Morgan turned to glance sharply at his cousin, then went back to inspect the doorsill, the gritty floor beyond. There might have been footprints besides their own, but if they had ever existed, they had been effectively obliterated when Morgan and Duncan went in pursuit. Nor was there any sign of the man’s passing on the damp, grassy earth.

“Deryni enemies,” Morgan breathed, returning to stand quietly by Duncan’s side. “Do you realize what that implies?”

Duncan nodded. “It implies that there are far more Deryni than we ever dreamed; Deryni who know what they are and who know how to use their powers.”

“And we don’t know who any of them are except Kelson and Wencit of Torenth,” Morgan murmured, running both hands distractedly through his windblown yellow hair. “God’s Blood, Duncan! What have we gotten ourselves into?”

Just what the two had gotten themselves into was to become more and more apparent as the day wore on.

SEVERAL hours later, Morgan and Duncan guided their horses into a dense thicket just off the Dhassa road and drew rein to listen. Bearded and mud-bespattered as they were, mounted on common horses of no certain ancestry, they had aroused no suspicion from the travelers they encountered on the well-traveled highway. They had passed farmers and soldiers and merchants with pack trains, and once even a pair of mounted messengers wearing the badge of the Bishop of Dhassa himself.

But they had not been challenged. And now, as they made their final approach to the valley that led to Dhassa, the road was momentarily deserted. Beyond the ridge ahead lay the valley and Saint Torin’s, and both men sobered as they remembered their last journey to this place.

Saint Torin was the patron saint of Dhassa. Custom decreed that those approaching the city from the south, as Morgan and Duncan now did, must first stop and pay homage to the city’s protector before being permitted to cross the lake to the city’s gates. In days gone by—up until three months ago, to be precise—there had been a shrine near the lake: a centuries-old structure built entirely of wood native to the area. There, after entering the shrine alone and unarmed and making a token offering, the pious traveler paid his respects and received the pewter cap badge that identified him as a proper pilgrim. With this he might obtain passage on the small ferry skiffs that plied the lake to the city beyond. Only the badge would serve as fare, and the boatmen could not be bribed.

As a consequence, travelers wishing to enter the city from the south and avoid a two-day ride to the north gate, where the passage was free, gladly paused to pay their respects to Saint Torin. To most, the time saved was well worth a prayer.

But the price for Morgan and Duncan, three months before, had been far higher; and they had never reached Dhassa at all. There had been a trap awaiting Morgan when he entered the shrine: a treacherous needle tipped with the Deryni mind-muddling drug merasha, so placed that Morgan was virtually certain to snag his hand on it.