“And,” she concluded, “he trusts us to do the same thing for him. He trusts us to defend Mordant for him while he’s out trying to rescue his wife.”
As if a knot of tension had been released in him, Geraden collapsed back on the bed. Happily, he said, “I knew there was some good reason why I love that old man.”
“Besides,” she went on, now that she was sure of herself; “we aren’t the ones who want to tilt the board. That’s what Eremis is doing. What we’re doing may not be right, but we aren’t making that mistake.”
“No,” he assented. Eagerness brightened his eyes and animated his features, making him inexpressibly precious to her. “We aren’t making that mistake.”
For the time being, she was content.
Just when it seemed, however, that she had reached the point where she no longer worried about what anybody else in Orison did, Master Barsonage arrived in answer to Ribuld’s messages. She and Geraden kept the mediator waiting only long enough to put on some clothes; then they admitted him to her sitting room.
“Sleeping all day while Orison bustles, I see,” the Imager commented pleasantly while he closed the door. He looked happier than she had ever seen him: activity and a clear sense of purpose agreed with him. “Well, doubtless you need the rest. I can only imagine the exertions and perils which you have endured.
“Since my imagination has not been all it should be, as you know” – he seated himself, frowned into the empty wine decanter, then shrugged his thick shoulders – “I am eager to hear what has happened to the rest of Mordant. The siege has cut us off completely,” he explained. “We know nothing but what we have learned from you and Prince Kragen.”
Terisa blew a sigh. “That’s going to take a while,” she said; and Geraden went to the door, chuckling. Outside, he asked Ribuld for wine and food.
Ribuld made some retort she didn’t catch; then Geraden returned. “Ribuld says we can have anything we want, if we don’t mind waiting. Apparently, there’s no end of servants available, but the kitchens are in chaos, trying to get supplies” – he glowered humorously at Master Barsonage – “ready for tomorrow.”
“That is true,” replied the mediator with a nod. “An appalling situation, in fact. No one knows what to do. Norge or one of his captains has to make every decision. It seems that Castellan Lebbick established plans and procedures for every conceivable eventuality – except a march.
“And, of course, every man who carries a sack of meal or a keg of water or a bale of hay to the ballroom goes in terror of his life, expecting to be translated away into madness at any moment.” Master Barsonage permitted himself a growl of disgust. “If Norge were not so phlegmatic – and if Artagel were less supportive – we would be in worse danger of riots now than at any other time today.”
Terisa and Geraden glanced at each other. “As Terisa says,” Geraden remarked to the mediator, “our story is going to take a while. Why don’t we wait for supper?” He set two chairs facing Master Barsonage and sat down in one of them; following his example, Terisa took the other. “Maybe by then Artagel will join us, and we won’t have to go over the same things twice.
“In the meantime, you can tell us how the preparations are going.”
Just for a moment, the Imager looked doubtfully at Geraden’s proposal; he seemed to think Geraden intended to avoid answering him. Almost at once, however, he inhaled deeply, shook his head as if to rearrange his thoughts, and smiled in acquiescence.
While Terisa and Geraden listened intently, storing up information they might need, Master Barsonage described how the Congery planned to transport their mirrors – no simple problem, considering that the mirrors would have to be moved over hard roads and uneven ground by horse cart. With deliberate frankness – perhaps reproaching Geraden’s evasion – he discussed the chief weapon the Masters had devised, as well as the secondary actions they were equipped to take. That brought a shine to Geraden’s eyes, made Terisa grip herself hard to keep her excitement in perspective; but neither of them interrupted as the mediator went on to explain the arrangements he had designed for the supplies in the ballroom, so that Orison’s people could replenish the piles of stores without any risk of being inadvertently taken by a translation.
