“But, my lord,” one of the men started to protest.

“Enough, James.” Warin lifted his gaze to Kelson’s once more. “All know the fate of men who defy their king and fail. At least you and I and the others will die in the certain knowledge that we fought on the side of God. And you, O King, will pay a high price for our lives in the Hereafter.”

There was a scarcely concealed murmur of consternation from the four men grouped behind him, but then they began slowly unbuckling sword belts and baldrics. The dull thud of sheathed steel on carpet was the only sound in the firelight as the men put down their weapons and bunched closer behind their leader. Even so, their manner was defiant.

Kelson noted this and many other things as he signed for Duncan to collect the weapons. And while the new captives were at least partially diverted by Duncan’s movement, he caught Morgan’s subtle nod toward the low armchair by the fireplace.

With a slight inclination of his head, Kelson moved toward the chair, waiting while Morgan turned it to face Warin and his men, then sitting and adjusting the folds of his borrowed cloak. When Kelson had seated himself, Morgan retired to a position just behind and to the right of the king’s chair. Cardiel remained in the shadows to the left of the fireplace. The tableau immediately took on the aspect of a king holding court, even in the very informal setting of a castle bedchamber, and in borrowed clothes. Nor was the effect lost on Warin’s men, who watched apprehensively to learn what this bold young king would do.

“We do not require your life or the lives of your men,” Kelson said to Warin, deliberately adopting the royal “we.” “We require only your loyalty from this time on—or, if not your loyalty, at least your willingness to consider what we are about to tell you.”

“I owe no allegiance to any Deryni king,” Warin said baldly. “Nor am I any longer intimidated by your royal birth. You Deryni are very bold when you have your magic to defend you.”

“Indeed?” said Kelson, raising an arched brow. “We seem to recall that you once placed our General Morgan at your mercy in a similar manner, stripped him even of most human faculties, that he might not defend himself in any fashion. The tendency to press one’s advantage is a human trait as well as a Deryni one, it seems.”

“I do not associate with those who traffic in magic,” Warin retorted, beard jutting stubbornly as he half-turned away.

“Do you not?” Morgan’s retort was more a statement than a question, and he controlled an impulse to smile, for Warin had just given him the very opening they needed. “How, then, do you manage to keep faith with yourself? The gift of healing is, after all, a kind of magic, is it not?”

“Magic?” Warin bristled as he whirled back to face Morgan. “That is blasphemy! How dare you profane so holy a sign of God’s favor by comparison with your foul and heretical powers?! Our Lord was a healer. Why, you are not worthy even to breathe the same air as He!”