A Man Rides Through
Somebody else would have to save Orison and Mordant.
He seemed to share her opinion. In a dry, querulous tone that made him sound nearly decrepit, he said without preamble, “You first, Kragen. And be quick about it. I don’t have much patience for men who threaten my daughters.”
Prince Kragen’s fists knotted on his anger; he held his voice steady. “Then you must have no patience at all for yourself, my lord King. I have come because I have news which you must hear. Thanks in part to Apt Geraden and the lady Terisa – and in part to other sources of knowledge – I have an astonishing range of threats to lay before you. But they are all of your own making, not mine. Even the lady Elega is entirely safe – unless you have lost even the small honesty necessary to respect a flag of truce.”
Unexpectedly, the Tor let out a snorting noise like a snore. His eyes seemed to be failing closed; his head began to loll on his thick neck.
“Whoreslime,” commented Castellan Lebbick unceremoniously. “You must have noticed that we’re besieged. Maybe you’ve even noticed that you’re the one besieging us.”
When King Joyse didn’t intervene to silence the Castellan, Terisa’s heart sank. The King had to listen, had to. He had to understand. Nevertheless he didn’t look capable of understanding – and he didn’t seem to be listening. He only stared at Prince Kragen as if the Alend Contender’s presence were no more pleasant – and no more interesting – than a bad smell.
“No, my lord King.” Prince Kragen did what he could, under the circumstances: he treated Lebbick’s words as if they came from King Joyse. “Even that threat you have brought upon yourself. When I first came to you seeking an alliance, you humiliated me deliberately. And since that time your only ambition has been to destroy your realm before you die. You forget that Alend also is bound up in Mordant’s need. You created the Congery, my lord King, and now you must face the consequences. If the power of all Imagery falls to High King Festten, our ruin is certain. We must fight for our survival. Even dogs will do as much. If you are determined to let the Congery fall to Cadwal, then we have no choice but to prevent you as best we can.”
The Prince had moved a step closer to King Joyse. Terisa and Geraden were on either side of him, a bit behind. Across Prince Kragen’s back, she whispered to Geraden, “This isn’t going to work. We’ve got to do something.”
A clenched glitter filled Geraden’s gaze. “My lord King—” he murmured as if the words stuck in his throat. “My lord King, please. Give us a chance.”
King Joyse paid no attention to him.
“No, my lord Prince.” Master Barsonage glared from under his shrubbery eyebrows. He didn’t stand. On the other hand, he did speak courteously. “Your view of the situation is persuasive, but not entirely fair. You forget that the Congery is composed of Imagers – and Imagers are also men. Like yourself, we must fight for our survival. Unlike you, however, we are men who have accepted the King’s ideals, the King’s purposes. Oh, there are some among us who serve the Congery only because they dislike the alternatives available to them. But they are few, my lord Prince – only a minority. The rest of us value what we are.
“Do you think we will calmly resign ourselves to High King Festten when Mordant collapses?
“You say you must keep the Congery from falling into Cadwal’s hands, and that is a worthy endeavor, I am sure. But the assumption on which your actions are based is that the Congery is a thing, not men – that we do not choose, or believe, or have worth as men.
“Why do you believe you have the right to determine our survival – and our allegiance – for us?”
Prince Kragen received this argument with a closed face. Once again, he treated what was said as if it came from King Joyse. Only the sweat at his temples betrayed the pressure he felt.
“A fascinating debate, my lord King,” he said grimly, “but irrelevant. We cannot leave Alend’s future in the hands of men who are so confused – either by Imagery itself, or by the necessity of achieving decisions through debate – that they believed the translation of an uncontrollable battle-champion to be a sensible action.
“No, my lord King. Your people will defend you, as they must. Nevertheless the responsibility for this siege is yours.”
