Cythera shook her head. “Oh, he’s just a cutpurse. Someone Bikker found—we needed a thief, and—well, that’s a long tale. The point is this: Hazoth decided he must die. That he knew too many secrets, and that once we had our prize, we were to kill him. Bikker offered to do it, of course, but Hazoth seemed to find it more amusing if I was to be the instrument of destruction.”

“You told him you wouldn’t do it, of course.”

Cythera turned her face away from him. “Croy, I had no choice. I must obey him. So when the business was complete, I—I asked the thief to kiss me.”

Croy’s entire body stiffened, but he said nothing.

“You understand, don’t you? What that would do? Every curse I’ve stored up over the last five years would be released at once, into the poor thief’s body. He would have been slaughtered in an instant. But he refused me. Lucky for him, he knew your name, and knew the effect it would have on me. He’s really very clever for a pickpocket. And then he ran off, and I could not give chase. When I returned and told Hazoth that the thief had escaped, he was furious. He stormed about his library, making books jump off of their shelves, and his eyes glowed with magic. I thought he was going to turn on me and try to blast me with some spell. He has a terrible temper.”

“Did he hurt you? You said he punished you—what did he do? Cythera, tell me!” Croy wanted to grab up her hands or pull her into an embrace. He didn’t, of course. It would be his death.

“He cannot. His magic is no use against me. He can’t even have his guards beat me. And that just made him angrier. So he did the thing I’ve dreaded for so long. He turned on my mother instead.”

“The cur,” Croy swore.

“He has her in one of his rooms, trapped inside a magic circle. She has languished there for so long at his pleasure, but never before has he actually taken advantage of her imprisonment. I thought . . . I believed that when this time came, he would use magic against her. That he would wrack her with a curse, or perhaps attack her mind with his mind. But he didn’t.”

Cythera covered her face with her hands.

“He had her whipped,” she said. “With a plain leather bullwhip. Ten strokes across her back until the skin peeled away. And . . . he made me watch.” She lowered her hands and stared into his face. “He made me keep count.”

Croy stood up to his full height. “Wait here while I fetch my swords. I’ll kill him. I swear it, Cythera. I will slay him, and free you and your mother from his bonds, and then—”