Before Derry could react to that declaration, Wencit suddenly crossed the remaining two paces to Derry’s chair and laid the edge of his dagger hard against Derry’s throat. Derry’s eyes closed briefly as he braced himself for death, but he knew this was not yet his time—as did Wencit. The Torenthi sorcerer watched Derry’s face carefully for some sign of yielding as he exerted pressure, but there was none, and none expected.

With a slight smile, Wencit withdrew the blade and set its tip under the top lacing of Derry’s leather jerkin—and cut the thong. Derry started as the leather gave, but he forced himself to remain impassive as Wencit continued moving slowly down the row of lacings, cutting each in turn.

“Do you know, Derry,” cut, “I have often wondered what it is about Alaric Morgan that inspires such loyalty in his followers,” cut. “Or Kelson and those other rather strange Haldane predecessors of his,” cut. “Not too many men could sit here silently as you do,” cut, “refusing to talk, though they surely can guess what unpleasantness awaits them,” cut, “and still remain loyal to a leader who is far away and can never hope to help them out of this, even if he knew.”

Wencit’s blade hooked in another thong and moved to cut, but this time the blade was stopped by something that clinked metallic. Wencit had reached mid-chest level, and he raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise as he looked up at Derry.

“Why, what is this?” he asked, cocking his head wistfully. “Why, Derry, there seems to be something stopping my blade, doesn’t there?” He tried a few more sharp, downward strokes, again with no other result than a dull clink.

“Rhydon, what do you suppose it is?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Sire,” the darker man murmured, collecting himself and strolling to Derry’s other side.

“Nor I,” Wencit purred, using the dagger as a retractor to pull aside the edge of the jerkin until a sturdy silver chain was revealed. The ends of the chain disappeared under Derry’s shirt. “Why, look at this.”

With a questioning glance at Derry, Wencit flicked the end of his blade under the chain and began slowly withdrawing it until a heavy silver medallion appeared.

“A holy medal?” Wencit asked, his mouth twitching at the corners. “How touching, Rhydon. He carries it next to his heart.”

Rhydon chuckled. “One is tempted to ask what saint he believes could protect him from you, Sire. But I daresay, there is none.”

“No, there is not,” Wencit agreed, glancing at the medal, then lifting it closer with the tip of his blade for a better look. “Saint Camber?”

His eyes seemed to darken to pools of indigo as he glanced up at Derry’s face, and Derry felt his heart miss a beat. Slowly, deliberately, Wencit bent to scan the words incised around the rim, scorn edging his voice as he read them aloud.

“Sanctus Camberus, libera nos ab omnibus malis—deliver us from every evil….”