A Man Rides Through

FORTY: THE LORD OF LAST RESORT

Norge ordered everyone to stay in the hall; but he was already too late. Most of King Joyse’s counselors had scattered, fled like their lord. And the Imagers were no better. Even Master Barsonage, who might in a reasonable world have been expected to set a good example – even the mediator of the Congery was gone. Apparently, he had taken Geraden with him. The only Master left was the man Eremis had killed; the creature which had actually slain him was still chewing on his head, oblivious to everything except food.

“Perfect,” Norge muttered generally. This was as close as he ever came to despair. All those Imagers and old men who could hardly hold their water for fear, already loose in Orison; already spreading panic. They would tell their friends, their wives, their children, their servants; some of them would tell total strangers. And when the story got out – when people heard that King Joyse was gone, and Lebbick was dead, and the “hero of Orison,” Eremis, was in league with Cadwal—Norge sighed to think about it. Orison was going to come apart at the joints.

The siege was going to succeed after all.

Doing what he could, he sent one of the captains to take command of the gates, control the courtyard; make sure nobody did anything wild. That was the crucial place, the point at which panic could spill outward – the point at which Alend could be made aware that Orison was in chaos.

He ordered two more men to dispatch Eremis’ vicious fruitbat. He detailed guards to locate the counselors and the Masters, so that decisions could be made. For no particular reason except thoroughness, he organized a search for the King. He made sure that Prince Kragen and Artagel were still alive.

Then he went to help the Tor get up.

The old lord was on his hands and knees, staring at Castellan Lebbick’s face.

The Tor was in terrible pain. No, that wasn’t true: he was going to be in terrible pain; he knew he was going to be in terrible pain as soon as the shock of Gart’s kick faded a bit. At the moment, however, he was still stunned, protected from agony by surprise and wine.

He wanted to raise his head, but the effort was too much for him. He couldn’t do anything except stare at Lebbick’s ruined and happy face.

People looked like that, he thought, when their kings betrayed them. When they let something as simple and fallible as an ordinary human monarch cut the strings which held their lives together, the cords of purpose. When they drank too much—And then were lucky enough to die without having to watch everything else come apart around them.

It would be better to die. Better to think Gart’s boot had torn something vital inside him and surrender to excruciation in advance. Better to let wine and loss carry him away. The alternatives—

The alternatives were distinctly unpleasant.

Unfortunately, the expression on Lebbick’s face wouldn’t let him go. Lebbick’s blood wouldn’t let him go. The first twinge of pain rumbled through his guts, and he nearly groaned aloud, Oh, Castellan. Mordant and Orison and you, he betrayed us all, abandoned us all – and you fought for him to the end. What did he ever do to deserve such service?

As soon as the Tor asked the question, however, he found that he knew the answer. Despite his tears, he could see it in Lebbick’s twisted face, his wounds and blood. What King Joyse had done was to create something larger than any one man, something which deserved loyalty and service no matter how fallible and even treacherous the King himself proved to be.

Mordant. A buffer between the constant, bloody warring of Cadwal and Alend.

The Congery. An end to the ravages of Imagery when mirrors were used for nothing but power.

Pain pushed against the back of the Tor’s throat, and his stomach knotted; but he clung to the cold stone with his hands and knees, kept his balance. When that captain, what was his name? Norge, when Norge came to him and tried to help him erect, he managed somehow to knot his fat fist in the captain’s mail and pull him down, so that Norge had to meet him face-to-face.

“The King—” he gasped. His voice was a sick whisper, lost in the hurt clench of his abdomen.

“Gone, my lord Tor. I’ve sent men to look for him, but I don’t expect any results.”

“Why not?”

Norge shrugged. “Men who vanish like that usually don’t want to be found.”

His immunity to distress was remarkable. Peering into the captain’s face, the Tor began to remember him better. It was possible that Castellan Lebbick had promoted Norge simply because Norge was the only man under him who never flinched.

A man like that was hard to talk to. What did he care about? What were his convictions, his commitments?

“Help me up.” The Tor made no effort to move. The pain squeezed his voice to a husk. “I will take his place.”

The Tor wasn’t trying to stand, and Norge didn’t try to lift him. Instead, the captain asked calmly, “You, my lord?”

“Me.” For all the strength the Tor could muster, he might as well have been whispering deliberately. Maybe Gart really had ruptured something vital. “Who else? I am the King’s oldest friend. Apart from Adept Havelock – and you will not offer him the rule of Orison and Mordant.”

No question about it: the hurt in his bowels was going to be stupendous. Already it seemed to cut off his supply of air. Sweat or tears ran from him as if he were a sodden towel being twisted. There were too many candles glaring in his eyes. Yet he kept his grip on the captain.

“And I am the only lord here. King Joyse suffered me to remain when the others rode away. I have acted as his chancellor and advisor. Something must be done about the panic. Power must be assumed by someone who will be believed. Who else would you have?

“Who else is there?”

Norge blinked at this question as if he didn’t think it was worth answering.

“I have no hereditary claim, no official standing.” The Tor wanted to wail or weep, but he couldn’t get that much voice past the pain. “But if you support me in this, Castellan Lebbick’s second, a man with the King’s guard behind him—” A gasp came up from his kneecaps, nearly blinding him. “If you support me, I will be accepted.”

“My lord Tor,” the captain remarked dispassionately, “even if I support you, you’ll scarcely be able to stand.” After a moment, he added, “If I can say so without offense, my lord, you aren’t the king I would have chosen.”

“A fat old man sodden with wine and unable to stand.” It was embarrassing to be in tears at a time like this, but the Tor’s hurt had to have some outlet. “I understand. Do you?”

“My lord” – Norge’s calm was maddening, really – “you need a physician. Let people in better condition worry about Orison.”

“Fool,” the lord moaned. “You do not understand.” Pulling on Norge’s mail, heaving against the pain, he got one leg under him; that enabled him to shift his other hand from the floor to Norge’s shoulder. He felt like he had Eremis’ fruitbat gnawing on his guts. Nevertheless he panted through his tears and sweat, “Someone must take command. Orison must be led. And I am here. Prince Kragen is here. For the first time, we know our enemies. We must not miss this opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” Norge asked noncommittally.

Oh, for the strength to scream! The Tor’s stomach and throat seemed to be filling up with blood. “An alliance with Alend,” he croaked out. “Against Cadwal. A chance to end this siege and fight.”

The captain said nothing; his reaction was unreadable.

“Norge.” Peering through a blur of pain, the lord leaned closer to whisper straight into the captain’s face. “If I can make an alliance with Prince Kragen, will you support me?”

Norge spent an astonishing amount of time lost in thought. He took forever to arrive at a decision. Or maybe he just seemed to take forever.

Then he said, “All right, my lord Tor,” as if he had never hesitated in his life.

The Tor groaned thickly – relief and anguish. A desire to lie down and hug his belly nearly overwhelmed him. Somehow, however, he forced himself to ask, “How is the Prince?”

Norge glanced away, then answered, “Rousing.”

Hoarse with stress, the Tor breathed, “Reports. I need reports. I must know what is happening.”

Ponderously, as if Norge weren’t carrying most of his weight, the old lord struggled to his feet.

For a moment, pain rose like vomit into his mouth. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; if Norge hadn’t held him, he would have fallen. But that was intolerable. So much weakness was intolerable. If he let himself fail now, Castellan Lebbick would probably get up from the dead and go do his job for him.

With a gasp that went through him like a blade, he pulled air into his chest.

Almost at once, his vision cleared.

Prince Kragen was rousing, no question about it. Artagel still sprawled on the floor as if Master Gilbur had broken his neck; but the Prince was crawling stupidly toward his sword.

A guard who didn’t know any better and probably hated Alends stepped forward to kick the sword out of Kragen’s reach.

“Stop,” coughed the Tor.

Norge ordered the guard to stop.

Still barely conscious, Prince Kragen got a hand on his sword and at once began climbing to his feet.

Each movement helped bring him back to himself; the weight of his weapon seemed to make him stronger. By degrees, he came upright, planted his legs, clenched both fists on the hilt of his longsword. His eyes lost their glazed dullness and began to smolder with a murderous rage.

Instinctively, he sank into a fighter’s crouch. The tip of his blade searched for the nearest enemy. He was going to swing—The Tor nearly wept at the thought that Prince Kragen might do something which would force the guards to kill him.

But the Prince didn’t swing. Slowly, he turned toward the doors; he saw that men blocked his way. “Dastards!” he spat as he wheeled back.

“Who struck me?” he demanded softly. “Where is King Joyse?”

“My lord Prince.” Trembling, the Tor released one of his hands from Norge, then the other. Alone, he took two tottering steps toward Prince Kragen, as if he were presenting his belly to the Prince’s blade. Fire seemed to run like water out of his guts and down the nerves of his legs; nevertheless he kept his head up. “Forgive my weakness. I am unwell.

“You were struck by Artagel.” He nodded toward Artagel’s supine form. “You see the outcome.

“King Joyse is gone. He disappeared shortly after you fell – when Gart attacked.”

“Gart?” Prince Kragen’s eyes widened; his rage receded slightly. His mind was beginning to function. He shifted his grip on his sword. “The High King’s Monomach was here?”

The Tor nodded, conserving his strength.

At once, Prince Kragen scanned the hall, plainly searching for confirmation. He noticed the archers and pikemen dead on the balcony, the slain Apts; he absorbed the absence of the King’s counselors, the absence of the Masters. He saw Castellan Lebbick stretched out behind the Tor, and his mouth twisted under his moustache as if he were suddenly sick.

“My lord Tor,” he said in a bitter snarl, “where are my companions, Geraden and the lady Terisa? They also were protected under a flag of truce.”

Still whispering because he didn’t have any choice, the old lord replied, “Gart had allies. Master Eremis. Master Gilbur.” He saw from Prince Kragen’s face that the Prince wasn’t particularly surprised by the names he mentioned.

“They took the lady Terisa, my lord Prince,” Norge put in casually. “As for Geraden, he went with Master Barsonage. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the mediator carried him off.”

Took the lady Terisa. The Tor blinked stupidly. He hadn’t seen her go, hadn’t known—But he couldn’t afford to think about that now. He had to deal with Kragen.

“So you see,” he said as well as he could, “we have nowhere else to turn for answers. My lord Prince, I think you should tell us the things you came to tell King Joyse.”

“Why?” Prince Kragen’s question cut the air. “Your King accused me of an atrocity. Although I was protected under a flag of truce, I was struck down before I could defend myself.” He bit into the words to control his passion. “Apparently, it is amazing that I am still alive. Even your King’s audiences are not safe. And now he has ‘disappeared.’

“Why should I say one word to you, my lord Tor?”

The Tor had to suppress a yearning for sleep. “Because King Joyse has disappeared, my lord Prince.” The damage to his stomach dragged at him. If he were horizontal, it might hurt less. And if he were asleep, it might stop hurting entirely.

On the other hand, Orison had been kicked in the gut as well. He was needed. He had to do whatever he was capable of doing.

“He is gone. And the Castellan is dead. He died saving my life when Gart was ready to kill me. There is no power left in Orison.

“None except Captain Norge, Lebbick’s second. And Master Barsonage, the mediator of the Congery. And me.

“Master Barsonage is not present, but I will speak for him. If you deal openly with us, we are prepared to offer you an alliance. Orison’s strength, and the Congery’s, against Cadwal.”

That brought Prince Kragen’s fury up short. He stared for a moment; his mouth hung open. Then, in a tone of fierce care, he asked, “Do I understand you, my lord Tor? Have you just proclaimed yourself King of Mordant? Have you murdered Joyse? Have you and Norge been plotting revolt?”

“Of course not,” the Tor groaned. “I claim only the position of a chancellor.” Really, this was too much. How could he possibly be expected to stand here and argue when he was probably bleeding to death inside? “If I were a younger man, I would teach you to regret that accusation.” If Lebbick hadn’t saved his life, he would have given up the whole business and let himself collapse. “The King is only gone, not deposed. Not murdered. In his absence – and in his name – and with Captain Norge’s support,” he added, hoping that Norge wouldn’t contradict him, “I will make decisions.

“We are prepared to offer you an alliance,” he repeated. “If you will deal openly with us.”

Prince Kragen continued to hesitate, caught – the Tor supposed – between suspicion, curiosity, need. And he probably didn’t trust the wine-soaked old lord in front of him. Who would? A guard came into the hall and crossed toward Norge, but the Tor ignored him. In addition, Artagel began to fumble toward consciousness. The Tor ignored that as well. He concentrated on Prince Kragen’s silence.

“Come, my lord Prince,” he wheezed. “I am not well. I will not be on my feet long. You have said that you desire an alliance. And your desire is demonstrably sincere. With the rupture” – poor choice of words – “of Orison’s gates nearly accomplished, you desisted when Terisa and Geraden came into your hands. But you did not keep them and their knowledge for yourself. You brought them here, risking them and your own person for the sake of what you hoped to gain.

“The blow which struck you down under a flag of truce was a mistake. Artagel will admit as much.” The Tor saw no reason to refrain from extravagant promises. “Will you sacrifice your own needs and desires merely to punish us for a mistake?

“My lord Prince, tell us the things you came to say to King Joyse.”

Artagel levered himself off the floor, lurched to his feet; one hand clasped the back of his neck, trying too late to protect it from Gilbur’s attack. When he saw Prince Kragen facing him, sword poised, he took a step backward and looked around urgently, searching to comprehend what had happened.

“A report, my lord Tor,” Norge announced tranquilly. “You asked for reports.

“There’s panic in Orison, and it’s spreading, but we’ve been able to keep it out of the courtyard – away from the gates. The Prince’s honor guard is waiting as patiently as possible. No sign of King Joyse. Geraden is definitely with Master Barsonage. The mediator’s quarters.

“Two of the duty guards say they saw Adept Havelock’s brown cloud lift off the King’s tower.” Nonchalantly, Norge avoided Prince Kragen’s sharp gaze. “If they’re right, it didn’t attack the encampment. It just floated out of sight.”

The Tor suffered this interruption as well as he could, but he hardly heard what Norge was saying. At the moment, all he really wanted in life was the ability to cry out; scream his pain at the ceiling. And not just the pain of his brutalized abdomen. He had other hurts as well. Lebbick’s death. King Joyse’s abandonment, when he, the Tor, had staked his heart on the belief that Joyse still deserved trust. And the humiliation of being distrusted because he had drunk too much wine.

His eyes ran again. Stupid, stupid. Through the blur, he croaked, “Artagel.”

“Is this certain?” Prince Kragen snapped at Norge. “The report is to be trusted? The King’s Dastard has not attacked us?”

“Lebbick?” Artagel demanded like a man who still wasn’t entirely conscious. “Lebbick?”

“You struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. That was a mistake. Tell him you know it was a mistake.”

Both Prince Kragen and Norge stared at the Tor as if the old lord had lost his mind.

“Lebbick!” Artagel cried through a clenched throat. “What have they done to you?”

The Tor tried again. “Artagel.”

“Terisa? Geraden?” Artagel jerked his head from side to side, scanning the hall, the guards, the bodies. “Where are they?” A flush of blood and pain filled his face. “Did Gart get them? Somebody give me a sword! Where are they?”

“Artagel!” Norge put an inflection of command into his easy tone. “Eremis and Gart took the lady. Geraden is all right. Pay attention. The Tor gave you an order.”

“Gave me a what?” Artagel rasped as if he were about to begin howling. But then, abruptly, he froze; his eyes widened. Almost matching Norge’s casualness, he asked, “Where is King Joyse?”

“That,” said Prince Kragen in heavy sarcasm, “is a question we would all like answered.”

Slowly, Artagel’s jaw dropped.

The Tor made one more effort. “Artagel, you struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. I want you to apologize.”

Then, deliberately, the old lord closed his eyes and held his breath.

He didn’t look or breathe again until he heard Artagel say, “My lord Prince, I was wrong.”

Artagel was smiling like a whetted axe. His voice held an edge he might have used against Gart. And yet—

And yet he did what the Tor needed.

“It’s inexcusable to violate a flag of truce. And you saved my life once – you and the Perdon. I just didn’t have time to think. I was afraid of what King Joyse might do. Everybody in Orison knows he’s been practicing his swordsmanship. The Castellan said he was probably going to challenge you to a duel. I thought he was crazy enough to try it.”

Prince Kragen couldn’t hide his surprise at this information, but the Tor clung to his pain and let everything else pass over his head. Unexpectedly, his spirits lifted a bit. There was good reason why everybody in Orison liked Artagel.

“I’ve seen you fight,” Artagel concluded. “King Joyse didn’t stand a chance. I was just trying to save him.”

Artagel had the Prince’s attention now. Kragen thought intently for a moment, then said, “Artagel, you have the reputation of a fighter. You understand warfare. What is your opinion? Who has the most to gain from an alliance, Orison or Alend?”

Without hesitation, Artagel answered, “You do, my lord Prince. We’ve got the Congery.”

The Tor couldn’t be sure of what he saw any longer. His eyes kept running, and the damage to his stomach seemed to throb up into his head; his brain felt like a balloon about to burst. Nevertheless he had the impression that the Prince was sagging, letting go of his fury.

“My lord Tor” – Prince Kragen’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of a veil of pressure – “Geraden and the lady Terisa approached me from the Care of Fayle, where they had witnessed Queen Madin’s abduction. But that was by no means their only news. Among a number of other things, they informed me of Master Eremis’ treachery.

“Simply for that – to warn King Joyse of his enemies – I might have been willing to risk myself here. But I have other information as well, knowledge which both confirms and worsens the things Geraden and the lady Terisa revealed.

“I know where High King Festten’s army is.”

The Tor felt himself about to fall. Really, somebody ought to teach Gart to treat old men with more respect. Nevertheless he was determined to do what he could.

“Norge, announce in Orison that I have taken command during the King’s absence. You are appointed Castellan. Make it heard. It is our only defense against panic. The people must believe that we still stand, regardless of treachery.”

Norge saluted equably, but the Tor ignored him. “My lord Prince,” he wheezed as if his wounds were going to kill him, “we must leave this hall before Master Eremis sees fit to attack again. Come with me to King Joyse’s rooms. We have much to discuss.

“I must discuss it sitting down.”

FORTY-ONE: THE USES OF TALENT

When Geraden actually recovered consciousness, he was sitting in one of Master Barsonage’s handmade chairs.

He had opened his eyes before the mediator got him out of the hall of audiences; he had forced his legs under him, despite their awkward tendency to flop in all directions, and had carried most of his own weight during the walk from the hall to Master Barsonage’s private quarters; he had received the news of Terisa’s capture as if he understood it. Nevertheless he had no effective idea of where he was or what he was doing until Barsonage shut the door on Orison’s problems, positioned him in a sturdy armchair, and handed him a flagon of ale.

This room was familiar. And almost comfortable, like a restoration of old relationships, old truths. Master Barsonage was the mediator of the Congery. Geraden was an Apt – part servant, part student. That made everything simple. He had no worries, no responsibilities, unless the mediator assigned them to him. Unless the mediator explained them to him.

Simple.

Moving slowly because of the way his head throbbed, he accepted an automatic swallow from the flagon; then he drank deeply.

And then he remembered so hard that he nearly gasped.

Terisa. Eremis had Terisa.

“We’ve got to help her.”

Perhaps he wasn’t entirely conscious after all. He wasn’t aware that he had spoken aloud; he certainly didn’t realize that he had dropped his flagon on the floor. He only knew that he was trying to get out of the chair, trying with all his strength, and Master Barsonage held him back. Braced over him, the mediator’s bulk was implacable: he couldn’t shift it.

Terisa!

“Let me go. We’ve got to help her.”

“How?” demanded the Master bluntly. “How will you help her?”

“The mirror I made.” Geraden wanted to fret like a child, slap at Barsonage’s hands, wail; somehow, he restrained himself. “The one like Gilbur’s – the one I used to bring her here. I can shift it. I made it take me to Domne.”

“What will that accomplish?” The mediator continued to block Geraden’s escape from the chair. “Surely she was not taken to Domne?”

“No.” Geraden found it almost impossible not to yell or weep. “He took her to Esmerel. That’s where he’s been working all this time. I’ve seen Esmerel. I can make my mirror show that Image. I can use it to look for her. If I find her, I can translate her back.”

Let me go!

“No. Forgive me.” Suddenly, the mediator didn’t sound firm or implacable. He sounded grieved, almost wounded. “That will be impossible.”

Maybe Master Barsonage had stepped back. Or maybe Geraden felt authority rise in him like fire, giving him strength no one could oppose. He was no Apt, not anymore. Eremis’ enmity had transformed him.

Don’t you understand? He’s going to rape her. She’s an arch-Imager. He’s going to find some way to rape her talent.

Almost without effort, Geraden surged to his feet, pushed the older man back, cleared his own way to the door.

Yet the change in the mediator’s tone stopped him; it had more effect on him than a shout of rage or protest. Now that he could have left, he stayed where he was, caught.

“What do you mean? Why is it impossible?”

“Geraden, forgive me,” Barsonage repeated. His grief was plain on his face. “In this, I have failed you badly.”

Just for an instant, Geraden hung on the verge of an explosion: he was going to spit outrage, batter the mediator into talking sense, do something violent. Almost at once, however, he pulled himself back from the edge. “Apologize later,” he said between his teeth. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“The truth was obvious.” Master Barsonage wasn’t able to meet his hot gaze. “A child could have seen it. Of course you were able to work wonders with that glass. You brought the lady Terisa among us. You escaped into it, leaving no trace of yourself. We all knew of your talent at last—

“But I did not think of your talent. I thought only of your guilt – or your innocence. And so I missed the obvious implication of the obvious truth. There I failed you.”

Geraden beat his fists against his thighs to keep himself from shouting, Get to the point!

“I did not see,” the mediator explained sadly, “that your mirror required special protection, either to keep it from you if you were guilty, or to preserve it for you if you were innocent.” At last, he forced himself to look into Geraden’s face. “Some days ago, a riot took place. It appeared to be an outbreak against the Castellan – but by an astonishing series of coincidences its worst violence occurred in the laborium. During the tumult, several mirrors were shattered.

“The only one of importance was yours.”

Distinctly, as if the admission were an act of valor, Master Barsonage concluded, “I have cost you the means to help the lady Terisa. You have no glass with which to search for her.”

Geraden found himself staring at nothing. For some reason, the mediator no longer seemed present in the room. Which was nonsense, of course, he was right there, with his chasuble hanging down his vast chest, with his face twisted in difficult honesty. Nevertheless the older man was gone in some way, erased from Geraden’s attention.

A riot had taken place. In the laborium. Against Castellan Lebbick. And mirrors had been destroyed. The only whole, perfect mirror which he, Geraden, had ever made—

He would need at least a day to make another glass. Eremis had Terisa. At least a day.

A riot against Castellan Lebbick?

“You must understand how confused matters were to us in your absence.” Master Barsonage was speaking earnestly, trying to explain. Maybe he thought an explanation would help. “First you were accused of Nyle’s murder. Then Nyle’s body was mutilated by means of Imagery, and the physician Underwell disappeared. Then Master Quillon was killed. That was clear evidence of the lady Terisa’s guilt – evidence which demonstrated your own guilt by association. The Castellan himself witnessed her power, as well as her alliance with Master Gilbur.”

No, this wasn’t working. Geraden didn’t need an explanation. Or he didn’t need this explanation. At least a day. Eremis had Terisa. If he could somehow have focused his attention on the mediator, he would have demanded, A riot against Castellan Lebbick?

“And then,” Barsonage was saying, “the Castellan himself began to insist on your innocence – on the lady Terisa’s innocence. Plainly, he had lost his reason. The King’s madness had at last driven Lebbick mad. And yet he insisted, when all Orison except the guard had turned against him. He insisted – but privately, privately, so that few could hear him – upon accusing Master Eremis, who had single-handedly saved us from an Alend victory by thirst.

“What were we to think? Without doubt, the lady Terisa’s talent – and your own – gave us back our purpose. The meaning of the Congery had been restored. But what were we to do? Had she come to save us, or destroy us? Had you in fact murdered your brother, or were you innocent? Such questions consumed us. We were not concerned for the safety of our mirrors. Men who covet the power of Imagery do not destroy mirrors.”

Geraden had the impression that if he moved – if he so much as opened his mouth to breathe – he would at once fall into a pit of blackness. It filled the room all around him, lurking behind the illusory images of Master Barsonage and the furniture. Everything he had ever done had gone wrong. Wasn’t that true? For all practical purposes, he had brought Terisa here simply so that Master Eremis could have her at the peak of his power, at the moment of her greatest vulnerability. What a triumph. The climax of a brilliant life. Everything had gone wrong since the day his mother had died, and he had sworn, sworn, that he was never again going to let that happen to anyone he loved.

Nevertheless he couldn’t stop trying. The bare idea of surrendering to Eremis made him sick. There had to be something he could do—

A riot against Castellan Lebbick?

Deliberately, he opened his mouth. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to take a deep breath, focus his eyes on the mediator.

“Why Lebbick?” That wasn’t exactly the question he wanted to ask, but it was close enough. “Why did they turn against Lebbick?”

Master Barsonage shrugged his massive shoulders. “The maid Saddith.” This subject was considerably less personal for him. “He beat her – beat her nearly to death. She was maimed by it.

“She incited the riot to gain revenge.”

Suddenly, as if Barsonage had murmured the words and made the gestures to perform a translation, Geraden’s weakness was gone, banished. There wasn’t any pit of blackness around him: there was only a room he knew fairly well; a room which on this occasion didn’t have enough lamps lit, with the result that the corners were obscure, like hiding places.

“Master Barsonage” – Geraden was mildly astonished by his own calm – “why did he beat her? That’s where it started – the ‘series of coincidences.’ What did she do?”

Geraden’s interest obviously took the mediator aback. He hesitated for a moment, as if he thought he ought to steer the discussion in a more useful direction. Whatever he saw in Geraden’s face, however, persuaded him to answer.

“The story is that she went to his bed, the night after the lady Terisa’s disappearance. She said that she grieved for him in his distress and wished to comfort him. Those who were willing to doubt her – and they were few after the extent of her injuries became known – said that she offered herself to him so that he would elevate her above the position of a chambermaid.”

Again Geraden wanted to explode. “And that didn’t warn you?” he snapped. “It didn’t make you suspicious at all? Didn’t you remember she was Eremis’ lover? I told you that. I told you he’s been using her. Didn’t it ever occur to you that he might have sent her to Lebbick? What have you done with your mind?”

“Geraden.” Master Barsonage’s face turned hard; his eyes glittered. “You are no longer an Apt. No one could deny that you have become an Imager. Yet I remain the mediator of the Congery. I expect your respect.

“I have admitted my fault. I did not foresee the danger to your glass. In other matters, however, I have not earned your anger.”

With difficulty, Geraden restrained himself. “I’m sorry,” he gritted, unable to unclench his jaws. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just terrified for Terisa.” At once, he went on, “Do you mean you were suspicious of Eremis? What did you do?”

The mediator studied Geraden for a moment, then apparently decided to let himself be mollified. Shrugging again, he replied, “The relationship between Master Eremis and the maid was of interest to me, naturally. But it was a matter of inference only – hardly a demonstration of treachery. And his public display of loyalty was impressive. I might,” he admitted wryly, “have dismissed my suspicions, inevitable though they were.

“However, your brother Artagel came to speak with me—”

Geraden held himself still, waiting.

“After the lady Terisa’s show of talent,” Master Barsonage explained, “the Congery at last went to work with a will, showing the kind of dedication King Joyse has always wanted. Respecting the strictures he had placed upon us from the first, we began to search for tools of defense, ways in which we might preserve Orison, or even Mordant – methods to oppose or assist you and the lady Terisa when we learned the truth about you.”

Half-smiling, the mediator digressed to say, “Prince Kragen seemed on the verge of breaking Orison’s gates when you distracted him. I can assure you, however, that he would not have been able to enter this castle without my consent.”

Then he resumed, “In this work, Master Eremis at first took no part. He was assumed to be resting after the exertion of refilling the reservoir.”

Geraden held his breath.

“The day after the riot, however, he came to me to announce that he was ready to take up his duties among the Congery.

“He could not know that I had had a long conversation with Artagel several days previously.

“Artagel informed me that – despite his own evidence – Castellan Lebbick was now convinced of your innocence. He was convinced of Master Eremis’ guilt. And his reasoning was persuasive. From Artagel, it was very persuasive.”

Master Barsonage sighed. “Unfortunately, Geraden, there was no proof. There was no basis on which Master Eremis could be accused, no way it could be shown that the man who had saved us from Alend had done so for Cadwal’s benefit rather than our own.

“Therefore I could not turn against him. I could not so much as deny him his place in the Congery, for fear that he would be alerted to my distrust. And yet I also could not further expose the Congery to his betrayal.

“Geraden, I have not served you well – but I have served the King better. I concealed the Congery’s true work from Master Eremis. I lied to him about it. I allowed him to see no sign of it, play no part in it. He does not know how well prepared we are to assist in the defense of Orison.”

Geraden cleared his lungs slowly. His head was clear, and a number of things seemed to be growing clearer around him. After all, there was really no way Master Barsonage could have predicted that Eremis would use Saddith to start a riot in order to cover up an attack on his, Geraden’s, mirror. But to keep the Congery’s work secret – to do practical labor on Orison’s behalf without allowing the knowledge to fall into Eremis’ hands—That was well done.

And Artagel trusted him, trusted Terisa. Even Castellan Lebbick had trusted both of them, despite Master Eremis’ manipulations.

There was hope. He didn’t know what it was yet, but he had the strongest feeling—

“What did you tell him?” he asked the mediator softly. “What kind of lie did he believe?”

Unexpectedly, Master Barsonage smiled – a grin so sharp it seemed almost bloodthirsty. “I told him that we have dedicated all our resources to discovering how our enemies are able to make use of flat mirrors without going mad.”

A muscle twitched in Geraden’s cheek. Yes, that was a lie which would be believed by anyone who was convinced of the Congery’s fundamental ineffectuality. “Wasn’t that true?” he asked.

The lift of the mediator’s shoulders was like his grin. “There was truth in it. I have asked two of the Masters to concentrate on that question. The rest of us, however, have been laboring for more immediate results.”

Geraden felt his courage coming back to him, his hope growing stronger. “Good,” he pronounced.

“How did Eremis react?”

“He offered his help.” As he spoke, Barsonage lost his look of fierceness; it faded into a more familiar bafflement. “In fact, he proposed the most plausible theory I have ever heard. He suggested that the translations are done, not with one mirror, but with two. A flat glass is placed in the Image of another mirror, and then both translations are enacted simultaneously, so that the flat mirror functions like a curved one and therefore doesn’t exact the usual penalty.”

“He told you that?” Geraden was startled; his still-fragile self-confidence flinched. “Then it must be wrong.” His own theory must be wrong.

“It is,” sighed Master Barsonage. “Did you know that translation pulverizes glass? I did not. Yet it is true. We have attempted Master Eremis’ suggestion three times, and each time the flat mirror was reduced to powder as it passed into the Image of the curved mirror.”

“Glass and splinters!” Geraden groaned. This was too much: he was wrong again; everything he thought he understood was wrong; Eremis was too far ahead of him. Hope was nonsense. He couldn’t hold his head up, face the older Imager. There was nothing he could do to save Terisa.

“This surprises you,” observed the mediator thoughtfully. “Not Master Eremis’ suggestion, but rather its failure surprises you. Geraden, you amaze me. You had already considered this idea for yourself, when no other member of the Congery had so much as imagined it.”

Eremis was playing with him, playing with all of them, using them in an elaborate and insidious game they couldn’t win, a game from which they couldn’t even escape because they didn’t know the rules. Like Prince Kragen in his audience with King Joyse, forced to play hop-board. At the mercy of his opponent.

But Master Barsonage was still speaking. “You have disguised yourself for years as Geraden fumble-foot,” he said in a tone of admiration, “and now at last I learn that your talent is prodigious. You are able to do translations which diverge from the Image in your mirror. Ideas which astonish us are familiar to you.

“Is there more, Geraden? Does your talent encompass other wonders as well?”

Geraden hardly heard the mediator. He was thinking, Oh, prodigious. Absolutely. They tremble when I walk into the room.

He was thinking, A riot against Castellan Lebbick.

Eremis wanted to preserve Orison for Cadwal. And no man could defend the castle better than Lebbick. And yet Eremis had sent his own lover to get beaten nearly to death, simply to generate a grievance against Lebbick, simply to make a riot possible, simply to make it possible for a riot to enter the laborium, so that Geraden’s mirror could be destroyed. All that risk for nothing except to dispose of Geraden’s only weapon.

Were Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel really that badly afraid of him?

It sounded ridiculous. But—

He took hold of himself, did his best to steady his heart.

But they knew his talent better than he did. Why else had they gone to such lengths to distract him, confuse him, demean him, kill him? Master Gilbur had guided – and studied – every moment of his mirror-making.

They knew his talent better than he did.

They feared it for reasons he didn’t yet understand.

The same kind of argument had helped move him into action while Houseldon burned – and yet he had made no progress toward understanding it. Why had Eremis needed to attack Houseldon? Or Sternwall, for that matter? Why wasn’t the destruction of Geraden’s only mirror enough?

Suddenly – so suddenly that he couldn’t pretend he had been listening to the mediator – Geraden said, “Havelock.”

Master Barsonage blinked. “Havelock?”

“He’s got all those mirrors.” Geraden was already on his way toward the door. “Come on.”

Mirrors which had helped Terisa escape from Gilbur. Mirrors which didn’t belong to any Imager except the Adept – mirrors Geraden could take chances with.

Outside the mediator’s quarters, he began to hurry; in a moment, he was almost running. Nevertheless Master Barsonage caught him, got a heavy hand on his arm and slowed him to a fast walk.

“What do you hope to accomplish with the Adept’s mirrors? Will he permit you to touch them?”

A manic laugh burst from Geraden. “Oh, he’ll let me touch them. He is certainly going to let me touch them.”

Moving as rapidly as he could with Master Barsonage clasped on his arm, and refusing to answer the mediator’s first question, refusing even to think about it for fear that the possibilities would evaporate if he did, he headed toward the lower levels of Orison, down toward the only entrance he knew of to Adept Havelock’s personal domain.

During his one previous visit there, the circumstances had been very different. For one thing, Orison’s extra inhabitants hadn’t arrived yet; the depths of the castle had been deserted. And for another, he hadn’t been paying particularly close attention: most of his mind had been focused on Artagel, suffering from a chest full of corrosive black vapor. As a result, he was momentarily flustered by the realization that he now didn’t know how to get where he was going.

Fortunately, Master Barsonage knew.

At least some of the Adept’s secrets had been exposed when Castellan Lebbick had followed Master Gilbur and Terisa into the room where Havelock kept his mirrors. As a matter of course, the Castellan’s discovery had eventually been reported to the mediator of the Congery. And Master Barsonage had gone so far as to visit that room full of mirrors himself, in part to see it with his own eyes, in part to make one more painful and ultimately futile effort to communicate with the Adept – specifically, to persuade Havelock that the Congery as a whole should be given access to these mirrors.

The memory caused Master Barsonage to shudder whenever he thought of it. Adept Havelock had responded with a gracious bow, had taken his hand as if to congratulate him, had kissed each of his fingers like a lover – and while Barsonage was distracted by this odd performance, Havelock had urinated on his feet.

Occasionally, Master Barsonage dreamed of beating the Adept senseless. Although he would never have admitted having them, he enjoyed those dreams.

Nevertheless he didn’t hesitate to take Geraden to the Adept’s quarters.

He and Geraden approached through the storeroom full of empty crates – crates, apparently, in which Havelock’s mirrors had been brought to Orison. A door in a niche at the back of the room let them into a short passage. Unexpectedly, Geraden stopped.

Pointing at the impressive array of bolts and bars inside the door, he asked, “Doesn’t he ever lock this place? Does he let people just walk in whenever they want?”

Master Barsonage sniffed in distaste. “I cannot say. I have come here three times. Twice the door was sealed, and he would not open it to me. Perhaps he did not hear me. The third time, the door was open. I found him snoring in his bed. And when I roused him, he was” – Barsonage grimaced – “unpleasant.”

After a moment, he added, “For my own peace of mind, however, I have insisted on guards in the outer hall. Men dressed as ordinary merchants and farmers marked us before we entered the storeroom. If you had not been in my company – or if you had not been recognized – you would have been halted.”

Geraden was scowling. “Does Havelock know anything about that?”

“Perhaps. Who can say what the Adept knows? Perhaps he neither knows nor cares.”

Geraden was thinking about Terisa. Maybe she could have been saved – maybe everything would have been different – if guards had been placed outside the storeroom earlier. If Adept Havelock had had any idea what he was doing.

Snarling to himself, Geraden headed down the passage.

Almost immediately, he and Barsonage reached the room where Havelock’s mirrors were kept.

It had been dramatically changed.

The difference was unmistakable: the room was tidy. Someone had dusted the tables and floor, the mirrors; swept the broken glass from the stone; arranged the full-length mirrors around the walls, displaying them as well as possible in the relatively constricted space. Someone had set up the small and medium-sized mirrors on the tables and adjusted them so that they caught the light of the few lamps and gleamed like promises.

That someone must have been Adept Havelock. Geraden and the mediator spotted him as soon as they entered the room: he was in one corner with a feather duster, crooning over a glass which had been restored to pristine clarity after decades of neglect.

He had made the chamber into a shrine. Or a mausoleum.

Just for a moment while Geraden and Master Barsonage stared at him, he failed to acknowledge their arrival. Then, however, he wheeled to give them a bow, flourishing his duster as though it were a scepter. His eyes gaped in different directions; his fat lips leered. “Barsonage!” he cackled. “You honor me. What a thrill. Who’s the puppy with you?”

Simply because he couldn’t resist staring, Geraden noticed a detail which might have escaped him otherwise: Havelock’s surcoat was clean. In fact, it had been scrubbed spotless. Havelock wore it as if he were dressed for a celebration.

Master Barsonage kept his distance. “Adept Havelock,” he said with formal distaste, “I am certain that you remember Apt Geraden. He is an Imager now, and has an urgent interest in your mirrors.”

As if to tease the mediator, Havelock advanced toward him, smiling maliciously. “What, ‘Apt Geraden’?” he cried in mock protest. “This boy? How has that figure of augury and power been reduced to such doggishness? No, you’re mistaken, it’s impossible.”

Swooping suddenly away from Barsonage, he pounced on Geraden. With his hands clapped to Geraden’s cheeks, he shook Geraden’s head from side to side.

“Impossible, I tell you. Look, Barsonage. He’s alive. He came back alive. Without her. She risked everything for him, and he came back without her.” Bitterly, the Adept began to laugh. “Oh, no, Barsonage, you can’t fool me. Geraden would never have done such a thing.”

Geraden seemed to hear the Adept through an abrupt roaring in his ears, a tumult of anger and distress. The suggestion that he might have come back without Terisa by choice, that he had turned his back on her in some way, was more than he could bear.

Harshly, struggling to control his passion, he demanded, “Let me go, Havelock. I need your mirrors.”

As if he had been stung, the Adept let out a wail.

He dropped his hands, plunged himself to the floor; before Geraden could react, he kissed the toes of Geraden’s boots. Then he scuttled backward. When he hit the leg of a table, he bounded to his feet.

Crouching in the intense stance of a man about to do battle, he commented casually, almost playfully, “If you ever talk to Joyse like that, he’ll cut your heart out. Or force you to marry all his daughters. With him it’s hard to tell the difference.”

Shocked and disconcerted, Geraden turned a plea for help toward Master Barsonage.

Grimly, the mediator nodded. Swallowing to hold down a bellyful of uneasiness, he stepped forward, edged his bulk a bit between the Adept and Geraden.

Geraden took that opportunity to turn his back on both of them.

Deliberately, he placed himself before the first full-length flat mirror he could find.

It was an especially elegant piece of work: he noticed its beauty in spite of his concentration on other things, because he loved mirrors. Its rosewood frame was nearly as tall as he was, and the wood had a deep, burnished glow which only long hours of care and polish could produce. The surface of the glass was meticulous, both in its flatness and in its craftsmanship. The glass itself held an evanescent suggestion of pink – a color which now appeared to complement the frame, although of course the frame had actually been chosen to suit the glass.

And the Image—

Bare sand. Nothing else.

Wind had whipped the sand into a dune with a keen, curled edge, like a breaker frozen in motion; but there was no wind now. The color of the sky was a dry, dusty blue that he associated almost automatically with Cadwal.

In some ways, this landscape was the purest he had ever seen, too clean even for bleached bones. No one and nothing alive had ever set foot on that dune.

Only urgency kept him from studying every inch of the mirror, simply to understand the Image – and to appreciate the workmanship.

He had no idea how Terisa worked with flat glass. And he had no particular reason to believe he could do the same thing. In fact, he hardly knew how he had contrived to translate himself from the laborium to the Closed Fist. He certainly hadn’t done anything to prove himself an arch-Imager.

Nevertheless he didn’t hesitate.

He came back alive. Without her. Geraden would never have done such a thing.

Facing the glass, he closed his eyes; he swept his thoughts clear. Master Barsonage and Adept Havelock were watching him, and Terisa was lost, and he had never tried anything like this before. Yet he had the strongest feeling—He pulled his concentration together, firmly wiped panic and confusion and anguish out of his heart.

In the mirror of his mind, he began to construct an Image of Esmerel.

Still trying to intervene between Geraden and Havelock, the mediator asked the Adept carefully, “You mentioned King Joyse. Do you know where he is?”

“He has flown,” spat back Havelock, his mouth full of vitriol. “Like a bird, ha-ha. You think he has abandoned you, but it is a lie, a lie, a lie. When everything else is lost, he breaks my heart and gives me nothing.”

Geraden ignored both of them.

He found it easy to ignore distractions now. Something luminous was taking place. He had no training in Image-building; no Imager practiced that skill. He was working with an entirely new concept: that the Image of a mirror could be chosen; that translations could be done which ignored the apparent Image of a mirror. As new to the world as Terisa herself. And yet the process of creating the Image he wanted in his mind excited him; it enabled him to close his attention to anything which interfered.

Line by line, feature by feature, he put together a picture of Eremis’ “ancestral Seat.”

He had only seen it once, of course – and only from the outside. He had no notion what it looked like inside. But that didn’t worry him. He believed that the scenes and landscapes in mirrors were real, that Images were reflections rather than inventions. So if he could induce the glass to show Esmerel from the outside, the manor’s true interior would be included automatically.

“What do you mean,” asked Master Barsonage, “ ‘flown’?” He didn’t seem to expect an answer, however. He may not have been listening to himself at all.

Esmerel was a relatively low building in a deep, wedge-shaped valley with a brook bubbling picturesquely over its stones and outcroppings of rock like ramparts all along the walls – not low because of any lack of sweep or grace in its design, but because it was constructed on only one rambling, aboveground level. According to rumor, some of the best features of the house were belowground, dug down into the rock of the valley: an enviable wine cellar; a gallery for weavings, paintings, and small sculptures; a vast library; several research halls. But naturally Geraden knew nothing about those things. He knew, however, that a portico defined the entrance – a portico with massive redwood pillars for columns. The entrance, as he remembered it, was plain, only one lamp in a leaded glass frame on either side, no carving on the panels of the doors. The house’s walls were layered planks – waxed rather than painted against Tor’s weather – but all the corners and intersections were stone, with the result that Esmerel’s face had a pleasingly varied texture.

Unless something had happened since he had seen it – or unless his memory or his imagination had gone wrong – Master Eremis’ home looked precisely like that.

Master Barsonage let out a stifled gasp. His respiration was labored, as if he had stuffed his fist into his mouth and was trying to breathe around it.

To commemorate the occasion, Adept Havelock began whistling thinly through his teeth.

Geraden opened his eyes.

The mirror in front of him showed a sand dune under a calm sky, almost certainly somewhere in Cadwal.

The pang of his disappointment was so acute that he nearly groaned aloud.

“I would not have believed it,” whispered Barsonage. “When I was first told that such things could happen, I did not believe it.”

“Are you out of your mind?” inquired the Adept politely. “That’s how I know this isn’t Apt Geraden. Even if he did talk to me that way. A man who can do this wouldn’t have to come back without her.”

Geraden blinked hard, shook his head. No, he wasn’t going blind. The Image he was staring at hadn’t changed at all.

Distressed and baffled, he turned toward Master Barsonage—

—and saw Esmerel, as clear as sunlight, exactly as he had envisioned it, in the curved mirror standing beside the flat glass he had chosen to work with.

“By the pure sand of dreams,” he murmured, “that’s incredible.” A curved mirror, a curved mirror. Excitement leaped up in him; he could hardly restrain a yell. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself.” A curved mirror, of course! Flat glass was Terisa’s talent, not his. If he had tried to translate himself through a flat glass, he would have gone mad. Like Havelock.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Havelock advised sententiously. “If you think I’m going to kiss your boots again, just because you can do a little trick like that, you’re full of shit.”

But curved glass—! Like the only mirror he had ever been able to make for himself, the mirror which had reached Terisa behind the Image of the champion. He could shift the Images in curved mirrors.

Quickly, before he had time to be overwhelmed by his discovery, he approached the glass and began to adjust the focus.

“Now I’ll find her.” The pressure of hope and need cramped his lungs. “I’ll get her away from you, you bastard. If I find you, I’ll even get you. Just try to stop me. Just try.”

Fighting the tremors in his hands, the long shivers which made his fingers twitch, he tipped the mirror’s frame to bring the Image of Esmerel closer.

Distance was the problem, distance. He knew that – and tried to keep it out of his mind, tried not to let it terrify him. If the focus of the Image was too far from the place where Terisa was being held, he wouldn’t be able to adjust the mirror enough to reach her. Every glass had a limited range: it couldn’t be focused more than a certain distance from its natural Image. If he couldn’t reach Terisa, he would have to start over again from the beginning: based on what he learned now, he would have to build the Image of Esmerel again, re-create it in his mind – but closer this time, closer.

In his present turmoil, that kind of concentration might be impossible.

No, don’t fail, he exhorted the glass, don’t fail now, you’ve never done anything right in your life except love her, she’s all there is for you and Orison and Mordant and even Alend, don’t fail now.

With a jerk because his hand was unsteady, the Image moved to a near view of the entrance under the portico.

Another jerk.

The Image moved into the forehall of the manor.

Geraden stopped breathing.

Like the exterior walls, the floor was formed of fitted planks anchored with stone. Years of use and wax made the boards gleam, but couldn’t conceal the fact that men who didn’t care what damage they did had been there in nailed boots – had been there recently. Mud, footprints, gouged spots, splinters: they were all distinct in the Image.

Nevertheless the forehall was empty.

Sweat streamed into Geraden’s eyes. He scrubbed at it with the back of his hand. Dimly, he was aware that both Master Barsonage and Adept Havelock were standing over him, watching his search; but he had no attention to spare for them.

More smoothly, he moved the Image into the first room which opened off the forehall.

A large sitting room: the kind of room in which formal guests sipped sweet wines before dinner. Tracked with mud and boot marks.

Bloodstains.

Deserted.

“Why is no one there?” asked the mediator softly. “Where is Master Eremis? Where are his mirrors – his power?”

Geraden’s heart constricted. Nausea rose in his throat as he moved the Image through the house.

A cavernous dining room. More mud and boot marks, more bloodstains. The edges of the table were ragged with swordcuts.

Deserted.

Oh, Terisa, please, where are you?

Geraden scanned two more fouled rooms, both empty, then located a wide staircase sweeping downward.

“The cellars,” murmured Master Barsonage. “That is where they would imprison her.”

Of course. The cellars. Esmerel’s equivalent of a dungeon. Eremis wouldn’t keep his mirrors or his apparatus or any of his secrets where passersby or even tradesmen might catch sight of them. Everything would be belowground.

Who was responsible for all this mud, all these boot marks?

Geraden nudged the Image downward.

For the first few steps, he was so absorbed in what he was doing – so caught up in the focus of the glass, the search for Terisa, the need to succeed – that he didn’t understand what was about to happen to him, didn’t realize the truth at all, even though it was perfectly plain in front of him, so obvious that any farmer or stonemason, any ordinary man or woman, would have grasped it automatically.

But then the Image began to dim, began to grow palpably dim in the glass, and Master Barsonage croaked, “Light.”

Light.

Geraden’s hands froze on the frame. His whole body lost movement, as if the breath and blood had been swept out of him. The stairs loomed below him darkly, treads descending into an immeasurable black.

There was no light. No lamps or lanterns or torches or candles. They had been extinguished.

The Image still existed, of course; but without light there was nothing to see.

He had no answer to that defense. By that one stroke, any attempt to rescue Terisa was instantly and effectively prevented. He couldn’t help her if he couldn’t find her – and how could he find her if he couldn’t see her?

“Maybe—” The air seemed to thicken in his lungs; he felt like he was suffocating. “Maybe there’s light farther down. Maybe only the stairs are dark.”

At once, Master Barsonage clamped a warning hand onto his shoulder. “Geraden,” he hissed as if the former Apt were far away, lost in urgency, almost out of reach, “how will you find it? If there is light, how will you find it? You cannot focus an Image you cannot see. You may shift it into the foundations of the house, where no light will ever reach.”

“I’ve got to try.” Geraden was choking. The mediator’s hand on his shoulder was choking him. “Don’t you understand? I’ve got to find her.”

“No!” Master Barsonage insisted. Geraden’s passion appeared to affect him like anguish. “You cannot focus an Image you cannot see.”

That was true. Of course. Any idiot could have told him that. Even a failed Apt who had never done anything right in his life could recognize the truth. Darkness made all mirrors blind – and all Imagers.

Somehow, Geraden stepped back against the pressure of Barsonage’s grip. Facing the Image as it blurred into the obscure depths, he said harshly, “Then I’ll have to go myself.”

With a look of iron on his face, and no hope in his heart, he made the mental adjustment of translation and stepped into the glass.

As his face crossed into the Image, he cried out, “Terisa!”

Master Barsonage wrenched him back so hard that he sprawled among the tables.

Before he could regain his feet – or curse or fight – Adept Havelock sat down on his chest, straddling his neck.

“Listen to me,” the Adept snarled, savage with strain. “I can’t do this for long.” His eyes rolled as if he were going into a seizure. “You can make us let you go. Just use that voice. We’ll obey. But we won’t be able to get you back.”

Geraden bucked against the Adept, tried to pitch Havelock off him. Havelock braced his legs on either side, clutched at Geraden’s jerkin with both hands, hung on.

“Listen to me, you fool! Your power sustains the shift! When you translate yourself, that glass will revert to its natural Image. You’ll be cut off! – you and the lady Terisa both! You’ll both be lost!”

It was too much. Geraden flung Adept Havelock aside. He surged to his feet. With all his strength, he punched Master Barsonage in the chest – a blow which nearly made the massive Imager take a step backward.

Then he faced the mirror and began to howl.

“Eremis! Don’t touch her!”

FORTY-TWO: UNEXPECTED TRANSLATIONS

Eremis was touching her. He was certainly touching her.

She had never been strong enough against him. Her concentration had never been strong enough. While he had approached her in the audience hall, while he had threatened Geraden, while he had fought with the Tor, she had attempted something she didn’t know how to do, something she had never heard of before: wild with anger and desperation, she had tried to reach out to the mirror which had brought him here and change it.

On some level, she knew that was impossible. She was on the wrong side of the glass, the side of the Image, not the side of the Imager. But the knowledge meant nothing to her. If she could feel a translation taking place, surely that gave her a link, a channel? And she didn’t have any other way to fight. Her need was that extreme: she didn’t care that what she was trying was probably insane. Her strange and unmeasured talent was her only weapon. If she could fade, if she could go far enough away to reach his mirror—

His hands made that impossible. They forced her to the surface of herself when she most needed to sink away.

First there was his grip on her arm. He flung her toward the translation point as if it were a wall against which he intended to break her bones. But he didn’t let her go.

Then there was the bottomless instant of translation, the eternal dissolution.

Then there was a completely different kind of light.

It was orange and hot, part furnace, part torches – and full of smoke, rankly scented. Another man was there, someone she hadn’t seen before, a blur as Eremis impelled her past him, kept her spinning. Gilbur and Gart were right behind her, as blurred as everything else.

And Eremis was shouting, “The lights! Put out the lights!”

Before she could get her eyes into focus, see anything clearly, the torches dove into buckets of sand; a clang closed the door of the furnace. Darkness slammed against her like a wave of heat.

“What went wrong?” someone demanded in a rattling voice.

“Geraden,” snapped Master Eremis. “He remains alive. We must not let him see this place.”

“I tried to kill him,” Gilbur snarled. “I hit him hard. But that puppy is stronger than he appears.”

“She must not see it,” continued Eremis. “She is his creation. Who knows what bonds exist between them? Perhaps they are able to share Images in their minds.”

The first voice, the man she didn’t know, made an assenting noise. “Then it is good that we were prepared for this eventuality. If we were in the Image-room—” A moment later, he added, “It would be interesting to learn what he does when he regains consciousness.”

“As long as he cannot find us,” muttered Master Gilbur.

“In the dark?” Master Eremis laughed. “Have no fear of that.” He sounded exultant, almost happy. His grip on Terisa shifted; with one hand, he held both her arms behind her back. “She is mine now – and they are ours. No matter that Geraden still lives, and Kragen. That will only add spice to the sauce. They will do exactly what we wish.”

“And Joyse?” asked the rattling voice.

“You saw,” rasped Gilbur. “He fled when we appeared. No doubt he is cowering in some hidey-hole, hoping for mad Havelock to save him.”

The tone of Eremis’ laughter suggested that he doubted Gilbur’s assessment. He didn’t argue, however. Instead, he said, “It will be safe to renew the lights when the door is closed.”

Firmly, irresistibly, he pushed Terisa ahead of him into the dark.

And all the time, she was still trying to concentrate, still trying to fade.

Now, of course, she wasn’t reaching toward the glass Eremis had used; she was struggling to find Adept Havelock’s supply of mirrors, striving to feel the potential for translation across the distance. She could sense translations as they occurred. She was sensitive to the opening of the gap between places. That must mean something. There must be some way she could use it.

But Eremis’ grasp made everything impossible.

He held her too roughly, so that her arms hurt; he pushed her too far ahead of him into the blind dark. Through a doorway, along a lightless passage, through another door: the visceral fear of running into something kept her from being able to pull her heart and mind away. The way he chuckled between his teeth filled her with rage and despair.

I’m not yours. Never. I’ll find some way to kill you. No matter what happens. I swear it.

It was impossible to fade while she was so full of fury.

And then the way he held her changed.

Through the second doorway and across a rough floor, he suddenly thrust her down. She couldn’t catch herself because he didn’t free her arms: she landed heavily on a pillow, a bed. Deftly, he turned her so that she lay on her back, with her wrists now clamped above her head by one of his hands. Then he clasped something iron around her left wrist; she heard a click, a faint rattle of chain. In spite of the fetter, however, he continued to hold her arms pinned.

He went on chuckling while his other hand undid the hooks of her soft, leather shirt, exposing her breasts, her vulnerable belly.

“I must chain you,” he murmured pleasantly, “a small precaution against your strange talents – and Geraden’s. But it will not prevent me from satisfying my claim on you. You will find that I am not easily satisfied. On the other hand, we have plenty of time.

“If you are compliant, I will keep you bound as little as possible.”

In the dark, she struggled; she wanted to smash his face, wanted to feel his blood on her hands. He pinned her easily, however; he knew how to keep women from getting away from him. When she paused to gather her strength so that she wouldn’t weep, he curled his tongue like a lick of wet fire around each of her nipples, and his hand slipped aside the sash of her trousers.

Gasping on the verge of tears, she tried to twist out of his hold; failed.

Abruptly, she stilled herself, let the resistance sag out of her muscles. She wasn’t accomplishing anything; she was just contributing to her own defeat by making herself wild. She couldn’t concentrate—Let him think her stillness was a form of surrender. If he was that arrogant.

“You will accept my manhood completely,” he murmured. “I will take possession of you in all ways. And I will not be satisfied until you beg me to enter you wherever and whenever I desire.”

His mouth clung to her nipples, teasing them involuntarily erect, caressing and probing them. At the same time, his hand moved down into her open trousers to the place between her legs which only Geraden knew. His fingers stroked her there as if he believed that she was being seduced.

Far away in her mind, she was imagining his death.

When he began to pull her trousers off her hips, however, she returned to defend herself. Her eyes were starting to adjust – and this room wasn’t absolutely lightless. Hints of illumination filtered into the air from what may have been an imperfectly sealed window in the wall above her. Eremis’ head was a shape of deeper blackness poised to make her breasts ache. She couldn’t fight him physically. But she could still fight.

Taking advantage of the fact that he had left her mouth free, she said, “Gilbur thinks King Joyse is a coward, but you don’t agree.” Her tone should have warned him: it wasn’t unsteady enough, frightened enough, to indicate surrender. “Why is that?”

“Because, my sweet lady” – he was too full of victory to refuse to answer her – “you betrayed him to me.”

She could feel him grinning over her in the dark.

“I might have believed that he was a fool, or a coward, or a madman. But you came to me while Lebbick had me in his dungeon, and you opened my eyes. At a time when I might have remained innocent of the knowledge, you showed me that King Joyse understood his own actions – that he did what he did deliberately.”

Terisa’s spirit squirmed at the thought; but she kept her body passive.

“This revelation enabled me to adjust my plans to accommodate the possibility that he may have been setting traps of his own. If I had been forced to wait until Quillon finally exposed himself and Joyse by rescuing you, I might have found myself in difficulty. But you” – Eremis entered her maliciously with his fingers, making her flinch – “gave me time to prepare a more personal snare – time to arrange for Queen Madin’s abduction, to cut the ground out from under Joyse at precisely the moment when I might be most exposed to counterattack.

“You made that possible, my lady.” His head was turned toward her now, momentarily sparing her breasts. He was gloating, hardly able to contain his triumph. At that moment, he might have been willing to tell her anything. “You allowed me to perfect my plans against an opponent who may have proved worthier than he appeared.”

As he spoke, her mind turned cold and sick. It was true: she had given King Joyse to his enemies.

“You deserve Saddith’s fate for attempting to thwart me. But because I am grateful I will use only as much force as you require.”

He laughed again – a snort of pleasure and contempt. Her senses were full of him. He smelled of sweat and confidence. “Gart wished to kill you when you left Vale House, but I did not allow it. Doubtless your death and Geraden’s would have been to our benefit. But then who would have taken the news of the Queen to King Joyse? How else could I arrange to master both you and Joyse at the same time, except by letting you live?

“You have served me perfectly, despite your opposition.” His fingers continued to work between her legs. “My only regret is that I do not yet have Geraden in my power. That will come, however. I have said that I must think of something truly special to reward him for his interference, his dunderheaded enmity, and I will do it.

“If you are compliant, my lady, you will live a life which many women would envy. But him” – Eremis’ fingers hurt her, nearly made her gasp – “him I will destroy.”

“I doubt it,” she said, breathing hard to diffuse the pain. She was going to kill him. All she had to do was stay alive long enough. “He can do translations you don’t understand. Translations you didn’t even know were possible until he brought me to Orison.”

For a moment, Eremis’ laugh sounded more like a snarl. “That is true. And it offends me. But again I have been abundantly forewarned. The Congery’s augury made me suspicious of Geraden. And Gilbur learned much while teaching him to shape his mirror. That allowed me to set in motion all the dangers and distractions which prevented both him and you from exploring your talents, learning what they were. And it allowed me to preserve the disregard in which he was held by the Masters, so that the Congery did not try to help you.

“In that way, we gained a great deal of necessary time.

“And now, of course, he is helpless. You cannot threaten me with his power. He can translate nothing he cannot see.”

“I know that,” Terisa replied harshly – too harshly. She hadn’t intended to let so much of her fury show. “But you can’t see, either. You need light sometime – unless you’re planning to give up on Orison and Mordant and Alend, and spend the rest of your life just raping me.” She felt him grin over her. “And when you go out into the light” – she did her best to lodge each word like a knife in his vitals – “you’ll find that he knows too much about you. He knows how you use flat mirrors without going mad.”

Eremis’ reaction was stronger than she was expecting. He stiffened; his breath hissed between his teeth; his hand raked across her belly as if to hurt her breasts – or strike her face.

“How is that, my lady?”

Lying still, expressing defiance with her voice alone, she said, “You put the flat glass inside a curved one and work both translations at the same time.”

As quickly as she had gained it, she lost her advantage. The Master relaxed tangibly; his fingers stroked her nipples while the tension ran out of him. “That is quite accurate,” he commented. “And I must say that I am impressed by Geraden’s ability to reason his way so near the truth. By now, however, Barsonage has discovered that the technique you describe is impossible. Glass translated through glass only shatters.

“The true secret, my lady, lies in the oxidate which prepares the curved mirror. That is my discovery, the result of my sweat and study. I learned how to make a mirror into which other mirrors could be translated.”

At the moment, her determination to kill him was all that kept her from despair. There simply wasn’t room in her for so much anger and the horror of seeing her last hope collapse.

“Most of my fellow Masters,” Eremis continued, “would laugh themselves sick if they knew how I have spent my years as an Imager. And yet on my small discovery the world hinges. When I am done, all Mordant and Alend and Cadwal will be at my service, and even High King Festten will acknowledge me supreme.”

The prospect filled him with passion. He began kissing Terisa again, and this time she could feel his hunger in the way his mouth nipped and sucked her nipples, the way his tongue thrust against them. His free hand was back inside her trousers, pulling them down, making her ready for him.

