Author's note: Morgan's section of the story and Duncan's section that will come up shortly are both "super-sized" segments of the overall story. I considered breaking both up into smaller "chapters," but since each one is an extended conversation with shared memory flashbacks, there was really no logical stopping place to divide either section up into smaller pieces. Readers who have trouble reading long passages of text on-screen might find it easier to read these two long passages in hard copy using the browser's Print feature. The other "chapters" shouldn't have this problem, but when I first wrote this story, I was thinking in terms of Parts and Interludes, not short chapters, so each section of the story is just as long or as short as it needed to be to best serve the story's purpose. I will wait an extra day or two after posting each of the two super-long chapters to give anyone who is following along as I post them a chance to finish that section and recuperate before I post the next one. ;-)

Morgan

The Year of Our Lord 1126

Coroth, springtime

"Where were ye when ye firs' met Catriona o' Llyr?"

I sat in a window seat at Alaric Morgan's ducal seat of Coroth, staring out at the sea below, just beyond the castle walls, and remembering my last visit to Morgan's lands. Morgan sat nearby, tallying up his accounts with his counting sticks. He cocked his head as he pondered my question.

"Hm. Do you mean the Lady, or Kyle of Shiele?" His quicksilver grin flashed as he rearranged a few of the tally sticks on the chequered tablecloth before him.

"Both. Either."

"We were at Cassan. Duncan and I had gone there to visit your grandfather Duke Jared and his new wife Duchess Margaret." He leaned back, his steel gray eyes losing their focus as he stared off in the distance, recapturing the memory. "This would have been several years ago, close to the end of King Brion's reign. Brion was visiting also and had brought along one of his younger knights, Sir Michael—this was before he became High Lord of Llyr—and a youth I took to be Michael's squire. A boy he called Kyle. They were to accompany King Brion as far as Cassan, rest there for a few days, and then the two would continue on to their mother's lands off Cassan's western coast.

"The day after we arrived, Duncan and I went for a ride around his ancestral lands. As we started back towards the keep, we saw two figures in the distance sparring with practice swords. One was Sir Michael. The other, judging by height and hair color, we took to be young Kyle, but as we drew closer, we saw that despite both fighters' masculine form of dress, the second figure was clearly female." Morgan looked across the room at me, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. "Would you like to see my very first impression of Catriona of Llyr?"

Curious, I crossed the room, sitting at the exchequer table beside Morgan. He laid his hand on my wrist and, as I lowered my shields to him, he entered light trance and established rapport between us.

Two figures, tawny-haired, both tall but one nearly a handspan taller. The smaller of the two launched an offensive, deftly wielding the practice sword with good speed and accuracy of aim, although the blows were skillfully parried by the taller fighter's shield. The defender's return strokes were less lightning-swift but delivered with greater strength. Both were but lightly clad, bare-legged under simple bleached linen tunics that loosely covered their forms to mid-thigh, their feet shod with high-laced sandals of supple leather. A sword-belt was the only other accessory worn by either, cinching their tunics more tightly about their waists, and both had sweat-soaked hair pulled back into a style much like a border braid.

Alaric and Duncan drew closer to watch the match. As they approached, the smaller fighter saw a vulnerability in the larger one's defenses and struck, blindingly fast, leaping back out of range of the defender's sword almost as quickly after the attacking sword's point struck home. The taller figure grinned and bowed, acknowledging the kill. A merry laugh from the smaller fighter carried over the distance between them and the approaching Duke of Corwyn and his cousin of Cassan.

The smaller figure turned slightly, bringing up a slender arm to wipe a moist brow before tugging the sweat-soaked fabric of her tunic slightly away from her neck to allow the cooling sea breeze freer passage between damp linen and skin.

Duncan reined in his horse, glancing at his cousin. "Jesú, she's a girl!"

Morgan also stopped his mount in its tracks, equally startled, and took a more careful look. "No. A young woman, more like." He shot a teasing grin at his cousin the priest. "Shall we go introduce ourselves?"

The priest's blue eyes met his ducal cousin's gaze with a knowing twinkle. "Absolutely! After dinner, once she's had a chance to freshen up and put on more clothing. Come along, Alaric; it's rude to stare."

The sandy-haired Duke cast a wistful glance back over his shoulder as the two walked their horses past the grassy clearing. "Clearly a woman, Duncan. If you can't tell the difference between a girl and a woman at your age..."

A quiet chuckle. "Oh, I can tell." A quick grin. "I'm just trying very hard to forget, if you don't mind."

"Is that your way of saying 'Get thee behind me, Alaric Morgan?'" Duncan's cousin joked.

"Never! If you're behind me, I won't be able to keep an eye on you and keep you out of trouble. Besides, you're hardly on the same par with Satan, Alaric. You just like to dress that way."

I brought myself out of the rapport to smile at Alaric. "I was seeing tha' through yer eyes, o'course, but Duncan looked a lot younger than I remember ever seein' him, though I s'pose I must have done so a time or two if he came tae Rhemuth durin' my days as a page there. How long ago was all tha'?"

"A little short of a decade, I think." Alaric looked away, counting back the years. "Yes, about three years before Brion's death." He looked back at me. "Catriona would've been around sixteen then, I believe, and Duncan and I both in our mid-twenties."

"Was she already in Brion's service then?"

Morgan shook his head. "The Kyle was, though. Brion knew, of course, that the Kyle persona was merely a skillful illusion created by Catriona of Llyr, but I think it eased his conscience to make a strict distinction between the two."

I nodded. "Kelson told me he's had qualms of his own about sendin' a lady intae battle, even one descended from a long line of warrior-queens." I sighed. "Morgan...could ye show me more? Show me Cat as ye knew her later, after Kelson came intae his throne an' Wencit of Torenth stalked Gwynedd's borders, threatenin' invasion. I need to know what shaped her intae th' woman she is now."

Morgan regarded me with a sober expression. "Those were dark times, Dhugal, with many memories best left buried. Are you certain you want me to call up those old ghosts?"

"Aye. I need tae know. I'm aimin' tae marry her, Alaric, if Cat'll have me, but I cannae coax her intae it if I dinnae know what I'm up against. An' also..." I paused, trying to figure out how to phrase the question that had ever dogged my mind. "I know she an' Duncan are uncanny close, but...how did tha' all start? It's no' usual for a woman an' a priest, much less a bishop, tae be quite that..." I searched for the right word to describe the bond I'd observed between my father and the woman I hoped to wed.

