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sympathies.”
    “I am grateful,” murmured Orisian as he fumbled with the folds of deerskin. The soft brown hide fell away to reveal a flat, round belt buckle of polished gold, twisted in mimicry of rope.
    “It’s a very fine piece,” he said.
    “Yes,” agreed the Chancellor. “Made by one of Hoke’s finest goldsmiths, we believe.”
    “Hoke,” Orisian repeated.
    “Indeed. It comes from Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s own treasury.”
    “I see.”
    “You need not worry,” said Mordyn, with a radiant smile. “Igryn has no further use for it.”
    “I imagine not,” Orisian said. He, like everyone in Kolkyre, had heard of Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig’s fate. The rebellious Thane, after his humiliating defeat at the hands of Gryvan oc Haig, had been blinded and taken in chains back to Vaymouth. He languished there now, humbled along with the rest of his Blood. The belt buckle was what, then? Message? Threat?
    The summons from the Shadowhand had been polite, deferential even, but it had been a summons nevertheless. It had come without further explanation, beyond a vaguely expressed desire to meet Orisian formally before the feast that Lheanor would be hosting in the Tower that evening. Orisian’s nervousness had hardly been assuaged by Taim Narran’s earnestly offered advice as they walked together towards the Steward’s House where Mordyn had taken up residence.
    “It’s nothing more than that he wants to take your measure, I’m sure,” the warrior had said. “He’ll be pleasant most likely. Full of easy words. He’s seldom short of them, from what I’ve seen. Most of what he says will be empty, though, or insincere, so pay it no heed.”
    Watching Mordyn now, Orisian detected no sign of either emptiness or insincerity. The man was relaxed, as apparently at ease as he might be if Orisian were an old friend.
    “Let me offer you some wine,” the Chancellor said, turning to a small table where a simple clay ewer stood.
    “Only a little, thank you,” Orisian said. He would have preferred none, but was fearful of giving offence, or betraying his nervousness.
    “Let’s sit.” Mordyn nodded over his shoulder towards a pair of cushioned chairs. “I think you’ll find the wine pleasing. It’s one of the best out of Drandar: a gift to the High Thane from the Vintners. He allowed me to bring just a single vase with me.” He handed Orisian a full goblet. “We can count ourselves greatly fortunate that it survived the journey. The roads are not as smooth as they might be in these parts.”
    Orisian took a cautious sip. No matter how good it might be – and it did indeed taste as smooth and rich as any wine he had ever come across – he had no intention of drinking more than that one mouthful.
    “I cannot imagine how bitter your grief, your anger, must be,” the Shadowhand sighed as he settled into the other chair. He shook his head sorrowfully. “That one so young should have to suffer such losses is most cruel. It is utterly undeserved.”
    “I have been taught not to wish for what cannot be.”
    “A valuable lesson,” Mordyn said. “Much misery could be avoided in the world if it were more widely heeded. You’ve caused great excitement here.”
    “Not by choice.”
    “Of course. But a young man, come into a Thaneship in such . . . harsh circumstances. And bringing Kyrinin and na’kyrim to Kolkyre. Kyrinin, housed at the city’s garrison! By choice or not, you’ve made yourself the subject of much gossip.”
    Perhaps it should be no surprise that the Chancellor knew about Ess’yr and Varryn, Orisian reflected, but it did unsettle him. The Shadowhand had barely settled into his chambers in Kolkyre, and already he knew things that Orisian would prefer he did not.
    “You are, what – the seventh Thane of the Lannis Blood?” Mordyn said. The rapid shifts in the conversation left Orisian feeling slow-footed.
    “Yes,” he said quietly, realising he had raised the cup of wine to his lips