A Man Rides Through

  Each movement helped bring him back to himself; the weight of his weapon seemed to make him stronger. By degrees, he came upright, planted his legs, clenched both fists on the hilt of his longsword. His eyes lost their glazed dullness and began to smolder with a murderous rage.

  Instinctively, he sank into a fighter’s crouch. The tip of his blade searched for the nearest enemy. He was going to swing—The Tor nearly wept at the thought that Prince Kragen might do something which would force the guards to kill him.

  But the Prince didn’t swing. Slowly, he turned toward the doors; he saw that men blocked his way. “Dastards!” he spat as he wheeled back.

  “Who struck me?” he demanded softly. “Where is King Joyse?”

  “My lord Prince.” Trembling, the Tor released one of his hands from Norge, then the other. Alone, he took two tottering steps toward Prince Kragen, as if he were presenting his belly to the Prince’s blade. Fire seemed to run like water out of his guts and down the nerves of his legs; nevertheless he kept his head up. “Forgive my weakness. I am unwell.

  “You were struck by Artagel.” He nodded toward Artagel’s supine form. “You see the outcome.

  “King Joyse is gone. He disappeared shortly after you fell – when Gart attacked.”

  “Gart?” Prince Kragen’s eyes widened; his rage receded slightly. His mind was beginning to function. He shifted his grip on his sword. “The High King’s Monomach was here?”

  The Tor nodded, conserving his strength.

  At once, Prince Kragen scanned the hall, plainly searching for confirmation. He noticed the archers and pikemen dead on the balcony, the slain Apts; he absorbed the absence of the King’s counselors, the absence of the Masters. He saw Castellan Lebbick stretched out behind the Tor, and his mouth twisted under his moustache as if he were suddenly sick.

  “My lord Tor,” he said in a bitter snarl, “where are my companions, Geraden and the lady Terisa? They also were protected under a flag of truce.”

  Still whispering because he didn’t have any choice, the old lord replied, “Gart had allies. Master Eremis. Master Gilbur.” He saw from Prince Kragen’s face that the Prince wasn’t particularly surprised by the names he mentioned.

  “They took the lady Terisa, my lord Prince,” Norge put in casually. “As for Geraden, he went with Master Barsonage. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the mediator carried him off.”

  Took the lady Terisa. The Tor blinked stupidly. He hadn’t seen her go, hadn’t known—But he couldn’t afford to think about that now. He had to deal with Kragen.

  “So you see,” he said as well as he could, “we have nowhere else to turn for answers. My lord Prince, I think you should tell us the things you came to tell King Joyse.”

  “Why?” Prince Kragen’s question cut the air. “Your King accused me of an atrocity. Although I was protected under a flag of truce, I was struck down before I could defend myself.” He bit into the words to control his passion. “Apparently, it is amazing that I am still alive. Even your King’s audiences are not safe. And now he has ‘disappeared.’

  “Why should I say one word to you, my lord Tor?”

  The Tor had to suppress a yearning for sleep. “Because King Joyse has disappeared, my lord Prince.” The damage to his stomach dragged at him. If he were horizontal, it might hurt less. And if he were asleep, it might stop hurting entirely.

  On the other hand, Orison had been kicked in the gut as well. He was needed. He had to do whatever he was capable of doing.

  “He is gone. And the Castellan is dead. He died saving my life when Gart was ready to kill me. There is no power left in Orison.

  “None except Captain Norge, Lebbick’s second. And Master Barsonage, the mediator of the Congery. And me.

  “Master Barsonage is not present, but I will speak for him. If you deal openly with us, we are prepared to offer you an alliance. Orison’s strength, and the Congery’s, against Cadwal.”

  That brought Prince Kragen’s fury up short. He stared for a moment; his mouth hung open. Then, in a tone of fierce care, he asked, “Do I understand you, my lord Tor? Have you just proclaimed yourself King of Mordant? Have you murdered Joyse? Have you and Norge been plotting revolt?”

