A Man Rides Through

  Abruptly, as if a stunned part of her mind had just been kicked, Elega realized that Prince Kragen was overdue. Usually, he finished discussing the day with his father and came to her tent before this.

  If he caught Myste here, he would have no real choice but to make her a prisoner. Her potential value as King Joyse’s daughter was too great to be ignored. But Myste was also Elega’s sister – and Elega wasn’t sure yet what her own decision would be. The only thing she was sure of was that Myste wouldn’t reveal any of her secrets as Prince Kragen’s prisoner.

  Muttering, “Wait here,” Elega jumped up and hurried past the curtains into the back of the tent.

  There she roused the Alend girl who served as her maid. “Hurry, child,” she hissed. “Find the Prince. He may still be with his father, or on his way here. Beg him to forgive me. Tell him I feel unwell. Tell him I am half blind with headache – but it will pass if I am allowed to sleep.

  “Go quickly.”

  She hustled the girl out into the night, paused to quiet the hammering of her heart, then returned to Myste.

  Myste looked at her inquiringly. Elega explained what she had done – and was more relieved than she considered reasonable when she saw that Myste believed her. So Myste’s new caution, her distrust, had its limits. Despite the things Elega had already done, Myste didn’t expect her sister to betray her.

  In the back of her mind, Elega began to wonder whose side she herself was on.

  She sat down again, poured more wine. Myste was still waiting for an explanation of Prince Kragen’s inaction. Elega took a deep breath because for the first time what she was about to say might be interpreted as evidence of disloyalty. Then she asked, “Do you remember the day we first met Terisa? The day the Perdon came storming into Orison, demanding help, and King Joyse refused him?”

  “Yes.” Once again, Myste’s sober gaze was fixed on Elega’s face.

  “I think I told you about it.” Elega remembered the Perdon’s rage vividly. You tell him this, my lady, he had roared at her. Every man of mine who falls or dies defending him in his blind inaction, I will send here. “Well, he is doing what he said he would. In small groups and squadrons, injured or dead men and their families arrive almost daily from the Care of Perdon, sent to the purported safety of Orison – and as a reproach to King Joyse.

  “They are Alend prisoners now – although it would be more just to say that they are under the care of the army’s physicians, and not permitted to leave. Being hurt, exhausted, or bereaved, few of them have the will to refuse when they are questioned.”

  Myste watched Elega’s face and said nothing.

  “From them,” Elega sighed, “we have learned that the High King’s army is not coming here.”

  At that, Myste’s eyes widened. “Not?” she whispered as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Not?”

  Elega nodded. “Not directly, in any case. That much is certain. Festten’s forces move with what speed they can manage through the hills of Perdon – through the Perdon’s resistance. But all recent reports agree that the High King’s movement brings him no nearer Orison.

  “That is why Prince Kragen believes he can afford to wait.”

  At last, Myste sounded like her self-control might slip. “Then where is High King Festten going?”

  “South and west,” Elega answered. “Into the Care of Tor.

  “The Perdon’s survivors say that the Cadwal army moves along the best route it can find toward Marshalt, the Tor’s seat.”

  “But why?” demanded Myste. “Why go there? The Congery is here.”

  Elega had no idea. “I have heard it rumored,” she said for the sake of hearing how Myste would reply, “that the Castellan considers the Tor a traitor.”

  Myste’s head twitched. “The Tor? Nonsense.” She thought for a moment, then continued, “And if he is a traitor, that would be even less reason for High King Festten to invade Tor. It makes no sense.

  “What is the Perdon doing?”

  To preserve her composure, Elega put on a hard front. “Apparently, he is more dedicated to Mordant’s service than his King deserves.” The truth was that every thought of the Perdon made her chest ache – made her want to scream because there was nothing she could do. “Festten appears uninterested in Orison. But rather than taking this opportunity to flee – perhaps here, perhaps toward a dubious alliance with the Armigite, or a stronger one with the Fayle – the Perdon shifts his forces so that they are always in Cadwal’s way. He began with scarcely three thousand men against at least twenty thousand. If the reports are true, he has less than two thousand now, and every day he is whittled down. And yet he continues fighting. He spends every life in his command, merely to hinder Festten’s approach to whatever it is the High King wants.

