“We don’t have any choice. He hasn’t left us any choice. The only thing we can do is what he would do if he were here. We’ve got to march.”
The room was still; the men around her listened with all their senses, avidly. Geraden’s face shone as if nothing could stop him now. Artagel nodded to himself happily. Prince Kragen’s eyes were dark with dismay and calculation – and with something else, which might have been eagerness. Master Barsonage gaped, his mouth hanging open; he gave the impression that he was reeling inside.
“March,” muttered the Tor, struggling to straighten his spine against the back of his chair. “ ‘So that they would attack here.’ My old friend. How I must have hurt you.”
Finally, however, it was Norge who asked the obvious question.
“March where, my lady?”
She was so full of pressure that she could hardly articulate the word:
“Esmerel.”
At once, Geraden supported her. “That’s Eremis’ family seat. Apparently, that’s where he has his laborium. That’s where he and Gilbur took her. And Vagel is there. Gart is there. Cadwal is there. Eremis consulted with the High King there this morning.
“That’s where we need to strike.”
Terisa was thinking, In the Care of Tor. Where those riders with the red fur and the hate-filled eyes had come from to attack her and Geraden. No wonder they had been mounted on horses with tack from the Tor’s Care.
The old lord’s mind was running in a completely different direction, however. “That explains it, then,” he rumbled.
He braced himself upright with an arm on one side, an elbow on the other. Canted in this posture as if his weight were about to overturn the chair, he muttered, “That is why he told Lebbick to do whatever he wanted to her. He had to appear weak – had to seem like he had lost his reason. He had to persuade me. If I had failed to believe him, I could have betrayed him to Eremis.
“At the same time, he sent Master Quillon to remove her from the dungeon, so that no one would suffer from his feigned weakness – so that Lebbick would not have a crime on his heart – so that she would not be harmed.
“At last I understand.”
The Tor looked like a man whose hands had just been released from thumbscrews.
“And we have another reason to march now,” Geraden went on in a tone which Terisa would have found impossible to refuse. “In Esmerel, the lady Terisa discovered Nyle alive.”
That announcement snatched most of the eyes in the room to him. Something in Artagel leaped up: his expression was as keen as a honed blade.
“I didn’t kill him.” Geraden spoke through his teeth, restraining outrage. Now he didn’t need the strange authority which sometimes came to him: his bone-bred passion was enough. “I never lifted a hand against him. Eremis forced his help by threatening my family. Our family,” he said to the sharpness in Artagel’s face. “Nyle pretended I stabbed him. Then Eremis carried him off. He called for the physician Underwell, who was almost exactly Nyle’s size and coloring. He had Underwell butchered by creatures of Imagery. Then he dressed Underwell in Nyle’s clothes to make it look like I came back to finish what I started.”
This was news to the Tor, as well as to the captains. They stared at Geraden in undisguised astonishment.
“But Nyle is still alive. Eremis has him chained to a wall in Esmerel. To use against me if I ever try to fight him.
“I’m a son of the Domne.” Geraden held himself powerfully still. “My family have been dear and loyal friends to King Joyse and Mordant from the beginning, and I want my brother rescued!”
Yes! Terisa said with the way she lifted her head, the way she carried herself. Yes.
“It’s a simple question, really,” Artagel drawled into the silence when Geraden was finished. His nonchalant manner contrasted dramatically with the flame of combat in his eyes. “As my lady Terisa says, we don’t have any choice. We’ve already let the Perdon be destroyed.” His stance was casual, but his hands curled as if they ached to hold a sword. “If we don’t return to King Joyse’s policy of supporting his lords – and do it soon – we’ll lose everything that holds Mordant together, whether Eremis and Festten beat us or not. Everything that made Mordant worthwhile will be gone.”
Terisa smiled at him. She was trying to express thanks, gratitude; but the tension in her muscles made her grin too fierce for that.