  “Of course not,” the Tor groaned. “I claim only the position of a chancellor.” Really, this was too much. How could he possibly be expected to stand here and argue when he was probably bleeding to death inside? “If I were a younger man, I would teach you to regret that accusation.” If Lebbick hadn’t saved his life, he would have given up the whole business and let himself collapse. “The King is only gone, not deposed. Not murdered. In his absence – and in his name – and with Captain Norge’s support,” he added, hoping that Norge wouldn’t contradict him, “I will make decisions.

  “We are prepared to offer you an alliance,” he repeated. “If you will deal openly with us.”

  Prince Kragen continued to hesitate, caught – the Tor supposed – between suspicion, curiosity, need. And he probably didn’t trust the wine-soaked old lord in front of him. Who would? A guard came into the hall and crossed toward Norge, but the Tor ignored him. In addition, Artagel began to fumble toward consciousness. The Tor ignored that as well. He concentrated on Prince Kragen’s silence.

  “Come, my lord Prince,” he wheezed. “I am not well. I will not be on my feet long. You have said that you desire an alliance. And your desire is demonstrably sincere. With the rupture” – poor choice of words – “of Orison’s gates nearly accomplished, you desisted when Terisa and Geraden came into your hands. But you did not keep them and their knowledge for yourself. You brought them here, risking them and your own person for the sake of what you hoped to gain.

  “The blow which struck you down under a flag of truce was a mistake. Artagel will admit as much.” The Tor saw no reason to refrain from extravagant promises. “Will you sacrifice your own needs and desires merely to punish us for a mistake?

  “My lord Prince, tell us the things you came to say to King Joyse.”

  Artagel levered himself off the floor, lurched to his feet; one hand clasped the back of his neck, trying too late to protect it from Gilbur’s attack. When he saw Prince Kragen facing him, sword poised, he took a step backward and looked around urgently, searching to comprehend what had happened.

  “A report, my lord Tor,” Norge announced tranquilly. “You asked for reports.

  “There’s panic in Orison, and it’s spreading, but we’ve been able to keep it out of the courtyard – away from the gates. The Prince’s honor guard is waiting as patiently as possible. No sign of King Joyse. Geraden is definitely with Master Barsonage. The mediator’s quarters.

  “Two of the duty guards say they saw Adept Havelock’s brown cloud lift off the King’s tower.” Nonchalantly, Norge avoided Prince Kragen’s sharp gaze. “If they’re right, it didn’t attack the encampment. It just floated out of sight.”

  The Tor suffered this interruption as well as he could, but he hardly heard what Norge was saying. At the moment, all he really wanted in life was the ability to cry out; scream his pain at the ceiling. And not just the pain of his brutalized abdomen. He had other hurts as well. Lebbick’s death. King Joyse’s abandonment, when he, the Tor, had staked his heart on the belief that Joyse still deserved trust. And the humiliation of being distrusted because he had drunk too much wine.

  His eyes ran again. Stupid, stupid. Through the blur, he croaked, “Artagel.”

  “Is this certain?” Prince Kragen snapped at Norge. “The report is to be trusted? The King’s Dastard has not attacked us?”

  “Lebbick?” Artagel demanded like a man who still wasn’t entirely conscious. “Lebbick?”

  “You struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. That was a mistake. Tell him you know it was a mistake.”

  Both Prince Kragen and Norge stared at the Tor as if the old lord had lost his mind.

  “Lebbick!” Artagel cried through a clenched throat. “What have they done to you?”


  The Tor tried again. “Artagel.”

  “Terisa? Geraden?” Artagel jerked his head from side to side, scanning the hall, the guards, the bodies. “Where are they?” A flush of blood and pain filled his face. “Did Gart get them? Somebody give me a sword! Where are they?”

  “Artagel!” Norge put an inflection of command into his easy tone. “Eremis and Gart took the lady. Geraden is all right. Pay attention. The Tor gave you an order.”

  “Gave me a what?” Artagel rasped as if he were about to begin howling. But then, abruptly, he froze; his eyes widened. Almost matching Norge’s casualness, he asked, “Where is King Joyse?”

  “That,” said Prince Kragen in heavy sarcasm, “is a question we would all like answered.”

  Slowly, Artagel’s jaw dropped.

  The Tor made one more effort. “Artagel, you struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. I want you to apologize.”

