ON the vast plain below the city of Cardosa, the army of Bran Coris Earl of Marley had been camped for nearly a month. They were two thousand strong, these men of Marley, and fiercely loyal to their young commander, but they had been waiting beside the swollen flood runoff for more than a week now, anticipating the cessation of the flooding, yet dreading the moment when Wencit of Torenth would send his men streaming down the Cardosa defile.

What most frightened the waiting soldiers was that Wencit’s forces could fight with magic—or so it was believed. Yet the men of Marley would stand by their young earl despite the danger, the almost certain death, for Lord Bran was a charismatic leader and an able tactician. Moreover, he had always been extremely generous to those who supported him. There was no reason to believe that success in the Cardosa campaign would not yield similar largesse. And in the end, what more could a soldier ask, besides rewarding service and a leader he could respect? They did not dwell on the possibility of defeat.

It was early morning, and the camp had been stirring for several hours. Lord Bran, a tartan blanket draped around the shoulders of his blue undress tunic, lounged against one of the outside support-poles of his pavilion and sipped at a goblet of mulled wine as he scanned upriver toward the distant mountains, gleaming in the early morning sun. His gold-brown eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to see beyond the mist. A hard set to the handsome mouth betokened stubbornness and determination. He hooked a thumb in the jeweled belt at his waist and glanced to one side at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Any special orders for today, m’lord?”

The speaker, Baron Campbell, was a longtime retainer of the earl’s family. As he approached, helmet tucked diffidently under one arm, he hiked part of his azure and gold plaid farther back onto his shoulders.

Bran shook his head. “Any change in the river soundings this morning?”

“We’re still reading close to five feet, even at the fords, m’lord. And there are sink holes that could swallow up man and horse with nary a trace. I doubt the King of Torenth will be coming down off his mountain today.”

Bran swirled the wine in his cup and took another swallow, then nodded. “Then we’ll proceed as we have been: regular patrols and lookouts on the western perimeters, and a skeleton watch on the rest of the camp. And ask the bowyer to see me sometime this morning, will you? The grip still isn’t right on my new bow.”

“Aye, sir.”

As Campbell saluted and turned to relay Bran’s orders, another man in the gray garb of a clerk approached from a neighboring tent with a sheaf of parchments in his hand. When Bran glanced idly in his direction, the man made a self-conscious bow before extending a brown feather quill toward the earl.

“Your correspondence is ready for signature, my lord. The couriers are awaiting your orders.”

With a slight nod, Bran took the letters and glanced through them briefly, a look of boredom on his face, then handed his goblet to the man to hold while he scrawled his mark at the bottom of each page. When he had finished, he returned the documents to the clerk in exchange for his goblet, and would have returned to his idle scanning of the mountains except for the insistent throat-clearing of the man.

“Ah, my lord…”

Bran glanced back at the man, mildly annoyed.

“My lord, your letter to the Countess Richenda—don’t you wish to seal it?”

Bran’s glance flicked to the parchment in the clerk’s hand, then back to the man’s face with a bored sigh. Slipping a heavy silver signet from his thumb, he dropped it into the man’s outstretched hand and said, “See to it, will you, Joseph?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“In fact, deliver the letter in person. If you can persuade her, I think it would be a good idea to move her and my heir to some neutral place, perhaps Dhassa. They’d be safe with the bishops.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll leave at once.”

As Bran nodded acknowledgement, the clerk closed the ring in his hand and bowed, then backed off to make way for an older man in captain’s uniform, who gave a casual salute as he approached. He was wrapped from neck to knee in a rough wool cloak of faded blue, with a blue plume a-tremble atop the steel helmet under his arm, and Bran allowed himself an easy nod.

“Morning, Gwyllim. Some problem I should know of?” he asked.

Gwyllim shook his head lightly. “Not at all, m’lord. The men of the Fifth Horse request the honor of your review this morning.” He glanced at the mountains his lord had been surveying. “It will probably be a sight more entertaining than watching those accursed mountains, at any rate.”

Bran chuckled and set aside his goblet. “No doubt it will. But be patient, old friend. There will be action enough even for you, once this stalemate ends. Wencit of Torenth will not stay on his mountain forever.”

“Aye, you’re—here, what’s this?”

Gwyllim had turned his attention toward the pass again as he spoke, and now he straightened and peered more intently into the morning mist. Bran, noting his companion’s new interest in the landscape, turned his gaze in the same direction, then snapped his fingers for the page who had been hovering just beyond earshot all the while.

