“YOU are not Rhydon? What do you mean, you are not Rhydon?” Wencit demanded. “Have you gone mad? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I know exactly what I have done.” Not-Rhydon smiled. “The real Rhydon of Eastmarch died of a heart seizure nearly six years ago. Fortunately, I was in a position to take his place, but you never suspected, did you, Wencit? No one did.”

“You are mad!” Wencit said, glancing around him wildly. “This a trick, some monstrous plot.” He pointed at Kelson and his stunned companions. “They put you up to it! You probably also arranged to have the real Council here. You never intended it to be a fair combat. Even the Council is biased!”

He turned to glare at the councilors peering into the circle, and could see their mouths working as they jabbered agitatedly to one another; but he could not hear them. Abruptly he realized that they were as stunned as he over what was happening—and in all candor, he could not deny that Kelson seemed just as mystified as anyone else. He turned to find Lionel and Bran looking very pale, whirled back in fury to face the man who was not Rhydon.

“Part of what you say is true,” Not-Rhydon admitted. “I never did intend it to be fair—not for you. However, what I have done is not without its price. Though the way of my going will be a trifle different, we shall all meet the same end. Look behind you.”

Wencit turned to see Bran Coris reel and stagger, reaching out a hand to steady himself against Lionel’s shoulder. Alarmed and horrified, he watched Bran sink to the ground, a dizzy, muddled look upon his handsome face. Lionel had knelt to assist him, but then he, too, reeled and found himself abruptly sitting on the ground, unable to stand any longer.

Wencit plucked nervously at the collar of his tunic, his eyes going wide as he whirled back to face the man now proven to be a stranger, and his betrayer.

“What have you done to them?” he whispered. “You have poisoned them, haven’t you?” He swallowed with difficulty. “And me—why am I not affected? Why have you done this?”

“It was poison of a sort,” Rhydon conceded. “And do not delude yourself that you will be spared. It but takes a while longer to affect full Deryni…and you drank last.

“As for myself, I have even less time than you. The antidote I took delays the first reactions but speeds the final outcome. However, it will give me the time to reveal myself to you—and for you to know fear, perhaps for the first time in your life. Look at your hands, Wencit; they are shaking. That is one of the first signs of the drug taking effect.”

“No!” Wencit whispered, clutching his hands together to still them and turning away.

Not-Rhydon watched Wencit impassively for several seconds, then turned toward Kelson for the first time since the tableau had begun, drew himself erect, then bowed slightly in his direction. “I am sorry to cheat you of the lawful victory you might have won, Kelson of Gwynedd, but I dared not risk the possibility that you might lose. Six years as Wencit’s minion was high enough a price to pay. I could not afford to lose it all now.”

As he spoke, Wencit suddenly reeled on his feet and, against his will, found himself sinking to his knees, barely able to hold up his head, much less speak. As Wencit struggled on hands and knees to rise again, Kelson watched aghast and then turned wide gray eyes on the man who claimed to not be Rhydon.

“What—what did you give them? And what of yourself?”

Not-Rhydon managed a wry smile. “The drug is similar to merasha in many respects. It, too, renders its victim unable to use any occult powers he might possess. But unlike merasha, it cannot immediately be detected as that; and also unlike merasha, it is a slow poison. I knew that when I drank; but I also knew that it was the price I must be willing to pay for deliverance from that man.”

He pointed to Wencit, who now lay panting on the ground, glaring at all of them with undisguised hatred. Lionel and Bran were already motionless behind him, only their frightened eyes able to follow what was happening.

“But my death will be quick and relatively painless, even if certain,” Not-Rhydon continued. “Theirs, because they have not drunk the antidote, will be slow and excruciating unless you intervene—a day at least. You cannot save them, Kelson of Gwynedd, but you can show them mercy and speed them on their way. Only four men may leave this circle alive. I have but ensured that you and yours shall be the four.”

