That night, the wind that swept through Crescent and Warwick and wuthered about the highlands bore a stench that was overpowering. The sober gray trees and their ghostly thin branches shivered beside one another as they howled their lamentations to the silent mountain peaks. Packs of wolves and wild dogs tore at their meat, as if somehow they knew it would be a long while before they partook of fresh kill again. The birds did not sing towards evening but ruffled their feathers worriedly and hopped into their little houses soon after the last scarlet blaze had disappeared. The village cats and dogs paced with restless paws, yowling scathingly if someone happened to cross them wrong or step on their tails. They sensed the horrible black sensation that crept through the night air like so many insects on a spring tree limb. The children did not have to be told to slip into their beds and fall asleep. Their parents decided not to worry at the lack of complaining, however; it had been a long day at the party and their children had danced many steps in their little cloth shoes. Yet still, one good farm wife pricked her finger while she mended a fleecy jacket, and a farmer stalking about his fields shouted in rage at the withered leaves of his vegetables. What was going on?

Conan hated the cold rattle of his chains as he was led down the hall by two silent guards. He hated the dull thud of his boots on the dirty flagstones, the tickle of his hair falling in his eyes, the guard’s heavy breathing that sounded too much like a dying thing.

Late in the deep darkness, a loud palm had pounded at the dungeon door and a hoarse, shaky voice had shrilly asked whether the minstrel was still alive. Conan recalled the hot rush of indignation that had, for some reason, engulfed him. “Why should I not be alive?” he had yelled back. The door had opened and a stream of blessed light had fallen across the crawling floors. “You are to come with me,” a thin mouse of a man had informed him. So, Conan arose and followed the man out of the dungeon, only to be put in scratchy chains and pulled down the hallway. The minstrel felt broken over his failed mission. He wondered whether his tiny mother had ever traveled to her friend’s home. He remembered the shepherds he had refused to play for, and wondered if they had ever found joy.

“Where are we going?” he asked the guard on his right. “What is to become of me?”

The guard did not say anything for a long moment. Conan peered closer at the two and noticed a small patch of blackened skin in the shape of a flame burnt into their fingertip. Then the guard looked sideways at the tall minstrel and said, “You are to be musician for Northumbrio, eh?” Conan nodded but we wished he did not have to.

“I am taking you to his throne room. He has instructed me to bring you to him. I am taking you to Northumbrio’s throne room.” Conan nearly laughed at the round-about way the guard had said it.

“And where will I live?” he asked the other guard, tromping along the hallway with a tight mouth.

“Oh, he does not speak,” said the first guard. “The master had his tongue cut out for talking treachery against him.” Conan’s eyes widened and he fell silent. What form of monster was that man? For surely, Northumbrio was not human. Never in his life had the minstrel heard such tales of Wenceslas.

Conan cradled his lute in his shackled hands as the guards led him around a shadowed corner and halted before a big wooden door. The first guard turned, his burnished armor glinting in the light of several bracketed torches, and his yellow eyes seemed to pierce Conan’s stony expression. “Not a cross word,” the guard hissed, spit flying from his mouth and sparkling in the glimmering torches, “or you may find yourself not better off than him.” He jerked his scummy finger back at his mute fellow. Conan forced himself to nod and the guard opened the door. It swung on its hinges with a creak and slammed against the wall inside. Conan felt a harsh shove at his back and reluctantly walked into a dimly lit room.

The room was sparsely adorned. A small table with lions paws for legs stood in the center, and something round covered with a milky white cloth had been placed upon it. The floor was a polished marble and several crumpled maps lay in a cobwebbed corner. Conan looked across the room and to his left, and there was a great window made of frosty glass leading out onto a balcony. The window was open and long dark red curtains rippled in a foul-smelling breeze. Conan hugged his lute closer to his chest and stood, chilly and feeling ridiculously tall and awkward, in the middle of the stark room. Suddenly he heard a long deep chuckle that vibrated off his lute strings and his eyes were drawn to the cold white balcony window as a massive black figure silhouetted itself against the stern gray sky. Conan refused to cower back as the looming figure stepped inside the room and the shadows sharpened his blurry features. It was a man, broad shouldered and sharp-chinned, wearing a heavy black cloak and twisting his huge sinewy hands together. His skin was dusky and leathery, his boots were stub nailed and his nose was big and straight. All this Conan took in a single glance before looking into the man’s eyes. The minstrel gave a small gasp and stepped back, holding his lute tight. The man’s eyes were orange and flickering, like fire. They burned into his until Conan felt a physical warm prickle and averted his gaze. The deep choking chuckle came again.

“So. This is my new minstrel.”

Conan did not move. His chains suddenly felt very tight and the blood pounded like a waterfall in his head. Those bright fiery eyes…

“Well, man, what did you expect? I am Northumbrio. Are you shocked? I can see that you are.”

“You know nothing of what I feel,” Conan snapped defensively. It tore at his soul that his jolly countenance had fled. Yet there was no inkling of hope in him. It was as if his very spirit had been burnt out in the dungeon.

