“Oh, certainly. But we can’t get anywhere else from there. We’ll have to go into the regular corridors and risk being spotted. Come on, now. We’ve got a bit of a maze ahead of us, and then some steps. Be quiet, as our voices may carry.”

After a few yards, Morgan led them up a long, extremely narrow stairway, no wider than a man’s shoulders. The stairway spiraled gently to the right, a steep, stony passageway that seemed to go on forever. But finally Morgan came to a halt and motioned them to silence.

Hushing the hand-fire to a low, eerie glow, he stepped ahead of them for perhaps six steps, just far enough so they could not see precisely what he did in the stairway ahead of him. The remaining three caught traces of a low-muttered phrase that they could not quite understand. Ghostly lights played on the passage walls, shielded behind Morgan’s body.

But then the lights died and Morgan was turning to beckon them after him. A door swung open ahead, giving direct access to the tower room: Morgan’s private sanctuary, where no man might enter without his express consent.

The room was ghostly silent as they entered, lit only by the starlight and waning moonlight that filtered faintly through the skylight and the seven green glass windows piercing the tower walls. As Morgan padded across the tapestry carpet, bare feet making no sound, he gestured absently with one hand, blanking the windows and bringing the fire to life on the hearth.

As the others paused, blinking in the sudden firelight, Morgan scooped up a brand from the fire and lit candles on a free-standing candelabrum and on a small circular table near the fireplace. The flickering light winked and gathered in a fist-sized amber sphere in the center of the table, a polished orb supported by a golden gryphon. Cardiel caught his breath in wonder as he spied the sphere, starting toward it in fascination until Duncan’s low-voiced call brought his attention away.

Then he and the others were rummaging in coffers and chests, stripping off wet garments and exchanging them for dry. When they had finished, only Morgan and Duncan looked as though they were properly dressed. Kelson had managed to find a short tunic of Morgan’s that made a passable one of knee-length on him, and a dark cloak that trailed the ground only a little. Morgan completed the ensemble by handing him a plain circlet of hammered silver.

Bishop Cardiel had contrived to put together an outfit all of black, though there the resemblance to clerical attire ended. The tunic was tight in the waist, and the boots were a bit narrow for his feet, but a long black cloak covered a multitude of sartorial anomalies. He dried his wooden crucifix as best he could, then buffed his bishop’s ring against his dry tunic and touched it to his lips for reassurance. Around him, Morgan and Duncan were buckling on swords and daggers from the store of weapons kept in the chamber.