  “Clearly, he is engaged in a personal struggle against Cadwal. If King Joyse had not abandoned him long ago, he would have saved himself – and aided Orison – by coming here.

  “Does that answer your questions?”

  While Elega spoke, Myste’s expression changed. Her gaze turned toward Orison; her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Father,” she murmured thickly. “How have you been brought to this? How do you bear it?”

  Elega’s urge to scream intensified. “If it does,” she snapped, “perhaps you will consent to answer mine. I have told you enough to get myself beheaded if I were not in the Prince’s favor. I would like some return for my risk.”

  “Yes.” Suddenly, Myste rose to her feet, facing through the wall of the tent toward Orison as though Elega weren’t present. “I can make my decisions now. Thank you.

  “I must go.”

  Without a glance at her sister, she started toward the tentflap.

  For an instant, Elega was stuck, caught between contradictory reactions. She was full of outrage; she wanted to make scathing demands which would rip Myste’s reticence aside. At the same time, the thought that her sister was about to leave her – without trusting her, without trusting her – went into her heart like a spike.

  She was about to shout for a soldier when a new thought flashed through her, a bolt of illumination.

  Before her sister reached the tent flap, she said, “Father sent me a message, Myste.”

  Myste stopped immediately; she turned, came back toward Elega. As if involuntarily, she asked, “What was it?”

  Too absorbed in Myste’s importance to be self-conscious, Elega answered, “Castellan Lebbick brought it. According to him, Father said, ‘I am sure that my daughter Elega has acted for the best reasons. She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. For her sake, as well as for my own, I hope that the best reasons will also produce the best results.” ’

  Unexpectedly, Myste closed her eyes. Tears spread under her lashes and down her cheeks, but for a long moment she didn’t move or speak. Then she looked radiantly at her sister, smiling like a new day.

  “Of course,” she breathed. “Why did I not see it for myself?” At once, she returned to her chair. Smiling so beautifully that she wrung Elega’s heart, she said, “Very well. Ask me something specific.”

  Elega gaped at her – gaped like a fish until Myste started laughing.

  Elega couldn’t help herself; she was suddenly so full of joy and relief and confusion that she laughed herself.

  After a while, Myste subsided. “Ah, Elega, we have not done that together since we were girls.”

  Mocking her own dignity, Elega replied primly, “Do not be arrogant, child. You are hardly old enough yet to be called a woman.”

  Myste chuckled happily. For a moment, the only thing that prevented her from looking like the Myste Elega remembered – romantic and dear, vaguely foolish, not to be taken seriously – was the scar on her cheek.

  But that scar changed everything. It made the new Myste impossible to ignore or forget. She inspired a rush of confusion in Elega.

  “Myste, where were you? Where did you go? Why did you go? And those clothes. What have you been doing all this tim
e?”

  “Elega,” Myste protested humorously, “I said, ‘Ask me something specific.” But then she sighed, and slowly the laughter faded from her face. “Well, I will tell you.” Her expression became one Elega didn’t know how to interpret: sober and contemplative; a little sad; a little excited. “If you do not take it well, however, there will be trouble for us all.

  “I left Orison to search for the Congery’s champion.”

  Elega was so surprised that she cried, “You did what?“ before she could catch herself.

  The Myste Elega used to know would have flinched or blushed; she might have hung her head or sounded defensive. The new Myste did none of these things. She only raised her head slightly, squared her jaw a bit, and repeated, “I left Orison to search for the Congery’s champion.”

  A moment later, she added, “Terisa helped me.”

  Take it well. Elega didn’t want to make a fool of herself, so she stared at her sister and said nothing.

  “I went from her rooms through the secret passages down to the breach he made in the wall. It was not very well guarded then, so I was able to escape without being seen. From there, I followed his trail in the snow.”

