But the thaw is not uniform, even in the pass. Because of the mountains’ run-off pattern, the eastern approach is negotiable weeks before the west: a quirk that has been a major contributing factor in the city’s changing ownership over the years. It was this that enabled Wencit of Torenth to capture the winter-hungry city without opposition—high Cardosa, depleted by the previous summer’s dispute and exhausted by the snows, which could not wait for relief troops and supplies from royal Gwynedd. Wencit could supply these things; and so Cardosa surrendered.

Thus it was that as Bran Coris and his nervous escorts made the final, wet approach to the city’s gates, the city’s new ruler relaxed at leisure in the apartment he had chosen in the city’s state house and prepared to greet his reluctant guest.

Wencit of Torenth grimaced as he struggled with the fastening of his doublet’s high collar, craning his neck as he made the final adjustment. At a discreet knock at the door, he smoothed the gold-encrusted velvet over his chest with an impatient gesture and thrust a jeweled dagger into his sash. The ice-blue eyes registered a hint of mild annoyance as he glanced in that direction.

“Come.”

Almost immediately, a tall, gangling young man in his mid-twenties stepped through the doorway and bowed. Like most members of the royal household, Garon wore the brilliant blue-violet livery of Wencit’s personal service, with the leaping black hart of Furstán emblazoned over the left breast in a white circle, along with a flat-linked chain of office. His expression was one of acute interest and anticipation as he watched his royal master begin rolling up documents from the writing table by the window and slipping them into leather storage tubes. When he spoke, his voice was low and cultured.

“Sire, the Earl of Marley is here. Shall I send him in?”

Wencit gave a curt nod as he finished storing the last of the documents, and Garon withdrew without further words. As the door closed, Wencit began pacing the heavily carpeted floor with nervous energy, hands clasped behind his back.

Wencit of Torenth was a tall, thin, almost angular man in his late forties, with hair of a brilliant rust-red, untouched by gray, and pale, almost colorless eyes. Wide, bushy sideburns and a sweeping moustache of the same fiery red emphasized the high cheekbones, the triangular shape of the face. When he moved, it was with an easy grace not usually associated with a man of his size and stature.

The overall effect had led his enemies, who were many, to compare him to a fox—that is, when they were not making other, less complimentary comparisons. For Wencit was a full Deryni sorcerer of the ancient breed, his lineage descending from a family that had stayed in power in the east even through the Restoration and the Deryni persecutions that had followed. In many respects, Wencit was a fox. Of a certainty, there was no doubt that, when he chose, Wencit of Torenth could be as cunning, cruel, and dangerous as any member of the vulpine race.