“I thank you, Rhydon.”

“It was my pleasure, Sire.”

Derry swallowed hard, not trusting himself to do more, and tried to still the gibbering fear that still nipped at the edge of his mind. He told himself that they would not let that thing have him, at least not until they learned from him what they wanted to know, but the thought did little to ease his fear. Gradually he willed his ragged breathing to slow. His head ached with the effort the whole thing had cost him.

“So, my young friend,” Wencit said silkily, leaning his hands on Derry’s chair arms once more, “do we feed you to the caradots? Or do we find some better use for you? I rather got the impression that you didn’t like our little pet…though I’m certain he liked you.”

Derry swallowed again, overcoming a wave of nausea, and Wencit chuckled.

“No caradots? What do you think, Rhydon?”

Rhydon’s voice was sleek and cold. “Methinks a more suitable fate might be found for him, Sire. I like this sport as well as you, but we must not forget that Sean Lord Derry is an earl and the son of an earl, a man of gentle birth. Hardly proper caradot fare, do you not agree?”

“But the beast seemed so taken with him,” Wencit pouted, his eyes laughing as Derry shrank back in the chair. “Still, you are doubtless right. Sean Lord Derry alive is a far more valuable commodity to me than Sean Lord Derry dead—though he may wish for death before this night is done.” He straightened to fold his arms across his chest and stare down at Derry with an indulgent smile.

“Now, you will begin by telling us everything you know of King Kelson’s strength, both military and arcane. And when you have finished that, you will tell us all there is to know about this Morgan of yours.”

Derry stiffened in outrage, his blue eyes flashing defiance. “Never! I’ll not betray—”

“Enough!” Wencit did not raise his voice, but his single word lashed Derry into silence. “Do not tell me what you will and will not do!” So saying, he leaned down closer to Derry with a terrible intensity. For an instant, the gaze caught and held, the pale eyes swimming in Derry’s vision like twin pools of molten metal. Then Derry was wrenching his gaze away, turning his head to squeeze his eyes shut in desperation, knowing—but not knowing how he knew—that Wencit had tried to Truth-Read him. He could not bear the touch of that alien mind.

He risked opening his eyes a crack and saw Wencit straightening in faint disbelief, the rust-colored brows slightly furrowed. The sorcerer eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then crossed the chamber to the leather-bound trunk set against the right-hand wall. Lifting the lid, he rummaged inside for a long moment.

When he straightened and turned, one hand held a small crystal vial filled with a white, opalescent liquid. His other hand held one of earthenware, from which he decanted four golden drops of a clear fluid into the opalescent white. The opaline fluid turned a glittering, swirling red, like luminous blood, as Wencit held it to the torchlight. He swirled the contents of the vial with slow, circular movements of his hand as he turned and strolled back toward his captive.