The Mirror of Her Dreams

FOURTEEN: OUT OF THE RUBBLE

Castellan Lebbick suspected that he was foundering inside. Of course, life in Orison had been going from bad to worse for some time now; but suddenly the purpose of his life had sprung leaks in all directions.

Because of the Congery’s gamble, he had several crises to deal with at once. But they were only symptoms; they weren’t fundamental. As he strode to face them, he was smiling like a hawk; and only his wife – and perhaps King Joyse – had ever known him well enough to realize that this smile was a bad sign. To other people, he probably looked like he was in his element, eager for the conflicts or disasters that would provide an outlet and a justification for his rage. Only his wife and his oldest friend could have understood the particular ferocity of his grin.

Unfortunately, his wife was dead – miserably dead, killed by a long, hacking illness that cut her life out as effectively as a knife in her lungs. Nearly a year had passed, and he still missed her so acutely that it seemed to make his guts tremble.

And King Joyse had cast him adrift.

He had refused to hear the Fayle. One way or another, he blocked every vital act, interfered with every hope.

The Castellan clenched his teeth tighter, stretched his smile thinner, and refused to think about it. King Joyse was his reason for living. The passions that had led to the founding of Mordant, the ideals that had inspired the creation of the Congery – these things were the blood in his veins, the air in his chest. He was the King’s hands. The King had rescued him—

Now the King had refused to hear the Fayle. He had abandoned it all to die, Mordant and passion and purpose, abandoned it to die miserably, hacking its life out while Castellan Lebbick cradled it in his arms and couldn’t let go.

No, he was definitely not going to think about that. He had too many other problems in front of him.

That woman.

To himself, he chewed out a long, scathing curse. She was in everything somehow. The connections were there, if he could find them: she was doing this to Orison and Mordant somehow.

And she made the back of his throat ache with a desire he hadn’t felt since the days of his wife’s best beauty.

He wasn’t going to think about that, either. He was going to do his job, cling to it until he recovered what it meant.

For a start, he was going to sort out the consequences of the latest catastrophe perpetrated by those pig-brained Imagers.

His task had the advantage of being both dramatic and subtle. All the crises were linked together in some way.

First in point of time, if not in degree of urgency, there was the matter of Prince Kragen’s dead bodyguards.

Clearly, they had been killed for some reason. And they couldn’t have shed all that blood by themselves. Furthermore, it seemed unlikely that they were responsible for tracking their own blood away from the places where they lay dead.

And that woman had returned to her rooms liberally besmirched with blood.

There was a band of renegade soldiers – or worse – loose in Orison. They were skilled and numerous enough – or worse – to kill trained bodyguards and carry away their own dead or wounded. They had friends to conceal them. They had something to do with that woman. And their purpose was to instigate a war between Mordant and Alend. Or worse.

That brought up other matters. What had happened to the man in black who had tried to kill her during the night after her arrival? He had escaped easily enough. Why hadn’t he made another attempt?

What came next? An attack on the King himself?

And King Joyse had refused to hear the Fayle. The old lord had tried to warn the King of the Congery’s intentions, and the King had refused to hear him. The Fayle had spoken directly to the Castellan because he had no other recourse.

Which raised the question of how the Fayle had come to know what those Imagers meant to do. He had flatly declined to answer when Lebbick had demanded an answer.

As for the Congery’s crazy defiance of King Joyse’s prohibition against forced translations, Castellan Lebbick knew who was responsible – or, more accurately, he knew whom he could blame. He had compelled the Fayle to mention a name or two. But they would have to wait. The results of that translation posed more immediate problems.

Apparently to defend them against Alend or Cadwal, the Imagers had chosen some alien man of war whom they had discovered in their mirrors – a soldier of commanding power, weaponry, and fierceness. So what did they expect after snatching a fighter like that out of his own life? A docile bow? A humble offer of service? They were lucky he had simply brought down the ceiling of their meeting hall, instead of murdering them individually as they deserved.

Judging by the way he had blasted an escape up out of the laborium and through the thick northwest wall of Orison to open air, he was certainly powerful enough to have murdered any number of people. In fact, Lebbick had at first feared he would turn and attempt to raze the castle itself. If that had happened, the Castellan would have had no choice but to hale whatever Imagers he could find to the defense. Completely unforewarned, his own forces and siege engines weren’t in position for war.

Fortunately, the champion kept on going – away from Orison, lumbering madly through the snow like a rogue animal. Something about the way he moved suggested to Castellan Lebbick’s experienced observation that he was hurt.

That left two exigent dilemmas, neither of which was the gaping breach in the wall. Of course, the breach was an enormous problem, and it was going to become urgent – but not yet. First the champion had to be pursued. That was obvious. His location had to be known, so that some effort could be made to control him, stop him. His present rampage would take him through the most densely populated region of the Demesne straight toward Batten and the heart of the Care of Armigite.

On the other hand, Master Quillon kept harrying the Castellan’s heels like a ferret, thrusting his dust-caked face forward whenever Lebbick paused and shouting that the woman and Geraden had been buried under the collapse of the ceiling.

Castellan Lebbick bared his teeth. “Do you mean you think they’re still alive?”

“I don’t know!” returned Quillon. “But they won’t be if you don’t get them out!”

Lebbick debated the question with himself. He didn’t have enough men available to both pursue the champion and dig effectively in the rubble. Some time would be needed to call up reinforcements from the encampments among the hills around Orison.

One of those encampments, however, lay reasonably close to the path the champion appeared to be taking.

Without hesitation, the Castellan did his job. He sent one aide to summon all the guards of the castle to the ruined meeting hall. Another ran for the courtyard to get a horse, bearing explicit instructions for several detachments of the King’s forces. Then Lebbick turned back to Master Quillon.

“This will be slow. We can’t shift all that stone in just a few hours.” Gauging the relative positions of the chamber and the breach, he commented, “It’ll have to be shifted uphill. If that woman and Geraden aren’t dead yet, they’ll suffocate soon.” Almost without malice, he added, “Unless you and the rest of the Congery can think of some way to be helpful for a change.”

Unaware that he was smiling, he strode away.

Quillon went to find Master Barsonage.

He located the mediator on the floor outside one of the doors of the chamber. Those doors had saved the Congery. Not knowing what to expect from the champion, the Masters had retreated to the walls, and so they had been able to reach the doors almost instantly. As a result, only two of them were dead: one hit by the champion’s first blast; another fallen under a block of stone. The rest were safe – including Master Gilbur and Master Eremis, although no one knew how they had contrived to get away in time.

But Master Barsonage didn’t look particularly safe. He was covered with dust, chips of stone, and flakes of ancient mortar – as Quillon was himself – which gave him the appearance of a derelict. The rims of his eyes showed red through the caking dust; his mouth hung open; he sat with his hands dangling between his knees. He might have been in shock from a wound that didn’t show because it was hidden by dirt.

“Barsonage!” snapped Master Quillon. “Get up! We must hurry.”

For a moment, Master Barsonage didn’t respond. He stared sightlessly past Quillon as though the ruin of the chamber had made him deaf. But when Master Quillon began to fume, the mediator raised his head and blinked.

“Quillon,” he croaked in recognition, his voice husky with dust and dismay. “I knew it was a mistake. From the first. We should never have tampered with someone that powerful. But there was no alternative. Was there? The augury— And everyone was against us. The lords, Cadwal and Alend, King Joyse—”

He lowered his head again. “It was a mistake.”

“Never mind,” Master Quillon cut in impatiently. “We all make mistakes. Come on.”

Master Barsonage gave Master Quillon a look of blank incomprehension.

“Geraden and the lady Terisa!” Quillon was practically hopping from foot to foot. “They are buried under all that stone!”

The mediator’s expression didn’t change. “So is Gilbur’s glass. It is powder. We have no way to undo what we have done. Geraden’s mirror has shown that it does not translate properly. And any other glass will be a sentence of death, either for our ‘champion’ or for the Image that receives him.”

“Mirrors preserve us! Wake up, Master Barsonage! Forget the champion. We must rescue Geraden and the lady! Castellan Lebbick’s men will make the attempt, but it will be too slow. All that stone must be moved up and out. It will be too slow.”

Slowly, Master Barsonage began to understand. “They cannot be alive,” he muttered. “Under all that? It is impossible.”

“They must be!” shouted Master Quillon so hard that his voice squeaked. “We have no other hope! Come on!”

Urgently, he reached down and tried to pull the much larger Imager upright.

For a moment longer, the mediator seemed unable to achieve enough resolution to get his legs under him. But then he muttered, “I suppose we must. Even if it is hopeless. After this disaster, how else can we show our good will?”

Puffing dust, he heaved himself to his feet.

As quickly as possible, Quillon took Master Barsonage toward the warren of converted cells where the mirrors of the Congery were displayed and protected. After a certain amount of dithering, the mediator chose the glass Master Quillon had had in mind all along – the tall mirror reflecting a fathomless seascape, nothing but water in all directions. Strong under his girth, Master Barsonage picked up the glass without assistance and carried it back to the meeting hall.

He was starting to move faster. His carriage became steadier. When he and Master Quillon encountered other Imagers – retreating from the debacle, milling around in the halls – he issued commands with increasing authority, summoning the rest of the Congery to his support.

The two Masters soon reached the chamber.

The nearest door stood open, letting winter blow dust and cold and snow into the corridor.

Inside, the pile of rubble was substantial: it reached halfway to where the ceiling had once been. To the stone of that ceiling had been added a wide portion of the level above it, as well as all the damage the champion had left behind him on his way up to and through the outer wall. Much of the mound was composed of cut granite – ponderous foundation slabs, huge monoliths from the interior of the walls and pillars, smaller pieces which the builders of Orison had used like bricks – but the champion’s rifle had reduced enormous quantities of rock to powder and pebbles.

Now Master Quillon understood the Castellan’s point better. The only way the guards could clear the space was by somehow transporting the rubble up and out of the hole. Even with the help of every appropriate mirror in Orison, the job might take all day.

The whole place was in gloom, blocked from light by Orison’s bulk and the thickening snowfall. Nevertheless he could see the cloud-clogged morning sky, the pall of dust in the air, the guards and other servants of the castle who had already arrived and begun fighting the pile with shovels, picks, and crowbars.

He could see Artagel on top of the mound, wrestling like a madman to shift blocks and shards nearly as large as himself. His curses sounded like cries.

At once, Master Quillon clambered up the side of the pile toward Geraden’s brother. Encumbered by the mirror, the mediator followed more slowly.

When he reached Artagel, Quillon caught at his arm. Artagel brushed the Master aside without a glance. The fixed wildness in his eyes made him look dangerous.

“Make room, Artagel!” barked Master Quillon. “We can do this better. It will be of no help to Geraden if you rupture yourself. We can reach him, but we need cooperation, not stupid single-mindedness.”

“He is my brother,” Artagel panted between exertions.

The Master spat an obscenity that sounded silly, coming from him. “I do not care if he is your mother, your father, and the bastard offspring of every act of fornication in all the history of Mordant. Help us or get away.”

Artagel’s fists clenched murderously; he forced them to relax. “Show me, Imager,” he breathed through his teeth. “Show me you can do better.”

By this time, Master Barsonage had gained the top of the mound. Master Quillon rasped at Artagel, “Then make room,” as the mediator positioned his mirror beside the block Artagel had been trying to move.

Quillon helped hold the glass. While the mediator murmured the invocations that had gone into the shaping of this mirror, the two Imagers lowered the glass toward the block—

—and the block was translated away into the rolling sea.

Artagel gaped for a second. Then he started to grin.

More Imagers and many more guards were arriving. Several of the Masters had mirrors with them, Eremis among them. Master Quillon noticed Gilbur’s absence; but he had no time to worry about that. While he and Master Barsonage shifted their glass, he shouted instructions to the guards. Rapidly, they organized themselves into teams around each mirror. Someone threw a shovel up to Artagel. At a nod from Master Barsonage, he began heaving rubble at the mirror, working to clear an approach to the next large piece of granite.

Powder and pebbles and hunks of rock large enough to shatter any glass passed into the Image and were swallowed by the sea. If Master Quillon had cared to do so, he could have watched the splash as each shovelful of rubble hit the water.

Glancing around the pile, he recognized the other mirrors as they were put to work. Only two of them were as large as the one he and Master Barsonage held, but they had all been intelligently chosen: none were flat; none showed scenes where the sudden appearance of huge heaps of rock would do any damage. The only possible exception was the glass Master Eremis employed with the flustered assistance of a young Apt. It reflected a gigantic and ravenous slug-like beast, with fangs that looked poisonous and malign eyes. The guards around Eremis shoveled rubble straight into the creature’s face.

The creature appeared to be roaring in fury.

“Quillon!” Master Barsonage demanded. “Pay attention!”

Hurriedly, Master Quillon helped the mediator adjust his mirror to translate another large chunk of stone.

“Is there a chance?” Artagel asked. “Can they really be alive down there?”

“They must be,” Quillon averred again. That conviction was becoming harder and harder to sustain, however.

***

Terisa knew she was alive.

The scant air she was able to draw into her lungs was thick with dust: they were full of it, and whenever that dry suffocation forced her to cough, the pressure against the edges and corners of rock gouging her chest threatened to crack her ribs. Every breath raised grit into her face, scouring her eyeballs, blinding her to the darkness. And she could feel the weight of the rubble pressing down on her, slowly compressing her until her weak flesh and bones would burst and break. In addition, the rocks were hot, charred by the champion’s rifle. The air was so warm it ached.

She knew she was alive. But she had no idea why.

The champion had pressed her face-down on top of Geraden: she had been in no position to observe the way his metal-clad form and his destructive fire shielded her from the worst of the stonefall. Blocks of stone came down on him and bounced aside, forming a pocket around her; slabs of rock were cut into pieces and powder which made a cushion over her body and Geraden’s. In consequence, when he turned away to burn a path for himself out of Orison, the rubble that fell immediately onto her and Geraden came, not from the ceiling and the upper level, but from the sides of the protective pocket. And smaller pieces wedged the fall securely enough to hold it in place as more and more debris from the champion’s rampage was added to the pile.

She was still breathing. Against all likelihood, there was still air trapped in the stone heap.

It wasn’t going to last.

With a palpable shift, a hard ridge clamping the middle of her back pressed down another fraction of an inch. She struggled frantically, but couldn’t move anything more than her fingers. The heat and the dust made her want to gag on each shallow breath she sucked through the rocks. Pain like the caress of flame increased in her lungs, her eyes, her outstretched limbs. To die like this, slowly, feeling it happen moment by moment, feeling the hurt grow worse with each feather-width change in the poise of the rubble—

Something like this had happened to her before. Sometimes, when her mother and father had been angry at her, they had locked her in the closet. No one had answered her cries, her timid or hysterical appeals, until she had been quiet long enough to appease her parents. And once – for an offense which might have been heinous or trivial – she had been thrust into the back of the closet and armfuls of clothes had been tossed in on top of her before the door was locked, so that the house would be insulated from any protest she might make.

There in the dark, she had had her first experience with fading.

The clothes had choked her, and the dark was locked and absolute on all sides; and suddenly she had understood that her distress and panic meant nothing, that sensations like fear and asphyxiation meant nothing – that the locked door and the piled clothes and the dark made her unreal. For the first time, she had felt herself losing reality, felt her existence leeching out into the enshrouding blackness.

She hadn’t realized it at the time – perhaps she had never realized it – but this response to the crisis had protected her. It had prevented the dark and her parents’ unlove from creeping in.

This time, unfortunately, there was no protection. Her mind was going to snap. She could feel a crazy desire to scream rising from the bottom of her stomach. Then she would inhale so much dust that the effort to breathe would tear her heart.

“Geraden.” Her voice was a whisper, as desperate as the powder burning in her lungs. “Geraden. Can you hear me?”

But of course he couldn’t hear her. She had been lying on top of him, but not in a position that afforded him any protection. And he had been on his back, facing the stone-fall. His head must have been crushed immediately. He must still be under her somewhere, but nothing there felt soft enough to be a body.

“Geraden.” Her mind was definitely going to snap. “Geraden.”

There was a way out, however. It came to her without drama, almost without surprise. She could fade now. She could let go of herself, of her long struggle against unreality, and allow the darkness to bear her away. Then she would be safe. Whether she lived or died, she would be safe because she would be gone.

As soon as the idea occurred to her, she knew it would be easy. That kind of failure would be easy. It had been calling out to her all her life, offering to protect her – offering her peace.

“Terisa?”

The word was a rustle of dry pain, so far away that she couldn’t believe it.

“Terisa!” Impossibly weak, hurt, crushed – and stubborn, determined to reach her. “Are you all right?”

Sudden weeping closed her throat. Now she couldn’t escape. Safety was impossible. He was here with her. She was too relieved to hear his voice. She had to stay.

“Terisa?” He fought to control his alarm. “Are you all right?” he coughed. “Can you hear me?”

“Geraden.” Raw strain knotted her chest. “I can’t breathe. I can’t stand it.”

“Don’t try so hard.” His whisper came to her from some place entirely out of reach. “Take shallow breaths. Make yourself relax. I’m getting air from somewhere.”

Despite the awful distance between them, she could hear his distress. He, too, was being crushed.

“We’re going to be rescued. They’ll dig us out. All we have to do is wait.”

“I can’t. Can’t.” The pressure of rejecting her one chance for escape drove her toward hysteria. “Can’t move. It’s breaking my back. Geraden!”

“Don’t think about it.” His voice sifted like dust between the stones. “Put it out of your mind.”

“I can’t.” She locked her teeth to keep from screaming.

“You can.” Somehow, he managed to speak more strongly. “Nothing to it. Think about something else. Tell me what happened. I don’t remember anything – after Master Gilbur hit me. Did he translate the champion? Did the Castellan stop him?”

Just for a moment, he startled her out of her panic. He didn’t remember—? He had come back to consciousness without any notion of where he was or why—

“Terisa.”

Until she heard the edge of need in his appeal, she didn’t realize how much he was depending on her. If he lost her now, he, too, might start screaming.

Deep inside, she wailed, I can’t I’m being crushed I can’t stand it! Let me go! But she struggled to do what he was doing, struggled to think about him instead of herself. He didn’t even know how he had come to be buried alive. “I’ll try.”

In quick, broken phrases, pieces of explanation like her breathing, she described the outcome of Master Gilbur’s translation.

When she finished, he groaned, then fell silent. Before she could panic again, however, he said, “That proves one thing. You’re definitely the one. The one who’s going to save Mordant. The champion.”

“What?” she panted. “What’re you talking about?”

“It was always possible” – the words came out as if he were retching them – “you were just an accident. I went wrong somehow. But that means Master Gilbur was right. Now we know he wasn’t. His champion isn’t going to rescue us.

“You must be the real champion.”

“That’s crazy.” She could feel the bones of her spine being squeezed to chips and splinters. The air was getting worse. You can. Think about something else. “Nothing’s changed. I’m not an Imager. I don’t understand anything. Master Eremis is the only one who can save Mordant.”

The words trailed away. If he were still alive— He was right behind her when the champion emerged. Wasn’t he? What if the collapse of the ceiling caught him? What if he were dead? A pang made her twitch against the press of stone. The ridge across her back settled closer to her.

“Master Eremis.” Somehow, Geraden managed a snort. “You think he can save Mordant? If you can make me believe that, you don’t need Imagery. You’re powerful enough already.”

She bit her lips to keep from crying out, I can’t stand it!

When she didn’t respond, he changed his approach. “Maybe you should tell me the stuff that was supposed to get me killed. I want to understand” – he seemed to be gritting his teeth – “why you trust Master Eremis.”

“All right.” I can’t! You can. His voice was the only thing that kept the rock from breaking her apart.

With a clench of will, she fought to push the pain and the dust out of her mind, the close heat, the immuring weight of the stone. To take their place, she fixed her attention on images of Geraden – the line of his cheek, the way his hair curled above his forehead (the blood trickling from his temple, the way Master Gilbur hit him, that good face smashed under the rubble – No! not that, don’t think about things like that), the quick potential for happiness and misery in his eyes. He was the reason she couldn’t fail, couldn’t fade. Picturing him helped her remember the things he wanted to know.

Her account was erratic, filtered and altered by the press of rock. Nevertheless she told him everything as well as she could. She related what he had already surmised about the decision of the Congery to translate its champion, as well as to send Master Eremis and Master Gilbur to a meeting with the lords of the Cares. Master Eremis had arranged that meeting, but had opposed the translation of the champion. Master Quillon was the one who had warned her not to talk to Geraden. You can. The meeting and its outcome. What she could remember about Prince Kragen. The attack of the man in black.

When she was done, she held her breath for a moment, hoping that would ease the pressure in her chest. But it didn’t.

Geraden’s reaction surprised her. Sounding even more distant and forlorn, he murmured, “So Quillon’s a traitor.”

“What do you mean?”

“He warned you not to talk to me because he knew I would tell King Joyse about that meeting. And about the champion.”

“No.” The dust was turning to stone in her lungs. She couldn’t maintain her equilibrium, could not— “If you put it that way, all the Masters are traitors. They voted for the champion and the meeting. Master Quillon is just more loyal to them than to King Joyse. And he’s been trying to keep you alive.”

Geraden, help me.

He considered for a while. “There has to be a traitor on the Congery.” The pain in his voice was growing stronger. “The man who attacked you had to know where you were going to be. That leaves out the lords and Prince Kragen.

“Ah!” he groaned sharply.

A moment later, however, he continued at a higher pitch, “Even if Eremis told them he was going to bring you, none of them knew you existed when you were attacked the first time. Only the Congery. And for that man to just disappear— It takes Imagery. Some Master wants you dead. He knows you’re the only one who can save Mordant.

“If it isn’t Quillon, it must be Eremis.”

“No,” she said again. That isn’t what I meant. You don’t understand. I need him. The rubble shifted again. She thought she could feel her ribs starting to give. I need him to teach me who I am.

On the other hand, the air seemed to be cooling. That was one small blessing, at any rate.

“He’s trying to save Mordant. Can’t you see that? He’s trying to make alliances. Find ways to fight. Because King Joyse won’t.”

“No, I don’t see that,” Geraden replied distantly. “Don’t you think it was odd for him to take you to that meeting? You didn’t know he was going to do that. How could the man who attacked you know? And why did he rush off and leave you? Maybe he went to use the mirrors so that man could appear and disappear.”

“No. No.” You don’t understand. Pressure. Dust. I put on the sexiest gown I could find and went to his rooms by myself. Come on – think about it. “You aren’t being fair. You were with him this morning. When he came to get me. You saw the way he behaved. He didn’t know I was attacked.

“It had to be set up in advance. How could he know how the meeting was going to turn out? He wanted it to succeed. He certainly didn’t sabotage it.”

“The Fayle was there,” Geraden muttered. “He wouldn’t have anything to do with illicit Imagery. Everybody knows that.”

She wasn’t listening. Her concentration was focused on what she was trying to say. It was important – she knew it was important. You can. If she survived this – and Master Eremis survived it – she had to talk to him right away. He needed to know there was a traitor on the Congery. “And how could he know where King Joyse would put me? The first attack had to be set up in advance too. But none of the Masters knew you were going to find me instead of the champion.”

Geraden coughed thinly. Then she heard him gagging.

Instantly, everything else rushed out of her head. He was being crushed. “Geraden! Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

For a time, he didn’t answer. She saw him in her mind, dangling from Master Gilbur’s grasp, falling, always falling, his head a smear of blood and splinters of bone. Again she struggled crazily, helplessly, to move.

“Geraden.”

“I’m sorry.” To her amazed relief, he sounded better. “I didn’t mean to scare you. The rock keeps shifting. It came down harder on my throat for a while. Are you having an easier time breathing?”

At first, she had no idea what he meant. If anything, the dust was thicker than ever. But then she realized that the air had become cooler – noticeably cooler than the rubble piled around her. It was almost cold.

“They’re coming,” he said. “They’re going to rescue us. We’re going to be rescued.”

Unable to control herself, Terisa burst into tears.

***

It seemed to take forever. Then it happened all at once. The air grew colder and colder, cooling the rocks, cooling the desperate pressure in her lungs; but there was no other change except an increase in the shifting. That nearly pushed her into panic: every subtle movement threatened to break the bones of her back. She couldn’t keep from sobbing. Nevertheless Geraden’s nearness helped her. And she knew how to hang on when every part of her seemed to be fading.

And suddenly the weight on her simply vanished as though it were no longer real. She heard voices; more stone vanished. Hands came scrabbling through the debris to grab her arms with alarmed roughness and haul her upright.

She was still crying, but the tears washed the grit out of her eyes. She got her vision back in time to see Artagel pull Geraden out from under the place where she had been lying.

Master Quillon held her. “Are you all right, my lady?” He seemed to be weeping himself. “Are you all right?” His concern sounded as wonderful as the grip of his arms, and the cold, open air full of snow, and the freedom to move.

Geraden clung to his brother and coughed as if his lungs were torn. Yet he was breathing. Nothing about him looked crushed. Dust hid the traces of blood on his temple.

Falling snow made the air as dim as twilight, but she could discern what was left of the Congery’s meeting hall. Beyond the shattered stumps of the pillars, the doors were open. Enormous quantities of broken stone still covered the floor. At least a dozen Masters – and many guards with shovels, picks, and crowbars – stood holding mirrors among the debris.

She caught a glimpse of Master Eremis; then he strode away as if he were in a hurry.

Abruptly, Aragel shouted, “We did it!” and the guards dropped their tools and started cheering.

“It was a terrible mistake,” muttered Master Barsonage. Behind the dust caking his face, his eyes were red with weariness. He gripped a tall mirror that she recognized – the glass with the reflected seascape. The mediator’s shoulders shook in exhaustion. “We should never have risked that champion. We were all mad. Castellan Lebbick has fifty men chasing him, but I doubt they will be enough. Still, we have been luckier than we deserve. We have lost only two Masters.” He named men she didn’t know. “And you are alive.

“Please forgive us, my lady,” he finished unsteadily. “We were stupid – but we did not mean you harm.”

Geraden rubbed a cloud of dust from his hair. “Tell that to Master Gilbur.” He was smiling. “If he hit me any harder, he would have broken my neck.” But he seemed unable to keep his eyes in focus. “With your permission, my lady,” he said to Terisa, “I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

Smoothly, as though it were the most graceful thing he had ever done, he fainted in Artagel’s grasp.

There was a gaping breach in the ceiling of the chamber, and that section of the level above it had been gutted; but the worst damage was off to the side, where the champion had burned his way up and out through the wall. Snow swirled inward on an eddying wind. It was falling heavily enough to gather in Master Quillon’s hair and form clumps on the mediator’s wide shoulders.

Geraden believed that she was going to save Mordant.

When she looked up into the snow, she thought she heard the distant thrill of horns.

FIFTEEN: ROMANTIC NOTIONS

She was shivering. The temperature of the air seemed to drop rapidly – although that was just reaction, she knew, just her body and mind suffering the consequences of what she had been through. Her gray gown, so warm and self-effacing earlier, now gave her no protection at all. Granite dust coated every fiber of the material, covered every inch of her skin, made her hair feel like ruined wool.

On the other hand, she was able to understand why Geraden had fainted.

But someone thrust a rude, soldier’s goblet in front of her face. She took it and swallowed deeply because she thought it contained wine.

The liquid turned out to be harsh brandy. A spasm knotted her chest. When she was done coughing and gasping, however, she felt better. More dirt had been washed from her eyes, and her lungs were clearing. She felt warmer.

Geraden remained unconscious. Artagel had stretched him out on the rubble, and a man in a gray doublet and baggy cotton breeches was examining him. After listening to his chest and feeling his pulse, the man sponged the dirt from his face, noticed and cleaned the wound on his temple, then took a vial from a leather satchel and poured some liquid between his lips.

Rising to his feet, the man announced quietly, “He sleeps.” Apparently, he was a physician. “He does not appear seriously hurt. Take him to his bed. Let him rest for an hour or two. Then awaken him for a bath and food. If he has any complaint – or if he is difficult to awaken – I will come at once.”

Artagel nodded, and the man turned to Terisa. “Are you hurt, my lady?”

She tested her arms and legs. They felt unnaturally stiff, and she couldn’t stop shivering, but nothing was damaged.

The physician watched her analytically. “Bruises and headaches must be expected. But if you discover any deep pains or swelling – or if you suffer dizziness or prolonged faintness – you must send for me.”

Taking his satchel, he left the chamber.

Artagel scooped Geraden into his arms. “Take care of him,” Terisa murmured. He gave her a smile and moved away, carrying his brother easily.

“Come, my lady.” Master Quillon was still supporting her. “We will return to your rooms. You, too, will profit from rest, a bath, and food.”

“Yes,” sighed Master Barsonage. “We must all rest. And think. We must find some way to combat this champion. Now that his proper glass is broken, we have no good weapon against him.”

Leaning on Master Quillon because her legs seemed to have developed ideas of their own, Terisa let him help her out of the meeting hall.

As soon as they gained the relative privacy – and the warmer air – of the corridors leading out of the laborium, she asked the question that was uppermost in her mind. “Is Geraden safe now? Do his enemies have any reason to kill him now?”

He hesitated momentarily. “My lady, let me first explain that I do not know what the enemies of Mordant hope to gain by the presence of this champion. For that matter,” he added, “I do not know what we hoped to gain. I abide by the decisions of the Congery because I am an Imager – but that decision I do not understand. He appears to be a danger without aim, allegiance, or purpose. As such, his actions will be random in effect. Perhaps they will aid our enemies, perhaps us.

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “it is clear that Geraden’s immediate peril is now less. If you were to tell him everything you have heard, what action could he take that would threaten those who do not wish him well?

“And yet, my lady,” he said pointedly, “the reason for his peril— I have never been able to say what that is. I do not know what it is that makes him a threat to his enemies, and so I cannot claim that their malice against him has been made less. The reason for his peril remains.”

Master Quillon’s words drew a shudder from her; but she accepted them. She needed to keep her mind moving. Since he seemed willing to talk, she asked, “Why didn’t King Joyse stop them? Why did he wait so long before sending Castellan Lebbick?”

The Master cleared his throat uncomfortably. “My lady, the Fayle tried to warn King Joyse, but he was not heard. The King refused. Castellan Lebbick had no orders to intervene. He acted upon his own initiative, after the Fayle spoke to him.”

“But why?” she pursued. “I thought King Joyse opposed that kind of translation. I thought that was one reason he created the Congery in the first place – so he could have all the Imagers in one place and make sure they didn’t do any more involuntary translations.”

Master Quillon gave a snort of exasperation. “If I were in a position to explain our King’s actions and inactions, Mordant’s need would be very different than it is now.”

That was the best answer she was able to get out of him.

***

He took her through frightened, tense, and curious crowds in the direction of her tower. When they reached her suite, they found the doors unguarded.

“Wonderful!” he muttered angrily. “By the stars, this is perfect.”

Confusion had begun to creep like fog through the cracks and crevices of her brain. Her reaction to what had happened was growing stronger. Like a woman with a head full of cotton, she asked, “What’s perfect?”

“The guards.” He stopped and cocked his fists on his hips; his head made twitching movements as his gaze darted in all directions. “They were all called to dig in the rubble. You are unprotected. If that butcher who desires your life should choose this moment to attack again, you are lost.”

Obviously, what he was saying was important to him. Yet somehow she had missed the point. Carefully, she inquired, “How do you know about that?”

He looked at her sharply, his nose wrinkling. “My lady, you need rest. And I suggest a quantity of wine. But you are unprotected.”

“I mean it.” It was difficult to speak aloud. I didn’t tell anybody. Artagel didn’t. I’m sure Prince Kragen and the Perdon didn’t. “How do you know I was attacked last night?”

“Last night?” Surprise made his voice squeak. “You were attacked last night? By the same man?”

She nodded dumbly.

“Ruination! By the pure sand of dreams, why does Lebbick bother to train the dead meat he uses for guards?” With an effort, Quillon controlled himself. Facing her squarely, he asked, “My lady, how did you survive?”

“Artagel saved me. Geraden asked him to keep an eye on me.”

“Thank the stars,” Master Quillon breathed fervently, “for that impetuous puppy’s interminable interference!” Almost at once, he demanded, “Why did you tell no one?”

She blinked at him, unable to fathom his distress. This was going on too long. She wanted to lie down. To make him stop, she asked, “Who do you expect me to trust?”

For just a moment, he looked as miserable and desperate as a soaked rabbit. Then he shook his head and scowled. “I take your point, my lady. You are not in an easy position. Someday it will improve – if you live that long.

“Go to your rooms,” he continued brusquely. “Bolt the door. I will guard you until Lebbick’s men return to duty.

“As soon as I can, I will have your maid bring food and wine.”

The fog was growing thicker. She stared at him blankly.

His expression softened. “Go, my lady.” He took her arm to urge her toward the door. “You need rest. And if you remain standing here your mistrust will become unbearable to me.”

Somehow, his strange mixture of concern and sorrow was enough to move her. She entered her rooms, and he closed the door behind her.

After that, however, the capacity to act abandoned her. She forgot to bolt the door. Standing in the center of the room, she looked at her windows. They were blinded by the storm. Snow mounted on the ledge outside the glass; snow caught the light from the room and reflected it back. Flakes swirled and swirled forward like bits of light, but behind them everything was dark, as impenetrable as stone.

After a while, she realized that she was lying on the rug.

She felt weak and light-headed, but clearer, less fog-bound.

Cautiously, she got to her feet and located the decanter of wine. It had been refilled, a fact that gave her a sensation of detached surprise until she realized that her bed had also been made, her fires rebuilt, her stores of firewood replenished – until she remembered that a long time had passed since she had left her rooms this morning. Plenty of time for Saddith to do that part of her job.

Because Master Quillon had told her to do so, she poured a goblet of wine, drank it, and poured another.

The wine seemed to increase her detachment as well as make her feel steadier. Now she wasn’t surprised when she heard voices outside her door.

“How is she?” a woman asked.

“Quiet, my lady,” replied Master Quillon.

“I do not like it that she is alone.” The woman seemed to be hesitating. “But if she is resting a knock may disturb her.”

“Try the door,” the Master suggested. Terisa couldn’t gauge his tone through the wood. “I think she did not bolt it.”

“Thank you, Master Quillon.”

The latch lifted, and the lady Myste let herself into the room.

She bolted the door before she turned and saw Terisa.

She had on a bulky cloak the color of old snow, too heavy and warm to be worn around Orison. Held closed by her arms, it covered everything from her neck to the floor and made her look like she was trying to conceal the embarrassment of having suddenly gained forty or fifty pounds. The flush of her cheeks and the perspiration on her forehead showed that she was in fact too warmly dressed. But she smiled, and her eyes seemed to sparkle with accuracy, as if she were seeing things in good focus for the first time in years.

“Terisa,” she said, studying her quickly, “you are well. You need a bath” – she grimaced humorously – “but you are well. I am pleased. “Her pleasure was unmistakable. “All Orison knows what you have suffered today. Taking that into consideration, you are impossibly well. Have I not tried to tell you that you are more special than you realize?”

This reaction left Terisa nonplussed. She was sure that she wasn’t special. On the other hand, she was glad to see Myste. Although several days had passed since their last conversation, she remembered that the King’s daughter wanted to be her friend.

Awkwardly, she asked, “Would you like some wine?”

The lady’s smile became laughter, then faded to seriousness. “I would love some wine. But first” – she faltered as if a touch of fear made her stumble – “you must agree to hide me.”

Terisa’s detachment wasn’t equal to the challenge. “Hide you?”

“Just until tonight,” said Myste quickly. “Until after dark. Then I will be gone, and no one will know that you have aided me.

“If you will not,” she went on, “I have no time for wine. I must go at once, hoping that I will be able to hide myself.”

“Wait a minute.” Terisa began to feel faint again. “Wait a minute.” She made a warding gesture with both hands. “What do you mean, no one will know? Master Quillon already knows. He knows you’re here.”

“Yes, but who will he tell? The guards? Your maid? The Masters of the Congery are not inclined to tell such people anything. And if we manage matters properly, he will not realize the significance of what he knows until I am safely gone.

“Then” – the lady’s expression was pained, but she held Terisa’s gaze – “I will ask you to lie for me. When Master Quillon tells what he knows – and you are asked what became of me – say that I left again shortly after I arrived, and the guards failed to notice me. Or say only that you do not know where I have gone.

“Terisa, I would not ask this if I had any choice.”

“No, wait a minute,” Terisa said again. “I don’t understand. Where are you going?”

Myste started to reply, then suddenly gestured for silence.

Terisa heard Saddith’s voice. “Is my lady all right? I came as soon as I heard that she has been rescued.”

“She will be all right,” replied Master Quillon. “Before you see her, go call the guards who are supposed to be here. I have better things to do than stand outside her door for the rest of the afternoon. And bring food and wine.”

“Yes, Master.”

As Saddith moved away, Myste lifted her shoulders in an I-told-you-so shrug.

“She’ll be back,” Terisa hissed urgently. “Where are you going?”

The King’s daughter looked uncomfortable, a little sad – and yet excited, burning inside with a personal fever. “If I tell you, you will be able to stop me. You must promise that you will keep my secret and not interfere.”

Terisa stopped. Her mind had cleared enough to grasp that she was being asked to do something she couldn’t evaluate, something that would have consequences she couldn’t predict. She hesitated because she didn’t know what to say.

Her silence deepened the pain in Myste’s face. “Forgive me,” the lady said softly. “I should not demand so much of you. Your own burdens are already severe. I will go at once.”

“No!” Startled out of her uncertainty, Terisa answered, “Don’t do that. I won’t tell anybody where you’re going. I’ll hide you. I just want an explanation.

“The Masters translated their champion, and he went berserk. Geraden and I were buried alive. People are being killed. They appear and disappear. Everybody is betraying everybody else.” Geraden thinks I’m going to save Mordant. “I feel like I’m falling apart. I would like to understand something.”

To her relief, Myste at once gave her a smile and a nod. “I will gladly explain as well as I can. It would ease my heart. If you were Elega” – her smile became a wry grimace – “you would believe that I have lost my mind. Doubtless this is another of what she calls my ‘romantic notions’ – the worst of a bad lot. But I hope you will understand it.

“May I have some wine?”

“Of course.”

Half flustered and half pleased, Terisa filled a second goblet and handed it to the lady. At the same time, Myste opened her cloak, shrugged it off her shoulders, and set it aside.

Under the cloak, she wore a heavy leather jacket with a masculine cut, pants stitched of the same material, and boots clearly made for traveling. The bulk that the cloak covered was caused by a number of sacks – apparently full of supplies – slung over her shoulders on a strap like a bandolier. Knives hung at her belt – a long fencing dagger and a short poniard.

She asked permission to sit. Terisa nodded at once and gladly took a chair herself: her knees seemed to be growing weaker rather than stronger.

“Terisa,” Myste began after a long draught of wine, “I believed from the first that you would be willing to help me. I believe you will understand. But I do not willingly impose what I mean to do on anyone. I truly have no choice.

“Are you aware,” she asked slowly, “that Orison is riddled with secret passages?”

Taken aback, Terisa said before she had a chance to think, “Yes. There’s one in the bedroom.”

Myste smiled inwardly, and the focus of her eyes drifted into the distance. “You have been among us for hardly ten days, and already you have learned so much. I would not have done as well. I have always been a woman who could live for years without learning such things. But Elega has a different spirit. By the time she was twelve, exploring secret passages had become her favorite pastime.

“She could not interest Torrent in this, so she often urged me to go with her.

“If you were to characterize us when we were girls,” she commented, “you would say that Elega was bold – Torrent, timid – Myste, dreamy. In a sense, I found secret passages more exciting than Elega did. She would say that I found them ‘romantic.’ But in another sense I did not need them. I explored them with her enough to please my imagination. Then I was satisfied. Eventually, I began to ignore her urging.

“But I had learned enough for what I mean to do now.

“Terisa, you may not know that all the passages do not connect. They were built at different times, for different purposes. Most provide admittance to only a few locations in Orison.

“My knowledge of the passages is not extensive. The only entrance I am aware of to the one I need – the passage that goes where I need to go – is from the wardrobe in your bedroom. That is why I had no choice but to come to you.”

Terisa was about to ask, You mean you want to go where Adept Havelock lives? But she remembered that the passage had several branchings and kept her mouth shut.

“If I have not forgotten what Elega and I learned together,” Myste said carefully, “if I am not confusing imagination and memory, a branch of this passage leads down into the laborium, near the meeting hall of the Masters.”

Terisa couldn’t help herself. “Why do you want to go there?”

Firmly, the lady answered, “From there I may be able to leave Orison unseen through the breach in the wall. I know of no private exits, and Castellan Lebbick watches the public ones better than most people realize. If I do not get out unseen, I will be brought back involuntarily, and what I must do will come to nothing.

“Of course, the breach will be watched. But that duty will be new to the guards. They will be watching for enemies who desire to enter, not friends who wish to leave. And if this snowfall continues, it will cover me. Perhaps it can be done.”

The sensation of fog began to fill Terisa’s head again. She needed sleep – a bath, a meal, and sleep, in that order. Slowly, as if she were becoming stupid, she asked, “What do you want to do? What’s so important that you have to sneak out in this kind of weather?”

Articulating each word precisely, like a woman controlling an impulse to rush, Myste said, “I mean to find that poor, lost man the Masters call their champion. He needs help desperately.”

“Help?” Terisa nearly choked. “He needs help?”

Myste made a warning gesture, urging Terisa to lower her voice.

“He could have burned this whole place to the ground,” she whispered intensely, He almost killed me, “and you think he needs help?”

He almost killed me. Even though he said, I don’t shoot women.

“He could have,” the lady returned promptly. “He could have killed us all. But he did not. Does that not say something important about him – something crucial to an understanding of him and his plight?”

“Yes!” Terisa hissed back. “It says he doesn’t want to waste his power until he knows what kind of mess he’s in – how many people he’s going to have to slaughter to stay alive.”

Suddenly, Myste was angry. She rose to her feet. “Perhaps you are right,” she retorted. “Perhaps he seeks only to ration his capacity for slaughter. Do you think that Castellan Lebbick’s soldiers will teach him restraint? No. They will harry him from murder to murder, searching for their opportunity to kill him in turn. If he is to be stopped, it will only be by someone who cannot harm him.”

The lady would have gone on: she plainly had more to say. But she paused at the sound of voices.

“The Castellan sends his apologies, Master.” Saddith’s tone was pert and insincere: apparently, she didn’t aspire to Master Quillon’s bed. “He regrets that you have been held so long on guard duty. You will be relieved shortly.”

She gave the door a saucy rap.

“Will you hide me?” Myste breathed.

“I said I would,” Terisa retorted softly. Then she admitted, “I don’t know how.”

The lady picked up her cloak. “Let her in. I will conceal myself in one of the wardrobes.” She didn’t forget her goblet. “Try to keep her here for a while – long enough so that the guards will relieve Master Quillon. They will not know that I am here, so they will not expect to see me leave.” Her excitement had returned. “But do not let her bring you clean clothes from the wardrobe. If she finds me there, she will surely talk about it.”

Without a sound, Myste left the room.

Saddith knocked again.

For a moment that felt like an icicle in her stomach, Terisa was unable to move. This was worse than merely telling lies: this was active subterfuge. She had to trick Saddith. And she felt too weak and befuddled to so much as stand up, never mind trick anyone. The cold paralyzed her.

But the next instant a leap of imagination told her what was about to happen. Saddith would knock again. If there was no answer, she would turn to Master Quillon and ask him what to do. And Master Quillon would be concerned. He would say something like, “The lady Terisa may be asleep. But the lady Myste is with her. She should answer.” Then Myste would be lost.

Stung by panic, Terisa got her legs under her and hurried to the door.

When it opened, Saddith sailed grandly into the room like a yacht on show, the lower buttons of her blouse straining to contain her breasts. Her demeanor made it clear that she didn’t think very highly of Master Quillon.

She carried a well-laden tray to a table while Terisa closed the door. “That man,” she said as if she intended to be overheard, “ought to be more civil. I can perform my duties very nicely without the benefit of his instructions.”

Putting down her tray, she surveyed Terisa.

Her immediate reaction was a gleam of mirth and a quick giggle. “My lady, you look awful!” At once, however, she made an effort to swallow her amusement. “My poor lady, how terrible! To be buried like that. And to be recovered in such a state, with all those men around—!” She frowned. “What a shame that this dull gown was not damaged more. A few strategic tears would have done much to make your appearance more appealing.”

The maid continued to babble, apparently controlling her desire to laugh by saying whatever came into her head. Until that moment, Terisa had had no idea what to do. But the sense of weakness which made her want to simply fold at the knees and forget everything came to her rescue like a flash of inspiration.

“I need help,” she murmured. “I’m so weak.” Her voice sounded wan and distant in her ears. “I want a bath, but I keep passing out when I try to get undressed.” She had left enough dust on the rug to make that statement credible. “I can’t seem to get warm.”

Through the fog in her head, she felt remarkably clever. No one could say she was really lying. And she would gain precious time while Saddith arranged to have hot water brought to her rooms.

But her imitation of frailty was perhaps a little too convincing. With increased sympathy, Saddith came to her and took her arm. “My poor lady, lean on me. You should sit down.” Gently, she moved Terisa toward a chair. “It will take me only a moment to begin heating water. Then we will remove that foul gown, and I will bathe you.”

Unable to raise a reasonable objection, Terisa allowed herself to be seated.

Saddith went into the bathroom. Terisa heard running water; then the maid emerged carrying the tin bucket, which she set in the fireplace as close to the grate as possible. As she added wood to the fire, she announced, “It is too cold in the bathroom. I will bathe you here.”

Pushing back the rug, she made room in front of the fire. Then she brought the tub from the bathroom and positioned it next to the hearth. After that, she began unfastening Terisa’s gown.

For the first time since childhood, Terisa had the experience of being undressed and washed like an invalid. It made her acutely self-conscious.

The result was undeniably pleasant, however – sitting in the tub before a hot fire while Saddith poured warm water through her freshly scrubbed hair. The relief of being clean and warm compensated for the embarrassment of Saddith’s comments on her body. When she heard the unmistakable sounds indicating that guards were now on duty outside – unmistakable because Master Quillon complained peevishly about the delay as he left – she felt almost equal to her next trick, which was to get rid of Saddith without allowing the maid to bring her any clothes.

“This feels wonderful,” she murmured. “I think I’ll just soak here for a while,” it’ll be all right for you to leave, “and then go to bed.”

Saddith nodded approval. “I will bring you a robe.”

“No, thanks.” Terisa barely escaped betraying her fright. “I don’t need one. The fire’s warm, and I have plenty of towels.” Hoping it would help, she added shamefacedly, “I don’t wear anything in bed.”

“Nonsense, my lady,” replied the maid. “What if you change your mind and decide to eat something before going to bed? You must not risk a chill.”

Before Terisa could stop her, Saddith walked into the bedroom.

Terisa nearly fell out of the tub. Water splashed and steamed on the hearth as she scrambled to her feet.

But Saddith returned almost immediately with the burgundy velvet robe in her arms and a puzzled expression on her face.

“What’s the matter?” asked Terisa, her heart hammering.

“Nothing, my lady.” Saddith shook her perplexity away. “I cannot remember leaving your robe on the chair when I cleaned the room this morning.”

Terisa felt so light-headed with relief that she almost collapsed. Myste was more quick-witted than she would have believed possible. “I got it out” – she seemed to hear herself from far away – “when I thought I was going to be able to undress myself.”

“My lady,” Saddith said reprovingly, “you must not stand there wet.”

As calmly as if she were levitating, Terisa reached for a towel.

Saddith wound a second towel around her hair while Terisa dried herself. When she was done, she stepped out of the tub and let Saddith lift the robe onto her shoulders. “Thanks,” she said again. “You can go now.” She had lost the capacity to be subtle. “I’ll be all right.”

The maid studied her for a moment. Then she winked. “I believe,” she said mock-seriously, “that I recognized the voice of one of your guards. He has a good reputation in these matters. You may find it restful – and rewarding – if you ask him to warm your bed. If I had come so close to death, I would be eager to remind myself” – she moved her hands suggestively down her thighs – “that life is worth living.

“He is the tall one with the green eyes,” Saddith added, laughing happily as she let herself out of the room.

Immediately, Terisa rushed to the door and bolted it.

When she turned around, she found Myste standing in the doorway of the bedroom. The lady’s face wore a distracted and thoughtful expression.

“That was close,” breathed Terisa. “I don’t know how you can think so fast.”

“Hmm?” Myste murmured. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. “Oh, the robe.” With a shrug, she dismissed the subject. “Terisa, I think it is not a good idea to leave that chair in your wardrobe.”

“Why not?” Surprise and reaction gave Terisa’s tone a note of asperity. “I don’t know where those passages go. I’ve got to do something to keep people out of here.”

A smile quirked Myste’s lips. “I see your point. The precaution is tempting. The difficulty is that the position of the chair announces to anyone who sees it that you are aware of the passage. I want to ask how you chanced to notice it—”

Terisa held her breath.

“—but you owe me no explanations. We must simply hope that your maid will not volunteer what she knows to the wrong ears. I assure you, however, that your life will become much more burdensome if Castellan Lebbick sees a chair in your wardrobe.”

“Oh.” Terisa let the air out of her lungs in a sigh of self-disgust. “You’re right.” Why wasn’t she able to think of things like that for herself?

At once, Myste became reassuring. “I doubt that you have any cause for worry. Your maid has already told everyone she is likely to tell. And Castellan Lebbick has had no reason to search your rooms.”

“I hope so.” Terisa made an effort to relax. Of course the Castellan had no reason to search her rooms. She was probably safe. And Myste’s kind refusal to pursue the question of how she had become aware of the passage was another relief.

By degrees, she began to feel that her bath had done her a lot of good. And a tray of food was waiting for her. When she sniffed it, she discovered that she was hungry. Inviting Myste to join her, she sat down to a meal.

Myste had left her cloak in the bedroom. Taking off her bandolier, she accepted Terisa’s invitation.

While they ate, Terisa returned to the subject of Myste’s intentions. “You were telling me why you think the champion needs your help. That’s the point, isn’t it? At least that’s what I don’t understand. You don’t even know him. What difference does he make to you?”

The lady cleared her throat with a swallow of wine. “You ask several questions at once. The truth is probably nothing more profound than that when I heard of his plight it wrung my heart – and when I thought that I might help him the pain turned to gladness. But I will try to give you reasons.

“That he needs help is obvious. Consider.” Her gaze was fixed on something beyond the wall of the room. “He is a man of war, accustomed to hostility on all sides. Subjugation and destruction are his life. And now – suddenly, without explanation – he is alone in a world surely as unfamiliar to him as any he has ever conquered.

“You are aware of the great debate of Imagery. Do the people, places, and creatures seen in mirrors have independent existence, or are they merely like reflections in a pool of water, unreal apart from the glass in which they have been cast? Is the champion a man, deserving the rights and respect of a man? Or is he, in effect, nothing more than an animal – a being like a horse that can be decently, even honorably, deprived of its own will?

“Terisa, by either standard he must have help.”

Myste’s excitement impelled her to her feet. She began to pace the rug. “If he is a man – as my father would surely insist he is – then what the Masters have done is abominable. We cannot judge whether he is a good man. Perhaps he is a foul enslaver – that lies outside our knowledge. But any man deserves better than to be wrenched out of life, away from world, home, family, purpose, and explanation, to serve what are, essentially, the whims of Imagers. Think of him! He knows no one here, understands nothing. He was not invited to cast his lot among us. To him we must appear simply as enemies. He will fight us until weapons, food, and hope fail him. Then he will die.

“If he is a man, his death will be murder—

“If he is less than a man,” she continued after a long pause, “a being comparable to a horse or a hunting dog, then it is his right to have help. There is a responsibility which accompanies the service we impose on animals. In exchange for what we take away, we give food, shelter, healing, perhaps even kindness. If we do not, few will call us admirable. Does not a champion with the mind and needs and desires of a man deserve at least as much consideration as a beast? Even if he did not truly exist until the moment of his translation, he is real now and should not be harried to death simply because, like an animal, he does not understand what we require of him.”

Perhaps reaction to the day’s events left Terisa punchy; perhaps her emotions were bouncing out of control. Whatever the cause, her heart lifted as she listened to the lady. She was glad that she had decided to help Myste, very glad. This was worth doing. Simply because she wanted confirmation, she said, “Maybe all that is true. But what does it have to do with you? Why do you think you have to sneak out of Orison and chase after him on foot in this weather?”

Myste frowned for a moment. Then she smiled self-deprecatingly. “There you touch me on my weakest point. I am a bundle of romantic ideas which defy common sense.” As she spoke, however, she became stronger. “Yet I have always believed that problems should be solved by those who see them – that when a difficulty presents itself the person who becomes aware of it should answer it instead of trying to pass it to someone else.” Her voice cast hints of passion like glints of gold in the firelight. “This is more true rather than less for a king’s daughter. What is a king if not a man who accepts responsibility for problems when he sees them? And should his daughter not do the same?”

Her eyes flashing like Elega’s, she faced Terisa. “But the truth,” she said as intensely as a cry, “is that I want to go. I am tired of waiting for my life to have some kind of purpose.”

At once, however, she made an effort to tone down her manner. “ ‘Romantic,’ as I say.” She laughed awkwardly. “But I cannot claim that I have been happy since the hall of audiences, since my father” – she was uncomfortable mentioning him – “forced you to play hop-board against Prince Kragen. When my mother and Torrent left, I remained in Orison because I thought I had a purpose. I wanted there to be at least one person at the King’s side who would believe him if he chose to explain himself. Perhaps I could not help him solve Mordant’s problems, but I could offer him the company and support of my willingness.

“But when for a whim he insulted an ambassador of Alend to the point of war – for a whim, Terisa! – and I went after him, he refused to hear me.” She couldn’t keep her emotion down. “ ‘My daughter and that Kragen mean to betray me,’ he snapped. ‘They have already begun. Do not hover. I am tired of daughters.’ Then he slammed his door.”

Again, Myste was silent for a while. But then she shrugged, and that small gesture seemed to restore her balance, her excitement. “I am still enough his daughter to want to take action when I see a need. And I do not want to watch him continue as he is going.”

Terisa did the best she could to help. Slowly, she said, “When the champion first appeared, he nearly killed me. But he stopped himself. He said, ‘I don’t shoot women.” ’

Myste smiled like a beam of sunshine through the storm piling snow over Orison.

***

The snowfall began to lessen shortly after sunset. Because she didn’t want to risk departing Orison under an open sky and a clear moon, across an expanse of new snow in which she would leave obvious tracks, Myste left Terisa’s room promptly. Her supplies over her shoulder under her cloak, a small oil lamp in one hand, she opened the hidden door and clambered through the wardrobe into the passage.

“Be careful,” Terisa whispered after her. “If you get lost, and Castellan Lebbick has to send a search party down there to find you, we’re both going to look pretty silly.”

“Do not let him bully you,” replied the lady almost gaily. “He only does it because he loves my father. I thank you with all my heart. I think I have not been this happy for years.”

As an afterthought, Terisa asked, “What shall I tell Elega?”

With the lamp in front of her, Myste seemed to be standing on the lip of a well of darkness. “Tell her nothing.” Her voice carried a hollow sound like an echo. “Watch her. If she truly means to betray the King, stop her.”

How do you expect me to do that? Terisa demanded. But she didn’t speak aloud. Myste was already gone.

Oh, well. Terisa closed the passage and got out of the wardrobe. Tomorrow she would have to go looking for Master Eremis. He needed to know how he had been betrayed. For some reason, the prospect of talking to him didn’t appeal to her. She preferred to think about Myste.

She wanted to believe that someday she would have as much courage as the King’s daughter.

As soon as she went to bed, she slept like a dead woman all night.

***

She was awakened early the next morning by the sound of horns. It snatched her out of bed as if it were the call from her dreams, the distant appeal and ache of music or hunting. In too much of a hurry to notice that her fires had almost died out and the air was chilly, she strode naked out of the bedroom, looking for the source of what she had heard.

It came again.

It wasn’t the call she remembered. It was the blare of a trumpet, the same solitary fanfare that had greeted the arrival of the lords of the Cares to Orison.

Now she recollected herself enough to feel the cold. Nevertheless she went to the window and looked out over the muddy courtyard.

The trumpet winded again. Apparently, each of the departing lords was being given a personal salutation. She saw the Fayle and his entourage emerge from the gate with the Perdon behind him, while the Termigan turned his horse away from the guards ranked formally behind Castellan Lebbick. Then came the Armigite, accompanied by his guards and courtiers – and by two or three women. Perhaps they were his mistresses or courtesans.

Last was Prince Kragen.

So he was leaving also. Apparently he – like the lords – had decided to remain only long enough to assess the consequences of what the Congery had done. Were they all abandoning Orison now because it was no longer safe, no longer proof against siege or even against weather? Did Prince Kragen intend to bring down the war that the lords of the Cares fled?

How much was the translation of the champion going to cost Mordant in the end?

The cold of the stone against her arms and breasts made her shiver. The tempo of events was accelerating. She thought she heard a wild note of warning in the way the trumpeter blew his salute as Prince Kragen received his abrupt farewell from Lebbick and turned toward the gate, surrounded by his coterie of bodyguards.

Shivering violently, she left the window.

First she retrieved her robe and sashed it tightly; then she worked on her fires, stoking them with fresh kindling, blowing on the coals until the kindling caught flame, feeding the flames with generous quantities of wood. After a while, she began to feel warmer.

She had become surprisingly hungry during the night. But Saddith didn’t usually bring her breakfast quite this early. When she had completely stopped shivering, she decided that she would get dressed, then ask one of her guards to call for the maid and a tray.

She wanted to wear her own clothes: she had had enough of gowns for the time being. To her bafflement, however, she couldn’t find her moccasins. That was strange. When had she last worn them? The night before last, to the meeting of the lords. Where were they?

Had Saddith taken them for some reason?

Frowning, she finished dressing, put on the delicate buskins again, then went to the door and unbolted it.

The guards outside looked vaguely familiar: they must have had this duty sometime recently. They saluted her, and one of them asked if she needed anything.

“Can you call my maid?” she asked. “I want breakfast.”

“Of course, my lady.” A moment later, the man added, “Apt Geraden was here earlier, asking if you’re all right. I won’t be surprised if I see him again soon.” He grinned. “Should I tell him you’re ready for visitors?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Smiling because Geraden must be well if his brother and the physician were willing to let him worry about others, she closed the door and returned to her windows to watch people – guards on duty, servants carrying supplies, men and women who had business with the few shops already open in the northwest end – watch them slogging through the cold and mud of the courtyard while she waited for Saddith or the Apt.

Soon there was a knock at her door. Before she could answer it, Castellan Lebbick stalked into the room and slammed the door behind him.

In the center of the rug, he stopped to face her. He had one arm clamped at his back, the other cocked on his hip. His jaws chewed anger; his shoulders were stiff with it.

Nevertheless he was smiling.

“My lady” – his tone was practically cheerful – “you are done lying to me.”

To her surprise and relief, she didn’t cringe. She had already outfaced him once. She could do it again.

“I would have come sooner,” he commented in a conversational way, “but I’ve been busy. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it, but I’ll tell you anyway.

“I was on my way to confront you again yesterday when the Fayle found me and told me what those pigshit Imagers were doing. After that, of course, I had to organize my men to help dig you and Geraden out of the rubble. I had to provide protection for the lords of the Cares and” – his mouth sneered – “Prince Kragen as well as King Joyse, in case that champion turned to attack us. I had to arrange to follow and trap him, so that he wouldn’t do any more damage. Since I knew where Eremis was, I didn’t have to worry about him. But I had to spend hours and good men searching for Gilbur.

“I suspect you already know the outcome. I’m going to tell you anyway.

“Gilbur is gone. Vanished as completely as if he’s mad and can use any flat glass he wants. The lords are gone. Since they think the Masters are insane, they aren’t willing to stay and stand by their King. I had to let Prince Kragen go. He’s an ambassador.” He grinned as though considering the prospect of tearing into her with his teeth. “In addition, the champion is free.”

“Free?” The Castellan had made no mention of Myste. He wasn’t saying the things Terisa expected. It was happening too fast. Why did he want to “confront” her? How could Master Gilbur have vanished? “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my lady,” he replied like the edge of an axe, “that my men failed. Of course, I only sent fifty – but two hundred might have done no better.

“Oh, they found him easily enough. That strange armor of his doesn’t include wings. In any case, I think he’s wounded. So they should have been able to keep him. I didn’t tell them to fight. I didn’t want him provoked. I just wanted him to stay in one place until we had a chance to decide what to do with him.

“But his translation was planned well. Gilbur and Eremis must have been working on this for a long time.” Now the fury in his grin couldn’t be mistaken. “My men succeeded. They made him stop. But before they could do anything more than send a rider back to me, they were attacked. The air in front of them opened, and a cat the size of a small horse jumped out.”

In some strange way, the Castellan’s ire sustained him, as if it were the food on which he lived.

“A beast that large would have been formidable under any circumstances. But this one, my lady – this one set fire to everything it touched. Flesh and iron were tinder for it, and it butchered my men like cattle. Only two escaped. They left it feeding on charred carcasses. I’m lucky I didn’t send two hundred men. I can’t afford to lose two hundred men.

“Since then,” he went on more quietly, “I’ve been out there. The snow makes it easy to see that the champion and that firecat left in different directions. Clearly, they didn’t do us the courtesy of destroying each other. Now we have two abominations on our hands, instead of just one.”

Terisa shuddered involuntarily. Fifty men! And that was where Myste had gone— She nearly groaned aloud, That’s where Myste went!

But all this had happened yesterday, and Myste hadn’t left Orison until last night. The odds were great that both the champion and the firecat were so long gone that she would never catch up with them.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Terisa said, “That’s terrible. I just don’t understand what it has to do with me.”

“My lady,” he replied like a blade, “in some way you are responsible.”

She started to protest, but he cut her off. “Yesterday morning, right after you left here with Eremis and Geraden, I took your advice. I did ‘a little work.’ I searched your room.”

For some reason, she found that she had to brace herself against the wall to keep her knees from folding.

“I discovered a chair in your wardrobe.” His satisfaction was as keen as his anger. “And I found these.”

From behind his back, he produced her moccasins.

