AT noon in Cardosa, the sun beat down fiercely in the thin mountain air, even though patches of snow still lay in the deep crannies and crevices of the mountains. Earlier that morning, Wencit, Rhydon, and Wencit’s kinsman Lionel had ridden down the Cardosa Defile to meet with Bran Coris and those of Wencit’s officers who were now assisting him in the deployment of Wencit’s assault forces. The defense works had been inspected, and now Wencit and his entourage drew rein before the great, flame-colored pavilion where the Torenthi king would make his headquarters once the enemy arrived.

Soldiers in Wencit’s black and white Furstán livery swarmed around the slight rise where the royal pavilion had been erected, setting tent poles and lines and seeing to the installation of those items of personal comfort that Wencit considered essential to any field operation.

The tent was enormous. A giant, onion-shaped dome of flame-colored silk, it covered an area easily the size of Wencit’s great hall at Beldour. Inside, the structure was divided into half a dozen separate rooms, the walls hung with heavy tapestries and furs designed both to beautify and to keep out sound and heat. Within these walls was ample space to hold any sort of conference that Wencit might have wished, but he judged the day too fair to be confined indoors, so had gestured for the major-domo to place chairs on the rich carpet laid before the enclosure.

As servants scurried to set up the chairs and stools required, one of Wencit’s personal body servants came to take his master’s cloak, which was mud-spattered and waterlogged from the ride down the defile. Another offered a khaftan-like robe of heavy amber silk, which Wencit shrugged on over his damp and stained riding leathers. He sat back in a leather camp chair and permitted yet another servant to exchange his boots for dry slippers, then watched as the major-domo poured steaming darja tea into fragile porcelain cups.

Wencit nodded benignly at his colleagues, inviting them to sit in the chairs that the servants had prepared; then, with his own hand, he took a cup from the tray that the major-domo offered and held it out to Bran Coris.

“Drink and be refreshed, my young friend,” he said in a low voice, smiling as Bran leaned forward to take the cup. “I am exceedingly pleased.”

As Bran took the cup, Wencit lifted two more and passed them to Rhydon and Lionel, who nodded their thanks before settling back with their tea. The Torenthi king smiled as he inhaled deeply of a fourth cup he took for himself, balancing it between the fingers of his two hands.

“Indeed, I am quite intrigued and impressed with the diversion which you have devised for our adversaries,” the sorcerer continued, watching the ripples his breath created on the steaming darja. “You have also done a commendable job of integrating our two forces, of multiplying our strengths and neutralizing any weaknesses. Lionel, we are fortunate to have such an ally.”

Lionel lifted his cup in salute, then sipped at the hot tea.

“It is fortunate that our Lord of Marley chose to join us, Sire. He might have proven a troublesome opponent. He has an uncanny ability for making…creative use of all available resources.” Lionel’s dark eyes were capable of flaying a man with a glance when he was angered, but today they were warm, almost cordial, almost as though he and the young human lord had found some subtle bond of kinship. “Even I have learned from him, Sire,” Lionel added, almost as an afterthought.

“Have you, indeed?” Wencit chuckled gently.

Bran, basking in the approval of two Torenthi princes, took a careful sip of his steaming tea and relaxed, apparently unaware of the scrutiny he was receiving from Rhydon. After a silent moment while the four men drank, Rhydon spoke.

“Sire, it occurs to me that we have heard no report of the Cassani prisoners since their capture,” he said, eyeing Bran over the rim of his cup. “The diversion that Bran and my Lord Lionel have conceived is…ingenious. Would that I had thought of it myself. Most assuredly, the effect on morale among King Kelson’s supporters will be profound, if not shattering. But the Cassani prisoners—I would point out that some of them are of high rank, indeed, and exceedingly valuable. Or have plans been made for them of which I am not aware?”

Lionel chuckled, a low, dangerous sound, idly fingering the end of his braid. “You seem to suggest that Bran and I must justify our actions to you,” he said mildly. “However, you need not concern yourself with the plans for the Cassani prisoners.”

“Can it be that you expect my opposition, then?”

“I expect no interference from you,” Lionel said pointedly. “We have been given leave to use the prisoners to our best advantage—and that is precisely what we shall do. Other than that, you need know nothing more.”

Wencit smiled, vaguely amused by the exchange. “Now, Rhydon, you must not quarrel with my kinsman. Even I am not privy to all the details of this campaign; nor do I wish to be. I depend upon my lords of battle and advisors like Lionel to take care of those matters for me. I trust Lionel’s judgment just as I trust yours. And if he assures me that he is doing what is most expeditious, then I must assume that he is. Do you dispute me in this matter?”

“Of course not,” Rhydon replied, taking another sip of his darja. “It was not intended to make an issue of it. If I have, I apologize to all concerned.”

“Apology accepted,” Wencit nodded idly.

