She didn’t understand why he kissed her. She didn’t want to understand. Go to hell. All she wanted was to fade. The cell was cold, and the lamp was afflicted with a ghoulish flicker like a promise that it might go out at any moment, plunging her into blackness. When she was a child, the prospect of fading had always terrified her. It still did. But soon being locked in the closet had reminded her of the safety of the dark, had taught her again that she could fade to escape from being alone and unloved, scarcely able to breathe. If she didn’t exist, she couldn’t be hurt.
If she didn’t exist, she couldn’t be hurt.
Go to hell.
But now, when she needed it most, it was taken away from her. She couldn’t fade: she had lost the trick of letting go. The Castellan was going to hurt her in a way she had never experienced before. That wasn’t like the relatively passive violence of being locked in a closet. It wasn’t like being left alone to save herself or go mad. It was a new kind of pain—
And Geraden—
Oh, Geraden!
She needed to fade, had to escape, in order to protect him, just in case he was still alive, just in case he had somehow succeeded at working another impossible translation. Fading was her only defense against the pressure to betray him. If she were gone, she wouldn’t be able to tell the Castellan where he was.
And yet he was the other reason she couldn’t let go. She was too afraid for him. She couldn’t forget the way she had last seen him, the poignant mixture of anguish and iron in his face, the fatal authority in his voice and movements. The sweet and openhearted young man she loved wasn’t gone. No. That would have been bad enough, but what had happened to him was worse. He had been melted and beaten to iron without losing any of his vulnerabilities, so that the strength or desperation which led him to cast himself into a mirror wasn’t a measure of how hard he had become, but rather of how much pain he was in.
She had cried, I’m not an Imager! I can’t help you! And he had turned away from her because he didn’t have any other choice. She wasn’t the answer to his need. He had flung himself into the glass and was gone, unreachable, so far beyond hope or help that he didn’t even appear in the Image of the mirror. Even an Adept couldn’t have brought him back.
That was how she knew where he was.
If he were still alive at all. And if the translation hadn’t cost him his sanity.
She should have gone with him.
Yes. She should have gone with him. That was another reason she couldn’t fade: she couldn’t forget that she had already failed him. And failed herself at the same time. She loved him, didn’t she? Wasn’t that what she had learned in their last day together? – that he was more important to her even than Master Eremis’ strange power to draw a response from her body? that she believed in him and trusted him no matter what the evidence against him was? that she cared about him too much to take any side but his in the machinations and betrayals which embroiled Mordant? Then what was she doing here? Why had she stood still and simply watched him risk his life and his mind, without making the slightest effort to go with him?
She should have gone.
She was blocked from escaping inside herself by her fear of the Castellan. By her fear for Geraden. And by shame.
After a while, the wall began to pain her back. Imperfectly fitted pieces of granite pressed against her spine, her shoulder blades. Cold seemed to soak into her from the floor, despite the warm riding clothes Mindlin had made for her, despite her boots. Perhaps it would be wiser if she got up and went to the cot. But she didn’t have the heart to move, or the strength.
Now you are mine.
Geraden, forgive me.
“My lady.”
She couldn’t see who spoke. Nevertheless his voice didn’t frighten her, so after a while she was able to raise her head.
The Tor stood at the door of her cell. His voice shook as he murmured again, “My lady.” His fat fists gripped the bars of the door as if he were the one who had been locked up – as if he were imprisoned and she were free. Dully, she noticed the lamplit tears spreading across his cheeks.
“My lady, help me.”
His appeal reached her. He was her friend, one of the few people in Orison who seemed to wish her well. He had saved her from the Castellan. More than once. Biting back a groan, she shifted onto her hands and knees. Then she got her feet under her and tottered upright.
Swaying and afraid that she might faint, she moved closer to the door. For the moment, that was the best she could do.
“My lady, you must help me.” The old lord’s voice shook, not because he was urgent, but because he was fighting grief. “King Joyse has given Lebbick permission to do anything he wants to you.”
