She glanced at the gauntlet again, then nodded. “Well played. But you have only postponed our confrontation for a little while, since I still mean to call you out in personal combat.”

“Not while our Champion stands!” Kelson replied.

“That can be remedied,” Charissa continued briskly. “First of all, we shall not determine the outcome of this contest at a later date. The time and place are here and now. You have no choice in the matter. Further, I shall not rest my fortunes on any of these who stand with me here. My Champion stands yonder to defend me.”

As she gestured toward the right side of the cathedral, Ian stepped from the ranks of the noblemen with a sly grin on his face and made his way to Charissa’s side. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he gazed mildly across the distance between himself and Kelson.

Kelson was astonished at the disclosure of Ian as the betrayer in his midst, for he had always thought of the young earl as a loyal, if not overenthusiastic, supporter. This explained the strange happenings that had plagued them since Morgan’s arrival. With his high rank, Ian would have had no trouble at all setting the Stenrect, killing the guard, massacring the guard detail at Brion’s tomb last night.

As he thought about it, Kelson realized that Ian’s comments had often tended to encourage the loose talk about Morgan over the past three months. His unfinished statements, his sly innuendoes . . . of course. In fact, it was altogether possible that he also had some Deryni power himself. And motivation was no puzzle. Kelson knew as well as anyone else that parts of Eastmarch bordered on Morgan’s Corwyn.

None of this showed on the young king’s face, however. Only his eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his attention to Ian, his voice low and dangerous in the stillness.

“You would dare to raise steel against me, Ian of Eastmarch? And in this House?”

“Aye, and in a thousand like it,” Ian replied, steel whispering against steel as he drew his blade and saluted with it smartly. “And now,” he gestured with his sword, “will your Champion come down to do battle? Or must I come up and slay him where he stands?”

Cat-quiet, Morgan was already gliding down the chancel steps, drawing his own sword as he came.

“Save your words for your victory, traitor!” he retorted. He scooped up the gauntlet with the tip of his blade and flipped it through the air to land at Charissa’s feet.

“I accept your challenge in the name of Kelson Haldane, King of Gwynedd!”

“For all the good it will do you—or him!” Ian countered with an insolent jerk of his chin toward the young king.