With an inclination of his head, Kenneth reversed the Haldane sword under the quillons and returned it into the king’s keeping, then took Sir Yves’s joined hands between his own. The young man met his gaze steadily, his chin lifting as he spoke the ritual words.

«I, Yves de Tremelan, do become your liege man of life and limb and earthly worship. Faith and truth will I bear unto you, to live and to die, against all manner of folk, so help me God».

«And I, for my part, will be a faithful liege to you, Sir Yves de Tremelan», Kenneth answered, «giving justice and protection so long as you keep faith with me. So help me God».

Murmurs of approval surrounded the pair as Kenneth raised up the new knight, accompanied by young Alaric’s joyful jumping up and down, quickly curbed by a look from his father. The boy stood with his mother as the knighting process was repeated with Xander in its focus, Alaric again helping with the spurs. He followed happily with his mother when all the Lendour contingent, save Kenneth, retired to the rear of the hall for the next candidates to approach.

«Did I do it right, Mummy?» the boy whispered, when they had gained the relative privacy of the rear door.

«You did it very well, indeed, darling», Alyce replied, with an affectionate ruffling of the silver-blond hair. «I was very, very proud of you».

«There be spirits that are created for vengeance».[6]

Sir Kenneth Morgan’s ennobling as Earl of Lendour became the topic of many a conversation in the hours following that year’s Twelfth Night Court. Not all of the discussion was favorable.

«My lord, are you ill?» Father Rodder asked in a low voice.

Jarred from his introspection, Bishop Oliver de Nore shook his head. Though normally a witty and articulate table companion, he had been brooding over his trencher through the first several courses, and had already earned puzzled glances from his superiors, the Archbishops Desmond and William, seated a few places up the table on the other side.

«Nay, I am well enough», de Nore allowed. «I was reflecting how well the Deryni witch continues to prosper. Her husband is now Earl of Lendour, and her half-breed son flourishes. It is clear that the king dotes on this cursèd family».

«Sir Kenneth has long been the king’s good friend», Father Rodder observed, «and has many times saved the king’s life. Surely it is fitting that he should be rewarded for his loyalty and service».

«The service of getting a Deryni brat on that Deryni witch?» de Nore said bitterly. «She denounced my brother, Rodder! Her accusations betrayed him to his death!»

Father Rodder contained a sigh, for he was tiring of this reiteration of old grievances. But since de Nore was his superior, he tempered his reply to diplomatic neutrality.

«I cannot dispute the facts», he agreed quietly. «She did, indeed, have a part in discovering the involvement of Father Septimus in the…unfortunate incident. But she is a great heiress, even if she is Deryni, with vastly important lands. Surely it is prudent to give those lands into the keeping of a loyal human lord».

«Aye, if it does not corrupt him, to consort with such a sorceress», de Nore conceded, albeit grudgingly. But his eyes narrowed every time his gaze glided in the direction of the pair, noting the eager adulation of the small entourage come from Lendour and Corwyn for the Twelfth Night Court.

Elsewhere, somewhat later that night, others more kindly disposed toward Deryni were also assessing the day’s events. Lord Seisyll Arilan, senior of King Donal’s ministers of state and also senior in an organization embodying everything Bishop Oliver de Nore had come to hate, was contemplating the day’s developments as he made his way to the apartment he maintained within the castle precincts — one of the more useful perquisites of his office as a crown counselor. He had left the door locked, but he knew the measure had been little deterrent to the man he sensed waiting behind it.

«I thought I might find you here», Seisyll said in a low voice, when he had closed the door behind him, for he knew the identity of his visitor without having to look.

With a faint smile and the lift of a hand in acknowledgment, Michon de Courcy moved into the light from the fire blazing on the hearth. His collar-length hair was gone grey, the neatly trimmed beard and mustache the same, softening a narrow, aristocratic nose. The cut of his teal-blue robes had been in fashion a decade before. Though quite unalarming in appearance, he was reckoned as one of the most accomplished Deryni of his generation, though he was careful never to reveal this to any of his human associates.

«Sometimes it occurs to me to wonder whether you actually detect me or if we have simply known one another too long», he said easily.

Seisyll allowed himself a low chuckle. «Perhaps a bit of both», he conceded. «I assume you have formed an opinion about the events at today’s court».

«If you are referring to Sir Kenneth Morgan’s good fortune, I have some thoughts on the matter», he allowed, smiling faintly. «I daresay the Council will also have a few things to say».

«Then, we’d better tell them, so they can say it», Seisyll said archly. «Shall we?» He gestured toward the door to the corridor. «I think most everyone has retired or left by now. I asked Jamyl to make the necessary preparations».

«Damned convenient, having him in the castle now», Michon commented, as he opened the outer door a crack to glance both ways along the corridor, then opened it far enough to slip outside. Seisyll joined him, also scanning with his Deryni senses, then carefully closed the door behind them and locked it. As they headed back the way Seisyll had come, Michon took his arm: two elderly courtiers, apparently the worse for drink, should they encounter anyone.

But they did not. Traversing a succession of shadowed corridors and torch-lit stairways, they finally entered the passageway that led to King Donal’s library, though Seisyll led them past that door and on to the next.

A moment they paused there, Michon scanning beyond them while Seisyll probed beyond the door. Then, with a softly indrawn breath, Seisyll set his hand on the latch and gently pushed — at which the door swung soundlessly inward. Faintly smiling, he eased the door wide enough to enter and slipped inside.

The room was dark save for the gentle glow of the fire, with the sound of heavy snoring rumbling in the curtained recesses of a canopied bed. As he cast his senses in that direction, a youthful figure in Haldane squire’s livery stepped from the shadows nearer the head of the bed, faint violet briefly flaring around the head of young Jamyl Arilan, who held a forefinger to his lips to caution silence.

Pleased and relieved, Seisyll sent acknowledgment and approval in the direction of his nephew, then leaned back out the door long enough to beckon for Michon, who immediately entered and latched the door behind him. As he did so, Jamyl came to join them.

I’m afraid I denied Lord Harkness the pleasures of his wife’s embrace, the younger man sent, but they’ll sleep until morning, and have dreams to compensate. Amazing, the places a squire can go without raising any eyebrows.

Just so long as they don’t stir until we’ve returned and gotten out of here, Seisyll replied, with a nod toward the bed. Michon, he sent to his companion, at the same time extending a beckoning hand.

Together they moved into the center of the room, where a Kheldish carpet concealed the sight but not their awareness of a magical matrix laid out there more than a century before. With the ease of long-accustomed practice, Seisyll moved behind Michon and set his hands on the other man’s shoulders, extending his senses even as Michon drew back his shields and accepted control.