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  But then he must find Duncan and warn him. If Duncan submitted himself to the archbishop's court under the present circumstances, there was no telling what might happen. He could even be excommunicated.

  Hugh shuddered at that and crossed himself. For the threat of excommunication was, on a personal level, as terrible as Interdict was for a geographical

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  area. Both cut off the transgressor from all sacraments of the Church and all contact with God-fearing men. It must not come to that for Duncan.

  Composing himself, Hugh pushed open the chancery door and walked calmly to a desk where a monk was sharpening a quill pen.

  "His Excellency needs this as soon as possible, Brother James," he said, casually placing the document on the desk. "Will you take care of it, please? I have a few errands to do."

  "Certainly, Father," the monk replied.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I am the son of the wise, the son of ancient ings.

  —Isaiah 19:11

  "MORE VENISON, SIRE?"

  The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson held out a steaming platter of venison in gravy, but Kelson shook his head and pushed his silver trencher aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head bare of any royal ornament. And he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the £re> wiggling his feet contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began to clear the table.

  The young king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and placed it gently on the table. Fire and taperlight winked from the polished metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of Duncan's cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled, blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was struggling to break the seal on a new bottle of wine.

  "Do you need help, Nigel?"

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  "Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer," Nigel grunted.

  "Certainly. Benedicte," Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that went with the blessing.

  The seal chose that minute to crack, and the cork shot from the neck of the bottle in a rain of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he too could be splashed, but Nigel's best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool carpeting beneath his booted feet.

  "Holy St. Michael, you didn't have to take me so literally, Duncan!" the prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over the table while the squire mopped the floor. "As I've always said, you can't trust a priest."

  "I was about to say the same for princes," Duncan observed, winking in Kelson's direction and watching the boy control a smile.

  The squire Richard wiped Kelson's chair and the bottle, then wrung his cloth over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped pick up, goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its warming rack close by the fire.

  Nfgel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with the same wide smile, the grey Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked every Haldane male. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core, his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved in an unconscious gesture to brush back a strand of jet

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  black hair, and Duncan felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement,

  Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion's as well. Brion, whom Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies which even now threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war.

  Now Brion was. gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew.

  Duncan's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson's crimson livery entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen towel was draped over the lad's shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached Duncan's nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl.

  Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan's side, would he look at the priest.

  Duncan controlled the urge to smile as he replaced the towel on the boy's shoulder. But when the boy had scurried from the chamber, he gazed across at Nigel with a mischievous grin.

  "Is he one of your pupils, Nigel?" he asked, knowing that it was so. Nigel was in charge of the training of all the pages in the royal household, but Duncan knew that this one was special.

  Nigel gave a proud nod. "Payne, my youngest," he replied. "He has much to learn, but so does every new page. This was his first time to serve officially."

  Kelson smiled and picked up his goblet, idly twirling the stem between his long fingers so that the

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  faceted sides caught the reflection of tunic and fire and tapestried walls,

  "I remember when I was a page, Uncle. Not so very long ago, either. The first time you allowed me to serve my father, I was scared to death." He leaned his head against the tall chair-back and continued dreamily. "There was no reason to be afraid, of course. He was the same, and I was the same, and the mere fact that I wore court livery shouldn't have made any difference.

  "And yet, it did. Because I was no longer a boy serving his father; I was a royal page serving the king. There's a big difference." He glanced across at Nigel. "Payne felt that tonight. Even though I've known him all his life, used to play with him and the other boys, he knew the difference. Tonight I was his king—not a familiar playmate. I wonder if it's always like that?"

  The squire Richard, who had been turning down the State bed on the other side of the room, approached Kelson's chair and made a short bow.

  "Will there be aught else, Sire? Anything I may bring ye?"

  "I don't think so. Uncle? Father Duncan?" The two shook their heads and Kelson nodded. "That's all for tonight, then, Richard. Check with the household guard before you leave. There should be a coach standing by later on to take Father Duncan back to the basilica."

  "You needn't bother," the priest protested. "I'll be 6ne on foot."

  "And catch your death of cold? Certainly not. The night's not 6t for man nor beast. Richard, there will be a coach ready for Father Duncan. Understood?" "Aye, My Liege."

  Nigel drained his goblet and gestured toward the door as it closed behind Richard. "That's a fine young man, Kelson," he said, reaching behind to retrieve the wine bottle and pour himself another cup. "He'll be

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  ready for knighthood soon. One of the finest lads I've ever had the pleasure to train. Alaric concurs in that judgement, by the way. Anyone else?"

  He proffered the wine bottle, but Kelson sHook his head. Duncan inspected his goblet and found it half empty, held it out for more. As Nigel replaced the bottle, Duncan leaned back in his chair and thought out loud.

