Childe Morgan by Katherine Kurtz Page 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.
    A moment Seisyll spared to stabilize the balance between them, then closed his eyes and focused on the pattern of the Transfer Portal beneath their feet, unique to this location, and shifted the energies. The momentary quaver of vertigo was his only sign that anything had changed—except that, when he opened his eyes, they were standing in a niche outside the secret meeting chamber of the Camberian Council, that powerful and clandestine body instituted by St. Camber himself to monitor the magical activities of Deryni and safeguard against abuses of their power.
    â€œI am impressed with young Jamyl’s progress,” Michon said approvingly, as he deftly reengaged control and shields and glanced over his shoulder at Seisyll, at the same time moving off the Portal. “He seems to have inherited the Arilan talents in full measure. My congratulations.”
    â€œComing from you, I count that as high praise,” Seisyll replied, as the two of them headed toward the pair of great bronze doors. “But you must take credit for at least a part of his training. It’s a pity that my brother shows so little interest in the subtleties of politics.”
    â€œAye, but at least his sons take after their uncle,” Michon noted. “And moving Jamyl to court was a master stroke.”
    â€œI am certain he will prove equal to the challenge. Prince Brion is quite taken with him.”
    â€œWe shall hope that the liking continues once Brion is king,” Michon said dryly.
    Beyond the great bronze doors, four more individuals were seated around a massive octagonal table crafted of ivory. The amethyst dome that crowned the chamber and arched above their heads looked black at this hour, and seemed to swallow up most of the light from the crystal sphere hanging from the dome’s center. Three of the room’s four occupants rose as the newcomers entered: Oisín Adair, who bred fine horseflesh when he was not carrying out the Council’s