“Is my papa a duke?” he demanded.

“No, dear. He’s an earl.”

“Is that as big as a duke?”

“Well, almost. Do you think you can say hello to His Grace?”

“No.”

“Certainly you can. Say, ‘Good evening, Your Grace.’”

“Good ebening, Your Grathe,” the boy lisped.

“Good evening, Brendan. How are you tonight?”

Brendan put two fingers in his mouth and looked down, suddenly shy again. “I’m fine,” he drawled.

Morgan smiled and bent down closer to the boy’s level.

“That was a very pretty song your mother sang to you. Do you think she might sing it again, if you asked her very nicely?”

Brendan grinned impishly, fingers still in his mouth, then shook his head. “Don’t want songs. Songs are for babies. Want stories. Do you know any stories?”

Morgan straightened in surprise. A story? He had never thought himself particularly cunning with children, but Brendan seemed to be responding quite remarkably. A story. God knew, he had heard some stories in his day, but few of them were at all suitable for a four-year-old boy. What in the name of—?

Richenda saw his indecision and started to take Brendan back to his bed. “Perhaps another time, dear. His Grace has had a very busy day, and I’m afraid he’s too tired to tell stories to little boys tonight.”

“No, not necessarily,” Morgan said, following Richenda as she put the boy back in his bed. “Even dukes can make time to amuse clever little boys. What kind of story would you like to hear, Brendan?”

Brendan settled back on his pillows with a delighted grin and pulled the sleeping-furs up tightly around his chin.

“Tell me about my papa. He’s the smartest and bravest man in the world. Tell me a story about him.”

Morgan froze for just an instant and looked across at Richenda, who had also stiffened at the request. The boy did not know, could not know, of the traitorous deeds of his father, and they were certainly not his fault. But neither could Morgan bring himself to praise Bran Coris, even for the sake of his engaging son. He made himself smile one of his easy, casual grins, then sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed the boy’s hair across his forehead.

“No, I don’t think so tonight, Brendan. Suppose I tell you instead about a time when the king was a little boy like you. It seems that the king, who was only a prince then, had a beautiful black pony named Nightwind. Well, one day, Nightwind got out of his paddock and…”

As Morgan spun his tale, Richenda withdrew slightly to watch the two of them, thankful that Brendan had been successfully sidetracked. Brendan was crowing delightedly at whatever Morgan was telling him, but she could only catch a word here and there. The Deryni duke was purposely keeping his voice low, enhancing his moment with the boy by making it an event that only the two of them shared. She watched the tall, blond lord bending over the spellbound child and was herself caught anew in the web of wonder that surrounded the man.