“You are mad!” Wencit said, glancing around him wildly. “This a trick, some monstrous plot.” He pointed at Kelson and his stunned companions. “They put you up to it! You probably also arranged to have the real Council here. You never intended it to be a fair combat. Even the Council is biased!”

He turned to glare at the councilors peering into the circle, and could see their mouths working as they jabbered agitatedly to one another; but he could not hear them. Abruptly he realized that they were as stunned as he over what was happening—and in all candor, he could not deny that Kelson seemed just as mystified as anyone else. He turned to find Lionel and Bran looking very pale, whirled back in fury to face the man who was not Rhydon.

“Part of what you say is true,” Not-Rhydon admitted. “I never did intend it to be fair—not for you. However, what I have done is not without its price. Though the way of my going will be a trifle different, we shall all meet the same end. Look behind you.”

Wencit turned to see Bran Coris reel and stagger, reaching out a hand to steady himself against Lionel’s shoulder. Alarmed and horrified, he watched Bran sink to the ground, a dizzy, muddled look upon his handsome face. Lionel had knelt to assist him, but then he, too, reeled and found himself abruptly sitting on the ground, unable to stand any longer.

Wencit plucked nervously at the collar of his tunic, his eyes going wide as he whirled back to face the man now proven to be a stranger, and his betrayer.

“What have you done to them?” he whispered. “You have poisoned them, haven’t you?” He swallowed with difficulty. “And me—why am I not affected? Why have you done this?”

“It was poison of a sort,” Rhydon conceded. “And do not delude yourself that you will be spared. It but takes a while longer to affect full Deryni…and you drank last.

“As for myself, I have even less time than you. The antidote I took delays the first reactions but speeds the final outcome. However, it will give me the time to reveal myself to you—and for you to know fear, perhaps for the first time in your life. Look at your hands, Wencit; they are shaking. That is one of the first signs of the drug taking effect.”

“No!” Wencit whispered, clutching his hands together to still them and turning away.

Not-Rhydon watched Wencit impassively for several seconds, then turned toward Kelson for the first time since the tableau had begun, drew himself erect, then bowed slightly in his direction. “I am sorry to cheat you of the lawful victory you might have won, Kelson of Gwynedd, but I dared not risk the possibility that you might lose. Six years as Wencit’s minion was high enough a price to pay. I could not afford to lose it all now.”

As he spoke, Wencit suddenly reeled on his feet and, against his will, found himself sinking to his knees, barely able to hold up his head, much less speak. As Wencit struggled on hands and knees to rise again, Kelson watched aghast and then turned wide gray eyes on the man who claimed to not be Rhydon.