A Man Rides Through

  Without the strut, the engine wrenched itself apart.

  This time, both Geraden and Artagel cheered. Some of the men in the valley looked like they might be cheering.

  That helped; but she still couldn’t unknot her grief and joy. If she remained where she was, with Master Eremis like that in front of her, she might begin sobbing wildly.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  Artagel nodded at once and turned to support Nyle. But Geraden looked at the erect Imager, and at the cloak on the floor, as if he were embarrassed by pity.

  “Shouldn’t we cover him?”

  Terisa shook her head. “Leave him alone. He’s probably happy that way.”

  In surprise and relief, Geraden gave a shout of laughter.

  Artagel laughed, too, a loud, long hoot of mirth. Even Nyle managed a wan smile.

  Suddenly, the knot inside Terisa loosened, and she started laughing as well.

  Happy that way. Ready and capable and full of himself until he died. Giggling and chuckling, she and the Domne’s sons laughed all the way back to the Image-room.

  In the center of the damaged ring of mirrors, they found Adept Havelock. He sat on the bare stone as if he had appeared there by translation. His eyes were strangely focused, and his face wore lines of sorrow; he looked like a man who had lost an old friend.

  His arms held the arch-Imager.

  Vagel had what looked like a tree limb driven through his belly. He was covered with blood, obviously dead.

  Havelock was singing to him softly.

  “I understand,” the mad, old Imager crooned as if he were comforting a child. “I understand everything. Everything.”

  Terisa felt a renewed desire to weep, but it didn’t last long.

  The flat glass showed King Joyse surging through the press of Cadwals toward High King Festten. He wasn’t using his sword anymore: he didn’t seem to need it. His charge alone was enough to make the Cadwals give ground. They were being routed.

  The destruction of the last catapult had struck them like an announcement from the stronghold that Master Eremis and Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel were defeated. And the forces of Mordant and Alend gave the Cadwals no space or time in which to rally. The High King appeared to be screaming furiously, but he couldn’t make the wall of men around him hold.

  “He’s going to do it,” Artagel breathed happily. “He’s going to beat Festten.”

  “With Prince Kragen,” Terisa said for Nyle’s benefit, pointing out the alliance between Mordant and Alend. “They’re doing it together.”

  Nyle stared as if he couldn’t trust his eyes.

  For a moment, Terisa thought that someone should talk to him. There was a great deal he didn’t know, a number of things he needed to hear. But she still didn’t have the heart for explanations; not yet.

  “Can we go there?” she asked Geraden. “To the valley?”

  The only man she could think of who might have the power to do Nyle some real good was King Joyse.

  “We don’t know where it is from here,” Geraden replied thoughtfully. “And there have got to be guards around here somewhere. We’re bound to run into them, if we try to go on foot.” His smile came to him easily. “Of course, we’ve got plenty of mirrors.”

  Nyle looked apprehensive. In a tone of mock-boredom, Artagel said, “Don’t worry. There’s really nothing to this translation business, once you get used to it.”

  Terisa found herself laughing again. Geraden laughed as well, and Artagel chuckled.

  She feared that she wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if they didn’t go soon. The things she had endured and suffered in the past few days required some kind of outlet. But Geraden sobered when he looked at Adept Havelock. After a moment of uncertainty, he went to stand near the Adept.

  “Vagel is dead,” he said carefully. “You finally beat him. We’re going to join King Joyse. Will you come with us?”

  Havelock didn’t raise his head. Briefly, however, he stopped crooning. In a surprisingly lucid voice, he said, “You go ahead. I’ll stay here for a while. If things go badly at the last minute, I can use these mirrors to take care of Festten. That should guarantee Joyse’s victory.”

  Almost at once, he added, “Not that he needs me to guarantee anything for him.”

  Softly, he began singing again.

  Geraden shrugged. With a bemused expression on his face, he returned to Terisa, Artagel, and Nyle.

  He was becoming more familiar with his talent, more practiced. He needed only a few seconds to take one of the curved mirrors and shift it until its Image showed the hillside in the valley where King Joyse had set his pennon – the hillside where Myste and Elega, Master Barsonage and the Congery stood to watch the battle. When he was ready, he bowed sententiously to Terisa and his brothers, and gestured for one of them to go first.

  Activity was a kind of outlet. Promptly, Terisa moved to face the glass.

  Before she stepped into it, however, she met Geraden’s intent, glad gaze and said, “If you go wrong this time, you are really and truly going to owe me an apology.”

  While he was still laughing, she accepted the translation.

  As usual, she lost her footing when the quick, infinite passage was over. Ingloriously, she stumbled and fell to her knees in the slush of melting snow.

  Myste and Elega cried out when she appeared; but Master Barsonage reached her first. Choking on solicitude, astonishment, and hope until he was completely unable to speak, he helped her to her feet.

  She had time to see the fierce triumph on Elega’s features, the vindication and the dark loss in Myste’s eyes. Then Nyle and Artagel appeared beside her and had to be helped out of the muck.

  At once, Artagel whipped out Gart’s sword and held it high. “The blade of the High King’s Monomach!” he shouted.

  The guards around the pennon started cheering.

  To the accompaniment of hoarse cries, fervent applause, Geraden arrived.

  He fell flat on his face as if the slush were a pig wallow. This time, however, the lady Elega helped him regain his feet; she beamed at him. At last, she had learned how to ignore his minor mishaps.

  For some reason, the chagrin in his smile seemed wonderful to Terisa. It seemed to suggest that he had come through his experiences with a whole heart.

  Then other cheers echoed up from the valley foot. King Joyse had reached the High King; he had knocked Festten’s sword aside, pulled the Cadwal tyrant off his mount.

  Frantically, the High King’s men began to surrender as fast as they could.

  They had good cause: outside the valley, their reinforcements were scattering. Maybe the destruction of the last catapult had taken the resolve out of them. Or maybe Havelock had performed some other translation to frighten them. Whatever the explanation, thousands of men stopped trying to batter their way into the valley and headed instead for the maze of the hills.

  Without reinforcements, the Cadwal position became hopeless. High King Festten’s men gave up to save their lives.

  King Joyse had won what should have been an impossible victory.

  Cheering spread up the valley, resounded from the ramparts into the clean sky. Abruptly, Master Barsonage let out an uncharacteristic yell, and the Imagers began congratulating each other delightedly. Elega’s eyes spilled happy tears; Artagel flourished Gart’s sword; Geraden hugged Terisa until she thought her ribs might crack. For a moment, the only unhappy people on the hillside were Myste, who had lost Darsint, and Nyle, who had helped bring King Joyse to the brink of defeat.

  Almost at once, however, an unexpected silence followed the shouting up from the foot of the valley. Terisa and Geraden craned their necks without letting go of each other; for a moment, their view was blocked by the press of men. Fortuitously, a gap appeared just in time to let them see the slug-beast open its maw as if it had come back to life.

  Struggling mightily, the champion forced open the monster’s evil teeth and staggered between them.

/>   Immediately, he wrenched off his helmet and flung it aside. For a while, he stood gasping as if he had come close to suffocation. Then he pressed several studs down the sides of his armor, and all the metal folded away and fell to the ground, leaving him dressed in what may have been his underwear.

  “God-rotting suit,” he panted harshly. “Ox-supply gave out. Like everything else.”

  “Do you mean,” Artagel asked in amazement, “he actually let that thing eat him?”

  Several of the guards nodded.

  The cheering started again, louder this time.

  Myste’s face seemed to flare with joy. She left the hillside at a run, racing to rejoin Darsint.

  Gradually, the tumult gave way to a new kind of order. The surrendering Cadwals were organized and guarded, marched aside. High King Festten was put on another horse with his hands tied behind him. He had lost his golden helmet; without it, he appeared much smaller. Between King Joyse and Prince Kragen, with the Termigan beside them, he was brought up the valley to the hillside and the King’s pennon.

