With a sigh, Morgan turned away from the window and glanced across the room to where Duncan sat quietly on a low wooden bench. A candle burned at Duncan’s end of the bench, and the priest seemed absorbed in the content of a small, leather-bound book with gilt-edged pages. Like Morgan, he was robed in penitential violet, clean-shaven, his face oddly pale where his beard had been. He had not yet bothered to secure the front of his robe, for it was warm in the tiny chamber, close with the night air that drifted on the mists outside. A white tunic, hose, and soft leather boots shone stark beneath the robe, the pristine whiteness unrelieved by any jewel or adornment.

With another sigh, Morgan glanced down at his own robe and tunic, at the gryphon and lion rings winking on his hands, then moved slowly to Duncan’s side of the room and looked down at him. Duncan did not seem in the least concerned that his kinsman had been pacing in precisely the same manner for the past quarter hour, or even to have noticed that he had finally stopped.

“Don’t you ever get tired of waiting?” Morgan asked.

Duncan looked up from his reading with a faint smile. “Sometimes. But it’s a skill that priests must learn quite early in their careers, or else become good actors. Why don’t you stop pacing and try to relax?”

So, he had noticed.

Morgan sat heavily on the bench beside Duncan and leaned his head against the wall behind, arms folded across his chest in an attitude of utter tedium.

“Relax? That’s easy enough for you to say. You like ritual. You’re used to dealing with ecclesiastical pageantry. Me, I’m as edgy as a squire at his first tournament. Not only that, but I think I’m going to die of hunger. I haven’t had a thing to eat all day.”

“Nor have I.”

“No, but you’re better used to it than I. You tend to forget that I am a degenerate nobleman, accustomed to indulging myself whenever the whim strikes me. Even some of that wretched Dhassa wine would be almost welcome.”

Duncan closed his book and leaned back against the wall with a smile. “Think about what you’re saying. Think what wine would do to our clear-headedness after two days with only bread and water—and nothing today. Besides, knowing Dhassa wine, I personally would rather die of thirst.”

“I concede you the point.” Morgan smiled and closed his eyes. “Goes to show you what fasting will do. It doesn’t mortify the soul, it corrodes the brain.”

“Well, perhaps the bishops wouldn’t be averse to a touch of something,” Duncan said with a chuckle. “More bread and water, maybe? I hardly think they’d want us fainting away during the ceremony, for lack of food.”

Morgan grinned, getting up to resume his pacing. “Shows how much you know. Fainting might be the best thing we could do out there. Just think: The penitent Deryni, weakened by fasting, their spirits chastened and their hearts purified, faint away in the presence of the Lord.”