She didn’t understand. Like the Castellan’s kiss, this was incomprehensible. Somehow, she found herself sitting on the floor again, hunched forward so that her graceless and untended hair hid her face. Permission to do anything. King Joyse had smiled at her, and his smile was wonderful, a sunrise that could have lit the dark of her life. She could have loved that smile, as she loved Geraden. But it was all a lie. Anything he wants to you. It was all a lie, and there was no hope left.
“Please,” the Tor breathed in supplication. “My lady. Terisa.” He was barely able to contain his distress. “In the name of everything you respect – everything you would find good and worthy about him, if he had not fallen so far below himself. Tell us where Geraden has gone.”
Involuntarily, her head jerked up. Her eyes were full of shadows. You, too? Nausea closed around her stomach. You’ve turned against him, too? She couldn’t reply: there weren’t any words. If she tried to say anything, she would start to cry herself. Or throw up. Not you, too.
“You will not hurt him, my lady.” The Tor was pleading. He was an old man and carried every pound of his weight as if it were burdensome. “I care nothing for his guilt. If he lives, he is far from here, safe from Lebbick’s outrage. We are besieged. Lebbick cannot pursue him. And no one else can use his glass. It will cost him nothing if you speak.
“But King Joyse—” The lord’s throat closed convulsively. When he was able to speak again, his voice rattled in his chest like a hint of mortality. “King Joyse has trusted the Castellan too long. And he is no longer himself. He does not understand the permission he has given. He does not know that Lebbick is mad.
“My lady, he is my friend. I have served him with my life, and with the lives of all my Care, for decades. Now he is not what he was. I acknowledge that. At one time, he was the hero of all Mordant. Now it is the best he can do to defend Orison intelligently.
“But he has only become smaller, my lady, not less good. He means well. I swear to you on my heart that he means well.
“If you defy Lebbick, the Castellan will do his worst. And when King Joyse understands what his permission has done to you, he will lose the little of himself that remains.
“Help me, my lady. Save him. Tell us where Geraden has gone, so that Lebbick will have no excuse to hurt you.”
Terisa couldn’t focus her eyes. All she seemed to see was the light reflecting on his cheeks. He was asking her to rescue herself. After all, he was right: if she revealed where Geraden was, the Castellan would have no more excuse to harm her. And in the process King Joyse would be saved from doing something cruel. And the Tor himself – the only one of the three she cared about – might be able to stop crying.
With more strength than she knew she had, she got to her feet. “King Joyse is your friend.” To herself, she sounded dry and unmoved, vaguely heartless. “Geraden is mine.” Then, trying to ease the old man’s distress, she murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“ ‘Sorry’?” His voice broke momentarily. “Why are you sorry? You will suffer – and perhaps you will die – out of loyalty to a man who has killed his own brother, and it will do him no good. Perhaps he will never know that you have done it. You will endure the worst Lebbick can do to you and accomplish nothing.” His hands struggled with the bars. ??
?You have no cause to be sorry. In all Orison, you alone will pay a higher price for your loyalty than King Joyse will.
“No, my lady. The sorrow is mine.” The rattle in the Tor’s chest made every word he said painful to hear. “It is mine. You will meet your agony heroically, and you will either speak or hold still, as you are able. But I am left to watch my friend bring to ruin everything he loves.
“I did not come to you with this at once. Do not think that. Since King Joyse gave his orders, I have been in torment, wracking my heart for the means to persuade him, move him – to understand him. I have begged at his door. I have bullied servants and guards. Do not think that I bring my pain to you lightly.
“But I have nowhere else to turn.
“My lady, your loyalty is too expensive.
“Whatever I have done, I have done in my King’s name. He is all that remains to me. I beg of you – do not let him destroy himself.”