If he had let her arms go – just for a second – she would have done her best to put his eyes out. In spite of his triumph, however, he didn’t shift the grip that kept her under control.

She had no way to make him stop.

She didn’t need to make him stop. Out of the dark, the unfamiliar, rattling voice said sourly, “Festten wants you.”

Nearly choking with anger, Master Eremis sprang to his feet and wheeled away from Terisa. “Am I to be interrupted with her forever? She is mine, I tell you, and I have earned her. Festten does not command me!”

The other voice conveyed a shrug. “He has twenty thousand men who believe otherwise. And he desires a report.”

Her arms were free. She pulled them down, swung her legs off the bed, sat up; she tested the chain. It wasn’t long enough to let her reach Eremis. The cold cuff on her wrist held.

“Report to him yourself,” Eremis countered. “Send Gilbur to report. Send Gart. I do not come and go to suit the High King.”

“Eremis,” the rattling voice warned, “think. The High King trusts me. He has always trusted me. But he does not trust you. He accepts your leadership – he does as you wish – only because you obtain results which please him. You bring him nearer to victory than he has ever been.

“But now you have risked a foray into the heart of Orison itself, and have accomplished nothing except Lebbick’s death and her capture. High King Festten considers that so far all his actions under your guidance have come to nothing. His only satisfaction has been the annihilation of the Perdon.

“He desires a report.”

“That sheepfucker,” growled Eremis in disgust. “A man who has lost his interest in women – a man who can only find pleasure in animals – is not fit for kingship.”

Nevertheless his tone expressed acquiescence. Despite his anger and frustration, the Master left Terisa alone. Muttering obscenities to himself, he strode away through the dark.

Because she wasn’t done – because she had never been further from surrender and wanted to know her enemy – she demanded after him sharply, “Why are you doing this?”

He must have paused. His tone was at once hard and light; malign; jubilant.

“Because I can.”

Almost at once, she was sure that he was gone.

For what felt like a long moment, she didn’t move. She had given King Joyse to his enemies. Queen Madin’s abduction was her fault. She had gone to Eremis in the dungeon and told him what he needed to know and let him command her to betray Geraden and how could she have been so stupid? And Geraden didn’t know the secret of the oxidate. He couldn’t fight the Master. He couldn’t find her in the dark.

Hope was out of the question, really.

Never mind that. She probably didn’t have room for hope anyway. Her yearning for Eremis’ blood was too big: it squeezed out everything else. It made the kind of concentration she needed impossible. She was powerless precisely because her ache for power was so intense.

The chain left her room to move around the bed. Grimly, she pulled up her trousers, tied the sash tightly, and began to rebutton her shirt.

“Unfortunate,” the rattling voice muttered.

She froze.

How many people were watching her – people she couldn’t see?

“I see well without light. Darkness conceals no secrets from me. But opportunities to witness such nakedness have been rare in recent years.” The speaker’s voice sounded like pebbles on glass. “A woman with such proud breasts, and yet so full of fear. A tantalizing combination. And there is time. Eremis will be away for some little while. Festten will question him narrowly before allowing him to go ahead with his plans.”

Terisa wanted to finish buttoning her shirt, but she couldn’t make her fingers work. How many people—? Until now, she had only been afraid of Eremis, not of the dark itself, not of the place where he had left her.

“Sadly, however, Eremis does not like used meat. And I do not like any meat enough to risk my alliance with him. Hide your breasts – or flaunt them – as you choose.” She heard relish as well as scorn in the rattle. “They will not sway me.”

As if she had been waiting for his permission, she fumbled at the fastenings of the shirt.

At last, her eyes were adjusting to the dark. When she peered hard, she was able to discern the outlines of a figure near where she guessed the doorway to be. The voice came from that direction.

Clenching her teeth for courage, she stood up and tested the chain.

She was able to swing her arms before she came to its limit. Following it to its anchor, she found that it was stapled into the wall at the head of the bed – nearly ten feet of it, enough to let her perform almost any conceivable gymnastic feat on the bed, but not enough to let her evade the dim figure in the doorway. Nevertheless she was comforted to have that much range of motion. If everything else failed, she would at least have a chance to hit Master Eremis before he touched her again.

Deliberately, she wrapped some of the chain around her fist to give it weight. She placed her back against the wall. Then she faced the figure with the rattling voice.

“You’re Vagel.” She didn’t need confirmation: she was sure. “The famous arch-Imager. The man who drove Havelock mad. Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Put up with him. You call it an alliance, but he probably treats you like a servant. You’re the arch-Imager. The most powerful man anybody has ever heard of. Why are you serving him? Why isn’t it the other way around?”

The outlines of the figure suggested a shrug. “Power,” he said like stones scattering against a mirror, “is more often a matter of position than of talent. He told you the truth, in a way. The whole world hinges on the little discovery which enables him to translate glass through glass. But that is not his real power.”

“Really?” She couldn’t stifle her impulse to goad Vagel. She was too frightened and furious for any other approach. Apparently, Vagel had been listening – watching – while Eremis had her naked. “What is?”

“His real power,” rattled the arch-Imager, “is that he is irreplaceable to all his allies – because of his talents, of course, but also because of his position, in the Congery, in Orison. What access do I have to his resources, his freedoms? Gilbur, I grant you, has also been favorably placed. But there it is his talent which is replaceable. He is only swift – uncommonly swift – rather than brilliant. And he hates everyone too much to form bonds – everyone except Eremis.

“No, Eremis’ real power is that he can have his way with anyone.

“He has his way with me, although my Imagery far surpasses his – and although I am the link which allowed him to begin his dealings with Festten, years ago when he rescued me from renegade destitution among the Alend Lieges. He will have his way with Festten, despite the High King’s taste for absolute authority. He will have his way with you” – Vagel let out a malign chuckle – “until the only thing which prevents you from begging for death is that he does not let you speak.

“He will even have his way with King Joyse in the end.” Now Vagel’s tone suggested hard things – broken things with sharp edges. “For that reason I do not care how utterly I serve him.”

Unexpectedly, Terisa had stopped listening. The Alend Lieges. The way he said those words triggered a small leap of intuition, fitted an odd, minor detail into place. In surprise, she said, “Carrier pigeons.”

Vagel was silent, as if she had startled him.

“You’re the one who brought carrier pigeons here. You gave them to the Alend Lieges.”

“Those mucky barons,” growled the arch-Imager. “Their squalor and their petty ambitions nearly drove me mad. They demanded – demande— Power. Imagery. I had to satisfy them to keep myself alive, me, the greatest Imager they had ever known. And yet they were satisfied with birds that could carry messages. I would have destroyed them long ago – I would have required that of Eremis – if they weren’t such little men.

“For that also, for the humiliation they cost me, Joyse will suffer.”

“Revenge,” Terisa muttered. Her attention shifted back to Vagel. “He and Havelock beat you back when you thought you were about to become the master of the world, and you can’t live with it. Now you don’t care who has the power. You don’t care how much Eremis humiliates you. All you care about is hurting the people who showed you you were wrong about yourself.

“What Eremis is doing to you is worse than anything King Joyse ever did.”

“Is it?” Vagel’s voice purred like a fall of small stones. “How strangely you think. Your defeat becomes less and less surprising, despite all the nearly unguessable implications of your talent.

“Eremis’ manner is demeaning, but the rewards he offers are not. Do you believe that either Joyse or Havelock proved themselves better men than I am – more able or deserving, more powerful? No. They only proved that they were more treacherous. And you have seen in the decline of Mordant and the collapse of Orison that there exists nothing so desirable, worthy, or powerful that it cannot be betrayed. I was beaten, not by a good Imager or a good king, but by a good spy.”

She expected the arch-Imager to advance, but he didn’t. “Do not despise revenge. Unless I am much mistaken” – he was sneering at her – “you yourself have no other passion.

“In your case, however, revenge must fail. You do not serve any man who can make glass from the blood-soaked sand of your desires. Eremis will have his way with you, and then the truth of you will be proven absolutely.”

“It’s the same for you,” she retorted, fighting back so that what he said wouldn’t crush her. “He’s using you – having his way with you. And when he’s done, he’ll just discard you. You won’t get your revenge after all. He wants all the fun for himself.”

Vagel made a sharp, hissing noise. After that, there was a long silence. Terisa tightened her grip on the chain, although the vague figure hadn’t moved.

“No,” he said at last, as if she had provoked him to candor. “All his allies must fear the same thing – but he will not discard me. Festten trusts me. Eremis’ plotting would have come to nothing, if I had not stood with him before the High King. He needs Cadwal too much to risk that alliance by discarding me.

“And without me all the force of Imagery at his disposal will become a blunt instrument – able to strike hard, but unable to strike at will. Useless. I am the arch-Imager, as you have observed. The procedures by which we shape mirrors that show the Images we desire are mine. Did you believe that our successes could have been achieved randomly? That Gilbur for all his speed could have made the glass we need simply by mixing accidental combinations of tinct and oxidate, sand and surface? I tell you, he could have sweated until his heart burst without ever producing a mirror which gave us access to Vale House – or one which showed the audience hall of Orison. That victory is mine.

“Alone, I have overturned the tenets of Imagery, and no one among Joyse’s foolish Congery can compare with me.”

Vagel’s voice intensified. “Eremis cannot do without me. His need for glass which only I can provide will never end. And because of that” – he seemed to be controlling an impulse to shout – “before I am done I will roast Joyse’s guts over a slow fire. I will hear him howl until his mind goes, or by the stars! I will take my satisfaction from Eremis himself.”

A visceral tremor started up in Terisa’s guts, so hard that she couldn’t speak.

Abruptly, the arch-Imager turned to leave. “Remember that,” he snapped while his voice faded. “Perhaps it will inspire you to surrender to him prematurely, and then his pleasure in you will be made that much less.”

He left her with the chain wrapped around her fist and no one to strike.

She didn’t trust his departure. Her senses strained into the dark, searching for evidence that she wasn’t alone. But she heard nothing, felt nothing. As for sight—She could discern a hint of the doorway, but the corners of the room were as obscure as pits. When she turned her eyes to the wall behind the bed, however, she was able to make out the source of the scant illumination. Her first guess had been right: the light came from a window not quite perfectly sealed.

Dropping the chain to increase her range of motion, she climbed onto the bed and reached for the window. From that position, she could get her hands on the boards nailed over the frame. Unfortunately, her fingers found no purchase, either at the edges or in the cracks. She tried until her fingertips tore and her self-control threatened to crumble; then, so that she wouldn’t start sobbing, she got down from the bed.

Calm. It was essential to remain calm. To preserve a semblance of calm until it became the real thing. So that she could concentrate although of course it was impossible to translate herself out of here with a chain on her wrist, no, don’t think about things like that, do not. Be calm. Concentrate.

Fade.

Pressing her hands over her face, she sat on the edge of the bed and tried to fade.

She couldn’t do it: she was too angry and scared, deprived of hope. She had the shakes so badly that her heart itself quivered. She had betrayed King Joyse, and Vagel was going to make him howl—Geraden had no way to find her, rescue her. Too many people might still be watching her, concealed behind spyholes, hidden in the corners—

Eremis would come back as soon as he finished with High King Festten.

She needed time to pull herself together.

Searching for calm, she decided to explore the room as far as the chain allowed. What else could she do? Maybe if she failed to find anything she would recover some self-possession.

Shaking badly, and too angry to care whether she looked foolish to a spectator, she moved to the staple holding her chain and from there started to grope her way toward the corner, searching the cold, crude stone with her fingers.

When her hand touched iron in the wall, she nearly flinched.

Iron: another staple.

A short chain fixed to the staple. A manacle.

A wrist in the fetter.

That did make her flinch. She recoiled to the bed, sat down facing the dark. Her breath came in hard gasps.

She had felt a wrist. Skin. A hand that flexed away from her touch.

Another prisoner. Someone was chained in the corner.

Eremis had intended to rape her before witnesses.

Who are you? she panted. For a moment, the words refused to come out of her throat. Almost gagging, she forced them.

“Who are you?”

No answer. Maybe because she was breathing so hard herself, she couldn’t hear any sigh or rustle of life.

“Are you hurt?” That was another possibility. Who could tell what Eremis or Vagel or Gilbur – or Gart – might do to their enemies? If she hadn’t felt skin and movement, she would have been tempted to imagine a skeleton. Or a corpse.

“Can you hear me?” She got off the bed and started along the wall again, slowly, slowly, trying to control her alarm with caution. “Are you all right?”

She found the staple, the short chain. The hand in the manacle tried to avoid her touch. Nevertheless she shifted from the fettered wrist to an arm. It was draped with loose cloth – the sleeve of a cloak? The fabric was rough and warm; worsted, perhaps.

She found a covered shoulder, a bare neck. The shoulder and neck twisted hard, but they couldn’t get away; the other arm must be chained as well. Curse this dark. The prisoner was only a little taller than she was. Although she was near the limit of her own chain, she had no difficulty touching an unshaven face that strained away from her; terrified of her.

“Are you hurt?” she whispered. “Who are you?”

Roughly, he wrenched his head up and sucked a strangled breath through his teeth.

“All right. You’ve found me. They told me not to make a sound, not to let you know I’m here, but this isn’t my fault.”

His voice was familiar to her. His bitterness was familiar.

Nyle. Geraden’s “murdered” brother.

For a moment, she was so glad to find him alive that she could hardly stand. So it was Underwell who had been killed, disfigured; Eremis’ plotting was just as vile as she had believed it must be.

And Nyle was here; had been kept prisoner for how long now? – held in case he were ever needed again against his brother.

“Oh, Nyle,” she whispered in relief and quick nausea, “I’m so sorry. What have they done to you?”

“Same thing they’re going to do to you.” His bitterness was worse than anger; he had gone too far beyond hope. “A kind of rape. I’m just lucky Eremis still wants me alive. Gilbur likes what they call ‘male meat,’ but he has a tendency to kill his toys, so Eremis makes him leave me alone. Most of the time.

“They need me to make sure Geraden doesn’t do something unpredictable. Or King Joyse either, for that matter.”

Oh, Nyle.

She couldn’t stay on her feet. Nausea crowded all the relief out of her. Without thinking, she retreated to the bed, sat down again. For some reason, she wasn’t trembling anymore. But she was going to be so sick—If she let go, she was going to puke her heart out.

“It’s the same reason they’ve got you.” Now that Nyle had begun to talk, he seemed intent on continuing. “Only the details are different. We’re hostages. And bait. We’re here to make sure Geraden and King Joyse do what Eremis wants.

“I actually thought somebody would try to rescue me.” His tone made her want to throw up. Gilbur liked male meat. “But I was wrong. Maybe they’ll forget about you, too. That’s your only hope now – that Eremis made a mistake bringing you here.”

Fighting down bile, she forced herself to say, “Nobody in Orison knew you needed rescuing. Don’t you know what they did? They killed that physician, Underwell. They let monsters eat his face” – don’t think about it, don’t think about it – “they dressed him up to look like you. Everybody thought you were dead.” Because it had to be said, she concluded, “They thought Geraden killed you. You accomplished that, anyway.”

“I know all that.” Nyle coughed thinly, as if he were too weak and beaten to curse. “They sent Gart and a couple of his Apts into the room to knock the guards and Underwell out. So there wouldn’t be any noise. They translated me here. Then they sent some of their creatures to feed on the bodies. They told me all about it.

“Do you think that’s what I wanted? Do you think I had a choice?”

No, it was cruel to accuse him, cruel, he had been Eremis’ prisoner and Gilbur’s for a long time now, and the decisions he had made which had put him here had all been based on King Joyse’s policy of foolish passivity, it wasn’t fair to include him in her anger. Nevertheless she said, “Everybody has a choice.”

She had a choice, didn’t she? She was chained to the wall in the dark, and Eremis intended to use her for his pleasure until her spirit broke, and there was no way she could possibly be rescued, and she still had a choice. Only dead people didn’t make choices.

He coughed again, like a man whose lungs were full of dry rot. She could picture him in his fetters, with his mouth hanging open in his dirty beard and no strength. “You’re wrong,” he murmured when he was finished coughing. “You’re like Elega. You don’t know. I haven’t had a choice about anything since Geraden hit me with that club.”

Oh, great. Terisa barely swallowed a snarl. Now he was going to start blaming Geraden. Her stomach tried to come up; she had to force it down. She had already been harsher than she wanted to be. Instead of pursuing what Nyle said, she asked thickly, “Do you know where we are? Do you know this place?”

“All I wanted to do was save Orison and Mordant.” Maybe he hadn’t heard her. “You can’t say I deserve this. You can think I was wrong, but you can’t say I was being malicious. I wasn’t going to get anything out of it for myself. Not even Elega—Even if I was right, my family was still going to hate me. I was never going to be able to go home again. They all believed in King Joyse personally, not in the ideas that made him a good king – not in the Congery and Orison and Mordant. They were never going to forgive me for betraying their hero, even if everything I did turned out right.

“I didn’t do it for myself.”

“Oh, Nyle,” she breathed softly. “You don’t understand. Of course they’ll forgive you. They’ve already forgiven you.”

But maybe he wasn’t able to hear her. Maybe he had spent too much time helpless, caught in an everlasting reiteration of what he had done and why – and what it had cost – without any way to break out. Instead of reacting to what she said, he continued explaining himself.

Trying to justify himself against the dark.

“But Geraden destroyed me. I know that wasn’t what he wanted, but he set me up for all this. When he came after me, instead of concentrating on Prince Kragen—If he weren’t so determined to have accidents—

“He got me locked up. Like an assassin. Like I was dangerous to all the decent people around me. If I were a farmer who went berserk and started slaughtering his friends and family with an axe, I would have been locked up, but I wouldn’t have been sneered at. I wouldn’t have been despised.

“Don’t you understand? I love King Joyse, too. I always loved him, even though he didn’t let me serve him – even though he didn’t want me around. But some loves are more important than others. He wasn’t interested in my loyalty – and that hurt, because he was so obviously interested in my brothers. Artagel. Geraden. But I could still love his victories, his ideals, his beliefs.

“What do you think I should have done?” For a moment, Nyle’s voice brought a touch of passion into the dark. “Abandon everything that made Mordant valuable for the sake of a failing old man who didn’t care whether I lived or died?

“Then Geraden stopped me, and they threw me in the dungeon. Do you know what that means?” A coughing fit came over him, draining him of intensity. “You should.

“It means I couldn’t get away.

“Artagel came and flaunted his wounds at me. I couldn’t get away. Castellan Lebbick practiced his obscenities on me for quite a while. I couldn’t get away.

“And then Master Eremis came—”

“Nyle, stop.” Terisa didn’t want to hear it. She knew what was coming, and she didn’t want to hear it. “This doesn’t help. You’re just tormenting yourself” All she wanted was some way to contain the horror surging at the back of her throat so that she could concentrate, bring her fury and her dread and her ache for blood into focus. “Do you know where we are?”

“Just like that,” Nyle went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “He just walked into the dungeon. He just unlocked my cell and took me out. I couldn’t get away.” His tone frayed at the edges, worn ragged by bitterness and fatigue and coughing, by anger that didn’t have anywhere else to go. “He took me down the passage a little way. Then he made some kind of gesture, and we were translated here. Into his personal laborium. I couldn’t get away from him.

“Do you know what he did to me?”

“Yes!” Fighting for a defense against pain, Terisa jumped to her feet. “I know.” When she moved, her chain rang lightly against the wall. Quickly, she caught the chain in her fist and swung it harder, made the stone clang. “I know what he did to you.”

Of course, she didn’t truly know: she hadn’t suffered the same experience. But she knew enough – more than she could stomach. Fiercely, she rushed on.

“He showed you a mirror with Houseldon in the Image.” She swung the chain. “And he showed you other mirrors.” The iron links chimed on the wall. “Mirrors with firecats. Mirrors with corrupt wolves. Mirrors with avalanches – mirrors with ghouls.” Each time, she swung the chain harder. “And he made you believe he could bring them all down on your home and family without any warning of any kind if you didn’t do what he wanted. If you didn’t help him turn the Congery against Geraden.”

Panting, gasping, she stood still.

Nyle’s silence was all the acknowledgment she needed.

“So you agreed because you thought you were saving most of the people you loved. And you figured somebody was bound to notice eventually that you weren’t actually dead – which would save Geraden and recoil on Eremis. And somehow you managed to avoid the simple deduction that Eremis knew as much about the flaws in his plans as you did.

“Nyle, you made a choice. Geraden didn’t do this to you. You did it to yourself “

There. Now she had begun attacking people who were manacled to walls, accusing them of bad logic as well as weak moral fiber. As if they had caused the things their enemies did to them. What was she going to do next? Start beating up cripples?

And yet in her own case she had no one to blame but herself for the fact that she had been so slow to distrust Master Eremis, so poor at opposing him.

Out of the dark, Nyle asked in old pain, “What choice did I have? What could I have done?”

Oh, shit. She forced her fingers to release the chain. “You could have refused.”

“Weren’t you listening to yourself?” He had some anger left in him after all. “If I did that, he would have destroyed Houseldon. He would have killed my whole family – everybody I grew up with – my home, all of it.”

“No, Nyle,” she sighed. By degrees, she wrestled down her nausea, her racing pulse, her desire to hurt something. He was going to be hurt badly enough already. She didn’t need to increase the force of the blow. “You’re the one who isn’t listening. He destroyed Houseldon anyway. He burned it to the ground while Geraden and I were there, trying to kill us. Your cooperation didn’t make any difference. You gave yourself away for nothing.”

There. It was said.

Far away from her, Nyle groaned softly, as if she had just slipped a knife between his ribs – as if she had just cut down the defenses, the self-justifications, which kept him alive in his fetters.

She went to him, feeling at once as brutal as a child molester and as vulnerable as a molested child. “Nyle, I’m sorry.” Trying to comfort him, she stroked his face. Her hand came back wet with tears. “We’ll get out of here somehow. Sometime. I’ve talked to your whole family. I know they understand. They know you. They know you wouldn’t betray Geraden unless you were trying to protect them. And it would have worked, if he hadn’t escaped – if he and I hadn’t gone to Houseldon.”

Then, aching like a prayer that no one could overhear her, use what she was about to say against her, she put her mouth close to his ear and whispered, “They’re safe. They all got away. They went to the Closed Fist and dug in. To defend themselves.

“Eremis doesn’t know that.”

Trembling at the risk she had taken, she stepped back to the bed and waited.

Nyle didn’t react. She had no way of knowing whether or not he heard her. But she had done what she could for him. She had needs of her own to take into account. After a while, she returned to her first question – the only one of her questions which he might be in any condition to answer.

“Nyle, do you know where we are?”

After a moment, he took a shuddering breath; he seemed to be raising his head. “Esmerel, I guess. I don’t know. I never saw this place until he brought me here – translated me. But he said it was Esmerel.”

“Nyle” – the casual threat in Master Eremis’ voice was unmistakable – “I told you not to speak to her.”

Stung and urgent, almost panicking, Terisa whirled to face the Master.

But not panicking: she was too angry and hurt and focused for panic.

“Why?” she demanded before she had time to think, time to falter. The Imager’s shape, as vague as Vagel’s, approached her out of the doorway’s deeper black. “You’ve got everything else you want. Why are you doing this to him? He can’t do you any harm.”

“What, my lady?” Eremis drawled. “Questions? Challenges? That is a poor start to our lovemaking.” He sounded confident, immaculately sure of himself – and sharper than he had earlier, as if he had spent his absence enduring petty vexations. “I am surprised that you do not require to know what the High King and I said to each other.”

Terisa brushed his words away. “I don’t care about the High King. I’m talking about Nyle. Why do you need him? Why don’t you let him go?”

Why have you got us chained here together? Why do you want him to know everything you do to me?

Focus. Concentration.

A blank space in the dark, a gap of existence.

Anger and blood.

“For the same reason I need you, my lady.” The Master’s tone was full of mirth and scorn. “To perfect my triumph. Your capture will require my enemies to march against me. They must attempt to rescue the lady Terisa of Morgan and her strange talents. They will form an alliance, or they will not. They will destroy each other, or they will not. Whatever happens, they must come to Esmerel in the end.

“Then I will release Nyle. I am not as harsh as you think me – I do not torment him gratuitously. He will witness what becomes of you while we await your rescuers.” The raw-edged pleasure in his voice went through her like a chill. “And when I am ready, I will send him out to tell them what I have done to you.

“Then Geraden will begin to understand what a burden he has undertaken by opposing me.”

No. Never. Never.

Concentration. Focus.

“You bastard.”

He was near enough to touch her now. He could have hit her. She felt his presence, the pressure he emanated; she thought she could smell his lust. Yet he didn’t hit her. “Come, my lady,” he said as if he were sure of her. “Is that how you speak to the man who will master you?” His hand reached out; one finger stroked the line of her cheek. When she didn’t flinch, he cupped his hand around the base of her neck inside her shirt. Slowly, his grip tightened. “Must I use force to teach you humility?”

A blank space; a gap between them. She was vanishing into the darkness, groping farther and farther away from him; groping—Her mind was full of Images, all of them insubstantial; wishful thinking.

“No,” she said from so far away that he would never be able to possess her. “Take my chain off. Let me show you what I’ve learned from Geraden.”

She made no effort to sound seductive or helpless, to conceal her distance from him.

The trap she set for him was like the one he had prepared for his enemies. Obvious. And irresistible. How could he doubt that he was more than a match for her? that he could control her, coerce her, defeat her whenever he chose? Resistance would only make her final submission the more appalling to her.

Chuckling, he took hold of her arm and clicked the fetter off her wrist.

Because she was so far away, she did nothing to betray herself. And because she was so full of anger, she didn’t hesitate.

Before he could secure his grip, she swung her leg with all her strength and kicked him in the crotch.

He gasped as much in surprise as in pain; recoiled violently from her.

Almost at once, he caught his balance, recovered from the shock and hurt. She wanted to hear him cursing in agony, frothing at the mouth; but he didn’t oblige her. The oath he spat at her was simply vindictive, a promise that she had pushed him too far and was going to suffer for what she did.

Quickly, he jumped forward to capture her, punish her.

But not quickly enough. While he was still on his way toward her, she touched a moment of eternity.

It was hardly longer than the space between one frightened heartbeat and another – yet it was enough. Images coalesced, took on light and shape: dozens of them; chaos and fragments everywhere. She only needed one, however, the sharpest Image, the one with details so precise and unalienable that they might have been acid-cut on her mind.

A sand dune poised in the timeless gap between high winds and nonexistence.

She had no idea where she might have seen that Image before. She didn’t care. As soon as she saw it, she knew it was hers

—and a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen.

Eremis was grappling for her, trying to catch her by the shoulders and strike her at the same time. Only an intuitive reflexive leap enabled him to pull himself out of danger as she faded from him and fell backward into the wall.

Into the light of lamps; onto the floor so heavily that she knocked the breath out of herself.

For a long moment, she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t do anything except gape back up at Adept Havelock, Master Barsonage, and Geraden, who were staring at her as if she had tumbled out of a coffin.

FORTY-THREE: THE ONLY REASONABLE THING TO DO

The light was extraordinary, as life-giving as sunshine. While she waited to breathe, she was content to simply lie where she was and accept the glow of her escape.

Then Geraden let out a whoop and seemed to pounce on her. Oblivious to the fact that she couldn’t inhale, he swept her up into his arms and began to whirl her, crying and laughing, “Terisa! Terisa!” spinning her into a dance of wild joy. His happiness burned so brightly that she clung to his neck and didn’t care whether she was able to breathe or not. If Master Barsonage hadn’t immediately clamped a massive hug around both of them, forced Geraden to stop, he would have carried her careening into the mirrors, shattering glass in all directions.

“Stop,” the mediator panted. “Are you mad? Stop.” He sounded half-delirious himself.

For a moment, her relief and exaltation turned into a convulsive retch for air.

At once, Geraden halted, put her down, held her tightly. “Are you all right? Terisa, are you all right? I couldn’t find you. I couldn’t reach you. I changed a mirror to go looking for you, but I couldn’t find you. I was afraid he had you for good. Oh, love, are you all right?”

She did her best to nod while the knot in her chest loosened enough to let air leak past it. Then she returned his hug, gasping in his ear, clasping him almost savagely because she was still full of impossible translations and promises of murder. After her encounter with Master Eremis, Geraden was so dear to her that she held him as if her heart depended on it.

Geraden. Help me.

He was going to rape me. Just for the fun of it. And to hurt you.

Geraden.

I’m going to kill him.

“My lady,” Adept Havelock said judiciously, as if he had become a completely different person, “that was a very pretty trick. If you can truly do such things, then every action he has taken against you is plainly justified. In his place, I would have done the same.”

“Proof,” murmured Master Barsonage now that he no longer had to protect the Adept’s mirrors. “I would not have believed it. Proof.” He seemed lost in the wonder of his thoughts. “Images are real, independent of their mirrors – independent of Imagery itself. King Joyse has been right all along.”

“Fornicate that uxorious bastard,” replied Havelock, relapsing to normalcy. “A fine time to go kiting off. He should have seen this.”

I’m going to—

Nyle!

“Geraden.” Terisa jerked back, pulled away far enough to meet Geraden’s gaze. He moved to kiss her; the look on her face stopped him. Quickly, so that he would understand, she said, “He’s got Nyle.”

He frowned, instantly sympathetic to her urgency. “We knew that,” he muttered. “Or we guessed it—”

“I’ve seen him.” Well, not seen, exactly; but she was in too much of a hurry to explain. “I’ve talked to him. Eremis has him prisoner. The same place he took me. In Esmerel.” Eremis wanted him to watch what he did to me. So you would be hurt as much as possible. “We’ve got to get him out of there. He’s—”

She almost said, He’s being destroyed. Eremis is breaking his spirit.

“She changed the Image,” Master Barsonage went on, caught in a kind of rapture. “Across that distance, she took a glass with an Image which did not contain her, and she shifted it until the Image did contain her. Geraden could not have done it. Flat mirrors are not his talent. And she could not have done such a thing if she were not independently real. It is inconceivable that a woman created in a mirror could have power greater than the mirror – and the Image – that created her.”

“Who cares?” retorted the Adept happily. “She’s female. That’s the point. We can’t trust her. We can’t trust him.” He sounded like a doting uncle. “Look at him. He’s as bad as Joyse. He’s ready to die for her. If things get dangerous, he’ll save her instead of us.”

She and Geraden weren’t listening. As she caught herself, they both turned automatically to look at the mirror which had brought her back to Adept Havelock’s rooms.

Its Image was dark, almost impenetrably black. Maybe she could have discerned a shape or two – the bed? the doorway? – if she had been given time; but before she could study the Image it began to melt away. Light bled into the darkness; the potential for obscure shapes became mounded sand. In a moment, the glass had resumed its natural scene, the desertscape for which it had been formed. A breeze was starting to blow, lifting delicate curls of sand from the rim of the dune.

“Nyle!” A new pain shot through her, a loss she hadn’t anticipated. “He was there. In that room. We could have reached him – rescued him—”

Holding himself steady, Geraden murmured, “It takes effort to make that shift. As soon as you relaxed, as soon as you let go, the fundamental Image came back.

“That must have been what happened the second day you were here, when you saw the Closed Fist in a flat glass.” It was obvious now that he was talking simply to help her, give her something to think about until she grew calmer. “You were so surprised to find the Closed Fist in my glass that you instinctively recreated the Image in the nearest flat mirror. But as soon as Eremis and I distracted you, you let go, and the fundamental Image came back.”

Came back. She remembered, in spite of her distress. That Image had come back in time to let her see the Perdon’s men being attacked by rapacious black spots which chewed their hearts out.

And Vagel had said that so far High King Festten’s only satisfaction has been the annihilation of the Perdon.

Curse them all. Damn every one of them.

“A simple matter,” commented Havelock. He sounded as lunatic as ever, but somehow he clung to a pragmatic grasp on the situation. “Restore the change. You’ve been in that room. Bring the Image back, and we’ll rescue Nyle.”

He’s chained, Terisa protested inwardly. They aren’t going to just stand there and let us cut him loose.

Nevertheless she faced the flat glass at once, tried to push panic and doubt and urgency out of her mind, tried to recapture the particular dark where Eremis had held her prisoner—

She couldn’t do it. She was too frantic; her concentration was too badly frayed. She couldn’t so much as remember what the bed was like, how far away the doorway was, where the staples which had held her chain and Nyle’s were in relation to each other. And without a precise Image in her mind—

Geraden put an arm around her. “It isn’t your fault. It’s just impossible.” His tone was soft, soothing; it had an undercurrent of misery and yearning, which he suppressed. He must have been through horror of his own while she was away – he must be frantic to rescue Nyle – but he put himself aside for her sake. “That’s why he keeps the important parts of Esmerel dark. That’s why I wasn’t able to come after you. If you shift the mirror now, you won’t know if you’ve got exactly the right piece of darkness. And if you’re wrong we might all be killed. You might produce an Image that’s actually inside a mountain somewhere, and as soon as you do any kind of translation we’ll have a few million tons of rock to deal with. You need light.”

Hugging her, he repeated, “It isn’t your fault. We’ll get him out some other way.”

There was no authority in his voice, no unexpected strength. All he was trying to do at the moment was comfort her. And yet she found that she believed him. We’ll get him out some other way. He meant it, the same way she meant, I’m going to kill him.

Slowly, the panic in her muscles receded, and she slumped against him, mutely asking him to hold her until she had time to recover.

“Geraden is right, I think.” Apparently, Master Barsonage had returned from his exaltation. “Master Eremis is cunning. Darkness is a ploy to which no Imager has ever found an answer. Even the crudest translations require light. Do not blame yourself, my lady. Already your achievements seem quite miraculous.”

All right. All right. She could never fight if she let herself collapse like this. She couldn’t reach Nyle: all right. She could still think. Eremis had violated her with his hands. Think. He had come close to doing much worse things – but she got away. It was possible to think; choose; act. Just start somewhere. Geraden still held her. The way his arms supported her was more miraculous than any translation. He had no more intention of abandoning Nyle than she did. All right.

Start somewhere.

She took a shuddering breath. “I don’t understand. How did I do it? I was on the wrong side of the glass. I didn’t think it was possible for something in an Image to translate itself out.”

Geraden tightened his hug. It was the mediator who answered, however.

“The Adept did that, my lady. The idea was Geraden’s, but he can do nothing with flat glass.

“You are right. We know of no way for what is in an Image to translate itself out. Even for us – for Imagers of talent who have shaped the mirrors – entering a glass is nearly effortless, but bringing what is in the Image out requires gestures, invocations – a particular way of concentrating the Imager’s talent. After all, the mirror itself is here, not where you were.

“Yet when the Image in this glass shifted from sand to darkness, we could hardly fail to notice the fact. And Geraden guessed that the shift was your doing. And Havelock is an Adept. We are fortunate” – Barsonage smiled sourly – “that he is in a mood which allows him to react to events reasonably. After Geraden had made himself understood, the Adept performed the translation which rescued you.”

With startling clarity, Terisa felt Master Eremis springing toward her through the dark, remembered his attack. As if she were panicking, she broke away from Geraden. But she wasn’t panicking; she may have lost the capacity for panic altogether.

Before Havelock could try to avoid her, she caught her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Just for a second, the mad old Imager’s eyes came together; he grinned at her like an ecstatic boy. It was amazing, really, how easily she was able to forgive him for failing to help her against Master Gilbur.

Almost at once, however, his gaze split again; his nose jutted fiercely, like a promise of violence. Fortunately, he didn’t try to say anything.

He didn’t try to stop her when she turned back to Geraden.

Geraden was watching her hungrily. For the first time, she realized that he had tears streaming down his face.

This clear sight of him made her stop. He had known the danger she was in. While she was Eremis’ prisoner, he had been here – cut off—She could picture him desperately trying to bridge the gap—

Abruptly, she locked an embrace around him. “Oh, love,” she breathed, aching for him. “You changed a mirror. You must have gone crazy trying to reach me.”

Geraden held her hard; but again it was Master Barsonage who answered. “Our Geraden has proved to be nearly as great a source of wonders as you are, my lady.” He sounded steady, but behind his self-control she could hear a tremor of pride and vindication. “Of course, we knew of his ability to perform astonishing things with his own glass. For that reason, in some sense we were not surprised when Orison’s enemies contrived the destruction of his mirror.”

In shock, Terisa stiffened. The destruction—? Her link with her home was gone.

Then how—?

“Without his glass,” the mediator continued, “we believed he would be helpless. But he has shown himself an Adept in his own right, at least where normal mirrors are concerned.” Barsonage indicated a curved glass beside the flat desertscape. “He imposed an Image of Esmerel there and used it to search for you. Only the ploy of darkness prevented him from reaching you.”

As she absorbed the mediator’s words, her dismay lifted. “You can do that?” She was so pleased that she pushed back again to look into Geraden’s anguish. “You’re an Adept as well as in Imager? That’s wonderful!” Suddenly, she was so furious that it felt like ecstasy. “Heaven help that bastard. We’ll tear him to pieces.”

Her passion seemed to give him what he needed. She could see him shrug away his failure to rescue her, his helplessness to rescue Nyle. The lines of his face grew sharper; his eyes cast hints of fire.

“It won’t be easy. Esmerel is two days away on a good horse. Prince Kragen thinks High King Festten has at least twenty thousand men. Not to mention all the abominations Eremis can translate. They can still use flat glass whenever they want – and we don’t know how they do it.” He wasn’t trying to daunt her. He was simply bringing up problems in order to solve them.

“I don’t care about any of that,” she replied in the same spirit. “They’ve got Nyle. They’ve got the Queen. High King Festten is there. Eremis talked to him this morning. They’ve destroyed the Perdon. Annihilated is the word Vagel used. They’re destroying Sternwall and Fayle. And it’s just going to get worse.” Tersely, she explained what the arch-Imager and Master Eremis had revealed about the speed, precision, and flexibility they had achieved with mirrors. While Geraden scowled at the information, and Master Barsonage blinked in consternation, she concluded, “We’ve got to stop him before he goes any further.”

The mediator started to ask a question, then subsided. But Geraden accepted her explanation without wincing. When she was done, he said, “There’s one more thing. King Joyse is gone.”

Gone—?

“I mean really gone. Adept Havelock says he flew away.” Geraden glanced dubiously at the mad old Imager. “I don’t know what that means. But the last we heard no one’s been able to find him.”

“Then who’s in charge?” Orison without King Joyse: the concept was strangely appalling. His absence was a pit yawning at her feet. “This whole thing was his idea. He wanted to fight Eremis this way. Who’s giving the orders now?”

Geraden didn’t flinch: he had regained his feet; felt as combative as she did. “We don’t know. We’ve been down here most of the time. Probably nobody knows where to find us.” He hesitated, then said, “With King Joyse gone and Castellan Lebbick dead, the whole place may be collapsing.” Another flicker of hesitation. “They may have turned on the Prince.”

That was true. Terisa imagined riots storming through the upper levels of the castle; panic and bloodshed. It was conceivable that Orison might destroy itself.

She wheeled on Adept Havelock.

“Where is he? This was his idea. Your idea. Curse that old man, we need him.”

A sick feeling rose in her stomach as she saw Havelock hunch forward with conspiratorial glee; his eyes nearly gyrated in opposite directions, rapacious and loony. He crooked a finger at her, summoning her near, as if he wanted to tell her a secret.

She didn’t move; nevertheless he reacted as if she had come closer to hear him.

“I have seen an Image,” he whispered, “an Image, an Image. In which the women are peculiar. Their tits are on their backs. Because of this, they look very strange. But it must be delightful to embrace them.”

Grinning, he concluded, “He came to me and commanded. Commanded. What could I do? I don’t know how to beg.” His manner didn’t change, yet without transition his tone turned fierce. “I have said it and said it. Hop-board pieces are men. Women make everything impossible.”

Terisa wanted to swear at him – and give him a hug as if he needed comforting. Torn between anger and pity, she faced Geraden and Master Barsonage again. She included the mediator in what she was saying, but all of her attention and intensity were focused on Geraden.

“We’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

Both men nodded, Barsonage willingly, Geraden in passion and approval.

“Somebody has got to figure out what King Joyse intended to do now and make sure it gets done.”

Master Barsonage hesitated. Geraden nodded again.

To the Master, she said, “We’ll explain as soon as we get the chance. King Joyse set this all up. It’s all deliberate.” Then she took hold of Geraden’s arm.

Clasping each other hard, they strode away into the passage which led to the storeroom, out of Adept Havelock’s quarters.

Master Barsonage followed them quickly. The bristling of his eyebrows and the frown of his concentration gave him a look of unfamiliar certainty.

Behind them, Havelock picked up his feather duster and went back to cleaning his already immaculate mirrors. The particular glass he chose to work on now happened to show the Image in which he had found the flying brown cloud that he had used against Prince Kragen’s catapults.

Like Castellan Lebbick, he had been abandoned.

He didn’t seem to be aware that he was weeping like a child.

Terisa, Geraden, and Master Barsonage heard weeping, especially in the lower levels of the castle, where most of Orison’s newer occupants had been crowded: small children; frightened women; helpless oldsters and invalids. They heard shouts of alarm and fear, cries of protest and distrust. They heard blows. Once they saw several guards raise the butts of their pikes to strike at men who wanted to break out of a closed corridor. The men cursed and pleaded as they were forced back; the rumor of Gart’s attack had reached them, and they wanted to clear a path for their families out of Orison before Cadwal’s army arrived from nowhere to butcher them all.

But there was no sign of a riot.

Instead of rioting, the castle was full of guards. They were everywhere, blocking the movement of people and panic, controlling access to crucial passages or stairs or doors, facing down farmers and merchants and servants and stonemasons who wanted to attack or flee with their loved ones because Orison had been penetrated.

“Who is in command?” Master Barsonage demanded of the guards. “Where is King Joyse?”

The answer was, Pissed if I know. Or the equivalent.

“Where did you get your orders?” asked Geraden.

That was easier. Norge. Castellan Lebbick’s second.

For the moment, the fact that Norge was actually only one of the Castellan’s seconds-in-command seemed unimportant. The point was that power still existed in Orison. It was being held together by someone from whom the guards were willing to take orders. Someone with enough credibility to be obeyed during an emergency.

Norge himself? What gave him precedence over the other captains? Who gave him precedence?

A Master of the Congery? Impossible. Never in the mediator’s absence.

One of King Joyse’s counselors? One of Orison’s lords? Unlikely.

Prince Kragen himself? Inconceivable.

Artagel?

Was the situation so bad that no one could be found to take charge except Geraden’s independent-minded and slightly crippled brother?

Terisa wanted to run. She would have run if Geraden hadn’t held her back.

As she and her companions left the castle’s lower levels, however, Orison’s mood improved. Here the halls were under better control; less frightened by the possibility of an attack by Imagery. Soon a guard appeared who saluted the mediator. “Master Barsonage,” he panted. Apparently, he had come running from the Imager’s quarters. “Geraden. The lady Terisa?” He knew enough about the day’s events to be surprised. “You’re wanted in the King’s rooms.”

The King’s rooms? Terisa and Geraden and Master Barsonage stopped in their tracks.

“The audience hall is no longer safe,” explained the guard.

“Who wants us?” demanded Barsonage instantly.

Breathing hard, the guard replied, “My lord Tor. He says he’s taken command. In the King’s absence. He and Norge. Norge is the new Castellan.”

The Tor. Terisa felt a surge of energy. Bless that old man!

“What about Prince Kragen?” she asked.

The guard hesitated as if he were unsure of how much he should say. After a moment, however, he answered, “It’s just a rumor. I was told my lord Tor offered him an alliance.”

Geraden let out a fierce cheer.

Together, he and Terisa started into a run.

Master Barsonage took time to pursue the question. “What was the Prince’s reply?”

The guard said, “I don’t know.”

Barsonage did his best to catch up with Terisa and Geraden.

In the King’s tower, more guards joined them, escorted them upward. Guards swept the King’s doors open; Terisa, Geraden, and the mediator went in. For the sake of dignity – not to mention caution – they slowed their pace as they entered.

The King’s formal apartment was just the way she remembered it – richly appointed, paneled blond, carpeted in blue and red. She hardly noticed the furnishings, however. Although there were only eight or ten men – most of them captains – in the room, it seemed crowded; too full of anxiety and passion, conflict.

Before the door closed, she heard Prince Kragen’s voice blare like a trumpet, “I will not do it!”

Her chest tightened. She found suddenly that she was breathing harder than she had realized. The Prince’s shout seemed to throb around her, and the hope she had felt at the idea of an alliance began to curdle.

On one side of Prince Kragen stood Artagel, close enough to react to what the Prince did, far enough away to dissociate himself from the Alend Contender. On the other side was a captain Terisa didn’t know. Norge?

All three of them had their backs to the doors. Each in his separate way, they confronted the chair where King Joyse used to sit when he played hop-board.

There sat the Tor, slumping over his great belly as if he were barely able to keep himself from oozing out of the position he had assumed.

“The alternatives you propose,” the old lord was saying as if he were in a kind of pain which had nothing to do with Prince Kragen, “are intolerable.” He had a hand over his face. “I will not permit you to occupy Orison, making us little more than a hostage population. I do not call that an alliance.”

“And I do not call it an alliance to wait outside in danger while you sit here in safety,” retorted the Prince hotly.” If – no, when High King Festten marches against us – we will be helpless while you remain secure, watching the outcome. We must be allowed to enter Orison. I will not remain where I am, waiting for King Joyse to return – if he ever does return – and tell me his pleasure – if his pleasure involves anything more productive than a game of hop-board.”

The Tor didn’t look strong enough to raise his head. “I understand your dilemma, my lord Prince. Of course I do. But you cannot believe that Orison’s people – or Orison’s defenders – will sit quietly on their hams while Alend takes power over them. I have already said that I will open the gates to you if you—”

“No!” Prince Kragen barked. “Do you take me for a fool? I have no intention of making Orison’s people hostage. I will grant them precisely as much freedom and respect as the necessary crowding of so many bodies permits. But I will not submit my forces to your authority.”

Orison’s captains muttered restively. Some of them were viscerally incensed at the idea of an alliance with Alend. And some of them had noticed Geraden and Master Barsonage – had noticed Terisa—

“My lords!” Geraden cut in sharply. His voice carried potential authority across the room; and a thrill prickled suddenly down Terisa’s back. “There’s no need to argue about waiting. We’re done waiting. It’s time to march!”

The Tor snatched his hand down from his face, peered bleary pain and desire at Terisa and Geraden. Artagel wheeled with joy already catching fire across his features. Norge turned more cautiously; but Prince Kragen spun like Artagel, his swarthy face congested with conflicting needs.

“Terisa! My lady!” Artagel crowed. “Geraden! By the stars, you did it!” As if he had never been injured in his life, he caught Geraden in an exuberant bearhug, lifted him off his feet, then dropped him to snatch up Terisa’s hand and kiss it hugely. “Every time I see you, you’re even more wonderful!”

She wanted to hug him, but she was distracted; there were too many other things going on. The captains were shouting encouragement to each other, or demanding silence. And the Tor had risen to his feet. Unsteadily, almost inaudibly, he murmured her name, Geraden’s. “You are indeed wondrous.” He spoke huskily, as if he were dragging his voice along the bottom of a cave. “There must be hope for us after all, if such blows can be struck against our enemies.”

Prince Kragen was right behind Artagel; he grabbed Geraden by the shoulders when Artagel dropped him. “How did you do it?” the Prince demanded. “How did you rescue her? What has changed? Where is King Joyse? Did you say march?”

Somehow, Norge made himself heard through the hubbub. His laconic tone sounded so incongruous that it had to be heeded.

“You got away, my lady. What did you learn from him?

“What did you do to him?”

In the stark silence which followed, a moment passed before she understood the point of his question.

With her chin jutting unconsciously, she met the hot and eager and worried stares of the men around her. “I didn’t do anything to him.” I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even hurt him. “But I learned enough.”

Too quickly for anyone to interrupt her, she added, “Before Gilbur killed him, I had a long talk with Master Quillon. He told me what King Joyse has been doing all this time. Why he’s been acting like a passive fool. What he wanted to accomplish. Geraden is right. It’s time to march.”

In response, the room burst into tumult. Only Prince Kragen had been given any hint of the things she knew; and he had only heard pieces of the story from Geraden under the influence of too much wine, not from her. For a man like the Tor, who had spent so many miserable days praying that his besotted and stubborn loyalty would prove valuable in the end, her words must have struck as heavily as a blow. Norge and Prince Kragen and Artagel were surprised; Master Barsonage and the captains, astonished. But the Tor’s cheeks turned the color of wet flour, and he sank down in King Joyse’s chair as if his heart were being torn out.

Urgently, Terisa pushed between Artagel and Prince Kragen, hurried to the lord. “Get him some wine!” she called. “Oh, shit. He’s having a heart attack.

“My lord Tor. Are you all right?”

His hands fluttered against the arms of the chair. For a moment, he gagged as if he were choking; under his lowered eyelids, his eyes rolled wildly. Then, however, he took a breath that made all his fat quiver. He raised one hand to his chest, knotted it in his robe; and his head lifted as if he were pulling it up by main strength.

“Do not be alarmed, my lady,” he wheezed thinly. “The difficulty is only that I have pawned all I am for him. I have made myself contemptible for the belief that my King would at last prove worthy of service.” With remarkable celerity, one of the captains brought forward a flagon of wine. The Tor accepted it and gulped a drink. Then torment clenched his features. “Did you truly mean to suggest that he has been acting according to a plan – that the things he has done have had a purpose?”

“Yes,” she avowed at once, despite the fact that at the moment she would cheerfully have wrung King Joyse’s neck. “He didn’t know you would come here. You heard him say you defy prediction.” The explanation Master Quillon had given her wasn’t good enough to justify the cost King Joyse had exacted from men like Castellan Lebbick and the Tor, from his daughters, from Geraden and everybody else who loved him. “His plans didn’t include you. He didn’t mean to hurt you.” For the time being, she supported the King, not because she approved of what he had done, but because he had left her no alternative.

“All this time, he’s been working to save Mordant.”

Until now. That thought was enough to turn the edges of her vision black with bitterness. King Joyse put his people through the anguish of the doomed. And just when events arrived at the point when he could have safely explained his policy, safely given at least that much meaning or justification to the people he had hurt, he chose to disappear. To go kiting off, as Adept Havelock had said.

Nevertheless she took his side as if she had never doubted him.

“He didn’t know who the renegades were – the Imagers who were willing to translate abominations against people who couldn’t defend themselves. He didn’t know where they made their mirrors, where they built their power.”

When she began, she was speaking to the Tor alone; she hadn’t intended to address the entire gathering. But King Joyse’s intentions carried her further than her own. As she spoke, her voice rose, and she turned partly away from the Tor to include everyone in the room.

“He knew they needed soldiers to back up their Imagery. Imagery can destroy, but rule requires manpower. But he didn’t know what alliances they might have made, with Cadwal or Alend. There was only one thing he could be sure of. As long as he was the strongest ruler here – as long as Mordant was strong enough to fight back both Cadwal and Alend – the renegades would leave him alone. They would chip away at the Alend Lieges, or find a way to swallow Cadwal – but they would leave him alone. Until they were too strong to be stopped.”

She had to raise her voice more, until she was nearly, shouting. That was the only way she could control her frustration and grief. He had smiled at her so gloriously that she would have done anything for him. And he had caused so much pain—

“The only way he could find out who they were, how they worked, where their power was before they grew too strong – the only way he could bring them out into the open – was to make himself weak. He had to convince everybody, everybody, that he had lost his will, his sense, his determination. He had to make himself the only reasonable target.

“So that they would attack here.

“So that he would have a chance to stop them. A chance to surprise them by turning their own traps against them.”

She had ruined that, of course. She had warned Eremis. Her bitterness included herself: she hadn’t earned the right to be self-righteous. Yet her culpability only made her more determined.

“That’s what we have to do. I don’t know why he isn’t here. He’s been working toward this moment for years. I don’t know why he’s abandoned us now.” If he went to rescue Queen Madin—That was understandable, but it didn’t help. At that distance, he wouldn’t be able to return until long after the battle was decided. Terisa made an effort to steady herself, calm her raw anger. “It doesn’t matter. We’re still here. We still have to save Orison and Mordant.

“We don’t have any choice. He hasn’t left us any choice. The only thing we can do is what he would do if he were here. We’ve got to march.”

The room was still; the men around her listened with all their senses, avidly. Geraden’s face shone as if nothing could stop him now. Artagel nodded to himself happily. Prince Kragen’s eyes were dark with dismay and calculation – and with something else, which might have been eagerness. Master Barsonage gaped, his mouth hanging open; he gave the impression that he was reeling inside.

“March,” muttered the Tor, struggling to straighten his spine against the back of his chair. “ ‘So that they would attack here.’ My old friend. How I must have hurt you.”

Finally, however, it was Norge who asked the obvious question.

“March where, my lady?”

She was so full of pressure that she could hardly articulate the word:

“Esmerel.”

At once, Geraden supported her. “That’s Eremis’ family seat. Apparently, that’s where he has his laborium. That’s where he and Gilbur took her. And Vagel is there. Gart is there. Cadwal is there. Eremis consulted with the High King there this morning.

“That’s where we need to strike.”

Terisa was thinking, In the Care of Tor. Where those riders with the red fur and the hate-filled eyes had come from to attack her and Geraden. No wonder they had been mounted on horses with tack from the Tor’s Care.

The old lord’s mind was running in a completely different direction, however. “That explains it, then,” he rumbled.

He braced himself upright with an arm on one side, an elbow on the other. Canted in this posture as if his weight were about to overturn the chair, he muttered, “That is why he told Lebbick to do whatever he wanted to her. He had to appear weak – had to seem like he had lost his reason. He had to persuade me. If I had failed to believe him, I could have betrayed him to Eremis.

“At the same time, he sent Master Quillon to remove her from the dungeon, so that no one would suffer from his feigned weakness – so that Lebbick would not have a crime on his heart – so that she would not be harmed.

“At last I understand.”

The Tor looked like a man whose hands had just been released from thumbscrews.

“And we have another reason to march now,” Geraden went on in a tone which Terisa would have found impossible to refuse. “In Esmerel, the lady Terisa discovered Nyle alive.”

That announcement snatched most of the eyes in the room to him. Something in Artagel leaped up: his expression was as keen as a honed blade.

“I didn’t kill him.” Geraden spoke through his teeth, restraining outrage. Now he didn’t need the strange authority which sometimes came to him: his bone-bred passion was enough. “I never lifted a hand against him. Eremis forced his help by threatening my family. Our family,” he said to the sharpness in Artagel’s face. “Nyle pretended I stabbed him. Then Eremis carried him off. He called for the physician Underwell, who was almost exactly Nyle’s size and coloring. He had Underwell butchered by creatures of Imagery. Then he dressed Underwell in Nyle’s clothes to make it look like I came back to finish what I started.”

This was news to the Tor, as well as to the captains. They stared at Geraden in undisguised astonishment.

“But Nyle is still alive. Eremis has him chained to a wall in Esmerel. To use against me if I ever try to fight him.

“I’m a son of the Domne.” Geraden held himself powerfully still. “My family have been dear and loyal friends to King Joyse and Mordant from the beginning, and I want my brother rescued!”

Yes! Terisa said with the way she lifted her head, the way she carried herself. Yes.

“It’s a simple question, really,” Artagel drawled into the silence when Geraden was finished. His nonchalant manner contrasted dramatically with the flame of combat in his eyes. “As my lady Terisa says, we don’t have any choice. We’ve already let the Perdon be destroyed.” His stance was casual, but his hands curled as if they ached to hold a sword. “If we don’t return to King Joyse’s policy of supporting his lords – and do it soon – we’ll lose everything that holds Mordant together, whether Eremis and Festten beat us or not. Everything that made Mordant worthwhile will be gone.”

Terisa smiled at him. She was trying to express thanks, gratitude; but the tension in her muscles made her grin too fierce for that.

The Tor took a deep breath, then gasped. The flagon dropped from his hand, spilling wine across the rug; but he didn’t notice it. He looked at Norge, nearly squinting to get his eyes into focus; he looked at Prince Kragen.

“I am content.” His voice was flat, curiously unresonant. Apparently, Gart’s kick still pained him. “Let us call the matter settled. Tomorrow we will march against Master Eremis in Esmerel.”

Terisa wanted to applaud until she heard Prince Kragen rasp, “No.”

“My lord Prince?” A fine dew of sweat covered the Tor’s forehead.

“I am not content.” Kragen chewed the words under his moustache as if they were gristle and gall. “I do not call the matter settled. You have proposed an alliance – on which we have been utterly unable to agree. Now you announce your intention to march away on a fool’s mission. Is it your intention that Alend should march with you?” His tone sounded oddly conflicted to Terisa, at once furious and hungry, as if his passion had another name than the one he chose to give it. “Is that what an alliance means to you now? Do you believe that the Alend Monarch will be content to let all his strength commit suicide beside you, for no other reason than because you have decided to die insanely?”

Artagel started to retort; Geraden stopped him.

“You have a better idea, my lord Prince?” Geraden asked. His voice made Terisa shiver: it was thick with hinted promises or threats.

“Of course!” the Prince snapped. “An alliance here. In Orison. Let the High King come against us here and do his worst. Together, we will withstand him.”

“What about Nyle?” demanded Artagel, unable to restrain himself.

Geraden ignored his brother. “I don’t think so,” he answered Prince Kragen. “Eremis doesn’t need to come here. He can attack us anywhere by Imagery. While we stay in one place, any place, we’re powerless, vulnerable. Without risking one Cadwal, he can fill Orison with enough horrors to leave even you screaming, my lord Prince. The only reason he hasn’t done it so far is that he isn’t ready. Wasn’t ready. All he needed is time. He’s ready now. If we don’t carry the fight to him now, High King Festten and his twenty thousand men won’t have to do anything except come here at their leisure and clean out the ruins. We’ll all be dead or scattered.”

As well as she could, Terisa controlled her frustration at Prince Kragen, her fear of the things she remembered. “Eremis—” she said, then swallowed hard to steady herself. “Eremis knows how to use flat glass safely. He’s discovered an oxidate which lets him translate a flat glass into a curved one, so that whatever is in the curved Image can be translated straight to whatever is in the flat Image.”

Master Barsonage and Geraden had had time to absorb this information. They didn’t flinch. And they didn’t interrupt her.

“Didn’t Geraden tell you?” she asked the Prince. “Eremis dropped an avalanche out of nowhere onto Vale House. That’s how he was able to kidnap Queen Madin. And he has a flat mirror with the audience hall in the Image. He could bring an avalanche in there right now if he wanted to. And we know he has at least two other mirrors that show parts of Orison. His rooms. That place in the lower levels – near the dungeons. Maybe he has more.

“But that’s not all. Vagel – the arch-Imager Vagel – has devised a system that allows him to create specific Images deliberately, instead of by trial and error.”

Despite the fact that she had already told Master Barsonage this, the mediator looked like he was on the brink of apoplexy.

“And Gilbur has the talent to make mirrors quickly,” Terisa continued. “Together, they can shape enough Images to attack Orison anywhere, anytime.

“Eremis is ready now. It isn’t suicide to march. It’s suicide to stay here.”

A murmur rose from the captains – agreement, worry, caution.

“Perhaps.” For a moment, Prince Kragen’s eagerness seemed to outweigh his outrage. “Perhaps in that, you are right.” As if by an act of will, however, he brought back his indignation. “Yet if it is madness to remain here, it is not therefore sane to march against Esmerel.”

He glanced at the Tor. Briefly, he appeared to consider addressing his challenge to Terisa. But at last he turned to Geraden and Artagel, drawn to them by the blood-claim of Nyle’s imprisonment – and by Geraden’s new stature.

Dangerously calm, he inquired, “You have some acquaintance with Esmerel, I suppose?”

Artagel nodded without hesitation. Geraden said distinctly, “Some.”

“I have heard reports of the terrain. Who will be favored in a battle there?”

“Good question,” Norge observed equably.

Artagel grinned. “Whoever gets there first. The entrenched forces can pick their ground. It’s a trap for whoever arrives second.”

Geraden shook his head, dismissing the issue. “Why do you think Eremis chose that place, my lord Prince? You didn’t think it was an accident. You didn’t think High King Festten drove twenty thousand men there just for the pleasure of annihilating the Perdon.”

“No, Geraden” – Prince Kragen allowed himself a snarl of sarcasm – “I did not think it was an accident. It is your thinking I question, not my own. Did you not hear Artagel use the word trap? You say that Nyle is intended as a hostage against you. Is he not also intended as bait? A march to Esmerel is precisely the action Eremis wishes us to take.”

“Of course,” Geraden retorted.

“That’s one reason I was captured,” commented Terisa. “More bait. Eremis wanted to have me where I couldn’t hurt him.” He wanted to rape me. He wanted to break Geraden. “But he also wanted to make sure you went to Esmerel. All of you.”

“Everything he’s ever done us to us is a trap,” Geraden continued. “that’s his great strength – and his great weakness.”

“And you still believe we should go?” Prince Kragen’s protest was an inextricable mixture of excitement and fury. “Knowing he has set this trap to destroy us, you believe that we should accommodate him – that we should rush to put our necks in his noose for him? Geraden, you are mad.” Wheeling toward the Tor, he unleashed a shout. “My lord, this is madness!”

The Tor sat in his chair like a lump of stale dough and waited for Geraden’s answer.

To Terisa’s surprise, Geraden started laughing.

His laughter was like Artagel’s grin: bloody-minded; ready for battle.

“That’s King Joyse’s method. His policy. Don’t you understand? He sets his traps inside Eremis’. If he were here to spring them himself, it would make your head reel. But he isn’t here, so we’ve got to do it for him. We’ve got to put our necks in Eremis’ noose – and then take it away from him. We’ve got to walk into his trap and turn it against him.”

