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immediately to the royal stables, where a fast horse lay saddled and waiting, he exchanged
royal livery for a somber-hued traveling cloak, pulling the voluminous hood well over his face
before he set out.
Soon, he was riding away from the city, and within an hour he reined in and left the main road
to follow a winding, little-ridden track into the foothills. As he descended the torturous slopes
of a steep gorge, he glanced casually around him, and when he reached the bottom, he was not
at all surprised to find himself surrounded by fierce, blue-clad warriors.
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"Who goes there?" challenged the commanding officer, hand on sword hilt.
"Lord lan to see the countess," answered the lone rider, throwing back his hood and
dismounting as he spoke.
Bowing unctuously, the officer took the horse's reins from lan and immediately changed his
tone of voice to a more servile one.
"My apologies, m'lord. We did not recognize you."
"That is not at all surprising to me," remarked the young lord dryly, "since I did not wish to be
recognized. Open the portal."
He gestured imperiously and the men moved to comply with his order. A lieutenant pressed his
fingers fleetingly over a series of small depressions in the rock, and a large stone slab withdrew
to reveal a passageway into the side of the gorge. lan stepped inside, followed by the men, and
the opening was walled off once more. The men dispersed to their various duties, and the
newcomer swung down the hallway.
Boots echoing on the marble flagstones, lan strode resolutely, reflecting on the strange
company one was often obliged to keep in order to further one's goals. The Blue One trusted
him almost completely now, and there would be time enough after the young prince was
deposed to seize the power of the Blue One for himself.
Silver spurs jangled as he clattered confidently down the granite staircase, and the torches in
their wrought-iron holders cast russet highlights on his chestnut hair, reflecting, perhaps, the
even more russet thoughts beneath it.
He passed the guardpost and took the precise salute nonchalantly, then approached a pair of
golden doors and slipped through. Leaning back against the ornate handles, he fixed his gaze
intently upon the woman who sat brushing her long, blued silver hair, all thoughts of malice
gone for the present, at least from his face.
"Well, lan?" she querried, her full red lips curving upward with more than a trace of ire.
"The Son of the Lion is caged for the night, my pet," he said silkily, sauntering toward her with
a careless intensity. "And there is discord in the royal household. The son is cool toward the
mother who is so protective, and the mother quarrels with the general, who has fired the son
with tales of the father's valor."
He unclasped the heavy cloak and flung it across a low bench, then sank onto a wide, satin-
draped couch, unbuckling his sword as he did.
"And the young prince?" she inquired. "Does he seem ill-at-ease over his imminent
coronation?" Her voice was edged with mockery as she laid the silver-backed brush on the
dresser top and stood, gathering the gossamer folds of her gown about her in a soft azure cloud.
"I think he is well discomfited," smiled the young lord, reclining on one elbow. "He retires to
rest, and has given orders that he's not to be disturbed until morning. If he leaves, we will be
informed immediately." His green eyes followed her every move hungrily.
"It is good, lan," she whispered, her voice lilting into low, bell-like tones as she glided toward
him. "You have done well." She rested delicate fingertips on his shoulder and smiled. "The Blue
One is pleased to give the same orders for the night."
As the Vesper chimes finished their pealing in the distance, Morgan rose cat-like and stretched.
Strolling to the window, he drew the drapery slightly to survey the mounting darkness, then let
the drape fall heavily into place. He suppressed a yawn as he crossed to an
ornate candelabra and struck a light, then carried it to a place near the royal couch.
Kelson opened his eyes abruptly and looked around.
"I must have fallen asleep," he said, raising to one elbow. "Is it time?"
"Not yet, my prince," replied Morgan, going to the wardrobe and casually surveying the
garments. "It is yet a while before Compline is rung."
He selected a deep grey silken tunic, the edges worked in gold and pearls, and tossed it on a
nearby chair. "This will be suitable, I think."
Sinking wearily into a chair by the fireplace, he contemplated the flames for a few moments as
he ran idle fingers through his burnished hair.
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"Nay, on second thought, perhaps you'd best get ready."
"You are a strange man, Morgan," declared Kelson as he cocked his head at the young general.
"When you told me that I should rest, I was certain I should not sleep a wink, but with a calm
voice and low word you stilled my fears, and sleep came."
Morgan replied absently, "You were very tired, my prince." He resumed his air of
contemplation, so Kelson, sensing that he would get no further explanation for the moment,
slipped quietly to his dressing rooms.
After sitting motionless for some moments, Morgan snapped abruptly out of his melancholy
and rose to his feet. Stripping off leather and mail, he washed perfunctorily at a small basin in
the valet's quarters, and was pulling on light chain mail over his silken jerkin when Kelson
reentered the room.
"You expect trouble?" he asked, eying the steel mesh with nervous distaste.
Morgan chuckled softly. "No, my prince, but 'tis best to be prepared," he said, lacing up the
sides. "And I wish to apologize if I was somewhat boorish earlier. I spoke shortly to you when I
should have been reassuring. It was thoughtless of me."
Kelson smiled weakly as Morgan buffeted his shoulder in passing, and he gave a deprecating
shrug.
"Not so serious, my lad," said Morgan, as he rummaged in his saddlebags to produce a gilt-
edged black velvet doublet, which he tugged on over the mail. "Your father would not have
used magic to harm his own son the veiled threats are meant to discourage usurpers, not the
rightful heir."
Buckling on sword and cloak, he moved to the wardrobe and took out a wine velvet cloak and
held it toward the young prince. Kelson settled the black fox collar of the garment firmly
around his shoulders and turned toward the door.
"Not that way," said Morgan, grasping his arm and guiding him to a spot near the balcony
window. "Now watch," he commanded.
Pacing off a distance from the wall, Morgan surveyed his position closely, then stood with feet
planted firmly on the flagstone floor. He traced an intricate design in the air before him with an
outstretched forefinger, and with a sigh, a portion of the wall recessed to reveal a dark
stairwell.
Kelson gaped incredulously at Morgan. "How did that get there?" he asked, pointing
unbelievingly.
"I imagine someone built it, my prince," remarked the general as he entered the passageway.
"There are many like it in the palace. Come."
He held out a hand to the prince as the distant bells rang Compline, and Kelson clambered after
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