“You did very well,” the sorcerer remarked, reaching behind Bran to tug on a brocaded bell cord. “We shall work well together, you and I. When I send for you in the morning, we shall proceed in greater depth,”

“Why not now?” Bran asked, lurching to his feet and staggering, much to his surprise.

Unconcerned, Wencit reached out to steady him. “Because of that, my impatient young friend. Magic is very tiring for the uninitiated, and you have had a full dose for today. In a very little while, you shall find yourself unable to keep your feet for another instant. I shouldn’t want Garon to have to carry you to your quarters.”

Bran put a dazed hand to his forehead. “But, I—”

“Not another word,” Wencit said firmly, stepping back a pace. The door opened behind him and Garon entered, but Wencit did not look in his direction, preferring instead to watch Bran’s every move as the young lord tried to orient himself.

“Garon, please take Lord Bran to guest quarters and put him to bed,” Wencit said softly. “He is very tired after his long journey. See that his men are provided for, and that his captain is permitted to return to camp to reassure his army.”

“Certainly, Sire. This way, if you please, my lord.”

As Garon led the bewildered Bran Coris to the door, Wencit watched thoughtfully. Then, when the door had closed behind them, he strolled to the door in a leisurely fashion and shot home the bolt. As he returned to sit at the oak table, he addressed the empty air in a conversational tone.

“Well, Rhydon, what did you think?”

At his words, a narrow panel in the wall opposite opened briefly to admit a tall, dark man in blue. The panel closed silently behind him as he crossed nonchalantly to the chair recently vacated by Bran and leaned with both hands against the high, carved back.

“What did you think?” Wencit repeated, lounging back in his chair to study his colleague.

Rhydon shrugged noncommittally. “Your performance was flawless, as usual. What more can I say?” The tone was light, but the pale gray eyes beneath the hawk visage mirrored more than the spoken words.

Wencit knew that look and nodded. He placed the shiral crystal on the table beside the golden coronet and carefully adjusted the chain, then looked up shrewdly at Rhydon once more.

“You are concerned about Bran Coris. Why? You surely do not think he presents a danger to us?”

Rhydon shrugged again. “Call it native cynicism—I cannot say. He seems safe enough. But you know how unpredictable humans can be. Look at Kelson Haldane.”

“He is half-Deryni.”

“So is Morgan. So is McLain. Forgive me if I sound skeptical, but perhaps you have not been aware of the Camberian Council’s attention to that fact. Morgan and McLain, as supposed half-Deryni, are probably the two most unpredictable men in the Eleven Kingdoms right now. They keep doing things they should not be able to do. And that I know you are aware of.” He came around and sat in the other chair, then picked up Bran’s untouched cup of darja and drained it at a single draught. Wencit snorted derisively.