Prince Kragen stared as if Geraden were breaking out in boils. So flabbergasted that his sarcasm deserted him, he asked, “How—? How do you think we can do that? He has at least twenty thousand men. He has Imagery. He has the terrain. He has at least one hostage. How can we possibly turn his trap against him?”

No longer laughing, Geraden replied, “By being stronger than he expects.”

When Geraden said that, Terisa permitted herself a sigh of relief. Master Barsonage jerked up his head, listening intently. The Tor brushed a hand through the sweat on his forehead, then rubbed his fingers on his robe.

“How?” Prince Kragen pursued, nearly whispering. “In what way are we stronger than he expects?”

Geraden shrugged. “For one thing, there’s no way he could have planned for Terisa’s talent – or mine either. That’s why he’s worked so hard to distract us, confuse us, keep us guessing. He didn’t know what he was up against – and he didn’t want us to find out what we can do. He couldn’t possibly know I’m an Adept, of a certain kind. I can shift the Images in normal mirrors, whether I made them or not.”

“That is true,” Master Barsonage averred. “I have witnessed it.”

“And Terisa is even more powerful,” Geraden went on. “What I do with curved glass, she can do with flat mirrors. And she’s an arch-Imager. She can pass through flat glass without losing her mind. And she can use her talent across incredible distances. That’s how she escaped. From as far away as Esmerel, she shifted a mirror here until she was in the Image. Then Adept Havelock translated her out of danger.”

“That also is true.” The mediator of the Congery seemed to be taking bulk with every passing moment, growing larger or more substantial as the tenets of Imagery were altered. “I have witnessed it.

“And I am another way in which we are stronger than Master Eremis expects.”

Prince Kragen swung to face Master Barsonage. Geraden and Artagel turned. Terisa studied the Tor to be sure he was holding himself together, then directed her attention to the mediator.

“I mean that the Congery is stronger,” Barsonage amended as if his own certainty surprised him. “We have not been held in much esteem. Why should we be? Generally, we are little more than a body of discontented ditherers. And all our actions in defense of Mordant – and of ourselves – went awry. Oh, the augury we cast for Mordant’s future was well done. On the other hand, the summoning of our champion was a disaster. Why should anyone esteem us? We did not esteem ourselves enough to preserve our own usefulness after we saw how badly we had gone wrong with our champion.

“But then we learned of Geraden’s talent – and of the lady Terisa’s. That restored us immeasurably. We did not know whether these new talents would be used to harm or benefit us. No, Artagel,” he digressed, “even after your explanations, we still had room for doubt. But we knew now that our work was vital – that we had unleashed forces which only we could support or oppose – that the Congery had at last come into its own significance.

“Therefore we set to work as we had never worked before.

“And now we have been vindicated.” That was the linchpin of Master Barsonage’s new sureness. “We have been given proof that King Joyse was always in the right – that Images possess their own full independent reality, that the things we see in mirrors are not created by Imagery. The Congery’s establishment has been justified.” He was elevated by clarity; his face shone. “The translations of Master Eremis and Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel are not merely evil in their consequences, but also in their means.”

“The point,” growled Prince Kragen. “Come to the point.”

“My lord Prince,” the mediator announced, “my lord Tor, Master Eremis is ready. That is evident. The Congery is ready also. In the name of King Joyse – and of Mordant’s need – we are prepared to do battle at your side against Esmerel.”

“How?” The Prince had an unflagging interest in that question. “What can you do?”

Master Barsonage’s smile bore an unfamiliar resemblance to a smirk. “My lord Prince, you have not agreed to an alliance. For that reason, I will not discuss our weapons with you. But two things I will tell you. First, our weapons violate none of the strictures which King Joyse has placed upon the Congery. And second” – he paused for a moment of frank self-congratulation – “until weapons are necessary, we can supply the march to Esmerel.”

Prince Kragen’s mouth formed the word supply without a sound.

“We cannot translate men, of course,” the mediator explained, “but we are prepared to move food, swords, bedding, or tents in whatever quantity you require. You will be able to travel without supply-wains, without the vast entourage of camp followers and porters which slows you. You will be able to reach Esmerel more swiftly than Master Eremis can possibly guess.

“My lord Prince, does that not make us stronger?”

“And then there’s the matter of an alliance,” Geraden put in before Prince Kragen could recover from his surprise. “Eremis must know it’s a possibility, but he can’t expect it. What do you have, my lord Prince? Roughly ten thousand men?”

The Prince nodded dumbly.

“And what about us, Castellan Norge?”

Norge consulted the ceiling. “Near eight thousand altogether. We can put six thousand on the road and still leave enough here to keep the defenses going for a while.”

“My lord Prince” – Geraden spoke carefully, controlling his emotion – “Eremis doesn’t expect to face an army of sixteen thousand. High King Festten doesn’t expect it. They don’t want to fight us. They want to overwhelm us.” He didn’t need to say the word, annihilate; it was implicit in his tone. “And they don’t have the strength to overwhelm sixteen thousand men.”

For a few moments, Prince Kragen didn’t answer; he chewed his moustache and glowered at his thoughts. Geraden kept himself still. Terisa held her breath. Norge appeared to be wondering whether this might be an opportune time for a nap. In contrast, Artagel was barely able to refrain from hopping from foot to foot like an excited boy. The Tor clamped both arms over his belly as if he feared that something inside him might burst.

Abruptly, the Prince turned to face the old lord.

He cocked his fists on his hips. Terisa couldn’t tell which took precedence in him, his eagerness or his anger; but he didn’t prolong the suspense.

“My lord Tor,” he said clearly, “you ask too much.”

The Tor raised an inquiring hand, lifted an eyebrow. The effort brought sweat rolling down the bridge of his nose.

“If this alliance you propose fails,” Kragen articulated, “you can retreat to Orison. You have two thousand men for a final defense. I have nothing. All the Alend Monarch’s might will be destroyed, and my people will have no defense left between the Pestil River and the mountains. I can not risk my father’s entire monarchy on this business of necks and nooses.

“I will not go. I advise you not to go.”

Terisa wanted to yell at him; she wanted to hit him with her fists. Don’t you understand? We’ve got to try. She contained herself, however, because Geraden was clenched still, unprotesting, and Artagel had gone ominously quiet.

In a dull rumble, the Tor asked, “What do you advise, my lord Prince?”

“Fight for Orison as long as you can,” replied the Prince. “Then join me across the Pestil. Bring the Fayle and the Termigan – bring the Armigite, if you can bear him – and add your forces to mine. With the Alend Lieges behind us, we will make Eremis and Festten pay dearly for every foot of ground they take.”

To himself, the Tor made a muttering noise, as if he were considering the idea. But before Terisa could panic – before Geraden could intervene – he heaved himself to his feet.

He tottered. Afraid he might fall, she reached out to support him. What was left of his hair straggled with sweat; his skin had a gray underhue, as if his heart pumped ashes rather than blood; his eyes were glazed, nearly opaque.

Nevertheless he spoke as if no one could doubt that he would be obeyed.

“Castellan Norge, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, my lord Tor.” Norge sounded vaguely somnolent: detached; impervious to argument.

“Escort my lord Prince out of Orison. I want him returned safely to his father. Safely and politely. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you, my lord Tor.”

“We march against Esmerel at dawn. Be ready. Confer with the Congery on the matter of supplies.”

Master Barsonage nodded assent.

“Yes, my lord Tor.” This time, there was a small bite in Norge’s tone, a touch of grim happiness.

Prince Kragen threw up his hands.

“Wait a minute.” Artagel wore his battle grin. He was unarmed, but at the moment he didn’t look like he needed a weapon. “You’re talking about marching into the teeth of the siege. Is that wise, my lord Tor? Shouldn’t we keep Prince Kragen with us? A hostage of our own? If we let him go, he can cut us down as soon as we ride out of here.”

“No,” the Tor said at once. The flatness in his tone was turning to nausea. “That the Alend Contender will not do. He knows where we go, and why. He may well resume his attack on Orison when we are gone. For that reason, we will leave two thousand men behind us, and someone reliable to lead them. But he will not harm or hinder us.”

Terisa wanted to ask, Are you sure? The mix of emotions on Prince Kragen’s face was too complex to give her much confidence. Maybe that was what he planned: a killing attack as soon as the guard left Orison? Unexpectedly, however, the Prince’s excitement seemed to gain the upper hand for a moment.

“Thank you, my lord Tor.” He spoke softly; yet his voice carried a hint of trumpets. “Rely on my respect. If my father’s friends were as honorable as King Joyse’s, Alend would have no need of Contenders to win the Seat.”

Kragen turned to go. Norge sent two captains to accompany him until more guards could be mustered. Nevertheless Terisa didn’t see his departure. She was busy trying to catch the Tor’s great weight as it tumbled to the floor.

The old lord had fainted.

FORTY-FOUR: MEN GO FORTH

Terisa and Geraden wanted to talk to Artagel – they wanted to know in detail what had happened in Orison during their absence – but for most of the day he had no time. He was busy with Norge, supporting the new Castellan’s authority, and the Tor’s, against anyone who doubted it, distrusted it. Of course, he had no official standing, no authority of his own. That, however, only increased his credibility. He was Artagel, the best swordsman in Mordant – and a son of the Domne. Since King Joyse’s decline, he was the closest thing Orison had to a popular hero. And he wasn’t actually a member of the guard – wasn’t actually under Norge’s command. His word, his simple presence at Norge’s side, threw more weight than half a dozen catapults.

Failing Artagel, Terisa and Geraden would have been content with Master Barsonage. But the mediator was busy as well. He had to ready the Congery for battle. And he had to make all the arrangements for supplying the guard. In practice, this meant determining with Norge’s seconds what supplies were necessary, in what quantities, and then issuing explicit instructions for the placement of those supplies in manageable piles in the vast disused ballroom outside the laborium.

Since the Congery had rediscovered its sense of purpose, the Masters had been busy. Working from the formula Barsonage had used to create the mirror of his augury, one of them had chanced to shape a flat glass which showed the ballroom. With as much haste as possible, two other Masters had succeeded at duplicating that new mirror; one glass alone would have been too slow – and would have placed too much strain on the Master who had made it. Along with its other weapons, the Congery intended to carry these mirrors on the march. Then the supplies which had been piled in the ballroom could be translated to Orison’s army at need.

Because the mediator had to put these plans into effect, Terisa and Geraden were left with no comfortable source of information.

Ribuld was almost gleefully glad to see them. Especially after Lebbick’s death – which he had been unable to prevent – the scarred veteran was eager to assign himself the job of protecting them. And he was happy to talk. From him, they heard about Saddith’s fate. On the other hand, he couldn’t answer the pertinent questions – couldn’t explain, for instance, how the maid had come to serve as a diversion for the breaking of Geraden’s mirror. He didn’t know the things Terisa and Geraden most wanted to hear.

For most of the day – what was left of it, at any rate – they had to rely on each other’s company.

This didn’t particularly distress them.

They had given the Tor over into the care of a physician, who had assured them that the old lord had the constitution of a stoat and would almost certainly recover as soon as he began to consume a diet more nourishing than wine alone – with the proviso, of course, that Gart’s kick hadn’t produced any interior bleeding. After the physician had reassured them, Terisa and Geraden went to her former rooms in the tower, the peacock rooms.

They explained to Ribuld that they were waiting to talk to either Artagel or Master Barsonage; and Ribuld promised to hound Artagel and the mediator with reminders. Then they closed the door and bolted it.

Suddenly giddy with relief and suppressed hysteria, they wedged a chair into the wardrobe – where her clothes still hung – to block the entrance from the passage inside the wall. “Anybody who tries to sneak in here,” he said, “is going to crack his shins.”

Laughing so that they wouldn’t weep, they welcomed each other back as if they had been apart for months.

“Ah, love,” he murmured some time later, when he had become calm, “I came so close to reaching you. That was worse than being helpless, I think. There I was, doing something so amazing that it turns everything we know about Imagery upside down, and Eremis made it all useless just by putting out the lights.” He paused, then admitted, “Havelock had to sit on me to keep me from going after you anyway.”

“But you weren’t really helpless, were you.” This was important to her.

As always, what she said was more interesting to him than his own pain. “What do you mean?”

“You couldn’t reach me,” she explained, “you couldn’t rescue me directly. But with that power there must have been dozens of things you could have done. You could have translated guards into Esmerel to look for me. Hundreds of them.”

He peered at her in a way that made her want to hug him again because he so obviously wasn’t hurt, didn’t interpret what she said as criticism. All he said was, “I didn’t have time.”

“I know that, you idiot.” Instead of hugging him, she tickled his ribs. “That’s not the point.”

He caught her hand by the wrist and punished her attack by nibbling gently on the tips of her fingers. Between nips, he asked, “What is the point?”

“The point is” – it was amazing, really, just how much difficulty she had concentrating while he sucked her fingers – “you weren’t helpless. If I hadn’t done that shift, you could have found a way to strike back. You would have found a way.” Determined to be serious, she repeated, “You weren’t helpless.”

“Of course I’m helpless,” he replied around her fingers. “I’m completely at your mercy.”

“Idiot,” she said again.

But she didn’t have any trouble thinking of something to do for him while he was at her mercy.

Still later, when her own sense of postponed fright had receded, she murmured softly into his shoulder, “What would we have done?”

He analyzed that for a while before he remarked, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“If the Tor hadn’t agreed with us,” she explained. “If Norge hadn’t agreed with him. If they hadn’t put themselves in charge of Orison. What would we have done?”

He stared up at one of the peacock-feather decorations on the wall. “Well, somebody had to take command. We would have persuaded him.”

“And what if he turned us down?”

Geraden considered the question. “I guess we would have left with Prince Kragen. We would have tried to persuade him – or Elega – or maybe even Margonal himself – to back us up.

“I know,” he added when she started to object, “Prince Kragen is the one who wants to stay here. But that’s only because the Tor wants to go. If he didn’t have any hope of an alliance with Orison – if he knew he couldn’t get in here without spending all the lives that would take, making himself that much weaker – he might have been persuaded to march. If Elega took our side. If he thought he didn’t have anything else to try.”

“And what,” she continued, “if we couldn’t persuade him.”

He shrugged under her head. “Then we probably would have to get back into Orison. We’d have to get anybody who agreed with us – Artagel, maybe some of the Masters, maybe some friends of Ribuld’s – and use one of Adept Havelock’s mirrors to translate ourselves to Esmerel. Try a surprise raid.”

She reached across his chest to hug him. “So we wouldn’t have given up.”

He held her hard. Through his teeth, he muttered, “You suit yourself. I wouldn’t give up if I had to walk there alone and take Esmerel apart with my fingernails.”

That was what she wanted to hear. Feeling at once more relaxed and readier for battle, she asked casually, “Has it occurred to you that we’re luckier than we look?”

“ ‘Luckier’?” he inquired.

“Or King Joyse is. If it weren’t for Elega, we probably wouldn’t have been able to talk our way in here. If it weren’t for the Castellan” – she felt a pang whenever she remembered Lebbick – “Gart would probably have killed you and Artagel and Prince Kragen and the Tor. If it weren’t for the Tor, Orison might be in chaos by now. Eremis hasn’t won yet. We’re still able to lie here and make love and talk about fighting.” Geraden kissed her, but she didn’t stop. “We’ve been lucky.”

In an unexpectedly somber tone, he returned, “Or King Joyse is better at this game than anybody realizes.”

She nodded. After a moment, she said, “I wonder why he can’t beat Havelock at hop-board.”

Geraden looked at her sharply. “That’s an interesting question. Do you suppose it’s just because Havelock is out of his mind most of the time?”

That sounded plausible. Terisa started to say, I guess so. But then, unaccountably, she remembered the time Adept Havelock had come to her rooms – had sneaked in through the secret passage and taken her to Master Quillon, so that Quillon could give her the raw materials with which to think about Mordant’s need. He hadn’t exactly been in one of his lucid phases. And yet he had said—

She groped for the memory momentarily; then it came to her, as clear as the note of a well-made chime.

No one understands hop-board. The King tries to protect his pieces.

King Joyse had protected her, protected Geraden. Had tried to protect the Tor. At some personal cost, he had done what he could to protect his wife and daughters. It was even conceivable that he had tried to protect Castellan Lebbick.

Individuals. What good are they? Worthless. It’s all strategy. Sacrifice the right men to trap your opponent.

Maybe that was the truth. Maybe King Joyse couldn’t outplay the Adept because he couldn’t match Havelock’s ruthlessness.

Maybe that was why he was gone now. Maybe he was out on a mad chase after Torrent and Queen Madin, driven by a need to protect individuals without regard to his overall strategy.

Did that fundamental flaw cripple everything? Was his policy fatally marred by his inability to sacrifice individuals for the sake of something larger?

Geraden must have felt her shivering: he tightened his arms around her suddenly. “Terisa,” he murmured, “love. What’s the matter?”

She couldn’t explain, not directly; the idea scaring her was too elusive, almost metaphysical. Instead, she said, “Do you remember the time King Joyse asked me to find a way out of a stalemate? It was the day after Master Gilbur translated his champion.” That memory did little to improve her morale. “You rescued me from the Castellan by persuading the Tor to send for me in King Joyse’s name.”

Geraden nodded. “I remember.”

“After you got me to the King’s rooms,” she continued for her own sake rather than for his, strengthening her grip on what she meant, “he showed me a hop-board problem. A stalemate. He said Havelock set it up for him. He said there was a way out, but he couldn’t find it.”

Her shivers mounted. “So I tipped all the men off the board. No more stalemate.”

“I remember,” Geraden repeated, trying to steady her.

“I think I almost made him sick. He was almost in tears.”

He had said, To you, it’s just a game. To me, it’s the difference between life and ruin.

And he had said, I suggest that you give the matter more consideration before you once again attempt to end a stalemate by tilting the board.

“Geraden, what if that’s what we’re doing? Tilting the board?”

Instead of doing what King Joyse wants. Protecting his pieces. Or what Havelock wants. Sacrificing the right men.

“Do you think we should go alone?” Geraden countered. “Against Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel and terrible Imagery and twenty thousand men?”

Abruptly, her trembling stopped; it fell away from her like an old panic fading into the dark.

“No,” she said distinctly. That would be sacrificing men for no reason. “We wouldn’t stand a chance. Even if we could fight all that Imagery, we couldn’t stop High King Festten.

“It’s just that I agree with King Joyse. Somehow, he persuaded me he’s right by leaving us in the lurch. At first, I was angry. But now I think I’m starting to understand.”

Geraden studied her face. “Terisa, you aren’t making any sense.”

“I know.” She mustered another indirect effort to explain herself. “Did I ever tell you about Reverend Thatcher?”

“The man who ran the ‘mission’ where you served before I came to you.”

She kissed Geraden’s nose quickly. “I probably told you he was futile. Sad – hopeless. He must have felt that way. But he taught me something—Something I didn’t understand for a long time.

“He was trying to help the most miserable people in the city. Indigents. Street people. Crazies. Drunks. Trying to give them food and clothing and maybe shelter. And that was hard because nobody wanted to pay for it. If you feed and clothe and shelter them today, what have you accomplished? All you’ve done is save their lives, so they’ll need more food and clothing and shelter tomorrow. So if you have money and want to do some good, giving it to that mission is like throwing it away. There must be hundreds of things you can use your money for that would do more good for the city as a whole.”

“Yes, but—” began Geraden.

“Yes, but,” she agreed. “Doing good for the city as a whole wouldn’t make those poor people go away. It wouldn’t make their misery go away. And Reverend Thatcher couldn’t stop caring about them. If you gave him a choice between” – she searched for an example – “I don’t know, between free education for the whole city and helping one drunk get through another day with a hot meal, he’d choose to help the drunk. Not because he didn’t think education is important, but because he couldn’t help caring about the drunk.

“Maybe that’s sad. Maybe it’s even stupid. It’s certainly hopeless.

“But it’s also wonderful.”

She stopped as if she had made herself clear.

Geraden had to struggle for a couple of minutes, but eventually he reached the conclusion she hadn’t been able to articulate. “King Joyse,” he said slowly, “persuaded you he was right by abandoning us. You think he went after Torrent – after Queen Madin. When somebody he loves is in danger, he forgets all about Mordant – all about his plans for saving his kingdom. He leaves that to us. Not because he doesn’t think Mordant is important, but because he can’t help caring about her.”

Terisa’s spirit lifted. “He isn’t an idealist – not really. If anyone here is an idealist, it’s Havelock. King Joyse didn’t create Mordant and the Congery out of an abstract set of beliefs. He did it because people he knew and cared about were being hurt in the wars – hurt by Imagery. He wanted to save the world, a world made up of individual farmers and merchants and children who couldn’t defend themselves.

“Don’t forget that he risked a lot to protect us. Treating us the way he did, he confused us – even hurt us. But that gave Eremis a reason not to kill us. And we were left free to make our own choices. Just to keep us alive, King Joyse took the risk that we might go against him completely. Just to protect our lives and our choices.

“And,” she concluded, “he trusts us to do the same thing for him. He trusts us to defend Mordant for him while he’s out trying to rescue his wife.”

As if a knot of tension had been released in him, Geraden collapsed back on the bed. Happily, he said, “I knew there was some good reason why I love that old man.”

“Besides,” she went on, now that she was sure of herself; “we aren’t the ones who want to tilt the board. That’s what Eremis is doing. What we’re doing may not be right, but we aren’t making that mistake.”

“No,” he assented. Eagerness brightened his eyes and animated his features, making him inexpressibly precious to her. “We aren’t making that mistake.”

For the time being, she was content.

Just when it seemed, however, that she had reached the point where she no longer worried about what anybody else in Orison did, Master Barsonage arrived in answer to Ribuld’s messages. She and Geraden kept the mediator waiting only long enough to put on some clothes; then they admitted him to her sitting room.

“Sleeping all day while Orison bustles, I see,” the Imager commented pleasantly while he closed the door. He looked happier than she had ever seen him: activity and a clear sense of purpose agreed with him. “Well, doubtless you need the rest. I can only imagine the exertions and perils which you have endured.

“Since my imagination has not been all it should be, as you know” – he seated himself, frowned into the empty wine decanter, then shrugged his thick shoulders – “I am eager to hear what has happened to the rest of Mordant. The siege has cut us off completely,” he explained. “We know nothing but what we have learned from you and Prince Kragen.”

Terisa blew a sigh. “That’s going to take a while,” she said; and Geraden went to the door, chuckling. Outside, he asked Ribuld for wine and food.

Ribuld made some retort she didn’t catch; then Geraden returned. “Ribuld says we can have anything we want, if we don’t mind waiting. Apparently, there’s no end of servants available, but the kitchens are in chaos, trying to get supplies” – he glowered humorously at Master Barsonage – “ready for tomorrow.”

“That is true,” replied the mediator with a nod. “An appalling situation, in fact. No one knows what to do. Norge or one of his captains has to make every decision. It seems that Castellan Lebbick established plans and procedures for every conceivable eventuality – except a march.

“And, of course, every man who carries a sack of meal or a keg of water or a bale of hay to the ballroom goes in terror of his life, expecting to be translated away into madness at any moment.” Master Barsonage permitted himself a growl of disgust. “If Norge were not so phlegmatic – and if Artagel were less supportive – we would be in worse danger of riots now than at any other time today.”

Terisa and Geraden glanced at each other. “As Terisa says,” Geraden remarked to the mediator, “our story is going to take a while. Why don’t we wait for supper?” He set two chairs facing Master Barsonage and sat down in one of them; following his example, Terisa took the other. “Maybe by then Artagel will join us, and we won’t have to go over the same things twice.

“In the meantime, you can tell us how the preparations are going.”

Just for a moment, the Imager looked doubtfully at Geraden’s proposal; he seemed to think Geraden intended to avoid answering him. Almost at once, however, he inhaled deeply, shook his head as if to rearrange his thoughts, and smiled in acquiescence.

While Terisa and Geraden listened intently, storing up information they might need, Master Barsonage described how the Congery planned to transport their mirrors – no simple problem, considering that the mirrors would have to be moved over hard roads and uneven ground by horse cart. With deliberate frankness – perhaps reproaching Geraden’s evasion – he discussed the chief weapon the Masters had devised, as well as the secondary actions they were equipped to take. That brought a shine to Geraden’s eyes, made Terisa grip herself hard to keep her excitement in perspective; but neither of them interrupted as the mediator went on to explain the arrangements he had designed for the supplies in the ballroom, so that Orison’s people could replenish the piles of stores without any risk of being inadvertently taken by a translation.

When he was done with his particular responsibilities, he gave the best report he could on the state of the castle. So far, the Tor’s authority and Norge’s were being accepted without much resistance: eagerly by most of the guard, men who favored almost any change which promised action; and eagerly as well by the servants, for whom the departure of six thousand guards would mean that much less work; more stoically by Orison’s visiting population, people who felt King Joyse’s absence keenly in theory, but in practice found Artagel’s assurances persuasive; with ill grace and no little suspicion by many of King Joyse’s minor lords and functionaries – excise-tax assessors, for example, or storeroom accountants, or secretaries to the Home Ambassador – men whose entire existence depended on the King, on his style of kingship. And without any active opposition to the Tor or Norge, most of Orison’s social machinery continued to function. Meals were cooked, despite the chaos Ribuld had described. Halls were patrolled, guarding against unrest – and against attacks of Imagery. Duty rosters were maintained, the walls and gates manned.

In short, thanks to the Tor’s quick assumption of authority, and to Norge’s demonstrated acceptance, and to Artagel’s grinning support, Orison remained almost miraculously intact after King Joyse’s disappearance.

“Thank the stars,” Geraden breathed when Master Barsonage was done. “You’re right, Terisa. We’re luckier than we look.” Then his eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled tight over his teeth. “I wonder how many times Eremis has thought he could get away with laughing at the Tor. If he can see us now, he isn’t laughing anymore.”

“And he isn’t laughing at the Congery,” Terisa put in, partly to please Master Barsonage, and partly because the mediator had impressed her. “Or he won’t be, when he finds out what he’s up against.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Barsonage replied quietly. “We have been useless for a long time, while we distrusted both our King and ourselves. It is a pleasure to think that we will be effective at last.”

“If only Prince Kragen had listened to us,” Geraden mused.

“Or if he changes his mind—” added Terisa, remembering the strange conflict she had seen in the Prince’s face.

Master Barsonage looked back and forth between them. Geraden knotted his fists as if to control an irrational hope.

Terisa started to say something about Elega and Margonal, then stopped because she heard voices at the door.

Someone – Ribuld? – guffawed at an unexpected joke.

Without knocking, Artagel swung the door open and entered the room.

He was grinning; his eyes flashed steel fire. If there hadn’t been a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, or a slight pallor of old pain in his cheeks, or a barely discernible hitch in his stride, he would have looked ready and able to carry the whole castle on his shoulders into battle. He was primed for action, packed full of necessity by long days of recuperation, by emotional stresses he couldn’t relieve, by betrayals and self-doubt and grief. As soon as she saw him, Terisa knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to tackle an entire platoon of Gart’s Apts.

The mere sight of him did her good.

And it scared her. It reminded her that if eagerness went too far it could become a form of suicide.

For some reason, she noticed that the sunlight slanting in through her windows was tinged with red, approaching dusk.

Leaving the door for Ribuld to close, Artagel approached Geraden. Geraden surged upright, and Artagel clasped him in a hug which gave no sign of weakness or injury. Then Artagel came to Terisa and dropped to his knees, actually dropped to his knees, in order to capture both her hands and kiss them. Before she could protest or respond, however, he retreated to his feet again, glared at the empty wine decanter, humorously muttered a soldier’s obscenity, then dropped himself half-sprawling into the nearest chair.

“Mirrors preserve us,” he drawled in a joking tone. “Seeing you two makes me weak in the head. I don’t think I can do much more of this dance between hope and despair. First you’re gone forever. Then you show up – with Prince Kragen, may his skull ache for the rest of his life. Then he provokes a fight with King Joyse, and Gart appears, and the King disappears, and you’re abducted” – he indicated Terisa – “and you” – Geraden – “run off with the mediator. Then the Tor tries to make an alliance with Prince Kragen, and it looks like the only reason that isn’t going to work is because I hit him. And suddenly you both come back, and everything starts to go right, and I don’t care what that pig-brained Alend decides to do about it. I don’t even care where King Joyse is. I’m sure it’ll all make sense eventually.

“Incidentally, I haven’t exactly been cautious in the things I’ve said to keep people from worrying.” By worrying he obviously meant questioning Norge and the Tor. “What scares them most is the idea of translations into Orison. Terrible Imagery, monsters, fire, a few hundred thousand Cadwals – that kind of thing.” He faced Terisa frankly. “I’ve been telling everybody you can solve that problem. I’ve been saying you can shift Eremis’ mirrors so they won’t translate here. If that’s not true, you might want to keep it to yourself.”

Shift Eremis’ mirrors, Terisa thought while her stomach twisted. Oh, shit.

“Just tell me one thing.” Artagel hauled himself erect, nearly laughing. “What in the name of sanity is going on here?”

“I’ll be glad to explain it,” Geraden replied, grinning like his brother’s reflection. “All you have to do is shut up.”

With a gleam of joy, Artagel collapsed back into his sprawled posture.

At once, however, he jerked his spine straight, squared his shoulders. “No,” he said, and all the mirth fell out of him. His expression turned to sweat and pallor. “Tell me what happened at home. You said Houseldon was destroyed.”

Geraden made a warding gesture, warning his brother back from an explosion.

As if on summons, there was a knock at the door.

Ribuld pushed the door open, and two servingmen entered, carrying trays loaded with food and wine.

Artagel contained himself; but his eyes burned like fuses while the servingmen set out the food, poured the wine, handed around goblets. Master Barsonage accepted his goblet gratefully, emptied it in one long pull, and held it out to be refilled. Geraden and Artagel gripped their goblets without drinking, without looking anywhere except at each other.

Until one of the servingmen knelt to light a fire in the hearth, Terisa didn’t realize that the air was turning cooler.

“No lamps tonight,” Ribuld commented generally. “No oil. We used up what we had protecting the gates. There’s just enough left to keep King Joyse’s quarters and the public halls lit for a few more days. Don’t let your fire go out.”

Ushering the servingmen out of the room, he paused to add, “The Tor wants to talk to you. Before we march. The Castellan will send somebody to get you in the morning. Early.”

On that cheerful note, he closed the door.

At once, Master Barsonage articulated, “You said, ‘Houseldon is destroyed,’ ” speaking steadily so that Artagel wouldn’t have to shout. “ ‘Sternwall is falling. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls.’ Everyone who heard you wants an explanation, Geraden.”

Geraden didn’t hesitate; he had had time to marshal a reply. “The Domne is all right,” he said promptly. “At least he was when we left. Our family is safe. Most of the people we know survived. Under the circumstances, our losses were small.

“But Houseldon was burned to the ground.”

Holding his hands together because he didn’t have a sword, Artagel listened to every word as if he were studying his enemies to learn how to fight them.

Grimly, Geraden described the salient features of his arrival at the Closed Fist, and Terisa’s; he described the consequences for Houseldon. Then he explained, “That’s what made Nyle do it. That’s why he cooperated with Eremis. The threat of an attack like that.

“But when we left, the Domne and all our people were going to dig themselves into the Closed Fist. If Eremis tries the same threat again, our father wants us to ignore it.”

At the moment, Terisa didn’t care that Geraden had promised to call the Domne Da.

Slowly, Artagel sighed, letting violence out of his lungs. “Tholden must be a lot tougher than he thinks.”

“So is the Tor,” Geraden muttered.

“But you did not return to Orison by translation,” prompted Master Barsonage. “I gather the lady Terisa did not know then that her talent could reach across such distances.”

Terisa nodded; and Geraden said, “But it might not have helped, even if she had known. She can translate herself through flat glass. If she translated me, I’d lose my mind.”

“I understand,” said the mediator. “For that reason, you were required to cross Mordant on horseback. And you chose a road which took you to Sternwall and Romish.”

“Yes,” Geraden replied. “That’s how we happened to be at Vale House when the Queen was taken. We were trying to gather support for King Joyse – trying to get the Termigan and the Fayle to ride against Eremis.”

As briefly as possible, he told the story of the journey back to Orison, controlling his outrage at Eremis’ tactics as well as he could. Terisa listened to him for a while; gradually, however, her attention drifted. The room was growing darker as the sun set. A few hints of crimson still clung to the plumage on the walls, but most of the light was gone. Darkness accumulated against Orison. She didn’t want to remember pits of fire in the ground, or ghouls. She wanted to remember the Fayle.

The evening after the battle to save Naybel, sitting with her and Geraden in his camp, Queen Madin’s father had talked about King Joyse. With one hand clenched into a fist he couldn’t sustain, he had said, In all his years of warfare against Cadwal and Alend and Imagery, he has never asked a lord for aid when that lord’s Care was under attack. He came to me, freed my people. He did not ask me for any help until my Care was safe.

He will not ask me now. He has no wish to break my heart.

Terisa understood the Fayle better now. She grieved for him – for his losses, his inadequacy in the face of the ghouls – but she understood him. And she wanted to believe that he and the Termigan were doing the right thing by not riding to King Joyse’s support. By protecting their pieces.

I will not leave my people to die undefended.

She also wanted to believe that King Joyse wasn’t making a horrible mistake.

Then Geraden was done. He drank some of his wine and began to pick at his food as if his story had left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Well,” Master Barsonage muttered morosely. “Well. You have worked wonders to bring us this news, Geraden – my lady. But I am like other men in Orison, I suppose. I must admit that I had hoped to hear a more encouraging tale. We have all dreamed of the Perdon in vain. Annihilated, you said.” The mediator scowled. “And now we learn that any dreams we may have had of the Termigan or the Fayle are also in vain.

“King Joyse has chosen a bad time to disappear.”

“He didn’t choose it,” Artagel countered. “There aren’t any good times to have your wife abducted.”

“Do you believe,” Master Barsonage asked carefully, “that is where the King has gone? To rescue Queen Madin?”

Artagel’s confidence was greater than Terisa’s or Geraden’s. He said, “Of course.”

The mediator considered that for a moment. Then he said, “I hope you are right. I hope he is not simply cowering somewhere, overwhelmed by the consequences of his actions. To pursue the Queen at such a time may be foolish, but it is certainly understandable. “

Without waiting to debate the point, Barsonage rose to his feet. “I will leave you to your supper. I have no urgent need of food” – he slapped his girth – “and many other things to do. With your permission, Geraden, I will tell your story to the Congery.” Geraden nodded. “And to Castellan Norge.” Geraden nodded again. “And to the Tor. It will do us no good to march with false expectations of help.”

Geraden shrugged his assent.

“One other small matter,” the Master added before he reached the door. “Do you want a chasuble, Geraden? Do you, my lady? I am prepared to initiate you to the Congery whenever you wish.”

The proposal seemed curiously irrelevant to Terisa. When Geraden heard it, however, his face turned as crimson as the sunset. Master Barsonage had just offered him his life’s dream. The fact that he had tears in his eyes embarrassed him acutely.

“Later—” he murmured. “Maybe later.” Roughly, he rubbed his hands into his eyes; then he met the mediator’s gaze. “All I want right now is to stop Eremis.”

Master Barsonage accepted that answer. “My lady?”

Terisa shook her head. She had no desire to become a member of the Congery.

Still, she was glad to see that the mediator didn’t take her refusal as a reproach. He had too many other things on his mind. Saying only, “As you wish. We will see each other in the morning,” he let himself out of the room.

Terisa and Geraden and Artagel looked at each other.

She was starting to feel hungry, but that could wait a little longer. Reflections from the hearth continued to cast a red hue into Geraden’s face. Rising to her feet, she moved around behind his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. His muscles were hard, knotted like iron. A chasuble: his life’s dream. And now it didn’t make any difference. He didn’t need it. Deliberately, she dug her fingers into the knots, trying to massage them loose.

Artagel opened his mouth like a man who intended to say something facetious, perhaps at the mediator’s expense; but his brother forestalled him. “Now it’s your turn,” Geraden said, still struggling to regain his composure. “I want you to tell us everything that happened while we were away.”

“ ‘Everything’?”

Terisa felt a tremor under her hands which wasn’t audible in Geraden’s voice. Acerbically, he returned, “Leave out the part where you refused to eat all your vegetables and drank too much wine. And terrorized the serving girls. Tell us the rest.”

For a moment, Artagel chuckled, but there was no mirth in him now. Drawling to soften his tone, he warned, “You aren’t going to like it.”

“I know that already.” Slowly, Geraden’s trembling eased. “If I thought I was going to like it, I’d eat first. But I don’t think I can stand it on a full stomach.”

Terisa rumpled his hair, kissed the top of his head. Then she went back to her chair.

“Castellan Lebbick,” she said, as if she had the strength to mention his name without panic or outrage; without sorrow. “Tell us what happened to him.”

Artagel nodded stiffly in the gloom. He refilled his goblet as if he needed courage; however, he didn’t drink.

As well as he could, he told Lebbick’s story.

Along the way, of course, he mentioned Saddith. He discussed his own efforts to persuade Master Barsonage that Eremis was a traitor. He sketched the extent of Eremis’ popularity after the refilling of the reservoir. He described the Tor’s long drunkenness, as well as King Joyse’s sudden interest in swordsmanship. He detailed the progress of the siege – and of the defense of Orison, by Adept Havelock as well as by the guard.

But mostly he talked about Castellan Lebbick. From his perspective, Orison’s story had become the tale of Lebbick’s wild and doomed struggle against disintegration. The Castellan had been driven to such desperation, and at last to such lorn heroism – the heroism, not of fighting Gart, but of keeping at least some grasp on sanity – by the fact that he stood almost alone for the castle and its people against Master Eremis’ betrayals. And against King Joyse’s abdication of responsibility.

And Artagel, who valued heroism, had watched Lebbick’s story unfold, and had tried to affect its outcome. Now he didn’t know whether he had helped or failed.

Listening to him, Terisa found her anger at King Joyse returning. To cut a man like Lebbick adrift, merely for the sake of a stratagem – merely because the Castellan had no duplicity in him and couldn’t be trusted to tell lies—

Maybe the King wasn’t particularly interested in preserving his pieces after all. Maybe Master Quillon’s account of his actions was false. Maybe his disappearance – and everything else he did – had a completely different meaning.

Terisa wondered how Artagel had been able to retain his faith in King Joyse.

Geraden’s thoughts, however, had taken a different turn. When Artagel was finished, Geraden muttered into the inaccurate light of the flames, “It’s hard to feel sorry for him. After what he did to Saddith. What he meant to do to Terisa.”

“No,” Terisa said at once, “it’s easy. His wife died. She and Orison and King Joyse were his reasons for living.” Curse that old man anyway, curse him. “King Joyse would have been kinder to cut him off at the knees.”

“I know what you mean,” murmured Artagel, while Geraden studied Terisa bleakly. “It was hard to watch. I just couldn’t get him to look at things the way I did.”

“How did you look at them?” Geraden asked.

Artagel shifted in his chair, a bit embarrassed. “Well, take you two, for example.” Terisa supposed he was thinking of the bad days during which he had believed the worst of his brother. “All the evidence was against you. Eremis did a good job of making you look terrible. We only had two things to go on. Lebbick saw you” – he faced Terisa – “disappear into a mirror without Master Gilbur. Whatever you did together, you escaped separately. And it was easy to guess Saddith got the idea of going to Lebbick’s bed from Eremis. But that was enough. Because we knew you. We knew you weren’t the kind of people Eremis made you look like. We didn’t need much to make us question the whole situation.

“So I tried to tell him” – Artagel swallowed at the emotion in his throat – “to look at King Joyse the same way. We knew the King. We knew he wasn’t what he looked like. All we needed was some reason to believe in him.”

“What reason?” Geraden demanded. He sounded hungry.

“You two,” repeated Artagel. “Why was Eremis afraid of your talent, my lady? Why was he afraid of yours, Geraden? Well, why else? He knew you were his enemies. He knew you were loyal to King Joyse.

“Why were you loyal? We didn’t know. But you must have had a reason. I was sure of that. And it was enough. You know me. You know I don’t exactly have a towering mind. There are probably lots of things I’ll never understand. But you had a reason.” He made a sweeping gesture, at once vague and vehement in the dim light. “That was enough for me.

“But Lebbick couldn’t do it. I think he took it all too personally. The hurt” – Artagel stumbled over the word – “went too deep. I know he tried. He held himself together because he didn’t have anything else to hope for. But in the end—” Abruptly, Artagel shrugged; he picked up his goblet and drank it dry. “In the end I guess he was glad to find a way to get killed.”

After a while, Terisa breathed to Geraden, “You see? It’s easy.”

Geraden nodded once, roughly. His gaze burned back at the embers of the fire.

The unexpected cold in the air made her pull her chair closer to the hearth.

Artagel stayed and talked for some time after supper. He wanted detailed news from Domne: he wanted to know about the Domne’s health, and how tall Ruesha was now, and if Tholden and Quiss were likely to have more children; he wanted to know whether any irate husbands had succeeded at beating sense into Stead, or whether Minick’s wife had lost any of her shyness. And talking about things like that did Geraden good. It eased Terisa, bringing back to her memories she treasured, memories which reminded her what the battles ahead would be fought for, as well as what they would be fought against. Nevertheless the day had been long – not to mention difficult. At last, she grew too tired to stifle her yawns.

Artagel took the hint, such as it was. Promising to see them early the next morning, he left her and Geraden alone.

They didn’t have any trouble persuading each other that they needed to go to bed.

She felt safe in the peacock rooms. If Eremis had the means to attack here, he might hesitate, concerned by the impossibility of estimating what she or Geraden could do in retaliation. And she seemed to have left panic a long way behind her.

As soon as she was sure that Geraden was drowsy enough to sleep – that he wouldn’t get out of bed to sit up and brood all night – she let herself slide away into dreams.

At first they were easy dreams, full of rest: in them, she watched herself sleep soundly. But gradually they took on rhythm – the slow labor of blow and rebound, repeated again and again. The rhythm grew faster. Out of the dark, she kicked at Eremis as hard as she could, felt her foot strike; then she recoiled, plunged backward to get away from his fury, backward against the wall, through the mirror. This time, however, there was no mirror, no translation. Her heart was too full of rage for fading, and the wall admitted nothing, allowed nothing; it only held her where he could reach her. So she kicked again, recoiled again; and he sprang at her again and again, violent, ultimately irresistible, a man who knew how to have his way with anyone; and horror rose in her throat like sobs because there was nothing she could do to fight him, no way she could beat him—

—until Geraden shook her shoulder, hissed, “Terisa! You’re having a nightmare!” and she heard the flat, wooden sound she made when she kicked against the blankets, the knock which seemed to pitch her back into the mattress.

The knock—

Abruptly, she locked herself still, sweating in runnels; and the sound went on, a wooden sound, not her feet belaboring the bed.

Someone was pounding on the door hidden inside one of the wardrobes. She could feel her pulse hammer against the bones of her skull.

She jerked upright.

At once, the sweat seemed to freeze on her skin.

The dim glow from the embers in the hearth lit Geraden as he leaped past her. He grabbed his underclothes and breeches, pulled them on; tossed a couple of logs into the fire. Then he went into the sitting room, unbolted the door, warned the guard outside.

The knocking was steadier than the rhythm of her heart.

A small crackle of flame caught at the new wood. As if that small sound, that little jump of light, released her, she swung her legs out of bed.

Luckily, her robe was in the other wardrobe, the safe one. Shivering as if her limbs were crusted with ice, she snatched out the garment, got her arms into the sleeves, sashed the velvet around her.

The knocking went on. Whoever was in the secret passage was apparently determined to pound there all night if necessary.

“You all right?” Geraden whispered.

She nodded. “Just a bad dream.” She faced the wardrobe. “Let’s open it.”

The door of the wardrobe was already slightly ajar. Geraden swung it out of the way, then reached in and unblocked the chair from the hidden entrance.

As the secret door opened, light filtered through the clothes like sunshine through a forest.

Adept Havelock.

The light came from his hand-sized mirror, his piece of translated sun – the same mirror he had used to incinerate the red-furred creature which had attacked Geraden.

Seeing the Adept, Geraden let out a slow breath. At once, he turned away, left the bedroom. Terisa heard him tell the guard to relax, heard him bolt the door.

Havelock held his light with an unsteady hand. Its shifting illumination, and the dance of the flames in the hearth, cast wild shadows across his features – winks and leers; deathmasks; contortions of sorrow. His insanity looked irreparable.

“Take off your clothes,” he commanded her, grinning like a dog. “I haven’t seen a good pair of teats for a long time. Don’t ask me any questions.”

Don’t ask—To herself, she groaned bitterly.

Just to be on the safe side, she clenched one hand in the v of her robe, holding it closed.

Then Geraden rejoined her. “You heard,” she said, afraid that any question might upset the Adept.

“I heard,” Geraden muttered. “No questions. This is going to be such fun.”

“Have you been rutting?” demanded Havelock. He was incensed for a moment, full of righteous indignation. “Naked as animals? Avid as goats?” Without transition, his self-righteousness became self-pity. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

Terisa hardly noticed what he said. She was watching the way his light weaved and wavered – the way it moved through the illumination from the hearth; the darkness across the back of his hand. Until she saw black drops spatter to the floor, she didn’t understand that his hand was bleeding.

Knocking on the door inside the wardrobe, he had damaged his knuckles.

“Havelock—” She faltered momentarily, then took hold of herself, straightened her shoulders. “You had a reason for coming here. It was a good reason. You hurt yourself to make us notice you. Tell us what it was.”

“A reason?” he cackled, laughing instantly. “A madman like me?” And just as quickly, his mirth vanished. He extinguished his light, put his mirror away in a pocket somewhere, then raised his hand to his mouth to lick the blood. Red smeared his lips, his chin; a spot of blood appeared on his fierce nose.

Between licks; he said casually, “Trust me.”

Terisa stared at him, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t say anything else, she shook her head. The air was cold – too cold for the time of year. Even the stones under her bare feet were warmer. And she was angry.

“I went to you for help. Master Gilbur was after me, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. You refused.

“Tell me how to trust you.”

To her chagrin, his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and his face twisted until he looked like a damaged schoolboy. His voice ached and cracked.

“I know it’s hard. I’m crazy, aren’t I? Vagel took my mind away. He showed me how to understand everything. Most of the time, I can’t tell shit from shallots.

“But Joyse does it.” Trying to rub the tears from his eyes, he wiped blood across his face. “Joyse does it.”

“Tell us—” Geraden put in softly, carefully, “tell us where he is.”

One of Havelock’s eyes turned toward Geraden; the other seemed to plead with Terisa. “He told me not to.”

“Havelock—” Terisa was never able to sustain her anger against him. His dilemma moved her. As far as she was concerned, there was no real reason why she hadn’t emerged in a condition like this from the closet where her parents had locked her. And maybe a certain kind of madness was required to play hop-board successfully with human beings as pieces.

“Havelock, you killed that creature in the dungeon.” Behind bars, helpless; burned down to tallow and stink. “The one that attacked Geraden. With your mirror. But when Gart tried to kill me, you let him live. You didn’t even damage him. You just blinded him temporarily.

“I want to trust you. He was trying to kill me. Tell me why you didn’t even damage him.”

Geraden drew a breath between his teeth, held it hard.

“Oh, that.” Somehow, the Adept passed from distress to scorn without any discernible effort. “You disappoint me. You should have figured that out long ago. How many times has Joyse told you to think?”

Terisa clamped her mouth shut and waited.

“It’s obvious.” Havelock fluttered his hands as if he meant to start dancing. “If I hurt him – if I really blinded him – he would have been caught. We’d lose the chance that he might lead us to his allies. If I killed him, we’d have the same problem, only worse.” Sharply, the Adept giggled. “If you think things are bad now, try to guess how much trouble you’d be in if Gart hadn’t accidentally betrayed Eremis by charging in here.

“And,” he went on, “if I killed him, everybody would think you did it. Try to guess how long they would have let you live if they thought” – he giggled again – “thought you were Imager enough to charcoal the High King’s Monomach.

“No, you’re being stupid.” From scorn and humor, he lapsed into vexation. “You’re wasting my time. If you aren’t going to let me fondle your female beauties, at least learn something useful.”

In a rough voice, Geraden demanded, “Tell us what you want us to know.”

For a moment, the Adept faced Geraden as if he couldn’t bring the younger man into focus with either eye; then he muttered, “Idiot. It’s not that simple,” and headed back into the wardrobe.

Desperately, Terisa called after him, “You said you saw the King’s daughters in an augury,” because she didn’t have any better ideas. “Tell us what Elega was doing.”

Slapping at clothes, with a gown wrapped over his head and both fists full of fabric, he replied, “Spreading her legs for Prince Kragen.”

That shocked Terisa; for a moment, it paralyzed her brain. Helplessly, she echoed Geraden. “Tell us what you want.”

The Adept ripped the gown off his head. With both arms, he flung a bundle of clothes to the floor.

“I want you to trust me!”

Banging the hidden door after him, he vanished into the darkness of the passage.

She stared after him, dumbfounded.

Spreading her legs. For Prince Kragen.

So King Joyse had known. Before the Prince ever came to Orison as the Alend Monarch’s ambassador, King Joyse had known that the Contender and his eldest daughter would become lovers. And he had let it happen. He had practically driven Elega into Kragen’s arms.

Suddenly, the test King Joyse had arranged for Prince Kragen, the strange game of checkers in the audience hall, became poignant to her – poignant and awful. By that test, King Joyse had learned that his daughter would betray him.

By that test, he had forced her to betray him.

Now his last message to her made sense. She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. He had chosen to put her where she was. And Terisa’s nagging sense that Elega had a vital role to play in his plans was confirmed.

And yet, despite what she had just learned, she knew she had missed the point of Havelock’s visit.

Left weak by what had happened, what she was thinking, she murmured, “What was that all about?”

Glowering darkly, Geraden thought for a moment. Then, to her surprise, his expression lightened, and he smiled like a son of the Domne.

“I think he wants us to trust him.”

Trust him. The man who advocates sacrificing pieces to win the game.

Oh, shit.

Really, she needed to increase her range of expletives. Thinking oh, shit over and over again just wasn’t an adequate way to express herself.

Eventually, she and Geraden went back to bed.

The summons of the guard came much too early.

When Geraden stumbled into the sitting room to answer the door, the guard handed him a breakfast tray and said, “The Tor wants you in an hour. In the King’s rooms.”

Outside, the sky was still dark, too full of night to give any hint of dawn.

Today, the march would begin.

The air was unconscionably cold.

Blearily, Terisa asked, “Is there any chance we can get some bathwater?”

“Use all the water you want, my lady.” She didn’t recognize the guard’s voice: he must have come during the night to relieve Ribuld. “No rationing this morning. But you’ll have to heat it yourself. Nobody has time to do it for you.”

“Thanks,” muttered Geraden.

After he had closed the door and put down the tray, he came into the bedroom. “I’ll put a bucket on the hearth,” he offered. “We don’t have time to let it get hot, but at least we won’t freeze to death.”

Pulling a blanket around her, she forced her tired limbs out of bed. Off the rugs, the floorstones were still warmer than the air. On her way to help put more wood on the fires, she asked, “What’s happened to the weather?”

Geraden’s tone conveyed a shrug. “We had an early thaw. Now it looks like we’re having a late freeze.”

Good. Perfect. I love being cold.

When she had put three more logs on the coals in the bedroom fireplace, she nearly climbed into the hearth in an effort to absorb some of the new heat.

Once the logs had begun to burn warmly, however, she went to look for some clothes.

Apparently undaunted by the cold – or maybe simply saving as much warmer water for her as he could – Geraden splashed around in the bathroom for a while; he came out toweling himself urgently. Still wrapped in her blanket, with a pile of the clothes Mindlin had made for her nearby, she set out the breakfast and began to gulp down hot tea, warm porridge. Then, when she and Geraden were done eating, she took the bucket from the hearth and retreated into the bathroom.

She didn’t notice until she had given herself the best sponge bath she could manage, and had started to get dressed, that all her clothes carried a faint smell of blood.

Every garment she had – everything she could possibly wear on horseback, on a march – was stained with a few drops or a small smear of Havelock’s blood.

For a moment, she wanted to break down and cry. The night seemed to have taken the courage out of her, cost her her immunity to panic. But the Adept’s visit meant something. He wanted to be trusted. Or he had promised that he could be trusted. And King Joyse had known all along that Elega and Prince Kragen would become lovers.

Roughly, Terisa washed the fear off her face with the coldest water available. Then she put on a sturdy twill riding habit over some of Myste’s silk undergarments.

Havelock’s vehemence had left a crescent smear on the fabric over the curve of her left breast; but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. As soon as she stopped thinking about it, the smell of blood receded.

Geraden grinned as she emerged from the bathroom. He had found her sheepskin coat and boots.

“What’re you going to wear?” she asked.

He wasn’t worried. “I’ll get something from the guards.”

Sooner than she was expecting, someone knocked on the door again. This time, it was Ribuld. He brought with him a mail shirt and a longsword in a shoulder scabbard for Geraden, in addition to a winter cloak. Something about the way he avoided looking at Terisa made her wonder why he hadn’t brought any protection or weapons for her; but he started talking about the march, and she forgot her question.

“Six thousand men,” he said as he pulled the mail over Geraden’s head. “Two thousand horse. Four thousand foot. Castellan says we can make it to Esmerel in three days. Only sixty miles across the Broadwine, and the terrain isn’t bad. But we couldn’t do it carting supplies. If this translation business works, it’s going to be the biggest thing in warfare since crossbows. Traveling light and fast.”

“Is the guard ready?” asked Geraden.

Ribuld nodded. “But that isn’t the hard part. Armies march on food. If we had to wait for it, we wouldn’t get out of here for two or three more days. That’s another way we save time, having our supplies translated. Orison can keep cooking for us long after we’re gone.”

Getting as much information as he could, Geraden inquired, “How’s the Tor?”

“His physician says he should stay in bed. But he’s got more guts than the rest of us put together.” Ribuld chuckled. “He’s up yelling at everybody.”

A sudden thought alarmed Terisa. “He’s staying here, isn’t he? Somebody has to defend Orison. And he’s in no condition to ride a horse.”

Deliberately, Ribuld continued not meeting her gaze. “You tell him that, my lady. Ever since Lebbick took my hide off for saving you from Gart without orders, I’ve given up arguing with lords and Castellans.”

Geraden’s features seemed to grow sharper. “Who’s he going to leave in command?”

Ribuld shrugged. “Better ask him yourself. That way, he’ll end up yelling at you instead of me.”

Geraden looked at Terisa hard. “I don’t think I like the way this is starting to sound.”

“Come on.” She moved toward the door. “Let’s go see him.”

Geraden followed her with his sword dangling against his hip as if he had no idea what it was for.

Ribuld brought up the rear, brandishing his scar cheerfully.

Outside the peacock rooms, four more guards joined them, an escort to protect them from Master Eremis’ unpredictable resources – creatures of Imagery, the High King’s Monomach, flat mirrors. Terisa found, however, that she wasn’t particularly concerned about a surprise attack here. If that was what Eremis wanted, he could have done it at any time. She felt sure that his real intentions were considerably nastier.

And she was worried about the Tor—

When she and Geraden reached the King’s formal apartment, she noticed the fire blazing in the hearth. Apparently, the lord of Tor felt the cold as badly as she did.

There were four men already in the room: the Tor himself, Castellan Norge, Master Barsonage, and Artagel. Norge stood with his back to one wall, casually at attention: he looked like a man who never needed sleep because he was always napping. In contrast, Master Barsonage seemed to be actually wringing his hands; he faced the Tor and Artagel alternately with a discomfited expression, as if he wanted to intervene but didn’t know what to say.

The Tor and Artagel confronted each other like combatants. The old lord thrust his belly forward assertively; his cheeks were red with wine or exertion. Artagel stood in a fighter’s balanced stance, his hands ready to go for either his longsword or his dagger.

As Terisa and Geraden entered the room, Artagel turned toward them. His grin twisted her stomach. He looked primed for battle, as fatal as his weapons – and yet in some way lost, like a man who needed help he wasn’t going to get against impossible odds.

“Just in time,” he said, denying the Tor the bare courtesy of a chance to speak first. “My lord Tor is a bit confused this morning. He doesn’t realize I’m your bodyguard. You better tell him. I’m your personal bodyguard.”

Master Barsonage cast an unhappy look at Terisa and Geraden, then retreated to give them room in front of the Tor and Artagel.

“Artagel,” the Tor rumbled to them as if he were on the verge of an outburst, “refuses a direct command. He refuses to obey me.”

Terisa looked at Geraden, baffled by the hostility in the room and the knot in her stomach. Geraden’s gaze shifted to Artagel, then back to the Tor. “Don’t tell me, my lord Tor,” he said with a bitterness of his own. “Let me guess. You want him to stay here.”

“I want him” – the Tor contained himself with difficulty – “to rule Orison in my absence.”

Rule Orison—?

Artagel snarled an obscenity. “It comes to the same thing. He thinks I’m a cripple.”

Terisa stared at him, at the Tor; she was simultaneously surprised, relieved, and appalled. The idea of putting Artagel in charge of Orison had never occurred to her.

“No!” the Tor retorted, almost retching, “it does not come to the same thing. I do not ask you to remain behind because you are unfit to go. I command you to stay here because you are needed!

“I must leave Orison with less than two thousand men to defend it. And I have no alliance with the Alend Monarch. He will let us depart, of that I am sure. But when we are gone, he will not hesitate to renew his siege. Prince Kragen considers this castle to be the best safety available.

“If Orison is not defended – well defended – it will be lost.”

Artagel was in no condition for fighting. And yet the cost of having to stay behind – the price he would pay for remaining in Orison while Mordant’s fate was decided without him – would be severe.

“After King Joyse,” the Tor concluded, “you are the only man who can hope to hold these walls against the Alend army.”

“How?” Artagel snapped back. “I don’t have any authority. I don’t even belong to the guard. I’ve never been able to take orders. How do you expect me to give them?”

“By being who you are,” the Tor answered heavily. “The best-liked man in Orison.”

The old lord was right, Terisa thought. The guards would fight to the death for Artagel, of course. But so would half the population of the castle. He was the best swordsman in Mordant; his feats were legendary. And he was a son of the Domne. By simple likability, he might be able to rule Orison even more effectively than Castellan Lebbick.

Cursing, Artagel returned to his brother. “Tell him,” he demanded. “I’m going with you. You need me. When you go up against Eremis, you’ll need somebody to watch your back. I want—”

The look on Geraden’s face stopped him.

“You want to try Gart again,” Geraden said softly, “is that it?”

Anger and distress pulled Artagel’s expression in several directions at once.

“With muscles in your side that haven’t finished healing?” Geraden continued: soft; relentless. “You want to tackle a man who’s already beaten you twice, when you can’t even lift that sword without a twinge?”

Artagel flinched in helpless fury or frustration; he took a step backward. “I’m coming with you somehow,” he said between his teeth. “I won’t stay here.”

“Yes, you will,” rasped the Tor. “You may succeed in refusing to obey me, but I assure you that you will stay here.”

Artagel flung a glare like a challenge at the old lord. “Are you going to make me, my lord Tor?”

“No, Artagel. I will not ‘make’ you. Norge will do that. He will support me in this.”

From his place against the wall, the new Castellan nodded amiably. His bland calm was more convincing than a shout.

“Your choices,” the Tor finished, “are to remain in command of Orison – or to remain in the dungeon.”

Artagel studied the Tor and Norge; he directed a last appeal at Geraden.

In response, Geraden muttered miserably, “Don’t you understand, you halfwit? You’re too valuable to waste on a senseless contest with Gart. The Tor wants you to do the hardest job there is. King Joyse needs someplace to come back to. If everything else fails, he needs a castle and some men for the last defense of Mordant. He needs someone to give him that. He can’t do it for himself. He needs someone like you, who can make old men and serving girls and children fight for him just by smiling at them.”

For a moment, Terisa feared that Artagel would break out in protest, do something wild. He was a fighter, by temperament and training unsuited to sit still for sieges. But then his face took on a smile she had never seen before – a grimace bloodier and more bitter than his fighting grin; a look that chilled her heart.

To Norge, he said, “I want Lebbick’s mail – I want all the things he was wearing when Gart got him. I want his insignia – his sash and that headband. The more blood on them, the better. Anybody who looks at me is by the stars going to know what I stand for.”

Norge glanced at the Tor. The Tor nodded; his eyes were glazed with pain. Phlegmatically, Norge said, “Come,” and left the wall.

Artagel didn’t look at either Geraden or Terisa as he followed the new Castellan out of the room.

Simply because she hated to see Artagel hurt like that, she groaned to herself. But what was the use of being upset? The Tor had found a better answer to Orison’s problem – and to Artagel’s – than she had been able to imagine for herself. Geraden had told his brother the truth. She could understand how Artagel felt – but so what? He—

“You also, my lady,” the Tor said as if he had boulders rolling around in his gut, “will remain here.”

What—?

She looked around her. Geraden was gaping at the old lord, frankly dumbfounded. Master Barsonage’s expression was white with consternation.

She had heard right. The Tor intended to leave her in Orison.

Which was why Ribuld hadn’t brought any protective clothing or weapons for her. And why he had evaded her eyes, her inquiries. Of course.

Unexpectedly calm, she faced the lord. Her gaze was steady; even her pulse didn’t flutter. Geraden started to speak for her; but when he noticed her demeanor, he bit his mouth closed. “My lord Tor,” she said gently, as if he were as mad as Havelock, unable to be questioned, “you don’t want me to go with you.”

