"Receive thou the Gospel and preach the word of G.o.d," Cardiel said, putting the great book briefly in Duncan's hands, "always teaching with the greatest of patience."

The book was taken away, to be replaced by a silver salver bearing the ring.

As Bradene traced a cross above it, Morgan thought he saw it glint from more than candlelight. It flashed with a fire of its own as the archbishop held it briefly before Duncan's extended right hand.

"Take thou this ring as a seal of faith; and keeping faith, guard and protect the Holy Church which is the bride of G.o.d," Bradene said.

Morgan was not surprised, as Bradene slid it onto Duncan's finger, to sense reiteration of the images he and Duncan had seen before: the placing of the ring on another hand, in days gone by - and vague impressions of a ghostly Other, clad in priestly vestments of a deep, royal blue, offering up the ring - no, a cup - in ritual sacrifice of the Ma.s.s.

But there was more - a misty aureole of silver shimmering around Duncan's head for just an instant, its boundaries contained between half-sensed hands which Morgan had known half a dozen times before, and Duncan as well.

It vanished as Bradene and Cardiel placed the mitre on Duncan's head, leaving Morgan to blink and glance at Kelson in question, wondering whether the glimpsed vision had been only his imagination.

If imagination, however, it had not been his alone, or even his and Kelson's. From the king's other side pulsed a more discordant note of shock and stark panic: Dhugal, his face drained of color, shoulders rigid with blind fear.

Kelson caught the echo of Dhugal's distress in the same instant and immediately slipped to Dhugal's other side, supporting him between himself and Morgan.

Behind them, Nigel half-rose in concern, but Kelson shook his head.

"It's all right. Uncle," he whispered lamely. "He's a little ill, is all. He'll be all right."

As Nigel subsided, shushing Conall and the curious Pavne and Rory and no doubt suspecting there was more to it than that, Morgan slid his arm around Dhugal's shoulder and tried to shield him from curious eyes.

"Are you in pain, Dhugal?" he whispered.

Shuddering, Dhugal broke his rigid stare at the pageant still proceeding before the altar and ducked his head.

"What's happening to me?" he managed to gasp. "My head feels like it's about to burst."

"Take a deep breath and try to let go what's frightening you," Kelson urged softly. "Try to flow with it."

"Oh, G.o.d, I can't! Didn't you see it?"

Alaric, he picked up the same thing we did! Kelson whispered in Morgan's mind. We've got to get him out of here - and I can't leave until it's over.

His thought was mixed with consternation, caution, and even a little joy, but Nigel was jostling Morgan from behind, gesturing toward the altar. With the consecration itself completed, the bishops had rearranged themselves to continue with the Ma.s.s - and Morgan had a part in what came next.

It's time for the offertory, Morgan sent back, glancing sidelong at Kelson and the still trembling Dhugal and rising as the choir monks began the hymn which was his cue. If I don't go forward, it will look even worse than this. Keep him quiet until I can get back.

With eyes averted and hands folded as was seemly, Morgan moved down into the aisle and paused before a small, white-draped table, gracefully returning the solemn bow that a waiting deacon gave as he handed over a crystal cruet of wine and a lidded chalice of gold. The crystal was cold and sleek in his hand, the ciborium seeming oddly light for all its contents of pale, unconsecrated hosts. He could feel Duncan watching him as he slowly pa.s.sed to the foot of the altar steps and knelt before him and the two archbishops, aware that something was amiss.

The sense of what he planned pa.s.sed between himself and Duncan like a spark as he offered up the gifts and their hands touched.

Dhugal Saw something. I'm taking him to your old study. Come there with Kelson as soon as you can break away, Morgan sent.

He felt Duncan's startled agreement like a caress as he rose and bowed and turned to go back to his place. The stark, disruptive pulse of Dhugal's distress welled up almost like a wall as he knelt once more and slipped a supporting arm under Dhugal's elbow.

"Say that Dhugal became ill," he whispered across to Kelson, "and meet us afterward in Duncan's old study. I'll do what I can until then. I've already told Duncan."

He did not look back as he led Dhugal stumbling from the choir. The words of Archbishop Bradene's prayer chased them in hollow echo, embracing with depths of meaning which neither could appreciate at the time.

"Lord, accept these gifts which we offer for Thy chosen servant, Duncan, Thy chosen priest. Enrich him with the gifts and virtues of a true apostle, for the good of Thy people. Amen."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

In the valley of vision...

