Rhydon of Eastmarch was no longer a handsome man. A saber scar slashing from the bridge of his nose to the right-hand corner of his mouth had forever rendered that an impossibility. But he was a striking man. Dark hair graying at the temples and a luxuriant salt-and-pepper moustache framed a lean, oval face; a small beard softened the pointed chin. The mouth was full and wide but generally set in a firm line, with hints of predatory cruelty. In all, an almost sinister aura—one that the rapier mind behind the face relished and cultivated. A Deryni lord of the first magnitude was Rhydon of Eastmarch; a man in every way Wencit’s equal and complement; a man never to be trifled with.

He and Wencit gazed across the table for a long moment before Wencit recalled himself to matters at hand.

“Very well,” he said, abruptly straightening and pulling several of the leather document tubes toward him. “Do you wish to observe Bran’s initiation tomorrow, or have I convinced you that he is no longer dangerous? To us, at least.”

“I am not totally convinced that any human is without danger,” Rhydon quipped, “but no matter. I leave him to your judgment.” He rubbed a slender forefinger down the bridge of his nose in an automatic gesture, unconsciously following the long scar that lost itself in the thick moustache. “Are those our battle plans?”

Wencit pulled a map from one of the tubes and spread it on the table. “Yes, and the situation improves hourly. With Bran’s defection about to split Kelson’s strength along the border, we can cut off northern Gwynedd. To the south, Jared of Cassan and his army should be easy picking when we shift south in a few days.”

“What about Kelson?” Rhydon asked. “When he finds out what you plan, he will have the entire royal army breathing down our necks.”

Wencit shook his head. “Kelson will not know. I am counting on poor communication and difficult travel conditions at this time of year to keep him ignorant of our plans until it is too late to do anything. Besides, the civil and religious turmoil in Corwyn should keep him amply occupied until we are ready to take him.”

“Do you anticipate trouble when we do?”

“From Kelson?” Wencit shook his head and smiled. “I hardly think so. Despite what the statutes say about the legal age of kings, Kelson at fourteen is still a boy, half-Deryni or no. And you must admit that being half-Deryni has not particularly helped our ambitious princeling lately. In fact, increasing numbers of his loyal subjects are beginning to wonder if it is a good thing at all, to have a boy-king whose blood harks back to the blasphemous and wicked Deryni race.”

“Your carefully placed rumors, of course, have had nothing at all to do with this shift of confidence.”

“How could you think such a thing?”

Rhydon chuckled mirthlessly at his companion’s feigned look of mild affront, and crossed elegantly booted legs. “Then, tell me what you have planned for the wonder-prince, my lord king. How may I assist you further?”