“I am hardly your ally, sir, and I do not fear the Gwynedd Curia,” he answered carefully. “As for magic, the question is academic. Magic is a means of power—other people’s power—nothing more. I have had no personal contact with it.”

“Would you like to?”

The color drained from Bran’s face. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Would you like to deal with magic?” Wencit repeated. “Or would it make you uncomfortable to use it yourself?”

Bran licked at lips suddenly gone dry, but he answered without hesitation. “Since I am human, and not of a family possessing Deryni power, I have never had the opportunity to find out. If I were given the opportunity, though—no, I don’t think it would bother me in the least. And I don’t believe in Hell.”

“Nor do I.” Wencit smiled. “Suppose, then, that I were to tell you that you are, in fact, Deryni—at least in part. And that I could prove it.”

Bran’s golden eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. Totally unprepared for this development, he was not even aware that in that moment he had begun shifting from adversary into vassal.

“The possibility frightens you, doesn’t it?” Wencit continued in the same conversational tone. “Close your mouth, Bran. You’re gaping.”

Bran obeyed instantly, struggling to regain his composure. Swallowing only with difficulty, he managed to murmur, “The reaction you saw was surprise, not fright, my lord. You—you aren’t jesting with me, are you?”

“Suppose we find out?” Wencit said, smiling inwardly as he caught the changed form of address.

“My lord?”

“Whether or not you are part Deryni,” Wencit answered easily. “If you are, it will make it that much easier to give you the power necessary to be an effective ally. And if you are not…”

“If I am not?” Bran repeated in a low tone.

“I think we need not worry about that possibility yet,” Wencit said.

He sat forward slightly and opened his hand. In his palm lay a large amber crystal about the size of a walnut, attached to a fine golden chain. It was roughly polished, not faceted, and seemed to glow from within. Wencit grasped the chain delicately between thumb and forefinger and drew it away from the stone, but he allowed the crystal itself to remain resting in the palm of his hand. As Bran stared at the crystal, he became certain that it was glowing.

“This is a shiral crystal,” Wencit murmured softly. “Such crystals have long been known among those of my kind for their sensitivity to the psychic energies associated with the Deryni bloodline. You can see that, as I hold it in my hand, it seems to glow. Only a small amount of concentration is necessary to produce this response, if one is of the Deryni.” He glanced mildly at Bran. “Take off your glove.”

Bran hesitated for but an instant, then wet his lips nervously and stripped off his right glove. As Wencit extended the crystal at the end of its golden chain, Bran held out his bare hand, flinched as its cool mass came to rest in his palm. As Wencit released the golden chain to let it dangle over Bran’s fingers, the light in the crystal died. Alarmed, Bran looked up at Wencit, the unspoken question in his eyes.