He turned away thoughtfully and paced a slow circle in the straw, musing aloud as he walked.

“So, it is not loss of life you fear, but it is loss. But loss of what, I wonder? Of station? Of wealth? Of honor?” He turned to face Derry again. “Is it that, Derry? Is it the loss of honor, of integrity, that you fear most? And if so, what kind of integrity? Of body? Of soul? Of mind?”

Derry allowed himself no answer, forcing himself instead to gaze serenely past Wencit’s head and to focus on a thin crack in the wall behind him. There he spied a spider spinning a thin, fragile web to span the crack. He decided that he would concentrate on counting the strands in the spider’s web so that he could ignore the words of the despicable—

Snap!

Pain burned across Derry’s face like a saber cut as Wencit’s whip lashed out.

“You are not paying attention, Derry!” the master barked. “I warn you, I don’t tolerate dull pupils!”

Derry suppressed the instinct to cringe away and forced himself to face his tormentor. Wencit was standing not an arm’s length away, the hated whip dangling from his wrist by that blasted thong. The sorcerer’s eyes glowed like twin pools of quicksilver.

“Now,” said Wencit softly, “you will listen to what I have to say, Sean Lord Derry. And you will not ignore me, or I will hurt you. I will hurt you again and again until you either pay attention or die. And the dying will not be easy, I promise you. Are you listening?”

Derry managed a stiff nod and forced himself to pay attention. His lips were dry, his tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth, and he could feel something warm and wet trickling down his cheek where the whip had seared.

“Very good,” Wencit murmured, trailing the lash of his whip along Derry’s cheek and neck. “Now, your first lesson for today is to realize—and to realize fully—that I hold your life in my hands, quite literally. If I wished, I could make you beg for oblivion, whine for merciful death to end the torments I can bring.”

Without warning, his free hand lanced out to twist Derry’s wounded bicep. Derry cried out involuntarily, half-fainting with the pain, but it was gone almost before it could fully register.

“Look at me,” Wencit said softly. And Derry, to his horror, found himself lifting his gaze obediently. Wencit’s hand still rested lightly on the wounded shoulder, but Derry tried not to anticipate what the sorcerer might do next.

“Oh, did I hurt you?” Wencit purred, kneading Derry’s shoulder with gentle fingers as he smiled a different sort of smile. “Ah, but that is not my ultimate intention. I have no need to torture you, for I already possess all the power over you that I could possibly want or need. You are already conditioned to obey me. And though your mind may shrink from what I require, and may balk, your body will perform whatever I command.”