The first nineteen years of my life had been a contest between my father and myself. I won it because I’d learned control at the hands of a master. Control, Stala said, was the thing that kept you alive. Control your emotions, control your body, and you were more likely to survive a battle than a man who could not. Control had become something of a religion for me—a means of survival and a way to differentiate myself from my father.

I stared at the worn pottery pitcher.

To survive, I’d have to throw away that control and trust my instincts. Trust that even drugged, I wouldn’t fight the pain.

There was a murmur outside my door. “. . . take four men this time, Jerron won’t be using that hand for a month.”

Guards.

I took the pitcher in my hand and remembered the sour taste of fear, knowing that I had to deceive two wizards into believing they’d broken me completely. Or I would lose.

Drinking that water was one of the most difficult things I had ever done. Only losing would have been harder.

Writhing monsters came into my cell. One had yellow snakes with black eyes growing out the sides of his head. They stared at me with dead eyes that laughed at my struggles to break free of the myriad hands that gripped me.

The monsters took me to see the green-eyed mage. He did things to my head and to my body, things that left me shaking and nauseated, things that didn’t leave so much as a bruise.

He used magic to hurt me, but it was only pain. I knew its nature and its name; it had nothing more to teach me. When the wizard brought agony in liquid waves over my body, I accepted it and became it. My body cried out and fought, but my mind rode the fiery demon and was untouched. I had my limits. I could tell that eventually the pain would devour me, but for now I was safe.

The wizard didn’tsee . He observed the surrender of my body without seeing the patience that waited beneath.

After a few days the demons who dragged me from cell to wizard’s den and back quit being frightened of me. When I cried, they seemed sad.

“He was a rare fighter,” said one. “I’d have liked to have him at my back.”

“You want an insane man fighting at your back,” bleated a little sheep—

“Lad,”corrected my little voice.“Just a boy, not a sheep.” As always the pain had made the voice closer to me—if I wanted to, I could see as the voice did. Later the remnants of the session would make it difficult to hear my silent, hidden self. I blinked carefully and saw a boy, younger than Tosten.