When he was done with his particular responsibilities, he gave the best report he could on the state of the castle. So far, the Tor’s authority and Norge’s were being accepted without much resistance: eagerly by most of the guard, men who favored almost any change which promised action; and eagerly as well by the servants, for whom the departure of six thousand guards would mean that much less work; more stoically by Orison’s visiting population, people who felt King Joyse’s absence keenly in theory, but in practice found Artagel’s assurances persuasive; with ill grace and no little suspicion by many of King Joyse’s minor lords and functionaries – excise-tax assessors, for example, or storeroom accountants, or secretaries to the Home Ambassador – men whose entire existence depended on the King, on his style of kingship. And without any active opposition to the Tor or Norge, most of Orison’s social machinery continued to function. Meals were cooked, despite the chaos Ribuld had described. Halls were patrolled, guarding against unrest – and against attacks of Imagery. Duty rosters were maintained, the walls and gates manned.
In short, thanks to the Tor’s quick assumption of authority, and to Norge’s demonstrated acceptance, and to Artagel’s grinning support, Orison remained almost miraculously intact after King Joyse’s disappearance.
“Thank the stars,” Geraden breathed when Master Barsonage was done. “You’re right, Terisa. We’re luckier than we look.” Then his eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled tight over his teeth. “I wonder how many times Eremis has thought he could get away with laughing at the Tor. If he can see us now, he isn’t laughing anymore.”
“And he isn’t laughing at the Congery,” Terisa put in, partly to please Master Barsonage, and partly because the mediator had impressed her. “Or he won’t be, when he finds out what he’s up against.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Barsonage replied quietly. “We have been useless for a long time, while we distrusted both our King and ourselves. It is a pleasure to think that we will be effective at last.”
“If only Prince Kragen had listened to us,” Geraden mused.
“Or if he changes his mind—” added Terisa, remembering the strange conflict she had seen in the Prince’s face.
Master Barsonage looked back and forth between them. Geraden knotted his fists as if to control an irrational hope.
Terisa started to say something about Elega and Margonal, then stopped because she heard voices at the door.
Someone – Ribuld? – guffawed at an unexpected joke.
Without knocking, Artagel swung the door open and entered the room.
He was grinning; his eyes flashed steel fire. If there hadn’t been a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, or a slight pallor of old pain in his cheeks, or a barely discernible hitch in his stride, he would have looked ready and able to carry the whole castle on his shoulders into battle. He was primed for action, packed full of necessity by long days of recuperation, by emotional stresses he couldn’t relieve, by betrayals and self-doubt and grief. As soon as she saw him, Terisa knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to tackle an entire platoon of Gart’s Apts.
The mere sight of him did her good.
And it scared her. It reminded her that if eagerness went too far it could become a form of suicide.
For some reason, she noticed that the sunlight slanting in through her windows was tinged with red, approaching dusk.
Leaving the door for Ribuld to close, Artagel approached Geraden. Geraden surged upright, and Artagel clasped him in a hug which gave no sign of weakness or injury. Then Artagel came to Terisa and dropped to his knees, actually dropped to his knees, in order to capture both her hands and kiss them. Before she could protest or respond, however, he retreated to his feet again, glared at the empty wine decanter, humorously mutt
ered a soldier’s obscenity, then dropped himself half-sprawling into the nearest chair.
“Mirrors preserve us,” he drawled in a joking tone. “Seeing you two makes me weak in the head. I don’t think I can do much more of this dance between hope and despair. First you’re gone forever. Then you show up – with Prince Kragen, may his skull ache for the rest of his life. Then he provokes a fight with King Joyse, and Gart appears, and the King disappears, and you’re abducted” – he indicated Terisa – “and you” – Geraden – “run off with the mediator. Then the Tor tries to make an alliance with Prince Kragen, and it looks like the only reason that isn’t going to work is because I hit him. And suddenly you both come back, and everything starts to go right, and I don’t care what that pig-brained Alend decides to do about it. I don’t even care where King Joyse is. I’m sure it’ll all make sense eventually.
