Tears in his eyes, Carl looked up at the Master. “Father Rahl,” he whispered, “I’d do anything for you. Please let me stay? After the ceremony, let me stay and be with you? I’ll do anything you need, I promise, if I could just stay with you.”

“Carl, that’s so like you, so kind. But you have a life, parents, friends. And Tinker, don’t forget your dog. Soon you will be wanting to go back to all that.”

Carl slowly shook his head while his eyes stayed on Rahl. “No I won’t. I only want to be with you. Father Rahl, I love you. I’d do anything for you.”

Rahl considered the boy’s words, a serious look on his face. “It would be dangerous for you to stay with me.” Rahl could feel his heart pounding.

“I don’t care. I want to serve you, I don’t care if I might get killed. I only want to help you. I don’t want to do anything else but help you in your fight with those enemies. Father Rahl, if I got killed helping you, it would be worth it. Please, let me stay, I’ll do whatever you ask. Forever.”

To help control his rapid breathing, Rahl took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. His face was grave. “Are you sure of what you are saying, Carl? Are you sure you really mean it? I mean, are you really sure you would give your life for me?”

“I swear. I’d die to help you. My life is yours, if you’ll have it.”

Rahl leaned back a little, put his hands on his knees, and nodded slowly, his blue eyes riveted on the boy.

“Yes, Carl. I will have it.”

Carl didn’t smile, but shook slightly with the excitement of acceptance, his face set in determination. “When can we do the ceremony? I want to help you and the people.”

“Soon,” Rahl said, his eyes getting wide and his speech slow. “Tonight, after I have fed you. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

Rahl rose, feeling the surge of blood through his veins—he strained to control the flush of arousal. It was dark outside. The torches gave off a flickering light that danced in his blue eyes, gleamed on his long blond hair, and made his white robes seem to glow. Before going to the forge room, he placed the feeding horn near Carl’s mouth.

Inside the dark room, his guards waited, their massive arms folded across their chests. Sweat rolling from their skin left little trails in the light covering of soot. A crucible sat in the fire of the forge, an acrid smell rising from the dross.

Eyes wide, Rahl addressed his guards. “Is Demmin back?”

“For several days, Master.”

“Tell him to come and wait,” Rahl said, unable to manage more than a whisper. “And then I would like you two to leave me alone for now.”

They bowed and left through the back door. Rahl swept his hand over the crucible, and the smell changed to an appetizing aroma. His eyes closed as he offered silent prayers to the spirit of his father. His breathing was a shallow pant. In the fervor of his emotions he was unable to control it. He licked his shaking fingertips and rubbed them on his lips.

Affixing wooden handles to the crucible so as to lift it without burning himself, he used the magic to make its weight easy to maneuver, and went back through the door with it. The torches lit the area around the boy, the white sand with the symbols traced in it, the ring of grass, the altar set on the wedge of white stone. Torchlight reflected off the polished stone block that held the iron bowl with the Shinga on its lid.

Rahl’s blue eyes took it all in as he approached the boy. He stopped in front of him, by the mouth of the feeding horn. There was a glaze in his eyes as he looked down to Carl’s upturned face.

“Are you sure about this, Carl?” he asked hoarsely. “Can I trust you with my life?”

“I swear my loyalty to you, Father Rahl. Forever.”

Rahl’s eyes closed as he drew a sharp breath. Sweat beaded on his face, stuck his robes to his skin. He could feel waves of heat rolling off the crucible. He added the heat of his magic to the vessel, to keep its contents boiling.

Softly, he began chanting the sacred incantations in the ancient language. Charms and spells whispered their haunting sounds in the air. Rahl’s back arched as he felt power surging through his body, taking him with hot promise. He shook as he chanted, offering up his words to the spirit of the boy.

His eyes opened partway, the visage of wanton passion burning in them. His breathing was ragged—his hands trembled slightly. He gazed down at the boy.

“Carl,” he said in a husky whisper, “I love you.”

“I love you, Father Rahl.”

Rahl’s eyes slid closed. “Put your mouth over the horn, my boy, and hold tight.”

While Carl did as he was told, Rahl chanted the last charm, his heart pounding. The torches hissed and spit while they burned, the sound intertwining with that of the spell.

And then he poured the contents of the crucible into the horn.

Carl’s eyes snapped wide, and he both inhaled and swallowed involuntarily when the molten lead hit him, searing into his body.

Darken Rahl shuddered with excitement. He let the empty crucible slip from his hands to the ground.

The Master went on to the next set of incantations, the sending of the boy’s spirit to the underworld. He said the words, every word in the proper order, opening the way to the underworld, opening the void, opening the dark emptiness.

As his hands extended upward, dark forms swirled around him. Howls filled the night air with the terror of their calls. Darken Rahl went to the cold stone altar, knelt in front of it, stretched his arm across it, put his face to it. He spoke the words in the ancient language that would link the boy’s spirit to him. For a short while he cast the needed spells. When finished, he stood, fists at his side, his face flushed. Demmin Nass stepped forward, out of the shadows.

Rahl’s vision focused on his friend. “Demmin,” he whispered, his voice coarse.

“Master Rahl,” he answered in greeting, bowing his head.

Rahl stepped to Demmin, his face drawn and sweat-streaked. “Take his body from the ground, and put it on the altar. Use the bucket of water to wash him clean.” He glanced down at the short sword Demmin wore. “Crack his skull for me, no more, and then you may stand back, and wait.”

He passed his hands over Demmin’s head—the air about shuddered. “This spell will protect you. Wait for me then, until I return, just before dawn. I will need you.” He looked away lost in his thoughts.

Demmin did as asked, going about the grim task while Rahl continued to chant the strange words, rocking back and forth, his eyes closed, as if in a trance.

Demmin wiped his sword clean on his muscular forearm and returned it to its scabbard. He took one last look at Rahl, who was still lost in the trance. “I hate this part,” he muttered to himself. He turned and went back into the shadows of the trees, leaving the Master to his work.

Darken Rahl went to stand behind the altar, breathing in deeply. Suddenly, he cast his hand down at the fire pit, and flames leapt up with a roar. He held out both hands, fingers contorted, and the iron bowl lifted and floated over, setting itself down on the fire. Rahl pulled his curved knife from its sheath and laid it on the boy’s wet belly. He slipped his robes from his shoulders and let them drop to the ground, kicking them back out of the way. Sweat covered his lean form, ran down his neck in rivulets.

His skin was smooth and taut over his well-proportioned muscles, except on his upper left thigh, across part of his hip and abdomen, and the left side of his erect sex. That was where the scar was—where the flames sent by the old wizard had tasted him: the flames of the wizard’s fire that had consumed his father as he stood at his right hand—flames that had licked him also, giving him the pain of the wizard’s fire.

It had been a fire unlike any other, burning, sticking, searing, alive with purpose, as he had screamed until he had lost his voice.