While she stared at them, he said, “You were able to wash the blood out of your clothes. But these are leather. You couldn’t do anything about the bloodstains on the soles.”

At that moment, a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Come in!” he snapped harshly.

The door opened, and Geraden entered the room.

Her attention jumped to him like a leap of the heart. For an instant, she saw his ready smile and the light of pleasure in his eyes, and she felt that she was already rescued, that his mere presence would be enough to save her. He was loyal to King Joyse – therefore logically on the Castellan’s side against her. But she was confident that he would stand by her, whatever happened.

The next instant, however, his pleasure vanished in alarm as he grasped what was going on. Warily, he inquired, “Castellan Lebbick? My lady?”

Lebbick nodded in recognition. “Geraden. Is this an accident, or are you intruding on purpose? Are you in this with her?”

“In what?” asked Geraden.

For a moment, the Castellan studied him. Then Lebbick said sourly, almost bitterly, as though he were disappointed, “No, I don’t believe it. You’re capable of almost anything misguided or blind. But you know better than to betray your King. The Domne would birchwhip you to ribbons if you tried it.”

“Are you accusing the lady Terisa of treason?” Geraden sounded a little frightened by his own temerity, but determined nonetheless. “Isn’t that awkward? I mean, she isn’t one of his subjects. He has no claim on her. How can she commit treason?”

Castellan Lebbick returned his gaze to Terisa. She met it so that she wouldn’t look at Geraden, wouldn’t let her need for him show in her face.

Softly, her accuser growled, “Why are you here, boy?”

“This morning,” replied Geraden promptly, “the Congery will hold a funerary commemoration for the two Masters who died yesterday. The lady Terisa is asked to attend.”

“In other words,” – Lebbick’s tone sharpened into a lash – “the Masters need to decide what to do about Eremis and Gilbur, and they don’t want anybody else to know it.” He didn’t allow Geraden a chance to respond, however. “You can tell them the lady Terisa won’t be coming. She’s under arrest. You can visit her in the dungeon when I’m done questioning her.”

Unable to restrain herself, she flung a mute appeal toward Geraden. She saw him mouth the words “under arrest” as if he were appalled. During the space between one heartbeat and the next, she believed that he would protest on her behalf, do something – that he might even jump at Lebbick and try to defend her physically.

But he didn’t. He said, “I’ll tell them.” Turning away, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Geraden! He had abandoned her to Castellan Lebbick’s anger. Geraden! When she needed him, he turned and walked away.

Her knees threatened to fail her. She could feel the courage running out of her like water from a broken jug. She had been so sure that he was her friend—

“I see I finally have your attention,” the Castellan commented maliciously. “Yes, you’re under arrest. For lack of anything better, you’re accused of participating in the murder of Prince Kragen’s bodyguards.”

Really, it would have been better if she had never come here, if she hadn’t let Geraden’s smile and his earnestness (and his brief, unaccountable authority) persuade her to ignore her common sense. She had no business pretending that she had anything to do in this place, that she could make a difference.

“I’m going to lock you in the deepest, darkest cell I’ve got – the one with the biggest rats – and let you rot there until you tell me the truth.”

Everybody was betraying everybody else; she was just a minor item on everybody’s list. She couldn’t defend herself because she couldn’t figure it all out. And she didn’t have anybody to betray because there was nobody on her side.

“If you get lonely, you’ll be able to talk to your lover. Eremis will be in the cell beside you. If I have my way, you’ll get to hear him scream.”

That halted the downward spiral of her dismay. Eremis? Eremis was arrested? That was bad – worse than what was happening to her. He needed his freedom. Mordant needed him to be free. Especially now, with the hope of the champion turned to disaster and the lords gone back to their Cares.

“I wish you knew how silly that sounds,” she said as if a total stranger were speaking for her. “I haven’t done anything. I never do anything.”

“Is that a fact?” Lebbick’s sarcasm was as thick as blood.

“You’re really doing a good job,” she continued so that she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t realize how dangerously she was behaving. “I’m probably the only person in Orison who is innocent of everything. And Master Eremis is probably the only one who doesn’t deserve to be locked up.”

“Sheepguts!” snarled the Castellan. “You’re trying my patience, my lady.”

“Which was never your best feature anyway,” she retorted.

For a moment, he gazed at her in silence, perhaps in surprise; and for that moment she failed to realize she was giving him exactly what he wanted. Then his smile warned her. But of course the warning came too late. Her unpremeditated goading had already provided his anger the object it desired.

“No,” he said almost mildly, “it was never my best feature.” He was grinning like a barracuda.

Her audacity turned to fright. Instinctively, she tried to retreat; but the wall held her where she was.

“Of course, as you pointed out earlier, I don’t have much proof. Yesterday I was too busy to question either the Fayle or that whelp the Armigite. And today they insisted on leaving. I couldn’t refuse them.

“But I’m not stupid.

“The night before last – the same night my guards found Prince Kragen’s men, after the Armigite warned them – the Fayle somehow came by the knowledge that Eremis and Gilbur intended to translate their champion. The same night, you left here with Eremis – and came back alone, covered with blood.” He flung the word at her. “Of course, you’re innocent. You innocently washed the blood out of your clothes, trying to get rid of anything that might connect you to those dead bodyguards. You innocently lied to me. But you innocently forgot” – he brandished her moccasins – “that your footwear would give you away.

“By some staggering coincidence, all of the lords except the Domne were here at the same time. Prince Kragen was here, the Alend ambassador. The next day the Congery rushed to its translation, hurrying to get done before I could interfere. When my men tried to stop that champion, he was rescued by another exercise of Imagery.

“What do you expect me to make of all this, my lady? Do you expect me to be impressed by the purity of your innocence, my lady, or by the sincerity of your lover’s motives, my lady?”

He swore at her with intense relish. “I’ll tell you what I make of it.” His oaths were unfamiliar to her, but their passion made her quail. “First, it’s obvious that this translation has been planned for a long time. Mirrors don’t come into existence overnight. Although I don’t know how they did it,” he muttered half to himself. “Where’s the glass that worked the translation?” Then he resumed his attack. “Since Eremis and Gilbur were the ones who spoke to the Fayle – and since Gilbur has disappeared now – it’s obvious they’re responsible.

“But what happened to produce two men dead and enough blood for five or six more?

“One of two things, my lady, both of them treason. Either Eremis and Gilbur met with the lords to plan the betrayal of Mordant by means of their champion, and Prince Kragen was caught spying on them, and his men died saving his life. Or Eremis and Gilbur met with Prince Kragen, and the lords caught them planning the betrayal of Mordant, and his men died saving his life. Either way, the Fayle spoke to me because what Eremis and Gilbur intended to do appalled him.

“How do I account for the quantity of blood – or the insufficiency of bodies? The chair in your closet answers that. The men who fought for you and died were removed into one of the secret passages.

“In fact, that chair explains a lot. It tells me how you contrived to survive being attacked the first night you were here. Your allies – I mean Eremis’ allies – came out of the passage long enough to save you. Then they went back into hiding.”

A sensation of horror rose in her throat, choking her. He was so close!

“In addition,” he went on, “ordinarily, I would have said you haven’t been here long enough to become so deeply involved in treachery. Eremis may be the greatest fornicator in all Mordant, but even women usually need time to be so degraded. But you’ve had more time than I realized – you’ve had all the time I thought you were safely locked in your room.

“What do you think, my lady? Which evil did you share? Or is there a third explanation, a worse crime?”

He stepped closer to her, aimed his rage straight into her face. She flinched, but couldn’t look away. His passion held her.

“What do you gain here? Is the way Eremis abuses his lovers reward enough for you? Or do you have some other purpose? Did the arch-Imager send you here to destroy us?”

Tossing aside her moccasins, he gripped her arms and ground his fingers into her triceps.

“Who fought for the King, my lady? Is everyone a traitor?”

No leave me alone it’s not my fault I don’t know what you’re talking about!

He shook her as if he meant to fasten his teeth in her throat. “Why didn’t you use your secret passage to come back to your rooms? That way, you would have been safe. No one would have known you had anything to do with those dead bodyguards.”

“Because that isn’t where it goes!” she cried.

Then she stopped and stared at him while the blood froze around her heart and a look of triumph filled his face.

“That’s a start, my lady,” he whispered between clenched jaws. “Where does it go?”

She couldn’t tell him that. If she did, she would expose Master Quillon and Adept Havelock, as well as Myste. She had already said too much.

This time she defied the Castellan deliberately. It was Terisa herself, not some audacious stranger, who said, “I don’t deserve to be treated like this. If your wife were here, she would be ashamed of you.”

After that, panic made her giddy. She saw the widening like a flare of madness in his eyes, but she didn’t understand it. She heard him say, as if he were speaking in a foreign language, “Thank you, my lady. I haven’t had this much fun since King Joyse let me punish that garrison commander.” Through a veil of dread, she watched him let go of her arms, cock himself back, and swing the back of his hand at her head.

Instinctively, she jerked her head down, jerked her arms up.

Deflected, his blow was still hard enough to knock her to the floor. Pain began to roar in her ears. She had the impression that she was going blind: the only thing she could see was the Castellan staring at his hand as though it belonged to someone else.

The pain had a voice. It said distinctly, “What am I doing?”

Then she heard someone pounding at the door.

“Go away!” Lebbick roared.

“Your pardon, Castellan.” A guard’s voice. “The King’s orders.”

“The King?” Castellan Lebbick verged on apoplexy.

“He wants to speak with the lady Terisa. I’m instructed to take her to him.” The man’s tone conveyed a squirm in the face of Lebbick’s rage. “He wants to speak with her now.”

“She’s under arrest. She should be in the dungeon.”

“Castellan, I was specifically told to assure the lady she isn’t under arrest.”

The Castellan made a hoarse, strangled noise.

Abruptly, hands took hold of her and stood her on her feet. After a moment, she saw that they were his. “Someday, my lady,” he said softly, “my chance will come. When that happens, you aren’t going to escape me.”

He left her to the support of the guard.

SIXTEEN: WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE

On the whole, she reflected with a loopy clarity while pain clanged back and forth in her head and the guard held her upright, she liked being rescued. It was better than not being rescued. Definitely.

But what had inspired King Joyse to send for her now? How did he know she needed rescuing?

How did he know she was under arrest?

Considering how little information she herself possessed, it was truly astonishing how much everybody else seemed to know.

“Are you all right, my lady?” asked the guard.

She heard relief and concern in his tone. On the other hand, no one had mentioned Myste. Hadn’t they missed her yet? She speculated on that until she forgot the guard’s question.

He shook her gently and repeated, “Are you all right?”

Her vision appeared normal. Nevertheless she had the odd impression that everything was distorted. The angles where the walls met the floor looked false. The doorway was insidiously straight, not to be trusted. She was out of her mind, of course. She didn’t object, however. This kind of craziness helped her bear the way her head hurt.

“My lady?” The guard’s concern was becoming stronger than his relief.

Do you know—? she began, but no sound came out. She made an effort to clear her throat, hold her head more upright. “Do you know why he hit me?”

“No, my lady.” The guard was standing beside her with one arm around her back and the other hand on her shoulder. She still had no idea what he looked like. “I wasn’t here.”

“He hit me,” she said precisely, “because I insulted him.” Suddenly, she wanted to laugh. Or cry: it was hard to tell the difference. She had insulted him, she, Terisa Morgan. It was worth getting hit for. Maybe. “Oh, my head hurts.”

“Here, my lady.”

Carefully, the guard maneuvered her into a chair, then pressed a goblet of wine into her hands. She drank deeply; for a moment she felt spikes hammering through her skull. After that, however, she began to feel better.

With an effort, she said, “Thanks.” Now what she wanted was a nap. But there was some reason why she couldn’t take one. What was it? Oh, yes. “Did you say the King wants to see me?”

“Yes, my lady. When you’re well enough to walk.”

She turned her head to look at him and smile. She didn’t remember ever having seen him before. He was a relatively young man with a thin face and earnest eyes – perhaps not the most promising candidate to convey a message that would infuriate Castellan Lebbick. But he had carried out his orders. And she was grateful for his courtesy.

“We might as well try,” she said. “Maybe the walk will do me good.”

Nodding encouragement, he assisted her to her feet. Then he gave her his arm to lean on. She took a few experimental steps and found that the condition of her head continued to improve. Incredible. Judging by appearances, it was actually possible to survive having a man like the Castellan furious at her. A man like her father. She could hardly believe it.

Moving cautiously, she let her escort guide her to the tower where King Joyse and his daughters had their suites. By the time she arrived at the high, carved door of the King’s apartment, she felt reasonably stable – balanced between light-headedness and the aftereffects of Lebbick’s vehemence.

The King’s guards opened his door without question: clearly they were expecting her. One of them announced her while the other bowed her inward. In a moment, she found herself standing for the second time in the richly furnished chamber where King Joyse played his games of hop-board.

The room was lit by candles in candelabra and brass wall-holders, and the thick blue-and-red rug contrasted warmly with the decorated blond wood paneling of the walls, bringing out the carving and the delicate black inlay-work. An ornamental mantel framed the fireplace. On the hop-board table, a game was in progress. No one was playing, however.

“My lord King,” the guard pronounced firmly, “here is the lady Terisa of Morgan.” Then he withdrew, taking his companion and Terisa’s escort with him and closing the door. But King Joyse didn’t react. He sprawled in a gilt-edged armchair with his legs extended on a fat hassock and his head propped against the chair back. His purple velvet robe covered him like a shroud: it was starting to look as old and ratty as Adept Havelock’s surcoat. A long sheet of parchment – an open scroll – was draped over his face; his arms dangled beside him, his swollen knuckles nearly scraping the rug. The floor around his chair was littered with more scrolls, some of them open, others haphazardly tied with string.

He was snoring decorously. The stiff parchment rustled whenever he breathed.

The King’s Dastard wasn’t present. Instead, King Joyse was being kept company by Geraden and the Tor.

Involuntarily, she gaped at them.

“My lady,” rumbled the Tor. “It is a pleasure to renew your acquaintance.” His fat overflowed his chair, and his plump hands gripped a flagon of wine as if he couldn’t function without it. His thin white hair straggled disconsolately from his pale scalp. But his voluminous black robe was clean; his jowls were decently shaved. Although his small eyes were bleary, they seemed marginally less blurred than she remembered them.

Geraden met her surprise with a grin. Almost at once, however, his expression changed to distress. He jumped out of his chair and approached her. Lightly, he stroked the hot skin of her cheek. “That unscrupulous bastard,” he whispered. “He hit you.” Then chagrin overcame him. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I didn’t think he would go that far. I thought I would be fast enough. I ran all the way – all the way—”

“Enough, young Geraden,” the Tor interposed, peering morosely into his flagon. “You are a son of the Domne. Have more dignity.”

“I don’t understand.” Terisa felt that she had abruptly become stupid. “What are you doing here?”

“As little as I can,” the Tor replied as though she had spoken to him. “King Joyse keeps good wine and an excellent fire. I have no other needs.

“It was awkward, I admit,” he mused, frowning to himself. “He refused to see me. After that cell, I felt as cold as my son. I wanted to be warm again. And I thought I would share a last flagon with my old friend the King of Mordant. Did I say that I would not leave him? I meant to say so. But he refused to see me. Very awkward.”

Unexpectedly, he smiled. Under other circumstances, it would have been a happy smile; but it didn’t touch the sadness in his eyes. “He underestimated me. I sat down outside his door and commenced howling. Not polite, deferential howling, I assure you, but howling to alarm the dead.”

“You did that?” Geraden grinned in spite of himself, surprised out of his contrition.

The Tor nodded. “It is well that my family did not see me. They would not have thought better of me for it. But I succeeded.” He glanced toward King Joyse and commented, “Since admitting me, he has found it impossible to make me depart.”

This didn’t make much sense to Terisa. She shook her head to clear it, but the movement had the opposite effect. She needed to sit down. Or lie down.

“But why?” She couldn’t forget how the Tor had looked standing in the mud of the courtyard with his dead son in his arms, or what Geraden had told her about King Joyse’s reaction to the Tor’s son’s death. “All the other lords left. Why do you want to stay?”

The Tor grimaced.

“Revenge.”

Geraden was startled. “Revenge?”

“For most of my life,” explained the lord in a husky voice, “I have been haunted by the knowledge that I did not give King Joyse my full support when he needed it. This would have been wise policy – if he had failed. But he succeeded, thereby making me a conniving ingrate in the eyes of all Mordant. I mean to be revenged for that.”

“I don’t understand,” Terisa repeated weakly. Maybe the Tor was joking. But what kind of joke was it?

“The King needs a chancellor.” The lord didn’t raise his head. “Someone who can put two coherent commands together better than that mad Imager. As long as I sit here” – he flopped one hand on the arm of his chair – “and speak as though I have authority, I will be obeyed. Whether he wishes it or not, Joyse will no longer be a passive ruler. Either I will take action in his name, or he must take action to stop me.”

Geraden’s eyes gleamed appreciatively; but Terisa said, “Wait a minute.” She was too slow: she had to catch up. She had believed that the Apt was abandoning her when he left her to Lebbick. “You’re giving orders in the King’s name.” She turned to Geraden. “You came here – you ran here – to get King Joyse to stop Castellan Lebbick.” Geraden nodded. She glanced over at the King. “Does he really want to see me?”

With the exaggerated care of too much wine, the Tor scanned the room as if searching for eavesdroppers. Then he said, “No.” At once, one plump finger jumped to his lips to hush himself. In a thick whisper, he added, “But he would if he had any sense. He was asleep, so I took the liberty of speaking for him.

“Young Geraden is right,” he continued sententiously. “The good Castellan should not be allowed to make decisions where women are concerned.”

She felt that she hadn’t stopped gaping at him. She wanted to say several things at once. What do you hope to accomplish? Oh, Geraden, I’m sorry! Do you really think he’ll let you get away with this? But that wasn’t the point, of course. The point was to make King Joyse declare himself – to make Mordant’s sovereign take a stand that would reveal his true intentions. So she didn’t ask any of her questions. Instead, she said sincerely, “I’m glad you did it. I needed rescuing.”

The Tor gave her a lugubrious wink. To Geraden, he commented, “You see? Already my revenge begins to bear fruit.”

“My father tells a lot of stories about you, my lord,” said Geraden. “I don’t think they do you justice.”

But Terisa wasn’t done. She turned to Geraden. Because she had become brave enough to tell lies – and even to speak insults – she was brave enough to say, “I’m sorry. When you left, I thought you were running out on me. I should have known better.”

He met her gaze sharply, and his shoulders straightened. “That’s right.” His tone was earnest. “You should have known better. I would rather cut off my hands than run out on you.”

Almost at once, however, he relapsed to self-consciousness. “I’m glad I did something right.” His smile was embarrassed and happy. “Please don’t count on it. It doesn’t happen that often.”

“Tush, young Geraden,” the Tor interposed. “You malign yourself “He drained his flagon and waved it until the Apt found a decanter and poured more wine for him. “Your difficulty is quite simple. You have not found your true abilities. As the King’s chancellor, I dispense advice freely to all. Born swordsmen make very clumsy farmers, as I am sure your brother Artagel would agree. Give up Imagery. A son of the Domne should not spend his life providing jokes for Imagers.”

Geraden’s face darkened, not with anger, but with pain. “I would if I could.” The quick distress in his voice went straight to Terisa’s heart. “I’m a disappointment to my whole family. I know that. But I can’t— I can not give it up.”

The Tor studied his wine with the air of a man who didn’t want to meet Geraden’s eyes. “At least you are your father’s son. Take comfort in that. He, too, is stubborn. I have heard King Joyse say that he would rather break his head on a stone wall than argue with the Domne.”

Privately, Terisa thought that if Artagel had been present he would have denied being disappointed in his brother at all.

Abruptly, the King made a snorting noise. A twitch of his head dislodged the scroll, and the parchment slipped aside, curling around itself among the others on the rug. Blinking, he raised his hands to his chest and flexed them as if they had gone numb. “The Domne,” he muttered at the ceiling. “Stubborn man. Rather break my head on a stone wall.”

In an effort to push himself upright, he fumbled at the arms of his chair, but he seemed too stunned with dreams – or too weak – to succeed.

“My lord King.” Geraden went to him and helped him.

With awkward hands, King Joyse tried to rub the sleep off his face. Seen in this way, his old skin and watery eyes had a vulnerability which pained Terisa. He didn’t look like a perverse or half-mad ruler who refused to defend his kingdom: he looked like a frail semi-invalid, nearly crippled by arthritis and age, who had lost most of the people he loved and now could barely keep his grip on reason.

But when he saw her – when he got his eyes into focus and saw who she was – he answered her unspoken concern with a smile of clean, uncluttered joy.

That was where the lady Myste had come by her look of sunshine: she had inherited it from her father. Terisa tried to distance herself from his transparent pleasure, but she couldn’t. If he had simply smiled at her like that and done nothing to change the way she felt about him, she would have done anything for him.

Unfortunately, he spoke.

“My lady, have you come to offer me a game? How kind of you. I have a problem here” – he gestured toward his hop-board table – “that defies my poor brain.”

Her disappointment was so acute that she had to turn her head away.

He levered himself upright in a way that suggested his legs weren’t as weak as his arms. “Havelock set it up for me. If I understand him – which isn’t always easy – he once found a solution. These are his notes.” King Joyse nudged a nearby scroll with one foot. “Since I haven’t been able to design a solution for myself, I’ve been reading his notes, hunting—” His voice trailed away as he lost the thread of what he was saying. His gaze shifted toward the Tor and Geraden as if he couldn’t quite remember who they were. Then he looked back to Terisa and resumed,”—hunting for his answer.” He shrugged. “Without success. Maybe you can give me some fresh ideas.”

Memories of her game with Prince Kragen made her stomach twist. King Joyse had lured her into that situation with his smile. She didn’t want to find herself in a similar mess again. Carefully, she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t come for that. The Tor” – she hoped the lord would forgive her for putting him on the spot – “had your guards bring me here.”

“Ah, my old friend the Tor.” King Joyse grimaced as though his mouth were full of bile. “He is one of the few mummers in this masque who defies prediction.” He seemed to drift between colloquial and more formal diction according to his mood. “Who could have foreseen that he would feel compelled to force his service upon me, after all the indignities I have required him to suffer?” He didn’t glance in the direction of the old lord. “This is not in the rules. It is enough to drive me mad, my lady.”

“My lord King” – the Tor’s voice was quiet and harsh – “I am sure you understand that I am not motivated by benevolence.”

The King ignored him. “Nevertheless,” he said to Terisa, working visibly to recover his equanimity, “we must all bear our burdens as we can. Mine is hop-board.” Again, he gestured toward the table. “This problem beats me. Are you sure you won’t take a look at it for me? It’s really quite demonic.” Slowly, the skin around his eyes crinkled with humor and enjoyment. “And I think you know something about it.

“Please?”

Without quite intending to do so, she faced the table. After all, it wasn’t entirely fair to say that his smile alone had seduced her into her game with Prince Kragen. She had had her own odd reasons for what she did. It wasn’t fair to place all the blame on King Joyse.

When she saw the arrangement of the men on the board, she understood his idea that she knew something about it. The position was virtually a stalement: it was the same position she had played for against Prince Kragen. Whose move was it? If white’s, the game could go on; if red’s, the only available play would complete the stalemate.

“It’s red’s turn,” answered the King, although she hadn’t spoken.

“I see what you mean,” she murmured. “There’s no way out of that. Adept Havelock must be joking.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. He doesn’t have that kind of humor.” King Joyse frowned at the board. “There is a way out. I’m sure of it. I simply can’t imagine what it is.”

Terisa shook her head. The subject of hop-board held no interest for her. To dismiss it, she said, “I haven’t played for years. The only thing I can see is to back up and start over again. Try to avoid arriving in this position.”

He gave her another of his radiant smiles. “My lady, I wish life were that simple.”

Under the influence of his joy, she thought suddenly that she caught Havelock’s joke. “In that case,” she said, “try this.” Without pausing to reflect, she took hold of the edge of the table and tilted it back and forth just enough to slide most of the men off their squares. In an instant, the impending stalement became chaos.

Grinning, she turned back to the King.

He obviously didn’t think what she had done was funny. A look of nausea on his face, he stared at the board. His frailty came back over him; his eyes filled as if he were on the verge of tears.

Hastily, she tried to explain. “I still think Adept Havelock was joking.” She indicated the board. “Does he have that kind of humor?”

King Joyse gave no sign that he heard her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just a game.”

Without warning, his eyes flashed like steel glimpsed through water. “To you, it’s just a game. To me, it’s the difference between life and ruin.”

Moving so feebly that he nearly tottered, he went back to his chair. The difficulty with which he lowered himself into his seat made her ache as if in some way it were her fault.

“My lord King,” Geraden asked, “are you all right? Can I get anything for you?”

Slowly, King Joyse shifted his damp blue gaze toward the Apt. “I notice you haven’t been paying much attention to my orders,” he rasped acidulously. “I distinctly told you not to see or speak with the lady Terisa. I told you not to answer her questions. Do you call what you’ve been doing obedience? I expected better loyalty from a son of the Domne.”

His accusation surprised Geraden. The Apt’s head jerked up; his concern changed to a scowl. “My lord King,” he replied slowly, holding his emotions like a bit clamped between his teeth, “I would obey your orders if I understood them. But they don’t make any sense.

“You’ve lost interest in Mordant. You insulted Prince Kragen badly enough to start a war with Alend. You let the Congery summon that champion, when the Fayle did everything he could to warn you. We need all the friends we can get. I’m not willing to treat the lady Terisa like an enemy.”

King Joyse looked too tired and old to keep his head up, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Are you through?”

Geraden took a sharp breath. “No.” Stiffly, he said like a formal confession, “My lord King, the day after you commanded me not to see or speak with the lady Terisa, I took her to the mirror which brought her here and attempted to return her to her own world.” Then he stopped, held himself still.

Like Geraden, Terisa expected anger from King Joyse. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had sent for the Castellan. Apparently anticipating the same reaction, the Tor shifted forward in his chair, braced himself to speak.

But the King only sighed. He leaned back and rested his chin on his chest. Staring vaguely into the rug, he murmured, “One grows old so quickly. This should have happened when I was younger. I was strong enough when I was younger.”

Terisa wanted to ask – gently, gently – What should have happened? But Geraden had been too shaken by the King’s accusation to let it drop.

“I tried to translate her back to her own world because I believe all the things you used to say about the reality and integrity of what we see in mirrors. I think she deserves the freedom to leave whenever she wants. If I had known you were going to let the Masters translate their champion – if I had known you were going to turn your back on the ideals you talked about when you created the Congery in the first place – I would have tried a lot harder to get her out of here.” What he was saying wasn’t recrimination: it was an appeal. Terisa could hear his heart in it. “Why did you do it? Their champion nearly killed us. He left a hole the size of a small mansion in the northwest wall. We might as well invite Cadwal and Alend to besiege us. And he’s still out there, ready to tear down anybody who gets in his way.”

And Myste is out there, Terisa thought. Your daughter. She’s trying to catch up with him.

“My lord King, the Fayle tried to warn you. Why didn’t you let him warn you?”

King Joyse didn’t bother to glance at the Apt. When Geraden finally fell silent, the King remained still for a moment. Then he said, “Because I didn’t see fit to do so.” A tremor of bitterness and pain ran through his voice. “Do you think you’re qualified to make my decisions for me? I was fighting to make Mordant and the Congery whole long before you were old enough to fall on your face in pig wallows.”

Geraden flushed at this gibe, but couldn’t retort to it.

“I let the Masters have their champion because I didn’t choose to stop them.

“Besides,” King Joyse added sourly, “Eremis is under arrest. That should make you happy. Lebbick will arrest Gilbur when he finds him. The perpetrators are going to be punished. What more do you want?”

“I want to understand,” cried Geraden.

“Tush, young Geraden,” the Tor rumbled unexpectedly. “I doubt that the Domne has any thick-skulled sons. Surely you are not stupid. It must be obvious by now that my lord King does not wish you to understand.”

Geraden whirled to face the Tor. “But why? I’m just an Apt. I’ll never become a Master. What harm would it do if I understood? Who would it hurt?”

The Tor lifted his shoulders fatly. Speaking half into his flagon, he asked, “How did I gain an audience with the King?”

Hauled up short, Geraden blinked at the old lord. Slowly, he said, “You howled outside the door until he let you in.”

King Joyse snorted quietly.

In disgust, the Tor grimaced. “You cannot convince me that you are stupid. I insist that you are not. How did I gain an audience with the King when I first arrived in Orison?”

Geraden opened his mouth. “I—” Then he closed it again.

“Young Geraden” – the Tor emphasized each word – “the King does not wish you to understand. I suggest that you return to your quarters and beat your head against the wall until your skull cracks enough to let a little light shine in.”

“Yes, go,” King Joyse muttered at once. “I’m tired of being reminded how little my own people respect their King.”

Sharply, Geraden turned back to the King. Now Terisa saw something wild in his eyes, something extreme enough to be dangerous. Nevertheless his balance had become steady, as if urgency improved his poise. “Actually,” he said, “I should be used to this.” His tone was almost calm. “I was always the youngest. My brothers didn’t have the patience to explain things to me very often.” Almost calm – and almost threatening. “I probably do better when I figure it out for myself.”

Without glancing away from King Joyse, he asked Terisa, “My lady, will you come with me?”

“She will stay here,” King Joyse answered for her. “I want to talk to her.”

So he did want to talk to her. Terisa didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. To Geraden, she said, “I’ll see you later,” trying to reassure him. “We’ll think of something.” Then she waited while he made up his mind to leave.

Before he left, he gave her a look like an iron promise – a look that hinted at passion and authority. Then he was gone.

As the door closed, the Tor sighed thickly. He emptied his flagon and settled his bulk more comfortably in the chair as though he intended to take a nap.

Terisa faced King Joyse.

Instinctively, she felt sure she knew why King Joyse wanted to talk to her. And she meant to take advantage of the opportunity. She was angry. Castellan Lebbick had hit her. King Joyse insisted on causing Geraden pain. Master Eremis had been arrested. She was angrier than she had realized.

Her voice shook slightly as she said, “You knew Master Eremis was arrested. Castellan Lebbick has been reporting everything to you.” That seemed a safe deduction. “You knew he was going to arrest me. You let him attack me like that. If the Tor hadn’t stopped him, I would be in a cell by now.

“I seem to recall hearing you argue I might be a powerful Imager – I was like an ambassador – I had to be treated with respect. Do you call this respect?”

As if he intended to answer her, he raised his head. He shifted in his chair to face her squarely. Now there was no petulance or bitterness in his expression. He looked grave with all the seriousness of his years, as intent on her as his watery gaze permitted – and so sorrowful that she was taken aback.

“My lady,” he asked softly, “where is my daughter?”

So she was right. Her pulse beat faster. At last she had something somebody else wanted, something she could use. As long as she didn’t betray Myste, this was her chance.

The prospect frightened her, but she clung to it with both hands. “Which daughter?” she returned despite the tremor in her voice. “You have several.”

She expected indignation and anger – that was what she always expected – but King Joyse remained quiet. His expression didn’t change. For a long moment, he studied her through the moisture in his eyes. Then he indicated the chair across the table from him. “My lady, will you be seated?”

At first she hesitated. Perhaps she would be stronger if she stayed on her feet. But his sadness was as persuasive as his smile.

She went to the chair, pulled it away from the table to dissociate herself from hop-board, and sat down.

When she was seated, he said in the same soft, grieving tone, “My lady, my daughter Myste is gone. Where is she?”

Suddenly, her tongue was so dry that she could hardly swallow. Like a frightened but stubborn child, she asked, “My lord King, why did you let Castellan Lebbick arrest me?”

The room seemed uncomfortably warm. Again, the King’s eyes gave a hint of steel. He held her gaze until she faltered and looked down. Then he breathed almost inaudibly, “My lady, do not play this game with me. It is more dangerous than you imagine.”

For a few seconds while her heart hammered and her stomach knotted, she nearly backed down. She didn’t have the strength to face him. Anybody was stronger than she was. As she had with Saddith, she felt that vulnerability and weakness were her only defense, her only weapon.

But backing down now wouldn’t accomplish anything. The King would still want to know about his daughter. He would still demand answers. If she gave up what she wanted, she wouldn’t make herself safer. And it would be more difficult for her to avoid betraying Myste.

And she was too angry to give up. Deliberately, she raised her eyes to the King’s again. “I don’t have any choice. Geraden tried to take me back where I belong, but that mirror doesn’t seem to work anymore. I have to play.

“Why did you let Castellan Lebbick arrest me?”

Something shifted in the background of King Joyse’s expression, like clouds moving their shadows across a distant landscape. Without any definable change, his attention became sharper and more cautious.

“My lady” – his tone was caustic in an oddly impersonal way, as if he didn’t mean it – “do you know who your friends are?”

She stared at him in surprise and bit her lip and didn’t try to answer.

“Well, I don’t either. Having you arrested would have been a good way to find out. It would have been very interesting to see who tried to help you, or communicate with you, or persuade me to let you go. But of course Geraden interfered. With his usual instinct for disaster. I already knew he was a friend of yours.”

This reply startled her. It drew a different sketch of him – of the way his mind worked – than she was expecting: it seemed to imply that he was paying attention to what happened in Orison. “Wait a minute,” she protested weakly. “Wait a minute. You mean you planned to have me arrested? It was just a ploy?”

“No, my lady.” He waved one sore-knuckled finger at her. “You aren’t playing the game. It’s my turn now. Where is my daughter?”

Terisa drew a sharp breath. For a moment, she considered trying to extort information from him without revealing anything herself. In spite of his age, however, he looked too strong for that tactic. And it wouldn’t be fair. He was Myste’s father.

Carefully, she responded, “She came to see me yesterday afternoon. In my rooms. We talked for a long time.”

He nodded. “I guessed that. But I don’t understand it. What do you have that she wanted? What did she tell you?”

“No, my lord King. It’s my turn now.”

She had so many questions. Too many to remember them all at once. And she didn’t want to waste an opportunity like this on the one she had blurted out a moment earlier. So she concentrated on the issue that had brought her to the King’s suite – on Castellan Lebbick and his behavior.

“When I leave my rooms with someone – with Master Eremis, for example – my guards always want to know where I’m going. But when I leave with Geraden, nobody seems to care. Why is that?”

King Joyse snorted as if she had just made a particularly bad move. In the same caustic, impersonal way, he said, “You should have figured that out for yourself. I already know Geraden is your friend.”

Right. Of course. She really should have figured that out for herself. A sense of panic rose in her. She wasn’t thinking quickly enough.

Impatiently, the King continued, “You were speaking of my daughter, my lady.”

“Yes.” She needed to be smarter. Sharper. She was tempted to turn to the Tor for help. But she could hear him breathing deeply, heavily, as though he were about to snore. Groping for inspiration, she asked, “Can you be more specific?”

“Certainly,” he snapped. “Where is she?”

Fortunately, his tone brought back her anger. All right. If that was the way he wanted to play. “I don’t actually know where she is.” She made an effort to sound sweet. “But you asked what I have that she wanted. There’s an entrance to a secret passage in my wardrobe. She wanted to use it.”

Again, he nodded. Apparently, Terisa was only confirming his own suspicions. “Why?”

Anger was a great help. She was being cruel to him – but only because she had been so badly treated herself. “My lord King,” she said stiffly, “the first night I was here a man tried to kill me. When he was chased away, Castellan Lebbick started a search for him. But you called it off.” Despite her inexperience, she worked to match his tone. “Why?”

For an instant, King Joyse hesitated. The shadows shifted behind his eyes. Then he said trenchantly, “Because I didn’t want him caught.”

“What? Why not?”

I didn’t think he was stupid, so I didn’t think he would lead Lebbick to his allies. And I didn’t think he was a coward, so I didn’t think he would tell me anything if Lebbick caught him. The only way to learn anything about him was to leave him alone and wait for what he did next.” His voice grew harsher, but it still sounded impersonal, as if his ire were calculated rather than real. “Are you satisfied, my lady?

“Why did my daughter want to use a secret passage?”

“Because” – Terisa’s anger made her stronger than she would have believed possible – “she wanted to leave Orison.”

That struck him, hurt him. “Leave Orison?”

“She knew you would stop her if you could, so she used that passage to get down into the laborium. Then she sneaked out through the hole in the wall.”

“Leave Orison?” he repeated. “Why?”

“No.” She clenched her fists to make herself ignore his distress. “Why did you make me play hop-board against Prince Kragen? You did everything you could to force a war. I didn’t enjoy being used like that.”

So suddenly that she had no chance to defend herself, King Joyse surged out of his chair. As if he had never been weak or old in his life, he knotted his hands in the front of her shirt and jerked her to her feet. “This is intolerable! She is my daughter!” His eyes ran as if he were weeping. “Her mother and one of her sisters left me. Her other sister holds me in contempt. Where did she go?”

Terisa should have broken then: she knew that about herself. She should have given up everything and betrayed Myste in simple fear. Her own anger should have evaporated.

But it didn’t.

“Back to her mother,” she retorted. Myste was her friend. “She wanted to be loyal. She wanted to help you. But when you insulted Prince Kragen like that, you broke her heart. She was raised to be the daughter of a king, not some petty tyrant who likes war and can’t be bothered to defend his own people. She—”

Terisa stopped. His anguish stopped her. His sudden strength collapsed. He let go of her shirt. His hands dropped. His eyes squeezed shut, but tears went on spilling past his old eyelids. “If you lie to me—” he rasped far back in his throat. “If you dare lie to me—” It wasn’t a threat: it was a plea. Fumbling behind him, he found the arm of his chair and braced himself on it while he sat down. His robe covered him as if he were lost inside it. “My daughter, what have I done to you?”

“Why did you do it?” Terisa asked so that his pain wouldn’t tear the truth out of her. “Why did you make me play hop-board against Prince Kragen?”

“To test him,” he replied like a man who had no idea what he was saying. “No other reason. How could I trust him? Alend has been Mordant’s enemy for generations. He has a personal grudge against me. If his mission were honorable, he would refuse to play. He would have no reason to brook that insult to the Alend Monarch. But if he intended treachery he would acquiesce because he could not risk my displeasure – risk expulsion from Orison before his work was done.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, my daughter.”

So it was true. He knew what he was doing, what was happening around him. The thought seemed to chill her blood. Where had she gotten the idea that it was too warm in this room? She wanted to shiver violently. Ignorance or senility had nothing to do with it.

He was intentionally destroying Mordant.

And yet his distress swept her anger away. She could fear him, but she couldn’t be angry at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying to be kind. “I guess this game is a stalemate too.”

Roughly, he pulled down his hands. They shook as he clasped them together in his lap. He didn’t look at her. Quietly and distinctly, he said, “My lady, I suggest that you give the matter more consideration before you once again attempt to end a stalemate by tilting the board.” Then he indicated the door with a twitch of his head, dismissing her.

She turned to leave as if she were fleeing.

The Tor was awake. He watched the King with a look that resembled hunger. As she passed his chair, he gave her a firm nod of approval.

She had already closed the door behind her before it occurred to her to wonder how King Joyse had been able to guess that Myste had come to her for help.

SEVENTEEN: TERISA TAKES ACTION

She had the impression that she was hurrying inside, racing to keep ahead of her emotions, ahead of the consequences and implications of what she was doing. She needed to outrun the lie she had told King Joyse. She had caused him too much pain. Liars surrounded her. Even Master Eremis didn’t trust her with the truth to any remarkable extent. It was possible that the King himself had been lying to her. Falsehood was her only weapon, the only way she could defend herself. She wanted to flee from it.

She had descended two flights of stairs and was about to enter one of the main halls before she realized that she had no idea how to get where she wanted to go.

She tried to swear at herself, but the unaccustomed words lacked conviction. Geraden’s tour hadn’t included the information she needed. She was off to a great start.

She scanned the hall in both directions. It was full of people; she might conceivably ask one of them for directions. But she had no idea how to approach them. What were they all doing here? Floor- and chimney-sweeps, stonemasons, supply porters, chambermaids, scullery maids, seamstresses, even blacksmiths: she understood the servants of the castle. But who were the rest of these men and women, these lords and ladies? Myste had made a point of explaining how much Mordant and Orison depended upon trade. Were these people all involved in commerce and finance? – warehouse managers? goods inspectors? tax collectors? shipment foremen? bookkeepers? supply allocaters? black marketeers? If so, her father would have felt right at home.

Her father, she firmly believed, wouldn’t have hesitated to tell King Joyse any number of lies. She believed this despite the fact that she had never heard him utter an untruth.

Still running inside, she spotted Artagel.

Some distance away, he sauntered across the hall. Judging by his manner, he might have been unaware of her. But a moment after she noticed him – before she had time to raise her hand and wave – he changed course and came toward her.

“My lady.” He gave her an amiable bow. “Have you recovered from your adventures already? If I had a similar experience, I would get into bed and not get out again for several days.”

“Call me Terisa,” she said to dismiss the subject of her recovery. She was in a hurry. What she had in mind was even more uncharacteristic of her than her conversation with King Joyse. If she paused or faltered, it would fall apart; she might never be able to pick up the pieces again. “Where are the dungeons?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I can’t call you Terisa, my lady. If I do, I’ll be in danger of forgetting that Geraden is my brother. I’m not like Stead— Has Geraden mentioned that we have one brother who is absolutely insatiable for women? But I’m also not immune to beauty. Why in the world do you want to know where the dungeons are?”

Remembering the conversation she had overheard between him and Master Eremis, she hesitated. But she couldn’t afford the luxury of hesitation. “Castellan Lebbick has arrested Master Eremis,” she said, trying to sound like she knew what she was doing. “I need to talk to him.”

That announcement widened his eyes. She saw him consider and reject a variety of responses in rapid succession – surprise, disapproval, curiosity. When he spoke, he had decided on unruffled amusement. “If Eremis is safely locked up, I don’t think Lebbick will want him to receive social visits.”

He had a good point. Grasping at possibilities that hadn’t crossed her mind until that moment, she said, “But you can get me in. If we don’t ask the Castellan’s permission. If we just go to his cell. The guards will let you in,” she concluded awkwardly, “because of who you are.”

His expression became wary. “Maybe. But you’ll be taking a chance. Even if Lebbick doesn’t catch you, he’ll still be told you were there. I assume there must be some reason why Eremis was arrested. You’ll make yourself look like his accomplice. You’ll make me look like an accomplice. What good is that going to do?”

For a moment, she froze. The matter was too urgent to be explained. King Joyse knew what he was doing. He was doing it on purpose. My daughter, what have I done to you? Master Eremis needed to know that. He couldn’t act or plan accurately unless he knew what he was up against. And he was Mordant’s only hope.

Unfortunately, that also couldn’t be explained – to Artagel even less than to Geraden. The sons of the Domne were too loyal.

Impelled by her sense of haste, she tried another prevarication. “Maybe I’m being naive, but I think what’s really wrong here is that none of the people who want to defend Mordant are willing to talk to each other. The Congery doesn’t trust Geraden. The King doesn’t trust the Congery. Nobody trusts Master Eremis. Castellan Lebbick doesn’t trust anybody. And meanwhile the whole kingdom is going to hell.” She was pleased to hear that she sounded like she knew what she was talking about. “I want to see if I can make people start talking to each other.

“I’ve just had a talk with King Joyse. Now I want to talk to Master Eremis. I think he’s the key to the whole thing.”

Artagel watched her while she spoke, a bemused smile on his lips. When she finished, he shook his head, not in refusal, but in wonder. “You amaze me, my lady. You make it so simple. There must be some reason why it’s never been attempted.” Then his smile broadened into a grin. “It might be fun. It might even work.” Bowing extravagantly, he offered her his arm. “Shall we give it a try?”

At once grateful for his acquiescence and alarmed by her own behavior, she accepted his arm and let him guide her down to the dungeons of Orison.

***

The cells were physically close to the laborium. After the conversion of the original dungeons, the place where the Castellan kept his prisoners was separated from the workrooms of the Masters only by a masonry wall. Artagel took Terisa to the disused ballroom which was becoming so familiar to her; its emptiness was a symbol of Orison’s loss of heart. Beyond it, a passage paralleling the entrance to the laborium led to a corresponding stairwell. There, however, the similarities ended. The atmosphere of the dungeon was a world away from the laborium.

Ill-lit by torches guttering at intervals along the old walls, the place was dank and oppressive; she could feel the huge pile of Orison’s stone impending over her. Straw that smelled of rot – and perhaps, faintly, of blood – covered the floor. It had originally been scattered to sop up whatever the prisoners of the castle spilled, but now it served primarily to control moisture. The corridor was narrow but direct: after a second downward stair, it brought Terisa and Artagel to the guardroom.

Here the men who were about to go on duty, or had just been released, or were taking a break could warm or refresh or relieve themselves; but the guardroom also served as part of the dungeon’s defenses. Although the chamber was appointed like a crude tavern, with trestle tables and rough benches for the guards, a few beds against the walls, a large hearth in which a fire struggled against the wet chill of the stone, and a short bar from which a servingman provided ale and meat, it also gave the only admittance to the cells: no one could get in or out of the dungeon without passing through the guardroom. Racks of swords and pikes along the walls above the beds suggested that the men in the guardroom were expected to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

Discipline was slack, however – perhaps because most of Orison’s guards were exhausted by the previous day’s exertions; perhaps because the dungeon wasn’t the most vital or interesting part of the castle. One man sat honing his sword with the studious attention of diminished intelligence; the rest were less involved in their duties. Three guards at one table had obviously consumed more ale than was good for them; two more occupied beds, snoring in a perfect third; the rest threw dice in a corner of the room with more vehemence than pleasure.

Artagel frowned at what he saw, then changed his expression to an insouciant smile. His eyes glittering, he said to no one in particular, “What a collection of slovens and aleheads. I could walk every prisoner you have through this room singing, and you wouldn’t notice until the Castellan locked you in irons.”

Glaring with surprise, irritation, and stupidity, everyone who was awake turned toward him.

When the guards recognized him, however, their hostility vanished. Expressions of gruff humor stretched their faces. Several of them guffawed hoarsely, and one riposted, “That’s true. Who cares about prisoners? But just try getting that woman past us.”

“Anyway,” another said, “the Castellan never comes here. Except when he wants to question Master Eremis. We always have plenty of warning.”

“The fact is,” explained a third, “Master Eremis is the only prisoner we’ve got. That’s bad enough – but you don’t know what misery is until you’ve spent an entire night turning away women who want to see him.” Staring straight at Terisa, he clutched his groin. “I would give my left hand to know how he does it.”

Terisa noticed that all the guards were now staring at her.

Suddenly, she wanted to forget the whole thing and go back to her rooms.

Then one of the dicers rose to his feet. A purple band knotted around his right bicep marked him as a captain of some kind. “Take it easy, you louts,” he drawled. “Unless I’m confused in my old age, Artagel’s companion is the lady Terisa of Morgan. She isn’t one of Master Eremis’ toys – or yours either.

“My lady” – he gave Terisa a decent bow – “don’t look so worried. You aren’t in as much danger as you think. Artagel can unman half the rubbish here before they get their hands on their swords. And Castellan Lebbick would feed the other half to the pigs just for touching an unwilling woman.”

Artagel’s answering smile made the captain straighten his shoulders. In a more rigid manner, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

She had no idea how to respond, but her companion replied easily, “The lady Terisa is taking a tour of Orison. She wants to see the dungeon.”

The guard with the armband hesitated; his eyes narrowed. “The Castellan isn’t going to like that.”

Artagel’s smile stretched wider. “The Castellan isn’t going to hear about it.”

Terisa was holding her breath. She felt rather than saw the men around her stiffen.

“If he does,” the captain observed slowly, “you won’t be the one who gets eaten alive. I will.”

“That’s probably true.” Artagel seemed to enjoy himself more and more by the minute. “But there’s one consolation. You’ll be safe from me. Whoever tells Lebbick we were here won’t be that lucky.”

For a moment, Artagel and the guard captain measured each other. By degrees, the guard’s expression changed until it resembled Artagel’s threatening grin. He unhooked a ring of keys from his belt and tossed it to Terisa’s companion. “I don’t have any idea why you want to talk to Master Eremis. I don’t want to know. Just don’t let him out.”

“ ‘Talk to Master Eremis’?” Artagel was gleaming. “You aren’t serious. I would rather lie down in a nest of snakes.”

“That’s a mistake,” someone chortled. “There aren’t any women in a nest of snakes.”

All the men laughed – with the exception of the guard honing his blade, who frowned as though the people around him spoke a foreign language.

Artagel jingled the keys. “We’ll be back soon.” Then he said to Terisa, “Come, my lady,” as though she weren’t clinging tightly to his arm. Together, they crossed to the doorway which led to the corridors and cells of the dungeon.

Beyond the guardroom, she asked softly, “Would you really kill somebody who betrayed us?”

“Of course not,” he replied negligently. “That’s why we’re safe. If they were really afraid of me, someone would talk.”

For some reason, his tone didn’t carry conviction.

Breathing deeply to ease the pressure in her chest, she inhaled the rotten air and tried to remember why she was here.

To talk to Master Eremis. To tell him what she had learned from the King. So that he would know better where he stood, what Mordant’s true danger was. So that he could decide what to do, now that his attempts to unite the Congery with the lords of the Cares and Prince Kragen had failed.

To see him again, so that she could try to understand what he meant to her, why the mere thought of him was enough to make her nerves tingle.

Her heart laboring, she went with Artagel past a first turn in the passage, past a second, and into the area of the cells.

Perhaps because the dungeon itself was so obviously closed, the cells were relatively open. They didn’t have solid doors to shut their occupants in. Instead, each of them was essentially a deep niche cut into the foundation stone of the castle, eight or ten feet deep and just wide enough to accommodate a low cot and a washstand against the back wall. A heavy iron grid bolted to the stone served as the near wall for each cell; a barred door in the grid provided entrance and egress.

All the nearby cells were empty: apparently, King Joyse’s recent rule hadn’t supplied the Castellan with a significant number of prisoners. Nevertheless the glow of a lamp some distance ahead implied that one cell, at least, was occupied. Terisa and Artagel walked toward it, their feet rustling through the straw on the floor. As they passed, the one lantern that provided dim illumination for this corridor made ghoulish shadows leap in and out of the cells on either side.

Before they reached his cell, Master Eremis said in a voice pitched to carry, “Astonishing. I thought that I would be left alone longer. The time is not right for a meal. Have more innocents been arrested? Has the Castellan already obtained King Joyse’s permission to torture me?” He sounded almost jovial. “Can it be that I have been granted a visitor?”

“You’re in good spirits, Master Eremis,” commented Artagel dryly as he and Terisa reached the cell. “I hope you have reason. As I remember, the last time Lebbick locked somebody up down here, she was executed two days later. A Cadwal spy, I think she was. Before that, it was a brigand who lost both hands for his trouble.”

At first glance, this cell seemed as empty as the others. A small oil lamp balanced on the washstand revealed that a rumpled blanket covered the dirty mattress on the cot; but the light didn’t show Master Eremis. Instead, it reflected delicately in the fine trails of moisture dripping down the granite.

Then, however, a darker place – a place without reflections – took shape against the wall.

He was sitting on the end of the cot as far from the lamp as possible, and his jet cloak blended him into the shadows. Until Terisa’s eyes adjusted, she saw the pale skin of his face and hands as nothing more than stains on the old stone of the wall.

He wasn’t wearing his chasuble. He had given it up – or it had been taken from him.

“My lady,” he murmured. Now his voice didn’t carry: it was soft, almost intimate. “I wanted you to come.”

That statement went straight into her heart. It was pitched to a key which made her whole being resonate. Nobody else except Geraden had ever said anything like that to her. And nobody else in the world had ever spoken to her with that specific magnetic vibration, that knowing and personal passion. In an instant, all her reasons for being here changed to suit the tone in which he said, I wanted you to come.

Without thinking, she said to Artagel, “Let me in. I need to talk to him.”

Artagel glanced at her strangely. But the expression on her face must have convinced him not to argue with her. With a shrug, he stepped to the door, tried a few keys until he found the right one, then unlocked the Imager’s cell.

Before either common sense or timidity could inspire her to question what she was doing, she entered the cell.

At once, Artagel closed the door. In a distant, noncommittal manner, he said, “I’ll be nearby. Just raise your voice. If he tries to do anything, I’ll kill him so fast he won’t know he’s dead until afterward.”

Quietly, he moved a few paces away down the corridor.

Terisa paid no attention to him. She was focused on Master Eremis.

He hadn’t left his seat on the end of the cot. He didn’t speak. He was still hard to see in the dim light. Involuntarily, she slowed down as she moved toward him.

The cot was low: despite his height, his head only reached her shoulders. When she was near enough, however, he sat forward, drew her between his spread knees, and pulled her head down to take her mouth in an urgent kiss. She tasted wine and desire on his breath.

The strength of his embrace and the insistence of his tongue seemed to complete the change in her. She responded with everything he had taught her, trying to make her kiss as intimate as his. A long moment passed before she remembered that she had other reasons for being here: that without having planned to do so she had joined the ranks of King Joyse’s opponents; that Mordant’s fate might hinge on what she could tell Master Eremis. And they weren’t really alone.

Deliberately, she pushed herself back a little way. Trying to recover her breath, she murmured, “That’s not why I came.”

“Is it not?” Still holding her with both knees and one arm, he raised his free hand to the buttons of her shirt. “It would be enough for me.”

Again, he kissed her.

When he let her pull back once more, his deft fingers began to open her shirt.

“Artagel will see us.” In spite of her anxiety, she kept her protest low. She wanted the Master to touch her.

“He will not if you do not raise your voice. Artagel is scrupulous.”

His hand slipped inside her shirt. His fingers were cold, bringing her nipples erect at once, making her breasts ache for him.

His behavior and her own unexpected emotions confused her; she could hardly think. Nevertheless she made one more attempt to draw away. “I’ve just talked to the King. I came straight to you from him.”

Somewhat to her chagrin – as well as to her relief – Master Eremis loosened his grip. “A talk with the King,” he murmured, tilting his head back to peer into her face. “That is an honor which all Orison and half of Mordant would envy you. What did the old dodderer desire?” He caressed one of her breasts. “Does he have enough life left in him to covet my place?”

“Castellan Lebbick came to arrest me.” She wanted to explain everything clearly, make the importance of what she had learned plain; but she felt that she was babbling. “The Tor and Geraden stopped him. But King Joyse wanted to talk to me anyway.” Quickly furious at her incoherence, she halted, took a deep breath, then said distinctly, “He’s not an old dodderer. He knows what he’s doing. He’s doing it on purpose.”

The Master’s sharp face betrayed no reaction; yet his sudden stillness suggested that she had touched on something important. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “My lady, you must tell me everything. Begin at the beginning. Why did Lebbick decide to arrest you?”

His attitude was like magic: it made her firmer, stronger. At once, her confusion receded. “I think it’s the same reason he arrested you. You broke one of the King’s rules, I know that – but I don’t think it’s the real reason. I think the real reason is that he figured out we went to a meeting with the lords and Prince Kragen. He believes we’re all traitors.”

It was his embrace that confirmed her, his expressionless face, the steady pressure of his knees. She might have been willing to tell him anything. Yet she made no mention of Myste or secret passages; she said nothing about Master Quillon. Instinctively, she focused on the attack after Eremis’ clandestine meeting two nights ago; on the bloodshed that had led Castellan Lebbick to her; on the Castellan’s conclusions. Then she explained how the Tor and Geraden had rescued her from arrest.

After that, she had to be more careful. Acutely conscious that she wasn’t a good liar, she said, “He wanted to talk to me about his daughter Myste. She’s vanished. He thought I might know where she’s gone. I pretended I did to make him talk to me.” Hurrying once more to get past her falsehood, she described the answers King Joyse had given to her questions.

Now Master Eremis did react. By the weak lamplight, she thought she saw surprise, anger, excitement emerge in glimpses from the darkness surrounding him. At one point, he breathed as if involuntarily, “That old butcher.” At another, he whispered, “Cunning. Cunning. I was warned, but I did not believe—” Calculations as quick as his emotions ran behind his eyes.

When she was done, he thought soberly for several moments. Without releasing her, he gave the impression that they had become distant from each other. As though she weren’t still clasped in his arms, he said, “This will be a better contest than I anticipated.”

Almost immediately, however, his notice returned to her. Tightening his embrace, he studied her face and said in a detached tone, “You have done me a considerable kindness, my lady. I wonder why. I have claimed you” – he squeezed her with his knees – “and you are mine. No woman refuses me. But I can hardly fail to observe that you are enamored of that puppy Geraden. And you risk more than Lebbick’s rage by coming here. Why have you done it?”

So she had done the right thing. She had helped him. The knowledge made her feel so weak, so ready for him, that she could hardly answer his question. If she had been braver, she would have bent to kiss him again. A kiss might be a better explanation than any rationale. But he needed this answer as much as anything else she had told him.

Awkward with conflicting priorities, she said, “King Joyse is doing everything on purpose. I don’t know why – it’s insane. But he’s refusing to defend Mordant on purpose. Somebody has to resist him. You’re the only one who seems to have enough initiative – or intelligence – or determination – to do something. Everyone else is just waiting around for King Joyse to finally wake up and explain himself “

The Master remained silent, untouched by her account of herself.

For an instant, she faltered. Then she blurted out, “You have enemies. There’s a traitor on the Congery. You were betrayed.”

In response, the lines of his face became stone. His eyes searched her face; his whole body was still. “My lady” – softly, sardonically – “you did not come to that conclusion alone. Who told you?”

Please. You can make me sure of myself. You can do anything with me. She hardly heard herself say, “Geraden.”

That was the wrong answer. She could feel the Master’s quick anger through her skin. “Now I understand you,” he snapped. “You are worse enamored than I realized. Of course Geraden believes there is a traitor on the Congery. There is a traitor on the Congery.” He glared up at her. “But why did he reveal that fact to you?”

Before she could reply – before she could imagine what she had done to infuriate him – his anger changed to surprise. “That cunning son of a mongrel,” he murmured. “Naturally he spoke to you. For that reason alone, if for no other, you will never credit that he himself serves the traitor.”

Now she was too shocked to speak. He himself serves—? It was cold in the cell, too cold. She ought to button her shirt. No warmth seemed to come to her from the Master. Could Artagel overhear what was being said? Probably not: otherwise he would already have a blade at Eremis’ throat.

Geraden?

“My lady, you must learn to think more clearly.” The Imager sounded almost sympathetic. “I know that the young son of the Domne is attractive to you. That is understandable, considering that he created you. If you had not come to me of your own volition, I would not say such things. I would simply give your fine body the love it craves – the love for which it was made – and keep my thoughts to myself. But if you wish to help me, you must use your mind to better effect.

“Take into account whatever reasons Geraden may have given for his belief that the Congery conceals a traitor, and add to them what we have learned since. Along with his initial questions, Lebbick did not fail to mention that Master Gilbur has disappeared. Does it not seem likely, my lady, that he himself is the traitor?”

Yes, she thought, held by his arms and knees and his intent gaze. No. How could he foresee that I would go to your meeting? How could he know where I would be after the meeting, so he could translate those men to attack me? (Don’t translations with flat mirrors drive people crazy?) But those arguments no longer seemed to make sense. Gilbur was the one who had vanished.

“I confess,” Master Eremis went on softly, “I did not foresee his treachery. Foolishly, I trusted him simply because he has cause to feel gratitude toward me. But when Geraden went into his glass, purportedly seeking our champion, and brought you to us instead, my eyes were opened.

“My lady, do you never try to understand why I do what I do? Did you never ask yourself why I involved Master Gilbur in my meeting with the lords of the Cares, when it was plain to all the Congery that he and I stood on opposite sides of every issue? I was trying to expose him, to give him means and opportunity to betray himself. And I succeeded—

“At a greater cost than I had anticipated,” he commented. “Orison’s wall breached. The champion gone. Myself arrested. And stripped of my chasuble by that officious lout Barsonage to prove the Congery’s good faith to the Castellan.”

He snarled in disgust, then resumed his reasoning. “Did you never wonder why I have placed so much value on Geraden’s life? I wanted him alive so that I might try to gain his friendship, insinuate myself into his counsels, study his strange abilities.

“Did you never ask yourself why I attempted to have him admitted to the Congery as a Master? Surely that must have seemed gratuitous, even to someone who knew so little of Orison and its conflicts. In that I did not succeed. Oh, I gained a part of what I wanted – I learned how our good King had reacted to his first encounter with you. That information might have aided me, if I had possessed the key to understand it.” His voice grew sharper as he spoke, more urgent and demanding. “But I did not accomplish my chief end, which was to tighten a snare around Geraden to place him where he would be watched, even by fools who did not fear him, where his secrets might be forced into the open, and where the achievement of his lifelong dream might help blind him to his true talents.”

“No.” Terisa’s protest was too strong to be kept still. “That doesn’t make sense.” The Master’s assertion hurt everything in her chest. “What talents?” As though she were rising up inside herself, she demanded, “What makes you think that he and Master Gilbur have anything to do with each other?”

“Use your mind!” Eremis replied between his teeth. “It was Gilbur who shaped the mirror that first showed the champion. It was he who taught Geraden to copy that glass, he who watched and verified every step of the process, from the refining of the finest tinct to the sifting of the precise sand to the polishing of the exact mold. He must have seen what went wrong, what was changed, to produce the mirror which translated you here.

“Think. While he shaped his glass, Geraden showed abilities which have never been seen before, abilities which allowed him to twist all the laws of Imagery to his own purposes – abilities as great in their way as the arch-Imager’s ability to pass through flat glass and remain sane.

“Gilbur must have known this. He must have witnessed it. Yet he said nothing. Something fundamental occurred under his nose, and he made no mention of it.

“What conclusion do you draw, my lady? What conclusion can you draw? Are you able to insist that I am wrong?”

No. She shook her head leadenly, and her heart reeled. This time she couldn’t contradict him. In his logic, as in his physical magnetism, he was too much for her. If she accepted the proposition of Master Gilbur’s treachery, then all the rest followed impeccably. It was he who taught Geraden— Why hadn’t she thought of that for herself?

It was still possible, she argued dimly, like a woman who was about to faint, it was still possible that Geraden was her friend. That he meant her well. If he was as ignorant and accident-prone as everyone believed—

Clutching at straws, she breathed, “Maybe. Maybe you are. You saw what happened when he tried to stop Master Gilbur from translating the champion. Maybe he’s being used and doesn’t know it.” Her temples were beginning to ache. “Maybe he was misled while he was making his mirror – maybe he thought it was an exact copy. How would he know if Master Gilbur lied to him? Maybe these ‘abilities’ are Master Gilbur’s, not Geraden’s.”

