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of his saddle and springing lightly to the ground on the off side. “Dhugal. Alaric. What’s got into young Conall? One would have thought he was pursued by demons.”
    â€œOnly the demons of jealousy.” Kelson snorted, resting both balled fists on his narrow hips. “Dhugal outshot him, fair and square.”
    â€œDid you, then? Well done, son!”
    All three of them echoed his grin at that, for calling Dhugal “son” in that context was one of the few ways that Bishop Duncan McLain could publicly acknowledge that Dhugal MacArdry really was his son—for Duncan’s heartbreakingly brief marriage to Dhugal’s mother, though consummated long before Duncan entered holy orders, had been irregular in the extreme, so irregular that its existence could no longer be proven except by magic, so irregular that neither father nor son had learned of their relationship until a few short months before, though they had known one another as priest and royal page for many years. The secret was still shared only by the four of them and Morgan’s wife, Richenda, though Duncan was quite willing to acknowledge his son if Dhugal wanted it.
    But both had agreed that the timing was not yet right for that. Public disclosure just now would only brand Dhugal a bastard, undermining his right to the leadership of Clan MacArdry and his rank as earl, as well as weakening Duncan’s credibility as a Prince of the Church. It would also cloud the succession to Duncan’s Cassan and Kierney lands—a factor in the coming Mearan conflict, since Prince Ithel held some claim to the titles if Duncan eventually died without issue, as bishops normally were expected to do.
    A less immediate but far more dangerous result, in the final reckoning, was the possibility that Dhugal would eventually be branded a Deryni, once Duncan’s Deryni status became a confirmed fact rather than the present whispered rumor. And of the several Deryni at court, Dhugal was the least well-equipped to deal with that accusation.
    Never having suspected this aspect of his heritage any more than he had his true paternity, Dhugal had never learned to use his magical birthright while he was growing up; indeed, had been hampered at first by rigid shields that were only finally breached by Duncan himself, and still remained resistant to all but the most cautious and delicate probes of any other Deryni. Even Arilan had tried—though before Dhugal’s kinship with Duncan was discovered.
    â€œIt was a good contest,” Morgan said, enjoying the interplay between father and son. “Dhugal, however, was not aware that one might improve one’s performance with the application of certain—ah—‘alternate’ skills, was he, Kelson?”
    â€œWe wouldn’t dare use them with Conall,” Kelson agreed. “He already rides off in a snit when he loses.”
    Duncan laughed and pulled off his leather riding cap, ruffling a gloved hand through short brown hair. In preparation for the coming campaign, with its need for long hours spent under arming cap, mail, and helm, he had grown out his clerical tonsure save for a small, token circle right at the crown, no larger than a silver penny. The rest of his hair was barbered in the same martial-style that Morgan favored, in marked contrast to Dhugal and Kelson’s border braids.
    â€œOh, I think Conall has a paramour somewhere in the city,” he said with a droll smile quite out of keeping with his clerical rank. “Perhaps that’s where he was in such a hurry to go, when he nearly rode me down just now. I’ve noticed that he isn’t too attentive to most of the ladies at court—and he nearly always comes back with a silly smile on his face. Perhaps our king should take his example?”
    Kelson knew Duncan was only jesting, but he still was faintly annoyed as Dhugal elbowed him in the ribs, flashing his bright-white grin, and Morgan