“Incidentally, I haven’t exactly been cautious in the things I’ve said to keep people from worrying.” By worrying he obviously meant questioning Norge and the Tor. “What scares them most is the idea of translations into Orison. Terrible Imagery, monsters, fire, a few hundred thousand Cadwals – that kind of thing.” He faced Terisa frankly. “I’ve been telling everybody you can solve that problem. I’ve been saying you can shift Eremis’ mirrors so they won’t translate here. If that’s not true, you might want to keep it to yourself.”
Shift Eremis’ mirrors, Terisa thought while her stomach twisted. Oh, shit.
“Just tell me one thing.” Artagel hauled himself erect, nearly laughing. “What in the name of sanity is going on here?”
“I’ll be glad to explain it,” Geraden replied, grinning like his brother’s reflection. “All you have to do is shut up.”
With a gleam of joy, Artagel collapsed back into his sprawled posture.
At once, however, he jerked his spine straight, squared his shoulders. “No,” he said, and all the mirth fell out of him. His expression turned to sweat and pallor. “Tell me what happened at home. You said Houseldon was destroyed.”
Geraden made a warding gesture, warning his brother back from an explosion.
As if on summons, there was a knock at the door.
Ribuld pushed the door open, and two servingmen entered, carrying trays loaded with food and wine.
Artagel contained himself; but his eyes burned like fuses while the servingmen set out the food, poured the wine, handed around goblets. Master Barsonage accepted his goblet gratefully, emptied it in one long pull, and held it out to be refilled. Geraden and Artagel gripped their goblets without drinking, without looking anywhere except at each other.
Until one of the servingmen knelt to light a fire in the hearth, Terisa didn’t realize that the air was turning cooler.
“No lamps tonight,” Ribuld commented generally. “No oil. We used up what we had protecting the gates. There’s just enough left to keep King Joyse’s quarters and the public halls lit for a few more days. Don’t let your fire go out.”
Ushering the servingmen out of the room, he paused to add, “The Tor wants to talk to you. Before we march. The Castellan will send somebody to get you in the morning. Early.”
On that cheerful note, he closed the door.
At once, Master Barsonage articulated, “You said, ‘Houseldon is destroyed,’ ” speaking steadily so that Artagel wouldn’t have to shout. “ ‘Sternwall is falling. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls.’ Everyone who heard you wants an explanation, Geraden.”
Geraden didn’t hesitate; he had had time to marshal a reply. “The Domne is all right,” he said promptly. “At least he was when we left. Our family is safe. Most of the people we know survived. Under the circumstances, our losses were small.
“But Houseldon was burned to the ground.”
Holding his hands together because he didn’t have a sword, Artagel listened to every word as if he were studying his enemies to learn how to fight them.
Grimly, Geraden described the salient features of his arrival at the Closed Fist, and Terisa’s; he described the consequences for Houseldon. Then he explained, “That’s what made Nyle do it. That’s why he cooperated with Eremis. The threat of an attack like that.
“But when we left, the Domne and all our people were going to dig themselves into the Closed Fist. If Eremis tries the same threat again, our father wants us to ignore it.”
At the moment, Terisa didn’t care that Geraden had promised to call the Domne Da.
Slowly, Artagel sighed, letting violence out of his lungs. “Tholden must be a lot tougher than he thinks.”
“So is the Tor,” Geraden muttered.
“But you did not return to Orison by translation,” prompted Master Barsonage. “I gather the lady Terisa did not know then that her talent could reach across such distances.”
Terisa nodded; and Geraden said, “But it might not have helped, even if she had known. She can translate herself through flat glass. If she translated me, I’d lose my mind.”
“I understand,” said the mediator. “For that reason, you were required to cross Mordant on horseback. And you chose a road which took you to Sternwall and Romish.”
“Yes,” Geraden replied. “That’s how we happened to be at Vale House when the Queen was taken. We were trying to gather support for King Joyse – trying to get the Termigan and the Fayle to ride against Eremis.”
