“Morgan, listen! They say there’s no Devil, but they’re wrong! I saw him! He has red hair and calls himself Wencit of Torenth, but he lies. He’s the Devil himself! He made me—he made me—”

“Not now….” Morgan shook his head and forced Derry’s shoulders back against the pallet. “No more for now. We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you’re weak from your wounds and captivity. You must rest. When you wake, you’ll feel better. I promise nothing will happen to you. Trust me, Sean.”

As Morgan spoke, imposing more and more control against Derry’s weakening will, the younger man suddenly went limp, eyes closing and muscles going slack as he sank back against the pallet. Morgan disengaged his cloak from Derry’s grasp, then laid the young lord’s hands loosely across his chest and straightened the angle of his head. Conall, still watching from nearby, brought a sleeping-fur, which Morgan tucked loosely around the still form. Warin had retreated to stand against one of the walls of the tent. Morgan studied the sleeping Derry for several seconds, as though assuring himself that the sleep was deep enough, then exchanged a worried glance with Duncan before looking up at Kelson and the circle of anxious faces.

“I think he’ll be all right when he’s rested, Sire. But right now, I’d rather not think about what he must have gone through.” His eyes darkened and took on a far-away look, and under his breath he murmured, “God help Wencit, when I find out, though.”

He shuddered as the mood passed, then swept a strand of pale hair out of his eyes and got to his feet with a sigh. Duncan, after another look at the sleeping Derry, kept his eyes averted as he stood. Kelson, too, was much subdued and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as his gaze wavered between the two of them.

“What do you think Wencit did do to him?” he finally asked in a small voice.

Morgan shook his head. “It’s difficult to say at this point, my prince. Later I’ll probe him more deeply, if it’s indicated, but he’s too weak now. He really fought me.”

“I see.”

Kelson studied the toes of his boots for several seconds, then looked up again. All eyes were now upon him, waiting for his next instructions, and he remembered abruptly what must be the next topic of discussion.

“Very well, gentlemen. There is nothing further we can do for Derry at this time, so I suggest that we get back to the business at hand.” He glanced at Arilan and cocked his head. “Bishop Arilan, could you tell us about this Cam—”

Arilan cleared his throat and shook his head meaningfully, glancing at Warin’s retainers, at young Conall, at the few guards, and Kelson stopped in mid-word. Nodding slightly, the king moved to Conall’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder, for he understood that Arilan did not wish to discuss the matter before comparative outsiders.