Anxiously, he searched among the crumpled forms until he saw a flash of the familiar blue cloak over against the wall. A battle surgeon had just risen from examining a wound in the side of the still figure under the cloak, and he turned a somber face toward Morgan as the general approached.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for this man, m’lord,” the man said, shaking his head. “He’ll be gone in a few minutes. I’d best see to those who can be helped.” He turned quickly away, obviously unaware of his patient’s identity.

Morgan knelt down beside the still body and pulled aside the fold of cloak that half covered the face. It was, indeed, Derry.

As he looked at him, touched his hand, the words of a woman in gray echoed in his mind: I intend to make you pay . . . and I’ll do it by destroying the ones you love best, one at a time, slowly. . . .

First it had been Brion, then Lord Ralson, young Colin of Fianna, his men. And now, Derry was slipping away. And there was nothing he could do. . . .

He took one of Derry’s slack hands in his, peeled back a closed eyelid. Derry was still alive, but only barely. A terrible wound had pierced his side, probably rupturing his spleen and God knew what else. Major arteries evidently had been severed as well, for the wound pumped bright red blood with every heartbeat.

Morgan pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it hard against the wound, trying to stanch the bleeding and knowing as he tried that it was futile. If only he could do something, could will the entire thing away, as though it had never happened. If only he could call upon some untapped force, some healing power . . .

Suddenly he straightened in astonishment as an idea came to him. Somewhere, long ago, he had read about such a healing power—a power that some Deryni were alleged to have. In the ancient days, there had been practitioners of that art.

But no. Those had been full Deryni, well trained in their art, in total command of the entire arsenal of Deryni power, not a half-breed like himself. Also, the times had been different: an era when men believed in miracles, and the powers of good were not so difficult to guide. How could he presume?

And yet, if Derry were to have even a slim chance for survival; if he, Morgan, were to be somehow able to call up this lost power from the past—God only knew how . . .

He must try.

Placing his hands lightly over Derry’s wound, he began to concentrate, to make his mind as empty and as still as possible, using his Gryphon seal as a focal point as he’d done earlier when he’d had his vision.