“But, this is treachery,” Kelson murmured, unbelieving. “I had not thought to win by treachery.”

“Believe me, their crimes more than justify the manner of their dying. There is no doubt of their guilt, despite the fact that they have had no trial. I know that—” He hesitated for just an instant, jaw clenching against apparent pain, then went on.

“Your pardon, the drugs’ effects are beginning to make themselves felt. I have not much time. Will you take the victory I bring you, King of Gwynedd? Will you step into your place as a lawful king for Deryni as well as humans, and lead us back to our rightful place of honor and partnership in the Eleven Kingdoms?”

For the first time, Kelson turned to look at his companions. Duncan looked pale, silent, as did Morgan, but Arilan was staring at Rhydon as though he had seen a ghost. At Kelson’s look, he started, then stepped to the young king’s side. Carefully he stared at the man not Rhydon.

“I think I know you,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, it is not by any fault in appearance or any nuance of voice. Your disguise is perfect. But what you have said—will you not reveal yourself now? What difference does it make?”

Not-Rhydon smiled, swaying slightly on his feet, then held out his arms to either side. His features blurred, a light seeming to glow around him faintly, and then Stefan Coram was standing before them, a strained expression on his face.

“Hello, Denis,” he whispered, meeting the bishop’s shocked gaze. “Please don’t lecture me on the stupidity of what I’ve done. It is far too late for that now, and I happen to think it wasn’t stupid at all. I am only sorry that I shan’t be seeing any of you again.” His glance flicked to the nearest councilor. “Believe me, this was the only way.”

“Oh, Stefan, Stefan…” Arilan could only shake his head disbelievingly.

Coram smiled faintly, catching himself from swaying once again. “Yes. And I have appeared in another guise more familiar to your friends.” His shape rippled again, and they could see a silver-haired man cowled in gray superimposed over the handsome features of Coram for just an instant.

“You were Saint Camber?” Morgan breathed.

“No, I told you I was not.” Coram shook his head emphatically, going back to his Coram-shape. “I have only appeared to you a few times: at the king’s coronation as a representative of the Council; to you, Duncan, on the Coroth road; at Saint Neot’s—” He grimaced again and closed his eyes momentarily, and Arilan rushed to support him.

“Stefan?”

Coram shook his head in dismissal. “You cannot help me to live, my friend—only to die.” He swallowed with difficulty and leaned even more heavily on Arilan’s arm, dread shadowing his face. “Dear God…’Tis coming sooner than I thought.”

As he sagged against Arilan’s arm, the bishop eased him to the ground, Morgan and Duncan crowding to his other side. Kelson stood behind Arilan, watching them in dismay, but he did not join them. Now was a moment he could not really share with them. He hardly knew Stefan Coram, but the three now kneeling around the stricken man had been intimately involved with him in several ways, Morgan and Duncan in a way that Kelson could not begin to understand. He watched as Morgan pulled off his cloak and made a pillow of it under Coram’s head. The man’s eyes were closed, but he opened them at Morgan’s touch and turned his attention to Arilan once more.

“I suppose that, in a way, I’ve taken my own life,” he murmured, gazing up at Arilan. “But I—had no other choice. Do you—do you think He will understand?”

His eyes flicked to the pectoral cross on Arilan’s chest, and the bishop bowed his head and nodded slowly. “I think He must, my friend. What you have done…” His voice caught, and he had to swallow before he could continue. “Is—is the pain bad?”

Coram shook his head. “Not really. Only once in a while. It will be over soon. Can—can the others see?—the members of the Council, I mean?”

Arilan glanced at the four standing at the circle’s boundaries and nodded. “Yes, but the circle distorts their vision. Did you want to tell them something?”

“No.” Coram shook his head. “But I do want you to have a say in choosing my successor on the Council. Despite the opposition I have seemed to show you in the past, I have valued your friendship and your courage in the Inner Circle. Promise that you will relay my wishes to them—when you tell them how I died.”