  "Richard FitzWilliam. He's about seventeen now, isn't he, My Prince?"

  "Almost eighteen," Kelson corrected. "He's the only son of Baron Fulk FitzWiUiam, up in the Kheldish Riding. I'd planned to
knight him and a dozen others before we begin the summer campaign in Eastmarch. His father will be pleased."

  Nigel nodded. "He's one of the best. What news of Wencit of Torenth, by the way? Any further word from Cardosa?"

  "Not for the past three months," Kelson replied. "The city has a strong garrison, as you know7 but they'll be snowbound for a few more weeks at least. And once the high passes are clear, Wencit will be hammering at the gates again. We can't possibly get relief troops there until the spring flooding is done, and it will be too late by then."

  "So we lose Cardosa," Nigel sighed, gazing into the depths of his cup.

  "And the treaty dies, and war comes," Dnncan added.

  Nigel shrugged and began running the tip of his finger along the rim of his goblet. "Hasn't that been appafent from the start? Brion certainly knew there was that danger when he sent Alaric to Cardosa last summer. And when Brion died and we had to recall Alaric or lose you, Kelson—well, I still think it was a fair exchange: a city for a king. Besides, we haven't lost Cardosa yet."

  "But we will, Uncle," Kelson murmured, lowering

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  his eyes. "And how many lives will be lost in the exchange?" He twined his fingers together and studied them for a moment before continuing, "I sometimes wonder how to weigh those lives against my own, Uncle. Sometimes I wonder if I'm worth it."

  Duncan reached across to touch Kelson's arm reassuringly. "Kings will always wonder about such things, Kelson. The day you stop wondering, stop weighing the lives that hang in the balance—on that

  day, I shall mourn."

  The young king looked up with a wry grin. "You always know what to say, don't you, Father? It may not save cities or lives, but at least it soothes the conscience of the king who must decide who survives." He lowered his eyes again. "I'm sorry. That sounded bitter, didn't it?"

  Duncan's reply was cut short by a knock at the door, followed by the immediate entrance of young Richard FitzWilliam. Richard's handsome face was tense, almost nervous, and his dark eyes flashed as he made an apologetic bow.

  "Beggin1 your pardon, Sire, but there's a priest outside who insists he must see ye. I told him ye'd retired for the night, that he should come back tomorrow, but he's most persistent."

  Before Kelson could reply, a dark<:loaked cleric pushed his way past Richard and darted across the room to fling himself on his knees at Kelson's feet. A stiletto had appeared unobtrusively in Kelson's hand as the man approached, and Nigel half-rose from his chair, also reaching for a weapon. But. even as the man's knees hit the floor, Richard was straddling his back, one arm across the man's throat in a cfiokehold, the other with a dagger at the jugular vein, a knee in the small of the man's back.

  The man grimaced under Richard's rough handling, but made no move to defend himself or to threaten Kelson. Instead, he closed his eyes tightly

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  and extended his empty hands to either side, tried to ignore the pressure of Richard's arm across his wind-

  i 3 "Please, Sire, I wish you no harm," he croaked,

  wincing slightly as Richard's cold blade touched the side of his neck. "I'm Father Hugh de Berry, Archbishop Corrigan's secretary."

  "Hugh!" Duncan exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously as he recognized the man and signaling Richard to release him. "What the Devil? Why didn't you say so?"

  Hugh had opened his eyes with a start at Duncan's voice, and now he stared pleadingly at his brother priest, his eyes betraying his fear but also his resolu-lution. Richard released his stranglehold and stepped back a pace at Duncan's repeated gesture, but he did not relax his vigilant pose, nor did he sheath his dagger. Nigel warily took his seat again, but Kelson continued to finger the slim stiletto he had produced when the man approached.

  "You know this man, Father?" Kelson asked.

  "He is who he claims to be," Duncan replied cautiously, "though I cannot speak for his intent after such an entrance. An explanation, Hugh?"

  Hugh swallowed with" difficulty, then glanced at Kelson and bowed his head. "I beg forgiveness, Sire, but I had to see you. I have certain information I could trust to no one else, and—"

  He hazarded another glance at Kelson, then began withdrawing a folded piece of parchment from inside his damp cassock. His heavy black cloak was dark across the shoulders where the rain had soaked through, and his thinning brown hair glistened with a Biist of fine droplets in the dancing taperlight. His fingers trembled as he handed the parchment across to Kelson. He averted his eyes again as he folded his hands inside his sleeves to hide their shaking.

  Kelson frowned and replaced his dagger in its hid-

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  den wrist sKeath before unfolding the parchment. As Njgel moved a candle closer, Duncan came around to read over the boy's shoulder. The priest's face darkened as he scanned the lines, for the formula was familiar, and what he had often feared. Restraining his rising anger, he straightened and glanced at Richard, his blue eyes stormy, grim.

