A Man Rides Through

  Her passion seemed to give him what he needed. She could see him shrug away his failure to rescue her, his helplessness to rescue Nyle. The lines of his face grew sharper; his eyes cast hints of fire.

  “It won’t be easy. Esmerel is two days away on a good horse. Prince Kragen thinks High King Festten has at least twenty thousand men. Not to mention all the abominations Eremis can translate. They can still use flat glass whenever they want – and we don’t know how they do it.” He wasn’t trying to daunt her. He was simply bringing up problems in order to solve them.

  “I don’t care about any of that,” she replied in the same spirit. “They’ve got Nyle. They’ve got the Queen. High King Festten is there. Eremis talked to him this morning. They’ve destroyed the Perdon. Annihilated is the word Vagel used. They’re destroying Sternwall and Fayle. And it’s just going to get worse.” Tersely, she explained what the arch-Imager and Master Eremis had revealed about the speed, precision, and flexibility they had achieved with mirrors. While Geraden scowled at the information, and Master Barsonage blinked in consternation, she concluded, “We’ve got to stop him before he goes any further.”

  The mediator started to ask a question, then subsided. But Geraden accepted her explanation without wincing. When she was done, he said, “There’s one more thing. King Joyse is gone.”

  Gone—?

  “I mean really gone. Adept Havelock says he flew away.” Geraden glanced dubiously at the mad old Imager. “I don’t know what that means. But the last we heard no one’s been able to find him.”

  “Then who’s in charge?” Orison without King Joyse: the concept was strangely appalling. His absence was a pit yawning at her feet. “This whole thing was his idea. He wanted to fight Eremis this way. Who’s giving the orders now?”

  Geraden didn’t flinch: he had regained his feet; felt as combative as she did. “We don’t know. We’ve been down here most of the time. Probably nobody knows where to find us.” He hesitated, then said, “With King Joyse gone and Castellan Lebbick dead, the whole place may be collapsing.” Another flicker of hesitation. “They may have turned on the Prince.”

  That was true. Terisa imagined riots storming through the upper levels of the castle; panic and bloodshed. It was conceivable that Orison might destroy itself.

  She wheeled on Adept Havelock.

  “Where is he? This was his idea. Your idea. Curse that old man, we need him.”

  A sick feeling rose in her stomach as she saw Havelock hunch forward with conspiratorial glee; his eyes nearly gyrated in opposite directions, rapacious and loony. He crooked a finger at her, summoning her near, as if he wanted to tell her a secret.

  She didn’t move; nevertheless he reacted as if she had come closer to hear him.

  “I have seen an Image,” he whispered, “an Image, an Image. In which the women are peculiar. Their tits are on their backs. Because of this, they look very strange. But it must be delightful to embrace them.”

  Grinning, he concluded, “He came to me and commanded. Commanded. What could I do? I don’t know how to beg.” His manner didn’t change, yet without transition his tone turned fierce. “I have said it and said it. Hop-board pieces are men. Women make everything impossible.”

  Terisa wanted to swear at him – and give him a hug as if he needed comforting. Torn between anger and pity, she faced Geraden and Master Barsonage again. She included the mediator in what she was saying, but all of her attention and intensity were focused on Geraden.

  “We’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

  Both men nodded, Barsonage willingly, Geraden in passion and approval.

  “Somebody has got to figure out what King Joyse intended to do now and make sure it gets done.”

  Master Barsonage hesitated. Geraden nodded again.

  To the Master, she said, “We’ll explain as soon as we get the chance. King Joyse set this all up. It’s all deliberate.” Then she took hold of Geraden’s arm.

  Clasping each other hard, they strode away into the passage which led to the storeroom, out of Adept Havelock’s quarters.

  Master Barsonage followed them quickly. The bristling of his eyebrows and the frown of his concentration gave him a look of unfamiliar certainty.

  Behind them, Havelock picked up his feather duster and went back to cleaning his already immaculate mirrors. The particular glass he chose to work on now happened to show the Image in which he had found the flying brown cloud that he had used against Prince Kragen’s catapults.

