Around her, the trees seemed to skid into focus past the bare ground leading from Orison. She had only been here on one previous occasion: the day Geraden had caught Nyle, dooming him to Master Eremis. And the ground then had been still covered with snow, the trees still black, leafless. And beyond the intersection had been cold, ice-caked snow, not an army of Alends.
Sawing inexpertly on the reins, she brought her horse to a halt. At once, Artagel and his companions formed a defensive cordon around her; instinctively, they faced the Alends with their swords drawn, as if the danger came from Prince Kragen’s soldiers.
Her pulse straining and her head giddy, she did her best to ignore the men, the horses, the swords. A number of the Alends sat their mounts with their spears leveled – ignore that. She needed time, time to see the place vividly as it was now, time to consider it from as many different angles as possible; time to prepare herself for the Image which had to be shifted.
Unfortunately, her enemies weren’t stupid. And her disappearance from Eremis’ cell had given them at least a hint of her true talents. Either she had effected her escape herself, or she possessed some kind of link with Geraden which had enabled him to locate and translate her in the dark. In either case, she was a dangerous opponent.
Before she had a chance to calm herself, before she finished turning wildly, trying to see the intersection from every side at once, before she knew what she was going to do, a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen—
—and a black shape full of teeth came down on the shoulders of one of the guards.
With a single, tearing bite, it ripped out the base of his neck.
By the time his body toppled to the ground, the creature had already gobbled its way into his chest.
More shapes: five, ten, fifteen. Shouts hit the trees. Swords flared in the cold sunrise. Prince Kragen and a dozen Alends charged into the fray. Artagel seemed to be dancing on the back of his mount, pirouetting, as he slashed an attacker out of the air above Terisa’s head. Then he dove at her, carried her off her horse to the ground where he could control her movements, keep his sword between her and the creatures.
And still through the chaos of whirling vision, whirling blades, of horses and teeth and blood, she felt that touch of cold as the mirror stayed open, the translation continued, launching black raveners at her as fast as they could come.
She tried to use the sensation, cling to it, make it lead her to its Image; she had to see that Image in her mind before she could change it. But it eluded her.
Geraden was right. It was impossible.
Another guard went down. All the guards seemed to be down, with gnarled shapes no bigger than puppies feasting on them. But some of them must have been Alends, because she had guards around her yet, protecting her like Artagel, hacking their swords madly at the open air.
Artagel had to fling her aside, had to use both hands on his sword in order to cut away three beasts at once. The catch in his side slowed him, nearly cost him his life. With a wrench of effort and pain, he hauled his blade around.
She sprawled toward the hooves of a panicked horse. That touch of cold was driven through the center of her belly like a spike, nailing her to the ground. She was so afraid that she forgot everything – forgot to dodge the horse, the creatures, forgot to ward herself – forgot everything except the feather-and-steel sensation of Eremis’ glass.
There she found it: on the edge of fading, the verge of the blind dark. Above her – higher than her own vantage. That was how it had eluded her: she hadn’t taken into account the way the black shapes came down onto her defenders.
As if she were leaping up inside herself, carrying the cold of translation with her, she looked into its moment of temporary eternity, its flat abyss, and saw the Image.
She saw the bloodied ground from nearly fifteen feet in the air, saw the frantic and squealing horses, saw her defenders, the corpses, the dead or feeding creatures—
Fast and hard, desperately, like slamming a door, she turned what she saw opaque, gave it an Image as blank as frosted glass.
Inside her, the touch of cold snapped and vanished as if she had shattered something.
At the same instant, the rush of gnarled bodies and teeth was cut off. In fact, it was cut off in mid-creature. Two of the beasts flopped to the ground without the rest of their bodies: they had been sliced in half as neatly as with a cleaver.
The attack was over.