The Tor took a deep breath, then gasped. The flagon dropped from his hand, spilling wine across the rug; but he didn’t notice it. He looked at Norge, nearly squinting to get his eyes into focus; he looked at Prince Kragen.
“I am content.” His voice was flat, curiously unresonant. Apparently, Gart’s kick still pained him. “Let us call the matter settled. Tomorrow we will march against Master Eremis in Esmerel.”
Terisa wanted to applaud until she heard Prince Kragen rasp, “No.”
“My lord Prince?” A fine dew of sweat covered the Tor’s forehead.
“I am not content.” Kragen chewed the words under his moustache as if they were gristle and gall. “I do not call the matter settled. You have proposed an alliance – on which we have been utterly unable to agree. Now you announce your intention to march away on a fool’s mission. Is it your intention that Alend should march with you?” His tone sounded oddly conflicted to Terisa, at once furious and hungry, as if his passion had another name than the one he chose to give it. “Is that what an alliance means to you now? Do you believe that the Alend Monarch will be content to let all his strength commit suicide beside you, for no other reason than because you have decided to die insanely?”
Artagel started to retort; Geraden stopped him.
“You have a better idea, my lord Prince?” Geraden asked. His voice made Terisa shiver: it was thick with hinted promises or threats.
“Of course!” the Prince snapped. “An alliance here. In Orison. Let the High King come against us here and do his worst. Together, we will withstand him.”
“What about Nyle?” demanded Artagel, unable to restrain himself.
Geraden ignored his brother. “I don’t think so,” he answered Prince Kragen. “Eremis doesn’t need to come here. He can attack us anywhere by Imagery. While we stay in one place, any place, we’re powerless, vulnerable. Without risking one Cadwal, he can fill Orison with enough horrors to leave even you screaming, my lord Prince. The only reason he hasn’t done it so far is that he isn’t ready. Wasn’t ready. All he needed is time. He’s ready now. If we don’t carry the fight to him now, High King Festten and his twenty thousand men won’t have to do anything except come here at their leisure and clean out the ruins. We’ll all be dead or scattered.”
As well as she could, Terisa controlled her frustration at Prince Kragen, her fear of the things she remembered. “Eremis—” she said, then swallowed hard to steady herself. “Eremis knows how to use flat glass safely. He’s discovered an oxidate which lets him translate a flat glass into a curved one, so that whatever is in the curved Image can be translated straight to whatever is in the flat Image.”
Master Barsonage and Geraden had had time to absorb this information. They didn’t flinch. And they didn’t interrupt her.
“Didn’t Geraden tell you?” she asked the Prince. “Eremis dropped an avalanche out of nowhere onto Vale House. That’s how he was able to kidnap Queen Madin. And he has a flat mirror with the audience hall in the Image. He could bring an avalanche in there right now if he wanted to. And we know he has at least two other mirrors that show parts of Orison. His rooms. That place in the lower levels – near the dungeons. Maybe he has more.
“But that’s not all. Vagel – the arch-Imager Vagel – has devised a system that allows him to create specific Images deliberately, instead of by trial and error.”
Despite the fact that she had already told Master Barsonage this, the mediator looked like he was on the brink of apoplexy.
“And Gilbur has the talent to make mirrors quickly,” Terisa continued. “Together, they can s
hape enough Images to attack Orison anywhere, anytime.
“Eremis is ready now. It isn’t suicide to march. It’s suicide to stay here.”
A murmur rose from the captains – agreement, worry, caution.
“Perhaps.” For a moment, Prince Kragen’s eagerness seemed to outweigh his outrage. “Perhaps in that, you are right.” As if by an act of will, however, he brought back his indignation. “Yet if it is madness to remain here, it is not therefore sane to march against Esmerel.”
He glanced at the Tor. Briefly, he appeared to consider addressing his challenge to Terisa. But at last he turned to Geraden and Artagel, drawn to them by the blood-claim of Nyle’s imprisonment – and by Geraden’s new stature.
Dangerously calm, he inquired, “You have some acquaintance with Esmerel, I suppose?”
