Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, King’s Champion, and now excommunicate Deryni sorcerer, smiled and gathered up his reins, swinging up on his tall warhorse as Duncan did the same.

“My people. Yes, I suppose they are, God bless ’em. Tell me, Cousin. Is all of this really my fault? I never thought so before, but I’ve heard it so often in the past few weeks, I’m almost beginning to believe it.”

Duncan shook his head, touching steel-shod heels to his horse’s flanks and beginning to move off down the road. “It isn’t your fault. It isn’t any one person’s fault. We’re simply a convenient excuse for the archbishops to do what they’ve been wanting to do for years. This situation has been building for generations.”

“You’re right, of course,” Morgan said. He urged his horse to a trot and fell in beside his kinsman. “But that isn’t going to make it any easier to explain to Kelson.”

“He understands,” Duncan replied. “What will be more interesting will be his reaction to the information we’ve been gathering for the past week or so. I don’t think he’s realized the extent of unrest in this part of the kingdom.”

Morgan snorted. “Neither had I. When do you reckon we’ll reach Dol Shaia?”

“Soon after noon,” Duncan stated. “I’d stake money on it.”

“Would you?” Morgan gave a sly grin. “Done! Now, let’s ride.”

And so the two continued along the road from Jennan Vale, pushing on ever faster as the moon rose to light their way. They need not have worried about revealing their identities, these two young Deryni lords. For even had they been told, Malcolm Donalson and the boy Royston simply would not have believed that they had been in the presence of the infamous pair. Dukes and monsignori, Deryni or not, did not ride in the guise of rebel soldiers in the service of Lord Warin, with falcon cloaks and badges and three weeks’ growth of beard. It was unimaginable.

Nor would two heretic Deryni have stopped to help a wounded rebel soldier—especially one who, only hours before, had brought death and injury to a number of royalist knights. This, too, was unheard of.

So the two rode on, ever faster, ever closer, to rendezvous next day at Dol Shaia with their young Deryni king.

CHAPTER TWO

“Thy princes are rebellious, and companions of thieves.”

ISAIAH 1:23

THE young man with the night-black hair sat at ease on a low camp stool, a kite-shaped shield balanced face-down across his knees and on the edge of the velvet-draped bed. His slender fingers worked slowly, painstakingly, as they wove a new strip of rawhide round and round the hand-grip. His gray eyes were hooded beneath long, dark lashes.

However, the young man’s mind was not on the repairs he made. Nor was he concerned just now that the device on the reverse of the shield was rich and finely crafted, the royal lion of Gwynedd gleaming gold on red beneath its canvas cover. He was equally oblivious to the priceless Kheldish carpet beneath his dusty boots, the jewel-hilted broadsword hanging within easy reach in its plain leather scabbard.