To the southeast, directly opposite the pass, more Torenthi soldiers were swarming around what must be Wencit’s own field camp, where the Torenthi sorcerer would probably go when Kelson’s army approached, and from there direct the battle. Of Kelson’s army he could see no sign as yet, but he knew that they must surely be on their way by now. Someone must have gotten through to warn him of what had happened to Jared’s men. He only hoped that when Kelson’s army came, it would be a united one, the internal factions resolved. He wondered if Morgan and Duncan had been able to make their peace with the archbishops.

With a sigh, Derry turned to regard his chains for at least the hundredth time and gave them a tentative rattle. There was no chance of gaining his freedom while he remained fettered here like an animal—and even if he somehow managed to escape the chains, he doubted he could go far with his wounds.

Even now, his leg was throbbing from standing upright, fresh twinges shooting up and down whenever he shifted his weight. His shoulder had stopped hurting a little with the enforced movement necessary to raise him to his present position, but he had a sinking feeling that it was this wound that was making him feel so lightheaded and feverish. He had tried to inspect the wound a few hours earlier, when the guards had brought his meager ration of water, but with little success. The bandage was wrapped tightly, and he had not been able to get at it. He wondered if the wound was beginning to fester.

The sound of a key in the lock broke his train of thought, and he turned painfully to peer at the door, bracing himself against his chains. The helmeted head of a guard was briefly thrust through the narrow opening; then the man stepped through the doorway and held the door for a tall, redheaded man in amber silks and furs: Wencit of Torenth, with Rhydon of Eastmarch close behind him.

Derry could not suppress a sharp intake of breath as the two Deryni entered the cell, and he stiffened warily. In the scant light from the single window, Wencit’s pale eyes looked almost aquamarine as he studied the prisoner from the open doorway, gloved hands fiddling with a slender leather whip dangling from his left wrist by a thong.

Derry drew himself as straight as he could manage, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg, the ringing in his ears, as Wencit moved a few steps closer. The guard stood impassively by the door, gazing straight ahead, and Rhydon leaned casually against the wall, one foot braced behind him, sinister-looking in deepest midnight blue.

“So,” said Wencit, “our prisoner is awake—and on his feet, too. Well done, lad. Your master would be proud of you.”

Derry did not reply, guessing that next Wencit would try to goad him to anger, and determined that the sorcerer should not succeed.