His eyes closed, and he seemed to be fighting for breath. Morgan looked across at Arilan in concern.

“Isn’t there anything we can do? Couldn’t Duncan and I try to heal him?”

Arilan shook his head wearily. “I know what antidote he must have taken. Even a Deryni cannot cure that. The poison must have done dreadful damage already, for him to be feeling such pain. He tries to hide it, but the end is very near.”

Morgan looked down at Coram again and shook his head, unconsciously moving closer to Duncan as he sat back on his haunches. Coram’s eyes flicked open once again, but this time it was evident that he saw only Arilan.

“Denis,” he whispered, “I just saw the strangest thing. There was a man’s face, a blond man with a cowl—I think it was Ca-Cam—Oh, God, Denis, help me!”

As a vast shudder wracked his body, Coram seized Arilan’s hand with both of his and grasped it hard, eyes squeezed shut. Arilan laid his other hand on Coram’s forehead, trying to ease some of the pain, and gradually the older man calmed. When his eyes opened again, they were clearer, free of pain, but Arilan knew that it could not be much longer.

“Your cross, Denis,” the dying man whispered. “May I hold it?”

Arilan looped the chain over his head and pressed the cross into his friend’s hand. Coram gazed at it for several seconds, scarcely breathing, then pressed it briefly to his lips.

“In manuus tuas, Domini…” he whispered.

Then the eyes ceased to see, and the hands relaxed. With a sigh, Arilan bowed his head against his chest, lips moving in silent supplication for the soul now departed. Morgan and Duncan, after exchanging solemn glances, got slowly to their feet to back around toward Kelson.

“He’s dead?” Kelson whispered, scarcely daring to break the awesome silence.

Duncan nodded, and Kelson bowed his head.

“There was nothing you could do?”

Morgan shook his head. “We asked if we might try to heal him, but Arilan said it was too late. One must assume that it’s the same case with the others, except that it will take longer. What are you going to do?”

Kelson glanced at the three remaining opponents still lying on the ground but a few yards away and shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to kill them in cold blood, helpless as they are, and yet Rhydon—uh, Coram—said that they would die slowly and painfully if I didn’t.”

“He said it would take at least a day,” Duncan whispered.

“Aye, and if Coram’s death was relatively quick and painless, I hate to think what may be in store for Wencit and the others,” Kelson said softly.

Arilan rose abruptly and turned to face them, his eyes moist and shining. “We must end it, Sire. There is no other way. Coram was right—they are doomed. And I know what Coram felt as he died. There is no logic or mercy in putting even Wencit through that. It would be needless cruelty.”

“But we have no weapons,” Kelson said, practicality intruding. “We can’t just—choke them to death, or smother them, or—or beat them in the heads with rocks while they’re helpless. Besides, there aren’t any rocks in this circle,” he finished plaintively.

Arilan drew himself to his full height and looked at the three lying on the ground, then at the circle. “No, it must be done by magic, not by physical means. This was a Duel Arcane; magic must provide the means of their destruction.”

“But how?” Kelson whispered. “Arilan, I’ve never killed a man before, even with steel. But at least I know how to do that.”

There was silence for a long moment, Kelson looking at the ground, Arilan lost in his own world, the two other Deryni silent and uneasy. Then Morgan moved to Kelson’s side and laid his hand on the young man’s arm, bowing his head. But he would not look at the slightly writhing figures of Wencit and Lionel and Bran—especially not at Bran.

“The burden will be mine, then, my prince. Unlike you, I have killed. It is hardly more difficult than reaching out one’s hand. Charissa used it to perfection on your father.”

Duncan froze. “No. Not that way…”

Morgan shook his head, deliberately not looking at his kinsman. “There is no other way for us, here, in this place. Wencit and his allies are helpless, even as humans now. They must die as would humans. Wencit, especially, must die as Brion died. His was the ultimate responsibility for Brion’s death. Vengeance comes upon him at last.”

