“And then,” Barsonage was saying, “the Castellan himself began to insist on your innocence – on the lady Terisa’s innocence. Plainly, he had lost his reason. The King’s madness had at last driven Lebbick mad. And yet he insisted, when all Orison except the guard had turned against him. He insisted – but privately, privately, so that few could hear him – upon accusing Master Eremis, who had single-handedly saved us from an Alend victory by thirst.
“What were we to think? Without doubt, the lady Terisa’s talent – and your own – gave us back our purpose. The meaning of the Congery had been restored. But what were we to do? Had she come to save us, or destroy us? Had you in fact murdered your brother, or were you innocent? Such questions consumed us. We were not concerned for the safety of our mirrors. Men who covet the power of Imagery do not destroy mirrors.”
Geraden had the impression that if he moved – if he so much as opened his mouth to breathe – he would at once fall into a pit of blackness. It filled the room all around him, lurking behind the illusory images of Master Barsonage and the furniture. Everything he had ever done had gone wrong. Wasn’t that true? For all practical purposes, he had brought Terisa here simply so that Master Eremis could have her at the peak of his power, at the moment of her greatest vulnerability. What a triumph. The climax of a brilliant life. Everything had gone wrong since the day his mother had died, and he had sworn, sworn, that he was never again going to let that happen to anyone he loved.
Nevertheless he couldn’t stop trying. The bare idea of surrendering to Eremis made him sick. There had to be something he could do—
A riot against Castellan Lebbick?
Deliberately, he opened his mouth. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take a deep breath, focus his eyes on the mediator.
“Why Lebbick?” That wasn’t exactly the question he wanted to ask, but it was close enough. “Why did they turn against Lebbick?”
Master Barsonage shrugged his massive shoulders. “The maid Saddith.” This subject was considerably less personal for him. “He beat her – beat her nearly to death. She was maimed by it.
“She incited the riot to gain revenge.”
Suddenly, as if Barsonage had murmured the words and made the gestures to perform a translation, Geraden’s weakness was gone, banished. There wasn’t any pit of blackness around him: there was only a room he knew fairly well; a room which on this occasion didn’t have enough lamps lit, with the result that the corners were obscure, like hiding places.
“Master Barsonage” – Geraden was mildly astonished by his own calm – “why did he beat her? That’s where it started – the ‘series of coincidences.’ What did she do?”
Geraden’s interest obviously took the mediator aback. He hesitated for a moment, as if he thought he ought to steer the discussion in a more useful direction. Whatever he saw in Geraden’s face, however, persuaded him to answer.
“The story is that she went to his bed, the night after the lady Terisa’s disappearance. She said that she grieved for him in his distress and wished to comfort him. Those who were willing to doubt her – and they were few after the extent of her injuries became known – said that she offered herself to him so that he would elevate her above the position of a chambermaid.”
Again Geraden wanted to explode. “And that didn’t warn you?” he snapped. “It didn’t make you suspicious at all? Didn’t you remember she was Eremis’ lover? I told you that. I told you he’s been using her. Didn’t it ever occur to you that he might have sent her to Lebbick? What have you done with your mind?”
“Geraden.” Master Barsonage’s face turned hard; his eyes glittered. “You are no longer an Apt. No one could deny that you have become an Imager. Yet I remain the mediator of the Congery. I expect your respect.
“I have admitted my fault. I did not foresee the danger to your glass. In other matters, however, I have not earned your anger.”
With difficulty, Geraden restrained himself. “I’m sorry,” he gritted, unable to unclench his jaws. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just terrified for Terisa.” At once, he went on, “Do you mean you were suspicious of Eremis? What did you do?”
The mediator studied Geraden for a moment, then apparently decided to let himself be mollified. Shrugging again, he replied, “The relationship between Master Eremis and the maid was of interest to me, naturally. But it was a matter of inference only – hardly a demonstration of treachery. And his public display of loyalty was impressive. I might,” he admitted wryly, “have dismissed my suspicions, inevitable though they were.
