Master Barsonage was absolutely sure that he heard boots and armor among the rocks above him.
The chasm was vital now, vital. The Masters were prepared to release it, if necessary; close it. If, for instance, the Cadwals threw a bridge across the cleft, the chasm could be erased and then replaced, destroying the bridge. Nevertheless for the sake of the mirrors themselves the translation had to remain steady. If the chasm wavered or failed, nothing could stop the Cadwals from shattering the mirrors – or killing the Imagers.
In theory, at least, King Joyse’s men – and the Masters – were ready for any attack which came at them over the rocks.
“Gently,” the mediator breathed into the young Imager’s ear, “gently. You are a Master, a Master. Translation has become a simple matter for you, an easy matter. You do not require such effort. Only relax. Hold the translation in your mind. Let your arms rest.”
The young Master didn’t nod or speak. His eyes were shut in strain. Nevertheless he managed to soften his grip, ease his rubbing; some of the exertion left his shoulders.
“Good,” Master Barsonage whispered. “You are doing well. Very well indeed.”
He was sure he heard boots and armor in the rocks—
He was right. From a hiding place twenty yards away, one of Norge’s bowmen loosed a shaft, and a Cadwal with an arrow in his throat dove headfirst down the wall, gurgling audibly as he fell.
Past the young Master’s shoulder, Barsonage saw soldiers of all kinds clambering toward the opposite mirror.
“Be ready, Harpool,” he breathed. “Cover yourself with your glass. Remember that a mirror open for translation cannot be broken from the front.”
For some reason, Master Harpool chose this moment to say, “You know, Barsonage, my wife begged me to stay at home. Said I was too old for such goings-on. If I fail to return, she promised to curse me—” Without warning, his old eyes spilled tears.
“Look out!” yelled a guard. Arrows flew. Cadwals staggered down the rocks, spattering blood everywhere.
“Cover yourself, you old fool!” Master Barsonage cried in desperation.
He himself was set to protect the opening through which he watched the valley. The space behind the mirror, the space through which he and his companions had entered the room, was Master Harpool’s responsibility. Harpool turned toward it with an old man’s fumbling slowness, a teary husband’s confusion.
As if from nowhere, a brawny Cadwal appeared. He wore a helmet spiked like a less assertive version of the High King’s, a brass breastplate rubbed to resemble gold; the longsword in his hand looked heavy enough to behead cattle. “Here!” he roared when he saw the Masters. “Found ’em!”
So quickly that Master Barsonage had no chance to do anything except flinch, the Cadwal drove his sword straight at Master Harpool’s glass.
Master Harpool may have been old and grieved, but he understood translation: he had been doing it for decades. Somehow, he seemed to put himself in the right frame of mind without transition, achieve the right kind of concentration as simply as striking a flint.
The sword passed into the glass.
Carried forward by his own momentum, the Cadwal stumbled into the Image and vanished—
—into the ballroom of Orison, where (the mediator devoutly hoped) Artagel was ready to receive such gifts.
Another Cadwal came after the first. He fell into the mirror with an arrow in his back; already dead.
Master Barsonage was too busy watching Harpool: he missed the rope as it uncoiled across the opening he was supposed to guard. But he heard a grunt of effort from the man on the rope, turned in time.
The swing of the man’s descent brought him within reach. The mediator hugged his mirror, muttered his concentration ritual as well as he could. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think while the Cadwal released one hand from the rope, pulled out a knife. He didn’t have the right kind of nerves to face danger. For one stupid, necessary instant, he shut his eyes.
Another present for Artagel.
There he nearly made a mistake, nearly let his glass close. Luckily, the sudden pressure on the rope warned him. Artagel must have been ready, must have gotten the message Master Harpool sent. Someone in the ballroom had a grip on the rope, was hauling on it fiercely.