Master Eremis shook his head. “That is conceivable.” His face seemed to be growing darker. “Why do you imagine that I have relied on subterfuge rather than direct action? I have not wanted to risk harm to anyone who might be innocent. But remember two things, my lady.

“The first is a fact. It is Geraden who figures so prominently in the augury, not Gilbur. That cannot be meaningless.

“The second is a possibility. As it is conceivable that Geraden is being manipulated, so it is also conceivable that he and Gilbur feigned their conflict in order to disguise their relationship, thereby freeing Geraden to continue his work when Gilbur was forced to flee.”

At once, Terisa retorted, “That’s crazy!” so strongly that she surprised herself. She and Geraden had been buried alive together. “Master Gilbur almost got him killed!”

“Paugh!” Abruptly, the Master was angry again. “Gilbur could not have foreseen that – or caused it. He was busy with his translation.” The pressure of his knees increased. “Do not insult my intelligence.”

As quickly as it had come, her resistance evaporated. “I’m sorry,” she said like a wince. Don’t hurt me. His face had gone completely dark: she could see nothing but the outlines of his form against the wall. “I’m not used to thinking like this.”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t what he wished to hear. His grip felt like rock, bruising her flesh. In rising panic, she asked, “What do you want me to do?”

He didn’t ease the clench of his knees or release his embrace, yet the vehemence of his posture softened. “Under other circumstances,” he murmured harshly, “I would not ask such flesh to serve any purpose but its own. But I must have your help.

“This is what I want you to do.” He undid the last buttons and jerked her shirt open. “I want you to pretend friendship for young Geraden.” Her breasts were exposed to the cold air and his moist breath. “I want you to watch him for me, study him for any sign of betrayal or talent, scrutinize him for any word or deed or implication which may reveal his secrets to me.

“And tell him nothing. Do not tell him that you have spoken to me. Swear Artagel to silence if you must. Give no hint to anyone that we are allies.”

Moving his head from side to side, he stroked his wet tongue across her nipples, bringing them to hardness, making them demand him. Then he put his mouth to work, sucking and kissing her breasts.

She couldn’t resist him. She felt herself giving up balance, leaning into him, so that his hand and his lips would caress her more strongly. He made it imaginable that she could clinch her arms around his neck and hug herself to him.

And yet he asked her to pretend – to watch— The bare conception knotted her stomach. He was asking her to betray Geraden, Geraden! She had already doubted him once today, and he had proved his faithfulness almost immediately. He had kept her sane and actual under the rubble of the meeting hall. Simply to admit the intellectual possibility that he might be dishonest felt like an essential injustice. He was more loyal than this. Didn’t he deserve more loyalty?

How could she betray him?

How could she ignore Master Eremis’ reasons for what he did, his commitment to Mordant’s survival, his ardor?

Both he and Geraden were trying to tell her who she was.

Without raising his head – without ceasing his kisses and caresses, which seemed to draw her heart to the surface of her skin and inspire it with every touch – he whispered surely, “You are mine. I have claimed you. Whenever you think of another man – whenever you are tempted to doubt me – you will remember my lips upon your breasts, and you will cleave to me. You will do what I ask with Geraden.”

“Yes.” She was helpless to say anything else. What stubbornness she had left was already committed, holding her arms back from his neck, holding herself passive in his embrace. It would have been easier to give him her inexperienced passion and let him do what he desired with it. But she was too deeply sickened for that submission.

“You will do what I ask,” he repeated as if in litany.

“I will do what you ask.”

“When I am freed from this cell – for I will be freed. Do not ever doubt that I will be freed. If Lebbick does not recognize my innocence, I will free myself in spite of him. And when I am free, I will come to you. Then we will consummate these kisses, and I will take possession of your fine beauty utterly. There will be no part of your womanhood which I have not claimed – and no portion of my manhood which you have not accepted.”

“Yes,” she said again. For a moment, she wanted what he wanted, despite her nausea. “Yes.” As if she knew what her acquiescence meant.

“In that case” – he leaned back without warning, dropped his arms, released his knees – “you must leave me. You will be of no help at all if Lebbick finds you here. If he does not stretch his authority so far as to imprison you, he will certainly do his best to make sure that we cannot meet and talk again. Button your shirt and call Artagel.”

His change of mood and manner was so abrupt that she flushed with shame. “Yes.” Why did she keep repeating herself, offering him her assent over and over again like an idiot child? “Yes.” Her father’s moods had been sharply and inexplicably changeable, flashing from tolerance to anger for reasons she could never understand. Because of the ache in her stomach and the heat in her face, she didn’t look at Master Eremis again. She turned away; her hands shook as she hurried to do up her shirt and tuck it back into her pants.

For a moment, her throat refused to work. Then she whispered, “Artagel.”

“Speak louder, my lady,” Master Eremis suggested with cold mirth. “I doubt that he can hear you.”

Louder.

“Artagel. I’m done.” A croak in the back of her throat.

He wants me to betray Geraden.

Like a flowing shadow, Artagel appeared past the edge of the cell and reached the door. Then the door was open. “My lady,” he murmured, offering her his hand, his arm.

With the Master’s silence behind her like a wall, she moved to accept Artagel’s support.

He drew her out of the cell, paused almost negligibly to relock the door, then took her down the passage, out of sight of Master Eremis’ imprisonment.

“My lady,” he growled as soon as they were beyond hearing, “are you all right? What did he say to you?”

The concern in his voice was so quick and true – so much like his brother – that her knees grew weak, and she stumbled.

Sickness and shame. Desire and dismay. Master Eremis was right: she could never forget the touch of his lips and tongue; she was his; he could do anything he wanted with her. But what he wanted—! To spy on the person she most needed to trust, the man whose smile lifted her heart. To betray—

Artagel held her. “Terisa.” His eyes were bright and extreme. “What did that bastard say to you?”

It hurt. She should have cried out in simple protest. But that would ruin everything. He was Geraden’s brother. Despite his concern, the light in his eyes and the murderous half-smile on his lips, she couldn’t tell him what was wrong. If she did, he would tell Geraden. She understood that clearly. He might be willing to keep one or two things secret from Castellan Lebbick for her sake, but he wouldn’t keep secrets from Geraden.

To speak to him now would be the coward’s way to betray Master Eremis, to withdraw her allegiance and aid, her new passion, without having the courage to face Geraden and admit that she had chosen his side by default, that she preferred his friendship to Eremis’ love for no better reason than because she wasn’t brave enough to do otherwise.

With an effort, she found her balance and took her weight on her legs, easing the urgency of Artagel’s grasp. “I’m sorry.” When he let go of her arms, she pushed her hands through her hair. “I guess I really haven’t recovered from yesterday.”

“Are you sure that’s it?” Artagel’s concern made his voice rough. “You were better before you went in there. You look like Eremis just tried to rape you.”

He was so far from the truth that she let out a giggle.

That didn’t reassure him, however. Her giggle sounded ominously hysterical. And she had trouble making it stop.

She would have to give him a more cogent explanation if she wanted to deflect his alarm. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Still giggling – and fighting it. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ve just had a lesson in humility.

“I told you I wanted to see if I could make people start talking to each other.” Abruptly, the artificial mirth ran out of her, and she found herself close to tears. “That’s going to be a lot harder than I thought.”

For a moment, he studied her sharply. Then he took her hand, drew it through his arm to comfort her, and moved her again in the direction of the guardroom. “Don’t worry about it, my lady. It was worth trying. It’s still worth trying. Master Eremis just” – his smile was perhaps a shade too fierce to offer much consolation – “isn’t very promising material to work with.”

In an effort to distract him, she asked, “Is it true that you and he used to be friends? Before Geraden turned you against him?”

He shrugged. “Sort of. Not really. I was never actually able to like him, but I didn’t have any reason for the way I felt, so I kept it to myself.” He glanced at her. “Geraden understands these things better than I do. And he knows Eremis a lot better. You ought to talk to him about it.”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “You trust Geraden completely, don’t you.”

Without hesitation, he replied, “He’s my brother.”

“Is that the only reason?”

Her question made him chuckle. “No, my lady, that’s not the only reason. It’s at least two reasons – experience and blood. We have five other brothers, you know. I’ve watched him with all of them.” Then his face darkened, and he turned her so that she had to look at him. “My lady, does Eremis think you shouldn’t trust Geraden?”

Kicking herself, she countered, “That isn’t what I meant. I don’t know if you realize what a strange position you’re in. As far as I can tell, you’re the only person in Orison everybody trusts. Even Master Eremis wants you on his side.” Her unexpected facility for lies – for using parts of the truth to disguise other parts – amazed and frightened her. “I want to know why you trust Geraden because I’m trying to understand you.”

Apparently, he believed her explanation; but he still didn’t know how to respond. After an awkward moment, he said in a tone of deliberate foolishness, as if her question embarrassed him, “It’s clean living, my lady. Nobody trusts anybody who overindulges in clean living. I’m more dissolute than practically everybody else, so I’m easier to trust.”

His reply was clearly intended as a joke, but she accepted it simply because she was relieved to get away from his seriousness.

“I never thought about it that way,” she murmured as she let him guide her down the corridor to the guardroom.

***

From the guardroom, they returned to the ballroom and the main halls of Orison. Now she wanted him to leave her; she couldn’t go on talking to him and still keep her emotions hidden. With frustrating gallantry, however, he insisted on escorting her most of the way toward her rooms. She was unable to detach herself from his attendance until they reached the tower that held her rooms. After thanking him abruptly, she hurried up the stairs as if she were fleeing from him.

But of course what she really fled from was the danger he represented – the danger that she would betray the choice she had to make before she was sure of it. She had said yes to Master Eremis, and yes again; but the illness in her stomach was getting worse. Artagel bore just enough resemblance to Geraden – and she had been just dishonest enough with him – to make what the Imager wanted of her vivid and appalling.

Pretend friendship.

Watch him.

Tell him nothing.

She feared she would throw up before she reached safety.

When she approached her door, however, one of the guards stepped forward, gave her a stiff bow, and said with gruff courtesy, “My lady, you have a visitor.”

For a second, she thought her knees were going to fail again. A visitor. Now? Oh, please. But she was tired of being so weak. Her emotional nausea itself acted like a kind of strength, enabling her to keep her legs under her, her head up, her voice quiet. “Who is it?”

The guard seemed discomfited. “We couldn’t refuse to let her in, my lady. You’ve never asked us to keep visitors out of your rooms.”

His self-defense made no sense, but Terisa didn’t try to understand it. “Who is it?” she repeated.

“The lady Elega.” At once, the guard added, “We couldn’t refuse her, could we? She’s the King’s daughter.”

From a distance, Terisa heard herself say, “Of course not. You did the right thing.” But she wasn’t paying much attention. The lady Elega – Myste’s impatient and discontented sister. Terisa hadn’t spoken to her since their awkward, disappointing lunch. On that occasion, Elega had protested, We are women like yourself, not self-serving men hungry for power. We can be trusted. This pretense is not needed with us. When Terisa had refused to give up her pretense of ordinariness, the lady Elega had looked the way Terisa herself felt now.

What does she want this time? Terisa wondered dimly.

Then it came to her, and a sting of adrenaline ran down her veins.

Myste.

With a pang of embarrassment, she realized that she was standing slack-faced in the hall while one of the guards held her door open and both men made obvious efforts to appear unaware of her distraction. Pushing herself into motion, she entered her sitting room as if she were still in a hurry.

Elega stood before one of the windows, much as Myste had once stood. And, like Myste, she was beautiful. But her beauty seemed to be a reflection of the lamp- and firelight in the room, a contrast to the lowering gray winter outside the glass. In its own way, her skin was as pale as her short blond hair; and both emphasized the striking violet flash of her eyes. Although she was clad and jeweled like a queen, her manner was too forthright, too assertive for ornaments. Nevertheless she had a queen’s spirit, a queen’s instincts.

She left the window at once. As the door closed, she moved a few steps toward Terisa; there she stopped. Her gaze reminded Terisa of another contrast between the King’s daughters. Unlike Myste’s, Elega’s glances were so immediate and fiery that they threw what she saw into stark relief. Both, however, were able to convey an impression of excitement, a sense of possibilities. “My lady,” she said in a low voice. “Terisa. I hope you will forgive this intrusion. I did not know when you would return – and I did not want to wait in the hall.”

Terisa didn’t feel equal to the situation. All she wanted to do was huddle near the fire to drive the cold out of her bones and drink wine until her stomach either calmed down or got rid of its distress. But she had to face Elega for Myste’s sake. Responding almost automatically, she waved a hand toward the wine goblets and decanter, which Saddith had mercifully replenished. “Would you like to join me? I’m going to have some wine.”

“Thank you.” Elega obviously had no interest in wine. Nevertheless she accepted the goblet Terisa handed her as if she appreciated the gesture.

Terisa took a longer draught than good manners or wisdom suggested and refilled her goblet. Without thinking to offer Elega a seat, she sat down in the chair nearest the fire. The flames were oddly entrancing. She hadn’t realized how cold she was. How long had she stood in Master Eremis’ cell with her shirt open—?

“Terisa?” She heard Elega. as clearly as a voice in a fever. “Are you well?”

With an effort, she pulled her attention away from the fire. “Too much is happening.” Unlike Elega’s, her own voice sounded muffled. “I don’t understand it all.” In an effort to be polite, she added, “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s on your mind?”

For a moment, Elega, hesitated. Her doubts were plain in her face. I must look awful, Terisa thought vaguely. Abruptly, however, the lady became resolute. First she accepted a chair. Then she asked softly, firmly, “Terisa, where is Myste?”

It was symptomatic of Terisa’s condition that she leaped from this question to the conclusion that King Joyse had somehow seen through her lie. With an inward wince, she replied suspiciously, “Did your father send you to talk to me?”

Elega raised her eyebrows in surprise. “No. Why would he?” Gradually her tone took on a tinge of contempt. “I doubt he knows that she is gone. And if he does know – and if he thought to have me ask for him the questions a father should ask – I would refuse. I am his daughter, but he has broken that duty for me by breaking all other duties for himself.

“No,” she repeated, pushing the subject of her father aside, “I ask because I am afraid. My sister is not the wisest or the most practical woman in Orison. Her dreams often do not contain enough plain sense for ballast. I fear she has done something very foolish.

“Terisa, where is she?”

Terisa turned back to the fire to avoid Elega’s vivid gaze. So her lie to the King hadn’t been caught. That was a relief. Unfortunately, Elega’s question still had to be answered.

Staring into the flames as though they might hypnotize her and thereby make her strong, Terisa murmured, “What are you afraid she’s done?”

“I hardly know.” The lady’s uncertainty sounded sincere. “I freely admit I do not understand her, Terisa. She prefers dreams to realities. I know that she is hurt – as I am – by what our father has done, and especially by his humiliation of Prince Kragen. That the King of Mordant” – she forgot her concern for a moment in anger – “should actively seek war with Alend is abominable.” Then she steadied herself. “But what Myste might do because of her pain, I cannot guess. Perhaps she has left Orison for some mad reason.” Her tone tightened. “Perhaps she has gone after Prince Kragen, thinking to persuade him to ignore the extent of his insults.”

Elega had come just close enough to the truth to frighten Terisa. Dimly, she asked, “What makes you think I know where she is?”

Again, Elega hesitated. When she spoke, her tone was carefully neutral, distinct but unaccusing. “First, because I doubt that anyone else in Orison would assist her in anything greatly foolish. She is the King’s daughter. Orison’s people value her too highly to help her into trouble.

“But primarily,” she went on, “because I have seen how she responds to your insistence that you are only an ordinary woman.”

Terisa gazed vacantly into the fire and waited.

“It was an astonishment to me,” admitted Elega frankly. “I consider that people are as ordinary or as exceptional as they choose to be. Oh, I am assured that no one can conceive a talent for Imagery or statecraft by effort of will” – she didn’t sound entirely convinced – “and it is true past argument that anyone who has the misfortune to be born a woman must oppose the prejudices of all the world in order to prove herself. Yet I believe that in the end I am limited only by the limits of my determination, not by accidents of talent or preconceptions of sex.

“Myste,” she sighed, “thinks otherwise. She does not want to open doors. She dreams that doors will be opened for her. And she sees you, Terisa, as proof that into any life – be it drab and dreary enough to numb the mind forever – a door of magic and mystery may open, offering the least drudge an opportunity for grandeur.” Her tone suggested frustration rather than disdain. “In the meantime, it behooves us to be contented while we wait.

“I have no reason to believe that you know where she is. Yet I think you do, if anyone does. You are a flame which she is too moth-like to resist.”

This view of Myste struck Terisa as so poignant – and so mistaken – that she didn’t know how to reply to it. If anything, Elega’s ideas seemed less realistic than Myste’s, rather than more. And Terisa had questions of her own about the King’s eldest daughter. But that wasn’t the point, of course. What she thought didn’t matter. In this situation, only her promise to Myste mattered.

As if she were reading her answer in the flames and coals, she murmured, “She came here yesterday because she wanted to get into the passage behind my wardrobe.” She felt rather than saw Elega. stiffen. “She used it to sneak out of Orison without being stopped.” Behind the soft snap of the fire and the distant soughing of wind past the edges of the tower, the silence in the room was intense. “She went back to her mother.”

For a moment, Elega remained still – so still that Terisa couldn’t imagine what she was doing. Then, in a tone soft with surprise, as if she had just received a revelation, the lady breathed, “That cannot be true.”

Anxiety twisted through Terisa. Half involuntarily, she turned to look at Elega.

The lady had risen to her feet. Her eyes flashed as though their violet depths were lit by lightning. Yet her demeanor remained quiet, almost perfectly self-possessed.

“I believe that Myste has left Orison. Thank you for telling me how it was done. But she has no intention of going to the Care of Fayle, to Romish – to Queen Madin, our mother.”

Because she was lying, Terisa wanted to protest that she wasn’t: she wanted to use all her distress and fear to feign as much anger as possible. But she was restrained by Elega’s eagerness. It bore so little resemblance to the reaction she had expected.

With slow caution, she said, “She was disgusted by what the King did to Prince Kragen. She couldn’t stand to watch him destroy himself and Mordant anymore, so she decided to go back to the rest of her family.”

“Terisa—” The lady’s arms made a gesture of appeal, which she controlled abruptly. “Do not continue. That is unimportant now. A lie is an exercise of power, and I rejoice to see it. You are not passive – you are no longer content to hide behind a mask of ordinariness. You have decided to take your part in Mordant’s need. That is a great step – a step which I can only hope Myste has taken also – and I honor you for it.”

Nonplussed to the point of chagrin, Terisa stared at her visitor. Simply because she had to say something, she muttered, “I’m not lying.”

Elega shook her head decisively. “I will attempt to persuade you this charade is not necessary with me.” But then she paused. Her eyes scanned the room as if searching for the best line of argument. In an abstract way, like a woman digressing momentarily while she prepared her thoughts, she asked, “Terisa, what do you consider Orison’s greatest internal weakness?”

Taken completely by surprise, Terisa said without thinking, “The water supply.”

The lady didn’t appear to be paying attention. “In what way?”

“If you poisoned the reservoir, the whole castle would be helpless.” Not permanently, of course. The small spring under the walls supplied some water. The open roof and the collecting pipes could bring in large quantities during any heavy snow – or rainfall. But for a few days, at least—

Why were she and Elega having this conversation?

Smiling, the lady Elega returned to her chair, seated herself, smoothed out her skirt. The electricity of her gaze made Terisa shiver. Without transition, she said in a relaxed, conversational tone, “You have been in Orison for some time now. I fear that you have seen few of us at our best. Nevertheless you have had time to form impressions, perhaps even to draw conclusions.

“What do you think of us? Is there hope for Orison and Mordant? What is your opinion of King Joyse?”

Baffled and vexed, Terisa was tempted to retort, No, I don’t think there’s any hope. Not as long as you insist on behaving like this. But she could feel danger around her. Whatever she said would have consequences. Carefully, she replied, “I think he knows what he’s doing.”

Elega’s smile seemed to grow a degree brighter. “And the Congery? What do you think of the Imagers? They have put us in grave peril. Are they honest? Or perhaps I should ask, Are they honorable?”

Terisa shrugged. She wasn’t about to begin discussing either Master Eremis’ or Geraden’s ideas with the King’s strange daughter. “Some of them seem to be. Others don’t.” Then she added, “I don’t think very many of them expected the champion to go wild like that.”

This answer gave Elega less satisfaction, but she didn’t dwell on it. “And the lords of the Cares? What are your opinions of them?”

In reaction, alarm flushed through Terisa. How did—? Trying to cover her fright, she jerked to her feet, went to the wine decanter, and refilled her goblet. How did Elega know she had met the lords of the Cares? Suddenly, the whole room felt threatening, as though the walls were transparent and the floor might yawn open. Elega knew because someone had told her. That was simple enough. Or because she had had a hand in the attack on Terisa. That wasn’t so simple. But still somebody must have told her about the meeting. Who would have any reason in the world to do that?

Unexpectedly, Terisa found that she had reached her limit. She was already in distress – and Elega was making no sense at all. Apparently, she was trying to probe Terisa, test her somehow. But for what?

She drained her goblet, faced the King’s daughter squarely, and said, “Prince Kragen and I were talking about you. You’ve made a conquest. He’s really quite impressed. What did he say about you?” she asked rhetorically. “He said if you were an Alend you would ‘stand high among the powers of the Kingdom.” ’ Then she stopped to let Elega draw as many inferences as possible.

The lady rose to her feet immediately to meet Terisa’s stare. Her smile was like the lights in the dining room of Terisa’s mirror-walled apartment: it was on a rheostat which made it brighter at every turn. “Terisa,” she said softly, “you take my breath away. Is this what being ordinary means in your world? That place must be brave beyond conception. You have begun working to shape events with a vengeance.

“I understand you,” she affirmed. “Do you understand me?”

Terisa didn’t answer. She was afraid to open her mouth.

“Terisa,” Elega urged in a whisper, “I have said that this charade is not necessary with me. You can no longer pretend passivity – and you need not pretend ignorance.”

Still Terisa didn’t answer.

Slowly, Elega’s brightness dimmed. She didn’t give up, however. “Since you have mentioned Prince Kragen, perhaps you will tell me your impression of him.”

With an effort, Terisa recovered her voice. “Did you know the Alend monarchy isn’t hereditary? It has to be earned. That’s what he’s doing here. He’s trying to earn the right to become the next Alend Monarch.” She studied Elega closely, but the lady’s expression betrayed nothing except its underlying intensity. “I think that’s more important to him than peace.”

This riposte was rewarded with a slight widening of Elega’s eyes, a slow congealing of her smile. The way her pleasure curdled reminded Terisa that she had no real idea what was going on. Elega clearly understood what Terisa was saying better than Terisa did herself.

In a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, the lady asked, “Do you not believe that you can trust me? We are women, you and I – despised in a world of men. There is no one here whom you can trust but me. No one else intends as much good to both Mordant and yourself. What may I do to convince you?”

That, at least, was a question Terisa could meet. Without hesitation, she said, “Tell me what’s going on. Before you ask me to trust you, start trusting me.”

Slowly, Elega nodded in acknowledgment. She was no longer looking at Terisa, and her smile was gone. “You are better at this than I suspected. I cannot trust you until you have first trusted me. I have more to lose.”

Sadly, she turned to go.

In her confusion and frustration, Terisa wanted to demand, What is that, exactly? What have you got to lose that’s more than everybody else in this mess? But she let it go. Instead, she said before Elega reached the door, “Just tell me one thing. What makes you think I’m lying about Myste?”

The lady paused with her hand on the latch. A different smile touched her mouth, a smile like the affectionate and faintly condescending one she had occasionally given her sister. “You do well, as I have said, Terisa. But you do not know Mordant well enough to exert power without risk. Plainly, you do not know that what you have said of Myste is impossible. Romish is too far. In this winter, it would be easier for a lone woman to rebuild our breached wall than to cross the Demesne and Armigite on foot.” A suggestion of triumph. “I doubt that you intend me to believe my sister has decided to kill herself.”

Still smiling, she left the room.

Terisa hardly noticed her departure. She was remembering the way King Joyse had stood in front of her with his eyes squeezed shut and tears spilling down his cheeks, in anguish at the idea that Myste had gone back to her mother. If you lie to me, he had said like a appeal. If you dare lie to me— But he must have guessed even then that she wasn’t telling the truth.

Her stomach heaved. Unfortunately, all the lies and plots and pain she had swallowed refused to be ejected. After a moment, she went to the door and opened it long enough to tell the guards that she didn’t want any more visitors today. Then she bolted the door, sat down again in front of the fire, and had more to drink than she had ever had in her life.

EIGHTEEN: A LITTLE CONVERSATION

The next morning, she had the kind of headache that made strong men swear off drink. Internal pressure seemed to be prying the bones of her skull apart, and her brain felt bruised. In addition, her throat had apparently been treated with sandpaper, and her stomach gave the impression that it was sloshing wetly from side to side in her abdomen.

Nevertheless she was no longer so badly baffled by her talk with Elega.

The lady and Prince Kragen must have formed some kind of alliance. Elega knew about Terisa’s meeting with the lords of the Cares because the Prince had told her. What they hoped to accomplish, Terisa wasn’t sure; but she was sure that whatever it was wouldn’t make King Joyse either comfortable or happy.

And they hoped to include her for some reason.

Sometime during her fourth or fifth goblet of wine, she had found – rather to her surprise – that she didn’t like what Elega was doing. King Joyse persistently refused to remind her of her own father. He had perhaps sacrificed most ordinary claims on the loyalty of his people, but he didn’t deserve to be betrayed by his daughter.

So the question she was left with – the question on which neither too much wine nor a night thick with bad dreams had shed any particular light – was the one that had made her sick in the first place. What was she going to do about Geraden? Or about Master Eremis?

Since she was hung over, the Master’s caresses no longer seemed entirely inevitable or convincing. Yet his arguments were still important. In fact, his reasons for distrusting Geraden made more sense than Geraden’s for believing the worst of him. On the other hand, the idea that Geraden was a traitor felt absurd.

Groaning more to persuade herself she was alive than because it relieved the pain, she climbed weakly out of the knotted chaos that her dreams had made of the bed. The rooms were cold: by bolting the door, she had locked Saddith out; and she couldn’t remember having put wood on the fires herself more than once or twice. But the cold forced her to take better command of the situation. Struggling into her robe, she went deliberately into the bathroom to drink as much water as her stomach could bear. Then she returned to the hearth in her sitting room and began trying to coax a little flame out of the warm coals.

In her condition, blowing on the coals was as painful as batting her head against the wall. Nevertheless she persevered because she was determined not to let anyone into the suite to help her. She didn’t want an audience while she suffered the consequences of her folly. So she got the fire going despite the sharp pressure in her brain. She took a bath, even washed her hair out of sheer stubbornness. And she dressed herself alone, working her way into one of Myste’s relatively demure gowns, a warm sheath of yellow velvet. Only then did she permit herself to unbolt the door to see if Saddith had left a tray for her.

In fact, the maid had done so. And, as a mercy, there was no one waiting to talk to her. In peace, she was able to eat a little porridge and drink a great deal of a hot beverage which she thought of as tea – although it tasted more like cinnamon and rose petals – before a knock at the door announced that she had a visitor.

She didn’t trust her voice, so she moved carefully to the door and opened it.

Geraden stood outside.

Oh, terrific. That was just what she needed.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he began at once. “We didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday. I wanted to tell you—” Then his smile faded. “Are you all right? You look a little sick.”

Thanks to Master Eremis, the sight of the Apt made anxiety throb in her veins – which in turn threatened to split her head. “It’s the gown.” Her voice came out like a croak. “Yellow isn’t my color.” Doggedly, she gave him a smile that felt like a crack across a porcelain vase, and invited him in.

Studying her, he said as soon as the door was closed, “I tried to see you yesterday, but the guards told me to leave you alone. I couldn’t help worrying.” Behind his concern, he looked self-conscious. “How did your talk with Master Eremis go?”

She concentrated on keeping herself from groaning or shutting her eyes. “Artagel told you.”

He nodded. “He might have anyway. But you looked so bad when you came out of the cell, he felt he didn’t have any choice.”

“Then he must have told you what happened.” Her sudden bitterness surprised her. When had she begun to believe that she had the right to resent the way she was treated? “I thought I was going to be able to accomplish something – I thought I was going to make a difference. I was going to persuade you to start cooperating with each other.” Instead, I’m supposed to spy on you, even though you’re the only friend I’ve got left, now that Myste is gone. Even though you’re the only one who cares about me enough to do anything. “Instead, all I did was make a fool of myself.”

No, she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t. The promise of a few intimate kisses didn’t suffice. Geraden was too important to her. She would watch him, yes. But she wouldn’t tell anyone what she learned. Not unless he did something that forced her to believe Master Eremis was right about him. And she would make the decision for herself. No matter what the Master offered her.

Unexpectedly, she felt better. In spite of her resolution, she found herself saying, “I had too much to drink yesterday,” so that his feelings wouldn’t be hurt. “I suppose I was trying to drown my sorrows. My head feels like a football.”

This time there was a quirk of relief in his smile. “I’ve done that a few times,” he admitted, pretending rue. “I still don’t know what made me think it was a good idea. I guess I’d Just had more of my own fumble-footedness than I could stand.

“Anyway, I’m sorry that happened to you,” he added in a way that suggested it wasn’t his biggest regret. “For your sake, I wish he had listened to you.

“Terisa, I—”

He stopped abruptly, and his eyes began to fill with tears. Suddenly, she thought he had come to tell her something terrible. Instinctively defensive, she went back to the door and bolted it. Then she faced his troubled brown gaze.

“What’s the matter, Geraden?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Nothing.” Too quickly. “I mean, you survived, didn’t you? It turned out all right.”

He couldn’t sustain his pretense, however. “I’m sorry.” His voice rasped, but he didn’t turn away to hide what he was feeling. “I’m really sorry. After we were rescued – after they got us out from underneath all that rock – Artagel took me back to my room. I drank quite a bit of wine myself. But when I went to sleep I kept having the same dream over and over again, exactly the same.” His expression twisted. “For a long time, I thought it was a nightmare. It was the worst—”

He took a breath to steady himself. “But I finally realized it wasn’t a nightmare. I wasn’t dreaming at all. I was just remembering.” He had to grit his teeth to make himself say, “I was remembering that you almost got killed.”

Oh, is that all? She tried not to show her relief. What he was saying wasn’t terrible after all.

“That only happened because of me.”

Now she stared at him.

“I brought you here,” he explained miserably. “I don’t know how to take you back where you belong. People want you dead. They want to manipulate you. And the champion—

“You went through that whole ordeal – you were buried alive and came within inches of being crushed to death – because of me.

“When I saw Castellan Lebbick harassing you, I wanted to club him with a chair. I’m sorry. That’s what I should have done. Just to make him stop. It’s my fault you got hit.

“If anything happens to you, it’ll break my heart.”

If she had felt healthier, she might have laughed. Instead, she put her hand on his arm, touched the muscles knotted along his bones. “Geraden,” she protested, “he would have snapped you in half. He wants somebody to defy him, so he can crush them.”

In response, he looked at her in pain; and she recognized that he needed a better answer than that. No one else had ever declared so much concern for her. It was strange, really – and endearing. He had nightmares because of her?

She did the best she could. “You kept me sane. You were in as much trouble as I was. Worse. Master Gilbur nearly knocked your head off. But you were still able to hold me together. If you hadn’t helped me, I would have lost my mind hours before we were rescued.”

She should have gone on – should have said, You and Myste are the only friends I’ve ever had. No one has ever been as good to me as you have. I’m glad I’m here. But that was too much for her self-consciousness, her fragile sense of herself. Awkwardly, she dropped her hand.

And yet she had to do something for him that would mean as much as a touch. Rather than attempting to match his declaration, she tried to joke with him. “This has got to stop. I’m going to start rationing you. If you apologize to me more than once a day, I’ll kick you.”

He peered at her dubiously, uncertain how to take her. “Do you mean that? I know I apologize a lot. If you caused as much trouble as I do, you would too. So far, you’re the only thing I haven’t been wrong about. You shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of my disasters.”

There was no question about it: he deserved better from her. Trying to provide it, she looked straight into his eyes and said, “You don’t get me in trouble. You save me. Orison is full of disasters, but as far as I’m concerned you haven’t caused any of them. You’re one of the few people who wants to do something about them.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

He continued to study her warily. When she didn’t drop her gaze, however, he began to relax. His shoulders lifted; the chagrin let go of his face; his eyes brightened as if they had been wiped clean. After a moment, he said softly, “Thank you.”

Now her heart was eased. She was willing to fight the pain in her head if that enabled her to make him happier. Smiling more successfully, she sat down in one of the chairs near the fire, then gestured toward her tray. “Have you had breakfast? I’ve got more than I can eat.”

He shook his head. He seemed to be suppressing a burst of exuberance, a desire to shout or sing or hug her. Moving with comic care, so that he wouldn’t trip or lose his balance, he turned a chair to face hers and seated himself. Then he gleamed in humorous triumph, as if to say, And you thought I couldn’t do it.

What he actually said, however, was, “What did King Joyse want to talk to you about?”

She hoped without much optimism that her sudden surge of anxiety didn’t show. In the press of more recent events, she had forgotten the question of what to tell him about her discussion with the King. He might be appalled by what she had discovered, deeply grieved to learn that his father’s old friend and his own childhood hero was deliberately embarked on the destruction of Mordant. And Master Quillon had made a point of explaining that Geraden was still in danger from his nameless enemies, still liable to pay a high price for knowing too much. Or had Master Quillon come to Master Eremis’ conclusion that Geraden himself was dangerous, not to be trusted? Were Eremis’ reasons for his distrust that good?

When she didn’t reply at once, Geraden went on, “Being thrown out of his rooms like that wasn’t exactly the highlight of my life.” He sounded incongruously cheerful, as if he wanted to encourage her. “I didn’t think the Tor would take his side.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, I don’t have any reason to believe I ever know what the Tor is going to do. I just want to understand. I want King Joyse to say something that makes sense.”

Terisa wasn’t listening. The question in front of her was too complex to be answered casually. She needed more time to think. More time to watch. Unconscious of her own abruptness, she said, “He wanted to talk about checkers some more.” Her headache was getting ahead of her. On impulse, she added, “Elega was here.”

Geraden waited expectantly. When she didn’t continue, he asked, “The lady Elega? My former betrothed? When was that?”

She tried to clear her thoughts. Actually, she had a number of things she wanted to talk to Geraden about. Elega might be a safe place to start. If she could get her hangover under control.

“She was waiting here for me. When I got back from seeing Master Eremis.”

“What did she want?”

Terisa hesitated momentarily. Was she sure she wanted to say this to Geraden?

Yes. She was already carrying too many questions alone.

With unexpected ire, she articulated distinctly, “The lady Elega wanted to enlist me in a plot against her father.”

Geraden froze. “What kind of plot?”

“I don’t have any idea.” As fully as she could, she told him what had been said – and what she surmised. His eyes narrowed at Prince Kragen’s name, but he listened without interrupting. Sourly, she concluded, “That was why I didn’t want any more visitors yesterday. I didn’t want to take the chance I might hear anything else like that for a while.”

He frowned without speaking for a moment – long enough to make her wonder whether he believed her. She wanted him to believe her. The more secrets she kept, the more lies she told, the greater her need to be believed became, especially when she was being honest. Fortunately, he began to nod.

“That’s always worried me about her,” he murmured, brooding. “I’ve always had the feeling she was more interested in what kings are than in what they do. More interested in the power than in what the power is for. She might be capable of some pretty unscrupulous decisions.”

“So you don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions?”

“No.” His face was tense with thought. “Not after your conversation with Prince Kragen. By that time, they had probably already agreed to approach you.”

“I wish I knew what they think I can do,” she complained, simply because she felt like complaining. “It’s the same problem I have with everybody. Even you. You all think I can do something.” But her parents had never permitted her to whine, and she found she didn’t care for the sound of it herself. “I haven’t shown much sign of it yet,” she finished.

Geraden went on musing morosely. “What should we do?” he wondered. “Should we tell King Joyse?”

Careful not to reveal too much, she countered, “If we could get him to listen, do you think he would pay any attention?”

He let out a dejected sigh. “Probably not.” Then he asked, “What about Castellan Lebbick?”

She shrugged. “I don’t like telling him anything. I don’t like the way he treats me.

“He’ll certainly do something. He may or may not be able to stop her – but whatever he does will give away the fact that we told him. She’ll know she can’t trust me. That’ll be the end of our chances to find out what she’s doing.”

The Apt shot her a glance and a quick grin. “For someone who can’t do anything, you seem determined to try. What’s your suggestion?”

She was about to say, I don’t have any idea, when she had what felt like an inspiration. “You could ask Argus and Ribuld to keep an eye on her.”

He blinked at the unexpected notion. “They didn’t exactly enjoy what happened the last time they did me a favor,” he muttered, thinking aloud. “But this time Artagel is here to back me up. They might be willing – especially if they can think of a way to do it without making Castellan Lebbick suspicious.” He met Terisa’s gaze as he added, “It might be worth it. If we can just learn how she intends to communicate with Prince Kragen, that’ll be an improvement.

“I’ll ask them.” The decision brought back his sense of humor. With a mischievous glint, he commented, “If you do it, they may try to talk you into making it worth their while. You can guess what that means. The worst they can do to me is say no.”

Smiling at him was becoming easier. Her headache had begun to recede. And her anxiety had turned to relief again. The sensation that here, at least, was one subject on which she wasn’t alone – and on which Geraden agreed with her – was a positive pleasure. When he smiled back, she felt good enough to broach another of her many areas of incomprehension.

“That conversation I had with Prince Kragen reminds me. What’s an arch-Imager?”

Her question made Geraden sit up straighter. “It reminds you—? What connection—?” Almost at once, however, he pushed down his confusion, unwilling to give his questions precedence over hers. “An arch-Imager is someone who has mastered what we consider the apex of translation – the ability to pass safely through flat glass. As far as we know, only one man has ever done it – the arch-Imager Vagel.

“In theory, the difficulty is that translation changes whatever it touches. When the translation involves a passage between separate worlds – or, if Master Eremis is right” – he grimaced – “between our world and Images which are known not to exist in our world – the changes are appropriate. For instance, they solve the problems of language and breathing. But when you pass through a flat glass, you don’t actually go anywhere. I mean, you move from place to place, but you stay in the same world. So you don’t need to be changed. But you are anyway.” He looked down at his hands. “It made Adept Havelock mad.

“Theoretically, if you looked into a flat mirror that showed you to yourself – in other words, a mirror that was focused on the exact spot where you were standing, so that you were also in the Image looking out at yourself – you would go into a kind of translation cycle, passing simultaneously back and forth between yourself and your Image, changing literally without going anywhere. Probably nobody who looked at you would be able to see the difference. But your mind would be gone. Not just mad. Taken away.

“I still don’t know how I survived seeing myself in that room where I found you. I have to believe mirrors are different in your world. Or you’re the most powerful Imager we’ve ever heard of.

“Anyway, the other important point is that the capacity to be an arch-Imager seems to be just that – a capacity. It isn’t a skill you can learn, it’s a talent you’re born with. If it were a skill, Havelock would have mastered it somehow. ‘The Adept’ isn’t an honorary title. He earned it by being better at translations than anybody else. In particular, he was better at working translations with mirrors he didn’t make. I can’t even work them with mirrors I did make.

“Does that answer your question?”

Terisa nodded. She was trying to make what he told her fit her experience.

“Then answer mine. What does all this have to do with your conversation with Prince Kragen?”

“Oh, that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be cryptic. It just seems like this is crucial somehow. I was talking to him right before we were attacked. That’s why it reminded me.”

Then she got to the point of her question. “When Artagel examined the dead men – the ones who vanished later – he said he found an insignia – a ‘sigil’ – that meant they were Cadwals. They were Apts of the High King’s Monomach. But when they attacked, they seemed to come out of nowhere. And when the rest of them were dead, their leader didn’t have to run away. He just disappeared.

“He and his men must have come and gone through a flat mirror. But isn’t that impossible? The Perdon and Prince Kragen decided Vagel must be involved, but that doesn’t explain it. If passing through a flat glass safely is a matter of talent rather than training, then all of those men must have been arch-Imagers.”

And, now that she thought about it, how had Master Gilbur contrived to elude the Castellan? If it was conceivable that the man in black and Master Gilbur were allies, surely it was also conceivable that the Master had disappeared in the same way?

For a long moment, Geraden regarded her thoughtfully. “You know,” he said with a wry chuckle, “a lifetime ago, when I was still a new Apt, and I believed I was going to accomplish glorious things, I used to lie awake at night stewing about questions like that. And I came up with an idea that might work.

“First you shape a flat glass which just happens to be focused exactly where you want it.” He shrugged humorously. “A trivial problem for the Imager I intended to be. Then you make another mirror – a normal one this time – that just happens to show a world which is essentially inert. No people or animals – and preferably no weather – to interfere with what you’re doing. Then you translate the first mirror into the second and position it so that it fills as much of the Image as possible. And then, if the first mirror hasn’t changed – and if it’s actually possible to work two translations almost simultaneously – you might be able to pass through and keep your mind in one piece.”

He grinned. “Ingenious, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Actually, she thought it was more than ingenious: she thought it was brilliant. But some of the implications— “It would take two people, wouldn’t it? One to translate the other?”

“Not to go. But it would to come back. That’s true of any translation.”

Therefore if Master Gilbur had escaped by the same device that had saved the man in black, then Geraden was proven innocent. Everyone in Orison was innocent (especially Geraden, but also Master Eremis, who was locked up in the dungeon and had no access to mirrors) because they were here rather than wherever the mirrors were located. They could not have pulled Master Gilbur away.

Almost shivering, she said, “I wish there was some way we could find out what really happened. If your idea is right, Master Gilbur probably left Orison the same way the men who attacked me came in.”

“But who did the translation?”

“Could it have been Vagel? That makes sense now – or it does as long as there actually is some way to move people around Mordant by Imagery without making them lose their minds.”

The Apt threw up his hands. “I don’t know. For years, everybody thought the arch-Imager was dead. Now they all think he’s alive.

“But you know,” he went on, looking at her appraisingly, a hint of eagerness rising in his voice, “there might be a way to verify that Imagery was involved when you were attacked. There might even” – he sat forward – “be a way to check out my idea.”

She watched him closely as he explained. Excitement animated his face, making it more and more attractive to her.

“Obviously, there’s a lot we don’t know about Imagery. Some things seem like they might be theoretically possible, but we’ve never had any way to test them. For instance, it’s theoretically possible that an Imager with a certain kind of talent might be sensitive to mirrors from the other side. I mean, if he were to walk into a place that you could see in some mirror somewhere else, he would be able to feel it. He would know he was in an Image.

“Of course, you have to assume the Image actually exists. Otherwise what you see in a flat glass is just a copy of something real, and there would be nothing to feel.

“But if he could feel it” – Geraden jumped to his feet, no longer able to sit still – “then it’s also theoretically possible that he might be able to work the translation from the other side. Do you see what that means? He could just step out of the Image into wherever the mirror happened to be.”

As he spoke, her heart began to beat faster. His excitement took her with him. “If you’re right,” she said slowly, “then it wouldn’t have to take two people. Master Gilbur could do it alone. He could come and go from Orison whenever he pleased.”

“Yes!” returned Geraden impatiently. “But that’s not the point. The point is that it might be possible.” In his enthusiasm, he gripped the arms of her chair so that he could look into her face closely. “It might be possible for you.”

Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance. Their foreheads cracked together with a sound like breaking bone.

“Oh, Terisa, I’m sorry!” he sputtered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” One hand clapped to his head, he reached out to her with the other. “Are you all right? I’m so sorry.”

Just for an instant, the whole room looked like it was on fire. Then the hot red and orange flames resolved themselves into flares of pain across her vision, and her skull began to clang as if he had used it for a gong.

But she hadn’t been hit as hard as all that: her hangover accentuated the blow. When she was sure that her forehead was neither crushed nor bleeding, she pushed Geraden’s apologetic hand away. Rising purposefully to her feet even though she now had an entire carillon ringing between her ears, she did her best to kick one of his shins.

First he gaped at her as though she had lost her mind. Then he let out a shout of laughter.

“I warned you,” she muttered through the pain. It was starting to decline. She was almost able to hear herself. “One apology a day. That’s all you get.” Helpless to spare herself, she was laughing as well. “I’m not some lord or Master you can trifle with.”

Gales of glee rose from him.

“Please don’t make me laugh.” Weakly, she lowered herself back into her chair. “My head is going to split open.”

He took a deep breath to control his mirth. When he was able to stop laughing, he came over to her. Cupping his palm to her cheek, he kissed her bruised forehead tenderly.

For a moment, she thought he would lower his mouth to hers. If she could have stifled the throbbing in her skull, she would have tilted her head back to meet him halfway. But the pain wasn’t fading quickly enough. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or vexed when he withdrew to his chair.

“Terisa,” he repeated quietly, “it might be possible for you.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. With both hands, she massaged the back of her neck. “You must have broken something in your head. That’s the craziest idea you’ve had yet.”

Not really,” he replied good-naturedly. “It’s only an idea, of course. But you want to know why you’re here – what you can do. Well, we can’t teach you enough about making mirrors to find out if you can be an ordinary Imager. The Masters made it clear that they won’t stand for it, and they control the laborium. But maybe you have a different kind of talent. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to you when all the rules of Imagery should have taken me to the champion.

“We could try to find out, anyway. What have we got to lose?”

Opening her eyes, she stared at him hard. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” He didn’t look like a man who had just become dangerously insane. “You think there might be some way to test what you’re saying? To verify—?”

He nodded brightly.

Maybe you have a different kind of talent. Unexpectedly, her headache became less important. “I’m almost afraid to ask how.”

Excitement gathered in him again, and his gaze shone. Making an effort to be reasonable, he said, “I hope you understand that I don’t really know any more about this than you do. It’s only theory. And most of the Masters wouldn’t even be interested. Shaping mirrors takes too much practical research and effort.” Then his enthusiasm broke out, pulling him once more to his feet. “But all we have to do is go back to where you were attacked. Once we’re in the right vicinity, all you have to do is move around slowly and concentrate on what you feel.”

The responses he aroused in her were so unfamiliar that she didn’t know what to call them. Was this fear or eagerness? Her question was more complex than it sounded as she asked, “What am I expected to feel?”

“Who knows?” he replied, unaware of the extent of her confusion. “But it’ll probably be subtle. A slight tugging sensation? An impression that something in front of you looks blurred? That sick feeling some people get when they look down from a cliff?

“If you don’t feel anything, it won’t prove anything. You might or might not have talent. Imagery might or might not be involved.” He chuckled. “We might or might not be in the right place. But if you do feel something—” He made a visible effort to appear calm. “That would be interesting.

“Do you want to try it? Shall we go?”

For a moment, she couldn’t answer. Peering into the fire, she almost heard a voice saying, That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said today. Stop wasting my time. It sounded like her father’s voice. And she knew what her mother would have said. Little girls don’t do things like that.

Things like that.

What if Geraden were right?

If he were wrong, there would be no problem. Nothing in her life would change. But if he were right – she would never be the same again.

“It isn’t that simple,” she murmured. “I don’t think I can find the place again. I was only there once. And – and my mind was on other things.”

His brief hesitation before he spoke suggested that he was paying strict attention to her now, that he had realized the importance of the issue he raised. “We can solve that problem,” he said carefully. “We can ask Artagel to help us. He’ll remember the exact spot.” Then softly he repeated his earlier question. “Terisa, what have you got to lose?”

She wanted to say, My self. Who I am. But that seemed impossibly melodramatic. Why was she taking all this so seriously? As a treatment for headache, it worked admirably: her head still hurt, but now she was able to forget about it. On the other hand, the danger she apparently feared was so improbable that she should have considered it silly. Really, she ought to have more common sense.

Intending a flippant retort, she faced Geraden.

His intent demeanor stopped her: he was looking at her as he might have looked at someone who was about to risk her life. He had made a leap of empathy that carried him into the center of her fear. In a husky voice, as if he were full of pity, he said, “I would take you back to your world if I knew how. You know that.”

For an instant, something like grief rose in her throat. His eyes held a sharp awareness of what she had lost. He had already cost her her former life. Now he asked her to risk her sense of herself, the little she understood about who she was.

Mustering a smile, she said, “Yes, I know. Don’t you dare apologize.” Then she stood up. Whatever happened, she had no intention of wasting his friendship. “Maybe the exercise will do me good.”

The pleasure in his face was so brilliant that she nearly started laughing again.

***

They found Artagel in one of the halls near her tower. By then, she had discovered that exercise made her head hurt worse at first; but by degrees circulating blood seemed to cleanse her brain, and she began to feel better. Thinking about Geraden’s brother, she wondered if he had any system for keeping an eye on her. The hall where they found him didn’t look like an especially logical station for a bodyguard. On the other hand, they had no trouble locating him.

He greeted her with a humorous bow and a comradely comment on her questionable appearance. Geraden defended her with mock indignation and received for his pains a cuff on the shoulder which did him no appreciable damage. Then he explained what he had in mind – leaving out, she thought, most of the salient details – and asked for Artagel’s help.

Artagel took this more grimly than Terisa had expected. “Thank your good fortune,” he snapped, “the lady Terisa doesn’t remember how to find that place. Did you leave your brains under that pile of rubble? Or maybe you just forgot she was attacked down there by Apts of the High King’s Monomach. It’s even possible Gart himself was among them.” He digressed momentarily. “I would hate to think anyone less could give me that much trouble.” Then he resumed, “What were you planning to do if she was attacked again? Ask them nicely to go away?”

“Not exactly.” His brother’s anger clearly didn’t trouble Geraden. “I thought I would just ask them to wait until you caught up with us.

“Actually,” he explained, “they probably can’t attack us. They won’t be ready for us. They don’t have any way of knowing what we’re doing – and I’m sure they don’t spend all their time crouched in front of the mirror waiting for a likely victim to appear by coincidence. We should be safe.”

In spite of himself, Artagel was mollified. “You’re too clever for your own good. But it does happen that I don’t have anything better to do this morning.” Without apparent difficulty, he forgot his anger and grinned at Terisa. “My lady,” he said formally, offering her his arm, “shall we go?”

When she accepted, he gave Geraden a smile of good-humored malice and swept her away, leaving his brother to tag along behind.

As he followed, Geraden’s face wore an expression of lopsided fondness. After all, she reflected, he had six older brothers – and all of them probably delighted in teasing him. The way he looked now gave another lift to her spirits. He and Artagel made it easy for her to think she was doing the right thing.

***

As she returned to the damp, disused passages among the foundations of Orison, however, she began to reconsider. She didn’t have fond memories of this place. The endless dripping of water promised peril. Although there were enough lanterns to enable Artagel to find his way, their scattered and distant reflections in the puddles and smears of water on the floor gave the stone an evil aspect, as though dark secrets were hidden behind the gleams. The echo of bootheels chased the silence down side passages and around corners until she felt irrationally sure that she was being stalked. The warmth of day never reached down this far, and the air felt colder than she remembered it: certainly, more of the moisture had become ice. Whenever she or her companions broke the surface of a frozen puddle, the ice crackled like fire.

And if Geraden were right – if by some strange chance she had the kind of talent he described—

She clung to Artagel’s arm harder than she realized. Apparently thinking she was cold, he draped the edge of his gray cloak over her shoulders.

“Whoever made that mirror,” Geraden commented like whistling in the dark, “was either very lucky or very good. It’s hard to imagine anyone accidentally shaping a mirror that shows this part of Orison. On the other hand, it isn’t exactly easy to figure out how he could have made it deliberately. Even the best Masters have to do decades of research to get what they want.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” muttered Terisa nervously. “I don’t like this at all.”

Artagel gave her a little hug. “He probably does. The only time you really have to worry about him is when he looks like he has everything under control.”

She wanted Geraden to reply, but he didn’t. After a moment, she asked, “Who keeps these lanterns lit?”

Her escort shrugged. “Servants.”

“But why?” she pursued. “Hasn’t this whole area been abandoned?”

“Well, not quite abandoned. I’ve heard that many of the damp, cold rooms down here are used to store wine. If we just knew which ones, we could die happy. And I know for a fact that the Castellan uses sections of this place to train his guards, especially in winter.

“Besides,” he added wryly, “I think he hates the dark. He might put lanterns here even if no one but the people who took care of them came here from one year to the next.”

The thought of Castellan Lebbick wasn’t much comfort. “How much farther?” she asked.

“We’re almost there.” Artagel sounded nonchalant, but when she glanced at him she saw wariness in the flick of his eyes, the movement of his head. “Lebbick must have had the floor cleaned. Otherwise you could see the blood by now.”

He was right. After another dozen paces, the look of the corridor began to match her memory of it, despite the absence of blood.

“Here,” she said softly. Even though she understood that sound didn’t pass through mirrors, she was viscerally afraid of being overheard by unfriendly ears. This was the place. She could almost detect the residual tremor of her own fear, vibrations left over from the man in black’s assault. “It was here.”

“Yes.” Artagel stopped, turned. Then he moved her until her back touched one wall. “You were there.” With a gesture, he indicated the passage. “We fought there.” The obscure illumination made his face as grim as his voice. “The Perdon and Prince Kragen came from the other side. They rescued us.” Abruptly, he confronted his brother. “I’m not sure you realize,” he grated through his teeth, “that the bastard beat me – whoever he was. The last time that happened, I was a lot younger than you are now.”

Light gleamed dimly across Geraden’s forehead as though he were sweating in spite of the cold. “Somehow,” he muttered, “I’m sure you’ll get a chance to try him again. I just hope it doesn’t come today. I won’t be very good at rescuing you.

“But this isn’t what we’re looking for.” He moved past his brother and peered at Terisa through the gloom. “We need to find the exact point of translation. If there is one.

“Where did they come from?”

She closed her eyes. She had been walking with Prince Kragen. He had been talking about Elega. One bodyguard was ahead of them; the other, behind. She heard a quiet leather sound – a sword leaving a sheath? Then the men charged forward. The black leather of their armor made them difficult to see. Their naked swords were more distinct, glinting lanternlight

“There,” she breathed and opened her eyes. She was pointing at what appeared to be a dark side passage diagonally across the corridor from her. “They came out of there.”

“Good.” Geraden was whispering as though he, too, feared being overheard. “Let’s take a look.”

His breath left a wreath of steam in the air as he moved away.

Artagel had his sword out. It seemed to flex with the movement of his wrist. He touched her arm with his free hand, and she went with him after Geraden.

The way ahead remained black. If it was a side passage, it was too short to merit a lantern of its own. Illumination reflecting from the main corridor faded rapidly. After a moment, Artagel asked, “Do you want to wait while I get us a light?”

“No,” hissed Geraden. “If there is a mirror focused here, light will just make it easier for us to be seen.”

Artagel nodded. He was keeping Terisa positioned between him and the wall, to reduce the number of directions from which she could be threatened.

“Concentrate,” Geraden said to her over his shoulder. “The point of translation could be anywhere. Try to feel it. Forget everything else and just try to feel it.”

“Concentrate yourself,” she retorted. Her whisper came out hoarsely. “I’m not the only one who doesn’t know what his talents are.”

Geraden paused for a second. “Good point.”

Artagel flashed her a grin she could barely see in the thickening dark.

This is silly, she enunciated to herself. All three of them were supposed to be adults – yet here they were, groping their way down a blind hall looking for some place where the air or the stone or who knew what would give one of them twinges. We must be out of our minds. If somebody had jumped at her and said, Boo! she would have screamed.

That idea made her want to giggle.

It distracted her. She didn’t realize what was happening until a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen.

Before she could react – before she could try to shout a warning – a man stepped out of the wall. His body felt like a block of stone as he collided with her heavily, knocking her against Artagel.

Artagel clinched her arm. “Back!” he snapped. “Back to the light!” and flung her away from him.

At once, the cold sensation vanished.

She didn’t notice the difference.

She stumbled, caught her balance. Where was Geraden? Every muscle in her body wanted to run, but she turned in time to see Artagel thrust Geraden after her while threatening a shadowy figure with his blade.

Urgently, she raced for the main passage and the lanterns.

Geraden was faster. He was beside her when he reached the corridor. He steered her to the right, toward the nearer lantern. Their momentum took them to the opposite wall, to the place where she had fallen and waited for the man in black to kill her. There they both whirled to see what was happening to Artagel.

He came into the light with his sword still poised between him and the obscure figure. No, it wasn’t one figure: she saw two. Three. Four. They moved slowly, massively; the menace of Artagel’s blade didn’t hinder them.

Four. That was bad. But at least there weren’t any more. As they reached the light, she saw that they did in fact look like men. They had the heads and faces and limbs of men. Their nakedness showed that they had the bodies of men. Their arms were extended for embraces.

But their eyes were dead. And under their skin lumps the size of hands moved visibly – lumps that couldn’t be muscle.

They carried no weapons, however. And their movements were so leaden that Artagel would surely be able to handle them.

He retreated in the other direction, trying to lead them away. His fighting grin was absent. Behind his perplexity, his eyes hinted at horror.

The four men ignored him. As they emerged from the side passage, they headed for Terisa and Geraden.

Artagel shouted to distract them. They ignored that as well. They might have been deaf. Lumbering woodenly, they went after their chosen object.

In an effort to turn them, he struck. His sword whirled and flashed and came down on the wrist of the leading figure with such force that Terisa winced, expecting to see the hand flop to the stone.

But the hand didn’t fall. There wasn’t any blood. Instead, the skin of the wrist peeled back from the point of the blow, revealing an insect like a monstrous cockroach where the bones of the hand should have been.

The skin withered away; the insect dropped from the wrist-stump to the floor.

It tasted the air with its feelers for a second, worked its mandibles, then scurried toward Terisa and Geraden.

At the same time, a second insect started to squirm out of the lumbering figure’s wrist. The skin of the wrist withered, as if the cockroach inside it were all that had preserved it as living tissue.

Terisa would have screamed if she could have found her voice. But the insect was faster than the heavy body or host that had carried it; and Geraden had shouted at her, grabbed her arm, trying to tug her away; and some residue of the incisive cold that had presaged this assault seemed to knot up her chest, so that she was hardly able to breathe.

While the second insect dropped to the floor from the tattered flesh of the figure’s wrist, a third fought into view out of his forearm.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from what was happening. Geraden had to drag her backward. She saw wild revulsion in Artagel’s eyes as he sprang to the attack.

One high hard blow of his sword bit into the nearest figure’s shoulder at the base of the neck, cutting deeply through the man’s chest. Another swing – so quick that it seemed to be part of the first – came around from the other side, licking murderously far between his ribs.

But there was no blood. He didn’t fall.

Like a rotten husk, his torso split open. His head continued staring straight ahead; his legs continued walking stiffly, heavily, down the corridor after his fellows – and dozens and dozens of cockroaches came tumbling out of his ruptured chest and abdomen.

For an instant, they seethed around each other, searching for a scent. Then they ran like a rush of blood after Terisa and Geraden.

Abruptly, the man’s head burst, scattering a knot of insects among the rest. After that, his legs seemed to lose their way. They tottered to the side, hit the wall, and fell over, while more and more huge cockroaches swarmed out of the crumbling remains of his waist and hips and thighs.

Soon there was nothing left of him except hurrying insects.

Terisa heard Artagel swearing in vicious desperation, as if he were about to vomit.

“Terisa!” Geraden hauled on her arm. “Run!”

Transfixed by Artagel’s attack and its result, she hadn’t realized how much she was hindering Geraden – how swiftly the insects were moving. The nearest one had nearly reached the skirt of her gown.

Gasping, she whirled away.

For a few strides, she ran, ran with all her heart. But then she had to stop and turn, to see—

Artagel had put away his sword. With his face clenched and bleak, his lower lip bitten between his teeth, he came up behind one of the remaining figures, stooped rapidly, hooked his hands around the squirming ankles, and pulled as hard as he could.

The man toppled forward with the slow, unreactive violence of felled timber.

When he hit the floor, the impact broke his whole body open. All the insects that had packed themselves into his flesh were released at once.

They flooded the passage from wall to wall. Lanternlight gleamed and glinted on their dark backs; they formed a flowing current as they sped forward, champing their mandibles for the flesh of their victims.

Terisa fled again.

Geraden ran with her. “We can keep ahead of them,” he panted. His chest heaved, urgent for air. “Don’t stop. We can outrun them.”

“How far?” Her heart was on fire, as if she had already run for miles. She seemed to be suffocating on fear and cold. “How far can you run?”

“Far enough,” he promised grimly. Yet he sounded like each breath he took hurt his lungs.

She stopped near a lantern and looked back. She and Geraden were twenty or thirty feet ahead of the leading cockroaches. From this angle, the whole floor of the passage seemed to boil with menace as the insects rushed forward. Behind them, the figure Artagel had struck first was just finishing his collapse, releasing the last of his occupants among the swarm. The remaining man increased his pace to keep up with the hunting torrent.

Artagel followed in a frenzy. “Geraden!” His call echoed down the corridor like a wail. “What can I do? Tell me what to do!”

“No,” Terisa rasped. She fought for air, but was too frightened to get it. “I can’t run far enough. We don’t know where we’re going. If we get out of here, we’ll just lead those things into Orison.”

In response, Geraden gave her a look of pure anguish.

“We’ve got to fight somehow,” she said as if a total stranger were talking, someone who had no acquaintance with the panic which hammered in her heart, the dread and revulsion that twisted her stomach. “We’ve got to fight.”

For one more moment while the cockroaches rushed closer, he stared at her as though he were about to start sobbing. Then he gave an inarticulate shout like a cry of battle and leaped for the lantern.

Wrenching it from its hooks regardless of the way the heated iron scorched his hands, he flung it at the insects.

It hit in a splash of burning oil, and a dozen or more of the creatures caught fire.

They burned almost instantly, spouting flames as bright as torches: they were incendiary in some way. After two or three heartbeats, nothing remained of them except bits of charred carapace—

—nothing except a black vapor which rose into the air and spread quickly.