-Isaiah 22:5 With Dhugal clinging dazedly to his arm, so pale that his freckles seemed painted on in blood. Morgan managed to navigate the curved aisle around the back of the cathedral apse without arousing any more attention that was his usual wont. Several monks not involved in the ceremonies eyed them curiously, but Morgan's grim expression precluded any offers of a.s.sistance. Morgan was known and at least grudgingly respected even by most clergy after three years' active and visible service with the new young king, but he still inspired a certain amount of fear in some.

But Dhugal's fear worried Morgan far more than that of any anonymous monks lurking in the shadowy aisle - and it was likely to get worse before it got much better. He could feel the stark terror throbbing just beneath the surface like floodwaters only barely held in check by a failing dam, and realized Dhugal's awareness of the precarious balance was only adding to the pressure. The only way Dhugal was managing to hold his panic in check at all was by watching his feet, concentrating all his attention on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

"We've got to get you away from here," Morgan muttered, guiding Dhugal toward the door to the sacristy. "Can I trust you to do exactly as I say?"

Dhugal stumbled and nearly fell as he gave Morgan an odd, pinched look.

"You're - a.s.suming I have a choice," he managed to whisper, as Morgan braced him and reached for the door latch. "What's happening to me?"

"That's exactly what I'd like to know."

Morgan had hoped that the sacristy might be unoccupied during the ceremony, but the presence of Saint George's elderly sacristan was not unexpected. The old man had been nodding in the meager sunshine of an oriel window at the other end of the room when they entered and woke with a start as the door closed behind them.

"Who's that?"

"Ah, Brother Jerome, is that you?" Morgan said, shifting his grip on the tottering Dhugal. "The boy's been taken ill. He needs to sit down."

Frail and failing of eyesight, the old monk shuffled closer to squint quizzically at Morgan and his obviously ailing companion.

"Why, 'tis the Duke o'Corwyn - an' who's this?" the old man said, his tone conveying just a trace of wariness along with surprised respect. "Here, laddie, sit ye doon. Ye look a trifle peaked. What's wrong with the boy, Yer Grace?"

"Nothing serious, I hope," Morgan replied, letting Jerome help him seat Dhugal on a low settle next to a vestment press. "I think it was just the closeness of the air in the choir. Maybe the incense was too much for him." He ventured a sidelong glance at Jerome as he felt for the pulse in Dhugal's wrist. "I'm sure he'll be all right in a few minutes. Do you think the archbishop would mind if you raided his sacramental wine for a wee dram?"

"Ach, o'course not, Yer Grace. Twill be just th' thing. Wait ye here."

As the old man shuffled across the room, fumbling with a ring of keys hanging at his waist, Morgan leaned closer to Dhugal's ear. The boy's breathing was shallow, his head leaned against the side of the press, eyes closed.

"Dhugal, sit still and don't be surprised at anything you see," he whispered, touching a forefinger to his lips for silence as the boy opened his eyes. "I think Brother Jerome is going to take a little nap."

Morgan could sense Dhugal's startled question through the fog of his distress, but he put it out of mind as he crossed to where Jerome was trying to match a key to the lock on the wine cabinet.

"I know I hae th' key here somewhere," Jerome was muttering.

"Why don't you try that one?" Morgan said, deftly slipping one arm around the stooped shoulders as if to point one out, before he pressed his other hand over the old man's forehead and eyes.

"Never mind, old friend. Just go to sleep and forget all this," he whispered.

"That's right..."

The old man was no challenge at all. As he started to buckle at the knees, already deep asleep, Morgan shifted control and steadied him enough to walk him carefully back to the seat in the oriel window. Soft snoring followed Morgan as he returned to the dazed and awestruck Dhugal.

"Don't touch me," Dhugal whispered, going rigid as Morgan took his hand and pulled him to his feet. "Please. What did you do to that old man? Where are we going?"

"I didn't hurt Brother Jerome, and I'm not going to hurt you," Morgan said, only tightening his grip on Dhugal's wrist. "Come stand here with me. If you don't cooperate, it will only be more difficult for both of us."

"No. Please!"

Shaking his head sympathetically, for there was no time to explain, Morgan half-dragged the reluctant Dhugal to the center of the room where the floor tiles marked out a squared cross just large enough for two people to stand side by side. As he spun Dhugal away from him, clamping his hands on the boy's shoulders, Dhugal tried again to pull away.

