Childe Morgan by Katherine Kurtz

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.”
    â€œSir 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.”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œAye, 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.
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    E LSEWHERE , 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œSometimes 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.”
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œThen, 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.”
    â€œDamned 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