When she finally looked up from her futile attempt to make her shirt decent – or at least warm – she saw Master Quillon inexplicably standing outside the bars of her cell.
“That was bravely done, my lady,” he said in a distant tone. “Unfortunately, it was a mistake.”
She looked at him, gaped at him; her mouth hung open, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“Master Eremis lied to you. He has no passage from his workroom into the dungeon. He came to you by translation.
“When the Castellan learns that no passage exists, he will not believe another word you say. His rage will be so great that I fear he will be unable to hold himself back from killing you.”
It was too much. Fear and loneliness filled Terisa’s chest, and she started crying.
THIRTY-ONE: HOP-BOARD
After a while, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
She was crying hard; but the touch was unexpected, and it startled her. She looked up to find Master Quillon beside her. His nose was twitching, and his eyes were gentle; clearly, he intended to comfort her.
“My lady,” he murmured, “it has been painful for you, I know. And it must seem unjustified. You asked for none of this. And though we did not choose you, we have not hesitated to use you. I will give you all the help I can.”
Help, she thought through her tears. All the help I can. It was too late. The Castellan was too strong. He had too much power. She couldn’t prove anything against Master Eremis. Nobody was going to be able to help her.
But Master Quillon was standing beside her. With his hand on her shoulder. Inside her cell. When she blinked her eyes clear, she saw that the door was open.
The Imager glanced where she was looking and commented like a shrug, “Fortunately, the Castellan was in such dudgeon that he forgot to lock it. I doubt that any of the guards would be willing to open it for us when he is at this level of outrage.”
By degrees, the open door and Master Quillon’s unexplained presence fixed her attention. The pressure of sobs receded in her chest; her breathing grew steadier. Without meeting the Master’s gaze, she muttered, “Did Havelock send you this time?”
“Indirectly,” Quillon replied. “I am here for his benefit – and for the King’s. To save all Mordant. But primarily” – his grip on her shoulder tightened a bit – “I have come to let you out of this prison.”
Let me out—? Her eyes jerked to his: she stared at him, unable to control the way her face suddenly burned with yearning and hope. Her mouth shaped words she couldn’t find her voice to say out loud: You’re going to set me free?
Abruptly, Master Quillon took his hand from her shoulder and sat down next to her on the cot. Now his gaze studied the floor instead of meeting hers. “My lady,” he said to the stones, “it pains me to see you so surprised. And it pains me even more to know that we deserve your surprise. I do not like some of the things we have done to you. And I lack King Joyse’s talent for risks. We deserve any recrimination you might make against us.”
Then his tone became more sardonic. “The truth is that we deserve to be betrayed – by you as well as by Geraden, if by no one else. But a blind man could see now that you are faithful to him, and so you will not betray us. In that we are exceptionally fortunate. Perhaps our good fortune is as great as our need.”
Because she was too confused to follow what he was saying, she asked, “Is this going to be another lecture?”
He winced; perhaps he thought she was being sarcastic. But he didn’t back down. “Not if you do not wish it, my lady. If you wish me to keep my mouth shut, I will simply take you away from here and let you do whatever you choose without argument – or explanation. But I tell you plainly” – then he did look at her, letting her see the pain on his face – “that you will wound me if you do not permit me to explain. And I think you will increase the difficulty of your own decisions.”
She could hardly believe what she heard. To be helped, to be offered explanations, to be offered freedom—! Far from resenting him, as he apparently expected, she was hard pressed to restrain herself from weeping again in gratitude.
But she had to have more self-command than this. Otherwise it would all be wasted on her. She would go wrong. So she didn’t jump to accept his offer. Instead, she did her best to think again, to make her brain resume functioning. Tentatively, groping for what she wanted to understand first, she asked, “How do you know Master Eremis doesn’t have a secret way in here? How do you know what he said to me?”
“I heard him,” Master Quillon retorted with sudden sharpness. He didn’t seem to like what he had heard. “I have been secreted down here since noon, when Prince Kragen stopped bringing up catapults against us. I heard your conversations with both the Castellan and Eremis – and with the Castellan again.” He made an effort to speak more softly. “That is how I became certain of your loyalty to Geraden.”
As if he thought she wasn’t asking the right questions – not being hard enough on him – he said almost at once, “You will ask why I did not intervene when the Castellan threatened you. My lady, please believe that I would have done so. You found your own answer to his violence, however. Because he must not know my part in all this, if that can be avoided, I left you to deal with him alone.”
“No,” she said reflexively, abstract with concentration. He was right: that was something she wanted to ask him, a subject she wanted to pursue. But not yet. “Tell me about that later.” First things first. She had to pull her mind into some kind of order. “He said he built a secret way from his workroom into the dungeon. How can you be sure that isn’t true?”
The Master rubbed his nose to make it stop twitching. “It would be impossible to do such work secretly, with so many Apts everywhere in the laborium. Regardless of that, however, I know Eremis did not use a passage to come here. I saw him arrive and depart. He was translated.”
