“We’ll be ready,” Kelson replied.

Arilan nodded, then crossed his arms across his chest and bowed his head—and abruptly was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“And I will bind up that which was broken, and I will strengthen that which was weak.”

EZEKIEL 34:16

DARKNESS. Even before his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, Arilan knew that he was standing near the great doors to the Camberian Council chamber, in the slight alcove that defined the Transfer Portal. The area was deserted, as he had expected that it would be at this hour; nonetheless, he cast about carefully for several seconds before moving on toward the great golden doors. He did not relish the idea of any interruption just now.

The doors swung away as he approached the chamber, but the room beyond was as deserted as the antechamber, the fading afternoon sunlight glowing only dimly through the high violet skylight. Without missing a stride, Arilan raised his arms and made a sweeping gesture as he passed between the golden doors, and the torches and the violet glass glowed to life at his command. Settling into his chair, the sorcerer-bishop rested his hands on the ivory table and leaned his head back against the high headrest to compose himself for just a moment. Then he fixed his gaze on the great silvery crystal suspended above the octagonal table and began to Call the other members of the Council.

Incalculable minutes; the Call continued. Several times Arilan shifted restlessly in his chair, trying to conserve energy yet keep his Call at maximum intensity, impatient with the delay. After a time he ceased his efforts and sat back to wait. It was not long before the golden doors swung back once again and the members of the Council began to arrive.

First Kyri of the Flame, splendid and enchanting in deepest green hunting attire; then Laran ap Pardyce in flowing scholar’s robes. Thorne Hagen, barefooted and swathed in an orange dressing gown, hastily donned; Stefan Coram looking ruffled in dark blue riding leathers. Finally came the blind Barrett de Laney on the arm of Vivienne, with Tiercel de Claron trailing behind them and looking vaguely dissolute, his burgundy tunic open at the throat.

As the last of them entered, Arilan lifted his gaze to scan them, blue-violet eyes aglow as he searched their questioning faces. Not a word was spoken as the seven took their places, though they eyed Arilan speculatively—there could be no doubt who had sent out the Call. The Deryni bishop studied them unrelentingly, making a bridge of his fingers as he drew breath to speak.

“Who volunteered the services of the Council to mediate a Duel Arcane for Wencit of Torenth?”

Shocked silence. Uneasiness. Astonishment. The seven looked among themselves aghast, as though wondering if their colleague had lost his sanity.

“I asked a question and I expect an answer,” Arilan repeated, his hard eyes sweeping the seven. “Who authorized the mediation?”

All eyes turned to Stefan Coram, who slowly rose.