Artagel nodded without hesitation. Geraden said distinctly, “Some.”
“I have heard reports of the terrain. Who will be favored in a battle there?”
“Good question,” Norge observed equably.
Artagel grinned. “Whoever gets there first. The entrenched forces can pick their ground. It’s a trap for whoever arrives second.”
Geraden shook his head, dismissing the issue. “Why do you think Eremis chose that place, my lord Prince? You didn’t think it was an accident. You didn’t think High King Festten drove twenty thousand men there just for the pleasure of annihilating the Perdon.”
“No, Geraden” – Prince Kragen allowed himself a snarl of sarcasm – “I did not think it was an accident. It is your thinking I question, not my own. Did you not hear Artagel use the word trap? You say that Nyle is intended as a hostage against you. Is he not also intended as bait? A march to Esmerel is precisely the action Eremis wishes us to take.”
“Of course,” Geraden retorted.
“That’s one reason I was captured,” commented Terisa. “More bait. Eremis wanted to have me where I couldn’t hurt him.” He wanted to rape me. He wanted to break Geraden. “But he also wanted to make sure you went to Esmerel. All of you.”
“Everything he’s ever done us to us is a trap,” Geraden continued. “that’s his great strength – and his great weakness.”
“And you still believe we should go?” Prince Kragen’s protest was an inextricable mixture of excitement and fury. “Knowing he has set this trap to destroy us, you believe that we should accommodate him – that we should rush to put our necks in his noose for him? Geraden, you are mad.” Wheeling toward the Tor, he unleashed a shout. “My lord, this is madness!”
The Tor sat in his chair like a lump of stale dough and waited for Geraden’s answer.
To Terisa’s surprise, Geraden started laughing.
His laughter was like Artagel’s grin: bloody-minded; ready for battle.
“That’s King Joyse’s method. His policy. Don’t you understand? He sets his traps inside Eremis’. If he were here to spring them himself, it would make your head reel. But he isn’t here, so we’ve got to do it for him. We’ve got to put our necks in Eremis’ noose – and then take it away from him. We’ve got to walk into his trap and turn it against him.”
Prince Kragen stared as if Geraden were breaking out in boils. So flabbergasted that his sarcasm deserted him, he asked, “How—? How do you think we can do that? He has at least twenty thousand men. He has Imagery. He has the terrain. He has at least one hostage. How can we possibly turn his trap against him?”
No longer laughing, Geraden replied, “By being stronger than he expects.”
When Geraden said that, Terisa permitted herself a sigh of relief. Master Barsonage jerked up his head, listening intently. The Tor brushed a hand through the sweat on his forehead, then rubbed his fingers on his robe.
“How?” Prince Kragen pursued, nearly whispering. “In what way are we stronger than he expects?”
Geraden shrugged. “For one thing, there’s no way he could have planned for Terisa’s talent – or mine either. That’s why he’s worked so hard to distract us, confuse us, keep us guessing. He didn’t know what he was up against – and he didn’t want us to find out what we can do. He couldn’t possibly know I’m an Adept, of a certain kind. I can shift the Images in normal mirrors, whether I made them or not.”
“That is true,” Master Barsonage averred. “I have witnessed it.”
“And Terisa is even more powerful,” Geraden went on. “What I do with curved glass, she can do with flat mirrors. And she’s an arch-Imager. She can pass through flat glass without losing her mind. And she can use her talent across incredible distances. That’s how she escaped. From as far away as Esmerel, she shifted a mirror here until she was in the Image. Then Adept Havelock translated her out of danger.”
“That also is true.” The mediator of the Congery seemed to be taking bulk with every passing moment, growing larger or more substantial as the tenets of Imagery were altered. “I have witnessed it.
“And I am another way in which we are stronger than Master Eremis expects.”
Prince Kragen swung to face Master Barsonage. Geraden and Artagel turned. Terisa studied the Tor to be sure he was holding himself together, then directed her attention to the mediator.
