ELSEWHERE in the palace, another was also about his business—one whose day had begun several hours earlier in a place not many miles away. From the arms of an incredibly beautiful and evil woman he had come, borne on the wings of a Deryni spell to complete a specific task and then return.

In an alcove just off one of the main corridors, he bided his time, waiting for just the right passers-by. A fairly large group of pages and squires in formal livery came past, laden with white and golden robes that could only be Kelson’s. But these were not the ones he sought this morning.

As the entourage passed, he pretended to be absorbed with a temperamental fastening on his own formal cloak. As soon as they were past, however, he resumed his vigil.

After perhaps ten minutes of this subterfuge, and perhaps three repeats of the cloak ruse, his quarry came into sight as he had known they would: two royal squires carrying a resplendent black velvet cloak and a polished wooden jewel case.

Ian timed his interference perfectly, stepping into their path just as they came abreast of his alcove. The maneuver cost one of them his footing, as had been intended. Then Ian was apologizing profusely and helping the young man to his feet, helping him gather up the baubles and chains that had spilled from the wooden chest.

It never occurred to the young man to check the contents of the chest after the encounter; never occurred to him that the great Lord Ian might have substituted another item for one particularly fine badge of office—that of the King’s Champion.

IN Kelson’s quarters, Morgan gave himself a critical appraisal in the hand mirror as Derry wiped the last traces of soap from his lord’s chin and ears. After a bath and a shave, he felt almost like a new man. And sitting here in clean shirt and breeches was more luxury than he could remember for weeks. It was almost enough to make him appreciate the fortune of his noble birth.

As Derry dismissed the two squires who had been assisting him, Duncan slipped into the room with a silent signal that the young Marcher lord should give no warning. Gliding up quietly behind Morgan, he exchanged places with Derry and continued dusting lint from the white linen shirt.

“Well, well. The prodigal seeks to amend his appearance!”

Morgan whirled in surprise, reaching for his weapon, then relaxed and grinned as he realized it was Duncan. With a wave, he dismissed Derry to continue with his other duties, then settled back in his chair as Duncan came around in front of the fireplace.

“I do wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” Morgan said. “If Derry hadn’t been here, I might have taken off your head before I realized it was you.”