"Intimate?" Alaric supplied quietly.

I looked up, startled.

"Aye, I s'pose. No' that I'm sayin' I think they've ever actually done aught improper...or at least I find it hard tae imagine that they have..." My voice trailed off as I suddenly felt uncomfortable, wondering if I really wanted to know all that Morgan knew about the relationship between the lady I loved and my father, her anamchara.

"If by that you're asking if Duncan has ever broken his priestly vows with her, the answer is no. Or at least I can assure you of that with near-certainty, though I'll concede that my cousin is as human as the next man, and yes, it's a temptation I'm sure he's occasionally struggled with. I've no reason to believe he's ever succumbed to it, though. Obviously I'm not his confessor, but I'm as close to one as he has in the secular world. But I can imagine you probably have a lot of questions needing answers when it comes to that relationship, especially if you're in love with Catriona." He sighed. "Yes. I'll show you what you want to know. But I warn you, some of it is very hard knowledge, and you might not thank me for the sharing of it later."

Morgan stood, crossing the room and returning a few moments later with a bottle and two goblets. He placed both goblets on the table before us, careful not to disturb his counting sticks, and uncorked the bottle, pouring out a generous amount of the crimson fluid it contained for both of us.

"Fianna wine, an especially good vintage. Drink up; you'll be in need of it later when you've seen what I have to show you about our dealings with Wencit." Despite the wry smile that briefly flickered across his features, I could tell this was no jest.

Morgan sat once more, kicking his booted feet out in front of him and settling himself more comfortably into his chair. "All right then. Let's take on the 'how did a celibate priest of Gwynedd and a chaste priest of Shiele ever become so close?' question first. While I can't say I fully know the answer to that one, at least it's a bit easier to start off with than 'what the bloody hell actually happened at Cardosa?' Time enough to tackle that one once the Fianna's had time to take effect. God knows I'll need the extra fortification to dredge up those old memories!"

I raised an eyebrow but remained silent, unwilling to interrupt for fear of stopping Morgan's flow of thought now that he'd agreed to satisfy my need for answers despite his obvious reservations about doing so.

"First off, let's tackle what those vows actually mean. Do you know the difference between vows of celibacy and vows of chastity? I don't want to assume; a lot of people don't."

I waggled my hand in a 'sort-of-Yes, sort-of-No' gesture. "I know priests in Gwynedd cannae marry because of their vows, and yet knights can, even though we're sworn tae chastity." I grinned. "Which has tae be the most frequently broken vow in all Christendom, I s'pose, for if it means wha' I've always thought it does, fewer knights are as good in th' keepin' of it as in th' swearin'. When I was a squire, th' joke was 'Chastity is th' vow every hot-blooded young knight hopes tae break.'"

Alaric Morgan laughed. "Yes, I imagine that old saw's been around since the concept of chivalry was first invented. But you're on the right path." He lifted his goblet, taking a deep swallow, then pursed his lips thoughtfully as he studied the dark red wine it contained. "But to unpack the concepts a bit more…well, let's start with chastity. It's easier." He grinned at my upraised eyebrow. "To explain, that is. The vow of chastity has to do with moral purity; that is to say, the responsible use of our natural, God-given desires. It is a vow to submit those desires to faithfulness to one's current relational state. By that I mean, if one is married, then chastity is expressed by absolute faithfulness to one's spouse, not by sexual abstinence. In fact, a married man or woman is expected not to abstain. If a marriage isn't consummated, it was never valid to begin with, and that provides the neglected spouse grounds for an annulment. Continued refusal of physical relations can also constitute such grounds." Morgan grinned. "Contrary to what a few dried up old sticks in the Church might preach, there is nothing at all wrong with marital sex—marriage is, after all, one of the blessed sacraments!—and it isn't simply intended for procreation. Duncan would tell you such dogma is wholly unsupported in Holy Scripture, and only crept into certain circles of theological thought later by way of Gnostic influences on Holy Church's thinking. And Catriona would say..." He laughed. "I once heard Cat tell Denis Arilan she was convinced that the notion only continues to get passed on because certain misogynistic priests of Gwynedd are envious of their Llyrian brothers' and sisters' freedom to marry or not marry, and pissed off because they aren't given the choice of getting any. But she might just be a bit biased in that assessment." His gray eyes gleamed with bright amusement as he took another sip of his wine. "Of course, for unmarried men and women under vows of chastity, the vow is expressed differently. In that case, sexual abstinence is required, for it would be morally irresponsible to risk conceiving a child in a relationship where the partners have made no formal commitment to stay together afterwards to provide for their children's care. And for that matter, in many cases if not all, there is a level of emotional attachment which forms as a result of the sexual bond, if not on both partners' part, then at least on one end of the relationship. For the more attached partner, that can be a great source of pain. Such attachments are to be avoided if one is unwilling to commit oneself wholeheartedly to that other partner. And if one is willing to make such a commitment, then the proper expression of that willingness is marriage. With me so far?"

I nodded.

"All right. So that's the sort of vow that Catriona is under. And you and I as well, as knights of Gwynedd, although you're right in pointing out that many fall short of that ideal. And even among those who make an honest effort, there are sometimes lapses. Chastity is damned difficult, and all knights understand that, I think, which is why you'll never see a Court of Chivalry called on a knight who finds himself forsworn in that part of his chivalric oath. Not unless he's committed a gross violation of the vow. Prince Ithil of Meara's rape of the Princess Janniver would be one example, except that he had already earned a sentence of execution for his greater crime of treason against the Crown, so a Court of Chivalry on top of that would've been pointless. But normally such lapses are considered a private matter between a man, his wife if he's married, his confessor, and God."

I took a few sips of my own wine, savoring its rich flavor, and nodded for Morgan to continue.

"Now for the vow of celibacy, which is both much simpler and yet far less so. On the surface of things, the vow of celibacy is simply the vow never to marry. Except that the implications of that vow, of course, are much farther reaching than that. The most obvious is, if one is to be truly faithful to the unmarried state, one must also live chastely, for that vow must be kept within the fuller context of all of our Lord's other commandments regarding relations between the sexes. Otherwise, any priest with a less than scrupulous conscience and sense of honor would be free to satisfy his carnal desires in pretty much any way, up to and including hammering any number of winsome wenches into his mattress." He paused to grin at me as I nearly choked on my mouthful of Fianna. "Yes, I had exactly the same reaction to that mental picture the first time Duncan casually tossed that example my way."

