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  Now, if Derry had just put them back where he'd found them—he simply couldn't convince the young

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  Marcher lord that the cubes were not just a strange dice game.

  Aha!

  A biief forage in the bottom of the pouch produced the familiar shape of the red leather case, the reassuring rattle of contents still in place.

  Without a second glance, Morgan dropped the case on the chair, then crossed to Kelson's wardrobe closet and began searching for something that would fit him. He was still cold. And if he was going to go galavant-ing about the palace in this weather, he was determined not to do it in misery.

  Finally, he found a blue wool robe with fur-lined collar and cuffs that looked as though it would fit, and he shrugged it on as he returned to the fireplace. The sleeves ended at mid-forearm, and the robe reached only to his knees, but he decided that it would suffice for his purposes.

  From the mantel, he took a candlestick with a fat yellow candle in it, lit it from the fire, then scooped up the red leather case and crossed to Kelson's bed.

  Kelson still slept soundly, sprawled diagonally across the wide bed on his stomach, his face nestled in the crook of his left arm. There were extra blankets at the foot of the bed, and Morgan gently eased one from beneath the boy's stockinged feet. Putting the candlestick and red leather case on the floor beside the bed, he shook out the blanket and draped it across the sleeping form. Then he knelt down beside the bed and opened the red leather case, shaking out the contents on the spread.

  There were eight cubes in all—'^wards'* in the terminology of the professional wielder of magic—four white and four black, each no larger than the end of his little finger. Deftly, he arranged the cubes in the proper pattern: four white in a square at the center, one black at each of the four corners, but not touch-

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  ing. Then, beginning with the white cube in the upper left-hand corner, he began touching each one, at the same time softly speaking its defensive position in the master ward he was building.

  "Prime." The first white cube glowed softly.

  "Seconde." He touched the upper right cube, and it, too, winked to milky brilliance.

  "Tierce. Quarts." The remaining white cubes lit, forming a single white square which glowed with a ghostly white light.

  Next, the black: "Quinte. Sixte. Septime. Octave." The black cubes glowed faintly with a green-black fire deep within.

  Now came the real effort: the joining of black and white cubes to complete the master ward; the ward which, once set in place around the sleeping Kelson, would protect the boy from any possibility of harm.

  Morgan wiped the palms of his hands against the spread to either side of the black and white pattern he had set up, then picked up prune. Gingerly, he touched it to quinte, its black component.

  "Primus!"

  There was a muffled click, and then the two cubes merged into a single oblong unit which glowed silvery-grey in the candlelight.

  Morgan ran his tongue nervously across his lips and picked up Seconde, mated it to Sixte.

  "Secundus!"

  Again, the click, the silver glow.

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly, gathering his. strength for the next sequence. The procedure was draining much of his already depleted power reserve, but he had no choice but to continue if he wished to search the library. He couldn't leave Kelson unprotected. He picked up Tierce and touched it to Septime.

  "Tertius!"

  As the coupling glowed, Kelson stirred, then opened his eyes with a start.

  "What the—Morgan, what are you doing?" He raised up on both elbows and leaned toward the cubes, then looked up at Morgan.

  Morgan raised one eyebrow in surprise, then rested his chin against one hand in resignation. "I thought you were asleep," he said accusingly.

  Kelson blinked at him in amazement for an instant, still not quite fully awake. Tentatively, he reached his left hand toward the remaining cubes.

  "Don't touch!" Morgan commanded, blocking Kelson's reach with an outstretched hand. "Just watch."

  With a deep breath, he brought the remaining two cubes gently together.

  "Quartus!"

  Then he placed the resulting unit with the other three and sighed.

  "Now," he said, looking across at Kelson once more, "why are you awake?"

  Kelson rolled over and sat up. "I heard you mumbling Latin in my ear. What are these things, anyway?" He eyed the four glowing oblongs suspiciously.

  "They're components of a Ward Major," Morgan said, climbing to his feet. "I have to go out for a while, and I didn't want to leave you unprotected. Once the wards are set, only I can break them. You'll be perfectly safe."

  He reached down and picked up the units, stretched across the bed to place one at each of the far corners, the remaining two on the near corners.

  "Wait a minute,'* Kelson said, beginning to inch toward the edge of the bed. "Where are you going? I'll come with you."

  "You'll do nothing of the kind," Morgan said, pushing the boy back on the pillow. "You're going back to sleep, and I'm going down to your father's library to

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  hunt for clues. Believe me, if there were any way, I'd still be asleep, too. You're going to need all the rest you can get before this night is over."

  "But, I could help you," Kelson protested weakly, as though surprised to find himself lying down again. "Besides, I couldn't possibly get back to sleep now."

  "Oh, I think that can be arranged," Morgan smiled, placing his hand lightly on the boy's forehead. "Just relax now, Kelson. Relax and dream. Forget about the dangers. Forget about the fears. Relax. Sleep. Dream of better times. Sleep deep, my prince. Sleep safe."

  As he spoke, Kelson's eyelids fluttered briefly, then closed, and his breathing slowed to that of profound slumber. Morgan smiled and smoothed the tousled black hair, then straightened and pointed in succession to the wards.