The tone of her reaction seemed to weaken his resolve. Speaking loudly in an apparent effort to shore up his position, he retorted, “You are a woman.”

Because he had raised his voice, she lowered hers. “And that makes a difference to you.”

“I am the lord of the Care of Tor.” His face grew redder, goaded toward passion by the fact that she wasn’t yelling at him. “And I am the King’s chancellor in Orison. His honor is in my hands, as is my own. You are a woman.”

Deliberately rejecting sarcasm, she replied quietly, “Please be plain, my lord Tor. I want to understand you.”

As if she were driving him to distraction, he shouted, “By the heavens, my lady, I do not take women into battle!”

In spite of her determination to be kind, Terisa smiled. “Then don’t think of me as a woman, my lord. Think of me as an Imager. Ask Master Barsonage. He offered to make me a Master. I’m not going with you. I’m going with the Congery.”

The Tor took a deep breath, preparing to bellow.

At once, Master Barsonage put in, “My lady Terisa is quite correct, my lord Tor,” speaking in the most placating voice he could manage. “You have not forgotten that she is an Imager – in effect, a member of the Congery. It is possible that she is the most powerful Imager we have ever known. I do not believe that we can confront Master Eremis and Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel without her.”

Livid with anger – or perhaps with the pain of holding his damaged belly upright – the Tor demanded, “Do you defy me, mediator?”

Master Barsonage spread his hands. “Of course not, my lord Tor. I merely observe that the lady Terisa is a question which belongs to the Congery. Regardless of the role we assign to her in the support of Orison and Mordant, she casts no aspersion on your honor – or the King’s.”

Carefully, Geraden commented, “And King Joyse doesn’t hesitate to use women when he needs them. Adept Havelock told us last night that King Joyse knew years ago the lady Elega and Prince Kragen would become lovers. He consented to his own betrayal – he practically drove her into the Prince’s arms. I don’t think the Prince would ever have let Terisa and me into Orison if she hadn’t been there. And she may do other things for us yet.

“My lord Tor, we need Terisa with us.”

The Tor looked back and forth between Master Barsonage and Geraden, his eyes swollen and baleful as a pig’s. His face was crimson with stress.

Nevertheless he acquiesced.

Slowly, he slumped into a chair; his hands made weak gestures of dismissal. Terisa had to remind herself that she wasn’t his only – or even his primary – reason for appearing so defeated. “Leave me,” he muttered. “We march at full dawn. I must have a moment’s peace.”

She felt that somebody ought to stay with him. He seemed to be in need of comforting. He had suffered so long, and to so little purpose. From the day when he had arrived in Orison with his eldest son dead in his arms until now, he had been groping like a doomed man, struggling against his own heart and King Joyse’s machinations for some way to heal his grief. Surely there were things he needed more than “a moment’s peace.”

But Master Barsonage moved to leave, and Geraden put a hand on her arm, urging her toward the door. “Come on,” he breathed, “before he changes his mind.”

Dumbly, she accompanied Geraden and the mediator.

Outside, trying to articulate her own sorrow, she said, “Gart must have hurt him pretty badly. He doesn’t look like he can stay on his feet much longer.”

Away from the Tor, Geraden’s expression turned bleak, unconsoled. “That doesn’t matter. King Joyse hurt him worse than Gart did.” To Master Barsonage, he explained, “Artagel told us the Tor spent most of the time we were away blind drunk.”

The mediator nodded grimly.

“What’s holding him together,” Geraden continued, “is feeling needed. As long as he knows he’s necessary, he can stand being kicked. That’s why it hurts him so much when we argue with him – even when he’s wrong. He hasn’t got the strength or the resolution or the hope left to survive doubting himself.”

Terisa hugged Geraden’s hand where it held her arm; she was grateful that he understood.

Master Barsonage thought for a while as they descended from the King’s tower. Then, speaking wryly as if to distance himself from what he felt, he said, “I, on the other hand, have a passion for doubt. I cannot resist it. That is why I try to surround myself with so much solidity.” He made a mocking reference to his girth. “Is he right, do you think? Are you certain of what we do? Are we on the path King Joyse would have chosen for us, if he were here?”

“And if we are,” Geraden growled, at least partially serious, “did King Joyse know what he was doing? Did he ever know what he was doing? Do any of us have even the vaguest conception of the consequences of our actions?

“No, I’m sorry, Master Barsonage. I don’t have any wisdom for you. We’re doing the only thing that makes sense to me.”

Terisa nodded once, grimly.

The mediator sighed. “We must be content with that, I suppose.”

More quickly than the circumstances required, they moved downward. The air took on a sharper edge as they neared one of the main public exits to the courtyard. No question about it, Mordant was having a late freeze. Terisa’s breath began steaming well before she reached the high doorway. She could feel cold prickling along her scalp like an omen of some kind.

The halls of Orison had been nearly deserted; but there was nothing deserted about the courtyard. She could hear shouts and movement, hundreds – no, thousands – of boots hurrying in different directions. And from the doorway she saw a dark, torchlit seething of men and horses, as troubled in the early gloom as the contents of a witch’s cauldron, brewed for destruction and bloodshed. From the cavernous stables under Orison, horses by the score had been led into the courtyard and readied for mounting. And more torches lit the passage which led like a throat down to the stables; in the passage more horses crowded, with more behind them. Most of the mounts were already tended by the men who would ride them, the men whose lives might depend on them.

And around the inner walls of the castle, around Orison’s benighted inward face, the guards who would travel on foot were gathering in squads and platoons; ordinary individuals uprooted from their lives in order to endure a forced march for three days so that they could be hurled against an army which outnumbered them nearly four-to-one. And for what? Well, Terisa knew the answer to that. So that men like Master Eremis and High King Festten wouldn’t have their way with the innocent of Mordant. To say such things, however, she had to believe that what the Congery and the guard, what she and Geraden were doing might work.

Failure meant annihilation. For all these people.

Clutching her coat against the cold, she followed Master Barsonage and Geraden, with Ribuld behind her, across the ice-crusted mud among the horses to the place near Orison’s gates where the Congery assembled with its beasts and wagons.

The Masters nodded and muttered to the mediator. Some of them greeted Geraden with salutations or smiles which seemed sincere in the erratic light of the torches; others were too embarrassed by their old scorn for him to say anything; one or two of them made it clear that they still didn’t believe what they had heard about his demonstrations of power. They all, however, acknowledged Terisa with as much courtesy as the circumstances allowed. Then they went back to the job of securing their cargo in the wagons.

She counted nine large bundles as big as crates: the Congery’s mirrors. Each glass had been wrapped in blankets, then lashed into a protective wooden frame, then wrapped in more blankets and tied tightly before being bound to the side of the wagon. And the wagons themselves were unusual: a new bed had been built to fit on padded supports inside each of the original ones, so that over particularly rough terrain the new bed holding the mirrors could be lifted out and carried by men on foot.

Wiggling her toes against the cold that seeped into her boots, Terisa looked up at the sky.

It was gray with dawn, and cloudless, at once translucent and obscure, like a mirror on which cobwebs and dust had accumulated for years.

The march would begin soon.

Curse this freeze. Yesterday she was ready to set out on a moment’s notice. But today, in the cold—She wondered if anyone was ever truly ready.

More men. More horses. Shouts rang hoarsely off the walls: questions; commands; messages. The bazaar was crowded with guards and their mounts. Gart had attacked her there once; Prince Kragen had used the bazaar to cover his meetings with Nyle. Now, at least temporarily, the whole place was unfit for business. But of course it had probably been unfit for days, cut off by the siege from any way to replenish its wares.

Grooms led horses forward for Terisa and Geraden. She glared suspiciously at the colorless old nag assigned to her, a beast clearly too decrepit for any rider except one who didn’t know what she was doing. Geraden’s mount, in contrast, was a spirited gelding with an odd white spot like a target on either side of its barrel.

Seeing her expression, he asked teasingly, “Want to trade?”

“This thing’s almost dead already,” she snorted. “After what we’ve already been through, I think I could ride a firecat.”

Ribuld grinned around his scar.

But she didn’t want to trade. She had an instinctive sense that she was in danger of overestimating her abilities.

As full dawn approached, and the level of noise in the courtyard increased, lights began to show in the windows around Orison’s inner face – children dragging their parents out of bed to see what was happening; lords or ladies rousing themselves to witness events; wives and children and loved ones wanting some way to say goodbye to the guards.

By stages Terisa couldn’t measure, the turmoil of men and horses seemed to resolve itself. More and more guards climbed onto their beasts. The Masters began to mount – except for those who intended to drive the wagons, or to ride on them to watch over the mirrors. The frost from the horses’ nostrils was gray now, as pearly as mist, lit by the dawn rather than by torches. Geraden nudged Terisa’s arm, indicated the horses; but she didn’t move until she saw the Tor emerge from one of the main doors and waddle toward his charger.

She mounted when he did.

Slowly, accompanied by his personal guard – the men who had come with him from his Care – as well as by Castellan Norge and Artagel, he rode to the gates so that when they were raised he would be the first to face the Alend army, the first to face the march. For some reason, his black cloak and hood – the mourning garb which he had worn to bring his son to Orison – made him appear smaller. Or maybe her horseback perspective deemphasized his bulk. He didn’t look large enough to take King Joyse’s place, imposing enough to threaten King Joyse’s enemies.

Yet when he lifted his voice he lifted her heart as well, like the remembered call of horns.

“It is a dangerous thing we do.” Somehow, the old lord made his words carry across the courtyard, made them echo around the face of Orison. “Barely six thousand of us go to meet Cadwal and vile Imagery on the ground they have chosen for battle. And we will have the Alend army at our backs – if I cannot persuade the Alend Monarch to see reason at last. An attempt may be made to take Orison in our absence. King Joyse is not with us, and the power against us is staggering.

“It is a dangerous thing we do.

“But it is the best we can.

“The Congery rides with us. We have powers which our enemies cannot suspect. Artagel will preserve Orison for us – and High King Festten is weaker than he knows, helpless to supply his forces by any means which cannot be cut off. King Joyse has planned and labored for years to reach this moment. It will not fail.

“It is a dangerous and desirable thing we do. I am proud to take part in it.”

The Tor signaled with one hand. At once, the castle’s trumpeter blew a fanfare which echoed against the walls, rang into the sky. Groaning, the great winches began to crank the gate open.

While the gate went up, the Tor pulled his charger around to face the opening and the future as if he had never been afraid in his life.

Artagel withdrew. Castellan Norge called the guard to order.

When the gate was up, the trumpeter sounded another fanfare.

With the Congery and six thousand men behind him, the Tor rode out of Orison.

FORTY-FIVE: THE ALEND MONARCH’S GAMBLE

Out in the dawn, the Alend army waited.

Prince Kragen had withdrawn all his forces – his patrols and scouts, his siege engines, his battering rams – to the great circle of his encampment. Beyond the gates, none of his men came closer than the tree-lined roads from Tor and Perdon and Armigite. But his foot soldiers stood ready, holding their weapons. His mounted troops were on their horses. Past the intervening guards, past the Tor and Norge, Terisa could see the Alend strength among the trees like a black wall wrapped around the castle.

One of the riders who held the roads was a standard-bearer with the Alend Monarch’s green-and-red pennon.

A cold wind came up out of the south, out of Tor, making the pennon flutter and snap like a challenge.

The standard-bearer held no flag of truce.

As always, however, Prince Kragen’s men avoided the intersection where the roads came together. This created a gap in the Alend line, as if Kragen intended to let Orison’s guard through.

The Tor spoke to Norge; Norge muttered a command Terisa didn’t hear. At the head of the guard, King Joyse’s plain purple insignia was raised.

Maybe Prince Kragen would think the King had returned.

Maybe he would reconsider.

Terisa gripped her reins with icy hands and prepared to nudge her nag into motion. Geraden held his head up as though he were waiting for sunrise. Ribuld scratched at his scar as if it itched in the chill, an old wound remembering pain.

Snorting steam, shaking their heads, rattling their tack, crunching the crusted mud, the horses began to follow the Tor and Castellan Norge.

Artagel still had his back to the Alends. By holding his mount stationary, he sifted through the vanguard until he was directly in front of Terisa and Geraden – until he came between them, forcing them to stop. As she had feared, he was wearing Lebbick’s old, bloody mail over his shirt and leggings, Lebbick’s purple sash and headband. The sword belted to his hip looked so dark and grim that it must have belonged to the dead Castellan.

When he was dressed like that, she was afraid of what he might do.

At the moment, however, he didn’t do anything fearful. He clasped his brother’s shoulder; without quite managing to smile, he said, “Take care of yourself. Take care of her. Rescue Nyle. This family has already suffered enough.”

Geraden replied with a grin that looked like it belonged to Artagel.

Artagel turned to Terisa. Striving to appear ready and whole – perhaps for her benefit, perhaps for his own – he said stiffly, “Don’t make a liar out of me now, my lady.”

“A liar—she repeated as if the cold numbed her mouth. She had no idea what he was talking about.

“I’ve told half the men and women in Orison you can shift Eremis’ mirrors so they won’t translate here.” He watched her, studied her, like a man who didn’t want to get caught pleading. “The Tor is heading straight for the place where the Perdon and his men were attacked.”

Terisa thought her heart was going to stop.

The mirror which had brought those ravening black spots down on the Perdon and his men out of nowhere—Shapes no bigger than puppies, and yet as fatal as wolves—

She had forgotten it. Forgotten, forgotten.

Geraden winced. “Terisa—” he started to say. “Terisa—”

“Stop him,” she said, gasping gouts of steam. “Stop him. I need time to think.”

Instantly, Artagel wheeled his mount and plunged through the press of horses, chasing after the Tor.

—gnarled, round shapes with four limbs outstretched like grappling hooks and terrible jaws that occupied more than half the body—

The idea shocked her to the marrow, revolted her. The same creatures had attacked her and Geraden outside Sternwall – but that was different; then they had attacked completely by surprise, without time for panic or nausea. This time—The Tor and Castellan Norge were effectively defenseless. If they met Prince Kragen in the intersection, all the leaders of the armies could be struck at once. How had she forgotten?

Artagel had told everyone that she could shift Eremis’ mirrors.

Outside the gates, Artagel caught up with the Tor and Norge, spoke to them urgently. Master Barsonage brought his horse up between Terisa and Geraden. “What is amiss?” he asked. “I was unable to hear.”

Geraden overrode the mediator. “Why hasn’t he used it already? If he still has that mirror set up – if it’s ready – why hasn’t he used it before this? He could bring anything through. Even if he didn’t hurt us, he could cripple the Alends, maybe even kill Prince Kragen – or the Alend Monarch.”

“Because he didn’t need it then.” Terisa wasn’t thinking about what she said; the words seemed to come out by themselves, reasoned into clarity by a separate part of her mind. “He needed time to set his traps, time to spring them. He needed time to get Festten’s army in position, time to get rid of the Perdon, time to make all his mirrors.” The rest of her brain blundered helplessly around the edges of the promise Artagel had made in her name. “But we let him do all that safely. Prince Kragen held off – he held off from trying to take Orison. Nobody interfered with what Eremis was doing. So he didn’t need to use this mirror. He could afford to leave Alend alone.”

Geraden nodded harshly. “I understand. Now it’s time. Now he needs it. We’re moving. His traps are ready. He’s got everything he wanted except you. He can’t beat us with just one mirror. Even a few hundred of those black spots can’t beat an army this size. An avalanche can’t. Firecats can’t. But if he can hurt us now – if he can kill the Tor, or Norge, or Prince Kragen – he can damage us terribly.”

“Then we will foil him simply,” put in Master Barsonage. “We will turn from the road. We will pass outside his mirror’s range of focus.”

Geraden nodded again, rose up in his stirrups to shout to Artagel. But Terisa said at once, “No!”

Master Barsonage and Geraden stared at her.

No. Oh, curse it. What was she thinking? This was insane.

“Artagel told everyone I can shift Eremis’ mirrors.” But that wasn’t what she meant to say, that wasn’t the point. She tried again. “This is a trap. We need to stick our heads in it. We need to spring it the other way. Isn’t that why we’re marching in the first place? Isn’t that what we decided?”

Ahead of the guard, the Tor and Norge had stopped. Artagel had finished explaining what was on his mind. In the gray dawn, the Tor looked strangely sunken, irresolute, as if he were torn between the desire to flee and the necessity of marching. Kicking his mount, Artagel started back toward Terisa and Geraden.

“Eremis wants to scare us,” she said while her thoughts throbbed like her heart. “He wants to make us doubt ourselves.

“We should try doing the same thing to him.”

“What do you mean, my lady?” asked Master Barsonage, nearly whispering.

“She means,” Geraden snarled back as though she appalled him, “she thinks she ought to do it. Stick her head in the trap.” He had to swallow fiercely to clear his throat. “Shift Eremis’ mirror so he can’t use it.”

“Impossible,” protested the mediator. “Is it not true that she has never seen the mirror which shows the place where those fatal creatures are found? And how can we be sure that Master Eremis does not intend to translate some other evil against us? And—?”

“Not that mirror,” Geraden snapped, controlling his alarm with anger. “The flat one. The one that shows the intersection.

“No.” Now he was speaking to Terisa, speaking so intensely that his words seemed to burn. “What makes it impossible is the vantage, the direction. We know what the Image is, but we don’t know what side it’s seen from, what the perspective is. You can’t shift an Image if you can’t identify it first, see it exactly in your mind.”

He was saying, Don’t do this, don’t do this.

“I’ve got to try.” As if that were an explanation, she said, “Artagel promised.” But the stricken look on Geraden’s face demanded better. She made another effort. “I don’t really know how far my talent goes. I haven’t had very many chances to explore it. We’re counting on the idea that I have power we can use, but we don’t really know what we’re counting on. And the closer we get to Esmerel, the more dangerous everything is. I’ve got to try.”

Geraden clearly wanted to argue, shout. Deliberately, she went on, “We’re staking everything on the hope that King Joyse didn’t abandon us. He trusted us – he trusts us to make his plans work while he’s away.” She had the distinct impression that she was completely out of her mind. “If we aren’t going to at least make the attempt, we might as well stay here.”

For one painful moment, Geraden’s expression turned to bleak, bitter iron. But then his lips pulled back into a fighting grimace. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you aren’t,” Terisa countered before Master Barsonage could object. “We can’t afford to risk both of us.”

“If you think I’m going to let you do this alone—” Geraden began.

She wasn’t listening to him: she had already hauled on her reins, dug her heels into the nag’s sides. As if she were unaware of her own quickness and had never considered the possibility that she wouldn’t be obeyed, she commanded, “Stop him, Ribuld. Keep him here,” and started to forge among the riders toward Artagel, the Tor, and Castellan Norge.

Ribuld caught Geraden by the strap of his swordbelt and neatly plucked him off his horse. While Geraden sputtered in outrage, Ribuld wrestled with him. Geraden was tougher than he appeared, nearly frantic as well: he managed to unseat Ribuld. They fell together into the mud. But Geraden couldn’t break away.

Terisa reached Artagel.

“I need protection,” she panted; her own strange audacity took her breath away. “Eremis won’t miss a chance to attack when he sees me in his mirror. Somebody’s got to keep me alive so I can work.”

Artagel’s excitement shone as brightly as Geraden’s frenzy. Calling men after him, he wheeled his mount and began clearing a path for her.

They reached the Tor and Norge and rode past with six more guards behind them, hurrying now so that she wouldn’t have time to lose her nerve – so that she wouldn’t be infected by the Tor’s slumped irresolution.

While she rushed toward the intersection, she tried to clear her mind, make herself ready.

This decisive urgency was different than the rage which sometimes blocked her. It was full of fear – and fear lead to fading – and fading led to translation. The first thing she needed was an alternative Image, a place she could shift Eremis’ glass to. As soon as she recognized that necessity, however, her mind filled up with scenes which couldn’t bear attack: the Closed Fist; rooms and halls in Orison; Sternwall; Vale House. She had to thrust them away, get them out of her thoughts before she did something terrible unintentionally. If only she had seen any part of Esmerel accurately, she could have used it – or tried to use it – to hurl Eremis’ attack back against him.

He had cleverly avoided that danger.

Was his foresight really that good? Was he ready for her now?

A squad of Alend horse rode into the intersection, intending either to meet or to stop her. Artagel stretched his mount a few strides ahead and began yelling at the Alends, warning them away. She caught a glimpse of Prince Kragen, saw him react without hesitation, shout his men back.

Around her, the trees seemed to skid into focus past the bare ground leading from Orison. She had only been here on one previous occasion: the day Geraden had caught Nyle, dooming him to Master Eremis. And the ground then had been still covered with snow, the trees still black, leafless. And beyond the intersection had been cold, ice-caked snow, not an army of Alends.

Sawing inexpertly on the reins, she brought her horse to a halt. At once, Artagel and his companions formed a defensive cordon around her; instinctively, they faced the Alends with their swords drawn, as if the danger came from Prince Kragen’s soldiers.

Her pulse straining and her head giddy, she did her best to ignore the men, the horses, the swords. A number of the Alends sat their mounts with their spears leveled – ignore that. She needed time, time to see the place vividly as it was now, time to consider it from as many different angles as possible; time to prepare herself for the Image which had to be shifted.

Unfortunately, her enemies weren’t stupid. And her disappearance from Eremis’ cell had given them at least a hint of her true talents. Either she had effected her escape herself, or she possessed some kind of link with Geraden which had enabled him to locate and translate her in the dark. In either case, she was a dangerous opponent.

Before she had a chance to calm herself, before she finished turning wildly, trying to see the intersection from every side at once, before she knew what she was going to do, a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen—

—and a black shape full of teeth came down on the shoulders of one of the guards.

With a single, tearing bite, it ripped out the base of his neck.

By the time his body toppled to the ground, the creature had already gobbled its way into his chest.

More shapes: five, ten, fifteen. Shouts hit the trees. Swords flared in the cold sunrise. Prince Kragen and a dozen Alends charged into the fray. Artagel seemed to be dancing on the back of his mount, pirouetting, as he slashed an attacker out of the air above Terisa’s head. Then he dove at her, carried her off her horse to the ground where he could control her movements, keep his sword between her and the creatures.

And still through the chaos of whirling vision, whirling blades, of horses and teeth and blood, she felt that touch of cold as the mirror stayed open, the translation continued, launching black raveners at her as fast as they could come.

She tried to use the sensation, cling to it, make it lead her to its Image; she had to see that Image in her mind before she could change it. But it eluded her.

Geraden was right. It was impossible.

Another guard went down. All the guards seemed to be down, with gnarled shapes no bigger than puppies feasting on them. But some of them must have been Alends, because she had guards around her yet, protecting her like Artagel, hacking their swords madly at the open air.

Artagel had to fling her aside, had to use both hands on his sword in order to cut away three beasts at once. The catch in his side slowed him, nearly cost him his life. With a wrench of effort and pain, he hauled his blade around.

She sprawled toward the hooves of a panicked horse. That touch of cold was driven through the center of her belly like a spike, nailing her to the ground. She was so afraid that she forgot everything – forgot to dodge the horse, the creatures, forgot to ward herself – forgot everything except the feather-and-steel sensation of Eremis’ glass.

There she found it: on the edge of fading, the verge of the blind dark. Above her – higher than her own vantage. That was how it had eluded her: she hadn’t taken into account the way the black shapes came down onto her defenders.

As if she were leaping up inside herself, carrying the cold of translation with her, she looked into its moment of temporary eternity, its flat abyss, and saw the Image.

She saw the bloodied ground from nearly fifteen feet in the air, saw the frantic and squealing horses, saw her defenders, the corpses, the dead or feeding creatures—

Fast and hard, desperately, like slamming a door, she turned what she saw opaque, gave it an Image as blank as frosted glass.

Inside her, the touch of cold snapped and vanished as if she had shattered something.

At the same instant, the rush of gnarled bodies and teeth was cut off. In fact, it was cut off in mid-creature. Two of the beasts flopped to the ground without the rest of their bodies: they had been sliced in half as neatly as with a cleaver.

The attack was over.

“Terisa,” Artagel gasped, “my lady.” He got his hands under her arms, lifted her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“I think I broke it.” She couldn’t find a point of balance anywhere in the intersection. The ground tilted; men veered from side to side; Artagel’s face swam in and out of view. She had no idea how she was able to speak, when it was obvious that she had lost the ability to breathe or think or hold up her head. “The mirror. I think we’re safe. “

Prince Kragen appeared: he seemed to heave over the horizon from somewhere far away. “You like risks, my lady,” he said through his teeth. “I have lost seven men.”

“And Eremis lost a mirror, “Artagel retorted over his shoulder, panting and angry. “Maybe you don’t like the trade, but he’s going to think hard before he tries it again. My lord Prince.”

Terisa had no attention to spare for Kragen. Clinging to Artagel, she asked, “How many did we lose?”

He looked around. “Three.”

Three. Ten men altogether. Ten men dead because she took a risk she didn’t know how to handle, ten. And if she hadn’t finally shifted the mirror when she did, the carnage would have been worse. Maybe much worse. Because she took the risk—

Trembling like a child, she sank to the ground and clamped her hands over her face to shut out the sight of death.

Artagel stood over her and glared at Prince Kragen as if daring the Prince to blame her for anything. When Kragen shrugged and withdrew, Artagel sent his guards back to Orison. “Tell my lord Tor the intersection is safe. And tell Geraden she’s all right. She broke the mirror.”

Terisa didn’t hear the men leave.

“My lady,” Artagel said thickly, “you did the right thing. If we only lose ten men for every mirror Eremis has, he doesn’t stand a chance.”

She couldn’t raise her head, even for Artagel.

What about High King Festten and his twenty thousand Cadwals?

The Tor and Norge and their escort were the first riders to arrive from Orison. The Tor didn’t dismount – maybe he couldn’t, and still be sure of being able to get back up on his horse. But he addressed her in a voice she remembered, a voice with cunning and resolution hidden in its subterranean rumble.

“My lady Terisa of Morgan, it would have been a grave mistake if I had required you to remain behind.”

She tried to nod without looking up. Apparently, he had recovered some measure of assurance. She had accomplished that, if nothing else: she had given the old lord a bit of hope by demonstrating that it was possible to fight Eremis’ Imagery.

Then Geraden reached her. Muddy and bedraggled, almost delirious with anger and relief, he flung himself off his mount in front of her as if he meant to snatch her from the ground. Instead of picking her up, however, he hunkered down to her, gripped her shoulders hard, shook her gently. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he demanded. “Don’t you dare. Can’t you get it through your thick skull that I love you? We’re together in this. I’d rather walk through fire until I drop than be a spectator while you live or die.”

Oh, Geraden.

She put out her arms to him, and he caught her in a fierce hug. “Together,” she murmured so that he wouldn’t let her go. “I promise.”

After a while, he helped her to her feet.

Until she wiped her eyes and looked around, she didn’t realize that all the forces of Orison and Alend were waiting for her.

Prince Kragen was there, mounted before the Tor, with a new squad of men behind him. Artagel had gone back to his duty in Orison; but Castellan Norge and his escort supported the Tor, with a road full of guards issuing from the castle at his back. The old lord faced Prince Kragen squarely; however, the Prince didn’t speak until Terisa met his gaze.

To her surprise, she saw unmistakably that some conflict in him had been resolved. The clenched bitterness, the suggestion of savagery, was gone from his expression; his black eyes shone with excitement. She had no idea what decision he had achieved – but she could see beyond question that he liked it.

After holding her gaze for a moment, he turned to the Tor.

“Should I conclude from this display of force, my lord Tor,” he asked acerbically, “that your intention to march against High King Festten and Master Eremis in Esmerel is unchanged?”

“Assuredly, my lord Prince,” the Tor replied in a corresponding tone. “If I had the slightest desire to do battle with you, I would not go about it in this fashion.”

Kragen indicated the purple pennon. “Has King Joyse returned?”

“He has not.”

“In that case” – Prince Kragen straightened his shoulders – “the Alend Monarch wishes to speak with you. He asks you to accept the hospitality of his tent, with Geraden, the lady Terisa, and Master Barsonage – and Castellan Norge, of course.”

Terisa and Geraden stared. Norge clenched his jaws as if he were stifling a yawn. The Tor’s eyes showed an undisguised gleam of hope. Nevertheless he didn’t ask what Margonal wanted to talk about. Instead, he inquired firmly, “What guarantee of safety does the Alend Monarch offer us? As his guests, we will be deeply honored – and completely vulnerable.”

Prince Kragen shrugged slightly. “My lord Tor, the Alend Monarch is a man of honor. He neither insults nor betrays his guests. On this occasion, however, he is prepared to match your vulnerability with his own. You may bring with you a hundred horsemen, who will be permitted to surround his tent. Surely no treachery on our part will succeed at killing a hundred men before they can threaten or kill the Alend Monarch himself.”

“A remarkable gesture,” Master Barsonage whispered to Terisa and Geraden. “The Alend Monarch is not notoriously complaisant about hazards to his person. Perhaps there is hope for an alliance yet.”

Terisa and Geraden didn’t reply. They were waiting to hear what the Tor would say.

“My lord Prince,” drawled the old lord as if nothing surprised him, “the Alend Monarch is unexpectedly considerate. I am prepared to rely on his honor entirely. I will accompany you at once, with Master Geraden and the lady Terisa of Morgan.”

The Tor held up his hand to forestall movement. “Castellan Norge will remain among his men – as will the mediator of the Congery. They will keep their strength ready to march at the earliest possible moment.”

Norge nodded amiably. Master Barsonage started to object, but subsided at once. The point of the Tor’s decision was obvious: if the old lord was betrayed, most of Orison’s fighting force would remain intact.

Prince Kragen permitted himself a bleak smile. “As you wish, my lord Tor.” With a look toward Terisa and Geraden, he asked, “Will you mount and join us?”

Trying not to hurry – trying not to look like people who desperately wanted an alliance – Terisa and Geraden found their horses, swung themselves up, and rode to the Tor’s side.

Without discernible anxiety, Castellan Norge withdrew his escort; he retreated a short distance down the road and immediately sorted his men into a defensive shield around the Congery and its wagons. At his orders, what remained of the mounted guard emerged from Orison, fanning out into a formation ready either to commence battle or to resume marching. Then Norge followed the men on foot, while Master Barsonage told the other Masters what had happened and prepared them for the possibility that they might have to defend themselves.

At the same time, Terisa and Geraden – with Ribuld trailing after them as if he thought no one would notice him – rode beside the Tor and Prince Kragen toward the tent where they had talked with the Prince and Elega less than two days ago.

As they moved, Geraden tried discreetly to wipe some of the mud off his clothing.

Terisa was distantly surprised to discover that her own clothes weren’t especially dirty. The mud in the intersection had been frozen hard. And somehow she had escaped all that blood—Even the gnarled creatures had died without marking her.

In the open area surrounded by luxurious living tents, the riders dismounted. Refusing the Prince’s offer of help, the Tor got down by himself; but he had to hold his breath and hug his gut until his face turned black in order to do it. Gasping thinly, with his legs wedged to keep him upright, he murmured as an explanation, “My lord Prince, I hope the Alend Monarch does not require his guests to be in good health. The blow I received from the High King’s Monomach troubles me” – his face twisted – “considerably.”

“My lord Tor,” replied the Prince evenly, “the Alend Monarch will require only that you be seated comfortably, that you enjoy a flagon of wine” – Kragen bowed his guests toward the most sumptuous of the tents – “and that you consent to see him without light.”

Allowing Terisa, Geraden, and the Tor no opportunity for questions, Prince Kragen approached the tentflaps and told the soldiers on duty to announce him.

Terisa and Geraden glanced at each other; but the Tor ignored both of them. Struggling as if he were up to his thighs in mire, he followed Kragen into the tent.

“Oh, well,” Geraden whispered. He had recovered his sense of humor. “If we aren’t allowed any light, at least I don’t have to worry about appearing before the Alend Monarch looking like a pig wallow.”

Terisa wanted to smile for him, but she was too busy trying to control her sense that the defenders of Mordant urgently needed some good to come of this meeting with the Alend Monarch.

They entered the tent behind the Tor.

Ribuld tried to go with them. Kragen’s soldiers stopped him.

As on the occasion of their previous visit, the fore-tent was illuminated only by braziers which had been set for warmth: apparently, Margonal suffered from an old man’s sensitivity to cold. Now, however, Prince Kragen summoned no lamps to augment the glowing embers. In the gloom, slightly tinged with red, the chairs and furnishings were hard to see – imprecise; vaguely suggestive. Tent poles loomed out of the dark like obstacles.

A moment passed before Terisa realized that she and Geraden, the Tor and Prince Kragen weren’t alone. Two soldiers held the tentflaps tightly closed. Servants waited around the walls.

And the dark shape of a man sat in a chair across the expanse of the fore-tent.

“My lord Tor.” The voice issuing from the dark shape was old and thin. “I like courtesy, but I will dispense with it today, so that your march will not be delayed. Yet I must take time to give you my thanks for not bringing the hundred men I offered to permit. Even if I meant you ill – which I do not – your decision made you safe with me. A man of Mordant must be valorous to trust the honor of an Alend.”

“My lord Monarch,” replied the Tor, “I also like courtesy. It would please me to give you the formal salutations and gratitude which custom and humility suggest. Unfortunately, I have been injured. I confess that I am hardly able to stand. Forgive me, my lord – I must sit.”

Prince Kragen had moved to stand beside his father. From that position, he made a sharp gesture. At once, a servant hurried forward with a broad stool for the Tor.

Groaning involuntarily, the Tor lowered his weight to the seat.

“You are injured, my lord Tor,” said the Alend Monarch, “and yet you propose a hard march of three days in order to confront High King Festten and his new cabal of Imagers. Is that wise?”

Behind the age in Margonal’s voice, Terisa heard another quality. Perhaps because the gloom in the tent gave every shape and tone an ominous cast, she thought that the Alend Monarch sounded haunted; harried by doubt.

He had invited – no, summoned – her and Geraden and the Tor here in order to test them in some way. Because he was afraid.

“My lord Monarch” – the Tor seemed to lift his voice by main strength off the floor of his belly – “I am sincerely unsure that it is wise. King Joyse would never permit me to do such a thing in his place, if he were here to forbid it. But he is not here, and so I determine the nature of my own service to my King.

“The question is not one of wisdom, my lord. It is one of necessity. I go to fight the High King and his Imagers simply because they must be opposed.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Abruptly, Prince Kragen made another gesture. As if a ritual had been correctly completed, servants now came forward with chairs for Terisa and Geraden. Silently, they were urged to seat themselves.

Then a tray was brought around; it held four wine goblets, one each for Terisa, Geraden, and the Tor, one for the Alend Monarch himself. Margonal drank briefly before inviting his guests to do the same.

Prince Kragen abstained as if he were only a servant in his father’s presence.

Terisa peered at the Alend Monarch until her temples throbbed, but she couldn’t make out any details of his face or posture or clothes. Maybe the braziers weren’t intended to warm him after all. He sat as far away from them as possible.

Why did he insist on darkness? What was he hiding – strength or frailty?

“So,” he said without preamble. “I have heard rumors of violence and Imagery from the intersection.” Strangely, his suddenness didn’t convey decision. Speaking quickly only made the note of anxiety in his voice more obvious. “What transpired there this morning, my lord Tor?”

“An unexpected and hopeful thing, my lord Monarch.” For reasons of his own, the Tor made no effort to project optimism. “Master Eremis translated vileness against us – and the lady Terisa of Morgan defeated him. Some men were lost defending her,” the old lord added. “Prince Kragen gallantly aided her, and so some of the men lost were yours, my lord. Yet the attack was turned against our enemies. Across the miles, Master Eremis’ mirror was broken.”

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 who 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 marched 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?”

That got the mediator’s attention. “My lord, you propose a vast amount of material to be translated. All Imagery is taxing. And we have only three mirrors.”

“I understand,” the Tor replied rather sharply. “Can you do it?”

Master Barsonage glared at the ground. “We can make the attempt.”

“Good.” The old lord turned away. “Castellan Norge.”

“My lord Tor?”

“Send a messenger to my lord Prince. Say that I wish to consult with him – that I wish to consult with him urgently – on the subject of his supplies.”

“Yes, my lord.” If Norge had any qualms about the Tor’s idea, he didn’t show them. Instead, he gave the necessary orders to one of his captains.

Muttering under his breath, Barsonage went back to work.

“He’s right, you know,” Geraden commented to Terisa as they hugged their coats and watched the Masters prepare. “That’s a lot of translation for only three mirrors – three Imagers. It’s going to be hard.”

Terisa didn’t want to think about it. In fact, she didn’t want to think. Men had died to keep her alive. That was what war meant: some men died to keep others alive. The bloodshed had hardly begun. Numbly, she asked, “What do you suggest?”

He studied her. “We could help.”

She blinked at him. She could see that he was cold, but he didn’t seem to feel it as badly as she did. He was still able to be worried about her.

“The practice might be good for us,” he said casually. “And you look like it wouldn’t hurt you to be reminded that Imagery has a few” – he searched for a description – “less bloody uses.”

She grimaced. “I don’t think I have the strength.”

“Terisa,” he said at once, “listen to me. You didn’t kill anybody. You were trying to stop the killing.”

He touched the sore place in her, the ache of responsibility. Stiffly, she said, “They died protecting me.”

“But you didn’t kill them. Their blood is on Eremis’ head, not yours.”

“No,” she retorted. “Don’t you understand? I didn’t have to give him the chance to attack me. We could have gone around the intersection. Nobody had to die. I made that decision.”

Like Lebbick, the men protecting her had died for nothing more than a ploy, a gambit – a move at checkers.

“That’s true.” Geraden practically smiled at her. “You struck back. You took the risk of striking back – and all risks are dangerous. Next time, you might want to choose your risks more carefully, so nobody has to face them except you. Us.

“But you were right. That’s why we’re here, we, all of us. Including those men who got killed. To strike back. If we aren’t going to strike back, we should have stayed in Orison.”

Choose your risks more carefully.

“In the meantime,” he said as if he knew what her answer would be, “we can make ourselves useful. The Congery has curved mirrors they aren’t going to need tonight. I can tackle one of them. And there’s probably a flat glass to spare. If there isn’t, you can try your hand at a regular translation, where you don’t have to shift the Image.”

As well as she could, she met his gaze. Sometimes she forgot how handsome he was. He had a boy’s eyes, a lover’s mouth, a king’s forehead; the lines of his face were capable of iron and humor almost simultaneously. He lacked Eremis’ magnetism – he was too vulnerable for that kind of attraction – but his vulnerability only made his strength more precious to her, just as his strength made his vulnerability dear. And he was so good at turning his attention to her when she needed it—

With one cold hand, she touched his cheek, ran a fingertip down the length of his nose. “I hope Master Barsonage is in a tolerant mood,” she muttered. “I might make some pretty dramatic mistakes.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Geraden happily. “After the mistakes I’ve already made, anything you can do wrong is going to be paltry by comparison.”

Chuckling, he led her toward the open ground where the Masters were unpacking their mirrors.

When he explained what he had in mind to the mediator, Master Barsonage’s harried look eased noticeably. “This is too good to be true,” Barsonage said as he assessed the possibilities. “Something must go amiss. If neither of you cracks a glass – and I feel constrained to remind you that nothing of what we have can be replaced – perhaps Prince Kragen’s Alends will be overwhelmed by sentiment against Imagery, and will feel compelled to throw a few propitious stones.

“Master Vixix.” This was a middle-aged Imager with hair like roofing thatch and a face as bland as a millstone. “We require your glass.” To Terisa, the mediator explained, “Master Vixix has shaped a flat mirror which shows a scene lost somewhere in the Fen of Cadwal. We brought it because a fen can be a useful place to drop trash and corpses. As a weapon, however, it has little value. Perhaps it would serve for you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he instructed another Master to unpack one of the Congery’s normal mirrors for Geraden.

Soon the ground was cleared, the mirrors were set, and guards stood ready to carry away translated equipment and supplies. Nodding in satisfaction, Master Barsonage approached his own glass and said, “Very well. Let us begin.”

Standing more beside the mirror than before it, he gave its focus a last, touch, then began to stroke the edge of the frame with one hand while muttering words Terisa couldn’t distinguish.

From the Image of Orison’s ballroom, two sacks of flour and a side of cured beef flopped to the ground at Master Barsonage’s feet.

Another Imager produced a cask of wine, which was greeted with a rough cheer by the nearby guards. The third began to spill a steady stream of bedrolls through his glass.

“You realize, don’t you?” Terisa said to Geraden under her breath, “that I don’t have any idea how to do this. I don’t know what words to say, or how to move my hands, or anything.”

His eyes sparkled as he faced the mirror which the Masters had unpacked for him. It showed an arid landscape under a hot sun, so dry that it seemed incapable of sustaining any kind of life, so hard-baked that the ground was split by a crack as deep as a chasm and wide enough to swallow men and horses. Despite his past, the Congery – or at least Master Barsonage – trusted him with that glass. Touching the convoluted mimosa wood frame delicately with the tips of his fingers, he smiled and said, “This may sound strange, but that isn’t exactly a secret. It’s one of the first things Apts learn – as soon as the Congery knows them well enough to be sure they’re serious. Imagery doesn’t depend on waving your hands the right way, or making the right sounds. It depends on talent. The rest—”

Interrupting himself, he came to look at Master Vixix’s glass with her. In the gloom of evening, the Fen of Cadwal looked forbidding: dark and wet; unpredictable.

“Here,” he said. “Move your left hand on the frame – like this.” He showed her. “Gesture with your right hand – like this.” He showed her. Then, without allowing her any opportunity for practice, he said, “While you’re doing that, mumble these sounds.” In her ear, he murmured a complex string of nonsense syllables.

“Most Apts,” he commented, “work on things like this for a year, off and on. You ought to be able to handle it” – he gazed at her innocently – “almost immediately.”

She stared back at him, unwilling to believe that he was making fun of her – and unable to think of any other interpretation.

“Try it,” he urged, as if half a hundred guards and most of the Congery weren’t watching her. “Go on.”

His smile seemed to promise that nothing would harm her.

Quickly, so that she wouldn’t be paralyzed by self-consciousness, she approached the flat mirror.

Move your left hand on the frame – like this. No, more like this. Gesture with your right – that was wrong, try again – with your right hand – like this. At the same time. And mumble.

Working hard to remember the syllables Geraden had told her, she forgot for a moment what she was trying to accomplish.

With a roar like a cataract, rank swampwater began to rush over the edge of the frame onto her feet.

Startled, she jumped back.

Instantly, the translation stopped.

The Masters and most of the guards were laughing; but Geraden’s grin was too full of approval to hurt her. “I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. This is just one of those situations where if you know what you’re trying to do it gets harder.”

Terisa looked down at the muck on her boots. Croaking in hoarse astonishment, a frog hopped away across the hard dirt. Despite the chill, her cheeks and ears were hot from the laughter of the spectators. Balanced between indignation and mirth, she rasped, “I hope you can give me a better explanation than that.”

Her tone made him serious at once. “The words and gestures don’t have anything to do with translation. They’re for your benefit – to help you concentrate in a particular way. When you’re first learning, they help by forcing you to think about them instead of translation. And when you’ve learned, they help – sort of by force of habit. After enough repetition, they put you in the right frame of mind almost automatically.

“But if I told you all that first, you would think about how you were concentrating, instead of actually concentrating. It would be harder. Now that you know what the right frame of mind is, you’ll have an easier time getting yourself back there.”

He made sense. She knew him well enough to know that he wasn’t trying to make fun of her. She ought to laugh—

But she had seen men die today. And she had every intention of killing Master Eremis. She was in no mood to laugh at anything.

Deliberately, she went back to the mirror and began to clear her mind so that she could shift the Image, transform the Fen of Cadwal into the ballroom of Orison.

Before long, Prince Kragen arrived in person to discuss the question of his supplies with the Tor. By that time Terisa had already succeeded at bringing a stack of groundsheets through from the ballroom – and no one was laughing. The guards and the Masters were all hard at work, preparing to feed and shelter six thousand men for the night.

Prince Kragen observed that he had no alliance with Mordant. And without an alliance he certainly couldn’t entrust his army’s supplies – in effect, his army’s ability to function – to a group of men who were historically his enemies, in addition to being notoriously crazy.

The Tor observed that if the Alend army continued to carry its own supplies, and continued to try to keep up with the forces of Orison, it would reach Esmerel no better able to function than if it had lost all its supplies.

Prince Kragen observed that it would not hurt Alend to let Orison meet Cadwal first and test the High King’s mettle.

The Tor observed that two separate armies of six thousand men each would pose a trivial problem for High King Festten’s twenty thousand, compared to a united force of twelve thousand.

Prince Kragen acquiesced. He also accepted the Tor’s invitation to supper. Behind his tone of doubt and his dark glower, he looked positively happy.

That night, wrapped in their blankets and an oiled groundsheet, Terisa allowed Geraden to apologize again. “I know you were right,” she sighed eventually. “I just don’t seem to be very resilient. All those men laughing—That’s something else Master Eremis and my father have in common. They like to jeer.”

“But you showed them they were wrong,” Geraden countered. “None of them has ever seen a woman with talent before. Most of them have never taken a woman seriously before. Until this evening, there was a chance they wouldn’t back you up, if you ever needed them.

“Now you’ve got their attention. The whole camp is talking about you. What you did in the intersection was good. The only problem with it is, it was too abstract to have much impact. Nobody could see what you accomplished. Here—” He hugged her. “Here you’ve got hundreds of witnesses. You’re a Master. And the Masters are doing something useful, something vital. For a change.

“Terisa” – in the dark, he sounded like Artagel, eager for battle – “we’re going to beat that bastard.”

She hoped he was right. But she seemed to have lost the ability to laugh. For that reason, she wasn’t sure.

The next morning, she and Geraden, with Master Barsonage and the other two Imagers, worked like mill-slaves to return Orison’s equipment and virtually everything the Alend soldiers had carried to the ballroom. Then, guarded by a detachment of fifty horsemen, they had to drive the Congery’s wagons furiously to catch up with the armies.

In some ways, that drive was harder than the translation. So much translation was a mind-numbing exertion: it sapped her strength until she felt too weak to stand; it ground her spirit down to the nub. But it wasn’t dangerous. All she had to do was maintain the Image-shift, and be sure that none of Orison’s inhabitants wandered into the ballroom at a bad time, and keep the glass open while guards pitched bedrolls and food sacks and cooking utensils through it.

On the other hand, the drive to rejoin the armies was distinctly dangerous.

The obvious danger was to the wagons themselves, to the mirrors they carried. From Broadwine Ford, the armies left the relatively smooth Marshalt road to turn west-southwest toward Esmerel, and the way to Esmerel wasn’t particularly well maintained because it wasn’t particularly well used. As soon as the wagons passed the small, clustered village around the inn which served the Ford (from a sensible distance, to avoid the danger of floods), the roadbed became much rougher.

In addition, the terrain rapidly grew more challenging. According to Geraden, what was in effect the only flatland in the Care of Tor lay along the road toward Marshalt. The rest of the Tor’s Care was at best hilly; more often rugged than not; in places nearly mountainous. Despite the best efforts of the drivers, the wagons had to lumber over knobs of exposed rock, along gullies cobbled to jar bones apart, up hillsides barely packed hard enough for the horses’ hooves to find purchase. And each jolt against an obstacle, each tilt over a boulder, each thud into a hole threatened the Congery’s precious glass.

When the drive first began, Terisa thought that she would rest – and avoid the stiff-jointed gait of her nag – by riding on one of the wagons for a while. She soon found, however, that its ride made her nag’s saddle look like a sedan chair by comparison.

If anything, the weather was getting colder. In the ravines and gullies, the wind swirled from all sides, chilling skin and bones like invisible ice; on the rises and crests, it swept straight down off the southern mountains, remorseless and keen. As tired as she was, as empty-hearted as she felt, there didn’t seem to be anything Terisa could do to make herself warm.

“What do you suppose,” she asked Geraden in an effort to keep her mind occupied, “those twenty thousand Cadwals are doing all this time?”

“Resting,” Geraden snapped with uncharacteristic bitterness. “Building fortifications. Getting traps ready. Learning how to coordinate their movements with whatever Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel plan to do. Resting.”

“Looks like we have all the advantages,” she murmured. “By the time we get there, we’ll be exhausted.”

He nodded; then he added, “Which reminds me. We’ve had so many other things to think about, I forgot to mention it. I’ve got the strongest feeling this isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing.”

She found that idea so upsetting that she stared at him in spite of her fatigue and the raw cold.

“Say that again.”

“I’ve got the strongest feeling—”

Their road was little more than a dirt track trodden hard by several thousand men. It lurched over a ridge and angled down into an erosion gully. “Do you mean,” she interrupted, “we shouldn’t be going to Esmerel like this? We shouldn’t be sticking our necks in the noose like this? It’s all wrong?”

Why didn’t you say so before we got started?

“No,” he replied at once. “I’m sorry. I’m not being clear. I don’t mean the Tor, or the army, or the Congery – or even Prince Kragen. I mean you and me. Personally. There’s something else we should be doing.”

The advantage of an erosion gully was that the rocks were padded with sand. The disadvantage was that the wheels tended to cut in, making the wagons harder to pull. The teams began to snort and struggle in the traces.

Hardly able to contain herself, Terisa demanded, “Like what?”

Geraden grimaced sheepishly. “I don’t have the vaguest notion. That’s why we aren’t doing it. You know me. I always take these feelings seriously, even when they don’t make sense. If I understood it this time, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

The bed of the gully was wide enough for the wagons and riders. The walls quickly grew sheer, however; the gully became a ravine twisting among heavy hills. With an effort, she resisted a vehement urge to argue with him. Sourly, she muttered, “You and your ‘strongest feelings.’ ”

He spread his hands. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just thought you ought to know.”

She should have reassured him that he had done no harm – that he was right to tell her what he was feeling. In addition, she should have kicked him for apologizing so often. Unfortunately, she was too frightened.

Like the voice of her fear, a shout rose from one of the guards at the front of the group.

The cry was so consistent with her mood that it didn’t seem to need any other explanation. For a moment, she didn’t even raise her head to see what was happening.

Then there were more shouts. The walls of the ravine caught the cries and flung them into chaos along the wind. Ahead of the wagons, horsemen snatched out their swords, brandished their pikes. Guards surged past the wagons on both sides, yelling at Terisa and Geraden and the Congery to stay back.

Ribuld spurred after them furiously.

For no reason except instinct, Terisa jammed her heels into the sides of her nag.

“No!” Geraden caught at her reins.

Recovering her balance, she heard a throaty snarl among the shouts as if the ravine itself were growling for blood.

Through the press of riders, she saw a guard plunge off his mount, unseated by a wolf strong enough to leap as high as his chest, big enough to topple him.

At the same time, more wolves came off the edge of the ravine: dozens of them; leaping onto the men and horses below as if they were in no danger of breaking their own legs and backs, or didn’t care; wolves with spines jutting down their back’s and double rows of fangs in their jaws, and malign eyes.

Those that were close enough launched themselves at the wagons. At Terisa and the Masters.

At Geraden.

The same kind of wolves which had attacked Houseldon. Predators with his spoor in their nostrils and no fear left at all.

Screaming, one horse in the traces pitched to the ground with its shoulder torn open. Its weight pulled its fellow over on top of it, nearly upset the wagon.

A wolf crashed like a hammer into the wagon, hit it so hard that the wagonbed recoiled as if its axles were springs. Despite the tumult of shouts and pain and wolves, Terisa distinctly heard glass shatter.

The wagoner jumped from the bench, scuttled under the wagon for shelter.

Ignoring a Master who yelled at it frantically, flapped his arms at it as if it were nothing more than an tomcat, the wolf lunged off the wagon toward Geraden.

Apparently, Geraden had forgotten his sword. Instead of trying to fight, he wrenched his mount out of the way, drove his horse bucking against Terisa’s nag so that both horses stumbled to the wall of the ravine away from the attack.

A guard buried the head of his pike in the wolfs skull – then couldn’t work the blade free in time to defend himself from another beast which seemed to sail entirely over the wagons at him. He fell with his fists knotted in the wolf’s ruff, straining to keep the fangs from his face.

The fall broke his back before the wolf had a chance to kill him.

From horseback, Master Barsonage jumped awkwardly into the bed of the other wagon. Lashing the leads, the wagoner forced his team over against the wall directly under the wolves. In that position, the leaping wolves carried over the mediator’s head toward the wagon with the broken glass.

While Master Vixix and the wagoner cowered on the bench, the mediator blocked the rails with his girth, swinging his fists like mallets at every wolf within reach, using his furniture-maker’s strength to batter beasts away from his mirrors.

The guards milled in the ravine, thwarting each other, striking ineffectively; the walls crowded them, blocked them. And a number of them had gone ahead of the wagons to meet the attack, with the result that now most of the wolves were behind them. Nearly shrieking in fright, Terisa cried, “Protect Geraden! They’re after Geraden!”

Men shouted, raged; blades flashed; horses collided, knocked each other to the dirt. Nevertheless Terisa’s shout pierced the confusion. The captain of the company roared orders she couldn’t understand through the din.

The nearest riders wheeled back toward the wagons.

A wolf shot past the horses, slavering like a rabid thing. At the same time, two more picked themselves up off the ground behind the wagons, hurtled to the attack. And another sprang from the ravine’s rim, hurling itself at the wagon between it and Geraden.

With a demented wail, the Master who had tried to shoo the first wolf away leaped off the wagon bench and attempted to catch this beast in mid-dive.

Its weight and his leap carried the two of them over the rail among the horses.

Now Geraden remembered his sword. Still forcing his mount between Terisa and the wolves, driving her nag against the wall, he fumbled behind him, got a hand on his sword hilt, struggled to wrench the blade out of its scabbard over his shoulder.

The sword seemed to be stuck. Terisa could see a wolf already lifting from the ground as if it could fly. Wildly, almost unseating herself, she reached for Geraden’s back and caught hold of the scabbard.

The blade rushed free, split the beast’s head open from eyesocket to throat. Geraden was swinging so hard that only the jolt of impact kept him from being pulled off his mount by his own blow.

Out of the chaos, Ribuld’s pike took another wolf by the chest and gutted it. That gave Geraden time to recover his balance – but not enough time for his lack of expertise to mislead him. Unable to haul the heavy blade back and swing it again before the next wolf sprang at him, he simply jammed his sword point into the beast’s maw.

In case the wolf wasn’t dead yet, Ribuld hacked its head off.

Without warning, the attack was over.

Men brandished their swords, shouting across the cries of the wounded; horses wheeled and stamped; the captain yelled warnings, instructions. But no more wolves appeared, either in the ravine or along its rim.

Terisa felt that she was about to fall over from holding her breath too long. Why hadn’t she felt the translation? “Watch out!” she called with as much strength as she had. Maybe it took place too far away. “Eremis still has the mirror.” She had the impression that she was barely audible. Maybe Eremis didn’t have exactly the mirror he needed, so he had to simply release his wolves among these hills and let them hunt for Geraden in their own way. The actual translation may have happened miles or hours ago. “He can translate more whenever he wants.”

“I doubt it,” Geraden muttered, apparently speaking to himself. He held his sword erect in front of him and stared at it as if it appalled him. “Wolves travel in packs.” Blood ran down the blade onto his hands, his forearms; the front of his cloak was splashed with red. “And mirrors have a relatively small range. There isn’t likely to be another pack living that near this one.” As he gripped the hilt, his arms began to shake. “After his attack on Houseldon, Eremis probably had to wait all this time just to get these wolves.”

Abruptly, as if every movement hurt him, Geraden wiped the blade on his cloak and drove it back into its scabbard.

“Eremis can drop an avalanche on us whenever we’re near one of his flat mirrors. But he can’t force a wolf pack on another world into his reach.”

The captain nodded grimly, then announced, “We’re going to take precautions anyway.” He sent five men ahead to catch up with the Tor and report what had happened. Ten more men were assigned scouting duties.

Somehow, Terisa had come through the attack untouched. No blood had marked her. The only stain she bore was the one Adept Havelock had left on her shirt.

This time, no more than six of the people around her were dead. Two horses were dead. Two more had to be put out of their misery. One Master was dead: Cuebard. Until she saw his body, Terisa had never heard his name spoken. The captain counted nineteen dead wolves. “Curse this terrain,” he rasped. “On open ground, we could have chopped them into dogmeat – and suffered nothing but scratches.”

Trying not to hurry, Barsonage and the rest of the Masters unpacked all the mirrors.

Luckily, only one was broken: Master Vixix’s flat glass, with its Image of the Fen of Cadwal.

“Thank the stars.” Despite the cold, Master Barsonage was sweating thickly. “We are more fortunate than we deserve.”

“It’s my fault,” said the captain, growling obscenities at himself. “Castellan Norge is going to hang my balls on a stick. I should have had scouts around us right from the beginning.”

“Don’t worry about it, captain,” Ribuld muttered sardonically. “He needs you too much. He won’t actually unman you unless we win this war and end up safe in Orison again.

“But if that happens, watch your groin.”

Several of the guards laughed, more in reaction to the fight than because they thought Ribuld was funny.

“Are you all right?” Terisa asked Geraden privately.

He shook his head; contradicted himself with a nod; shrugged his shoulders. To the cold wind and the ravine’s wall, he said, “I’ve got another strong feeling.”

“Oh, good.” She tried to help him by sounding wry rather than troubled. “Somehow, I just know I’m going to love this one.”

“I’ve got the strongest feeling—” The muscles at the corners of his jaw knotted, released. “When the fighting really starts, we’d better be sure we’ve got somebody with us who handles a sword better than I do.”

Terisa assented bleakly. And better than Ribuld, too, she thought to herself, remembering Gart, who had beaten Ribuld and his dead friend Argus simultaneously.

Choose your risks more carefully. She intended to do that. If she could just figure out how.

Well before noon, she and Geraden, with Master Barsonage, the Congery, and the guards, rejoined Orison’s army. When the Tor had assured himself that their news was no worse than the report he had received, he rumbled, “Tomorrow you will have five hundred men with you. Master Eremis may strike at you again. And tomorrow there will be a clear danger of encountering High King Festten’s scouts and outriders.”

That made Terisa feel neither worse nor better. Caution was sensible. On the other hand, she felt sure that Mordant’s fate wouldn’t be decided by a chance encounter with scouts or outriders. And she had a distinct sense that Eremis wasn’t going to attack again. With his enemies so close to him now, he would wait until they came all the way into his trap, put themselves completely in his power. He wasn’t interested in anything as relatively straightforward as victory. He wanted to crush and humiliate, to annihilate everyone who opposed him. Whatever he did when his enemies reached Esmerel would be intended to hurt them spiritually as much as physically.

When she thought about Nyle, her insides contracted until she could scarcely breathe.

Throughout the afternoon, across the complex and dangerous terrain, Orison’s army and Prince Kragen’s marched into the unseasonable cold. Impatient and apprehensive young men demanded a return of spring; grizzled veterans with bunions or arthritis predicted snow. Horses stamped restively, pulled against their reins, shied at nothing. Orison and encouragement seemed painfully far away, despite the magic of mirrors. Mile after mile, the defenders of Mordant shortened the distance to Esmerel.

That evening, the men stopped to make camp on the high ground of a cluster of hilltops, where the wind could get at them with all its ice, and where their lights and cooking fires would be visible in all directions – and where it would be almost impossible for enemy troops to surprise them. Prince Kragen’s commanders deployed their soldiers; Castellan Norge organized the guard. Master Barsonage and the Congery unpacked the mirrors.

When the mediator uncovered his glass, the first thing he and everyone else saw in the Image was Artagel sitting atop a particularly high pile of bedrolls and groundsheets.

He still wore Lebbick’s clothes, Lebbick’s blood. His expression was a strange combination of excitement and boredom.

“What is that idiot doing?” demanded the Prince. “Is he not in danger of translation?”

Then: “What has he done with our supplies?”

Kragen was right: none of the Alend supplies which had been translated to Orison that morning were visible in the Image.

Before anyone else could speak, however, Artagel made his purpose clear. With the air of a man repeating an action he had already performed to the point of tedium, he held up a large sheet of parchment and turned it slowly so that it could be seen from all sides around him.

There was writing on the parchment. Across the hillside where the mirror stood, the sun was setting, and the light wasn’t especially good. But Artagel was prepared for that difficulty. Around him, the ballroom blazed with torches.

His message was easily read.

What do you want done with Kragen’s supplies?

The Prince stiffened; his hand fingered his sword. He watched narrowly as the Tor called for a piece of parchment and a charcoal stylus.

The old lord wrote:

Prince Kragen treats us honorably. Return his supplies.

He showed his message to Prince Kragen, then handed the parchment to Master Barsonage.

Deftly, Barsonage deposited the message in Artagel’s lap.

Artagel read it, glanced around him, shrugged. He looked disappointed; nevertheless he didn’t balk. He waved his arms, shouted something; and at once men and women – conscripted villagers, apparently – began running stacks and piles of Alend possessions back into the center of the ballroom.

Noticing the congested look on Prince Kragen’s face, Terisa gave a small, silent sigh of relief. He would have had little or no trouble believing that he had been betrayed – and then he would have had no choice but to attack the forces of Orison.

Shortly, everything was ready. Saluting the empty air casually, Artagel left the Image so that the process of translation could begin.

While guards and Alends gathered to distribute utensils and food and drink and bedding around the camp, Master Barsonage and his fellow Imagers went to work.

Geraden joined them, using the curved glass he was accustomed to. Terisa, on the other hand, had no contribution to make. Master Vixix’s was the only flat glass of any size which the Congery had brought to supplement the three supply-mirrors. So, after watching the work for a while, she went to the most obviously weary of the three Masters – a frail, nearly antique individual named Harpool, who hadn’t borne the attack of the wolves especially well – and offered to take his place so that he could rest.