“Then, I should do it,” Kelson breathed. “Brion was my father. I am his son. I should avenge his death.”

“My prince, I had thought to spare you this,” Morgan began.

“No! Vengeance is mine! I will repay. Tell me how to do it. Don’t force me to command you.”

“Kelson, I—” Morgan had intended to try to dissuade him, but the king’s face was set, determined. Gray eyes clashed in a war of wills for several seconds, but then Morgan broke the contact, knowing he had lost. With a tired sigh, he bowed his head, extending his hand.

“Very well, my prince. Open your mind to me and I will show you what you seek.”

Kelson complied. There was a moment of deep silence as his eyes assumed a far look. Then he was bringing into focus the rest of his surroundings once more, lifting both hands slightly in disbelief. His face was grave, incredulous, and more than a little awed.

“Even so?” he breathed, a little frightened at the power he now held in his hands.

“It is even so,” Morgan confirmed.

As though he had not heard, Kelson turned away and scanned the circle around him, saw the four of the Council still turned inward to observe, their faces grave. His gaze passed over the motionless form that had been Rhydon/ Camber/Coram, then moved on to the three on the ground a little way across the circle. He walked toward them slowly, as though in a trance, his fists clenching and unclenching slightly as he came to a halt before Wencit of Torenth. Though the sorcerer could not move, his pale eyes blazed up at Kelson.

“Are you in pain?” Kelson murmured, his face impassive.

Wencit tried to move and could not, then tried to speak. It cost him great effort, but the words managed to escape, low and rasping.

“You could ask such a thing, knowing how Rhydon died?”

Kelson turned his face away uncomfortably. “That was not my doing. I had no wish to win by treachery. Better the clean death of honest defeat than a tainted victory.”

“If you think I believe that, you must take me for an even greater fool than I have been,” Wencit said bitterly. “At any rate, you will not walk away from this victory and forget what you have done, however much your precious pride detests what you must do.”

“What do you mean, what I must do?” Kelson said, his gaze snapping back to Wencit.

“Well, I cannot think you truly mean to let us lie here until we die.” Wencit made a weak attempt at a chuckle. “Your father was not one to let even a wounded hawk or stag hound suffer needlessly. Would you do less for a man?”

“Are you saying that you want to die, that you don’t care if I must kill you?”

Wencit coughed weakly and tensed, as though the movement had cost him even more pain. When he looked up at Kelson again, there was a pleading in his eyes, even though he tried to bite back the words he now spoke.

“You little fool, of course I care,” he whispered. “But I cannot live; I know that. Rhydon—or rather, Coram—did his work well. And I know what lies ahead of me before the end, if I receive not the coup. Coram has already killed me. My body is dead, though my mind does not know it yet. Spare me the awful agony of finding out for certain.”

Kelson swallowed with difficulty, then knelt down beside Wencit. He did not yet know what he was going to do. A part of him was moved by the agony of this fellow being in pain, but another part rejoiced to see his father’s murderer brought thus to his fate. He started to reach out his hand, then stopped and clenched his fist against his chest, bowed his head as Wencit’s whisper repeated itself in his ear: “Release me…please….”

Kelson heard the shift of feet behind him and knew that the others were standing now at his back, ready to support him—could almost feel their thoughts beating at the back of his head. Resolutely he closed them out, and his eyes went dark and hooded as he stretched forth his right hand over Wencit’s chest. He started to move, then caught himself as another, final thought came to mind.

“Wencit of Torenth, do you claim the solace of Holy Church?”

Wencit blinked and would have smiled if the move had not cost him so much pain. “I claim only death, Kelson of Gwynedd, and welcome it. Spare me further torment. Do what you must do.”

To the side, Kelson was aware of Lionel and Bran gazing silently at him, the pleading evident also in their pain-wracked eyes. Slowly, deliberately, Kelson turned his gaze back to Wencit, his right hand contracting slowly over Wencit’s heart as he whispered low:

“Then, die, Wencit. Obtain release. Feel the cold hand of death at your heart, and the rustle of the death-angel’s wings. Thus share you the death of my father Brion. Thus is the heart of Wencit stopped!”