Rhydon turned his cup in his fingers before continuing. “I have had an additional message from General Licken since this morning’s dispatches, by the way. His advance patrols confirm that King Kelson’s army should be here no earlier than dusk, depending upon how much our diversion slows him up. We need fear no action before tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent.” Wencit turned in his chair and motioned to his major-domo, who had been waiting just out of earshot, and the man immediately brought out a large, leather-bound dispatch case studded at the corners with hammered gold. As the man withdrew, Wencit opened the box and leafed through a sheaf of already opened dispatches until he found the one he was looking for, then pulled it out with a grunt of approval. After making a short notation on it, he returned it to the box and pulled out another one, which he scanned briefly.

“Ah, here it is. I received some news this morning which concerns you, Bran,” he said, glancing up wistfully. “It seems that the Haldane princeling has learned of your defection and taken your family into custody.”

Bran stiffened, then slowly drew himself upright in his chair, his knuckles whitening around the cup he held.

“Why was I not told?”

“You are being told,” Wencit said, leaning forward to hand the dispatch across. “But do not distress yourself unduly. Your wife and son were taken at Dhassa, but they are in no immediate danger that we can ascertain. Read for yourself.”

Quickly Bran scanned down the dispatch, his lips compressing in a thin, tight line as he reached the end. “They are being brought here as hostages, yet you speak of no immediate danger?” His eyes lifted to Wencit’s defiantly. “Suppose Kelson tries to use them against me. Do you think that I could stand by idly while my son’s life was in danger? Could I watch him die?”

Rhydon raised an eyebrow, somewhat bemused by Bran’s reaction. “Come now, Bran. Surely you know your king better than that. You or I might threaten a man’s family to compel his obedience, but Kelson Haldane is not of that mettle. Besides,” he glanced at his nails, a coy, bored look, “you can always make more sons, can you not?”

Bran’s glare at Rhydon turned even more icy. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” he hissed.

Wencit chuckled and shook his head reprovingly. “Enough, Rhydon. You must not taunt our young friend. He does not understand our ways of banter. Bran, I have no intention of allowing your family to come to harm. Perhaps an exchange of hostages can be arranged. At any rate, Rhydon is correct in his assessment of Kelson. The young Haldane will not make war on innocent women and children.”

“I suppose you can guarantee that?”

Wencit’s smile faded and his eyes took on a steely glint. “I can guarantee to do my best,” he said softly, dangerously. “Will you not concede that my best is far more than you could possibly hope to accomplish on your own?”

Bran lowered his eyes, sharply reminded of his position—becoming more precarious by the second—and reined himself back at once. “I do beg your pardon, Sire. I did not mean to question your judgment. My concern was for my family.”

“If I thought otherwise, you would be dead,” Wencit said calmly, holding out his hand for the dispatch Bran still held.

Bran handed over the document without a word, carefully masking his discomfiture as Wencit returned the dispatch to its stack. After a pregnant silence, Wencit looked up again, his momentary anger apparently passed.

“Now, Rhydon. What word on our young Derry today? I trust that all is as it should be?”

“I am told that he is ready to see us,” Rhydon allowed.

“Good, then.” Wencit sipped at his cooling cup of darja, then drained it in a final swallow. “I think that you and I should go to see him.”

IN the dungeons deep beneath Cardosa Keep, in the fortress known as Esgair Ddu, Derry lay supine on a pile of dry straw, his wrists dragged to one side by the weight of the chains fixed to the wall. Feverish from his wounds, he had lain there for nearly a day now without attention beyond a cupful of brackish water to drink and a few crusts of stale bread. His stomach was a hard knot of hunger, and his head ached, but he forced himself to open his eyes and focus on the damp ceiling, finally mustering the strength to roll to his side and lift his head.

Aches. Throbbing pain in shoulder and head. A sharp twinge in his thigh as he tried to bend a cramped knee.

Gritting his teeth, he struggled to a sitting position, pulling himself up by the chains that stretched from his wrists to a pair of iron rings set in the wall above head-height.

He knew why the rings were there. The jailers who had brought him here initially had chained him, spread-eagled against the wall, while they worked him over with fists and riding whips until he mercifully passed out. Hours later, he had come to, huddled on the dank, musty straw where he now sat.

He wiped his sweaty face against the shoulder that was not wounded and blinked his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision, then set about pulling himself to his feet. There was a window over to the left of where his chains were secured. If he remembered the layout of Esgair Ddu correctly, he should be able to see part of the plain from here.

He steadied himself against the chains and caught his breath, then dragged himself to the window and peered out.

Far below on the plain, Wencit’s armies had moved into position. Slightly to the north, atop a small rise, someone had ranged the bowmen to take advantage of the altitude. North and east were the cavalry and infantry, arranged to employ a pincer movement if the opportunity should arise.

More of Wencit’s cavalry were moving down the pass to take up positions around the center of the encampment. Cavalry: the heart of Wencit’s fighting force. He could see a steady stream of damp and bedraggled horsemen riding onto the plain from where he knew the last ford must be; could almost hear the shouts of the captains as they kept their men in order and put them through their paces.

