“We’re alone now,” Immer said, in the same gentle tone. “You need not fear witnesses to your weakness, your treachery.” In an instant, his expression shifted; the deep black eyes seemed flat as shiny river stones. “Any other witnesses, that is. You should fear me.” Then Immer’s eyes gained their depth again, and the man’s mouth curved in what could pass for a friendly smile. “But not yet. Now … are you worth your keep?”

Filis’s lips parted against his will, and he heard himself say, “Yes … lord.”

“Good,” Immer said, his smile wider. “Very good. Tell me … did your father find my ancestry in his archives?”

Filis tried again to stay silent, but as Immer’s expression shifted again and his eyes took on the fixed, flat stare … once more Filis heard his voice saying, “No, lord.”

“No Vaskronin in his archives?”

“No, lord.”

“And what of his own ancestry? Is it as high as he claims?”

“I…” His father had once claimed higher. Now he did not. Filis felt the wine, the drugs, and Immer’s power compelling him to speak, but this time he did not know which truth Immer wanted. “When?” he finally said.

“When? That’s not an answer. I ask the questions here.” Then Immer’s expression softened. “Your father traveled north … I have word he went to Lyonya and Tsaia and spoke to Kieri Phelan and King Mikeli of Tsaia. Is that so?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Why did he go?”

“I … do not know. I was not there when he left.”

“But he told you when he returned, I’m certain. What did he tell you, Filis?” A pause, then, “I heard a story that he found something in the archives, something that upset him, and he told those in the north … and he would have told you later. The story I heard was he found his ancestry was tainted. Is that true?”

Filis almost choked, but the words escaped in spite of his resistance. “Yes, lord.”

“You see, it is no use resisting, Filis. The wine, the truth potion, my own powers—you are helpless. And yet you do have something I want and need.” Immer stood abruptly and walked around the chair, still talking, running his fingers lightly along Filis’s bare shoulders. “Your father … has contempt for me. I will not tolerate that. He has refused my requests—my polite requests. He must be made to submit to my rule. If courtesy will not serve, then I must try something else. This scar here, on your shoulder—how long have you had that?”

“Since I was nine winters,” Filis said. He shivered; Immer’s presence at his back was like a cold wind.

“Ah. So your family knows that scar. But one is not enough. Let’s see … this looks like a blade-cut, here on your upper arm. You weren’t holding your shield high enough.”