King Joyse shrugged. At least he was listening well enough to know that Prince Kragen had paused. He gave the Prince a chance to go on, then said abruptly, “I know all this. Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me about your ‘astonishing range of threats.’ ”
The Tor snorted again, softly, and opened one eye. “So Terisa and Geraden are traitors after all,” he rumbled. He was lost in a world of wine. “How sad.” At once, he closed his eye again, dismissing whatever happened around him.
“In any case, my lord Prince,” the Castellan grated as if King Joyse hadn’t spoken, “you do have choices. We’ve already told you what they are. Withdraw to a safe position. Wait and see what happens. If you do that, King Joyse is willing to meet Margonal under a flag of truce and discuss an alliance.”
When she heard that, a small flame of hope leaped up in Terisa.
And was quenched immediately. Before Prince Kragen could reply, King Joyse muttered shakily, “No, Castellan. It’s too late for that. It’s too late for anything.
“It’s time for the truth.”
His swollen hands gripped the arms of his seat; he had trouble holding himself upright. Almost whining, he said to the Prince, “Tell me about your threats. Tell me what Terisa and Geraden know. Tell me why you stopped beating on my gates.” Under his whining, however, lay an iron blade, too well whetted and keen to be mistaken. All the light in the hall seemed to shine on him. “Tell me now.”
A tight silence closed around the onlookers. Terisa couldn’t bear to look at King Joyse any longer. She glanced at Geraden, saw him chewing the inside of his cheek; his eyes were wide and white, as if he were thinking desperately. Because Prince Kragen stood closer to the throne than she did, she couldn’t see most of his face; but she could see a twitch run down the long muscle of his jaw, a bead of sweat trail from his temple across his cheekbone. Ignoring the proprieties of a royal audience, she turned her head and caught Artagel’s eye; she was looking for inspiration. He didn’t have any to give her, however. He looked stretched and pale, as if he were stifling nausea.
Still avoiding the King, she faced Master Barsonage. You’re wrong about us. That was what she ought to say to him. All the assumptions here are wrong. Geraden didn’t kill Nyle. I didn’t kill Master Quillon.
But she didn’t say anything. The silence held her.
Why were Geraden and Prince Kragen sweating? Surely the air was cooler than that?
Prince Kragen’s fist sprang involuntarily from his side; he forced it down again. “No,” he said through his teeth, “I will not.”
A grin split Castellan Lebbick’s face. He was going to laugh. Or wail. “Why not, Prince? Why else did you come?”
Kragen ignored the Castellan. “I will not suffer this senseless treatment. I will not trade my only hopes to a King so contemptible that he respects no one else.” Despite his efforts to speak quietly, his voice grew thick with passion until he was nearly shouting. “The lady Elega persuaded me to come. Apt Geraden and the lady Terisa persuaded me. They are all deluded by the idea that their lord remains possessed of some vestige of wisdom – or of courage – or of bare decency.”
To Terisa, every word sounded like a nail being driven into the lid of Mordant’s coffin.
“Do you hear me, Joyse?” Prince Kragen raged. “You are deaf to everything else. You are deaf to the misery of your people, locked in a useless siege – caught in Cadwal’s path – slaughtered by renegade Imagers. You are deaf to the simplest requirements of kingship, the wisdom and the necessity of dealing fairly with other monarchs. You are deaf to love, deaf to the loyalty which destroys your friends and family.”
“Enough, my lord Prince.” King Joyse raised one hand. “I have heard you.” Now he didn’t sound querulous. A
nd he didn’t sound angry. He sounded oddly like a man who was experiencing a personal vindication. “You have said enough.”
But Prince Kragen had gone too far to stop. For a second, he let his fists pound the air. “By the stars, Joyse, it is not enough. You will not pull Alend down in Mordant’s ruin. I will not allow it.
“I will tell you nothing!”
Abruptly, he wheeled away from the throne.
Catching hold of Terisa and Geraden, he pulled them with him toward the doors.
Instinctively, she wrenched her arm out of his grasp.
She hadn’t made a conscious decision, either against him or for King Joyse. She was simply so torn, so hurt by the difference between what was needed and what was happening, so urgent for another outcome that she couldn’t bear to give up.