As briefly as possible, he told the story of the journey back to Orison, controlling his outrage at Eremis’ tactics as well as he could. Terisa listened to him for a while; gradually, however, her attention drifted. The room was growing darker as the sun set. A few hints of crimson still clung to the plumage on the walls, but most of the light was gone. Darkness accumulated against Orison. She didn’t want to remember pits of fire in the ground, or ghouls. She wanted to remember the Fayle.
The evening after the battle to save Naybel, sitting with her and Geraden in his camp, Queen Madin’s father had talked about King Joyse. With one hand clenched into a fist he couldn’t sustain, he had said, In all his years of warfare against Cadwal and Alend and Imagery, he has never asked a lord for aid when that lord’s Care was under attack. He came to me, freed my people. He did not ask me for any help until my Care was safe.
He will not ask me now. He has no wish to break my heart.
Terisa understood the Fayle better now. She grieved for him – for his losses, his inadequacy in the face of the ghouls – but she understood him. And she wanted to believe that he and the Termigan were doing the right thing by not riding to King Joyse’s support. By protecting their pieces.
I will not leave my people to die undefended.
She also wanted to believe that King Joyse wasn’t making a horrible mistake.
Then Geraden was done. He drank some of his wine and began to pick at his food as if his story had left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Well,” Master Barsonage muttered morosely. “Well. You have worked wonders to bring us this news, Geraden – my lady. But I am like other men in Orison, I suppose. I must admit that I had hoped to hear a more encouraging tale. We have all dreamed of the Perdon in vain. Annihilated, you said.” The mediator scowled. “And now we learn that any dreams we may have had of the Termigan or the Fayle are also in vain.
“King Joyse has chosen a bad time to disappear.”
“He didn’t choose it,” Artagel countered. “There aren’t any good times to have your wife abducted.”
“Do you believe,” Master Barsonage asked carefully, “that is where the King has gone? To rescue Queen Madin?”
Artagel’s confidence was greater than Terisa’s or Geraden’s. He said, “Of course.”
The mediator considered that for a moment. Then he said, “I hope you are right. I hope he is not simply cowering somewhere, overwhelmed by the consequences of his actions. To pursue the Queen at such a time may be foolish, but it is certainly understandable. “
Without waiting to debate the point, Barsonage rose to his feet. “I will leave you to your suppe
r. I have no urgent need of food” – he slapped his girth – “and many other things to do. With your permission, Geraden, I will tell your story to the Congery.” Geraden nodded. “And to Castellan Norge.” Geraden nodded again. “And to the Tor. It will do us no good to march with false expectations of help.”
Geraden shrugged his assent.
“One other small matter,” the Master added before he reached the door. “Do you want a chasuble, Geraden? Do you, my lady? I am prepared to initiate you to the Congery whenever you wish.”
The proposal seemed curiously irrelevant to Terisa. When Geraden heard it, however, his face turned as crimson as the sunset. Master Barsonage had just offered him his life’s dream. The fact that he had tears in his eyes embarrassed him acutely.
“Later—” he murmured. “Maybe later.” Roughly, he rubbed his hands into his eyes; then he met the mediator’s gaze. “All I want right now is to stop Eremis.”
Master Barsonage accepted that answer. “My lady?”
Terisa shook her head. She had no desire to become a member of the Congery.
Still, she was glad to see that the mediator didn’t take her refusal as a reproach. He had too many other things on his mind. Saying only, “As you wish. We will see each other in the morning,” he let himself out of the room.
Terisa and Geraden and Artagel looked at each other.
She was starting to feel hungry, but that could wait a little longer. Reflections from the hearth continued to cast a red hue into Geraden’s face. Rising to her feet, she moved around behind his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. His muscles were hard, knotted like iron. A chasuble: his life’s dream. And now it didn’t make any difference. He didn’t need it. Deliberately, she dug her fingers into the knots, trying to massage them loose.
Artagel opened his mouth like a man who intended to say something facetious, perhaps at the mediator’s expense; but his brother forestalled him. “Now it’s your turn,” Geraden said, still struggling to regain his composure. “I want you to tell us everything that happened while we were away.”