  Like Castellan Lebbick, he had been abandoned.

  He didn’t seem to be aware that he was weeping like a child.

  Terisa, Geraden, and Master Barsonage heard weeping, especially in the lower levels of the castle, where most of Orison’s newer occupants had been crowded: small children; frightened women; helpless oldsters and invalids. They heard shouts of alarm and fear, cries of protest and distrust. They heard blows. Once they saw several guards raise the butts of their pikes to strike at men who wanted to break out of a closed corridor. The men cursed and pleaded as they were forced back; the rumor of Gart’s attack had reached them, and they wanted to clear a path for their families out of Orison before Cadwal’s army arrived from nowhere to butcher them all.

  But there was no sign of a riot.

  Instead of rioting, the castle was full of guards. They were everywhere, blocking the movement of people and panic, controlling access to crucial passages or stairs or doors, facing down farmers and merchants and servants and stonemasons who wanted to attack or flee with their loved ones because Orison had been penetrated.

  “Who is in command?” Master Barsonage demanded of the guards. “Where is King Joyse?”

  The answer was, Pissed if I know. Or the equivalent.

  “Where did you get your orders?” asked Geraden.

  That was easier. Norge. Castellan Lebbick’s second.

  For the moment, the fact that Norge was actually only one of the Castellan’s seconds-in-command seemed unimportant. The point was that power still existed in Orison. It was being held together by someone from whom the guards were willing to take orders. Someone with enough credibility to be obeyed during an emergency.

  Norge himself? What gave him precedence over the other captains? Who gave him precedence?

  A Master of the Congery? Impossible. Never in the mediator’s absence.

  One of King Joyse’s counselors? One of Orison’s lords? Unlikely.

  Prince Kragen himself? Inconceivable.

  Artagel?

  Was the situation so bad that no one could be found to take charge except Geraden’s independent-minded and slightly crippled brother?

  Terisa wanted to run. She would have run if Geraden hadn’t held her back.

  As she and her companions left the castle’s lower levels, however, Orison’s mood improved. Here the halls were under better control; less frightened by the possibility of an attack by Imagery. Soon a guard appeared who saluted the mediator. “Master Barsonage,” he panted. Apparently, he had come running from the Imager’s quarters. “Geraden. The lady Terisa?” He knew enough about the day’s events to be surprised. “You’re wanted in the King’s rooms.”

  The King’s rooms? Terisa and Geraden and Master Barsonage stopped in their tracks.

  “The audience hall is no longer safe,” explained the guard.

  “Who wants us?” demanded Barsonage instantly.

  Breathing hard, the guard replied, “My lord Tor. He says he’s taken command. In the King’s absence. He and Norge. Norge is the new Castellan.”

  The Tor. Terisa felt a surge of energy. Bless that old man!

  “What about Prince Kragen?” she asked.

  The guard hesitated as if he were unsure of how much he should say. After a moment, however, he answered, “It’s just a rumor. I was told my lord Tor offered him an alliance.”

  Geraden let out a fierce cheer.

  Together, he and Terisa started into a run.

  Master Barsonage took time t
o pursue the question. “What was the Prince’s reply?”

  The guard said, “I don’t know.”

  Barsonage did his best to catch up with Terisa and Geraden.

  In the King’s tower, more guards joined them, escorted them upward. Guards swept the King’s doors open; Terisa, Geraden, and the mediator went in. For the sake of dignity – not to mention caution – they slowed their pace as they entered.

  The King’s formal apartment was just the way she remembered it – richly appointed, paneled blond, carpeted in blue and red. She hardly noticed the furnishings, however. Although there were only eight or ten men – most of them captains – in the room, it seemed crowded; too full of anxiety and passion, conflict.

  Before the door closed, she heard Prince Kragen’s voice blare like a trumpet, “I will not do it!”

  Her chest tightened. She found suddenly that she was breathing harder than she had realized. The Prince’s shout seemed to throb around her, and the hope she had felt at the idea of an alliance began to curdle.

