Derry’s escort yanked him along as his steps faltered, at last throwing him to his knees before a black and silver tent next to Bran’s royal blue one. His wounded arm had started to ache abominably from the men’s rough handling, and his wrists chafed in their rawhide bonds. From inside the tent, he could hear men’s voices arguing loudly, though the words were muffled and indistinguishable behind the thick fabric of the tent walls.

Baron Campbell paused for just a moment, apparently weighing the advisability of entering, then shrugged and disappeared through the open tent flap. From within came an explosive exclamation of indignation, a murmured curse in an accent foreign to Derry’s ears, and then the sound of Bran Coris’s voice.

“A spy? Damn it, Campbell, you interrupted me to say you’ve captured a spy?”

“I’m thinking he’s more than a spy, m’lord. He’s—well, you’d best see for yourself.”

“Oh, very well. Duke Lionel, I’ll return shortly.”

Derry’s heart sank as Campbell emerged from the tent, and he averted his face as a slender figure in a blue tunic stepped into the sunlight behind Campbell. Derry heard a muffled intake of breath from Bran’s direction, and then he was aware of two pairs of boots standing a few paces before him, one pair black and shining and spurred with silver.

It would do no good to postpone the inevitable. With a resigned sigh, Derry lifted his head to behold the familiar face of Bran Coris.

“Sean Lord Derry!” Bran blurted. The golden eyes went cold. “So! How does my dubious colleague, outside the king’s Council chambers? You haven’t deserted your precious Morgan, have you?” Derry’s eyes flashed defiance. “No, I didn’t think so. My Lord Lionel, come and see what the Duke of Corwyn has sent us,” he called. “I do believe it’s his favorite spy.”

As he spoke, Lionel Duke d’Arjenol emerged from the tent and joined Bran, staring hard at Derry all the while. He was tall and regal and looked vaguely foreign, dark beard and moustache trimmed close to his face to emphasize thin, cruel lips.

A robe of faintly rustling white silk flowed from the duke’s broad shoulders to sweep the toes of claret velvet boots. But there was the gleam of a mail-backed crimson tunic where the robe parted in front, the flash of a curved dagger thrust through his sash. The hair was long and black, pulled in a lock at the back of his neck and held across the brow by a broad fillet of silver. Jeweled wrist guards glittered red and green and violet as he folded silk-sleeved arms across his chest.

“So, this is Morgan’s minion,” Lionel said, his cool gaze sweeping Derry with disdain.

“The Earl of Derry,” Bran replied with a nod. “Kelson appointed him to Lord Ralson’s vacant Council seat last fall. He was Morgan’s military aide for some time before that. Where did you find him, Campbell?”

“On the ridge just south of here, m’lord. A patrol spotted his horse and just waited for him to come back. He cut up some of our men when they tried to take him, though. Peter Davency is dead.”