“What—what did you give them? And what of yourself?”

Not-Rhydon managed a wry smile. “The drug is similar to merasha in many respects. It, too, renders its victim unable to use any occult powers he might possess. But unlike merasha, it cannot immediately be detected as that; and also unlike merasha, it is a slow poison. I knew that when I drank; but I also knew that it was the price I must be willing to pay for deliverance from that man.”

He pointed to Wencit, who now lay panting on the ground, glaring at all of them with undisguised hatred. Lionel and Bran were already motionless behind him, only their frightened eyes able to follow what was happening.

“But my death will be quick and relatively painless, even if certain,” Not-Rhydon continued. “Theirs, because they have not drunk the antidote, will be slow and excruciating unless you intervene—a day at least. You cannot save them, Kelson of Gwynedd, but you can show them mercy and speed them on their way. Only four men may leave this circle alive. I have but ensured that you and yours shall be the four.”

“But, this is treachery,” Kelson murmured, unbelieving. “I had not thought to win by treachery.”

“Believe me, their crimes more than justify the manner of their dying. There is no doubt of their guilt, despite the fact that they have had no trial. I know that—” He hesitated for just an instant, jaw clenching against apparent pain, then went on.

“Your pardon, the drugs’ effects are beginning to make themselves felt. I have not much time. Will you take the victory I bring you, King of Gwynedd? Will you step into your place as a lawful king for Deryni as well as humans, and lead us back to our rightful place of honor and partnership in the Eleven Kingdoms?”

For the first time, Kelson turned to look at his companions. Duncan looked pale, silent, as did Morgan, but Arilan was staring at Rhydon as though he had seen a ghost. At Kelson’s look, he started, then stepped to the young king’s side. Carefully he stared at the man not Rhydon.

“I think I know you,” he said uncertainly. “Oh, it is not by any fault in appearance or any nuance of voice. Your disguise is perfect. But what you have said—will you not reveal yourself now? What difference does it make?”

Not-Rhydon smiled, swaying slightly on his feet, then held out his arms to either side. His features blurred, a light seeming to glow around him faintly, and then Stefan Coram was standing before them, a strained expression on his face.

“Hello, Denis,” he whispered, meeting the bishop’s shocked gaze. “Please don’t lecture me on the stupidity of what I’ve done. It is far too late for that now, and I happen to think it wasn’t stupid at all. I am only sorry that I shan’t be seeing any of you again.” His glance flicked to the nearest councilor. “Believe me, this was the only way.”