He accepted gratefully and tottered away at once in the direction of a cup of wine and a nap before supper. When she faced his mirror, however, Terisa found to her chagrin that she could do nothing with it. She gestured and mumbled as Geraden had taught her; she reached toward the special frame of mind, the particular concentration, which had become familiar to her the previous evening and this morning. But now nothing happened.

Geraden, Master Barsonage, and the other Imager were unaware of her problem – they were straining like cart-horses over their own translations – but everyone else in the vicinity noticed her difficulty and stopped to observe.

“She’s lost it,” a guard muttered. “Scared out of her.”

“Give her time,” snapped Ribuld loyally.

This was too much – really too much. Two hard days on the road. Two bloody attacks on her life, or Geraden’s. Hours of mind-draining labor at Master Vixix’s mirror. And now her talent disappeared as if it had been switched off inside her.

If King Joyse thought she could bear this on top of everything else, he was out of his mind.

For no reason except that she absolutely couldn’t endure the shame of turning away, of showing off her failure in front of all those men, she tried to shift the Image.

Almost without effort, the ballroom of Orison became the Fen of Cadwal – not because she chose that scene consciously, but because it happened to be present in her thoughts.

Oh. She stared at it. The Fen of Cadwal. Her talent hadn’t disappeared.

Then why—?

She touched the frame of the glass; gestured; mumbled. Like a fool, she brought a second gush of swampwater pouring onto her boots. This time, there were no frogs.

Oh.

Then she understood. She couldn’t use a mirror unless she shifted the Image. Her power only functioned with Images she had placed in the glass herself.

No, that didn’t make any sense. Why had she been able to use Master Vixix’s mirror yesterday without shifting it?

Concentrating fiercely now, ignoring the men carrying supplies away, the men watching her, she let Master Harpool’s glass resume its natural Image. Then, with the brightly lit ballroom squarely in focus, she tried again to translate a hogshead of water.

This time, it came through the mirror so promptly that she had to jump aside to avoid being crushed.

Perfect. I love this. Who says Imagery is hard?

Grinding her teeth to stifle a yell, Terisa continued translating supplies out of the ballroom until Castellan Norge announced that the Alends and the guard had everything they needed for the night. At once, she stamped away from the mirror, demanded wine from Ribuld, and drank two cups so quickly that they made her head spin.

Nearly staggering with fatigue, Geraden moved to join her. At the moment, she considered it a blessing that he was too tired to notice her knotted state; too tired even to ask how her translations had gone. But later, after a hot supper had restored him somewhat, and they went to bed together, she forced herself to tell him what had happened. She needed an explanation, if he had one to give her.

Her tone made him open his eyes to look at her sharply. He listened hard until she was finished; then he rolled onto his back and stared up at the cold stars.

“Have you got any ideas?” she asked.

He took a long moment to think before he murmured, “I’m not sure.

“This is all unmapped territory. Havelock is the only Adept the Congery has ever had – and he hasn’t contributed much to our general knowledge of Imagery in recent years. We don’t really understand people who can use mirrors they didn’t make. For most of us, the way it usually works – you already know this – is that there’s some kind of interaction between an Imager’s talent and his mirror while he’s shaping it. So no one can use that mirror except the man who made it.

“As an experiment years ago, the Congery took several men who wanted to be Apts, but who obviously had no talent of any kind, and let them try to make mirrors. It didn’t work. Something always went wrong. You have to be an Imager to shape a mirror. And you have to be that particular Imager to shape that particular mirror.

“I’m not sure why you couldn’t use Master Harpool’s glass, and then you could. But we know he has a special relationship with it. No ordinary Imager could use it at all, except him. My guess is, his hold on it was too recent. You had to replace his talent with yours, impose your power on it, and you couldn’t do that without shifting it first.

“If I’m right, the reason you didn’t have any trouble with Master Vixix’s glass is, he hadn’t used it recently. In fact, he may never have done any translations with it at all. His interaction with it wasn’t fresh enough to get in your way.”

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 approached 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 feasting 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.

Preserved by the cold, more bodies had been stacked on the wineracks. Judging by the sigils on their mail, they were the Perdon’s captains. Here, however, they hadn’t been simply piled up like lumber. Instead, the bodies had been arranged in grotesque and degrading postures, as if death had caught them in a devils’ dance, abusing themselves, copulating with each other, performing intricate atrocities. The shadows cast by the motion of the lamps gave the impression that the men were still alive, yearning toward a last taste of pleasure or pain.

On the corkage table in the middle of the cellar lay the Perdon himself.

Terisa recognized his bald pate, his red, thick eyebrows, his stained and shaggy moustache, his hairy ears; she recognized the passion in his glazed, staring eyes. It would have been impossible for her to mistake the man who had once helped Prince Kragen and Artagel save her from Gart.

The way he had died sickened her to the bottom of her heart.

His limbs and torso were cross-hatched with cuts, but none of them had caused his death. No, an honest end in battle apparently wasn’t satisfactory for an enemy of Cadwal, a man who had pitted himself against High King Festten all his life. The Perdon had been killed by a corkscrew driven between his teeth through the back of his throat into the wooden table, so that he lay pinned there until he drowned on his own blood.

Passing out had advantages, no question about it. Oblivion might give Terisa the comfort she craved, if she could fade into it and never come back.

At the same time, she was so angry that when she bit down her lip to keep herself quiet she drew blood.

White with strain and horror, Geraden wheeled on the nearest guard. “Where’s Nyle?”

“Not here,” the guard answered thickly. “Unless he’s one of the bodies. No one’s here.” A moment later, he added, “None of the rooms down here was used for a cell.”

Then someone bumped Terisa so hard that she stumbled. The Tor brushed past without noticing her, shouldered Prince Kragen aside to approach the corkage table.

For a long moment while everyone watched him, he slumped against the edge of the table; the courage and determination seemed to leak out of him, as if he were sinking in on himself like a deflated bladder.

“Oh, my old friend. My old friend.”

In a constricted voice, Geraden muttered, “He was never here. You were never here.” Apparently, he was talking to Terisa. “We all made the same assumption, but we were wrong. When High King Festten came here, he had to kill Esmerel’s servants and maybe even Eremis’ relatives to get into the house. Eremis hasn’t used this place for years.”

Abruptly, the Tor raised his head and brought up a wail like the cry of his damaged guts. Terisa was behind him: she couldn’t see what he was doing. She didn’t realize what he had done until a terrible convulsion shook him from head to foot and then his fight fist sprang into the air, brandishing the corkscrew which had killed the Perdon.

As if he had no idea what was going on around him, Geraden muttered, “We’ve come to the wrong place. This is just a trap. It doesn’t even give us a chance to strike back.”

With a tearing groan, the Tor lifted the Perdon’s rigid corpse. When he turned, Terisa saw that his face was streaked with tears. In the lamplight, he looked as pallid as the dead.

“And you wanted to make an alliance with that monster,” he cried to his friend’s body. But he didn’t expect an answer. Jerking his head at the ceiling, he shouted suddenly, “Are you laughing at him now, Eremis? Does it amuse you to do this to a man who believed you?”

Oh, Eremis was laughing, all right. Terisa was sure of it.

Dumbly, she went to the Tor’s side and helped support his quivering arms until Ribuld and some of the other guards came to take the Perdon away.

When she and Geraden went back outside, they found that the weather had turned to snow.

The air was as dark as evening, prematurely dim: the snow fell so thickly that it swallowed the light. Swirling inside the walls of the valley, it blanketed the atmosphere until she couldn’t see five feet past the edge of the portico – a snowfall as heavy and thorough as a torrent, and yet composed of delicate, dry flakes, bits of powder so fine they stung the skin. The guards at the door had lit torches which the snow smothered as soon as they left the shelter of the portico. Everyone else in the valley, twelve thousand fighting men, had been erased from sight. Already the white cold accumulating on the ground was two or three inches thick.

Terisa shivered with a chill that felt almost metaphysical. She had dreamed once of snow; and because of that dream she had accepted Geraden’s invitation to leave her old life behind.

With Castellan Norge and Master Barsonage, Prince Kragen came out of the house, gusting curses. “By the stars,” he growled, “if this snow does not blind our enemies as it does us, we are dead men. As matters stand, we will be hard pressed to locate our own encampment.”

Norge struggled to recover his essential equanimity. “I think we should do that right away, my lord Prince. If we don’t, we might get stuck here for the night. The armies need us. And I can’t ask my guards to stay with that many corpses.”

The Prince nodded. “I will instruct men to string lines to keep the horses together.” Followed by his soldiers, he strode away into the snowfall and disappeared as if the flakes swept his reality away.

Rather aimlessly, Norge commented, “The Tor is resting. I’ll go get him. But I don’t think he’ll be able to ride.”

No one answered. Scowling uncharacteristically, the Castellan went back into the manor.

Master Barsonage cleared his throat. “It was a natural mistake, Geraden. We all made it. What do we know of Master Eremis, but that Esmerel is his ancestral home? What is more reasonable than the assumption that he built his power here – held his prisoners here?”

“Yes, it was reasonable,” Geraden said in a bleak tone.

“No, it wasn’t.” Terisa hadn’t intended to speak; she didn’t know what she was going to say until she said it. “King Joyse told me to think.” Her mind was full of the Perdon and the Tor, and the implications of snow. “Esmerel was too obvious.

“We had to come here. We didn’t know where else to go. But we should have known he wouldn’t be here.”

“And now we’re stuck,” Geraden finished.

No one argued with him.

Guards brought horses up to the portico. The mounts already had snow caked in their manes, on their withers; the flakes were so thick and cold that the horses’ heat turned them to ice as they melted. But the wind kept the hoods and shoulders of the guards clear.

Men began to file out of the house. After a while, Castellan Norge and Ribuld brought the Tor to the portico. Physically, the old lord had never looked worse. His limbs were as frail as a child’s; his hands shook as if the chill had already reached his bones; his skin was the color of moldy potatoes.

Nevertheless the glare in his eyes was unquenchable. His outrage at what had been done to the Perdon sustained him when his body and his ordinary courage failed.

As long as she ignored the rest of him and watched only his eyes, Terisa was able to keep her grasp on hope.

Norge was right: the Tor couldn’t bear to be mounted again. But Ribuld stayed with him, and the Castellan assigned other guards to his side; shuffling heavily, he moved away into the snow. Like Prince Kragen, he seemed to vanish from the world almost immediately.

At a word from Norge, Terisa, Geraden, and Master Barsonage climbed onto their beasts. Led by guards who were connected with lines to other guards, invisible in the impenetrable snowfall, they rode away from Esmerel to search for their encampment.

Swirling snowflakes burned her eyes. They prickled on her cheeks like bits of premonition; hints sharp enough to cut, cold enough to numb the damage they did.

Despite the caution of the riders, they reached their part of the camp sooner than she would have believed possible. The men of Orison and the Alend soldiers had laid out a protected position for their commanders near Esmerel and the head of the valley, away from the exposed foot of the wedge; so Terisa and Geraden, Master Barsonage and Castellan Norge didn’t have as far to go as the rest of the guards. And tents had already been set up for them: Master Harpool and his companion had apparently been at work with their mirrors for some time, translating equipment and supplies from Orison.

Master Barsonage and Geraden hurried to join them.

From horseback, Terisa saw bonfires and torches around her, some of them as much as twenty or thirty feet away. Maybe the snowfall was thinning. Even so, it was at least four or five inches deep. And – unless her sense of time had failed completely – sunset was still an hour or so away. Even if the snowfall was thinning, there might be a foot or more on the ground before night.

A guard urged her to dismount and enter a large tent which had been raised for the Tor and Castellan Norge; but she stayed where she was, trying to read the suggestions in the snow, until the Tor himself reached the camp. Then she got down and went with him into shelter.

A servant took his cloak, then brought food and wine, which the old lord rejected with a grimace. Supported by Ribuld and another guard, he lowered himself into a camp chair. He had snow in his eyebrows, snow on his head. His cheeks were the color of worn out ice. Ribuld knelt in front of him, offered to pull off his boots; he declined that comfort as well. “I must go out again soon,” he murmured. “There is no escaping it.”

“My lord Tor,” Ribuld said in a tone Terisa hadn’t heard him use since Argus’ death, “you don’t need to go out. Prince Kragen and Castellan Norge will come to you.”

“Ah, true,” sighed the Tor. “But if I remain here, who will give the King’s guard my blessing? I must visit every campfire tonight, every squadron, so that every man will know his bravery is valued and his loyalty, precious.

“No, Ribuld, I will wear my boots. I do not mean to take them off again.”

Ribuld bowed and withdrew to stand with Terisa. Around his scar, the veteran’s face was tight with unexpected grief.

“Ribuld—?” she tried to ask; but she couldn’t find the words she wanted. All she knew about him was that he had been Argus’ friend; he liked and served Artagel; he seemed to enjoy suggestive conversation. And he had killed Saddith to save Lebbick. He would have saved Lebbick from Gart, if he could.

“My lady,” he said, almost snarling to control himself, “my home’s in the Care of Tor. Not far from Marshalt. I fought for the Tor – that’s how he knows my name – and for the Perdon, too, before I joined the King’s guard.” He looked at her as if, like her, he couldn’t find the right words.

Maybe she understood. “Take good care of him,” she replied softly. “He needs you more than Geraden and I do.”

The twist of Ribuld’s expression could have meant anything.

Terisa left the tent and went to see if Master Harpool required help.

As she and the Masters finished translating the last of the tents and bedrolls, the snowfall abruptly lessened. She felt cold to the bone; her face was wet and numb; her fingertips left trails of moisture down the frame of Master Harpool’s glass. Nevertheless the easing of the snow caught at her attention like a call of horns—

—the call for which her heart had always been waiting.

She jerked her back straight, lifted her head, spun around before anyone else noticed the change.

Yes. Blowing down from the head of the valley, the wind parted the snow like curtains, let the gray light of early evening through the clouds. As if without transition, Esmerel and the valley became a winter landscape before twilight, a scene which needed only sunshine to reveal its surprising beauty.

Perhaps the horns – and those who sounded them – were on the far side: the far side of the manor, where the defile brought the brook gamboling over its ice into the valley.

Now Geraden joined her, looked around. Several of the Masters breathed thanks that the snow was stopping. Guards expressed the same sentiment less delicately. None of them could hear the premonition in the air whetted with cold, the implication as penetrating as splinters.

“Get the Tor,” she said as if the horns had lifted her out of herself, despite the fact that she couldn’t hear them, could hardly remember them; maybe she had never heard them. “Get Prince Kragen. Tell them to hurry.”

“Terisa?” Geraden asked. “Terisa?”

She ignored him. She didn’t need reason: intuition was enough. She was fixed on Esmerel and couldn’t look away.

Master Barsonage sent Imagers into motion. Someone shouted for the Castellan. Infected by an urgency they couldn’t explain, guards began to obey, began to run. She had that much credibility with them, anyway.

Then past the snow-clogged side of the manor came charging men on horseback. As the horses fought for speed, their nostrils gusted steam, and their legs churned the snow until the dry, light flakes seemed to boil. The sides of the valley and the snow muffled every sound, but each movement was distinct, as edged as a shard of glass.

Three riders with longswords held up in their fists and keen hate in the strides of their fierce mounts. The riders she had seen in the Congery’s augury. The riders of her dream.

“Bowmen!” Norge snapped from somewhere nearby. “Be ready! We’ll pick them off as soon as they get in range.”

“No!” coughed the Tor. He had come out of his tent; he stood with his legs splayed in the snow, supported by Ribuld. “That is a traitor’s deed. Let them approach. We kill no one unless we must!”

“Well said, my lord Tor!” Prince Kragen arrived at a run, with his sword in both hands. Using the blade as a pointer, he commanded, “Look more closely!”

The light wasn’t good: at first, she couldn’t see what the Prince was pointing at. But after a moment she realized that each of the riders had a white cloth tied to the tip of his sword.

Flags of truce.

A truce, Eremis? With you?

One of the riders was certainly Master Eremis: that was unmistakable. He drove his mount plunging forward with an air of jaunty peril, as if he were in the grip of an exquisite and unutterable joy.

Beside him came Master Gilbur, hunchbacked and murderous.

The third man she didn’t know by sight. Nevertheless she was sure of him. The arch-Imager Vagel. A relatively small man, at least compared to Eremis and Gilbur; dwarfed by his charger. Lank gray hair fluttered from his skull. He rode with his toothless mouth open like the entrance to a pit.

The riders of her dream.

“The gall of those bastards,” someone whispered. Ribuld? “The gall.”

Abruptly, Gilbur and Vagel hauled on their reins, wrenched their horses to a halt. Just beyond reliable bow-range, they wheeled and stamped, waiting.

Master Eremis came forward as if he feared nothing. Intensely nonchalant, he approached his enemies.

There he stopped.

“My lord Prince.” His tone was full of secret laughter. “My lord Tor. Master Barsonage. Terisa and Geraden. How fortuitous that you are all here together.”

The Tor leaned on Ribuld as if he had lost the power of speech. Geraden scowled intently, concentrating not on anger but on the ramifications of Master Eremis’ presence. Terisa faced the tall Imager and felt the blood congeal in her chest.

“We are not patient with traitors,” snapped Prince Kragen: he was the Alend Contender, accustomed to authority. “Tell us what you want and be done with it.”

Master Eremis paid no attention to that demand. “My companions fear you,” he said. “They believe you will kill them if they come near, despite our flags of truce.”

Prince Kragen snorted. “That would be an action worthy of you, Eremis. We are not such men.”

In response, Master Eremis laughed along the wind, sent mirth and scorn across the snow. “Do you hear?” he called over his shoulder. “The Alend Contender thinks he is not such a man as we are.”

“You’re lucky Lebbick isn’t here,” muttered Norge. “He’d castrate you first and worry about honor later.” But no one listened to him.

Spurring their horses, Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager came forward to join Master Eremis.

“Tell us what you want,” Prince Kragen repeated harshly.

“As I say,” gloated Master Eremis, “it is fortuitous that you are all here together. Because you are all here, you will be able to give me what I want. I have a requirement for each of you. Each of you except the Congery” – he sneered at Master Barsonage – “which has my permission to go sodomize itself whenever it chooses.”

Instead of retorting with threats, the mediator folded his arms on his thick chest and produced a grim smile. “Be careful what you say, Master Eremis,” he articulated. “Your insults only betray your fear.”

“Fear!” Master Gilbur waggled his sword mockingly. “The day you teach me to fear you, Barsonage, I will walk into this camp naked and let you use me however you wish.”

The Tor made a weak gesture, requesting silence. In a thin voice, he said, “You mentioned requirements, Master Eremis.”

“Indeed,” Eremis replied with a grin. “And if you satisfy me, I am willing to let you all live.”

Norge pronounced an obscenity. No one else spoke.

“By now,” the tall Imager explained, “even the thickest-headed among you must realize that we have an alliance with High King Festten. By force of Imagery and arms, we are prepared to crush you completely. We will wash the ground with your blood until you beg to share the Perdon’s fate.”

“Try it,” grated Ribuld. Again, no one else spoke.

“As it happens, however,” Master Eremis continued humorously, “the High King is not a comfortable ally. He wants to rule the world – and I intend that mastery for myself. Our ambitions are not well mated.”

“Doubtless,” the Tor sighed. “What are your requirements?”

Master Eremis straightened his legs, raised himself high in his saddle. “My lord Tor, my lord Prince, I require you to surrender.”

This time, it was Prince Kragen who laughed – a bloody and mirthless guffaw.

“If you do so,” Eremis went on smoothly, “if you will pledge your precious honor and your lives to me, we will turn against Festten. Our Imagery and your arms will break him here, far from his sources of supply, his reinforcements. Then it will be Mordant which rules the world, not Cadwal.

“From the first,” he commented while everyone stared at him, “my plans have cut in two directions. We are prepared to annihilate you, my lords. You are too paltry – you have no hope against us. At the same time, however, I have maneuvered Festten and his strength into a position of vulnerability – here, my lords, here – so that he, too, can be annihilated.

“Your choice is simple. Serve me and live. Refuse me and die.”

Geraden held himself still. Terisa glanced at him and saw that he wasn’t looking at Master Eremis. He was watching the Tor with a dangerous brightness in his eyes.

Growling curses through his moustache, Prince Kragen also turned toward the Tor.

For a long moment, the Tor said nothing. In fact, the way he stood, his slumped and dependent posture, suggested that he didn’t know what was going on. Nevertheless, before the Prince could lose patience with him, the old lord found his voice.

“You mentioned requirements for each of us. Except the Congery. What do you want from Master Geraden and the lady Terisa?”

Terisa caught her breath while the knot of anger and fear inside her pulled tighter.

Master Eremis shrugged, grinning as if only an iron will kept him from laughing his heart out. “A small sacrifice, my lord. It will cost you little. I require them for myself.”

Master Gilbur snickered.

No, Terisa ached inside herself. No.

Geraden watched the Tor as if he expected something wonderful or terrible from the old lord.

“As a condition of your surrender,” Eremis explained. “When you have pledged your honor to me – and when Terisa and Geraden have been given into my hands – at that moment, High King Festten’s doom is assured.”

No.

Prince Kragen started to retort; but the Tor stopped him with another weak gesture. “An interesting suggestion, Master Eremis.” The old lord’s frailty made him sound mild. “Unfortunately, you are a demonstrated traitor. What assurance is there that you can be trusted?”

“You need none,” Master Eremis shot back hotly, happily. “Your choice is too simple for assurances. If you do not satisfy me, you will be destroyed.”

“My lord Tor,” Prince Kragen put in fiercely, “he wants the lady Terisa and Geraden because he fears them. Their power is our assurance that he cannot destroy us.”

Again, the Tor gestured for silence, asking Kragen to bear with him.

“Master Eremis, you are overconfident,” he said softly, “so sure of your strength and your superiority that you insult us. You insult our honor – but that does not surprise us.” His voice sank as he spoke – and yet gathered force at the same time, so that his quietness carried like a shout. “No one expects a man of your moral poverty to respect honor.

“You do wrong, however, to insult our intelligence.

“You have no interest in our surrender. You have no intention of turning against High King Festten. I doubt that the arch-Imager would permit such betrayal.” For some reason, Vagel shook his head. “Gart certainly would not. Your only interest here, your only purpose in coming, is to take the lady Terisa and Master Geraden from us.”

Eremis had heard enough. “My lord Tor,” he snapped, “I have not yet begun to insult your intelligence – but now you demonstrate that you are mad. I fear no one. I covet Terisa’s female flesh. And I have a score to settle with Geraden. My reasons for coming are exactly as I have explained them.”

No! Terisa protested, insisted, no.

And the Tor said, “No.

“You are a fool, Master Eremis. In the end, you will die a fool’s death. If you had the slightest wish for our service – if you had the slightest intention of turning against the High King” – his passion was too fundamental to be shouted – “you would have treated the Perdon with more respect.”

Dismissing Eremis, he moved with Ribuld’s support toward his tent.

“My lord Tor.” Geraden’s face shone; he looked ready now to tackle both Master Eremis and High King Festten single-handedly. He spoke to the old lord’s back formally, and his voice seemed to defy the snow and the wind, as if he had the power to command them. “King Joyse has been fortunate in his friends – but never as fortunate as when he won your loyalty.”

The Tor stumbled, but Ribuld caught him.

Prince Kragen also turned his back. Glowering bloodshed, he barked at Castellan Norge, “Give these traitors a count of five. Then instruct your bowmen to kill them.”

He didn’t stay to watch the riders as they lashed their mounts away from Norge’s eager call, surged back in the direction of the manor and the defile, strained for speed as if they had been routed. Bowing first to Geraden, then to Terisa, the Prince strode off toward his own camp.

Terisa heard a few bowstrings thrum, a few arrows hiss in the air. Unluckily, none of the riders fell.

As if on signal, more snow came down the valley. Snow closed off the light, swarmed over the tents, drifted onto Terisa’s head and shoulders. The riders of her dream – and the Congery’s augury. Geraden was right: she belonged here. And King Joyse was fortunate in his friends.

She put her arms around Geraden, hugged him tightly. Holding each other close, they followed the Tor toward the shelter of his tent.

Before the snowfall became thick enough to blind the sky completely, two or three of the guards on sentry duty down at the foot of the valley thought they saw an imprecise puff of smoke overhead, riding against the wind. Then the sight was gone, and snow came down so thickly that it made everything dark.

FORTY-SEVEN: ON THE VERGE

The Tor’s tent was large enough for eight or ten people to stand and shout at each other, but it was ascetically furnished – one bedroll for the lord, one for the guard at the tentflaps, a brazier for warmth, three lanterns hanging around the pole, the Tor’s camp chair, a few other stools. Maybe he wanted it that way: maybe he feared that if he ever became comfortable he wouldn’t be able to move again. Or maybe he wasn’t willing to put any more strain than necessary on the Masters and their translations.

When Terisa and Geraden entered the tent, they found the Tor in his chair, leaning as far back as it would allow. His eyes were dull, and he was panting thinly, as if he needed somehow to get more air past an obstacle which hurt him whenever he inhaled. Ribuld and one of the guards’ physicians had removed his cloak, his mail, his shirt. Ribuld was dumb with misery.

For the first time, Terisa saw the place under the lord’s ribs where Gart had kicked him.

Involuntarily, she tightened her grip on Geraden.

The Tor’s injury was swollen like a tumor, black-purple and angry; it bloated out from his belly as if his skin might burst.

“Oh, my lord,” Geraden breathed, nearly groaned. “What are you doing to yourself?”

The Tor had been bleeding inside for days, killing himself with the effort to fill his King’s place.

He made a dismissive gesture; he may have wanted Terisa and Geraden to go away. Nevertheless they stayed where they were. After a moment, Geraden asked the physician, “How is he?”

“As you see,” the man muttered. “I told him this would happen. We all told him.” He mixed some herbs in a goblet and handed it to the Tor. “He’s too old. He drinks too much wine. He shouldn’t be alive.”

For some reason, Ribuld shot out his arm, knotted his fist in the physician’s cloak, jerked the man silent. Almost at once, however, he seemed to realize the uselessness of his anger. Releasing the physician, he muttered an apology, then moved away to get a stool for the Tor’s legs.

With his legs supported, the lord was able to sink down until he could rest his head on the back of the chair. His eyes were closed now, and a bit of the strain went out of his breathing; apparently, the physician’s herbs did him some good. He looked like he might sleep.

He didn’t, however. Without opening his eyes, he murmured, “Where?”

The physician stopped to listen.

“ ‘Where,’ my lord?” asked Ribuld.

The Tor’s fat lips tightened around a spasm of pain. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then, tightly, he asked, “Where is Nyle?”

Where is Nyle. Where are Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel. Where is their laborium. Where is the High King. Terisa resisted an impulse to curse herself.

Geraden squeezed her, then left her to approach the old lord. Controlling himself grimly, he said, “We’ve been wrong, my lord. Terisa and I. He was never here. We just assumed he would use Esmerel.” Geraden glanced at Terisa. “I guess Nyle made the same assumption. He told Terisa Eremis was here. But he wasn’t.”

Clenching his courage, Geraden concluded, “We’ve brought you into a trap we can’t get out of.”

The Tor inhaled weakly around his hemorrhage. “Where?” he repeated.

“Somewhere close.” Geraden seemed to be speaking to Terisa as well as to the lord. “Close enough for High King Festten to attack us. Close enough for Eremis and Vagel and Gilbur to find their way here through the snow. If I had to guess, I’d say the first thing Eremis did after he decided he wanted to rule the world – maybe even before he found Vagel – was build a secret stronghold for himself. Somewhere in these hills.” Somewhere in this maze. “But it could be anywhere. Even if it’s just on the other side of the valley rim, we can’t get to it.”

The Tor exhaled thinly, a constricted sigh. “What will you do?”

“About what?”

“What will you do” – the Tor made an effort to be clear – “when Master Eremis decides to use Nyle against you?”

Terisa was glad that the old lord couldn’t see the flush of distress in Geraden’s face, the flinch around his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Geraden murmured.

“Maybe,” she said without thinking, “maybe we can find them. The snow will cover us. It’s almost night. Maybe we can sneak out through that ravine and find them.”

Geraden shook his head. “Snow and night will cover him, too. They’ll cover his guards. If we don’t get lost and freeze to death, we’ll probably be captured.”

All right. All right. It wasn’t a good idea. But we’ve got to do something. We can’t just sit here and watch – watch—

Watching the lord’s struggle to breathe made Terisa feel sick and wild.

At that moment, she heard voices outside the tent: a bark of command, a muffled acknowledgment.

The tentflaps were swept aside, and King Joyse strode in.

He startled Terisa so badly that she nearly stumbled to her knees.

He was filthy. Clots of mud clung to his battle gear – his breastplate and mail leggings, the protective iron palettes on his shoulders, the brassards strapped to his arms. His mail had been cut, hacked at by swords. Blows dented his breastplate. Blood stained his thick cloak and the leather under his armor; black streaks marked the tooled scabbard which held his longsword. Grime filled his beard, caked his hair to his scalp.

Nevertheless he entered the tent like a much younger man. He strode forward with strength in his legs, authority in his arms; and his eyes flashed a blue so deep that it was almost purple.

When he saw Terisa and Geraden, he grinned like a boy.

“Well met. Better to come late than not to come at all, I always say.”

“My lord King,” Geraden breathed, gaping. He was too surprised to bow, almost too surprised to speak. “Are you hurt?”

“A few scratches.” The King’s grin broadened into the smile Terisa remembered, the smile of innocence and pleasure, the sunrise which lit all his features and made him the kind of man for whom people were willing to die. “Nothing my enemies can pride themselves for.”

He might have gone on, but the Tor stopped him.

Hearing King Joyse’s voice, the old lord jerked up his head, snatched open his eyes. Urgently, almost frantically, he hauled his legs off the stool and blundered to his feet like a surfacing grampus. Around the vivid bulge of his hemorrhage, his bare skin looked as pale as disease, tarnished with frailty and need.

Tottering, he caught a hand on Ribuld’s shoulder. “Prince Kragen,” he gasped. “Summon the Prince.”

Then he plunged to his knees as if the ground had been cut out from under him.

Ribuld started to help the lord, but King Joyse’s presence daunted him.

Bowing his face to the canvas, retching for breath, the Tor panted, “My lord King, I beg you.”

King Joyse’s smile turned to ashes on his face.

“I beg you. I have brought your guard and your Congery and all your friends to destruction. Tell me I have not betrayed you.”

“Betrayed me?” The passion in the King’s face was wonderful and dire. As if he had no arthritis and no years, no weakness of any kind to hamper him, he caught hold of the Tor’s arms and raised him to his feet by main strength. “My old friend! If you have put all I love and all my force in the path of ruin, you have not betrayed me. If you have sold my kingdom to the Alend Contender, so that I have nothing left to rule, you have not betrayed me. You are here – here, where the fate of the world hinges.” Tears trailed through the grime on his cheeks. “My lord Tor, I have used you abominably. I considered you an obstacle, your loyalty a stumbling block. And you have served me better than my best hope.”

Hardly able to bear what he heard, the Tor clamped his hands over his face and shuddered as if he were sobbing.

King Joyse glanced up and down the Tor’s frame; at once, his expression darkened. To the astonished physician, he snapped, “How was he injured? How severe is his hurt?”

“A kick, my lord King,” the physician fumbled out quickly. “The High King’s Monomach. He bleeds inwardly.” The man faltered, then forced himself to say, “If he does not rest, he will die. And even if he does rest, I cannot vouch for his life. He has used himself” – the physician seemed unaware that he was aping the King’s words – “abominably.”

“Then he will rest,” King Joyse replied in a tone which no one could have ignored. “You will give him your best care. If he dies, you will justify yourself to me.”

Without waiting for an answer, he eased the Tor back into his camp chair. The Tor collapsed against the chair back weakly.

Geraden put a hand on Ribuld’s arm. “Prince Kragen.” He spoke in a whisper; but his tone was like the King’s, irrefusable. “And Master Barsonage.”

Ribuld went out of the tent in a daze.

“Now.” King Joyse faced Terisa and Geraden. He stood slightly poised, as if he were ready to spring, and his eyes blazed blue. “You have a great deal to tell me. Before Prince Kragen comes. Begin from Gart’s attack in the hall of audiences.

“Where is Castellan Lebbick?”

His intensity was so compelling that Terisa almost started to answer. Geraden, however, had other ideas. He shifted a bit away from her, a bit ahead of her, placing himself between her and danger. Folding his arms on his chest, he said firmly – so firmly that Terisa was simultaneously amazed and proud and frightened – “You’ve been fighting your enemies, my lord King. I can decide better what to tell you if you’ll tell me who gave you your ‘scratches.’ ”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “Geraden,” he said harshly, “do you remember who I am?”

Geraden didn’t flinch. “Yes, my lord King. You’re the man who abandoned the throne of Mordant when we needed you most. You’re the man who brought us all to the edge of ruin without once” – his anger stung the air – “having the decency to tell us the truth.”

Instead of retorting, King Joyse studied Geraden as if the younger man had become someone he didn’t know, a completely different person. A moment later, he shrugged, and the peril in his gaze eased.

“Your father, the Domne,” he said evenly, “has given me many gifts, both of friendship and of service. His greatest gift to me, however, is the loyalty of his sons. I trust you, Geraden. I have trusted you for a long time. And I have given you little reason to trust me. You will answer me when you are ready.

“I have been fighting, as you see” – he indicated his battle gear – “to rescue Queen Madin.”

Rescue Queen Madin. Rescue the Queen. Terisa didn’t understand how that was possible – the distances were too great, the time too short – but his mere statement filled her with so much relief that she could hardly keep her legs under her.

“Doubtless,” King Joyse explained, “you have been told of the strange shapeless cloud of Imagery with which Havelock broke Prince Kragen’s catapults. That shape is a creature, a being – a being with which Havelock has contrived an improbable friendship.

“I must confess that when you told me of the Queen’s abduction I became” – he pursed his lips wryly – “a trifle unreasonable. It was always my intention to lead whatever forces Orison could muster myself. I meant to beg or intimidate an alliance out of Margonal. I could coerce the Congery somehow. For that reason, my old friend” – he nodded toward the sprawling Tor – “had no place in my plans. I did not know that I would need him.”

“That’s my fault,” Terisa said abruptly, unexpectedly. Geraden had placed himself between her and the King for a reason, a reason she ought to respect. Nevertheless she couldn’t keep still. “You were doing what you had to do. You hurt the Tor and Castellan Lebbick and Elega and everyone else so they wouldn’t realize your weakness was only a ploy. So they wouldn’t betray you. But I already betrayed you. I told Eremis” – the thought of her own folly choked her – “told Eremis you knew what you were doing. That’s why he took the Queen.”

King Joyse looked at her hard, so hard that she blushed in chagrin. Yet his gaze held no recrimination. After a brief pause, he said, “My lady, you were provoked,” and returned his attention to Geraden.

“As I say,” he continued, “I became unreasonable. I abandoned you. Though he pleaded with me to reconsider, I forced Havelock to translate his strange friend for me, and that shape bore me to the Care of Fayle as swift as wings. At the debris of Vale House, I found the trail of a motley collection of the Fayle’s old servants and soldiers attempting to pursue Torrent and the Queen. That trail led me eventually to Torrent’s – eventually, I say, or I would have returned to you a day or more sooner – and so to Torrent herself and the Queen.

“At the cost of much hardship and privation and danger” – his eyes hinted at pride – “my demure and retiring daughter saved her mother. She enabled me to find the Queen and set her free.

“Her abductors defended themselves as well as they could – well enough to prevent the Fayle’s men and me from capturing or questioning them – but at last they fell.” The state of his gear testified that the battle hadn’t been easy. “When I had taken Queen Madin and Torrent to safety in Romish, Havelock’s friend brought me here as quickly as possible.”

Geraden absorbed this account without obvious surprise or appreciation. When King Joyse had finished, Geraden asked noncommittally, “And you didn’t stop in Orison? You don’t have any news from there?”

The King was losing patience. “Do I look like a man who has spent time on social amenities and conversation? I knew that if I did not find you here I could return to Orison at my leisure. But if I had stopped there first and failed to find you, the delay might have made me too late to join you. I have learned nothing, heard nothing, since the moment I left the hall of audiences.

“Geraden,” he concluded warningly, “I must know what has happened in my absence. I must hear the tale you brought to Orison with Prince Kragen. I cannot go into battle without that knowledge.”

“My lord King,” Geraden responded as if he were immune to Joyse’s impatience, “Eremis is holding my brother Nyle hostage somewhere near here – a stronghold of some kind, probably. Eremis is going to use him against us. Against me. And it’s my doing. If I hadn’t been so determined to stop him from betraying you for Elega and Prince Kragen, he never would have been vulnerable to Eremis. He wouldn’t have been locked up where Eremis could get at him.

“But it’s your doing, too. You’ve always been such a friend of the Domne. You welcomed Artagel. You went out of your way to draw me to you. And yet you always ignored Nyle.

“His yearning was as great as mine. He has plenty of ability. And he was raised from the beginning on Artagel’s stories about you, the Domne’s stories. He would have been willing to kill for you by the time he was six.”

“Geraden,” King Joyse growled.

Nevertheless Geraden went on, “Why didn’t you value him at all? Why didn’t you give him something to save him while he was still young enough to save?”

“You exceed yourself,” snapped the King. “I have not come all this way to answer such questions.”

“But you’re going to answer this one,” Geraden replied as if he were sure – as if he had the capacity to make King Joyse do what he wanted. The hint of authority in his voice was so subtle that Terisa scarcely heard it. He meant to wrest some kind of truth from his King.

And the King did answer. To her astonishment, he retreated visibly, with a crestfallen air, a look of embarrassment; Geraden had touched an odd shame. “Yes,” he muttered, “all right. You are right: I always did ignore him. There was always a quality in his dumb need which I disliked. He pitied himself before I could pity him – and so I had no desire to pity him.

“But that is not the reason.

“Artagel was another matter altogether. His talent with the sword was obvious. Anyone would have welcomed him. But you, Geraden—” The King’s gaze was angry and hurt at once, as if his own sense of culpability baffled him. “I did not choose you out of a desire to give you precedence over Nyle. I would not have done that to the son of a friend. No, I drew you to me because I had already seen your importance in Havelock’s augury.”

Geraden hissed a breath; but King Joyse didn’t stop.

“The glass which he broke when I was an infant showed you exactly as you appear in the Congery’s augury” – for a moment, the King’s voice sounded as raw as splintered wood – “surrounded entirely by mirrors in which Images of violence reflected against you. How could I let you be? I had to save you, if that were possible. And if it were not, I had to give you the chance to save me.

“Geraden,” King Joyse admitted in frank pain, “on your father’s love, I swear to you that I slighted Nyle’s yearning only because I was not wise enough to see where it would lead him. The Domne has given me nothing but love and loyalty. In the matter of his son Nyle I failed him.”

For a long moment, Geraden didn’t speak. When he did, his throat was tight with emotion. “We all failed, my lord King. For my part – I swear to you on my father’s love that I’ll save you if I can. No matter how many people you’ve hurt. You haven’t been honest with us for a long time, and I hate that. But you’re still my King. Nobody can fill that place but you.”

Terisa couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Castellan Lebbick is dead,” she put in cruelly to get the King’s attention. She needed answers of her own. “Gart killed him. All he managed to do before he died was save the Tor.”

That made Geraden turn toward her, made King Joyse face her again.

The two men looked unexpectedly like a match for each other, suited to meet each other’s demands.

“I defended you,” she said with Lebbick’s body vivid in her mind, and the Perdon’s; with the Tor’s hurt displayed under the light of the lanterns. “I stood up in front of everybody and told them what Master Quillon told me. You made yourself the only reasonable target. So the enemies you hadn’t been able to identify would attack you instead of someone else, somewhere else. I told them. That’s why we’re all here. We decided to trust you even after you abandoned us.

“But Master Quillon is dead. Castellan Lebbick is dead. The Perdon is dead. The Tor is dying.” Her distress accumulated as she spoke. She thought that she would never be reconciled to all the different kinds of pain King Joyse had exacted from his friends. “Nyle is a hostage, and Houseldon has been burned to the ground, and Sternwall is sinking in lava, and the Fayle doesn’t even have enough men left to rescue his own daughter, and now we’re probably going to be slaughtered because we don’t know where Eremis’ stronghold is,” oh, curse you, curse you, you crazy old man, “and I want to know how you stand it. How do you live with yourself.? How do you expect us to trust you?

“You can’t help us now!” Overwhelmed by unpremeditated bitterness, Terisa cried, “You can’t even beat Havelock at hop-board!”

Despite her outburst, however, King Joyse faced her gently. Her accusation hurt him less than Geraden’s had: maybe he was readier for it. His face softened while she protested against him; his gaze was blurred by compassion. He waited until she was finished. Then, incongruously, he pulled an old handkerchief out of the seam of his breastplate and handed it to her so that she could wipe her eyes.

Geraden stood now at the King’s shoulder as if he had been won over. “Terisa—” he began; but King Joyse touched his arm, stopped him.

“No, Geraden. I must answer her.

“My lady, I have already proved myself to you, after a fashion. You have seen atrocities in Mordant. Yet it was not I who perpetrated them. If I had not, as you say, made myself a target, if I had not risked those I love most in the name of my weakness, those atrocities would be everywhere. Without the lure of my weakness, Eremis might have had great difficulty forging an alliance with High King Festten – and so he would have had no choice except to afflict Cadwal and Mordant and Alend with vile Imagery until all things were destroyed. At the cost of Quillon’s life, and Lebbick’s, and the Perdon’s – at the cost, yes, of my own wife’s indignation, my own daughter’s betray – I have procured my enemy’s name as well as his attention, so that for Cadwal and Mordant and Alend there is still hope. I have given us the opportunity to fight for our world.

“But that is not what you wish to know, is it?”

His voice searched her, and his eyes seemed to probe her bitterness. When he looked at her like that, she felt an unaccountable desire to tell him about being locked in the closet, as if it were his fault in some way, as if there were something he could have done about it. Until this moment, he had cut himself off from her – as her father had cut himself off. What made King Joyse a better man than her father?

“You dislike what I have done,” the King said, “but you are able to grasp the necessity of it. Otherwise you would not have supported me. No, my lady, what you want from me is a more immediate hope. You wish me to be greater than you can imagine. You wish me to justify myself with power. You wish me to tell you that I have the means to save you.”

Involuntarily, she ducked her head, unable to meet his steady blue scrutiny.

“Terisa,” he said softly, “my lady, I cannot save you. I do not have the means.

“You know that already,” he continued at once. “As you have observed, I cannot so much as defeat the Adept at hop-board. It is only a game, of course, a mere exercise – but I cannot forget that the pieces live and breathe, with names and spouses, children and bravery and fear. I am an unreasonable man. When Quillon told me that Myste went to you before her disappearance, I risked myself and all my plans in order to challenge you, even though Havelock’s augury had given me reason to think I knew where she had gone. When my wife was threatened, I did not ask whether any larger need should outweigh her peril in my mind. I lack Havelock’s particular sanity.

“And the same unreason weakens me everywhere. Shall I tell you a thing which shames me? When I learned that you had fled to Havelock after Quillon’s death, that you had gone to him for rescue with Master Gilbur hot behind you, and that he had refused you—My lady, Havelock is my oldest friend. It was he who put me on the path to become what I am. But when I learned that he had refused you, I struck him—”

Geraden’s eyes widened at that revelation; but he said nothing.

“Nevertheless,” the King went on as if mere shame couldn’t hold him back, “I am here. When Quillon was killed – Quillon, who had served me so long with such courage and cunning – I knew that this battle was mine to wage, rather than only to command. The blood must be on my hands. I will not have my pieces so contemptuously used. I will not allow Master Eremis to tilt the board, to remake the world in his own image.” Terisa could have sworn that he was growing taller, rising to power in front of her. “Do you believe I care nothing for Lebbick’s suffering, or the Tor’s? Do you believe I have not felt your distress – or Geraden’s – or Elega’s?

“My lady, you have not seen me fight.”

Curse you. Oh, curse you completely. I’ll do anything you want. Just tell me what it is.

“I have seen you fight, however,” put in Prince Kragen as he came between the tentflaps. “Though it galls me to say so, my lord King, I am glad that you have come.”

The Prince had Ribuld with him, and Castellan Norge. Master Barsonage entered the tent on the Castellan’s heels. And with them came a slim figure cloaked from head to foot in dark satin, face and shape and even hands hidden. As Prince Kragen strode forward to confront the King, as both Master Barsonage and Norge stopped and stared as if they couldn’t believe their eyes, the cloaked figure slipped back along the tent wall, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible.

“My lord Prince.” King Joyse swung away from Terisa and Geraden; the keenness in his stance intensified. “Master Barsonage.” He looked ready to leap in any direction, haul out his sword at a moment’s notice. “Captain Norge.

“I have said it before, but I will gladly say it again. We are well met.”

“My lord King.” The Tor tried to reach his feet against the physician’s restraining hands. His voice sounded as thin as a light breeze in cornshucks. “I must speak.”

At once, King Joyse turned toward the Tor; but he kept his back to the tent wall, away from Prince Kragen. “Speak sitting, my lord,” he commanded. “And speak as little as possible. Your life is precious to me.”

Muffling a groan, the Tor sagged.

“If we are here wrongly, the fault is mine alone,” he said in a deathbed whisper. “Master Geraden and the lady Terisa have discovered their talents. Already they have worked miracles of Imagery. Norge has become your Castellan, at my command. He leads the forces of Orison.”

With a visceral shiver, Terisa realized that the Tor was struggling to prepare King Joyse for his encounter with the Prince.

“Master Barsonage and the Congery have devised means of supply and defense, in accordance with your strictures. We would not have come so far without them.

“Prince Kragen is here with six thousand Alend soldiers because he is an honorable man.”

King Joyse put a hand on the Tor’s naked shoulder, mutely urging the old lord to conserve his strength. “ ‘An honorable man,’ ” he echoed distinctly, as if he had doubts on that point. Almost without transition, he appeared to become someone different – a figure of barely suppressed anger, spoiling for conflict. Facing the Prince again, and speaking mildly, but with a bright threat in his eyes, he asked, “Does my old friend mean that he and the Alend Monarch have formed an alliance?”

“No.” Prince Kragen studied the King warily. The excitement which had brought him here was alloyed with a long-standing distrust; but his posture made it clear that he wouldn’t back down from his own desires. “He means that he has explained to the Alend Monarch his intention to place his head on Eremis’ cutting-block and die rather than submit to a war of attrition he cannot win. And the Alend Monarch sent me to accompany him with the bulk of our force because we have no other way to determine whether the Tor’s intention is mad or brilliant. My instructions from my sovereign are to join the Tor or to flee, according to the things I learn here.”

“Margonal is crafty,” commented King Joyse with deceptive nonchalance, “and apparently he has grown in courage. Well, now you are here, my lord Prince. What have you learned?”

Prince Kragen allowed himself a noncommittal shrug. “I have learned that we are indeed trapped. All our heads are on the cutting-block, and Alend will stand or fall with Mordant, regardless of my instructions.”

“I think not,” King Joyse retorted with the air of a man pouncing. “I think you will turn against us at the last and join Cadwal, to preserve your father’s true cowardice.”

At that, Kragen’s head jerked back; a flush of fury darkened his cheeks; he closed his fist on his swordhilt.

In response, both Ribuld and Norge braced themselves to draw their blades. The cloaked figure against the tent wall started forward, then retreated. Geraden edged closer to Terisa, moving to protect her from the danger of swords.

No, she thought urgently, you don’t understand, Prince Kragen is here with us, with us.

The Tor repeated hoarsely, “He is honorable. Honorable.”

“My lord King,” the Prince said between his teeth, “because you are the King, and because I have been told at length why I must trust you, I will assume you have reason to accuse me of such a betrayal.”

“I have reason,” snapped King Joyse. “During my absence, I saved Queen Madin from her abductors. It will not surprise you to hear that when at last I found her she was across the Pestil. In Alend, my lord Prince. Her abductors were Alends, and she was being taken by the most direct route toward Scarab.”

Prince Kragen’s mouth tightened under his moustache. His dark, eyes burned with old enmity, with decades of violence, generations of bloodshed. He looked willing to gut King Joyse on the spot.

Yet he contained his outrage. And he didn’t draw his sword. “And you persist,” he demanded, “in the mad belief that I am capable of such a vile act?”

“No!” Terisa protested. “Eremis did it. He told me so.” What was the matter with King Joyse? How could he suddenly be so wrongheaded? “It’s just a trick to keep you and the Prince from joining forces.”

Before she could go on, King Joyse pointed a forbidding finger at her. “That proves nothing.” The command in his stance forced her to be still. “Master Eremis has a pact with Cadwal. Why not with Alend?”

“Because,” the cloaked figure cried, “he is honorable!

“You do not trust him.” Elega swept the hood back from her head as she advanced, and her vivid eyes flashed in the lantern-light. “Is the Tor wrong? Are Terisa and Geraden?” She called every gaze to herself, a cynosure of indignation and passion. Bright as a flame, she challenged her father. “He held Orison in the palm of his siege for days and days. He could have taken you apart stone from stone. Yet he withheld. Does that mean nothing to you? He allowed you time to prove yourself. And you dare accuse him of dishonor? You dare that to my face?”

King Joyse looked at her as if he were stunned.

“No, Father!” she raged. “The only dishonor in this tent is yours! It was you who refused to support the Perdon, you who refused to hear the Fayle. It was you who humiliated Prince Kragen in the hall of audiences, you who allowed Terisa’s attacker to roam Orison freely, you who drove Myste away. You have no right to doubt the Prince. There is no alliance between Alend and Mordant because no one is able to trust you!”

Emotions throbbed under the King’s old skin: outrage; alarm; disbelief. And vindication? She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. For a moment, no one moved; he didn’t move. Elega met his stare as if she were prepared to outface the world.

All at once, King Joyse burst out laughing.

“Oh, very well, my lord Prince,” he chortled while the people around him stared. “You are honest, and your father is honest, and I must apologize. If I do not, she will take the skin from my bones.”

Geraden’s mouth hung open. Prince Kragen clenched his jaws as if he didn’t dare speak.

“It was not wise to bring her with you,” King Joyse went on, “a woman in battle, a useful hostage if Eremis should capture her. But it was honest. If you intended treachery, you would have left her with Margonal. And she would not love you if you had such treachery in you. I know that about her.

“My lord Prince, please accept my regrets – and also my thanks. If we can be saved, it will be because of your courage, as well as your honor.”

As King Joyse spoke, the excitement came back to Prince Kragen, the strange new eagerness which had led him into risks no Alend had ever hazarded before. His mouth twisted up the tips of his moustache. Slowly, he produced a smile to match Joyse’s humor.

“Why do you think the decision was mine? Have you ever been able to tell her what to do?”

In response, the King laughed again; kindly, happily. He grinned like a new day. “Tell her what to do? Me?” Elega glared at him in confusion, but he didn’t stop. “I am only her father. Tell her what to do? Most of the time, I am hardly allowed to make suggestions.”

Then he sobered. “One thing, however, I will tell you, my lord Prince. Heed me well. While this war lasts, you will obey my orders.” Now his tone admitted no argument: his command was as clear as a shout. “If we do not work together, we are doomed.”

Prince Kragen only hesitated for a moment; then, still grinning, he nodded once, briefly.

Still ignoring the surprise and consternation and hope around him, King Joyse turned to Elega.

“As for you, my daughter,” he said gladly, “you are pride and joy to me.” Taking her hands, he raised them to his mouth and kissed them. “No one could have done better. The Queen herself could not have done better. Alone and without power or position, you have made an alliance where none existed.

“Oh, you please me!” Abruptly, he swept his gaze around the tent, swung his arms expansively. “You all please me! If we cannot save our world now, it will be because I have failed you, not because any one of you has failed Mordant. You have all given me better than I deserve.”

In sheer joy, he kept on laughing; and after a moment Geraden joined him. Then, surprising even himself, Prince Kragen began to chuckle. Elega’s smile grew softer and easier as it spread.

Master Barsonage shook his head, laughing as well. Terisa squeezed her eyes hard to keep herself from weeping foolishly; but she didn’t start to laugh until she realized that the Tor was snoring as if nothing had happened.

They talked together for a long time, King Joyse and Prince Kragen, Terisa and Elega, Geraden and Master Barsonage, with Castellan Norge looking on as if he would have found a good night’s sleep far more interesting. Guards brought supper, cleared it away when it was done. Ribuld helped the physician put the snoring Tor to bed. For the most part, King Joyse and Prince Kragen and Elega listened, asking an occasional question, while Terisa and Geraden and the mediator recounted and explained. Little of what was said was news to the Prince or Elega, but King Joyse listened intently, emitting concern and curiosity and approval like benefactions.

His friends and supporters had done well: he said that repeatedly. His unwilling allies had done well. His smile shone on everyone until the tent was full of warmth; he seemed to take every sad or hurtful thing onto himself, so that no one around him felt blamed or criticized for confusion or distrust or failure. The time passed in a glow, and Terisa understood at last why so many people had loved and served him for so long. She no longer wondered why the Perdon had sacrificed himself and all his men for a King who had abandoned him, or why the Tor had come to her in the dungeon to beg her to save herself for the King’s sake, or why the Domne was able to view the destruction of Houseldon without recrimination against his old friend, or why Queen Madin’s first reaction on hearing of her husband’s peril was to rejoin him. Terisa felt that way herself now, would have done those things herself.

She felt that she had come through hate and defeat to something else, to a kind of settled commitment, a mood in which all things were possible. She wasn’t exactly eager to face the coming day – but she wasn’t afraid of it, either.

For his part, Geraden was eager. His eyes shone at his King, and he took every occasion he could find to look toward Terisa and smile, as if he wanted to say, See, I told you he’s worth serving.

He didn’t come down from happiness until the talk turned to battle plans.

Master Barsonage described the Congery’s resources, and King Joyse gave him instructions for the Masters. The King and Prince Kragen devised chains of command, ways to convey messages; they made the best arrangements they could to treat the injured and feed the well; they deployed in their minds the forces of horse and foot. And gradually Geraden’s expression turned somber.

“What troubles you, Geraden?” asked Prince Kragen eventually.

Geraden shook his head, staring at nothing.

“Say it, Geraden,” King Joyse urged mildly. “Words will not hurt us.”

“I’m sorry, my lord King, my lord Prince.” Geraden tried to force a happier look onto his face, without much success. “Nothing’s wrong. I just can’t get rid of the feeling that Terisa and I don’t belong here.”

Oh, good, Terisa thought dimly. This again.

“Why?” inquired the King. “Where else should you be?”

Geraden grimaced in exasperation. “I have no idea.” Almost at once, however, he added, “But it’s obvious we’re useless where we are. The Congery doesn’t really have mirrors to spare for us. And if we had mirrors, what could we do? We don’t know where Eremis’ stronghold is. We don’t know” – a more crucial point – “what it looks like. We have all this talent – and Eremis presumably thinks we can hurt him, or why would he try so hard to hurt us? – but there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do.”

Prince Kragen frowned studiously; Elega nodded as if she understood the problem. But for some reason King Joyse seemed unable to take Geraden’s concern seriously. “Well, Geraden,” he said in a tone of confidence, “you can hardly expect advice from us. Those talents are yours, not ours. You are the only judge of what you can and cannot do.”

“True,” put in Master Barsonage. He seemed glad that he wasn’t responsible for whatever Geraden and Terisa did.

“You will think of something in good time,” concluded the King comfortably.

Before anyone could object, he began to dismiss his companions so that they all could get a few hours of sleep.

Terisa made sure that Geraden came with her when she left the Tor’s tent. He wasn’t actually reluctant to accompany her: he was simply so caught up in King Joyse that he had trouble tearing himself away. The King insisted, however; and she and Geraden went out into the snow to find their bedroll.

She had no intention of sleeping. In fact, she couldn’t imagine sleeping, under the circumstances. She just wanted to have Geraden to herself for a while.

They found their bedroll at the edge of the light cast by the guards’ lanterns outside the Tor’s tent. The snow was still falling, although less heavily; but the bedroll was wrapped in a waterproof canvas sheet, with one large end propped up by sticks to form a kind of miniature tent, letting air into the bedroll while keeping snow off its occupants. The only trick, Terisa soon discovered, was to get into the bedroll without tracking too much snow—

Shivering, she and Geraden swaddled themselves in their blankets and hugged each other for warmth.

“Have you got any ideas?” he asked; his mind was still on King Joyse and battle.

“Yes,” she said, “but they don’t have anything to do with Imagery.”

With her hands and her lips, she persuaded him to think about her instead. She wanted her whole body and her heart to be full of him, as if he were an antidote to Master Eremis and violence.

After that, they found it easier to relax.

Nevertheless they got up a few hours later – a long time before dawn – when King Joyse emerged to begin readying his forces.

The snowfall had stopped. It covered the ground deeply, shrouded the tents and bedrolls of twelve thousand men; it melted off the backs of the horses; it muffled every sound, absorbed even voices, and kept the campfires all across the valley small. King Joyse himself looked small in the face of so much snow and darkness. The way he rubbed his hands together suggested that the cold had brought back his arthritis. Nevertheless his eyes gleamed with blue. Gusting steam into the lantern-light, he demanded of Castellan Norge in feigned vexation, “Where’s that slugabed Prince?”

Norge shrugged with so little show of enthusiasm that the King chuckled. “Make an effort to stay awake today, Castellan,” he joked. “Our lives may become quite stimulating.”

The Castellan allowed himself a wan smile.

Through the light, Prince Kragen appeared with several of his captains and the lady Elega.

Together, he and King Joyse moved away to visit as much of their combined army as possible, ostensibly to explain their plans and reassure their men, but primarily to make King Joyse’s presence – and his alliance with Alend – as widely felt as possible; to give every soldier and guard as many reasons for hope as possible.

At the same time, Master Barsonage and the Congery began to unpack mirrors. The Imagers needed time to get into position – and to conceal themselves. Several hundred men went with them to defend them and their mirrors.

At the tentflaps, Terisa and Geraden learned from Ribuld that the Tor was still sleeping. They left the old lord.

With Elega, they watched the army prepare.

The mediator and his comrades translated more food from Orison. Horsemen delivered supplies throughout the camp and brought bedrolls and tents by the thousands back to the Masters. Huge stacks of hay appeared and were carried away for the mounts. The entire valley seethed with motion – dimly seen by firelight from the higher ground where the Tor’s tent had been pitched – as thousands of men visited the brook and the latrines and the cooking fires.

“What do you think our chances are?” Terisa asked to ease the cold anxiety gnawing inside her.

“We’re well bottled in this valley,” Geraden muttered. “That’s bad. On the other hand, it looks like we can only be attacked from one direction. The defile is too narrow. They can’t send enough men through it fast enough to hurt us seriously. That’s good. So what they’ll try to do is drive us toward the walls. If we get too close, they can drop all kinds of things on us.”

“If Eremis has a mirror with Esmerel in the Image,” Terisa said, “or any part of this valley—”

“Then,” Geraden finished, for her, “he can attack us any way he wants.” Abruptly, he turned and looked at her hard. “But he won’t. He won’t risk it. He’ll be afraid of you. If you shattered his glass, he wouldn’t be able to see what’s going on. What you did back at the crossroads is going to save us. If you hadn’t done that, we’d probably all be dead by now.”

She didn’t know how true that was. Nevertheless the fact that he said it loosened a knot inside her. “Thanks,” she murmured to him privately.

“And there are other hopes,” the lady Elega commented. While darkness still filled the valley, her indoor beauty clung to her, and in the lantern-light her eyes seemed luminous with knowledge. “The world is full of strange things, which our enemies do not understand. Master Eremis comprehends only fear and power. He is blinded by his contempt. He does not grasp how far valor may go against him.”

Terisa hardly heard the King’s daughter. She was thinking, Choose your risks more carefully. And she was thinking, We’re useless where we are. Geraden had the strongest feeling—

Unfortunately, no flash of inspiration came to her.

The sky began to grow pale. Laboring urgently, Master Barsonage and his companions translated unnecessary food and bedding and encumbrances back to Orison. Scouts were sent to watch the foot of the valley. Shifting through the gloom, the army moved into its battle formation: wedged-shaped, like the valley, but reversed, so that an attack from the foot of the valley would meet the point of the wedge and split, be forced against the walls; a wedge with mounted troops at the edges for mobility and a core of foot soldiers for strength.

When the sky grew pale enough to cast the valley rim into stark relief, everyone saw that during the night siege engines had been pulled into place.

Catapults: black against the pearl heavens: six, seven – no, nine of them around the valley, ready to pitch rocks or boulders onto the heads of Mordant’s defenders.

Terisa groaned uselessly.

A murmur rose from the army. At first, she thought it was a reaction to the catapults. But then she saw King Joyse striding toward her from among the troops, holding his standard high in his fists. On the hillside leading up to the Tor’s tent, he fixed his plain purple pennon, drove the butt of the standard into the snow and the ground.

The flag rose and fluttered there as if he had brought it straight from the Masters’ augury.

“Here we stand.”

Terisa had the impression that King Joyse wasn’t shouting. Yet his voice carried as if it could reach every corner of the valley.

“Let them come against us if they dare.”

No one cheered. No one got the chance.

Without warning, the beat of a war drum throbbed in the air. The sound came from far away, down below the foot of the valley; yet like the King’s voice it carried, a flat, fatal pulse so visceral that Terisa seemed to hear it with her throat and chest rather than her ears.