“I mean that the Congery is stronger,” Barsonage amended as if his own certainty surprised him. “We have not been held in much esteem. Why should we be? Generally, we are little more than a body of discontented ditherers. And all our actions in defense of Mordant – and of ourselves – went awry. Oh, the augury we cast for Mordant’s future was well done. On the other hand, the summoning of our champion was a disaster. Why should anyone esteem us? We did not esteem ourselves enough to preserve our own usefulness after we saw how badly we had gone wrong with our champion.
“But then we learned of Geraden’s talent – and of the lady Terisa’s. That restored us immeasurably. We did not know whether these new talents would be used to harm or benefit us. No, Artagel,” he digressed, “even after your explanations, we still had room for doubt. But we knew now that our work was vital – that we had unleashed forces which only we could support or oppose – that the Congery had at last come into its own significance.
“Therefore we set to work as we had never worked before.
“And now we have been vindicated.” That was the linchpin of Master Barsonage’s new sureness. “We have been given proof that King Joyse was always in the right – that Images possess their own full independent reality, that the things we see in mirrors are not created by Imagery. The Congery’s establishment has been justified.” He was elevated by clarity; his face shone. “The translations of Master Eremis and Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel are not merely evil in their consequences, but also in their means.”
“The point,” growled Prince Kragen. “Come to the point.”
“My lord Prince,” the mediator announced, “my lord Tor, Master Eremis is ready. That is evident. The Congery is ready also. In the name of King Joyse – and of Mordant’s need – we are prepared to do battle at your side against Esmerel.”
“How?” The Prince had an unflagging interest in that question. “What can you do?”
Master Barsonage’s smile bore an unfamiliar resemblance to a smirk. “My lord Prince, you have not agreed to an alliance. For that reason, I will not discuss our weapons with you. But two things I will tell you. First, our weapons violate none of the strictures which King Joyse has placed upon the Congery. And second” – he paused for a moment of frank self-congratulation – “until weapons are necessary, we can supply the march to Esmerel.”
Prince Kragen’s mouth formed the word supply without a sound.
“We cannot translate men, of course,” the mediator explained, “but we are prepared to move food, swords, bedding, or tents in whatever quantity you require. You will be able to travel without supply-wains, without the vast entourage of camp followers and porters which slows you. You will be able to reach Esmerel more swiftly than Master Eremis can possibly guess.
“My lord Prince, does that
not make us stronger?”
“And then there’s the matter of an alliance,” Geraden put in before Prince Kragen could recover from his surprise. “Eremis must know it’s a possibility, but he can’t expect it. What do you have, my lord Prince? Roughly ten thousand men?”
The Prince nodded dumbly.
“And what about us, Castellan Norge?”
Norge consulted the ceiling. “Near eight thousand altogether. We can put six thousand on the road and still leave enough here to keep the defenses going for a while.”
“My lord Prince” – Geraden spoke carefully, controlling his emotion – “Eremis doesn’t expect to face an army of sixteen thousand. High King Festten doesn’t expect it. They don’t want to fight us. They want to overwhelm us.” He didn’t need to say the word, annihilate; it was implicit in his tone. “And they don’t have the strength to overwhelm sixteen thousand men.”
For a few moments, Prince Kragen didn’t answer; he chewed his moustache and glowered at his thoughts. Geraden kept himself still. Terisa held her breath. Norge appeared to be wondering whether this might be an opportune time for a nap. In contrast, Artagel was barely able to refrain from hopping from foot to foot like an excited boy. The Tor clamped both arms over his belly as if he feared that something inside him might burst.
Abruptly, the Prince turned to face the old lord.
He cocked his fists on his hips. Terisa couldn’t tell which took precedence in him, his eagerness or his anger; but he didn’t prolong the suspense.
“My lord Tor,” he said clearly, “you ask too much.”
The Tor raised an inquiring hand, lifted an eyebrow. The effort brought sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose.