But Wencit was well aware of his effect upon most humans, and knew how to downplay the more frightening aspects of his lineage when it suited him. Accordingly, he had chosen the day’s attire with particular attention to detail. His fine doublet and hose were of the same shade of russet velvet and silk as his hair, the monocolor effect heightened rather than broken by the rich gold embroidery of his doublet, the glow of golden topaz at throat and ears and hands. An amber mantle of heavy, gold-embroidered silk spilled from his shoulders, rustling faintly as he moved, and a coronet set with tawny yellow gems rested on the oak table where he had been working, mute reminder of the rank and importance of the man entitled to wear it.

But Wencit made no move to take up the crown and complete his regal image, for Bran Coris was not his subject. Nor was the impending meeting in any way official, at least in any ordinary sense—which, perhaps, was fitting, because there was little that was ordinary about Wencit of Torenth, either.

After another discreet knock at the door, Garon again stepped just inside the room and bowed. Behind him in the doorway stood a youngish man of medium height and build, clad in a damp leather surcoat and mail and a soggy blue cloak. The plumes on the helmet under the newcomer’s arm were drenched and bedraggled looking, the gloves dark with damp. The man himself looked both puzzled and wary.

“Sire,” Garon murmured, “the Earl of Marley.”

“Do come in, my lord,” Wencit acknowledged, gesturing toward the rest of the room with a flourish. “I must apologize for your obviously wet ride up the pass, but I fear that even Deryni cannot control the vagaries of weather. Garon, take the earl’s cloak and bring him a dry one from my wardrobe, if you please.”

“Very good, Sire.”

As Bran warily entered the room, Garon took the sodden cloak from his shoulders and spread it on a nearby chair, then disappeared through a side door, emerging seconds later to lay a fur-lined cloak of mossy green velvet around the visitor’s shoulders. Then, after fastening the clasp at Bran’s throat, he took his helmet and bowed himself out of the room.

Still uneasy, Bran clutched the cloak around him, grateful for the favor in his chilled condition, but he did not take his eyes from his host. Wencit smiled disarmingly and put on one of his more reassuring demeanors as he gestured casually toward a chair by the heavy table, nearer the fire.

“Sit down, please. We need not stand on ceremony.”

Bran eyed Wencit and the chair suspiciously for a moment, then frowned anew as Wencit crossed to the fireplace and began tinkering with something Bran could not see.

“Forgive me if I seem unappreciative, my lord, but I fail to see what we can have to say to one another. You are surely aware that I am the junior of the three commanders ranged along the Rheljan Mountains to oppose you. Any arrangement that you and I might reach would not be binding on my colleagues or on Gwynedd.”