It smelled like a strong combination of formaldehyde and partially digested meat, and it clawed at Terisa’s throat and lungs like acid. Gagging, she doubled over: the spasm that gripped her chest was too fierce to let her cough.

The passage had gone dim without the lantern, but she was close enough to the floor to see the nearest cockroaches scuttling rapidly forward, unconcerned by a few deaths. She had to run, had to—

She couldn’t. It was impossible. She could not break the hold of that black vapor on the inside of her chest.

Retching hard enough to crack his ribs, Geraden got his arms around her and somehow found the strength to lift her off her feet. With her convulsed weight awkward in his embrace, he stumbled away, struggling to outrun the insects again.

In a few strides, he set her down to see if she could carry herself now. She snatched a whooping breath, and the spasm began to unclench. Still clinging to him for support, she fled farther before turning to look back.

She was in time to see Artagel run up with a lantern that he must have retrieved from the opposite direction and throw it like a madman at the head of the last erect attacker.

He didn’t know his danger: he was too far away to have seen accurately what had happened to Geraden and her. But she couldn’t shout a warning. Her raw throat could barely whisper his name as the lantern hit and broke – and the lumbering figure went up in flames, burning with such sudden fury that he seemed incandescent – and the spouting black exhalations of that many insects engulfed Artagel, causing him to collapse as effectively as a sword-thrust in the belly.

“Artagel,” croaked Geraden. “Artagel.”

Terisa watched Artagel and the insects while her fear turned to a cold, dark anger. This time, she was the one who grabbed at Geraden’s arm and pulled. “Come on.” Her voice was only a scrape of pain in her throat, but now the chill seemed to be doing her some good, slowly numbing the hurt of the black vapor. “Come on.”

Ahead, she saw that the corridor came to a T, branching left and right. More light seemed to emanate from the right than from the left.

When she reached the T, she scanned both passages to ascertain that there was in fact a lantern nearby off to the right. Then she released Geraden. The cockroaches were after her. They had come through the same mirror that the man in black had used to attack her. She was the only person she knew who had active enemies.

“Get the lantern,” she choked out. “I’ll lead them away.”

He gaped at her as though his brother’s fall had cost him his wits.

Urgently, she pushed him into motion. “Go! I’ll lead them away. You follow. Every lantern we pass, you can kill a few more. Just don’t breathe that vapor.”

At last, he appeared to understand. He moved into the right-hand corridor a few steps ahead of the cockroaches.

Retreating backward so that she could see what he did, she went to the left.

Unfortunately, her assumption was mistaken. The entire swarm swept after Geraden, ignoring her completely.

Geraden!

Her anger crumbled into horror and incomprehension. The strength ran out of her: she nearly sank to her knees. Slowly, she raised her hands to her mouth, and fear filled her eyes.

He didn’t realize his danger until he reached the lantern, unhooked it, and turned back. Then he saw the oncoming rush. For a second, he was paralyzed. Dismay wiped the combative stubbornness off his face. His hands lowered the lantern: it looked like it was about to fall.

One of her knees failed. She lost her balance and stumbled to the floor, breaking the ice that scummed a wide puddle. Water soaked into her gown. She wasn’t even on her feet when she heard him howl, “Terisa! Get help” ’

But she was watching him, watching with all she had left, yearning for him in voiceless desperation, as Adept Havelock arrived at his side and leveled a beam of light against the onslaught.

Apparently, the mad old Imager had been waiting in the hall for just this purpose. The reflections from his eyes danced insanely, but his movements betrayed none of the erratic frenzy, the hysteria of intent, which she had seen in the past: they were deft and sure, almost calm.

One hand took hold of Geraden’s collar and pulled him back; the other directed his beam at the seething cockroaches.

Terisa was past surprise, so she noticed as if it were a matter of course that the Adept’s weapon was the same small piece of glass he had used before to light her way and save her life. Now, however, that mirror shone much more hotly: its light was as fierce as fire. More powerfully than burning oil, it ignited the insects. They took flame and were incinerated almost instantly, popping like firecrackers as they died.

Then billowing black vapor filled the corridor so thickly that the illumination of Geraden’s lantern was obscured. Only Adept Havelock’s fire was bright enough to show through the sudden midnight as the beam swept the floor and cockroaches by the hundreds burned.

At the last moment, Terisa remembered to hold her breath.

For what felt like a long time – a dozen heartbeats, two dozen – the Adept’s light moved swiftly and methodically over the stone, boiling the damp to steam in order to achieve the death of each insect. Of course, the creatures simplified this process by marching with mindless determination in Geraden’s direction. Adept Havelock didn’t need to be concerned that any of them would sneak past him along the walls, or would turn and flee. Nevertheless he was careful, and so the cleansing of the passage took time. She felt her mind going giddy as she wondered whether the Adept had enough sense – or Geraden enough self-awareness – to stop breathing.

Then the vapor became thick enough to block even Adept Havelock’s beam. The air began to sting her eyes. She lowered her forehead to the floor. The ache of her bruise against the cold stone gave her a focal point for her concentration, and she clung to it so that she wouldn’t breathe.

Unexpectedly, something nudged her shoulder.

Believing in panic that she had been found by one of the cockroaches, she flipped to the side and gasped for air so that she could scream.

Adept Havelock stood over her, dressed as usual in his worn surcoat and tattered chasuble. His light played on the ceiling, filling the corridor.

He looked like a dangerous lunatic. His disfocused eyes bulged; the few remaining tufts of his hair protruded wildly. His fleshy grin was gleeful and lecherous. Behind the dirty stubble on his cheeks, his skin seemed to be turning purple.

As she began to cough, however, he let his own breath out with a burst and started breathing again. The air made him cough as well, and a few tears trickled from his eyes; but his eyes stopped bulging almost at once, and his skin lost its purple intensity.

“I see,” he rasped hoarsely, “that the air is now tolerable. It was kind of you to sample it for me.”

Geraden stumbled into her range of vision. His eyes were raw, and the difficulty of breathing showed in his face. Nevertheless he was on his feet. As soon as he saw that she, too, would survive, he groaned, “Artagel,” and pushed himself into a coughing run toward his brother.

“Artagel?” Although one of Havelock’s eyes leered, the other was sane and serious. His nose, as fierce and ascetic as a hawk’s beak, made every word he uttered count. “Was he caught in this trap as well?”

“Back there.” A spasm of retching wracked Terisa. After that, however, the pain in her lungs eased, and she was able to breathe more normally. With an effort, she climbed to her hands and knees, then to her feet. “He tried to save us. That vapor got him.”

“Balls of a goat!” the Adept snapped. At once, he strode away.

Struggling not to be left behind, she reeled after him.

Slowly her balance improved as the effects of the vapor faded. She was nearly steady as she and Adept Havelock reached Geraden.

He didn’t notice them. He sat on the floor, cradling Artagel’s head in his arms.

Artagel’s face was mottled with exertion and pain, and his eyes gaped at the ceiling as though he had gone blind. But he was breathing.

Her relief was so acute that her eyes spilled tears.

Stooping to Geraden, Adept Havelock tapped him crisply on the shoulder. “Come along, Geraden. Carry him if you have to. I don’t like staying this close to that translation point. Who knows how many more surprises Vagel has for us? I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

Geraden hugged his brother harder and didn’t move. Terisa couldn’t tell whether he had heard the Adept.

As if he were making a concession, the old Imager said, “I have some wine. I think it’ll help him.” Then he lost patience. “Horror and ballocks, boy! If you’re attacked again, I might not be able to save you!”

Still Geraden didn’t move. But Artagel jerked his head in a nod as if he understood. When Terisa took hold of his arm and tried to pull him upright, he made a feeble effort to assist her.

Roughly, Geraden rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he helped Terisa lift his brother off the stone.

“Come along,” repeated Havelock. With a brisk stride, he moved away.

Supporting Artagel between them, Terisa and Geraden followed. Artagel was unable to keep his feet under him, but she heard an improvement in his breathing. He was beginning to sound like he would live.

She found that she was completely disoriented: she had no idea where Adept Havelock was taking them. After a short distance, he entered a side passage which led at once to a sturdy wooden door that looked like the entrance to a storeroom. In fact, it was the entrance to a storeroom. The storeroom, however, appeared to be full of nothing but empty crates in various stages of disrepair. Adept Havelock ignored them as he picked his way to another door hidden in a niche at the back of the room.

This door looked ordinary enough from the outside, but inside it held enough bars and bolts to seal a dungeon. Havelock shut it behind Terisa, Geraden, and Artagel, then led them down a passage that opened almost immediately into a room crowded with a disarray of mirrors.

“King Joyse confiscated most of these during his wars,” the Adept explained offhandedly as he crossed the room to another corridor. “After he created the Congery, he restored quite a few mirrors to the Masters. But he kept more than he gave up.

“I wish they did me some good.”

The sight astonished Geraden out of his distress, at least for a moment. Adept Havelock had the only light, however, and he left the room promptly. Terisa and Geraden followed with Artagel.

After two or three turns, as many short hallways, and another door, they suddenly found themselves in the large, square room where Terisa had listened to Master Quillon explain the history of Mordant’s need.

The place appeared unchanged: it was still furnished and cluttered like the study of a man whose mind had gone. Lamps set into the walls and the central pillar shed plenty of light toward the doors that lined the walls, giving admittance to Orison’s secret passages.

Perhaps because she was suffering from reaction, Terisa was struck by the odd thought that Adept Havelock resembled a spider. This room was the center of his web; the secret passages were the strands. Now she and Geraden and Artagel had been caught.

She wondered what the Adept was plotting.

He bustled away behind the pillar. While he was out of sight, Terisa and Geraden helped Artagel to one of the chairs at the checkerboard table. Artagel’s breathing still had a thick tubercular wheeze that was painful to hear, but he was strong enough to take notice of his surroundings. With an effort, he choked out, “Does he live here?”

“Looks like it,” replied Terisa vaguely. She still wasn’t ready to tell anyone that she had been here before.

“I wish I knew what he was doing with all those mirrors,” Geraden muttered. Fear and strain and bafflement gave him a feverish look.

Carrying a large flagon, Adept Havelock returned.

At last she had an opportunity to observe him more closely. He conveyed an impression of suppressed haste, as though he were trying to resist the acceleration of some internal process. His movements were deliberate, tightly controlled; but his eyes flicked from side to side with a discernible rhythm, like a heartbeat being gradually goaded faster by adrenalin.

He handed the flagon directly to Artagel. “Drink it all. It’s going to taste terrible. I put some balm in it to heal your throat.” Brusquely, he addressed Geraden. “Make sure he drinks it all. If he recovers, make him play hop-board with you.” He indicated his empty checkerboard table. “You need the practice. I want to talk to the lady.”

Without waiting for a reaction, he took Terisa’s arm and drew her away, around the pillar until she could no longer see Geraden and Artagel.

When he stopped, however, he didn’t speak. His eyes took turns flicking toward her and off again, flicking— Their rhythm and the aftertaste of black vapor made her stomach queasy. A grimace clenched his sybaritic mouth, as if he had taken a vow not to let himself grin at her. Slowly, he raised his scrawny old arms and folded them across his chest.

From beyond the pillar came harsh gagging noises. The wine must have been worse than terrible. Fortunately, the noises soon ceased.

Facing the Adept alone, Terisa felt a strong desire to become hysterical. That would solve a number of problems. It would give her an escape from his loony gaze. It would provide a much-needed rest. It would free her from the responsibility of trying to figure out what was going on. But he had saved her life. He had saved Geraden. And he clearly had some kind of purpose for bringing her here. In return, she had to make some kind of effort to rise to the occasion.

Swallowing hard to clear her throat, she said, “You’re not really as crazy as people think.”

In response, he let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, yes I am. This is just one of my lucid moments. Quillon told you I have lucid moments. This is one of them.”

Abruptly, he unfolded one age-spotted hand from his chest to stab his index finger in her direction. “The important thing,” he whispered intensely, “is, don’t ask me any questions. Don’t. I’m having a hard enough time as it is.”

At once, he resumed his stance and went on flicking his eyes at her, back and forth in turn, their rhythm eloquent of mounting pressure, perhaps even of violence.

She felt her mouth hanging open, so she closed it. Apparently, he needed her to help him in some way. But without asking any questions. Did he want her to guess at something? Or did it matter what she said?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Cautiously, she ventured, “I haven’t thanked you for saving us. I don’t know how the arch-Imager or whoever it was managed to spring that trap on us. I can’t think of any way for him to know what we were going to do. But if you hadn’t come along, we—” She shuddered, unable to complete the thought.

Without warning, he snapped, “Vagel!” He sounded grimly angry, yet his expression conveyed gratitude. “If I could get just one hand on him, I would tear his heart out. But it isn’t good for me to lose my temper.” Whatever emotions appeared on his face or in his voice had no effect on his posture or the movement of his eyes. “That was just coincidence. The first piece of good luck we’ve had in a long time. I’ve seen those creatures before – just once, when I was in a cabal of Imagers High King Festten built around Vagel in Carmag. I saw what they do. But I’ve never actually seen the glass.

“We were told they’re like hunting dogs. If you translate something with the scent of the man you want hunted on it into their world, those insects go wild. But apparently they can’t be translated directly. They forget the scent and just attack the first thing they find. So you have to give them living bodies to serve as hosts.”

As he spoke, the edges of her vision went dim as if she were about to faint.

“They eat their way into those bodies and breed, and then they can be translated without losing the scent.”

“That’s what they would have done to Geraden,” she murmured weakly. Then she raised a hand to her mouth, fighting to keep her nausea at bay.

“And anybody else who got in their way,” added the Adept. He seemed to be growing calmer. “That’s why I say we were lucky. If he hadn’t happened to be near the translation point when those creatures came through, they would have had to go looking for him. We would have had to fight them in the public halls of Orison. Who knows how many people would have been killed.”

Struggling to get her mind off the idea of Geraden as a host for the monstrous insects, Terisa started to ask a question. Fortunately, she caught it in time to rephrase it.

“It’s a good thing you were there to rescue us.”

She felt an unexpected, poignant desire to say, I saw the riders of my dream in the augury. Geraden thinks I’m an Imager.

“I said I’m crazy,” the Adept replied with some asperity. “I didn’t say I’m stupid.” Then, to her surprise, he smiled, baring his crooked yellow teeth. “It’s obvious that Vagel has plans for that translation point. After going to all the trouble to create it, he isn’t likely to leave it unused. I’ve been watching it, more or less ever since you told Quillon about it – the day after Gart came through and almost killed you.”

She couldn’t help herself: she blurted out, “Gart? The High King’s Mono—?”

At once, a spasm of fury twisted his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. As if they weren’t under his control, his hands rose into fists and began punching at his temples. She saw that he was holding his breath.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered fervently, frightened without knowing why. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I just didn’t know it was Gart—” She faltered and fell silent.

Fiercely, he sucked a deep breath in through his nose and opened his eyes. “Of course it was Gart.” One muscle at a time, as if by a supreme act of will, he resumed his stance. His mouth grimaced again. He appeared to be in command of himself. “The alliance between Vagel and Festten still holds. Cadwal wants you dead even more than Alend and that treacherous Prince do.” The rhythm of his eyes was faster, however, flicking to her and away like the stalking beat of his madness.

He tried to smile again – this time unsuccessfully. Without transition, he said, “You’re probably wondering why I brought you here. Well, I can’t tell you that. If I knew the answer myself, it probably wouldn’t make sense. But I want to tell you a little bit about King Joyse.”

Terisa swallowed the change of subject as well as she could and waited for him to go on.

“You know, the relationship between Imagery, augury, and fate is an interesting philosophical question.” His tone was peaceful now, but his eyes contradicted it. His manner brought back the idea of a lurking spider. “Before Joyse was born, I was what some people called the ‘pet Imager’ of the Cadwal prince who ruled Orison and the Demesne. He was a petty tyrant, but imaginative in his cruelties, and I was growing desperate for hope. So I tried to arrange an augury for the coming birth.

“Unfortunately, I was unable to shape a flat glass to show the room where he would be born. The best I could create was an Image of a hill just outside Orison – a hill,” he added by the way, “which is now in the castle. In fact, it forms the foundation for the tower where he has his rooms.

“But at the time,” he resumed, “the focus of my mirror refused to be adjusted any farther than the stables where our prince allowed us to keep our mangy horses.

“Of course, I could have waited until the child was born and grew up enough to go to the stables on his own. But as I say I was growing desperate. So one black night soon after he was born, I stole little Joyse from his cradle and took him down to the stables and risked leaving him there alone in a pile of straw while I raced back to my small laborium to work the augury.

“He took cold and nearly died – but I got what I wanted.”

From where he stood, he couldn’t see Geraden and Artagel as they crept past the edge of the pillar. Terisa glanced at them to reassure herself about Artagel’s condition – and to try to warn them not to interfere. Then she returned her attention to the Adept.

“It was a remarkable augury, unusually distinct in some ways, maddeningly vague in others. On the one hand, it clearly showed Joyse making himself a king. On the other, it proved to have almost nothing to do with the process by which he actually did become King. It didn’t show the battles he actually fought, the victories he actually won, the decisions he actually made. So it was no help at all to us along the way. The best it gave us was an occasional bit of confirmation, when the results of something he did – like the creation of the Congery – unexpectedly matched the Images in the augury.

“Let me give you an example,” he said blandly while the pace of his gaze increased. “According to my augury, he became King as an old man. Sometime after a large, unexplained hole was torn in the side of Orison.”

While Terisa stared – and Geraden and Artagel fought to muffle their surprise – Havelock permitted himself a stiff shrug. She felt sure he was trying to tell her something urgent, something she couldn’t possibly understand. “At the time, the idea that I would have to wait until he was old was so depressing – I almost didn’t bother to go rescue him from the stables. But since then I’ve had a lot of time to ask myself what went wrong. Did I falsify my augury by not allowing the conditions for it to happen naturally? Does the very act of casting an augury change events? Or are there other possibilities? Has King Joyse changed his own fate by being stronger – or weaker – than he would have been if he hadn’t taken cold that night and nearly died?

“We would be better off if we could answer questions like these.”

As if he were pausing to briefly become a completely different person, he relaxed his rigid posture and scratched himself unceremoniously. Whatever dignity and command he possessed vanished at once. His surcoat looked old and grimy enough to carry lice: perhaps the itching was unbearable. Then he drew back into his clenched stance.

“I’ll tell you something else that was in my augury. If you promise never to tell anybody. Never never never.” He spoke to the rhythm of his eyes. “Never never never.” The strain of holding on to his lucidity brought sweat to his forehead, despite the cool of the room. “His daughters were in it.

“Of course, I didn’t know they were his daughters then. But now it’s obvious.”

A crafty look broke over his features. “You’ll never guess what I saw Myste doing.”

Terisa had to gouge her nails into her palms to keep herself quiet. At the edge of her attention, she was aware of Geraden’s agitation, but she had no time to spare for him.

With a visible effort, Adept Havelock wrestled his expression back to sternness. “Of course you’ll never guess,” he snapped as if she had just said something insulting. “How could you? That’s why I’m going to tell you.

“I saw her,” he said sarcastically, “with a figure who bore an astonishing resemblance to Gilbur’s champion. She looked like she was begging him not to kill her.”

Terisa must have been stronger, more resilient, than she realized. How else was it possible for her to feel such panic, after everything she had already been through? Havelock knew where Myste had gone. Perhaps King Joyse also knew. Perhaps he had known all along. Begging him not to kill her. Myste!

Numb with fright, she asked, “Did he kill her? Did she go through all that just to get herself killed?”

But it was likely that Adept Havelock didn’t hear her. While she breathed her question, Geraden surged forward, demanding, “Myste is with that champion? Is that why no one’s seen her recently? Does King Joyse know about this?”

Rage on his face, Havelock whirled as if he intended to strike Geraden down. Instantly, however, his turn changed into a pirouette, and he spun circles, flapping his arms like an old crow. When he stopped, he looked like he wanted to storm at Geraden, yet he was giggling, and his voice was thick with mirth.

“Do you know what the difference is between an Apt and an Adept?”

Frozen with chagrin, Geraden gaped at the mad Imager.

Lugubriously solemn, Adept Havelock raised his fingers to his fat lips and flapped them, making a de-de-de-de sound. Then he cackled appreciation for his own humor and turned to Terisa. “Do you get it? De-de-de-de. D-e. A-d-e-p-t.” But he quit laughing as soon as he saw the dismay on her face. “Women!” he snorted. “Whoever invented women gave them teats instead of brains. By the hoary goat of the arch-Imager! No wonder Mordant is in such a mess.”

Suddenly, her throat filled with pain. He was so valuable – and so lost. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You poor man. I’m so sorry.”

But no amount of regret could bring his mind back. He leered at her, smacked his lips, and pronounced in a tone of finality:

“Sheepdung.”

***

When Artagel had recovered sufficiently, he and his companions found their way back up to the public halls of Orison. “You’d better tell Castellan Lebbick about the attack,” said Geraden glumly as they walked. “He needs to guard that translation point.”

Artagel nodded and left. He still carried himself stiffly, as if his lungs were tender, but all he needed now was rest.

The prospect of being alone made Terisa’s skin crawl, so she asked Geraden to keep her company in her rooms. Inborn consideration seemed to warn him off sensitive topics: deliberately casual, he whiled away part of the afternoon for her by chatting about his family, giving her brief sketches of his brothers and their life in the Care of Domne. Soothed by his gentle talk and affectionate memories, she began to feel restored enough to consider the implications of the day’s events.

Unfortunately, he was called away at that point: one of the younger Apts found him and summoned him to his neglected chores.

The remainder of the afternoon was bad. And the evening threatened to be worse, until she discovered – to her surprise and relief – that she was too exhausted to keep her eyes open. Grateful for small blessings, she went to bed.

***

The next morning, after a night full of dreams from which Terisa awakened as though she had been screaming, Saddith bustled into her rooms and announced gleefully that Master Eremis had been released.

“Really? Are you sure?” Terisa tried to conceal her emotions, but her heart was pounding. The Master had said, When I am free, I will come to you. As if by magic, the events of the previous day became less important. There will be no part of your womanhood which I have not claimed. “Why would Castellan Lebbick let him out?”

Saddith looked positively exultant. “I do not know the entire story, my lady. Apparently, the Castellan is teaching his men to keep their mouths closed. But it is rumored” – she lowered her voice dramatically – “that Orison was attacked by Imagery yesterday. Master Eremis had been imprisoned because he was believed to be responsible for such things.” The recollection made her indignant. “But of course he could not have attacked Orison by Imagery while locked in the Castellan’s dungeon. No proof can be found that he is guilty.” She chortled. “Even our dour Castellan cannot justify imprisoning an innocent man.”

Terisa made a conscious effort not to speculate about the meaning of Saddith’s pleasure. Her own expectations were already too confused: she didn’t want to have them complicated further by memories of the way Saddith had moaned and clung while Master Eremis thrust into her. Instead, she remembered the touch of his lips and tongue on her breasts – the way he had instructed her to betray Geraden – and waited impatiently for the maid to leave.

She wanted the Master – and was afraid to face him with her refusal to take his part against Geraden. Opposing desires made her forehead ache. As soon as Saddith closed the door, she rushed to give herself a quick, intense bath, trying to get ready. But then she forced herself to put on the dingiest gown she had, as if she wished to be unattractive. Master Eremis. Geraden. She yearned for both in different ways and had no idea what to do about the contradiction.

But Master Eremis didn’t come.

She had thought she was going to find out who she was. But neither of the men who tried to claim her had given her an answer. She had risked accompanying Geraden to Vagel’s translation point for nothing more than the sensation of thin, sharp cold – a sensation that made no difference. And she had known all along that Master Eremis could have any woman he wanted.

Apparently, he didn’t want her.

Perhaps for that reason – perhaps simply because she couldn’t have him – she found that she wanted him badly.

NINETEEN: THE ADVANTAGES OF AN EARLY THAW

Four days later, the weather broke.

By that time, Terisa had forced down the pain of Master Eremis’ implicit rejection. She continued to function, which meant that she spent as much time as possible with Geraden – talking, trying to understand. Nevertheless the knowledge that she didn’t have anything better to do, anything more constructive to offer, wore on her constantly. She couldn’t shake free of a gray depression that took the edge off everything she thought and felt; her behavior resembled her former existence more than anything she had done since she had come to Orison. As a result, her conversations with Geraden were like many of the sessions she had had with Reverend Thatcher.

But now the underlying futility was on her side rather than on anyone else’s.

She had lost her fragile sense of purpose, of direction. The conclusions she was occasionally tempted to draw from the appearance in the Congery’s augury of the riders of her dream had never seemed so foolish. She had no reason for being where she was. And she didn’t seem able to invent one. The real point of her long conversations with Geraden was not to shed any light into the dark corners of her situation, but rather to keep him with her, so that he wouldn’t fade from her life like Master Eremis.

So while snow as sharp and brittle as ice rattled against her windows and lorn wind keened past the edges of the tower and all Orison seemed to fall into a kind of static calm, frozen not by peace but by waiting, she did essentially nothing except eat, sleep, and sit in her rooms, talking with the Apt whenever he got free of his duties.

He brought her news from around Orison. The Masters were involved in a fierce and apparently endless debate, trying to decide what to do about their champion – and about their own vulnerability. Castellan Lebbick’s guards and every stonemason available were busy using the rubble of the champion’s departure to build a wall across the breach in Orison’s side. And Argus and Ribuld were doing what they could to keep an eye on the lady Elega.

The rest of the time, Terisa and Geraden talked about their circumstances.

On his side, this meant fighting a steady but subdued, almost covert struggle to raise her spirits. As if he knew that any despondency in him could hurt her, he practiced good cheer. As if he knew that the sore places in her weren’t ready to be touched, he preserved a tactful emotional distance. As if he knew that she wasn’t strong enough to be pushed, he urged nothing. With a delicate gentleness that made his physical mishaps look like they belonged to a completely separate person, he cared for her.

Even though he needed care himself and wasn’t getting it. His enemies were as savage as hers, wanted him dead as badly – and for as little reason. But if he was afraid, he kept his fear to himself.

At one point, he asked rather wistfully, “Did you feel anything at the translation point? Could you tell it was there?”

A touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel. That was something she didn’t want to talk about; it frightened her too badly. “It was so cold down there, and I was so scared. Just before those” – she shivered involuntarily – “those men appeared, I seemed to get even colder and more scared.” She already knew that she was never going to mention it to Master Eremis. “That’s probably all it was.”

He looked at her hard before glancing away.

“What about you?” she countered. “That would explain a lot. If you have that kind of talent, and Master Gilbur got a hint of it while he was teaching you, we would at least have an explanation for why you were attacked.”

He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t that be fun? I would love an explanation. But all I can remember is thinking that it was a silly idea. I was dragging you and Artagel around in the cold and damp for an empty theory. I didn’t even see the translation start.”

She sighed morosely.

Several times, they both returned to the matter of their strange session with Adept Havelock. “What was all that about, do you suppose?” he wondered. “Why did he want to tell you all that? Why those specific details?”

She had no idea. “He’s crazy. Maybe what he calls ‘lucidity’ just means he’s able to put a few sentences together in order.”

But that explanation didn’t satisfy either of them. Eventually, an old resolve crumbled, and she found herself telling him about her first night in Orison. She described how Adept Havelock had fetched her to his chamber, what Master Quillon had told her of Mordant’s history, and how the Adept had saved her from the man in black.

He listened in mingled astonishment and incomprehension. When she was done, he breathed, “They already knew. The first night you were here, they already knew you were in danger. Master Quillon has been busy.” He scowled wryly. “If you told the rest of the Congery about this, they wouldn’t believe it. Master Quillon? Trying to change what happens to anyone?” Then he said more seriously, “At least now we know who my enemies are. Master Gilbur and arch-Imager Vagel.”

She nodded. She could feel herself sinking deeper into gloom.

He didn’t let the idea of his enemies dismay him, however. Smiling, he said, “There’s one advantage to all this, anyway. Now I know how you feel. You don’t understand what everybody thinks you can do. I don’t understand why men like that think highly enough of me to consider me worth killing.”

She was too despondent to be amused. “I want to know whose side Master Quillon and Adept Havelock are on. Not the King’s. Not the Congery’s. Not Master Gilbur’s.” She could have also said, Not Master Eremis’.

How many sides were there?

But that brought them back to their encounter with the Adept – and to the presumed hints hidden in what he had said. Finally, she decided to give up another of her few remaining secrets. She was committed to him – not because she knew what she was doing, but because he was her friend. And Master Eremis didn’t want her. There would be no harm in telling Geraden about Myste.

He listened in close silence. As she explained Myste’s reasons for going after the champion, he held his head up like a salute, and tears stood in his eyes. When she was finished, he remained silent for a long moment before murmuring gruffly, “I always liked her.

“Of course,” he added, “I know Elega better. And Torrent is so sweet she makes you want to lie down on the floor for her to stand on so her feet won’t get cold. King Joyse doesn’t have any unattractive daughters. But Myste—” His voice trailed away.

Begging him not to kill her. Terisa felt like crying herself.

Early in the morning of the fifth day, however, she was awakened from a thin, unrestful sleep by the sound of rain.

Groggy with sleep and surprise, she climbed out of bed and went to the nearest window.

For a moment, she was baffled because she couldn’t see any rain. In fact, the sky was completely free of clouds. The early sun cast a genial light over the walls and battlements, and the heavens were a vital blue, shaded closer to purple than azure. The distant hills seemed softer under their thick robes of snow, and the crooked bulk of Orison looked considerably more picturesque than it had the previous day, more like a grand castle in a fairy tale.

Then she realized that the sound came from the melting of the snow.

Water ran thickly from the roofs and towers, streamed off the eaves like a downpour. Already, the courtyard resembled a quagmire: its churned mud lay hidden beneath brown puddles as vast as ponds. Guards and people bustling in and out of the courtyard, to and from the huddled maze of shops and shanties and tents, had to wear cloaks against the runoff and high boots against the standing water; but under the open sky they pushed back their cloaks or doffed them altogether to revel in the new warmth.

The winter had turned to thaw.

A little thrill ran through her as she thought she might get a chance to go outside for a while. It might be possible to stop feeling depressed for a while.

Hurrying, she went to wash her face and put on her clothes.

She wasn’t surprised when Geraden arrived before Saddith had brought her breakfast. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, and he was breathing hard. He must have run up the stairs. At first glance, she thought he was simply eager, caught up in a stronger version of her own reaction. But the way his eyes shone was more complex than that.

“Have you seen it?” he panted as soon as she shut the door.

“Yes.”

They went to the windows together, drawn by the prospect of sun and warmth and springtime after the long, tense winter.

“Glass and splinters,” he muttered while he regained his breath, “this is awful.”

She blinked at him like a startled owl. “Awful?”

At once, he started laughing. “Isn’t that silly? I feel this eager every spring. Like the whole world is coming back to life. The first thaw always makes me want to go out and play like a boy.

“But it’s still awful. Even though I love it.” He tried to sound somber. “Terisa, this is very bad news.”

His laughter drew a smile from her. “It’s a good thing I’ve known you so long. If you were a stranger, I would have to assume you’ve lost your mind. Why is this bad news?”

“You mean, since you know me, you don’t have to assume I’ve lost my mind? You can take it for granted?” He dismissed her protest with a chortle. “Because it’s early. Too early. Right now, winter is about the only thing protecting us. If too much of the snow melts, there won’t be anything to prevent Cadwal and even Alend from marching against us today.

“You heard what the Perdon said. High King Festten has already mustered an army. He can do that because Cadwal gets so much less snow than we do. And you can be sure the Alend Monarch didn’t send his son on a mission as dangerous as a visit to Orison without having an army prepared to support or rescue him. Or avenge him.

“We’re the only ones who aren’t ready,” he continued. “Oh, I’m sure Castellan Lebbick has done everything he can. But we didn’t get ready for war last autumn because King Joyse refused to command it” – now Geraden managed to sound grim – “and we aren’t ready now because he hasn’t been paying attention all winter. Our only hope has been that the snow would last until he came back to his senses.”

Terisa frowned in an effort to concentrate. “If they start marching today, who’s going to get here first?”

Unable to preserve an appropriately dire expression, he flashed a grin. “That’s complicated. Cadwal is closer, especially if they march up through Perdon from the southeast. Alend’s best route comes almost due south through the Care of Armigite. That’s nearly twice as far.

“But South Perdon is mostly hills, some of them rugged. Armigite is almost all lowland. To reach us, the High King’s army has to cross two rivers, the Vertigon and the Broadwine. The Alends only have to ford the Pestil. And the Perdon will fight Cadwal every step of the way. The Armigite, on the other hand—” Geraden sighed. “We would be lucky, I guess, if he fired a few catapults at Margonal’s army while it went by.”

Although the air outside was obviously much warmer than it had been, it wasn’t balmy: when he leaned close to the window, his words left small, brief ovals of condensation on the glass. “But it’s even more complicated than that. How long has Prince Kragen been gone? Six days? I presume he’s riding hard, but he won’t be able to go very fast. Not even today. This much snow will take days to melt off. So he’s still a long way from home. Will the Alend Monarch do anything without him? I don’t know.

“Giving you my utmost wisdom” – he grimaced – “I would say at this point anything can happen. With our luck, it probably will.”

“Well, that’s all right,” she murmured. “ ‘Anything’ is what’s been happening ever since I got here.”

He responded with a chuckle and a bow. “My lady, you have an enviable gift for understatement.” Then he added, “We’re probably lucky. If it stopped happening, we might get confused.”

“Speak for yourself,” she replied. “Confusion is my natural state.” She feigned puzzlement. “Or I think so, anyway.”

He laughed. “A kindred spirit. No wonder I like you.”

Gazing out at the thaw, he sighed happily, “This really is terrible.”

***

Sometime later, there was a knock on the door.

“I am sorry to be late, my lady,” Saddith said as she entered the room carrying a large breakfast tray. “The guards told me that Apt Geraden was with you – already.” She winked. “So I went back for more food.”

Feeling light-headed and impervious to discomfort because of the thaw, Terisa asked foolishly, “How is Master Eremis this morning?”

Saddith glanced down at her tight bosom. “He has been very busy. Or so it is rumored. But he is well.” When she looked up, her face wore a deliberate veil of blandness, but the corner of her mouth quirked. “Or so it is rumored.”

Terisa realized that she didn’t feel quite as cheerful as she thought.

Geraden watched her with a quizzical expression; however, he made no comment. He had apparently decided that he didn’t want to know what her present relationship with the Master was.

When the maid had left, Terisa tried to recover her good humor by eating a big breakfast. Nevertheless her mood had turned restless. She wanted to do something, wanted to go as far away from this room – and from herself – as she could. Abruptly, she demanded, “Let’s get out of here. Today. This morning.”

He stared at her with his mouth full. “Get out? You already know I can’t—”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant, out of this room. Out of Orison. Outside.” Trying to make sense, she urged, “Maybe we could rent some horses. I don’t know how to ride, but you could teach me. Anything. I just want to get out for a while.”

He struggled to understand. “I’ll do anything you want. What is ‘rent’?”

For no very admirable reason, she thought it might be fun to scream at him. Or maybe not fun, exactly. Maybe satisfying?

Fortuitously, someone chose that moment to knock at her door.

Swallowing her baser impulses, she called, “Come in.”

On command, a guard opened the door formally and announced, “The lady Elega.” Then he stepped aside and bowed the King’s eldest daughter into the room.

She was dressed as if for an excursion in a warm, high-collared fur robe and ornately tooled leather boots.

Geraden jumped to his feet. Instinctively, Terisa did the same.

Elega studied both of them. “I am sorry,” she said with an ironic smile. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“Guilty secrets,” Geraden replied promptly. “You know me, my lady.” His smile was no more innocent than hers. “I’m always plotting something.”

The lady measured him with a glance. Then she turned to Terisa. “Whatever he plots, Terisa,” she said, “I hope you will not let him entangle you in it. I do not know what he has in mind, of course. But surely he plots in the same way he does everything else.” She grinned around the word: “Notoriously.”

In response, Geraden bowed. “You’re too kind, my lady.”

Instead of shouting, Cut it out! Terisa asked Elega, “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Thank you, no.” The King’s daughter accepted the change of subject smoothly. She comported herself as though she were ready for anything. “I have breakfasted. What I would like – if it would please you – is to take you shopping.”

Shopping? Terisa gaped helplessly, struck as much by the familiarity of the word as by the strangeness of hearing it from Elega.

“I fear it will not be a very elegant experience. Because of the mud,” explained the lady. “But this thaw is wonderful. If it lasts as much as a day or two, it will open the roads around Orison enough to permit the merchants to replenish their stores. This late in the winter, the shops have become too depleted to be worth visiting. Now they may be resupplied.

“Terisa, I would like to take you to buy cloth and engage a seamster, so that you can have clothes made” – she hesitated almost imperceptibly – “to your own fit and fashion.”

“Clothes?”

“Whatever clothes you like. Of course,” said Elega firmly, “I will offer you advice as to weather and custom. But what I wish is to help you please yourself.”

“But” – it was the first thought that came to her – “I don’t have any money.”

The lady raised a delicate eyebrow in surprise. “You are a friend of the King’s daughter. Why do you need money?”

Terisa couldn’t find the words to protest. Fortunately, Geraden was sensitive to the particular character of her ignorance. “The lady Elega is right,” he said, supplying more reassurance than the situation superficially required. “As long as you’re with her, any merchant or artisan in Mordant will give you anything you want. That’s one of the privileges of the ruling family.

“It isn’t actually fair.” His tone reminded her that most of his friendships were among the workers of Orison, rather than among the lords and ladies. “But the way King Joyse runs the country puts more wealth back than it takes out, so his privileges don’t do any harm.” He seemed to be urging her to accept Elega’s offer.

She made an effort to collect her scattered wits. Really, she ought to be accustomed to surprises by now. They were becoming the story of her life. And when she thought about it, she found that she was excited.

“Thanks,” she said to the lady. “That sounds like fun. I was just telling Geraden I wanted to get out of this room. I’m about to start screaming.”

Elega smiled. “I know just what you mean. I have felt that way for years at a time. When would you like to go?”

Terisa glanced at Geraden, but his features were composed into a neutral mask. “How about right now?”

“That suits me admirably.” Elega looked pleased.

“If you will take my advice from the start, however,” she continued, “you will change your garments before we go. The seamsters who serve the ladies of Orison are accustomed to gowns. I suspect that they have scant acquaintance with” – she searched for a graceful description – “the styles of your world. If you wear a gown and carry your own clothing with you, you will be able to leave it for the seamster to use as a pattern. Then they should be able to match it.”

Although Terisa wasn’t at all sure that she wanted shirts and pants instead of gowns, Elega’s advice seemed too reasonable to ignore. “Just give me a minute.” From the wardrobe in the bedroom, she quickly fetched her demure gray gown. Then she retreated to the bathroom to change.

“Dress warmly,” Elega called. “And be prepared for mud.”

As soon as she had worked her way into the gown, Terisa located the thick sheepskin coat and boots that Geraden had supplied for her tour of Orison’s battlements. In a few moments, she was ready to go. She carried her old clothes under her coat. Her heart was beating like a schoolgirl’s.

“Will you accompany us, Geraden?” inquired Elega. “I doubt that choosing fabrics and studying styles will be of much interest to you. But it is unwise for ladies to go unescorted to the shops.” To Terisa, she explained, “Despite Castellan Lebbick’s best efforts, the bazaar attracts any number of rude fellows – pickthieves, gypsies, clowns, and ruffians. The guards maintain good order, but they cannot prevent all small crimes.” Then she addressed Geraden again. “If you would like an escape from your routine duties, I will be happy to pretend that I have commanded your attendance.”

“Again you are too kind, my lady.” Behind his deference, he was laughing. “But the King’s daughter’s pretense is probably as good as a command. I’ll go with you, of course.”

Elega smiled at him as though he were an amiable child. “Then perhaps you should get a coat.”

He was taken aback: he seemed almost suspicious, as if he thought the lady might have some ulterior motive. He swallowed his concern, however. “That’s a good idea. Which door are you going to use? I’ll catch up with you.”

She told him.

Bowing to Terisa, he left.

Brightly, Elega asked, “Shall we go?”

Terisa wasn’t sure what she was doing as she followed the King’s daughter out of the room.

Chatting easily about trivial subjects, Elega led her around through Orison to the northwest end of the castle. Along the way, she spotted Ribuld and Argus. The two guards were loitering in the hall as if they were off watch and had no better use for their time.

Her eagerness began to change color. What had started as a simple case of spring fever was becoming yet another gambit in the plots and schemes that surrounded Mordant’s need.

She accepted this. At the moment, all she really wanted was to get out of her recent depression.

Then she and Elega reached a door that gave access to the courtyard. With its massive timbers and thick iron bolts, it was made to be sealed; but it was open, and its guards stood outside, watching the crowd that spilled out of Orison to swirl and mill around the shops and tents.

Geraden was already there: he had been running again. Now, however, he had a coat to keep him warm.

Just for a second, his face showed a relief he couldn’t conceal. Apparently, one of his fears had been proved groundless. Then he greeted the two women with a smile.

Terisa inhaled the spring-like air deeply and plunged with her companions through the downpour from the eaves out into the mud.

Once again, she was struck by the size of the courtyard. Hidden in its own shadow, the eastern edifice of the castle was dark against the fathomless blue sky; but to the west Orison’s whole inward face held the sun and reflected the browns and grays of its stones, making the atmosphere around her warmer than the weather. In this light, the erratic pile of the castle seemed protective, rising high on all sides to keep what it enclosed safe. Windows caught the sunlight and flashed; from oriels and poles and projections among the balconies and walkways, clotheslines had been strung, and drying laundry decorated the walls in particolor; up on the towers, pennons made tiny by distance fluttered and gleamed.

The mud wasn’t as bad as she had expected. In this end of the courtyard, away from the area where the guards exercised their horses, gravel had been strewn over the dirt. That didn’t solve the problem, but it did make the inevitable muck less deep and cloying. The hem of her gown became soaked and stained immediately, but she was able to walk with unanticipated ease.

Doubtless inspired by their own species of spring fever, the people of the courtyard had flung wide the wooden fronts of their shops, decked their tents with ribbons, brought out carts loaded with refreshments which no one would have braved the cold to enjoy yesterday. They had put on their gay clothes and declared the day a spontaneous festival. Terisa heard the music of pipes and lutes punctuated by tambourines. Somewhere, there was probably dancing. Cooking smells and spices followed the tang of woodsmoke which drifted along the slight breeze from tin chimneys in the roofs of wooden structures, from smoke holes at the tops of tents, and from open fires crackling frequently in the gaps between the buildings.

For no reason except that she suddenly felt wonderful, she began laughing.

Geraden shared her mood. And Elega smiled, although the assessing quality of her gaze suggested that her pleasure was more complex. Terisa grinned at both of them and made an effort not to hurry.

“Here!” Passing among the shops and the crowds, Geraden presumed on his apparent stature as a friend of the King’s daughter to dash over to a cart and capture some of its wares, which were charred chunks of meat on long cane sticks. “This is my favorite food in the whole world.” The vendor bowed again and again like a bobbing cork as Geraden carried his booty triumphantly back to Terisa and Elega. “It’s called ‘treasure of Domne.’ The meat is just lamb, but it’s basted with a sauce that will melt your heart.” With a flourish, he offered a stick to each of his companions. “Eat! And grieve that you weren’t born in the Care of Domne.”

“I think,” Elega murmured without malice, “we would be more likely to grieve if we were born in the Care of Domne.”

Juice ran down Terisa’s chin as she bit into the tender meat. It was spiced like nothing she had ever tasted before. Stale coriander? Cumin that hadn’t been stored properly? For Geraden’s sake, she finished the piece she had in her mouth, then tried to think of an excuse not to eat the rest. Luckily, he savored the treat so much himself that he was temporarily deaf and blind to his companions. Elega deftly handed her stick to the nearest passerby. After a momentary hesitation, Terisa did the same. A bit self-consciously, she wiped her chin.

She and Elega walked on. The crowd made too much noise for quiet conversation. People were laughing gaily, shouting rowdy encouragements and insults at each other, greeting friends and hawking merchandise. But she didn’t want to talk – she wanted to see everything and absorb it all. The loud bustle seemed entirely unlike the frenetic activity of the city streets with which she was familiar. These people weren’t thinking about making fortunes or losing their jobs or fighting off muggers or being evicted from their homes. And they also weren’t thinking about war with Cadwal and Alend, the ethics of Imagery, or their King’s inexplicable decline. Their minds were on more important things.

Geraden rejoined her, grinning a little foolishly. With Elega, they took the path of least resistance through the throng.

Everything here had been set down or built up unsystematically, without a thought to such questions as ease of access or advantageous display – and with very little concern for sanitation. Apparently Castellan Lebbick’s authority didn’t entirely rule this little village which had sprung up to serve the demands of Orison. Rickety wooden buildings that looked too tall for their underpinnings, and too hastily hammered together to be more than semi-permanent, leaned against each other, often making it difficult for prospective buyers to find the entrances to the shops. Some of the tents assertively overfilled the available space, with the result that they couldn’t be passed except by squatting under or straddling over the ropes. Cooking fires sent up sparks dangerously close to weathered planks and dry canvas. Terisa was jostled so frequently that she began to be glad she wasn’t carrying any money.

Around one corner, she and her companions came upon a mountebank selling nostrums from a brightly painted wagon. His shirt was several sizes too small for him; his trousers, far too large. And both had been worn to tatters. But he had made a virtue of necessity by tying himself up from neck to ankles in ribbons of all colors, so that his tatters looked like a deliberate part of his costume. His mustache was as tangled as his hair, which had the added attraction of being streaked with ash. More ash stained his swarthy skin; his eyes rolled feverishly.

His nostrums were contained in crooked little glass bottles, large and uneven clay pots, and baskets woven of reeds. He advertised them with a high-pitched cry like the whine of a half-wit. If he had worn a red sign around his neck that said CHARLATAN, he would have appeared no less reliable than he did now. Large numbers of people showed interest in his wares, but he didn’t seem to have many buyers.

“Where does somebody like that come from?” Terisa asked Elega. “I can’t believe he sells enough to keep himself alive.”

“You have never been beyond the walls of Orison.” The lady’s tone and expression were cool: she obviously didn’t share Terisa’s curiosity. “Do not let your experiences among us paint a false picture. Away from the Demesne – and, to a lesser extent, from the principal cities of the Cares – Mordant’s people include a predictable number of simpletons and gulls. Fellows such as this often live better than you might guess.”

Nevertheless Terisa thought the man was fascinating. In fact, she found him more fascinating than she could explain. Something about the way he rolled his eyes and leered made her suspect that he knew what he was doing – that there was cunning in his performance. Was it all an act? Did he disarm suspicion by making himself so plainly untrustworthy?

Her companions wanted to go on, however. After a moment, she let them draw her away.

Shortly, Elega raised her voice and pointed. “All the fabric and tailor shops are there. They have been set almost one on top of the other. It is not usually a quiet place. I think they are often more interested in stealing custom from each other than in attracting buyers. But they will restrain themselves as long as I am with you.”

Terisa was tempted to reply, You seem to have that effect on everybody. She bit her tongue, however, and said nothing.

They passed a cart selling what looked like fried bread. Another offered the sort of trinkets that a guard might buy for a serving girl. In an open area where no one had yet built a shop or pitched a tent, a juggler in a voluminous black robe handled sharp, silver pieces of metal shaped like stars as if they were plates or ninepins. His robe whipped and spun around him like a whirl of midnight. Then Terisa and her escorts were near enough to the tailors and cloth merchants to see swaths of material draped invitingly out windows and over doors, and to hear men with measuring tapes around their necks and pins stuck in their clothing haggling over the passersby.

Suddenly, Geraden let out a yelp of surprise and pleasure and took off at a run, splashing mud.

Terisa and Elega stared after him. “I swear to you, Terisa,” the lady said, “that man becomes more like a boy every year.” Despite her tone, she looked perplexed – perhaps even a little worried. “Surely he knows that it is neither courteous nor wise to abandon us?”

Terisa watched him dodging recklessly through the crowd and held her breath, afraid that he would fall. But he didn’t. Instead, he came to a stop as suddenly as he had started.

“Let’s go see what he’s doing.” Without waiting for agreement, she headed in that direction.

Elega sighed audibly and joined her.

Geraden hadn’t gone far. They found him with another man, who appeared to be considerably less than delighted by the fact that Geraden had spotted him.

“Terisa,” the Apt announced as she and Elega reached him, “this is my brother Nyle.”

Then he began babbling.

“Artagel told me you were here, but I almost didn’t believe him. I haven’t been able to find you. Where have you been hiding? It’s great to see you. Why are you here? The last I heard, you were in Houseldon for the winter. You were trying to talk yourself out of – well, never mind that. Is everyone all right? How is Father? And Tholden? How about—”

“Let him answer, Geraden,” chided Elega firmly. “I am sure he did not come out of ‘hiding,’ as you call it, specifically so that you could drive him to distraction.”

With an effort, Geraden cut off his rush of words.

Unabashedly curious, Terisa studied Nyle. She would have known him as Geraden’s brother anywhere. He had Geraden’s hair and coloring, Geraden’s build, only an inch less than Geraden’s height. And he would have had Geraden’s face, if his features hadn’t been set for brooding instead of open-heartedness. He looked like a discontented version of his younger brother, a man whose basically serious nature had curdled.

It was clear that he took no joy in meeting Geraden.

Stiffly, he bowed to the two women. “My lady Elega.” He and Elega didn’t look at each other. “My lady Terisa. I’m glad to meet you” – Terisa heard no pleasure in his voice – “even though my brother hasn’t bothered to introduce us.”

Geraden started to apologize, but Nyle cut him off. “You haven’t been able to find me because I’ve been busy with my private affairs.” He glared at Geraden, and his tone was acid. “They don’t have anything to do with you, so there’s no reason why you should be involved in them.”

“What do you mean, ‘private affairs’?” snorted Geraden. “I’m your brother. You don’t have private affairs. Even Stead” – he laughed shortly – “doesn’t have private affairs, and he needs them more than you do. Half the husbands in Domne flinch every time he walks into the room. What can you possibly be doing that doesn’t involve your own family?”

A muscle in Nyle’s cheek twitched; however, he kept the rest of his face still. Turning from Geraden, he bowed again to Terisa and Elega. “My ladies, I hope you enjoy your outing. We’re lucky to have this weather.”

With his shoulders squared and his back rigid, he strode away between the shops.

Terisa shot a look at Geraden. His face was knotted: for an instant, he seemed on the verge of chasing after his brother, shouting something. Then he swung toward Elega. “My lady” – he bit down to keep his voice steady – “is this your doing?”

She wasn’t taken aback by the accusation. Watching Nyle’s departing figure vividly, she murmured, “It may have something to do with me. I should speak to him. Excuse me.”

Pulling up her skirts, she hurried after him.

Geraden moved to follow. Instinctively, Terisa put a hand on his arm. Hadn’t she heard Elega mention Nyle once? When was that? Oh, yes. When Elega first took her to meet Myste. Nyle is more to my taste. Geraden looked at her to see why she had restrained him; she asked, “How could it be her doing?”

Elega caught up with Nyle and stopped him. Their faces couldn’t be seen clearly: too many people intervened, moving in both directions. And of course what they said was inaudible.

Distantly, Geraden replied, “He’s been nursing a passion for her for years, but he thinks it’s hopeless. He thinks—” He frowned in vexation. “I don’t understand it. He thinks he isn’t grand or special enough for her. He hasn’t done anything dramatic in the world. He knows she’s ambitious, and he’s sure she won’t have him. I think it galls him that I was the one who was betrothed to her – and I let her get away.

“He told us he was going to stay in Houseldon all winter to talk himself out of asking for her hand.”

“So you think he came to Orison to see if she’ll have him?”

Geraden nodded. His face was tight with empathy. “But I guess he hasn’t asked her yet. If he did, and she turned him down, he wouldn’t stick around. So she must have done something to hurt him before he got his courage nailed down tightly enough to actually propose. He can’t leave because he hasn’t done what he came for. But he’s in too much pain to do it.

“Blast her.” He glanced at Terisa. “I’m guessing, of course. But look at them. Whatever it is, she knows what’s eating at him.”

The glimpses Terisa caught through the crowd seemed to confirm Geraden’s opinion. Elega was talking to Nyle – pleading with him? – as though she knew what to say. And his answers – brusque as they were – suggested understanding, even approval.

Because she didn’t know how to comfort Geraden, Terisa changed the subject. “What did you think of that mountebank? The man in the ribbons and tatters.”

At first, Nyle and Elega held Geraden’s attention. With an effort, however, he dragged his gaze back to Terisa. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“The mountebank we passed a little while ago. What did you think of him?”

“Think of him? Nothing special. Why?”

She could see the difference when he actually looked at her. “Just curious,” she said casually. “Something about him—”

Another characteristic of Geraden’s that she liked was his willingness to accept her whims. He wracked his memory, then said, “I haven’t seen him before. I wonder why. He doesn’t look young enough to be new at this.”

“Well, he isn’t exactly old,” she began. “He—”

A moment later, the truth struck her.

“He looks familiar.” That was why she found him so interesting. “I have seen him before.”

Geraden stared at her. “You what?”

“I’ve seen him somewhere,” she insisted. “I’m sure of it. But not like this. He’s in disguise.”

“Where was that?” Geraden was instantly ready to believe her. “Was it the man who attacked you?”

Gart? “No.” She closed her eyes and tried to calm her excitement. “It’s not him.” But the hints and pieces didn’t come together. “I don’t know. Somewhere.” The more she pictured the mountebank, the less familiar he looked. “I can’t remember.”

“Don’t try to force it. The quicker you forget about it, the quicker it’ll come to you.” Then he added, “And thanks.”

She shook her head. “Thanks for what?”

He nodded toward Elega and Nyle. “I needed the distraction.”

As Terisa looked in that direction, Nyle moved off into the throng and Elega returned to her companions.

Her determined smile and veiled gaze made it clear at once that she had no intention of revealing what had passed between her and Nyle. “I am sorry I kept you waiting,” she said before either Terisa or Geraden could speak. “The best of the cloth shops is just over there. Shall we go?”

Taking their acquiescence for granted, she started toward the shop.

Geraden met Terisa’s eyes behind Elega’s back and shrugged. The twist of his mouth suggested regret rather than anger. After all, this wasn’t his first experience with the King’s eldest daughter. He seemed to know the trick of not being offended by what she did.

He and Terisa followed her together.

As they approached the fabric and tailor shops, the noise rose to a din. The merchants there fought over possible customers so aggressively that Terisa would never have considered approaching them if she had been alone. The lady Elega wasn’t in the least disconcerted, however. Smiling good-naturedly, she walked into the midst of the shopkeepers and said without raising her voice, “Good sirs, you do not need this raucous display. You know that I am not persuaded by it.” Her tone was mild but sure. “Perhaps you will indulge me with a bit more moderation.”

Almost immediately, quiet spread out around her as people saw who she was and nudged their neighbors.

In response, Elega inclined her head graciously – a gesture that made Geraden roll his eyes. Nevertheless Terisa saw that the deference of the shopkeepers was perfectly serious. The King’s daughter’s patronage must have been well worth what it cost.

Selecting a shop, Elega sailed toward it as if she were leading a fleet. Like many of the wooden structures, this one was built up a bit so that its flooring didn’t rest in the mud. A few apparently reliable steps led to a narrow porch that inspired less confidence; then an open door gave admittance to the small room where the merchant showed his wares.

Most of the room’s light came from unglassed windows with their shutters pushed aside, but a brazier in the center of the floor provided some warmth. Scurrying ahead of Elega, the shopkeeper stationed himself behind a counter and began to murmur obsequious enthusiasm for her presence.

Aside from the brazier and the counter, the room was empty. Bare planking without shelves formed the walls. In fact, there was no cloth to be seen in the shop, apart from the swaths hanging out the windows and over the porch.

Elega greeted this fact with equanimity. “I see that I have come to the right place.”

The shopkeeper was bold enough to say, “You have, my lady. All my winter stock is sold. I have nothing left except my samples.”

“I take that as testimony to the quality of your goods.”

He bowed in humble pride. “But I will have everything you wish as soon as the roads are open,” he added quickly.

“Very good. Let us see your samples.” Elega indicated her companions. “The lady Terisa of Morgan needs to improve her wardrobe.”

“At once, my lady.”

From beneath the counter, the man started producing long, thin strips of cloth which he spread out for inspection.

Geraden cleared his throat. “With your permission, my lady,” he said to Elega, “I’ll leave you for a while. My opinions aren’t likely to be much help. And if anybody troubles you while you’re choosing cloth or talking to tailors, every merchant in the area will leap to your defense.”

“Leave Nyle alone,” Elega replied by way of assent. “I think he is in no mood to be pestered by his family today.” Then she chose two or three of the strips and showed them to Terisa. “What do you think of these?”

Only Terisa noticed the Apt’s bow as he left the shop.

Trying to sound casual, she took this opportunity to ask Elega, “Did you know Nyle was in Orison? Geraden was surprised to hear it.”

“No. Why?” Elega’s disinterest was nearly flawless. “I should have been more surprised than he was. I did not know Nyle was here until we saw him. But I fear I am losing the ability to be surprised by anything the sons of the Domne do.”

Terisa shrugged. “I just thought you might have seen him around. You mentioned him to me once. I got the impression you liked him.”

“I do.” Elega was better at nonchalance than Terisa was. “I consider him a friend. And I respect him. He has a – a seriousness of mind? – no, a seriousness of desire which his brothers apparently lack. It is inconceivable, for instance, that he would spend Geraden’s years trying and failing to become an Imager. And it is also inconceivable that he would learn Artagel’s skills and then refuse to use them – as Artagel has refused – to rise in command of the King’s guards.

“There was a time,” she admitted, “when if he had expressed an interest in my hand I would have taken him as seriously as he took me.” She spoke without any noticeable concern for the shopkeeper’s presence. “Still, I did not know that he had come to Orison. His ‘private affairs’ – whatever they may be – have nothing to do with me.”

“I was just curious.” Lamely, Terisa turned her attention to the question of fabrics.

Elega proved to have a good eye. The materials she selected for consideration were excellent – some warm twills and light poplins for everyday wear, some fine silks and velvets for formal occasions – and the colors she advised were right for Terisa’s hair and eyes and skin. Soon Terisa had the ten samples she liked best arranged in front of her. She was trying to pick one or two (or three?) when Elega said to the shopkeeper, “These will be enough at present. As soon as the material arrives, deliver it to Mindlin the seamster. He will tell you how much he needs.”

“Certainly, my lady. With pleasure.” The prospect of supplying enough free cloth to make ten outfits didn’t appear to distress him.

Terisa herself was too astonished to protest. Ten new outfits? What was she going to do with ten new outfits?

Elega seemed to enjoy the look on Terisa’s face. “Come,” she said with a smile. “Mindlin has always made my clothes. I am sure he will be glad to do the same for you.”

“Without question, my lady,” the shopkeeper put in, “without question. An outstanding choice, if I may say so. Mindlin’s work is superb. Superb. I’ll provide him these fabrics the instant they arrive.”

Bestowing a nod, the lady drew Terisa out of the shop.

Mindlin’s establishment was nearby. If anything, it was even less elaborate or pretentious than the fabric shop. Mindlin himself was a tall man with sunken gray cheeks and an austere manner, and he spoke in a haughty tone which seemed to come out of a different mouth than the subservient words he actually uttered. In fact, the content of his speech was so fawning that even Elega was embarrassed. “Unfortunately,” she explained to Terisa, “he has become wealthy on the strength of his reputation as my seamster.”

Terisa was unable to suppress a grin.

Embarrassment, however, didn’t cost Elega her command of the situation. Briskly, she told Mindlin what materials would be supplied to him, and by whom. Then she asked Terisa, “What would you like?”

For a moment, Terisa’s imagination was paralyzed. “I’ve never had clothes made for me before.”

“Then the experience will be good for you,” Elega replied with satisfaction. She thought briefly, then informed Mindlin that the lady Terisa needed two formal gowns, two warm winter gowns, two lighter ones for spring, and – she gave him the bundle of Terisa’s old clothes – four outfits made on that unfamiliar pattern, again two for winter and two for spring. She also specified which fabric should be used in each case – a test of memory that would have defeated Terisa.

“But you must choose the details,” she told Terisa, “unless you wish to abandon yourself to Mindlin’s taste. There is no hurry, however, if you are unsure. He will bring you his work well before it is complete, so that it can be fitted properly. You will have that opportunity to discuss the way your skirts hang, or the amount of lace and finery you wish to display, or even” – she indicated ironic tolerance for the foibles of woman – “the degree of décolletage that interests you.”

“That would be nice,” Terisa said, feeling shy as well as excited.

“Then I will leave you in his hands,” Elega announced smoothly. There seemed to be a hint of anticipation in the way she started toward the door.

At the idea of having to face this situation by herself, Terisa went into a schoolgirl’s panic. “Where are you going? Aren’t you going to stay with me?”

The lady beamed reassurance. “I must do a few trifling errands of my own. And I have already tried to make too many of your decisions. I will return – almost at once. If I do not, wait for me here. I will be with you soon.”

Before Terisa could protest further, Elega was gone.

Terisa wanted to run after the lady. She felt suddenly alone in a hostile world. She had so many questions. How was Mindlin going to measure her? Was she expected to disrobe right here in his shop? How could she?

To make matters worse, the seamster’s demeanor changed immediately. His manner became less austere: he even went so far as to attempt a ghastly smile. At the same time, the subservience dropped out of his speech. Holding up her clothes disdainfully, he asked, “Does my lady seriously intend to wear such garments?”

Reduced by alarm – and by echoes of her father’s sarcasm – to feeling like a child, she was on the verge of blurting out, No, of course not, not if you don’t think it’s a good idea, what do you recommend? Fortunately, she caught herself in time. Really, she ought to be ashamed of herself. Hadn’t she already stood up to Castellan Lebbick more than once? And now she was going to let herself be driven to drivel by a seamster?

With a conscious effort, she raised her eyes to meet his, and as she did so her spirits also rose. Smiling, she asked, “What’s wrong with them?”

His expression looked suspiciously like a sneer. “They are not flattering, my lady. Not womanly.”