"If you can let yourself relax, this will be a great deal easier," Morgan murmured, slipping one arm'around the boy's neck from behind for a choke hold if he did not stop struggling. "One way or another, I'm going to take you through something called a Transfer Portal. It's a Deryni way of getting somewhere in a hurry."

"It's - magic?" Dhugal gasped, panic flaring around him with an almost physical resistance.

Morgan sensed him drawing breath to cry out. The last thing they needed was to attract more attention. Biting back his annoyance, for it was hardly Dhugal's fault he was frightened, he tightened his arm across the boy's throat and clapped his other hand over the gasping mouth reaching out with his mind for the controls that would bring unconsciousness. Dhugal only struggled harder, his fear and his now wildly pulsing shields making psychic control all but impossible unless Morgan wanted to risk really hurting him. He nearly had to wrestle Dhugal to the floor before he could feel the choke hold starting to take its toll.

"I'm sorry son," he murmured, as he felt the dark start to swoop down on the boy's mind and Dhugal ceased his squirming. "But I told you, one way or the other, you're going. I don't have time for niceties. That's right," he finished, as Dhugal slumped in his arms.

He could feel the Portal tingling beneath his feet as he straightened once again, shifting both arms to a firm hold around Dhugal's chest. Drawing a deep breath and closing his eyes, he visualized his destination and opened his mind to the energies binding the two locations, reaching out to shift their balance.

Abruptly he was standing elsewhere in close darkness, Dhugal a dead weight in his arms.

Cautiously he felt along one comer of the comparment for the stud that would let them out, conjuring handfire with an impatient gesture when he could not readily locate the stud by touch alone. By the greenish light, he found the stud at last - he had been searching the wrong comer initially. When he pushed it, the adjacent wall pivoted away from him with a soft hush of still air stirred, also pushing back a heavy tapestry that ordinarily concealed the door's outline.

The room beyond was deserted, softly lit by daylight filtering through the amber gla.s.s mullions of the window to their right. A fireplace dominated the"

left-hand wall, with a thick carpet covering the stone floor before it. There Morgan laid the unconscious Dhugal, making a pillow of his cloak to cushion the boy's head. A few soft-spoken words closed the door to the Portal chamber and brought flame to torches set in wall cressets. As an afterthought, as Morgan knelt down beside the boy, he quenched the handfire hovering at his shoulder; no sense having that frighten Dhugal when he came to.

And there was certainly enough to frighten him without that. Even in unconsciousness, the reaction triggered in the cathedral continued to pulse around Dhugal's tight-locked shields. An added complication was the constant ache of his injuries, only aggravated by Morgan's less than gentle handling - but for that, at least, Morgan might have a solution.

"Let's just see if I can heal around those shields," he muttered to himself, quickly unlacing the thongs closing Dhugal's tunic front and the shirt beneath.

A wide bandage bound the bruised chest, but if Morgan took the time to remove it, Dhugal might regain consciousness before he was finished. No matter.

He could work around it. Laying his palms on Dhugal's chest above and below the turns of greyish linen, hands rising and falling with Dhugal's shallow breathing, he slid his fingertips as far under the bandage from either side as he could, already reaching out with his mind to read the damage as he closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. Dhugal's shields were avoidable at this level - perceivable as an annoyance, a distraction, but they did not interfere. Without further hesitation, Morgan shifted into the healing mode which had become more and more second nature in the past three years, letting his senses extend through his hands and into Dhugal's body.

The damage was not great. This healing would require very little drain of him, for life energy was not threatened. Smoothly, Morgan set the healing process in motion, mending torn cartilage and muscle, knitting bone, sending rich, life- bearing blood to melt away the bruising, not only in Dhugal's chest but in all parts of his body. He felt it in himself as a tingling and a resonance which reached to the furthest comers of his being, evoking such a surge of Joy that the pleasure was almost pain. With that came the fleeting but familiar impression of unseen hands superimposed on his own - the Camber touch, as he had come to think of it.

Then the flow was slacking and he was opening his eyes, a little light- headed until he remembered to take a few deep breaths; he sometimes forgot to breathe as much as he should, when in his healing trance. He blinked and settled back into normal consciousness, heaving another deep sigh, then began slowly undoing the bandages which still bound Dhugal's chest. As he gently eased his patient to a half-sitting position against his knee, to unwind from behind, Dhugal's eyelids fluttered and he groaned.