And from below the foot of the valley the darkness gathered into motion.

FORTY-EIGHT: THE CONGERY AT WORK

The beat of the drums didn’t waver. It continued to labor up the valley like the march of doom.

During the night, the sky had blown clear. Now as the sun rose, the heavens modulated from pearl to an ineffable purple-blue, transforming to vastness the mere scrap of King Joyse’s pennon. Although the valley remained in a clenched gloom, enshadowed by its walls, the effect of clear daylight around the ramparts was to make the catapults look smaller, less imposing. According to the sun, those siege engines were only sticks of wood lashed together, as capable as toys of throwing a few rocks at irregular intervals. And the snow gave the ramparts themselves an aspect of enchantment and play.

Terisa didn’t believe it. King Joyse’s men were vulnerable to toys which threw rocks.

King Joyse obviously didn’t believe it, either. After he had set his standard and cast his defiance, he called together Castellan Norge, his captains, and Prince Kragen, as well as all the Masters who weren’t already deployed. Terisa, Geraden, and the lady Elega joined him in time to hear him say, “We are readier to meet the High King than he thinks – thanks to the forces of the Alend Monarch, and to the dedication of the Congery. Nevertheless he has sprung his trap well. We must find a reply to those catapults. Men who must dodge danger from the sky will not fight well on the ground.”

“The best thing,” Norge observed, “would be to circle around behind them. But we can’t do that. I’m willing to wager Festten has the defile sealed.”

“Find out,” commanded the King.

With a nod, Castellan Norge sent one of his captains to lead a scouting party.

“Do you have any ideas, my lord Prince?” King Joyse asked.

Prince Kragen squinted up at the walls. Slowly, he said, “There are regions of Alend – especially among the Lieges – where the villagers cannot get to market without scaling cliffs as bad as these. I have men who are good with ropes and rock.”

“My lord Prince,” one of the captains objected, “Cadwal isn’t going to leave those catapults unprotected. Anybody who climbs those walls is going to be defenseless on the way up – and outnumbered at the top.”

“We must make the attempt in any, case,” King Joyse pronounced. He wasn’t looking at Prince Kragen or the captains. He was looking at the gathered Masters. “Any harm we can do to those catapults will be worth the cost.”

Several of the Masters shuffled their feet. Some of them studied the ground. In their robes and chasubles, they seemed decidedly unadventuresome. Without the mediator to lead – or goad – them, they had the air of men who would have preferred to be at home doing research.

After a moment, however, Master Vixix cleared his throat. “My lord King.” He rubbed a nervous hand through his thatch of hair. “I have a small glass I shaped as an Apt. It shows little more than a puddle of dank water. But when I translated a bit of that water – purely as an experiment – it ate a hole in my worktable.

“I carry it to defend myself.”

King Joyse nodded sharply. “Very good, Master Vixix. Can you climb?”

The Master shrugged, showing as much discomfort as his bland features allowed. “I fear not, my lord King.”

“He can be carried,” said Prince Kragen.

Vixix faltered for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. After all, he was old enough to remember Joyse’s years of glory.

“I will do whatever I can, my lord King.”

“Very good,” King Joyse repeated, and turned his attention to the other Masters.

Eventually, three more Imagers admitted that they carried personal mirrors which might be useful against a catapult – or a catapult’s defenders. With Master Vixix, they were hustled away by one of Prince Kragen’s captains.

Geraden met Terisa’s gaze and shrugged ruefully.

Elega studied the lower end of the valley as if she expected some kind of alteration to take place when the sun rose high enough, changing the churned and clotted snow until it became a setting for wonders.

The mass of the Cadwal army below the valley was plainly visible now: sunlight blocked from the valley itself caught the standards and armor of High King Festten’s forces and made them shine. Twenty thousand men? Terisa wondered. They looked like more than that – more than enough to crush King Joyse’s mere twelve thousand. Of course, the High King had had plenty of time to bring up reinforcements during the siege of Orison—

When were the catapults going to start?

Was she going to spend the entire battle trying to run away from falling rocks?

Abruptly, the war drums ceased.

The absence of the beat snatched at everyone’s attention.

After the silence came the hoarse, bleating call of a sackbut.

A rider left the massed front of the Cadwal army. His armor burned with sunlight as if he were clad in gold.

At the end of his spear, he displayed a flag of truce.

“An emissary,” observed King Joyse. “The High King wants to speak to us. He means to offer us an opportunity to surrender.”

Growling through his moustache, Prince Kragen asked, “Why does he bother?”

“He hopes to see some evidence that we are frightened.”

“Will you meet him?”

“We will, my lord Prince,” the King said; his tone didn’t encourage discussion. “It may surprise you to hear this, but in all my years of warfare and contest, I have never had a chance to laugh in High King Festten’s face.”

Elega’s eyes shone at her father as if she were delighted.

The Cadwal emissary was stopped and held at Mordant’s front line, and a horseman brought to the King the message that High King Festten did indeed wish to speak to him and Prince Kragen. In reply, Joyse sent back word that he and Kragen were willing to meet Festten midway between the two armies as soon as the High King wished.

Mounted on sturdy chargers which had been trained for combat, King Joyse and Prince Kragen rode down the valley, accompanied only by Castellan Norge. Before them stretched the Cadwal army, as unbreachable as a cliff. And above them on the ramparts, the catapults watched and waited, apparently oblivious to several hundred men with ropes and four Masters who were already attempting to scale the walls at a number of different points.

At the front of their army, the King and the Prince waited until they saw High King Festten emerge from his own forces.

“Watch for treachery,” Norge warned, stifling a yawn.

“Treachery?” King Joyse chuckled grimly. “The High King only betrays those he fears. At the moment, I feel quite certain he does not fear us. That is his weakness.” At once, he amended, “One of his weaknesses.”

“My lord King,” Prince Kragen said like a salute, “I admire your confidence.”

King Joyse gave his ally a fierce grin. “You justify it, my lord Prince.”

When they saw the High King leave his guards behind, they rode out alone to meet him, crossing clean, white snow unmarked except by the emissary’s passage.

At the agreed spot – a long bowshot from both armies – the three men came together. No one offered to dismount; and High King Festten kept some distance between himself and his enemies, as if he expected them to do something desperate. The stamping of the horses raised gusts of dry snow around the riders.

He was a short man – too short, really, for all the power he wielded. He compensated for his shortness, however, by wearing a golden helmet topped with a long spike and an elaborate plume. Between the cheek plates of his helmet, his eyes were stark, as if he had outlined them with kohl to give them force. His beard as it curled against the gold breastplate of his armor was dark and lustrous, probably dyed; only the lines and wrinkles hidden under his whiskers betrayed that he was older than King Joyse – and dedicated to his pleasures.

Ignoring Prince Kragen, he said, “Well, Joyse,” as if he and the King were intimately familiar, despite the fact that they had never met, “after years of success you have come to a sorry end.”

“Do you think so?” King Joyse smiled a smile which held no innocence at all. “I am rather pleased with myself. At last I have a chance to deal with all my enemies at once. It was only with the greatest reluctance that I allowed the Alend Contender to persuade me to offer you this one last chance for surrender.”

If this remark surprised Prince Kragen, he didn’t show it.

“ ‘Surrender’?” spat the High King. Clearly, King Joyse had caught him off balance. “You wish me to surrender?”

King Joyse shrugged as if only his sense of humor kept him from losing interest in the conversation altogether. “Why not? You cannot win this war. The best you can hope for is the chance to save your life by throwing yourself on my mercy.

“You may be unaware,” he went on before High King Festten could sputter a retort, “that your Master Eremis has offered me an alliance against you – which I have accepted.”

“That is a lie!” the High King shouted, momentarily apoplectic. Quickly, however, he regained control of himself. In a colder voice, a tone unacquainted with pity, he said, “Master Eremis is mendacious, of course. But I have not trusted him blindly. Gart is with him. And he knows that I have commanded Gart to gut him at the slightest hint of treachery. Also he is aware that I no longer need him. I can crush you now” – he knotted his fist in the air – “without Imagery.

“You have no alliance with him. And the strength of Alend is as paltry as your own.

“No, Joyse, it is you who must surrender. And you must surrender now, or the chance will be lost. You have thwarted me for years, denied me for decades. The rule which is my right you have cut apart and dissipated and limited. You have opposed my will, killed my strength – you have denied me Imagery. There is no day of my life which you have not made less. If you do not capitulate to me here, I will exterminate you and all you have ever loved as easily as I exterminate rats!”

At that, King Joyse looked over at Prince Kragen. Mock-seriously, he said, “Come, my lord Prince. This discussion is pointless. The High King insists on jesting with us. In all the world, no one has ever succeeded at exterminating rats.”

Casually, he turned his horse away.

His dark eyes gleaming, Prince Kragen did the same.

Together they rode back to their troops. The High King was left so furious that he seemed to froth at the mouth.

That was Joyse’s way of laughing in his face.

Behind them, the sackbut blared again – and again. With a palpable thud, the war drums resumed their labor.

Around the valley rim, all the catapults began to cock their arms.

“Now,” said King Joyse to the Prince and Castellan Norge, “if Master Barsonage is ready, we are ready. I do not doubt that High King Festten and Master Eremis have a number of unpleasant surprises in store for us. For the present, however, we will stand or fall according to our success against those engines.”

Prince Kragen considered what could be seen of the men climbing the walls. Quite a few of them were out of sight, concealed among the complex rocks. That was a good sign: perhaps the men would also be hard to spot from above.

Grimly, the Prince reported, “Each catapult will be able to throw at least twice before it is threatened.”

King Joyse nodded. “Castellan, only the front lines are required for battle – say three thousand men. Unless Master Barsonage miscalculates. Instruct the rest of the men to watch the catapults and protect themselves as best they can.

“Oh, and ready the physicians,” he added before Norge could ride off. “Provide horses for litters. Tell them we will use Esmerel as our infirmary. It is unpleasant, but we have no other shelter to offer the injured.”

“Yes, my lord King.” Castellan Norge spurred away.

The King and Prince Kragen returned to the pennon, where Terisa, Geraden, and Elega waited, fretting.

The massed front of the Cadwal army was in motion, marching to the insistence of the war drums.

As that army approached the foot of the valley, it took on its attacking formation: a core of horsemen like the shaft and point of an arrow; flanks of foot soldiers on both sides to provide the cutting edges of the arrowhead.

The pulse of the drums quickened slightly. The army increased its pace. All the catapults were cocked; now they took on their loads. Apparently, High King Festten wanted to time his charge so that it coincided with the first throw of the engines.

King Joyse remained on his mount to improve his view down the valley. From horseback, he looked tall and sure, capable of anything. “Sound my call,” he said to his standard-bearer, who stood guard at the pennon.

Putting his trumpet to his lips, the standard-bearer raised a blast like a shout into the morning.

The sackbut bleated in response: three hoarse bursts.

With their spears set, the Cadwal horsemen kicked their chargers into a controlled canter, an attacking stride.

The King’s forces braced themselves to receive the assault. Castellan Norge had gone to join them, so that his orders wouldn’t need to be relayed down the length of the valley.

“Now,” King Joyse commented to no one in particular, “we shall see if Master Barsonage is as good as his word.”

Terisa’s chest hurt as if she were holding her breath. Involuntarily, she clasped Geraden’s hand, gripped it hard. He tried to murmur something reassuring, but she didn’t hear him; she was focused on the drums and the horses, the coming thunder of hooves.

Over the heads of Mordant’s defenders, she saw the Cadwal horse charge into the valley.

At that moment, all the catapults threw.

The brutal sound they made as their arms hit the stops caught at her, jerked her head up.

Boulders this time: nine of them, imponderably graceful as they arced against the sky’s blue; stones as big as ponies, just to show what the engines could do.

A chaotic yell went up from the army – shouts of warning, cries of fear, urgent commands. Cadwal responded with a battle howl. The shock as the forces came together resounded from the walls, broke into bloodshed against the ramparts. Only the boulders seemed to make no sound as they hit the snow, scattering men in all directions, splashing white into the air – white streaked with red where the soldiers of Alend and the guards of Orison didn’t dodge well enough.

At once, the cocking of the catapults began again.

The King’s lines bent under the weight of the Cadwal charge. Men and horses recoiled, retreated, as if they could see Festten’s full strength coming at them and knew they had no hope. Spears thrust forward and either hit or failed. Swords flailed against each other, against shields, against armor; a metal clamor among the cries and whinnies of the beasts. Mounts reared, blundered, trampled. Bodies were buried in the snow, marking their own graves with their blood. The Cadwal battle howl took on a note of triumph.

Then the Congery struck.

Hiding themselves as well as they could in the jumbled rocks at the ends of the valley walls, the Masters had set two tall mirrors facing each other – exactly facing each other across the foot of the valley. The positioning of the mirrors to face each other exactly was a problem with which the Congery had wrestled for days; but it had been resolved by the simple – if imprecise – expedient of memorizing the Images as they appeared from every side, so that the mirrors could be held at angles which complemented each other. Their alignment across the intervening ground was more easily achieved: from their hiding places, under cover of darkness, the Masters had used lamps to orient themselves.

As the horsemen of Cadwal broke into the valley, they passed between two mirrors which showed the same Image – but the same Image seen from opposite sides, and from positions nearly a hundred yards apart.

The Image of an arid landscape under a hot sun, so dry that it seemed incapable of sustaining any kind of life, so hard-baked that the ground was split by a crack as deep as a chasm and wide enough to swallow men and horses.

Master Barsonage flashed his signal, a strip of blue silk which he waved from a place high among the rocks so that it could be seen over the heads of the charging troops. At once, the two Masters who had shaped the mirrors began their translation.

With a noise like a cataclysm and a violent heave that seemed to crack the bedrock of the valley, a chasm appeared under the hooves of the horses. The ground shook; tremors ran into the distance, pulling loose rock from the ramparts, knocking men and horses off their legs. The sound shocked the valley, stunned the air. Dust sifted from the cleft as if the sky itself had shattered.

Riders slammed headlong into the rent snow and dirt, toppled from the edge; horses dropped screaming with their legs shattered. And more of the charge plunged into the cleft until the Cadwals had time to halt, rear back. Even then, dozens of soldiers were forced over the lip by the uncontrolled press behind them. A few horsemen tried to leap the chasm: a few of those succeeded. The rest were swallowed by the riven ground.

The Cadwals who had already ridden into the valley were cut off from the support of their army.

Instantly, Castellan Norge gave up the appearance of retreat and rallied his forces. His riders parted to let foot soldiers in among their enemies. Three thousand of King Joyse’s men turned on scarcely a third that many Cadwals.

Outnumbered, trapped in confusion, with no escape possible except by a wild and unlikely leap across the chasm, High King Festten’s soldiers fell without doing much damage.

As if nothing unpropitious had happened, the catapults threw again.

Scattershot this time, for variety; hundreds of fist-sized stones launched into the valley with the force of crossbows.

Smaller stones were more effective than boulders. They were harder to see coming, harder to dodge. And most of the King’s army had involuntarily turned to watch the fighting – and the Imagery – at the valley foot. Alends and Mordants died because they weren’t watching the sky.

Master Barsonage saw a sudden pocket of carnage appear among the troops as he scrambled down the rocks. Another – another – he couldn’t look anymore. Reaching the young Master who held the mirror, he panted, “Hold the translation. As we agreed. If you stop and he” – the Imager at the other mirror – “does not, our own chasm will engulf us.”

The young Master nodded without lifting his head from his fixed concentration.

Thank the stars he was young. He would have stamina. The man at the other glass, however—

Urgently, Master Barsonage scrubbed the chilled sweat out of his eyebrows.

They were in a gap like a room hidden among the rocks – a gap in which three or four men could have hacked at each other, as long as they didn’t swing their swords too widely – with packed snow underfoot, ragged black boulders for concealment. The mirror was set between two rocks facing the opposite wall; another opening allowed the mediator to see across the valley. He and his companions were a good ten feet above the valley floor, however, and had more rock curving outward to protect them from above.

“Now the true danger begins, as you were warned,” he muttered, more to himself than to his companions – the young Imager and Master Harpool. “The High King will turn his attack against us. And we dare not release the chasm, or enough Cadwals will sweep inward to slaughter us, regardless of how we are defended. As matters stand, we can only be attacked over the rocks.” Stroking his glass, the flat mirror with the Image of Orison’s ballroom, he added, “I hope Artagel received the King’s message.”

“I saw him pick up the parchment,” muttered Master Harpool, not for the first time.

Master Barsonage ignored Harpool. He wasn’t talking because he wanted answers – or even reassurance. He was talking so that he wouldn’t dither.

He didn’t like danger. Philosophically, he didn’t approve of it. Imagery was for research and experiment, for understanding and knowledge, not for bloodshed. For that very reason, however, he approved passionately of the creation of the Congery. And the conflicts inherent in his own position had made him an indecisive mediator – a man, as someone had once observed, who couldn’t keep his feet out of the shit on either side because he couldn’t get the fence post out of his ass.

Well, he had made decisions at last. He had brought the Congery here, into this mess, because he believed that was the right thing to do. But he still needed to keep talking.

“What I would most like to do at this moment,” he continued for no one’s benefit except his own, “is design a new couch. I am not altogether satisfied with the backrest of my last attempt.”

“Oh, shut up, Barsonage,” said Master Harpool; but he obviously didn’t expect the mediator to heed him.

The valley had become strangely quiet. The sackbut had called back the Cadwal troops; the war drums were still. Undoubtedly, High King Festten was conferring with his captains. In the meantime, Castellan Norge had sent half a thousand foot soldiers to pitch the High King’s dead into the chasm; get the bodies out of the way. Weapons were collected; uninjured horses were appropriated; wounded men were unceremoniously clubbed senseless and taken to the infirmary. Everything else had to go.

“If you were the High King, Master Harpool,” Master Barsonage asked pointlessly, “how much time would you require to get five hundred men into the rocks above us?”

The two Imagers were old friends. “Oh, shut up, Barsonage,” Harpool repeated.

Most of the catapults were ready to throw again.

Master Barsonage had a painfully clear view of the engine nearest to him across the valley – a painfully clear view of Prince Kragen’s men as they were stripped from the wall by a shower of rocks. As far as he could see, none of them survived the fall.

In contrast, the next catapult – cocked ready to throw – abruptly twisted itself into a wreck and collapsed, as if some of its crucial lashings had been cut or burned away so that it was destroyed by its own force.

Consumed by vexation, the Cadwals around the wrecked engine hurled a number of bodies off the rampart. Master Barsonage distinctly saw a chasuble flutter to the valley floor.

“Vixix,” he muttered. “May the stars have mercy on you, Master Eremis, for I will not – if I ever get the chance.”

He did his best to tally the next throw, but he wasn’t sure of. the results: he thought he saw seven boulders thud into the army. One of them smashed a squad of injured Cadwals on its way to the infirmary (no great loss), killing at least one physician (a serious blow).

Seven. Had some of Prince Kragen’s climbers succeeded? They must have.

“The difficulty of backrests,” he said through his teeth, “is that they must suit such a variety of backs.”

The young Master at the mirror was beginning to breathe like a poorly trained runner. Sweat trickled from his beardless chin to the ground at his feet, where it grew slowly into ice. Shaded from the sun, the air in the gap was cold. One of his hands was clenched too tightly on the frame; the other rubbed the mimosa wood too hard, threatening the focus of the Image.

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 muttered. “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.

Broken rock in tons; hundreds and thousands of tons; enough rock to build a castle, a mountain; all slamming down out of the sky directly above the chasm, all howling torrentially into the Masters’ crevice.

Enough rock to fill the rift. Plug it. Make it passable.

And behind the translated collapse of the mountainside came High King Festten’s men, pressing forward to breach the valley as soon as the rockfall ended.

The avalanche moved along the chasm, distributing rubble as evenly as possible.

Then, while the whole valley watched in shock, the plunge of stone began to thin. Quickly, too quickly, the tons of rock became dirt and pebbles; the dirt and pebbles changed to dust; the dust billowed everywhere, as light and swirling as snow.

Raising their battle howl, High King Festten’s men charged.

The crevice wasn’t perfectly filled: in some places, the rock piled too high; in others, the dirt sank too low. Nevertheless at least a third of the chasm could be crossed now. Cadwal’s troops rushed forward while Castellan Norge and Prince Kragen were still straining to rally their forces.

Within the valley, Festten’s men split into two groups, curving around the inside of the chasm to attack the Masters hidden in the ends of the walls.

The Tor saw the Cadwals come as he rode, lashing his horse for more speed than it could give him. He had forgotten his pain: he had forgotten loss. He only knew that he was too late to help break the first shock of the assault. Norge had hundreds of archers and bowmen hidden around the Masters. And the Masters had mirrors. That would have to be enough, until help could come.

It wasn’t enough; it was never going to be enough. Already there were a thousand Cadwals in the valley, two thousand. More came as fast as they could cross the chasm.

Forgetting all the things he couldn’t do, the Tor unsheathed his longsword.

In the rocks ahead, he saw Master Barsonage. The mediator had climbed to his signaling-place above the mirrors. He looked small and doomed there, his chasuble fluttering. As if he had lost his mind, he yelled through the Cadwal battle howl, waved a blue cloth wildly at the opposite wall.

The Tor didn’t understand what happened next until it was over; but somehow, by luck or inspiration, Master Barsonage achieved his aim.

Both Masters ceased their translation at the same moment.

The chasm blinked out of existence.

Now there was solid ground where the avalanche had fallen. Stone and soil occupied the space which the rockfall had filled.

In the convulsion, the Tor’s horse stumbled, nearly lost its footing. With a spasm like an eruption, the closed earth spat the entire rockfall straight into the air.

Without transition, the battle howl changed to screams and chaos. Hundreds of Cadwals died in the blast while they tried to cross the vanished chasm; hundreds more were crushed by the rejected rock as it plunged back to the ground, blocking the valley from wall to wall. Granite thunder and groaning swallowed the sound of war drums.

Unfortunately, the High King still had as many as two thousand men inside the valley – men still charging to kill the Masters, shatter the mirrors. And King Joyse’s reinforcements were still too far away.

The Castellan’s archers recovered their wits enough to begin shooting. But their arrows were too few, and the Cadwals were well armored. Men with swords swarmed up into the rocks, fighting to reach the Masters.

Master Barsonage had scuttled downward, vanished into a gap the Tor couldn’t see. That movement told the Cadwals exactly where their target was. Spared the necessity of searching, they surged ahead.

With Ribuld beside him, the Tor crashed against the rear of the Cadwal force.

His sword was heavy: his whole body was heavy, weighted with pain and bereavement. He hacked at the Cadwals from side to side, once on the left, once on the right, back and forth; and each blow seemed to shear helmets and heads, breastplates and leather. His horse plunged, stumbled, scrambled forward – somehow he kept his balance. His sword was his balance, his life: up and down, side to side, hacking with all its strength, while his belly filled up with blood.

Above him, the Cadwals who reached the Masters’ position seemed to be disappearing.

In their gap among the rocks, the Imagers concentrated grimly, working their translations against impossible odds.

That is to say, Master Barsonage concentrated grimly, grinding his courage into focus with such urgency that sweat stood on his skin and a dangerous flush darkened his face. For all the distress Master Harpool showed, he might as well have been performing translations in his sleep. Standing mostly behind his glass, with his eyes closed and an old man’s mumble on his lips, he kept his mirror open and simply let everything that came near it fall into the Image – trusting, no doubt, that the haste and frenzy of the Cadwals would spare him from a direct attack on his person.

The young Master wasn’t doing anything at all. He had slumped to the snow-packed floor; his glass leaned over him, useless. Something in him, some essential fortitude or will, had snapped. He had kept his translation open for the chasm until Master Barsonage had called for him to let it go; then his eyes had rolled back in his head, and he had crumbled.

The mirrors were vital: the Congery had nothing else to contribute to Mordant’s defense. Ignoring the young Imager, Master Barsonage forced himself to translate and translate, on and on, when every nerve in his body wailed to flinch away from the swords and blows and curses coming at him.

Unhappily, from where he stood he could see clearly that reinforcements were still too far away. He could see that the Tor and Ribuld didn’t stand a chance.

The Tor went on fighting anyway, long after he had lost his strength and his balance and even his reason. A blow for his son. A blow for his Care. And now a blow for King Joyse. Then back to the beginning again. A blow for everyone he had ever loved, everyone who had ever died.

For some reason, there was a knife stuck in his leg. It was a big knife; really, quite a big knife. He couldn’t tell whether it hurt him or not, but it seemed to catch his leg in a way he couldn’t escape, so that he had no choice except to fall off his horse.

He dreaded that fall. It was a long way to the ground, and his swollen side couldn’t endure an impact like that. Luckily, however, he managed to land on the man who stuck him; that was one less Cadwal to worry about. Now all he had to do was roll onto his back. He knew he didn’t have the strength to stand again; but from the ground he would be able to cut at the legs of the men around him.

He rolled onto his back.

Unluckily, he had lost his sword. He didn’t have anything left to fight with.

Ribuld stood over him.

Gripping his own blade in both fists, the guard fought for both of them: blows on all sides; spurts and splashes of blood; chips of armor, iron sword-shards. Ribuld’s scar burned as if his life were on fire in his face, and his teeth snapped at the air.

Someone shouted, “My lord Tor! Watch out!”

The voice was familiar, but the old lord couldn’t place it. It was too recent: it belonged to someone he hadn’t known long enough to remember.

Then a swordpoint came right through the center of Ribuld’s chest, driven like a spear from behind.

Oh, well. The stars had granted the Tor his last wish. And King Joyse had said, You have not betrayed me. That was enough.

A moment later, someone slammed a rock down on his head and brought all his losses to an end.

But when Master Barsonage cried, “My lord Tor! Watch out!” the young Imager sprang to his feet as if he had been galvanized.

Like Ribuld’s, the young Master’s home was in the Care of Tor, in Marshalt. In fact, he was distantly related by marriage to the Tor himself. That familiar name – and the mediator’s alarm – wrenched him out of his stupor, brought him to his feet crying madly, “The Tor? The Tor? Oh, my lord!”

He had no idea what was going on: his eyes held nothing but exhaustion and distress. The broken part of him only made him urgent; it didn’t make him sane.

Sobbing, “Save the Tor!” he grabbed up his mirror.

Master Barsonage was too slow. He was watching the Tor, watching the reinforcements; he didn’t react in time.

The young Imager was hardly more than a boy, pushed past his limits. Facing his mirror in the general direction of the opposite glass, he began translating his chasm straight into the huge ridge of rock left by the avalanche; the rock which sealed the valley.

But of course the Master holding the other mirror didn’t know what was about to happen. In any case, the two mirrors were no longer properly aligned. There was nothing to stop the tremendous and convulsive tremor which split the ridge and the ground and went on until it hit the end of the other wall and tore apart all that old stone, reducing the opposite glass and everyone near it to rubble.

Under the circumstances, it was probably a good thing that the young Master didn’t live long. There was no way to tell how much damage his chasm might have done, if the translation had continued unchecked. And there was no way to tell how he would have endured the consequences of his action.

As matters fell out, however, he was saved by a particularly stubborn Cadwal, who already had his sword up to chop open Master Harpool’s oblivious face when an Alend arrow nailed him between the shoulder blades. Falling forward, his upraised arms hit the top of Harpool’s mirror. That impact made his fingers release his sword.

As if it had been thrown deliberately, the hilt of the blade snapped the young Master’s neck. He, in turn, fell forward onto his glass, shattering it completely.

Full of terrible defeat, Master Barsonage hardly noticed that Master Harpool had somehow contrived to keep his own mirror from being broken. And the mediator’s was undamaged. That was less than no consolation; it was almost an insult in the face of the general ruin. Every other glass which the Congery had prepared for this battle was destroyed.

He half expected another violent recoil as the chasm ceased to exist for the second time; but that didn’t happen. The previous convulsion had been caused by reversing the translation. This translation, on the other hand, was only stopped, not undone. Vast portions of the piled ridge were engulfed; most of the end-rock of the opposite wall disappeared into the new crevice. Then the rending and splitting of the earth was over.

As a result, the High King’s forces once again had access to the valley – a ragged and constricted access, treacherous to cross, like the spaces between rotting teeth, but access nonetheless.

When he saw that there were already men riding at full career in through one of the farther gaps, Master Barsonage covered his face with his hands.

FORTY-NINE: THE KING’S LAST HOPES

Standing near the King’s pennon with Terisa, Geraden, and her father, the lady Elega didn’t know where to look, or what to feel.

She could watch the struggle down at the end of the valley wall, off to her right, where the Tor had fallen, and where Castellan Norge and his men fought to save what they could of the Masters and their mirrors. Or she could watch the breach where the other Masters used to be, the gap which had been made in the piled ridge of the avalanche by translating the Congery’s chasm from only one side.

Riders were coming in through that gap, driving their horses hard. And Prince Kragen was there. From this distance, he appeared to be doing everything at once: rallying his men; finishing off the incursion of Cadwals; searching over the new jumble of rocks for survivors. To her eyes, each of his actions seemed as quick as a thrust, as decisive as a sword; the precision with which he used his men made Norge look like a blundering lout by comparison.

He was worthy – oh, he was worthy! Surely King Joyse could see that. Surely her father in this new manifestation could see and appreciate the qualities which made the Alend Contender precious to her. Prince Kragen deserved—

He deserved to be right.

Almost as an act of self-mortification, to humble herself so that she wouldn’t hope so hard, fear so much, Elega forced her eyes to stay on the right side of the valley foot, not the left.

The question of what to feel was more difficult. She couldn’t resolve it by an act of will.

Pride and panic: vindication and alarm. Suddenly, as much “out of nowhere” as if translation were involved, the King had proved himself. He had made real the interpretations of himself which until now had been only ideas – concepts put forward by people like Terisa and Geraden for reasons of their own. He had shown that he merited the risks she had taken in his name, arguing for him against reason, common sense; he had justified the forbearance she had won from Prince Kragen and the Alend Monarch. In the privacy of her own thoughts, she understood why he had found it necessary to use her like a hop-board piece in his plans, rather than to hazard the truth with her. She was proud of him, there beside his standard, blue eyes blazing; as ready as a hawk to strike or defend.

She was proud of him – and afraid that she had failed him.

In a sense, she was playing his own game against him. At her urging, Prince Kragen and the Alend Monarch had made decisions concerning this war on the basis of knowledge and speculation which they hadn’t shared with any representative of Orison.

Her purpose – as distinct from Kragen’s or Margonal’s – had been twofold: to make the forces of Alend wait, withhold their siege, long enough for King Joyse’s plans to ripen; and to put pressure on the King, pressure which would force him to accept an alliance with Alend. By keeping secrets from her father, she reinforced Prince Kragen’s position.

Now, today, here, what she had done came to the test. She would be right, as the Prince deserved – if for no other reason than because he had trusted her. Or she would be wrong.

Mordant itself might stand or fall on the outcome.

She could choose to keep her eyes away from Prince Kragen, away from the riders boiling into the valley on the left; but she couldn’t choose to ignore her fear. The more pride she felt in King Joyse and the Prince, the more she dreaded the possibility that she had helped bring them both to ruin.

Maybe that was why she looked her worst in sunlight. The sun couldn’t expose her secrets, of course; but it seemed to lay bare the fact that she had them.

Under the circumstances, she considered it fortunate that no one was paying much attention to her.

Unconscious of himself, Geraden muttered, “Get up. Get up.” Everyone had seen the Tor go down; no one had seen the old lord regain his feet. For that matter, no one had seen any of the Masters emerge from the rocks. “Get up. We need you.”

Terisa held his arm with both hands, clung to him. Nevertheless she kept her eyes averted as if she couldn’t bear to watch what he was seeing. Facing to the left of the valley’s foot, she asked softly, “Who is that?”

Geraden apparently had no idea what she meant. And Elega was determined not to look. She needed a way to live with her fear, a way to endure her failure when it came.

Abruptly, it became obvious that Castellan Norge was done with the Cadwals attacking the Masters. Shouts were raised, and some of the men relaxed. Bowmen hurried out of the rocks to retrieve their shafts; riders sped away, some to deliver messages, others to help the Prince. Master Barsonage appeared, holding a glass nearly as tall as himself. Behind him came Master Harpool, doddering painfully. Two guards carried the old Imager’s mirror for him.

Together, five or six men picked up the Tor’s corpse; as gently as they could, they set it in a rude litter. Then they lifted the litter to other men on horseback. Ribuld’s body also was put in a litter to accompany the Tor’s. Castellan Norge mounted his horse, placed himself at the head of his riders.

In procession, like a cortege, the Castellan and his men came up the valley toward King Joyse.

“My lord,” Geraden sighed – an exhalation with his teeth clenched down on it hard enough to draw blood. “My poor lord.”

Terisa shook his arm; maybe she was trying to distract him. “Geraden, look. Who is that?”

Involuntarily, the lady Elega turned.

At once, she saw that the horsemen attempting to enter the valley were fighting for their lives—

—fighting for their lives against the forces of Cadwal outside. She had assumed that they, too, were Cadwals; but she was wrong. High King Festten opposed them bitterly: seen through the breaches in the piled ridge, it appeared that he had sent his entire mounted strength to destroy them.

She saw Prince Kragen spur his charger into a gallop, leading several hundred Alends to the defense of the riders; headlong against thousands of Cadwals.

At the same time, King Joyse shouted to the nearest captain, “Get archers down there! I want bows up in those rockpiles! I want an ambush in each of those gaps! We cannot keep Cadwal out, but we can make the High King cautious. We must not allow him to mass his men inside those piles!”

Cupping his hands on either side of his mouth to make his voice ring, he added, “Support the Prince!”

With her jaw hanging down like a madwoman’s, Elega saw that one of the riders Prince Kragen was risking himself to help bore the dull grape-on-wheat colors of the Termigan.

The Termigan?

What in the name of all sanity was he doing here?

“The Termigan!” Geraden breathed to Terisa. “I don’t believe it. He came after all.”

Elega was too surprised to notice that the catapults were ready to throw again. And she certainly didn’t notice that one of them behind her had been reaimed toward King Joyse’s pennon. She hardly heard the flat thudding of the arms, or the thin, high scream of scattershot through the air. At the moment, her only concern was that none of the engines could strike at Prince Kragen or the Termigan.

She didn’t know how lucky she was when the catapult behind her failed to throw.

Instead of attacking, it leaned forward and toppled crookedly off the rampart, tearing itself to scrap on the rocks as it fell. From the valley rim, a group of Prince Kragen’s climbers raised an inaudible cheer, then turned to defend themselves from Cadwals arriving too late to save the engine.

King Joyse, however, seemed to notice that as he noticed everything else. With a glance upward, he said to himself, “Six left. Progress is made, friend Festten. Be warned.”

Unfortunately, the siege engines had already cost him hundreds of men, dead or hurt.

Elega held her breath, watching Prince Kragen hurl himself against High King Festten’s horsemen. Hadn’t Geraden said that the Termigan refused to come? She gnawed the inside of her cheek. Yes, that was what Geraden had said. Yet he was here. She felt a chill, despite the air’s relative warmth. What new disaster had he come to report?

Who were those people in the center of his formation, those cloaked figures that didn’t fight, that didn’t do anything except ride where the Termigan’s men took them? One of them seemed ordinary enough. The other was huge—

Echoes brought the sounds of battle to her, the strife of swords and shields. Piled rock hid most of the fighting: Prince Kragen had ventured through the gap and was out of sight behind the debris of the avalanche. He didn’t have enough men to oppose that many Cadwals, not nearly enough. Only the speed of his charge could save him, its unexpectedness. But a mixed group of guards and soldiers was almost in position to help him, two hundred horse in the lead, half a thousand foot pelting furiously behind. And when the Termigan had brought all his people into the valley, he wheeled his mount, called most of his strength after him, and returned to aid the Prince.

Together, nearly side-by-side, Prince Kragen and the man who had declared flatly, I trust no Alend, fought their way back toward the bulk of King Joyse’s army.

The rough mounds close on either side saved them: all that broken stone constricted the Cadwal countercharge; an abundance of scattered rubble where the chasm used to be prevented riders from moving in tight ranks. And when the High King’s forces tried to enter the valley again, archers began loosing their shafts from high up among the rocks.

Prince Kragen and the Termigan brought each other to safety as if they had never been anything except comrades.

“Who’re those people with him,” asked Terisa, “the ones in the cloaks – the ones who didn’t fight?”

Elega’s heart began to soar. Who dared to speak of failure, where King Joyse and his daughters were at work?

The men bearing the Tor’s body, and Ribuld’s, arrived at King Joyse’s pennon before the Termigan did; and King Joyse met them as if he weren’t in the midst of a war, with catapults and unexplained arrivals to worry about; met them as if for that moment at least nothing was more important to him than the burden they carried, his old friend’s corpse.

“He saved us,” said Master Barsonage. The Imager seemed too weary to dismount; he looked too haggard to say, my lord King. “He and Ribuld—” The mediator’s voice lapsed into grief.

“That’s true, my lord King,” Castellan Norge reported without his usual ease. “They were just two, but they hit at the right time. They did just enough damage, caused just enough confusion—” Like Barsonage, Norge seemed to be losing his voice. “Without them, we wouldn’t have saved the mediator. Or Master Harpool, either.”

Dully, as if he had said the same thing a dozen times, Master Harpool murmured, “My wife promised to curse me if I don’t return. She was that angry—” His nose was running; but he didn’t have anything to wipe it with, so he snuffled loudly.

King Joyse looked at the Tor’s body; he started to speak. Nevertheless he couldn’t: he was breathing too hard. As if the sight of his friend’s crushed head hit him harder than he was expecting, dealt him a blow for which he had thought he was braced and now found he wasn’t, not braced at all despite the fact that he must have seen this moment coming, his chest began to heave, and he fought for air urgently, in great gasps. To stifle the sound, he clamped his hands over his mouth, against the sides of his nose; but he couldn’t restrain his harsh respiration, his labor against grief.

After all, he wasn’t young anymore. He had been alone for a long time; comforted – or at least understood – by only mad Havelock and lost Quillon. And the cost of his efforts to save Mordant kept growing. Without the Tor, there would have been no Mordant, no kingdom to defend; no King to be so profligate with the blood of those who loved him.

Fiercely, he pulled his hands down from his face, gripped the side of the Tor’s litter. He seemed to want to lift his old friend in his arms, pick the Tor’s body up out of death. But of course the corpse was too heavy. Four men were needed simply to support its slack weight.

Involuntarily, King Joyse sank to his knees in the trampled slush.

Terisa and Geraden started toward him without thinking; their desire to console him somehow was obvious in their faces. The lady Elega stopped them, however. She put a finger to her lips. Then, smiling despite the Tor’s end and her father’s sorrow, she pointed toward the riders approaching the pennon.

Prince Kragen. The Termigan. And the two cloaked figures, with everything about them except their size wrapped and hidden, kept secret.

Prince Kragen had a few battlemarks on him: some blood, plainly not his own; lines like galls across his mail. He looked worthy to Elega, worthy beyond question, like a man who had met the consequences of his most hazardous decisions and deserved his victory. The Termigan was in worse condition, gaunt from hard travel, strained and bitter around his eyes. Yet he, too, had an air of worth, almost of triumph, as if he knew now that he had done the right thing. His hard, flinty face held no reproach.

“My lord King,” he said, “I’ve come to help you. I’ve only got two hundred men – all I could spare. But they’re enough.”

“Enough and more,” put in Prince Kragen, kinder toward the. King’s grief. “Is it not true that Mordant itself began with only two hundred men?”

“Father.” Myste pushed her hood back from her face, raised her strong gaze and her scarred cheek into the sunlight reaching past the valley rim.

“Myste.”

Terisa was at once so surprised and so thrilled that she nearly shouted; her whole body seemed tight with pleasure.

“You’re all right.”

Geraden nearly burst out laughing in delight. Men all around the King’s pennon whispered Myste’s name as if it were powerful and dangerous.

“With the Termigan’s aid,” she said, “I have brought your champion.”

While the reaction to her appearance spread, the huge figure beside her dropped his cloak, revealing bright, blank armor scorched black in several places, burned open twice, with a flat, impenetrable plate over his face. Strange guns hung on his hips; the rifle with which he had blasted his way out of Orison was strapped to his back.

The circle of guards and soldiers stared. A number of them grabbed at their swords; a few unslung bows.

But the champion didn’t make any threatening moves. Slowly, he reached one hand to his head, touched a stud in the side of his helmet. Without a sound, his visor slid up and away, exposing his face.

It was a man’s face, ordinary in its details: pale eyes; a large nose, crooked as if it had been broken more than once; tight lips above an assertive jaw. Only the strange way he moved his mouth when he spoke betrayed his origins.

“My lord King,” he said in an alien voice, a tone with an incongruous resemblance to birdsong, “I’m lost on this God-rotting planet. Myste says it’s not your fault I’m here. Says the only people who might be able to help me are your Imagers. But you can’t help me while you’re stuck in this mess.

“I’m willing to do what I can. For her. On the off-chance your Imagers can help me.”

“So that’s what it meant,” Terisa breathed, her tone hushed with relief and wonder. But at the moment even Geraden didn’t have any attention to spare for her.

Kneeling beside the Tor, King Joyse had jerked his head up at the sound of Myste’s voice, had stared at her and the champion with joy dawning in his blue eyes. Now he rose to his feet as if all his courage had come back. At first, however, he didn’t speak to her, or to Prince Kragen and the Termigan, or even to the champion. Instead, he addressed Norge briskly.

“Several things, Castellan. Provide for my lord Termigan’s men. Get those that need care to the physicians. Those that do not, assign among our horsemen. If I judge rightly” – he glanced toward the foot of the valley – “High King Festten is regrouping. He will attack again shortly. We need riders desperately.

“My dear friend the Tor,” he continued without pausing, “must be given an honorable grave outside Esmerel. Command as many men as necessary, bury him well. And the Perdon beside him – two faithful and valorous lords who spent their lives so that we will have a chance to save our world. If we succeed, their names will be praised before any other.”

Then, in a rush, he left the Tor’s litter, pulled Myste off her mount, and hugged her to his heart.

At once, the champion, Darsint, dismounted; he seemed to think Myste might need his protection. When he had pushed the horses out of his way, however, he stopped, apparently content to leave Myste and the King alone.

Watching her sister and her father, Elega’s only regret was that she had never been able to smile the way they did, with that clarity, as if they were able to go through life with their innocence intact.

“Dear child,” King Joyse murmured thickly, “my Myste, I’m so glad—Havelock told me to trust you, but I couldn’t help being afraid. My little girl, in such danger—I wanted you to be safe. And yet I needed you to do what you did.” He tightened his embrace momentarily, then released it and stepped back. “Your mother would break my pate if she knew how I risked you.”

“Father,” Myste replied like the sun, “all children must be risked. Mother knows that. How else are we to discover ourselves?”

If anything, her smile became warmer, cleaner, as she turned toward Elega.

Elega wanted to say, You have saved us – meant to say, Oh, Myste, you have saved us – but her throat closed suddenly, and her vision ran with tears. Myste’s smile still had the power to make everything worthwhile.

Myste came to stand close to her. They didn’t embrace: the way they felt was too private for the occasion. Nevertheless Myste said softly, “You did it. Everything I wanted – everything I couldn’t say. I’m so proud of you.”

Elega looked up at Prince Kragen, still on his horse, and held his gaze happily while Myste went to hug both Terisa and Geraden, then moved back to King Joyse.

“Now that the truth is revealed, my lord King,” the Prince said, speaking dryly to cover his pleasure, “I suppose I must admit that the Alend Monarch’s motives – and my own – have not been entirely disinterested recently. We withheld the siege of Orison to give you time in which to mature your plans. We kept open the possibility of an alliance, even when we had refused it, so that we might be able to aid you at need. But we also did those things” – he grinned under his moustache – “because the lady Myste threatened to bring the champion’s fire down on us otherwise.”

There: it was acknowledged in front of everyone that he and Elega had known Myste was alive, known she was with Darsint. The information brought a speculative frown to Geraden’s face as he drew inferences; it turned Terisa’s cheeks alternately pale and hot – relief at Myste’s safety, anger that Myste’s safety had been kept secret.

King Joyse wasn’t offended, however. “In other words, my lord Prince,” he retorted, suppressing a desire to laugh, “you decided to respect my position because you were given reason to believe it might be stronger than it appeared.” Away from Myste, he had resumed his more formal style of speech. “That was wise – as well as courageous. While honest admissions are being made, I will admit in my turn that I have often suspected your father of wisdom.” His eyes glinted with momentary mischief. “His courage, however, came as a pleasant surprise.

“Unfortunately,” he went on promptly, speaking now to the group around his standard, “we will be in battle again at any moment, and before that moment comes I must say that my position is also weaker than it appears.”

Facing the champion, he asked, “How should I address you?”

The champion frowned. “You mean name or rank? I’m Darsint, First Battle-Officer, Unified Expeditionary Force cruiser Scourge.”

“Darsint,” King Joyse pronounced. “Your offer of aid is very welcome. I need it badly. I doubt, however, that I will ever be able to help you.”

Darsint’s frown deepened.

Instinctively, Elega caught her breath. What was her father doing now? Yet a glance at Myste reassured her: Myste appeared grave, but undistressed. Geraden was nodding slowly, as if to confirm what King Joyse said. Terisa seemed to be watching the foot of the valley distractedly, expecting harm.

“I am sure,” King Joyse explained, “my daughter has told you that you were brought here by translation – by mirror. But the glass responsible for your presence was broken.” Perhaps tactfully, he didn’t mention that Darsint himself had broken it. “In addition, the only mirror we had which resembled that glass has also been shattered, by the enemies we now confront. As a result, I have no immediate aid to offer.

“I doubt that Master Gilbur can be persuaded to reveal how your mirror was made. Geraden is therefore our only hope.” King Joyse didn’t look at Geraden. “And I do not doubt that he will be able to reshape his mirror exactly, if we are victorious – if he is given time and peace.”

Geraden continued nodding.

“But that only raises another difficulty,” went on the King, “which is time itself. Our mirrors show Images of place, not of person. And the Images can be adjusted only over relatively small distances. Once Geraden has reshaped his glass, we will have the power to return you, not to your people or your home, but only to the place where you were found.

“How many days have passed since you were forced among us? And how many more will pass before Geraden is given time and peace? Will your ‘cruiser’ – will this Scourge – remain where it was, waiting for you?”

“Pythas,” Darsint muttered darkly. “God-rotting piece of real estate. Should have left it alone while we had the chance. UEF needs a staging-area in that sector – but nobody needs a staging-area that bad.”

King Joyse pursued his point. “Is it not more likely that your Scourge will be gone? that we will consign you to death among your enemies if we return you after so many days?”

“Shit, yes.” The champion appeared to be chewing his lip below the rim of his visor’s opening. “Pythians had us on the run when I got snatched. Plasma beams like I’ve never seen.” He indicated his damaged armor. “Scourge’ll be long gone.”

“So I can promise you nothing,” King Joyse concluded, “except that I will use you as hard as I can – and serve you as faithfully as I am able.

“Will you help us?”

Elega’s chest hurt for air, but she kept holding each breath as long as she could, hoping that her father’s candor wouldn’t drive Darsint away.

The champion didn’t take long to make up his mind. “Oh, well,” he sighed like a disappointed nightingale. “Myste warned me. She’s still the only friend I’ve got. And you’re her father. She thinks you’re worth saving.

“Too bad I can’t do it.” The twisting of his face resembled a grin; he may have been indulging in a piece of UEF humor. Elega wasn’t sure: his features were as hard to read as stone. “Weaker than I look. Like you. Handguns don’t have the range you need – or the capacity. There’s a limit to the number of people I can strangle personally. Can’t stop what you’ve got coming.” Inside his helmet, he nodded toward High King Festten’s army. “And my rifle’s about discharged—”

The blaring of the sackbut interrupted him.

At once, six catapults started winding back their arms.

Simultaneously, the war drums began to beat their rhythm into the valley.

With a sharp look in that direction, Elega saw the Cadwal front advancing, preparing itself to pour through the breaks in the ridge. Too soon: the King and his champion weren’t ready. And she hadn’t had a chance to learn how Myste and Darsint and the Termigan came to be here – how they came to be together.

“But I’m not helpless.” By degrees, it became more obvious that Darsint’s expression was intended as a smile. “Might have enough charge left to take care of those toys for you.” He gestured up at the siege engines. “Might even put a little God-rotting fear into your God-rotting enemies.”

He stopped as if he were waiting for someone to catch the joke and laugh.

After a moment, King Joyse did laugh – a short, hard chuckle, not of humor, but of recognition. “ ‘A little God-rotting fear.’ I like the sound of that. Someday you must explain ‘God-rotting’ to me. I suspect it is a phrase Castellan Lebbick would have enjoyed, if he had known it.

“Please do ‘take care of’ the catapults.” King Joyse considered the Cadwal position, the readiness of the engines. “As soon as possible.”

Still grinning that twisted, beaky grin, Darsint pulled his rifle off his back.

Involuntarily, a number of the guards and soldiers retreated a step.

Elega wished that Prince Kragen had dismounted, that he stood beside her. Like the Termigan, however, he stayed on his horse so that he could ride into battle at an instant’s notice.

The champion checked a blinking red light on his strange weapon, thumbed a button. “Range isn’t a problem.” When he spoke softly, his voice sounded more than ever like birdsong. “Not against wood. But I’d have to get closer – if I weren’t such a good shot.”

Elega distinctly saw him wink at Myste.

For some reason, his wink reminded her that he was responsible for the burn-scar on Myste’s cheek, the mark which seemed to transform Myste’s expression from dreamy romance to decisiveness.

The war drums picked up their pace.

Abruptly, Darsint raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighted along it.

During the space between one heartbeat and the next, his weapon let out a straight burst of fire.

Elega and Terisa and Geraden and everyone anywhere near the pennon turned in time to see one of the catapults catch the burst and fly to pieces. Chunks of timber and strands of rope sailed soundlessly off the rampart, shedding flames as they fell.

Elega thought she heard the hammering of the war drums falter. Maybe she had imagined it.

“One,” Darsint announced flatly.

He aimed again, fired again.

Its legs broken, his target leaned forward, started to topple; then its arm snapped under the stress.

“Two.”

With some difficulty, Elega restrained an impulse to cheer. Everyone else was silent, clenched in awe and suspense.

Frowning, Darsint rechecked his rifle; he fired again. A blazing line sped as straight as a die toward the next catapult.

Apparently, the team of Cadwals at the engine panicked. They tried to throw before their catapult was ready. A load of scattershot sprayed harmlessly down the wall as fire reduced the catapult to wreckage.

“Three.

This time, there was no question about it: the war drums faltered. A moment later, they stumbled into confusion as their drummers lost the beat. Instead of reorganizing themselves, resuming their insistent drive, they stopped altogether.

Several of the guards cleared their throats and began to cheer hoarsely. A ragged shout of approval, raucous with urgency and relief, spread out across the valley.

Well done, Darsint! Elega crowed to herself. By the stars, we will teach High King Festten what it means to oppose us!

The champion fired again; another engine collapsed.

“Four.”

Frowning harder, Darsint peered at his rifle, pushed buttons, thudded the stock with the heel of his hand.

Through the mounting cheers, Prince Kragen called, “Darsint, is it wise to empty your weapon now? This battle has hardly begun. You will need your strength.”

The champion gave another twisted grin. “It’s never wise to take low ground and let enemies throw rocks at your head.”

He lifted his rifle; from its muzzle came another shot of flame.

“Five.”

Over the tumult came the sackbut’s blare, sounding retreat. The Cadwal front began to withdraw. As if they were already victorious, the King’s guard and Prince Kragen’s soldiers cheered more ferociously.

Nevertheless everyone around the pennon had seen how Darsint’s fifth shot sputtered and fizzled. When he shrugged, aimed at the last catapult, and tried to fire, his weapon produced nothing except a spray of sparks, quickly gone.

He shrugged again, tried again: nothing. Automatically, he reslung the rifle across his back. To no one in particular, he said, “Anybody got a portable cyclotron I can adapt to charge this thing?”

Smiling, Myste moved close to him and put a hand on his armor as if to congratulate or console him.

By degrees, the cheering died as everyone realized that the last catapult wasn’t going to fall.

If King Joyse felt any disappointment, however, he didn’t show it. “That was well done, Darsint,” he asserted, “well done indeed. Let the High King beware. His fortunes have begun to turn. Now he and his allies will know that you are here, and that you are with us.”

“They will also know,” put in the Prince, “that his weapon has no more force.”

“But they cannot know how many weapons he has,” Joyse retorted confidently, “or what his capabilities are. They will wait now. They must. High King Festten and Master Eremis will consult together. When they strike again, they will attempt something extravagant – a sign of growing desperation.”

Her father was amazing, really, Elega thought. Trapped in this valley, hugely outnumbered, with Darsint’s resources effectively exhausted, and the Congery’s as well, he somehow made everyone who heard him feel that he couldn’t be beaten.

“In the meantime, my lord Prince,” he continued, “we have a good opportunity to strengthen our defenses. We must make the best use we can of every obstacle to the High King’s advance.”

Prince Kragen nodded once, grimly ready. “As you say, my lord King.” His manner was severe: only the particular brightness of his gaze betrayed his pleasure in the things he and Elega had planned and hoped for together, in the validation of the risks he had persuaded the Alend Monarch to accept. “I will undertake the matter.”

Gripping his reins, he turned his horse.

“I’ll come with you,” said the Termigan before anyone else could speak. His flat eyes and dour expression gave no hint that he had ever considered the Prince an enemy. “I didn’t ride all this way to sit around watching other people work.”

“My lord Termigan.” King Joyse’s tone made both the lord and Prince Kragen stop. “You have not yet told us how you happen to be here, or why. And I have not had a chance to thank you. For bringing two hundred men to my side, I am grateful. For bringing Darsint and my daughter here safely, I am forever in your debt.”

The Termigan jerked at his horse’s head. “Sternwall is lost,” he snapped. For the first time, Elega noticed the froth on the beast’s mouth, the exhaustion in the beast’s eyes. “I had no intention of coming. Geraden told you that. I held on as long as I could. But when I lost Sternwall I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“You’re the only hope my Care has left – you, and your Imagers” – he looked like he wanted to spit – “and your alliance with Alend.” Forcibly, he seemed to recollect that he was talking to his King. “My father practically built that city with his bare hands. I’m sorry I don’t have better manners.”

His mount stumbled as he wrenched it around. Nevertheless by simple willpower he pulled the beast into a trot as he rode away toward the foot of the valley.

King Joyse and Prince Kragen met each other’s eyes. “Use him carefully,” murmured the King. “I have lost two good lords already and have no wish to lose another.”

The Prince replied with a bleak smile. “In Alend, old soldiers still talk about what a terrible thing it was to do battle against the lord of the Care of Termigan. I will use him carefully.”

Bowing to the King, waving to Elega, Prince Kragen followed the Termigan.

Elega wanted him back. The knowledge that he was in no immediate danger didn’t comfort her. At the same time, however, she felt a small shiver of eagerness because she knew that now she would get to hear Myste’s story.

While the forces of Cadwal waited, and Prince Kragen did what he could to shore up the King’s defenses, Elega and Myste withdrew to the Tor’s tent, looking for a quiet place to talk. Terisa and Geraden were with them – and King Joyse as well, which surprised Elega because she expected him to be busy with matters of battle, and pleased her because it demonstrated that he trusted the Alend Contender, son of an old foe.

Darsint accompanied them also. In a way that made the mere idea of refusing him seem unimaginable, he insisted on staying with Myste.

Outside, the remaining catapult threw at intervals: a stubborn assailant, and quite useless. For the most part, the King’s men were able to stay out of the engine’s range. Eventually, it became clear that the catapult’s only real purpose was to remind the guards and soldiers that High King Festten intended to destroy them.

But Elega wasn’t thinking about destruction at the moment. She was marveling at her sister, who had somehow become a force to be reckoned with in the struggle between kingdoms. Like Torrent, she had found a way to make a difference.

Elega was keenly proud of her.

“Did you really threaten your sister?” King Joyse asked as soon as everyone was settled. “Did you really threaten to unleash Darsint against the whole Alend army?”

The light of lanterns dimmed Myste’s beauty. Inside the tent, she seemed less sure of herself, more easily embarrassed. A bit shamefacedly, she answered, “I fear so. I made an effort to be careful – to say less than I meant, rather than more. But I am certain Elega understood me.”

Happily, Elega nodded. “I was glad of it, however – when I recovered from the shock. I needed as many arguments as possible to set before the Alend Monarch.”

No doubt about it: Myste was definitely blushing. “Still I am relieved you did not put me to the test. My threats became hollow almost at once. As soon as we parted – as soon as you helped me from the Alend camp – Darsint and I left. We were not there to take any action against you.”

“No?” Elega was surprised. “I would have sworn you were watching everything I did for days afterward.”

“Where did you go?” Geraden put in. Like Terisa, he appeared to have some special reason to be pleased by Myste’s presence. Perhaps it was because he loved families. Not for the first time, Elega noticed that he had changed enormously. The sense of ability in him was unmistakable. In retrospect, she was ashamed that she had ever treated him with scorn.

Myste glanced a bit awkwardly at her father. “Elega told me what I needed to know,” she said slowly. “When I heard the High King was marching, not to Orison, but into the Care of Tor, I felt that my way became clear. Darsint and I went to help the Perdon, if we could.”

The Perdon, who fought a suicidal battle against the forces of Cadwal because his King had abandoned him.

“ ‘I have always believed that problems should be solved by those who see them,’ ” Terisa said, quoting softly. Her eyes shone as if she, too, were proud of Myste.

King Joyse didn’t react to the implications of what Myste and Terisa said, however. He only smiled at them, and at Elega, basking in their company. “That was well done, Myste,” he murmured. “Go on.”

His attitude relieved Myste. “There is little to tell, really,” she said more easily. “We traveled as best we could, but the High King’s army was between us and the Perdon. We were saving Darsint’s fire, since we knew it would soon be depleted, so instead of attacking High King Festten from the rear we attempted to pass around him to the fore. By the time we succeeded, the Perdon had already been trapped and killed.

“That was a hard time for us. Seeing my distress” – her eyes were wide with fondness – “Darsint wanted to assail the Cadwals, to hurt them as much as he could alone.” Darsint nodded. “But I felt certain that his force must not be wasted, and I required him to withhold. Together, we waited and watched, gathering as much knowledge of the High King’s movements as we could without betraying our presence.

“When your army came, we were once again on the wrong side, unable to reach you directly. This time, however, our position was fortuitous. Circling the High King’s forces, first to the south, then to the west, we encountered the Termigan and his men.

“Without him, we would not have been able to join you, except by a ruinous expenditure of Darsint’s fire.”

Geraden interrupted again. “Did he explain himself? When Terisa and I asked him to come, he refused.” He looked to Terisa for confirmation. “He was pretty convincing about it.”

Myste shook her head. “He told us only what he has already suggested to you. He held to Sternwall as long as he could, but at last the pits of fire in the ground left him nothing of his father’s Seat. With what fighting men he could spare from the care of his people, he set out across-country to Esmerel, intending” – she faltered momentarily, then resumed in a quiet, sad tone – “intending, I think, to both use and end his hate in one swift blow against Master Eremis.

“I cannot truly vouch for the state of his mind,” she added. “I can only say that he was not easily persuaded to join us, to join his purpose to ours.”

“I’ve seen that look before,” Darsint muttered. “Had his death all planned – until he met us. Now, who knows?” The champion may have shrugged inside his armor.

“It was not Darsint’s presence that persuaded him,” Myste continued. “He is savage against all Imagery. And I do not think he was moved by the knowledge that you were here.” She faced her father frankly. “He is another lord who believes he was abandoned by his King. But for some reason your alliance with Alend changed him. He finds – Father, I must say this. I fear he finds his old enemies easier to trust.”

A shadow passed across the King’s face. “Who can blame him?”

Awkwardly, Myste finished her story. “Once he was persuaded, however, he did not hold back. Since then, we have spent our time searching for a way past the Cadwals which would spare Darsint’s fire. Without the Termigan’s aid, we could not have reached you as we did.”

As she spoke, King Joyse’s expression cleared. “That is well,” he said when she was done. “If we are defeated, my lord Termigan will be able to do whatever he wishes with his hate. And if we are victorious, he will know that we could not have won without him. That may do much to heal him.

“In the meantime, daughter, you have brought us new hope. Did you know that your meeting with Darsint was augured?”

Elega looked at King Joyse sharply. Augured?

Both Terisa and Geraden were grinning.

“Havelock cast an augury,” Joyse explained, “in which you appeared, on your knees before Darsint as if you were begging him not to kill you.”

Darsint shifted his weight uncomfortably. “She did kneel. I was hurt – out of my head. Couldn’t get my eyes in focus. Everything was changed, enemies everywhere. Someone came, I fired. Nearly God-rotting killed her.

“Then I heard her voice. A woman. On her knees. Felt like shooting myself when I saw what I did to her.”

Distinctly, as if he wanted no mistake on this point, he said, “She saved my life.” There was a threat in his tone. He had no intention of letting Myste be harmed again.

For a moment, the King’s blue eyes blurred. “When you disappeared from Orison,” he continued to Myste, “I knew in my heart where you had gone – and I was afraid. That is why,” he explained to Terisa, “I was so harsh with you, when I asked you to account for her absence. I could not resolve my fear of the truth.

