Only Duncan seemed not to be caught up in the taut bustle of the night’s work, Kelson thought, as he caught a glimpse of the priest gazing moodily out an open window. Duncan had kept himself somewhat apart for much of the evening, declaring himself no authority on military matters, any more than Kelson was. Yet, Kelson knew that Duncan was a trained swordsman, a duke’s son, and must have learned the rudiments of strategy at his father’s knee before he heard his calling to the priesthood. As two more bishops approached Kelson with some new query, he wondered what was troubling the priest. It was not like the usually gregarious Duncan to be so distant.

Duncan sighed and leaned an elbow against the windowsill, unconsciously shrugging back the plaid that had begun to slip from one shoulder. His blue eyes were hooded as he searched the inky darkness of the mountains east of Dhassa, and the slim, ringless fingers of one hand tapped restlessly against the stone of the casement edging.

If questioned, he could not have said just why he was so pensive tonight. Certainly, the ceaseless wrangling was beginning to wear on all their nerves, and the pressure was increasing hourly as departure time approached. But he was also worried about Derry—and more, about Morgan’s growing concern over the missing Marcher lord. All aside from the obvious loss to Gwynedd’s service, if ill had befallen Derry, Duncan knew that the young earl’s death would have a profound effect on Morgan. Derry, for all his youthful exuberance and even occasional recklessness, had managed to forge a depth of friendship with Morgan that was enjoyed by few humans. If Derry had died as a result of Morgan’s instructions to go out “a-spying”—even though the idea had originally been Kelson’s—Duncan knew that it would be a long time before Morgan would be able to bring himself to forget.

And then there was the matter of Duncan’s own sorrow, of a vocation held and not held, which could not be resolved until he could come to grips with his Deryniness—because he had lied about it to get himself ordained, defying canon law and his own conscience.

Wolves howled in the distant hills, and Duncan let his gaze roam the city walls once more. He could see torches approaching the palace gates from the lake, half a dozen dancing points of light borne by men on horseback. As they drew nearer, he watched the postern gate open to admit them, leaning out then to survey a handful of horses crowding through into the narrow courtyard below.

One of the riders—a page or squire, by the look of him—rode low on his horse’s neck, his head lolling alarmingly as the horses jolted to a stop. It was difficult to be certain at this distance, but the lad’s mount appeared to be footsore and badly winded. More torches flared in the darkness as stablemen approached.

As one of the men grabbed at the reins of the foundering animal, the beast staggered and went to its knees, pitching its young rider out of the saddle to land in a heap. The unfortunate lad picked himself up painfully and held onto one of the guards for support, then glanced up toward Duncan’s window before staggering toward the stair on the man’s arm. As he did so, his muddy cloak parted to show a flash of the livery underneath.