  On one side of Prince Kragen stood Artagel, close enough to react to what the Prince did, far enough away to dissociate himself from the Alend Contender. On the other side was a captain Terisa didn’t know. Norge?

  All three of them had their backs to the doors. Each in his separate way, they confronted the chair where King Joyse used to sit when he played hop-board.

  There sat the Tor, slumping over his great belly as if he were barely able to keep himself from oozing out of the position he had assumed.

  “The alternatives you propose,” the old lord was saying as if he were in a kind of pain which had nothing to do with Prince Kragen, “are intolerable.” He had a hand over his face. “I will not permit you to occupy Orison, making us little more than a hostage population. I do not call that an alliance.”

  “And I do not call it an alliance to wait outside in danger while you sit here in safety,” retorted the Prince hotly.” If – no, when High King Festten marches against us – we will be helpless while you remain secure, watching the outcome. We must be allowed to enter Orison. I will not remain where I am, waiting for King Joyse to return – if he ever does return – and tell me his pleasure – if his pleasure involves anything more productive than a game of hop-board.”

  The Tor didn’t look strong enough to raise his head. “I understand your dilemma, my lord Prince. Of course I do. But you cannot believe that Orison’s people – or Orison’s defenders – will sit quietly on their hams while Alend takes power over them. I have already said that I will open the gates to you if you—”

  “No!” Prince Kragen barked. “Do you take me for a fool? I have no intention of making Orison’s people hostage. I will grant them precisely as much freedom and respect as the necessary crowding of so many bodies permits. But I will not submit my forces to your authority.”

  Orison’s captains muttered restively. Some of them were viscerally incensed at the idea of an alliance with Alend. And some of them had noticed Geraden and Master Barsonage – had noticed Terisa—

  “My lords!” Geraden cut in sharply. His voice carried potential authority across the room; and a thrill prickled suddenly down Terisa’s back. “There’s no need to argue about waiting. We’re done waiting. It’s time to march!”

  The Tor snatched his hand down from his face, peered bleary pain and desire at Terisa and Geraden. Artagel wheeled with joy already catching fire across his features. Norge turned more cautiously; but Prince Kragen spun like Artagel, his swarthy face congested with conflicting needs.

  “Terisa! My lady!” Artagel crowed. “Geraden! By the stars, you did it!” As if he had never been injured in his life, he caught Geraden in an exuberant bearhug, lifted him off his feet, then dropped him to snatch up Terisa’s hand and kiss it hugely. “Every time I see you, you’re even more wonderful!”

  She wanted to hug him, but she was distracted; there were too many other things going on. The captains were shouting encouragement to each other, or demanding silence. And the Tor had risen to his feet. Unsteadily, almost inaudibly, he murmured her name, Geraden’s. “You are indeed wondrous.” He spoke huskily, as if he were dragging his voice along the bottom of a cave. “There must be hope for us after all, if such blows can be struck against our enemies.”

  Prince Kragen was right behind Artagel; he grabbed Geraden by the shoulders when Artagel dropped him. “How did you do it?” the Prince demanded. “How did you rescue her? What has changed? Where is King Joyse? Did you say march?”

  Somehow, Norge made himself heard through the hubbub. His laconic tone sounded so incongruous that it had to be heeded.

  “You got away, my lady. What did you learn from him?

  “What did you do to him?”

  In the stark silence which followed, a moment passed before she understood the point of his question.

  With her chin jutting unconsciously, she met the hot and eager and worried stares of the men around her. “I didn’t do anything to him.” I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even hurt him. “But I learned enough.”

  Too quickly for anyone to interrupt her, she added, “Before Gilbur killed him, I had a long talk with Master Quillon. He told me what King Joyse has been doing all this time. Why he’s been acting like a passive fool. What he wanted to accomplish. Geraden is right. It’s time to march.”

  In response, the room burst into tumult. Only Prince Kragen had been given any hint of the things she knew; and he had only heard pieces of the story from Geraden under the influence of too much wine, not from her. For a man like the Tor, who had spent so many miserable days praying that his besotted and stubborn loyalty would prove valuable in the end, her words must have struck as heavily as a blow. Norge and Prince Kragen and Artagel were surprised; Master Barsonage and the captains, astonished. But the Tor’s cheeks turned the color of wet flour, and he sank down in King Joyse’s chair as if his heart were being torn out.