To the southeast, directly opposite the pass, more Torenthi soldiers were swarming around what must be Wencit’s own field camp, where the Torenthi sorcerer would probably go when Kelson’s army approached, and from there direct the battle. Of Kelson’s army he could see no sign as yet, but he knew that they must surely be on their way by now. Someone must have gotten through to warn him of what had happened to Jared’s men. He only hoped that when Kelson’s army came, it would be a united one, the internal factions resolved. He wondered if Morgan and Duncan had been able to make their peace with the archbishops.

With a sigh, Derry turned to regard his chains for at least the hundredth time and gave them a tentative rattle. There was no chance of gaining his freedom while he remained fettered here like an animal—and even if he somehow managed to escape the chains, he doubted he could go far with his wounds.

Even now, his leg was throbbing from standing upright, fresh twinges shooting up and down whenever he shifted his weight. His shoulder had stopped hurting a little with the enforced movement necessary to raise him to his present position, but he had a sinking feeling that it was this wound that was making him feel so lightheaded and feverish. He had tried to inspect the wound a few hours earlier, when the guards had brought his meager ration of water, but with little success. The bandage was wrapped tightly, and he had not been able to get at it. He wondered if the wound was beginning to fester.

The sound of a key in the lock broke his train of thought, and he turned painfully to peer at the door, bracing himself against his chains. The helmeted head of a guard was briefly thrust through the narrow opening; then the man stepped through the doorway and held the door for a tall, redheaded man in amber silks and furs: Wencit of Torenth, with Rhydon of Eastmarch close behind him.

Derry could not suppress a sharp intake of breath as the two Deryni entered the cell, and he stiffened warily. In the scant light from the single window, Wencit’s pale eyes looked almost aquamarine as he studied the prisoner from the open doorway, gloved hands fiddling with a slender leather whip dangling from his left wrist by a thong.

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.

“You may keep the toy. I doubt that Rhydon will miss it for a while. But I fear it will bring you no great amusement. You see, I cannot permit you to use it, my friend. But you will learn that soon enough.”

As the door closed and the key turned in the lock once more, Derry sighed and lay back in the straw in exhaustion, the dagger slipping from his shaking fingers. For a few moments he only lay there and closed his eyes tightly, trying to slow his racing heart and calm the horror of the past hour.

But as his mind cleared and his pains receded, Wencit’s words suddenly reverberated in his mind: You will betray him to me. With a hysterical sob, he rolled onto his side to bury his face against his good arm.

God! What had Wencit done to him? Had he heard aright? Oh, but he had! The sorcerer had said that Derry would betray his lord, that Derry would play Judas to his friend and liege lord, Morgan. No! It must not be!

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Derry felt around in the straw until he found the dagger again, snatched it up in feverish hands, and gazed at it in horror. He was distracted briefly by a strange ring glinting on his right forefinger, a ring he could not remember having seen before; but then the flash of the dagger blade caught his eye once more, and he was returned to his original purpose.

Wencit was responsible for all of this. A horrible cusp had been reached, and now Wencit controlled Derry’s body just as certainly as he controlled his lowest underlings. He had said that he would make Derry betray his master, and Derry had no doubt that Wencit could do it, if he said he would. He had also forbidden Derry’s escape through death—though that, perhaps, could be circumvented. Derry would not, could not, permit himself to be used as the instrument of Morgan’s betrayal.

Digging down through the straw, Derry used the blade to clear away to the bare clay, hollowing out a narrow hole that was deep enough to hold the hilt. He glanced at the door, hoping that there was no one watching what he was about to do, then lay down on his stomach beside the hole he had prepared, propped on his elbows, and held the dagger in his two hands.

Suicide. It was an act forbidden even in thought for a man who believed, as Derry did, in the God of the Church Militant. For the believer, the taking of one’s own life was a grave offense, damning one to an eternal torment in Hell.

But there were things worse than Hell, Derry argued with himself. The betrayal of self, the betrayal of friends…Himself he could not help. He had been tested against the master of Torenth and had been found wanting. There was no one to blame for that. But, Morgan—the powerful Deryni lord had saved Derry’s life more than once, had more than once snatched him from the jaws of death against unthinkable odds. Could Derry, in conscience, now refuse to do the same for him?

Grasping the dagger by its blade, Derry gazed at the cross-hilt for a long moment, rehearsing half a dozen childhood prayers and discarding them. Then he touched the cross-hilt fervently to his lips before placing it pommel-first into the hole in the floor. A compassionate God would surely understand—and Derry’s faith in that compassion would have to sustain him through that which he must now do…and whatever came after.

With the blade pointing upward like a silver flame, Derry raised himself from his elbows and shifted sideways, positioning himself with the blade angled up beneath his ribcage.

It should not take long in his depleted condition. His arms would give out in a few seconds, and he would no longer be able to hold his body off the shining steel. Even Wencit could not prevent the fall of an exhausted body.

He closed his eyes as his arms started to tremble with fatigue, thinking of a day long ago when he and Morgan had ridden laughing through the fields of Candor Rhea. He remembered the battles and the good horses, the girls he had tumbled in the hay of his father’s stables, his first stag hunt…

And then he started to fall….