High Deryni (32 page)

Derry drew himself as straight as he could manage, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg, the ringing in his ears, as Wencit moved a few steps closer. The guard stood impassively by the door, gazing straight ahead, and Rhydon leaned casually against the wall, one foot braced behind him, sinister-looking in deepest midnight blue.

“So,” said Wencit, “our prisoner is awake—and on his feet, too. Well done, lad. Your master would be proud of you.”

Derry did not reply, guessing that next Wencit would try to goad him to anger, and determined that the sorcerer should not succeed.

“Of course,” Wencit continued languidly, “praise from such a master should not be valued too highly. After all, a man who is craven and a traitor is hardly likely to inspire too much loyalty, now is he?”

Affront blazed in Derry's eyes, but he forced himself to hold his tongue. He did not know how long he would be able to endure Wencit's taunts; his temper, he knew, was sometimes a fault. His fever was affecting his ability to think clearly.

“Then, you agree?” Wencit asked, when Derry did not reply, arching an eyebrow and stepping closer still. “I had expected better of you, young Derry. But, then, that probably reflects on the man who trained you, does it not? For some say that you and Alaric Morgan are very close, my friend—far closer than your people deem proper; that you and he share…secrets….”

Derry averted his gaze and turned his face away, trying not to listen, but Wencit flicked the end of his whip very near Derry's face, hateful blue eyes veiled by pale lashes.

“No reaction, Derry? Come now, let us not be coy. Is it true that you and Morgan are—how shall I put it?—intimate companions? That you share his bed as well as his powers?”

With a mindless cry, Derry flung himself at his tormentor, trying to swing the chains on his wrists to smash at the leering face. But Wencit had calculated to the fraction of an inch, and stood his ground without flinching, just beyond the reach of the chains. With a moan, Derry collapsed to the floor at the end of his bonds. Wencit regarded him disdainfully, then signaled the guard to haul him to his feet.

His chains were drawn taut through their rings and fastened, leaving Derry spread-eagled against the wall, half-dangling. Again Wencit studied his half-fainting captive, tapping his whip lightly against a gloved palm, then dismissed the guard with a curt nod. The door closed behind the jailer with a groan of un-oiled hinges, and a bored-looking Rhydon shot home the inside bolt and stationed himself against the heavy door, blocking the spy hole.

“So, there is pride left in you yet, eh, my young friend?” Wencit said, moving close to Derry and lifting his chin with the end of the whip. “What else has Morgan taught you that must be unlearned?”

Derry made himself focus on Wencit's right ear and tried to pull himself together. He should never have lashed out like that. It had been exactly what Wencit wanted. It was this damned fever, clouding his judgment. If only he could think more clearly…

Wencit withdrew his whip, satisfied that he now had his captive's attention, and began playing with the thong that held the lash to his wrist.

“Tell me, Derry, what is it that you fear most? Is it death?” Derry gave no reaction. “No, I see by your eyes that it is not death alone. You have mastered that fear—unhappily for you. For this means that I must draw out yet more fearsome terrors from the dark recesses of your soul.”

He turned away thoughtfully and paced a slow circle in the straw, musing aloud as he walked.

“So, it is not loss of life you fear, but it is loss. But loss of what, I wonder? Of station? Of wealth? Of honor?” He turned to face Derry again. “Is it that, Derry? Is it the loss of honor, of integrity, that you fear most? And if so, what kind of integrity? Of body? Of soul? Of mind?”

Derry allowed himself no answer, forcing himself instead to gaze serenely past Wencit's head and to focus on a thin crack in the wall behind him. There he spied a spider spinning a thin, fragile web to span the crack. He decided that he would concentrate on counting the strands in the spider's web so that he could ignore the words of the despicable—

Snap!

Pain burned across Derry's face like a saber cut as Wencit's whip lashed out.

“You are not paying attention, Derry!” the master barked. “I warn you, I don't tolerate dull pupils!”

Derry suppressed the instinct to cringe away and forced himself to face his tormentor. Wencit was standing not an arm's length away, the hated whip dangling from his wrist by that blasted thong. The sorcerer's eyes glowed like twin pools of quicksilver.

“Now,” said Wencit softly, “you will listen to what I have to say, Sean Lord Derry. And you will not ignore me, or I
will
hurt you. I will hurt you again and again until you either pay attention or die. And the dying will not be easy, I promise you. Are you listening?”

Derry managed a stiff nod and forced himself to pay attention. His lips were dry, his tongue felt two sizes too big for his mouth, and he could feel something warm and wet trickling down his cheek where the whip had seared.

“Very good,” Wencit murmured, trailing the lash of his whip along Derry's cheek and neck. “Now, your first lesson for today is to realize—and to realize fully—that I hold your life in my hands, quite literally. If I wished, I could make you beg for oblivion, whine for merciful death to end the torments I can bring.”

Without warning, his free hand lanced out to twist Derry's wounded bicep. Derry cried out involuntarily, half-fainting with the pain, but it was gone almost before it could fully register.

“Look at me,” Wencit said softly. And Derry, to his horror, found himself lifting his gaze obediently. Wencit's hand still rested lightly on the wounded shoulder, but Derry tried not to anticipate what the sorcerer might do next.

