One of the men said, “I warned you not to give him kirian. You gave him too much.”
Cyrillon said, his voice still thick, “I guessed better than I knew . . . the accursed race have whelped a throwback! The youngster didn’t even know what he was doing! If I had one or two of that kind in my hands, the whole cursed race of Cassild’ would flee back to their lake-bottoms, and the Golden-Chained one would reign again! Zandru what we could do with one of them on our side!”
The other man said, “We ought to kill him out of hand, before they find some way to use him against us!”
“Not yet,” said Cyrillon. “I wonder how old he is? He looks a child, but all those lowland brats are soft.”
One of the men guffawed. “He seemed not so soft a moment ago, when he had you yelping like a scalded cat!”
Cyrillon said, very softly, “If he were really as young as he looks, I’d guarantee to—re-educate him in my own way. I may try, at any rate. I can bear more than that,” he added with gentle menace, “until he learns to—control his powers.”
Larry, lying on the floor very still and hoping they had forgotten him, struggled with puzzlement greater than fear. Had he done that? If so, how? He had none of these Darkovan powers!
One of the men bent. Not gently, he lifted Larry to his feet. Cyrillon said, “Well, Kennard Alton, I warn you fairly not to try that trick again. Perhaps it was sheer reflex and you do not know your own powers. If that is true, I warn you you had better learn control. The next time I will kick your ribs through your backbone. Now—look into the stone!”
The blue glare blinded his eyes. Then, crystal bright, intense, there were figures and forms he could not interpret, coming and going . . . . How was Cyrillon doing this? Or was he simply being hypnotized?
The blueness suddenly flared again. Inside his mind, in a sudden blaze, the voice of his dream spoke, I’ve blanked it. He’s no telepath and he doesn’t dare force you. Don’t be afraid; he can’t read what you’re getting now—but I can’t hold this for long . . . . It’s not hopeless yet . . .
Kennard? Larry thought, I’m going out of my mind . . .
The blue glare spread, became unbearable. He heard Cyrillon snarl something—a threat?—but he saw nothing but that fearful blue.
With utter, absolute relief, for the first time in his life, Larry Montray fainted.
DAY FOLLOWED slow day, in the room where Larry was imprisoned; gradually, his original optimism dimmed out and faded. He was here, and there was no way to tell whether or not he would ever leave the place. He now knew he was being held as a hostage against Valdir Alton. From scraps of information he had wormed out of his jailer, he had put together the situation. Cyrillon and others of his kind had preyed on the lower lands since time out of mind. Valdir had been the first to organize the lowlanders in resistance, to build the Ranger stations which warned of impending raids, and this struck Cyrillon, unreasonably enough, as unfair. It ran clear against the time-honored Darkovan code, that each man shall defend his own belongings. By holding Valdir’s son prisoner, he hoped to stalemate this move, and ward off retaliations.
But they did not have Valdir’s son; and sooner or later, Larry supposed, Cyrillon would find it out. He didn’t like to think what would happen then.
As the fourth day was darkening into night, he heard sounds in the distance; feet hurrying in the corridors, horses’ hooves trampling in the courtyard, men calling to one another in command. He looked up, in frustration at the high window which prevented him from seeing out; then dragged a heavy bench toward the window and clambered up on it. He could just see over the broad, high sill, and down into the courtyard below.
Nearly two dozen men were milling around below, leading out and saddling horses, choosing weapons from a great pile in the corner of the bricked-in courtyard. Larry saw Cyrillon’s form, tall and lean, striding through the men; here pausing to speak to one, here inspecting a saddle-girth, here lashing out, swift as a striking snake, to knock a man head-over-heels with a swift fist. The great gate was swinging open, the mounted men forming to ride through.