The Alend Monarch seemed to be fond of long silences. Eventually, he asked Terisa, “How was that possible, my lady?”
With difficulty, she forced herself to sound steady. “I guess I have a talent for flat glass, my lord. If I can see the mirror’s Image – see it in my mind – I can make it change.” She spread her hands as if to show the blood on them. “When I saw the Image Eremis was using, I made it go blank.
“Some of his creatures were caught in translation. I think the stress broke the mirror.”
“An unprecedented display of power,” remarked the Monarch, this time without pausing. “And you, Master Geraden? Do you also have a talent which this Eremis cannot equal?”
Prince Kragen stood at his father’s side without moving, without offering Terisa or Geraden or the Tor any help.
Slowly, Geraden replied, “My lord Monarch, I can do roughly the same thing with normal mirrors – make them change their Images. But I haven’t tried it across distance. I suspect my talent doesn’t go that far. I think I have to have the glass in front of me to work with it.”
Again, the Alend Monarch lapsed into silence.
To ease the strain on her vision, Terisa turned her head away, glanced around the tent. Except in the immediate proximity of the braziers, the light was only enough to let her see the servants and soldiers as concentrations of gloom. Like Prince Kragen, they all stood against the walls, waiting for their sovereign’s commands—
No. Almost directly behind her, in a corner she couldn’t scrutinize without craning her neck ostentatiously – a corner as dark as the spot where Margonal sat – she glimpsed another seated figure. This audience had at least one spectator who was permitted to sit in the Alend Monarch’s presence.
“My lord Tor.” Margonal seemed to be making an effort to key his voice to a firmer pitch. “We are old enemies – although to my recollection most of your personal warfare has been waged against Cadwal rather than Alend. You know enough of my history to understand my caution where King Joyse is concerned.
“Where is he?”
“My lord Monarch?” asked the Tor as if he didn’t understand the question – or hadn’t expected it to be stated so bluntly.
“King Joyse.” The Monarch’s enunciation hinted at anger and fear. “Where is he?”
The Tor lifted his goblet, took what was for him a modest swig. “My lord, I do not know.”
Stillness spread out around him. No one moved – and yet Terisa had the impression that every Alend in the tent had gone stiff. Margonal’s posture filled the dim air with warnings.
As if the pressure of the silence had become too much for him, the Tor said huskily, “Please believe me, my lord Monarch. He disappeared without consultation, without explanation. If I knew where he is – or why he has gone there – it is unlikely that I would be before you now. I would prefer to await his return, so that he could preside over our saving or destruction as he saw fit. This war is his doing and his duty, my lord, not mine.”
“Yet surely you speculate,” snapped the Alend Monarch promptly. “You must have some conception of his actions, some guess as to his purpose.”
Carefully, the Tor replied, “Does it matter, my lord Monarch? We must do what we do, regardless of his whereabouts – or his reasons.”
“It matters to me.” Margonal’s voice conveyed the impression that he was sweating profusely. “While I have held my Seat in Scarab, he has twice overturned the order of the world, once for peace and prosperity, for an end to bloodshed and the depredations of Imagery, and once for the ruin of everything he has created. He has power, that man, the power to plunge all our lives into chaos as surely as he once raised us to peace.
“Where is he?”
Terisa looked at Geraden. She could see him a little better than anyone else; the red tinge on his features made him appear fervid, a little mad – and a little hopeless.
The Tor sighed painfully. “My lord, my only guess is that he has gone somehow in search of Queen Madin.”
Terisa thought that the Alend Monarch was going to fall silent again. Almost at once, however, he retorted, “And Queen Madin has been abducted by Alends – or by men who appeared to be Alends. What will he do, my lord Tor, when he has rescued her?” Despite its thinness, his voice gathered passion. “I do not doubt that he will rescue her. That man fails at nothing. And when he has restored her to safety, what will he do?”
As if he were in the presence of an ambush, the Tor answered, “My lord Monarch, I only guess at where King Joyse has gone. Years have passed since I felt able to predict his actions.”