"Father said that?!"

Morgan regarded me over his wine glass, a devilish twinkle in his gray eyes. "He was…somewhat less than sober at the time. If you ever want a truly entertaining evening, Dhugal, engage Duncan in a theological discourse when he's in his cups. If you can ever catch him that deeply in his cups, that is. It happens only rarely, so you have to seize the moment." He traced the rim of his goblet with an idle finger, then continued. "The reasoning behind the Church of Gwynedd's mandate of celibacy for its priests, as I understand it, is that it frees our priests and episcopate to fully devote themselves to their divine service. For that matter, the Church of Shiele isn't opposed to vows of celibacy; it merely leaves the matter up to individual conscience rather than making it mandatory for all clergy. But for those who take those vows, the intent isn't to shut oneself away from human relationships. Instead, it's a commitment to place the love for God above all other loves, in much the same way as a married man vows to forsake all other women in deference to his chosen bride. So the question also arises as to what it means to be fully faithful in the context of what is, essentially, a vow of lifelong marriage to the Divine. And that is where a variety of stumbling blocks and pitfalls can lie, and sometimes they come down to matters of individual susceptibilities and conscience. I think it's safe to say that most of your father's personal struggles are in this gray area, in trying to find the proper balance between not denying his own humanity and his own needs, yet striving to remain ever faithful to his priestly calling."

I cocked my head at Morgan, considering this statement. "How so? I'm no' sure I understand."

"Well, for one thing, there is nothing in Duncan's priestly vows which prohibit him from loving another person. In fact, he's commanded to love others; we all are. But more to the point, there's also nothing in his vow that says outright that he is forbidden to fall in love—after all, it's the sort of thing that can happen to a man despite his best efforts to avoid it. God knows I speak from personal experience! Richenda was still married to Bran Coris when I first met her, so there was no question in my mind at all that she was forbidden to me while he still lived. That didn't stop my heart from feeling what it did for her, though, and I had to work through some ethical dilemmas as a result until Bran's death freed her to marry again. In Duncan's case, the dilemmas are only slightly different. How does a celibate priest appropriately express deep affection, and even love, for a woman he can never marry, and is there any way he can honorably do so without being unfaithful to the divine relationship which must always come foremost?"

I nodded. "So, is there?"

Alaric smiled, flipping one palm up in a 'Who knows?' gesture. "Hard to say. Duncan's only had a little bit short of a decade to work through the puzzle. I'm certain he'll figure out a satisfactory answer eventually, hopefully sometime in this life. Touch your nose. Can you still feel the tip?"

"What?" My hand moved up to check in sheer reflex as my mind tried to make sense of the abrupt change of topic. "Yes. Why?"

"Well, finish off your goblet and I'll give you a refill. You wanted some answers, and some things are easier shown than told. I'll start with the easier bits, and only hit you with the hard ones once you're well and truly anesthetized."

I downed several more swallows of the Fianna until I reached the bottom of the glass. Morgan poured again, then set the bottle back on the table and offered again to establish rapport. I lowered my shields again and re-entered the mental link.

The army of Gwynedd was on the march, approaching the Cardosa Plain. The beauty of the day cloaked the ugliness which awaited them, although the sight of buzzards circling high in the sky, descending on some kill as yet unseen, was an ominous omen.

A scout approached, riding up to the newly-crowned King, looking pale. Kelson heard his news, gray eyes hardening, then motioned to Alaric. They rode forward, close enough to peer into a small copse of trees sheltering a shallow ravine.

A detachment of soldiers stood there, waiting. Silently. Too silent.

Another cry, this one from further ahead. The frantic rush of hooves returning to bring more news, more horror. Whispers grew as the horror sank in amongst the ranks of men who followed Kelson's banner.

Morgan and the boy King continued on to face what lay ahead. Another detachment of men—Kierney and Cassani men!—arrayed to face the approaching Army of Gwynedd. Waiting to rejoin their allies.

A grim headless army, impaled on stakes by Wencit of Torenth, placed there to strike terror into the hearts of the men of Gwynedd.

"Jesú!" I reached for my drink as soon as I'd pulled out of the link, downing half of the goblet in one large gulp. "Tha's one o' th' easy bits?"

"Yes. Delightful fellow, Wencit of Torenth. Need a few moments before I show you more?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "No. Let's continue."

They took down the bodies of their desecrated dead, lighting funeral pyres for their fallen, although there was scant time for much more ceremony at the moment. Wencit's army awaited, and Wencit must be made to pay for his crimes. Their nameless, faceless men of Cassan cared for—Duncan's own people!—the Army of Gwynedd pressed on until it was time to set up camp, resting from the day's horrors by dreaming about them anew.

But the next day would bring new horrors.

Wencit's army was encountered, finally, awaiting Kelson's advance with a special welcome.

The dawn had broken, revealing a line of poles set into the ground along the leading edge of the enemy encampment, a macabre fence of sorts. Each pole was topped with a man's head, stark against the sky, assigning identities to the fallen of Cassan...

Again I wrenched myself from the mind link, swallowing hard against a wave of nausea, unbidden tears welling up in my eyes. "Dear merciful God, Alaric...I'm glad I'm nae seein' a' this through my father's eyes!"

Morgan nodded grimly. "Yes. Those were Duke Jared's men, from Duncan's own household. He would've grown up knowing many of them, but even the ones personally unknown to him died in fealty to his father the Duke and his line. I can't imagine how much more horrific that day must have been for him on a personal level than for all the rest of us…and there was worse yet to come." We sat in silence for a long moment before he quietly prompted, "Shall we go on?"

I took another steadying breath and a few more sips of wine. "Aye."

A hostage offered by Wencit to show good faith, and a subsequent parley, though terms could not be agreed upon by both sides. In the end, Gwynedd retained their hostage, and Sean Lord Derry, so close to freedom and yet seemingly doomed never to see it again, remained in the keeping of his captors, riding back unwillingly towards the Torenthi line.

