Free The Bishop’s Heir by Katherine Kurtz Page B

secretary to the Lord Archbishop of Rhemuth, Your Grace. He’s been keeping the accounts of the interviews this week.”
    â€œThat he has,” Morgan murmured, opening his mind to Truth-Read. “Are you aware that he was set upon by a boy with a knife earlier this evening?”
    Judhael’s eyes widened at the news, then shuttered behind a quickly composed mask of concern.
    â€œFather McLain is a priest like myself, Your Grace,” he said in a low, uninflected voice. “I am sorry to hear that someone would attempt his sacrilegious murder, but it grieves me far more to think that you might believe me involved in any way.”
    â€œYou have no knowledge of it, then?” Morgan asked, a little taken aback to realize that Judhael was telling the truth.
    â€œNone, Your Grace.”
    â€œI see.”
    No knowledge whatsoever. Judhael really had not known. Morgan gazed searchingly into the priest’s eyes for several seconds, not doing anything but looking—though Judhael might construe what he liked, and hopefully panic enough to let slip some additional bit of information—but Judhael met his gaze with no more uneasiness than anyone might have exhibited when stared at by a Deryni, the extent of whose powers were uncertain.
    â€œJust one more question, then,” Morgan said, choosing his words carefully. “When was the last time you heard from your aunt?”
    Judhael hardly batted an eye.
    â€œLast Christmastide, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”
    Last Christmastide, long before Meara’s bishopric became vacant, Morgan noted. Nor was there any duplicity in Judhael’s answer. Not only was Judhael innocent of knowledge about the attempt on Duncan, but he did not seem to be involved in any machinations his aunt might have planned for his insertion into a bishop’s see—though Judhael surely had his own ambitions.
    Morgan dared not push the issue any further, however. Judhael was beginning to look more anxious, and the only way to go from here was to actually force a deep reading on the priest—and Arilan would very likely skin him if he got wind of it, after his earlier lecture to Cardiel.
    â€œVery well, Father. I’ll leave you, then. Thank you for your time. If you’ve a mind to ease a soul, you might whisper a prayer for the boy with the knife. I’m afraid he died unshriven.”
    He signed himself slowly and deliberately, not taking his eyes from Judhael’s, then rose and glided back up the aisle. Judhael was still kneeling, face buried in his hands, when Morgan glanced back just before going out.
    He walked for a while after that, reviewing what he had done and finally inquiring among the guards as to what had happened to the body of Duncan’s attacker. He found it in the infirmary, covered with a blanket, and he stared at the face of the dead boy for some time, wondering who had sent him.

C HAPTER F OUR
    Thou hast made us to drink the wine of astonishment .
    â€”Psalms 60:3
    Farther north and east of Culdi, nearer the coast, an early dusk began to settle as Kelson and his warband urged their weary horses along the final stretch approaching Castle Transha, cloaks pulled close against an increasingly bitter drizzle. Dhugal, riding at the king’s side, had set them a brisk pace since leaving the Trurill patrol at midmorning, pushing to reach the shelter of his father’s castle before dark. They slowed as the grade of the road got steeper, Dhugal expectantly searching the rain ahead until the vast pile which was Transha gradually took shape, almost black against the darkening sky. The young border lord grinned as he glanced aside at the king.
    â€œWe’re nearly there now,” he said cheerily. “My father’s castellan should have everything prepared. We’ve been observed for the past hour, you know.”
    â€œOh?”
    Surprised and a little taken aback, Kelson turned to look at Dhugal in question,