“Of course,” Wencit continued languidly, “praise from such a master should not be valued too highly. After all, a man who is craven and a traitor is hardly likely to inspire too much loyalty, now is he?”

Affront blazed in Derry’s eyes, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. He did not know how long he would be able to endure Wencit’s taunts; his temper, he knew, was sometimes a fault. His fever was affecting his ability to think clearly.

“Then, you agree?” Wencit asked, when Derry did not reply, arching an eyebrow and stepping closer still. “I had expected better of you, young Derry. But, then, that probably reflects on the man who trained you, does it not? For some say that you and Alaric Morgan are very close, my friend—far closer than your people deem proper; that you and he share…secrets….”

Derry averted his gaze and turned his face away, trying not to listen, but Wencit flicked the end of his whip very near Derry’s face, hateful blue eyes veiled by pale lashes.

“No reaction, Derry? Come now, let us not be coy. Is it true that you and Morgan are—how shall I put it?—intimate companions? That you share his bed as well as his powers?”

With a mindless cry, Derry flung himself at his tormentor, trying to swing the chains on his wrists to smash at the leering face. But Wencit had calculated to the fraction of an inch, and stood his ground without flinching, just beyond the reach of the chains. With a moan, Derry collapsed to the floor at the end of his bonds. Wencit regarded him disdainfully, then signaled the guard to haul him to his feet.

His chains were drawn taut through their rings and fastened, leaving Derry spread-eagled against the wall, half-dangling. Again Wencit studied his half-fainting captive, tapping his whip lightly against a gloved palm, then dismissed the guard with a curt nod. The door closed behind the jailer with a groan of un-oiled hinges, and a bored-looking Rhydon shot home the inside bolt and stationed himself against the heavy door, blocking the spy hole.

“So, there is pride left in you yet, eh, my young friend?” Wencit said, moving close to Derry and lifting his chin with the end of the whip. “What else has Morgan taught you that must be unlearned?”

Derry made himself focus on Wencit’s right ear and tried to pull himself together. He should never have lashed out like that. It had been exactly what Wencit wanted. It was this damned fever, clouding his judgment. If only he could think more clearly…

Wencit withdrew his whip, satisfied that he now had his captive’s attention, and began playing with the thong that held the lash to his wrist.

“Tell me, Derry, what is it that you fear most? Is it death?” Derry gave no reaction. “No, I see by your eyes that it is not death alone. You have mastered that fear—unhappily for you. For this means that I must draw out yet more fearsome terrors from the dark recesses of your soul.”