And then the other prisoners were brought forth. The remaining survivors of Cassan, including a gray-haired man who stood proudly defiant, his garb proclaiming his Ducal status.

The prisoners were marched out to gallows and, before the watching eyes of Kelson's army, hanged like common criminals. Anguish swept through the ranks, and with it, chaos...

I opened my eyes, once more disengaging from the link. "My grandsire?"

Morgan confirmed this with a nod. I remembered his own relationship with the man, who was like a foster father to him after his own sire's death.

"Bloody 'ell." I downed what was left in my goblet, and poured myself a bit more of the Fianna. At least half of what I poured managed to find its way into the glass, the rest spreading like newly spilled blood over Alaric's exchequer cloth. "Sorry."

"S'all right," Morgan slurred, none too steady himself now. "I'll skip over the next events; you know the essence already. Kelson, Duncan, Arilan and I decided to take Wencit up on his offer to face him and some of his men, including Bran Coris, in Duel Arcane rather than both sides incurring far greater losses of life in battle. And, of course, during that brief breaking of ranks you caught a glimpse of at the tail end of that memory, I managed to get Derry back."

"Thank God for tha'!"

"Yes, though his mind was still under Wencit's control, so that ended up leading to certain complications later. We nearly lost young Brendan; Derry kidnapped the child and brought him to a Transfer Portal to hand him over to Torenth, for Wencit had promised Bran the return of his son in exchange for his loyalty. You can only imagine how distraught Richenda was. And then Derry tried to kill me. That was fun." Morgan emptied the remaining wine into his glass, then walked unsteadily across the room for another bottle, setting it down before me.

"And in the meantime, Cat remained in the dungeons of Cardosa Keep, in the fortress of Esgair Ddu, for Wencit had apparently already decided that a hostage of the House of Llyr was too dangerous to let go. Acknowledging her capture would have complicated things for him immensely, of course. He'd have found himself fighting a war with two kingdoms, not just one. But Kelson had no solid proof she'd been captured at all, just suspicion." Alaric paused, looking grim. "Dhugal, I could just tell you the rest. It might be easier."

I mulled the offer over, sipping slowly from my cup, then shook my head. "Nay. 'Tis no' th' same, hearin' 'bout it or actually knowin'. I think I'd rather know, hard as it might be tae face."

"Damn it, in some ways you're just like your father. Stubborn as hell, for all that Duncan usually hides it well." Alaric reached across the table for my hand, clasping it in his strong grip as much to lend his support, I sensed, as to aid in establishing the mental link. He took a deep breath, released it, relaxing into his trance once more as the memories began to flow.

A crude cell, the only light within supplied by the small patch of sky visible through a barred window. Stone walls, dark with damp, with iron chains affixed to them. Shackled to the end of one such chain lay a limp figure, her matted honey-hued hair streaked with dried blood, half-curled into a self-protective ball on the rough stone floor. She wore no clothing, and what was visible of her in the dim light was covered with bruises, scrapes, and lacerations.

"Sweet Jesú!" moaned a figure from the open doorway. It was Kelson, shock making him look for that brief moment like the boy he truly was rather than the King his surcoat's arms proclaimed him to be, his gray Haldane eyes huge with horror in his pale, strained face as he turned away from the sight before him to look up at Morgan. "Can you help her, Alaric?"

Alaric crossed the small cell, crouching beside the unconscious young woman to check her life signs. "She's in rough shape. She's been drugged, though the merasha's influence is fading. It's probably a mercy she's not conscious enough to feel its full effects, but we need to move her and get her warmed up." Alaric tried another tentative scan, but there was still too much disruption from the merasha in Cat's system for him to do more than a cursory reading. "There may be internal injuries as well, but I can't tell for certain right now. Either way, I'll probably need to draw on some of your energy to do the healing."

Kelson handed his general something—his own cloak, Morgan noted as he shook open the bundle of fabric he held. He nodded, turning back to Cat and covering her still form with the garment. She moaned softly, a quiet sound of pain.

Using his Deryni powers, Alaric turned the tumblers of the locked shackle around Cat's ankle, releasing her from its hold, then stood with his unresisting burden. She groaned, this sound louder than her first.

"I know. I'm sorry," Alaric had whispered.

One of Kelson's squires led the way up narrow stairs to another room where a fire had been hastily lit and a bed prepared. Morgan laid his patient upon the clean sheets as gently as he could manage, risking another quick mental probe to check on her condition. The merasha disruption had subsided to little more than a severe annoyance. He weighed the risks of attempting a healing too soon, while the lingering merasha in her system could conceivably interfere with his own abilities, or waiting too long and possibly losing his patient due to the added delay in tending to her injuries. He chose the former risk.

"Kelson, I could use your help with this."

Kelson nodded, sitting behind Morgan and slightly to one side so he could be in physical contact with the healer, and lowered his shields, allowing Morgan to draw from his reserves as needed. As Morgan's healing touch deftly explored the woman's motionless form with clinical detachment yet with compassion, uncovering only one small area at a time as he worked, both out of respect for his patient's modesty and his own need to remain undistracted by her feminine form as he focused on healing her injuries, the outer wounds began to heal, open gashes closing, scratches and scars beginning to fade, dark bruising returning to a more normal color, although the lady's color still retained an unhealthy pallor. As the outer injuries healed, allowing more time for the last of the merasha in Cat's bloodstream to dissipate fully, Morgan took the greater risk of sending his mental touch within, assessing what he found.

"Is it bad?" Kelson mind-spoke.

"Yes, but not quite as bad as I'd feared it might be. She's been raped, damn Wencit's soul, and she has a cracked rib and a few other, slighter fractures, but there's no internal bleeding or organ damage, and no other sort of injury that I can detect. Physically, that is. As for her mind, that's my next concern, but the brokenness of her body will probably be a far easier fix, so I'll finish tending to that first."

The King nodded. Morgan turned his attention back to his patient, swiftly and skillfully mending each fracture as he came to it, then doing another quick check to ensure he hadn't missed any. Catriona moaned quite suddenly, nearly startling Morgan out of his healing trance, although he resubmerged immediately, checking her mental state again.