The Alend Monarch shifted suddenly, straightened himself in his chair. “You have not studied him as I have, my lord Tor. I know what he will do. He will fall on me like the hammer of doom!”
Shocked, Terisa peered into the gloom, tried to penetrate it to read Margonal’s face. But she could see nothing useful.
“My lord Monarch,” Geraden ventured cautiously, “those men weren’t Alends. Master Eremis admitted as much to the lady Terisa. King Joyse vanished before we could tell him everything we knew. That’s a problem. But surely he’ll find out the truth for himself. Surely when he’s questioned” – tortured? – “those men, he’ll realize why she was taken. To disrupt his plans for Mordant’s defense. And drive a wedge between us, so we don’t join forces.
“When he comes back—Surely it isn’t inevitable that he’ll attack you.”
“Master Geraden.” Slowly, Margonal’s voice lost its vehemence. “I am the Alend Monarch, responsible for all my lands and all my people – as well as for a rather unruly union with the Alend Lieges. In my place, would you be prepared to risk your entire kingdom on the naked hope that an apparent madman will recognize the truth – and respect it?”
The Monarch appeared to be shaking his head. To the Tor, he said, “You wish an alliance. But if I unite my force with yours, I will lose most of my ability to defend myself and my realm. Against King Joyse. And against the possibility that High King Festten will strike behind you when you have left Orison.
“What you wish is impossible.”
Now it was the Tor’s turn to be quiet for a long time. When he spoke, he sounded disappointed, even sad – but also untouched, as if nothing the Alend Monarch could do would weaken his determination.
“Then there is no more to be said, my lord. I thank you for the courtesy of this audience. With your permission, we will resume our march.”
The Tor made a move to rise from his seat.
“Why?” the Alend Monarch demanded suddenly, almost desperately. “Can you deny that King Joyse appears to have gone mad? Can you deny that his purposes and policies have brought you to the verge of destruction? Why do you still serve him?”
For a moment, Terisa thought she sensed a fiery retort rushing up in the old lord, a subterranean blast. When his answer came, it surprised her with its gentleness. He might have been speaking to an old friend.
“My lord, Master Eremis and his Imagery have cost me my eldest son. In time, the High King will cost me all my family. Such men must be opposed.”
Prince Kragen didn’t change his stance at all. None of the servants or soldiers moved. The figure seated behind Terisa made no sound. Geraden seemed to be holding his breath.
With a rustle of rich fabric, the Alend Monarch slumped back in his chair.
Thinly, he murmured, “You are blessed with several sons, my lord Tor. I have but one. And by no act of mine can I assure his accession to my Seat. I must be careful of my risks.”
Then his tone sharpened. “My lord, we would be safe in Orison. At worst, we would be safer than we are now. It is your fixed intention to march against Esmerel. What is to prevent us from taking possession of Orison as soon as you are gone?”
Apparently, the Tor had come prepared for that question. “Adept Havelock,” he replied without hesitation – a bolder bluff than Terisa had expected from him. “Artagel and two thousand guards. And several thousand men and women wh
o would rather lose their lives than be taken by Alend.”
“I see,” breathed the Alend Monarch as if he were sinking to the floor.
Through the dimness, Terisa barely saw him reach out and touch Prince Kragen’s arm.
The Prince made a commanding gesture. At once, servants hurried forward to hold the chairs so that the Tor, Terisa, and Geraden could stand.
The audience was over.
The Tor braced a heavy hand on Geraden’s shoulder and started toward the tentflaps.
Terisa turned the other way so that she could take a closer look at the person sitting behind her.
The flare of light as the tentflaps were opened confused her vision momentarily, made her squint, filled the corners of the tent with darkness. Before the soldier at the exit ushered her outward, however, she saw the mute figure in the chair clearly enough to recognize her.
The lady Elega.
At the last moment, Elega met Terisa’s gaze deliberately and smiled.
Then Terisa found herself blinking in the cold sunshine outside the tent. The Tor and Geraden were already moving toward the horses.
