I sensed some exchange going on between Pol and the brightness. I heard only Pol's half of it, not willing to try attuning myself to listen in fully, fearing that this might somehow make my presence known to the fiery one.

Finally, Pol unfastened the lid of the container, removed it and set it aside. There was another long pause, and then he removed the woman, crossed a ledge and entered a tunnel, following the flame.

Suddenly, I was free. The spell must have been centered upon the woman, not the locale, not the container.

I hung back. I wanted to see where they were going but I did not wish to get too near, lest I be trapped again. I drifted slowly behind them, leaving myself ample leeway, well aware now of the effective range of the spell.

I recognized the big chamber as soon as I entered it. The last time I had passed this way, I had been moving at metaphysical speeds and following a magical trail, so there had been no need for noting landmarks. Consequently, I'd had no idea that this was where the Gate was located.

The Gate...

Just as I remembered it, from Pol's dreams and from my own fast passage, the Gate loomed huge, threatening and fortunately, closed. It had never been opened upon this plane, I guessed, though its ghostly version had been ajar many times, permitting the passage of sendings, essences, spirits. Had its physical self stood so, it might not be possible to close it again, for I could see how an interpenetration of the worlds would begin, the strangely structured, more ancient forms of that other with its vastly stronger magics flowing through to dominate this younger, magically weaker land, changing it into something of its own image, revivified by the raw, natural forms of this newer place. Stronger in magic, weaker in general vitality. The magic would dominate, I was certain...

Pol deposited his burden upon the stone with the aura of death about it. His movements were slow, irresolute, as if he were walking in his sleep. I reached out carefully then, more carefully than anything I had ever done before, and I touched his mind, just skimming his surface thoughts.

He was bewitched. He was not aware of it, but the flame had him in thrall.

I saw no way that I might interfere successfully. I knew without knowing how I knew that the thing was stronger than me. I felt totally helpless as it led Pol about, as it directed him to produce the statuette. I was more than a little pleased when Pol's power failed and the project had to be abandoned. The flame's frustration gave rise to the closest thing to joy that I had ever known.

I watched them depart. I doubted that Pol was in any immediate danger, and I wanted to explore the chamber a little further. A large, rectangular piece of morning decorated the wall to my left. I began to feel a fresh premonition, concerning this room.

Pol was awakened from a dreamless sleep by the sound of his cell door being unbarred. At first he felt leaden-limbed, hung over, ragged about the edges of his mind, almost as if he had been drugged. But then, within moments, before Larick had even set foot in his cell, the dragonmark began to throb wildly, heavily, in a way it had never done before, sending an adrenalin-like shock through his entire system, clearing his head instantly, informing him with a sense of wild power unlike anything he had known previously.

"Get up," Larick said, approaching him.

Pol felt that he could strike the man dead with a single gesture. Instead, he complied.

"Come with me."

Pol followed him out of the cell, adopting the cumbersome, lumbering gait suitable, he'd judged, for a disguised monster. Through the first window they passed, Pol saw that full daylight now lay upon the world, though he could not see the sun to judge the hour. They took a different route than that upon which he had magically followed Larick the previous evening--different, too, than the way upon which the flame had led him.

"If you cooperate," Larick said almost casually, "it is possible that you will be released unharmed."

"I do not consider myself unharmed," Pol said, mounting a stair.

"Your present situation might be remedied."

"What's in this for you?" he asked.

The other was silent for a long while. Then, "You would not understand," Larick said.

"Try me."

"No. It's not for me to explain things to you," he finally answered. "You will have your explanations shortly."

"What is the price for betraying the trust of the initiation committee?"

"Some things are more important than others. You'll see."

Pol chuckled softly. The power continued to spiral within him. He was amazed that the other could not feel its presence. He had to restrain himself from tasking out with it.

They traversed a lengthy corridor, mounted another stair, crossed a wide hall.

"I would like to have met you under different circumstances," Larick said then, as they reached a downward stair.

"I've a feeling that you will," Pol replied.

He recognized an area through which he had passed during the night. He realized then that they had come into the northeastern wing of the building. They approached a dark, heavily carved door. Larick moved ahead and knocked upon it.

"Come in," came a voice slightly higher in pitch than Pol had expected.

Larick opened the door and stepped across the threshold. He turned.

"Come along."

Pol followed him into the room. It was a study in rough timbers and stone, with four red and black rugs upon the floor. There were no windows. Ryle Merson was seated at a large table, the remains of his breakfast before him. He did not rise.

"Here is that Madwand we discussed," Larick said. "He is completely docile in all but spirit."

"Then you've got the part that counts," Ryle replied. "Leave him to me."

"Yes."

"I mean it literally."

Pol saw the look of surprise which widened Larick's eyes and parted his lips. "You want me to go?"

Ryle's broad face was expressionless.

"If you please."

Larick stiffened.

"Very well," he said.

He turned toward the door.

"But stay within hailing distance."

Larick looked back, nodded curtly and departed the room, closing the door behind him.

Ryle studied Pol.

"I saw you at Belken," he said at length.

"And I saw you," Pol said, returning the older man's stare. "On the street, talking with Larick, in front of the cafe where I sat."

"You have a good memory."

Pol shook his head.

"I can't recall giving you cause for abduction and abuse."

"I suppose it must look that way to you."

"I suppose it would look that way to anybody"

"I don't want to start off with you on the wrong foot--"

"I didn't want to start off with you on any foot. What do you want?"

Ryle sighed.

"All right. If that is the way it must be. You are my prisoner. You are in jeopardy. I am in a position to grant you any discomfort, up to and including death."

The fat sorcerer rose, moving around the table to stand before Pol. He made a simple gesture and followed it with another, his movements similar to those Larick had used. Pol felt nothing, though he realized what was occurring and he wondered whether the disguise within the disguise would hold.

It did.

"Perhaps you have grown fond of your present condition?"

"Not really."

"Your face is masked by your own spell. I will leave it in place, since I already know what you look like. I suppose we could start with that."

"You've a captive audience. Go ahead."

"Last year I heard a rumor that Rondoval was inhabited again. A little later, I heard of the battle at Anvil Mountain. By magical means, I summoned up your likeness. Your hair, your birthmark, your resemblance to Det--it was obvious that you were a member of that House, and one of whom I had never heard."