle, raising his arms also. As he did so, light began to glow around the four Deryni nobles, amber and silver, crimson and blue. As Laran spoke, the light spread until the circle was complete. The colors merged and coalesced as his words rolled over the circle.

“Guard Thy servants, O Lord. Strengthen this circle, that nothing may enter from without, that none may aid the eight who stand embattled here. Protect those without the circle from the terrible powers soon to be unleashed within, and guard us from Thy wrath.”

“As it was in the earliest days of our beginning,” the four chanted, “and as it shall be for all time to come, O Lord, so let it be today. So let it be.”

As they finished, there came a low rumble as of thunder, and the lights fused in a single hemisphere of pale, blue-violet brilliance around the twelve, councilors and combatants. The wall was transparent but veiled, obscuring slightly that which lay within. The next circle would be formed by the eight, and would seal them off not only from the outer world, but from the four who formed the outer ward. Not even the Camberian Council would be able to broach the inner circle.

“The Outerness is sealed,” blind Barrett said. His voice echoed slightly in the glowing circle. “The Innerness must follow. Mark well: until all men of one defense shall perish, the Innerness remains. Only victors leave this arena.”

There was silence as he let his words sink in, and then: “I charge you, then, to make your peace. Set forth the inner circle and do you what you will. On your honor, and in the Name of the Most High, proceed.”

The eight gazed across at one another, each taking the measure of the opposition. Then Wencit took a step forward and made a formal bow.

“Will you begin, or shall I?”

Kelson shrugged. “It makes little difference, in the end. Proceed, if that is your will.”

“Very well.”

With a slight bow, Wencit stepped back into place, then spread his arms to either side. The setting of the inner circle was to be done by the leaders of the two groups, not jointly. Thus it was Wencit alone who spoke, his low voice echoing in the violet circle.

Fire leaped from his fingertips to inscribe a semi-circle behind him and his three allies, a glittering arc of violet fire perhaps five feet from the outer ring. Kelson briefly pressed his lips tightly together, not looking at his companions, as he, too, spread his arms to either side.

Crimson fire flared behind Kelson and joined with Wencit’s, until they were all surrounded by a wine-dark hemisphere of purplish light. Kelson lowered his arms and glanced aside as his comrades moved closer to either side of him, now that the stage was set.

Across the circle, Wencit likewise gathered his men around him. The councilors could be seen dimly through the inner ring, watching what was about to unfold. But Kelson knew that they could not interfere now, come what may. From now on, he and his must rely on their own good wits.

“Will you cast the first strike, my doomed princeling?” Wencit mocked, his right hand already moving in a preliminary spell.

“No, hold!” said Rhydon. “We forget our manners, my lords. Even in war, the amenities must be observed.”

As all eyes turned toward Rhydon, the Deryni lord pulled a small silver goblet from his belt, produced a leather flask. His comrades smiled as Rhydon worked the stopper from the neck of the flask, even Wencit folding his arms almost indulgently.

“It is the custom in our country,” Rhydon began, as he filled the goblet from the flask, “to drink a toast to our opponents in any knightly contest.” He raised the goblet in salute, then drained off half the contents.

“Of course,” he continued, handing the goblet to Bran, “we realize that you may fear some treachery.” He watched as Bran took a healthy swig, emptying the cup, then refilled the goblet and passed it to Lionel, “but we trust that we will allay your fears by drinking first ourselves.” Lionel raised the cup and drank deeply, then passed the cup to Wencit, who held it patiently while Rhydon filled it yet another time.

“Rhydon speaks truly,” Wencit said, holding the cup before him in both hands. “Our enemies, we drink to you.”

With a sly smile, he raised the goblet to his lips and drank half its contents, then began crossing slowly toward Kelson, extending the cup.

“Willst dare to drink with me, doomed princeling?”

“No, he will not,” Rhydon said quietly, his voice taking on a brittle, cutting edge.

Wencit stiffened, his face going very still, then turned slowly to Rhydon. Every eye had darted to the scarred Deryni, and Lionel and Bran moved uneasily together, edging closer to Wencit, away from this man who suddenly had become a stranger.

“What is the meaning of this?” Wencit said icily.

Rhydon returned Wencit’s stare unwaveringly, a sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The meaning will become clear in a short while,” he said easily. “For six years I have played my charade, worn another man’s identity for nearly every hour of my life. I only regret that this day could not have come sooner.”

An awful suspicion came across Wencit’s face as his gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, and then he flung it to the ground with a choked cry of fury.

“What have you done?” The ice-eyes blazed across at Rhydon. “Who are you?”

Rhydon smiled, and his voice was low and deadly.

“I am not Rhydon.”