Nigel frowned. “Frankly, no. At least, not for long.” They passed a guard post, and Nigel took the crisp salute distractedly. “You see,” the duke continued, “it would be different if Kelson were already king, of legal age. If that were the case, he could simply forbid the Council to consider any trumped-up charges against you without concrete proof. But he isn’t, and he can’t. As long as he’s still a minor, no matter how close, the Regents have certain vice-regal powers that he can’t countermand. They decide what’s a fit topic for discussion, and they can vote by a simple majority to condemn you. Whether or not they succeed in the end will depend largely on Kelson’s personal ability to influence the voting.”

“Can he?” Morgan asked as the two clattered down a half flight of stairs and into the garden.

“I don’t know, Alaric,” Nigel replied. “He’s good—damned good—but I just don’t know. Besides, you saw the key Council lords. With Ralson dead and Bran Coris practically making open accusations—well, it doesn’t look good.”

“I could have told you that at Cardosa.”

They came to a halt under a trellised summerhouse at the edge of a boxwood maze. Morgan glanced around surreptitiously for some sign of Kelson and mentally approved of the choice of meeting place.

“These latest attempts of Jehana to have me discredited, Nigel—what charges is she likely to level against me?”

Nigel put one booted foot up on a carved stone bench and looked soberly across at Morgan, one forearm resting on his upraised knee. “Treason and heresy,” he said quietly. “And it isn’t just likely. It’s certain.”

“Certain?” Morgan’s reply was tinged with exasperation. “Damn, Nigel, it’s certain to be Kelson’s death if she doesn’t let me help him! Doesn’t she realize that?”

Nigel shrugged hopelessly. “Who can say for sure what Jehana realizes or doesn’t realize, after what has happened? I do know that our dear Lord Rogier is going to make the formal treason charge. And there’s no chance in the world that Archbishop Corrigan will refuse to support the heresy claim. Jehana’s even bringing in that archbishop from Valoret—what’s his name, who keeps the Deryni persecutions going in the north?”

“Loris!” Morgan hissed, turning away in disgust.

Seething, he gazed out over the low railing of the summerhouse to the boxwood maze beyond. From here, the complexity of the maze was not evident, but Morgan suddenly realized it was nonetheless symbolic of the dilemma he now faced: convoluted, enigmatic, with new and unforeseen difficulties around every turn. Except that there was a way out of the boxwood maze.