Geraden was clearer. He, too, jerked free of Prince Kragen. Swinging toward the throne, he cried out like a trumpet, “My lord King—! Houseldon is destroyed. Sternwall is failing. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls. Your people, my lord King, everywhere!”
King Joyse was on his feet. Terisa hadn’t seen him stand: she only saw him standing now, towering over her on the pediment with his beard thrust forward and his hair full of light.
“And?” he demanded. “And?”
As if he left her no choice, she replied, “And the Queen is gone. She’s been abducted.”
Then her stomach knotted as if she were about to be sick.
The idea that he would crumple now, that she had hurt the King hard enough to break him, was too much for her. Prince Kragen was shouting, “You fools! He will have me killed!” Too late. She turned her back on King Joyse, hugged her arms over her belly.
A movement on the balcony caught her eye. She cast a glance upward in time to see one of the archers fold to the floor.
Hands grabbed her, spun her. King Joyse had come down from his seat so fast that she didn’t have time to think, to react; he clenched his fists in her soft shirt. Shouting the King’s name, Geraden tried to intervene. King Joyse thrust him away.
“Who took her?” The king seemed to swell over Terisa. His eyes were blue fire; his teeth flashed; he shook her as if her heart were an empty sack. “I’ll have that man’s head! Who took her?”
Terisa struggled to turn her head, look back up at the balcony. But King Joyse was shaking her too hard; she couldn’t get her gaze into focus.
“Alends!” cried Geraden. “She was taken by Alends!”
So suddenly that Terisa nearly fell, King Joyse dropped her. His sword came into his hands swiftly, catching the light like a whip of fire.
She stumbled around to scan the balcony.
Three of the archers were down.
The rest were so engrossed in the scene below them that they hadn’t realized what was happening.
King Joyse and Prince Kragen confronted each other. The Prince had drawn his own blade: the tips of their swords danced at each other in the glow of the lamps and candles.
“Where is she?” demanded the King.
Wildly, Geraden pushed himself between the blades. “They were dressed like Alends!” he panted. “We think it’s a trick! Prince Kragen came here to prove his good faith!” Before his King could cut him down, he added, “Torrent went after her. She’s going to leave a trail for help to follow.”
“The balcony,” Terisa said. She was hardly able to hear herself.
Shielded by Geraden, Prince Kragen lowered his sword. Facing King Joyse regally over Geraden’s shoulder, he avowed, “My lord King, I spit on the men who did this to you. And I spit on the cheap ploy which made them appear Alend. I would rather die than become a man who can only gain his ends by violence against women.”
He was too late: the blow which felled him was already in motion. Too quickly for any reaction – even from King Joyse – Artagel reared up behind the Prince and chopped him so hard across the back of the neck that he went down as if he had been hit with an axe.
At the same time, Castellan Lebbick cried like a howl of glee, “Gart!”
Terisa could see the High King’s Monomach now. As the fourth archer went down, Gart rounded the balcony to attack those on the other side. He was black and swift, a slash of midnight, and his sword seemed to splash blood in all directions.
The remaining archers had their bows ready to protect King Joyse from Prince Kragen. Instantly, they shifted their aim toward Gart and let fly.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. He had a number of his Apts with him. Swooping like shadows, they caught the archers from behind, hacking the guards down, spoiling their aim. Only one of the arrows went true.
Gart knocked the shaft aside with the flat of his blade.
His return stroke beheaded the nearest archer. The head flopped lopsidedly over the balcony railing and fell among the benches with a thud.
Men yelled everywhere. Castellan Lebbick roared, “I’m coming, you bastard! I’m coming!” and sprinted toward a door hidden behind one of the screens. Most of the Imagers started to flee. Master Barsonage lashed them back to his side with curses.
Geraden cried at Artagel uselessly, “You idiot!”