“Eric, my glass, quickly. Gwyllim, sound the alert. This may be it.”

As the boy scampered to do the earl’s bidding, Gwyllim summoned several of his men waiting a few dozen yards away and began issuing orders. Bran shaded his eyes and continued to watch where a slow-moving mounted column was beginning to emerge from the mist, its riders picking their way carefully along the flood-washed trail. The lead rider was garbed all in white, and carried a lance with a white banner hanging limply from the top. His accompanying escort, perhaps a dozen of them, were heavily cloaked in a dull russet-orange and mounted on bright bays. Frowning, Bran put a spyglass to his eye and studied them more closely.

“Torenth’s livery and badge on the escort,” he said in a low voice, scanning the approaching column as Gwyllim returned to his side and Campbell joined them. “And a parley banner in the hands of the lead man. Two others at the end, not in livery, who may be the negotiators.” He lowered the glass and looked at the riders again, then handed the glass to Campbell and stepped to the side of the tent to snap his fingers and gesture once again.

“Bennett, Graham, take an escort to meet them. Honor the truce as long as they do, but watch them closely. This may be a Torenthi trick.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

As the parley party continued to descend the mountain, the escort Bran had ordered rode past his tent in a jingle of bits and mail and leather harness, and several more of his staff officers drifted toward his tent. It was clear that the alert status had now been put in abeyance, but something was bound to happen when the earl spoke to the Torenthi emissaries.

Bran watched as the two groups of riders met, perhaps three hundred yards out from the edge of the camp, then ducked into his pavilion to emerge seconds later with a dagger at his belt and a silver circlet on his head. His officers grouped themselves around and behind him in a show of strength as the surrounded parley contingent approached at a walk.

Now that the newcomers were within hailing distance, Bran could see that he had been right about the men not in livery. The taller and more resplendent of the two, in a black brocaded cloak and crimson tunic, had a vaguely foreign air about him as he swung down from his bay and strode toward them, one of the sergeants at his side. His clothes were damp from the ride down the flooded defile, but the lean, bearded face was inscrutable as he pulled the black-plumed helmet from his head and cradled it in the hollow of his right arm. His hair was long and black and caught at the back in a silver clasp. A flame-bladed dagger of silver was thrust casually under his wide silk sash, worn to be drawn from the left. Other than that, he appeared to be unarmed.

“May I take it that you are the Earl of Marley, in command of this army?” the man asked in a faintly condescending tone.

“I am.”

“Then my message is for you, my lord,” the man continued, bowing slightly from the waist. “I am Lionel, Duke of Arjenol. I serve His Majesty King Wencit, who commands me to bear his felicitations to you and yours.”

Bran’s eyes narrowed as he studied the speaker, and he hooked his thumbs in the jeweled belt encircling his waist. “I have heard of you, my lord. Are you not kinsman to Wencit himself?”

Lionel inclined his head minutely and smiled. “I have that honor, my lord. She who is my wife is sister to our beloved king. I trust that you will assure our safety while we are within your camp?”

“So long as you honor the truce proclaimed by your standard, you need not fear. What message do you bear from your king besides his felicitations?”

Lionel’s dark eyes swept Bran and his men as he bowed once again. “My lord Earl of Marley, Wencit Furstán Padishah, King of Torenth and Tolan and the Seven Tribes to the East, desires the honor of your presence at his temporary headquarters in the city of Cardosa. There he would meet with you to discuss the possibility of a cessation of hostilities and mutual withdrawal from the area in dispute, or perhaps some other solution that your lordship might care to suggest. His Majesty has no quarrel with the Earl of Marley, and would not wish to do battle with one whom he has esteemed for many years. He awaits your immediate reply.”

“Don’t do it, m’lord,” Campbell rumbled, stepping closer to Bran as though to shield him. “It’s some kind of trick.”

“It is no trick, my lord,” Lionel interjected. “So that you may be assured of His Majesty’s sincerity, he has commanded that I and my escort remain as hostages against your safe return. You may bring one of your officers with you, if you desire it, as well as an honor guard of ten men. You are free to leave Cardosa and return to your camp at any time should you feel that further discussion would not be worth your while or in your best interests. I believe the offer is more than generous, my lord. Do you not agree?”

Bran studied the man unwaveringly for several seconds, his face unreadable, then motioned for Gwyllim and Campbell to follow him into the tent. Inside, the walls were hung in blue and ochre velvet, rich furs on the carpets and draped across the carved camp chairs. Bran crossed to the center of the tent and toyed with the hilt of his dagger, then turned to study the faces of his two captains.

