After a time, Morgan reached out his hand to touch the boy’s forehead—Brendan’s eyelids had drooped in sleep some minutes before—and bowed his head for a moment. When he straightened, it was to rise and turn once more to Richenda. He seemed strangely at peace, a relaxed feeling, which was at once alien and yet somehow right. He held out his hand to her and she came to him wordlessly. After a moment he glanced back at the sleeping boy.

“He is Deryni, my lady. You know that, do you not?”

She nodded solemnly. “I know.”

Morgan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uneasy. “He is much like I was at that age: innocent, vulnerable. I know the risks involved, but he should be trained. His secret cannot remain forever, and he must have the means to protect himself.”

She nodded again, once more glancing at her sleeping son. “One day soon, he will discover it for himself, that he is not like other boys. He must be warned what to expect, and yet I dread being the one to destroy his innocence.

“And then, there is the matter of his father. He worships Bran, you know, as little boys should revere their sires. But now…”

Her voice trailed off and she did not finish her sentence, but Morgan guessed what she was thinking. Releasing her hand, he moved to the doorway and glanced into the outer chamber. Sister Luke had returned from whatever errand she had been about and was now bustling about efficiently, setting out goblets and a flask of red wine. Morgan flushed as he saw her, wondering how long she had been there, but the sister said nothing as she lit more candles and then bowed slightly to him. Morgan emerged into the outer chamber and nodded in return as Sister Luke disappeared into the inner chamber. After a short time Richenda joined him, and Morgan covered his uneasiness by pouring two glasses of the wine.

“Did she hear?” he murmured, as Richenda took her goblet and tasted.

Richenda shook her head and sat opposite him before a camp table. “No. But if she had, she would be discreet. Besides, I am sure the guards warned her I was not alone,” she smiled, “and that you had not been here long enough for our honor to be in question.”

Morgan smiled fleetingly, then looked down at the goblet between his hands once more.

“About tomorrow, my lady,” he began in a low voice. “If Gwynedd is to endure, Bran must die. You know that.”

“It was foretold,” she murmured, “but I fear it nonetheless. What is to become of us, Alaric? What will become of all of us?”

IN Kelson’s tent, another wrestled with that same gnawing question. Under his sleeping-furs near the dying fire, Derry stirred restlessly and then opened his eyes. He could no longer ignore the Call. He was awake, and the dread compulsion grew. He sat up unsteadily—the tent was deserted—then threw off the sleeping-furs and got shakily to his feet. He staggered once, as though struck by a heavy blow, but then he shook his head lightly, as if to shake off an unbidden thought, and he straightened. His eyes closed briefly as he caressed the ring on his finger. When he opened his eyes, a determination lit his glance that had not been there before. Without further hesitation, he turned on his heel and strode to the tent entrance, his eyes fever-bright.