With a sly smile, Wencit ran a gloved hand lightly down Derry’s body from shoulder to hip, then stood back to tap his whip thoughtfully against an elegantly booted leg. After a moment, he tossed the whip to Rhydon and pulled the cuffs of his gloves taut, first one and then the other, gazing disdainfully at Derry all the while.

“Tell me, have you ever been blessed?” he asked at last, interlocking his fingers to further smooth the fit of the gloves. “Has a holy man ever made the sacred signs above your head?”

Derry’s brow furrowed as Wencit lifted his right hand in an attitude of benediction, for he could not fathom where Wencit was heading.

“Well, I fear that I am not a holy man; but then, this is not really a blessing, either,” Wencit continued. “You will recall that we spoke earlier of loss of integrity—integrity of body, soul, mind. I think that we begin with the soul, Sean Lord Derry. And by this sign, I place you in my thrall.”

The upraised hand descended slowly, the fingers curled in a perfect mimicry of priestly blessing, then passed smoothly to the right, then right to left. As the hand passed before Derry’s eyes, he felt an eerie lethargy possess him, sending leaden coldness through his limbs. He gasped, unable to comprehend what was happening to his mind, then groaned as Wencit touched the shackles at his wrists and released him.

His legs would not support him. His limbs were nerveless, uncontrollable. As his knees started to give way, he felt strong arms beneath his, bearing him up. His head lolled helplessly against the stones of the cell wall, his hair catching painfully on the rough stone and mortar. Then the pale eyes were boring into his and looming closer, a cruel, ravening mouth pressing against his in a hard, obscene kiss.

When it ended, Derry slid from his captor’s arms to slump helplessly against the wall, eyes tightly closed, jaws tensed in revulsion, his body trembling in unbidden response. As he buried his face against his aching arms, he could hear Wencit laughing through a thick, heavy fog, and Rhydon chuckling with him like a mocking echo.

Then Wencit’s boot was prodding him insistently in the side, and he was lifting his head to gaze up queasily. Wencit smiled and glanced at Rhydon, who had watched all in amusement, then held out his hand for Rhydon’s dagger. Rhydon flipped it through the air with an easy grace, and Wencit caught it. The hilt was gold, studded with pearls, and the blade gleamed cold and deadly in the gloom as Wencit stooped down to set the tip under Derry’s chin.

“Ah, how you hate me,” he said in a low voice. “You are thinking that if you could only get your hands on this weapon, you would stab me in the heart or slit my throat for what I have said and done to you. Well, you shall have your chance.”