  Terisa had never seen King Joyse seem more like a man who deserved horns. He wasn’t alone in his triumph, however. Prince Kragen had come through his personal doubts and risks to a look of achievement nearly as sharp-edged as the King’s. And the Termigan positively glowered with satisfaction. In fact, the battle and its outcome had done him so much good that he couldn’t contain himself. As soon as he and his companions reached the hillside, he ignored protocol and common sense by surging ahead of King Joyse and Prince Kragen.

  He brought his charger directly to Terisa and Geraden, did a curvet that nearly knocked them down; then he settled his mount. “You gave me good advice,” he said loudly, so that everyone could hear the lord of Termigan approach as close as he was able to an apology. “I should have listened sooner.”

  Geraden laughed again. “You listened soon enough, my lord Termigan.”

  The lord’s flinty features almost grinned as he withdrew to let King Joyse and Prince Kragen speak.

  The Prince didn’t seem particularly interested in speaking. He had already jumped off his horse to embrace Elega; he was too busy hugging her to think about anything else for a while.

  From horseback, regally, King Joyse faced Terisa and Geraden, Artagel and Nyle.

  “You have a story,” he said, “which I am eager to hear. For the moment, however, tell me only the result. What have you accomplished?”

  “My lord King,” replied Artagel at once, “the High King’s Monomach is dead.”

  “And Master Gilbur is dead,” Geraden said.

  A moment later, he added, “Adept Havelock has killed the arch-Imager Vagel.”

  Terisa cleared her throat. She wanted to say, What about Nyle? Can’t you see what happened to him? He needs help.

  But the King’s blue gaze held her; the memory of horns held her. As well as she could, she said, “Master Eremis looked at his own Image in a flat mirror. I don’t think he’s going to bother you anymore.”

  King Joyse’s smile was as bright and cleansing as the warm sunlight and the ineffable sky.

  When he looked at Nyle, however, his smile went away.

  He dismounted; he strode toward Nyle sternly, like a sovereign with a traitor to punish.

  Then he stopped.

  Instead of speaking harshly, he murmured, “Nyle, forgive me.”

  Nyle’s face twisted helplessly. “Forgive—? My lord King, I betrayed you.”

  “Yes!” King Joyse retorted at once. “You betrayed me – as my daughter Elega betrayed me – as the Congery betrayed me. And because I was betrayed this victory became possible. Everything you did against me, you did out of love and honor. And for that reason everything you did played its part in the saving of my realm. You betrayed me to do Mordant good, Nyle. I failed you. I failed to see your importance, your worth, when my esteem would have been to your benefit.

  “I could not have protected you from hurt. But I could have helped you place a higher value on yourself.”

  Nyle tried to answer; there may have been a number of things he wanted to say. But he couldn’t control his weeping.

  Both Artagel and Geraden put their arms around him.

  King Joyse turned away to address everyone within earshot.

  “Nyle has suffered,” he announced in tone both grim and elated, sorry and glad. “Do you hear me? He is not a traitor. He has suffered as the Perdon suffered, and as the Tor suffered, and Castellan Lebbick, because his love is strong and he did not understand.”

  As he spoke, his voice carried farther and farther, until it reached the walls and the armies, the men of Mordant and Alend and Cadwal throughout the valley.

  “A great many good men have suffered and died, among them Master Quillon, who served my purposes when I could risk them with no one else, and Castellan Norge, who served Orison and Mordant and all of you with his life. And with their pain they have purchased a victory which we could not have gained otherwise.

  “Remember that they were hurt for us! Remember that we have freedom and victory and life because of them!

  “And because all of you fought like heroes!

  “Now the world is ours, and we must heal it. From this day, let us make our world a place of peace.”

  When he finished, the cheering went on for a long time.