“Terisa,” Artagel gasped, “my lady.” He got his hands under her arms, lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“I think I broke it.” She couldn’t find a point of balance anywhere in the intersection. The ground tilted; men veered from side to side; Artagel’s face swam in and out of view. She had no idea how she was able to speak, when it was obvious that she had lost the ability to breathe or think or hold up her head. “The mirror. I think we’re safe. “
Prince Kragen appeared: he seemed to heave over the horizon from somewhere far away. “You like risks, my lady,” he said through his teeth. “I have lost seven men.”
“And Eremis lost a mirror, “Artagel retorted over his shoulder, panting and angry. “Maybe you don’t like the trade, but he’s going to think hard before he tries it again. My lord Prince.”
Terisa had no attention to spare for Kragen. Clinging to Artagel, she asked, “How many did we lose?”
He looked around. “Three.”
Three. Ten men altogether. Ten men dead because she took a risk she didn’t know how to handle, ten. And if she hadn’t finally shifted the mirror when she did, the carnage would have been worse. Maybe much worse. Because she took the risk—
Trembling like a child, she sank to the ground and clamped her hands over her face to shut out the sight of death.
Artagel stood over her and glared at Prince Kragen as if daring the Prince to blame her for anything. When Kragen shrugged and withdrew, Artagel sent his guards back to Orison. “Tell my lord Tor the intersection is safe. And tell Geraden she’s all right. She broke the mirror.”
Terisa didn’t hear the men leave.
“My lady,” Artagel said thickly, “you did the right thing. If we only lose ten men for every mirror Eremis has, he doesn’t stand a chance.”
She couldn’t raise her head, even for Artagel.
What about High King Festten and his twenty thousand Cadwals?
The Tor and Norge and their escort were the first riders to arrive from Orison. The Tor didn’t dismount – maybe he couldn’t, and still be sure of being able to get back up on his horse. But he addressed her in a voice she remembered, a voice with cunning and resolution hidden in its subterranean rumble.
“My lady Terisa of Morgan, it would have been a grave mistake if I had required you to remain behind.”
She tried to nod without looking up. Apparently, he had recovered some measure of assurance. She had accomplished that, if nothing else: she had given the old lord a bit of hope by demonstrating that it was possible to fight Eremis’ Imagery.
Then Geraden reached her. Muddy and bedraggled, almost delirious with anger and relief, he flung himself off his mount in front of her as if he meant to snatch her from the ground. Instead of picking her up, however, he hunkered down to her, gripped her shoulders hard, shook her gently. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he demanded. “Don’t you dare. Can’t you get it through your thick skull that I love you? We’re together in this. I’d rather walk through fire until I drop than be a spectator while you live or die.”
Oh, Geraden.
She put out her arms to him, and he caught her in a fierce hug. “Together,” she murmured so that he wouldn’t let her go. “I promise.”
After a while, he helped her to her feet.
Until she wiped her eyes and looked around, she didn’t realize that all the forces of Orison and Alend were waiting for her.
Prince Kragen was there, mounted before the Tor, with a new squ
ad of men behind him. Artagel had gone back to his duty in Orison; but Castellan Norge and his escort supported the Tor, with a road full of guards issuing from the castle at his back. The old lord faced Prince Kragen squarely; however, the Prince didn’t speak until Terisa met his gaze.
To her surprise, she saw unmistakably that some conflict in him had been resolved. The clenched bitterness, the suggestion of savagery, was gone from his expression; his black eyes shone with excitement. She had no idea what decision he had achieved – but she could see beyond question that he liked it.
After holding her gaze for a moment, he turned to the Tor.
“Should I conclude from this display of force, my lord Tor,” he asked acerbically, “that your intention to march against High King Festten and Master Eremis in Esmerel is unchanged?”
“Assuredly, my lord Prince,” the Tor replied in a corresponding tone. “If I had the slightest desire to do battle with you, I would not go about it in this fashion.”
Kragen indicated the purple pennon. “Has King Joyse returned?”
“He has not.”
“In that case” – Prince Kragen straightened his shoulders – “the Alend Monarch wishes to speak with you. He asks you to accept the hospitality of his tent, with Geraden, the lady Terisa, and Master Barsonage – and Castellan Norge, of course.”
Terisa and Geraden stared. Norge clenched his jaws as if he were stifling a yawn. The Tor’s eyes showed an undisguised gleam of hope. Nevertheless he didn’t ask what Margonal wanted to talk about. Instead, he inquired firmly, “What guarantee of safety does the Alend Monarch offer us? As his guests, we will be deeply honored – and completely vulnerable.”
Prince Kragen shrugged slightly. “My lord Tor, the Alend Monarch is a man of honor. He neither insults nor betrays his guests. On this occasion, however, he is prepared to match your vulnerability with his own. You may bring with you a hundred horsemen, who will be permitted to surround his tent. Surely no treachery on our part will succeed at killing a hundred men before they can threaten or kill the Alend Monarch himself.”
“A remarkable gesture,” Master Barsonage whispered to Terisa and Geraden. “The Alend Monarch is not notoriously complaisant about hazards to his person. Perhaps there is hope for an alliance yet.”
Terisa and Geraden didn’t reply. They were waiting to hear what the Tor would say.
“My lord Prince,” drawled the old lord as if nothing surprised him, “the Alend Monarch is unexpectedly considerate. I am prepared to rely on his honor entirely. I will accompany you at once, with Master Geraden and the lady Terisa of Morgan.”
The Tor held up his hand to forestall movement. “Castellan Norge will remain among his men – as will the mediator of the Congery. They will keep their strength ready to march at the earliest possible moment.”
Norge nodded amiably. Master Barsonage started to object, but subsided at once. The point of the Tor’s decision was obvious: if the old lord was betrayed, most of Orison’s fighting force would remain intact.
Prince Kragen permitted himself a bleak smile. “As you wish, my lord Tor.” With a look toward Terisa and Geraden, he asked, “Will you mount and join us?”
Trying not to hurry – trying not to look like people who desperately wanted an alliance – Terisa and Geraden found their horses, swung themselves up, and rode to the Tor’s side.
Without discernible anxiety, Castellan Norge withdrew his escort; he retreated a short distance down the road and immediately sorted his men into a defensive shield around the Congery and its wagons. At his orders, what remained of the mounted guard emerged from Orison, fanning out into a formation ready either to commence battle or to resume marching. Then Norge followed the men on foot, while Master Barsonage told the other Masters what had happened and prepared them for the possibility that they might have to defend themselves.
At the same time, Terisa and Geraden – with Ribuld trailing after them as if he thought no one would notice him – rode beside the Tor and Prince Kragen toward the tent where they had talked with the Prince and Elega less than two days ago.
As they moved, Geraden tried discreetly to wipe some of the mud off his clothing.
Terisa was distantly surprised to discover that her own clothes weren’t especially dirty. The mud in the intersection had been frozen hard. And somehow she had escaped all that blood—Even the gnarled creatures had died without marking her.
In the open area surrounded by luxurious living tents, the riders dismounted. Refusing the Prince’s offer of help, the Tor got down by himself; but he had to hold his breath and hug his gut until his face turned black in order to do it. Gasping thinly, with his legs wedged to keep him upright, he murmured as an explanation, “My lord Prince, I hope the Alend Monarch does not require his guests to be in good health. The blow I received from the High King’s Monomach troubles me” – his face twisted – “considerably.”
“My lord Tor,” replied the Prince evenly, “the Alend Monarch will require only that you be seated comfortably, that you enjoy a flagon of wine” – Kragen bowed his guests toward the most sumptuous of the tents – “and that you consent to see him without light.”
Allowing Terisa, Geraden, and the Tor no opportunity for questions, Prince Kragen approached the tentflaps and told the soldiers on duty to announce him.
Terisa and Geraden glanced at each other; but the Tor ignored both of them. Struggling as if he were up to his thighs in mire, he followed Kragen into the tent.
“Oh, well,” Geraden whispered. He had recovered his sense of humor. “If we aren’t allowed any light, at least I don’t have to worry about appearing before the Alend Monarch looking like a pig wallow.”