Prince Kragen didn’t emerge from his father’s presence to accompany them.
Ribuld brought her nag and offered to help her mount. Apparently, no one had troubled him while he waited with the horses. For no clear reason, the fact that he also was smiling disturbed her. When had the scarred veteran learned to enjoy being alone and unprotected in an enemy camp?
She wanted to tell Geraden and the Tor about Elega – especially Geraden, who might be able to imagine what the lady’s silent presence in the Alend Monarch’s tent meant. Obviously, however, she had to contain herself until she and her companions had rejoined Orison’s army.
The forces under Castellan Norge’s command readied themselves to move again. Horsemen corrected their formations; guards on foot strode doggedly out of the castle by the dozens, the hundreds. Terisa’s news perplexed and fascinated Geraden; but the Tor and Norge and even Master Barsonage didn’t seem particularly interested in it. It changed nothing: they had still lost their last hope of an alliance with Alend. At the Tor’s side, Castellan Norge gave the order which set the army in motion, then led it toward the intersection – toward the road which branched south in the direction of the Tor’s Care.
Before the Tor and Norge, with Terisa and Geraden, Master Barsonage and the Congery behind them, reached the intersection, they began to receive reports which made them hesitate.
On the far side of Orison, the Alends had started to roll back the perimeter of their siege. Mounted soldiers took to their horses; foot soldiers formed squads.
Like King Joyse’s guard, the Alend troops were moving.
Men spat obscenities and curses into the cold wind. Trying to match his Castellan’s calm, the Tor asked, “What do you suppose this means, Norge?”
Impenetrably phlegmatic, Norge shrugged. “The Prince doesn’t want to keep Orison cut off. Not anymore. What’s left?
“As soon as we’re gone, he’s going to hit the gates headlong and drive his whole strength inside as fast as he can.”
The Tor nodded once, stiffly. His lips had a blue color in the chill; Terisa saw them trembling. To himself, he murmured, “So the Alend Monarch masters Orison at last. And we must let it happen. My King, forgive me.”
Geraden looked like he was chewing a mouthful of glass, but he didn’t say anything. Master Barsonage’s expression was bleak and grim. Only Ribuld kept grinning, like a man with secret sources of gratification. Terisa didn’t have any attention to spare for him, however. She was too busy trying to evaluate the new clarity she had seen in Prince Kragen’s face.
Would it make him happy to take Orison?
Would Elega let him be happy about it?
In a mood that resembled defeat, despite Terisa’s recent victory, the vanguard of Orison’s army passed through the intersection and headed south, toward the Broadwine Ford and the Care of Tor.
Unencumbered by supplies or unnecessary equipment and weapons, they set a brisk pace. Soon the last of the riders were in the intersection; the last of the unmounted guards were emerging from Orison. Southward, the ground rose slightly – not enough to block the sight of the Broadwine from the high towers of the castle, but enough to give the vanguard a view down the length of the army. Now Terisa and everyone with her could see what Prince Kragen’s men were doing.
Peeling away from Orison on both sides, they formed themselves into two masses: one larger, which took shape on the road northwest of the intersection; one considerably smaller apparently positioning itself to approach the gates.
The vast number of Alend servants and camp followers had already begun to strike the tents, break down the encampment.
The Prince must have been very sure that he would be settled inside Orison before dark.
Scanning the nausea on the faces of his companions, Ribuld chuckled maliciously.
At the crest of the slow, southward rise, the Tor left Castellan Norge to lead the army. With Terisa, Geraden, Master Barsonage, and a handful of guards, he moved to a vantage off the road from which he could watch the progress of his forces – and the fall of the castle.
“How long can Artagel hold out?” Terisa asked Geraden quietly.
“A lot longer than Prince Kragen thinks,” he replied, biting down hard on each word before he released it. “He knows how important this is. If he fails, the Prince can cut off our supplies.”
Oh, good, Terisa groaned. Wonderful.
