Immediately after that, Jehana went into seclusion for nearly two months, cloistering herself, it was said, at the Abbey of Saint Giles, near Shannis Meer. Soon she and Brion reconciled, and Jehana returned to Rhemuth with her lord. But she had avoided Morgan after that. And when Kelson was born the following year, she had made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with the young Deryni lord.

Her decision did not particularly alter Morgan’s existence. His friendship with Brion continued to grow and mature, and at Brion’s encouragement, he took an active part in Kelson’s education and training.

But both he and Brion recognized the folly of a reconciliation as far as Jehana was concerned. Through the years, Brion had had to gradually resign himself to the fact that his beloved queen would have nothing to do with his most trusted friend.

Now Morgan never saw the queen except when protocol or matters concerning Kelson demanded. And those few, unavoidable meetings were generally punctuated with verbal fireworks. Considering the woman, Morgan had little hope that the relationship would change.

The crunch of booted feet on gravel broke the silence of the garden, and Morgan looked up, then slipped off the rail where he had been sitting. Kelson and Kevin rounded the final bend of the main path and came to a halt just inside the summerhouse.

Kelson wore the royal crimson now. His face above the black fox collar of the velvet cloak was somber, tense. He had grown inches in the months since Morgan last saw him. And the young general’s practiced eye detected chain mail under the stiffly embroidered silk tunic. Black crepe banded one arm above the elbow and hung briefly from the boy’s belt.

But it was the uncanny resemblance to Brion at the same age that struck Morgan most. Looking at Kelson, he saw Brion staring back at him: the wide, gray gaze beneath a velvety shock of straight black hair; the regal carriage of the proud head; the ease with which he wore the royal crimson.

Clinically, he noted the apparent frailness of the slim frame, recalled the tensile steel strength it disguised, remembered the long hours of practice at arms, many of them at Morgan’s side.

It was Brion of the Laughing Eyes, Brion of the Flashing Sword, of the Thoughtful Moods, teaching a young child to ride and fence; holding court in all the splendor of the monarchy, the boy spellbound at his feet. And the image of that boy wavered between light and dark, blond and raven-haired, as the memories of distant years confused themselves with those more recent.

Then it was Kelson again—and Brion, asking a friend dearer than life to swear that the boy would always have a protector, should his father die untimely. Brion, only months before his death, entrusting the key to his divine power to the man who stood now before his son.