“My lady.” Morgan inclined his head in salute, trying not to look too closely at her. Richenda dropped him the slightest of curtsies and also inclined her head.

“Good evening, Your Grace. Sister Luke mentioned something about a message from the king?”

“Yes, my lady. I suppose you have heard somewhat regarding the delay this afternoon, before we reached our campsite?”

“I have.” The answer was quiet, direct, and the woman lowered her eyes, gesturing for him to enter. “Please come in, Your Grace. Your Deryni reputation will not be enhanced if you are seen loitering outside my tent. Nor will mine.”

“Would you rather have me seen entering your tent, my lady?” Morgan quipped, ducking his head to step inside.

“I am certain that Sister Luke can attest to the propriety of our meeting,” she replied with a slight smile. “Pray, excuse me a moment while I make certain my son is asleep.”

“Of course.”

The pavilion was divided within by a dense but faintly translucent curtain of royal blue. He could follow Richenda’s movements behind the curtain by the glow of her candle, but he could not make out details. Presumably the sleeping accommodations for the countess, her son, and the sister were in the second chamber, since he could see no such preparations on the side where he was now standing.

The furnishings of his present location seemed to consist of two folding camp chairs, a few small trunks, and a rack of yellow candles set near the center pole. Carpets had been laid underfoot to keep the dampness out, but they were not of any special quality—doubtless borrowed from Cardiel’s stores, with such short notice. He hoped that the lady and her boy were not enduring too much discomfort.

Richenda slipped back into the outer chamber and held a finger to her lips, a tender smile on her face.

“He is asleep now, Your Grace. Would you care to look in on him? He is only four, you know, but I’m afraid I am terribly proud of him.”

Seeing that she wished it, Morgan nodded acquiescence and followed her into the inner chamber. As they entered, the sister looked up from a stack of bedclothes she was sorting and bowed slightly as though to leave, but Richenda shook her head and led Morgan to the small pallet where her son slept.

Brendan Coris had his mother’s reddish-golden hair and, as far as Morgan could see, resembled his father Bran Coris very little. Certainly, there was a familial resemblance around the nose, but the rest was his mother’s influence, delicate features almost too fragile for a man-child. The boy’s long, thick lashes lay on his cheeks like cobwebs, and the rumpled, bright hair that Morgan had first seen in a coach by Saint Torin’s was gold-rich in the candlelight. Morgan could not remember the color of the boy’s eyes, but he suddenly knew that if the boy opened them, they would be the same cornflower hue as his mother’s.