"The merasha's completely gone from her system, but she probably has a raging headache. I'll just—"

She erupted, throwing Morgan's hand violently away from her forehead as she sat up, swinging a balled fist at him with an outraged half shout, half scream of terror, yet still in just enough control to aim directly for the soft vulnerable area of his neck where windpipe and vital arteries lay, rather than aiming for the hardness of cheekbone or jaw. Kelson leaped forward even as Morgan caught the punch before it could connect. The boy King tried to place a sleep spell on her, but she knocked his hand away, her green eyes blazing as she started to call up a surge of powerful energies from deep within...

"Kyle, stand down!" Kelson ordered sharply. Catriona froze, her mind reacting to the sound of her title spoken by a familiar voice. She brought her gaze to bear on the speaker, a glimmer of recognition finally beginning to dawn in their sea-colored depths. The summoned power flickered and then faded away.

"Forgive me, Brother of Gwynedd," she whispered hoarsely, her voice a near croak.

Morgan quietly picked up a corner of Kelson's cloak and redraped it over Catriona, keeping his voice low and soothing as he attempted to reassure her. "Easy, my lady. You're safe now. But you've been through a great ordeal and require healing. May I continue tending to your injuries?"

She turned her gaze to the healer. "General Morgan. Is Wencit of Torenth dead?"

"He is, my lady."

"Damn." She lay back onto the mattress, turning her face away from both men. "Aye, do whatever it is you need to do. I won't fight you." Her shields lowered slowly, although she couldn't completely conceal her shudder as he bent to brush gentle fingers against her temples to re-establish his link with her.

"Forgive me," Alaric murmured. "I'm well aware of how much courage it must require for you to open your mind to me right now. I'm honored by your trust." With that, he set the simple sleep control that Kelson had sought to establish earlier, and once the lady lay peacefully, blessedly oblivious to his presence in her mind, he plunged more deeply within, taking stock of the damage Wencit had left in his wake.

# # #

The beatings had been rough. "Kyle," as Wencit had earlier determined from his reading of Derry's mind that this youth was called, had passed out beneath the blows several times, but each time Wencit had used his power to re-awaken the young scout, making sure he was conscious enough to register the pain before re-starting the avalanche of abuse. Just when he was sure the lad could endure no more, Wencit stopped, smiling. "Enough. I think you'll find it within yourself to be more reasonable now. Shall we both have a rest? Have a little refreshment, and then you can tell me what I need to know."

"Rot in hell, Wencit," The Kyle replied, voice weak with pain and thirst.

"Indubitably," Wencit agreed with a smile, "if there is such a place. But let's put our differences aside for the moment. Here, have some stew and a bit of wine, and then I'll make you a little proposal. There's no reason you should continue fighting me, you know. You could simply join with me instead, tell me what I need to know, and I assure you you'll be amply rewarded for your pains." Wencit glanced down The Kyle's shivering form, noting the darkening bruises beginning to mar his tender flesh. "All of your pains. Come now, don't make this difficult, lad."

"It's a generous offer, but no thank you." Despite the weakness of the prisoner's voice, it still dripped with sarcasm.

"Don't be stupid, boy. Drink!" Wencit ordered the latter with a voice of command as much psychic as verbal. The Kyle's hand started to reach for the goblet, but then stopped. The green eyes looked up at the captor warily.

Wencit frowned. He circled the prisoner like a shark examining prey, then attempted a mental probe, encountering smooth undamaged shields. "Deryni, are you? As I suspected. No matter; there's a cure for that. Guards!"

The two men who stood slightly behind and on either side of Wencit now moved forward to flank the prisoner, awaiting further orders.

"Hold the lad down."

The Kyle struggled to resist, but with a body already weakened and battered, lacked the strength to continue the struggle for long. Eventually the youth lay back, spent, too exhausted to open sleep-deprived eyelids long enough to view Wencit's approach.

The wine poured over and into The Kyle's mouth in a sudden torrent. The Deryni gasped, choking on the bitter liquid, but swallowing enough for the drug within it to start taking hold. Mental shields crumbling, she did her best to hang on to what control she could retain, but the fight was for naught. She fell into unconsciousness, and as she was fading into that queasy darkness, her glamour fell away, leaving her fully exposed to her captors in her true form as Catriona, Lady of Llyr.

# # #

Wencit, of course, knew not who he was dealing with—yet—but he was determined to find out. Catriona spent another night shackled in her dungeon cell, sleeping off the merasha while her captor pondered how best to use his new discover to his best advantage. He dared not risk a mental probe right now, for he was as susceptible to the merasha's effects as she was. But there were other ways he could draw information from her, and other drugs which, though less effective than merasha, could still have a deleterious effect on a Deryni's shields. She might still be able to put up resistance, but nothing he couldn't force his way through eventually.

The next night his guards repeated the process of dosing their captor, this time with a different drug. Wencit arrived shortly thereafter, using a sleep spell to ensure the lady wouldn't come out of the enforced stupor prematurely, and began a close examination of her shields. Sure enough, within a quarter of an hour they had become more permeable, and a short time afterwards he was able to slip past the more weakly shielded portions. Not the more tightly guarded inner shields which guarded her deepest secrets—and whatever she might know of Kelson's—alas, but still, enough of her day-to-day thoughts, and even some of her less deeply protected secrets, to prove useful. Secrets which, given that they had little or nothing to do with her service to her liege, would not have been of the sort she might have thought to place under strictest guard, thinking it unnecessary to do so even in time of war. But secrets nonetheless which might reveal some fear or other hidden vulnerability that would give Wencit the key for how to manage this particularly lovely prize.

At long last, sifting carefully through her recent memories, he found it. And he smiled, knowing he had not only found the chink in her armor, he had found a most fitting form of vengeance for the masquerade she had attempted to slip past him with her guise of being a simple man-at-arms. And once she'd been fully broken, then he could set the controls that would make her the agent of her own self-destruction when he was done toying with her. For now that he knew her true identity, he knew she could never be released. Subjugating Gwynedd would be enough hard work without having to add another kingdom's enmity to the list. It was a pity, but at least he'd enjoy toying with the pretty plaything for a short while, and when he tired of that, what matter if what remained of her turned up in some nearby ravine months later? There'd be no trace left of her captivity and torture at his hands; as far as Kelson or the Lord of Llyr would ever know, she'd simply slipped off a mountain trail, or at worst met her end at the rough hands of bandits.