“Do you think so? Where I come from, they’re considered” – she rolled the word around in her mouth and realized that she could have fun doing this – “delectable.”

Mindlin seemed shocked. She suspected he was afraid of having misjudged her meekness. The haughtiness in his face came up as the self-assertion in his voice went down. “As my lady wishes. I will certainly work to the best of my humble abilities to please her.”

There was no question about it: she could have fun doing this. She didn’t want to overdo it, however. “But you’re probably right,” she said as though he had persuaded her. “I don’t need four outfits like that. Two should be enough.” In a flash of inspiration, she added, “Why don’t you use the rest of the material to make me two riding habits?”

“Riding habits?” Suppressed apoplexy constricted his tone. “Does my lady intend to go riding? On horseback?”

“Of course,” she answered sweetly. “Where I come from, all the ladies do it. Don’t you know how to make clothes like that?”

He dropped his gaze. “I am not accustomed to make such garments for women of rank. But I will do as my lady wishes.”

“Good.” She was starting to feel inordinately proud of herself.

Still studying the floor instead of her face, he said, “If it pleases my lady, I will take a measure from these” – his fingers twitched her shirt and pants – “and return them to her no later than this evening. Then, sadly, I must await the arrival of the fabrics in order to serve her. As the lady Elega, my illustrious patroness, has said, the details can be discussed when the work is ready for fitting.”

“That’s fine,” Terisa pronounced. Then, because she knew she would never be able to stand where she was and keep her composure, she turned to leave. Trying to emulate Elega’s regal bearing, she walked out of the shop into the crowds and the sunlight.

If Geraden had been there, she would have burst out laughing: all she needed was someone to share her humor with. But he was nowhere in sight. And Elega, too, didn’t appear. The clamor of the merchants had risen to its former pitch. If anyone had called her name, she might not have heard it. The flow of the throng made it easier to move than to stand still, so she let herself be nudged and jostled slowly away from Mindlin’s shop.

Before she had gone far enough to consider turning back, she caught a glimpse of Nyle.

He shifted purposefully through the crowd – not hurrying, but also not wasting any time. His path took him out of view again almost immediately; but a moment later he became briefly visible between shops, still heading in the same direction.

On impulse, Terisa started after him.

She would have been hard pressed to account for what she was doing. He was a familiar face, of course, and she didn’t like being alone among all these people. Her curiosity about him as Geraden’s brother was probably a more fundamental explanation, however. And more fundamental still was her instinctive interest in his purpose. Whatever it was, it was enough to make him snub Geraden. But not Elega.

Was he unaware that Elega plotted to betray his father’s best friend?

Quickly, she walked to the shops between which she had just seen him. Taking that narrow lane, she reached the place where he had passed. Almost at once, she spotted him.

He seemed very far away.

She didn’t want to call attention to herself by running. At the same time, she didn’t want to lose him. After an instant of hesitation, she decided to run.

It was a fortunate decision, despite the fact that it caused her to bump into people and made total strangers mutter curses at her: it enabled her to gain enough ground so that he didn’t vanish when he turned along a row of food stalls and turned again. She reached the row of stalls barely in time to see him clamber over the ropes and disappear behind a tent which had been pitched much too close to the neighboring buildings.

She went as far as the tent; then she had to stop. Could she follow him? Her gown and coat would make her awkward over the tent ropes. And there appeared to be no exit from where Nyle had gone except around one side of the tent or the other. If he knew of another, she had already lost him. And if he came back while she tried to go after him, he would catch her.

Finally she moved to the opening of the tent and made an effort to wait there inconspicuously, watching both sides.

The tent seemed to be about the size of a comfortable cottage. In a ring around the tent pole, rough tables had been set up in the mud (there was no ground cover), and from these tables a number of men and women sold beads and sequins, shawls and trinkets. None of the people behind the tables were particularly busy; one man called out to Terisa, inviting her in. She ignored him and remained at her post.

Several minutes after she began to feel foolish, but still a minute or two before her stubbornness would have given out, a slight quiver ran through the tent as Nyle returned, pushing himself over the ropes.

With her heart pounding, she ducked partway into the tent to avoid being seen, then turned to watch him, holding herself steady with one hand on the canvas.

His face was focused, intent. Whatever he was doing didn’t appear to give him any pleasure: his frown was so deep that it seemed to describe the underlying set of his bones. Nevertheless he was obviously not a man who hesitated simply because he wasn’t enjoying himself. Perhaps he didn’t expect enjoyment from life.

Without noticing her, he strode off the way he had come.

She was about to go after him when another quiver warned her that someone else was climbing over the tent ropes.

She froze in time to get a clear, close look at the man who emerged from the place where Nyle had just been.

It was the mountebank, his ribbons and tatters fluttering extravagantly.

The mountebank? That was surprising enough. By itself, it would have astounded her. But the fact that stunned her into openmouthed immobility was that she knew him. He passed so near to her that she was able to recognize him.

Behind the distracting way he dressed, under the ash that marked his face and hair, he was Prince Kragen. The Alend Contender.

Around her, the whole day shifted. Meanings changed everywhere. It can’t be, she protested. I saw him leave. I saw him ride out of Orison with all his men.

But if he wanted to come back secretly, how else could he do it? Pressure filled her throat, rising there until she thought she would choke. How else could he and Elega communicate? How else could they make plans together?

And Nyle was involved with them. Elega had lied. Of course she had lied. His “private affairs” had everything to do with her. No wonder he didn’t want to encounter his brother.

He was plotting with Elega and Prince Kragen against the King of Mordant.

And Elega’s invitation to Terisa to come here with her wasn’t innocent at all. It had nothing to do with any desire for a mere friendly outing. Shopping was just an excuse. Elega was still trying to snare her somehow.

Terisa was so staggered that she didn’t notice the black-clad juggler with the sharp silver stars until he began performing directly in front of her, hardly more than twenty feet away.

The midnight whirl of his cloak caught her attention. His stars began to dance in his hands. They cast a glitter of sunshine, lovely and bewitching, as they arced through the air, passing between his fingers like flakes of light. Soon he was surrounded with spangles.

He didn’t watch what he was doing. He had no need to watch: his hands knew their skill. Instead, he regarded Terisa narrowly.

The stars cast a trance. For a moment like the touch of a dream, she saw everything.

Here in the middle of the bazaar, a good distance from the torrents of water pouring off the eaves and roofs of Orison, the mud was beginning to dry under the warmth of the sun and the passage of so many feet. The boots of the men were stained, of course, and the skirts of the women were filthy; but they were no longer clogged in mire.

Nyle had disappeared into the throng in one direction; Prince Kragen would soon be out of sight in the other. As if to balance the scene, however, Geraden and Elega were approaching from opposite ends of the row of food stalls.

The sunlight seemed to make the smells from the stalls stronger. Sweets, oils, nuts, pungent meats – they were all part of the arcing dance of the stars.

Elega was apparently looking for someone – maybe for Terisa herself. The way Elega squinted reminded Terisa that sunshine wasn’t the lady’s natural element, not the kind of illumination that brought out her beauty.

Geraden, on the other hand, had already spotted Terisa. He waved his arm and moved toward her, smiling.

The sky overhead looked as blue as a dream, blue and perfect, the ideal background for the whirl of silver.

But the juggler had a nose like the blade of a hatchet; his teeth were bared in a feral grin. She had the indistinct impression that there were scars on his cheeks. His burning yellow eyes were fixed on her—

Then the moment ended, and she didn’t see how things happened.

Without forewarning, the stars changed their dance. From the juggler’s hands, they began to float straight at her head like bright, metal leaves on a long breeze.

Hardly aware of what she did, she twitched her face away from the first star. The second licked along her cheek.

The rest of them should have hit her. But they were pulled off target when Geraden crashed into the juggler, grappling for his arm.

The juggler delivered a blow with his elbow that crumpled Geraden into the mud. Then his robe swirled aside, and a longsword appeared like a slash of steel fire in his hands.

He sprang at Terisa.

She was already falling backward, stumbling into the tent.

Everything seemed to go dark. People screamed, cursed. She collided with one of the display tables and overturned it. Someone shrieked, bitten by the juggler’s blade. In a flurry of trinkets, she fell past the table and hit the tent pole.

Then she was able to see again.

As black and irresistible as midnight, the juggler came after her, wielding his sword like a flail to clear terrified merchants and shoppers out of his way.

Somehow, she got her legs under her, put the tent pole between her and her attacker. Then she lost her footing and went down again.

“Gart!” a man barked.

The shout turned the juggler away from her.

“Don’t tell me,” drawled Artagel as he sauntered forward, grinning sharply, “that the High King’s Monomach can’t find a worthier opponent than an unarmed woman. I’ve already warned you about that.”

“Do you think yourself worthy?” the man in black hissed like silk. “I already know you are not.”

Artagel kicked a table aside. Almost in the same motion, he jumped to the attack.

Gart wheeled and leveled a blow like the cut of an axe at Terisa.

His swing was hard enough to split her in half. Fortunately, Artagel anticipated Gart’s move. He came around the other side of the tent pole in time to parry the blow and save her.

Then he was between her and the High King’s Monomach.

The tent was deserted now except for Terisa and the two combatants. Their boots ground beads and lace into the mud as they probed and riposted. Their blades struck sparks from each other, a darkened and baleful version of the sunlit dance of stars. She could hear Artagel’s harsh breathing: he sounded as though he hadn’t fully recovered from the damage to his lungs. Gart’s respiration was so firm and even that it made no noise.

Attack. Parry. The clangor of iron.

Artagel had trouble with the tables. They hampered his strokes, interfered with his parries: they caught his feet so that he nearly fell. His movements were tight with strain. Gart, on the other hand, seemed to float among the obstacles as if he had placed them where they were to suit his training and experience.

Bracing herself on the tent pole, Terisa climbed upright. Her hands were slippery with blood. Where had it come from? Probably from her cheek. Artagel was going to get killed because of her. Because of her. She wanted to run away. That was the only thing she could do. If she distracted Gart by running away, Artagel might have a chance. But the High King’s Monomach stayed so close to the opening of the tent that she couldn’t escape.

She would have cried out; but the ringing clash of iron and the hoarse rasp of Artagel’s breath made every other sound impossible.

As it happened, she didn’t need to cry out. Roaring like maddened bulls, Argus and Ribuld charged out of sunlight into the gloom of the tent.

Even if she had known what to watch for, she might not have seen how Gart saved himself. It was too fast. Perhaps he took advantage of the moment their eyes needed to adjust. All she knew was that she heard him snarl as he whirled and met Argus and Ribuld with a blow which somehow forced them to recoil separately, away from each other.

Artagel sprang after him.

Too wild, too desperate. Off balance.

Gart met that onslaught also, caught and held Artagel’s blade on his, then slipped it aside and swept his own steel in a slicing cut that laid open Artagel’s side and brought blood spurting between his ribs.

Gasping, he staggered to one knee.

That was all the time Ribuld and Argus needed to recover and attack again. Still Gart was too quick for them. Before they could hit him, he leaped for the tent pole – vaulting over the blow Artagel aimed at his legs – and dealt a high cut to the rope that pulled the canvas up the pole.

Then he dove and rolled for the opening, passing as slick as oil between Argus and Ribuld while the tent came down on their heads.

The wet, heavy canvas pushed Terisa into the mud again. She groveled there, smothering slowly. In her mind Gart’s blade bit into Artagel’s side and the dark blood flowed. She hardly heard the clamor of the onlookers as the High King’s Monomach made his escape.

***

Roused by the tumult, a number of guards arrived almost immediately. They cut Terisa and Artagel, Argus and Ribuld free. They improvised a litter and raced Artagel toward the nearest physician. They picked up Geraden, chaffed and slapped him back to consciousness. They started a search. Soon Castellan Lebbick came on the scene with reinforcements, organization, and tongue-lashings. The whole bazaar was searched.

But no one found Gart.

TWENTY: FAMILY MATTERS

Terisa wanted to go after Artagel with Geraden. She was the one who had seen Artagel hit, seen him fall. Fighting to save her. But even if she hadn’t been a witness, as well as the cause – in fact, even if she hadn’t known Artagel at all – she would have felt the same. Befuddled by Gart’s blow, Geraden let his anguish show nakedly on his face. His concentration on his brother was so urgent that he was blind to everything else. Awkwardly, he struggled to free himself from guards and questions and astonished onlookers so that he could go after Artagel. Seeing him like that made her believe that he needed her. In spite of her own shock and fear, she wanted to go with him.

Elega didn’t release her.

The lady came to Terisa’s side as soon as the guards had fanned out to search for the High King’s Monomach. As she held Terisa’s arm and dabbed at the blood on Terisa’s cheek, she made soft comforting noises which sounded a little artificial, coming from her. Terisa would have had to repulse her vehemently in order to get away from her.

Terisa didn’t have it in her to do that. Not now: not while every muscle in her arms and legs trembled, and her stomach twisted around itself, trying to decide what to do about the sight of Artagel’s blood. So she was caught where she was as Geraden stumbled away through the crowd, pursuing the litter that carried his brother.

Touched by something that might have been pity, the Castellan let him go.

On the other hand, Lebbick didn’t appear to feel anything as soft as pity when he turned to question Terisa.

Elega shielded her, however. “Castellan,” she interposed firmly, “you are not surprised to learn that the lady Terisa has an enemy who wishes her dead. You are only surprised that her enemy is a man as important and dangerous as the High King’s Monomach. And you are surprised that he has such freedom of movement in Orison, despite the fact that you are responsible for such matters.”

A muscle in the Castellan’s jaw twitched.

“You will agree, I am sure,” she continued, “that the lady Terisa is the last person likely to relieve your surprise. What does she know of Cadwal’s secrets – or of Orison’s defenses? If you must question her, do so in her own rooms, when she is stronger.”

In response, Lebbick gave Terisa a look that made her heart turn over. Then he bowed stiffly, ordered an escort for the two women, and turned away.

Elega took Terisa back toward the peacock rooms.

***

At first, she felt no pain in her cheek. With the odd detachment of shock, she wondered if she were cold enough to be numb. Then she wondered whether Gart put poison on the edges of his weapons.

After a while, however, the relative warmth in Orison and the exertion of walking brought back the sensation of bright metal as it licked the side of her face. The cut was too thin to hurt. What she felt now wasn’t pain. It was a trail of moisture, a long wet touch like the stroke of a tongue.

Once, trying to explain the way coming here had disrupted her life, she had said to Myste, It was like dying without any pain. It doesn’t hurt. That idea recurred now in a kind of panic. If her cheek had hurt, she would have known what to do about it. Suddenly, she ached for a mirror, for any looking glass which would have told her whether she had been disfigured.

She didn’t realize that Elega was talking until the lady stopped her, took her by the shoulders, and insisted, “Terisa, I know that you are afraid. Nevertheless you must listen to me. It may appear that your reasons for fear become less if you do not think about them, but I assure you they do not. The reverse is true. You can only make your danger less by understanding it and acting against it.”

At the moment, Elega didn’t appear to be a woman who had much sympathy for fear.

They were standing on the stairs that led up to Terisa’s rooms. Elega seemed unconscious of the escorting guards; perhaps she thought that the urgency of her questions outweighed caution. But Terisa didn’t want to talk at all: she certainly didn’t want to talk in front of two men she didn’t know. Somewhere in Orison, a physician was trying to save Artagel’s life. And Geraden was there— She was surprised to hear the anger in her voice as she demanded, “What do you think I can do?”

“Put your fear aside and try to grasp the truth,” Elega replied at once. “There must be a reason why the High King’s Monomach risks his own life in order to threaten yours.”

Terisa stared at the lady and thought, She still believes I’m some kind of Imager. That’s why she wants me on her side. With Prince Kragen. And Nyle. A moment later, however, she realized that Elega’s thoughts were more complex than that. The lady was also considering the idea that Terisa had already involved herself in someone else’s machinations – a plot so far-ranging and insidious that High King Festten took it as a personal threat. A plot about which Elega knew nothing; a plot which might undo everything she herself wanted to achieve.

With unfeigned fatigue, Terisa asked, “Do you really want to discuss it here?”

Elega lifted an eyebrow and glanced around her. A flush stained her cheeks. Was she embarrassed by her own carelessness? Abruptly, she moved on up the stairs.

Stifling the temptation to turn and flee in the opposite direction, Terisa followed her.

When they had reached the safety of the peacock rooms and closed the door behind them, Elega poured out a goblet of wine for each of them. By then, she had regained her composure. Watching Terisa over the rim of her goblet, she drank a few swallows. Then, with an air of decision, she put the goblet aside.

“You must forgive me for speaking of such things at such a time. I understand that you have been badly frightened. And I am sure that you are concerned for Artagel. But you must understand that it is madness to ignore my question. Terisa” – her eyes were vivid in her pale face – “you surely have some idea why Gart is here to kill you. It is inconceivable that you could pose such a threat to the High King without being aware of it.”

Terisa sighed. She didn’t want to deal with Elega. She wanted to lie down and sleep for a few years. At the same time, she wanted to go find Artagel. The sharp wet sensation of her cut was starting to resemble pain. When she drank, the wine seemed to make the cut worse. Carefully, she raised her hand to her cheek. Her fingers came down marked with dried blood. Her face must be a mess. Afraid of the damage, she asked unsteadily, “How bad is it?”

Elega frowned in vexation, but she quickly smoothed her expression. With a gesture that asked Terisa to wait, she went into the bathroom and returned with a damp towel. Then she motioned Terisa to sit on the couch. When Terisa was settled, Elega began stroking her cut gently with the towel, washing away blood and dirt from the wound.

After studying the cut for a moment, the lady pronounced, “It is clean. It still bleeds a little” – she dabbed the towel at Terisa’s cheek – “but that only serves to keep it clean. We can summon a physician if you wish, but I doubt that you need so much care. It is only as long as my finger” – at the moment, her fingers looked exceptionally long – “and rather delicate. When it heals, you will have a fine, straight scar that no one will see except in certain lights.” She drew back to consider the matter from farther away. “And no one will see it at all if they do not stand near you.”

In a neutral tone, she concluded, “When it heals, I expect that most men will feel that your beauty has been enhanced rather than diminished.”

“I wish I could see it,” Terisa admitted lamely. “Where I come from, that’s all we use mirrors for. To see ourselves.”

Still neutrally, Elega replied, “For that reason we have maids, so that women who care for the decoration of their appearance will not make fools of themselves.” She couldn’t hold down her real interests, however. More quickly, she asked, “Then all the mirrors in your world are flat?”

Terisa tried to swallow another sigh. “Yes.”

“And you are not translated by them?”

“No.”

The lady rose to her feet. Facing the hearth, she cupped her hands under her elbows, holding her forearms across her midriff as if to restrain herself from an outbreak of emotion. “You insist that you are an ordinary woman. Perhaps that is true in your world. But is it possible that you are translated and do not know it – or take it for granted? Here, we are told that any man who faces a flat glass in which he sees himself facing himself will be lost in a translation which never ends. But what if you – if all the people of your world – possess a power which we lack? A power to master the most dangerous manifestation of Imagery? You might be unaware of it – and yet it would be fundamental enough to alter all our preconceptions.”

“No.” Terisa denied that idea as she had denied everything like it from the beginning. “Where I come from, mirrors are just things. They aren’t magic.” In an effort to shorten the discussion, she faced what she took to be Elega’s point. “I really do not know why the High King’s Monomach wants to kill me.”

Her eyes flaming, Elega turned from the fire. “That is not possible.”

Terisa raised the towel to her cheek to hide her anger. “It’s still true.”

For an instant, Elega was on the verge of a shout. “Then—” But at once she caught herself; calculations ran behind her eyes so clearly that they were almost legible. “Then you must be protected.”

“Protected?”

“The King will not do it. He will not understand the need. And because the King will not understand the need, the Castellan cannot do it. He is too hampered. He has shown that he cannot even limit Gart’s access to Orison.

“The lords of the Cares are useless to you. The Tor has become an old drunkard. The Armigite’s foppishness shames the memory of his father. The Fayle does not know where his loyalties should lie. And neither the Perdon nor the Termigan are here.

“As for the Congery” – she made a dismissive gesture – “the Masters are too divided among themselves to protect anyone. They all resemble Master Quillon, who is too timid to take risks – or Master Barsonage, who is too concerned for the reputation of the Congery to take action – or Master Eremis, who is too self-absorbed to take interest.

“Terisa—” Elega seemed to hesitate, as if doubting whether she should finish what she had started to say. But hesitation wasn’t a prominent part of her nature. Distinctly, like an avowal of faith, she said, “You must let me protect you.”

Terisa was so startled that she stared.

“For the present, I admit,” Elega hurried on, “I can do little more than hide you. But that I can do very well. My knowledge of Orison’s secrets is extensive. Soon, however, I will be able to protect anyone I choose.

“I can provide you safety, if you will entrust yourself to me.”

Though she wanted to think clearly – it was important to think clearly – Terisa’s head whirled. She believed that she understood Elega. On the other hand, she would gain more information if she pretended ignorance. At the same time, however, her cheek hurt, and she was worried about Artagel and Geraden, and she feared that Elega was too cunning for her. And she was still angry.

With difficulty, she managed to ask, “How?” instead of losing her temper. “I’ve heard you complain about how left out you are. How little you have to do with what’s going on. How are you going to protect me?”

Elega met Terisa’s gaze steadily. “I can provide you safety,” she repeated, “if you will entrust yourself to me.” Then she added, “Terisa, I have shown you nothing but friendship. I desire only your well-being, and the preservation of Mordant – and an end to evil in the realm. But if you will not trust me I can do nothing.”

You surely have some idea why Gart is here to kill you.

It was too much. “You’re going to have power,” retorted Terisa harshly. “Where are you going to get it? I can only think of one place. From your father. But he won’t just give it to you. That isn’t the way he does things. You’re going to betray him. You’re going to cut his throne out from under him somehow. You and Prince Kragen.” She barely stopped herself from saying, And Nyle. You’ve even turned Geraden’s brother against him. But the shock on Elega’s face warned her that she had already gone too far. “I don’t want to have anything to do with that.”

“And why not?” Ire mounted through the lady’s surprise. “Do you have any alternative? Are you so pure that you can conceive some answer to Mordant’s need that does not require betrayal?”

“He’s your father. That ought to make a difference.”

Elega drew back her shoulders, straightened her spine. The violet flash of her eyes made her look regal and certain, like a woman who was within her rights. “I assure you, my lady,” she said austerely, “that it does make a difference. You understand me so well that I am sorry to find you understand me so little.”

Giving Terisa a bow as correct and defiant as an offer of combat, the lady Elega left the room.

Terisa watched the door long after it closed. She had made a serious mistake: she had just ruined her only chance to learn how Elega and Prince Kragen intended to take Mordant away from King Joyse. In disgust, she tried to swear at herself. Her heart wasn’t in it, however. After all, what Elega had offered her made no sense.

To keep her hidden. For how long? Until the end of winter? Until the Alend army arrived? Until Orison fell to siege? Twenty or thirty or forty days?

It made no sense.

She didn’t want to think about such things. They were either irrelevant or impossible. She wanted to know what was happening to Artagel and Geraden.

And she wanted to know what made her so valuable that people were willing to risk their lives over her. What was there about her that made her worth Gart’s hate and Artagel’s blood?

Outside, the sun shone warmly, as if it were immensely pleased with itself.

***

If she had been required to wait long alone, she might have done something foolish. That is to say, she might have done something; and she felt sure that anything she decided to do would be foolish. Fortunately, while she was still unable to make up her mind, Geraden arrived at her door.

He had a high spot of color in each cheek and a slightly glazed look in his eyes; he was frowning deeply, as if he were in pain; his fingers made small twitching movements, though his hands were held pressed to his sides. Nevertheless he had come to her.

Because she had grown up in a household where she was seldom offered comfort – and was never asked for it – she didn’t put her arms around him, either for his sake or for her own. She invited him in quickly, however, and closed the door and swallowed the congestion in her throat to ask, “How is he?”

He made an effort to look at her, to pull himself out of his distress and look at her. Gently, he reached out a hand and touched her cut cheek with his fingertips. Somehow, he managed to twist his mouth into a smile. “Does it hurt? It doesn’t look too bad. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Geraden. How is he?”

A spasm cracked his control. His smile broke, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “The physician is doing everything he can. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. Artagel’s lost a lot of blood. He might die.”

Slowly, he hunched forward, and his arms rose to his chest as if he were crumpling inwardly, collapsing in on himself.

For just an instant, Terisa remained still. Then, as if she were turning her back on everything she had ever been taught about people and pain, she went to him and caught him in a hug as hard as she could.

They stood that way together for a long time.

When she finally let him go, he didn’t look at her at first. Rubbing his face, he murmured, “I don’t think I ever told you. My mother died when I was just a kid. A fever of some kind – we never knew what it was, but it dragged on for a long time. I thought it was a long time, anyway. I was only five – and I was her baby, so she wanted me with her – and watching her die I thought I was being torn apart. I swore—” Slowly, he raised his head, letting Terisa see his grief. “I was only five, but I swore I was never going to let anybody I loved die ever again.”

Then he sighed, and by degrees his expression cleared. “I hope Artagel doesn’t hold me to it, because there’s nothing I can do to save him.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. “This is all my fault somehow. I’m the one Gart wants to kill. I just don’t understand why.”

He sniffed to clear his nose. “Don’t be silly. It’s Gart’s fault, not yours.” His frown came back as he tried to reassure her. “Or you could say it’s my fault, since I failed to stop him. Or, if you want to look at it that way, it’s High King Festten’s fault. After all, Gart is the High King’s Monomach. He’s just following orders.” His features This time, Terisa couldclenched. “You could even say it’s King Joyse’s fault. If he weren’t being so detached, the High King wouldn’t dare send Gart here.

“In fact” – he tried unsuccessfully to smile for her – “if you look at it right, you’re the only one whose fault it isn’t.”

He misunderstood her. What she felt about Artagel’s wound wasn’t blame, but rather a regret as piercing as iron. The distinction was unimportant at the moment, however. Instead of trying to explain it, she said as if she were still on the same subject, “I’m not so sure. I think I’ve done something pretty stupid.”

His incomprehension seemed to warn him to listen to her closely. “Wait a minute. You mean you think Gart attacked you because you’ve done something stupid?”

She shook her head. “Elega brought me back here. She offered to protect me.”

He scowled at her; his jaws knotted. Unexpectedly, she became aware that it might be possible to be afraid of him: the intensity he focused on her was daunting. As if he were holding back an eruption, he said, “Maybe you’d better tell me the whole story.”

As simply as she could, she described her conversation with Elega and watched his anger mount. Then she concluded, “As soon as I mentioned Prince Kragen, I ruined the chance that she would ever tell me what she’s doing. She’s never going to trust me.”

Geraden turned away to hide his face. “Glass and splinters!” he muttered fiercely. “Now she’s been warned. She’ll be more careful. Before long, she’s bound to notice Argus and Ribuld. As soon as that happens, they won’t be able to follow her anymore. We’ve lost before we even got started.”

This time, Terisa could have said, I’m sorry, without being misinterpreted. But the apology she owed him now was nothing compared to the one he would deserve soon. For a moment, she quailed. Why not keep this a secret as well? At least until his unfamiliar rage declined. Who would be hurt?

Nevertheless she knew the answer. She had learned it in this place of secrets. Whenever he discovered the truth, he would be hurt. And the fact that she had kept the truth from him would cripple their friendship.

Taking a deep breath for courage, she said, “Maybe we haven’t lost yet.”

He swung around to confront her.

He looked so extreme and vulnerable that she could hardly speak. “She left me alone with her seamster. I was finished before she got back, so I left his shop.” Remembering what had happened, a momentary faintness passed over her. “I saw Nyle.”

Without transition, Geraden’s anger disappeared.

“I followed him – I don’t know why. I guess I wanted to know why he snubbed you.” A feeling of despair rose in her. Geraden would hate her for this. “He met someone behind that tent. He didn’t see me, but I saw him. I saw who it was.”

She faltered. Geraden looked nauseous with anticipation.

“It was that mountebank. The one we talked about. This time I recognized him. I know who he is. I’m sure of it.” Rapidly, so that she wouldn’t break down, she said, “He’s Prince Kragen. He met Nyle behind that tent.”

For a second, Geraden looked as surprised and wounded as she had feared. His love for his family was one of his sovereign passions – and she had just accused his brother of plotting treason. The stark and intimate dismay on his face was more than she could bear.

After that first second, however, his entire posture shifted. The bones in his spine and shoulders straightened themselves, making him taller. His expression became at once bleaker and stronger, as if all the weaker or more awkward lines of his cheeks and jaw were being honed away. His eyes gave hints of authority.

“That explains it,” he said flatly. “No wonder he wants to stay away from Artagel and me.”

Then he added, “Elega got him into this.”

She knew on some level that his crisis wasn’t over – that perhaps it was just beginning – but his immediate reaction relieved her so much that she almost kissed him. “So we haven’t necessarily lost,” she breathed. “You can tell Argus and Ribuld to forget Elega. They can follow Nyle.”

Geraden didn’t appear to be listening: he looked like he was concentrating hotly on his own thoughts. But he replied in a murmur, “If they can find him. That’s going to be the hard part. If they can find him, maybe we can stop him before he does something even King Joyse will have to punish.”

Abruptly, he swung into motion. “Come on. We’ve got to tell somebody about this.”

He was already at the door. Starting after him, Terisa blurted, “Tell who? Why?”

“Not King Joyse,” he answered as if she were thinking fast enough to keep up with him. “He probably wouldn’t listen anyway. And Castellan Lebbick would probably overreact. He might have Nyle cut down on sight. The Tor would be better.” The way he held the door for her was like a command for haste. “It’s the only thing we can do right now to protect Nyle. If we aren’t able to stop him – and he gets caught – he’ll be less likely to be executed if what he’s doing doesn’t come as a surprise.”

He said this with such conviction that she believed him. In spite of her mud-streaked clothes and blood-marked skin, she kept pace with him.

He hurried all the way to the King’s apartment without tripping once.

They were admitted to the suite readily because King Joyse wasn’t there. “Off somewhere with his Imager, I suppose,” the Tor muttered in explanation. “His courtesy never fails, but he tells me as little as he can to keep me from howling.”

His voice was a subterranean gurgle, as though it emerged from somewhere deep in his great fat, and the passages that let it out were filling up with wine. Days of use were marked on his green robe by wine and food stains. His unshaven jowls and oily hair showed that he had been neglecting his toilet.

“I am a patient man, young Geraden,” he confided past his flagon. “I have spent no small number of years in the world, and I have learned that fat is more enduring than stone. But the truth is that my presence here has not accomplished quite what I intended.” He flapped one hand in a gesture that made Terisa notice the absence of the King’s hop-board table. “He has simply moved his games elsewhere.”

He sighed lugubriously, and his eyes misted. “It is a sad thing to be neglected at my age.”

Listening to the Tor, Terisa began to lose confidence. Nevertheless Geraden was wound too tightly to be deflected.

“You appointed yourself chancellor, my lord,” he reminded the Tor. “You said you would take action in the King’s name. That ought to be easy, if he isn’t here to contradict you.”

The Tor gave Geraden a sour look. “You are too young to understand. If I wish mutton rather than duckling for my next meal, I have only to speak. If I decide to appoint a holiday and make every lady in Orison do without her maid, I can do so without raising my voice. Who here has any desire to oppose the will of the King’s old friend?” One fist beat out the words as his anger rose. “If I take it upon myself to declare war tomorrow, I have no doubt that I will be obeyed.

“But the King, young Geraden!” He raised his bulk to emphasize his point. “Where is the King? Where is the man who ought to be shamed by every command I issue in his name? Off playing hop-board with Adept Havelock while his realm crumbles.”

Slowly, the Tor subsided. “As for Castellan Lebbick,” he sighed, “he now holds what little effective power is left in Orison. But even he finds it difficult to ignore me. And he does not want to submit his decisions for my opinion, so he avoids me. I suspect he secretly passes judgment on all my orders before they are carried out.

“It appears I have chosen a foolish way to grieve for my son.”

Terisa tried to catch Geraden’s eye; she wanted to send him a mental message, urging him not to tell the Tor about Nyle and Elega. The old lord was starting to remind her of Reverend Thatcher.

Geraden refused to receive her signal, however. He was fixed on the Tor, and his expression had softened, although his manner remained grim. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said roughly. “I don’t have time for your grief.”

Under his fat, the muscles of the Tor’s face tightened dangerously, but Geraden went ahead without pausing. “I need to talk to King Joyse. Since he isn’t here, I’ll have to talk to you. I can’t take this to the Castellan. I’m not going to tell it to anybody who isn’t a friend of my father’s.”

He had caught the Tor’s attention. “I consider the Domne a friend,” the lord rumbled slowly. “And your past courtesy outweighs your present rudeness.” He had blinked the blur of wine from his eyes: his gaze was hard. “I am interested in what you need to tell the King.”

Terisa was suddenly ashamed of herself. Rather than distrusting the Tor’s despondency, Geraden was trying to help.

The perception made her squirm. She had never done anything to help Reverend Thatcher. She had listened to him for hours, but she had never tried to help.

“You’ve probably heard the rumor that King Joyse thinks the lady Elega has turned against him.” Geraden didn’t need to feign harshness; the bleak strength that had brought him here rasped in his voice. “Well, he’s right.”

As gently as the bite of a crosscut saw, Geraden told the Tor what he knew about Elega and Prince Kragen and Nyle. When he had recited the basic facts, he added, “Two of my friends – two guards – are following her around. But she knows we’re suspicious of her now. She’ll be more careful. I’m going to tell my friends to forget her and concentrate on Nyle.” He said his brother’s name in a tone of forced impersonality. “Maybe he’ll lead us to the answers.”

The Tor’s gaze held: his eyes looked like bits of glass embedded in pastry dough. “I hear quite a number of rumors,” he commented when Geraden was done. “Duty outside this door is dull, and many of the guards liven it with conversation. I have heard a rumor that your brother Artagel, who is reputed to be the best swordsman in Mordant, faced the High King’s Monomach and fell.” His tone didn’t become clear until he asked, “Is he seriously injured?”

Geraden swallowed convulsively. “Yes.”

Unblinking, the Tor studied Geraden for a moment. Then he said, “I have lost a son. I will not have it said to the Domne that I sat drunk on my hams while one of his sons was killed by the High King’s Monomach and another sold himself to the Alend Monarch. What do you wish me to do?”

At once, Geraden replied, “Don’t let Castellan Lebbick interfere. Make him leave Nyle alone.” He was plainly relieved to get away from the subject of Artagel. “And tell him to assign Argus and Ribuld to me. Tell him I’m doing you some kind of favor and I need their help.” He sounded clear, almost authoritative, as if he had been involved in situations like this all his life. “The last time they tried to help me, he roasted them for it. They’ll do a better job if they don’t have to dodge him the whole time.”

He sounded so sure of what he was doing that Terisa wanted to give him a round of applause.

Nevertheless he was sweating by the time he was done.

The Tor regarded him gravely for a little while longer. Then he turned his head and let out a cheerful yell that made Terisa jump and brought the guards promptly into the room.

“Yes, my lord Tor?” one of them inquired. He was on good terms with the self-appointed chancellor. “You bellowed?”

“Mongrel!” snorted the Tor. “That was not a bellow. That was a polite request for attention.” His chuckle sounded like belching. “If you ever have the misfortune to hear me bellow, you will not speak of it so calmly.

“But now that you are here—” He rolled his eyes at the ceiling as though he were contemplating an entire litany of desires. “I want cranberry sauce with that duckling which the cook is already so late in providing. I want more wine. I want peace or war with our enemies, whichever will cause them the most consternation.” He rubbed a fat hand over his jowls. “I believe I want a barber. But most of all” – suddenly, his voice seemed to have a knife hidden in it somewhere – “I want the Castellan.”

Briskly now, he said, “Be so kind as to inform him that I require a few moments of his time – almost immediately.”

“As you wish, my lord Tor.” Grinning, the guards withdrew.

The Tor looked at Geraden and shrugged. “He may not come at once, but I will nag until he does.”

“Thank you, my lord Tor,” the Apt breathed sincerely. “That should make things easier.”

With a flutter of his free hand, the Tor waved gratitude aside. After a moment’s consideration, he said severely, “Young Geraden, your reputation for mishap is entirely misleading. You have shown me that my King has a need for his chancellor which I did not suspect. I believe I will begin to assert myself.”

Pointing a pudgy finger at the Apt, he added in an ominous rumble, “In the meantime, I advise you to stop Nyle before he goes too far. The union of the Cares already grows fragile. An open rupture now between King Joyse and the Care of Domne may bring us all to grief.”

Quickly, he emptied his flagon. Then he drawled happily, “While you are otherwise occupied, I will take it upon myself to teach my lady Elega the fear of discovery.”

For an odd moment, Terisa felt like laughing. The idea of a confrontation between the huge old lord and the regal princess tweaked her fancy. But her amusement was primarily a reaction to strain: as soon as she glanced at Geraden, it evaporated. His grin was a rather feverish imitation of the smile Artagel wore into combat.

Fortunately, the Tor also noticed his expression. “You may go now, young Geraden,” he said firmly, “unless you have more treachery to reveal? I do not mean to share my duckling with anyone. Send me word as soon as you have news of Artagel.”

“Thank you, my lord.” At once, Geraden headed for the door.

Terisa wanted to thank the Tor more thoroughly, let him know how much he did for Geraden. But she couldn’t do that and still follow the Apt.

The old lord seemed to understand, however. “Take care of him, my lady,” he muttered, dismissing her. “He has need of you.”

Flashing him her best smile, she left the apartment and pursued Geraden down the stairs.

He slowed his pace after a flight or two so that she could catch up with him. “I’ve been away from Artagel too long,” he said. “Will you excuse me? I would take you with me, but the physician won’t let you in. I practically had to threaten his life to see Artagel myself. You can find your way back to your rooms, can’t you? Will you be all right?”

“Geraden—” She put her hand on his arm to make him hear her. “You did the right thing with the Tor. You gave him what he needed.” Unaccustomed to saying such things, she sounded terribly stilted to herself – and she hated it. But she didn’t back down. “I’m proud of you.”

That reached him. The muscles around his eyes unclenched, and something that looked like a smile caught at the corners of his mouth. “I like him,” he explained simply.

“I’ll be all right,” she promised. “Go see Artagel. Send me a message right away.”

He nodded and immediately took off at a run.

She went back to her rooms alone and spent the rest of the day trying not to think.

***

The next morning, Artagel’s physician ventured the opinion that his patient might live.

At once haggard with exhaustion and giddy with relief, Geraden brought the news to Terisa before going to his own rooms for some rest. “Now it’s just a question of infection,” he reported. “If he can get through that, he’s going to make it.”

As an afterthought, he added, “The Tor did it. Argus and Ribuld are working for me now. Castellan Lebbick doesn’t like it, but I guess the Tor told him I had some ideas about how to protect you from Gart. So far, they haven’t been able to locate Nyle.”

Terisa wanted him to stay with her. She was losing whatever ability she once had to support being alone. When she was by herself, the High King’s Monomach and Castellan Lebbick and Master Eremis seemed to crouch in hiding all around her, waiting for her most vulnerable moment. And she wasn’t much comforted when she succeeded in concentrating on Elega, Nyle, and the Alend Contender, or worrying about Myste and the champion, or trying to analyze the relationships between Master Quillon, Adept Havelock, and King Joyse, or wondering what obscure talent for Imagery either she or Geraden might have. Every question was dangerous.

But Geraden looked so tired – emotionally drained as well as physically weary – that she took pity on him. As firmly as she could, she sent him on his way, ordering him not to return until he had caught up on his sleep.

Alone, she turned to meet the day in the same spirit in which she had too often faced her evenings in her old apartment: as if the only thing she could hope to do with her time was cling to a tenuous and necessary sense of her own existence.

***

The view from her windows interested her for a while. The early thaw was settling in as if for a long stay. Sunlight poured over the piled bulk of Orison, melting more snow, raising more mud. Crowds milled through the bazaar, as eager as they had been the previous day. Carts and wains lumbered down the road to the gate of the castle, their iron-rimmed wooden wheels cutting the snow and mud together. Again, she wanted to go outside. But she couldn’t – not alone.

She felt lost in her own company.

Before long, Mindlin the seamster arrived to return her old clothes and announce that he expected to receive the material he needed for her tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow at the very latest, unless something dramatic happened to the weather. As a friend of the lady Elega, she would command his first and best attention, so he believed he could promise with confidence that her new garments would be ready for their first fitting no later than six days from now.

Unfortunately, the question of what her new clothes should look like had no power to divert her. She had other things on her mind.

Where was Master Eremis?

What was she doing here?

How could she know anything about herself without a mirror?

Why was it that the only times she was able to reach out to Geraden were when he was hurt? Why was she still keeping secrets from him as if she didn’t trust him?

If she kept this up, she might drive herself crazy. These impossible questions only reminded her of what she lacked. They ignored what she had: Geraden’s friendship, and Artagel’s; the Tor’s respect; perhaps even Myste’s gratitude, if Myste were still alive. So she was glad for the distraction when a knock at the door announced that she had a visitor. It could be Master Eremis. And even Castellan Lebbick might be an improvement over her own company.

It was Master Barsonage.

The mediator of the Congery was such an unexpected arrival that at first she didn’t notice the change in his appearance. But the vague way he failed to meet her gaze as he greeted her made her look past her surprise and see his distress.

“Master Barsonage. Come in.”

“Thank you, my lady.” With an aimless air, as if he didn’t quite know where he was going, he shuffled into the sitting room.

He appeared deflated – that was the only description she could think of to fit him. When she had first met him, his girth had appeared almost equal to his height. His eyebrows had sprouted thickly, like bracken. His skin had had the color and texture of cut pine. Now, however, that yellow hue had turned sickly, and his flesh seemed slack across his bald skull. His eyebrows sagged; lines ran down his cheeks. His movements and his bulk resembled each other: they were flaccid, like bladders without enough substance in them.

“This is an honor.” She spoke without sarcasm because he looked so woebegone – and so unconscious of it. “What can I do for you?”

His eyes persisted in missing hers. “I hardly know, my lady.”

Well, she couldn’t leave him standing in the middle of the peacock rug. “Why don’t you sit down?” She gestured toward one of the chairs. “Would you like some wine?”

He accepted the chair. A weak push of his hands rejected the wine. When he spoke, his tone was as aimless as his appearance. “You were attacked, my lady.”

At that, she groaned to herself. She had already had this conversation more than she wanted. But then she reflected that it wasn’t her fault he was unhappy. With more asperity than she intended, she replied, “Again. That was actually the third time.”

He blinked in her general direction. “The third?”

“Didn’t Master Eremis tell you about the second? It was right after his meeting with the lords. Prince Kragen and the Perdon almost got killed.”

“No,” he breathed. His voice also was deflated. “Master Eremis made no mention— He has left Orison. To return to Esmerel, he said. Yesterday – when the thaw began. I had to restore his chasuble, of course. There is no evidence against him. He could not bear our debates, he said.” Unconscious of her reactions, he asked simply, as if they were both children, “Why were you attacked, my lady?”

He made her heart flutter against her ribs. So there was a reason why Master Eremis hadn’t come to see her since Gart’s attack. He had probably left Orison before it happened. On the other hand, he hadn’t said goodbye—

Painfully confused, she tried to concentrate on the mediator. “Everybody wants to know why I was attacked.” Her mother would have sent her to her room for speaking in that tone. “You, Castellan Lebbick, Geraden and Artagel, Prince Kragen” – with an effort, she prevented herself from mentioning Elega – “even King Joyse. Even I want to know why I was attacked. What difference does it make to you, Master Barsonage?”

Still his gaze wouldn’t shift to hers. All the anger seemed to have gone out of him. In that same simple voice, he answered, “I have given my life to it. The Congery is ruined, my lady.”

“Ruined?” What he said was more unexpected than his appearance. “How? What do you mean?”

“We are disbanded.”

She stared at him. “Wait a minute. Say that again. You’ve disbanded the Congery?”

“The name still exists, of course. King Joyse does not will that we should come to an end. Therefore we continue. But it has no meaning now. We are done with it – done with our King’s impossible ideals and his abandonment of us. Each of us will go his own way.

“Unless you will tell me why you were attacked.”

Her blood felt like cold tallow around her heart, congealed and sickly.

“My lady, we have debated and debated until we have lost our voices – and our hearts. I will not trouble you with the arguments. Without purpose, we are nothing. Either Master Gilbur is a traitor or he is not. In either case, there is nothing we can do. He is beyond our reach. Either the translation of the champion was a mistake or it was not. In either case, there is nothing we can do. We have no glass to return him to his own life. And we cannot reach him for any other translation.

“Either the translation that brought you among us was a mistake or it was not. In either case, there is nothing we can do. Unless we know.”

“Know?”

His limp hands gestured nowhere. “We could serve you, my lady. If you had a reason for being here. The High King’s Monomach risks his life to end yours. Are you not a threat? Are you not an Imager? Then turn to us, my lady. Give us your purpose. Let us serve you.”

No. That was too much. No. She backed away from it. “Aren’t you afraid I might be an enemy?”

He shrugged his empty shoulders. “The High King’s Monomach risks his life to end yours,” he repeated. “You are not a friend of Cadwal. That is more certain than anything else we have. We will trust it – if you will give us purpose.”

He couldn’t do that. She couldn’t let him make her responsible for the Congery – for all those Masters who despised her, despised Geraden. This was the same man who had forbidden her information when she had first arrived. Bitterly, she retorted, “You haven’t got any easy answers, so you’re just going to give up. Have you told Geraden about this yet?”

Quietly, Master Barsonage admitted, “I have not had the courage.” Then he added, “None of the Apts have been informed. They continue to tend the fires and the laborium, so that we will be able to do our work – if we are able to find any purpose for it.”

For just a moment, she considered telling him what she had never told Geraden, or anyone else: that she had seen the three riders of her dream in the Congery’s augury. But the thought of what he might to with the knowledge stopped her.

He might put the responsibility for the Congery on her shoulders in earnest, making demands that she wouldn’t know how to either meet or refuse.

“Master Barsonage,” she said while the pressure increased in her veins, “don’t you think you’re asking a little too much? You’ve barely been civil to me since I got here. You certainly haven’t been decent. You’ve ignored my ignorance – and what it cost me. And you’re still ignoring it. You’re ignoring me. I don’t know why Gart wants to kill me. Where I come from, mirrors just reflect. They don’t do anything. I am not an Imager.”

In spite of her vehemence, he still didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he took several deep breaths, as though he were pumping himself up, and his hands closed into fists.

“My lady, this is wrong. The Congery is precious, whatever King Joyse now thinks of it. It stands between us and bloody chaos – between Mordant and horror. War is only war. Men are killed. Women are mistreated. Then the struggle shifts elsewhere, and there is peace for a while. But without the Congery to control it Imagery will wreak such evil upon the innocent—

“It will, my lady. It must. Even if every Imager living is a man of good heart, intending what is beneficial, his Imagery must come to abomination in the end. Because he will fall to High King Festten, or to the Alend Monarch, or to whoever takes power in Orison – and these rulers will require his Imagery for destruction. They must, because they are at war. Yet it is not they who suffer. Their soldiers pay a price – and the rest is borne by the innocent of the world.

“Because King Joyse has turned his back on us, there is no other hope. Only the Congery can prevent this. If it is safe and strong – if it has a purpose to unite it.

“You are the answer, my lady. You must not leave us to ruin.”

He moved her. In spite of her anger, her instinctive rejection, he moved her. Perhaps his belief that she could help him was an illusion. Nevertheless the fear that drove him to it was real.

“Master Barsonage,” she said softly, “the honest fact is that I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand any of this. But I’m like you. I don’t think Imagery should be used for destruction.

“I’ll tell you the truth about me – as soon as I find out what it is. If it turns out to be an answer, it’ll help both of us.”

She couldn’t tell whether he grasped what she was saying. In fact, she couldn’t tell whether he so much as heard her. His eyes stayed away from hers, and his face sagged on his skull as if she had refused his appeal completely.

After a while, he rose from his chair and slumped away.

She was left with one more terrible thing that she would have to tell Geraden.

The advantage was that she no longer had to worry about her grasp on substantiality. She was too worried about him to be in any danger of fading.

***

Around noon the following day, he came to her rooms to take her to see Artagel.

She had spent the night groping for courage. But there was no kind way to say what needed to be said, so she simply described her conversation with the mediator. Then she bit her lip and held her breath, waiting to see how he would take the news.

To her dismay, he took it laughing.

He laughed so hard that he had to lean against the wall – a strange, silent laughter which shook his whole body but didn’t make a noise. He huddled into himself as if he were weeping; tears smeared his face like grief. Yet he was obviously laughing, so astonished with amusement that he was almost hysterical. His hands pounded against each other like applause.

“Well, you have to admit,” he cried through his mirth, “it’s logical.”

She had no idea what to do. Was he really hysterical? He had a right to be: he was under enough strain. Did that mean she was supposed to slap him?

She was supposed to tell him about the riders of her dream. She knew that. Yet she couldn’t do it. She was afraid.

“It all comes back to you.” Trying to stop himself, he set his teeth into one knuckle hard enough to draw blood. The pain helped him regain a measure of steadiness. “Even if you didn’t have anything to do with it. Even if you’re just here because I have some amazing new talent no one has ever heard of before. There still has to be a reason. A reason why I translated you instead of somebody else. Otherwise it was only an accident. Doesn’t mean anything. One way or another, it’s the fundamental question of Imagery.

“You are the answer.”

Like Master Barsonage, he couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Disbanded. My whole life – ever since I came to Orison—

“Oh, Terisa.”

But he didn’t let her touch him. “It’s probably just as well,” he said, making a gallant and miserable attempt to sound gay. “I spent most of my time trying to get out of doing my work anyway. Now I can concentrate on more important things.”

Roughly, he insisted on escorting her to visit Artagel.

Along the way, he walked like a man who had something broken in his chest and didn’t know what it was. Nevertheless he kept moving. His self-control gave the impression that he had no conception of how much he had been hurt.

***

Artagel’s quarters were in a part of Orison she had only visited once, during Geraden’s tour – a vast warren of rooms built every which way around and on top of each other. She wouldn’t have taken it for the castle’s equivalent of a barracks if she and Geraden hadn’t encountered so many guards, and if she hadn’t seen interspersed among the rooms the obviously military halls where the guards mustered. From the look of the place, she guessed that each man had at best one room to himself; the larger rooms were probably shared. Artagel, however, had a modest suite – a bedroom, sitting room, pantry, and lavatory which together took up less space than her bedroom.

Most of the suite was unadorned, almost unfurnished: its occupant apparently didn’t spend enough time in Orison to care about his rooms. Or perhaps his sense of home was focused exclusively on Houseldon. Whatever the reason, his quarters contained only one piece of decoration – a long rack, stretching across two walls of the sitting room, from which hung a clutter of variously snapped and shattered swords.

“They’re all blades that failed him,” Geraden whispered in explanation as he led her toward the bedroom.

There Artagel lay on an austere bed, a simple wooden frame with strips of cloth woven across it to support a pallet. He had no fireplace, and the air was cool. In addition, he was naked to the waist, except for the bindings wrapped around his middle. Nevertheless sweat streaked his skin, and his eyes smoldered darkly, like secret fires.

Geraden had warned her that he was feverish; but she was still taken aback to see him grinning as though he were about to go down under Gart’s next attack.

She had rehearsed a speech for him, wanting to thank him, but it failed her. There was no fat on him: all his muscles were outlined clearly under his skin. And the sweat emphasized his scars, making them catch the light differently so that she couldn’t ignore them. He had been cut and cut— Part of his chest looked like someone had once stuck a pole through it, and he hadn’t been able to grow enough tissue to refill the wound. And under his bandages was another wound.

Her eyes spilled tears, making him a blur of reflected lamplight. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why he wants to kill me. I swear I don’t know why he wants to kill me.”

“My lady.” His eyes glittered through the blur, and his voice sounded like his eyes. “Your cheek is almost healed. That’s good. When he hit you, I couldn’t see how bad it was. I thought I was too late. Then this idiot” – he was referring to Geraden – “jumped him and nearly got his neck broken. I thought you were both lost. I’m glad you’ve got quick reflexes.”

While Terisa blinked her vision clear, he added, “I’ve been practicing that counter he used on me. I think I know what to do about it now.”

“If you ever get the chance to find out,” Geraden put in gruffly, “I’m going to tie you down until it’s all over. That way, we won’t have to find out whether he can beat you three times in a row. I can’t stand the suspense.”

Artagel’s smile looked like the fire in his gaze. “That’s the trouble with you. You don’t have any confidence in me.”

Geraden wasn’t having a good day. For a moment, Terisa feared he might lose his grip on himself. But somehow he managed to smile back at his brother. “Oh, shut up,” he muttered in a thick growl. “You’re breaking my heart.”

“You heard him, my lady.” Unexpectedly, Artagel began falling asleep. “If you wake up one morning and find yourself dead, with me tied up on the floor beside you, you’ll know what happened. No confidence.” He closed his eyes, and a subtle tension faded out of him.

She and Geraden left him to rest.

***

For two more days, nothing happened. The thaw weakened, but didn’t break. Mindlin sent word that her material had arrived. Argus and Ribuld found no trace of Nyle. To pass the time, Terisa took long, aimless walks through Orison; she even revisited the bazaar because she wanted some fresh air. Now whenever she left her rooms alone at least one guard accompanied her: Castellan Lebbick had made his orders for her protection stricter. But she saw no sign of Prince Kragen or the High King’s Monomach anywhere.

Not long after breakfast on the third day, however, Geraden came to her rooms. “I’ve just had a talk with the Tor,” he announced, trying to sound cheerful. He was feeling too much stress to carry it off, unfortunately.

She asked the natural question. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to tell me about his conversation with Elega.”

“And how did it go?”

“Not very well. I think he underestimated her.” Geraden shook his head. He didn’t like what he was thinking. “You remember he said he wanted to teach her ‘the fear of discovery.’ Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to fear discovery. ‘She declines to be taught,’ he said. In fact, she defied him to produce one scrap of proof that she was in communication with Prince Kragen.

“That was bad enough,” he commented. “Whatever her plan is, it’s already at work. And she’s sure we can’t stop her. But—” He grimaced and met Terisa’s gaze glumly. “She was so convincing the Tor isn’t sure he believes us anymore.”

Terisa winced.

“He made quite a speech about it. He told me that before I aimed any more accusations at my own brother and the King’s eldest daughter I should make an effort to produce a witness or two, instead of relying on empty-headed suspicions.”

“But I saw Prince Kragen and Nyle meet each other,” she protested.

He shook his head again. “They both emerged from behind the same tent. Maybe they just happened to go back there at the same time to relieve themselves.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“No,” he answered at once. “He’s behaving too strangely. There has to be an explanation.” A moment later, however, he added in a pained tone, “But I wouldn’t want Castellan Lebbick to throw him in the dungeon for reasons as thin as what we have.”

That expression of certainty did little to make her feel better.

***

Geraden returned to spend the evening with her. They were together when a guard brought a message from Argus and Ribuld.

It was cryptic:

“Got Nyle. See Artagel.”

So Terisa and Geraden went to see Artagel.

He was half sitting up in bed, with several pillows propped behind his back, and he looked clearer and cooler of eye, less feverish. His smile was distant and a little sad, rather than fierce. “He came to visit me,” he explained. “They picked him up when he left.”

“I don’t understand,” muttered Geraden. “He’s been hiding out for days. Why did he suddenly decide to visit you?”

Artagel tried to shrug; the movement hurt his torso. “If you don’t understand, don’t expect me to figure it out.” He wasn’t being sarcastic. “I don’t understand him any better than I understand you.”

Geraden ignored that remark. “What did he want to talk about? What did he say?”

The memory emphasized Artagel’s unaccustomed sadness. In a thin voice, he said, “He didn’t look glad to see me. I suppose that’s because I’m hurt. But he’s seen me hurt before. At least I’m not dead. If he was worried about me, wouldn’t he be glad to see I’m getting better?

“Anyway, he asked me if there was any news from Houseldon. But he’s been there more recently than I have. He asked me” – Artagel’s eyes avoided Geraden’s – “when you were going to stop embarrassing the family here and go back home where you belong. I didn’t try to answer that.”

Geraden held himself still.

“Then he asked me what would happen to Orison in a siege, now that we’ve got that breach. The last time I saw it, the wall Lebbick is building wasn’t very impressive. He asked me if we had any defense left. He asked me how long I thought it would be before King Joyse got us into a war with somebody. But he wasn’t listening to the answers.

“Then—” Artagel stared at the ceiling while the lines in his face got deeper, cut by what he remembered. “Then he told me how much he admired me. I was his hero – I was always his hero. The first thing he could remember about his own life was wanting to be like me. But he just didn’t have the balance, or the reflexes. And his muscles refused to develop the right kind of strength for a longsword.

“And everybody in the family seemed to be content with him the way he was, when the way he was wasn’t what he wanted. Having his parents and his brothers content with him did nothing except make his heart ache. Nobody expected him to be good at anything. They were proud of me. And they were ambitious for you. They wanted you to marry Elega and become a great Imager. But nobody wanted anything from him. Or for him.”

Swallowing hard, Artagel stopped.

“Is that it?” asked Geraden quietly. “He didn’t say anything else?”

“I told you,” Artagel snarled. “Don’t expect me to explain it.” But his anger wasn’t aimed at Geraden. “The best I could think of was to ask him how he managed to admire me, when I didn’t even have a home of my own or a woman who could put up with me, not to mention children, and I was lying here with a stupid hole in my ribs after the High King’s Monomach had already beaten me twice.”

Geraden put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. There was nothing you could have said that would have made a difference. He’s already committed.” His tone was more reassuring than his expression. “He was just trying to apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“For choosing the other side.” Geraden sounded like he understood perfectly. “If everything he and Elega and Prince Kragen are planning works out – and you and I don’t turn our backs on King Joyse – he might end up being responsible for our deaths.” A note of grimness came into his voice. “That’s why we have to stop him. He’ll hardly be able to stand the rest of his life if he has both of us on his conscience. On top of everything else.”

Terisa watched the two brothers study each other. Finally, Artagel managed a crooked smile. “Well, I’m not going to be much help. That physician swore he’ll have me clubbed if I try to get out of bed too soon. But there probably isn’t a guard in Orison who doesn’t know Ribuld and Argus are trying to do you a favor for me. You should be able to get all the support you need.”

Somehow, Geraden chuckled. “I would rather have you. But I suppose I ought to be satisfied with one or two thousand of Castellan Lebbick’s best men.” Then he sighed. “I hope he doesn’t keep us waiting much longer. I want to know what’s going on.”

Terisa felt the same way.

***

As it happened, Nyle didn’t keep them waiting much longer. In fact, if Argus and Ribuld hadn’t found him when they did, they probably would have missed him altogether. Before dawn the next morning, while Terisa was still in bed, tangled in sweaty sheets and dreaming that she could see Gart’s blade as it came for her like the edge of a star, she was awakened by a wooden pounding and Geraden’s voice.

“Terisa. Terisa.”

Naturally, she decided the noise must be coming from the door to the secret passage. She peeled the sheet off her naked back and climbed, instantly shivering, out of bed to let Master Quillon or Adept Havelock in. But that didn’t make any sense. Why were they knocking so loudly, when she had forgotten to put a chair in the wardrobe to block the door?

With a wrench, her perceptions corrected their orientation. Was it really this cold, or was she just chilled by the effect of her dreams? Her robe was on the chair that should have been in the wardrobe. She snatched it up, got her arms into the sleeves, knotted the sash around the deep velvet. Geraden? Shivering so hard she nearly lost her balance, she went into the sitting room and unbolted the door.

Light from the lamps outside washed inward, sweeping Geraden with it.

“Come on,” he whispered at once. “We’ve got to hurry. He’s leaving.”

“Leaving?” Her voice shook wildly. “What are you talking about? What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.” He was breathing hard: he had been running. “It’s Nyle. This is our chance to find out what he’s doing. Maybe it’s our chance to stop him.”

“Leaving?” she repeated. Her robe seemed to hold no warmth at all. “How can he be leaving? Where can he go?”

“That’s what we’ll find out,” Geraden hissed. “Just get ready. He was in the stables when Argus and Ribuld finally figured out what he was doing. He’s probably in the courtyard by now. He’ll be out the gate by the time you get your clothes on. We’ve got to hurry. “

Some of his tension reached her. She turned to look for some clothes. Which clothes? Her old shirt and pants. And the sheepskin coat. The warm boots. There was still a small fire in the hearth. Why was she so cold? “How can we follow him?” she asked, trying to get herself under control. “He’s practically gone already.”

Geraden permitted himself a growl of exasperation. “Argus is waiting for us. Ribuld will follow Nyle. He’ll leave us a trail. Come on.”

She got herself moving and tried to hurry.

Violent tremors made her hands fumble. As familiar as these clothes were, she had trouble putting them on. From the privacy of the bathroom, she asked, “What’s happened to the weather? I’m freezing.”

“Bitter, isn’t it,” he muttered. “The thaw is over – at least for a while. But there’s no new snow. We would be better off if there was. It would slow down anybody who might be marching in this direction. And it might make it easier for us to follow Nyle.”

A part of her was glad that she was too cold and rushed to think about what she was doing. If she thought about it, it might turn out to be crazy. Her rooms were still full of nightmares. It would be good to escape them.

A moment later, she pulled on her coat and left the bathroom. “I’m ready,” she said, although that was probably nonsense. “Let’s go.”

He took her hand, and they left.

They went down the stairs almost at a run. Holding his hand gave her the illusion that she could keep him from falling, but he didn’t stumble. All she remembered about the stables was that they were somewhere near the warren of rooms where the guards were quartered. And she had never ridden a horse. The route he chose appeared convoluted because it bypassed a number of long, straight halls and passages that ran in the wrong direction. The exercise was just starting to generate a little human warmth inside her coat when he brought her to the place where Orison wintered its horses.

The guard at the side entrance nodded sleepily and said. “Argus is waiting. Keep it quiet. Nobody’s supposed to be here this early. Upsets the horses.” Then he let them in.

The low ceiling was supported by a great number of stone pillars, as well as by bulky wooden posts which also anchored the sides and rails and gates of the individual stalls. In addition, many of the stalls had been constructed haphazardly, with the result that the aisles between them were crooked. Consequently, the true dimensions of the place were hard to see. Its size was only apparent from one of the main aisles, which met like roads in the center of the stables.

