A Man Rides Through

  Terisa had no way of knowing whether this explanation made sense or not. Softly, she said, “You make it sound like the glass is actually alive.”

  Geraden kissed her forehead. “I don’t know about that. But talent is certainly alive. The relationship between an Imager and his mirror must be alive in some way.”

  She thought about that for a long time after he went to sleep. Choose your risks more carefully. If she wanted to help fight Master Eremis – if she really intended to kill him – she needed to understand her own limitations.

  The next morning, before she and the Masters had finished returning supplies to Orison, the wind brought clouds up out of the south.

  The rack was thin at first, dull gray rather than oppressive; it cut off the sunlight without making the air noticeably colder. But as the morning and the march wore on, the clouds thickened, turning the sky dull, bleeding away the colors of the landscape. A solid mass covered the Care from horizon to horizon; it weighed on the morale of the armies, pressing expectation into worry, worry into dread.

  At the same time, the wind became a few significant degrees warmer.

  Apprehensively, Terisa asked Geraden, “You don’t think Eremis has the power to translate weather against us, do you?”

  Geraden snorted. “If he could do translations on that scale, he wouldn’t need to fight us at all. He could just send out tornadoes until we collapsed.”

  That was a relief – of a sort. Eremis, also, had his limits. “In other words, he’s just lucky to get a cold spell like this when he needs it most.”

  “Or we are.” Geraden looked at her, grinning with his teeth. “The worse things get, the more we know we’re doing what King Joyse wants. At the moment when Eremis looks most unbeatable, that’s when he’s most vulnerable.”

  Now it was her turn to snort. “Aren’t you the one who accused me of having a morbid imagination?”

  Geraden laughed, but he didn’t sound especially amused.

  Shortly after noon, the armies of Orison and Alend began to meet blood on the ground.

  Old bloodstains: weatherworn, gone black; some across broad swaths of hard dirt; some in sheltered crannies; some clinging like lichen to rough rocks. They mottled stones and soil like the marks of a disease – infrequent at first; but soon more common, showing in open ravines or accessible hillsides all over the complex terrain, in pieces of earth where men could have fought for their lives.

  “The Perdon,” Prince Kragen pronounced grimly. “His men fought alone here against High King Festten. They were trapped here, hunted down in this” – he swallowed an obscenity – “this maze, and massacred.

  “They could have saved themselves. They could have fled to Orison. If we understand the High King rightly, he never intended to bring his force anywhere but here. But the Perdon did not know that. He knew only that he must fight for Mordant – and that he could not trust his King. So he led Cadwal here, where High King Festten most wished to go.

  “He was a valiant man,” the Prince rasped, “badly betrayed. I hope that he did not learn the truth before he died. It would have been unutterably bitter.”

  But there were no bodies.

  No remnants of weapons and gear.

  No bones.

  The entire region had been cleaned.

  Carrion eaters might have emptied the mail, picked the iron clean; some of them might have dragged bones away to gnaw. Nevertheless the dead should have left more behind than just their blood.

  Scouts brought back no word of Cadwal. Everywhere the men rode, they met old blood. In gullies protected from wind or rain, they found the marks of boots and hooves, running in all directions, trampled everywhere. But none of them encountered any evidence of High King Festten’s army anywhere.

  The Tor voiced the opinion that this was impossible. Castellan Norge and Prince Kragen sent out more scouts, doubled and tripled the number of men scouring the hillsides, the dry waterbeds, the stands of stubborn thicket. Yet the scouts discovered nothing, learned nothing.

  And an hour or two before evening the vanguard of Orison’s army and Alend’s arrived in sight of Esmerel.

  Master Eremis’ “ancestral seat” sat at the head of a wedge-shaped valley, almost directly against the sheer defile which brought a brook running into the valley. A bowman on the roof of the manor could have hit the valleysides in three directions. From the defile, however, the valley spread wide until it was more than broad enough to accommodate the armies approaching it. Its brook, and the expanse of its floor, gave the impression that it must be one of the most pleasant places in the Care of Tor.

