Bran squirmed in his chair, uneasy, looking as though he wanted to protest or even bolt. Wencit frowned, and his face went stern, his voice cold.

“Listen to me, Earl of Marley. If we are to be allies, you must begin trusting me sometime. This is the time. Do not make me force you.”

Bran took a deep breath and exhaled softly, further defiance deflating. “I’m sorry. What am I to do?”

Wencit’s visage softened and he set the crystal spinning again, his other hand firmly pushing Bran’s shoulders back in the chair.

“Just relax and trust me. You have nothing to fear. Take another deep breath and let it out. Watch the crystal. Watch it spin and listen to the sound of my voice. As you watch the crystal spinning, spinning, your eyelids begin to grow heavy—so heavy that you cannot keep your eyes open. Let them close. And as the feeling of lethargy and calm comes over you, accept it. Take it in. Let it envelop and enfold you. Let your mind go blank and picture, if you will, a dark room of velvet night, with a dark door in the dark wall. And then imagine that dark door slowly opening, and cool darkness beyond….”

Bran’s eyes had closed, his breathing slowed, and Wencit lowered the crystal as his voice droned on. His words became fewer and farther apart as his subject relaxed. Then he reached out and touched the man’s eyelids with thumb and forefinger, murmured the words of magic that sealed the trance. He was silent for a long moment, his own coldly glowing eyes hooded and distant. Then he lowered his hand and spoke softly.

“Look at me now, Bran Coris.”

Bran’s eyes fluttered open and he looked around, remembering with a start just what it was that was supposed to have happened. When he saw that Wencit had not moved, that his benevolent expression was unchanged, he willed himself to relax and assess the situation as best he could. This time, as he looked up at the sorcerer king, he felt no apprehension. He sensed instead that some sort of unforeseen rapport had been formed; that though the man before him now knew all there was to know about Bran Coris Earl of Marley, it did not matter.

It was not a feeling of bondage; Bran would have chafed under that. Nor would Wencit of Torenth have desired that in one who was to be his ally. It was more a sense of comprehension, even fulfillment; a satisfying and even reassuring feeling, not at all repelling, as a part of him had feared it might be. Though his mind still reeled at the raw power of what had been done to him, he sensed that new knowledge had been imparted, could he but recall it; a subtle scent of empowerment, too tenuous to be assessed as yet. He decided that he liked what he felt.

His attention snapped back to reality as Wencit stood up.