During his tour, Geraden had taken Terisa to the center and showed her that the stalls stretched cavernously for a hundred yards in each direction.

The ceiling multiplied noise; but the place was much quieter now than she remembered it. Still, a constant rustling murmur punctuated with staccato thuds and coughs filled the air as hundreds of horses snuffled in their sleep, broke wind, shifted positions, and knocked their hooves against the slats of the stalls. So many animals put out enough heat to make the cavern warm, one of the most noticeable effects of which was to perfect the sweet, thick stench of horse droppings and urine fermenting in sodden straw. Together, the noise and the warmth and the smell were comforting in an odd way, like a return to a primitive womb. And the womb-like atmosphere was increased by the fact that at night the stables were lit only by a few small lanterns placed at considerable intervals along the aisles. Nevertheless the air made Terisa feel that she had fungus growing in her lungs.

Geraden put his finger to his lips unnecessarily and led her forward.

She spared as much attention as she could to keep her feet out of the brown piles that dotted the aisles, but she had a number of other things to think about. Now that she was more awake, she was both excited and fearful. She was going to go out. For the first time since this whole experience began, she was going to see the outside of Orison. On the other hand, she believed instinctively that something was about to go wrong.

Geraden spotted Argus. The guard stood near a lantern with three horses, already saddled. They nickered and snorted softly, complaining about being put to work so early in the morning. Geraden waved and hurried toward the grizzled veteran.

Bracing herself to endure Argus’ crude sense of humor, Terisa followed.

Over leather clothes, Argus wore a mail shirt and leggings; over his mail, a cloak that looked like a bearskin. His iron cap was on his head. A dagger hung at his belt opposite his longsword, but he had left his pike behind. As Geraden and Terisa reached him, he grinned, showing the gaps where several of his teeth had been knocked out. “Good,” he leered. “I have horses. I even have brandy.” He indicated a small pouch tied to the back of one saddle. “You have a woman. This is going to be more fun than guard duty.”

Geraden brushed that remark aside. “How far ahead do you think he is?”

“She’s in my debt, don’t you think?” Argus persisted. “I don’t care how fine a lady she is. The finer the better. I’ve risked my life for her twice now. She owes me a little gratitude.” He reached a grubby hand toward Terisa’s cheek.

“Argus.” Suddenly, Geraden clamped a hold on the guard’s wrist. Though Argus was much larger, Geraden wrenched his hand down. “Do not trifle with me.” Strength echoed in his voice – strength that Terisa hadn’t heard for a long time. “Nyle is my brother. How far ahead is he?”

Involuntarily, Argus winced. “He has his own horse,” he replied as if he were surprised to find himself backing down. “He didn’t have to get permission to take it and go. And he didn’t have to stand around here waiting for you. But Ribuld has him. We should be able to catch up.”

“Then let’s go,” said Geraden impatiently. The echo was gone. “Who gets which horse?”

“This one’s mine.” With a slap to its rump, Argus shifted a rawboned roan stallion out of his way. “You get the mare.” He indicated a smaller horse the color of fresh axle grease. “She likes to kick, but you can handle her. At least she’s tough.

“The lady can have the gelding.”

Terisa found herself staring at a horse with rancid eyes, a mottled coat, and an expression of sublime stupidity.

With an effort, she cleared her throat. Her voice sounded small and lost. “I don’t actually know how to ride.”

Argus flashed her a look that might have been anger or glee. “Geraden mentioned that. He didn’t explain why you have to come with us. I mean, if you can’t ride, and you think you’re too good to spread your legs for a man who saved your life, why bother?” He gave a massive shrug. “But at least he warned me.

“The only way this gelding can hurt you is if he steps on you. He hasn’t got the brains to do anything except follow the nearest thing he recognizes – and the only thing he ever recognizes is another horse. Just hold on to the saddle horn and let him do the rest.”

Still she hesitated. Geraden and Argus stared at her. Abruptly, Geraden came and took her to the side of the mount. Holding the stirrup, he said, “Put your left foot here, grab the saddle horn, and swing your right leg over. Leave the reins where they are. We’ll adjust the stirrups when you’re in the saddle.”

She looked at him hard and saw that his eyes were dark with suppressed urgency. Swallowing a lump of alarm, she nodded her head. Then, before she had time to panic, she put her foot into the stirrup and lunged for the saddle.

Argus caught her on the other side and squared her in her seat. The ceiling seemed perilously close. Argus and Geraden made her stirrups longer or shorter without consulting her. The gelding shifted its weight. She gripped the saddle horn until her knuckles ached. To no one in particular, she said, “Why am I doing this?”

“Because” – Argus flashed his remaining teeth – “you’ve heard it said that a few hours on a horse make a woman desperate for a man.”

Geraden was already on the mare. “If you don’t stop harassing her,” he muttered, “I’m going to wait until we’re several miles from here, and then I’m going to break all your legs and leave you to walk back.”

Argus let out a guffaw which made several of the nearby horses whinny in protest and brought an angry insult from a watching stable hand whom Terisa hadn’t noticed before. Argus wasn’t daunted, however. Chuckling to himself, he took hold of the gelding’s reins and tugged the beast into motion behind him.

Terisa clung to the saddle while Argus led her and Geraden out to one of the main aisles and along it toward the closed passage that went in the direction of the courtyard.

The guards at the main entrance lifted the gate without a word: apparently, Argus had already spoken to them. But when he and his companion reached the gate to the courtyard – with Terisa shivering again at the sudden drop in temperature – he had to stop and speak to the sentries for several minutes. She saw him point at Geraden, heard him mention Artagel. Finally, the gate opened, and the horses crunched out into the frozen mud of the courtyard.

“One more gate,” Geraden told her softly. “Then we can start hurrying.”

The sky was clear above the high, dark walls of Orison, but most of the stars were gone, washed out by the oncoming gray flood of dawn. The air was so sharp it cut her throat: she could feel it in the bottom of her lungs, pricking like needles. From horseback, the ground looked faraway and dangerous. The cold seemed to make the leather of her saddle slick; because she couldn’t stick to it, she had trouble keeping her balance over the stiff-legged lurch of the gelding’s stride. Geraden looked like a shadow beside her. Argus was nearly invisible against the darkness of the wall ahead.

Other people moved in the courtyard, waking up, getting ready for another day. Small lights flickered on the inner balconies. A few more showed in the bazaar. One or two cooking fires had been started. Terisa barely noticed them.

The predawn gloom and the shadow of the walls hid the gate, but she remembered it – a massive shutter raised or lowered by winches. Because Mordant was said to be at peace, the gate stood open during the day. At night it was down.

When the horses reached it, Argus dismounted and went to talk to its guards. For some reason – perhaps because his back was turned – his voice was an indeterminate murmur, but the sentry could be heard clearly.

“You’re out of your mind, Argus.”

Argus made some response.

“We had to let him out. He’s a son of the Domne. We don’t have any orders to keep him in.”

Again.

“Try explaining that to the Castellan.”

Geraden shifted in his saddle, fretting. Terisa could feel her face freezing stiff.

Then: “All right. He’s a son of the Domne too. And you’re assigned to him. And we thought it was just some strumpet with you. If you don’t back us up, I’ll personally see to it you never have children.”

A faint call rose. Geraden let a breath of relief through his teeth as Argus came back to his horse. His boots on the mud sounded like he was striding through broken glass. After a moment, Terisa heard a long creaking noise as rope began to stretch between the winches and the gate.

She saw the gate go up, a deep darkness lifting off the lighter background of the road.

“Come on,” Argus muttered. Taking Terisa’s reins again, he put his heels to the stallion and started forward so sharply that she let out a yelp and nearly lost her seat.

When they were outside, Geraden caught up with Argus. “Well done,” he rasped sarcastically. “Do you want her to fall?”

“Don’t be so prickly,” replied the guard. “I didn’t know she’s a squealer.” Terisa had the impression he was grinning.

She unknotted her muscles, flexed her grip on the saddlehorn, and began making a conscious effort to find the point of balance on the gelding’s back.

Overhead, the paling sky seemed impossibly open. The gradual hills immediately around the castle were naked of trees, kept that way so that Castellan Lebbick could watch his enemies approach him; in the dawn twilight the bareness of the slopes made them feel as expansive as the heavens, wide and unmeasured to the extreme horizons after the relative constriction of Orison. In spite of her precarious perch, she felt her excitement rise.

If anything, the air was even colder here. Most of the road had been chewed to mud and iron ruts by days of wagon wheels, but whenever the hooves of the horses hit a patch of snow, the distinct clatter of horseshoes against hard dirt changed to an oddly resonant crumpling sound, a break-and-echo as the hooves stamped to the ground through the iced surface, the snow melted by the thaw and then refrozen. The graying of the sky grew stronger, enabling her to see the black trees that lined the road after it branched. One branch, she remembered, went south; another, northwest; the third continued northeast toward the Care of Perdon: roads running toward secrets and surprises in every direction. The world was something she had hardly begun to discover.

Although spring was drawing closer, the sun was still so far to the south that she couldn’t glimpse the source of the dawn past Orison’s bulk until she had ridden almost to the road’s branching. By then, the trees were tipped with light as if they were catching fire. Sunshine glowed coldly on the towers and battlements behind her, making Orison look less dire – but larger somehow, as though a sense of its true size were impossible from inside. Its gray stone appeared stronger and more enduring than she had expected.

From the branching, she watched the sun come up and wished she were a little less cold so that she could feel its touch on her face.

“Now what?” Geraden demanded of Argus. His mind was clenched to what he was doing. “How do we know which way to go?”

“That’s Ribuld’s job.” Argus scanned the area. “He’s supposed to leave signs. Probably in the snow beside the road. “Tossing her reins to Terisa, he moved toward the left edge of the road. “Start looking.”

Geraden took the other side. The two men began to work around the branching. Experimentally, Terisa picked up her reins, gripped them as her companions did, and gave the gelding a tentative kick, trying to make it follow Geraden. But it went after Argus instead.

When Argus burst out laughing, she looked where he pointed and saw a mark shaped like an arrow in the snow. It had been drawn rather unsteadily with a warm, yellow liquid.

Northwest.

Geraden came to look at the sign and grinned in spite of himself. “That’s got to be him.”

“Right. Now we can start moving faster.” The guard glanced at Terisa as if he anticipated entertainment. “But we’ve got to be careful. They might turn off.”

Geraden nodded and cantered his mare to the northern side of the road. Although he didn’t appear especially smooth or self-contained in the saddle – his elbows flapped, and his weight bounced with the horse’s gait – his experience was evident. He knew how to ride well enough to do so without thinking about it.

Argus hadn’t resumed his hold on Terisa’s reins. “Come on. You’ve got to learn sometime.” Watching her over his shoulder, he started away, matching Geraden’s pace along the western margin of the road.

She was still trying to decide how hard to kick her mount when it lumbered ahead, following the stallion.

For one moment that seemed to last a long time because it was frozen by panic and cold, she dropped the reins and clutched for the saddle horn, but the gelding’s gait hit her so hard that she missed her grip and started to fall.

When she failed to fall, she didn’t immediately understand why. By degrees, however, the strain in her legs made her aware that she was clenching the beast with her knees.

This development amazed her so thoroughly that she only put one hand back on the saddle horn. With the other, she retrieved the reins. Then, borne along by a burst of exhilaration, she kicked the gelding to make it catch up with Argus.

The guard gave her a nod of disappointed approval and turned his attention to the road.

Her mount’s spine pounded her up and down. Its tack jangled so loudly – and her legs and rear slapped the leather so hard – that she wanted to shout, Do we have to go this fast? But a residue of common sense told her that for her sake Argus and Geraden were already going more slowly than they wished. She closed her mouth so that she wouldn’t bite her tongue and held on.

Orison looked surprisingly far away. She had to glance back over her left shoulder to see the castle. A purple flag flew from the King’s tower now, raised to meet the day. Then the road crested a hill, dipped into a hollow, and Orison was gone.

A short distance later, a spur of the road ran north to a village nestled picturesquely in a little glen. Most of the twenty or thirty houses had wooden frames, but a few had obviously been constructed of stone. The snow had melted off their slate roofs; smoke curled from their chimneys as fires were built up for cooking and warmth. The angle of the sunlight enabled her to make out cattle pens in the shelter of the hills. These people raised meat for the castle.

In a war, a siege, they would have to evacuate their homes and live in Orison.

Geraden found no indication that Ribuld had taken the spur. The three riders went on.

Terisa’s hands were red and freezing, despite the exertion of holding herself on her mount’s back. Her face was so stiff it felt like it might break. Whenever a scrap of breeze caught her eyes, tears ran to ice on her cheeks. Gradually, she understood that it would actually be easier to keep her seat if the horse moved a bit faster. But Argus and Geraden now seemed to be going as fast as they dared. They had to watch for Ribuld’s signs.

Over the rise of another hill, they came suddenly upon a wain loaded – Terisa would have said overloaded – with barrels of all sizes. Although it faced toward Orison, it was stopped by the side of the road for no apparent reason. At a glance, Terisa couldn’t tell which looked more miserable, the shaggy, club-headed workhorse in the traces, or the driver huddling on the wagon bench, clutching his reins with hands that barely protruded from the mound of wool blankets wrapped around him. A moment later, however, the driver explained himself by croaking, “Argus? One of you Argus?”

The stallion skittered to a halt beside the wain. “I’m Argus,” the guard said, studying the driver.

“Guard like you gave me a silver double to wait here.” The driver sounded like he was being strangled by the weight of his blankets. “Too cold for that. About to give you up.”

“Now why would Ribuld do that?” drawled Argus.

The man’s eyes glittered shrewdly. “Too cold. One silver double—” His horse snorted vapor. “Not enough.”

At that, Argus guffawed. “Pigshit! Taking this load into Orison won’t earn you more than half a dozen coppers. You’ve already tripled your take. Don’t push your luck.”

The mound of blankets moved in a shrug. The driver made a clucking noise, and his horse pricked up its ears. When he twitched the reins, the horse leaned into its harness, and the wagon started to move.

Geraden swore under his breath. Argus was unperturbed, however. Over the groaning of the wain’s axletrees, he commented amiably, “I’m thirsty. Before you leave, I think I’ll knock a few holes in some of these casks.” He drew his longsword. “Most of it’s probably swill, but you may have something drinkable back there.”

The driver tugged his horse to a halt. He considered for a moment, then said, “Glad to help the King’s guards. Guard like you left the road here. Asked me to mark the place.”

“Which direction?” demanded Geraden.

“North.”

The Apt fisted his mare to the north side of the road. Almost at once, he called, “I’ve got his tracks. It looks like at least two riders went this way.”

Argus sheathed his sword and gave the driver an elaborate bow. In a tone of gratitude, he said, “I’m sure it’s all swill,” and went to join Geraden.

Terisa’s gelding followed with an air of lugubrious endurance.

As soon as she and her companions left the road, she was surprised by the noise they made. Crunching through the frozen white crust and thudding to the ground beneath, the horses’ hooves were loud enough to be heard half a mile away – a sound like a cross between shattering glass and a distant cannonade. Nevertheless Argus set a somewhat faster pace and pulled ahead. After a moment, she realized that he was trying to match the stallion’s gait to Ribuld’s trail, riding as much as possible on already broken snow. When Geraden swung in behind him, and the gelding transferred its affections from the stallion to the mare, their progress became noticeably less noisy.

Ribuld’s trail ran along a shallow valley between small hills, then crossed a ridge and began to descend a series of slopes marked with brittle thickets and black copses. Woods filled a fold in the terrain ahead, and the fold deepened as the ground around it rose into sharper hills. Argus followed the trail straight into the woods.

There he had to slow down. The ground between the trunks wasn’t particularly cluttered; the wood itself wasn’t thick. But many of the branches grew low enough to swipe at riders.

Barely cantering now, listening to the way the metallic sound of tack seemed to echo delicately back from every tree because of the steeper hills on either side, and wondering why she felt so much like holding her breath, Terisa followed Geraden into a gully which became a rocky streambed with its bottom less than half full of ice and crusted water. The trees on the slopes grew more thickly together, pointing their dark twigs like fingers at each other; but the bed remained clear. Now when the horses broke fresh crust their hooves clicked and clattered on stone.

Her legs ached. Her hands hurt like raw ice. She had the impression that the cold had begun to peel her face back from the bone. How else could she explain the sensation of numb pain in her cheek and chin and nose? She should have been as miserable as the driver and his workhorse.

But she wasn’t.

For some reason, she expected to hear horns.

Then the streambed debouched into a valley where its waters joined a larger stream which had cut a ravine for itself among the hills. The ravine went roughly from east to west, and its northward wall especially was steep but climbable. As soon as Argus hissed a warning and pointed, she saw the horse tethered in the low flat made by the joining of the streams.

Ribuld crouched at the crest of the northward wall, peering over the rim: his cloak made him look like a shaggy rock. He turned his head, gazed downward, and waved.

“This is it,” muttered Geraden. “That ridge probably blocks the sound. But we still need to be quiet.”

“Right.” Argus dismounted, and Terisa did the same. While he tethered his stallion as Ribuld had done to an old piece of deadwood sticking up out of the snow, she nearly collapsed because her legs were suddenly knotted with cramps. She had forgotten how cold her feet were. And her feet had forgotten the ground: she expected it to wobble like the gelding.

Her companions were already laboring up the side of the ravine.

Determined not to be left behind, she struggled after them.

The climb was easier than she expected. There was enough rock under the snow and dirt and the autumn’s layer of fallen leaves to give her secure footing; and her legs were glad to do almost anything that didn’t involve clutching at a horse. She reached Ribuld only a moment or two behind Geraden and Argus.

“Good timing,” Ribuld whispered, grimacing around the old scar that ran from his hairline between his eyes almost to his mouth. “He’s been here awhile. The others just arrived.”

Kneeling in the snow at Geraden’s side, she looked past the edge of the ridge into another ravine like the one behind her. Directly below her, a horse champed at the cold. Near it, a man with his back to her stood beside a small fire that burned almost without smoke. She took him to be Nyle. His fire seemed so wonderful to her that she could practically taste its warmth.

On the other side of the bottom, four men were busy securing more horses. Three of them looked like bodyguards.

The fourth was Prince Kragen.

TWENTY-ONE: AT LEAST ONE PLOT DISCOVERED

“Nyle,” the Prince said.

Geraden’s brother returned the greeting. “My lord Prince.”

Terisa could hear them perfectly. It was astonishing how well the cold and the ravine wall brought the sound up to her.

“I hope you were not kept waiting long.”

“Just long enough to build a fire.”

Like his men, Prince Kragen was wrapped in a white robe, with boots of white fur on his feet and a white fur cap on his head, using the winter itself for concealment. At first glance, Nyle’s black-brown garb, his half-cloak and leggings, looked like a bad choice by comparison. But his clothes were indistinguishable from the colors of the driftwood in the ravine, the dark trunks of the trees. If he stood still, no one would see him.

“What news do you have of Orison?”

“What’s the news of Alend, my lord Prince?”

A fringe of black hair showed around the rim of Prince Kragen’s cap, hair as black as his eyes. He studied Nyle for a moment, then turned to his men and gave them a gesture that set them in motion. Two of them went in opposite directions to keep watch up and down the ravine. The third began to unpack bundles tied to the back of his saddle.

A bit sadly, Prince Kragen commented, “You still do not really trust me, do you, Nyle?”

“Yes and no, my lord Prince.” Nyle’s voice emerged from a clenched throat. “I’m committed to you. But we’re traditional enemies. That’s hard to forget.”

At Terisa’s side, Geraden picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it across his face to cool a reckless inner fire.

“I understand,” replied the Prince evenly. “But I am more at risk here. You can ride back to Orison and resume your life. As soon as we separate, you are innocent. If I am caught, Castellan Lebbick might have me executed before anybody can explain to him that killing foreign princes is rarely wise.

“What news do you have of Orison?”

Argus turned away. Ribuld hissed at him for silence; he ignored the warning and began to pick his way back down the slope. Fortunately, the wall cut off the noise he made.

Grudgingly, Nyle answered, “Elega is in trouble.”

Prince Kragen flashed a glance. “What trouble?”

“For some reason – I don’t know how – that woman Terisa of Morgan decided you and Elega are plotting against the King. She convinced my brother Geraden. And he convinced the Tor.

“I told you the Tor has set himself up as some kind of chancellor. He issues orders as if he has the King’s authority behind him, and no one questions him. It might be true. After all, he is the Tor – the lord who gave King Joyse his start.”

“He is also,” the Prince put in, “a drunken fool.”

“He is. That’s probably why he believed Geraden. There aren’t many people left who can muster that much optimism.”

Geraden heard this with a grimace that reminded Terisa of Artagel’s fighting grin.

“And what trouble has this drunken fool caused for the lady Elega?” pursued Prince Kragen.

“He told her he knows what she’s doing. Then he went off on a long lecture about the loyalty children owe their parents.” Nyle shrugged. “She says it wasn’t much. She gave him a piece of her mind and left him looking – she says he looked cowed. And she says he won’t be able to interfere with her part of your plan. I’m not so sure. All he has to do is drop a few hints to Lebbick, and she won’t be able to take a step without half the guards in Orison watching her.”

“I see.” Prince Kragen thought for a moment. “I regret that she is at hazard. But she has assured me many times that her role is secure – and she is a woman who conveys conviction.” In a decisive tone, he concluded, “We must trust that she will do what she has said.”

Nyle’s voice sounded like he had both fists knotted around it. “I’m still waiting to hear exactly what that is.”

The Prince stiffened. With misleading casualness, he said, “My lord Prince.”

“My lord Prince.”

Prince Kragen’s nod advised, Remember it. His mouth commented, “The lady Elega’s safety and success depend upon secrecy.”

“Then maybe you’ll tell me the news of Alend. My lord Prince.” Nyle’s anger was controlled, but unmistakable. “Maybe you’ll tell me why we had to meet today. Not sooner. Not later. All I’ve had so far are assurances and rhetoric. Maybe you’ll tell me what’s going on.”

Geraden bobbed his head in approval. “Good,” he breathed. “Make him tell you what’s going on.”

Ribuld glowered at the Apt for speaking.

“In a moment.” Prince Kragen’s composure was equal to the occasion. “I will answer a number of your questions in a moment. First, however, I prefer to tell you what I want you to do.”

Nyle still had his back to the eavesdroppers: Terisa couldn’t see his face. But his shoulders hunched as though he were strangling things inside himself.

“I asked you to meet me here on this particular day,” the Prince said steadily, “and I asked you to be prepared to leave Orison, because I want you to ride to Perdon. I want you to find the Perdon and offer him the kingship of Mordant.”

Breathing too loudly, Argus came back up the hill carrying his pouch of brandy. His companions paid no attention to him. At Prince Kragen’s announcement, Geraden’s whole body twitched. Terisa stared. At least temporarily, even Ribuld was too interested in what he heard to be interrupted by liquor.

Nyle’s surprise showed in the way he stood. “Why?”

“Why the Perdon?” Prince Kragen hid a trace of amusement under his black mustache. “Why the kingship? Or why you?”

Nyle seemed unable to do anything except nod.

“The Perdon is my only reasonable choice. You see, I profited from my meeting with the lords, although it did not have the outcome I desired. The Fayle is too old – and too loyal. The Tor has become a drunken fool. The Domne would refuse. The Armigite—” Prince Kragen snorted. “As for the Termigan, he is too far away. Also he is concerned only for the fate of his own Care.

“The Perdon must be offered the kingship to prove our good faith.”

Furiously, Geraden whispered, “Not to mention the fact that the Perdon is the only lord with an army close enough to threaten you, my lord Prince.”

“Despite what King Joyse and Castellan Lebbick believe,” Prince Kragen continued reasonably, “it has never been the Alend Monarch’s intention to conquer Mordant for himself. His first priority – his only overriding commitment – is to fill the vacuum of power in Mordant so that the Congery of Imagers will not fall into the hands of Cadwal. To accomplish that, we will conquer Mordant because we have no alternative. What else can we do? The King insulted my mission. The lords refused the union Master Eremis and I offered them.

“But we will not take Mordant for ourselves if the Perdon can be persuaded to be King. That will be your job. He might not listen to such a proposal from me. We are traditional enemies, as you have said. But a son of the Domne – a lifelong friend of the lady Elega – may perhaps persuade him. For the good of all who oppose Festten and Cadwal.

“Will you do it, Nyle?”

Nyle was silent for a long time. When he spoke, he sounded both astonished and relieved.

“Yes.” In spite of its softness, the word came out with too much steam, as if it were exploding from inside him. “Yes, my lord Prince. I’ll do it.”

Geraden covered his head with his hands, inadvertently smearing snow into his hair.

“Good.” Prince Kragen stepped closer to the fire to warm his hands. “Then you will need to know ‘what’s going on’ in order to convey that information to the Perdon.”

Argus put his brandy pouch down in front of Terisa. Noticing it, she realized that she was miserably cold. With a shiver, she loosened the neck of the pouch and raised it to her mouth. Like her cheeks, her lips were too numb to know what they were doing, but her tongue verified that the brandy was going into her mouth rather than down her chin. It tasted like badly perfumed tarnish remover, but it did what it was supposed to do: it raised the temperature of her blood several degrees.

She passed the pouch to Geraden.

Down in the ravine, Prince Kragen crooked a finger at the bodyguard who had unpacked the bundles. The man came to him and handed him a stylus and a small writing tablet. Standing by the fire, Prince Kragen began to write. His fingers held the stylus as though they knew nothing about swords and had never helped save Terisa’s life.

“Is that a message to the Perdon, my lord Prince?” Nyle’s tone suggested impatience.

The Prince shook his head. “To my father. The Alend Monarch needs to know that you have agreed to approach the Perdon for us.”

“What will he do?”

“What he is already doing.” Prince Kragen’s mind was on his message. “In the bazaar of Orison during the first morning of the thaw, you brought me the lady Elega’s word that she had learned a way to fulfill her part of our plans. You noticed, I think, that I was pleased by this news.

“I was pleased because much hinges on her role. While you and I spoke together – while we chose the day and place for this meeting – my father and his armies were already crossing the Pestil into Armigite.”

Argus, Ribuld, and Geraden became still: all movement was sucked out of them. They didn’t blink or glance around; they didn’t appear to breathe. Every part of them – their arms and legs, the angles of their backs, the set of their shoulders – concentrated on what they were hearing.

So it was all a lie, thought Terisa. His peaceful mission. His meeting with the lords. A lie. The Alend Monarch had begun marching before he even had time to learn the outcome of his son’s mission. He had never intended to do anything except invade Mordant.

Like an echo of her shocked thoughts, Nyle articulated softly, “You never wanted peace. You never meant King Joyse to take your mission seriously. You just came here looking for people to help you betray him.” Both arms leaped outward in a gesture full of violence, fiercely truncated. “This is what you call good faith.”

Distinct and sibilant in the cold, a sword came out of its sheath. Prince Kragen’s bodyguard moved forward, aiming the tip of his blade at Nyle’s throat.

Ribuld clutched at his own sword.

But a quick wave of the Prince’s hand stopped the bodyguard. The man shrugged stiffly and resheathed his longsword.

“I understand your anger, Nyle.” Prince Kragen spoke calmly, almost casually, but his tone warned Nyle not to push him too far. “You misunderstand me, however. The problem is one of communication, is it not? Knowing that I spent nearly thirty days in the worst of this winter making my way from the Alend Monarch’s seat in Scarab to Orison, you believe that we have had no time to exchange messages since my arrival here. Therefore you conclude that I have come merely to serve plans which he made before I left him.”

Nyle didn’t move.

With a faint smile, the Prince continued, “Those unruly barons, the Alend Lieges, are always striving to gain the advantage over each other. At last their petty wrestling has produced something useful.” Another gesture to his bodyguard brought the man forward carrying a bundle that appeared to be a swath of cloth wrapped around a rigid frame.

Prince Kragen rolled his message tightly and tied it into a tiny packet with a piece of thread. When he was done, his bodyguard unveiled the bundle, revealing a bird in a square cage.

“A carrier pigeon,” Terisa breathed in astonishment. “They’re using carrier pigeons.”

Argus, Ribuld, and Geraden all stared at her for an instant, then snapped their attention back down into the ravine.

The bird was unmistakably a pigeon. It cooed comfortably as the bodyguard removed it from the cage and held it so that Prince Kragen could bind his message to its leg. “One of the Lieges,” the Prince explained, “discovered that these birds have the ability to find their way over any distance back to the place they have been trained to recognize as home. This one has learned to identify a combination of tents, standards, and wagon lines that invariably occurs in my father’s encampments. It will fly to him when it is released.

“Now do you understand?” Prince Kragen’s tone was hard, a threat behind his amicable manner. “I brought a number of these birds from Alend. They bear messages to my father in a day – perhaps less. In this way, I make decisions for him.

“I came to Orison charged with the responsibility of resolving the dilemma of the Congery, Cadwal, and war – the dilemma of your King’s strange weakness. I am the Alend Contender. I wish strongly to earn the throne. For that reason, my mission of peace was sincere, I assure you. But when King Joyse rejected it, I began to think of war. I sent messages accordingly. Then, however, both Master Eremis and the lady Elega offered me hopes that were much preferable to war. Again I sent messages. When the lords of the Cares refused the pact Master Eremis suggested to them – and most especially when I experienced how vulnerable Orison, and therefore the Congery, was to attack from Cadwal – I determined to act on the possibilities the lady Elega and I had discussed.

“The Alend Monarch is doing what I ask of him. And I ask it because I believe it to be the least bloody and most effective answer to an intolerable danger. High King Festten must not gain control of the Congery. The breach of Orison’s wall is an opportunity I can not ignore.”

Firmly, the Prince concluded, “What is your answer now?”

Nyle looked like he was swallowing hard, trying to adjust his preconceptions to fit new information. At the moment, Geraden appeared to have no opinion about what his brother should do. He seemed to be scrambling to catch up with the implications of what he had just heard. Both Argus and Ribuld watched the encounter below with trouble in their eyes.

“My lord Prince,” Nyle began thickly, “I should probably apologize. I didn’t know this was possible.” His hands moved helplessly at his sides. “Of course I’ll go to Perdon. I’ll persuade the Perdon somehow.”

Prince Kragen studied Nyle for a moment. Then he nodded.

His bodyguard released the pigeon.

It took to the air in a flash of gray, a hint of blue and green. Terisa watched it go, an easy labor of wings against the chill sky – watched it as if it were on its way to bring bloodshed down on Orison. After circling briefly, it turned north.

Ribuld glared at her. “You knew about that bird,” he murmured.

“We have them where I come from.” Defensively, she added, “We have horses, too, but I’ve never ridden one before.”

Geraden nudged the guard silent.

Nyle was still struggling to improve his grasp on the situation. “But is there time?” he asked after some thought. “When do you think the Alend Monarch will get to Orison? I don’t know where the Perdon is. He might not be in Scarping. He might be anywhere along the Vertigon, fighting Cadwals.”

“I have chosen the time with some care,” replied Prince Kragen as if this would reassure Nyle. “It is important that you not reach the Perdon too soon. If you do, and he is not persuaded, and so he brings his forces against us, he might be able to block us from Orison. For that reason, we did not meet until today. I calculate that if you find him immediately – and he rejects you and comes against us in furious haste – he will not reach Orison until after we have mastered it.”

Geraden shook his head. “It’s not that easy,” he whispered.

“You think it’s going to be that easy?” The idea seemed to incense Nyle. “A siege might take all spring. Even with that breach in the wall. You can’t just—”

“Nyle,” the Prince cut in. “I am not a child. Do not harangue me about sieges. I have studied them deeply. And I assure you that we will be able to master Orison.”

Nyle received this assertion like a man struggling not to let what he heard stun him. “Still, my lord Prince,” he said slowly, “it seems to me you’re trying to control events too delicately. What if the weather turns against you? We’re almost sure to get another storm.”

Prince Kragen shrugged. His patience was wearing thin. “Then you and the Perdon will be hindered as much as we are.”

“And what about the Armigite?” Nyle seemed unable to keep his anger down. “Is he going to let you march your army – and supply it – straight through his Care without making at least an effort to slow you down?”

At that, Prince Kragen laughed shortly. “I doubt that I need to concern myself with the Armigite.” His laugh held a note of scorn that made Terisa feel suddenly colder. “Nevertheless I have done so. He and I have negotiated a pact.

“Sweating fear all the while, he offered me an unhindered passage through his Care for as many armies as I chose to name. And what did he ask in exchange? That we do no violence to his people in their towns and villages? That we leave untouched the cattle pens and storehouses that feed his Care? No. He asked only that he be allowed to remain safe and ignorant – ignorant, Nyle – while the fate of Mordant was decided.”

Argus swore under his breath. But Terisa had met the Armigite: she wasn’t surprised.

“Personally,” the Prince went on with more nonchalance, “I would enjoy damaging his ignorance a little. His Care deserves better of him. But we will respect the pact. And we will do no harm to his people or his cattle or his stores. Our aim is to find an answer to your King’s weakness – and to oppose Cadwal – not to worsen the old enmity between Mordant and Alend.

“Have I satisfied you, Nyle?”

From the back, Nyle didn’t look satisfied: there was too much tension in his stance. Terisa would have expected him to be grateful to Prince Kragen for giving him so few causes for mistrust, so many reasons to believe he was doing the right thing. Why was he still angry? Why did he sound almost livid with fury as he replied, “Yes, my lord Prince.”

For a moment, Prince Kragen regarded his ally as though he, too, didn’t understand Nyle’s mood. But apparently what he saw in Nyle’s face assured him. “Good,” he said, suddenly brisk. “The Perdon will listen to you. Let us begin.”

At once, he signaled to his bodyguards.

The men watching either end of the ravine returned to their horses. Moving stiffly, Nyle readied his own mount. At last, Terisa saw his face. His features were set and implacable, as if nothing – not even his own passion – could dissuade him from the course he had chosen.

Argus rose into a crouch and loosened his sword. “We’ll jump them before they get out of the ravine. Maybe we’ll be able to stop them.” The grimace that exposed his missing teeth didn’t show much fear. Fighting was his job; he and Ribuld seemed to take it for granted.

But Geraden stopped them. “Don’t be stupid. There are four of them. And if the Prince has any sense, he has more men nearby.

“You.” Speaking quickly so that the guards had no chance to argue with him, he stabbed an index finger at Argus. “Follow the Prince. Find where he’s camped. Keep an eye on him. And leave a trail.

“Ribuld, you get back to Orison.” The lines of Geraden’s face were as sharp as the cold. Frost in his eyebrows and snow in his hair made him look strangely feral. “Tell Castellan Lebbick what you heard. Lead him here. Tell him if he captures the Prince we can use him as hostage. We still have a chance to get out of this mess.

“Go.” He gave the guard an urgent push.

Ribuld looked once at Argus and back at Geraden, puckering his scar in concentration. Then he launched himself down the steep slope almost at a run.

Prince Kragen and his bodyguards swung up into their saddles. Nyle began dousing his fire with handfuls of crusted snow.

“Thanks a lot,” Argus whispered sarcastically to Geraden. “You gave me the hard job. If they go west, these two ravines join. I can pick up their trail there. But if they go east—” He jerked a thumb behind him. “That one ends. The other opens out of these hills. I won’t be able to get my horse over the ridge. I’ll have to follow them on foot.”

“Then you’re in luck.” Geraden pointed downward.

Below him, Nyle mounted his horse. The son of the Domne and the son of the Alend Monarch faced each other, and Prince Kragen raised a salute. Together, the Alends turned to the left and started along the frozen stream.

Argus punched Geraden lightly on the arm and left, bounding down the side of the ridge toward his mount.

Terisa continued watching Nyle. Over her shoulder, she heard Ribuld ride away.

Nyle remained where he was for a moment, perhaps considering the best route to Perdon, perhaps wondering what he could say to persuade Perdon’s lord – perhaps simply hesitating. Then he urged his mount forward with his heels and went east.

Geraden caught hold of Terisa’s hand. “Come on. We’ve got to stop him.” He almost pulled her off balance as he followed Argus toward the horses.

At once, he fell. Fortunately, some instinct inspired him to let go of her hand as he went down. And he caught himself before he had a chance to break any bones on the rocks. He reached the bottom of the ravine several strides ahead of her.

Awkward with haste, he leaped into the saddle of his mare. From the low valley where the streams met, Ribuld had disappeared along the streambed in the direction of Orison. At a more cautious pace, Argus was going west, toward the joining of the ravines. Flapping his boots against the mare’s sides, Geraden goaded her into a gallop eastward.

Terisa reached out a hand to him, called as loudly as she dared, “Wait!”

He didn’t see or hear her.

By the time she had descended to her gelding, she had decided to forget everything else and just follow Ribuld home. She was chilled to the heart; she didn’t know how much more of this cold she could endure. She was afraid of everything she had heard.

Ignoring her own decision, she continued to hurry as fast as she could. Somehow, she untethered the gelding; somehow, she got her left foot into the stirrup, her right leg over its back. With the reins, she hauled its head toward the east.

Gritting her teeth, she kicked it.

She nearly panicked when the gelding went from a trot into a canter and then a run, trying for reasons of its own to catch up with Geraden’s mare.

This speed felt tremendous. And the bottom of the ravine was treacherous. She ought to control her mount somehow – slow it; steer it to safer footing. Of course. And while she was at it, she ought to defeat the Alend Monarch’s army, take care of Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel, and produce peace on earth. While composing great music with her free hand. Instead of doing all that, however, she concentrated with a pure white intensity that resembled terror on simply staying in the saddle.

The northern wall of the ravine became sheer gray stone, then relaxed its slope a little. Along the top, it was thick with brush. The south side was much more gradual, held down by heavy black trees with their roots gripped in the soil. But soon the trees drew back, and the side became steeper.

While the gelding hurtled along, she promised and promised herself that if she ever got off it alive she would never ride again, never as long as she lived, never.

All at once, as if the terrain itself had taken pity on her, the walls of the ravine jumped up and came together, ending the watercourse. At one time, it must have continued on to the east, but apparently its sides had fallen inward, forcing the water to find another channel. The horses had nowhere to go.

Roughly, Geraden wrenched his mare to a halt and sprang from her back. He hit the ground too fast: he fell again, slamming his whole body into the snow. He looked like a wild man as he regained his feet and charged the north slope.

She had no breath to shout at him, call him back, so she had to figure out how to make the gelding stop by herself.

Unintentionally kind, it took care of that detail for her. Having rejoined the mare, it seemed suddenly content with its lot in life. At the mare’s side, it nuzzled her once, then lowered its head and lapsed into a state of impenetrable stupidity.

Terisa was still in one piece. Amazing.

It would have been nice to sit there and enjoy her survival for a moment. But Geraden was scrambling frantically up the slope. At first, the climb looked too steep for him. Then she saw that he was going to make it. Soon he would be out of sight.

She struggled off her horse, took a few tentative steps to test the solidity of the world, then pushed herself into a tight run.

The ridge side was certainly steep. It was well supplied with embedded rocks and protruding roots, however. And Geraden’s upward scramble had cleared away a remarkable amount of snow. She found that if she didn’t hurry – and didn’t look down – she could make the ascent quite easily.

On the way, she tried not to think about how far ahead he was. Or what he intended to do.

Gasping at the icy air, she reached the crest.

The spine separating the two ravines was much the same here as it had been back where she and Geraden had eavesdropped on Nyle and Prince Kragen: a bit gentler down its northward face; marked with brush, jutting piles of rock, a few trees; but still steep. The stream that had cut the ravine clung to the base of the spine, wandering slowly out of sight to the east. The ravine itself was gone, however. Its own north side had slumped down and opened up into a wood which filled the lower ground between this spine and another ridge of hills. The ridge was plainly visible through the bare treetops, although it appeared to be some distance away.

Geraden, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

She would have panicked, but she had no time. Almost at once, she spotted Nyle.

He rode at a trot along the streambed. He was still off to her left, coming eastward; but in a moment he would be directly below her. If she were the kind of person who did such things, she could have hit him with a rock.

More because Nyle’s movement drew her gaze in that direction than because she had recovered her common sense, she looked at the slope in front of her and saw the marks of Geraden’s descent. They went straight into a thick clump of brush poised above the streambed.

She figured out what was happening just in time to control her surprise as Geraden sprang out of the brush at his brother.

His elevation and proximity gave him an advantage: he could hardly have missed. And he jumped hard. His momentum carried Nyle out of the saddle and plunged both of them into the snow on the far side of the horse with a sound that made Terisa think of snapped arms and broken backs.

She started down the slope, a shout locked in her throat.

Geraden’s experience with falls stood him in good stead. He was on his feet again almost instantly. Scattering flurries of snow, he dashed after the startled horse and struck the beast on its rump, sending it away at a gallop, out of reach. Then he turned back to his brother.

Nyle lifted his head. For a moment, he didn’t appear to realize that he was blind because his face was caked with snow. When he scraped his features clear, however, he was able to see.

“Are you all right?” asked Geraden. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to stop you.”

Blinking fiercely, Nyle shook his head. In a series of jerks, he moved each of his arms, then his legs. He slapped snow off his half-cloak. All at once, he yanked himself to his feet like a knife blade opening.

“If you think this is a joke,” he said between his teeth, “it isn’t funny.”

Terisa’s exhausted legs nearly failed her; she stumbled and had to catch herself on a tree. But she was almost there.

“It isn’t a joke.” Geraden was so caked and white that he looked like he had been rolled together by children. Nevertheless there was nothing childlike in his manner. “I’m not going to let you do it.”

Terisa reached the streambed and skittered across the frozen surface toward the two brothers.

“Do what?” snapped Nyle. “You’ve lost your mind. I was just riding. On a horse. Remember horses? You act like that’s a crime against humanity.”

“Nyle.” Geraden held himself still. Even his voice became still. “I heard you. I was there.” He included Terisa. “We were there. We heard everything you said. And Prince Kragen.”

For just a second, Nyle gaped at his brother. He gaped at Terisa.

Mutely, she nodded in confirmation.

He straightened his shoulders, and anger closed his face like a shutter.

“So you’ve decided to stop me. Full of moral superiority, you’ve decided to stop me because you cling to the astonishing belief that King Joyse and chaos and terrible Imagery and a fresh start to the wars that crippled Mordant for generations are somehow preferable to putting the Perdon on the throne and saving the entire kingdom. You—”

“No.” Geraden shook his head, suppressing violence. “It won’t work. The Perdon will never accept Prince Kragen’s offer – he knows that. He’s sending you to do this to confuse the issue, so the Perdon won’t have a chance to fight for Orison when Alend attacks.”

“You’re wrong, Geraden.” Terisa was surprised to hear herself speak. Her voice was like a small animal huddling against the cold and barely alive. “I’m sorry. I’ve met the Perdon. I’ve seen him and Prince Kragen together. He’s desperate. He won’t turn the Prince down.”

Geraden gave her a quick look of dismay; but Nyle didn’t glance away from his brother. “Even if that’s not true,” he resumed, “you’re acting like a child. Prince Kragen is right. The Alend Monarch is right. The worst thing that can happen to us is for High King Festten to get his hands on the Congery.

“We’re already being torn apart by an Imager no one can find or stop. Cadwal will be able to decimate everything west of the Vertigon if the Congery falls. On our mother’s grave, Geraden, we ought to beg Margonal to invade us.

“Instead of interfering, why don’t you figure out what you’re going to say to all the families who are going to be butchered – all the children who are going to be bereaved – all the men and women who are going to be maimed and massacred when King Joyse finally collapses and no power strong enough to hold the realm together takes his place?

“In the meantime, get out of my way.”

Thrusting between Geraden and Terisa, he stamped off after his horse.

The dismay on Geraden’s face got worse. For a moment, he seemed unable to move. Confused and alarmed, Terisa reached out a hand to him. “Geraden?”

Abruptly, his features knotted, and he swung into motion.

Chasing Nyle, he yelled, “That’s great! Wonderful! You’re right, of course. You’re being perfectly reasonable. Our father is going to be very proud of you.”

Nyle flinched, but kept on walking.

“There’s just one thing. What about loyalty? King Joyse is our father’s friend. What about self-respect? You’re betraying your King, the man who made Mordant and peace out of nothing but bloodshed. How are you planning to live the rest of your life without loyalty or self-respect?”

“Loyalty to whom?” Though Nyle’s stride didn’t falter, his shout was like a cry. “King Joyse? When was he ever loyal to me?

“He met all of us. He must have seen me dying for his notice, his approval. But you’re the one he invited to Orison. When he decided to betroth Elega, he chose you. And a brilliant choice it was, too. You’ve certainly vindicated his good judgment, haven’t you? Forgive me, but I find it a little difficult to feel warm and sentimental about that man.

“And he’s going to get us all killed!” Small pieces of his distress echoed back from the tree trunks. “Don’t you understand that? How much self-respect are you going to get out of giving your life for a man who sacrificed you simply because he couldn’t be bothered to hold his realm together? If you want to talk about self-respect, ask yourself why you place so little value on your own blood. I won’t even mention the blood of all the people you claim to care about.”

“Then why—”

Geraden caught up with Nyle and grabbed his arm. Nyle flung off Geraden’s grip. The two brothers faced each other, their breath steaming furiously.

“Then why,” Geraden repeated, “are you so angry about it?” He was no longer shouting. His voice sank to a whisper. “You’re doing what you know is right. Doesn’t that make you feel good? And you’re doing what Elega wants. She’ll love you for it. She won’t be able to help herself. Doesn’t that make you feel good?”

“No.” Like Geraden, Nyle lowered his voice as if he didn’t want the trees or the snow to hear him. “No, it doesn’t.” Each word hurt. “That’s how I got into this, but it doesn’t help. She doesn’t love me. She’ll never love me. She loves Prince Kragen.”

All around him, the wood was silent. The only noise came from Terisa’s boots as she neared the brothers. The sunlight out of the leaden sky seemed to have no weight, no effect against the cold.

Geraden spread his hands in a gesture of appeal. “Then give it up. Please. This is all craziness anyway. There’s no way the Alend Monarch can take Orison without a terrible siege – without killing any number of people. I don’t care what Prince Kragen says. The Tor and Castellan Lebbick won’t give up. The only lives you’re going to save are Alend’s, not ours. Don’t throw yourself away for a woman who wants to betray her own father.”

Terisa saw at once that Geraden had made a mistake. He should have left Nyle’s grief to gnaw at him unaided – shouldn’t have mentioned Elega again. But it was too late now: the damage was done. As if the bones of his skull were shifting, Nyle’s face took on the implacable set that had persuaded Prince Kragen to trust him. His eyes were as dull as weathered stone.

“If you want my advice” – he had a white-knuckled grip on himself – “go home while you can. And take Artagel with you. He isn’t going to enjoy losing his famous independence.”

“Nyle,” Geraden protested.

Nyle glanced over his shoulder. “I see my horse. He’ll let me catch him – if you haven’t spooked him too badly.” He returned his gaze to Geraden’s. “You’re going to stay here while I go get him. Then I’m going to ride away. If your mind is as weak as your talent for Imagery, you’ll go back to Orison and tell Lebbick the whole story. It won’t do him any good, but at least he’ll have something to fret about for a few days. But if you have any sense, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

Softly, Geraden replied, “No.” Clogged with snow, he looked white and foolish beside his dark-clad brother. Pain came from him in gouts of vapor, but his voice and his eyes and his hands were steady. “No, Nyle. I won’t let you go.”

Briefly, Nyle’s features twisted as though he were trying to smile. Then his shoulders and arms relaxed. “I guess I knew you were going to say that.” He made an unsuccessful effort to sound casual. “You always were pretty stubborn.”

Terisa struggled to give warning, but her voice failed her. As if she were helpless, she watched Nyle start into a full-circle spin which seemed to lift him off the ground, out of the snow, bringing one of his boots to Geraden’s head.

His kick slammed his brother down.

For a moment, Geraden arched his back and clawed at the crust. Then he lay still as if his neck were broken.

Quickly, Nyle bent to examine his brother.

When he was satisfied, he swung to face Terisa. Now he couldn’t contain his fury. His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically at his sides. The muscles of his jaw worked.

“Take care of him. If you let him die out here, I’ll come back and throttle you with my bare hands.”

He headed for his horse at a run, as though there were hounds at his heels.

She never saw him go. Her hands were too cold; she couldn’t find any sensation in her fingers. She was weeping with fear and frustration when she finally located the pulse in Geraden’s throat and understood that he wasn’t dead already.

***

A long time seemed to pass before she noticed that her surroundings looked familiar.

Through the black-trunked trees, she saw a ridge of hills. She had seen it earlier without paying any attention to it, but now its crisp line against the wintery sky tugged at her memory. Where—? It had been slightly different. What was different? The snow. The snow was different. She remembered dry, light flakes frothing like steam, churned to boiling by the haste of horses. She remembered the creaking of leather, the jangle of tack. And she remembered—

She remembered horns.

Her dream. This place was in her dream, the dream that had come to her the night before her life changed – come as if to prepare her for Geraden’s arrival. The trees and the cold were the same. The ridge was the same. And Geraden was here, the young man in her dream who had appeared, coatless and unarmed, to save her life. All she lacked were three riders who hated her and drove their mounts through the snow for a chance to strike her dead. And the sound of horns, reaching her through the chill and the wood like the call for which her heart waited.

She didn’t hear any horns. Though she yearned and strained for it, she couldn’t conjure that hunting music out of her mind and into the air.

Nevertheless she heard the labor of horses in the distance, crashing through the snow crust. The cold brought every sound off the ridge into the wood, as edged as a shard of glass.

The sensation that she had wandered into her dream made everything distinct and slow: she had time to see clearly, time to hear every sound except the horns she desired. There they were, where she knew they would be: three men on horseback charging along the skirt of the ridge. She saw them through the wide gaps between the trees. She saw steam trailing furiously from the nostrils of the mounts. Each plunge of their hooves, each crunch-and-thud through ice and snow reached her ears.

Unheralded by the high, winging call that would have made the dream complete, the three riders swung abruptly away from the hills and aimed their mounts in her direction.

She was watching them so hard that she didn’t realize Geraden was conscious until he gained his feet beside her, rubbing his head.

Caught up in the double experience of what was happening and what she had dreamed, she was unable to speak, unable to shift her concentration from the riders. Like hers, however, his attention was on them. “You recognize them?” His voice was dull with the aftereffects of his brother’s blow.

The riders were still too far away to be recognized, although she already knew the look of their hate. She shook her head.

“They’re probably after you.” He didn’t need to speak quickly; there was no hurry, he had plenty of time. “It wouldn’t be impossible for somebody to find us. If they asked the right questions at the stables and the gates. And they met that wagon driver.” He turned away, then back again. “There’s no point in trying to run. Our horses are too far away.”

Swords appeared in the hands of the riders – blades as long as sabers, but viciously curved, like scimitars. They were going to hack her into the snow where she stood. She ought to move. She and Geraden ought to do something. At the moment, however, she was more interested in the odd recollection that the swords raised against her in her dream had been straight, not curved.

Geraden seemed equally out of touch with reality. He was too calm. For some reason he chose this moment to kick at lumps in the snow. Then his behavior began to make sense. From the snow, he uncovered fallen branches. They were crooked and dead; but two of them were stout, as thick as her arm, long enough to be useful.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it happened in her dream.

But there was still plenty of time. He gave one branch to her, kept one for himself.

“When they reach that tree” – he pointed – “we’ll separate. If they split up, we might have a better chance against them. If they don’t, I’ll be able to hit them from the side when they attack you.”

She had the impression that if she really looked at him, she would see that he was terrified. Yet her ears insisted on hearing him as if he were calm.

“Don’t worry about the riders. Go for the horses. Try to hit one of them in the face. If we get lucky, the rider will fall and hurt himself.”

She didn’t respond. Her attention was on the riders while she waited to hear horns.

Then their faces came into focus for her, and she saw that she was wrong about them. They weren’t the riders in her dream.

They weren’t men at all.

They had eyes in the wrong places. Long whiskers sprouted around the orbs. Snouts hid their mouths, but not their tusks. She was able to see their heads because the hoods of their riding capes had been swept back. Their heads were covered with mottled red fur.

They seemed to have more limbs than they needed. Each of them seemed to be waving two swords.

No. It wasn’t like this.

Nevertheless the sensation that she was acting out a dream grew stronger.

She remained motionless, waiting. The air was whetted with cold, as hard as a slap and as penetrating as splinters. She could hear the separate sound made by each pounding hoof.

When the riders reached the tree Geraden had indicated, he hissed, “Now!” and dashed away as if he had decided at the last moment to flee. He ran kicking his feet high to break them free of the icy surface. But she didn’t move.

Without hesitation, all three of the riders turned their mounts and plunged after him. None of their strange eyes so much as glanced at her.

Out of nowhere, a pang of fear nailed her.

Geraden? Geraden?

So suddenly that he nearly fell, he turned and saw his danger. He flung a look like a cry in her direction, then raised his club. The riders were almost on top of him.

Gripping his branch in both hands, he broke it across the forehead of the first horse.

The mount squealed in pain, tried too late to leap aside. Wrenched off balance, the rider spilled into the snow in front of the second attacker.

Frantically trying to avoid a collision, the second horse and rider went down.

Geraden hit the downed rider with the remains of his club, then dodged around the struggling horse to evade his third attacker – and tripped. He landed on his face in an untrampled patch of snow.

As he fell, the first rider hacked at him from the ground. But the crusted snow hampered movement: the blow missed. Geraden and his attacker struggled to their feet at the same time, while the third rider turned to come in for another charge.

Awkwardly, Geraden stumbled out of reach long enough to snatch up a sword from the rider he had stunned. He obviously didn’t know how to use it, however. Clenching it like a bludgeon, he turned to face his attacker.

The creature let out a snort of scorn and started swinging.

Geraden blocked the first cut.

He was helpless to parry the second.

In her dream, Terisa had watched a man hazard his life to save her. Despite his evident lack of experience with weapons, he had downed one assailant for her sake. Then another. And she had watched. Nothing more. She had seen the third rider come up behind him. Sword held high, the rider had positioned himself to cut her rescuer down. And she had made no effort to help him. She had startled herself out of the dream altogether by shouting a warning.

But it was Geraden who was being attacked, Geraden who needed rescuing. And she still had the branch he had given her. She felt that she had been running for a long time, that the distance was too great, she would never reach him in time; but she ran harder than she had ever run in her life, and before his attacker could kill him she swung her club against the side of that furred head.

Several things seemed to be happening simultaneously. Nevertheless she saw them all.

She saw a flat patch appear in the mottled red fur. While the attacker stumbled to his knees, the patch began to bleed, first slowly, then in a sickening gush. He hit the snow, and his life splashed a red-black stain across the crust. He was never going to move again.

Geraden gaped at her, momentarily astonished.

At the same time, she saw the third rider come up behind him. Swords held high, the rider positioned himself to cut Geraden down.

Geraden was looking at her. He had forgotten the third rider entirely.

There was no time for warning, no time for her to move, no time for him to duck or dodge.

Yet there was time for her to see another horseman reach the creature and drive a long poniard like a spike into the center of his back. She saw him cough blood onto Geraden’s shoulders and pitch from his horse, almost knocking Geraden down as he dropped.

Nyle hauled his mount to a stop and sprang out of the saddle. “Are you all right?” Without waiting for an answer, he began to check the fallen riders. “Where did you get enemies like this?” When he found that the first attacker was still alive, he produced a length of rope from one of his saddlebags and lashed the creature’s wrists and ankles together. “I saw them heading this way. Since they were in such a hurry to get to the place where I just left you, I decided I ought to follow them.”

Geraden and Terisa stared at him as if he had arrived from the moon.

“Are you all right?” he repeated. There was concern in his eyes; but there was also a glint of humor, a suggestion of pride; for a moment he looked so much like Artagel and Geraden that the resemblance closed Terisa’s throat. “I get the impression you aren’t used to fighting enemies like this.”

“Thank you,” said Geraden as if he felt the same way she did. A nauseated expression distorted his features. With a shudder of disgust, he dropped the sword he was holding. “Thanks for coming back.”

In the same motion, he picked up another sturdy branch and knocked his brother unconscious in front of him.

Then he stood hunched over Nyle with his chin thrust out and his face like the winter, breathing in great gasps that seemed to hurt his chest.

Terisa strained her ears for the distant calling of horns. But it was all in her mind.

TWENTY-TWO: QUESTIONS ABOUT BEING BESIEGED

Eventually, Terisa and Geraden were found by a squad of Castellan Lebbick’s guards.

By that time, both Nyle and the attacker were conscious. Nyle wasn’t particularly amused to discover that he was trussed with his own rope; but after a few minutes of bitter cursing – which did nothing to warm the bleak cold of Geraden’s expression – he lapsed into silence.

The attacker snarled periodically and twisted his strange features. He didn’t waste his strength on futile efforts to break his bonds, however.

The guards brought Geraden’s mare and Terisa’s gelding along with enough of their rough brandy to push the worst of the chill back from her vitals – and enough questions to make her ache for sleep. Fortunately, Geraden took charge before anyone – perhaps including the Apt himself – realized what he was doing; he quickly established that the guards’ questions were less important than the need to join the men on Argus’ trail, pursuing Prince Kragen.

All Terisa wanted was to get out of this weather and lie down somewhere warm, where it might be possible to forget the way that flat patch in the mottled red fur had begun to gush blood – or the way Geraden had struck Nyle down. Chasing after Argus and the Prince would only prolong her misery.

But at least no one had time to insist on questions.

Although she had promised she would never ride again, she soon found herself mounted on the gelding. Ignoring the reins, she clung to the saddle horn and went wherever her horse took her.

Once Nyle and Geraden’s attacker had been secured on their own beasts, and the guards were mounted again, her horse took her with everyone else back the way they had come.

Eager for more speed, Geraden surged ahead.

“Relax,” one of the guards advised him. “There are already at least a dozen men on that trail. They’ll catch him. It won’t happen any sooner just because you’re in a hurry.”

Terisa caught the look Geraden flashed at the guard. It was wild and sick; and she understood almost automatically why he wanted to go faster. He didn’t want to help capture Prince Kragen. He wanted to get away from what he had done to his brother.

Instinctively, she straightened her back and tried to improve her balance, as if that would enable the gelding and all the horses to go faster.

The guards swung east and didn’t cross the stream until a fold in the south wall provided them access to those hills. Their route back to the southern ravine was circuitous, but quicker than walking – and much quicker than getting lost, as Terisa would have done if she had tried to find her own way. Still, it took long enough to make her numb. She was blind to herself, and the passing of the dark tree trunks on either side, and the tight mood of the riders around her as they reached the joining of the streambeds where Ribuld had ridden south to rouse Orison and Argus had gone west after Prince Kragen – blind enough to be surprised by the fact that the valley was full of guards.

Although they were mounted, they didn’t appear to be doing anything except waiting.

All their eyes were on Geraden and her. None of them spoke.

Ribuld sat erect on his horse with his head high, brandishing his scar as though he were about to let out a yell.

Involuntarily, Geraden jerked his mare to a halt. The men with him stopped. Terisa’s gelding blundered against the mare’s rump and stopped also.

“What is it? Why aren’t—?” Geraden’s voice caught.

Near Ribuld stood a horse without a rider. But not without a burden: the man on its back hung from his stomach; his wrists and ankles had been tied to the girth so that he wouldn’t fall. His back was wet. Blinking stupidly, Terisa recognized Argus’ stallion before she recognized Argus himself.

“I’m sorry,” a guard with a captain’s purple band knotted around his bicep rasped. “I know he was a friend of yours.”

“What—?” Geraden tried again, but couldn’t make the words come out. “What—?”

The captain was a stocky, middle-aged man with a face that suggested more decency than imagination. “We found him about a mile down the ravine. I guess he wasn’t careful enough. There wasn’t even a struggle. He was just there on the ground with a hole in his back. Probably made by an arrow.”

The captain spat a curse into the snow, then continued, “After that, the trail gets confused. When that Alend butcher found out he was being followed, he knew what to do. He and his men did a good job of it, I’ll give them that. I’ve got my best trackers working on it, but I think it’s hopeless. By the time we locate his trail, he’ll hit a road or a stream and disappear.”

Geraden wasn’t listening. He stared at the body hanging from the stallion. Terisa could see the contours of his face aging. “Argus,” he said thickly. “I got you killed.”

“Very good,” Nyle snarled at him. “This is wonderful. Now you’ve got the worst of both sides. Without Prince Kragen, you can’t stop Margonal’s army. But you insisted on stopping me. This way, the Alend Monarch won’t have any choice. After he breaks Orison, he’ll have to keep it for himself.”

Geraden flinched; but he didn’t answer his brother. Kicking his horse into motion, he went to face Ribuld.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. I should have sent you with him.”

Ribuld lowered his head. For a moment, Terisa feared he was going to strike Geraden; he looked savage enough for that. Without thinking, she urged her mount after Geraden so she would be near him.

“Nyle is right,” Geraden went on. “I should have let him go. We should have concentrated on catching the Prince.”

Ribuld clenched his fists. “Do I look like the kind of man who takes orders from an inexperienced puppy?” he growled. “I thought he was smart enough to watch his back.”

Geraden bowed his head and couldn’t speak.

The only sounds in the valley were the stamping of the horses, the jangle of tack. Then one of the guards pointed at the bound creature and asked in dismay, “What kind of thing is that?”

The Apt turned. Terisa could hardly recognize him: he appeared more dangerous than Artagel had ever been.

“I intend to find out.”

“Come on, men,” the captain ordered. “The Castellan is going to shit brass when he hears about this. The longer we make him wait, the worse it’s going to get. Form up.”

He spent a moment arranging more support for the trackers, assigning men to carry messages. Around the streambed, the guards pulled into formation. Terisa found herself beside Geraden between two files of riders who, among other things, clearly wanted to know what she was doing there.

She glanced back at Nyle; his face was closed and locked. Any resemblance between him and his brother had been struck away by Geraden’s blow.

Her attacker had eyes in the wrong places, surrounded by long whiskers; he had a snout and tusks. But she didn’t notice those things. Instead, she saw blood seeping to a rush out of mottled red fur, blood and death spilling to the white snow.

She was hardly aware of the way her seat and legs hurt as the gelding lumbered into a trot to keep up with the rest of the horses.