If Master Barsonage had stopped his translation, the rope would only have been cut. Or the mirror would have broken. But he kept the glass open—
Abruptly, the three men anchoring the rope in the rocks above were dragged off their perch. They fell screaming past the mediator’s vantage.
More arrows: more shouts. From somewhere out of sight came the clash of swords.
Then silence.
The attack was over. Temporarily. Some of the Cadwals were probably hidden among the rocks, marking the mirror’s position while they waited for reinforcements; others must have gone back to report. Barsonage risked a look out over the young Master’s shoulder and saw men still fighting around the opposite end of the chasm. The forces of Orison and Alend, however, seemed to be winning.
“Harpool,” Master Barsonage panted, “I told you to cover yourself. You stood beside your mirror begging them to cut you down.”
Master Harpool didn’t say anything. He had his eyes closed. Maybe he was taking a nap. More likely he didn’t want to witness his own peril.
From the distance of the pennon, of course, Terisa and Geraden, Elega and King Joyse and Prince Kragen couldn’t see the details; but they saw the threat to the mirrors approach, saw it beaten back. Terisa let out a sigh to ease her cramped lungs. “How long can they keep that up?”
“A good question,” replied King Joyse calmly. “All translation is arduous. The Masters are already weary. And as his frustration mounts, High King Festten will redouble his attacks.
“As a defense, however, that chasm has already exhausted most of its usefulness. Its chief purpose now is to protect the Masters themselves – and to give us a period of time during which we can try to counter the catapults. When we must, we will muster a charge of our own. The Masters will close the chasm – and while we ride to engage Cadwal outside the valley, they will retreat to prepare another unexpected crevice somewhere else.
“At the moment, we are as effectively besieged as we ever were in Orison. If the High King trusted to that and held back, we would eventually be defeated. But he will not. He wants our blood – and he wants it today. That is another of his weaknesses.
“As for the catapults—”
One party of Prince Kragen’s assault on the walls brought back a Master with an arrow in his shoulder. They hadn’t been able to find any way upward which wasn’t exposed to the defenders of their target; and after the Master with them was hit, they were forced to retreat. So there were still seven engines.
All seven of them were already cocked.
Another series of hard wooden thuds, like the sound of bones being broken: another hail of scattershot. This stone deluge did less harm than the last because the soldiers and guards were more careful. Nevertheless Terisa thought she saw as many as a hundred men go down.
At once, physicians ran with horses and litters to do what they could for the wounded. The procession of injuries toward Esmerel and the infirmary seemed to go on continuously. The dead were left where they lay.
If this onslaught continued, the army would be forced to protect itself by leaving the center of the valley, moving closer to the walls – too close for the catapults to hit. And then the King’s men would be vulnerable to rockfalls, avalanches—
“The next move will be Eremis’,” Elega said softly to Terisa and Geraden. “We have introduced Imagery to the conflict. He will attempt to counter it.”
“How?” asked Geraden anxiously.
The lady looked at him, a faint smile on her lips. Sunlight cost her much of her beauty, but couldn’t weaken the color of her eyes. “You know him better than I do. You understand Imagery better. What can he do?”
“I don’t know,” Geraden mutt
ered. “I’m willing to bet he has a mirror he can see us in. In fact, if I were him – and if Gilbur and Vagel are as good as they think – I’d have two. One to watch with, one to use. But he has to be careful. Terisa has already shattered one glass for him. If he gives her the chance, she can do it again.”
Terisa had no idea whether or not this were true. It seemed irrelevant.
The gaze King Joyse sent toward her and Geraden was curiously bland, like a mask.
The air was warmer than it had been for several days, but it didn’t warm her. Clenching herself inside her robe, she shivered and ached. No matter how often she turned to Geraden, no matter how she clung to him, he couldn’t help her. Helplessness and watching made her frantic. He had the strongest feeling they were in the wrong place. But what choice did they have? Where else could they be?
For some reason, the Cadwals were massing again outside the valley. The sackbut bleated raucously: the war drums commenced their labor: horsemen cleared the way. Foot soldiers drew forward, as if High King Festten had decided to drive them into the chasm for their failures.
King Joyse studied them hard, his blue eyes straining to pierce their intentions. Abruptly, he put out a hand to the Prince. “Reinforcements,” he snapped. “Where in all this rout is Norge? The Masters must be reinforced.”
Prince Kragen had apparently passed the point where he needed – or even expected – explanations from the King. Wheeling away, he headed for his horse, shouting to his captains as he ran.
When Terisa first heard the distant, throaty rumble, as if the earth were moving, she had no idea what was about to happen.
When the Tor woke up – gasping, as he always did these days, at the great, hot pain in his side – the rumble hadn’t started yet. Outside his tent, the valley was strangely quiet. That disconcerted him: he was expecting combat. The relative silence sounded like an omen of disaster, an indication that bloodshed and death had lost their meaning.
Opening his eyes, he saw from the hue of the canvas overhead that day had dawned. He was alone in the tent, except for Ribuld, who dozed against the tentpole with his head nodding on his knees. An experienced veteran, Ribuld could probably sleep on a battlefield, if he were left alone.
Silence outside: only a few shouts from time to time; the mortal sound of catapult arms against their stops. And a few daring or oblivious birds, following their calls among the rocks. The Tor knew all the birds of his Care. He would be able to identify each call, if he listened closely enough. For the sake of his sons, who had grown up in more peaceful times than he had, he had become avid at birding.
But there should have been a battle going on. Strange—
The Congery. Of course. Master Barsonage had promised to translate that crevice somewhere.
Must be quite a sight – clefts in the ground out of nowhere; the fate of Mordant depending on Imagery as well as swords.
“Ribuld,” said the old lord, “help me up.”
Not loud enough: Ribuld didn’t move.
“Ribuld, help me up. I want to see what is happening.”
I want to strike a blow for my son and my Care and my King in this war.
Ribuld jerked up his head, blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Alert almost at once, he rose and came to the cot where the Tor sprawled. “My lord,” he murmured, “the King says you’ve got to rest. He commands you to rest.”
Speaking softly around his pain, the Tor replied, “Ribuld, you know me. Did you believe I would obey such a command?”
The guard shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I’m supposed to make sure you do.”
The Tor managed a thin chuckle. “Then let him execute us both when this war is done. We will share the block with Master Eremis for our terrible crimes. Help me up.”
Slowly, a grin tightened Ribuld’s scar. “As you say, my lord. Disobeying the King is always a terrible crime. Anybody fool enough to do that deserves what he gets.”
Bracing himself on the sides of the cot, Ribuld helped the lord roll into a sitting position.
Agony threatened to burst the Tor’s side. He took a moment to absorb the pain; then, hoping he didn’t look as pale as he felt, he said, “Some wine first, I think. After that, mail and my sword.”
May it please the stars that I am able to strike one blow for my son and my Care and my King.
Ribuld produced a flagon from somewhere. The sound of catapults came again, followed by cries and curses, yells for physicians. May it please the stars—Some time passed before the Tor realized that he was staring into the flagon without drinking.
Gritting his courage, he swallowed all the wine. Before he could lapse into another stupor, he motioned for his undershirt and mail.
With gruff care, Ribuld helped him to his feet, helped him into his leathers and mail and cloak, helped him belt his ponderous and unusable sword around his girth below the swelling in his side. Several times, the old lord feared that he would lose consciousness and fall; but each time Ribuld supported him until his weakness went away, then continued dressing him as if nothing had happened.
“If I had a daughter,” the Tor murmured, “who obeyed me better than the lady Elega obeys her father, I would order her to marry you, Ribuld.”
Ribuld laughed shortly. “Be serious, my lord. What would a boozing old wencher like me do with a lord’s daughter?”
“Squander her inheritance, of course,” retorted the Tor. “That would be the whole point of marrying her to you. To give you that opportunity.”
This time, Ribuld’s laugh was longer; it sounded happier.
“Now,” grunted the lord when Ribuld was done with his belt, “let us go out and have a look at the field of valor.”
He managed two steps toward the tentflaps before his knees failed.
“My lord,” Ribuld murmured repeatedly, “my lord,” while the Tor’s head filled up with black water and he lost his vision in the dark, “give this up. You need rest. The King told you to rest. You’ll kill yourself.”
Precisely what I have in mind, friend Ribuld.
“Nonsense.” Somehow, the Tor found his voice and used it to lift his mind above the water. “I only want to watch King Joyse justify the trust we have placed in him. I want to watch him bring High King Festten and Master Eremis to the ruin they deserve.
“A horse to sit on. So I can see better. Nothing more.”
Ribuld’s eyes were red, and his face seemed congested in some way, as if he understood – and couldn’t show it. “Yes, my lord,” he said through his teeth. “I’d like to watch that myself.”
Carefully, he helped the Tor upright again.
Together, they reached the tentflaps and went out into the shadowed morning.
From the tent, they could see most of the valley, including the slope where King Joyse had planted his pennon. That purple scrap looked especially frail in contrast to the bright sunlight beyond the valley, the massive strength of the ramparts, the active violence of the siege engines. Around the standard stood King Joyse and his daughter, Prince Kragen and Terisa and Geraden. They were all watching the foot of the valley, however, watching unmounted troops mass as if the Congery’s chasm could be defeated by swords and spears; they didn’t notice the Tor and Ribuld. And neither the Tor nor Ribuld called attention to themselves.
Ribuld moved the Tor a little to the side, a bit out of sight. Then the guard went looking for horses.
The Tor did his best to estimate the damage the catapults had done. As a younger man, he had fought his share of battles. He was accustomed to carnage. But King Joyse possessed a quality he himself had always lacked. Perhaps it was an instinct for risk. In his bones, he counted loss instead of gain. That, really, was why he had given Joyse only two hundred men, all those long years ago, when Joyse was hardly more than a boy, and Mordant was nothing more than a battlefield. Not cowardice. And certainly not deafness to Joyse’s bright, hopeful promises. No, he had simply given his future King as many men as he could bear to lose.
The
lord fell into reverie, thinking about loss. Friends of many years ago, valiant fighters, precious villagers and farmers and merchants who didn’t deserve to be slaughtered. The old Armigite, who hadn’t earned a foppish son. And now the Tor’s own firstborn. His tough, good comrade, the Perdon. The tormented Castellan, sick and honorable Lebbick. Too many, all of them: the cost was too high.
He shook his head. As if his pain were an anchor, a gift from the High King’s Monomach, he used it to steady himself so that he could watch what happened in the valley.
Why was the High King massing his men? An interesting question. Well, obviously he intended to attack something. Someone.
I need a mount.
The Tor looked around for Ribuld.
There, he was coming. He had two horses, his own roan and the Tor’s familiar bay. Now all the lord had to do was surmount his hurt one last time—
Distinctly, he heard King Joyse speak.
In that carrying voice which required obedience, the King snapped, “Reinforcements. Where in all this rout is Norge? The Masters must be reinforced.”
Frantic with pain, the Tor lunged at the bay and struggled into the saddle.
He could have fainted then; but he was desperate, and his desperation held the darkness back. He was already moving, already kicking the bay into a gallop, when the rumble began.
The sound was a distant, throaty growl, as if by translating their chasm the Masters had given the earth a mouth with which to utter its distress.
But this wasn’t the earth protesting, oh, no, the Tor saw that almost immediately as he goaded his horse faster, away from people who wanted to stop him; out of the center of the valley to the less occupied ground closer to the wall. This rumble had another meaning entirely.
As if someone had opened a window in the empty air, rock began to thunder downward. Across the gap between worlds, an avalanche rushed roaring into the chasm.