Finally, Corrigan presented the sword to Kelson. And Kelson, with an anxious glance at Morgan, touched his lips to the weapon and handed it back to Morgan. As the sword exchanged hands, Kelson touched Morgan’s gryphon seal briefly, then faltered in dismay.

For there had been no sensation of power when he touched the seal, no surge of promise fulfilled, no sealing of the force foretold by Brion’s ritual verse. His anguished eyes sought Morgan’s frantically, and Morgan, too, felt a sick queasiness rise in his throat.

Somewhere, they had failed! Obviously, Morgan’s gryphon was not the Sign of the Defender!

There were loud footsteps outside the cathedral now, and the people grew hushed with fearful expectation. As Corrigan, unaware of what was going on, continued with the investiture, held out the jeweled sceptre of Gwynedd to Kelson, the cathedral doors swung back with a muffled crash, and a gust of icy wind whistled down the nave.

As Morgan turned his head slightly toward the rear of the church, there was no doubt in his mind what he would see. Nor was he disappointed.

He looked, and saw Charissa—Duchess of Tolan, Lady of the Silver Mists, the Shadowed One—silhouetted against the open doorway, veiled in pale gray and blue and shrouded in living mist that twined around her in a sinister aura.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - “Who, then, is the Defender?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Who, then, is the Defender?”

KELSON didn’t even move as the doors crashed back on their hinges, though he yearned to turn his head and look. For even as the sound shattered the silence, he realized that to satisfy his curiosity prematurely might only make him lose his nerve. He had never seen Charissa, and he was uncertain how he would react.

Kneeling with one’s back to the enemy was not generally recommended, either—at least he knew that. He was probably taking a terrible chance by remaining in that position while his enemy advanced; under other circumstances, he would never have even considered such a strategic blunder. But since he was helpless anyway, it should make little difference. There was a point where theory must yield to practicality—and frankly he wasn’t certain just what he would do when he did turn around.

He had to have time to think. If he had to bluff—and that seemed inevitable at this point—he would also need to have some clear purpose in mind beyond mere survival. He didn’t think he would freeze up when he faced her, but there was no sense tempting fate. His father had taught him that years ago.

He heard footsteps echoing down the nave and knew that his adversary approached, that she was not alone. As he stiffened slightly, he saw Morgan’s hand creep closer to the hilt of his broadsword. He hazarded a glance to his left and saw that Duncan was signalling the archbishop to proceed with the ceremony.