***

The ride back to Orison was cold and gloomy; it might as well have been interminable. Terisa lost track of herself and didn’t regain her bearings until she realized that the host of red-furred riders waving scimitars that swept toward her every time she turned her head was just a hallucination, the product of too much gray sunlight glaring deceptively off too much snow. Orison wasn’t as far away as her physical condition seemed to indicate, however. Eventually, the riders entered the courtyard of the castle and stopped.

Sliding off her mount’s back, she planted her feet in the churned mud and stood on her own, trembling.

The guards dismounted. For a moment, she was surrounded by confusion – men moving here and there, muttering to each other. For reasons of their own, more men came out of Orison, hurrying in groups. The whole courtyard appeared full of guards who ran in one direction or another. Peasants or merchants pushed wagons about. She didn’t know what to do with her horse. There was warmth nearby now: it was somewhere in the high walls looming around her. She couldn’t imagine how to get to it.

Then the captain barked an order. His squad sorted out its disarray, came to attention.

Castellan Lebbick strode toward them.

Disdaining winter gear, he wore only his characteristic mail and leather, with his purple sash draped diagonally down his chest and his purple band knotted above his eyebrows. Cold steamed off his skin, but he didn’t appear to notice it: he had enough fire inside to keep him warm. Though he was shorter than Terisa, he dominated her and the men and even the horses as if he were much taller. Ire glinted in his eyes.

Brusquely, he returned the captain’s salute, but didn’t speak. Instead, he surveyed the men before him. When he spotted Ribuld with Argus’ body, he went abruptly in that direction.

Geraden put a hand on Terisa’s arm as if to steady or comfort her. But his expression was too harsh to be convincing.

Rigid with silence, the guards waited as Castellan Lebbick thrust among them to Argus’ side. Roughly, he clenched a fist in Argus’ hair and lifted the dead man’s head as if to check his face, verify his identity. The look the Castellan gave Ribuld was enough to make the veteran turn away.

Lebbick aimed a glare at Nyle’s sealed belligerence. Then he considered the inhuman attacker. For a moment, the two measured each other across the gulf of their antagonism and strangeness. Without turning his head, he demanded unexpectedly, “Is this his horse?”

“Yes,” answered Geraden between his teeth. “There were three of them. One was killed. Terisa and I would have died, but Nyle killed the other.”

The Castellan, however, wasn’t interested in how many red-furred creatures had been killed. “This horse?” he insisted. “This tack?”

“Yes.”

Castellan Lebbick moved toward Geraden. In a soft voice, hardly louder than a whisper, which nevertheless sounded like it could be heard on the highest ramparts, he said, “I don’t like losing men. Do you understand me, boy? I don’t like it.”

Geraden didn’t try to respond. In any case, the Castellan turned away without waiting for a reply. To the captain he snapped, “Put Nyle and that monster of Imagery in the dungeon. I’ll see you, Geraden, and” – he sneered her name – “the lady Terisa of Morgan in the south guardroom.”

Trailing wisps of vapor from his shoulders, he stalked away.

“The dungeon,” Geraden groaned to himself. He put his hands over his face. “Oh, Nyle. What am I doing to you?”

Nyle raised his voice sharply. “Don’t worry about it, little brother. This isn’t any different than what you’ve done with the rest of your life. And Lebbick probably hasn’t had anybody to torture for a long time. For him, this will be more fun than a carouse.”

Geraden’s shoulders tightened. Terisa stared at Nyle numbly. But it was Ribuld who spoke.

“I advise you to keep your mouth shut.” He tried to sound casual in spite of the way his voice shook. “Nobody cares what happens to you. If you weren’t a son of the Domne – and if your brothers weren’t so much better men than you are – we would have let you ride off and make a shitass of yourself in front of the Perdon. You talk about fun.”

“Ribuld,” warned the captain, “that’s enough.”

But Ribuld couldn’t stop. “I’m sure the Perdon would have thought it was fun to be offered the kingship of Mordant” – he was ventilating a vicious grief – “if we captured that fornicating Prince, and the whole Alend army was helpless against us. Geraden did you a favor.”

Nyle avoided the guard’s gaze.

“Argus did you a favor, you rotten—”

“Ribuld!” The captain’s voice cut like a whip. “I said, that’s enough.”

Ribuld rolled the whites of his eyes, glaring like a wounded predator. His scar flamed with blood. Nevertheless the captain’s command caught and held him. He turned his back on Nyle, began untying Argus’ wrists.

“He doesn’t have any family. Somebody has to bury him.”

Lifting the body in his arms, he carried his friend away, out of the courtyard.

Terisa feared that if she didn’t get inside soon she would begin to cry.

Dourly, the captain issued instructions to his men. Nyle and Geraden’s attacker were escorted rather ungently in the direction of the dungeon. The remaining guards took charge of the horses while the captain himself guided Geraden and Terisa toward the south guardroom.

She seemed to have no sensation left in her. What was going on made no sense, and she was afraid of the Castellan. How had she survived being so cold? It was probably a lie that there was warmth in Orison. She was afraid of Castellan Lebbick because of his relentless anger. Or was it because she had lied to him?

When had she lied to him? How many times? She had killed one of Geraden’s attackers, and all these falsehoods were going to destroy her.

In spite of lies and cold, however, a door opened and closed, and suddenly something blissful touched her face. She was inside the castle; she was still cold, frozen almost to the marrow, carrying her misery with her like a cocoon of ice; but the air was warm, warm. She could breathe it. She could stretch out her fingers to it. She tried to clear her throat, and a snuffling noise like a sob emerged.

“Here.” Geraden stopped her and undid the front of her coat to let more warmth reach her. “You aren’t used to this.” He took her hands and slapped them, firmly but not too hard, then rubbed her wrists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were feeling it so much.”

She began to shiver again.

He put his arm around her and helped her toward the guardroom.

It proved to be a low hall with a bare stone floor and all its walls unadorned except one, which supported a large slate chalkboard. Most of the space was taken up by rows of wooden benches facing the chalkboard: apparently, this was where Castellan Lebbick explained their orders to his captains and men. The warmth was stronger here; it made her shivering worse.

The Castellan arrived a moment after she entered the guardroom. Slamming the door behind him, he confronted her and Geraden. For some reason, she noticed his hands were curled. At first, she thought that was because he was angry. Then she realized he had spent so much of his life with a heavy sword in his grasp that he could no longer completely straighten his fingers.

He was looking at her closely, and something strange happened in his face. His expression softened; his constant, simmering rage let go of his features.

As abruptly as he had entered the guardroom, he left again.

Mystified, she and Geraden turned to the captain. He shrugged and tried to keep his own surprise from showing.

They waited. Geraden glowered at the ceiling. Terisa shivered.

When Castellan Lebbick returned, he was followed by a maid carrying a tray. There were three brass goblets on the tray. Whatever was in them gave off a sweet, heavy steam.

“Mulled wine,” he announced without quite meeting anyone’s stare. His manner suggested that he was ashamed of himself. “You look like you could use it.”

The maid delivered the goblets to Terisa, Geraden, and the captain, then withdrew.

Straining to conceal his surprise, the captain emptied his goblet with unceremonious haste. Then he gaped into it as though he were fervid for more wine to occupy his attention until someone else spoke.

Geraden looked at his drink suspiciously, as if he were wondering if it was drugged.

Terisa couldn’t wait for him to make up his mind. Wrapping her hands around the heat of the metal, she sipped at the dark liquid as though she were sampling nectar.

Mulled wine. She sipped some more. She had never had mulled wine. In fact, she had never had hot wine before. It was lovely. She drank a large swallow. It ran down into her, as delicate as the guards’ brandy was rough; and it tightened her shivering into a knot and then released it, so that all the strain seemed to flow suddenly out of her muscles. She was warm again, warm in places that had given up hope. Mulled wine. Her goblet didn’t hold enough, but she drank what there was down to the last drop.

In sudden resolution, Geraden tossed down several swallows too quickly, with the result that he inhaled some of the spiced liquid and went into a spasm of gagging and coughing. Trying to help, the captain pounded him discreetly between the shoulder-blades.

“Thank you,” Terisa said to Castellan Lebbick as she lowered the goblet. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me.” The Castellan sounded bitter, but his expression was still soft and ashamed. “You should be more like Geraden. He thinks I put something in it to make you talk.”

She sighed – and was relieved to hear no quaver or catch in her breathing. “That’s all right. You didn’t bring it for him. You brought it for me. I’m grateful.”

Scowling, Castellan Lebbick turned to the captain.

“Your report?”

Back on familiar ground, the captain regained his poise. Without wasting time, he conveyed what he knew, described what he had done, and pointed out – rather unnecessarily – that he himself still had no idea what had happened to Geraden and the lady Terisa after Ribuld had left them.

The Castellan absorbed the details, nodded once. “All right. Muster a squad. Send them back where your men found Geraden and her. I want them to backtrack those three creatures. As far as possible. I want to know where they came from. I want to know how creatures of Imagery happened to be mounted on horses and saddles like that.

“While you’re at it, set up supplies and relays for your trackers. Prince Kragen isn’t going to make any mistakes – but if he does, I want him to pay for them.

“And,” he concluded, “find me a falconer. I want to know more about these” – he snarled the words, glancing at Terisa – “carrier pigeons.”

The captain saluted. With an unmistakable air of relief, he left the guardroom.

For a long time, Castellan Lebbick didn’t say anything. Initially, he didn’t look at Terisa and Geraden: he acted like a man lost in thought. Then he began to study them carefully, scrutinizing each of them in turn while his choler mounted. He seemed to be waiting for one of them to speak first, to blurt out something he could use. Or he might have been giving himself a chance to recover from his unaccustomed charity.

The expression with which Geraden met the Castellan’s scrutiny wasn’t belligerent, but it was tight and wary, and he didn’t open his mouth.

For her part, Terisa had nothing to say. The hate in the strange faces of her attackers held her.

Finally, the Castellan pulled up a chair for himself and sat down, folding his arms on his chest. His manner didn’t invite Terisa and Geraden to do the same. “So,” he said. His gaze was aimed somewhere between them, ready to strike in either direction. “Again something strange happens, and again the lady Terisa of Morgan is involved.” He articulated each word with hard-edge consonants and blunt vowels, so that it had an almost tangible impact. “This time, at least one mystery is solved. I don’t know who she’s plotting with. I don’t know why. But finally I know how.”

“Plotting?” Geraden was immediately incensed. “Terisa? What are you talking about?”

Castellan Lebbick looked at the Apt. A baleful light was growing in his eyes. “I’m talking about carrier pigeons.”

“But that’s crazy! She doesn’t have any pigeons. Where would she keep them?”

“Perhaps they bring messages to her first and carry her answers back. Then all she has to do is open her window to hatch treachery with anyone in the world.”

“No,” Geraden insisted. “No, that’s still crazy. They would still have to be trained. When has she had a chance to do that?”

“We don’t know how much training they need.” Lebbick’s face had been forged out of iron and extremity. He seemed deaf to the impossibility of what he was saying. “But that’s really unimportant. Didn’t she come here out of a mirror? A mirror that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her? She’s an Imager of some kind.” His tone slapped down contradiction. “How do you know how much chance she’s had? For all you know, she’s already spent years here secretly, getting ready to betray King Joyse.”

Terisa shook her head. “You don’t understand.” She couldn’t take Lebbick’s charge personally. It was too loony. And she was too tired. “Carrier pigeons only work one way. You take them away from home, and they fly back. That’s all. Prince Kragen can send messages to his father. He can’t receive them.” Then she stopped because the effort of explaining to him that he ought to concentrate on Elega was beyond her.

“You see?” demanded Geraden. “It’s crazy. The Alend Monarch is marching an army through Armigite right now, and you’re wasting your time on impossible accusations. We’re going to be besieged. Don’t you understand that?”

For just a moment, the muscles in Castellan Lebbick’s neck corded, and his arms clamped hard across his chest. He was at the edge of his self-control. Nevertheless he shifted his glare deliberately to Terisa, as if Geraden hadn’t spoken.

“A falconer may be able to tell me whether you’re telling the truth. If you are, I’ll have to assume that your pigeons are being kept for you by an ally here in Orison.”

Geraden threw up his hands, but the Castellan ignored him. “How do you communicate with an ally, when you’re reasonably well watched by my men? Through the secret passage in your wardrobe. A child could do it.

“But let that pass for now. In the meantime, my lady, why don’t you tell me how you happened to know Nyle was going to meet with Prince Kragen this morning?”

Terisa blinked at him, her heart suddenly quailing.

“For someone as innocent as you are, I call it remarkable that you managed to be in just the right place to spy on that meeting. May I take it as proven that the people you’re plotting with aren’t Alend? Or are you exposing your own allies to conceal your real plans?”

Worn down by exposure and lulled by wine, she couldn’t meet his eyes. Maybe she was as guilty as he thought. That seemed possible. She understood the secret of recrimination: it was deserved because it was received; accusations instilled the sense of guilt that justified them. Because the Castellan looked at her so harshly, spoke to her so bitterly, she deserved it. She had no defense.

But Geraden was already speaking for her.

“Listen to me.” His voice lacked Lebbick’s clenched and whetted capacity for violence. “I’m going to explain a few things to you.” Yet he made the Castellan heed him.

“The first day of the thaw, Terisa and I went out to the bazaar with the lady Elega. You know that.” And the more he spoke the more he seemed to push back the pall that Castellan Lebbick had cast over her. “While we were there, we saw a mountebank. Terisa recognized him. He was Prince Kragen.”

Terisa felt rather than saw the Castellan’s gaze shift to Geraden.

“Purely by chance,” the Apt went on, “she happened to see the mountebank and Nyle” – he said the name as if it didn’t hurt him – “come out from behind a tent as if they’d just had a private conversation. That was before Gart attacked her.

“I decided the best way to find out what was going on was to have Nyle followed. So I asked the Tor to get Argus and Ribuld released from their duties, and I put them to work on Nyle’s trail.”

Lebbick’s jaw jutted ominously.

“It’s that simple.” Geraden stood his ground as though he were the Castellan’s equal in courage and determination. “She isn’t plotting with anyone. If she were using carrier pigeons herself, it would be incredibly stupid of her to let us know she knew anything about them.”

Terisa hung her head and kept quiet.

“Very interesting, boy.” Lebbick’s tone was like the thrust of a dagger. “She told you what she saw, and you decided what to do about it. But I’m the Castellan of Orison. Defending the King from all enemies is my job. If there’s any danger in the Demesne or Orison, I need to know it.” He was a coiled spring, tightened to the point of outbreak. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because, good Castellan,” a familiar voice rumbled, “you are prone to excess.”

Terisa looked up in surprise as the Tor entered the guardroom.

He seemed to be in an affable mood – a bit unsteady on his feet, perhaps, but full of good will. He came into the room wearing a fleshy smile that appeared to have nothing behind it except more fat. The way he walked suggested that he had filled every cavern and crevice of his bulk with wine before venturing out of the King’s suite.

“My lord Tor,” said Castellan Lebbick between his teeth. He didn’t get up. “I’m surprised you trouble to join us. Today would be a good day for men with nothing better to do to stay in bed.”

“Ah, true,” replied the lord amiably. “Very true. It is my extreme misfortune that there is a voice which brings me the news of this stone pile – brings me the news implacably. Its custom is to whisper, but the closer I drowse toward sleep, the louder it shouts. This morning I thought it imaginable that King Joyse himself would awaken.

“Alas,” he went on, “the King seems unlikely to take an interest in the great events of the day. Therefore the burden falls to his chancellor.”

Lumbering forward to the nearest bench, he seated himself with a sigh. The stout plank groaned under him.

“That’s very diligent of you, my lord Tor,” grated Lebbick. “It also happens to be unnecessary. I’m perfectly capable of handling ‘the great events of the day’ myself.”

“Certainly you are.” The Tor was like a lump of pastry dough, impervious to sarcasm – and immune to argument. “Doubtless you understand sieges as well as most men understand their wives. I am sure you will do everything that must be done to prepare for the coming of the Alend Monarch. Nevertheless, good Castellan, I must point out” – he sounded kindly, almost avuncular – “that if the matter had been left to you, you would still be unaware of Margonal’s approach. As I say, you are prone to excess.”

Castellan Lebbick’s eyes bulged slightly in their sockets. “In what way, my lord?”

The Tor spread his plump hands. “Suppose young Geraden had come to you with his suspicions of his brother? What would you have done? Why, you would have arrested Nyle, of course. Instead of following him to his assignation and overhearing his plans, you would have tried to take those plans from him by persuasion or force. And if he had resisted both persuasion and force—” The lord rolled his thick shoulders.

“Or suppose again that young Geraden had given you his reasons for suspecting his brother? Suppose he had mentioned that hints dropped by the King’s daughter Elega led the lady Terisa to suspect that she was involved with Prince Kragen?” Now the lord was no longer pastry dough talking. His voice became like the grinding of heavy stones against each other. “Suppose he had revealed that the guards Argus and Ribuld were following Elega – that in fact they had no other reason for being near enough to save Artagel’s life when the High King’s Monomach assailed the lady Terisa?” His hands lay limp on his fat thighs, but his eyes grew harder. “Suppose he had informed you that the lady Terisa had rejected Elega’s effort to win her support for the Prince – and that, forewarned by this rejection, Elega had made herself fruitless for Argus and Ribuld to trail? What would you have done then, good Castellan?

“Would you have raised a cry against her?” At last he was not an obese old drunk: he was the lord of the Care of Tor, King Joyse’s first ally in the campaign that had created Mordant. “Would you have sent men to arrest her so that she could be hailed before her father and publicly accused of treason?”

The Castellan’s face was dark with blood, but he didn’t unclose his teeth. “It’s already done.”

For a moment, the Tor looked like he might rise to his feet and shout something. Instead, however, he smiled sadly and slumped back into softness. “Just so. And what is the result?”

“We can’t find her.”

“Certainly you cannot. She has gone into hiding. And she has bragged, good Castellan, that she knows the secrets of Orison well enough to remain hidden for a long time. And so the opportunity has been lost to learn her intent – the intent on which Prince Kragen’s plans hinge, the intent which will deliver Orison to the Alend Monarch without a protracted siege.

“Good Castellan, you have a greater need of me than you realize. “

Geraden looked like he wanted to applaud.

The muscles at the corners of Castellan Lebbick’s jaws bunched. His eyes scanned the guardroom as though he were looking for the perfect stretch of bare wall against which to spill the Tor’s blood. But he didn’t rise from his chair.

Slowly, he said, “Geraden, my lady Terisa – you haven’t told us where you got those creatures of Imagery. In fact, you haven’t told us how you managed to catch Nyle. He’s your brother. He knows you. Surely he didn’t let you just trip and fall on him. You’ve been telling the Tor so many stories. Why don’t you tell him that one?”

“ ‘Creatures of Imagery’?” The lord smiled pleasantly at Geraden. “Yes, young Geraden. Do tell us.”

Geraden glanced back and forth between the two men, gauging where he stood with each of them, before he shrugged and said, “All right.”

Just a few minutes ago, Terisa would have sworn it as impossible, but now she found that she was too warm. She loosened her coat a bit, shifted it back from her neck.

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” admitted Geraden stiffly. “Nyle wasn’t the real danger. I should have let him go so we could concentrate on trying to catch Prince Kragen. But that never crossed my mind. Stopping him was too important—” In an awkward way, he seemed to be asking for understanding. “He’s my brother. I couldn’t let him make a traitor of himself.”

The Tor nodded in an absentminded fashion; his attention appeared to be elsewhere. Sourly, Castellan Lebbick muttered, “It was a little late for that, don’t you think?”

Geraden flushed. He didn’t permit himself to react, however.

“But I made a mess out of that, too. He got away, and we were stuck out there without our horses.

“That was when those ‘creatures of Imagery’ attacked. They came from the east, but that could have just been because of the terrain. I thought they were after the lady Terisa, so I wasn’t ready for it when they came for me.”

“You?” demanded the Castellan. “They came for you, boy?”

“That’s what it looked like.” With a visible effort, Geraden held himself steady. “We separated. They ignored her. All three of them chased me.”

Although he still didn’t seem to be paying attention, the Tor’s expression was beatific, as if he had just received a piece of good news. “Young Geraden, you are a wonderment. I have mentioned – have I not? – that you underestimate yourself. Even the lady Terisa of Morgan does not have such enemies.”

“Oh, yes,” snarled Lebbick. “That seems especially plausible because you’re still alive. You were alone against the three of them. What did you do? Accident them to death?”

Somehow, Geraden retained his self-command. Carefully, he said, “I used a club on their horses. Two of them went down. One was killed. The other is your prisoner.”

“No,” Terisa breathed.

Castellan Lebbick ignored her. “And the third?”

“Nyle got him. He saw them heading toward us, so he came back. Terisa and I might both be dead if it weren’t for him. While he was still thinking about that, I knocked him out. I hit him with a tree branch. That was how I caught him.”

“No,” Terisa repeated. She couldn’t help herself – it all came back to her. It was as vivid as dreaming in front of her.

“He was fighting for his life,” she whispered. “I had to help him. Didn’t I? I can’t spend my whole life just sitting on my hands and wondering when I’m going to fade. I can’t. That’s worse than doing something wrong. Isn’t it?

“He got two of them off their horses. He stunned one of them. The other went after him with those swords.” She shivered as though she had become cold again, but the truth was that she could hardly bear the weight of her coat. “I had to help him. I killed— With a club. I hit him from behind and broke his skull.” A small patch of red fur on the back of the skull had turned wet and begun to gush blood. “Then Nyle came.

“Geraden didn’t kill anybody.”

She ran out of words and fell silent.

The men stared at her. Geraden’s throat worked as if he were choking on her name. After a moment, the Tor rumbled gently, “My dear lady, of course you had to help him. You would not forgive yourself if you had not helped him. And perhaps you would both be dead.”

Castellan Lebbick turned away. “Women.” Every line of his posture was knotted and bitter. “Always women. It’s indecent. If I’m ever saved by a woman, I’ll do away with myself.”

Then he rasped, “But the horses. That’s the point. The saddles and tack, my lord Tor. Tell him about the horses and saddles and tack, Geraden.”

In his uncertainty, Geraden faced the Castellan while he spoke to the Tor. “Our attackers were obviously creatures of Imagery. But their horses looked normal to me. I didn’t notice anything else.”

Abruptly, Lebbick jerked to his feet. “Normal horses, my lord Tor. Normal saddles and tack. What do you make of that?”

The lord pursed his lips. “These creatures were mounted after their translation. Either they stole mounts and gear for themselves, or they were equipped by their translators. Equipped and instructed.”

“Exactly.” Castellan Lebbick faced the lord like a fuse burning dangerously close to powder. “The horses were normal. The saddles definitely didn’t come from Cadwal – in Cadwal they use barbed stirrups – but they could have come from anywhere in Mordant or Alend.”

“And the tack?” asked the Tor obligingly.

“The tack—” Lebbick stifled a furious gesture by clenching his fists on his hips. “The tack includes a hackamore you won’t find anywhere in Cadwal or Alend or Mordant – anywhere except the Care of Tor.” His glare was hard enough to strike sparks from flint. “Only your people use it, my lord Tor.”

The Tor gazed back at the Castellan as though Lebbick were a curious specimen pinned to a mounting board.

“Perhaps,” the Castellan gritted, “you think this is just another of my excesses.”

He took Terisa so completely aback that a moment passed before she grasped how serious he was. The Tor? In league with Vagel against Geraden and King Joyse and Mordant? Her legs were weaker than she realized: she had to sit down. Riding a horse wasn’t easy. Without quite noticing what she was doing, she went to the nearest bench and seated herself beside the lord.

Geraden was aghast. “You can’t mean that,” he protested. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

Without warning, Castellan Lebbick grinned. His teeth flashed fiercely.

“Oh, I am sure that our good Castellan knows entirely what he is saying.” The Tor had resumed his pastry dough aspect, impervious to affront. “One of Mordant’s greatest problems has always been that the vile attacks of Imagery which harass us come from no known source. My son was killed by an enemy who might be hidden anywhere in Alend or Cadwal – or Mordant.”

“If indeed your son was killed,” the Castellan interrupted. “I only have your word for that – and the word of your men. The corpse you showed us could have been anybody.”

Geraden went white at this insult to the lord. The Tor, however, shrugged it aside. “But now,” he persisted, “we have taken a great step forward. Now we know where to look.”

“In the Care of Tor.” Lebbick was remorseless. “In your domain, my lord.”

The Tor permitted himself a subtle flare of anger. “Astonishing, is it not?”

“Unquestionably,” the Castellan grated with pleasure.

“Unfortunately” – the Tor’s ire was instantly gone – “a search is impossible at present. We are otherwise occupied. Please tell me what you are doing to prepare Orison for siege. It is reported that Prince Kragen places great faith in the Alend Monarch’s ability to master us almost without difficulty. That seems absurd on its face – and yet I doubt that Prince Kragen is given to trusting the absurd. It is a pity that we cannot question – or observe – the lady Elega. That is beyond help, however. We must be very ready, good Castellan.”

“I’ll be ready,” retorted Castellan Lebbick. “By my estimation, we still have a few days left, but I’ve sent out scouts to make sure. The fact that the Armigite is a traitor probably has one advantage for us.” As he spoke, he seemed to fall unconsciously into the manner of an old soldier delivering a report. “We can assume Margonal will use the main roads through Armigite. They’re the easiest, quickest route. So his army shouldn’t be hard to find.

“Also, I’ve sent messengers to the Cares that ought to help us. Fayle. Perdon.” Glowering at Geraden, he commented, “What the Perdon hears isn’t going to be what your dear brother had in mind.” Then he resumed his report. “I’ve sent men to the Termigan, but he’s too far away to do us much good.

“I haven’t had time to talk to the Congery yet, but I’ll do that soon. Maybe I’ll finally be able to scare some sense into those Imagers.”

Apparently, none of the Masters had seen fit to announce their intention to disband the Congery.

“In the meantime, I’m calling my garrisoned troops into Orison. Most of the men hunting for the Congery’s champion” – he was snarling – “have come back, and I won’t send them out again. The only men I’m going to risk outside are the ones who still have a chance to locate Prince Kragen before he joins his father, and the ones who’re trying to backtrack those creatures. I’ll have all my strength here and organized by dawn tomorrow.”

The Tor nodded, but didn’t interrupt.

“Because we’re near the end of winter, our stores are low. That’s a problem. But there are quite a few merchants and villages we can call on for supplies. That won’t cause them any unfair hardship – with a war about to start, most of them are going to want sanctuary in Orison anyway, so they might as well pay for their safety with food. If Margonal gives us three days, we should be as well stocked as possible.

“But our biggest problem is that breach in the wall.”

Again, the Tor nodded. This time, however, his eyes were closed. He looked like he was going to sleep.

“Without that,” Castellan Lebbick rasped, “I could hold Orison against anybody. Long before our stores were gone, at least one of the lords of the Cares would take it into his head to come to our rescue. But that breach changes things. I’ve had all the stonemasons I could find working to build a rough curtain wall across the gap. It’s serviceable, but it won’t take the kind of pounding Margonal is going to give it.

“Am I boring you, my lord Tor?”

The lord opened one eye. “Not at all, good Castellan. I am merely resting my mind from the chore of trying to imagine the source of Prince Kragen’s confidence.”

The Castellan’s mention of the champion reminded Terisa that she wanted to ask a question. She felt that she was coming back to herself now, recovering some presence of mind and attention. But this wasn’t her chance to speak.

“Young Geraden,” the Tor went on, “can you remember exactly what Nyle and the Prince said to each other?”

“Pretty much,” Geraden answered. “Prince Kragen was worried about Elega. Nyle told him about your talk with her. That shows she knew you were suspicious of her. And it proves she and Nyle were in communication before he left this morning. Then he said that she said that you won’t be able to interfere with her part of the plan.”

Castellan Lebbick grunted. The Tor raised an eyebrow.

“Nyle had trouble believing that. But – let me try to get it right.” Geraden looked at the ceiling while he searched his memory. “Prince Kragen said, ‘I regret that she is at hazard. But she has assured me many times that her role is secure. We must trust that she will do what she has said.” ’

“Is that all?” demanded the Castellan.

Geraden shrugged. “Nyle still wasn’t convinced. But Prince Kragen said, ‘The lady Elega’s safety and success depend upon secrecy.’ He was pretty careful. I’m not sure Nyle realized how many of his questions weren’t being answered.”

“Poor Nyle,” the Castellan sneered.

“Unfortunate,” contributed the Tor thoughtfully. “What can one woman hidden in Orison do to ensure the success – the instant success – of the Alend Monarch’s siege? I confess that I am baffled. I need wine.”

With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet. The bench under Terisa flexed in relief.

“Good Castellan,” he murmured, “I suggest that you question your prisoners. But try not to harm them. You really must curb your instinct for excess. I suspect that Nyle will be more amenable to persuasion than force. Perhaps he will speak frankly if he can be made to believe that Elega has been caught – that the only way to spare her distress is by revealing what he knows. And the creature of Imagery may let slip something helpful.”

“Thanks for the advice, my lord Tor,” Castellan Lebbick replied. “Question the prisoners. I would never have thought of that.

“While you’re waiting for me to tell you what I’ve found out, what will you be doing?” His question was an obvious reference to the lord’s drinking.

The Tor sighed. For a moment, his thick flesh dropped into lines of sorrow. “Good Castellan, I trust you more than you know. I am sure that you have done everything in your power. Nevertheless I am not content with matters as they stand. I will make one more attempt to interest King Joyse in the fate of his kingdom.”

With that, he waddled out of the guardroom.

At once, Lebbick turned a glare like the cut of a hatchet at Terisa and Geraden. “I like that. I’ve been wrestling with this problem for years, and one fat old man thinks he can solve it by howling outside the King’s door.”

Here it comes, Terisa thought glumly. Now he’s really going to tear into us.

She was wrong: the Castellan had more imagination than that. There was malice and anticipation in his tone as he said, “You two still haven’t told me what I want to know. But I don’t want to be accused of excess. And you won’t be leaving Orison anytime soon. You’ll have plenty of time to talk yourselves into telling me the truth.

“In the meantime, I want you to help me question the prisoners. You should enjoy that.”

She and Geraden looked at each other. The room wasn’t so warm after all; she no longer wanted to take off her coat. His face held an expression of alarm that worried her. She was so full of her own problems that she tended to forget how much he was suffering. Help me question— Did the Castellan really intend to use him against his brother? After what he had already done?

Because she believed Geraden needed her, she rose to her feet and met Castellan Lebbick’s scowl.

“You’re searching for Elega.” She was still afraid of him. Nevertheless she had stood up to him in the past; she could do it again. “Do you think there’s any chance you’ll find her?”

His jaws chewed iron. Yet in spite of his ire he answered her. He looked oddly helpless, as if he didn’t have any choice. “That depends on how many secret passages she knows. I can’t spare enough men to search them all at the same time.”

“I understand.” She had expected that. It was unimportant, however. Her next question was the one that mattered. As if she weren’t going off in a completely different direction, she asked, “Is it true that your men never found the champion?”

Is it true that your men never found Myste?

“Those pigshit Imagers,” he rasped. “No, my men never found the champion. And that doesn’t make sense. He must have left a trail. He needs to eat, doesn’t he? He must have raided villages for food. That’s not the kind of thing a farmer or cattleherd forgets. Even if he went straight for Cadwal, we should have been able to follow him at least that far. But my men couldn’t even find rumors about him.

“Either he’s dead under a snowdrift somewhere, or Gilbur and Vagel translated him to safety. Or he sprouted wings and flew away. You tell me.

“As for the firecat” – Lebbick gave a bleak shrug – “it just disappeared. They must have sent it back where it came from.”

But what about Myste? What happened to Myste?

If the man she risked her life to find had disappeared, what did she do?

“Castellan,” Geraden interposed. Terisa had given him enough time to recover his self-possession. “If you’re planning to tell Nyle lies about Elega, you don’t want me with you. He knows me too well. He’ll see the truth in my face. I won’t be able to hide it.”

Lebbick looked at the Apt. For the second time, his face went through a strange transformation. Terisa expected him to be livid, but he wasn’t. Taken by surprise, he was open, accessible to pain: Geraden had hurt his feelings. “I have no intention of lying to anyone.” He spoke sternly, but his sternness wasn’t anger. “I don’t tell lies.”

“I’m sorry,” Geraden said at once, abashed by the change in the Castellan. “I knew that. I’m just not thinking straight.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if you were.” Castellan Lebbick’s tone was rude, yet his intent may have been kind. “No matter how important the Tor thinks you are, you didn’t cause this mess. Prince Kragen told your brother a lot of hogslop. I know Margonal. He hasn’t suddenly been converted to benevolence and peace. He’s been planning to invade Mordant ever since he heard about King Joyse.

“Come on.”

Dismissing Geraden’s apology along with his own odd vulnerability, the Castellan strode toward the door.

***

The guardroom that gave access to Orison’s dungeon was unaltered from the time when Terisa had passed through it with Artagel, going to talk to Master Eremis. Despite its resemblance to a crude tavern – its trestle tables and rough benches, its beds and hearth, its refreshment bar – its defensive function was unmistakable. The racks fixed along all the walls held enough pikes and swords to equip forty or fifty fighting men. And the room itself was the only way into or out of the passages that led to the cells.

Remembering Master Eremis made her heart feel weak. He had left Orison without coming to her, without fulfilling his promise. An ache of desire passed over her.

If the room hadn’t changed, however, the men in it had. They weren’t ill-disciplined and resting: they were on their feet, at attention to meet the Castellan’s arrival.

He saluted their captain and stalked on through the guardroom without speaking.

Geraden shrugged and grimaced companionably at the guards as he and Terisa followed the Castellan. One or two of them nodded to him slightly, little signs that they understood his circumstances.

The air beyond the guardroom remained dank, foul with rotting straw and recollections of torture, fretted with hints of old blood. The infrequent lanterns seemed to create more gloom than illumination; the passage wandered as if it led down into the dark places of Orison’s soul. Castellan Lebbick took one turn, then another, and reached the region of the cells.

Past his shoulders, Terisa saw two guards coming along the corridor. They walked in single file, apparently lugging something heavy between them.

An instant later, she realized that they were carrying a litter.

Panic leaped in Geraden’s face.

She thought dumbly, Nyle?

When Castellan Lebbick shifted to one side of the passage, however, and the guards took the other, she saw that the man lying in the litter wasn’t Nyle.

“Artagel!” Geraden cried in relief and consternation. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

The guards stopped, and Artagel hitched himself up on one elbow.

“What’re you doing here?” snapped the Castellan. “This is none of your business. I’ve already lost one man today, along with my best chance to catch Margonal’s pigslime son. I don’t need you bleeding to death on top of my other problems.”

“Are you all right?” Geraden put in. Suddenly, he had so much to say that it all tried to tumble out at once. “There was no other way I could stop him. I couldn’t talk him out of it. He saved us. He could have let us be killed, but he didn’t. It makes me sick. I hit—” His voice caught; he couldn’t go on. His whole face burned for Artagel’s forgiveness.

But Artagel didn’t glance at Geraden. “He’s my brother,” he replied to the Castellan in a voice like a dry husk. He looked like he had suffered a relapse of fever; his mouth had lost its humor, and his eyes glittered like polished stones. “I had to see him.”

One of the guards shrugged against the weight of the litter. “We couldn’t talk him out of it, Castellan. He was going to walk if we didn’t carry him.”

Castellan Lebbick ignored the guards. Facing Artagel, he demanded, “What did he say?”

With surprising strength, Artagel reached out, caught at Lebbick’s sash, pulled the Castellan closer to him. “He told me the truth. He got into this because he loves that crazy woman. And because he thinks it’s right. Somebody has got to save Mordant. He thinks Margonal is our only chance.” Staring at him, Terisa understood that he wasn’t angry. He grinned when he was angry. No, what he felt now was closer to despair. “She talked to him about everything in the world except her part in Kragen’s plans. He doesn’t know where she is, or what she’s going to do.”

On the other hand, Castellan Lebbick was angry enough for both of them. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Artagel?” Geraden insisted. “Artagel?”

Artagel met the Castellan’s glare. Slowly, he let go of the sash and eased himself onto his back in the litter. “I don’t care whether you believe me or not. I don’t even care if you torture him. He’s a son of the Domne. No matter what you do, this is going to kill my father.”

Geraden raised a hand and clamped it around his mouth to keep himself still.

The Castellan drew himself up. His face showed no softening. Nevertheless he said, “All right. I’ll try believing him for a while and see what happens.”

For the first time, Artagel turned his eyes to Geraden. The angle of the light from the one lantern filled his face with shadows.

Geraden flinched. Terisa had never seen him look more like a puppy cringing because he had offended someone he loved and didn’t know what to do about it. He needed understanding if not forgiveness, needed some kind of consolation from his brother.

He didn’t get it.

“You’re the smart one of the family.” Artagel’s voice was still as dry as fever. “You find that woman and stop her. If you don’t – and she betrays us – I swear to you I’m not going to let Margonal’s men in here, no matter who tells me to surrender. I’ll fight them all if I have to.”

In response, Geraden’s face twisted as if he were about to throw up.

“Oh, get him out of here,” Castellan Lebbick rasped to the guards. “Put him back in bed. Tie him down if you have to. Then call his physician. This air is making him crazy. Right now, he couldn’t fight a pregnant cripple.”

“Yes, Castellan.” The guards settled their shoulders into the load and took Artagel in the direction of the guardroom.

“Geraden?” Terisa put her hand on his arm and felt the pressure that knotted his muscles. “He didn’t mean it. He still has a fever. He shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.” He was so hurt that she wanted to embrace him, but Castellan Lebbick’s presence prevented that. “Listen to me. He didn’t mean to blame you.”

The Apt turned to her. Gloom hid his eyes. He had his back to the lantern; the lines of his face were dark. He didn’t respond to what she said. But he continued to face her as he addressed the Castellan.

“That just leaves the creature who attacked us.” His tone was as empty as one of the cells. “What do you think you can learn from him?”

“That depends,” replied Lebbick. “You’re the student of Imagery. You tell me. Is there any chance he speaks a language we can understand?”

Geraden had once discussed that subject with Terisa; he didn’t go into it now. “Let’s find out.”

He and Lebbick started down the passage – and a shadowy figure brushed past them, hurrying toward the creature’s cell. “Nobody tells me anything,” the man muttered into the air as he passed.

Terisa caught a glimpse of his face and recognized Adept Havelock.

Adept Havelock?

Automatically, the Castellan grabbed at his sword; then he slapped it back into its scabbard. With Geraden, he pursued the mad old man.

Jumping to sudden conclusions, Terisa ran after them.

They were moving too quickly: she couldn’t catch up with them in time. In the grip of a sudden alarm, she called, “Don’t ask him any questions.”

Castellan Lebbick whirled toward her so unexpectedly that Geraden ran into him. Their collision sent the Apt staggering against the bars of a cell. Swearing viciously, Lebbick took hold of Terisa’s coat and snatched her to him.

“Don’t ask him any questions?”

“That’s right. Questions just make him worse.” The Castellan’s breath was dry and sour. She wanted to explain herself clearly, but everything was happening too fast. “He might tell us something. But not if we ask him any questions.”

“My lady,” Castellan Lebbick whispered through his teeth, “how do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“He told you?”

Fortunately, she had no chance to think about what she would say. A chance to think would also have been a chance to make a mistake, to reveal something accidentally. Almost without hesitation, she repeated, “He told me. I guess he wanted to talk to me. But I didn’t understand. When I didn’t obey, he nearly had a fit.”

The Castellan tightened his grip on her. His grin made him look mad, nearly out of control. A second later, however, he dropped his hands and went after Adept Havelock again.

Geraden had caught up with the Adept. They stood together in front of a cell. Lamplight glowed from inside the grid wall.

A snarl throbbed down the corridor. Four furred arms with claws on their fingers sprang between the bars, reaching for Geraden. He jerked backward just in time.

Vehemently, Adept Havelock shoved the last digits of both hands up his nostrils and waggled the rest of his fingers at the creature like a child trying to make his face as horrible as possible.

Castellan Lebbick grabbed Havelock by the scruff of his surcoat and pulled him a safe distance away from the bars. When Terisa joined the three men, the creature was clinging to the grid with all four hands. His chest heaved, and the whiskers around his eyes bristled like weapons. Maybe they’re poisoned, she thought, staring at him. Though his features were completely alien, they plainly promised violence.

Swept away from rationality by the creature’s strangeness, the Adept’s unexpected appearance, the pressure of too many unanswered questions, she observed in a tone of lunatic calm, “The weather sure got cold today.”

Trying to lure Havelock into talking with her.

He didn’t look in her direction. First he pinched his lips with his fingers and pulled them apart, making a wild grimace. Then he commented, “I’ve heard of these, but I’ve never seen one before.”

The Castellan started to explode. Geraden slapped a hand against his chest to stop him.

All at once, Terisa’s throat went dry. She had to swallow several times before she was able to say, “We went riding today. I nearly froze to death.”

Havelock experimented with another monstrous face, but it had no discernible impact on the creature. “A couple of Vagel’s Imagers talked about them,” he muttered. “Not Vagel himself. But he was eager. In the mirror, all they did was hunt for things to kill. And they seemed to be able to find what they were after without seeing it. They went past the mirror in swarms. But obviously intelligent. They had domesticated animals they used for mounts. He wanted a whole army of them.”

In an effort to keep the Adept going, she said the first words that popped into her head. “We were following Geraden’s brother Nyle. He went to meet Prince Kragen.”

Geraden winced.

“That’s right,” replied Havelock as though he were in complete agreement. “Festten kept interfering.” He bared his teeth in a humorless grin, then put his thumbs in his ears and stretched his eyes to slits with his fingers. “If Vagel had his own army, he wouldn’t need the High King. Festten found ways to interrupt the research before those two Imagers could finish it. One of them finally disappeared. I think he was killed.”

Terisa did her best to pull her thoughts together. Her concentration was in tatters. She had killed—

What were the Imagers researching? What kept them from translating the army the arch-Imager wanted?

Was it language?

Aiming a mute apology at the Apt, she said, “We tried to stop Nyle. That was when they attacked us. They were after Geraden. Not me.”

The Adept gave her a smile as high-pitched and unexpected as a giggle. “I know exactly what you mean.” The lamplight made his eyes look milky, as if he were going blind.

From one of his sleeves, he produced the palm-sized bit of mirror that Terisa had twice seen him use as a weapon.

For a piece of time that seemed to have no measurable duration, she gaped at him while he murmured to the glass and passed his hand over it. Then a sting of intuition warned her, and she wrenched herself forward, grabbed at his wrist.

She missed. He had already turned away.

Blissfully unaware of her, he focused his glass and shot out a beam so hot that the creature went up in flames like a bundle of kindling.

With a howl of inarticulate frustration and rage, the Castellan flung Havelock aside. Instantly, the beam stopped as Adept Havelock stumbled against the wall and fell to the floor.

But the creature burned like a torch. No sound came from him; he didn’t recoil or wave his arms or loose his grip on the bars. Slowly, slowly, he slumped down the grid.

As if in slow motion, Terisa felt a blast of heat. The stench of scorched fur and sizzling flesh filled the air.

Unable to control her reactions, she staggered to her knees. Down near the floor, the air was still cool. The rotten stink of the straw was too much for her, however. Adept Havelock had risen to his hands and knees to watch the creature. When he saw that she was looking at him, he gave her a huge, conspiratorial wink.

Then darkness welled up in her, and she fainted as though she were fading inward.

TWENTY-THREE: ANTICIPATING DISASTER

She had the distinct impression that she was gone for a long time.

A man bending over her: she remembered that. But who was he? Master Eremis? The idea gave her a liquid feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to be unconscious. If he were to touch her in any way, she didn’t want to miss it.

Now, however, the figure with her was more like a woman. Gradually, she became aware that she wasn’t lying on the floor in the dungeon. For one thing, she was warm, really warm – warm all the way down to her toes. There must be a bed under her; no stone was this soft. And blankets—

With an effort, she got her eyes open.

Over her hung the familiar peacock-feather canopy of her bed.

Saddith met her bleary gaze and called softly, “Geraden, I think she is waking up.”

At once, Geraden came to her side. His face was stretched with fatigue and worry, and his expression was harried; but when he looked into her eyes he smiled as though she made everything in the world all right. “Thank the stars,” he murmured in a husky voice. “I’m glad to see you conscious again.”

She coughed at a throat full of gluey cotton. “How long have I been out?”

“Long enough.”

Saddith gave a light laugh. “My lady, the Apt is sotted with you. Every moment that your eyes are not open for him is ‘long enough’ to fill him with alarm. You have had a much-needed rest. When you have had food and” – she wrinkled her nose – “a bath, you will feel well enough to be amused by his concern.”

Terisa smelled the faint rotten scent. It seemed to be in her hair. And in— Her coat was draped over the back of another chair, but she was still wearing her clothes under the blankets. The smell was in her shirt and pants as well. When she lifted the covers, it wafted delicately into her face.

She pushed the blankets away and let Saddith and Geraden steady her in a sitting position on the edge of the bed. A bright fire crackled in her hearth, and the creature had burned—

“What happened?” she asked.

Geraden’s smile twisted. “Not much. You passed out. Adept Havelock left. The Castellan swore at everybody. One of the physicians and I brought you here. He said you were going to be all right, but I didn’t believe him.” He looked away. “Saddith has been telling me her life story to keep me from screaming while you slept.”

“Why did—?” Terisa ran her fingers into her hair, then grimaced at the odor which clung to them. She had to breathe deeply to make her head stop spinning. “Why did Adept Havelock kill that poor—?”

At that, Geraden’s expression turned harsh. “He’s crazy. Even if we knew why he does anything, it wouldn’t make sense.”

“I can explain it,” said Saddith in a teasing tone. “If the rumors are true, the Adept has not had a woman since he returned from Cadwal.” With her elbow, she nudged Geraden’s ribs. “All men become madmen if they do not bed women often enough.”

For no very clear reason, Geraden appeared to be blushing.

Terisa had to get the creature’s immolation out of her mind. She had to get the stink out of her clothes and hair. Ignoring Saddith, she said to Geraden, “I don’t understand. Why didn’t those Imagers who worked with Vagel translate the army he wanted? What research did they have to do?”

Promptly, as if he were relieved by her question, he answered, “I don’t have any way of knowing, of course – but I’m pretty sure I can guess. We’ve talked about language.” He watched Terisa’s face intently. “When the arch-Imager’s cabal came up with an Image of what looked to them like the ideal warrior, they had no way of knowing whether they would be able to talk to him. They didn’t believe the question of language would be resolved by the translation itself. That’s what they needed to research.”

He snorted a sour laugh. “It’s funny, in a way. Either High King Festten or the arch-Imager could have had an entire army of those creatures, if they just believed the same thing King Joyse believes. They might have been able to beat him.

“Now we’ll never know the answer,” he concluded bitterly.

Terisa nodded, letting Geraden push back the memories she wanted to escape from. For her part, however, Saddith didn’t appear particularly pleased by this turn of the conversation. As soon as Geraden stopped, she said, “My lady, I have no food or bathwater ready for you. I did not know when you would awaken. But both can be provided almost immediately. With your permission, I will go to bring what you need.”

“Thanks.” As usual, Terisa’s eyes were drawn to Saddith’s open blouse and bursting breasts. She made an effort to raise her head so that she felt less like she was talking to Saddith’s chest. “I would like that.”

In response, Saddith swung a saucy gaze at Geraden. “Be warned,” she said slyly. “I will be back too soon for what you desire. Even the hottest youth must have a certain amount of time.”

Laughing, she left the rooms.

Terisa eased herself experimentally to her feet.

In a hurry to steady her, Geraden jerked forward. Unfortunately, he missed his balance and nearly fell onto the bed. Terisa found herself holding him up rather than being supported.

Swearing at himself, he pulled away. Apparently, he had lost his balance in more ways than one. Now he looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Geraden? What’s the matter? She wasn’t sure of what she was seeing. Or she wasn’t sure of herself. She wasn’t in particularly good shape. In fact, she felt lousy. Where was the Geraden who always took care of her as if she were the most important person in his life?

Inanely, she said the first words she could think of that had nothing to do with what she felt. “I thought I saw you blush. What were you and she really doing while I was asleep?”

He stiffened. Retreating to his chair allowed him to turn his face away from her for a moment. When he sat down, his features were set into hard lines, as if he were angry. Nevertheless she knew he wasn’t angry. His eyes were hot with grief.

“I don’t understand that woman,” he muttered without meeting her gaze. “I mean, I understand. I’m not as ignorant as she thinks. It just doesn’t make sense to me.” He scowled at the vista of his confusion. “While you were asleep, she wasn’t telling me her life story. She was trying to persuade me to bed her right here on the floor.”

For some reason, Terisa didn’t find this amusing. All at once, the muscles around her heart felt tight.

“She said she hadn’t had a man for a while. She talked about it like it was just scratching a complicated kind of itch. Of course, there are probably two hundred men within a stone’s throw of us right now who would be glad to oblige her. But she didn’t want to do anything that might get back to the man she’s really interested in. I got the impression he’s been away. Whoever he is.” He sighed, but still couldn’t bring himself to look at Terisa. “She said I was safe because my heart was set on you, not her. And she would be doing me a favor by teaching me what to do with your body when I finally got my hands on it.

“I couldn’t get it through her head that if she kept talking like that she was going to make me throw up.”

“Why?” Terisa tried to sound casual, but didn’t succeed. “Don’t you think she’s attractive?”

His gaze turned cold as he faced her. “Sure, she’s attractive. A stone wall would be attractive if it looked like that. It’s her attitude I don’t like. There’s more to love than just getting your itches scratched.

“Tell me something.” Now he was angry. “Some time ago – I think it was the first morning of the thaw – I was here with you, and Saddith came in. You asked her how Master Eremis was.”

The knot around Terisa’s heart pulled tighter.

“At the time, I thought that was a strange question. I just didn’t want to pry. But the more I think about it, the stranger it gets. Why ask her? What would she know about Master Eremis?”

Saddith had tried to seduce Geraden. Terisa sat back down on the bed to conceal the fact that she was trembling – and to control it. In a small voice – putting her emotions at a distance because she was afraid of them – she said, “She’s having an affair with him. She tells me about it.” She would never be able to admit that she had seen Master Eremis and Saddith together. “I think she believes if she sleeps with enough men she’ll end up queen of Mordant.”

After a moment, he murmured, “That explains it.” He no longer sounded angry. He sounded frayed and alone.

Abruptly, he rose to his feet. “I got a message earlier. Artagel has had a relapse. His physician says it’s temporary. He’ll be all right. But I ought to go see him. Saddith will be back soon. That may not cheer you up, but at least you’ll get some food and a hot bath.”

Unable to keep his distress from showing, he turned to leave.

“Geraden, wait.” The sight of his departing back seemed to pull everything inside her in a different direction. She jumped upright, reached a hand he couldn’t see toward him. “Don’t go.”

He paused in the doorway. His voice was cramped in his throat. His shoulders hunched as if he were huddling over a pain in his chest. “I have to.”

“Please,” she said. “I’ve been very selfish. You’re always so good to me that I let myself forget you have problems of your own. Please tell me what’s the matter.”

He didn’t move. Slowly, he put out one hand to brace himself on the doorframe. “Terisa,” he said, aching, “this mess really is my fault.”

“No, it isn’t.” She was ready to defend him at once. “You aren’t Prince Kragen. You aren’t Elega.”

He raised his free hand to his face. “Nyle was right. I’ve been a fool about everything. He was doing what he thought was right. But he was also doing something that wouldn’t do any serious damage if he turned out to be wrong. That’s important. We didn’t need to worry about him. He didn’t pose any threat. You and I should have gone back to Orison so that Ribuld could stay with Argus. We should have told Castellan Lebbick about Elega right away.”

Slowly, his voice became edged with iron, like the hit of a chisel. He cut off words like chips of stone. “You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gone wrong with that translation. The champion would be here instead. Or else he would have refused, in which case he wouldn’t have been translated against his will. Orison’s walls would be intact. And Myste would still be here. If anybody could stop Elega, she could.”

“Geraden.” Terisa went to him; tentatively, she rested her hands on his back. It felt like it had been bound with cords to keep him from exploding. The boyish side of him was dying. He was being taken apart piece by piece, deprived of the things he loved, the things that sustained him. “Please, Geraden.”

She would have to tell him.

He had gone too far to stop. “The Alend Monarch is going to take Orison. It’s impossible – it ought to be impossible – but he’s going to do it. And it’s my fault. I was betrothed to that woman. Maybe we don’t have much in common, but I thought I knew her better than this. First Nyle. Now her. Everything I love—”

His throat closed. She felt him struggle to open it. Then he said, “Artagel is right. This is going to kill my father.”

She should have told him long ago. “Geraden, don’t do this to yourself.”

Without warning, he turned to face her. His cheeks were wet with tears, but he didn’t look like he was weeping: he looked flagrantly unhappy, almost demented with contempt for himself and his mistakes.

“Artagel thinks it’s my fault.” He spoke quietly – so quietly that he sounded unreachable. “I expected that from Nyle. But Artagel thinks it’s my fault too.”

“Geraden.” She had passed the limit of what she could stand. To steady herself – because she was afraid – she took hold of the front of his shirt with both hands. “You aren’t wrong. I don’t know why – or how. But you aren’t wrong.

“Do you remember the augury? Do you remember seeing riders?” Three riders. Driving their mounts forward, straight out of the glass, driving hard, so that the strain in the shoulders of their horses was as plain as the hate in the keen edges of their upraised swords. “I saw them— I dreamed them before I ever saw the augury. Before I ever met you. I had a dream that was exactly the same as one Image in the augury.”

Searching his face, she saw surprise and bafflement dawn into joy. “So there is a reason,” he breathed in wonder. “I didn’t go wrong. You are the champion.”

“I don’t know why,” she repeated, insisted. It was the only gift she had to give him, the only consolation. “I don’t know how. But there is a reason. You didn’t go wrong.”

In response, he became brighter and brighter, as if he were burning. His arms closed around her; his mouth came down to hers.

Ardently, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

They hugged and held each other until Saddith returned with a tray of food and a porter carrying bathwater.

After a meal, they did what they could to get ready for the coming siege.

***

By noon the next day, Castellan Lebbick had deployed virtually all the King’s guards in Orison, sorting them according to their responsibilities for the defense and maintenance of the castle, and billeting them wherever he could find room. When the barracks became overcrowded, some of the abandoned passages and quarters under the main habitation were brought back into use. Cooks complained about the extra work. Servingmen and -women whose jobs included sanitation complained vehemently. Nevertheless Orison swallowed the additional troops.

Work on the curtain wall across the breach continued.

At the same time, scouts crossed from the Demesne into the Care of Armigite. Although they would have been appalled to encounter the Alend Monarch’s army so soon, they began to travel with more caution.

During the night, the men tracking Prince Kragen had returned. The Alend Contender had lost his pursuers in the simplest way possible – by riding onto a road, where his trail couldn’t be distinguished from anyone else’s. This report inspired the Castellan to curse extensively, but there was nothing he could do to change it.

Nothing was heard from the guards who were trying to find out where Geraden’s alien attackers had come from.

Most of the farmers and merchants in the nearer environs of the castle had started to empty their sheds and warehouses and pens and barns toward Orison. Plenty of people still alive in the villages remembered what life had been like before King Joyse had taken power over Mordant and created peace by the strength of his good right hand. They goaded the folk around them into motion.

Grandmothers and flocks of goats didn’t move quickly - but they were on their way.

As a result, the courtyard was crowded with activity, and an atmosphere of bustle pervaded the halls. The situation could easily have degenerated into chaos and choler. Castellan Lebbick knew his job, however – and his men knew their orders. Most of the incoming populace found places and got settled without noticing how closely they were supervised. And those who did notice probably didn’t guess that the highest priority of the guards wasn’t to preserve order, but rather to make sure that Alends or spies didn’t sneak into Orison.

Satisfied with the progress of his preparations, Castellan Lebbick paid a visit to Master Barsonage.

The outcome of that visit was less satisfactory. Since the Masters had seen fit to interfere in Mordant’s affairs by translating their champion, the Castellan argued that they couldn’t now claim to be detached from what was happening. It was their responsibility, therefore, to assist in the defense of Orison and their King. That seemed clear enough.

But Master Barsonage replied with the almost treasonous information that the Congery had disbanded itself. Paralyzed by the very ideals that had brought them together, the Masters couldn’t agree on anything. They had no credible purpose. Castellan Lebbick was free to approach individual Imagers as he saw fit – unlike Master Eremis, most of them had remained in Orison – but he couldn’t look for concerted decision or action. King Joyse’s abandonment of the Congery had finally arrived at its logical conclusion.

Fuming, Castellan Lebbick left.

For his part, the Tor spoke to King Joyse. Or, more precisely, he spoke at King Joyse. He wheedled and demanded; he whispered and shouted. He made himself lugubrious, and he tried sincerely to make himself noble. Unfortunately, he received nothing for his pains except a rather strained smile and the absentminded assertion that the King was sure his old friend the Tor would do whatever he, the Tor, thought best. King Joyse himself was really too busy trying to solve the latest hop-board puzzle Adept Havelock had set for him to be distracted by a mere siege. Nevertheless he became irrationally angry when the Tor risked mentioning the lady Elega. The Tor eventually gave up and retreated to the solace of his chancellor’s flagon.

As for Elega, two squadrons of guards had searched what they called twenty-five miles of hidden passages in Orison without finding her. The Castellan sent them back to the beginning to start over again.

Pacing the peacock rug in Terisa’s sitting room, Geraden demanded, “But what can she do?” Terisa had forgotten how many times he had asked the same question, but at least he had the decency not to expect an answer. “I mean, stop and think about it. She has essentially promised that she’ll deliver Orison to Prince Kragen single-handed. And she made him believe it. But he knows what a siege is. And he’s seen Orison. What could she possibly have said to him that he would believe?”

Terisa sighed and gazed glumly out the window.

As he had promised, Mindlin brought her new clothes for a preliminary fitting. She made a few arbitrary decisions, accepted a few adjustments; he went away.

She returned to the window. Although she loved the spring-like sunshine which made the hillsides sparkle and the roads treacherous, she was hoping for snow.

***

In fact, most of Orison’s burgeoning population was hoping for snow. But the next morning brought, not clouds and cold, but a warming trend. Apparently, the weather was on Alend’s side.

Castellan Lebbick wasted no time cursing the weather, however. He had other things to swear about.

The influx of people and livestock and supplies was actually going quite well. Of course, life in the courtyard was little better than thinly structured chaos; and people who found themselves quartered in the once unused depths of the castle had to contend with a damp that only grew worse as the walls were warmed by fires and bodies. But there was room for everybody somewhere. And the added livestock and supplies compensated for the increased number of people who had to be fed.

The causes of Castellan Lebbick’s compressed fury lay elsewhere.

He had heard nothing from his scouts – but that was good news, not bad. On the other hand, he had also heard nothing from the men who were backtracking Geraden’s attackers. As news, that was uncontestably bad. It left open the ominous possibility that an entire horde of creatures was gathering somewhere to sweep down on Orison at the worst possible moment.

Unfortunately, the Castellan also had other provocations. One was that the Tor refused to leave him alone. Having failed to dent King Joyse’s detachment, the fat old lord now insisted on knowing everything about Orison’s defenses. He wasn’t content with generalities: he wanted specifics – the names of officers who had been given certain orders; the quantity and disposition of certain stores; the important routes for moving men and weapons (and water – was the Castellan ready in case of fire?) through the castle. The lord’s interference was enough to make a kind man savage.

As another provocation, King Joyse refused to take seriously Lebbick’s report from Master Barsonage. “Disbanded?” he snorted. “Nonsense. Barsonage has just lost his nerve. Find Master Quillon.” The King hopped a piece on his board and studied the resulting position. “Tell him he’s the new mediator. I need those Imagers.”

Although Castellan Lebbick gnawed at an outrage that was starting to taste like despair, King Joyse refused to say anything further.

And the lady Elega appeared to have vanished without a trace. The guards not only failed to find her, they also failed to find any sign of her – any little stores of food and water; any clothes; any lamps or candles; any (the guards were thorough) carrier pigeons. All they found was Adept Havelock, who appeared at awkward intervals and treated them to displays of wisdom and decorum that would have embarrassed the ruffians at a carnival. The Adept seemed to be having the time of his life. Nevertheless Castellan Lebbick wasn’t diverted.

Behind his anger, and his concentration on his duty, and his determined belief that no one woman could deliver him and Orison to the King’s enemies, he was beginning to sweat.

“Do you think,” Geraden asked Terisa, “it’s something stupid and obvious, like suborning the guards? That might work if nobody suspected her. It’s at least imaginable that she could arrange to have the gates opened in the middle of the night.”

He was calmer today, which relieved her sense of responsibility for him and freed her to feel worse herself. Perhaps his obsession was starting to soak into her, making her tense and irritable for no good reason. Or perhaps there was something— She ground her teeth at the idea. Something she knew and couldn’t remember? Something she ought to understand?

Damn it.

Scowling at the Apt as if he were to blame, she tried to make sense out of the little she knew.

“Tell me something. Why haven’t Alend or Cadwal – or both – attacked Mordant long before this?”

“They were afraid of King Joyse. They were afraid of what he would do with the Congery.”

She nodded. “And why is Margonal attacking now? Why isn’t he still afraid?”

“Because he’s heard” – this was painful for Geraden to say – “from Prince Kragen and probably a few dozen other sources that King Joyse doesn’t care anymore.”

“No.” She felt that she was pouncing. “That’s not good enough. So what if the King doesn’t care? Why isn’t Margonal still afraid of the Congery? Why isn’t he afraid the Masters will defend themselves no matter what King Joyse does?”

“Because they’ve disbanded.”

“He doesn’t know that. She probably doesn’t know it.”

At that, Geraden faced her with an awakening light in his eyes, as if she had suddenly become more beautiful or brilliant. “In that case, she’s promised to do something that will keep the Masters from fighting back.”

“Yes.” That made sense to her. For a moment, she felt vindicated, sharply triumphant.

But she was misleading herself, of course. After scrutinizing what she had suggested, he asked, “What, exactly? What can she do? What power does she have over the Congery?”

Terisa had no idea.

