They did not have long to wait. After letting a caravan of pack animals and their guards pass unchallenged, their vigil was rewarded by the approach on foot of a fat, balding man in the robes of a minor clerk. The man wiped his sweating face with the sleeve of his habit as he came abreast of where the two lurked; and since there was no one else in sight on the road, and they had not much time, Duncan cast a final look at his cousin and stepped into the road to bow with a flourish.

“Good morrow, sir clerk,” he said courteously, sweeping his leather cap from his head and smiling engagingly, making certain the man saw the Torin badge. “I wonder, could you tell me whose army lies camped in the valley below?”

Duncan’s sudden appearance startled the man; and as he drew back in surprise, his eyes going wide, he backed directly into Morgan, whose hand closed over his opening mouth.

“Just relax, my friend,” Morgan murmured, extending his powers as the man began to struggle. “Step backward and don’t resist. You won’t be harmed.”

The man obeyed tremblingly, his eyes going slightly glassy, and Morgan half-dragged him back in the brush until they were safely shielded from the road. When they had reached suitable cover, Duncan touched his fingertips lightly to the man’s temples and murmured the words that would seal the trance, smiling faintly as the man’s eyes fluttered closed and he sagged against Morgan’s support. When they had eased him to the ground and propped him against a tree, Morgan sat back on his haunches with a grin as Duncan made sure of their control.

“That was too easy,” Duncan murmured, glancing up with a gleam in his eye. “I feel almost guilty.”

“Let’s see if he can tell us anything worthwhile, before you gloat,” Morgan said, touching his fingers lightly to the man’s forehead. “What’s your name, my friend? Come on, you’re all right. You can open your eyes.”

The man’s eyes flicked open and he looked up at Morgan in mild surprise. “I be Master Thierry, good sir, a clerk of the household of Lord Martin of Greystoke.” His eyes were wide and guileless, with no trace of fear showing through the Deryni-induced trance.

“Are those Bishop Cardiel’s troops assembled in the valley?” Duncan asked.

“Aye, sir. They be camped there more than two months now, waiting on word from the king. ’Tis said His young Majesty will come soon to Dhassa, to be absolved of the fearful evil he has taken upon himself.”

“Fearful evil?” Morgan questioned. “What kind of fearful evil?”

“The Deryni powers, sir. An’ they say he has given succor to the wicked Duke Alaric of Corwyn an’ his cousin, the heretic priest, when all know that those were excommunicated when the bishops met in April last.”

“Ah—yes, we know about that,” Duncan said uneasily. “Tell me, though, Thierry, how does one get into the city now? Are pilgrims still obliged to pay homage to Saint Torin?”