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the garment as Nigel unsnapped the clasp and let it fall away from his shoulders.
"I'll also ask you to leave your weapons here. The others are in a small chapel
through that door," the bishop went on, nodding past Dhugal with his chin, "but
only Kelson's sword is permitted inside."
He draped the cloak over a chair that already held several others as Nigel
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began obediently unbuckling his swordbelt, and caught the weight of the weapon
as the belt came free. He coiled the white leather around the scabbard and laid it
on the table with the others as Nigel produced a sheathed dagger from the small
of his back and a stiletto from a narrow sheath in the side of his boot.
"Any more?" Duncan asked, with a faint grin. "You and Alaric are two of a
kind when it comes to sharp, pointed things. Incidentally, I suggest you take off
any outer layers you think you can spare; the rest of us have already done so. It's
going to be a little close in there, with so many people."
Managing a snort of appreciation at the attempt to lighten the mood, Nigel
removed a belt of metal placques set low on his hips, ducked out of the heavy,
linked collar of his princely rank, then began unbuttoning a long, wine-colored
overtunic with running lions intertwined around hem and cuffs. Now he noticed
that Dhugal had already stripped to shirt and trews and boots, though Duncan's
concession to undress appeared to be an open collar and the omission of his
cincture.
"Why do I get the distinct impression that it's going to be more than 'close'
in there?" he said. "I thought you Deryni could do something about such things."
"We can," Duncan returned. "But it would take energy we'll need for other
things tonight. Besides, you're not Deryni."
"I take your point, t don't suppose you considered a different chapel?"
"Not for tonight's work," came the reply. "We'll be working under the
protection of Saint Camber. I trust that doesn't surprise you?"
"Surprise me? Hardly. I can't say it reassures me, but it doesn't surprise
me."
He knew he was talking to cover his persistent nervousness-and that
Duncan knew it. Impatient with himself, he tugged loose three more buttons-
enough to let the tunic fall around his feet-and stepped out of the pool of wine-
dark wool. He would be well rid of it if it was going to be as warm as Duncan
hinted. Beneath it he wore close-fitting britches of burgundy wool, midcalf boots
dyed to match, and a full-sleeved shirt of fine linen. He untied the laces at the
throat as he bent to pick up his discarded tunic, making a calming little ritual of
folding the garment and laying it neatly atop his cloak before looking back at
Duncan again, aware that he could delay no longer.
"I suppose I'm ready, then," he said.
Duncan lowered his eyes, obviously aware of what Nigel was feeling.
"You can have a few more minutes, if you'd like." He glanced to his right,
where Dhugal had taken up a guard post beside the chapel door. "There's a prie-
dieu there in the corner. You're welcome to use it."
Deep in the shadows, Nigel could see two red votive lights burning before a
small ivory crucifix, the vague outline of a kneeler before them, but he shook his
head.
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Duncan," he murmured. "You know I've never
been much on ceremony."
"Come, then," Duncan said with a smile, taking him by the elbow and
leading him toward the door Dhugal guarded. "As you know, you're going to have
to bear with some ceremony tonight, but we've tried to keep things reasonably
informal. It could be worse."
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"It could?"
"Of course." Duncan gave him a reassuring smile. "You're an adult, coming
into this of your own free will, able to give us your conscious cooperation. If you
were a child, things would be totally out of your hands."
Nigel snorted at that, wondering whether it had ever really been in his
hands-then flashed for an instant on the sudden realization that one day it might
be Conall or Rory or Payne approaching the ordeal he himself now must face. The
thought chilled him-it should be Kelson's son walking toward the door he now
approached with Duncan; not himself or his own sons-but all of that was
academic in the immediate reckoning. For now, there was no turning back.
Nigel had to duck a little as he followed Duncan past the curtain Dhugal
held aside. The chamber beyond was dim and close-half the size of the room they
had just left, and almost crowded even before they entered. Arilan and Morgan
stood against the walls to left and right, Richenda, all in white, immediately to his
right against the back wall, but it was Kelson who caught and arrested his
attention immediately.
His nephew-no, the king-the king stood with his back to them in the
precise center of the room, raven head flung back and hands hanging easily at his
sides. He was more than human or Deryni in that moment of Nigel's first
beholding, sacred kingship lying upon his shoulders as puissant and apparent as
any physical mantle he had worn since his coronation day-though he, like
Morgan and Nigel himself, had stripped to the basics of shirt and britches and
boots, putting aside all weapons or other tangible insigniae of his rank.
The object of his attention appeared to be a very ornate crucifix of ebony
suspended above an altar set hard against the eastern wall-or perhaps it was the
wall itself that held his gaze, painted all around the altar and above it like the
midnight sky, spangled with bright-gilt stars that caught the light from six honey-
colored tapers. The stars shimmered through the heat rising from the candles,
and the air tickled at Nigel's nostrils with the faint aroma of beeswax and incense.
"Come stand beside me. Uncle," Kelson said softly, turning slightly to
beckon with his right hand, quicksilver eyes drawing him even if the gesture had
not.
Without hesitation Nigel obeyed, taking the proffered hand and bobbing
briefly to one knee to press it to his forehead in homage before straightening at
his sovereign's side. Duncan passed to Kelson's other side and approached the
altar-but a few steps in the confines of this tiny chamber- and Nigel dared a
glance at Morgan, back pressed against the southern wall and' arms folded across
his chest, almost close enough to touch. As their eyes met, Morgan inclined his
head slightly in a nod meant to be reassuring, then turned his gaze deliberately
toward the altar, where Arilan had joined Duncan in the preparation of a
thurible. Dutifully Nigel turned his attention that way as well.
They would ward the chamber first; he knew that. He even knew a little
about warding. He had seen Morgan ward a circle once, long ago, when Morgan
helped Brion assume his full Haldane powers before the battle with the Marluk.
Nigel had been nineteen, Brion twenty-five, Morgan not yet fourteen.
Many years later, there had been another warding as well: in a tent at
Llyndruth Meadows, the night before the final confrontation between Kelson and
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