“I didn’t know!” retorted Artagel. Looking frantic and self-disgusted, he flung a glance up at the balcony, at Gart, then scanned the hall; he couldn’t decide what to do. In spite of his uncertainty, however, he didn’t hesitate to help himself to Prince Kragen’s sword.
Laconic in the tumult, Norge demanded reinforcements. Two of the captains headed out of the hall to rally Orison; the rest of Lebbick’s men followed him toward the stairwell to the balcony.
The noise awakened the Tor. He opened his eyes with a snuffle and gazed around blearily.
Terisa felt that she was still watching the severed head flop off the balcony and fall. The sound when it hit the bench was unmistakable: she would remember it for the rest of her life. She had to get out of the way, but for some reason she couldn’t move. Geraden turned toward the Masters: she thought she heard him ask, “Can you fight? Have you got mirrors with you?” The strain around Artagel’s eyes was clear as he hefted the Prince’s blade; he moved stiffly. She knew as if he had explained his dilemma at length that he yearned to go after Gart – and that he feared to go because he was no match for the High King’s Monomach. Distinctly, she heard a Master snap, “We brought none. How could we know that mirrors would be needed in the audience hall?” She really ought to get moving. Before Gart or his Apts had a chance to come after her.
Instead of moving, she waited until she felt a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slide straight through the center of her abdomen.
Then she flipped forward, dove to the floor, rolled away. When she got her feet under her again, she ran toward Geraden and the Masters.
Out of the air where she had been standing stepped Master Gilbur and Master Eremis.
Master Gilbur gripped his dagger in one fist. The hunch of his back and the thickness of his arms made his hands look as powerful as battering rams.
Master Eremis carried a sword in a scabbard belted around his jet cloak. His chief weapon was already in his hands, however.
A mirror the size and shape of a roofing tile.
With a precision that seemed like lunacy, she noticed that both men still wore their chasubles.
Immediately, Master Gilbur leaped to attack Prince Kragen.
Grinning happily, Master Eremis came toward Terisa and Geraden.
There were no guards to oppose them. Norge’s reinforcements hadn’t arrived. And the rest of the men had followed Castellan Lebbick.
Lebbick burst out onto the balcony with his sword in both hands, snarling for blood. And he almost caught Gart. Unfamiliar with the stairwell, Gart couldn’t know where it opened; out of ignorance, he had placed himself in an awkward position. Nevertheless he countered Lebbick’s first cut, blocked it against the railing so hard that chips flew. Retreating nimbly, he countered the backstroke.
That gave him all the time he needed
to recover his balance.
Behind the Castellan, six guards and as many captains led by Norge rushed from the stairwell one at a time to engage the Monomach’s Apts.
Gart had only four men with him: they were badly outnumbered. But the balcony was too narrow for any two men to stand and fight abreast. Gart blocked Lebbick on one side; on the other, an Apt battled the first pikeman to come at him. The rest of the defenders were caught in the middle, helpless.
Gart struck furiously, trying to jam his opponents against each other; he almost succeeded at driving the Castellan backward. Lebbick slipped one blow, blocked a second which hit hard enough to jar his joints and leave a notch on his blade. But he was happy at last, nearly ecstatic at the chance to fight without restraint. Savage joy lit his face as he held Gart’s attack.
“Bastard!” he panted. “I’ll teach you to think you can do what you want in my castle!”
Behind him, unfortunately, the first pikeman didn’t fare as well. The guard probably hadn’t had a fraction of the training given to Gart’s Apts. He stumbled; and his black-armored opponent gutted him almost without effort, then used the moment of surprise while he fell to cut halfway through the nearest captain’s chest.
Norge stooped, snatched up one of the bows. So placidly that he didn’t seem to be hurrying, he flipped a shaft into the Apt’s throat.
Across the hall, one of Gart’s men recklessly flung a dagger. It should have missed from that distance: its target should have seen it coming. Unluckily, he didn’t. The guard went down with the blade buried in his left eye.
Norge shot the Apt cleanly in the chest.