“Excellent.” Wencit turned in his chair and motioned to his major-domo, who had been waiting just out of earshot, and the man immediately brought out a large, leather-bound dispatch case studded at the corners with hammered gold. As the man withdrew, Wencit opened the box and leafed through a sheaf of already opened dispatches until he found the one he was looking for, then pulled it out with a grunt of approval. After making a short notation on it, he returned it to the box and pulled out another one, which he scanned briefly.

“Ah, here it is. I received some news this morning which concerns you, Bran,” he said, glancing up wistfully. “It seems that the Haldane princeling has learned of your defection and taken your family into custody.”

Bran stiffened, then slowly drew himself upright in his chair, his knuckles whitening around the cup he held.

“Why was I not told?”

“You are being told,” Wencit said, leaning forward to hand the dispatch across. “But do not distress yourself unduly. Your wife and son were taken at Dhassa, but they are in no immediate danger that we can ascertain. Read for yourself.”

Quickly Bran scanned down the dispatch, his lips compressing in a thin, tight line as he reached the end. “They are being brought here as hostages, yet you speak of no immediate danger?” His eyes lifted to Wencit’s defiantly. “Suppose Kelson tries to use them against me. Do you think that I could stand by idly while my son’s life was in danger? Could I watch him die?”

Rhydon raised an eyebrow, somewhat bemused by Bran’s reaction. “Come now, Bran. Surely you know your king better than that. You or I might threaten a man’s family to compel his obedience, but Kelson Haldane is not of that mettle. Besides,” he glanced at his nails, a coy, bored look, “you can always make more sons, can you not?”

Bran’s glare at Rhydon turned even more icy. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” he hissed.

Wencit chuckled and shook his head reprovingly. “Enough, Rhydon. You must not taunt our young friend. He does not understand our ways of banter. Bran, I have no intention of allowing your family to come to harm. Perhaps an exchange of hostages can be arranged. At any rate, Rhydon is correct in his assessment of Kelson. The young Haldane will not make war on innocent women and children.”

“I suppose you can guarantee that?”

Wencit’s smile faded and his eyes took on a steely glint. “I can guarantee to do my best,” he said softly, dangerously. “Will you not concede that my best is far more than you could possibly hope to accomplish on your own?”

Bran lowered his eyes, sharply reminded of his position—becoming more precarious by the second—and reined himself back at once. “I do beg your pardon, Sire. I did not mean to question your judgment. My concern was for my family.”

“If I thought otherwise, you would be dead,” Wencit said calmly, holding out his hand for the dispatch Bran still held.