  Elega stared, waiting for Myste to say or do something that made sense.

  “Eventually,” Myste continued, “I caught up with him. He was hurt, not able to move quickly. In fact, he was down in the snow, bleeding his life into his armor.

  “I startled him – he thought he was being attacked again.” Myste’s tone remained mild and firm. “He fired at me.” She touched her cheek. “Fortunately, he did little harm. Then he saw that I was a woman, and dropped his weapon. I was able to approach him.”

  Elega forced herself to blink her eyes, clear her throat, shake some of the astonishment out of her head. Carefully, she said, “Go back to the beginning. Tell me why.”

  “Why?” Myste’s gaze drifted into the distance. “Why not? There were so many reasons. There was Father’s strange decline, his impulse to destruction – and our helplessness, which I enjoyed no more than you did. There was Terisa, who faced a world she did not know or understand with more courage and resourcefulness than I could find in myself. And there was the dishonesty of the Congery’s action.”

  “ ‘Dishonesty’?” objected Elega. “The Masters were trying to defend Mordant. The translation of their champion was the only action they could have taken that might have aided us.”

  “No.” Myste was certain. “I will not speak of the ethical question – whether it is ever permissible to impose an involuntary translation on any living thing. But the Masters were not honest with themselves. They claim that they translated their champion in response to Mordant’s need, trying to find the hope of their auguries – but how did they expect him to react to what they did? He was injured – he and all his men were embattled for their lives – and suddenly he found himself in another world.” Her voice took on a hint of passion. “What could he think? Surely he could think nothing except that this change was yet another attack by his enemies.

  “If the Masters had been honest, they would have admitted that the only way such a champion could ever become an ally of theirs was if they approached him peacefully, unthreateningly, rather than playing upon his instinct for violence.”

  In some ways, Elega found Myste’s argument as surprising as her previous revelations. What she said seemed perfectly clear, eminently logical. Elega wasn’t accustomed to hearing her sister reason in such terms.

  “I never thought of it that way,” she admitted. Then she added almost accusingly, “But you did. And you decided to do something about it.”

  Myste shrugged as if to dismiss the suggestion that she had shown bravery or initiative. “The Fayle attempted to warn Father of the Masters’ intention. When Father permitted that translation to take place, I realized that if I remained where I was and did nothing I would begin to hate him. And when I conceived the idea of trying to help the champion, my heart lifted.”

  Speaking dryly to control herself, Elega said, “So you put on your warm clothes and went out into a hard winter for the sake of a warrior who might kill you as soon as he saw you. For no reason, really, except that you felt sorry for him.”

  A small smile touched Myste’s lips.

  “And you found him and helped him. How was that possible? Was he a man inside his armor?”

  “Oh, yes. Different in little ways – but very much like us. Like us in everything that matters.”

  To Elega’s renewed amazement, Myste blushed. Myste hurried on promptly, however.

  “Like Terisa, he speaks our language – perhaps because of the translation. His name is Darsint,” she commented by the way. “His instructions enabled me to get him from his armor and tend his wound. His weapon made a fire for us easily, and I had food.

  “Since then, we have been together, hiding when we can, fleeing when we must. Shelter and even food have been simple to find in abandoned villages and farms—”

  “And since the army’s arrival,” Elega interrupted, speaking in a rush to catch up with the implications of what her sister revealed, “you have been watching us. Together – you and the Congery’s champion. You said it took you several days to persuade yourself to come to me. It was not you you had to persuade, it was him. You are his knowledge, his guide.”

  Inspired by the fire of ideas in her head, she paused to say, “His lover.” The mind which aims the weapon. Then she sped on.

  “That is the decision you have had to make. You are companion to the mightiest man in any of the kingdoms. He loves you – he is dependent on you. And you must decide how to use his power.”

  Now it was Myste’s turn to stare. Unable to contain her sudden, urgent hope, Elega swept out of her chair to confront her sister. “Myste, you must help us.

