«I fear that it may be, Sire», came the reluctant reply. «We must make him as comfortable as may be, and pray mat God may spare his life».

«But — can nothing be done?»

Richard laid his hand on his brother's sleeve, shaking his head. «Only to entreat heaven for a miracle», he said. «Having kept his leg on this same road, however, I fear he may not merit a second miracle, in this life. I have seen these signs before».

They sent a rider ahead to the abbey at once, Richard taking the returning army on to make the next night's camp in the abbey's vicinity. Donal and Sir Kenneth Morgan stayed at the stricken man's side, along with the battle-surgeon, Sir Jovett, and a dozen of Ahern's Lendouri cavalry for protection. The wagon arrived at midafternoon, with two gray-clad sisters riding amid a pile of featherbeds, ready to receive their patient.

Ahern's condition, meanwhile, had continued to deteriorate, his fever now accompanied by chills. The sister who examined him before they loaded him into the wagon looked no more hopeful than the battle-surgeon had been, and tsked to her companion as the stricken man was lifted up and settled, groaning.

«Such a handsome young man», she murmured regretfully, shaking her head.

«Is there no hope?» the king asked her, suddenly convinced of the seriousness of the situation.

«There is always hope, Sire», the sister replied. «But you must prepare yourself, as must he…»

They reached the Abbey of Saint Bridget's just at dusk, where the sisters ensconced Ahern in their infirmary and did what they could to ease his pain. When the king and his officers had taken a hasty supper for which few had appetite, they conferred outside the stricken man's door.

«I regret to inform you, Sire, that he is not likely to survive», the battle-surgeon told them, after conferring with the abbey's sister-chirurgeon. «He has a sister, I believe? She should be told».

«And brought here to be with him», Sir Kenneth blurted, greatly disturbed. «They are Deryni; she may be able to do something».

«And your daughter had hopes of a future with him as well, did she not?» Donal said quietly, for the word had gotten out, in the course of the campaign, that Ahern was much taken with Sir Kenneth Morgan's daughter and, on the night after their victory at Ratharkin, had asked him for her hand — and been granted it.

For answer, Kenneth only closed his eyes, jaw clenching as he gave a jerky nod.

Go, Kenneth», Donal whispered, clasping the other man's shoulder. «Bring back both of them».

«And he died, and was buried in one of the sepulchres of his fathers».[24]

Two days later, on a sunny morning late in June, Sir Kenneth Morgan urged his lathered steed up the final approach to Rhemuth Castle's gatehouse and clattered into the yard. Summoned by a page, the castellan left in charge in the king's absence came out to meet him as he trudged wearily up the great hall steps.

«Is it ill news from Meara?» the man demanded. «Shall I summon the council?»

«Nay, there's naught amiss with Meara», Sir Kenneth assured him. «The king is on his way back, unharmed, and Jared of Kierney acts as governor in Ratharkin. Where shall I find my daughter, and Lady Alyce de Corwyn?»

On learning that the latter was likely to be in the castle gardens with some of the children, he headed there first, following the page who scampered on ahead of him. Unshaven and stinking from two days in the saddle, he slicked at his hair and tried to make himself more presentable as they passed through a side door of the hall and along a cloistered walkway toward the wider spaces of the parkland beyond. In truth, however, with the news he brought, Kenneth guessed that the finely bred Alyce de Corwyn would take little notice of the bearer of that news.

Indeed, she did not notice him at all at first, lounging in the shade of a fruited pear tree and deeply absorbed in a book, the Princess Xenia and a large black-and-white cat sprawled with abandon amid Alyce's skirts — a splash of vibrant lavender against the green of the lawn.

Farther beyond, at the edge of the duck pond, a squawking of waterfowl marked the location of two more maids of honor crouched down beside young Prince Nigel, turned two the previous February, pointing out the line of newly hatched cygnets strung behind a pair of swans gliding toward them on the water. Behind the three, various ducks, several aggressive geese, and a pair of peafowl were squabbling for scraps of bread that the boy had cast along the water's edge.

Kenneth's precipitous approach sent alarm among the assorted poultry flocked around Prince Nigel. As the peacock suddenly fanned its tail feathers and emitted a raucous screech that sounded like a child crying for help, young Nigel burst into tears and both Alyce and Xenia looked up — and saw Sir Kenneth Morgan approaching fast, a red-faced page running to keep up. Sir Kenneth looked positively grim, dust-streaked and still lightly armed for travel, and Alyce scrambled to her feet at once, dislodging princess and cat and sending the latter scurrying for safety into the sheltering branches of the pear tree.

«Sir Kenneth, what is it?» she cried. «Is it Ahern?»

«Alyce, I am so sorry», he said, reeling as she flung herself into his arms, searching his eyes for some sign of hope. «He was uninjured in the campaign, but he's taken ill. «The king bids me bring you to his side. He lies at an abbey near Cùilteine. He bade me bring Zoë as well. Ahern had asked for her hand when the campaign was finished, and I — had given it», he finished, faltering at his own last words.

«He isn't going to die, is he?» Alyce demanded, desperate for details, but not daring to probe for them — not Sir Kenneth, who was the father of her dearest friend.

«Dear child, I don't know», he murmured, embracing her awkwardly, a detached part of him desperately aware of his disheveled state, concerned that she was ruining her lovely gown.

Alyce left Princess Xenia in the care of the two girls with Prince Nigel. On the way to the queen's chambers to find Zoë, Kenneth told her what he could of her brother's illness, not sparing her any details, for he had too much respect for her not to be honest, even were she not Deryni.

«I have occasionally seen men recover from this, but the outlook is not good. It is an inflammation of the gut, which often ruptures — and then the belly fills with corruption, and the victim dies».

«How long?» she asked breathlessly, as they raced back along a cloister corridor.

«God willing, he will recover. But if not… another week or two, perhaps — no more».

«Sweet Jesu, no…»

They had crossed almost the width of the formal part of the gardens as they spoke, and were approaching a set of double doors opening onto the gardens from the queen's summer apartments. Within, in the sunny morning room, the queen lay half-reclining on a damask-draped day-bed, her dark hair caught in a loose plait over one shoulder of her loose-fitting gown and a cool compress held against her forehead. She was bearing again, this new pregnancy discovered shortly before the king's departure for Meara, and she was still much afflicted with morning sickness, as she had been for all but one of her previous pregnancies.

Jessamy sat attentively beside her, hands busy with a drop spindle as she and the queen chatted. Behind them, in a sunnier window, Zoë and Vera and several others were stitching on an embroidery frame, and the ladies Miranda and Tiphane were practicing a new lute duet, albeit somewhat badly, the former making grimaces of distaste whenever the latter plucked a false note, which was often.