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not live to see his heir grown to manhood—even an heir with the potential to wield the mystical powers of the Haldane royal line.
    Unless, of course, that heir had a powerful protector: a Deryni protector. The very notion was dangerous—and Donal had never considered Sief himself, who might have other aspirations than merely to serve his king and, besides, was no younger than Donal. But what if a Deryni could be found who was bound to the young prince from a very early age? What if the protector himself was a Haldane, as well as carrying the powerful Deryni bloodline? It meant, of course, that such a child would require a Deryni mother. . . .
    It could be done—and had been done. Donal told himself that it had been no true betrayal of Sief, for he had not taken Sief’s wife out of lust or even covetous desire; it had been an affair of state, in the truest sense of the word.
    But not in Sief’s eyes. Whatever his original intentions in marrying Jessamy, Sief would have regarded royal poaching on his marital prerogatives as, at very least, a breach of the feudal oaths that he and the king had exchanged. Donal regretted that.
    Jessamy, too, had betrayed Sief, though undoubtedly for very different reasons than Donal’s. At least on some level, Donal sensed that she had seen this service to the king as one that she herself could render to the Crown of Gwynedd, beyond the reach of whatever arrangement had bound her to Sief other than her marriage vows. One day, when the shock of what he had just done was behind them, he would ask her what hold Sief had had over her. He suspected that it had something to do with both of them being Deryni, though he wasn’t sure.
    But from childhood, he had surmised what Sief was—though he couldn’t explain just how he had known—and he had sensed Jessamy’s true nature soon after she arrived at court. In neither case did he feel either frightened or apprehensive, though he also took particular care not to let anyone else know, especially not any of the priests who frequented the court. Donal’s father had never been particularly forthcoming about what it was that made the Haldanes so special, that they could wield some of the powers usually only accessible to Deryni. But he had made it clear that this was part of the Divine Right that made the Haldanes kings of Gwynedd, and that justified extraordinary measures to protect said kingship. So far, Donal Haldane had committed both adultery and murder to keep it.
    “Is he—dead?” came Jessamy’s whispered question, putting an end to the tumble of speculation that momentarily had held the king apart from his act.
    Donal let his eyes refocus and glanced quickly around him. He had sunk to one knee beside the big bed, at the foot of which Sief sprawled motionless, apparently not breathing. Jessamy was lifting her head from over the infant clutched tight to her breast, her face white and bloodless as she craned forward to see. Krispin had stopped crying.
    “Donal? Is he . . . ?”
    “I think so,” the king said, a little sharply. He crawled on hands and knees to press his fingertips to the side of Sief’s neck, just beneath the ear, but he could feel no pulse. The eyes were closed, and when Donal peeled back one eyelid, the pupil was fixed and dilated. But he had already known, in a way that had something to do with his Haldane kingship, that Sief’s essence was fled beyond retrieving, the quick mind stilled forever.
    “ Jesu, I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Donal whispered, sinking back onto his heels. “But he’d guessed the truth. He turned on me. He was beyond reasoning.”
    “I know,” Jessamy said softly, burying her face against the blanket wrapped around her child— their child.
    “We shall say that it was his heart,” Donal said dully, dragging himself upright against the side of the bed. “No one else need know otherwise. His heart stopped. That is the ultimate cause of all death, after all.”
    Jessamy slowly