“In fact,” he went on, addressing Myste again, “when I first realized that the champion in Master Gilbur’s glass was the same as the figure in Havelock’s augury, I almost decided to shatter that glass. To spare you. So that Darsint would not be translated. Havelock had great difficulty dissuading me. Allowing that translation to take place – trusting the risks I had chosen—” His smile was sad and relieved and strong all at the same time. “That did not come easily. If I had let the Fayle urge me to stop the Congery, my determination might have faltered.”

Geraden cleared his throat. “Adept Havelock tried to tell us about that augury – tried to tell Terisa. I’m still not sure why. All he managed to do at the time was scare us. But maybe he was trying to make us understand you better. As well as he could, in his condition—”

Dryly, King Joyse replied, “Perhaps. Don’t underestimate him. At his worst, he’s still the best hop-board player I know.”

Without preamble, Terisa said, “There’s got to be something we can do.”

At once, the King shifted his attention to her. “My lady?”

“They’re all here.” She didn’t seem to be speaking to him, or to anyone. Her eyes studied the air; her attention was inward. “All the pieces are in place. Myste and the champion. Elega and Prince Kragen. The Masters. Lebbick’s army. He and the Perdon and the Tor all did what they were supposed to do before they were lost – sacrificed so the rest of us would come to this position. Even Torrent did her part. Everyone is doing what you want them to do, what you gave them the chance to do.

“Except Geraden and me.”

Again, King Joyse asked softly, “My lady?”

No one else spoke. Geraden studied Terisa intently; Myste watched her with shining eyes.

“We’ve done what we can,” Terisa said. “We helped bring about this position. But now we’re useless. We might as well be pushed off the board.”

Now she met King Joyse’s gaze. “What do you want from us?”

He smiled at her as if she were wonderful. “My lady, I can beat the High King. I want you to defeat Master Eremis.”

Before she could react – before Geraden or Elega or anyone else could say anything – Castellan Norge strode through the tentflaps, unannounced and hurrying.

“My lord King,” he said with as much urgency as his phlegmatic manner could convey, “you’ll want to see this. Something’s going to happen.”

So quickly that he may have been trying to escape the questions Terisa and Geraden wanted to ask, King Joyse left his chair and followed the Castellan out of the tent.

Elega hesitated momentarily; she thought she ought to say something to Terisa and Geraden – or even to Myste and Darsint. But her heart was with her father, with the battle and Prince Kragen; she couldn’t remain behind.

Outside, she hardly noticed that the rest of the people in the tent joined her only a moment later.

The valley was full of midmorning sunshine. Only midmorning, after all that had happened—Above the ramparts, the sky was immeasurably blue, as clean and complete as springtime. The air was turning subtly but unquestionably warmer, and under the sunlight the night’s thick snowfall had gone slushy. Where the army had trampled the snow, a few small stretches of dark, wet dirt were beginning to appear. The stream down the center of the valley ran more loudly, taking in water from the snow-melt.

Like King Joyse and his companions around the pennon, every Mordant and Alend from the valley foot to Esmerel watched what could be seen of High King Festten’s army.

The Cadwal forces appeared to be withdrawing.

No, not withdrawing: dividing. The High King parted his men into a new formation, half on either side with a space of clear ground between them as wide as the valley itself.

“Does he think he can lure us out there?” Norge inquired. “Does he think we’re crazy enough to let him hit us from both sides?”

“No,” King Joyse snapped, unintentionally brusque. “He is making room.”

“Eremis is going to translate something,” Terisa breathed to Geraden. “If I go down there, if I get close enough—If I can figure out the Image, the way I did at the crossroads, I might be able to break his mirror.”

She wasn’t talking to the King, but he heard her anyway. “You will not, my lady,” he said at once. “If you fail, you will be the first victim. That risk is too great, even for me.”

Geraden put his arm around her. He may have been trying to reassure her. Or maybe he was making sure she didn’t sneak away.

Anticipation and dread knotted the atmosphere. King Joyse had said, They will attempt something extravagant—Everyone who had ever heard stories of the old wars knew that Imagers were capable of atrocities which could freeze blood in the heart.

Nevertheless when the next attack came no one was ready for it.

Because she was expecting something, concentrating hard, Terisa felt just a suggestion of the visceral cold of translation. Eremis’ mirror was focused too far away to touch her strongly. She tightened her grip on Geraden.

In the clear space between the sides of the Cadwal army, a monster appeared.

She had seen it before. Every member of the Congery was familiar with it.

Huge eyes, insatiable and raging. Teeth dripping poison in a maw big enough to swallow houses. A vast, slug-like body. Slime-streaked sides.

Once, during the old wars, that beast had destroyed an entire village, eaten it hut by hut. The worm was too big to be killed, too big even to be hurt. Given time, it could have consumed anything. But King Joyse had captured the mirror from which the monster came, and Adept Havelock had translated the beast back to its cave in the Image.

Now Master Eremis had the mirror, and the beast was furious.

The creature gave a roar of hideous outrage, howling so fiercely that the walls of the valley rang. Then it slithered forward and began devouring the rubble that blocked High King Festten’s approach, attacking the mounds as if piled rock offended it.

In spite of training and experience, determination and courage, the King’s army broke into panic.

The monster’s teeth among the rubble were as loud as detonations, inescapably destructive. Already the archers hidden in the mounds had to leap and run, risk snapping their legs or backs to get away. And when the rock was gone, the creature would enter the valley—

It would consume the entire army itself. Or it would drive guards and soldiers to the walls, where High King Festten’s men could crush them at leisure. Or it would force them out of the valley, where the Cadwal army could fall on them from both sides. Something extravagant— This was extravagant, all right. But it wasn’t desperate. It was a masterstroke, completely unanswerable; defeat as stark and terrible as the creature’s teeth.

Helpless to save themselves, the Alend and Mordant ranks came apart like water and began spilling in all directions. Their cries were everywhere; hoarse and frantic; doomed.

The sight set King Joyse afire. “Death’s hatchetman, Eremis!” he roared in a voice that seemed to match the monster’s, “this is foul!”

But he didn’t waste time on indignation. Wheeling to Norge, he barked like a trumpet, “Find Kragen! Rally the men! Retreat! That beast is no danger yet! We must stop this panic!

“Bring my horse!”

Galvanized by the King’s shout, Norge raced for his own mount while two dumbstruck guards hauled Joyse’s suddenly frightened charger forward.

In a moment, both men were gone, spurring their horses into the face of an army transformed to tumult and chaos. King Joyse didn’t rage at his enemies; he didn’t shout at his men. He simply rode hard, rode conspicuously, straight for the foot of the valley, with his sword bright in his hands, so that as many soldiers and guards as possible would see him and think he wasn’t beaten.

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Geraden repeated, fretting at his helplessness like a boy.

Terisa chewed her lip. “I said that already.” She hardly heard him, however. She was listening to the sound of the monster’s teeth in the rubble – a savage, crushing noise which seemed somehow louder than the army’s panic – and trying to think about several different things at the same time.

Choose your risks more carefully.

I want you to defeat Master Eremis.

Problems should be solved by those who see them.

I’ve got the strongest feeling—

And something else; something that refused to come clear. There was too much noise, too many people were shouting around her, too many people were going to die—

Something so stupidly obvious that she was going to kick herself as soon as she figured it out.

Master Barsonage was at Geraden’s side. His eyes had a wild and aimless stare; he looked like a man who had wandered here after having his brains baked out in the desert. “Now I understand,” he said, not – apparently – because anyone was listening to him, but because he had to say something, needed to hear a reasonable voice. “When we rescued you from the ruin of our meeting hall, Eremis used that glass to help clear away the stone. I thought his choice was odd, but now I understand. He was making his beast mad, teaching it to hate stone.”

Something—

“Why did none of us realize that he must be the maker of that glass? Or an Adept?”

In spite of herself, she stopped to absorb what the Master said. He was right: Eremis must be an Adept. Or he had been working against King Joyse longer than anyone realized; had conceived his ambitions at a younger age. Unexpected abilities—

“But how did he get possession of the mirror?” asked the mediator. “I thought it was among those broken when he shattered Geraden’s glass. He must have captured it then. That must have been one of the reasons for his attack on the laborium.

“Why did none of us think to see whether all the mirrors we lost were among those broken?”

It was unexpected: that’s why. What Eremis did was unexpected. His abilities were unexpected. No one could expect the unexpected. By definition.

Then she had it, had it so suddenly that she seemed to reach her conclusion without taking any of the steps which led to it.

Yes.

Oh, yes.

“Geraden.” She grabbed his arm, pulled him around to face her. “We’ve got to get back to Orison.”

Geraden stared at her in shock; his jaw dropped. For one moment that felt sickening, like a fall from a bad height, she thought he was going to protest, Do you want to run away? Then that danger passed, and as quick as it was gone another took its place; she could see it in his face: What are you talking about?

Oh, Geraden, don’t ask, we haven’t got time!

But he was Geraden, the man she loved; instinctively, he had always put her needs ahead of his confusion. Instead of making protests or demanding explanations, he said, “We don’t have a mirror.”

“Master Barsonage does.” With the ballroom of Orison in the Image.

“Flat glass. You can use it. I’ll go mad.”

That was right. Oh, shit. “Are you sure there aren’t any others? Didn’t the Congery bring any other normal mirrors?”

Hurry. Please. The creature was going to come through the rubble at any moment. And both King Joyse and Prince Kragen were down at the foot of the valley, vulnerable to those teeth—

As if the fact that he didn’t know what was going on only made him more resolute, Geraden wheeled toward the mediator.

“Master Barsonage. Do you have another mirror? Did the Congery bring any other mirrors?”

Barsonage blinked some of the wildness out of his eyes. “Why?”

“Do you have one?”

“Why do you want it?”

Terisa pushed herself beside Geraden, tried to make the mediator notice her. “We’ve got to get back to Orison.”

She was putting too much pressure on him; her demand seemed to increase his air of being lost. In a hoarse, dry tone, he asked, “Will you abandon King Joyse to his doom?”

Geraden clenched his fists, breathed, “No,” as if he were defending her.

Unfortunately, that just put more pressure on Master Barsonage. Terisa shook herself, forced down her fear, tried to give the mediator a better answer.

“I need to use Havelock’s mirrors.”

She had other reasons as well, but she couldn’t take the time to think about them, much less explain them.

At least now she had the Master’s attention. The effort to think clarified his expression, made his expression at once sharper and more human.

“What will you do?”

Hurrying past illogic, impossibility, uselessness, she replied, “Find Master Eremis’ stronghold. Stop him.”

Now Geraden stared at her the same way Master Barsonage did. At the same moment, they both asked, “How?”

“Unexpected abilities—” she began, fumbling for words, “unexpected actions—He can’t expect the unexpected. You said so yourself.”

Strictly literal, Master Barsonage returned, “I said nothing of the kind.”

No. Listen. Let me think. “I mean me.” Why couldn’t she think? The monster devouring the rubble might have been eating her mind away. “I’ve done something unexpected. Twice.”

Abruptly, with the beast already halfway through the piled stone, and the valley in panic, and Geraden and Master Barsonage staring at her as if she were demented, her sense of urgency and horror became too great for confusion. She knew how to think; she knew how to survive. She knew how to fight.

As if she were calm, she said, “When I got away from Master Gilbur, that wasn’t really unexpected. By then we knew I had some kind of ability. But when I changed the Image in the flat glass in the laborium – the first day after I came to Orison – that was unexpected. And when I changed another Image to escape from Master Eremis, changed it across all these miles – that was unexpected. We’ve never even tried to explain it.”

“Talent—” suggested Master Barsonage thinly.

She shook her head. “I don’t mean that. I’m talking about something else.” She faced Geraden squarely. “When you tried to translate me home, I ended up near the Closed Fist. That was your doing. You’re the one who works with curved glass. But it was the Closed Fist in spring. It was augury. You changed the Image across time as well as distance.

“But when I changed the flat mirror,” in shock, by reflex rather than conscious choice, “my Image showed the Closed Fist the way it really was at the time. In winter. How did I do that? How did I know what it looked like in winter?”

Geraden watched her as if she had staggered him and he was struggling to keep his balance. “I never thought of that.”

“And when I escaped from Eremis—” Now she addressed Master Barsonage as well. “I used the same mirror that got me away from Gilbur. That makes sense. I was familiar with the Image. But the Image itself had changed in the meantime. The only time I actually saw it, when I used it to get away from Gilbur, it was full of wind. But when I used it to get away from Eremis, there was no wind. The Image was different. How could I change the Image in that mirror when I didn’t even know what that Image looked like – when the Image I remembered was gone?”

Master Barsonage gaped. He would have looked foolish if the situation weren’t so desperate.

“You mean,” Geraden murmured softly, eagerly, on the verge of a revelation, “that’s part of your talent. You don’t need exact knowledge to change Images exactly. Something in you compensates for the things you don’t know.”

Right. Now she was focused entirely on the mediator, urging him to believe her, urging him to act. “I’m familiar with at least one of Havelock’s mirrors. And I can’t concentrate here, with that thing coming to get us.” And she had at least one other reason. “I need to get back to Orison. So I can make an Image – an approximate Image – that might take us to Master Eremis’ stronghold. It was dark, I couldn’t see. But I remember a lot of details anyway. Maybe they’ll be enough.”

For a moment, Master Barsonage went on staring at her as if her ideas were inconceivable, imponderable. He had the soul of a fence-sitter: he didn’t like hazardous decisions. Just when she was about to start yelling at him, however, he lifted his head and smiled, and all the wildness fell away from him.

“Why did you not say that from the first?”

Turning, he headed toward one of the Congery’s wagons, shouting for other Masters to join him as he ran.

Terisa was about to follow when Geraden snatched her exuberantly into his arms, whirled her in a circle with her feet off the ground and her breath gasping. “I knew it!” he shouted to the blue sky and the chaos and the slug-beast. “I knew we weren’t supposed to be here!”

Even though she couldn’t resist kissing him, she was thinking, Put me down you idiot we’ve got to go.

He put her down. Together, they raced to the wagon.

The Masters were unpacking a mirror which showed a limitless sea glittering under hot sunlight.

“I brought it on a whim, really,” Master Barsonage explained as the other Imagers set the glass as securely as possible in the wet snow. “It served us so well when we rescued you from the champion’s destruction of our meeting hall, I thought perhaps it could serve us again. When you demanded a mirror, I was reluctant to risk it. I was trying to imagine how it might be used to drown that monster.”

“I won’t break it,” Geraden promised. He was already beside the mirror, already stroking his fingertips along its beautiful woodwork. Despite the running and cries of the men, the desperate commands of the officers, the loud ruin of the monster’s teeth, he seemed to have no difficulty concentrating. To Terisa’s eyes, he shone with confidence and strength which made everything possible.

Nothing happened to the Image of the sea. Waves went on rolling their long, slow unrest from edge to edge of the frame; the heavens remained an immaculate blue unmatched by any color in the world except the sky’s hue above the valley.

“Ready?” he asked Terisa over his shoulder. Without looking away from the glass, he extended his hand to her.

Where were Havelock’s rooms, Havelock’s mirrors? What had happened to Geraden’s talent?

No, she told herself, he can do it this way, everything’s all right. He had the ability to use mirrors for translations which had nothing to do with their Images. That was how he had come to her in the first place, how he had showed her the Closed Fist, how he had rescued himself from Orison. All she had to do was trust him.

Choose your risks—

She took his hand, started moving at once toward the glass so that she wouldn’t falter.

But she was holding her breath as the Image opened to embrace her like the sea.

Of course she didn’t fall into the sea: Geraden had too much control over his talent; he was in no danger of going that far wrong. Instead, she faded as if she had winked out of existence.

Holding his hand with all her strength, pulling him after her, she evaporated through the transition of mirrors, the instant, eternal plummet and soar between places of being; the vast redemptive and ruinous dark which her parents had taught her to know and fear and love by locking her in the closet.

When she came out of the translation, she lost her balance and collapsed in a heap, drawing Geraden helplessly after her – breaking his brief hold on the mirror’s frame, his only attachment to the world of the valley.

For some strange reason, she landed on a thick carpet.

A synthetic carpet, running from wall to wall on both sides of her.

Adept Havelock didn’t have a carpet like this in his rooms. No one had a carpet like this anywhere in Orison.

Across the deep, woven pile, she saw that she was surrounded by people: women in gowns; men in tuxedos. Some of them had yelled recently, dropped glasses full of ice and alcohol onto the carpet. They were all still now, however, motionless, staring frozen at Geraden and her with shock on their polished faces.

Until she recognized the angle of the hall leading to the bedrooms, and the shape of the entryway to the dining room and kitchen, she didn’t realize that she was back in her old apartment.

Back in her old world.

FIFTY: CAREFUL RISKS

Geraden was sprawled halfway across her; his weight held her down. Instinctively, she arched her back, tried to shift him so that she could get her legs under her. He didn’t move. Staring at the strange carpet, the chrome-and-wicker furniture, the astonished men and women in their inexplicable clothes, he murmured, “Glass and splinters. What have I done?”

She thought the answer was obvious.

He had brought her back to her old condominium. And during her absence time had passed; months had passed. Never one to cling to a useless investment, her father must have sold her apartment as soon as he felt sure she wasn’t coming back. And the new owners had redecorated it, of course—

All her mirrors were gone – every conceivable link to Mordant, every way back—

On the other hand, what imaginable reason could Geraden have for bringing her back here? for bringing her back here now? This wasn’t just an accident: it was an absolute disaster.

There was no way back.

“Get up,” she urged as if his weight were suffocating her. “Oh, God. Oh, shit. Get up.”

“Call the police,” a frightened woman pleaded.

“Call security,” suggested someone else.

“Who are they?”

Geraden got up.

As he rose to his feet, the people in the gowns and tuxedos flinched; some of them retreated farther. A shoe kicked a glass, sent it rolling across the tile on the kitchen floor. Terisa could hear ice being crunched underfoot, as if that noise were louder than the voices.

“Call security, I said.”

“How did they get in here?”

“I don’t know. They just appeared, that’s all.”

“What have we been drinking?”

Her heart beat so hard that she had trouble finding her balance, trouble making her legs lift her upright.

“What have I done?” Geraden repeated softly; he was appalled to the bone.

“Miss Morgan?”

No, she was wrong again, she had jumped once again to the wrong conclusions. The ice wasn’t louder than the voices: she had no difficulty at all hearing Reverend Thatcher.

He was there, squirming his way out of the press of people, a small, old man in a shabby suit. His pulse beat in the veins under his pale skin. He came a few steps toward her, then stopped; his eyes watered with surprise and relief and embarrassment.

“Miss Morgan?”

Her father was right behind Reverend Thatcher. His expression made him look like a startled barracuda.

Terisa gaped at him while her pulse faltered and her heart quailed.

Geraden, please. Oh, please. Get us out of here.

“Miss Morgan.” Reverend Thatcher seemed to face her through a veil of tears. “We thought you were dead. Kidnapped – lost—I went to your father.”

She had always considered her father mercilessly handsome in a tuxedo. His appearance was a weapon he knew how to use. And it made his anger more brutal; it implied that no one had the right to ruffle him.

He came out of the rich crowd as if he were stalking her.

She wanted to run. Dash into the bedroom. Hide under the bed.

It wasn’t her bedroom anymore.

Oh, Geraden.

“He was going to sell your apartment anyway,” Reverend Thatcher explained, driven by a need to justify himself. “I persuaded him to sell it for charity. For the mission. He’s going to auction it tonight. To raise money for the mission.”

Without warning, she nearly lost her fear.

Reverend Thatcher had persuaded her father? He had gone to her father and persuaded him, confronted him? Lonely and pitiable as he was, the small, old man must have risen to something approaching heroism, in order to confront her father like that – in order to best him.

This time, she didn’t need the call of horns to help her see the change in Reverend Thatcher, the valor underlying his superficial futility. She and Geraden had blundered into his night of triumph.

“You know these people?”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t care. Get them out of here.”

Or else her father had relented in some way? He cared about her enough to be made vulnerable by losing her?

That idea changed everything. She believed in his unlove. It was fundamental to her. Could she have been wrong about him? Was there another part of him, a part she didn’t understand, a part he didn’t see himself when he looked in the mirror?

If he cared about her, how could she ever leave him?

No. He thrust Reverend Thatcher aside with such force that the old man stumbled. Chewing his anger, he demanded, “Terisa Morgan, how dare you embarrass me like this?”

“Terisa,” Geraden asked as if he were panting, “do these people know you? Where are we?”

“You disappear without telling anyone,” her father spat. “You abandon your job, your apartment, you abandon me, you don’t have the simple decency to ask permission, you don’t tell anyone where you’re going, and then you show up like this, in front of my friends, when I’m trying to get a good price out of them for this place. Dressed like that? How dare you?”

Geraden, please.

Her father looked like he was going to hit her. “I’m ashamed of you.”

That was too much. Nothing was changed. She had found depths in herself which no glass could reflect; but her father was only what he appeared to be. Reverend Thatcher positively soared in her estimation. Instead of cowering or crying or pleading, she faced her father squarely.

But she didn’t speak to him. Just for an instant, she wanted to hurt him somehow, say or do something which would repay him for his years of mistreatment. Almost immediately, however, she realized that there was no need. Simply not being afraid of him was enough.

“Geraden,” she said deliberately, “this is my old apartment. Where you found me the first time.” She didn’t care how badly her voice shook, or how near she came to rears. “This is my father. That’s Reverend Thatcher. I’ve told you about them.

“If there’s any way you can get us out of here, you better do it now.”

“I don’t care,” a strident voice repeated. “I’m calling security.”

“No!” both her father and Reverend Thatcher protested at the same time.

Nevertheless she heard the sound of the phone snatched off the hook, the sound of dialing—

“Stop!”

When Geraden stepped in front of her, he seemed taller than she remembered. Or perhaps her father had become shorter. Geraden’s voice rang with authority, and everything about him was strong; his heart never quailed; even his mistakes hinted at glory.

“Do not call. Do not move. Do nothing. We will be gone in a moment.”

Everyone froze. The man holding the phone dropped it. Even her father lost the power of movement. Like his guests, he stared at Geraden and her with his mouth hanging open.

Casually, as if she weren’t frantic inside, and had completely forgotten panic, Terisa remarked to Geraden, “I thought you said you can’t shift mirrors across distances.”

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at anyone: he closed his eyes, trusting his authority – or sheer surprise – to protect him while he concentrated. He had a king’s face, and every line of it promised strength.

Quietly, he muttered, “Well, I’ve got to try, don’t I?”

Her father closed his mouth; he swallowed hard. Snarling deep in his throat, he said, “I’m going to punish you for this—”

As if he were immensely far away, Reverend Thatcher retorted, “Mr. Morgan, that’s absurd. She’s come back. We all thought she was dead, and now she’s come back. We should be delighted.”

Before anyone could respond, Geraden abruptly flung his arms wide. For no good reason except his own urgency, he cried, “Havelock, we trust you!”

Then he vanished.

Someone let out a vague shriek. Several of her father’s guests gasped or flinched. Others appeared to be on the verge of fainting.

Suddenly, Terisa wanted to sing. Oh, he was wonderful, Geraden was wonderful, and nobody was going to be able to stop her, never again, she was never going to be afraid of her father again.

While she still had the chance, she turned to Reverend Thatcher.

“You can have your auction. Make him give you every penny he gets. I want you to have the money. It’s a good cause, the best. And I might not come back. If I do, I certainly won’t live here.”

After that, without transition, she dropped into the quick, immeasurable plunge of translation.

Once again, Geraden had done the right thing.

As usual, she lost her balance; but he caught her as she stumbled out of the mirror, so that she didn’t fall.

The change of light made her blink: electric illumination was gone, replaced by a few oil lamps. As her vision came into focus, she found that she was in the shrine or mausoleum which Adept Havelock had made out of the room where he stored his mirrors.

Where she needed to be.

What did he celebrate here? she wondered obliquely. What did he mourn?

But she had no time to spare for the Adept. Geraden held her hard, as if he had no intention of ever letting her go again.

“Glass and splinters, Terisa!” he breathed, pressing his face against her hair, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what went wrong, thank the stars Havelock was watching his mirrors, I didn’t mean to take us there—“

Already the Image of her apartment in the mirror he and the Adept had used was fading.

She kissed him to make him stop. “Don’t apologize. You rescued us – that’s what counts.” That, and Reverend Thatcher’s ability to extract money from her father. And the fact that she was no longer afraid. Part of her still felt like singing. “It was worth it.

“We’ve got to hurry. King Joyse doesn’t have much time.”

He met her gaze. For a moment, she could see the characteristic struggle between chagrin and eagerness going on inside him; self-distrust and hope at each other’s throats. Almost at once, however, he smiled, and his eyes cleared, as if the acceptance he met in her turned the tide of the conflict.

“Right,” he said like a man who couldn’t think of any reason to be alarmed by the prospect of entering Master Eremis’ stronghold. “Let’s get started.”

Together, they turned toward Havelock.

The Adept wasn’t alone. He had Artagel with him.

Artagel was dressed for battle, and he was grinning.

Havelock had apparently been cleaning the room again. In one hand, he brandished a rather limp feather duster; he wore an apron several sizes too large for him to protect his still-spotless surcoat. Twisting his features as if he wanted to howl, he poked his duster at Terisa and Geraden, and said, “I told you to trust me.

“Don’t you realize yet that I’m the one who planned all this? I planned it all. Joyse is the only man alive who could have done it, but I planned it. No matter how crazy I get, I’m the best fornicating hop-board player in Orison, bar none.

“Remember that, for a change.”

Terisa couldn’t resist: she asked, “You mean you knew we were coming?”

For once, the Adept was tolerant of questions. “Of course not. But I considered the possibility. What do you think planning is?”

“It’s good to see the two of you again,” Artagel interrupted happily. “I gather things have finally gotten desperate enough for some dramatic Imagery. A few of the Cadwals we’ve been taking prisoner in the ballroom look actively horrified.

“What’re you trying to do?”

“Go to Eremis’ stronghold, if we can get there,” answered Geraden. “He isn’t in Esmerel. Nyle isn’t there. That was a trap. But Terisa thinks she can make an Image of the place Eremis took her. If she can, maybe we can find it and get in.”

“Good.” Facing his brother boldly, Artagel said, “This time, you aren’t going to get rid of me so easily. Whatever you have in mind, you’re going to need a bodyguard. And I am sick to the teeth” – he flashed his grin – “of being in command of this useless pile of rocks.”

Geraden started to protest, but Terisa stopped him. This was another of her reasons for returning to Orison. Two days ago – was it only two days ago? – he had said, When the fighting really starts, we’d better be sure we’ve got somebody with us who handles a sword better than I do. One of his “strongest feelings.” Instead of trying to explain, however, she said, “Let him do what he wants. We don’t have time to argue with him.”

As if to demonstrate her point, she left Geraden’s side and went to the mirror she wanted, the flat glass reflecting a sand dune in Cadwal.

“Besides,” Artagel whispered to Geraden behind her, “Havelock says you need me. He got me down here. I didn’t have any idea you were coming back.”

“What makes you think you’re ready for Gart?” demanded Geraden hotly. “He’s already beaten you twice. And you’re still hurt.”

Artagel chuckled. “What makes you think the two of you are ready for Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel? We’ve all got to do what we can. And,” he added more soberly, “you may not have time for Nyle. Maybe I’ll be able to help him.”

Geraden apparently found that argument difficult to refute. As if to relieve a personal anxiety, he changed the subject. “How’s the siege?”

“No trouble,” Artagel replied. “Margonal is a model enemy. Yesterday he sent me a dozen sides of beef. Sovereign’s courtesy. I sent him a cask of the King’s best wine. We’re becoming friends. As long as Orison doesn’t panic, I’m not needed here.”

Terisa set herself in front of the glass she had chosen and tried to relax.

Now that she had assumed this responsibility, it promised to be more difficult than she had allowed herself to imagine. She needed to conceive an Image of a place she had never seen, a place she knew only in small pieces, by feel. And during the relatively short time she was there, she hadn’t exactly been concentrating on exact, concrete details. It had been dark – dark—Master Eremis had chained her to the wall; he had talked to her, threatened her, touched her. The arch-Imager Vagel had visited her. She had found and spoken to Nyle. And all the time her attention, her talent, had been directed elsewhere, groping for an answer to her fear – reaching out to the room in which she stood now, rather than teaching itself to recognize her prison.

She could make the mirror’s desert Image melt into darkness: that was easy. But there were many different kinds of darkness in the world, in many different places. How could she be sure that the Image she conceived wasn’t buried away inside the heart of some mountain, or lost in the depths of the sea?

Light: she remembered a faint, ambient illumination, a glow from an imperfectly sealed window above the bed. That was a start. How large was the bed? What was it made of? She had no idea. But the chain—Roughly ten feet of it, long enough to permit the exercises Eremis intended; stapled to the wall at the head of the bed. What else did she know?

Vaguely, the location of the doorway.

The distance between her fetter and Nyle’s.

And she could remember exactly what those two iron staples felt like. Nyle’s short chain. His wrist in its manacle. The rough, warm fabric of his sleeve—

Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

Images focused on places, not on people. But Nyle had been chained to the wall; she assumed he was still chained to the wall. Didn’t that make him part of the place, an essential component of the Image she needed?

If she could remember what he looked like—

That, too, was easy: he looked like Geraden; slightly shorter; Geraden aged or embittered by disappointment and pessimism. Geraden reduced to despair by Eremis and Gilbar, no, don’t think about that now, don’t be distracted, take a deep breath, concentrate. She even remembered what Nyle was wearing.

A brown worsted cloak which covered him from neck to ankles, to keep the blood and the knife Eremis had given him hidden.

If she put together an Image of Nyle chained in that position, in those clothes, that close to the bed and her chain and the window, about that far from the door—Would it be enough?

She wanted to ask Geraden, but she knew he didn’t know the answer. No one had ever measured her talent; no one knew what she could do. And there was only one way to learn. She had to test herself and see what happened.

She had to do the same thing to herself that King Joyse had done to her.

She wondered where he got his courage.

But she had no time for doubt. Geraden and the Adept and Artagel were watching her silently; they may all have stopped breathing. And back in the Care of Tor, in the valley of Esmerel, more lives and hopes were lost with every moment she delayed.

One deliberate piece at a time, she began to construct the Image.

Fortunately, before she made a mistake, she felt a sting of recollection.

Clothes – clothes—There was something wrong with Nyle’s clothes.

Of course. Nyle wasn’t wearing the clothes she remembered. After the physician Underwell had been butchered, disfigured, he had been dressed in Nyle’s clothes. Otherwise no one would have jumped to the conclusion that the dead man was actually Geraden’s brother.

Her pulse beat in her throat so hard that she had trouble speaking.

“What did Underwell have on? When he went to treat Nyle?”

The three men behind her shifted their feet; she heard their boots distinctly on the stone floor. “My lady?” Artagel responded uncomfortably, as if he thought she might be losing her wits.

“Don’t ask,” she breathed. “Just tell me. I’ve got to concentrate.”

“If I told Joyse once, I told him a dozen times,” remarked the Adept, “don’t trust women.” He sounded especially happy. “They’ve got their hearts in their finery and their brains in their loins.”

“You’ve seen it,” Geraden put in at once. “It’s kind of a uniform. All the physicians wear it. So they’re easy to spot when they’re needed. A gray doublet. Cotton breeches.” His voice trailed off; he may not have had much confidence in his ability to describe clothing.

He had said enough, however. A gray doublet with long sleeves and rough-spun fabric; not the worsted cloak she remembered.

As if by an act of will, she added that detail to the Image in her mind.

All she needed, she kept reminding herself, all she needed was a close approximation. Her unexpected abilities would take care of the rest.

Gradually, the mirror’s reflection dissolved from hot sunlight to an almost impenetrable blackness.

How dare you embarrass me like this?

I’m ashamed of you.

I’m going to punish you—

Ha! she snorted reflexively. Try it.

She had a cramp between her shoulder blades. Every muscle in her body was knotted around itself. There were too many different kinds of dark in the world, too many different kinds of pain.

Studying the lightless Image, she said, “I need a lamp.”

“What for?” inquired Artagel.

She wanted to repeat, Don’t ask. I’ve got to concentrate. This time, however, it was important to be understood. Geraden had to be ready.

“I can use flat glass. You can’t. I’m going to translate myself – there.” Into a blackness she couldn’t read, even though she peered at it until her temples throbbed. “With a lamp. If I don’t lose control over this mirror, you’ll be able to see where I am. Geraden can make another Image. A normal Image.”

As she spoke, Geraden brought her a lamp. She risked a glance at him, risked losing her concentration—He was intent and keen, tight with determination; she couldn’t imagine him losing heart. Nevertheless a shadow of fear darkened his gaze.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Being sure is a weakness. Let Eremis have it.”

Let her father have it.

Surprised by the steadiness of her hands, she accepted the lamp. Its flame seemed to come between her and the glass, changing the adjustment of her vision so that now she couldn’t see anything.

An almost impenetrable blackness—

Oh, well.

Before she had time to think of any more reasons why she might fail, she opened the Image and stepped into it—

—into the disorienting, endless, momentary absence between existence and existence.

When she hit the floor, she nearly dropped the lamp.

The cramp in her back hampered her, kept her from moving her arms freely. As a result, she had to struggle for balance, and her jerky movements almost threw the lamp out of her hands.

She caught herself, caught the lamp, drew a gasping breath.

There was a door in front of her, a wooden door banded and barred like the entrance to a cell. Her lamp was the only light in the room; her small flame sent shadows dancing across the raftered ceiling, down the stone walls. Like every other part of the world, the room was chilly.

Immediately, she turned to look around, at the place where the bed and the window and the iron staples were supposed to be – at the place where Nyle was supposed to be—

The sight of him suspended there in his manacles filled her with such triumph that she nearly shouted.

Geraden, hurry, I did it, I did it!

She didn’t realize that she was losing her grip on the mirror in Orison until the details of Nyle’s appearance struck her.

His face was chalky, not physically battered, but nonetheless haggard and abused. His eyes stared at her, dark pits from which the intelligence had been burned out. In spite of her sudden arrival, he slumped against his chains, unable to lift his weight off the manacles. Old blood crusted his wrists. A small caked pool marked the stone between his feet. Master Gilbur had strange tastes. Nyle looked like a man who had been used until the only part of him left alive was his sense of horror.

And that was the fate Master Eremis had intended for her. He had planned to reduce her to that condition, in order to hurt both her and Geraden as much as possible.

“Oh, Nyle!”

No, concentrate, don’t think about it! In swift fright, she flung her attention back to Adept Havelock’s mirror room, back to the glass which had translated her here. Keep the Image. There was light in Nyle’s prison now, she held the lamp up, Geraden could see the scene, he could copy it in a curved mirror – if he was fast, if he did it before Nyle’s blank, dead stare made her start to weep and rage—

If he didn’t end up someplace else entirely—

Without warning, Artagel came through at a run.

Unable to anticipate the floor underfoot after the plunge of translation, he stumbled as if he were hurling himself at the door. His reflexes saved him from a collision, however. Recovering his balance almost instantly, he spun toward Terisa and Nyle. He had lost his grin in shock and surprise.

When he saw Nyle, he froze momentarily. The eagerness in him, the readiness for battle, seemed to shatter. Then he sprang past her and began trying to tear Nyle’s fetters out of the wall with his bare hands.

Geraden was already there.

She didn’t see him arrive, didn’t see how he emerged from his translation; she only saw him throw himself at the cot as if he had gone mad. Coughing curses, he picked up the cot and crashed it against the wall, hammered and belabored it against the stone until the frame and legs broke into pieces the size of clubs.

With one of the legs, he went at Artagel and Nyle as if he meant to beat them both senseless.

Shouldering Artagel aside, he jammed the end of the leg into the nearest staple and. levered it savagely out of the wall.

The iron staple sang like a sword as it skittered across the floor.

Nyle collapsed into Artagel’s grasp.

Panting, “Bastards bastards bastards,” Geraden attacked the second staple. It let out a thin, metallic scream as it pulled loose.

He and Artagel hunched over Nyle. Clenched sounds came between their teeth, as if both of them were weeping.

Terisa thought for a moment that Nyle was unconscious, too badly abused to understand what was happening. But then, in a voice made hoarse and ragged by howls, he croaked, “Geraden? Artagel? Is it really you?”

Fiercely, Geraden whispered, “We’re here. We’re here. Terisa brought us. As soon as you can stand, I’ll translate you back to Orison.”

Too late, Terisa heard the door open, saw light from the corridor outside wash against her and the Domne’s sons.

She whirled frantically away as a voice like silk said, “If you can do that, it will be miraculous. I am going to cut your heart out before you can make the attempt. In my experience, dead men make poor Imagers.”

Stark against the unexpected light, the man seemed to have no face, no features. The longsword he held looked black and fatal, a blade of darkness.

Terisa recognized him anyway.

Gart.

Crouched over Nyle, Geraden and Artagel were insignificant, pitiable, in the shadow of Gart’s silhouetted strength.

Despite that, however, Artagel drawled without moving, “Don’t tell me Eremis knew we were coming. I won’t believe it.”

“No,” conceded Gart, as smooth as his blade. “Yet even coincidence conspires to help victors. I was sent to bring Nyle to the Image-room. Master Eremis considered that you might do something desperate – although seeing you I doubt that he grasps how truly desperate you have become – so he wished to have your brother made ready to use against you.

“He may not be delighted to hear that I have slain you. He wishes that pleasure for himself. But I will answer for your deaths to the High King.”

“I’m sure you will.” Slowly, keeping his hands away from his sword, Artagel rose to his feet, left Nyle in Geraden’s arms. Light from the doorway burned along the tears on Artagel’s cheeks, lit sparks in his eyes. His fighting grin was gone; he seemed to have no heart left for it. “You’re forgetting just one thing.”

“And what is that?” the Monomach inquired maliciously.

Artagel shrugged. “We aren’t dead yet.”

As hard as she could, Terisa flung her lamp at Gart’s head.

His quickness was appalling. As if he had known what she would do, he batted the lamp away from his face with the flat of his blade.

Nevertheless the lamp struck his shoulder. Flaming oil splashed down his chest, bright on his black leather armor.

In that instant, Artagel attacked.

So swiftly that his leap and the sweeping pull with which he drew his sword looked like one movement, wildly, almost in a frenzy, crying out his rage and hurt, he hacked at the burning man.

His assault was too sudden, too furious; Gart had trouble countering it. The High King’s Monomach beat at the fire with one hand, trying to put it out before it took hold of his armor; with the other, he parried Artagel’s blow awkwardly, barely succeeded at blocking it away from his head.

His whole weight behind the blow, Artagel swung again.

And again, as fast as he could.

Gart seemed to erase the flame, as if his touch were enough to extinguish it. Nevertheless he couldn’t meet Artagel’s attack one-handed. He was driven backward, into the doorway. And the door was too narrow for his strokes. His sword took chips out of the doorpost; the impact slowed him, so that he almost failed to lift Artagel’s cut over his shoulder.

That counter left him off balance.

At once, Artagel drove forward with one foot and booted Gart in the chest.

Gart slammed against the far wall of the corridor and recoiled to the side, reeling to get his legs braced under him.

Artagel went through the doorway after him, steel on steel, steel on stone, out of sight to the left.

Terisa was already at Geraden’s side. “Come on,” she gasped, “come on.” With both hands, she heaved at him, trying to raise him to his feet.

Clutching Nyle, Geraden surged upright.

They staggered together; Geraden struggled to hold Nyle; Nyle fought to help himself. Still gripping the cot leg he had used as a lever, Geraden hauled his brother toward the door.

In the corridor, Artagel fought for his life.

Gart had recovered; he was beginning to return the attack. And the wildness of Artagel’s first assault was useless for defense. As a result, the nature of their combat changed. He was forced to meet Gart’s skill with his own, instead of with frenzy.

He was still hampered by the tightness in his side.

And Gart had already beaten him twice.

The corridor clanged with blows, swirled with sparks. Artagel barely prevented the Monomach from returning to the doorway.

“Come on,” Terisa urged.

Geraden cast one white, urgent look at Artagel’s back, then dragged Nyle in the opposite direction.

Terisa followed, pushing Geraden and Nyle to move faster.

Through the clamor of steel, they reached a corner.

As soon as they rounded it, the noise diminished.

They passed more doors: storerooms, cells, guards’ quarters. Terisa thought they must be near the chamber where Master Eremis had his glassworks. Unless it was in the opposite direction. What was the “Image-room”? Where was it?

At the fourth door, Geraden stopped. He wrenched it open: a storeroom, apparently; bedding and pillows. More roughly than he intended, he thrust Nyle inside.

“Hide!” he hissed. “Let us do the fighting! All you have to do is stay hidden, so they can’t threaten you.”

Nyle gave his brother a look of dumb, helpless anguish. Then he stumbled into the dark, and Geraden jerked the door shut, catching it just in time to make it close softly.

Pale and extreme, he faced Terisa. “I hope to the stars,” he panted, “we know what we’re doing.”

She grabbed at his hand and drew him into a run again, on down the corridor.

Know what we’re doing.

I want you to defeat Master Eremis.

Artagel wouldn’t last much longer: she knew that. Yet she and Geraden were still alive because of him. And Eremis didn’t know they were coming. Maybe King Joyse and Prince Kragen had already been crushed. But she had promised in her heart that she would kill Master Eremis. The men who had treated Nyle like that were going to die.

The cot leg in Geraden’s fist looked too short, too weightless, to do any good. Nevertheless he held it like a man who intended to find a use for it.

She needed a weapon of her own; she didn’t have anything to fight with except her empty hands.

She had no idea how big the stronghold was, how to find her enemies. She and Geraden kept running anyway, beyond the range of Artagel’s valiant struggle, around corners, along passageways. Geraden no longer seemed to be breathing hard: he had settled into a state of exertion where nothing could stop him. She saw suggestions of the Domne in him, hints of Tholden, as if he had all his family’s strength. Her own lungs were being torn open, but she didn’t care. Details like that had lost their importance; she had left them behind with her father.

Then the corridor opened into a place of more light; a room with many windows, full of sunshine.

A large, round room, as large as the Congery’s former meeting hall in Orison; high, with its domed ceiling encircled by clerestories so that the bright morning shone in from all sides; reached by several entrances around the walls, as if this chamber were the center of the stronghold, the hub around which all Master Eremis’ activities turned; and full of mirrors.

The Image-room.

Tall mirrors of many kinds stood in a wide circle around the center of the chamber, meticulously spaced ten or so feet apart, and facing inward, so that they could all be watched – so that they were all ready to be used – by the men in their midst.

Master Eremis.

Master Gilbur.

The arch-Imager Vagel.

Terisa thought that she and Geraden were running loudly, panting like engines. Apparently, however, their approach was relatively quiet. None of the men noticed them. Eremis and Gilbur and Vagel were all studying a flat glass which stood with them in the middle of the circle.

That mirror showed the great slug-beast as it entered the valley of Esmerel.

The mounds of rock which had blocked the creature’s advance were gone, devoured; now the monster squirmed along its slime into the valley foot.

Almost directly under the beast’s jaws rode King Joyse, holding his sword up like a banner. From this perspective, he seemed already in reach of the vast, venomous fangs. He was shouting commands or appeals which didn’t convey anything through the glass. Small with distance, he looked at once extravagant and pathetic, like a weather vane dancing in the onset of a hurricane.

“Do your best, Joyse,” growled Master Gilbur. “Withdraw your men. Rally them if you can. Then it will be Festten’s power that actually destroys you, rather than ours.”

Terisa and Geraden had slowed, almost stopped. He raised a finger to his mouth, urging silence; she nodded. They crept forward behind the Imagers, into the ring of mirrors.

The first mirror they saw from the front showed the side of a rocky mountain. The slope had a dark scar across it, as if a landslide had recently taken place. This was the source of the avalanches Eremis had used against Vale House and the Congery’s chasm.

Grinning like Artagel, Geraden issued his challenge to his enemies by swinging his cot leg at the glass.

The mirror shattered like a cry; glass sprayed singing to the stone.

At the sound, the three Imagers spun.

Only Master Eremis showed any surprise. He may have had a secret liking for surprises: they tested him, gave him new chances to exercise his abilities. His expression when he saw Terisa and Geraden bore an unmistakable resemblance to joy.

“Astonishing,” he murmured. “I did not believe that such talent existed in all the world.”

Unlike Eremis, Master Gilbur had only one reaction to the unexpected. Clenched like his back, his features brandished their old scowl, their black and unalterable fury. One powerful fist dove into his robe, brought out a dagger as long as Terisa’s forearm; the dagger which had killed Master Quillon. Deep in his contorted chest, he snarled curses like a hunting lion.

The arch-Imager’s mouth hung open, but he didn’t look surprised. He looked hungry, avid for some bloody sustenance he had been too long denied, insatiably destructive. His chin was wet with drool, and his eyes smoldered like the eyes of a lover lost in cruelty.

Before any of the Imagers had time to move, Terisa pushed the nearest mirror onto its back. As it fell, she saw a bitter landscape running with lava. Then the scene broke into splinters and ruin.

“If you do that again, my lady,” Master Eremis said amiably, “I swear I will rip Geraden’s balls off and make you eat them.”

“Try it,” retorted Geraden. He sprang to the next glass, clubbed it to shards.

Roaring, Master Gilbur charged at him.

Geraden dodged behind another mirror, pulled it over. Unfortunately, that left him open to Gilbur’s attack. The dagger stabbed for his heart.

He saved himself by staggering to the side, slipping on chips of glass, crashing to the floor in a splash of slivers. Master Gilbur sprang after him, hammered the dagger at him. He rolled away, scrambled his legs under him, scuttled toward the wall – just out of reach. He had lost his club; he was weaponless against Gilbur’s tremendous strength, the Imager’s long blade.

“Stand still and die, dogshit!” Master Gilbur panted.

He drove Geraden backward.

Terisa faced Eremis and the arch-Imager alone.

She knew how to fight them: without thinking about it, without planning anything, she knew. She could never break enough of their mirrors to save King Joyse. They would kill her long before she did that much damage. And she would accomplish nothing if she shifted the Image which showed the King’s peril. Nevertheless she had glass to oppose Eremis and Vagel with, mirrors at her disposal which they couldn’t see. All she had to do was stay alive.

And concentrate—

I want you to trust me.

—concentrate on the flat glass in Havelock’s rooms, the mirror with the Image of the sand dune. If she put this scene, this room, into that glass, the Adept could see it. He would see it, if he hadn’t fallen completely victim to his insanity. And then he could translate both Eremis and Vagel to Orison.

Trust me.

Eremis would lose his mind. And Vagel would be in Orison, with no way back here. He might use one of Havelock’s mirrors to avoid capture, but he would cease to be a threat.

All she had to do was concentrate.

She stood still. Instinctively, she raised her hands as if to show Master Eremis she was no longer a threat to his mirrors.

The way he looked at her made her blood labor like sludge in her veins.

To keep himself from being pinned to the wall, Geraden had to retreat toward one of the exits. Apparently hoping to draw Master Gilbur after him, he turned suddenly and fled, running hard down the corridor.

Cunning despite his rage, Master Gilbur stopped. There was no harm Geraden could do anywhere except in this room.

Clutching his dagger, Gilbur returned to the ring.

To the Image in Terisa’s mind.

She held it steady, hoping now that Havelock would wait until Master Gilbur came within reach, within range of Eremis’ destruction. She had no pity of any kind left in her.

At that moment, a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen.

“Hee-hee!” a thin voice cackled. “Wait for me, Vagel! I’m coming.”

Adept Havelock burst out of the air at a run.

“I’m coming!”

Oh, no!

He was a madman full of glee. His feet seemed to find the stone without any possibility of misstep, as if losing his mind made him immune to all the other hazards of translation. His apron flapped about his ankles as he ran.

As swift as joy, he sped for the arch-Imager.

In both fists he clutched his feather duster as if it made him mighty: a sword or scepter no one could oppose.

That surprised Vagel; it took him too suddenly for any reaction except panic. Once, in the past, Havelock had cost him everything but his life: now the mad Adept wanted his life as well.

Havelock was oblivious to everyone else. He didn’t see Terisa. He didn’t seem to notice that Master Eremis had stretched out a casual foot to trip him; he was only after the arch-Imager. Vagel, however, had flinched away; he headed for one of the exits with all the speed his old legs could produce.

Veering to follow, the Adept unconsciously avoided Eremis’ foot.

“I’m coming!”

One after the other, they disappeared down the corridor, taking Terisa’s only hope with them, her only way to fight.

“Ballocks and bull-puke!” rasped Master Gilbur. “Does every Imager left in the world now do these impossible translations?”

“I think not,” Eremis replied, grinning ferally. “I think that was our lady Terisa’s doing. I doubt, however, that she intended to bring the Adept here. Her thought was that he would translate us away – to Orison and madness.” Rage and joy mounted in him as he spoke. “We are fortunate that Havelock is himself already mad, inaccessible to such cleverness.”

Spitting obscenities, Gilbur started toward Terisa.

“No!” Master Eremis snapped at once. “The lady Terisa is mine. I will attend to her.”

Gilbur stopped, facing Eremis.

“The destruction of King Joyse,” Master Eremis continued, nonchalant and brutal, “I leave to you.” He gestured around the mirrors. “Enjoy it as much as you wish. For me, there is more pleasure” – he showed his teeth – “in undoing an Imager with her unprecedented capacities than in slaughtering a mere King.

“When Gart returns with Nyle, use them as you think best.

“My lady.” Raising one long arm, he pointed at a passageway behind her. “Go there.”

Because she had nothing left, Terisa turned and did as she was told.

Out in the valley, the destruction of King Joyse was proceeding as planned.

He had no weapon to combat the monster his enemies had unleashed. It finished eating its way through the rubble of the avalanche, then came on into the valley, hungry for other prey. The last time someone – Eremis? – had translated this beast, it had been considerably less ravenous. And noticeably less irate. Master Eremis must have found the means to make it very angry.

How old would he have been at the time of that previous translation? Fifteen? Ten?

Was it possible for a boy so young to be that good an Imager? Or that full of malice?

King Joyse didn’t know. And the answers didn’t matter. What mattered was the army, his men and Prince Kragen’s. They were going to die quickly and horribly if he couldn’t wrestle them back under control, quench their panic. And they were going to die anyway, unless someone found a defense against this creature.

One thing at a time. Death later was preferable to death now. During the interval between now and later, anything might happen. Someone might think of a way to hurt the beast. Or it might accidentally get hit by a throw from the catapult, might change direction. Or it might die of old age and indigestion.

The army had to be saved now.

So he drove his charger as close to the monster as he dared; so close that his mount snorted foam and quivered; so close that he could feel the beast’s breath sweep over him, could smell its intense, rank stink. And there he raised his voice like a trumpet against the hoarse screaming and the panic, the white-eyed and unreasoning dread.

“Retreat! Retreat, I say!” Retreat wasn’t rout. “Find your captains! Rally to your captains! This beast can’t outrun you!” It cannot silence me, and I am nearer to it than you are.

Behind him, the creature lifted its maw and howled. Somehow, he sent his call through the roar, demanding and clarion.

“You must retreat in order!”

The scene in front of him still looked like chaos. The shouting went on, full of fear. But he had an experienced eye: he could see the state of the army changing. Some of the captains held their ground and yelled for their men; more and more men began struggling through the press toward their captains. The army was like an augury in reverse, an Image resolving toward coherence out of a swirl of prescient bits.

Then riders came toward the King, goading their horses hard.

Prince Kragen. Castellan Norge.

Almost under the teeth of the creature, they met, reined their mounts. Norge’s horse was frantic: it wheeled in fright, snorting as if it were deranged. A moment later, however, he fought it under control.

King Joyse held his sword high, in salute and defiance.

The sight of the three leaders there as if they were impervious to Imagery and horror seemed to have a palpable impact. Suddenly, the surge of men was transformed: no longer a rout interrupted by islands of order, it became an army vigorously quelling its own chaos.

“Well done, my lord King!” panted the Alend Contender. “I thought we had lost them.”

“What now?” put in the Castellan. “How can we fight that thing?”

“We must not lose them again!” King Joyse returned. “Keep them to the center of the valley. Keep them moving steadily. We are bottled in this valley, but if we are pushed far enough we will attempt to win through the neck.”

Howling again, the monster heaved itself forward.

In a group, King Joyse, Prince Kragen, and the Castellan spurred thirty yards up the valley, then stopped once more.

“Retreating won’t save us!” cried Norge. “We can’t get out the defile! Festten wouldn’t do this if he didn’t have an ambush ready. As soon as you try, we’re lost.” As if as an afterthought, he added, “My lord King.”

The King restrained a sarcastic retort. “Then we must not let ourselves be pushed so far,” he said with more mildness than he felt. The flash in his blue eyes may have been urgency – or it may have been a wild love of risk. “Get archers up the walls, as many as you can. If that beast has eyes, perhaps we can put them out.”

Castellan Norge didn’t waste time saluting. He dug his spurs into his mount and sped away at a dead gallop.

“A thin hope, my lord King,” Prince Kragen commented tensely.

“I am aware of that,” King Joyse allowed himself to snap, “my lord Prince.” Then, however, he moderated his tone. “Suggestions are welcome.”

Prince Kragen scowled over his shoulder at the beast. “If the Congery cannot save us, we cannot be saved.”

King Joyse nodded grimly. “Then may the stars send Master Barsonage inspiration, or everything I have loved must perish.”

His eyes continued flashing.

After a moment, Prince Kragen caught the King’s mood and smiled himself.

Watching their father and the Alend Contender from the distance of the pennon, the ladies Elega and Myste stood like reflections of each other, holding their breath together when the monster roared or moved, exhaling in shared appreciation of what King Joyse and the Prince accomplished.

As the army fought down its panic, Elega murmured, “I did not believe that we would ever see him like this again.”

“I hoped for it,” replied Myste softly. “I could not bear to give it up. That is the difference between us. I cannot live without old hopes. You are willing to let them go in order to conceive new ones.”

At the moment, Elega had no idea whether she considered this an accurate observation or not.

“Wouldn’t catch me doing that,” Darsint commented sourly. He stood a step or two behind Myste, apparently watching for threats in all directions. “Haven’t got the guts. Fighting I can do. But stand like that so the men won’t panic? Make myself a target?” He seemed to be talking primarily to himself; nevertheless Myste turned to hear him. “Maybe that’s what went wrong on Pythas,” he added. “Couldn’t rally my men.”

“It was a different situation,” said Myste, “in a different place. You did everything any man could have done there.”

Darsint looked at Myste strangely. He took no discernible comfort in her words. Elega had the impression that Myste had unwittingly aggravated whatever troubled him.

“That’s what you people do, isn’t it,” he muttered like a distressed songbird. “He does it. Both of you. You do ‘everything.’ ”

“We would if we could,” answered Elega, more for her own benefit than to argue with him. “Unfortunately, we’re women.”

Down the valley, the monster surged forward; she thought both the King and Prince Kragen would be taken by those appalling fangs. But they rode out of reach in time, keeping themselves like a bulwark between the beast and their army, a defense which had nothing to do with physical force.

“And even if we could fight like men,” Elega continued, “even if we were allowed, we couldn’t do anything against that creature. If it is to be stopped, the Masters must do it.”

Master Barsonage had already informed her, however, that he had no hope left. A short way below her on the hillside, he had set up the mirror which had translated Terisa and Geraden away, the glass full of ocean. Eventually, he would try to hinder the beast with a rush of water. But he didn’t expect much success. And none of the other mirrors remaining to the Congery could do anything against a creature that size.

As for Terisa and Geraden—

Where they were concerned, Elega would have been glad to hope; but she didn’t know what to hope for. Her lack of confidence in Geraden was lifelong, hard to change. And Terisa also was no fighter.

Darsint made an uncomfortable noise in his throat, as if she had offended him somehow. Or frightened him.

“It is not your burden,” Myste whispered to him gently. “You have already done more than we could have asked – more than most of us would have believed possible. And your rifle is exhausted. Doubtless that is the reason Master Eremis decided to risk his monster.”

This observation didn’t comfort the champion much, either.

Elega was watching her father and Prince Kragen so hard, focusing on them so exclusively, that she almost didn’t see what was about to happen to them.

A shout of warning jerked her attention back a step, widened her angle of vision. With a cry she didn’t hear herself utter, she saw riders come up both sides of the monster into the valley, dozens of them, hundreds; riders with red fur and alien faces, with four arms and two scimitars, their blades raised for blood; mounted creatures like the ones which had once attacked Terisa and Geraden, riding now to sweep around in front of the slug-beast against King Joyse and the Prince.

“Father!” Myste wailed into the turmoil.

But she only had one man to lose, only her father. Elega was going to lose Prince Kragen as well, and then the High King’s victory would be assured regardless of whether or not the army relapsed to panic. Norge had men moving back down the valley, back toward the Prince and King Joyse, but they were too slow, too late. For a moment, Elega’s vision went dark around the edges. She had the distinct impression that she was going to faint.

Then Darsint’s metalled hand caught her by the shoulder, turned her. She couldn’t see his face; she was trying to pull away, trying to watch the foot of the valley. Yet he held her.

“Protect her.” His voice sounded like a warble. “You can do it better than any of this lot. Understand? I love her. Can’t let her be hurt.”

Harder than he may have intended, he pushed Elega at Myste.

The sisters collided, hugged each other to keep themselves from falling.

Darsint set off at a run.

He headed for the stream and used it as a path: it was relatively clear; few of the men were milling in the cold water. Uneven ground and unsteady rocks made his armored feet slip and his strides lurch, so that he looked like a damaged machine hurrying toward a breakdown. Nevertheless the power still in his suit was enough to give him speed; he ran as fast a horse.

Not fast enough to save King Joyse and Prince Kragen, of course. At that pace, however, he might reach the foot of the valley in time to help avenge them.

Unfortunately, the Cadwals at the last catapult saw what he was doing. They threw scattershot at him as soon as he came within range.

Stones caught the sunlight, the bright metal; soundless amid the shouts and clamor, they hit hard. In spite of his armor, he went down on his face in the chuckling brook.

King Joyse and Prince Kragen wheeled when they heard the shout which had warned Elega. Kragen spat a curse at the sight of the red-furred creatures. Their hate was vivid, even through the monster’s loud advance. And they were so many—He and King Joyse would never be able to get away. And the men Castellan Norge had already sent to rescue them had too far to come.

But the King smiled, and his eyes grew brighter. “As I said,” he remarked in a voice only Prince Kragen could hear, “the High King grows desperate. He dares not fail. And men who dare not fail cannot succeed.”

Prince Kragen considered this a foolish piece of philosophy – and gratuitous as well – but he had no time for it. He had no time to regret that he was about to die, or that he had failed his father, or that he would never hold Elega in his arms again. His hands snatched out his sword as he kicked his charger into a gallop, heading not toward the impossible safety of the army, too distant to do him any good, but rather straight at the nearest creatures, the front of the attack.

For the space of two or three heartbeats, he had a chance to be surprised and a bit relieved by the fact that King Joyse was right beside him, longsword ready, eyes bright for battle. Then the Alend Contender and the King of Mordant crashed alone into a vicious wall of scimitars and fought, trying to take as many of their enemies as possible with them when they died.

Once again, Elega was concentrating too exclusively on her father and Prince Kragen to see Darsint struggle back to his feet. She was holding Myste tightly: she only knew that something new had happened by the way Myste’s body reacted.

Lumbering like a wreck, Darsint continued down the stream.

He couldn’t run now. Myste had helped heal the wounds on his body, but nothing in this world could have helped him repair the holes which the Pythians had burned in his armor, and those holes made him vulnerable. He was hurt again now, listing to the side, stumbling occasionally; the power inside his suit may have been damaged.

He kept going anyway.

Prince Kragen and King Joyse kept going as well.

In fact, they kept going so well that the Prince felt a rush of joy at the way their swords rose and fell, the way their blows struck; the surge of their horses through the attack. The red-furred creatures had eyes in the wrong places, with whiskers sprouting all around them; they had too many arms, too many scimitars. And their hate was palpable in the fray, a consuming lust. Nevertheless they were flesh-and-blood: they could be killed. And they weren’t especially skillful with their blades; they relied more on fury than on expertise.

The Prince and King Joyse cut into the heart of the attack and kept going, kept fighting shoulder to shoulder, as if between them they had discovered something indomitable.

It was amazing, really, how many cuts they ducked or parried or slipped aside; how far into the furred bodies they delivered their swords; how their crazy charge made the mounts of the creatures falter and shy. And it was amazing, too, how well the King fought. Prince Kragen himself was much younger – presumably much stronger. Yet King Joyse matched the Alend Contender blow for blow, swung and thrust his longsword as if the weight of steel transformed him, restored him to his prime. Now his beard was splashed with blood; cuts laced his mail; grue stained his arms. And yet he kept all harm away from his companion on that side.

For a few precious moments, they succeeded against unbeatable odds.

And while they succeeded, Prince Kragen found that King Joyse made sense to him at last. If everything else was lost, still no one would ever be able to change the fact that the King of Mordant and the Alend Contender had died side by side instead of at each other’s throats.

Their success had to end. Two men simply couldn’t survive against so much mounted and murderous savagery. And yet they did survive. The momentum of the battle changed suddenly, and Prince Kragen felt another singing rush of joy at the realization that he and King Joyse were no longer alone.

The Termigan had appeared in the midst of the fray.

He had all his men with him.

The look on his face was as keen as a cleaver; he had the hands of a butcher. The way he slaughtered his enemies justified every story the Prince had ever heard of him. And his men were beyond panic. They had seen Sternwall eaten alive by Imagery, and nothing could frighten them. During the first attack of the slug-beast, they had waited with their grim lord down near the foot of the valley, readied themselves to strike. They may have intended to strike at the monster itself. The red-furred creatures were a more possible enemy, however, and the last force of Termigan had hurled itself into the fighting without hesitation.

