“But you have used your powers, have you not?”

“On occasion, and with great care.” He waved a ringed hand depreciatingly. “But I must confess that such use has often brought about more ruin than reward. This present quarrel with the archbishops can be traced directly to my actions at Kelson’s coronation, and then at Saint Torin’s. If there had been no magic, we might all now be safely at home in our beds.”

“We might,” Richenda agreed. “Yet, if we were, Kelson would not now be king. And I doubt very much whether you and others of your kind would ever sleep well at night.”

Morgan chuckled ironically, then sobered as Richenda remained silent.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I so seldom encounter a sympathetic stranger that I scarcely know how to behave. Most folk find it difficult to conceive how I can even admit to some of the things I have done. I sometimes wonder myself. It takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Why should it? Are you ashamed of what you have done?”

Morgan cocked his head at her in faint surprise. “No, I am not. If I had to choose over again, I think I should make mostly the same choices. Of course, since that is not possible, the question is academic anyway, is it not?”

“Perhaps—though one must base future decisions on the past, do you not agree?”

“Your logic is flawless,” Morgan admitted reluctantly. “But perhaps the problem goes deeper than you dream. We Deryni are somewhat different from ordinary men, as you no doubt have gathered.”

“That different?”

Richenda smiled at him rather oddly, then half-turned away from him. Against the light of the rack of candles behind her, Morgan could see her profile outlined in gold. After a moment she turned toward him again, her face unreadable against the brightness of the candlelight.

“My lord, may I make a confession to you?”

“I am not your priest, my lady,” Morgan said lightly, leaning against the edge of a leather-bound trunk.

Richenda took a few steps toward him, her face still a gray blur against the candlelight, “Thank God and all the saints that you are not my priest, my lord! For if you were, I should never dare to say what is in my mind. I sense a bond between us that draws us close: fate, destiny, the will of God—call it what you will, though I think I—please don’t look at me that way, my lord!”

Morgan had frozen with her first words and now sat in stunned silence, staring. That Richenda had spoken thus was at once too wondrous and too terrible to contemplate. He had thought his own emotions neatly tucked away and under control. But now, to have Richenda echoing those feelings…

He turned his face away and averted his eyes, trying to force himself to composure. “My lady, we must not. I—” He paused, then began again in words he hoped she would understand.

“My lady, long ago you took vows with a man. You bore his son. That man still lives. Regardless of the feelings, or their lack, that you and he shared, you still are—Richenda, I may have to kill your husband tomorrow. Does that mean nothing to you?”