Ah, yes. There would be no merasha the next night either, for Wencit wanted what he planned to be most memorable for the young lass, with none of the disruptive effects of merasha to distract her from what he planned to do, or to make his end of the plan more difficult for him to execute safely.

# # #

The cell door opened.

Catriona looked up, expecting to see one of the guards again, or perhaps Wencit. Instead, the sight of a familiar brown-haired man wearing a cassock made her heart leap within her.

No, it can't be. It must be the drugs, she thought. Can't think straight...head still fuzzy... Yet the figure turned towards her, blue eyes smiling as he raised a shushing finger to his lips, and finally she allowed herself to believe that her rescue was at hand.

"If I unshackle you, do you think you can walk with my assistance? We need to hurry," Father Duncan said. She watched, hope pushing through her dulled senses, as he knelt beside her to release the lock on her ankle chains before glancing back up at her. "How badly are you injured?"

Catriona stood, catching her breath sharply as her cracked rib protested the movement, then wincing in pain as the sudden intake of breath caused renewed pain to shoot through her. She took a few more careful, shallower breaths, trying to collect her senses. "I'll live. But how..." She stared at the priest, confused. "How are you here?"

"Secret passages. I'll explain later. Come, we'd better get out of here before the change of guard."

Catriona allowed Duncan to put one of her arms around his neck, then encircle her waist with one of his to help support her as she took a few tottering steps. She moaned slightly at the pain, and he whispered, "Sorry; I'll see if I can do something about that once we're someplace more secure. I'd carry you, but I need to leave my sword arm free if I can."

She nodded, accepting the logic, but as they slipped down the dungeon corridor and past the unconscious guard, Cat stopped short and whispered, "Derry!" Duncan simply nodded. "We know. Morgan's taking care of Derry. Derry's his liegeman, you know." Confident that her fellow scout was not being left behind to Wencit's tender mercies, Cat followed Duncan's lead gratefully. He led her up steep stairs and down a quiet hallway, carefully listening at each corner before venturing around it. Her senses were still too drug-muffled for her to tell if he was checking for danger with his Deryni senses as well, but she assumed he was.

He stopped at a door, listening intently for several seconds before using his powers to turn the tumblers in the lock. The door opened to a small, comfortably furnished chamber with a fire burning in the hearth.

"Duncan, what are we—?"

The priest silenced her again, blue eyes solemn, and guided her into the chamber, bolting the wooden door closed behind him. "You can't go far with those injuries, my lady. I'll need to heal at least the worst of them before we go on. Don't worry, though. I've barred the door, and the secret passage is just beyond that paneled wall"—here he nodded at the wall opposite the entrance—"so even if we should be discovered here, we can slip away before Wencit's men can gain entry."

Her head was spinning now, as if she had drunk too much Fianna on an empty stomach, and she realized he was right. She sat, her hands encountering the soft feel of silk beneath her fingers, and belatedly realized she was sitting on a bed.

"Where do you hurt?" Duncan was asking.

She stared up at him, trying to process the question for a moment, then said "Everywhere."

He smiled, blue eyes compassionate. "I can help with that now, if you'll allow me, my lady." He averted his eyes, looking slightly uncomfortable. "But I'll need direct access to the injuries for the healing to work. Perhaps if you covered yourself with the bedsheet...I don't actually need to see the injuries, I just need to be able to touch the flesh over them so I can visualize them in my mind..." He flushed slightly, looking rather endearing, Cat thought, in his obvious discomfort.

Catriona realized what he was asking, thought to herself that disrobing for Father Duncan would be all right under these circumstances. She trusted this man, knew his intent was pure, and besides, he'd seen her changing clothing before. Granted, she'd been wearing Kyle's form at the time. She tried to summon up the illusion of Kyle of Shiele, thinking to ease the awkward situation, but there was still too much of Wencit's drug in her system, hampering her ability to focus, much less summon up the necessary energy to work the spell. She glanced back up. Duncan had his back to her, allowing her time to ready herself for his ministering touch.

She slipped out of her tattered tunic and breeches, sliding between the cool sheets, moaning slightly as they touched her battered and lacerated flesh. "I'm ready," she said once she'd pulled the upper sheet up around her shoulders.

The Deryni healer turned to face her, walked to the side of the bed and sat carefully on the edge looking down at her. A gentle hand took hers in its clasp, his other hand tracing up her arm, spreading warmth up it and, after a moment, pain relief. She looked up at him, startled, and then back at her arm. It felt whole, and the bruising that had been quite noticeable earlier appeared to have faded completely.

She closed her eyes with a quiet laugh of relief. "So wonderful! My ribs next?" She pointed out the source of the sharp pain, and he nodded, slipping a hand beneath the sheet between them to explore her side. Warmth spread along her entire torso, and she could breathe freely again. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"I'm sorry; did I hurt you?"

"Nay...on the contrary, I feel better than I have for..." She tried to think how long she'd been in Wencit's captivity. "Quite some time."

He smiled, his hand moving on, the back of it brushing up against her breast, causing her to catch her breath slightly, although he seemed oblivious, focused on his work. She felt her cheeks flush, looked away from him quickly, hoping she had enough of her shields left intact that he wouldn't pick up on the sudden rush of pleasure that had flooded her at that moment, yet fearing that they were too weak to hide her feelings from him completely. If he'd noticed, though, he acted as if he hadn't, simply continuing his careful exploration, spreading warmth and loss of pain as his hands passed over her form.

It became harder for her to ignore how good his gentle touch felt for reasons far beyond mere pain relief. She closed her eyes, willing her body not to betray her attraction to this man wielding his powers for her benefit. She'd tried to be careful, in their slowly budding friendship, not to reveal that she'd begun to have feelings for him that were more than sisterly. She hoped he'd not read her thoughts now, mortified at what he might discover, yet even if he did, a part of her knew that he'd not blame her for the feelings she was experiencing. He knew something of her struggles, as she knew of his, with balancing natural human desires with the demands of a priestly vocation. He would be understanding, she felt sure, yet it would be awkward just the same.

The hands moved back up to rest upon Catriona's shoulders, kneading slightly. Her eyes opened. The beloved blue eyes smiled down at her. "Better now?"

She held the sheet against her chest and sat up slightly, looking down at her bare arms, bruise-free, and nodded. "Much."

