The other cut him off with a wave of his arm. A fresh column of steam rose from his ethereal form, a white cloud against the darkness.

–Tried, did you? How very fortunate for me that you didn’t try too hard. You do try too hard sometimes, Calyx! And it causes you to do too much of what you want so much to do. Doesn’t it–“Yes, Master,” the minder answered meekly. The wintry gaze shifted to Kirisin and settled on him like a great weight. There was the promise of suffering and death in that gaze, of agonizing hours of traveling from the first to the second, hours that would steal his sanity and leave him a mindless husk. The boy wanted badly to look away, but the other’s eyes held him in shackles he could not break.

One cloaked arm gestured slightly, beckoning him.

–Rise–Though Kirisin had no intention of doing so, though he wasn’t even sure his legs would let him, he jerked to his feet obediently, a puppet dangling from invisible strings, trembling in the specter’s presence.

–What of Culph, boy–“Dead,” Kirisin answered at once, unable to help himself.

–The Tracker, Tragen–“Dead.”

–Delloreen, too–Kirisin hesitated.

–The one who tracked the female Knight of the Word–“Dead,” Kirisin replied. There was a long silence as the old man studied him, a shadowy image that had something of the substance and presence of flesh and blood. Power radiated from the specter, power born of experience gained, skill acquired, battles survived, and enemies overcome. Power born of years of staying alive while others died.

The gaze shifted back to the minder. A smile twisted the old man’s mouth, cold and frightening.

–That wasn’t so hard, was it, Calyx? Simple answers to simple questions. An understanding reached by a meeting of eyes and minds. You should try it–He turned back again to Kirisin, the smile still in place.

–You’ve done well, boy. Another few moments of your time and you may sit down again. You are the boy who retrieved the Elfstone that they call the Loden–Kirisin fought back the urge to scream his frustration. “Yes.”

–What have you done with it–“I dropped it when the skrails took me.”

Another long silence, and then all at once a terrible vise closed about the boy, a slow crushing force that threatened to break his bones and explode his flesh. He tried to scream out his pain and found he couldn’t. He could only stand where he was; he could only endure.

Then the vise was released, and he crumpled to the ground in a quaking heap, gasping for air, fighting for consciousness.

The old man’s voice was a whisper in the ensuing silence.