“Well, what do you think? Ought I to go?”

The two exchanged furtive glances before Campbell spoke.

“Begging your pardon, m’lord, but I still don’t like it. What can we possibly gain from such a parley, besides a new chance for treachery? Regardless of what this Duke Lionel says, I don’t think for a minute that Wencit plans to withdraw. There is no question that he can win if he decides to come down off his mountain; it’s just a matter of how many men he’ll have to lose in order to do it. And if he uses magic…”

“Faithful Campbell,” Bran smiled grimly, “ever the gadfly, reminding me of the truths I would rather avoid. Gwyllim?”

Gwyllim shrugged thin shoulders under his blue woolen cloak. “Campbell is right in part, my lord. I think we have known all along that we cannot hold the pass for long, if Wencit decides to come down. I wonder what sort of agreement he hopes to reach? Also, I am inclined to agree with Campbell that it smells like a trap. I hesitate to advise you one way or the other.”

Bran ran his fingers across the helmet and mail lying on one of the chairs, let his hand caress the fur draped beneath it.

“Who was the other baron with Lionel—the one who stayed mounted? Do either of you know him?”

“Merritt of Reider, my lord,” answered Campbell. “He holds sizeable lands to the northeast, adjoining Tolan. I’m surprised that Wencit would send them on a mission like this, especially if he plans something devious.”

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Bran said, continuing to stroke the fur absently as he stared at the wall of the tent. “It also occurred to me that this might be Wencit’s way of telling us that he is serious about this parley. So serious that he would risk a brother-in-law and a powerful ally as hostages to reassure us. Being realistic about my own value, I doubt that Wencit would risk the two out there just to capture or destroy me. If that were all he wanted, there are a dozen less dangerous and less expensive ways to try.”

Gwyllim cleared his throat uneasily. “M’lord, have you considered the possibility that Wencit might wish the hostages to do something here in the camp while you are away? If they’re Deryni, for example, there is no telling what kind of damage they could do. Perhaps not even anything we could detect until you were safely returned and they were on their way back to their master.”

“It’s true, m’lord,” Campbell agreed. “What’s to prevent the hostages from wreaking havoc while you’re away? I don’t trust them!”

Bran rubbed his hands across his face and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment while he considered what the two had said. Finally he turned with a sigh to face them again.

“I cannot argue with your logic—either of you. But somehow I have the feeling that there is no treachery involved, at least in this particular case. If Lionel and Merritt are Deryni, they have had ample time out there to destroy us, if that were their sole intent. And if they are not Deryni, they would be foolish to try anything devious, right here in our midst.

“Just to reassure you, though, suppose that I have Cordan prepare a strong sleeping draught to be given to all the contingent who remain behind. If Lionel will agree to this precaution, I think it would be relatively safe for me to proceed to the parley that Wencit requests. After all, their agreement will require no little demonstration of trust on their part as well as ours, do you not agree?”

Gwyllim shook his head doubtfully, then shrugged in resignation. “It’s still a risk, sir.”

“But a reasonable one, I think—and it may buy us some time. Campbell, find Cordan and see to the potion, will you? Gwyllim, you’ll be riding with me to Cardosa. Help me into my mail.”

Minutes later, Bran and Gwyllim stepped from the tent and moved toward the waiting Torenthi emissaries. Bran had donned his mail and a cloak of royal blue over his blue tunic, with his blue eagle device picked out in blue stitchery on the breast of his leather surcoat. Bright mail showed at his throat and below the short sleeves of the surcoat, and an ivory-hilted broadsword hung from a white leather baldric across his chest. Gwyllim followed half a pace behind him, Bran’s blue-plumed helmet under his arm and his master’s leather riding gloves clutched in his left hand. Bran’s golden eyes danced with cunning as he stepped into the sunlight.

“I have decided to accept your king’s invitation, my lord,” he said easily.

Lionel bowed and controlled a small smile. Merritt and several of the liveried men-at-arms had dismounted during Bran’s absence and now stood clustered at Lionel’s back.

“However,” Bran continued, “there are certain conditions which I must impose before I proceed to Cardosa with your standard-bearer, and I am not certain you will agree to them.”

Campbell, a man-at-arms, and a slender man in field surgeon’s garb slipped into the group clustered around Bran, and Lionel’s eyes darted toward them suspiciously. The surgeon was holding a large earthen drinking vessel with knobbed handles on either side. Merritt stepped closer to Lionel and murmured something in his ear, and Lionel frowned as he returned his attention to Bran.

