“You are pathetic, Stenmin. Stand up!” The sharp command cut through the stillness and the bent figure of the mystic snapped upright. “Advise me what I should do,” Palance ordered sharply. “Do I have everyone killed-will that protect me?”

In an instant Stenmin was back at his side, the sharp eyes cold with fury.

“Call your guard, my Lord. Dispose of these assassins now!”

Suddenly Palance seemed to waver, his tall frame drooping, his eyes glancing at the walls of the cellar in studied concentration of the stonework. Menion sensed that the Prince of Callahorn was again losing his grip on reality and falling back into the clouded world of madness that had impaired his once sound reason. Stenmin recognized it as well, a grim smile creeping over his dark face, his hand coming up to stroke the small pointed beard. Then abruptly, Palance spoke once more.

“No, there will be no soldiers… no killing. A King must be a man of judgment… Balinor is my brother, though he wishes to be King in my place. He and I must talk now… he is not to be harmed… not harmed.” His voice trailed off and he smiled unexpectedly at Menion. “You brought Shirl back to me… I thought I had lost her, you know. Why… would you do that… if you were an enemy…?”

Stenmin screamed in fury, grasping furiously at the other’s tunic, but the Prince did not seem to realize he was even there.

“It is difficult for me… to think clearly, Balinor,” Palance continued in a low whisper, shaking his head slowly. “Nothing is clear anymore… I don’t even feel angry toward you for wanting to be King. I have always… wanted to be King. I have, you know. But I have to have… friends… someone to talk to. . .”

He turned dispassionately toward Stenmin, his eyes blank and expressionless. Something his adviser saw there caused the mystic to release his grip on the other’s arm and shrink limply back against the stone wall, his jaw sagging in fear. Only Menion was close enough to realize what had happened. Whatever hold the evil mystic had managed to secure over Palance Buckhannah was gone. The man’s already muddled thought processes had been pushed beyond the brink of even basic comprehension of identities, and Stenmin was now no more than another face in a sea of indistinguishable beings that haunted the nightmare world of the maddened Prince of Callahorn.

“Palance, listen to me,” Menion called softly to him, reaching through the web of darkness to the man beneath for just an instant. The broad figure turned slightly. “Call Shirl down from her room. Call Shirl and she will help you.”

The Prince hesitated for a moment as if trying to remember, then a small smile crossed his haggard face and a deep calm seemed to settle through his whole body. He remembered her soft voice, her gentle manner, her fragile beauty-memories that recalled peace and serenity, moments of deep affection that he had never found with any other human being. If he could just be with her for a while…