“Bless the Lord, O my soul,” the bishops chanted, “and forget not all His benefits: Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; Who healeth all thy diseases; Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; Who crowneth thee…”

As the psalm droned on, Morgan shifted his position from where his head rested lightly on his clasped hands and moved them slightly so that he could see his Gryphon ring. Now, while the bishops were absorbed in their sacerdotal function, he must try to contact Derry, even if only fleetingly. For if all were well with Derry and he could make contact, it would be a relatively simple matter to arrange for another contact later this evening, when circumstances were not so dangerous.

He opened his eyes a slit and saw that Duncan was watching him covertly, that no one seemed to be paying much attention to them for the moment. He would have perhaps five minutes. He prayed that it would be enough.

Closing his eyes, he felt the brief touch of Duncan’s presence signaling ready, then slitted his eyes open once again to use his Gryphon as a focal point. Slowly he permitted his senses to close out the candlelight, the drone of the bishops’ voices, the pungent incense smoke swirling around him, the rough scratch of wool carpeting under his chin. Then he was slipping into the initial levels of trance, his mind reaching out for some fleeting contact with the mind of Sean Lord Derry.

“…Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned and done this evil in Thy sight, O Lord,” Cardiel sang, “that Thou mightest be justified when Thou speakest, and be clear when Thou judgest…”

But Morgan did not hear.

DERRY tried to mask any hint of his very real fear as the two men stepped from either side of him in the narrow dungeon. The man on the left was tall and hawk-visaged, with a terrible scar knifing down the aristocratic nose until it disappeared in the neatly trimmed moustache and beard, the dark hair touched with silver at the temples, the eyes pale as silver in the torchlight. He it was who bore the torch whose fire-fled shadows had sparked such dread in Derry minutes before, who terrified Derry anew as he turned casually to set the torch in a wall bracket not far from the one already there.

But this was not Wencit. Derry knew that instinctively, after only a glimpse of the second man. For the man who glided past his right side to pause directly in front of the chair was as different from the tall, scarred stranger as two men could be: trim and angular yet graceful, red of hair and moustache, pale blue eyes gazing unblinking at the frightened captive who sat immobilized before him. Wencit’s attire was informal, a flowing robe of slubbed amber silk pulled on over rich satin damask of the same golden hue. A wide, linked belt of gold girdled his narrow waist, with a jeweled dagger thrust carelessly into the top. Rings glittered on the long, ascetic fingers, but other than those, Wencit wore no jewels. Tawny velvet slippers with pointed toes showed beneath the hem of the long tunic, the fabric gold-embroidered across the instep. So far as Derry could see, the dagger was Wencit’s only weapon. Somehow the thought did little to put his mind at ease.