“You mean—” He can pass through flat glass, too, and not lose his mind? Can everybody do it? “You mean he has a mirror with this dungeon in its Image?”
How is it possible to fight people who can pass through flat glass without going mad?
“I fear so, my lady. I suspect it is the same mirror which translated those hunting insects against Geraden. The passages of Orison are confusing, I know, but actually we are not far from the translation point they used – and Gart used when he attacked you and the Prince. There is considerable stone between this cell and that corridor, but of course stone would be no obstacle to an Image, if the focus of its glass could be shifted that far.
“Incidentally, you may wonder why your enemies do not send more of those insects against you while you are here and helpless.” Actually, she hadn’t wondered anything of the kind, but Master Quillon went on anyway, “It is the Adept’s opinion that they must be given the scent of their victim before they will hunt. For anyone associated with the Congery, it would be easy to obtain something belonging to Geraden – a small possession, a piece of clothing. But opportunities to loot your rooms or wardrobes have been kept as near to nonexistent as possible. Without your scent, the insects cannot be sent against you.”
Involuntarily, Terisa shuddered. She didn’t want to think about those hideous—
Master Quillon saved her. He continued talking.
“Considering that Eremis wants you – perhaps as a hostage, perhaps as a lover – wants you enough to risk coming here, it is an interesting question why he has not used his mirror to translate you away. You would be entirely in his power then. But I suspect that the focus of his mirror has already been shifted as far as it will go.
“He must find it quite exasperating that the perfect solution to his dilemma is denied him by the small fact that you are here rather than eight cells farther down the corridor. As I say, we have been more fortunate than we deserve.”
The Master had done it again, gone off at a tangent, distracted her. Sudden frustration welled up in her. “Then why don’t you stop him?” She turned toward Q
uillon, demanding an answer with her whole body. “Get the Castellan to arrest him. Lock him up somewhere safe. He’s going to betray everybody. You’ve got to stop him.”
“My lady” – Master Quillon’s voice was soft, and his eyes studied her as if he wondered how much of the truth she would be able to bear – “it is too soon.”
Too soon? Too soon? She gaped at him, unable to speak.
“We do not know where his strength is located. We do not know how this trick of translation is done. We do not know how far his alliances extend, or how many powers he is prepared to bring out of his mirrors against us. We do not know what his plans are – how he means to destroy us. Until his trap is sprung, we have no effective way to strike back at him.”
Still she gaped at him. Her head was spinning. With an effort, she asked thinly, “ ‘We’?”
The Master smiled slightly, sourly. “Yes, my lady. King Joyse, for the most part. And Adept Havelock, when he is able. I follow their instructions.” He paused while she went pale with shock; then he admitted, “Not a very impressive cabal, I fear. There is no one else.”
A moment later – perhaps because she couldn’t stop staring at him – he seemed to take pity on her. “We cannot afford allies,” he explained. “It is the essence of the King’s policy to appear weak. Confused in his priorities. Unable to achieve decisions. Careless of his kingdom. And it would be impossible to create that appearance if his intentions were not kept secret. If Queen Madin knew the truth, would she turn her back on her husband in his time of gravest peril? If the Tor knew the truth, how well would he play the part of the forlorn and hectoring friend? If Castellan Lebbick knew the truth—No, it would be disastrous. He has no subterfuge in him. And no one would believe that King Joyse had lost his will or his wits, while Lebbick remained confident.”
We, she murmured to herself, King Joyse, as if the words made no sense, We cannot afford allies. It was all deliberate.
“The fact is,” said Quillon, “that everyone who loves the King would behave differently if they understood him. And so it would all come to nothing. I am trusted only because throughout Orison I am so easily taken for granted – and because King Joyse must have one friend and Imager who is more reliable than the Adept.”
“But why?” The words burst from Terisa. “Why? Mordant is falling! Orison is under siege! Everybody who loves him or is loyal to him has been hurt!” All deliberate. Of course. She knew that. But the reason—! “He’s destroying his whole world, the world he created. Why would he do such a terrible thing?”
Abruptly, the Imager jerked to his feet. He was suddenly angry: he bristled with indignation. Quietly, but with such intensity that he shocked her to silence, he replied, “So that he would attack here.”
What—?
“We did not know who he was, my lady. Remember that. We did not know who he was until last night, when he erred by trying to make us believe that Geraden had killed Nyle. Before that, we had few suspicions – and less proof. We did not know who he was.” Red spots flamed on the Master’s cheeks. “We knew only that he was powerful – that he had the ability, unprecedented in the history of Imagery, to inflict his translations wherever he chose. We had no way to find him, no way to combat him. No way to protect Mordant from him.
“But worse than the danger to Mordant was the threat to Alend and Cadwal, that had no Imagers to defend them. That King Joyse had accomplished with his ideal of the Congery and peace, that Cadwal and Alend were more helpless than Mordant against the enemy. That he was responsible for. His past victories have left Alend and Cadwal at the mercy of his new foes.
“Therefore” – Master Quillon gritted his teeth to keep from shouting – “King Joyse set himself to save the world.
