Chapter 13

“Take me to the Tower of Women,” Mathew ordered wearily.

“To see the Black Sorceress? I think not!” the imp returned.

“No, I must talk with—” Staring around him, Mathew swallowed the word with a gulp.

The imp had returned Mathew to the room where the young wizard had been first taken on his arrival. Materializing within it, both Mathew and his “servant” were unpleasantly astonished to see the Black Sorceress standing before the cold ashes left scattered in the fireplace.

“Talk with whom?” inquired the woman. “Your other friend?”

“If you have no further need of me, Dark Master—” whined the imp with an obscene wriggle intended for a bow.

“Do not leave yet, creature of Sul,” commanded the sorceress.

“Servant of Astafas!” hissed the imp angrily, its tongue sliding out between its sharp black teeth. “I am not a low demon of Chaos, madam!”

“That could be arranged,” said the Black Sorceress, her brows coming as close together as was possible on the tightly stretched skin of her face. She glanced at Mathew. “Make me a gift of this creature.”

“I cannot, madam,” said Mathew in a low, respectful tone. He had little to fear. The sorceress might try to take the wand from him by force, but the imp would most certainly fight—if not to protect him, then to protect its own shriveled skin.

“You are wise for one so young.” The sorceress gazed at him searchingly. Moving close to him, she laid a hand upon his cheek. Her touch was like the bony fingers of a skeleton. Mathew shivered but did not move, caught and held by the mesmerizing stare of the woman’s eyes. “Your wisdom comes not from years but from the ability to see into the hearts of those around you. A dangerous gift, for then you begin to care for them. Their pain becomes your pain.” She lingered on the word, her fingers softly caressing, and the chill touch began to burn, like ice held in wet hands.

Trembling, Mathew held himself very still, though the pain increased immeasurably.

“You have seen what you should not have seen,” the voice breathed all around him. “You have been where you should not have gone. In time, when you were ready, I would have shown you all. Now, because you do not understand, you are confused and disturbed. And you have done nothing for your nomad friend except increase his torment. Why did you go? Did you think you could free him?”

She didn’t know! Blessed Promenthas, she didn’t know, didn’t suspect!

“Yes, that was it!” Mathew gasped.

“A hopeless, foolish thought.” The Black Sorceress made a clicking sound with her tongue; the noise flicked on Mathew’s exposed nerves. “How did you think to accomplish your escape, and why didn’t you go ahead and attempt it?”

“Madam,” interposed the imp, rubbing its hands as though they ached, “the nomad was too far gone for us to be able to help him. Madam will forgive us,” added the imp, licking its lips, “if we do not tell her our plans for assisting the nomad to escape.”

“Why will madam forgive you?” The sorceress smiled cruelly at the imp, keeping her hand on Mathew’s cheekbone, the young man not daring to move, though it seemed his teeth were on fire and his brain was expanding in his skull.

“Because, madam, you hope that Astafas will forgive you for harming one of His own.” The imp sidled nearer to Mathew. Elongating, stretching its small form like rubber, it closed its splay fingers over the hand of the sorceress. “When Zhakrin returns to the world, He will require the help of Astafas in the fight against Quar.” The imp’s narrowed red eyes were fiery slits against its blackened, wrinkled skin. “Zhakrin has Astafas’s help and freely given, but Zhakrin is not to forget that this young one is ours, not His.” Like slithering snakes, the imp’s words wound around Mathew, tightening their coils.

Slowly, the sorceress removed her hand, though her fingers lingered long on Mathew’s skin. “You are weary.” She spoke to Mathew, but her eyes were on the imp. “Sleep now.” The pain eased, submerged in a wave of drowsy warmth.

A soft pillow was beneath his head; he was lying in a bed. Darkness enfolded him, banishing pain, banishing fear.

“Thank you,” he murmured to the imp.

“Payment will come,” whispered the darkness back to him. “Payment will come!”