“As for the threats of a Deryni dictatorship, that is a precise description of Wencit’s rule in Torenth: his family has ruled thus for both of the past two centuries you speak of. That, my learned friend, is the only Deryni conspiracy you are likely to see in the near future. And as for some secret council of Deryni…” He shrugged, his manner somewhat subdued. “Well, I have yet to see any evidence of their actions, if they exist.”

Cardiel blinked rapidly several times as Arilan came to a verbal halt, somewhat taken aback by the intensity of his colleague’s reply. Then the blue-violet eyes softened, the cold fire fading, and the bishop averted his eyes. With a sigh almost of relief, Cardiel picked up his cloak from the seat by Arilan and ventured a timid smile as he flung the garment around his shoulders.

“You know, you do worry me sometimes, Denis. I can never quite predict how you’re going to react. And somehow you manage to reassure me while at the same time frightening me half to death.”

“Do I?” Arilan smiled faintly and reached up to squeeze Cardiel’s arm reassuringly. “Forgive me, old friend. I sometimes let myself get too caught up.”

“Yes, you do,” Cardiel said with an answering smile. “Will you join me for some refreshment? Worrying about the Deryni always makes my throat dry. It makes my head hurt as well, but I don’t suppose there’s much to be done about that—though some nice Fianna red might help. My predecessors have always kept fine cellars.”

Arilan chuckled as he rose to walk with Cardiel to the door. “In a little while, perhaps. I thought I might meditate for a while before retiring. My temper is a definite fault.”

“Then I wish you success chastising your temper,” Cardiel said. “And if you do get things straightened out with Him,” he nodded toward the crucifix hanging above the altar, “why don’t you join me? I shan’t sleep for a while—not after this.”

“Perhaps later. Good night, Thomas.”

“Good night.”

As the door closed behind Cardiel, the younger bishop gazed after him for a long moment, then straightened his cassock and walked back up the short nave to retrieve his own cloak, donning it with a whisper of moiré silk and tying the violet ribbons close around his throat before replacing the purple skullcap on his dark hair.

Glancing around the chapel once more, as though committing every detail to memory, he finally nodded respect to the main altar and moved across the transept to the left, halting before a side altar. The marble slab was unadorned except for a white linen cloth and a single white vigil light, but it was not the altar Arilan was interested in anyway. Surveying the marble floor beneath him, he moved onto a vaguely rounded pattern in the mosaic inlay and felt the vague tingle that told him he was properly positioned.

Then, with a last glance at the closed door leading from the chapel, he gathered the folds of his cloak close around him and closed his eyes, shaping his intent deep within his mind and envisioning his destination—and disappeared from the chapel in Dhassa.