At the last word, his fist clenched convulsively. Wencit stiffened, a faintly startled look in his eyes. Then the proud body of the one-time King of Torenth was but an empty shell, life and intelligence—and agony—now past.

Before the others could react, Kelson moved between Lionel and Bran and this time stretched forth both his hands, one above the heart of each man.

“Go with your master and the angel of death, Lionel of Arjenol and Bran Coris Earl of Marley. And may God, in His infinite wisdom, find you more mercy than I have been able to bestow upon you. Be still!”

Again, there was the convulsive clench of fists, the jerk of anguished bodies. Then all was still.

Slowly Kelson let his hands sink to his sides, to rest heavily against the grass beneath his knees. When he looked up, it was to search the three grave faces of his friends. But as he got to his feet, he drew away from the hand Arilan stretched out to assist him.

“Don’t, Excellency. It is not fitting that a holy man should touch me. I have just killed, and my hands are bloody.”

“You had no choice, my prince,” Arilan said quietly, understanding, but lowering his hand just the same. “You rendered an act of mercy. And these men were your enemies. They deserved to die.”

“Perhaps. But not like this. I would not have had it end this way.”

Morgan looked down at the toes of his boots. “We are not always masters of our destinies, Sire. You know that. It is sometimes the awful duty of a king, that he must kill.”

“But he is not obliged to like it,” Kelson whispered. “It is not something of which he should be proud.”

“And are you proud?” Duncan replied. “I think not. I have known you too long and too well to believe that of you.”

“But I’m glad they are dead,” Kelson said stiffly. “How do I reconcile that? And at the time, I wanted them to die. I willed it, and they died. No man should have that power, Father.”

“But some men do,” Morgan said. “Wencit had it once—and used it.”

“Does that make it right?”

“No.”

There was a long silence in which no one dared to speak; then Kelson moved slowly back to Wencit’s side. He stared down at the body for a long moment, scarcely breathing, then bent slowly to take the crown from Wencit’s head.

“This is our prize this day, my friends,” he said bitterly. “The crown of a kingdom I never wished to rule, the death of a friend I had hardly come to know,” he gestured toward Coram’s body, “and a legacy of disappointment in myself, that there could be no other way.”

Arilan started to speak, but Kelson held up an imperious hand. “No, I will not hear your comfort just now, Bishop. Allow me the luxury of feeling guilty for what I’ve had to do. In the realities of being who and what I am, I know that, all too soon, this will seem merely expedient. But not today.

“No, today I must go out of this circle, with you, my loyal friends, and face the cheers of my people, who will be overjoyed at the victory I have brought them. There I will receive the hollow homage of a child-prince whose father I have killed, give back another fatherless child to a woman whose husband I have slain—even though he deserved to die—and I will be expected to look as though I am pleased at the entire thing. You will pardon me, gentlemen, if I do not rejoice.”

He hefted Wencit’s crown in his hand and glanced at it dejectedly, then turned to look at them again.

“Come, gentlemen, the king plays out his role. The populace is waiting. If my smile of victory occasionally goes a little ragged around the edges, you will know the reason why.”

He lifted his head, and the circle glowed and was dissolved; the magic fell away. And as the king emerged, bearing the crown of Torenth in his hands, there arose a great cheering from the army of Gwynedd, and a great battering of swords and spears against shields to show their approval, and a thundering of horses’ hooves as the king’s men came riding out to meet him.

The four Deryni who had overseen it all laid their white and golden mantles upon the shoulders of the victors, that the words of the scripture might be fulfilled. And the friends of the king placed him upon a white horse, that he might be better seen as he rode to the men of Torenth’s lines to claim his victory.

But the crown lay heavily that day upon the Heir of Haldane.