“Name your conditions, my lord.”

“I trust that you will not take offense at my caution, my lord,” Bran said with a nod, “but I must be assured that there will be no untoward behavior on the part of you or any of your men while I am away.”

“You have been given that assurance, my lord,” Lionel said evenly.

Bran lifted a hand and lightly shook his head. “And I honor your word, my lord,” Bran replied, “but my men desire further assurance, if I am to be absent. Therefore, in order to guard against treachery while you are here and I am not, I have had my master surgeon prepare a simple sleeping draught, of which you, Lord Merritt, and the remaining guards will partake before I leave. You see, I have no way of knowing your true motives at this point, not being able to see into your minds. You could even be Deryni sorcerers, for all I know. Do you agree to these terms?”

Lionel’s face had stiffened as Bran spoke, and he glanced uncomfortably at Merritt and his men before replying. It was obvious that neither he nor Merritt was eager to spend the next hours drugged to senselessness in Bran’s camp. Yet, to refuse Bran’s terms would be to admit that they did not trust him, and perhaps that Wencit’s invitation was not all that it seemed. Lionel obviously had been given his orders, and his tone was cold and formal as he addressed the young earl.

“You will forgive my momentary hesitation, my lord, but we had not anticipated such counter-terms. We understand your caution, of course, and wish to assure you that it was not the intention of His Majesty to bring disaster upon you through magic; if he had so wished, he could have done it without risking our lives. However, you will understand if we, in turn, now exercise a certain caution of our own. Before we may agree to your terms, we must be reasonably convinced that your draught is, indeed, only the sleeping potion you claim.”

“I concur, of course,” Bran said, motioning his surgeon to approach. “Cordan, who is to test your potion for His Grace?”

Cordan nudged a soldier standing at his side and stepped forward, bowing as the soldier came to attention.

“This is Stephen de Longueville, my lord,” he murmured. He held the earthen cup in steady hands, his eyes not leaving Bran’s.

“Excellent. My lord duke, is this man acceptable to you?”

Lionel shook his head. “Your surgeon could have prepared him in some special way, my lord. If you meant to poison us, he could have been given an antidote. May I make my own selection?”

“Certainly. I must ask that you not choose one of my officers, since I shall require their services while I am away, but any of the others is acceptable. Feel free to choose whomever you wish.”

Lionel handed his helmet to one of his men, then turned on his heel and strode back to the mounted Marley riders still surrounding his own escort. He scanned the men carefully, then stepped to the side of one of the riders and laid his hand on the horse’s bridle. The horse tossed its head and snorted.

“This man, my lord. There is no way he could have been prepared in advance. Let him sample the draught you would have us drink.”

Bran nodded and gave a curt hand signal, and the man swung down from his horse. As he crossed the grass toward Bran, Lionel followed at his elbow, watching him closely. When the man pulled off his helmet and attempted to hand it to one of his fellows standing in the earl’s menie, Lionel interposed and took the helmet himself, passing it on to the man for whom the soldier had intended it. The duke was taking no chances that something could be slipped to his test subject without his knowledge.

Motioning Merritt to guard the man, Lionel crossed to Bran and took the earthen cup from Cordan. His black eyes measured Bran for a long moment as he held the cup between them; irritation hinted in his lean face. Then he raised the cup slightly in salute and strode back to where Merritt and the soldier waited. One of Lionel’s men dismounted and took the cup to inspect it, sniffing at the contents suspiciously. Only then was Bran’s soldier brought closer to place his hands on the vessel. Lionel and Merritt stationed themselves on either side of the man to watch, Lionel casting a suspicious glance at Bran as they prepared to administer the test.

“What is the required dosage?”

“A goodly swallow is sufficient, my lord,” Cordan replied. “The drug is potent and acts very quickly.”

“Indeed,” Lionel murmured, returning his attention to the man and the cup. “Very well, my good fellow. Drink deep if you dare. Your commander is said to be a man of his word. If he is, you shall awaken later, no worse for the wear. Drink up.”

The man, guided by the cupbearer, brought the vessel to his lips and took a mouthful, raising his eyebrows at the obviously pleasant flavor, then glanced at Lionel and swallowed. He had time to lick his lips once in appreciation—Cordan was known for his use of fine wines in his potions. Then he reeled and would have fallen, had not Lionel and Merritt caught him under the elbows and eased him down. By the time he reached the ground, the man was fast asleep, and no amount of shaking or calling would rouse him.