“However, your brother Artagel came to speak with me—”
Geraden held himself still, waiting.
“After the lady Terisa’s show of talent,” Master Barsonage explained, “the Congery at last went to work with a will, showing the kind of dedication King Joyse has always wanted. Respecting the strictures he had placed upon us from the first, we began to search for tools of defense, ways in which we might preserve Orison, or even Mordant – methods to oppose or assist you and the lady Terisa when we learned the truth about you.”
Half-smiling, the mediator digressed to say, “Prince Kragen seemed on the verge of breaking Orison’s gates when you distracted him. I can assure you, however, that he would not have been able to enter this castle without my consent.”
Then he resumed, “In this work, Master Eremis at first took no part. He was assumed to be resting after the exertion of refilling the reservoir.”
Geraden held his breath.
“The day after the riot, however, he came to me to announce that he was ready to take up his duties among the Congery.
“He could not know that I had had a long conversation with Artagel several days previously.
“Artagel informed me that – despite his own evidence – Castellan Lebbick was now convinced of your innocence. He was convinced of Master Eremis’ guilt. And his reasoning was persuasive. From Artagel, it was very persuasive.”
Master Barsonage sighed. “Unfortunately, Geraden, there was no proof. There was no basis on which Master Eremis could be accused, no way it could be shown that the man who had saved us from Alend had done so for Cadwal’s benefit rather than our own.
“Therefore I could not turn against him. I could not so much as deny him his place in the Congery, for fear that he would be alerted to my distrust. And yet I also could not further expose the Congery to his betrayal.
“Geraden, I have not served you well – but I have served the King better. I concealed the Congery’s true work from Master Eremis. I lied to him about it. I allowed him to see no sign of it, play no part in it. He does not know how well prepared we are to assist in the defense of Orison.”
Geraden cleared his lungs slowly. His head was clear, and a number of things seemed to be growing clearer around him. After all, there was really no way Master Barsonage could have predicted that Eremis would use Saddith to start a riot in order to cover up an attack on his, Geraden’s, mirror. But to keep the Congery’s work secret – to do practical labor on Orison’s behalf without allowing the knowledge to fall into Eremis’ hands—That was well done.
And Artagel trusted him, trusted Terisa. Even Castellan Lebbick had trusted both of them, despite Master Eremis’ manipulations.
There was hope. He didn’t know what it was yet, but he had the strongest feeling—
“What did you tell him?” he asked the mediator softly. “What kind of lie did he believe?”
Unexpectedly, Master Barsonage smiled – a grin so sharp it seemed almost bloodthirsty. “I told him that we have dedicated all our resources to discovering how our enemies are able to make use of flat mirrors without going mad.”
A muscle twitched in Geraden’s cheek. Yes, that was a lie which would be believed by anyone who was convinced of the Congery’s fundamental ineffectuality. “Wasn’t that true?” he asked.
The lift of the mediator’s shoulders was like his grin. “There was truth in it. I have asked two of the Masters
to concentrate on that question. The rest of us, however, have been laboring for more immediate results.”
Geraden felt his courage coming back to him, his hope growing stronger. “Good,” he pronounced.
“How did Eremis react?”
“He offered his help.” As he spoke, Barsonage lost his look of fierceness; it faded into a more familiar bafflement. “In fact, he proposed the most plausible theory I have ever heard. He suggested that the translations are done, not with one mirror, but with two. A flat glass is placed in the Image of another mirror, and then both translations are enacted simultaneously, so that the flat mirror functions like a curved one and therefore doesn’t exact the usual penalty.”
“He told you that?” Geraden was startled; his still-fragile self-confidence flinched. “Then it must be wrong.” His own theory must be wrong.
“It is,” sighed Master Barsonage. “Did you know that translation pulverizes glass? I did not. Yet it is true. We have attempted Master Eremis’ suggestion three times, and each time the flat mirror was reduced to powder as it passed into the Image of the curved mirror.”
