Her fingers clenched tightly in unbidden remembrance, trembled in the concealment of long, close sleeves. Angrily she blinked back the familiar tears. She must not think about Brion now. She must not believe for even an instant that he could know what she was about to do. There was good reason for her appearance thus today. For when she stood before Brion’s Council this afternoon and told them of the fearful evil threatening Kelson, they must not think her but a young and foolish woman. She was still Queen of Gwynedd, if only until tomorrow. She must be certain the Council did not forget that fact when she asked for Morgan’s life.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the golden coronet on the dresser before her, but she forced herself to be calm, to place the diadem firmly atop her mourning veil. What she proposed to do today was distasteful to her. Whatever her personal feelings about the accursed Morgan and his forbidden Deryni powers, the man had still been Brion’s closest friend and confidant. If Brion could know what she was about to do . . .

She stood abruptly and dismissed her maids with an impatient gesture. Brion could not know. Though it wrenched her heart to admit it, he was dead, almost two weeks in his tomb. Despite the old legends about the awesome powers of the Deryni—powers so alien she could not begin to understand them—there was no way that even someone favored by the Deryni could return from the grave. And if Morgan’s death was necessary to ensure that her only son should rule as a mortal, without the accursed powers, then it was necessary, no matter what the cost.

Resolutely, she crossed the chamber and paused in the doorway of the sun room. In one corner, a young minstrel strummed softly on a lute of pale, polished wood. Around him, a half-dozen black-clad ladies-in-waiting worked quietly at their needlepoint or listened to the mournful tune the minstrel hummed and played. Above their heads, climbing roses twined around the open beams, petals pink and red and gold against the clear autumn sky. All around, the morning sun cast hazy patterns of light and shadow on the flagstone floor and on the ladies’ work. They rose expectantly as Jehana paused in the doorway, and the minstrel stopped his playing, but she signalled them to go on with their activities.

As they did so, Jehana wandered slowly to the opposite side of the room. Pulling a rose from a low-hanging branch, she sank wearily down on a black-draped bench under a rose arbor.

Perhaps here, among the roses and sunshine Brion had loved so well, she could find the resolve she so desperately needed for what lay ahead. Perhaps here she could gather the strength and courage for what must be done.