“His weakness is an ambush. He lures the enemy to strike here rather than elsewhere – to inflict their peril and harm here rather than on the people he has made vulnerable – to attack Mordant and Orison rather than first swallowing Cadwal and Alend and thereby growing too strong to be defeated. We did not know who he was.”
Roughly, Quillon shrugged, trying to restrain his anger. “That is the reason for everything King Joyse has done. That – and the Congery’s augury – and Geraden’s strange translation, which brought you here. When you came among us, your importance was obvious at once. Clearly, it was vital to make you aware of the world you had entered, so that you could choose your own role in Mordant’s need. Even a good person may do ill out of ignorance, but only a destructive one would do ill out of knowledge. The augury made it clear that we had to trust you or die.
“But Geraden was also at risk – and his importance was also plain in the augury. His only protection lay in King Joyse’s weakness. If Geraden were granted the ability to elicit intelligent, decisive action from his King, the enemy would surely kill him. In addition, the belief that you were ignorant was a form of protection for you. So it was vital also to spurn Geraden’s loyalty – and then to make you aware of Mordant’s history in secret.
“My lady, I argued against that decision. From the beginning, I found it difficult to trust you – a woman of such passivity. What hope did you represent to us? But King Joyse insisted. That is why Adept Havelock and I approached you and spoke to you, giving you in secret the knowledge which both the Congery and the King had denied to you publicly.”
Oh, of course, now I understand. Terisa felt herself smiling into the quagmire of her own stupidity. Had she really spent her entire life like this – helpless, passive, unable to think?
“The translation of the Congery’s champion,” rasped Quillon, “presented a similar problem in a different guise. Again, the champion’s importance in the augury is plain. Therefore King Joyse must oppose that translation, in order to appear determined on his own defeat. And yet he must be too weak to oppose the translation successfully. And I was at risk there, in addition to Geraden and yourself. My loyalties had to be concealed. So King Joyse had no choice but to refuse to hear the Fayle’s warnings – and to ensure that Castellan Lebbick did not learn what transpired until the translation could no longer be stopped.
“My lady” – now Master Quillon faced her squarely, and Terisa saw that some of his anger was directed at her – “it will be easy for you to be outraged at what we have done. You have already said that everybody who loves King Joyse or is loyal to him has been hurt – and you are right. His policy is dangerous. Therefore the only way he can save those who love him is to drive them away – to make them distance themselves from the seat of peril he has chosen for himself. He succeeded with Queen Madin. But his failure with such men as the Tor and Geraden haunts him. If harm comes to them, he will carry the fault on his own head, even though they have chosen to do what they do.
“Nevertheless you should understand what he does before you protest against it. He hazards himself so that thousands of men and women from the mountains of Alend to the coast of Cadwal will be spared. He tears his own heart so that the people he loves may be spared. He places the kingdom that he built with his own hands in danger so that his traditional enemies can be spared.
“If you cannot trust him or serve him, my lady, you must at least respect him. He created his own dilemma, and he accepts its consequences. He does what he is able to do, so that the harm his enemies do will be suffered by a few instead of by many.”
Because the Imager was angry at her – and because she was angry herself and didn’t know how to conceal it – she turned away. The light seemed to be failing; maybe the lamp was running out of oil. Darkness gathered in all the corners: fatal implications spilled past the bars from the corridor into the cell. You must at least respect him. A man whose idea of wise policy was to twist a knife in his friends’ hearts and leave his enemies unscathed. Of course she had to respect that. Sure.
She could hear Castellan Lebbick crying like a farewell, I am loyal to my King!
With more bitterness than she had realized she contained, more indignation than she had ever been aware of possessin
g, she asked softly, “What about the Castellan?”
“What about him?” returned Master Quillon. Perhaps he was too irate to guess what she meant.
“Maybe the Tor and Geraden have made their own choices. They’re more stable than he is. What choice did you ever give him? If he tried to quit serving, King Joyse would have to stop him. This whole policy” – she sneered the word – “depends on the Castellan. If he doesn’t stay faithful – if he doesn’t do his utter best to keep Orison strong while King Joyse is busy being weak – then the whole thing collapses. When King Joyse finally decides to fight, he won’t have anything to fight with. Unless the Castellan stays faithful.”
Master Quillon nodded. “That is true. What is your point?”
“He doesn’t have any choice, and it’s killing him.” Sudden pity surged up through her bitterness. The man Lebbick had once been would probably have treated her with nothing more terrible than detached sarcasm or kindness. But the entire weight of King Joyse’s policy had come down on his shoulders, and now he could hardly refrain from raping or murdering her. “Don’t you see that? What you’re doing is expensive, and you’re making him pay for all of it.” Without warning, she began to weep again. Her distress and the Castellan’s were too intimately interconnected. “You and your precious King are destroying him.”
She expected Master Quillon to yell at her. She was ready for that: she didn’t care how angry he got, what he said. Somehow she had gone past the point where mere outrage could threaten her. She had anger of her own, and it was no longer hidden away. If her father had appeared before her there and lost his temper, she would have known how to respond.