“Glass and splinters!” Geraden groaned. This was too much: he was wrong again; everything he thought he understood was wrong; Eremis was too far ahead of him. Hope was nonsense. He couldn’t hold his head up, face the older Imager. There was nothing he could do to save Terisa.
“This surprises you,” observed the mediator thoughtfully. “Not Master Eremis’ suggestion, but rather its failure surprises you. Geraden, you amaze me. You had already considered this idea for yourself, when no other member of the Congery had so much as imagined it.”
Eremis was playing with him, playing with all of them, using them in an elaborate and insidious game they couldn’t win, a game from which they couldn’t even escape because they didn’t know the rules. Like Prince Kragen in his audience with King Joyse, forced to play hop-board. At the mercy of his opponent.
But Master Barsonage was still speaking. “You have disguised yourself for years as Geraden fumble-foot,” he said in a tone of admiration, “and now at last I learn that your talent is prodigious. You are able to do translations which diverge from the Image in your mirror. Ideas which astonish us are familiar to you.
“Is there more, Geraden? Does your talent encompass other wonders as well?”
Geraden hardly heard the mediator. He was thinking, Oh, prodigious. Absolutely. They tremble when I walk into the room.
He was thinking, A riot against Castellan Lebbick.
Eremis wanted to preserve Orison for Cadwal. And no man could defend the castle better than Lebbick. And yet Eremis had sent his own lover to get beaten nearly to death, simply to generate a grievance against Lebbick, simply to make a riot possible, simply to make it possible for a riot to enter the laborium, so that Geraden’s mirror could be destroyed. All that risk for nothing except to dispose of Geraden’s only weapon.
Were Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel really that badly afraid of him?
It sounded ridiculous. But—
He took hold of himself, did his best to steady his heart.
But they knew his talent better than he did. Why else had they gone to such lengths to distract him, confuse him, demean him, kill him? Master Gilbur had guided – and studied – every moment of his mirror-making.
They knew his talent better than he did.
They feared it for reasons he didn’t yet understand.
The same kind of argument had helped move him into action while Houseldon burned – and yet he had made no progress toward understanding it. Why had Eremis needed to attack Houseldon? Or Sternwall, for that matter? Why wasn’t the destruction of Geraden’s only mirror enough?
Suddenly – so suddenly that he couldn’t pretend he had been listening to the mediator – Geraden said, “Havelock.”
Master Barsonage blinked. “Havelock?”
“He’s got all those mirrors.” Geraden was already on his way toward the door. “Come on.”
Mirrors which had helped Terisa escape from Gilbur. Mirrors which didn’t belong to any Imager except the Adept – mirrors Geraden could take chances with.
Outside the mediator’s quarters, he began to hurry; in a moment, he was almost running. Nevertheless Master Barsonage caught him, got a heavy hand on his arm and slowed him to a fast walk.
“What do you hope to accomplish with the Adept’s mirrors? Will he permit you to touch them?”
A manic laugh burst from Geraden. “Oh, he’ll let me touch them. He is certainly going to let me touch them.”
Moving as rapidly as he could with Master Barsonage clasped on his arm, and refusing to answer the mediator’s first question, refusing even to think about it for fear that the possibilities would evaporate if he did, he headed toward the lower levels of Orison, down toward the only entrance he knew of to Adept Havelock’s personal domain.
During his one previous visit there, the circumstances had been very different. For one thing, Orison’s extra inhabitants hadn’t arrived yet; the depths of the castle had been deserted. And for another, he hadn’t been paying particularly close attention: most of his mind had been focused on Artagel, suffering from a chest full of corrosive black vapor. As a result, he was momentarily flustered by the realization that he now didn’t know how to get where he was going.
Fortunately, Master Barsonage knew.
At least some of the Adept’s secrets had been exposed when Castellan Lebbick had followed Master Gilbur and Terisa into the room where Havelock kept his mirrors. As a matter of course, the Castellan’s discovery had eventually been reported to the mediator of the Congery. And Master Barsonage had gone so far as to visit that room full of mirrors himself, in part to see it with his own eyes, in part to make one more painful and ultimately futile effort to communicate with the Adept – specifically, to persuade Havelock that the Congery as a whole should be given access to these mirrors.