  Its walls, on the other hand, were high and rugged; impassable more than not. Blunt outcroppings of rock supported them like ramparts. And they didn’t decline as the wedge spread wider. Instead, they reared their black stones against the sky until they ended abruptly, hooking inward before they stopped as if to constrict the wide foot of the valley.

  There was no blood here. Nearly a mile outside the valley, all evidence of the Perdon’s life and death disappeared.

  The valley itself was empty.

  Esmerel was a low building, for reasons which were obvious to the eye: even in this dull, cloud-locked light, the manor’s flat-roofed, rambling profile suited its surroundings, providing enough contrast to be distinctive, enough self-effacement to be harmonious. Terisa had heard from Geraden that much of the house was belowground, anchored in the rock of the valley. Instinctively, she believed that – although she couldn’t forget the sealed window and the faint light in the room where Eremis had chained her. Maybe Nyle’s cell was on the aboveground level. Certainly the window was. It shouldn’t be hard to locate.

  With Prince Kragen and his captains, the Tor and Castellan Norge, Geraden and Master Barsonage, she studied Esmerel’s front up the length of the valley. From this distance, she couldn’t make out what gave the walls their texture; but she could see the portico clearly, supported over the main entrance by sturdy pillars.

  The door was closed. All the windows were shuttered and dark. No one moved around the building, or in the neat horse-yard on one side of the house, or along the brook. Under the dark clouds, the whole place had an air of desertion, as if it had been forgotten a long time ago.

  The ground, however, still held the scars of hundreds of horses, hundreds of men.

  After a while, Prince Kragen asked, “What do you think, my lord Tor?”

  “I think,” the Tor muttered as if his confidence were ebbing, “we must look inside.”

  “It’s a trap, my lord,” commented Norge.

  “Of course,” the Tor sighed. “Is that not why we have come, Geraden, my lady Terisa?” He glanced at them morosely. “To place our heads in the trap?”

  For some reason, Geraden’s mount distrusted the valley and tried to shy away. Reining his horse uncomfortably, he said, “The only way we can find out what we’re up against is to go look at it, my lord.”

  Terisa couldn’t take her eyes off Esmerel. It held her as Master Eremis himself did, full of promises and destruction. She had been a prisoner there. Had met Vagel; seen Nyle. Eremis had almost had his way with her—

  “Let’s go,” she said without meaning to speak aloud. “Let’s go look at it.”

  Castellan Norge shrugged. The Tor blew his nose on the hem of his cloak.

  Prince Kragen gave Terisa a bow which suggested either mockery or respect.

  As if no one had actually given any commands, orders began to sift back to the main body of the armies. While the vanguard advanced on Esmerel, the Alend soldiers and the guard followed until they were well within the relative shelter of the valley, nearly halfway to the defile; then, with a company of five hundred horsemen, the vanguard pulled ahead, and the two armies – Alend on one side of the brook, Orison on the other – began to ready themselves for camp or battle. The men closest to the foot of the valley started throwing up a precautionary earthen breastwork from wall to wall.

  In silence, the vanguard a
pproached Esmerel.

  “Do you know?” Master Barsonage said to no one in particular, talking simply to steady himself, “I had never seen this manor until Geraden made an Image of it in Adept Havelock’s glass. I am astonished now to observe how accurately he was able to envision it.”

  No one in particular listened to the mediator.

  The riders continued to advance. Now Terisa could tell that the pillars of the portico were redwood; that the sides of the manor were built of waxed boards supported by stone ribs and columns. A beautiful design – but the place was still vacant. Esmerel’s air of abandonment grew deeper as the riders moved farther into the gloom of the valley walls.

  All the horses became restive: prancing; stamping; sawing against their reins.

  Prince Kragen’s standard-bearer winded a call on his battle-horn, a fierce run of notes which nevertheless sounded forlorn and maybe doomed as it echoed back from the ramparts. Nothing shifted in Esmerel. None of the windows winked or opened. Under its portico, the door looked heavy enough to withstand anybody.