"Good." He moved one hand to brush a lock of hair back from her temple, cupping her cheek lightly afterwards in what felt almost like a caress. "Very good." He allowed the hand to fall away, his fingertips trailing down the soft skin of her neck as it did, his eyes following their motion. She swallowed.

"Duncan...we ought to go now."

"Aye. We ought to." Still, he made no move to stand, nor did he look away from her. Dimly, she sensed something was amiss, but her fog-shrouded mind couldn't figure out what.

"Catriona, my dear sister of Shiele, have you ever wondered...?"

She wondered why he was suddenly so close, wondered what his question was, when she felt his lips upon hers, tender at first but swiftly growing more demanding. Her mind reeled, not simply from the drug, and then she suddenly understood why what had felt so heavenly for a brief moment or two was terribly wrong. Her hand tried to push him back. "Duncan, wait, we can't!"

He pulled back, the smile playing at his lips and eyes faintly mocking, and suddenly she knew.

"No!" It came out as a horrified whisper.

"I'm afraid so, my darling." Wencit, for it was he, grinned, his fox-like features somehow showing through briefly under his illusion. "What is that old adage again? Something like 'What's good for the goose is good for the gander'?"

She shrank back from him, trying to call up her powers, but it was no use; her focus was still too shattered, her mental disruption too strong. But she was physically healed now; she could fight him in more conventional ways.

He simply laughed as her intention became apparent to him, twisting her arm slightly. She nearly cried out at the pain.

"Oh, did you honestly think I'd healed you, my sweet? No, I'm afraid I don't possess the good Father Duncan's talents in that regard. All I did was mask the pain and shroud you with the illusion of wholeness for a short while...but it can return just as quickly, if I will it to. Or once the spell wears off."

For the first time, true fear and despair threatened to overwhelm Cat. Tears sprang to her eyes despite her best efforts to stop them.

"Wencit...please..."

Duncan's face loomed over her, one eyebrow raised. "You could stop this, you know. All you need do is answer my questions."

She was tempted. It would be so easy to give in, so easy to make the torment stop. If she told Wencit what he wished to know, he might leave her be, might put off this obscene mask of her beloved's features and form, might not defile her every thought and cherished memory of Duncan with his vile touch...

And then Kelson's face flashed through her mind—so very young, with so much of a burden to bear on his slender shoulders. If she betrayed him, Wencit would have the upper hand. Kelson had great strength for one so young, such potential, but Wencit was far more experienced.

A tear slipped down one pale cheek. "I will not."

She closed her eyes, but it was of no use. Wencit, pouncing like the greedy fox he was, was suddenly within her mind, setting controls deep within to prevent her from struggling or crying out even as he forced her to watch, with her inner senses if not her physical ones, every degrading moment he inflicted upon her during his diabolical parody of the marriage sacrament she knew she could never share with the man whose image he had stolen from her mind.

Suddenly I found myself out of the link, wondering for a brief moment why I felt more sober than I ought to under the circumstances. The smell of bile brought my attention back to my surroundings. My gaze landed on a pool of vomit, dripping off the edge of Morgan's table almost onto my lap. I jerked backwards in my chair, stumbling to my feet.

Morgan, in not much better condition, looked blearily up at me. "Well, hell... That wasn't quite what I'd intended when I plied you with my best wine." He blinked away the lingering remnants of our shared vision. "Sorry, Dhugal. Will you be all right?"

"In a bit." I looked at my host, feeling numb. "Tell me th' bastard died painfully."

"Quite. Though in retrospect, now that I've just relived that scene, maybe not painfully enough."

I stood, walked across the room to gaze out the window, northwards in the general direction of the Rheljan Mountains and Cardosa. Morgan rose too, came to stand behind me, laying one hand on my shoulder.

"Why does she do it, Morgan?" I whispered hoarsely. "Why take such risks, even after Cardosa? Barely a year later, wasnae she already in Meara, actin' as 'Kyle' again, scoutin' for Kelson in the service of a kingdom tha's no' even her own? I can understand why she's gone off tae study th' Servants of Saint Camber. I dinna have a priestly vocation, but tha's somethin' I can at least wrap my mind around."

There was a long silence, then Morgan squeezed my shoulder. "I don't know that I have the full answer to that. But this might help a little." He sent a questing tendril of thought towards me. I hesitated briefly, unsure if I could handle any more shared knowledge at the moment, but my need to understand won out, and I lowered my shields to Morgan once more.

The Lady of Llyr opened her eyes to find herself in a comfortably appointed pavilion, Alaric Morgan sitting at the foot of her bed. Beyond a fabric partition, she saw three figures—one, a lovely woman in garb befitting a woman of noble station, with striking red-gold hair, her attention focused on a sleeping child who looked to be her own. Beside this woman, another in religious habit sat mending garments.

"Where am I?" Catriona whispered to Morgan.

"In the Gwynedd encampment, in Countess Richenda's pavilion. The Countess is—" He stopped himself before saying "The Earl of Marley's widow," not wishing to call up any bad memories his patient might have of Bran Coris, who had died a traitor to Gwynedd, having turned his loyalties to Wencit in hopes of greater glory. "Archbishop Cardiel's niece," he finished smoothly instead. "We thought their pavilion would be a more suitable lodging for a lady than any other we could offer for the moment, in the midst of a battle encampment, unless you're feeling strong enough to take up your guise as Kyle again. Though I don't recommend you do so until you're better rested and recovered, if at all. The other woman who shares these quarters is Sister Luke."

Catriona simply nodded and turned to face her other visitor. Kelson sat beside the resting priest of Shiele, holding her hand in his. "I'm so sorry, my Lady. I should never have sent you into such peril."

She turned her head slightly on the pillow to look at the young King more directly. "On the contrary, Kelson, you did what you needed to do to secure your Kingdom." She squeezed his hand gently. "Throughout your reign, you will need to make difficult decisions, order your subjects into danger, even into battle. And when you do, some will suffer and even die for you. That is the heavy burden you must bear as a King. If you would ease that burden as much as it can be eased, reign in such a way as to always make those sacrifices worthwhile." She smiled. "You will know if you are doing so, if those who endure danger for your sake do so out of love for you and your Kingdom, and not simply because of fear or begrudged duty to your royal command."

