“I never thought it might,” Wencit said easily. He crossed to the table with a small pot of steaming liquid from which he filled two fragile porcelain cups. Then he took the nearer of the two chairs and gestured once more for Bran to be seated.

“Won’t you join me for a cup of darja tea? It is brewed from the leaves and flowers of a lovely bush which grows here in your Rheljan Mountains. I think you will enjoy it, especially as cold and damp as you must be.”

Bran moved nearer the table and picked up a cup to inspect it, a wry smile twitching at his lips as he returned his gaze to Wencit.

“You play the perfect host, sir, but I think not. The hostages you sent did me the honor of drinking with me,” he glanced lightly at the steaming cup, “but then, I told them what was in the cup they drank.”

“Indeed?” Wencit’s fair brows lifted. And though the voice was gentle and cultured still, it was suddenly tinged with steel. “I am led to surmise that it was not simple wine or tea which passed their lips; and yet, you would hardly have been so foolish as to harm them and then boast of it to me in my own house. Nonetheless, you have piqued my curiosity, if that was your intention. What did you give them?”

Bran sat down, the cup still in his fingers, but set it gently on the table in front of him. “You will appreciate that I had no way of knowing whether your emissaries might be Deryni, instructed to work mischief in my camp while I exchanged pleasantries with you. So I had my master surgeon prepare a simple sleeping draught for them. Since the gentlemen assured me that they were not Deryni, and did not intend me mischief, I doubt not that they will be safe, if somewhat drowsy, when I return. It is no more precaution than you yourself might have taken, had you been in my place.”

Wencit put down his cup and sat back in his chair, smoothing his moustache to cover a smile. Even when he picked up his cup to sip again, a trace of the smile lingered on his lips.

“Well played, Earl of Marley. I admire both prudence and daring in those with whom I wish to deal. However, allow me to reassure you that your cup holds no such additive. You may drink without fear. You have my word on it.”

“Your word, Sire?” Bran ran a gloved fingertip around the rim of the cup in front of him and glanced down at it, then gently pushed it a few inches away. “Forgive me if I seem rude, my lord, but you’ve not yet given me a satisfactory reason for this parley. I cannot help wondering what the King of Torenth and a rather minor lord of Gwynedd have in common.”

Wencit shrugged and smiled again as he studied his guest. “On the contrary, my young friend, I think the notion at least bears further exploration. If, once you have heard me out, you have no interest in what I have to say, nothing is lost except a little of our time. On the other hand—well, perhaps we shall discover that we may have more in common than you think. I feel confident that we will discover a number of areas of mutual interest, if once we put our minds to it.”