“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?”