“I—” Warin was speechless.

“And just who do you propose shall make this ‘scratch’?” Morgan finally asked, his gray eyes clearly showing his disapproval.

“You, or Kelson—it makes little difference,” Duncan replied, keeping his tone light.

Cardiel shook his head adamantly. “I cannot permit it. You are a priest. To shed a priest’s blood—”

“I am a suspended priest, Excellency. And you know that I must do what I must do.”

He hesitated for just an instant, then pulled his dagger from his belt and extended it across his forearm toward the three of them, hilt first.

“Come. One of you do the deed, and let’s be done with it. Otherwise, I may lose my nerve.”

“No!” Warin said suddenly. He took several steps toward the four but then stopped, strained but erect as he stared fearfully across at them.

“You have some objection?” Kelson asked, standing slowly in his place.

Warin wrung his hands together and then began pacing the room explosively, shaking his head and gesturing to punctuate his speech.

“’Tis treachery, treachery! I dare not trust you! If I did, I should never know if you had staged the entire thing for my benefit, if you had only appeared to wound this man and then appeared to heal him. That is no proof. Satan is a master of lies and illusions.”

Duncan glanced at his companions, then abruptly turned and extended the dagger’s hilt toward Warin.

“Then, you draw my blood,” he said evenly. “You make the wound whose healing will convince you that we speak the truth.”

“I?” Warin paled. “But, I have never—”

“Surely you do not claim that you have never shed blood,” Morgan retorted. “I very much doubt that. But if ’tis true, then it is even more important that you do the deed. If you want proof, you shall have it. But you yourself must be a part of the proving.”

Warin stared at them searchingly, clearly grappling with some inner demon, then took a step backward and eyed the dagger distastefully.

“Very well, I will do it. But not with that dagger. I must have one of our own, that I know to be untainted by Deryni sorcery.”

“As you wish,” Duncan said.

As he sheathed his dagger and began unbuckling his sword belt, Warin edged cautiously toward the pile of weapons confiscated earlier and sank to one knee beside it. He glanced over the assortment of weapons for several seconds, then selected a slender, cross-hilted dagger with ivory fittings. Firelight flashed on the polished blade as he unsheathed it and kissed the relic enclosed in the hilt. Then he rose wordlessly.

“I must ask,” said Duncan, “that you limit yourself to a wound which you yourself could heal.” His linen shirt was half-unlaced, and he pulled it from the waistband of his breeches preparatory to removing it. “Also, if you choose to deliver a potentially lethal wound, I must insist that it be a slow one. I shouldn’t like to bleed out before Alaric can bring his powers into play.”