“Oh, did I hurt you?” Wencit purred, kneading Derry's shoulder with gentle fingers as he smiled a different sort of smile. “Ah, but that is not my ultimate intention. I have no need to torture you, for I already possess all the power over you that I could possibly want or need. You are already conditioned to obey me. And though your mind may shrink from what I require, and may balk, your body will perform whatever I command.”

With a sly smile, Wencit ran a gloved hand lightly down Derry's body from shoulder to hip, then stood back to tap his whip thoughtfully against an elegantly booted leg. After a moment, he tossed the whip to Rhydon and pulled the cuffs of his gloves taut, first one and then the other, gazing disdainfully at Derry all the while.

“Tell me, have you ever been blessed?” he asked at last, interlocking his fingers to further smooth the fit of the gloves. “Has a holy man ever made the sacred signs above your head?”

Derry's brow furrowed as Wencit lifted his right hand in an attitude of benediction, for he could not fathom where Wencit was heading.

“Well, I fear that I am not a holy man; but then, this is not really a blessing, either,” Wencit continued. “You will recall that we spoke earlier of loss of integrity—integrity of body, soul, mind. I think that we begin with the soul, Sean Lord Derry. And by this sign, I place you in my thrall.”

The upraised hand descended slowly, the fingers curled in a perfect mimicry of priestly blessing, then passed smoothly to the right, then right to left. As the hand passed before Derry's eyes, he felt an eerie lethargy possess him, sending leaden coldness through his limbs. He gasped, unable to comprehend what was happening to his mind, then groaned as Wencit touched the shackles at his wrists and released him.

His legs would not support him. His limbs were nerveless, uncontrollable. As his knees started to give way, he felt strong arms beneath his, bearing him up. His head lolled helplessly against the stones of the cell wall, his hair catching painfully on the rough stone and mortar. Then the pale eyes were boring into his and looming closer, a cruel, ravening mouth pressing against his in a hard, obscene kiss.

When it ended, Derry slid from his captor's arms to slump helplessly against the wall, eyes tightly closed, jaws tensed in revulsion, his body trembling in unbidden response. As he buried his face against his aching arms, he could hear Wencit laughing through a thick, heavy fog, and Rhydon chuckling with him like a mocking echo.

Then Wencit's boot was prodding him insistently in the side, and he was lifting his head to gaze up queasily. Wencit smiled and glanced at Rhydon, who had watched all in amusement, then held out his hand for Rhydon's dagger. Rhydon flipped it through the air with an easy grace, and Wencit caught it. The hilt was gold, studded with pearls, and the blade gleamed cold and deadly in the gloom as Wencit stooped down to set the tip under Derry's chin.

“Ah, how you hate me,” he said in a low voice. “You are thinking that if you could only get your hands on this weapon, you would stab me in the heart or slit my throat for what I have said and done to you. Well, you shall have your chance.”

Without further ado, Wencit reversed the dagger to grasp the blade, then took Derry's right hand and wrapped it round the hilt of the weapon.

“Go ahead. Kill me, if you can.”

Derry froze for just an instant, unable to believe that Wencit would actually give him such an opportunity, then launched himself hysterically at his tormentor.

He never made it, of course. Wencit sidestepped neatly, easily wrenching Derry's fingers from the dagger's hilt, then pushed him back against the wall again, weak as a kitten. Unable to summon any resistance whatsoever, Derry watched dully as Wencit laughed and bent to slip the blade into the neck of his shirt, ripping down the front of the garment with one deft stroke and then parting the two halves to bare his victim's chest.

He then crouched down and brought his right hand to rest lightly on Derry's chest above the heart, the dagger balanced neatly on the fingers of his left. His eyes were cool and distant in the dim cell, and Derry knew with a sinking certainty that he was about to die.

What, in the name of all things holy, had ever made him think he could kill Wencit with a blade? Why, the man was a demon!—no, the Devil himself!

“So, you see, my dear Lord Derry, how very futile it all is,” Wencit said softly. “Your soul and will now are mine—and your body also, if I desire it. And you have lost even the power to kill. You cannot take
my
life…but I can order you to take your own, and you will obey me. Take the knife, Derry, and rest the point here by my hand, above your heart.”

As though he were watching someone else's hand, Derry saw his fingers close around the hilt of the dagger Wencit offered, the blade angled downward, Wencit's gloved hand closing over his. He watched with disbelief and dread as Wencit guided it to press lightly on the skin above his heart. He felt no sense of panic this time, no sense of struggle against what was happening. He knew that the hand was his and that it would kill him if Wencit so ordered. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Smiling, Wencit removed his hand and rocked back on his heels, balancing easily in the rustling straw.

“Now, we shall begin with just a shallow cut, barely drawing blood,” he said. “Do it.”

The knife moved smoothly beneath Derry's fascinated gaze, his hand guiding it along a fine line, no longer than the breadth of three fingers. Blood welled from the cut in tiny beads like jewels against his white skin, until the tip of the blade poised just below the breastbone, awaiting its next command.

“So we have drawn blood together, you and I,” Wencit whispered, his voice as soft as the silk he wore. “And now we may pause together on the brink of death, for just a little while. Make it so, my friend. Only a little pressure…and then we may converse with the angel of death in passing, here in this lonely cell of woe.”

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.