“Did my guards happen to mention that I read minds?” Northumbrio said. His voice was oddly muffled, as if he were chewing something. Conan started violently and held up his lute as if it could protect the prying magic from entering his head. Northumbrio grinned wildly. His teeth were large and white. “Yes,” he went on, “I can read them as you might read a book. Your joy was burnt out. You belong to me now, and soon you will feel nothing save what I wish you to feel.” The notion sickened Conan. “Your life here will be easy. Obey my command, play well, and you might live to be a well-tempered aid. Defy my ruling, try to run away or show any signs of rebelliousness and you will be tortured. Try to stir up my people against me and the punishment is slow death. Do you understand, minstrel?”

Conan fought the urge to curse Northumbrio in his mind. “I understand, master.” His voice grated around his clenched teeth. Northumbrio turned his flaming eyes on him once more; Conan willed himself not to tremble.

“Say that again.” Conan gulped.

“Yes, master.” He forced his voice to be pleasant and obedient. The man nodded grimly and stepped to his little lion paw table. He withdrew the white cloth and there, sitting on the smooth table surface, was a clear sphere about the size of Conan’s fist. Northumbrio stroked the bluish purple ball with a thick finger. “Come closer and see,” he cooed. Conan moved forward, his chains sounding like thunder in his ears. “Look into it,” Northumbrio said. His voice was hypnotic. Conan looked sideways at the skin between his master’s eyes, avoiding the flickering orange pupils, and then looked down into the ball. It was as if mists had been caught and trapped inside the hard glass sphere and lighted with cold white fire. Conan felt suddenly hot and freezing. He lowered his lute and set it upon the ground. Slowly he put his hands on the table as the glittering swirls danced in his eyes. Northumbrio smiled and stepped aside for his minstrel to realize his master’s complete control over his life. It would not take long for those saucy thoughts to be purged from Conan’s mind, oh no. He would see to that. His little ball was the first step, a mighty step. It had worked innumerable times in the past with everyone he had taken to the dungeon and lured up to his room. This poor excuse for a wandering musician would be no different.

Conan felt his body grow light as he swayed gently to music only he could hear. It thrummed inside of him and made his feet yearn to dance about the cold floor. His chains shook like thick marsh water and dissolved, melting into the air. Conan smiled happily. He was content to watch the dancing lights inside the sphere all day. They enchanted him, they made him mesmerized with their beauty, which was ten times fairer than the sprightliest village lass. Suddenly a burning desire to touch the sphere, to cup it in his palms, swept over Conan. Northumbrio laughed, low and throaty. Not long now…

His hand shaking, the minstrel allowed his fingers to hover over the glinting glass sphere. How beautiful, how perfect it was. One inch and he would feel the crystalline side, half an inch, nearly there…

The tip of Conan’s long finger alighted soft as heather upon the sphere.

A shrill, jolting madness overcame him, a ripping burning sensation that knocked him to the ground with a heavy thud. His head swam and tears sprang into his eyes. The minstrel screamed aloud as a biting acid tore into the flesh that had touched upon the sphere. It grew more and more painful, digging into his nerves and searing his bone.

“Make it stop, I beg of you, master!” Conan yelled. The pain was growing and spreading up into his hand. “Please, make it stop!”

Northumbrio looked down with disgust as his new slave cringed upon the floor, curling his whole body around his hand. In his bliss he hardly heard Conan’s screams but finally he sighed and bent down. He spat something out of his mouth and pressed it to the fingertip like a mother healing a child’s burn with a piece of ice from her rain barrel. Instantly Conan grew silent and hissed his breath in through his teeth as a cold tingle pervaded through the pain, banishing it and leaving him weak and helpless upon the floor. He felt Northumbrio breathing on him, and his breath seemed to grow hotter and hotter. Conan realized vaguely that it had been Northumbrio in the dungeon with him, burning him. Burning out his old self.

“You have seen what my power is capable of,” the huge man said, hefting himself to his feet and walking over to a corner in the room. He pulled from a leather pouch at his side a lump of something creamy. He held it up, breathing with a rasp. The room was growing warmer.

“Do you know what this is, minstrel?” Conan was too weary to answer or care; he lay exhausted upon the floor, tenderly waiting for the burning frost to leave his finger. “This, man, is a special kind of ice. I chew it so I will not set my manor afire when I breathe.” Grinning morbidly Northumbrio popped the cream-colored lump into his mouth and sucked on it. “You felt that heat in the dungeon because I did not happen to carry these down with me. Good thing, too. You were a dangerous rebel when you arrived. Now you are my cowering slave. You will do my bidding and no one else’s. You will play your lute for me, and fight in my armies if I so wish it. You are mine, Conan. And merely to prove this to you, look at your finger where you touched my sphere.”

Conan turned aching eyes to his throbbing finger. On it was the black brand of a flame, as he had seen upon the two guards. He groaned inwardly from sheer hatred and laid his head back upon the floor. The last thing Conan heard before slipping into a black oblivion was Northumbrio laughing to himself.