“No.” Terisa couldn’t bear the sight any longer, so she turned her back on the Tor’s dismay. “Geraden is innocent. Eremis set this all up.” She spoke as if she were reciting a litany, fitting pieces of faith together in an effort to build conviction. “He faked Nyle’s death to make Geraden look bad, because he knew Nyle was never going to support his accusations against Geraden. If the King lets me be hurt” – a moment of dizziness swirled through her, and she nearly fell – “he’s going to have to live with the consequences. Geraden is innocent.”
“No, my lady,” the Tor repeated; but now she heard something new in his voice – a different kind of distress, almost a note of horror. “In this you are wrong. I care nothing for Geraden’s guilt. I have said that. Only the King matters to me. But you have placed your trust in someone evil.”
She stood still, her pulse loud in her ears and doubt gathering in her gut.
“Nyle is unquestionably dead.” The lord sounded as sick as she felt. “I have seen his body myself.”
Unquestionably dead. That made her move. Groping, she found her way to the cot. It smelled of stale straw and old damp, but she sat down on it gratefully. Then she closed her eyes. She had to have a little rest. In a minute or two, when her heart had stopped quaking, she would answer the Tor. Surely she would be able to think of an answer? Surely Geraden was innocent?
But a moment later the thought that Nyle really had been murdered cut through her, and everything inside her seemed to spill away. Unconscious of what she was doing, she stretched out on the cot and covered her face with her hands.
Eventually, the Tor gave up and left, but she didn’t hear him go.
At noon, the guards brought her a meal – hard bread and some watery stew. She panicked at their approach because she thought they might be the Castellan; her relief when she saw who they were left her too weak to get off the cot.
In fact, she felt too weak to eat at all, to take care of herself in any way. As soon as Castellan Lebbick spoke to her, she would tell him anything he wanted. But that wouldn’t stop him. She could see his face in her mind, and she knew the truth. He didn’t want to stop. Now that he had King Joyse’s permission, nothing would stop him.
Where were the people who had shown her courtesy or kindness, the people who might be supposed to have some interest in her? Elega had gone with Prince Kragen. Myste had left Orison on a crazy quest to help the Congery’s lost and rampaging champion. Adept Havelock was mad. Master Quillon had become mediator of the Congery because that was what King Joyse wanted – and King Joyse had given the Castellan permission to do whatever he wished to her. Saddith? She was only a maid, in spite of her ambitions. Maybe she had inadvertently betrayed Terisa to Eremis. That didn’t mean there was anything she could do to correct the situation. Ribuld, the coarse veteran who had fought for Terisa more than once? He was only a guard – not even a captain.
She couldn’t lift the whole weight of Mordant’s need by herself. She was hardly able to lift her head off the lumpy pallet which served as her mattress. The Tor had seen Nyle’s body. Geraden’s brother was unquestionably dead.
Why should she bother to eat? What was the point?
Maybe if she got hungry enough, she would regain the ability to let go of her own existence.
She tried to sleep – tried to relax so that the tension and reality would flow out of her muscles – but another set of boots stumbled toward her down the corridor. Just one: someone was coming in her direction alone. A slow, limping stride, hesitant or frail. Deliberately, she closed her eyes again. She didn’t want to know who it was. She didn’t want to be distracted.
For the first time, he called her by her name.
“Terisa.”
It wasn’t a good omen.
Startled, she raised her head and saw Geraden’s brother at the door of her cell.
“Artagel?”
He wore a nightshirt and breeches – clothes which seemed to increase his family resemblance to Geraden and Nyle because they weren’t right for a swordsman. His dress and his way of standing as if someone had just stuck a knife in his side made it clear that he was still supposed to be in bed. He had been too weak yesterday – was it really only yesterday? – to support Geraden in front of the Congery. Obviously, he was too weak to walk around in the dungeon alone today.
Yet he was here.
It was definitely not a good omen that he had called her Terisa.