The memory caused Master Barsonage to shudder whenever he thought of it. Adept Havelock had responded with a gracious bow, had taken his hand as if to congratulate him, had kissed each of his fingers like a lover – and while Barsonage was distracted by this odd performance, Havelock had urinated on his feet.
Occasionally, Master Barsonage dreamed of beating the Adept senseless. Although he would never have admitted having them, he enjoyed those dreams.
Nevertheless he didn’t hesitate to take Geraden to the Adept’s quarters.
He and Geraden approached through the storeroom full of empty crates – crates, apparently, in which Havelock’s mirrors had been brought to Orison. A door in a niche at the back of the room let them into a short passage. Unexpectedly, Geraden stopped.
Pointing at the impressive array of bolts and bars inside the door, he asked, “Doesn’t he ever lock this place? Does he let people just walk in whenever they want?”
Master Barsonage sniffed in distaste. “I cannot say. I have come here three times. Twice the door was sealed, and he would not open it to me. Perhaps he did not hear me. The third time, the door was open. I found him snoring in his bed. And when I roused him, he was” – Barsonage grimaced – “unpleasant.”
After a moment, he added, “For my own peace of mind, however, I have insisted on guards in the outer hall. Men dressed as ordinary merchants and farmers marked us before we entered the storeroom. If you had not been in my company – or if you had not been recognized – you would have been halted.”
Geraden was scowling. “Does Havelock know anything about that?”
“Perhaps. Who can say what the Adept knows? Perhaps he neither knows nor cares.”
Geraden was thinking about Terisa. Maybe she could have been saved – maybe everything would have been different – if guards had been placed outside the storeroom earlier. If Adept Havelock had had any idea what he was doing.
Snarling to himself, Geraden headed down the passage.
Almost immediately, he and Barsonage reached the room where Havelock’s mirrors were kept.
&
nbsp; It had been dramatically changed.
The difference was unmistakable: the room was tidy. Someone had dusted the tables and floor, the mirrors; swept the broken glass from the stone; arranged the full-length mirrors around the walls, displaying them as well as possible in the relatively constricted space. Someone had set up the small and medium-sized mirrors on the tables and adjusted them so that they caught the light of the few lamps and gleamed like promises.
That someone must have been Adept Havelock. Geraden and the mediator spotted him as soon as they entered the room: he was in one corner with a feather duster, crooning over a glass which had been restored to pristine clarity after decades of neglect.
He had made the chamber into a shrine. Or a mausoleum.
Just for a moment while Geraden and Master Barsonage stared at him, he failed to acknowledge their arrival. Then, however, he wheeled to give them a bow, flourishing his duster as though it were a scepter. His eyes gaped in different directions; his fat lips leered. “Barsonage!” he cackled. “You honor me. What a thrill. Who’s the puppy with you?”
Simply because he couldn’t resist staring, Geraden noticed a detail which might have escaped him otherwise: Havelock’s surcoat was clean. In fact, it had been scrubbed spotless. Havelock wore it as if he were dressed for a celebration.
Master Barsonage kept his distance. “Adept Havelock,” he said with formal distaste, “I am certain that you remember Apt Geraden. He is an Imager now, and has an urgent interest in your mirrors.”
As if to tease the mediator, Havelock advanced toward him, smiling maliciously. “What, ‘Apt Geraden’?” he cried in mock protest. “This boy? How has that figure of augury and power been reduced to such doggishness? No, you’re mistaken, it’s impossible.”
Swooping suddenly away from Barsonage, he pounced on Geraden. With his hands clapped to Geraden’s cheeks, he shook Geraden’s head from side to side.
“Impossible, I tell you. Look, Barsonage. He’s alive. He came back alive. Without her. She risked everything for him, and he came back without her.” Bitterly, the Adept began to laugh. “Oh, no, Barsonage, you can’t fool me. Geraden would never have done such a thing.”