Which brings us back to this reissue of the Deryni Trilogy. These new editions—what I have referred to, tongue in cheek, as the “author’s cut” of the books—will make the series once again accessible to new readers, younger readers, and those who encourage them. And for those loyal fans of the Deryni universe who have read their original copies to tatters or who have loaned them out to eager friends and never seen them again, this is a chance to replenish their stash.

Finally, I owe a special debt of thanks to Melissa Houle, one of the Web mistresses from www.rhemuthcastle.com, who scanned me the text from her beloved copy of Deryni Rising and probably broke its spine in the process. These first three books, and the three books of the Camber Trilogy, were all written on a typewriter, with carbon copies, in the dark ages before personal computers and word processing. Her kindness has saved me many hours of retyping the manuscript, so that preparing this edition took far less time out of my work on the next new Deryni novel. Another fan has already scanned Deryni Checkmate for me, and I have no doubt that a digital copy of High Deryni will be ready by the time I need to crank it through my machine.

So welcome to Gwynedd, whether for the first time or for a return visit. May you spend many hours of reading pleasure.

—Katherine Kurtz
County Wicklow, Ireland

PROLOGUE

“Lest the hunter become the hunted.”

BRION Haldane, King of Gwynedd, Prince of Meara, and Lord of the Purple March, reined in his horse sharply at the top of the hill and scanned the horizon.

He was not a big man, though regal bearing and a catlike grace had convinced many a would-be adversary that he was. But his enemies rarely had time to notice this technicality. Dark, lean, with just a trace of gray beginning to show at his temples, in the precise black beard, he commanded instant respect by his mere presence. When he spoke, whether with the crackle of authority or the lower tones of subtle persuasion, men listened and obeyed.

And if fine words could not convince, often the persuasion of cold steel could. The worn scabbard of the broadsword at his side attested to that, as did the slender stiletto in its wrist sheath. The hands that steadied the skittish warhorse between his knees were gentle but firm on the red leather reins—the hands of a fighting man, the hands of one accustomed to command.

If one studied him more closely, however, one was forced to revise the original impression of warrior-king. For the wide gray eyes held promise of much more than mere military prowess and expertise. Indeed, they glittered with a shrewd intelligence and wit that were known and admired throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.