Cardiel shook his head and rubbed a hand across his chin, sighing yet again. A dark amethyst winked on his right hand as it caught the dim candlelight.

“This just does not make sense, Denis,” he said, looking up. “How could Corwyners have turned on Prince Nigel, of all people? Has this taint that has touched Kelson also stained his uncle? Nigel is no Deryni.”

Arilan stopped his finger-drumming long enough to gesture helplessly, then realized what he had been doing and did not resume. He, too, had been chagrined at the news of the rout at Jennan Vale two days earlier, but his keen mind was already examining all the known aspects of the situation, trying to piece together some plan of action. Running a restless hand across his dark hair, he swept off his violet silk skullcap, which he fingered briefly before tossing it onto the bench beside him. Violet glittered on his hand and on his heavy silver pectoral cross as he folded his arms across his chest.

“Perhaps we have been in error, holding our army here at Dhassa,” he said finally. “Perhaps we should have gone to Kelson’s aid months ago, when this thing first happened. Or perhaps our duty lies at Coroth, to soothe the ruffled feathers of the archbishops. Until there is reconciliation with them, there can be no true peace in Corwyn.” He glanced down at his cross before continuing in a lower voice.

“Ah, Thomas, we have trained our people well, we shepherd-bishops of Gwynedd. When the thunder of anathema rumbles, the sheep obey—even if the anathema is ill-advised, and the sheep badly led, and those against whom the anathema is threatened are innocent of the charges levied against them.”

“Then you think that Morgan and McLain are innocent?” Cardiel asked.

Arilan shook his head as he studied the toe of a velvet slipper protruding from beneath his cassock. “No. They are technically guilty. There is no question of that. Saint Torin’s was burned. Men were killed. And Morgan and Duncan are Deryni.”

“And if there were extenuating circumstances, and the two could explain…” Cardiel ventured.

“Perhaps. If, as you suggest, Morgan and Duncan acted out of self-defense, to extricate themselves from a situation that came about through treachery and entrapment, then it may be that they can be forgiven their guilt in the Saint Torin matter. Even murder, if done in defense of one’s life, can be justified.” Arilan sighed. “But they are still Deryni.”

“Aye, that’s true.”

Resignedly, Cardiel half-sat against the marble altar rail in front of Arilan and refolded the parchment, a wistful expression on his face. Light from the Presence lamp hanging a few feet past his head cast a ruddy glow on his steel-gray hair, the purple of his skullcap. After slipping the missive under his purple cincture, he leaned both hands against the rail behind him and scanned the vaulted ceiling above before finally dropping his gaze to Arilan’s once more.

“Do you think they will come to us?” he asked quietly. “Do you think Morgan and Duncan will dare to trust us?”