“Sorry, Thorne,” Rhydon said with a chuckle. “Shall I clean it up for you?”

“Sorry, Thorne, shall I clean it up for you?” Thorne mimicked. The small, greedy eyes clouded in the baby face. “You probably can, too. There isn’t anyone who can’t do this spell except me!”

Schooling his expression to suitable contrition, Rhydon spread his hands above the wet floor and murmured several short phrases, his gray eyes hooded as he spoke. The dampness disappeared, and Rhydon shrugged and raised an apologetic eyebrow as he glanced back at Thorne. The interrupted sorcerer said nothing, but his look was petulant as he turned on his heel and stalked into his wardrobe chamber. After a few seconds, the rustle of fine fabrics issued faintly from the open doorway.

“I am truly sorry to have disturbed you, Thorne,” Rhydon said conversationally, walking around the room and examining the various artifacts there. “Wencit wanted me to ask a favor of you.”

“For Wencit, perhaps. Not for you.”

“Now, don’t pout. I said I was sorry.”

“All right, all right.” Pause. Then, grudgingly curious: “What does Wencit want?”

“He wants you to persuade the Council to declare Morgan and McLain liable to challenge, as full Deryni are. Can you do it?”

“Liable to challenge as—are you serious?” After another brief bout of rustling, Thorne continued, his anger apparently past. “Well, I can try. But I hope Wencit remembers that I haven’t as much influence as I once did. We changed coadjutors last month. Why don’t you introduce the subject yourself? You’re full Deryni. You are still permitted to speak before the Council, even if you aren’t a member of the Inner Circle anymore.”

“You have a short memory, Thorne,” Rhydon said mildly. “When last I stood before the Council, I vowed never to set foot in that room again, or in any room where Stefan Coram was present. I’ve not broken that vow in seven years, and I don’t intend to start tonight. Wencit says that you must be the one to raise the issue.”

Thorne emerged from the wardrobe chamber, adjusting the meticulous folds of a violet robe beneath his mantle of gold brocade. “All right, all right. You needn’t get puffed up about it. It’s a pity, though. If it hadn’t been for Coram, you might have been coadjutor yourself by now. Instead, you and Wencit—well, you know.”

“Yes, we do make a likely pair, don’t we?” Rhydon purred, regarding Thorne through slitted gray eyes. “Wencit is a fox; he makes no secret of it. And I—as I recall, Coram likened me to Lucifer that day: the fallen angel cast into the outer darkness, away from the Inner Circle.” He smiled darkly and inspected his fingernails as he leaned against the mantelpiece. “Actually, I’ve always been rather fond of Lucifer. He was, after all, the brightest of all the angels before his fall.”

The fire flared behind Rhydon, illuminating him for an instant in an aureole of crimson, and Thorne gulped audibly. Only with an effort did he resist the urge to cross himself in a warding-off gesture.