  Abruptly, Geraden winced; Prince Kragen spat a curse; and all at once Terisa could smell what was disturbing the horses.

  The sweet, rank, nauseating reek of blood and old rot, neglected death, flesh gone to carrion.

  “What’s in there?” one of the captains asked as if he had forgotten that everyone could hear him.

  “Lucky you,” Ribuld muttered in response. “Lucky us. We’re going to find out.”

  As soon as she recognized the stench, however, Terisa lost her fear. She had been expecting something like this. A spiritual attack as much as physical. Adrenaline pumped through her; energy filled her muscles. This was Master Eremis’ domain: he was in his element here. Everything that happened now would happen because he intended it.

  First she said, “It wasn’t like this four days ago. I couldn’t smell any of this.” Then she said, “This is where I saw Nyle. Inside.”

  His face twisting, Geraden surged toward the door.

  “Geraden!”

  The Tor’s shout snapped like a whip, jerked Geraden back. Fierce and pale, he wheeled to face the old lord.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “We’ve got to find him.”

  The Tor didn’t drop Geraden’s gaze. “Castellan Norge,” he coughed, “open that door. Secure the rooms inside. We will enter when you signal for us.”

  Norge saluted. At least three hundred guards rode away to form a protective perimeter around the manor and the vanguard. Some men dismounted to tend the horses. The rest followed Castellan Norge on foot.

  In combat formation, swords ready, they approached the door.

  It wasn’t bolted. When Norge lifted the latch, the door swung inward, opening on darkness.

  He and his men entered the house.

  Terisa scanned the harsh rims of the valley. For no clear reason, she expected to see men there: Cadwals clutching their weapons; an army moving to surround the forces of Orison and Alend. Esmerel was a trap. But that didn’t make any sense. She had been a prisoner here just a few days ago. Master Eremis had his own laborium here, his furnaces and glassworks. He had spoken to High King Festten here. It was inconceivable that he would surrender the seat of his power to his enemies.

  Sure. Of course. So where was he?

  Where had she gone wrong?

  Abruptly, the Castellan reappeared.

  The gloom – and the fact that he was a few dozen yards away – confused Terisa’s sight. She had the distinct impression that he had gone white. He held his arms stiffly at his sides; he moved as if he carried something breakable in his chest.

  “My lord Tor—” His voice caught.

  Peering at the portico and the door and Norge, the Tor asked, “Is it safe?”

  Norge shook his head, nodded. His throat worked. “You need to see this. They’re all here.”

  No, Terisa thought blindly, don’t go in there, don’t go, it’s too dangerous. But Geraden had already flung himself off his mount, was already running—

  The Castellan stopped him, made him wait.

  The Tor glanced wearily up at the sky. “The truth is,” he rumbled, “that three days in the saddle have done little to heal my belly.” The stubborn resolution which had brought him here appeared to be eroding. “I fear that once I dismount I will never get up onto my horse again.”

  Prince Kragen’s gaze shone darkly. “I will go, my lord Tor.”

  The Tor passed a hand over his face. The skin of his cheeks seemed to pull away from the bones, giving him a skeletal aspect for a moment despite his fat.

  “We will all go, my lord Prince,” he sighed.

  No, Terisa thought as if she were panicking, it’s a trap. Eremis is in there; he’s already killed all Norge’s men. Yet what she felt wasn’t panic. Instead of crying out against Norge’s pallor, Norge’s distress, she swung off her nag and went after Geraden.

  “Nyle,” he muttered urgently when she joined him – the only explanation she needed.

  Heaving against his mortal weight, the Tor got his leg over the saddle, stumbled to the ground. For a moment, he sagged there as if his capacity to support himself were crumbling. But then he called up his fading strength and lumbered into motion.

  With Prince Kragen, half a dozen Alend soldiers, Master Barsonage, and Ribuld, the Tor approached Esmerel on foot.

  Terisa was right about Norge: his face had turned the color of old ash. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to account for himself. When the Tor and Prince Kragen neared him, he pivoted harshly and stalked back into the manor.

