“So, Duncan, you have come back to us. When you left our service to become the King’s Confessor, we lost an able assistant. Now it appears that your career has gone in directions neither of us dreamed.”

Duncan bowed his head uncomfortably, well aware of the formal phrasing in Arilan’s “we” and “us.” The bishop’s statement had been relatively neutral, but its deeper meaning could be read in many ways, some of them not at all hopeful. Duncan would need to tread very carefully, indeed, until he ascertained just where the bishop’s sympathies lay. For now, his demeanor was stern. Duncan glanced at Morgan and knew that his cousin was waiting for him to speak.

“I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Excellency,” he murmured. “I hope to offer an explanation that will at least meet with your understanding. In time, I dare to hope for your forgiveness.”

“That remains to be seen. We are in accord on the reasons for your coming, though, are we not?”

Morgan cleared his throat. “Excellency, we were under the impression that the king would be in contact with you, and that he would have advised you of the reasons for our coming.”

“He has,” Arilan agreed. “However, I had hoped to hear confirmation of those reasons from you. It is your intent, is it not, to attempt to clear your names of the charges levied by the Curia this spring and to seek absolution from the excommunication which was laid upon you at that time?”

“That is our intent, Excellency,” Duncan murmured, sinking to his knees and bowing his head once more. Morgan, with a glance at his cousin, followed suit.

“Good. Then we understand one another. I think it would be well if Bishop Cardiel and I heard your individual accounts of what happened at Saint Torin’s, each separately.” Arilan rose. “My Lord Alaric, if you will come with me, we shall leave Bishop Cardiel and Father McLain to the privacy of this room. This way, if you please.”

With a glance at Duncan, Morgan rose from his knees and followed Arilan through a small doorway to the left. Beyond the door was a small anteroom, its walls pierced only by a single leaded glass window rather high up. A rack of candles burned on a writing table against the wall with the window, and a straight-backed chair stood before the table.

Arilan pulled the chair away from the table and turned it around, then sat, motioning for Morgan to close the door. Morgan obeyed, then turned to stand awkwardly before the bishop. There was a low bench not far from Arilan’s chair, against the opposite wall, but Morgan was not invited to sit and did not dare to presume.

Carefully veiling his apprehension, he dropped to one knee at Arilan’s feet and bowed his golden head, resting his bound wrists across his upraised knee. He searched briefly for the right words with which to begin, then raised his eyes to Arilan’s. Gray eyes met blue-violet ones in a steady, even gaze.