  “All that force, all that strength, only waiting to be used. Oh, my sister, why have you delayed? You can bring this siege to an end almost without effort. Do you not understand what must be done? We must take Orison. We must put an end to the King’s foolish resistance, so that the battle against Mordant’s true enemies can begin while the realm and the Congery remain intact.”

  “No, Elega.” Myste came to her own feet swiftly, met Elega’s passion face to face. “It is you who do not understand.” Her scar made her look fiery and unanswerable. “The question I have sought to resolve is not whether I should help you, but whether I should help Orison against you.

  “The Alend forces are too large for even a man with Darsint’s weapons to combat alone. Also his strength goes from him with every use. The word he uses is ‘recharged.’ His weapons cannot be ‘recharged’ in this world. For that reason, we must be cautious. Nevertheless I have been thinking long and hard about the damage he could do to the Alend Monarch’s army. The truth is that I have only held back because of your presence – and because of Prince Kragen’s inaction.”

  Elega started to protest, but Myste cut her off.

  “I must warn you, Elega. I am more certain now than ever that I must fight for Father and Mordant. If you require Darsint’s guns to be used, they will be used against you.”

  “Myste,” Elega gasped in dismay, “are you mad?”

  “Only if it is madness to trust our father.”

  “Yes, that is madness! You said so yourself – you spoke of his ‘strange decline, his impulse to destruction.’ Were you not listening to yourself? You would not have left Orison and gone to help this Darsint if you trusted our father.”

  “Yes.” Without warning, Myste’s intensity broke into a grin. She seemed at once sheepish and secure. “And no. I have spent days laboring through high snow. I have tended the wounds of an alien warrior and held him in my arms. And I have heard Father’s message to you. Fear and exhaustion teach many things. So does love. I have learned to think differently.

  “It is hard to say that I trust his decline. But I have come to trust the fact that he allowed the Congery to work this translation. I have even come to thin
k that he did it for me – in the same way that he insulted Prince Kragen for you. Do you not see how he has made us powerful? I can guide Darsint’s choices. I can ask his help. And you are in a place to affect the actions of Alend’s entire army.”

  I am sure that my daughter Elega has acted for the best reasons. For her sake, as well as for my own, I hope that the best reasons will also produce the best results.

  “Elega, we are doing what he intended us to do. He has plans for us. Perhaps his decline itself is only a goad to make us do what we can.”

  Elega floundered in her sister’s smile. This optimistic interpretation of the King’s behavior was insane. “Myste, you are a fool,” she muttered as if she were speaking to herself. “A fool.” King Joyse had driven his own wife away rather than make the effort to defend his kingdom. Or to explain himself. Piece by piece, he had chipped the hope and trust out of Elega’s heart. “Are you not hurt? Do the things he has done not cause you any pain?”

  “Of course they do.” Myste’s smile became fond and sad at the same time. “I only say that there is another way to look at what he has done. We ask ourselves whether he deserves our faith. But we do not have his burdens. He is the King. We should ask, I think, whether we deserve his faith.

  “It appears to me that he has tried to let us know that he trusts us.

  “Elega, do you never ask yourself what kind of man he must be, to place his trust in the people he has most hurt? Between us, we have the might to destroy him. Darsint’s weapons and the Prince’s army could accomplish that. And our father has pushed us into this position.

  “Either his lunacy is complete, or his need for us is so desperate that he cannot explain what he wants without making what he wants impossible.”

  Groping, Elega asked, “What do you mean? What can you possibly mean?”

  Myste shrugged. “Oh, I mean nothing. I only speculate. But suppose” – her gaze came into focus on her sister – “it is in some way vital to Father’s defense of Mordant that you are trusted by the Prince. How can a trust like that be achieved between two such old and mortal enemies? Any attempt to trick or mislead the Prince would almost surely fail. You are – pardon me for saying this – not much of a liar. You could not persuade the Prince to believe anything you did not believe yourself.”