  They’re all here.

  Holding Geraden’s hand to steady herself – and to restrain him from anything wild – Terisa entered Esmerel behind the old lord and the Prince.

  Inside, the smell of blood and rot grew worse. Much worse.

  Instead of fainting, Terisa tightened her grip on herself and went ahead.

  The forehall was empty except for Castellan Norge and his men. They lined the walls, pale and grim, mirroring his distress. No one else was there – no one to account for the damage which nailed boots and mud had done to the once-fine floor. Some of the marks in the woodwork looked like swordcuts.

  Full of misery, the Tor started for the nearest doorway off the forehall.

  “Empty,” Norge croaked to stop him. “Damage like this.” He gestured at the floor. “And blood. There was a fight here. But there’s nobody left.”

  “It was like this,” Geraden breathed. “In the Image I made.”

  Master Barsonage nodded confirmation. “I saw it.”

  “What do you want me to see?” the Tor demanded of Norge.

  The Castellan pointed toward a wide staircase sweeping downward. His arm shook until he snatched it back to his side.

  “The cellars!” Geraden spat.

  Norge and the Tor, Prince Kragen and Master Barsonage, Terisa and Geraden followed a line of guards to the stairs.

  The staircase blazed with light: the Castellan’s men had lit lamps down the walls. From the head of the stairs, the whole descent was visible until it reached bottom and spread out into the complex underground levels of Esmerel.

  The stairs were like the floors: marked, stained, scarred. From below rose the reek of death, as palpable as a fist.

  On both sides of the passage at the foot of the descent, corpses had been stacked like cordwood.

  Under the dried blood, among the stiff, gaping wounds, the bodies wore the armor and insignia of the Perdon’s men.

  Forgetting caution – forgetting sanity – Geraden sprang down the stairs three at a time. Headlong into a storehouse of the dead, he rushed to find his brother.

  Terisa and Ribuld went after him, with Prince Kragen close behind them.

  Norge’s men were already in the cellars, lighting more lamps, opening new rooms to look for signs of life. Most of them fought grimly against nausea; quite a few had already succumbed, adding a patina of bile to the general stench. Rats ran everywhere, so busy fea
sting that they hardly noticed the intrusion of light and boots. As soon as she reached the foot of the stairs, Terisa noticed one stack of bodies that obviously hadn’t been soldiers. They looked more like servants – the men, women, and children who belonged to Esmerel.

  Trying to keep up with Geraden, she hurried on.

  Corpses were piled everywhere, neatly, deliberately. High King Festten had annihilated the Perdon. And he had brought the Perdon’s dead here. Stacked them here, left them to rot. Where the defenders of Mordant might find them.

  “Nyle!”

  Geraden’s yell died without echo in the halls, absorbed by flesh and maggots and rot.

  The belowground rooms were much larger than she would have guessed. One had obviously been a library – but all the books were gone. One might have been intended to display artwork – but all the paintings or sculptures were gone. There were workshops without tools, kitchens gutted of equipment. The people who had broken into Esmerel and slaughtered the manor’s retainers had stripped it of everything valuable.

  Ahead of her, Geraden faced a closed door. “What’s in there?”

  “Wine cellar,” a guard answered as if he had just finished puking. “Doesn’t have any lamps, so we left it. Looks empty.”

  No lamps, Terisa thought. That made sense. Wine needed to be kept cool. Lamps put out heat.

  Geraden hauled the heavy door open.

  Striding hard behind Terisa, Prince Kragen snapped, “Bring light!”

  With her and Ribuld, he followed Geraden into the cellar.

  The air was colder here – much colder – therefore less foul. In this unseasonable chill, with no one to care what happened, the temperature had dropped below freezing. She was bitterly sure that Eremis hadn’t left any wine behind to be ruined.

  Using the reflected illumination from the doorway, Geraden moved among the wineracks.

  Guards arrived carrying lamps; they entered the cellar.

  When she saw what Eremis had left behind here, Terisa stopped to consider the advantages of passing out.