  After the wounded had been cared for as well as the circumstances allowed, and the men of the three armies had been fed by supplies translated from Orison, King Joyse ordered all of High King Festten’s captains, in addition to his own and Prince Kragen’s, to join him while he heard the tales Terisa and Geraden, Artagel and Nyle had to tell. He asked the Prince and Elega, Myste and Darsint to describe what they had done. He told his own story again, so that his actions would be as widely understood as possible. Then he returned the Cadwal captains to their men.

  He sent several hundred of his guards to find and subdue Master Eremis’ stronghold. And he sent other riders to go among the hills, announcing to any hidden or belligerent Cadwals the same amnesty he offered the men who had surrendered: return to their homes or not, join him or not, as they chose, without fear of being hunted down or coerced. King Joyse feared no one and intended to shed no more blood.

  Then the Congery began producing hogsheads of ale and casks of wine, and everyone who remained in the valley of Esmerel was invited to the King’s celebration.

  That night in the Care of Tor there was no more fighting.

  EPILOGUE: CROWNING THE PIECES

  Some time later, as spring turned toward summer, Terisa and Geraden rode out of Orison to the stand of trees among the hills where they had first been attacked by callat – where the horsemen of her dream had first appeared to her in the wrong guise, just as they had later come to her in the wrong place, doing the wrong things.

  The late cold and snow which had hampered the march to Esmerel had done considerable damage to fruit trees and flowers and early vegetables across the Demesne and the Care of Tor; but there were no signs of chill-blight here. The trees were rich green and elegant, shading the long grass beneath them with easy sweetness; and through the grass wildflowers peeped like delicate and unexpected possibilities. A low breeze ruffled the foliage enough to make the trees murmur, keep the air cool; not enough to disturb the tranquility of the place.

  Terisa had brought Geraden there because she wanted to hear horns again. She had a decision to make, and she thought that the keen music which had once lifted her out of herself in a dream, opening her heart to him and King Joyse and Mordant, would help her.

  That dream had been a strange kind of augury, at once accurate and misleading: false on both occasions when it had been fulfilled, and somehow true in conflation, as if each occasion had contributed a piece of the truth.

  Nevertheless she would have liked to have another dream to go by, an Image reflected in a mirror made of the pure sand of dreams. She needed a sense of direction, of purpose; a hint to guide her.

  She had to
decide whether to stay where she was. Or to return to her former life.

  Geraden was being studiously, almost grimly noncommittal. She would have liked to hear him ask her to stay: that, too, might have helped. But he was determined to respect her wishes, bring no pressure to bear on her decision. Oh, he wanted her to stay; she knew that. But he also wanted her to be happy. He had always been that way, caught up in what she needed or wanted, instinctively willing to let her lead him. And the stronger he became, the more confidence he gained, the less he demanded for himself.

  Her happiness wasn’t something he could achieve by asking her to subordinate her desires to his own.

  Unfortunately, his determination to let her reach her own decision only seemed to make the decision itself more difficult.

  She wanted to hear horns.

  The woods held a gentle music of their own, but it wasn’t the call which thrilled her spirit, the potent blend of melody and hunting. The wildflowers bobbed their heads in the light breeze, nodding to her as if they understood, but revealing nothing. She thought of her former life as a struggle between Reverend Thatcher and her father – a battle to help the ruined and destitute of the world against rapacity and unconcern, against men who inflicted misery for their own benefit simply because they were able to do so. And the more strength Reverend Thatcher showed, the more she wanted to help him.

  There were things she could do in her old world.

  Mordant, on the other hand, was at peace. And likely to remain so for a long time.

  She loved it anyway. She didn’t want to give it up.

  Geraden, help me.

  Even though she knew he didn’t want to answer, she asked, “What should I do?”

  He had reached a point where he apparently found it impossible to meet her gaze. Looking away through the trees as if he were searching for the place where the callat had first shown themselves – a place hard to recognize in a scene full of leaves and grass and wildflowers – he murmured, “I get the impression Darsint is content to stay.”