Arilan ran his fingertips along the edge of the ivory table with a slight smile, feeling the cold sleekness of the gold that banded it and divided the table into eight wedges.

Of course, there was always another possibility. Sooner or later, Thorne would have to leave the Council chamber. And once outside, there were Deryni not associated with the Inner Circle, who did not acknowledge the Council’s dictates, and would have no respect for Thorne’s Council office. There were and had always been renegade Deryni like Lewys ap Norfal, Rhydon of Eastmarch, Rolf MacPherson of the previous century—men who had rejected the Council’s authority, or been expelled from its ranks, or even risen in outright rebellion. Could some rogue Deryni be threatening Thorne Hagen? Was there some plot against the Council?

Arilan glanced at the man again and did his best to put aside his reservations, realizing that he had nothing to go on except his own speculations, at this point. Perhaps Thorne had merely had a spat with his latest mistress, or quarreled with his castle warden. Anything was possible.

At a slight rustle of brocade behind Arilan, he turned to see the final two members of the Council entering through the great golden doors, each bearing the ivory wand of a coadjutor. Barrett de Laney, senior of the two men and presiding lord of the Council this evening, cut an impressive figure, his well-shaped head handsome despite its total lack of hair, emerald eyes aglow in the finely chiseled face. His companion, Stefan Coram, was equally striking, pale hair gone prematurely silver, elegant and blade-like in his confidence as he glided at Barrett’s elbow, though even he paled beside the older man for sheer presence.

Poised and solicitous, Coram conducted Barrett to the chair between Laran and Tiercel, then moved on to his own place at the opposite side of the table. When each of them had placed his wand on the table, Coram spread his hands to either side, one palm up and one down. As the rest at table followed suit, each resting his palm on the palm of his neighbor, Coram cleared his throat and spoke.

“Attend, my lords and ladies. Attend and draw near. Heed the words of the Master. Let all be one in spirit with the Word.”

Barrett bowed his head for a moment, as did all of them, then raised his emerald eyes heavenward to a crystal sphere suspended from the center of the dome by a long, golden chain. The sphere trembled slightly in the still, silent air, and when Barrett spoke it was in the low, liquid syllables of ancient Deryni ritual.

“Now we are met. Now we are one with the Light. Regard the ancient ways. We shall not walk this path again.” He paused and lapsed back into the vernacular. “So be it.”

“So be it.”

The eight took their seats in a rustle of rich raiment, a few making whispered comments to their neighbors. When they had settled, Barrett sat back and rested both hands on the arms of his chair, apparently composing himself to begin the session. Before he could speak, the slight, silver-haired man to his right cleared his throat and sat forward. The arms on the shield at the back of his chair identified him as Laran ap Pardyce, sixteenth Baron Pardyce. His expression was somber.