Forgetting her own lack of strength, she swung her legs off the cot and went toward him. “Oh, Artagel, I’m so glad to see you, I’m in so much trouble, I need you, I need a friend, Artagel, they think Geraden killed Nyle, they—”
His pallor stopped her. The sweat of strain on his forehead and the tremor of pain in his mouth stopped her. His eyes were glazed, as if he were about to lose consciousness. Gart, the High King’s Monomach, had wounded him severely, and he drove himself into relapses by struggling out of bed when he should have been resting. The fact that Gart had beaten him; Nyle’s treasonous alliance with Prince Kragen and the lady Elega; the accusations against Geraden: things like that tormented the Domne’s most famous son, goading him to fight his weakness – and his recovery.
“Artagel,” she groaned, “you shouldn’t be here. You should be in bed. You’re making yourself sick again.”
“No.” The word came out like a gurgle. With one arm, he clamped his other hand against his side. “No.” Because he was too sick to remain standing without help, he leaned on the door, pressing his forehead against the bars. The dullness in his eyes made him look like he was going blind. “This is your doing.”
She halted: pain went through her like a burn. “Artagel?” There were, after all, more kinds of pain in the world than she would ever have guessed. Except for Geraden, Artagel was the best friend she had. She would have trusted him without question. “You don’t mean that.” He thought she was responsible? “You can’t.”
“I didn’t mean to say it.” He was having trouble with his respiration. His breath seemed to struggle past an obstruction in his chest. “That isn’t why I’m here. Lebbick is going to take care of you. I just want to know where Geraden is.
“I’m going to hunt him down and cut his heart out.”
Suddenly, she was filled with a desire to wail or weep. It would have done her good to cry out. But this was too important. Somehow, she kept her cry down. Panting because the cell was too small and if she didn’t get more air soon she was going to fail, she protested, “No. Eremis did this. It’s a trick. I tell you, it’s a trick. The Tor says he’s seen the body and Nyle is really dead, but I don’t believe it. Geraden didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Ah!” Artagel gasped as if he were hurt and furious. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to me anymore.” Now his eyes were clear and hot, bright with passion or fever. “I’ve seen the body myself.”
And while she reeled inside herself he continued, “After Geraden stabbed him, he was still alive. That much is true. Eremis rushed him to his own rooms and got a physician for him. That was his only chance
to stay alive. Eremis got him that chance. Then Eremis put guards on him – inside the room and outside the door. In case Geraden tried again.
“It didn’t work.” Artagel’s forehead seemed to bulge between the bars; he might have been trying to break his skull. “Lebbick found them. The guards were killed. Some kind of beast fed off them. Geraden must have translated something into the room – something they couldn’t fight.
“Nyle was killed. It chewed his face off.”
Just for a second, that image struck her so horribly that she quailed. Oh, Nyle! Oh, my God. Visceral revulsion churned inside her, and her hands leaped to cover her mouth. Geraden, no!
She should have gone with him. To prevent all this.
But then she saw iron and anguish, and Geraden came back to her. She knew him. And she loved him. Terisa, I did not kill my brother. Without warning, she was angry. Years of outrage which she had stored away in the secret places of her heart abruptly sprang out, touching her with fire.
“Say that again,” she breathed, panted. “Go on. Say it.”
Artagel was beyond the reach of surprise. Baring his teeth in a snarl, he repeated, “Nyle was killed. The beast chewed his face off.”
“And you believe Geraden did that?” She lashed her protest at him. “Are you out of your mind? Has everybody in this whole place gone crazy?”
He blinked dumbly; for one brief moment, he seemed to regard her in a different light. Almost at once, however, his own horror returned. His legs were failing. Slowly, he began to slip down the bars.
“I saw his body. I held it. I’ve still got his blood on my clothes.”
That was true. Her lamp was bright enough to reveal the dried stains on his nightshirt.
“I don’t care.” She was too angry to imagine what the experience had been like for him – to hold his own brother’s outraged corpse in his arms and have no way to bring the body back to life. “Geraden is your brother. You’ve known him all his life. You know him better than that.”