Kelson nodded reluctantly. "But why need The Kyle of Shiele serve the Crown of Gwynedd at all? Even for the lands you hold within my realm, you owe me no such service. Catriona—"

"My brother of Gwynedd, for the first time in centuries, with your support, there is hope for Deryni to live in peace with humankind within our lifetime, not only outside Gwynedd's borders but within them as well. To live unhunted, unhindered, free to pursue whatever vocations we choose, or those which choose us. Free to live openly as Deryni, to be ourselves, to learn of our heritage with joy and not with fear and loathing. How can the House of Llyr not stand beside you in that goal, my brother? Even among our own people, there are those from your lands who live in exile and who long to return to their rightful realm and liegelord someday. You are King of all Gwynedd, Kelson, Deryni included, and not merely King of those of Gwyneddan blood who still hide within your borders, working quietly towards the day when they may be free to live equally in all things with the rest of your subjects. When you establish a lasting peace between humankind and Deryni—and it is my belief that you someday will—I believe you will find that at least some of those subjects you believed lost forever due to the Deryni diaspora from Gwynedd will wish to return.

"What I do for Gwynedd, I do for my people. My Deryni people. And if I do it also for the sake of the Haldane King, it is because this Haldane King has it within his grasp to do what no other has been able to do in two centuries—truly unite his own kingdom, to the benefit of all others. That will be your legacy to your heirs and to your Kingdom. In serving your cause, it will also become my legacy to mine."

Tears stood in Kelson's eyes. "Then I hope I may live up to all you envision, my sister of Llyr."

She brought Kelson's hand to her lips, laying a gentle kiss on his ring of state. "And so do I."

Kelson rose from his chair. "You should rest now." He turned towards the door, glancing at Morgan, but his general whispered, "I need to have a brief moment with The Lady first, if I may."

The King nodded. "As long as Cat is up to it." He stepped past the partition, nodding in acknowledgement to Richenda's and Sister Luke's swift curtseys as he left.

Morgan moved to sit in the chair Kelson had vacated. "I may owe you an apology, my lady, or at the very least, I need to express my sincere regret."

"Why would you need to apologize to me, General Morgan?"

He snorted. "Just Alaric. I'm not speaking as one of Kelson's generals; I'm speaking as your healer." He steepled his fingers, touching them to his lips with a thoughtful frown. "I needed to go into your mind, my lady. We had to be sure Wencit hadn't set the same sort of controls in you that he had on Derry."

Cat nodded. "I certainly hope you sifted me most thoroughly, then. No need to apologize for that."

Morgan flushed. "Well...no, it's not that. I also needed to find out exactly what happened while you were imprisoned in Esgair Ddu."

A silence. Then a resigned, "Aye."

"Shall I block those memories for you? It would be easy enough for me to do—I nearly did so earlier while I was still linked with you—but I didn't want to take that choice away from you as well, and you weren't awake to ask."

An even longer silence while Catriona considered all of the ramifications of that choice. At last she shook her head.

"No. As much as I'd love to forget all, I may have need to remember at least some of what happened. But if you would simply dull the memories, so I can retain the knowledge without having to relive the feelings, and..." Her voice faltered. "Relief from the nightmares would also be a blessing."

"I'll do my best, my lady." He started to reach a hand towards her temple, but paused. "May I?"

She smiled wryly. "I won't break if you touch me, Alaric. I'm not that fragile."

Morgan nodded, then lay his hands gently against both her temples, closing his eyes. She lowered her shields to him, allowing his mind-touch to soothe the painful memories. As he did, she relaxed more fully, her muscles beginning to release tension she hadn't even realized her body had still stored.

"Thank you, Alaric," she said once he was done. She reached a hand up, surprising him by laying it gently on his cheek. "Are you so troubled simply because Wencit was a brutal bastard, or is it because you've seen the means he chose to use in his attempt to break me?"

He averted his gaze from hers, his face flushed. "Both. I had to sift through those memories, but in doing so, I felt as if I were somehow re-violating you in the process."

"Then would it help if I tell you I absolve you? Alaric..." Catriona looked around the pavilion, her eyes lighting on Sister Luke's shrine behind the healer. "Do you see Our Lord on yon crucifix?"

Morgan turned to follow her gaze. "Yes."

"There he hangs, clean and decently garbed in a breech clout, with only a few discreet scars to show what He endured for us. Do you think He really looked like that at Golgotha? I think not, Your Grace. I think we find it comforting to depict him so, to pretty Him up and allow Him his modesty in well-meant deference and respect. But He endured beatings, nakedness and humiliation at the hands of His captors too."

She squeezed Morgan's hand. "That is the King above all Kings to whom my ultimate loyalty lies, Alaric. I can't save the world. That's a far bigger task than I've been given to do, and fortunately He's already taken that one on Himself. But I figure, if He endured all of those things for me, then I can endure them also in His service. And really, Alaric, the shame was never mine; it was Wencit's. So there's naught that he's done to me that I am too ashamed to have you know about, though I do regret you saw those things, for your sake." She swallowed. "Does Father Duncan know yet?"

"Not yet. He's lost The Duke his father and a good many of his liegemen; I thought that was enough grief for him to deal with for one day. I needn't tell him at all, if you'd rather I not."

She considered Morgan's offer. "I'd not have you lie to your cousin, if he should ask. But it's possible if he doesn't learn what happened from you, he'd learn of it some other way, or at least suspect. I'd rather, if it comes to that, that he hears of it from you, but I trust you to know if it would be more helpful or hurtful to him for you to share that knowledge, and not to burden him unduly." She stifled a yawn.

"Shall I consider that my cue to leave, my lady?"

"It's been a long...month, I think." She smiled. "I'm looking forward to a dreamless sleep in a comfortable bed, even if it is just a cot in a battlefield pavilion."

I pondered all that Morgan had shared with me. "Does my father know?" I finally asked him.

He shrugged. "I never told him, and he's never asked me about it outright, but yes, I believe he knows at least in part, though I don't know how. Maybe Catriona eventually shared something of it with him, or maybe Derry let something slip, if he knew. They weren't kept in the same cell, but who knows what Wencit might have told him?"

I looked back over my shoulder. "Sorry about th' tablecloth."

"It'll wash. But next time we share a drink together, you're buying the Fianna." He patted my back. "Come on, lad. It's getting late, and we have an early morn tomorrow. I'll have Randolph show you to your quarters."