Morgan savored the memory and scanned the hanging once more, slowly, as he always felt compelled to do after a long absence. Only then did he permit his gaze to slip casually up and to the left, where hung another banner.

Worked in green, on black silk, the Corwyn Gryphon actually defied many of the conventional rules of heraldry, at least where color was concerned. But perhaps that was part of the charm of the Deryni heritage, into whatever disrepute that bloodline had fallen in past decades.

The emerald Gryphon, its wings dripping gold and jewels, rearing up its head and claws in the rampant pose—segreant, when applied to gryphons—gleamed darkly, mysteriously, with an almost sinister aura, on its background of shining black. Around the edge, a golden bordure—the double tressure flory counter-flory of the old Morgan arms—gave homage to his paternal inheritance.

Morgan tended to forget about his Morgan lands. It was just as well, perhaps. For the two dozen or so estates and manors scattered about the kingdom were his sister Bronwyn’s dowry for the most part, capably managed by that shining lady and soon to be joined to the Kierney lands when she married Kevin McLain next spring. Then only the golden tressure on the sable shield would remain of Morgan’s paternal birthright—that and the name.

It was the calling of that name that summoned Morgan from his reverie. From a dozen feet away, Lord Rogier was pushing his way through the thronged nobles, his thin face pinched with worry, the slender brown moustache bristling with impatience.

“Morgan, we expected you days ago! What happened?” He glanced nervously at Derry, apparently not recognizing him, but vaguely disturbed by his presence nonetheless. “Where are Ralson and Colin?”

Morgan ignored Rogier’s question and began moving purposefully down the hall. For he had caught a glimpse of Ewan approaching with Bran Coris and Ian Howell. If he waited until they arrived, he would have to tell the news only once. As it was, the telling would be painful enough. Rogier and Ralson had been close.

As he reached the three, Kevin McLain appeared at Morgan’s left elbow to clap him on the shoulder in silent greeting. Rogier nearly trod on their heels in his impatience.

“But, Morgan!” Rogier was sputtering. “You didn’t answer my question. Has something happened to them?”

Morgan bowed greeting to the assembled group. “I fear it has, Rogier. Ralson, Colin, the two guards, three of my best officers—they’re all dead.”

“Dead!” Ewan retorted.

“Oh, my God!” Kevin whispered. “Alaric, what happened?”

Morgan clasped his hands behind his back and steeled himself for the telling. “I was at Cardosa when the news came. I took the escort, Derry, and three of my own men, and we headed back for Rhemuth immediately. Two days out of Cardosa, we were ambushed in a pass—I think it was near Valoret. Ralson and our escort were killed outright. Colin died of his wounds the next day. Derry may lose the use of his left hand, but at least he escaped with his life.”