Terisa wanted to smile for him, but she was too busy trying to control her sense that the defenders of Mordant urgently needed some good to come of this meeting with the Alend Monarch.
They entered the tent behind the Tor.
Ribuld tried to go with them. Kragen’s soldiers stopped him.
As on the occasion of their previous visit, the fore-tent was illuminated only by braziers which had been set for warmth: apparently, Margonal suffered from an old man’s sensitivity to cold. Now, however, Prince Kragen summoned no lamps to augment the glowing embers. In the gloom, slightly tinged with red, the chairs and furnishings were hard to see – imprecise; vaguely suggestive. Tent poles loomed out of the dark like obstacles.
A moment passed before Terisa realized that she and Geraden, the Tor and Prince Kragen weren’t alone. Two soldiers held the tentflaps tightly closed. Servants waited around the walls.
And the dark shape of a man sat in a chair across the expanse of the fore-tent.
“My lord Tor.” The voice issuing from the dark shape was old and thin. “I like courtesy, but I will dispense with it today, so that your march will not be delayed. Yet I must take time to give you my thanks for not bringing the hundred men I offered to permit. Even if I meant you ill – which I do not – your decision made you safe with me. A man of Mordant must be valorous to trust the honor of an Alend.”
“My lord Monarch,” replied the Tor, “I also like courtesy. It would please me to give you the formal salutations and gratitude which custom and humility suggest. Unfortunately, I have been injured. I confess that I am hardly able to stand. Forgive me, my lord – I must sit.”
Prince Kragen had moved to stand beside his father. From that position, he made a sharp gesture. At once, a servant hurried forward with a broad stool for the Tor.
Groaning involuntarily, the Tor lowered his weight to the seat.
“You are injured, my lord Tor,” said the Alend Monarch, “and yet you propose a hard march of three days in order to confront High King Festten and his new cabal of Imagers. Is that wise?”
Behind the age in Margonal’s voice, Terisa heard another quality. Perhaps because the gloom in the tent gave every shape and tone an ominous cast, she thought that the Alend Monarch sounded haunted; harried by doubt.
He had invited –
no, summoned – her and Geraden and the Tor here in order to test them in some way. Because he was afraid.
“My lord Monarch” – the Tor seemed to lift his voice by main strength off the floor of his belly – “I am sincerely unsure that it is wise. King Joyse would never permit me to do such a thing in his place, if he were here to forbid it. But he is not here, and so I determine the nature of my own service to my King.
“The question is not one of wisdom, my lord. It is one of necessity. I go to fight the High King and his Imagers simply because they must be opposed.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Abruptly, Prince Kragen made another gesture. As if a ritual had been correctly completed, servants now came forward with chairs for Terisa and Geraden. Silently, they were urged to seat themselves.
Then a tray was brought around; it held four wine goblets, one each for Terisa, Geraden, and the Tor, one for the Alend Monarch himself. Margonal drank briefly before inviting his guests to do the same.
Prince Kragen abstained as if he were only a servant in his father’s presence.
Terisa peered at the Alend Monarch until her temples throbbed, but she couldn’t make out any details of his face or posture or clothes. Maybe the braziers weren’t intended to warm him after all. He sat as far away from them as possible.
Why did he insist on darkness? What was he hiding – strength or frailty?
“So,” he said without preamble. “I have heard rumors of violence and Imagery from the intersection.” Strangely, his suddenness didn’t convey decision. Speaking quickly only made the note of anxiety in his voice more obvious. “What transpired there this morning, my lord Tor?”
“An unexpected and hopeful thing, my lord Monarch.” For reasons of his own, the Tor made no effort to project optimism. “Master Eremis translated vileness against us – and the lady Terisa of Morgan defeated him. Some men were lost defending her,” the old lord added. “Prince Kragen gallantly aided her, and so some of the men lost were yours, my lord. Yet the attack was turned against our enemies. Across the miles, Master Eremis’ mirror was broken.”