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a predawn ride. The coincidence made Kelson’s comment a singularly suitable retribution for Morgan’s earlier jesting.
    â€œPerhaps you ought to go ahead and try a shot,” Kelson suggested, suddenly aware that the bewildered Dhugal was still puzzling over the implications of Deryni advantages. “Show Dhugal how we Deryni do it.”
    â€œYou mean—”
    Dhugal broke off in astonishment as Morgan merely raised an eyebrow and took up a bow, casually fitting an arrow to the string. He could not come to full draw with the shorter shaft the younger men used, but nonetheless his shot slammed squarely into the angle formed by Kelson’s first two, even though he deliberately averted his eyes before locking on the target. Nor did he look up as he nocked and drew again, his second shot completing the square formed by the four shafts.
    â€œBloody hell!” Dhugal whispered, as sighs of awe and more timid applause issued from the ladies’ gallery.
    Morgan laid down his bow and favored his admiring audience with a courtly acknowledgment of his own before herding the two younger men along with him toward the target with vague shooing motions. Dhugal tried hard not to goggle.
    â€œHow did you do that?” he breathed. “No one can shoot like that! You really did use magic, didn’t you?”
    Morgan shrugged noncommittally.
    â€œSimple enough, when one knows how,” he said, keeping his outward demeanor casual and offhand. “Fortunately, our feminine admirers aren’t aware how unusual that kind of shooting is. Nor, I suspect, should we titillate them very often with performances like this. Right now, they are probably only reflecting that Conall and his brothers are rather poor shots by comparison with the three of us. Conall, on the other hand, might have guessed the truth—and been furious.”
    â€œI’ll say,” Dhugal murmured. “He’s insufferable enough when he doesn’t win.”
    Kelson reached the target first, and began carefully pulling the telltale arrows and handing them to Morgan.
    â€œAnd now you know another reason I declined to compete,” he said. “It would have taken unfair advantage. When you’ve learned how to enhance a skill as Alaric and I have done, it’s a great temptation to use what you’ve learned. Your skill, on the other hand, comes from genuine talent with the bow—and can become better yet, once you learn how to use your powers more broadly.”
    â€œYou mean, I could do that?”
    â€œCertainly. With practice, of course.”
    As they started back toward the line, Conall and a squire burst from the distant stableyard on fractious bay coursers and clattered across the cobblestones toward them, the squire, at least, giving flying salute to the king as they shot past. Conall pretended not to have noticed any of them. The two had to draw aside at the great portcullis gate to let a returning patrol enter the yard, but they were gone as soon as they could squeeze their mounts past the last tartan-clad riders.
    â€œAh, look who’s back,” Morgan said, spotting his cousin Duncan among the men bringing up the rear.
    Bishop Duncan McLain, Duke of Cassan and Earl of Kierney, looked hardly even ducal, much less episcopal, as he urged his grey forward alongside the ordered ranks of men. Besides a mist-pale plume in his cap, only a shoulder plaid of green, black, and white set off his drab brown riding leathers. He grinned and raised a gloved hand in greeting as he spotted king and company by the archery butts; however, he jogged his mount smartly in their direction instead of continuing on toward the stables with his men. A smiling Dhugal caught the horse’s bridle as Duncan reined in, gentling the animal with a word and a deft touch of hands to velvety nose.
    â€œGood morning, Sire,” Duncan said to Kelson with a nod, swinging a leg and his sword casually over the high pommel