"Just take it easy, my young friend," Morgan murmured, bracing the boy with one arm while he continued to unwind the bandage. "You'll be fine in a few seconds. I'm sorry I had to take you out the way I did, but it was either that or hit you. It seemed to me you'd had enough of hitting lately. And it was obvious I wasn't going to be able to use the approach I used on Brother Jerome."

"On Brother Jerome - " Dhugal repeated groggily. "What did you - what're you doing?"

"Taking off your bandages."

"But - "

"Well, you don't need them anymore," Morgan replied, pulling the last turn free of Dhugal's shirt and sitting back on his heels to begin winding the linen into a roll as he saw that Dhugal was capable of sitting on his own.

Dhugal blinked and glanced down stupidly at his bare chest inside his shirt, touching tentative fingertips to the once-bruised ribs, then shivered as he looked up again, his face pinched and still.

"Did you - heal me?" he whispered.

Morgan finished winding up the bandage and tossed it onto a chair behind him, not taking his eyes from Dhugal's.

"I did. Would you rather I'd left you in pain?"

Confusion played on Dhugal's face for an instant, old fear warring with new curiosity, and then the boy warily lay back on his makeshift pillow, gaze shifting deliberately to the fireplace.

"You used your magic on me, didn't you? And on that monk."

"Brother Jerome?" Morgan shrugged. "I don't know that I'd really call that magic. It's one of the things I can do as a Deryni, but - " He shrugged again and managed a tentative smile.

"As for the healing, I don't think that's magic - but I suppose I'd be hard- pressed to tell you what I do think it is. So far as Duncan and I can figure out, it's a rare talent even among Deryni. Other than ourselves, we haven't found anyone else who can do it - except for a human named Warm de Grey. And he thinks that his gift comes from G.o.d. Maybe it does. Maybe that's the source of our healing as well."

"And that's what makes you say it isn't magic?" Dhugal asked. "Because someone who isn't Deryni can do it, too?"

Morgan c.o.c.ked his head tentatively. "I don't know that I've ever given it much thought. I consider most of what I do as a talent - that's all. Magic is mostly - oh, something that Charissa did to kill King Brion, or what Wencit of Torenth did. You've at least heard rumors about those, I'm sure."

"But those were evil things," Dhugal objected. "Are you saying that if powers are used for good, they're talents, but if they're used for evil, they're magic?"

Morgan could not help chuckling at the simple logic.

"I suppose I have come off sounding as if that's what I meant," he admitted, shifting to a sitting position on the carpet to ease his cramped knees.

"Actually, I suppose I was reacting to your negative view of magic - the negative view most people have, for that matter. Magic simply has to do with harnessing power which is not accessible to most people. The power itself - Let me try to put it to you another way. Power exists. Correct?"

"Of course."

"I think you'll even grant me that many kinds of power exist - that power can come from many sources. Yes?"

Dhugal nodded.

"Good. Let's take fire as just one example of power, then," Morgan went on, rubbing his hands together briskly and holding them toward the cold hearth as he glanced back at Dhugal. "Fire can be used for many beneficial purposes. It can give us light, like those torches on the walls," he gestured vaguely with his chin, "and it can warm a room."

A mental nudge sent flames springing up bright from the kindling already laid, and Dhugal scrambled to a sitting position to stare.

"How did you do that?"

"I think it's sufficient for now to acknowledge that I did it," Morgan replied, "and that providing light or heating a cold room are good things. But fire can also be destructive when out of control or when turned to evil use. It can b.u.m down a house - or heat hot irons to take a man's sight."

His expression hardened as the memory surfaced of a Deryni lord who, half a century before, had allowed himself to be blinded to ransom captive Deryni children: Barrett de Laney, one of the most venerable members of the Camberian Council - the same Camberian Council that scorned Morgan and Duncan for being only half Deryni, even though the two "half-breeds" could heal.

As Morgan's old bitterness welled to the surface, Dhugal suddenly became very still and stared at him, the rigid shields blurring just a little for the first time since Morgan had become aware of them. Clear as sunlight, compa.s.sion surged across the intervening s.p.a.ce: pure, clean, untainted by fear or mistrust.