“Dear God in Heaven,” Duncan whispered, crossing himself, as Morgan put out an arm and both of them backed off a step.

The figure in the doorway did not disappear; on the contrary, it stepped through the opening and took several steps toward them. Morgan retreated yet another step, reluctant to contend with the strange being, whoever he might be, then jerked back with a grunt of dismay as his left shoulder encountered something sleek and unyielding, something that had given off a golden flash when he brushed against it.

His shoulder seemed to tingle for several seconds, and he rubbed it gingerly as he eyed the stranger. Duncan moved closer to his kinsman, both hands lifted in a vaguely warding-off gesture, and did not take his eyes from the newcomer either. As both watched in awe, the stranger raised his left hand to push back the cowl from his head. The eyes, at once piercing and caressing, were of the same blued-gray as the sky beyond. The face was both ancient and ageless, the nimbus flaring about his silver-bright head like captive sunlight.

“Do not go against the wards again, or you may be injured,” the man said. “I prefer that you do not leave just yet.”

The lips moved, but the voice was more inside their heads than actually heard. Morgan glanced uneasily at Duncan to see his cousin staring at the stranger in rapt attention, a look of incredulity on his face. He wondered abruptly if this was the man Duncan had seen on the road to Coroth a few months ago, and knew even as he thought it that it had to be the man. Duncan started to open his mouth to speak, but the man held up a hand for silence and shook his head.

“Please. I have not much time. I have come to warn you, Duncan, and you, Alaric, that your lives are in grave danger.”

Morgan could not control a faint snort of derision. “That is hardly a new threat. As Deryni, we were bound to make enemies.”

“Deryni enemies?”

Duncan only stared at him numbly, but Morgan’s gray eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“What Deryni enemies? You, sir?”

The stranger chuckled with a silver laughter, as though pleased with the reply, and for the first time seemed to relax slightly.

“I am hardly your enemy, Alaric Morgan. If I were, why would I come to warn you?”

“You might have your reasons.”

Duncan nudged his kinsman in the ribs and cocked his head at the stranger. “Then, who are you, sir? Your appearance is that of Saint Camber, but…”

“Come, now. Camber of Culdi died two centuries ago. How could I be he?”

“You answer a question with yet another question,” Morgan persisted. “Are you Camber of Culdi?”

The man shook his head, slightly amused. “No, I am not Camber of Culdi. As I told Duncan on the road to Coroth, I am but one of Camber’s humble servants.”

Morgan raised a skeptical eyebrow. Despite the disclaimer of sainthood, the stranger’s manner did not suggest that he was anyone’s humble servant. On the contrary, he exuded a decided aura of command, an impression that this was a man far more accustomed to giving orders than to receiving them. No, whoever the man was, he was not a servant.