She could feel that her face was red, chafed by the cold. She wished the Tor looked the same, but he didn’t. His cheeks were too pale; his mouth and eyes, too blue. He didn’t seem to have enough blood left in him to bear what he was about to see.
Or perhaps he did. “Now, Prince Kragen,” he muttered as the last of the guard reached the intersection and turned south, “do your worst. Preserve yourself and your father if you can, and remember you were warned that this would never save you.”
While the lord and his companions watched, the smaller mass of the Alend army placed itself across the road in front of Orison’s gates, just beyond effective bowshot from the walls.
At the head of the larger body, Prince Kragen rode into the intersection.
With his standard-bearer carrying the Alend Monarch’s pennon before him, Prince Kragen led at least six and perhaps seven thousand of his soldiers south along the road Orison’s army took.
“You knew about this,” Geraden said severely to Ribuld.
Ribuld grinned. “They shouted a lot of orders while I was waiting for you. I didn’t have much trouble figuring out what they meant.”
“And you didn’t think it was worth mentioning to us?” demanded Terisa. She wanted to hit the scarred veteran. She also wanted to shout for joy.
Enjoying his own joke, Ribuld replied piously, “I could have been wrong, my lady. I didn’t want to mislead you.”
“They were getting this ready while we talked to the Alend Monarch,” Geraden muttered with fire rising in his eyes. “The decision was already made.” Which explained the excitement Terisa had seen in Prince Kragen. “They were just waiting for a final word from Margonal.”
“Then why didn’t they tell us?” asked Terisa.
“They don’t want an alliance.” Geraden sounded wonderfully sure. “They want to be ready to help if they think we’re right. Prince Kragen does think we’re right. But they also want to be free to abandon us – or even turn against us – if we’re wrong.
“I told you the Prince is an honorable enemy.”
The Tor didn’t say anything. While Prince Kragen led his forces up the rise after Orison’s army, the old lord sat on his mount with tears in his eyes and a look like a promise on his broad face.
FORTY-SIX: A PLACE OF DEATH
The wind continued to blow out of the south – not hard now, but steadily, and full of cold, rattling through the trees and along the ground like a rumor of icicles – and Orison’s army mar
ched into the teeth of it. The men went almost boisterously at first, when the word was passed down the lines that Prince Kragen and his troops were coming toward Esmerel instead of attacking the castle; then slowly the guards’ mood turned grimmer, more painful, as the wind wore down hope, drove both men and horses to duck their heads and brunt a way forward with the tops of their skulls. The unseasonable chill stung the eyes, rubbed at the spots where tack or mail galled the skin; it searched out the gaps in winter cloaks and made the air hurtful for sore lungs and caused earaches. By the time the Tor and his forces had crossed Broadwine Ford and halted to make their first camp, they had lost whatever optimism they had carried with them from the Demesne. Dispirited and worried, the army turned its back on the wind, huddled into itself, and cursed the cold.
The men already looked beaten.
By Castellan Norge’s reckoning, however, they had pulled nearly four miles ahead of the Alends.
“That disturbs me,” muttered the Tor while Master Barsonage and the other Imagers chose an open patch of ground and began to unpack their mirrors. “I do not wish to be separated from the Prince – and I do not wish to wait for him.”
Norge shrugged as if the movement were a twitch in his sleep. “They’re carrying all their food and equipment and bedding and tents – everything they need. They’re lucky they can come this close to our pace. If Prince Kragen tries to drive them this fast tomorrow, some of them will start to break.”
“And that will benefit no one,” fretted the Tor. Abruptly, he called, “Master Barsonage!”
“My lord Tor?” the mediator answered.
“Do I understand correctly? This evening you will translate our necessities from Orison – and tomorrow before we march you will return everything to the castle for the day?”
Master Barsonage nodded. He was impatient to get to work. One of the Congery’s three supply-mirrors was his.
The Tor kept him standing for a moment, then said, “I will wager the Alends carry enough food and water to sustain them for eight or ten days. If their supplies were added to ours, could you manage so much translation?”