“Will you tell me what’s going on?” he murmured. “I know you’re concerned that we may be watched, but there’s more to it than that. You were reluctant to give your promise to Cardiel. Why?”

“Because I may not be able to keep that promise,” Morgan whispered.

“Not keep it?” Duncan replied, remembering just in time to keep his head bowed. “Why on earth not? What’s wrong?”

Morgan leaned forward slightly to glance at the door past Duncan, then sat back on his heels. “Derry. He was supposed to contact us either last night or tonight. Last night he didn’t. When the time comes tonight, we’ll be right in the middle of the ceremony.”

“Sweet Jesu!” Duncan exploded under his breath, crossing himself as he remembered he was supposed to be praying, and bowing his head once more.

“Alaric, we can’t listen for Derry’s call in the cathedral—not after we promised Cardiel that we wouldn’t use our powers. If we’re caught—”

Morgan nodded slightly. “I know. But there isn’t any other way. I’m afraid something may have happened to Derry. We’ll just have to take the chance and hope we won’t be caught.”

Duncan buried his face in his hands and sighed. “I sense that you’ve thought about this at length. You have a plan?”

Morgan bowed his head again and edged slightly closer to Duncan. “Of sorts, yes. There are several places in the liturgy, both in the ceremony itself and in the Mass which follows, when we won’t have many responses to make. I’ll try to listen for Derry, while you keep watch. If it looks like we’re about to be detected, I’ll break off. You can—”

He broke off and bowed his head deeply as he heard the latch being lifted on the door. Then both men crossed themselves and rose as Cardiel stepped into the open doorway, followed closely by Arilan. Both men were solemnly vested in violet, croziers in hands and jeweled miters on heads. In the corridor behind them stood a long line of black-cowled monks, each holding a lighted candle.

“We are ready to begin, if you are,” Arilan said. The violet silk of his cope caught the deep blue-violet of his eyes and turned them to sparkling jewels in the candlelight, like the amethyst on his hand.

With a bow, Morgan and Duncan moved to join the procession. It would soon be quite dark.

IT was already dark in the Rheljan Mountains when Derry and his captors at last reached Cardosa. Derry had been tied across a saddle like a piece of baggage rather than being permitted to ride upright like a man—an embellishment calculated, he was sure, to further divest the prisoner of any false sense of dignity. Riding up the defile in this position, his head half-way down his horse’s side, had been a wet, cold, and often terrifying experience; for the horses had, at times, plunged through water almost up to their withers. Several times Derry’s head had been under water, lungs strained almost to the bursting point as he tried to keep from drowning. His wrists were numb and raw from the chafe of the rawhide thongs that bound him, his feet like lead from the cold and lack of circulation.