  Urgently, Terisa pushed between Artagel and Prince Kragen, hurried to the lord. “Get him some wine!” she called. “Oh, shit. He’s having a heart attack.

  “My lord Tor. Are you all right?”

  His hands fluttered against the arms of the chair. For a moment, he gagged as if he were choking; under his lowered eyelids, his eyes rolled wildly. Then, however, he took a breath that made all his fat quiver. He raised one hand to his chest, knotted it in his robe; and his head lifted as if he were pulling it up by main strength.

  “Do not be alarmed, my lady,” he wheezed thinly. “The difficulty is only that I have pawned all I am for him. I have made myself contemptible for the belief that my King would at last prove worthy of service.” With remarkable celerity, one of the captains brought forward a flagon of wine. The Tor accepted it and gulped a drink. Then torment clenched his features. “Did you truly mean to suggest that he has been acting according to a plan – that the things he has done have had a purpose?”

  “Yes,” she avowed at once, despite the fact that at the moment she would cheerfully have wrung King Joyse’s neck. “He didn’t know you would come here. You heard him say you defy prediction.” The explanation Master Quillon had given her wasn’t good enough to justify the cost King Joyse had exacted from men like Castellan Lebbick and the Tor, from his daughters, from Geraden and everybody else who loved him. “His plans didn’t include you. He didn’t mean to hurt you.” For the time being, she supported the King, not because she approved of what he had done, but because he had left her no alternative.

  “All this time, he’s been working to save Mordant.”

  Until now. That thought was enough to turn the edges of her vision black with bitterness. King Joyse put his people through the anguish of the doomed. And just when events arrived at the point when he could have safely explained his policy, safely given at least that much meaning or justification to the people he had hurt, he chose to disappear. To go kiting off, as Adept Havelock had said.

  Nevertheless she took his side as if she had never doubted him.

>   “He didn’t know who the renegades were – the Imagers who were willing to translate abominations against people who couldn’t defend themselves. He didn’t know where they made their mirrors, where they built their power.”

  When she began, she was speaking to the Tor alone; she hadn’t intended to address the entire gathering. But King Joyse’s intentions carried her further than her own. As she spoke, her voice rose, and she turned partly away from the Tor to include everyone in the room.

  “He knew they needed soldiers to back up their Imagery. Imagery can destroy, but rule requires manpower. But he didn’t know what alliances they might have made, with Cadwal or Alend. There was only one thing he could be sure of. As long as he was the strongest ruler here – as long as Mordant was strong enough to fight back both Cadwal and Alend – the renegades would leave him alone. They would chip away at the Alend Lieges, or find a way to swallow Cadwal – but they would leave him alone. Until they were too strong to be stopped.”

  She had to raise her voice more, until she was nearly, shouting. That was the only way she could control her frustration and grief. He had smiled at her so gloriously that she would have done anything for him. And he had caused so much pain—

  “The only way he could find out who they were, how they worked, where their power was before they grew too strong – the only way he could bring them out into the open – was to make himself weak. He had to convince everybody, everybody, that he had lost his will, his sense, his determination. He had to make himself the only reasonable target.

  “So that they would attack here.

  “So that he would have a chance to stop them. A chance to surprise them by turning their own traps against them.”

  She had ruined that, of course. She had warned Eremis. Her bitterness included herself: she hadn’t earned the right to be self-righteous. Yet her culpability only made her more determined.

  “That’s what we have to do. I don’t know why he isn’t here. He’s been working toward this moment for years. I don’t know why he’s abandoned us now.” If he went to rescue Queen Madin—That was understandable, but it didn’t help. At that distance, he wouldn’t be able to return until long after the battle was decided. Terisa made an effort to steady herself, calm her raw anger. “It doesn’t matter. We’re still here. We still have to save Orison and Mordant.