Her voice was a whisper in the dim, flickering candlelight. “My husband is a traitor and must die, one way or another; I know that. I will mourn the goodness in him—for there was some of that. And I shall mourn that my son shall have no father, for Bran was that, too. But if fate guides your sword,” her voice became softer still, “or your powers, to take his life tomorrow, I shall not hate you for it. How could I? You are my heart.”

“Sweet Jesu, you must not say these things,” he murmured, closing his eyes against the sight of her. “We must not, we dare not…”

“Oh, must I spell it out?” she whispered, taking one of his hands in hers and brushing her lips against its tanned back.

Morgan flinched at the contact of her flesh against his but forced himself to look down at her as she took his other hand in hers. As her hands closed over his, it was as though a great light glowed around them, and suddenly their minds were one.

Richenda was Deryni—Deryni in all the fullness born to those eldritch lords of old. Deryni—in all its splendor and pride and fulfilled power, with no guilt attached. In the first heady ecstasy of union with her mind, he was filled with a sense of wonder so profound that, in that instant, he knew with a certainty born at the root of all his powers that he had found that other part of himself, missing all his life. That whatever happened tomorrow, and for all the days of his life, he could endure it with this blessed woman at his side.

At length he saw her again through eyes instead of mind, and he staggered back a step and pulled his hands free in amazement. He stared at her for a long moment in awe, a part of him wondering idly if the sister in the next chamber was asleep—and praying that she was!—then lowered his eyes to stare blindly at the carpet beneath his feet. Reality had returned with a rush, and with it all the problems of the morrow.

“What has happened—this will make it that much more difficult for me tomorrow—you know that,” he murmured reluctantly. “I have responsibilities which I assumed long before this burden was laid upon my heart. I have been the catalyst for much of what has happened.”

“Then I have given you that much more to fight for,” she said softly.

“Yes. And if I am forced to kill Bran tomorrow, or am instrumental in his death, then what?”

“We both will know that you do it for the right reasons, if it comes to that,” she replied.

“Will we?”

Before she could answer, there was the slight clatter of guards coming to attention across the common outside, and then low voices in the darkness. Recalled to duty with a start, Morgan moved to the entryway and pulled back the flap farther to see who approached. At length a vague shadow dressed in black emerged from the ring of darkness beyond the torches and strode toward the tent: Duncan. And by the expression on his face, something was amiss.