He put the list away, and very slowly, very carefully, rolled up onto one elbow. The blowtorch shot out a fiery geyser that seemed to consume his whole head, right down his backbone, but only for a few moments; then it subsided, and fell into perspective as a mere headache. A real beaut, Rod had to admit—those soldiers hadn’t exactly been deft, but they’d made up for it with enthusiasm. He pressed a hand to his throbbing forehead, remembering the chain mail under the peasant tunics. It was a very neat little trap he’d walked into—but he couldn’t imagine a less appetizing bait than Flaran.

Not that it hadn’t worked, though.

He lifted his head slowly, looking around him. Compared to the other dungeons he’d been in, this one was definitely second-rate. But, at least he had a couple of roommates, manacled to the wall across from him—though one of them had lost quite a bit of weight over the years; he was a pure skeleton. Well, not “pure”—he did have some mold patches here and there. The other one had some patches, too, but they were purple, shading toward maroon. It was Simon, and his chin was sunk on his chest.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the headache, trying to think. Why should Simon be here? He wasn’t a spy. Rod considered the question thoroughly, till the brainstorm struck: He could ask. So he cleared his throat, and tried. “Uh… Simon…”

The other man looked up, surprised. Then his face relaxed into a sad smile. “Ah, thou dost wake, then!”

“Yeah—kind of.” Rod set both palms against the floor and did a very slow push-up. The headache clamored in indignation, and he fell back against the wall with a gasp—but victorious; he was sitting up. The headache punished him unmercifully, then decided to accept the situation and lapsed into the background. Rod drew in a long, shuddering breath. “What… what happened? You shouldn’t be here—just me. What’d Flaran have against you?”

“He knew me for what I was,” Simon sighed. “When the soldiers had felled thee, young Flaran turned on me, raging. ‘Who was this ‘Owen?’ Thou, vile traitor, will speak! Wherefore did this false, unminded man march northward into our domain?”

“Our?” Rod frowned.

Simon shrugged. “By good chance, I did not know the answers he sought. I said as much, and he whirled toward the soldiers, pointing back at me, screaming, ‘Torture him! Hale him down now, and break his fingers, joint by joint!’ ‘Nay,’ I cried, i have naught to hide,’ and I abandoned all pretence of cloaking my mind, casting aside all shields and attempts at hiding.”

“What good could that do? As mind readers go, he was barely literate.”

“Oh, nay! He was a veritable scholar!” Simon’s mouth tightened. “Thou, my friend, wert not alone in thy deceptions. I felt naught, but I saw his face grow calm. Then his eyes lit with excitement—but they soon filled with disappointment, and he did turn away to the soldiers in disgust. ‘There’s naught here—naught but an old man, with some talent for spell-breaking. He could have gone free but, more’s the fool, he hath come back North to seek to undo our work.’ Then the auncient said, ‘He’s a traitor, then,’ and the look that he gave me was venomed—yet there was that strange emptiness behind it.”

Rod nodded. “Spellbound.”

“Indeed. Then the auncient said further, ‘Shall we flay him?’ and cold nails seemed to skewer my belly. But Flaran gave me a measuring glance, and shook his head. ‘Nay. He may yet prove useful. Only bind him and bring him.’ Then he did fix his gaze upon me, and his eyes did seem to swell, glowing, to burn into my brain. ‘An thou dost seek to break spells on these soldiers,’ he swore. ‘I will slay thee.’ ”

“So.” Rod lifted his eyebrows. “Our young klutz wasn’t quite the fool he seemed to be, was he?”

“Nay. In truth, he did command. He bade the soldiers march home, and all did turn to take up the journey. Some hundreds of yards further, we came to tethered horses. The soldiers untied them and mounted—and there were pack mules for myself and for thee, and a great chestnut charger with a saddle adorned with silver for Flaran.”

Rod watched Simon for a moment, then said, “Not exactly an accident we ran into them, was it?”

Simon smiled, with irony. “In truth, ‘twas quite well-planned.”

“Even to the point of rigging up a peasant mob to be chasing Flaran, at just the right time to run into us on the road.” Rod’s mouth tightened. “He knew that was a sure way to make us take him in. And he stayed with us just long enough to make sure we were what he thought we were, before he turned us over to his bully boys.”

“He did give us the opportunity to turn our coats to Alfar’s livery,” Simon pointed out.

“Yes. Generous of him, wasn’t it?” Rod scowled. “But how did he catch onto us?”

Simon sighed, and shook his head. “I can only think that some spy of his must have sighted us, and followed unbeknownst.”

“Yeah—that makes sense.” With a sudden stab of guilt, Rod realized that Alfar had probably had spies watching him from the moment he crossed the border. After all, he’d certainly had Rod in sight before then. Rod just hadn’t counted on the sorcerer’s being so thorough.

Nothing to do about it now. Rod shook himself—and instantly regretted it; the headache stabbed again. But he thrust it all behind him, and asked, “How far did they ride?”

“All the rest of the day, and far into the night,” Simon answered.

“But it was only mid-morning.” Rod frowned. “That must have been… let me see…” He pressed a hand against his aching head, and the clank of the wrist-chain seemed to drive right through from ear to ear. But he absorbed the pain and let it disperse through his skull, trying to think. “Sixteen hours. And I was out cold all that time?”

Simon nodded. “Whenever thou didst show sign of wakening, Flaran bade his soldiers strike thee again.”

“No wonder my head’s exploding! How many times did they hit me?”

“More than half a dozen.”

Rod shuddered. “I’m just lucky I don’t have a fracture. On the other hand…” He frowned, and lifted a hand to probe his skull, then thought better of it. “I guess I’ll have to hope. Why didn’t he want me awake?”

“He did not say; yet I would conjecture that he did not wish to chance discovery of the range of thy powers.”

Rod felt an icicle-stab. “Powers? What’re you talking about? I just happen to be invisible to any listening witches, that’s all.”

“Mayhap; yet in this, I must needs admit that, in Flaran’s place, I would have done as he did. For whether thou dost shield thy mind by chance, or by intention, truly matters not—such shielding bespeaks great witch power. Nay, thou’rt a true warlock, Master Owen, whether thou dost know it or not—and a most puissant one, to be able to hide thy mind so thoroughly.” Simon leaned back against the wall. “And there is ever, of course, the chance that thou dost know it indeed, and dost hide thy thoughts by deliberation. And if that were the case, and if I were thine enemy, I would not wish to gamble on the extent of thy powers. I, too, would not chance thy waking.”

Rod just gazed at Simon.

Then he looked away, with a sigh. “Well, I can’t fault your logic—or his wisdom. But why did he bring you along?”

Simon shrugged. “Who can say? Yet I doubt not he’ll seek to force thee to answer certain questions, whether thou dost know them or not—and if thine own pain is not enough to make thee speak, mayhap he’ll think that mine will.”

Rod shivered. “That boy’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

“In truth. He did turn to me, jabbing with a finger. ‘Do not seek to hide thy thoughts,’ he cried, ‘nor to disguise them, or I shall bid them slay thee out of hand.’ I assured him I would not, the more so since I saw no point in such disguising. For what could he learn from my mind, that’s of any import?”

“And that he didn’t learn from traveling with the two of us.” Rod was glad that the light was too dim for Simon to see his face burning. “Or that he couldn’t find out by, let us say, more ‘orthodox’ means? For example, if he’s keeping tab on your thoughts, he knows I’m awake now.”