  "Richard, would you please wait outside," he murmured, flicking his gaze to Hugh's bowed head. "I will vouch for this man's conduct." "Aye, Father."

  As the door closed behind Richard, Duncan returned to his chair and sat wearily. He continued to study Hugh across the goblet between his hands, looked up as Kelson finished reading and laid the parchment on the table.

  "I thank you for this information, Father," Kelson said, motioning Hugh to rise. "And I apologize for your rough handling. I hope you will understand the necessity under the circumstances."

  "Of course, Sire," Hugh murmured selfconsciously. "You had no way of knowing what I was. I thank God that Duncan was here to save me from my own impetuosity."

  Duncan nodded, his eyes hooded and dark, but it was obvious he was not thinking about Hugh. His hands were clasped tightly around the silver goblet on the table before him, and the knuckles were white. Kelson did not seem to notice as he glanced at the parchment again.

  "I assume this letter has gone out by now," he said, catching Hugh's affirmative nod. "Father Duncan, does this mean what I think it does?"

  "Satan doom them both to nine eternal tormentsP' Duncan whispered under his breath. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud, then shook his head and released the goblet. It was oval now instead of round.

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  "Forgive me, My Prince," he murmured. "It means that Loris and Corrigan have finally decided to do something about Alaric. I've been expecting some kind of action for months now, but I never dreamed they'd dare to interdict all of Corwyn for the actions of one man."

  "Well, apparently they have dared," Kelson said uneasily. "Can we stop them?"

  Duncan took a deep breath and forced himself to control his anger. "Not directly. We have to remember that Loris and Corrigan see Alaric as the key to the whole Deryni question. He's the highest placed of any known Deryni in the kingdom, and he's never tried to hide what he is. He was never blatant in his use of his powers. But when Brion died, circumstances forced his hand and he had to use his powers or see you die."

  "And to the archbishops," Nigel interjected, "magic is evil, and that is that. Also, don't forget how Alaric repeatedly made fools of them at the coronation last fall. I rather imagine that has as much to do with the present crisis as any high-sounding motives they may say are behind the move."

  Kelson slouched in his chair and studied a ruby ring on his right forefinger. "So it's to be war against the Deryni, is it? Father Duncan, we can't afford a religious dispute on the eve of a major war. What can we do to stop them?"

  Duncan shook his head. "I don't know. I'll have to discuss it with Alaric. Hugh, do you have any further background for us? Who's delivering the letter? And how?"

  "Monsignor Gorony, from Loris's staff," Hugh replied promptly. His eyes were round with wonder at what he had just seen and heard. "He and an armed escort are taking a barge as far as the Free Port of Concaradine, and wfll sail with a merchant fleet fr
om there."

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  "I know Gorony," Duncan nodded. "Was anything added to the final draft of the letter? Anything that isn't in here?" He tapped the parchment with a well-manicured forefinger.

  "Nothing," Hugh replied. "I made tKe final copy from this one," he gestured toward the letter on the table, "and I watched both of them sign and seal it. I don't know what they told Gorony after I left. And of course I have no idea what they may have said to him in advance."

  "I see." Duncan turned the information over in his mind and nodded. "Is there anything else we should know?"

  Hugh looked at his feet and wrung his hands together. There was another message, of course. But he had not counted on Duncan's earlier angry reaction, and he was not sure just how he should phrase the second matter now. It would not be easy, no matter' how he phrased it.

  "There—is something else you should know, Duncan." He paused, unable to look up. "I had not thought to find you here, but—there is another matter which came under my pen tonight. It—concerns you personally."

  "Me?" Duncan glanced at Kelson and Nigel. "Go on. You may speak freely here."

  "It—isn't that." Hugh swallowed with difficulty. "Duncan, Cqrrigan is suspending you. He's calling you to answer before his ecclesiastical court for dereliction of duty, probably tomorrow morning." "What?"

  Duncan stood, hardly aware that he did, and his face was ashen against the black of his cassock. Hugh could not raise his eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Duncan," he whispered. "Apparently the archbishop thinks you were responsible for some of what happened at His Majesty's coronation last fall-begging your pardon, Sire," he glanced at Kelson. "He

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  gave me his draft of the writ not an hour ago, asking to have it as soon as possible. I gave it to one of my clerks to copy and came straight here, intending to find you after I'd told His Majesty about the other matters."

  He dared to look at Duncan finally, and whispered, "Duncan, are you mixed up in magic?"

  Duncan moved toward the fireplace as one in a trance, his blue eyes wide, all pupil. "Suspended," he murmured disbelievingly, ignoring Hugh's question. "And called before his court."