“Will you cast the first strike, my doomed princeling?” Wencit mocked, his right hand already moving in a preliminary spell.

“No, hold!” said Rhydon. “We forget our manners, my lords. Even in war, the amenities must be observed.”

As all eyes turned toward Rhydon, the Deryni lord pulled a small silver goblet from his belt, produced a leather flask. His comrades smiled as Rhydon worked the stopper from the neck of the flask, even Wencit folding his arms almost indulgently.

“It is the custom in our country,” Rhydon began, as he filled the goblet from the flask, “to drink a toast to our opponents in any knightly contest.” He raised the goblet in salute, then drained off half the contents.

“Of course,” he continued, handing the goblet to Bran, “we realize that you may fear some treachery.” He watched as Bran took a healthy swig, emptying the cup, then refilled the goblet and passed it to Lionel, “but we trust that we will allay your fears by drinking first ourselves.” Lionel raised the cup and drank deeply, then passed the cup to Wencit, who held it patiently while Rhydon filled it yet another time.

“Rhydon speaks truly,” Wencit said, holding the cup before him in both hands. “Our enemies, we drink to you.”

With a sly smile, he raised the goblet to his lips and drank half its contents, then began crossing slowly toward Kelson, extending the cup.

“Willst dare to drink with me, doomed princeling?”

“No, he will not,” Rhydon said quietly, his voice taking on a brittle, cutting edge.

Wencit stiffened, his face going very still, then turned slowly to Rhydon. Every eye had darted to the scarred Deryni, and Lionel and Bran moved uneasily together, edging closer to Wencit, away from this man who suddenly had become a stranger.

“What is the meaning of this?” Wencit said icily.

Rhydon returned Wencit’s stare unwaveringly, a sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The meaning will become clear in a short while,” he said easily. “For six years I have played my charade, worn another man’s identity for nearly every hour of my life. I only regret that this day could not have come sooner.”

An awful suspicion came across Wencit’s face as his gaze dropped to the cup in his hand, and then he flung it to the ground with a choked cry of fury.

“What have you done?” The ice-eyes blazed across at Rhydon. “Who are you?”

Rhydon smiled, and his voice was low and deadly.

“I am not Rhydon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“It is oft times a bitter lesson, to be a man.”

SAINT CAMBER OF CULDI

“YOU are not Rhydon? What do you mean, you are not Rhydon?” Wencit demanded. “Have you gone mad? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I know exactly what I have done.” Not-Rhydon smiled. “The real Rhydon of Eastmarch died of a heart seizure nearly six years ago. Fortunately, I was in a position to take his place, but you never suspected, did you, Wencit? No one did.”