The point of the blade began to press into Derry’s flesh, more blood welling up where steel met flesh, and Derry’s face went gray. He could feel the blade piercing his skin, the cold sliver of death moving inexorably toward his heart—and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes against the sight and tried to calm his terror-stricken soul, calling on long-forgotten childhood saints and prayers in his despair.

Then Wencit’s hand was on his wrist once more, drawing the blade away, and there was a square of white silk pressing lightly against the hurt. Wencit took his right hand and did something to it that felt cold. But then the sorcerer was rising, a satisfied smile on his face, and turning to signal Rhydon that it was time to go.

Derry struggled to his elbows as the door opened, the knife forgotten in his hand, and watched as the blue-cloaked Rhydon withdrew into the darkened corridor. A guard brought a torch to light the dimness as Wencit paused in the doorway and looked back, raising his riding whip in salute.

“Rest now, my young friend,” he said, his eyes deep wells of pale sapphire in the torchlight. “I hope you have learned from our little diversion. For I do have a very important task in mind for you. It concerns you and Morgan, and how you shall work to betray him to me.”

Derry’s hand tightened around the dagger-hilt, and he suddenly remembered that he still had it. He tensed, hoping he could shield the weapon behind his body, but Wencit saw the movement and smiled.

“You may keep the toy. I doubt that Rhydon will miss it for a while. But I fear it will bring you no great amusement. You see, I cannot permit you to use it, my friend. But you will learn that soon enough.”

As the door closed and the key turned in the lock once more, Derry sighed and lay back in the straw in exhaustion, the dagger slipping from his shaking fingers. For a few moments he only lay there and closed his eyes tightly, trying to slow his racing heart and calm the horror of the past hour.

But as his mind cleared and his pains receded, Wencit’s words suddenly reverberated in his mind: You will betray him to me. With a hysterical sob, he rolled onto his side to bury his face against his good arm.

God! What had Wencit done to him? Had he heard aright? Oh, but he had! The sorcerer had said that Derry would betray his lord, that Derry would play Judas to his friend and liege lord, Morgan. No! It must not be!

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Derry felt around in the straw until he found the dagger again, snatched it up in feverish hands, and gazed at it in horror. He was distracted briefly by a strange ring glinting on his right forefinger, a ring he could not remember having seen before; but then the flash of the dagger blade caught his eye once more, and he was returned to his original purpose.