The lord and his men kept Prince Kragen and King Joyse alive until Norge’s reinforcements arrived.

There were nearly a thousand of the creatures. Castellan Norge had sent less than half that many men to the rescue. The thought that King Joyse and Prince Kragen were already lost had filled the valley with alarm again, paralyzing a large portion of the army. And the men who sprang to Norge’s call had to contend with horses that were wild with fear, terrified by the slug-beast and the alien creatures. In one sense, the Castellan was lucky to send as much help as he did to his King. In another, he was unlucky that he couldn’t muster enough strength to turn the battle.

Nevertheless he achieved a goal which had never crossed his mind: he thinned out the combat directly in front of the monster; thinned it sufficiently to let Darsint through.

In the middle of the fray, Darsint shambled, hardly able to force one foot ahead of the next. He must have been in better condition than he looked, however. Every creature which attacked him, he shot with one of his handguns, aiming and firing almost negligently, as if he could do this kind of fighting in his sleep. When he missed, scimitars rang off his armor without hindering him; he appeared unconscious that he was struck. He wasn’t interested in mere blades and horses.

His target was the slug-beast.

Guns ready, he paused before the monster’s gaping maw. But he wasn’t hesitating: he may have been afraid to hesitate. Instead, he was making some kind of adjustment inside his suit.

Before anyone except Myste realized what he meant to do, his suit produced a burst of power that enabled him to leap past the dire fangs straight down the beast’s throat.

FIFTY-ONE: THE THINGS MEN DO WITH MIRRORS

Facing Gart’s sword in the stone-walled corridor, Artagel felt that he was looking down the throat of death.

The High King’s Monomach had recovered from the fire of the lamp, and from the first extremity of Artagel’s attack; now he had his balance again, his command of steel and weight. Moment by moment, he seemed to grow stronger.

The lanterns which lit the passage made his eyes yellow; they gleamed like a beast’s. His hatchet-nose faced his opponent, keen for blood. The scars on his cheeks, the initiation-marks of his craft, were pale streaks against the bronze hue of his skin. Though he was assailed by the best swordsman in Mordant, he wasn’t even sweating. His blade moved like a live thing: as protective as a lover, it caught and countered every blow for him, as if to spare him the effort of defending himself.

His teeth showed, white and malign, between his lips; loathing stretched all the mercy out of his features. Yet Artagel felt sure that Gart’s abhorrence had nothing personal to do with him. It involved no resentment of Artagel’s reputation, no envy of his position, no particular desire to see him dead. In Gart, the lust for killing was a professional characteristic untainted by individual emotions.

Artagel had heard rumors about the training undergone by Apts of the High King’s Monomach, the privations and hurts and dangers imposed on small boys to make them sure of what they were doing, sure of themselves; to harden their loathing. That was what gave Gart strength: his detachment; the impersonality of his passion. His heart held nothing which might confuse him.

Artagel, on the other hand, was sweating.

His hands were slick with moisture; under his mail, his jerkin clung to his skin. His sword had gone dead in his grasp, and his chest heaved with the exertion of swinging the blade. The tightness in his side had become a band of hot iron, fired to agony, and that pain seemed to sap the resilience from his legs, the quick tension from his wrists, the life from his weapon.

A flurry of blows, as loud as forgework, bright with sparks. A measuring pause. Another flurry.

There was no question about it: Gart was going to kill him.

Artagel didn’t face this prospect with quite the same approval Lebbick had felt.

He couldn’t afford to be beaten, absolutely could not afford to fail. If he went down, Gart would go after Terisa and Geraden. He would go after Nyle. They would all die, and King Joyse himself wouldn’t stand a chance—

But when he thought about Nyle, remembered what had been done to his brother, his heart filled up with darkness, and he flung himself at Gart wildly, inexpertly. Only the sheer fury of his attack saved him from immediate death. Fury was all that kept him going; nothing but fury gave strength to his limbs, air to his lungs, life to his steel.

A quick, slicing pain brought him back to himself – a cut along the bunched muscle of his left shoulder. He recoiled from suicide as blood welled out of the wound. A minor injury: he knew that instinctively. Nevertheless it hurt—It hurt enough to restore his reason.

Not this way. He was never going to beat Gart this way. The truth was obvious in the effortless action of Gart’s blade, the feral smirk on his face; it was unmistakable in the glint of his yellow eyes.

In fact, Artagel was barely able to keep Gart’s sword point out of his chest as he retreated down the corridor, gasping for breath, battling to recover his balance. The Monomach’s blade wove gleams and flashes of lantern-light as if his steel were somehow miraculous, like a mirror.

All right. Artagel couldn’t beat Gart this way. Actually, he couldn’t beat Gart at all. But he had to prolong the struggle as much as possible, had to buy time. Time was vital. So he needed some other way to fight. He had to start thinking like Geraden or Terisa, but not about Nyle, no, don’t think about Nyle, don’t give in to the darkness. He had to do something unexpected.

Something to ruffle Gart’s detachment.

Down in the depths of Artagel’s belly, a knot loosened, and he began to grin.

Geraden wasn’t grinning.

When Master Gilbur didn’t follow him, he wasn’t surprised. Just disappointed. He had no idea in the world what he would have done if the Master had chased him. Gilbur knew the stronghold, after all, and Geraden could never hope to beat him in a test of violence. But at least the hunchbacked Imager would have been away from the mirrors, unable for the moment to do King Joyse any more damage.

That hope had failed, of course. Instead of drawing Master Gilbur away, Geraden had in effect abandoned Terisa, left her to contend with Master Gilbur and Master Eremis and the arch-Imager alone.

Wonderful. The perfect climax to a perfect life. Now all he had to do was blunder into a squad of guards somewhere and get himself uselessly killed, and the story of his life would be complete.

Now it’s your turn, the Domne had said. Make us proud of you. Make what we’re doing worthwhile.

Geraden had succeeded brilliantly.

He couldn’t resist thinking like that. He had suffered too many accidents; the logic of mishap seemed irrefutable. Nevertheless he was too stubborn to accept defeat. He loved Terisa too much, and his brothers, and the King—

In the name of sanity, remember to call me “Da”.

As soon as he was sure Master Gilbur had given up the chase, he turned down a side passage and began to double back toward the Image-room.

Unacquainted with the stronghold, he spent several maddening moments hunting his way. Where were the guards? Surely Master Eremis had guards, servants of the High King if not of Eremis himself? Why hadn’t he encountered them already? At last, however, he reached another of the entrances to the Image-room.

From the entryway, he saw that Master Gilbur was the only one there.

Just for a moment, while his heart lurched in his chest and a cry struggled in his throat, he thought, Terisa Terisa! Master Eremis and Vagel had taken her to rape and torture her, just like Nyle, just like Nyle. He had to go after her, he had to find her, help her, he absolutely and utterly could not bear to let them destroy her.

At the same time, unfortunately, he noticed what Master Gilbur was doing.

The Imager had his back to Geraden. That was fortuitous. Plainly, he didn’t know or care what Geraden might do. He was carrying a glass out of the center of the ring of mirrors.

The flat mirror which showed Esmerel’s valley.

He was carrying it toward a mirror which stood in the direct, clean light from one of the windows. Sunshine illuminated the Image vividly.

The scene which the glass reflected swarmed with cockroaches.

Geraden remembered those creatures. They had nearly killed him, and Terisa, and Artagel. Nevertheless the horror of that memory gave way at once to a new dismay when Master Gilbur set the flat glass down before the other mirror and stepped back to consider his intentions.

In the flat mirror, Geraden saw King Joyse and Prince Kragen directly under the rearing jaws of the slug-beast.

They were engaged in a desperate struggle against huge numbers of red-furred creatures with too many arms holding too many scimitars.

The King and Prince Kragen weren’t alone: the Termigan was with them, and his men. They were covered with blood, battling furiously. Yet they couldn’t expect to survive against so many alien warriors. And if the red-furred creatures didn’t get them, the slug-beast would.

And Master Gilbur planned to translate a new threat into the fray. He was considering the focus of his mirrors so that he could move his flat glass in among the swarming cockroaches and translate them straight onto King Joyse’s head.

Lord of the Demesne. Sovereign of Mordant. And Geraden’s father’s friend.

Remember to call me “Da.”

Terisa needed him. He let her go. Once, hard, with both fists, he punched himself in the forehead.

Then he moved.

Swallowing panic and love and regret, he left the entryway and crept toward the ring of mirrors.

If Terisa could have seen him then, she would have recognized the iron in his face, the look of despair – and of brutal determination.

He was quiet; but he went quickly. To the mirrors he and Terisa had broken, to the cot leg he had dropped. Snatching up the club from a pool of splinters, he threw it with all his strength at the flat glass.

Unluckily, his boots crunched a warning among the shards and slivers; and Master Gilbur heard it. With astonishing swiftness, the Imager spun around, flung up his arm—

—deflected the cot leg.

It skimmed past the top of the mirror’s frame and skittered away across the stone, out of reach.

“Balls of a dog!” Gilbur spat. Already, he had his dagger in his fist; his face was a clench of darkness. “Do you never give up?”

Geraden heard the cot leg knock against the wall as if that sound were the last thud of his heart. Another failure: his last chance gone wrong. Now he wouldn’t be able to help King Joyse or Terisa, and they would both be lost. And if he didn’t escape now, his own death was inevitable. No matter what happened, he would never be able to outfight Master Gilbur.

Nevertheless the augury drew him. This was his fate, his doom. Instead of fleeing, he stepped forward, into the ring of mirrors, until he was surrounded entirely by mirrors, all of them reflecting scenes of violence and destruction against him.

There he stopped.

“Why should I give up?” he asked as if he were just making conversation. “Why should I want to make it easy for you?”

Master Gilbur snarled an obscenity. Cocking his dagger, he prepared to charge.

At once, Geraden barked, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

In surprise, the Master paused.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” Geraden explained. “I don’t have anything else to hope for. Oh, I suppose I could run away. I could try to hide somewhere. You don’t seem to have any guards. I might be able to stay alive for a while. But I’ll never escape. I’ll never find Terisa.

“If you chase me, I’ll just break as many mirrors as I can before I die. You’ve already lost four. How many more are you willing to risk? Do you think there’s a chance I might be able to get them all?”

Obviously, Gilbur’s first impulse was to attack: that was plain in the way his teeth showed through his beard, the way his knuckles whitened on his dagger. Almost immediately, however, he appeared to grasp the other side of the situation. Someone was bound to come soon, and then Geraden was lost. In the meantime, why risk damage to years of powerful work?

Instead of charging, he lowered his blade.

“You are wrong, puppy,” he rasped. “We have guards. They will be here in a moment.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Geraden fought to keep any hint of relief out of his voice. Time: that was all he wanted. A respite for King Joyse. A chance for something to happen. “I’m sure you have them, plenty of them. But I’ll bet they’re all outside, protecting this place just in case someone tries a sneak attack. Watching the defile. You and Eremis and Vagel are so stupidly sure of yourselves, you never expected to be attacked from inside.”

Then, because he wanted to see how far he could goad the Imager, he asked, “Where’s Gart?”

Master Gilbur’s eyebrows knotted involuntarily. “Do not look behind you, pigshit boy. He may be there already. He has gone to fetch your dear brother Nyle – who, I may say, has given me considerable pleasure during his visit here.”

The flat mirror’s Image showed the great monster writhing in a paroxysm of rage and hunger.

“I don’t think so,” Geraden repeated. Nyle. He wanted to laugh so that he wouldn’t do anything foolish, wouldn’t go mad and try to attack the Imager; but he could barely keep himself from snarling. “Terisa and I already rescued Nyle. We did that first. If Gart isn’t here, the men we brought with us must have got him.” If Gart isn’t here, Artagel must still be alive, still be fighting. “Or else High King Festten has plans he hasn’t told you about. You must have noticed that his reputation for treachery is older than you are.”

Unfortunately, Master Gilbur was able to laugh. “Pure vapor,” he rasped with a guttural chuckle. “Mist and moonshine.” He took a couple of nonthreatening steps, not toward Geraden, but to the side, away from the flat glass and the cockroaches. “You have not rescued Nyle – you do not know where he is. The room where I have enjoyed him is kept dark. You have never seen it. Therefore you could not find it, or translate him away.

“Gart will join us soon.”

“Believe that if you can,” retorted Geraden. He believed it; and the thought made all his muscles feel as weak as water. Yet he kept his gaze and his voice steady. “Just tell me one thing. Those red-furred creatures.” They continued pouring around King Joyse and the Prince, hacking savagely. The Termigan’s men and Norge’s appeared vastly outnumbered. And the slug-beast—“You didn’t just translate them this morning, did you? How did you get them mounted? How did you get them to serve you?”

The slug-beast had reared up as if it strove to stand on its tail.

“No, we did not,” conceded Master Gilbur maliciously. “In that, at least, you are right. Those things – they call themselves callat. Eremis has worked with them at some length. They have become what you might consider his ‘personal guard.’ A complex and difficult negotiation was required before he agreed to commit his callat to Festten’s support.”

Too late, Geraden realized what the Imager was doing.

In the flat mirror, the rearing monster came down like a tower, crashed straight and limp to the ground. Its maw seemed to miss King Joyse and Prince Kragen; some of the callat were caught by its weight and crushed. But through the glass the reverberation of impact had no sound. And the beast made no effort to surge forward, devour more prey. It lay still with a strange curl of smoke rising between its teeth.

Master Gilbur reached one of the other mirrors in the ring.

He grasped its frame with his free hand, began snarling nonsense.

Out of the glass, like shot from a catapult, came hurtling a gnarled, black shape, no larger than a small dog, with claws like hooks at the ends of its four limbs and terrible jaws which filled half its body.

Master Eremis did like surprises. In a sense, he even liked unpleasant surprises. They raised the stakes, increased the challenge: they made him show what he could do. But there was nothing unpleasant about Terisa’s unexpected arrival – or Geraden’s either, for that matter. Master Gilbur could handle Geraden. And Terisa was beaten. He had seen her defeat in her eyes, had seen the light of intelligence and determination start to fade. She was his at last, his, and every spark of resistance left to her would only increase the fun of possessing her.

As he directed her toward his private quarters, watching from behind the way her hips moved inside her uncomplimentary garments, remembering the sweet shape and curve of her breasts, and the particular silken sensation between her legs, he thought that she would be more satisfying than any woman he had ever destroyed.

Saddith’s death had been satisfying, of course: deft, inescapable, and almost infinitely clever. Nevertheless it had lacked the personal touch. He hadn’t destroyed her himself; he had only arranged events so that she would suffer and die. On the unfortunately frequent occasions when he had found it necessary to make love to her, the exigencies of his plans had required him to treat her gently, almost kindly, so that she would believe he might help further her social ambitions. He was man enough, however, to meet even her boring tastes in fornication. And with Terisa there would be no limits—Nothing would inhibit the extravagant flavors of pain and debasement he meant to elicit from her.

He felt so primed and poised that he could hardly refrain from dancing as he followed her toward his rooms.

Obedient to his will, she entered his quarters and stopped in the center of the one, big chamber where he had his bed, his instruments of enjoyment, and his copy of the flat mirror which showed how matters progressed in the valley of Esmerel.

There King Joyse and Prince Kragen were about to go down under a tide of callat. Or they would be driven within reach of the monster rearing impressively over them.

Good. In fact, perfect. Eremis would like watching his enemies die while Terisa wept and wailed.

“Remove your clothes,” he told her, enjoying the harshness of his tone. “You have evaded me too long, and the recompense I demand has grown correspondingly large.” If he took off his own clothes, she would see just how large it was. “Nakedness is the very least of the gifts your fine body will give me today.”

Sunlight came from a series of windows along one wall, where he occasionally let men stand to observe his exercises. Today, of course, everyone was busy with battle or guard duty; but he was glad to have his victory to himself. Outside was only a rugged hillside, a freedom Terisa would never reach. The whole stronghold was austere, and he hadn’t had time to procure rugs. But the sun warmed the chill of the stone floors, shedding brightness over his victim and the mirror.

She didn’t obey. And she didn’t pay any attention to the windows; as far as he could tell, she didn’t notice them at all. Instead, she turned to the glass, as if it had more power over her than anything else did.

For the first time since they had left the Image-room, he saw her face.

Perhaps she wasn’t beaten after all. Something in her conveyed a definite sense of evaporation, as if she were on the borderline of disappearing. Her expression was slack; her eyes, vaguely focused. And yet he also seemed to see something else, something secretive and wonderfully enticing. It may have been a covert hope: the hope, perhaps, that she could shift the Image in the mirror (but of course that wouldn’t do anything to help either her or King Joyse); or the hope that Eremis would foolishly give her the chance to translate him away (but to do that she would have to physically thrust him toward the glass, and he was stronger than she was, much stronger); or the hope that she could use the mirror to escape herself (but he had no intention of giving her the opportunity).

Or maybe she was nourishing a hidden and hopeless desire to do him harm.

Whatever she concealed, it was exactly the spice he coveted. For a moment, he let her disobey him simply because he couldn’t decide whether to kiss her gently or tear her clothes apart.

Studying the mirror, she asked in a thin, disinterested tone, “Where did you get those creatures? The ones that attacked Geraden and me. How did you get them to serve you?”

Master Eremis was happy to answer her. “The callat. They were a fortuitous discovery – as all things are fortuitous for men who can master life. They were first discovered among Vagel’s Imagers in Cadwal, but no use was made of them. Apparently, every faction in Carmag feared that they might prove to be a decisive force – for someone else. However, after I had redeemed Vagel from his tenuous exile among the Alend Lieges, he remembered the formula and shaped a new mirror.

“The callat are indeed a powerful force, as you can see” – Eremis enjoyed a glance at the glass himself, although most of his mind was fixed on Terisa – “but not as powerful as the Cadwals feared. Their numbers are not great enough to make an army.

“They are renegades in their own world. Actually, they are in danger of extermination by what I can only describe as a race of groundhogs. Very large groundhogs. And the callat are too bloody-minded to make peace. They can only fight or die.

“Witnessing their danger, I translated one or two of them and began bargaining. In exchange for escape from their enemies” – Eremis shrugged aside the fact that he had never intended to let the callat live, had meant from the start to use them in a way which would destroy them – “they agreed to serve me.”

Slowly, Terisa nodded. He wondered if she understood: she seemed to be thinking about something else.

“They come from a completely different world,” she said. “They have a history of their own, motives of their own. Do you still claim they didn’t exist until Vagel shaped the mirror?”

Her question drew a chortle from the Master. He made no effort to conceal that he was inexpressibly pleased with himself. “My lady, did you ever truly credit that piece of sophism?”

She regarded him gravely, as if she wanted to hear what he would say – and didn’t care what it was.

Still chuckling, he continued, “No man of any intelligence – of whom there are only a few, I admit – has ever thought that the Images we see in mirrors do not exist. That position, with all the arguments supporting it, was forced on us by King Joyse, by his demand that the Congery should define a ‘right’ use of Imagery. Because he took it as proven that if Images were real in themselves then they must be treated with respect, forbearance – in effect, must be left alone – he allowed those who disagreed with him no ground on which to stand except that those Images have no independent existence.

“But of course his central tenet is so foolish that it is also unanswerable. He might as well claim that we must not breathe because we should not interfere with the air, or that we must not eat because we should not interfere with plants and cattle. The truth is that we have the right to interfere with Images because we have the power to interfere. It is necessary to interfere. Otherwise the power has no use, and it dies, and Imagery is lost.

“That is the law of life. Like every other thing which breathes and desires and chooses, we must do what we can.”

Eremis licked his lips. “Terisa, I have sampled your breasts, and they are delectable. You must have an exceptionally vacuous mind, if you ever believed that you do not exist. I told you you were unreal only to make it as difficult as possible for you to discover your talent.”

As he spoke, he studied her, looking for her secret reaction, the truth she wished to conceal. Her eyes were too dark, too lost: they didn’t betray anything. As far as they were concerned, she was already gone.

But her pretty, cleft chin tightened as if she were clenching her teeth.

Delighted by this evidence of anger, he reached out and bunched his fists in her unflattering leather shirt. He regretted, really, that she hadn’t had a chance to wash her hair; but everything else about her was perfect. He was going to tear the shirt away. Then, before he began to hurt her, he would do things to her breasts which would make her ache for him in spite of her secrets. He would surprise her with the pain, as she had surprised him.

For some reason, however, she had turned her face away. She wasn’t even afraid enough of him to watch what he was doing. Instead, she gazed darkly at the mirror.

Unintentionally, he glanced there in time to see the slug-beast come down from its full height, collapse like soundless thunder in the valley and lie still. Involuntarily, he held his breath, waiting to see the monster move again, waiting to see it pounce forward and devour King Joyse and the arrogant Alend Contender. But the beast remained as limp as a carcass. Odd smoke curled briefly out of its maw and drifted away along the breeze.

“Excrement of a pig!” Eremis breathed. Forgetting Terisa, he turned to the mirror, gripped the frame with both hands, studied the Image intently. “That is impossible. You doddering old fool, that is impossible.”

“Interesting,” Terisa remarked as if she had never been less interested in her life. “Maybe ‘all things’ aren’t as ‘fortuitous’ as you think.”

Eremis thought he saw the Image of the valley begin to waver around the edges, thought he saw the rampart walls and the last catapult start to melt—

That also was impossible. He wasn’t sure of what he was seeing.

He didn’t delay to be sure. Swinging at once, he backhanded her across the side of the head so hard that she fell like a broken doll. She lay on one side in the warm sunshine, huddling around herself, with her hair spread out on the stone, and one hand cupped weakly over the place where she had been hit; she may have been weeping.

“If you try that again,” he spat, “if you touch that glass with one more hint of your talent, I swear I will call Gilbur here and let him rape you with that dagger of his.”

Perhaps she wasn’t weeping: she didn’t make a sound. After a moment, however, she nodded her head – one small, frail jerk, like a twitch of defeat.

Despite his monster’s unexpected demise, Master Eremis recovered his grin.

Artagel, too, was grinning, but for an entirely different reason.

Despite the blood which streamed from his cut shoulder, he beat back the hot steel lightning and force of Gart’s next attack. That defense cost him an exertion which seemed to shred his wounded side. Twice he only saved himself because the corridor was too narrow for perfect swordwork, and he was able to block Gart’s blade away against the stone. But at last he managed to disengage.

Before the High King’s Monomach could come at him again, he retreated several quick strides, then relaxed his stance and dropped the point of his sword.

Gart paused to scrutinize him curiously.

Trying not to breathe in whooping gasps that would betray his weakness, Artagel asked, “Why do you do it?”

Gart cocked an eyebrow; he advanced a step.

Artagel put up a hand to ward off the Monomach. “You’re going to kill me anyway. You know that. You can afford to send me to my grave with my ignorance satisfied. Why do you do it?”

Swayed, perhaps, by the admission of defeat, Gart paused again. “Why do I do what?”

With an effort which felt desperately heroic, Artagel tried to laugh. He failed, of course. Nevertheless he did contrive to sound cheerful as he said, “Serve.”

The tip of Gart’s blade watched Artagel warily as the Monomach waited.

“You’re the best,” Artagel panted, “the best. You lead and train a cadre of Apts who all want to be as good as you, and some of them may even have almost that much talent. You could be a power in the world. I’ll wager you could unseat Festten anytime you want. You could be the one who decides, instead of the one who serves. Why do you do it?”

Gart considered the question for a moment. “That is who I am,” he pronounced finally.

“But why?” demanded Artagel, fighting for a chance to regain his breath, his strength. “What does Festten give you that you can’t get anywhere else? What does being the High King’s Monomach get you that isn’t already yours by right? You could choose who you’re going to kill. If I were you, I’d be embarrassed by the amount of time you’ve spent recently trying to kill a woman. Whose decision was that? Why did you have to demean yourself like that?”

A snarl pulled tighter across Gart’s teeth.

“I tell you, you could be a power. Don’t you have any self-respect?”

The Monomach came at him like a gale in the constricted passage, suddenly, without warning; and the only thing that saved him was that he wasn’t surprised. He got his longsword up, parried hard, tried to riposte. Gart slipped the blow aside and swung again. Artagel felt steel ruffle his hair as he ducked; Gart’s blade rang off the wall; Artagel hacked at the Monomach’s legs fast enough to make him jump.

Somehow not stumbling, not clutching at his torn side, Artagel disengaged again, retreated down the corridor.

“That,” said Gart as if he had never been out of breath in his life, “is who I am.”

“But the point is, you serve,” protested Artagel. “You’re nothing more than a servant, a weapon.”

“Listen to me,” Gart articulated dangerously. “I will not say it again. That is who I am.”

“With your abilities?” Artagel’s voice nearly rose to a cry. “I don’t believe it. You’re content to be a servant? You’re content to be used like a thing with no mind, no pride? Aren’t you a man? Don’t you dream? Haven’t you got ambitions?”

It was probably madness to goad the Monomach like this; but Artagel didn’t care. For the first time since their contest began, he was having fun.

“No wonder you’re so hard to kill. Inside, where it counts, you’re already dead.”

In response, Gart whirled his blade with such speed that the steel blurred into streaks of lantern-light. “Oh, I have dreams, you fool,” he rasped. “I have dreams.

“I dream of blood.”

So fiercely that nothing could stop him, he hurled himself at Artagel.

Now Gart was the mad one, the frenzied attacker, swinging as if he were out of control; Artagel was the one who couldn’t do anything except parry and block – and try to keep his balance.

Unfortunately, the Monomach’s fury only made their struggle more uneven. He wasn’t wounded; he hadn’t been weakened by a long convalescence. And at his worst he never forgot his skill.

As if by translation, cuts appeared on Artagel’s mail, his leggings. A lick along his forehead sent blood dripping into his eyes. Reeling, almost failing, he slammed into the corner where the corridor turned, hit so hard that the last air was knocked out of his lungs.

He barely saved himself, barely, by diving out of the corner, rolling to his feet and running, his lungs on fire, his eyes full of sweat and blood, no life in his limbs, running until he gained enough ground to turn and plant his feet and stand there wobbling and face Gart for the last time.

The fun part of the fight was over.

Moved by instincts he didn’t know he had, Geraden went down as if he had been clubbed.

The first vicious black shape missed him; its own momentum carried it beyond him, momentarily out of reach. And the second—

But Master Gilbur was bringing a whole stream of the beasts into the Image-room, translating them at Geraden as fast as they could leap. The Master’s teeth gnashed the air, and his face burned, as if he were on his way to ecstasy.

A whole world of creatures like that. Of course. Ravening as if they had already eaten their way through all their natural prey. Terisa had shattered a mirror to end an attack like this; but that mirror wasn’t this one. No, she had broken the flat glass which showed the intersection outside Orison. The original mirror, the source of the creatures, remained intact.

Obviously.

Flipping to the side, scrambling his legs under him, stumbling as if he would never regain his balance, Geraden struggled out of the direct spring of the creatures.

Three, five, nine of them, he lost count. Sliding in his boots as if the sunlit stone were ice, he rounded the edge of a mirror, wheeled behind it.

He was too frantic to think. And he had no chance against Master Gilbur anyway. All he knew was that he had to hurt the King’s enemies as much as he could before he died. Gilbur clearly believed the gnarled shapes would get him before he did much harm. No doubt the Master was right. But every bit of damage might help. Any mirror Geraden could break might be the crucial one, the one that made sense of the Congery’s augury – the one that gave King Joyse a chance against his doom.

The slug-beast had been killed. Surely anything was possible—

From behind, without knowing or caring what its Image was, Geraden took hold of the mirror and wrenched it onto its back.

And caught it before it hit the floor.

Inspiration: unexpected insight. As if the mere touch of the mirror’s frame had shocked him, everything inside his head seemed to take fire and become new.

Not damage. If damage was all he tried to do, Gilbur had no reason to fear him. He would be dead in moments.

Imagery, on the other hand—

The first black shapes were already scrabbling over the stone to fling themselves on him. And more came furiously, avid for flesh. Master Gilbur turned his mirror in order to translate the creatures straight at Geraden.

Burning with inspiration, Geraden heaved the mirror upright again and opened it just as the nearest creature hit the glass.

Gone. As if the shape had never existed. Translated somewhere, he had no idea where, he still hadn’t had a chance to so much as glance at the scene in the mirror.

Another and another, in rapid succession: gone. The gnarled creatures seemed to have no minds – or at least no sense of danger. Their hunger overwhelmed all other instincts; maybe they were starving to death in their own world. They hurled themselves into the glass as if it were Geraden’s flesh.

The fire blazing up inside him felt like joy and triumph.

Four five six—

Master Gilbur bellowed something savage and sprang to a different mirror.

The last few shapes came at Geraden madly, their jaws stretched open, and Master Gilbur brought wolves rushing into the Image-room, wolves with spines along their curved backs and malign purpose in their eyes, wolves that were too big for Geraden’s shield and would be forced by their sheer size to attack him over or around the mirror; and at that moment Geraden made the mistake of realizing what he was doing.

He was doing something worse than the translation of alien evils into his own world: he was translating them somewhere else, into a place completely unready for them, completely innocent. Whatever lived and moved in the Image he held was now being assaulted by vicious and entirely unexpected creatures for no good reason except to save his life.

No, this was wrong, it was wrong, he had no right to do it. These creatures, and the wolves, and anything else Gilbur might produce were only malignant because they had been translated, only because they were out of place. In their own worlds, they didn’t deserve to be slaughtered. And no one else deserved to be slaughtered simply because Geraden was desperate.

Shoving the mirror away, he dove to the side.

The last black shapes struck the glass hard and slammed it onto its back. As they bounded up from the splinters to continue their attack, they left behind a shattered Image of their fellow creatures dying horribly in the acid of bitten ghouls.

A hunting snarl throbbed through the air; jaws slavered. Geraden scrambled across the ring of mirrors, trying to stay ahead of the gnarled shapes and the wolves.

Strange things were happening in the Image of Esmerel’s valley. The slug-beast was definitely dead, no mistake about that. And its death altered the terms of the conflict. High King Festten committed all his forces to a killing charge. In two thrusts, seven or eight thousand men on each side of the supine monster, he sent his army to catch King Joyse while there was no escape, while the confused and lesser strength of Alend and Mordant was trapped between the defile at one end of the valley and the tremendous corpse blocking the other.

King Joyse should already have been crushed under the weight of the callat. He was still up and fighting, however. Prince Kragen was with him, and the Termigan, and Castellan Norge; but they weren’t enough to keep him alive. No, he endured because the monster’s death had galvanized his army: that impossible rescue from certain destruction had transformed panic into hope and fury. As fast as their horses or their legs could move them, his men came to support their King; the first several hundred of them had already charged in among the callat.

The Cadwals hadn’t yet had time to catch up with the red-furred creatures. The callat had to face the recovered force of King Joyse’s army alone.

Geraden dashed past the flat glass with black shapes on his heels. Master Gilbur seemed to be having trouble finding wolves. He had translated three, no, four into the Image-room; but now he was studying the Image, scanning its focus rapidly in search of more predators. The use he and Eremis had made of the wolves previously must have depleted their population.

Four would be enough, of course. The gnarled shapes would be enough. Geraden couldn’t keep ahead of them, couldn’t fight—

Not this way.

The first wolf appeared to rear straight up in front of him, springing for his head. Urgently, he wrenched himself aside. His boots skidded out from under him; he thumped down on his back, sliding beneath the attack.

The wolf landed among the black creatures.

They didn’t care what they ate; they only wanted food. Swiftly, they all pounced on the wolf.

At once, their struggle became a whirl, a snarling dervish, a mad ball of claws and fangs. The wolf was big, powerful; the shapes sank their hooks and teeth in and clung.

With the air knocked out of his lungs, Geraden lay still.

As if they recognized a mortal enemy, the other wolves sped to help their fellow.

Master Gilbur spat curses, then crowed obscenely as he located more wolves.

Geraden couldn’t breathe. He could hardly move his limbs. Nevertheless he had to act now, had to grab this brief chance. He might never get another one.

Talent was a remarkable thing: he was learning more about it all the time. He was an Adept of some kind; he could use other people’s mirrors. And he had rescued himself and Terisa out of her former apartment, out of a world which had no Imagery. All he had to do was concentrate, take Master Gilbur by surprise.

In a way, it helped that he couldn’t breathe. It almost helped that the struggle between the wolves and the gnarled creatures was only ten feet away, and that the wolves were winning, crunching the bones of the smaller beasts. The extremity of his plight left no room for doubt or hesitation.

He turned his head toward the mirror and studied the Image, fixed it in his mind: a forest full of harsh shadows, slashed by light there and there; boughs angling upward; underbrush of a kind he had never seen before. During the spaces between his heartbeats, he memorized the scene.

Master Gilbur hunched beside the mirror, clutching the frame with one fist, crooning to the glass. A feral ecstasy lit his features, as bright as fire, as consuming as lava.

When the first of the new wolves started through the mirror, Geraden closed his eyes and shifted the Image in his mind.

And the Image in the mirror shifted.

He didn’t know what he shifted it to, and he didn’t care. Instinctively, he must have selected some place or vista to fill the mirror: he couldn’t imagine a blank glass. But that detail was unimportant. What mattered was that he could reach out with his talent, that by surprise if not by strength he could break Master Gilbur’s hold on the glass.

It worked. The Image melted while the wolf was still caught in the prolonged instant of translation.

The wolf was cut in half.

The mirror shattered.

Gilbur wheeled to confront Geraden. For a moment, the brutal Imager actually gaped. Then rage knotted his face, and he let out a roar which seemed to strike the air dumb, leaving the battle of the wolves without a sound.

He turned to the next mirror in the ring.

From its dark depths, he brought out a burst of lightning so hot that it scorched the stone floor; a blast of thunder so loud that it thudded in Geraden’s tight lungs; a wind so hard that it seemed to hammer him down even though he hadn’t tried to rise, hadn’t tried to move.

The Imager was translating a storm into the chamber.

Using it to buffet and confuse and overwhelm Geraden until Master Gilbur could get to him and drive a dagger into his heart.

Now that he had Terisa down on the floor and hurt, Master Eremis thought he would begin to take advantage of her. He found, however, that he had trouble pulling his attention away from the mirror.

He liked surprises: they were tests, opportunities. Yet the death of the slug-beast nagged at him. That was an unforeseen development. Of course, the creature could have collapsed for any number of reasons which had nothing to do with the battle. Nevertheless its demise suggested that he had underestimated his enemy’s capabilities.

And King Joyse’s forces were rallying now. That was perfectly predictable – but still frustrating to watch. Festten had made the right decision: to launch a full-scale assault while the armies of Mordant and Alend were still in disarray. Unfortunately, his men were too far away to save the callat. And King Joyse and Prince Kragen were doing entirely too good a job of pulling their forces into order to meet the Cadwal charge.

Soon the battle would degenerate into a simple contest of steel and determination.

King Joyse would lose, of course. Festten had him heavily outnumbered. And Gilbur had an impressive array of mirrors at hand. Yet Master Eremis wasn’t pleased. On the scale of armies, Gilbur’s remaining resources were relatively minor. And if the Cadwal victory weren’t ultimately achieved by Imagery, the High King would become more difficult to rule in future. He would trust his own strength more, Eremis’ less. He might begin to think he could dispense with Master Eremis altogether. And Gart was somewhere in the stronghold—

The Master was prepared for all these eventualities. Nevertheless he didn’t find them especially attractive.

Carefully, Terisa got to her feet, so that she, too, could look at the mirror. She had the smudge of a growing bruise on her cheekbone, but it only made her lovelier. When she had been hurt enough, she would be intolerably beautiful.

Master Eremis considered hitting her again. But that was too crude, really. He expected better of himself: more imagination, greater subtlety. And he wanted to see what his enemies were going to do.

He wanted to see what Gilbur was going to do.

It would be something violent, something effective. Considering Gilbur’s susceptibility to rage of all kinds, however, it might also be something premature. Master Eremis didn’t want to see Joyse die too soon, too easily.

At the moment, there was no danger of that. The callat were beaten: Joyse was able to disengage, with Kragen, Norge, and the unanticipated Termigan. They rode a short way up the valley, conferred with each other briefly, then began shouting orders which conveyed nothing through the glass. And their army seemed to come into order around them almost magically.

None too soon, Kragen spurred away to command the defense to the right of the monster’s corpse. Norge went to the left, with the Termigan beside him. Well, Joyse was an old man. No doubt he needed rest. He didn’t appear to be resting, however. Instead, he rode everywhere, organizing his men.

For some reason, he divided them into three forces: one to support Kragen; one for Norge and the Termigan; one for himself.

“I don’t understand,” said Terisa thinly, in that impersonal, disinterested tone.

Master Eremis felt that he was beginning to comprehend her. That tone didn’t indicate defeat. It was a sign of withdrawal: not of retreat, but of hiding, of covert intentions. Perhaps she thought that if she could go far enough away in her mind, he wouldn’t be able to hurt her. Or perhaps she hid so that she could take him by surprise.

A small thrill of anticipation ran through his veins, and he shifted his weight slightly onto the balls of his feet.

“Have you ever understood anything?” he countered with amiable sarcasm.

His scorn didn’t seem to touch her. She may have been too distant to hear it accurately. In the same tone, she said, “You have all these flat mirrors, but you don’t use them very well.”

Another surprise: one with exciting possibilities. What was she thinking?

“Do we not?” he asked casually.

“You have a glass that shows Vale House.” Despite her dullness, her voice was strangely distinct. “You could have taken Queen Madin yourself. You could have brought her here as a hostage. She would have been more use to you than Nyle.”

Oh, that. Master Eremis was mildly disappointed; he had hoped for something a bit more interesting. “A predictable idea,” he commented acidly, “and not precisely brilliant. If I had done that, I would have given up the wedge I wished to drive between Joyse and Margonal. I would have given up the obstacles I wished to place in your path.

“I must confess I am still somewhat surprised that Margonal let you into Orison. That was not a reasonable decision, in view of the news you carried.” He paused to let Terisa volunteer an explanation, but she didn’t speak. No matter. He would get all the answers he wanted from her eventually. “I am sure,” he resumed, “I came very close to achieving exactly what I desired with the Queen.

“If, on the other hand, I had done as you – and Festten – advise, I might have gained nothing. The Queen would have been in my hands – and the translation would have made her mad. Damaging hostages is a blade with two edges. Her madness might have hurt Joyse enough to weaken him. Or it might have incensed him enough to disregard her. Then the effort of attacking her would have been wasted.”

There remained the question of what had happened to the Queen. And the question of how Joyse had contrived to rejoin his army, after his disappearance from Orison. But those answers could wait as well. Thinking about his own tactics brought new joy to the Master’s loins. The satisfaction he wanted from Terisa was long overdue.

“But you have this mirror now,” she said as if she couldn’t see her peril in his eyes. “Why don’t you just translate King Joyse and Prince Kragen? Make them mad? Then you can’t lose. Without them, the army will collapse. And you can lock them up the way you did Nyle. You can laugh at them until they die.”

Oh, how she pleased him! She made him laugh. “I will do that, I assure you,” he promised. “At the right moment, I will do it, and it will give me more pleasure than you can conceive.”

In the mirror, along the sides of the monster, the forces of Cadwal and Mordant and Alend met for their last battle.

“At first, of course,” Eremis explained, “I had to be cautious. You taught me to respect your talents. If I had given you the chance, you might have broken my mirror. But that danger ended when you came here. When you gave yourself into my power.”

Initially, the fight was even. The walls of the valley and the bulk of the slug-beast narrowed the ground, restricted the number of Cadwals able to advance together. And Joyse’s men fought as if they were inspired. Even Kragen and that dour loon the Termigan seemed inspired. For a time, at least, Festten lost a lot of men and gained nothing.

“Now I wait only to let these armies do each other as much harm as possible. Joyse cannot win, but before he dies he may give Festten a victory as costly as any defeat. That will humble even the High King’s arrogance. It will make him too weak to think he can command or refuse me.”

Then, inevitably, the defenders on the left began to crumble. Norge went down; he disappeared under a rush of Cadwal hooves. In spite of his native grimness, the Termigan was forced backward. Their men tried to retreat in some semblance of order, but the Cadwals surged after them, overtook them, hacked them apart. Festten’s strength started flooding into the valley.

“So I will let the battle progress a while. I will wish Joyse all the success he can manage. And then” – Eremis was so delighted that he wanted applause – “at the crucial moment I will translate him away to the madness and ruin he deserves.”

He wasn’t particularly surprised to see Festten himself lead the second wave of the assault. The High King had an old and overwhelming desire to see Joyse die; he would have been ecstatic to kill his nemesis himself. Eremis considered, however, that Festten was taking a useless risk. The Master had no intention of allowing the High King the gratification he craved.

There was something odd in the way Terisa regarded Master Eremis, something that resembled hunger. Softly, she asked, “Have you hated him all your life? Even when you were just a kid? the first time you translated that monster? Did you hate him even then?”

“Hate him?” Eremis laughed again. “Terisa, you mistake me. You always mistake me.” The pressure inside him was rising, rising. “I do not hate him. I hate no one. I only despise weakness and folly. As a youth, when I shaped the mirror which showed what you call ‘that monster,’ I translated it merely as an experiment. To learn what I could do. Later I was forced to abandon my glass in order to avoid being captured with it, and that vexed me. I promised then I would retaliate.

“But I do not waste my time” – he was growing deliciously ready for her – “I assure you that I do not waste my time on hate.”

She continued to gaze at him with her curious blend of absence and hunger. She had her back to the windows and the sunlight; perhaps that was what made her eyes look so dark, her beauty seem so fatal.

Huskily, bringing the words up from far down her throat, she said, “Let me show you what I can do.”

With one hand, she reached out and gently touched her fingertips to the unmistakable bulge in the front of his cloak.

He felt like crowing.

Frantically, Artagel fought to prolong his life, keep himself on his feet for one more moment, just one, then another if he could do it. He was the best swordsman in Mordant, wasn’t he? Surely he could keep himself alive one more moment at a time?

Maybe not. The pain in his side had become a fire that filled his lungs, so that he seemed to snatch each raw breath through a conflagration. His sword kept turning in his hands; blood and sweat ruined his grip. His legs had lost their spring; he had no more strength to do anything except shuffle his boots over the stone. Sometimes his heavy lurching from side to side dashed water and blood off his brows, cleared his vision; most of the time, however, he had trouble seeing.

How had the corridor become so narrow? He couldn’t seem to get a full swing, no matter what he did.

Gart, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be experiencing any difficulty. His brief, wild fury had faded. In fact, the pace of his attacks was slower now, more deliberate; more malicious. He was toying with his opponent. Yellow glee shone in his eyes, and he grinned as if he were crowing inside.

What a way to die. No, worse than that: what a way to be beaten. Artagel was a fighter; he had lived most of his life in the vicinity of death. For him, it was at once so familiar and so unimaginable that he couldn’t be afraid of it. But to be beaten like this, utterly, miserably—

Oh, Geraden, forgive me.

If only, he thought dumbly, if only he hadn’t been hurt the last time. If only he hadn’t spent so much time in bed.

Terisa, forgive me.

But it was stupid to wish for things like that. Foolish regret: a waste of time and energy and life. Gart had beaten him the last time, too. And the time before that.

I will regret nothing.

He retreated down the passage, past more doors than he could count; stumbling, barely on his feet. By bare will, he kept his sword up for Gart to play with.

If anybody thinks he can do better than this, let him try.

That was enough. As unsteady as a drunk, he stopped; he locked both hands around his wet swordhilt.

I will regret nothing.

Almost retching for air, he jerked forward and did his absolute best to split Gart’s head open.

Negligently, Gart blocked the blow.

Artagel’s eyes were full of blood: he couldn’t see what happened. But he knew from the sound, the familiar echoing clang after his swing, and from the sudden shift of balance, that he had broken his sword.

One jagged half remained in his fists; the other rang away across the floor, singing metallically of failure.

“Now,” Gart breathed like silk. “Now, you fool.”

Involuntarily, Artagel went down on one knee, as if he couldn’t stay on his feet without an intact weapon.

The High King’s Monomach raised his sword. Between streaks of Artagel’s blood, the steel gleamed.

For some reason, a door behind Gart opened.

Nyle came into the passage.

He looked like Artagel felt: abused to the bone; exhausted beyond bearing. But he held the chains of his manacles clenched in his fists, and he swung the heavy rings on the ends of the chains at Gart’s head.

The instincts which had made Gart the High King’s Monomach saved him. Warned by some visceral intuition, some impalpable tremor in the air, he wrenched himself aside and started turning.

The rings missed his head, came down on his left shoulder.

They hit him hard enough to strike that arm away from his sword. But he did most of his fighting one-handed anyway, despite his weapon’s weight. While his left arm fell numb – maybe broken – his right was already in motion, bringing his blade around to sever Nyle’s neck.

Nyle!

In that moment, a piece of time as quick and eternal as a translation, Artagel brought up the last strength from the bottom of his heart and lunged forward.

With his whole body, he drove his broken sword through the armhole of Gart’s armor.

Then he and Nyle collapsed on Gart’s corpse as if they had become kindred spirits at last.

He had the peculiar conviction that he needed to prevent Gart from rising up after death and shedding more blood. A long time seemed to pass before he recovered enough sanity to wonder whether Nyle was still alive.

The crash and burn of Master Gilbur’s storm seemed to blot out Geraden’s senses, smother his will. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a breath. On the other hand, air wasn’t especially important to him at the moment. Lightning struck the stone so close-by that it nearly scorched him; he could feel the shock like a tingle in the floor. Darkness swept the sunlight away: thunder tried to crush him.

Well, the storm daunted the wolves, held them at bay. That was some consolation. And if it continued to mount in this enclosed space, it would begin to topple the mirrors.

Master Gilbur didn’t appear to care any longer what might happen to his mirrors. He was roaring like the blast, and his hunched back strained to lift his head as high as possible, gnash his jaws at the ceiling.

With a massive concussion, all the windows blew out. At once, the pressure around Geraden eased, and he started breathing again.

Too bad: the loss of the windows might save the mirrors. Unless the roof came down.

Gilbur had to be stopped. Geraden had the distinct impression that the Imager was going mad, transported by power. A storm like this, constricted like this, could conceivably level the whole building.

Geraden had done it once. Could he do it again?

Forget the thunder that deafened him, stunned his mind. Forget the lightning, the near-miss of fire hot enough to incinerate his bones. Forget wind and wolves and violence.

Think about glass.

Despite the storm, Gilbur’s only real weapon was the mirror itself, a piece of normal glass. It had a particular hue blended of sand and tinct; a particular shape created by molds and rollers and heat. His talent had made it what it was. His talent opened it like a blown-out window between worlds. But Geraden also had talent. He could feel the mirror, see its Image in his mind as if by the simple intensity of his perception, his imagination, he made it real.

He didn’t know how to halt the translation. But he could shift the Image.

No. Gilbur was resisting him. Forewarned by what had happened to the mirror of the wolves, the Imager clung to this glass grimly, forced the translation.

Don’t give up. Don’t get confused. No matter how it felt, this wasn’t a contest between lightning and flesh, thunder and hearing, wind and muscle. Those things were irrelevant. The struggle was one of will and talent. Gilbur may have been mad, exalted by hate, but he had no experience with this kind of battle; none of the Masters had ever been trained to fight for control of their translations in this way.

And Geraden had gone wrong so often in his life that it had become intolerable. He loved too many people, and they had been too badly hurt.

In one moment briefer than a heartbeat, the Image shifted.

Severed in mid-passage, the storm blasted the glass to powder.

Geraden couldn’t hear anything: the abrupt silence seemed louder than thunder. He saw Master Gilbur cursing him, spitting apoplectic fury at him, but the oaths made no noise. The sprinkling fall of glass-dust was mute. The wolves bared their fangs, and their chests heaved, but their snarling was voiceless.

While Geraden struggled to his feet, Gilbur moved to another mirror.

For one stunned instant, Geraden gaped at the Image and didn’t understand. What power did Gilbur see there? The glass showed an empty landscape, nothing more: a barren stretch of ground riddled with cracks, tossed with boulders, but devoid of anything that breathed or moved or could attack.

Then, as Master Gilbur got his hands on the frame and began to snarl his concentration-chant as if it were fundamentally obscene, Geraden saw the ground in the Image jumping.

The boulders rocked and heaved, lifted from the dirt; the edges of the landscape vibrated.

Earthquake.

Gilbur’s mirror showed a place in a state of ongoing cataclysm, of almost perpetual orogenic crisis – the kind of crisis that built and broke mountains, shouldered oceans aside, shattered continents.

He was translating an earthquake.

“No!” Geraden cried through the mounting tectonic rumble. “You will not do this!”

“Stop me!” bellowed back the Imager, impervious to authority, or reason, or self-destruction. “Stop me, you puny bastard!”

The stronghold would go down in moments: it hadn’t been built to withstand an earthquake. That would end the translation. As soon as the ceiling fell, Gilbur would be crushed; his mirror would be crushed.

But in the meantime everyone else inside would die. Terisa and Eremis. Artagel and Gart. Nyle. Geraden himself. And the tremor might trigger the collapse of the surrounding hills. The devastation might spread for miles before it faded.

Yes! Geraden had no idea whether or not he shouted aloud. I will stop you! He ignored the accelerating tremble under his boots, the deepening, rocky groan in the air; he accepted Gilbur’s challenge. You will not do this!

With all the force he possessed, he took control of the glass, arrested the translation.

This time, Master Gilbur was ready for him; braced and powerful; completely insane. The virulence of the Imager’s will to open the mirror shocked through Geraden, burned him like fire, nauseated him like poison. The mirror itself was merely held, locked between opposing talents; but everything Gilbur brought to the battle seemed to strike straight into Geraden.

Rages he had never felt, needs he had never understood, lusts he had never imagined; loathsome things, destructive things; fears so inarticulate and consuming that they deformed the Master’s essential being.

Long years ago, before King Joyse brought him to the Congery, Gilbur had been an Imager living alone in the Armigite hills, interested only in his own researches. But he had been attacked; and in the struggle the roof of his cave had fallen on him, pinning him under a block of stone. He had lain there for hours or days until Eremis had rescued him.

During that time, he had suffered like the damned.

Excruciating pain in the long, lonely dark; a horror of death elevated to agony by every terrible fear he could imagine; screams no one would ever hear, even though they went on for the rest of his life.

He had come through that experience mangled in spirit as well as in body. It had made him who he was: hungry and violent; eager for power; devoted to Eremis. Many times since joining the Congery, he would have gone amok, if he hadn’t been restrained by Eremis’ presence – or crippled by the suspicion that it was Eremis who had attacked him in the first place. Now he hurled all his twisted needs and desires into his translation; hurled them all at Geraden.

They should have been enough to make Geraden quail. But they weren’t. In an odd, unforeseen way, he was prepared for them.

He, too, had once been buried alive, under the rubble of Darsint’s escape from Orison. He had tasted pain and horror, hopeless suffocation. And now, as then, other people’s needs were more important to him than his own.

If Gilbur’s translation succeeded, Terisa and Artagel and Nyle would die. Everyone in and around the stronghold would probably die. Without the help Geraden and Terisa could give, King Joyse might die, taking Mordant and eventually Alend with him.

So Geraden ignored the harsh anguish Gilbur sent at him. He closed his mind to his visceral fear of trembling stone. He shut the wolves out of his awareness.

Will-to-will, he met Master Gilbur’s madness and held the mirror, sealing the glass in the onset of translation, keeping the earthquake back.

That was Gilbur’s chance. If he had let go of the mirror then and used his dagger, he could have killed Geraden almost without effort.

But he didn’t let go. Maybe he couldn’t. Or maybe somewhere down at the bottom of his heart he wanted to be stopped. Whatever the reason, he clung to the glass frame, clung to his translation, and tried to make his hate stronger than Geraden’s determination.

In the end, it wasn’t his hate that failed him: it was his body. Without warning, while he strained and raged, a pain as heavy as a spear drove through the center of his chest.

He blanched; his hands slipped from the mirror; involuntarily, he clutched at his heart. Slowly, his jaw dropped, and his eyes began to gape. Reaching for air he could no longer find, he stumbled to his knees as if the ground had been cut out from under him.

His whole face twisted as if he wanted to curse Geraden before he died. But he had lost his chance. He was already dead as he toppled to the stone.

The wolves would have killed Geraden then. He was too shaken to defend himself, too deeply shocked. Artagel and Nyle arrived in time to save him, however. Artagel was exhausted, of course, hardly able to lift his arms; but he had Gart’s sword, and it seemed to give him strength. And Nyle swung his chains crazily, which made one or two of the wolves hesitate, giving Artagel the opportunity to dispatch them.

The three brothers hugged each other long and hard before they went to look for Terisa.

“No.” Master Eremis caught her by the wrist and pulled her hand away from him. “Not yet. I am not ready to trust you.” But he was ready to do everything else to her. “I have not forgotten that you once kicked me.”

She continued to gaze at him as if he hadn’t spoken. The combination of hunger and absence in her eyes didn’t change.

Again, he wondered what she had hidden away in the secret places of her heart. Was that where she kept her fear? Or did she still have surprises left in her?

He was ready for everything about her, ready to take away everything she had. Before he was done, she would confess her secrets, all of them, she would give him everything about herself, hoping that it would save her. But nothing would save her. He was going to take all she had and leave her empty.

Now, however, she wasn’t looking at him any longer. Her attention had returned to the mirror.

Kragen still held his ground, blocked the right side of the valley with more success than Eremis had expected from him; but the defense to the left continued crumbling. The forces of Alend and Mordant seemed to dissolve under the Cadwal charge. Hurrying to take advantage of this opportunity, the Cadwals gathered speed.

High King Festten followed them, bringing all his reinforcements to that side. In moments, Festten himself rode past the dead length of the slug-beast, entering the valley at a hard canter.

As soon as the High King was in reach, Joyse struck. With the third portion of his army, he came down the valley like a hammer and smashed into the front of the charge.

At the same time, Kragen abandoned his position. Leaving behind only enough men to keep his side of the valley closed for a short time, he brought the rest of his strength against the Cadwal incursion.

And the Termigan did the same from the other side.

He was retreating, his men were scrambling for their lives, they were already beaten – and suddenly they turned and became a coherent force again and attacked. Backed by the rampart wall, they drove into the Cadwals near the narrowest point of access to the valley—

—hit so hard, so unexpectedly, that they cut Festten off.

With four or five thousand of his men still outside the valley, out of reach, the High King found himself facing his old enemy in battle.

Here for a short time at any rate the conditions of combat were almost even: the numbers of the armies were nearly equal. Nevertheless there was nothing equal about the way the men fought.

The Cadwals had been taken by surprise, outmaneuvered; their greatest weapon, the slug-beast, was dead; they couldn’t retreat. Their consternation was obvious through the mirror, as vivid as a shout. And the forces of Mordant and Alend struck as if they knew that while King Joyse led them they could never be defeated.

They didn’t know that Joyse was as good as dead, that Eremis could translate him to madness at any time. They only knew that he was leading them again, and fighting mightily, that no one had ever seen him lose. His spirit seemed to sweep them with him, carry them all to power.

Almost immediately, what should have been an even fight began to look like a victory for the King.

Terisa cleared her throat. Softly, but precisely, so that each word was unmistakable, she asked, “Do you hear horns?”

Horns?

Eremis studied her narrowly. He didn’t care about the battle, not anymore; the fire in him needed a different outlet. No matter what happened in the valley, Joyse’s doom was here: this mirror would ruin him. And if Festten was beaten first, so much the better. Eremis was done with that alliance. It had served its purpose.

But she wasn’t looking at him.

He wanted her to look at him. He wanted to see fear in her eyes.

With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her.

Still she wasn’t afraid. The hunger she had revealed earlier was gone. Blankness filled her gaze.

No, Terisa, he promised, there is no escape that way. There is no part of you so secret that I cannot find it and hurt it.

To get her attention, he unclasped his cloak and let it drop, then undid his trousers so that she could see the size of his passion against her.

Still her eyes showed no fear. She looked past him or through him as if she had gone blind.

Fiercely, he caught hold of her, closed his arms around her, sealed his mouth on hers. He meant to kiss her until she resisted – or melted—

But she was already limp. All her muscles had gone dead. Her lips felt cold, as if the blood in her heart had become ice.

He gripped her brutally, so furious at her for defying him this way that he wanted to break her back, punish her at once, absolutely. He was strong enough: he could do it. Crushing his forearms across her spine, he tried to find the place where she could still feel pain.

An unexpected movement caught the corner of his eye.

She turned her head toward it as if she knew what it meant.

Before he had time to think, he looked at the mirror.

The movement was there; but it wasn’t the movement of armies, it wasn’t in the Image. The Image itself was moving, modulating—

While he watched, the scene which the glass reflected became a large room with a bed and instruments of enjoyment; stone floors; sunshine.

At the center of the scene, facing Eremis, stood a tall, naked man with a nose that was too big, cheekbones that sloped too much toward his ears, a thatch of black hair too far back on his skull. Despite their usual intelligence and humor, the man’s eyes were wide, almost gaping.

His arms held an unattractively dressed woman. Her body sagged against him as if the last of her strength had faded away.

Her eyes, on the other hand—

They were no longer blank. She had gone so far down inside herself that she had reached a place of unexpected power. Darkness seemed to spill from her gaze like a void overflowing, a black emptiness reaching out to gather him in.

He was seeing himself, and her; that was his own Image echoed in the flat mirror. It had a luminous quality, a precise perfection, which startled him like a revelation, as if it were all he needed to know.

Let me show you what I can do.

The last thing he felt before his mind vanished into eternal translation was a sense of complete astonishment.

FIFTY-TWO: NO MORE FIGHTING

Terisa seemed to hang limp there in Master Eremis’ frozen embrace for a long time.

At one point, she thought she remembered a peculiar tremor under her feet, a trembling in the stone. It was gone before she noticed it, however, and her recollection of it was uncertain.

Nevertheless the effort of trying to think helped bring her back.

Now she remembered something else, something she couldn’t be mistaken about: the sound of horns.

She had heard them plainly, winding through her heart: the music of hunting, the bold summons of music; the call to risk and beauty. Even though mirrors couldn’t transmit sound, the horns had come to her while she watched King Joyse ride into battle; she had heard the horns as she had seen him fight. They had lifted her up—

The memory of them lifted her now, restored her to herself.

It was time to move.

She didn’t know what had happened to Artagel and Geraden, but she wasn’t afraid; not yet. Gart would have stopped Geraden if he could. And Master Gilbur would have attacked King Joyse by Imagery if he could. Since Gilbur had done nothing – except make the floor tremble? – Geraden and Artagel must still be alive. She wanted to see them, however, all three of the brothers. She wanted to feel Geraden’s arms around her and look at Artagel’s face and find out how Nyle was.

She took one last look at her Image, making sure of herself. Then she released her hold on the mirror, so that it could resume its natural reflection.

After that, she began to squirm out of Eremis’ grasp.

He was as hard as stone, still erect and rigid; every part of him was tight with unsatisfied ambition and striving. As a result, she found it difficult to get away from him. Nevertheless, because he couldn’t react to her movements, he couldn’t keep her.

After a moment, she was free.

He went on standing as though she were his forever – as if he had only turned his head momentarily from her best kiss to glance at the mirror before consummating their embrace.

Vaguely, she wondered if he might be in pain, if he had enough of himself left to feel outrage or loss. She doubted it.

Then Geraden and Artagel and Nyle entered the room.

Despite their obvious exhaustion, they had all come to fight for her. Artagel held his sword poised; Nyle swung his chains; Geraden’s face was full of threats. They all came forward to fling themselves at Master Eremis. But when they saw that he wasn’t moving, that he couldn’t move, and she was unharmed, Geraden gave a shout of joy, Artagel blinked in happy astonishment, and Nyle dropped his chains.

Oh, Geraden. Oh, love. Mute with relief and constricted weeping, she hugged him and hugged him while Artagel thumped her back boisterously and Nyle shed quiet tears of his own.

None of them asked any questions. They were all happy to wait a while to find out what had happened.

On the other hand, after a moment they a found themselves looking at the mirror.

Its focus had to be adjusted before they could see King Joyse. He had ridden so far down the valley, was so heavily engaged among the Cadwals, that he was momentarily out of view. When they located him, however, they saw almost at once that he might win this battle.

His forces and the High King’s still seemed roughly equal in numbers. But the Termigan and his men continued to block the left side of the valley; the soldiers Prince Kragen had left in place sealed the right side. As a result, High King Festten wasn’t receiving any reinforcements.

He needed reinforcements. The Cadwals simply weren’t fighting as well or as hard as their opponents. King Joyse and the Prince attacked them from two sides, and the Termigan cut at their rear, and the rampart wall and the slug-beast’s corpse hemmed them in: they had no room to maneuver, no avenue of escape. And the men of Alend and Mordant fought as if they couldn’t be beaten.

At the sight, Artagel’s face shone, and Geraden cheered, “Look at him! Didn’t I tell you he was worth serving?” He had apparently forgotten that Nyle might have a different reaction. “Didn’t I?”

Terisa still needed to weep. At the same time, a fierce exultation rose in her. She had to struggle to make her throat work. “Something I want to do.”

Unable to explain, she waved Geraden and Artagel and Nyle back from the mirror. She moved it so that Master Eremis no longer blocked her way. Nearly in tears, nearly crowing, she adjusted the focus of the Image up to the rampart, to the last catapult.

The engine was ready to throw – and both King Joyse and Prince Kragen appeared to be within range.

Striking her only blow of the battle, Terisa translated a strut out of the catapult’s frame. The timber was under such pressure that it came through the glass like a shot and slammed against the far wall.

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.