Bran handed over the document without a word, carefully masking his discomfiture as Wencit returned the dispatch to its stack. After a pregnant silence, Wencit looked up again, his momentary anger apparently passed.

“Now, Rhydon. What word on our young Derry today? I trust that all is as it should be?”

“I am told that he is ready to see us,” Rhydon allowed.

“Good, then.” Wencit sipped at his cooling cup of darja, then drained it in a final swallow. “I think that you and I should go to see him.”

IN the dungeons deep beneath Cardosa Keep, in the fortress known as Esgair Ddu, Derry lay supine on a pile of dry straw, his wrists dragged to one side by the weight of the chains fixed to the wall. Feverish from his wounds, he had lain there for nearly a day now without attention beyond a cupful of brackish water to drink and a few crusts of stale bread. His stomach was a hard knot of hunger, and his head ached, but he forced himself to open his eyes and focus on the damp ceiling, finally mustering the strength to roll to his side and lift his head.

Aches. Throbbing pain in shoulder and head. A sharp twinge in his thigh as he tried to bend a cramped knee.

Gritting his teeth, he struggled to a sitting position, pulling himself up by the chains that stretched from his wrists to a pair of iron rings set in the wall above head-height.

He knew why the rings were there. The jailers who had brought him here initially had chained him, spread-eagled against the wall, while they worked him over with fists and riding whips until he mercifully passed out. Hours later, he had come to, huddled on the dank, musty straw where he now sat.

He wiped his sweaty face against the shoulder that was not wounded and blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision, then set about pulling himself to his feet. There was a window over to the left of where his chains were secured. If he remembered the layout of Esgair Ddu correctly, he should be able to see part of the plain from here.

He steadied himself against the chains and caught his breath, then dragged himself to the window and peered out.

Far below on the plain, Wencit’s armies had moved into position. Slightly to the north, atop a small rise, someone had ranged the bowmen to take advantage of the altitude. North and east were the cavalry and infantry, arranged to employ a pincer movement if the opportunity should arise.

More of Wencit’s cavalry were moving down the pass to take up positions around the center of the encampment. Cavalry: the heart of Wencit’s fighting force. He could see a steady stream of damp and bedraggled horsemen riding onto the plain from where he knew the last ford must be; could almost hear the shouts of the captains as they kept their men in order and put them through their paces.