“’Tis a pity you have decided not to cooperate, my young friend,” Wencit said, leaning one elbow on the back of Derry’s chair and holding the vial to the light to admire the color—in front of Derry’s face, where he could also see it. “Still, I suppose you have no more choice than I. They have managed to shield you well, this Morgan and his upstart prince. But alas, Deryni-given powers are subject to the same limitations as those Deryni-born—alas for you, that is. The contents of this vial will strip away all resistance.”

Derry swallowed dry-throated and stared at the vial. “What is it?” he found himself whispering.

“So, curiosity is not dead after all, is it? Frankly, though, you would know little more after I told you than before. The merasha is fairly common, but the rest…” Wencit chuckled as Derry clenched his teeth in apprehension. “Yes, you’ve heard about merasha, haven’t you? No matter. Rhydon, hold his head.”

As Derry’s head whipped around to search wildly for the second Deryni, he was already too late. Rhydon’s hands were immobilizing his head in a vise-like grip, pinning his head brutally against Rhydon’s chest. Rhydon knew the pressure points and applied them, and Derry felt his mouth opening, helpless as a baby’s.

Then the crimson fluid was rushing down his throat, searing his tongue and choking him as he fought not to swallow. He felt the blackness swoop down on him as Rhydon applied more pressure to force him to swallow. And then he was gulping it down, despite his best efforts to the contrary—once, twice, finally exploding in a frantic cough as his head was released.

His tongue was numb, a flat, metallic taste in his mouth, his lungs burning with the fire of the fluid that had passed so near. He coughed again and shook his head in an attempt to clear it, tried to will himself to vomit back what Wencit had forced upon him, but it was no use. As his coughing ceased and the fire subsided, he sensed his vision blurring, his limbs going slack. There came a great roaring in his ears, as though the most powerful wind in all creation were trying to blow him from time and space. Colors flashed and fused before his eyes, and yet it seemed to be growing darker.

He tried to lift his head, but it was too much effort. He tried to force his eyes to focus but could not. He saw the tips of Wencit’s velvet slippers by his chair legs as his head lolled helplessly to the right; heard the hated voice murmur something he should have been able to understand but could not.

Then the darkness claimed him.

THE cathedral had grown hushed as the Mass approached its climax, and Morgan tried desperately to force himself back to consciousness. He had caught a fleeting taste of the darkness just before it overwhelmed Derry, though he could not pinpoint its source or its subject, only knew that it had to be somehow connected with Derry, and that something was horribly wrong.