  Then, deliberately, the old lord closed his eyes and held his breath.

  He didn’t look or breathe again until he heard Artagel say, “My lord Prince, I was wrong.”

  Artagel was smiling like a whetted axe. His voice held an edge he might have used against Gart. And yet—

  And yet he did what the Tor needed.

  “It’s inexcusable to violate a flag of truce. And you saved my life once – you and the Perdon. I just didn’t have time to think. I was afraid of what King Joyse might do. Everybody in Orison knows he’s been practicing his swordsmanship. The Castellan said he was probably going to challenge you to a duel. I thought he was crazy enough to try it.”

  Prince Kragen couldn’t hide his surprise at this information, but the Tor clung to his pain and let everything else pass over his head. Unexpectedly, his spirits lifted a bit. There was good reason why everybody in Orison liked Artagel.

  “I’ve seen you fight,” Artagel concluded. “King Joyse didn’t stand a chance. I was just trying to save him.”

  Artagel had the Prince’s attention now. Kragen thought intently for a moment, then said, “Artagel, you have the reputation of a fighter. You understand warfare. What is your opinion? Who has the most to gain from an alliance, Orison or Alend?”

  Without hesitation, Artagel answered, “You do, my lord Prince. We’ve got the Congery.”

  The Tor couldn’t be sure of what he saw any longer. His eyes kept running, and the damage to his stomach seemed to throb up into his head; his brain felt like a balloon about to burst. Nevertheless he had the impression that the Prince was sagging, letting go of his fury.

  “My lord Tor” – Prince Kragen’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of a veil of pressure – “Geraden and the lady Terisa approached me from the Care of Fayle, where they had witnessed Queen Madin’s abduction. But that was by no means their only news. Among a number of other things, they informed me of Master Eremis’ treachery.

  “Simply for that – to warn King Joyse of his enemies – I might have been willing to risk myself here. But I have other information as well, knowledge which both confirms and worsens the things Geraden and the lady Terisa revealed.

  “I know where High King Festten’s army is.”

  The Tor felt himself about to fall. Really, somebody ought to teach Gart to treat old men with more respect. Nevertheless he was determined to do what he could.

  “Norge, announce in Orison that I have taken command during the King’s absence. You are appointed Castellan. Make it heard. It is our only defense against panic. The people must believe that we still stand, regardless of treachery.”

  Norge saluted equably, but the Tor ignored him. “My lord Prince,” he wheezed as if his wounds were going to kill him, “we must leave this hall before Master Eremis sees fit to attack again. Come with me to King Joyse’s rooms. We have much to discuss.

  “I must discuss it sitting down.”

  FORTY-ONE: THE USES OF TALENT

  When Geraden actually recovered consciousness, he was sitting in one of Master Barsonage’s handmade chairs.

  He had opened his eyes before the mediator got him out of the hall of audiences; he had forced his legs under him, despite their awkward tendency to flop in all directions, and had carried most of his own weight during the walk from the hall to Master Barsonage’s private quarters; he had received the news of Terisa’s capture as if he understood it. Nevertheless he had no effective idea of where he was or what he was doing until Barsonage shut the door on Orison’s problems, positioned him in a sturdy armchair, and handed him a flagon of ale.

  This room was familiar. And almost comfortable, like a restoration of old relationships, old truths. Master Barsonage was the mediator of the Congery. Geraden was an Apt – part servant, part student. That made everything simple. He had no worries, no responsibilities, unless the mediator assigned them to him. Unless the mediator explained them to him.

  Simple.

  Moving slowly because of the way his head throbbed, he accepted an automatic swallow from the flagon; then he drank deeply.

  And then he remembered so hard that he nearly gasped.

  Terisa. Eremis had Terisa.

  “We’ve got to help her.”

  Perhaps he wasn’t entirely conscious after all. He wasn’t aware that he had spoken aloud; he certainly didn’t realize that he had dropped his flagon on the floor. He only knew that he was trying to get out of the chair, trying with all his strength, and Master Barsonage held him back. Braced over him, the mediator’s bulk was implacable: he couldn’t shift it.

  Terisa!

