“Oh?” The blond man’s face, bearded though it was, was handsome and calm, and not at all threatening. Still, Mal felt a cold shiver in the pit of his stomach as he met the slate-gray eyes. He looked away uneasily, unable to decide just why he felt so uncomfortable talking about his liege lord this way to a total stranger, but he found his gaze returning to the man’s face. What was there about the man’s eyes that seemed so—compelling?

“Does everyone hate him as much as you do?” the man asked softly.

“Weel, t’ be perfectly frank, none o’ us here at Jennan Vale really wanted to rise against th’ duke,” Mal found himself saying. “He was a good enough sort before he started dabblin’ in that accursed Deryni magic. There were even churchmen who called theyselves his friend.” He paused for an instant, then slapped his palm against the ground for emphasis.

“But th’ archbishops say he’s o’erstepped the bounds even a duke may go. He an’ that Deryni cousin o’ his desecrated th’ Shrine o’ Saint Torin last winter.” He snorted contemptuously. “Now there’s one who’ll pay in th’ Hereafter—that McLain: a priest o’ God, an’ Deryni a’ the while.

“Anyway, when they would nae surrender theyselves to the judgment o’ the Curia for their sins, an’ some o’ the Corwyner folk said they’d stand by the duke an’ his kinsman even if they was excommunicated, th’ archbishops put th’ Interdict on all o’ Corwyn. Warin says the only way we can get it lifted is to capture th’ duke and turn him over to th’ archbishops in Coroth—an’ help Warin rid the land o’ every other Deryni, too. That’s the only way to—aiiie! Careful o’ me leg, man!”

Mal sank back, half-fainting, against the ground, dimly aware through the haze of pain that both men were now bent intently over his leg. He could feel hot blood streaming down his thigh, the pressure of the bandage one man applied, the surge of new blood as that bandage soaked through and had to be replaced by a fresh one.

Consciousness was fading with the ebbing blood when he felt a cool hand on his forehead and heard a low voice say, “Just relax, Mal. You’re going to be fine, but we’ll have to help you along a little. Relax and go to sleep…and forget all of this.”

As awareness slipped away, Malcolm Donalson heard the second man murmuring words he could not understand, felt a warmth creeping into his wound, a soothing calmness pervading every sense. Then he was opening his eyes, a bloodied sliver of metal clutched in his hand, and the two men were packing up their belongings in the brown leather pouch. The blond man smiled reassuringly as he saw Mal’s eyes open, and raised the wounded man’s head to put a water flask to his lips. Mal swallowed automatically, his mind whirling as he tried to remember what had happened. The strange gray eyes of the blond man were only inches away.