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“So it’s to be war against the Deryni, is it? Father Duncan, we can’t afford a religious dispute on the eve of a major war. What can we do to stop them?”
    Duncan shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll need to discuss it with Alaric. Hugh, can you tell us anything else about this? Who is delivering the letter? And how?”
    “Monsignor Gorony is being sent, from Loris’s staff,” Hugh replied promptly. His eyes were round with wonder at what he had just seen and heard. “He and an armed escort are to take a barge as far as the Free Port of Concaradine, and will sail with a merchantman from there.”
    “I know Gorony.” Duncan grimaced faintly. “Was anything added to the final draft of the letter? Anything that isn’t in here?” He tapped the parchment with a well-manicured forefinger.
    “Nothing,” Hugh replied. “I made the final copy from that draft,” he gestured toward the letter on the table, “and I watched both of them sign and seal it. I don’t know what they told Gorony after I left. And of course I have no idea what they may have said to him earlier.”
    “I see.” Duncan turned the information over in his mind and nodded. “Is there anything else we should know?”
    Hugh looked at his feet and wrung his hands together. There was, indeed, something else. But he had not reckoned on the vehemence of Duncan’s earlier reaction, and he was not sure just how he should phrase the second matter now. It would not be easy, no matter how he said it.
    “There— is something else you should know, Duncan.” He paused, reluctant to look up. “I had not thought to find you here, but—there is another matter that came under my pen tonight. It—concerns you personally.”
    “Me?” Duncan glanced at Kelson and Nigel. “Go on. You may speak freely here.”
    “It—isn’t that.” Hugh swallowed with difficulty. “Duncan, Corrigan is suspending you. He’s calling you to answer before his ecclesiastical court for dereliction of duty, probably tomorrow morning.”
    “What?”
    Duncan stood, hardly aware that he did so, his face ashen against the black of his cassock. Hugh could not raise his eyes.
    “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Apparently the archbishop thinks you were responsible for some of what happened at His Majesty’s coronation last fall—begging your pardon, Sire.” He nodded toward Kelson. “He gave me his draft of the writ not an hour ago, asking to have it as soon as possible. I gave it to one of my clerks to copy and came straight here, intending to find you after I’d told the king about the other matters.”
    He finally dared to look at Duncan, and whispered, “Duncan, are you mixed up in magic?”
    Duncan moved toward the fireplace as one in a trance, his blue eyes wide, all pupil. “Suspended,” he murmured disbelievingly, ignoring Hugh’s question. “And called before his court.”
    He turned toward Kelson. “My prince, I must not be here tomorrow when that writ is served. It isn’t that I’m afraid—you know that. But if Corrigan takes me into custody just now . . .”
    Kelson nodded gravely. “I understand. What do you want me to do?”
    Duncan thought a moment, looked guardedly at Nigel, then back at Kelson. “Send me to Alaric, Sire. He must be warned of the threat of Interdict anyway, and I’ll be safe from Corrigan at his court. It may even be that I can sway Bishop Tolliver to delay implementation of the Interdict.”
    “I’ll give you a dozen of my best men,” Kelson agreed. “What else?”
    Duncan shook his head, trying to formulate a plan of action. “Hugh, you say that Gorony took the sea route. That’s a three-day journey by ship, possibly less in storm weather, if they pile on all canvas. Nigel, how are the roads between here and Alaric’s capital this time of year?”
    “Terrible. But if you change horses along the way, you should be able to make it ahead of Gorony. Also, the weather will improve a little as you go south.”
    Duncan