  “Let me go. We’ve got to help her.”

  “How?” demanded the Master bluntly. “How will you help her?”

  “The mirror I made.” Geraden wanted to fret like a child, slap at Barsonage’s hands, wail; somehow, he restrained himself. “The one like Gilbur’s – the one I used to bring her here. I can shift it. I made it take me to Domne.”

  “What will that accomplish?” The mediator continued to block Geraden’s escape from the chair. “Surely she was not taken to Domne?”

  “No.” Geraden found it almost impossible not to yell or weep. “He took her to Esmerel. That’s where he’s been working all this time. I’ve seen Esmerel. I can make my mirror show that Image. I can use it to look for her. If I find her, I can translate her back.”

  Let me go!

  “No. Forgive me.” Suddenly, the mediator didn’t sound firm or implacable. He sounded grieved, almost wounded. “That will be impossible.”

  Maybe Master Barsonage had stepped back. Or maybe Geraden felt authority rise in him like fire, giving him strength no one could oppose. He was no Apt, not anymore. Eremis’ enmity had transformed him.

  Don’t you understand? He’s going to rape her. She’s an arch-Imager. He’s going to find some way to rape her talent.

  Almost without effort, Geraden surged to his feet, pushed the older man back, cleared his own way to the door.

  Yet the change in the mediator’s tone stopped him; it had more effect on him than a shout of rage or protest. Now that he could have left, he stayed where he was, caught.

  “What do you mean? Why is it impossible?”

  “Geraden, forgive me,” Barsonage repeated. His grief was plain on his face. “In this, I have failed you badly.”

  Just for an instant, Geraden hung on the verge of an explosion: he was going to spit outrage, batter the mediator into talking sense, do something violent. Almost at once, however, he pulled himself back from the edge. “Apologize later,” he said between his teeth. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  “The truth was obvious.” Master Barsonage wasn’t able to meet his hot gaze. “A child could have seen it. Of course you were able to work wonders with that glass. You brought the lady Terisa among us. You escaped into it, leaving no trace of yourself. We all knew of your talent at last—

  “But I did not think of your talent. I thought only of your guilt – or your innocence. And so I missed the obvious implication of the obvious truth. There I failed you.”

>   Geraden beat his fists against his thighs to keep himself from shouting, Get to the point!

  “I did not see,” the mediator explained sadly, “that your mirror required special protection, either to keep it from you if you were guilty, or to preserve it for you if you were innocent.” At last, he forced himself to look into Geraden’s face. “Some days ago, a riot took place. It appeared to be an outbreak against the Castellan – but by an astonishing series of coincidences its worst violence occurred in the laborium. During the tumult, several mirrors were shattered.

  “The only one of importance was yours.”

  Distinctly, as if the admission were an act of valor, Master Barsonage concluded, “I have cost you the means to help the lady Terisa. You have no glass with which to search for her.”

  Geraden found himself staring at nothing. For some reason, the mediator no longer seemed present in the room. Which was nonsense, of course, he was right there, with his chasuble hanging down his vast chest, with his face twisted in difficult honesty. Nevertheless the older man was gone in some way, erased from Geraden’s attention.

  A riot had taken place. In the laborium. Against Castellan Lebbick. And mirrors had been destroyed. The only whole, perfect mirror which he, Geraden, had ever made—

  He would need at least a day to make another glass. Eremis had Terisa. At least a day.

  A riot against Castellan Lebbick?

  “You must understand how confused matters were to us in your absence.” Master Barsonage was speaking earnestly, trying to explain. Maybe he thought an explanation would help. “First you were accused of Nyle’s murder. Then Nyle’s body was mutilated by means of Imagery, and the physician Underwell disappeared. Then Master Quillon was killed. That was clear evidence of the lady Terisa’s guilt – evidence which demonstrated your own guilt by association. The Castellan himself witnessed her power, as well as her alliance with Master Gilbur.”

  No, this wasn’t working. Geraden didn’t need an explanation. Or he didn’t need this explanation. At least a day. Eremis had Terisa. If he could somehow have focused his attention on the mediator, he would have demanded, A riot against Castellan Lebbick?