  "Primus, secundus, tertius, et quartus, fiat lux!"

  Instantly, the wards blazed with a new life, then flared around the sleeping Kelson with a cocoon of misty luminescence. Morgan nodded to himself, then made his way toward the door.

  Now, for some useful information....

  Half an hour later in the library, Morgan had not met with any success. He had gone through virtually every book in Brion's private collection, and most of die general references in the section, but all had been fruitless.

  If only he could find some clue: a significant marked passage, some notes from when Brion concocted the ritual verse, some hint as to how the problem should be approached. It was, of course, possible that they would be able to figure it out without help. But he hated to be less than one hundred percent certain on something this important.

  Because the ritual verse had to work. If it didn't, Kelson was doomed, and Morgan and Duncan with him. Nor was it possible for Morgan or Duncan to do

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  Kelson's fighting for him. Occult practice simply would not permit it.

  If only he could remember more about Brion's reading hablis, that might give him some idea of where to look. He knew that there had to be a link somewhere, that Brion must have left something, if only as a reassurance for the friend he had known would come looking for such a thing. Perhaps the clue was hi the verse itself.

  Wearily, he sat down at Brion's reading desk and propped himself up on his elbows. Somewhere he would find the clue—he knew it must exist

  As his eyes scanned the room once more, the gryphon seal on his left forefinger caught his attention. He had read once of a Deryni Lord who had used a similar ring as a point of focus for deep concentration— the Thuryn technique, named for Rhys Thuryn, who had first made it a part of the Deryni arsenal. Morgan had used the technique several times before, though never for something like this. But it had
worked well then. Perhaps it would work again.

  Focusing all his attention on the ring, Morgan began to concentrate, willing his mind to put aside all outside worries and relax, to shut out superfluous sounds, sights, sensations. As his eyes drifted closed, his breathing slowed, became more shallow. His tense fingers relaxed.

  As he concentrated on keeping his mind clear, he permitted an image of Brion's face to form in his thoughts, tried to put himself into that image, to fathom what had been there concerning what he now sought.

  Suddenly, the image of Brion winked out of existence, to be replaced by a swirling blackness, dizziness. There was a fleeting impression of a man's face surrounded by a black cowl, strange, yet hauntingly familiar, a feeling both of urgency and reassurance—and

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  then the moment was past. Then, there was nothing but a stunned young man sitting rather foolishly at a desk in a library with his eyes closed.

  Morgan opened his eyes abruptly and glanced around, but there was no one else in the room.

  Khadasa! the picture had been real while it lasted. He'd never achieved an effect like that before from using the Thuryn technique. And he couldn't for the life of him recall ever having seen the strange face before. So much for the Thuryn technique for today.

  Absently, he went back to the shelf containing Brion's personal collection of favorite books and pulled one out at random.

  "Talbot's Lives of the Saints," he read, half out loud.

  He flipped idly through its worn pages until it suddenly fell open to a place marked by a slip of parchment. There was writing on the parchment, in Brion's hand, too, but that fact was completely overshadowed by the impact of the open pages it marked. For on the left, in full color, was a portrait of the face Morgan had seen in his vision.

  Apprehensively, he bent closer to read the name beneath the portrait, squinted as he held the book toward the candlelight and read: "Saint Camber of Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic."

  Morgan glanced nervously behind him as he lowered the book. It was impossible, and yet—this was the face he'd seen while in the Thuryn trance. There was no doubt about that.

  Preposterous. He didn't believe in saints—or at least, he didn't think he did. After all, Camber had been dead for nearly two hundred years, and his sainthood recalled, to boot.

  But what had made him think of Camber at precisely that moment? Had Brion once said something about the renegade saint which somehow stuck in his mind, remaining there, dormant, all these years until

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  the time it should be recalled by just such a chain of events as this? Question: What did he really know about Saint Camber of Culdi? Answer: Not very much. It simply hadn't been useful knowledge until now.

  Irritatedly, because he realized he should remember more, Morgan picked up the volume and moved himself closer to the candlelight, absently pocketing the scrap of parchment. He read:

  Saint Camber of Culdi, 846-905(7). Legendary Earl of Culdi, a full Deryni Lord, who lived during the Deryni Interregnum. Toward the end of the Interregnum, Camber discovered that under certain controlled conditions, in select individuals, the full scope of Deryni power could be acquired by humans. He it was who assisted the heirs of the old human rulers to acquire this power, and later led the revolt which crushed the Deryni Interregnum for good.

  Morgan turned the page impatiently. He knew all of this already. It was common knowledge from general history. Now he needed facts concerning Camber's sainthood, or something which might explain what had happened to him a few minutes ago. He read on:

  Now, in those days, there was more tolerance for the occult arts. And in gratitude for what the Culdi had done for humankind, the Council of Bishops proclaimed him a saint. But it was not to last. About fifteen years later, there was a bloody persecution of things and persons Deryni. And shortly, the name of Camber of Culdi was stricken from the rolls of the blessed. At the Council of Ramos, a number of the previous Council's edicts were reversed. And with them went the Culdi's sainthood.