Lionel’s cupbearer passed the cup to Merritt and examined the man, peering under the slack eyelids and locating a strong pulse, then nodded reluctantly. Lionel got slowly to his feet and gazed across at Bran, his face grim but resigned.

“It appears that your master surgeon is, indeed, accomplished, my lord. Of course, on the basis of what we have just seen, we cannot rule out a longer-term poison, or the possibility that you might administer something else while we slept, or even murder us where we lay. But, then, life is full of gambles, is it not? And His Majesty will be expecting either your return or mine. Even I am reluctant to keep him waiting.”

“Then you will accept my terms?”

“So it seems.” Lionel bowed. “I trust, however, that we shall be permitted to sleep somewhere other than on the ground, like your trusting friend.” He glanced down at the sleeping guard with a sardonic smile. “When we do return to Cardosa, His Majesty would be most distressed, were he to learn that my colleagues had been obliged to sleep in the dirt.”

Bran bowed slightly and held back the flap of his tent, returning Lionel’s smile. “Come, then; you shall sleep in my own pavilion. I would not have it said that Eastmarch men do not know how to accommodate noble company.”

As Bran and his party stood aside, Lionel inclined his head and then signaled the rest of his contingent to dismount, led them into the tent. He surveyed the rich appointments in appreciation as he removed his gloves, exchanging resigned glances with Merritt and a few of his comrades, then selected the most comfortable of the several chairs in the space and sat down.

Taking his helmet back, he laid it on the floor at his feet and stashed his gloves inside, then propped his booted legs on a leather footstool and sat back in preparation. His long black hair gleamed in the glow of the light that streamed through the open entryway, and he toyed with the hilt of the flame-bladed dagger thrust through his sash as his men arranged themselves on the furs at his feet.

Merritt took the chair beside Lionel’s, his homely face tense and apprehensive, and the man with the cup stood uneasily beside the tent’s center pole. As Bran and Gwyllim entered the shelter of the tent, the Torenthi standard-bearer moved into the doorway to watch, his face whiter than the white standard he still bore. Only he and the cupbearer could be certain they would return to Cardosa, once the rest drank the cup.

Lionel studied the five men ranged trustingly at his feet, then signed for the cupbearer to go to each of them in turn. Each man kept his eyes locked on Lionel’s as he sipped from the cup. The first of them slumped to a supine position as the cup came to Merritt. The cupbearer paused in alarm as two more passed out, and Merritt half-rose from his chair; but Lionel shook his head slightly and signaled for Merritt to drink.

With a resigned sigh, Merritt obeyed, soon nodding off in his chair as another of the men on the floor succumbed. When all were still, a few of them snoring, the cupbearer knelt at Lionel’s knee and offered up the cup in trembling hands, unable to meet his lord’s eyes. Lionel’s look was almost tender as he took the cup and turned it idly in his long fingers.

“They are fine men, my lord Bran,” he said softly, glancing up at Bran with hooded eyes. “They have trusted me with their very lives, and I have gambled with those lives held in trust. If you, through any action, cause me to be forsworn—if any harm should come to any man here—I swear that I will avenge them even from the grave. Do you understand me?”

“I have given you my word, sir,” Bran said neutrally. “I have said that no harm would befall you or them. If your master’s intentions are as honorable, you need have no cause for fear.”

“I do not fear, my lord; I warn,” Lionel said softly. “See that you keep your word.”

With a glance at the cupbearer, he raised the cup in salute and murmured, “C’raint!” Then he drank from the cup and gave it back into the cupbearer’s hands. As he sat back in the chair, he shivered slightly, as though against a sudden chill, though it was warm enough in the tent. Then he laid his head against the back of the chair and slipped into unconsciousness. The cupbearer set the cup on the carpet beside him and felt for his master’s pulse; then, satisfied that there was nothing more he could do, he rose shakily to his feet and made a curt bow toward Bran Coris.

“If you are ready to fulfill your part of the agreement, my lord, we should be on our way. We have a difficult ride ahead of us, a large part of it through icy water. His Majesty will be waiting.”

“Of course,” Bran murmured, scanning the sleeping hostages with admiration as he donned his helmet. He certainly could not fault their discipline.

“Look after them, Campbell,” he said, pulling on gloves and moving toward the entrance to the tent. “Wencit will want them back in good health, and we would not wish to disappoint him.”