  Camber had been revered as the patron of occult arts, the defender of humankind. But when the Council of Ramos repudiated Camber, they declared all occult

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  practice anathema. Camber's name became a symbol of evil personified. Every atrocity ever committed by the Lords of the Interregnum was ascribed to the former Deryni saint, and the people ceased to mention his name except to curse him.

  Some controversy over Camber's reputation has died out over the years. It is difficult to maintain a lie for two hundred years. But rumors persist to feed the fire: that Camber's alleged death in 905 never occurred, that he went into hiding, to wait for a chance to reappear and again work his deeds of magic. The truth of this allegation is not known, nor is it likely to be discovered in the near future. It is known that a handful of high Deryni Lords do remain, and that magic, however outlawed, is still practiced among them. But it is highly improbable that Camber is still among them— even a Deryni could hardly be functioning after more than two hundred years. Yet the rumors persist. And the few Deryni alive who might know the truth about Camber of Culdi do not comment.

  As Morgan finished the passage, he turned the page back to look again at the portrait. Camber of Culdi. Amazing. Now he was certain he'd never seen this portrait before. Nor had he read this particular account of Saint Camber. He was sure he would have remembered, for nothing he had read previously had gone into such detail.

  But what had he actually learned from the passage? And how did it apply to his present dilemma? And why did that face on the page there still seem so hauntingly familiar, even though he was certain he'd never seen it before?

  As he closed the volume, he heard the sound of the library door opening softly behind him. He turned carefully, catching a glimpse of someone in grey gliding into the room from the outside corridor.

  It was a woman. And as she turned toward the door

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  to close it gently behind her, he could see that it was —Charissa!

  He smiled complacently and settled back in his chair to see how long it would take her to discover his presence, watching her glance around the room and see the faint glow of his candle streaming around the corner.

  "Good evening, Charissa," he said softly, not moving from where he sat. "Are you looking for someone, or something?"

  Charissa started, covered her surprise, and walked cautiously around the corner of the aisle to confront Morgan. Morgan nodded greeting as she stepped into the candlelight, but Charissa was not amused.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice low, strained in the hush.

  Morgan stood up casually, made an elaborate show of stretching and restraining a yawn. "I was just looking for something to read, if you really must know. In spite of the fact that I should be tired from the trials you've given me during the past few days, I found I couldn't sleep. Isn't that strange?"

  "Decidedly so," she answered carefully, her moment of uncertainty past now. "But what makes you think I have anything to do with your insomnia?"

  Morgan held up a protesting hand. "Oh, not my insomnia,, my dear. My fatigue. I have a rather good idea what you've been up to: telling nasty stories about me, turning the Council Lords against me, having my escort ambushed on the way here. I suspect you even had a hand in Brion's death. Of course, I can't prove anything yet," he gestured depreciatingly.

  Charissa's eyes narrowed as she studied him, trying to ascertain the proper proportion of bluff and boast.

  "I think you'll have a difficult time gathering evidence to support such allegations, my dear Morgan. And I think that if you ask, you'll find that all these things you've accused me of have been ascribed to you."

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  Morgan shrugged noncommittally.

  "And as fo
r the charge that I had anything to do with Brion's death," Charissa continued, "why, that's preposterous. Everyone knows he died of a heart attack."

  "I don't know that," Morgan replied tersely. "I know nothing of the kind. I do know that one of his entourage was given a flask of wine that morning of the hunt. Very strange, but he described the donor as a beautiful lady with pale hair. And only Brion and Colin drank from that flask."

  "So?" Charissa retorted. "Are you accusing me of poisoning Brion? Come, now. You can do better than that."

  "I intend to," Morgan answered. "I also happen to know that you developed the merasha mind-muddling drug a few years ago, and that the drug affects only those of Deryni blood or Deryni powers, like Brion."

  "Really, Morgan, you're fishing."

  "Am I? You knew Brion was vulnerable in this way, that being mortal, he wouldn't be able to detect the drug in his system until it was too late." He stood straighter, loomed tall and menacing as he glared down at her. "Why didn't you call him out in honorable combat, Charissa? You might have won. He was mortal, after all."

  "And risk my reputation, my powers, against a mere mortal, in an unnecessary duel with a human?"

  "You're planning to duel with a 'mere human* tomorrow, aren't you?"

  She smiled a slow, lazy smile. "Yes, but that's different. I cannot lose with Kelson. He's but a boy, unskilled hi his father's trade. And you won't be able to help him as you did his father fifteen years ago."

  "Don't be too certain," Morgan retorted. "There is much of his father in him. And unlike his father, I am

  here this tune to see that you don't resort to treachery."

  "Why, Morgan, what a thing to say. Do you really think I'd bother? Of course, I did peek in on your precious princeling a little earlier this evening...."

  Morgan came to full attention. "He's safe from you this time. Tonight, all the powers hi the universe couldn't have broken my defenses."

  "That is probably true," she conceded. "You set your wards most effectively. In fact, even I was impressed with your skill. I had thought a half-breed Deryni incapable of such highly developed expertise."