This time, it was Geraden who stared morosely out the window. “I told you an early thaw was dangerous,” he muttered for no particular reason.

***

The next day was overcast and gloomy, full of cold wind: it seemed to promise a return of winter. Castellan Lebbick kept an eye cocked at the sky while he fretted at the Tor’s persistent attention and stewed over the fact that his scouts hadn’t come back. Without realizing it, he fell into the pattern of announcing, when he had nothing more direct or withering to say, that he intended to have the Armigite charbroiled at his earliest convenience.

From a superficial point of view, Orison demanded a great deal of him. The castle was overcrowded – and overcrowding bred quarrels as well as vermin. People were angry because they had been forced to leave their homes. Some merchants were angry because everything they owned had been commandeered; others were angry because almost no one could afford to pay the exorbitant prices dictated by scarcity. Guards were angry because they were being cooped up, or drilled too hard, or assigned to duties they didn’t like. Lords and ladies were angry because anger was in the air. Everybody was angry because everybody was afraid. And fear made anger seem more urgent, righteous, and justified.

The truth was, however, that Castellan Lebbick now had the castle organized to function almost entirely without him. His men knew what to do; their officers knew what to do. Everybody was angry, but virtually no one got hurt. The Castellan really had nothing to do but fret and stew – and keep an eye on the weather.

That night, what was left of the squadron backtracking Geraden’s attackers rode into Orison: two battered veterans with wounds that still bled, kept open by hard riding. The squadron had been ambushed by a number of the same creatures. And the ambush had taken place not far south of the Broadwine – not far into the Care of Tor.

To commemorate the occasion, the Tor broached a new hogshead of wine. But Castellan Lebbick concentrated on snow. If the weather turned to snow, the men he had sent to the Perdon, the Fayle, even the Termigan might have time to get through.

In the morning, the weather turned to spring.

Sunlight poured through the windows, leaving a gold largesse on the stone floors and the thick rugs. A breeze like a harbinger of flowers wafted through the courtyard. A few patches of bare ground appeared on the hillsides, and some of the distant trees looked distinctly like they intended to bud. Unexpected flocks of birds swirled over the roofs of the castle, lit in loud clusters on the tiles and gutters, and sang.

Shortly after noon, the Castellan’s scouts returned to report that the Alend army was already in the Demesne. Barring a cataclysmic disaster or a miraculous reprieve, Orison would be under siege no later than noon the next day.

The scouts gauged that Margonal had ten thousand men – two thousand mounted, eight thousand on foot – and enough engines of war to take the castle apart stone from stone. As it happened, many of the engines were of Armigite design. Apparently, Prince Kragen’s dealings with the Armigite hadn’t been as simple as the story he had told Nyle.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only bad news.

Shortly before sunset, a trumpet announced the arrival of riders. Nearly a hundred soldiers came down the road from the Care of Perdon. They looked old and weary, as if they had been traveling for an indecent length of time. They carried the Perdon’s banner and wore the Perdon’s insignia, and they moved slowly. All of them were injured: limbs were missing; heads and chests, bandaged; faces, haggard. Many of their horses supported litters bearing dead men.

When he realized who the riders were, the trumpeter changed his note to the wail of a dirge.

“Oh, no,” Terisa groaned, watching from her window as the procession approached. “He said he was going to do this.”

“Cadwal is marching,” muttered Geraden grimly. “The Perdon isn’t going to come to our rescue. He’s already at war.”

Then he bit his lip. “We have got to stop her. If she betrays us now, we don’t have any hope.”

Castellan Lebbick and the Tor met the riders at the gate. The Tor made a short speech. The Castellan didn’t know how to express grief or compassion, so he remained silent.

To Orison’s welcome and the Tor’s speech, the captain of the riders replied only, “We are dying. The Perdon commanded us to come.”

The sunset that evening was especially glorious.

***

Terisa pushed her supper away untasted. Geraden picked at a piece of bread, rolling bits of dough into pellets and tossing them at the hearth. The mood in the room was as dark as the night outside the window. Neither of them had spoken for a long time.

At last, he murmured, “It isn’t enough.”

“Hmm?” she asked vaguely

For no special reason, they had both neglected to light the lamps. The only illumination came from the hearth. Flickering firelight cast streaks of orange and shadow across the Apt’s face; bits of flame echoed in and out of his eyes.

“It isn’t enough,” he repeated. “Suppose Elega knows some way to neutralize the Masters. For example, suppose – just for the sake of supposing – that she has some kind of acid that eats glass. And she knows a way to sneak into the laborium where the mirrors are kept. And she knows where all the Masters keep all their private mirrors. Suppose she has time to ruin every mirror in Orison. That’s a lot – but it isn’t enough.”

As he spoke, she was gradually struck by the impression that his face had changed. The firelight seemed to emphasize an alteration in the line of his jaw, the planes of his cheeks, the shape of his frown. The pressure of the past few days had ground the puppy out of him. He no longer looked like a man who tripped over his own feet and smiled lopsidedly at the results.

“It wouldn’t defeat Orison,” he mused into the fire, talking mostly to himself. “Castellan Lebbick wouldn’t surrender for a reason like that. There has to be some other answer.”

Yes, she said inside herself. There has to be some other answer. But she wasn’t agreeing with him. She was consciously and explicitly angry. She was angry at Artagel and Castellan Lebbick and Nyle. She was angry at King Joyse, who knew what he was doing to people who had spent their lives trusting him. She was angry at the Masters for their derision, their unwillingness to understand. She had liked Geraden’s puppyish look. She had liked his ability to tumble all over himself without feeling that he was to blame for the destruction of everything he loved.

Why are we responsible for Elega? Why is it our fault she’s probably going to betray everybody?

A moment later, however, her memory brought another image back to her, as vivid as Geraden’s face – an image of the lady Myste. Sitting in this same room, Myste had explained to Terisa why she wanted to go after the champion. I have always believed, she had said, that problems should he solved by those who see them. This is more true rather than less for a king’s daughter.

Myste! Terisa murmured with a silent ache. What happened to you? Where are you?

What is Elega doing?

Without thinking, she said aloud, “Water.”

Geraden’s face shifted through patches of light and darkness until he was looking at her. “Water?”

“Where do we get water?”

His brows knotted in perplexity. “I told you about that during our tour. Orison was built over a spring. But of course it’s grown a lot. And we use a lot of water. I think I mentioned Castellan Lebbick has strong ideas about sanitation. The spring has been inadequate for a long time. So we store rainwater and melted snow. Gutters and pipes from all the roofs take water to the reservoir – I showed you the reservoir.”

“And now,” she said slowly while a keen pulse began to beat in her temple and a hand of tension closed around her heart, “we have all these extra people. And we haven’t had any more snow.”

“That’s one of the dangers of an early thaw.” He was watching her closely. “Until the rains start, we won’t have anything except the spring to keep us going.”

She took a deep breath and held it to prevent her head from spinning. When she was ready to speak steadily, she asked, “What if something happens to the reservoir?”

He still didn’t understand. “Happens? What could happen?”

“Is it guarded?”

“No. Why should it be guarded?”

Unable to suppress the excitement or fear charging through her, she jumped to her feet. With both hands, she took him by one arm and pulled him upright.

“What if she poisons it?”

The idea hit him as if she had thrown open a window and shown him a completely alien world. His lips shaped the words poisons it while he scrambled to catch up with her. In a strangled tone, he argued, “There’s always the spring.”

“What difference does that make? Fresh water won’t help. We’ll all be poisoned. As long as nobody knows we’re in danger, we’ll all be poisoned. There won’t be anybody left to fight. Even if we aren’t killed – even if we’re just sick for a few hours – Margonal will be able to take Orison almost without a struggle.”

“That’s right.” His face twisted as his thoughts raced. “We’ve got to warn Castellan Lebbick.”

“Geraden.” For just a second, she wanted to yell at him. He was being so obtuse.

Almost at once, however, her mood changed, and she wanted to laugh. She wasn’t used to being ahead of him. Carefully, she said, “Don’t you think it would be better if we stopped her?”

He stared at her momentarily with his mouth wide open. Then he let out a whoop that sounded like glee. The firelight was as bright as laughter in his eyes. “Excuse me, my lady.” He hugged himself and chortled. “I’ve got wax in my ears. I’m not sure I heard you right.” But joy and relief weren’t the only emotions reflecting from his gaze. The flames were warm and glad – and they were also fierce, burning sharply. “Did you say, Don’t you think it would be better if we saved Orison all by ourselves? Just you and me?”

She nodded.

“Why should we tell Lebbick? We’re just guessing. He might not believe us. If he believes us, we might be wrong. But if we’re right this is our chance to prove that you’re innocent – that you aren’t secretly plotting Orison’s destruction.”

She nodded again, more because she liked the life in his face than because she thought the Castellan would believe any demonstration of her innocence.

“Blast all glass to splinters!” He hissed the words between his teeth, grinning like Artagel. “Get your coat. It’s going to be cold up there.”

Terisa got her coat.

***

It was cold up there.

The reservoir had been built in the highest part of Orison’s main body – a labor of construction that was justified by the amount of work saved by being able to distribute water around the castle with gravity instead of pumps. The towers, of course, required pumps; and the waters of the spring had to be pumped up to the reservoir. But those were relatively simple jobs compared to the chore of supplying water for all of Orison.

Terisa had to fill in many of the details from memory. The place was dark: the only light came from the screened openings that let rain and snow and the night air into the reservoir while keeping birds out; and the bright moon outside did little more than glint vague silver across the surface of the water. But she remembered that the reservoir had been built like a pool, deep and rectangular, with a smooth stone walk on all four sides.

Around the walk rose heavy timbers, crisscrossing toward the roof to hold up the network of pipes that carried rainfall and melted snow and even dew from the roofs of Orison – and to support also the scaffolding that made possible the cleaning and repair of the screens. Because of these timbers, the reservoir resembled a cathedral. Against the faint, wet, lapping susurrus, the overarching silence felt like awe. In the darkness, the water looked vast.

It seemed to absorb whatever warmth endured after the onset of night. The reservoir was cold enough to make her chill despite her coat.

“We need a light,” she whispered unsteadily.

“She’ll see us,” answered Geraden, putting his mouth close to her ear so that he wouldn’t be overheard.

Terisa nodded. She had hoped she would never have to be cold again in her life.

“Where can we hide?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

“How should I know? I’m just guessing about all of this.”

“Well, guess some more.”

She made an effort to control her shivers. “All right. Whatever she puts in the water will need time to dissolve – or spread out – or whatever it does. But if she does it too soon, people will start getting sick” – or dying – “too soon. The Castellan or somebody might have time to figure out what’s going on. Before Margonal is ready.

“If I were her, I might wait until the siege starts.” No later than noon the next day. “We might be stuck here all night.”

“No.” Geraden was thinking too hard to be polite. “If she does that, practically all our forces will already be on duty. She’ll get the farmers and servingwomen and cooks, but that will just warn Lebbick. She needs to strike tonight, so the water will be bad when the guards get out of bed tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning early.”

That made sense. “Where can we hide?” she repeated.

He took her by the arm and pulled her softly into motion. “There may be any number of ways in here. The floor is riddled with pipes. Maybe it’s riddled with passages, too. But we can’t do anything about that. And there really isn’t anyplace to hide. We’ll just put ourselves where we can watch the entrances – the way we came in, and the other one” – he pointed across the reservoir – “and hope we get lucky.”

“That should be fun,” she retorted simply because she needed to say something. “We’re famous for our good luck.”

He let out a breath of stifled laughter. “Very true.”

Muffled though it was, his laugh made her feel better.

She wanted to test her way with her feet to be sure she didn’t fall into the pool, but he urged her forward as if he were afraid of nothing. He didn’t lead her into the water, however. Instead, he guided her to a place where a pair of timbers met the floor close together. They were located roughly midway between the entrances to the reservoir, and the gap between them was just wide enough for two people. In this dark, she and Geraden would be effectively invisible as long as they stood near the timbers.

Side by side in the gap, they were pressed against each other a bit at the shoulder and hip. Initially, she tried to squeeze away from him, so that he wouldn’t feel her shivering. But she would be warmer if they were closer together. She would be warmer still if he put his arm around her. After a moment, she found that she didn’t mind letting him know how cold she was.

Turning his head, he breathed her name into her hair and gave her a companionable hug. Almost at once, the pressure that made her shiver seemed to grow less.

She quickly got tired of straining her eyes into the deep dark of the pool, of trying to tell the difference between the light lap-and-slap of water and the possible sound of footsteps. Shifting more toward Geraden so that she fit better against his side, she whispered, “What’re we going to do when she comes?”

“Stop her.”

She poked at his ribs through his coat. “I know that, idiot. How are we going to stop her?”

“Not so loud,” he cautioned. “Water carries sound.”

She wished she could see his face. He sounded tense and far away, caught up in his responsibility for what happened to Orison. Stopping Elega was like stopping Nyle for him: she was his King’s daughter, a childhood friend, and his former betrothed. Precisely because the situation was so painful for him, he couldn’t afford to fail.

Almost in spite of herself, Terisa understood his allegiance to King Joyse and Mordant.

“She’ll have a light,” he went on softly. “She doesn’t expect to be caught. And she needs to see what she’s doing.” Like his attention, his voice seemed to be aimed out into the dark. “When we see her light we’ll try to sneak up on her.”

Terisa nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. Her head nestled against his shoulder; his coat warmed her cheek. Was it really better for him to remain loyal to the people and ideas he loved? Was that preferable to facing the truth when those people and ideas failed him? preferable to doing what Nyle and Elega were doing – what Master Eremis had been trying to do all along? How are you planning to live the rest of your life without loyalty or self-respect? Of course it was always better to face the truth. Wasn’t it? Nyle and Elega and Master Eremis had all faced the truth. But she couldn’t shake the odd feeling that what Geraden was trying to do was harder.

For that reason, it was a good thing he hadn’t been able to return her to her old life. Maybe the sense of unreality that had dogged her for so long was the result of living in the wrong world: maybe she truly had never been a solid being until she came here. Or maybe her evanescence was the result of striving for the wrong things – despite what Reverend Thatcher might have taught her – of not understanding what Geraden understood so well. It was even possible—

Across the water, she saw a wink of light.

Geraden stiffened.

It was no larger or brighter than a candle flame – it flickered like a candle flame. But it flickered because it was moving, passing behind the timbers on the opposite side of the pool. When it stopped, she saw that it was a small lantern.

The hand that carried it set it down on the flat stone near the lip of the pool. The light shone on a woman’s features. She seemed to be cloaked in midnight: nothing of her was visible except her hands and face.

Elega.

She scanned the reservoir for a moment, and Terisa cowered; but the lady’s lamp was too weak to reach so far. Almost at once, Elega withdrew into the darkness.

Geraden drew a hissing breath. “Now.” He shrugged himself out from the timbers. With his mouth at Terisa’s ear, he whispered, “You go that way.” He gave her a slight nudge in the direction he meant. “When you get close enough, distract her. I’ll come up behind her.

“Go. “

She felt rather than saw him fade into the dark.

Go. Yes. Good idea. But how? One misstep would take her into the pool. Dragged down by her coat, she would drown. She would never learn whether she was right about Elega.

Cautiously, she turned and put one hand on the nearest timber.

The timbers were all the same distance from the edge of the pool. If she felt her way along them, she would be safe. And she had another sign to navigate with: the reflection of the lamp in the water. That gleam was tiny, but it helped her keep her bearings.

Hoping that the pool’s wet noises would cover the sound of her steps, she concentrated all her attention on the timbers and the reflection and started moving.

Elega was still nowhere to be seen.

Geraden had disappeared completely.

More quickly than she would have believed possible, Terisa reached the corner of the pool. This side; another corner; a straight walk to the lamp. She was cold, but she had no time for that. She wasn’t conscious of shivering.

Elega returned to the light.

Instinctively, Terisa froze.

The lady brought with her a sack about the size of a large purse. She supported it with both hands as though it were heavy. In contrast, however, her walk and posture didn’t betray much strain. Apparently, she feared that the material of the sack might tear, spilling its contents. Her care was obvious as she put the sack down beside the lamp.

I’m going to be too late. With an effort of will, Terisa forced herself into motion again.

But she wasn’t too late. Instead of opening the sack, Elega retreated once again into the dark.

This side; another corner. How long would Elega be gone? How far did the light reach?

Where was Geraden?

The lamp made everything behind it blank, impenetrable.

She felt that she was breathing louder than the sound of the water; the effort of muffling her respiration made her want to gasp. Now she didn’t need to guide herself by the timbers: the lamp showed her the rim of the pool. But she had to be quiet, quiet. No sound from her boots on the stone; none from her heart; none from the tense fear that constricted her chest.

How long would Elega be gone?

Not long enough. While Terisa was still too far away, the lady reentered the reach of her light.

She was carrying a second sack. It was just like the first one. She cradled it with both hands.

Terisa wanted to freeze again.

Instead, she began to run.

At the noise of Terisa’s boots, Elega whirled. The cowl of a cape flipped back from her head, and her eyes seemed to gather up all the light, flaring like violet gems. Her face was whetted and intense.

“Terisa, stop!”

Terisa jerked to a halt.

“Come no closer!” the lady warned. “You cannot prevent me from flinging my sack into the water. That is not the best way to distribute the powder – but it will suffice.” In this light, with such extremity in her eyes, her beauty was astonishing. She looked as certain as a queen. “And one sack will suffice, though I have brought two for safety. Do not interfere with me.”

“Elega—” Terisa had to gasp hard to clear her throat, unlock her chest. “Don’t do this. It’s crazy. You’re—”

“Who is with you?” demanded Elega.

“You’re going to kill thousands of people. Some of them are your friends. A lot of them know and respect you.”

“Terisa! Who is with you? Answer me!”

“You’re going to kill your father.”

Deliberately, Elega adjusted her grip on her sack and started to swing it toward the water. The sack appeared to be made of some unusually supple leather.

Geraden hadn’t come. There was nothing beyond the lamp except the dimly silvered night of the reservoir. “I’m alone!” Terisa cried urgently.

The lady checked her swing.

“There’s nobody with me. I’m alone.”

Elega’s eyes burned. “How can I believe that?”

Helpless to do anything else, Terisa replied bitterly, “No one trusts me. Who would believe me if I told them you were going to do this?”

“Geraden trusts you. Together, you persuaded the Tor to be suspicious of me.”

“I know,” Terisa shot back in desperation. “But you made him back down.” Where was Geraden? “And Geraden can’t believe anything like this about you. You’re the King’s daughter.”

For a moment, Elega studied Terisa. Slowly, she straightened her back; she faced Terisa regally. She didn’t put down her sack, however.

“If no one else would believe this, why do you? How do you come to be here?”

Terisa met the lady’s scrutiny as well as she could and struggled to hold down her panic. “I guessed. We talked about the water supply. I think I suggested it.” Her self-control was fraying. In another minute, she would begin to babble. “Elega, why? This is your home. You’re the King’s daughter. You’re going to kill—”

“I am going to kill,” cut in Elega impatiently, “a few of Orison’s oldest and most infirm inhabitants. That is regrettable. Perhaps my father will be one of them.” She grimaced. “Even that is regrettable. But no one else who drinks this tainted water will die. They will simply be too sick to fight.

“Orison will fall with little loss of life.” Her voice rose. “At small cost to the realm, my father will be deposed, and a new power will take his place. Then Mordant will be defended” – she had to shout in order to hold back an uprush of passion – “defended against Cadwal and Imagery, and the dreams with which King Joyse reared his daughters will be restored!” Her cry was strong – yet it echoed like mourning in the high silence of the reservoir. “To accomplish that, I am willing to cause a few deaths.”

She might have continued: the force of what she felt might have impelled her to say more. But she didn’t get the chance. All the illumination behind her condensed at once, transforming Geraden instantly out of the dark; and he charged wildly.

In fact, he charged so wildly that he caught his foot on the butt of one of the timbers.

The sound alerted Elega. As quick as a bird, she leaped aside while he crashed to the stone on the spot where she had been standing.

“Geraden!”

The impact seemed to stun him: he looked hurt. Although he bounded up almost instantly to his hands and knees, into a poised crouch, his balance shifted as if the flat stone under him were moving, and his head wobbled on his neck.

Nevertheless he was between Elega and the water.

Terisa hurried to his side. She wanted to help him up, find out how badly he was hurt. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the lady.

The two women studied each other across a space of no more than ten feet. Elega’s face was dark around the violet smolder of her eyes; she clutched her sack with both hands. Despite the fear pounding in her head, Terisa braced herself to block Elega’s approach to the pool.

The corners of the lady’s mouth hinted at a smile. In a formal tone, as if she wanted the reservoir to hear her, she said, “My lady Terisa, I am sorry that I did not persuade you to join me. I believed you when you said you were alone. Clearly, you are a better player of this game than I realized.”

Nothing about her gave the impression that she was caught or beaten.

Geraden, get up!

Abruptly, he wrenched himself to his feet, stumbled sideways, then recovered. His gaze appeared oddly out of focus, as if his eyes were aimed in slightly different directions. Breathing heavily, he bent over and braced his hands on his knees to support the weight of his sore head.

“Blast you, Elega,” he panted, “don’t you know we caught Nyle? Castellan Lebbick has him. I don’t expect you to care what happens to anybody as minor as a son of the Domne, but you ought to care about the fact that he didn’t get through to the Perdon.

“You made a nice speech about defending the realm and restoring dreams. But you can’t pretend that anymore. You aren’t doing this for Mordant. You’re doing it for Alend.”

The lady’s eyes flared.

“Or you’re doing it for Prince Kragen, which comes to the same thing. When you’re done, we’ll all be ruled by the Alend Monarch. Then it won’t be you who decides what happens to your dreams. It won’t even be your personal Prince. It’ll be Margonal. Once Orison falls, you won’t be anybody except the oldest daughter of the Alend Monarch’s worst enemy.

“Give it up before you get hurt.”

As if she were in pain, Elega lowered her gaze. “Perhaps you are right,” she murmured. “You have caught me. I was a fool to believe the word of an Alend.” Her grip on the sack shifted.

Terisa shouted a warning – too late, as usual – as the lady flung her sack over Geraden’s head.

At the edge of the light, it arched toward the still, dark water.

Geraden leaped for it.

So did Terisa.

Before they collided with each other, his reaching fingers hooked the soft leather and deflected it.

They fell tangled together. His arms and legs were all around her: she couldn’t sort her way out of them.

After an interminable instant, she found herself on the floor while he scrambled to regain his feet. She was gazing straight along the smooth stone at the sack. It had landed right at the rim of the pool – so close that she could have put her hand on it.

But it had split open when it hit. A strange green powder was already pouring into the water. As she watched, the sack slumped empty.

Then the light went out.

A heavy splash cast sibilant applause around the reservoir as the other sack sank into the pool.

Across the dark, Elega said, “Prince Kragen is a truer man than you are, Geraden fumble-foot. He will not be false to me.”

Small waves continued to slap and echo against the sides of the pool long after the King’s daughter was gone.

TWENTY-FOUR: THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Later that night, a small band of men on horseback launched an attack that no one understood at the time against the heavy gates of Orison. With a great whooping and hallooing, the men charged forward, shot burning arrows into the wood or up at the parapets, then brandished their swords and challenged the defenders to come out and fight instead of cowering inside the walls like girls.

Their arrows had no effect on the gates: some of Castellan Lebbick’s guards had spent the past four days soaking the wood with water. And the attackers themselves seemed more drunk than dangerous. Nevertheless they made enough noise to be heard by every man on duty around the walls.

While the captain in command of the watch readied a sortie, the riders escaped. They could be heard laughing derisively for a few moments after the night had swallowed their retreat.

When this was reported to the Castellan, he had less to say about it than might have been expected. By that time, he had passed from his usual fulminating outrage into a tightly coiled fury that resembled equanimity. He looked almost cheerful as he went about his work, preparing Orison to meet an Alend siege with a totally inadequate supply of clean water.

Sometime earlier, Terisa and Geraden had had the disconcerting experience of appearing to improve his mood by telling him about their encounter with the lady Elega.

When they first approached him, he acted like a man who was savage with lack of sleep. His eyes had a harried cast, and some of his gestures seemed aimless, as if he weren’t aware of making them. His personality changed stress and fatigue into ire, however. His problem was that he had nothing to do: Orison was as ready as possible for a struggle he had no expectation of winning. Because he couldn’t rest, he was in danger of driving his own forces ragged before the real test of their strength began.

He had never been very good at resting. The strict urgency inside him kept him on his feet. Now, however, he couldn’t rest because rest meant sleep – and sleep meant dreams.

His dreams were haunted.

As a younger man, he had occasionally had nightmares about his revenge on the Alend garrison commander who had raped and tortured his wife of four days with such relish and variety. But over the years the stable mildness of her companionship – and the clear worth of the work he did for his King – had taken the sting out of those dreams.

But now she was dead. He was alone – effectively abandoned even by King Joyse. And when he dreamed, he didn’t dream of revenge.

He dreamed that he was an Alend garrison commander with a young Termigan sod’s nubile bride tied helpless in front of him. He dreamed of all the things that could be done to her to make her scream and her husband mad.

He dreamed of relish.

And he awoke trembling – he, Castellan Lebbick, trembling, a man who hadn’t quailed in the face of any dread or danger since the day when King Joyse had cut him free and let him take his revenge.

At the sight of Geraden’s stiff-faced determination and the woman Terisa’s stubbornly controlled alarm – alarm which he instinctively wanted to justify – something leaped through him like fire in a mound of dry brush.

By the time Geraden finished describing what Elega had done, Castellan Lebbick was smiling.

“Congratulations,” he said almost genially. “Here’s another triumph for you. The lady Terisa” – he spoke as if she weren’t present – “gave you the perfect chance to do something right for a change – and what did you do? You decided to be a hero by saving Orison alone. You must be particularly proud of yourself.”

“That’s not fair,” the woman put in unexpectedly. Despite her alarm and her downcast gaze, she had courage. “You make it impossible for anybody to tell you anything. If I turned out to be wrong – if Elega did something else while you were guarding the reservoir – you would accuse us of conspiring to distract you.”

Yes, the Castellan mused, she was an interesting woman. And her turn was coming. Someday soon he would have her in his power. Then she would learn what it really meant to be accused. He would teach her thoroughly.

He still found it difficult to distrust the Apt: as the Domne’s son and Artagel’s brother, Geraden had an automatic claim on Castellan Lebbick’s good opinion. And he had stopped Nyle. That may have been stupid, but it was certainly honorable.

The woman, on the other hand—

Curious, wasn’t it, how she just happened to be the one who became suspicious of Elega – how she just happened to be the one who figured out what Elega was doing. All Lebbick knew of her was that she was an Imager. And that she acted like an enemy of Alend. And that High King Festten wanted her dead. And that she lied to him when the truth would have helped him serve his King. The rest was inference, speculation, dream.

The smile with which he regarded her would have curdled milk. Still addressing Geraden, he asked, “Do you know what I’m going to have to do now?”

“Yes, Castellan.” The Apt sighed as though he anticipated more abuse. “You’re going to have to face this whole siege with only the spring for water.”

“That’s right. We’ve doubled our population. That spring doesn’t give a tenth of what we need. We’re going to have to ration water severely. I’m going to have to put pregnant women and tired old men and children on rations that will make them ache with thirst. Because you thought it would be fun to be a hero for a change. And that’s not all.”

“No, it’s not.”

Regardless of what Geraden felt, he faced Lebbick without flinching. The Castellan liked that. Not so long ago, the Apt would have flinched.

“You’re also going to have to flush out the reservoir and all the pipes. If you don’t do it – and do it soon – people who get thirstier than they can stand are going to start sneaking drinks. If they’re weak enough, they’ll die.

“Flushing everything will use water, too. You won’t have much left to ration.”

The Castellan nodded. No matter how stupidly he behaved, the Apt wasn’t stupid. In fact, considering his obvious intelligence, it was amazing how consistently he managed to go wrong.

“Are you sure she poisoned the water?”

Geraden frowned. “Do you mean, am I sure she knew what she was doing? No. And I haven’t tested it. But whatever was in those sacks was a powder, and it was green. I only know one kind of green powder. It’s a tinct the Masters use. They call it ‘ortical’ – it was first mixed by an Imager named Ortic. There must be a hundredweight of it stored in the laborium.” He didn’t look away. “That stuff will make you sick if you just get too much of it on your hands.”

“Is there a counteragent?”

“Who knows? Imagers don’t eat tinct. And they don’t spend their time trying to cure people who do.”

“If I ask your Master Barsonage, will he be able to tell me if any ortical is missing?”

“No. Nobody supervises the Masters when they’re working. Quite a few of them still like to keep the ingredients they use secret. But one of the younger Apts might have noticed a sudden drop in the amount of ortical on the shelves.”

Again, the Castellan nodded. Without warning, he addressed Terisa for the first time. “How did you know what the lady Elega was going to do?”

In a small voice, she replied, “I guessed.”

“You guessed?”

“I put together some things she said.” She became stronger as she spoke. “They weren’t even enough to be called hints. I put them together and just guessed.”

“My lady,” Castellan Lebbick announced in a contented tone, “I don’t believe that.” Then he dismissed her and Geraden.

He didn’t need to plan what had to be done. It was already clear to him, step by step. He was the Castellan of Orison; he knew how to serve his King. In the end, it made no difference what the odds were against him. How badly Orison was damaged. How much he was outmanned. How far King Joyse failed. Castellan Lebbick had made himself more like a sword than a man – and a sword knew nothing about surrender.

In the meantime, he had something to look forward to. That woman’s turn was coming.

***

Geraden took her back to the peacock suite, then went to his own rooms to try to get some sleep. But neither of them slept much.

No one in Orison slept much.

Of course, many of the castle’s inhabitants were awake because they were too tense to sleep. A large number of people didn’t have that problem, however. They were guards who were either too experienced or too tired to stay awake; parents whose over-excited children had worn them out; merchants who knew that their own survival – and even their profits – would probably be more rather than less valuable after the siege, regardless of who won. They were servants who were so badly overworked that they couldn’t afford sleeplessness; Masters who lacked imagination; lords who didn’t understand and ladies who were philosophical.

These people didn’t get much sleep because Castellan Lebbick and his men woke them up.

Despite his quickness, the Castellan was too late to save two old men who were accustomed to make several trips to the lavatory during the night, a handful of guards who came off watch and refreshed themselves before they were warned, and several children who roused their parents crying for water. But these unfortunate incidents at least served to confirm that Elega had poisoned the reservoir – that the harsh measures which Lebbick imposed on the castle were necessary. The children were desperately sick, but no one died except one of the old men.

And in the morning nearly everybody tried to crowd out onto the battlements or around a window to watch for the Alend army.

In that respect, Terisa and Geraden were fortunate. They had no trouble gaining access to the top of the tower that held her rooms.

During the night, the weather had turned cold again. A featureless gray cloud wrack had closed down over Mordant, turning the castle and the landscape the color of gloom; a chill wind blew like a scythe, reaping away every sign of an early spring. The nearby hills lost depth; the ones farther away looked higher, more dangerous. The black trees tossed their limbs as if they were writhing. Corrupt snow still clung to most of the slopes, making the bare ground appear unwell. At first, she could hardly see: the cold felt like a slap, and the wind in her face made her eyes tear. Gradually, however, her vision improved until she was able to scrutinize the horizons in the direction of Armigite and Alend just as the crowds on the lower battlements and the people on the other towers did.

There was nothing to see.

For a long time, there was nothing to see. By degrees, the crowds thinned. Twice, Terisa and Geraden broke their vigil and returned to her rooms to get warm.

“When are they coming?” she asked.

“How should I know?” he replied with uncharacteristic asperity. He was taking his failure to stop Elega hard.

She knew how he felt and didn’t blame him.

“Which direction are they going to come from?”

He repented his testiness. “Along the road. That’s longer, but it should be quicker. And it’s the only way they can bring their supplies. Or the ‘engines of war’ we keep hearing about.”

When they went back outside, she learned that he was right. Warned by an indefinable stiffening of attention around her, she peered harder into the harsh wind and saw the vanguard of the Alend army coming.

It was on the northwest road from the Care of Armigite.

The Alend Monarch’s flags flew in the hands of his standard-bearers. The gray light and the distance made them look black.

Slowly, the army marched toward Orison – a body of men that seemed huge beyond counting. Soldiers on horses. Soldiers on foot. Dozens of drivers goading the mules that dragged the supply wains. Swarms of transformed servants and impressed peasants who steered and tended the lumbering siege engines. And a second army of porters and camp followers.

All come to take Orison away from Mordant’s King.

Held by a kind of awe, she stared out from the tower and tried to imagine the amount of bloodshed King Joyse’s actions threatened to bring down on his people.

Perhaps he was imagining the same thing. Geraden nudged her and pointed toward the north tower. Squinting in that direction, she saw King Joyse standing before the parapets with Castellan Lebbick.

He looked small across the length of Orison, despite his heavy fur cloak. Both he and his Castellan studied the Alend advance without moving. Perhaps there was nothing they could do. The flags of Mordant had been raised over the battlements, but the King’s personal banner snapped painfully from the end of a pole on the tower where he stood. It was a plain purple swath that might have appeared jaunty and brave under bright sunlight. Now it looked as if it was about to be torn away by the wind.

After a while, he and Castellan Lebbick left the tower.

For no reason that Terisa could see, Orison’s trumpeter winded his horn. He may have been blowing a call to arms; it sounded more like a wail.

With ponderous precision, like a display of inevitability, Alend’s army invested the castle.

Ten thousand soldiers surrounded the walls and presented their weapons. The siege engines were rolled into position. Then the Alends bugled a signal of their own, and a party of riders formed around the Alend Monarch’s standard-bearer. The standard-bearer added a flag of truce to Margonal’s assertive green-and-red pennon. Together, the flags and the riders approached the gates of Orison.

Orison’s trumpeter responded. The gates rose.

With six men behind him, Castellan Lebbick rode out to meet the Alend party.

He wasn’t surprised to see that the Alends were led by Prince Kragen. Nor, after his conversation with King Joyse, was he surprised by the fact that one of the riders was the lady Elega.

The two groups stopped and eyed each other across a short distance. The Prince was steady, but Elega didn’t meet Castellan Lebbick’s glare.

After a long silence, Prince Kragen said, “Greetings, Castellan. Your King’s folly has brought us to this.”

The Castellan was holding his horse with too tight a rein: the beast couldn’t stand still. As it shied from side to side, he rasped, “Say what you came to say and be done with it, my lord Prince. I have better things to do with my time.”

Prince Kragen’s gaze darkened. “Very well,” he snapped. “Listen carefully, Castellan.”

In a formal tone, he announced, “Margonal, the Alend Monarch and Lord of the Alend Lieges, sends greetings to Joyse, Lord of the Demesne and King of Mordant. The Alend Monarch asks King Joyse to meet with him under a flag of truce, so that together they may find some way to avert this conflict. King Joyse has refused to hear requests for peace from the Alend Monarch’s ambassador. Nevertheless it is peace the Alend Monarch desires, and he will pursue that desire openly and fairly with King Joyse, if the King will consent to meet him.”

“A pretty speech,” Castellan Lebbick retorted without hesitation. “Why should we believe you?”

“Because,” the Prince shot back, “I do not need to make pretty speeches. Your wall is broken – and not well repaired, I observe. You have no stores of clean water. Your men are too few. You cannot endure a siege, Castellan. The Alend Monarch has no reason to offer you peace – no reason except the sincerity of his desire.”

“ ‘The sincerity of his desire.” ’ Lebbick jerked at his mount. “I like that – from an Alend.

“All right. Here’s your answer.

“King Joyse asks me to point out to you – and to your illustrious father – that neither of you understands hop-board. You wouldn’t have gotten as far as a stalemate without help. Instead of waving your swords at us, you ought to remember what happened the last time you went to war with Mordant.”

The wind cut between the horses. “By the stars, Lebbick,” cried out the lady Elega, “is he still playing hop-board? Tell him to surrender!”

The Castellan didn’t shift his gaze from Prince Kragen’s face. “The King’s daughter,” he remarked. “That attack last night was a diversion, so she could get out of Orison.” As soon as King Joyse had said this, Lebbick had cursed himself for not realizing the truth immediately. “What do you plan to do with her now? Is she a hostage?”

Prince Kragen spat an oath. With an effort, he resumed his formal tone. “The Alend Monarch welcomes the lady Elega as a friend. He has no intention of offering any harm, either to her, or to her father in her person. This courtesy, also, he provides as a demonstration of his desire for peace.”

“I have an answer for that, too.” For the first time, Castellan Lebbick used the exact words he had been given. “King Joyse replies, ‘I am sure that my daughter Elega has acted for the best reasons. She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. For her sake, as well as for my own, I hope that the best reasons will also produce the best results.” ’

The lady Elega stared at Castellan Lebbick as if he had said something horrible.

“That is an answer?” demanded the Prince.

“Take it and be satisfied,” the Castellan replied. “You ought to like it better than the denunciation she deserves. Ask her” – King Joyse had specifically forbidden him to say this – “if she wants to know how many people died this morning.”

Prince Kragen ignored that jibe. “You misunderstand me deliberately, Castellan. Have you given me your King’s answer to the Alend Monarch’s desire for truce? Is he that far out of his senses?”

Riding the strength of the fact that King Joyse had actually talked to him – however strangely – Castellan Lebbick had no trouble finding a retort. “I don’t advise you to put it to the test.”

“Then hear me. Hear me well, Castellan.” Prince Kragen’s anger was fierce. “This is my last word.

“Your King leaves us no choice. We cannot ‘be satisfied.’ Cadwal is marching. You know that Cadwal is marching. Where we stand, we are more vulnerable than you to the High King’s great force. We cannot defend you, or your people, or the Congery—”

“Or yourselves.”

“—or ourselves if we do not take Orison. King Joyse compels us all to a war he cannot win, regardless of the cost to us. He must offer peace. By peace or by blood, we must have Orison.”

The Castellan fought his horse still. “That is your last word?” He was grinning.

“Yes!”

“Then here’s mine.” Lebbick knew what to say, although he didn’t understand it. “King Joyse assures the Alend Monarch that he has more choices than he realizes. King Joyse suggests you withdraw to the west of the Demesne and await developments. If you do that, he’ll be glad to meet the Alend Monarch under a flag of truce and offer more suggestions.

“If you don’t” – the Castellan could barely conceal his own surprise at the threat he had been instructed to deliver – “King Joyse intends to unleash the full force of the Congery against you and rout you from the earth!”

At the moment, he didn’t care whether or not the King’s gambit would succeed. He was simply glad that he had been allowed to say those words.

Silence seemed to shock the gathering. For a time, no one could respond. In spite of himself, Prince Kragen gaped in anger and dismay.

Then the lady Elega whispered intensely, “Castellan Lebbick, you lie.” Her face was pale in the harsh wind. “My father would never do such a thing.”

As if she had commanded it, the Prince snatched the flag of truce from the standard-bearer, broke its shaft across his knee, and threw the pieces into the road. Wheeling his mount, he led his party back to the Alend lines.

Castellan Lebbick and his men returned to Orison. The gates thudded shut behind them.

The Alend bugler sounded another call. All around the castle, camp followers and servants began to unpack wagons and pitch tents. The siege of Orison had commenced.

“I’ve got to go see Artagel,” Geraden said as if he were proposing to have his legs broken. “He’ll want to hear what’s happened.” The cold made his nose run; he sounded congested and miserable. “If he can’t forgive me for letting Prince Kragen get away, at least there isn’t anything worse he can do to me for letting Elega poison the water.”

Terisa offered to go with him, but he declined her company. He wanted to face his distress alone.

When he left, she went back to her rooms.

***

She had a great deal to think about. She needed to decide where she stood in relation to what was happening around her. She needed to define her own loyalties. She needed to decide how far she was willing – or able – to pursue the commitment she had apparently given Geraden by telling him about the connection between her dream and the augury.

Instead, she found herself thinking about Reverend Thatcher.

She had worked for him for almost a year – long enough to forget why she had originally accepted the job as his mission secretary. Since then, what she tended to remember about him was his dogged ineffectuality. But she hadn’t seen him that way at first. No, at first she had gone looking for a mission job to make up for the emptiness and wealth of her background, the uselessness which eroded her sense of herself. And she had taken the job Reverend Thatcher offered because of his dedication against impossible poverty and callous disregard.

At the time, of course, she hadn’t realized that he was ineffectual. Now, however, she began to wonder whether that perception was accurate. In his place, wouldn’t Geraden have done just what he did? Wouldn’t Geraden have held true in the face of any failure? Wasn’t the real failure of her mission work in her? A failure of heart?

Wasn’t it possible to live as if she could hear horns?

What she was thinking didn’t solve anything. But it was necessary, and she stayed with it. At least it taught her to understand that she owed Reverend Thatcher an apology.

***

Later, she became aware that she was tired enough to sleep.

The idea of a nap was unexpectedly appealing. She hadn’t slept well the night before. And no amount of fatigue or wakefulness was going to do Orison any good. Humming to herself, she added wood to both fires to keep her rooms warm. Then she took off all her clothes, tossed them onto a chair, and slipped herself into bed.

For a while, she listened to the hungry wind scraping its claws on her window, on the corners of the tower. But as soon as the cool sheets gained heat from her skin, she fell asleep.

Deep in dreams, she received the delicious impression that she was being kissed.

A strong mouth covered hers. A tongue stroked her lips, probing delicately between them. She tasted cloves.

Under the blankets, a hand caressed her belly, then moved up to her breasts. Its touch was just cool enough to make her nipples harden.

When she realized that she wasn’t dreaming, she opened her eyes.

Master Eremis was bending over her; his pale gaze met hers. Her father had eyes like that. But the crinkles around them suggested that he was grinning.

He startled her so much that she clutched at the blankets and jerked her head away from him.

Pulling back a little, he withdrew his hand from her body. The ends of his chasuble swung carelessly against the front of his accustomed jet cloak. He was definitely grinning. In fact, he seemed to be in excellent spirits.

“My lady,” he said, “I fear I have frightened you. Do forgive me.”

Staring up at him through the gray light from the windows, she thought that he was uglier than she remembered: his face was too much like a wedge; his hair sprouted too far back on his skull. Yet that only made the lively intelligence of his expression more magnetic.

She pulled the covers tightly over her shoulders and blinked at him in confusion. “How—?”

“The wardrobe.” His smile stretched wider. “I was exploring hidden passages and had the good fortune to find your room.”

“Where—?” She sat up a bit. Her mind refused to function. She had been more deeply asleep than she realized. How had she gotten out of the habit of putting a chair in that wardrobe? “Where were you? I thought I would see you.”

He seated himself on the edge of the bed, then reached out a hand and ran his fingertips down the line of her neck from her ear to her shoulder. “I was required at home. I think I have mentioned Esmerel?” His touch felt like a signature on her skin. “My grandfather called it our ‘ancestral seat,’ though Esmerel is not really as grand as that. My father is still less grand, however, and does not use such language.”

Master Eremis plucked lightly at the sheet she held in front of her. “In his blunt way, he demanded my presence. It seems that one of my brothers killed the other – although with that pair the truth has often been difficult to determine. My father wanted me in front of him while he decided whether to disinherit the survivor in my favor.

“Esmerel is in the Care of Tor – fortunately a ride of only two days beyond the Broadwine. I have just returned.”

She could hardly swallow. If he went on looking at her like that, she was going to forget everything that had happened while he was away. His fingers were curled gently over the edge of the sheet covering her. Soon he would begin to pull it down, and she wouldn’t be able to resist. She didn’t know that she wanted to resist. Her head seemed to be full of forgotten dreams. It was impossible to think.

With an effort, she asked, “What did he decide?”

The Imager shrugged to show his disinterest. “My father hates me. As do – or did – both my brothers. So it is remarkable that they have always done what I wished. I have no use for Esmerel at present. Therefore my brother will inherit it. If my father has the good sense to die soon.”

He leaned toward her, and his mouth took hers again. The scent of cloves seemed to fill her senses. His hand urged the sheet downward, and his tongue had to be answered. No, she couldn’t resist. His palm rubbed her nipple until she shivered at his touch; then he cupped her breast possessively. She was his—

Somehow, she pushed him back. A flush on her cheeks, and breathing raggedly, she faced him as well as she could. “Why does your family hate you?”

His smile was gone: his eyes burned with an intensity that made her melt. “My lady, I did not come here to discuss my family. I came to claim you at last.”

Without thinking, she rolled away from him and got out of bed. Momentarily defying her nakedness, she went to the chair where she had left her robe. Her hands shook as she pulled the velvet onto her shoulders and knotted the sash; her voice shook as she spoke.

“You were gone for a long time. I waited for you. I wanted to help you. I was ready—” Ready to do almost anything. “But you didn’t come. I didn’t hear from you.”

Despite her resistance, she was close to panic at the thought that he might take offense and leave, that by retreating from him she had sacrificed her chance to be touched and kissed. He didn’t look offended, however. His smile was too acute to be affectionate; yet he gazed at her with a new eagerness, as if she had become a challenge.

“My lady,” he said thoughtfully, “I regret that you did not hear from me. That was not my intention. I sent word to you several times. But perhaps my messages were intercepted.”

She started to ask, Who would intercept—? before she understood what he was saying. He hadn’t meant to leave her without saying goodbye. That changed everything. Didn’t it? Almost babbling, she said, “You sent messages with Saddith. But she’s your lover. She wants you for herself, so she didn’t give me any of your messages.”

For an instant, the Master’s eyes widened as if she had surprised him. A grin quickly altered his expression, however. Now his excitement was unmistakable. His tone was both careful and jocose as he said, “My lady, you cannot possibly be jealous of a maid like Saddith. Nearly all the men she has ever known have been between her legs. I can believe that she did not deliver my messages. But I cannot believe it matters that I have taken advantage of her crass charms.”

Terisa’s emotions were in an alarming muddle. Her relief that he had tried to send word to her lasted only a moment. It was replaced almost at once by the sense that the information came too late. It didn’t change anything after all. She had made her commitment without him – had put herself on Geraden’s side. And not just by default: not just because the Apt was present and Master Eremis was absent. She had chosen Geraden because to distrust him – to spy on him, to betray him, as the Master had demanded – was intolerable. If only Eremis had come to her sooner. She bit her lip to try to keep her distress from showing on her face.

Still smiling, he studied her narrowly. After a moment, he said, “Saddith is of no importance, however. I will dispense with her to please you. You asked about my family.”

She nodded dumbly, hanging on every word he said while her heart hurt.

“It is a small family. Esmerel is a small estate, though beautiful. My grandfather was a man of high intelligence – and even higher refinement. He had an exceptional understanding of both knowledge and pleasure. And he dabbled in Imagery. In truth, one of our family legends is that he was acquainted with the arch-Imager Vagel. Of course, that was before the wars for Mordant, during which the arch-Imager went into High King Festten’s service.

“Unhappily, my grandfather had but one son, and that one son was a lout. Beauty and refinement were as blank as stone walls to him. He understood nothing except violence – and the pleasures of violence. When he came into possession of Esmerel, he spent years debauching its beauties as well as himself. Then he became a petty brigand to preserve some semblance of wealth in his ‘ancestral seat.’

“The accidental result of his debauchery was that he had three sons. The first was an exact duplicate of himself – therefore much loved. The second was a bit smaller, a bit less muscular, and a bit more cunning – therefore tolerable.

“I was the third.”

The Master’s voice was part of his spell. Terisa expected him to move toward her. The way he studied her made her feel that he was moving toward her. Her pain seemed to hypnotize her. But he remained motionless beside the bed.

“Fortunately,” he observed, “I was a good deal stronger than I looked. To all appearances, I was the runt of the litter, and my father despised me accordingly. For that reason, my brothers sought to earn his approval by tormenting me.” He spoke calmly, but the glint in his eyes was as calm as a hatchet. “On one occasion, I recall, they locked me in a wooden shed and set it afire to see what I would do.”

Breathing through parted lips as if she were rapt – or appalled – she asked, “What did you do?”

He chuckled. “I tricked them. I was no heir to Esmerel, but I was my grandfather’s heir in intelligence. Before I was old enough to be afraid, I was clever enough to protect myself. And soon I learned that the surest protection was to turn them all against each other. So I set out to teach each of them that he needed my help against the others. With a little judicious prodding, I was able to make them do whatever I wished.”

Drawn by what he described – things that must have been acutely painful, things that reminded her of closets and fading – she took a step toward him. “What did you make them do?”

He betrayed a glint of anticipation. “I made them all good citizens of the Care of Tor. I tamed my brothers. I deprived my father of his debaucheries. And I made them restore the resources of knowledge which Esmerel had once boasted, so that I could claim my grandfather’s true inheritance. It was his interest and researches that led me into Imagery.

“Since leaving Esmerel, I have done what I can to keep my family from bestiality. But a distance of two days’ ride seems like the world to men like them. I regret that there was nothing I could do to prevent the altercation that left my father’s firstborn dead.” His manner suggested that his regret wasn’t especially profound.

She took another step. His pale gaze seemed to be devouring her. “You came to claim me. What do you want me to do?”

He opened his hands as if to show her their strength. “Take off your robe.”

She touched her sash as a giddy acquiescence swept through her. But she shook it away. “I mean after that. What do you want me to do for Mordant?”

“Why must there be an ‘after that’?” he countered. “I will content your womanhood in ways you have not dreamed.”

In a small voice, she insisted, “I want to help you. I want to help Mordant.”

“Very well.” As though he were confident that she already knew and had accepted the answer, he replied, “Together, we will persuade Castellan Lebbick and the Congery that Geraden has betrayed us.”

When he said that, her heart gave a lurch – and then her courage was gone, as if he had kicked out the bottom of her spirit. Geraden? Was he back to Geraden? Still arguing that Geraden was in league with Gilbur and Vagel? Or did he have some new accusation to level against her only friend? She barely had the fortitude to ask, “What has he done?”

“Done? What has he not done? Has he not convinced you that I am a traitor?”

She shook her head.

“Then he is wiser than I thought. You would have become suspicious of him if he had tried to turn you against me.”

The Master considered her for a moment, then said, “Because he has been wise, you will probably not believe that he arranged to leave you alone in the bazaar so that Gart could attack you. You will probably not believe that his failure to stop Elega was no accident.”

She stared at him in frank horror.

“Those are subtle points,” he went on. “I grant it is difficult to credit him with such subtlety. But I will tell you something you must believe. Cadwal is marching. Have you never asked yourself why Cadwal is marching? Have you never wondered why High King Festten feels he must attack now?”

Terisa didn’t reply. Her mind was blank with dismay. A new accusation. New reasons to believe that the only man who cared about her and encouraged her and stayed with her was a traitor.

“In the ordinary course of events,” Eremis explained, “the High King’s spies must have told him that Alend was coming to Orison. What would he do?” His voice was like the wind, growing harsher as it filled the room. Light from the hearth made his face unnaturally ruddy. “On one side is the risk that Orison might fall, giving the Congery into the Alend Monarch’s hands. But with Castellan Lebbick – if not our good King – defending the castle, that is unlikely. On the other side is the certainty that the forces of Perdon would be drawn to Orison’s support. Alend and Mordant might easily cripple each other in that battle – and then everything the High King wants could be taken almost without cost. Why did he not wait for his enemies to destroy each other?

“I will tell you why, my lady.” The Master made a short, brutal gesture with both hands. “He did not wait because he knew of Elega’s intentions. He knew our danger was greatly increased by the fact that Orison would be betrayed from within by Prince Kragen’s allies.

“Think, woman. How could High King Festten have known that Orison would be betrayed to Alend? By Imagery, his Monomach can enter or leave the castle – although how this is done remains a mystery. But access to our halls does not give him access to our secrets. Who but a traitor would tell Gart that Elega meant to poison the reservoir, depriving us of water and exposing us to summary defeat?”

“No,” Terisa murmured. She wanted to collapse into a chair. “No.”

Master Eremis ignored her protest. “And who but Geraden knew the danger?”

“But he was attacked,” she objected. “By Imagery. Twice. They tried to kill him – Gilbur, Vagel—”

“Whelp of a bitch!” Eremis sounded furious. “Those were ploys, woman. Tricks. They show only that Gilbur and Vagel are desperate that you do not turn against their ally. By attacking Geraden, they make him appear innocent. The truth is that they feint his death for the same reason that they actively desire yours – so that you will not expose him.

“If he had not been rescued as he was, I assure you that they would have recalled their insects before he was slain.”

She was no longer looking at the Imager. She wasn’t looking at anything. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “How could I expose him?”

“You have been with him for many days. You have watched him, spoken to him, studied him. And you met in private in your own world, before he translated you here. You alone possess the knowledge – the experience – that will persuade the Congery of his treachery.”

“No,” she repeated softly. She wasn’t speaking to him, however. She was speaking to herself. She hardly heard what he said: she heard only his voice, his anger, the threat of losing him. Geraden was no traitor. Of course not. She knew that precisely because she had spent so much time with him. But she was being forced to a choice. No, more than that. She was being forced to do something about what she believed. She couldn’t defend Geraden without turning her back on Master Eremis and everything he represented.

“You said you wished to help Mordant.” He spoke in a hectoring tone that reminded her of her father. “While you protect the man who betrays us, we are doomed.”

What could she do? She couldn’t argue with him. She had never been able to argue with her father. She could only take his side or refuse. That was clear enough.

Quietly, she asked, “What are you going to do to me?”

“Take off your robe,” he snapped. “Your body, at least, will not disappoint me.”

Now at last she understood the anger and secret triumph she had so often heard in her father’s voice, the desire to inflict pain. For that reason, what she had to do was clear to her in the end – clear and simple – and so difficult that it was nearly impossible.

Her hands were on the sash of her robe. Deliberately, she pulled it tighter.

“No,” she said to the Master.

She thought that he would shout at her or strike her. He started toward her, and his expression sharpened into a grin of violence. Instead of shouting, however, he whispered intensely, “My lady, I have claimed you. I have placed my hands and my kisses where you will never forget them.” He was close enough to grasp her shoulders. Echoing firelight, his hot gaze held her. “Every curve of your flesh and pulsebeat of your womanhood desires me, and I will not be refused.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her forcefully. Somehow, her robe was gone from between them. He felt as hard as iron against her inexperienced belly.

She didn’t struggle: she was too weak to struggle. But her body had gone cold; her nerves and her sore heart no longer responded to him. His kiss was only pressure against her face, nothing more. His hardness had lost its fascination.

No, she protested. I said no.

Someone knocked at her door so hard that it thudded against the latch.

Swearing viciously, Master Eremis pushed her away. For an instant, he measured the distance to the wardrobe. “Do not answer!” he hissed.

She was about to faint. “I forgot to lock it.”

Without waiting for admission, Geraden burst into the room and slammed the door behind him.

But when he saw Terisa standing near the entryway to the bedroom with her robe open and Master Eremis near her, he stopped as if he were turned to stone.

Convulsively, she jerked the robe closed and sashed it. Surprise and mortification made her feel like a lunatic. She sounded like a lunatic as she asked, “How is Artagel?”

The Master’s eyes were savage.

Geraden stared at Terisa as though she were appalling. “I didn’t go see him.”

“Then what did you do, boy?” inquired the Imager. “It must have been quite interesting, if it drives you to enter a lady’s bedchamber so discourteously.”

“Terisa.” With the light of the hearth behind him, Geraden’s features were dark. His gaze glittered at her out of the shadows. “Tell him to leave.”

Master Eremis made a snickering noise in the back of his throat. She was facing Geraden: she didn’t know that the Master had moved until she felt him beside her. He put one arm around her waist. With the other, he slid his hand into her robe and began to fondle her breast. “The lady Terisa,” he said, “does not wish me to leave.”

Shame flushed down the length of her body. “Please,” she breathed to Eremis, to Geraden, on the verge of weeping. Don’t do this to me. It doesn’t mean what you think. “Please.”

“In fact, it was interesting,” Geraden replied in a voice thick with blood. “I had a talk with Saddith.”

Terisa felt Master Eremis stiffen. Slowly, he took back his hand, although he didn’t release her. “What an odd thing to do. Almost as odd as the urgency you attach to it. Are you quite sure you are well, boy?”

With an effort, she swallowed the distress that clogged her throat. She felt that she was fighting for her life. “What did Saddith say?”

Without a glance at the Imager, Geraden retorted, “Your guards told me you were alone. How did he get in here?”

She knew immediately that Master Eremis didn’t want her to answer. She could feel his will in the harsh strength of his grasp.

“The wardrobe,” she said thinly. “The secret passage.”

Geraden nodded once, abruptly. “And how did he know it was there?”

In an even tone, as though he were in danger of becoming bored, Eremis drawled, “He had no idea it was there. He was exploring a passage new to him and found the lady Terisa’s rooms by chance.”

The Apt turned a gaze like stone on the Master. Shadows shifted along his jaw. “Actually, that’s not true.” Then he addressed Terisa again. “How did Saddith become your maid?”

She was having difficulty breathing: the pressure growing in her chest seemed to cramp her lungs. “King Joyse told her to take care of me.”

“Did he choose her himself?”

It was astonishing how vividly the memory came back to her. The King had said, Saddith will attend upon you as your maid. He had even greeted her by saying, Just the one I wanted. But he hadn’t looked pleased.

“I don’t think so. He didn’t ask for her by name. He just told the guard I needed a maid.”

“I begin to see why you found this so interesting,” commented Master Eremis. He seemed to be laughing to himself. “Trivial matters always interest men who fail at everything else.”

“Terisa” – now Geraden’s tone cast hints of authority, as if he stood taller under the weight of the Master’s derision – “do you remember what we talked about after the first time Gart tried to kill you?”

Dumbly, she shook her head. She couldn’t think. That memory was gone, as blank as the previous one was distinct. The dim gray light from the windows appeared to be failing.

“We talked about how he found you.”

How he found me.

“It was obvious that he had an ally in Orison. Somebody must have told him where you were.”

“That is very good, Geraden,” Master Eremis sneered. “A prodigious display of reasoning. Somebody must indeed have told him. Perhaps it was you. You knew where she was. I have heard that her room was guarded at your request.”

Terisa didn’t look away from Geraden.

He met her gaze to the exclusion of everything else. “Saddith didn’t tell me as much as I wanted. But she told me enough so I can guess the rest. She volunteered to be your maid.”

Volunteered?

“I wondered about that. Why would she volunteer, when the only people who knew you were here – and knew you were important – were King Joyse and the Masters? With a little prodding, she told me. She did it to please one of her lovers. Or rather someone she wanted for a lover. One of the Masters. He asked her to take care of you for his sake, and she did it to make him grateful.”

A log fell in the hearth; flames spurted higher. Gently, Master Eremis wrapped his long fingers around the back of Terisa’s neck.

“That’s also how he found out about the secret passage to your room,” Geraden went on. “From her. She could hardly help noticing you kept a chair in your wardrobe.”

“This is outrageous, boy.” The Master’s grip on the back of Terisa’s neck tightened. “Have you lost your mind? Do you seriously mean to accuse me – me! – of being in league with the High King’s Monomach?” Beneath his scorn ran an undercurrent of mirth.

Still Geraden kept his hard gaze on Terisa, away from Master Eremis. “He’s one of the few people who knew where you were that first night. He’s one of the few who know about that secret passage. And he’s the only one who could have set up that ambush for you after the lords met Prince Kragen. He’s the only one who knew you would be there. He took you.

“He put you right in front of the champion so you might get shot. You were together – but he escaped. He could have taken you with him. He could have stopped me. Why didn’t he?”

The fires seemed to be dying. The suite was filling up with gloom.

Geraden, help me. He’s going to break my neck.

“Geraden,” said the Master casually, “this is inexcusable. You have gone beyond insult.” The pressure of his fingers began to make Terisa light-headed. “You cannot place the blame for your own crimes on my shoulders. I will not carry it.”

Geraden shifted his glare to Eremis.

“All of this is silly supposition except the question of Gart’s attempt on her life after the meeting of the Lords. And that you could have arranged as well as I. Your brother Artagel was following her. You knew at all times where she was. It is only good fortune that Gart did not come upon all the lords together. Some of them would surely have died.”

“Let her go,” the Apt said in a voice like a piece of granite. “If you have to have a hostage, take me. I’m a lot more dangerous than she is.”

At that, Master Eremis laughed like a splash of acid. “Oh, you flatter yourself, boy. You flatter yourself.”

Before she could try to twist free, she heard the sound of someone thrashing his way through clothes. In a sudden flurry, her wardrobe disgorged most of its contents, and a man burst out from the hidden passage.

His cloak and leather armor were so black that he seemed like an incarnation of the darkness behind him; he moved like a shadow. But the long steel of his sword caught reflections of fire and scattered them in front of him. His nose jutted between his yellow eyes like the blade of a hatchet.

He sprang into the room, coiled for bloodshed.

Nevertheless he was unmistakably surprised to find Master Eremis, Terisa, and Geraden all in front of him. Despite himself, he checked his attack. The aim of his sword wavered.

“Gart!” Master Eremis shouted. “Whelp of a dog! Your timing is miraculous!”

So quickly that his movement staggered her, he released Terisa and bounded to the bed. While Gart swung into motion, Master Eremis snatched down the peacock-feather canopy and flung it over Gart’s head.

At the same moment, Geraden grabbed Terisa and jerked her away, thrust her into the sitting room behind him. She stumbled toward the fire, barely caught her balance.

With a wet sound like water on hot iron, Gart’s sword swept the canopy to shreds. Feathers settled to the floor on all sides: their eyes watched everything.

Master Eremis jumped up onto the bed.

As he faced the Monomach, firelight glared across his features. The red flash gave him a look of almost ghoulish glee as he pitched a pillow at Gart.

Snarling, Gart separated the pillowcase from its stuffing with the tip of his sword so fiercely that the pillow appeared to explode. Feathers billowed toward the ceiling and came snowing down on him.

Instantly, a second pillow followed the first.

This one, however, he caught on the flat of his blade. Swinging his longsword like a bat, he sent the pillow back at Master Eremis.

It hit him in the chest hard enough to knock him against the wall.

Gart turned on Geraden and Terisa.

“Guards!” roared Master Eremis before the High King’s Monomach could strike. “Guards!”

For the second time, Gart was startled enough to hesitate. He stopped the driving swing which had carried him into the sitting room – the swing which would have carried Geraden’s head from his body. Swiftly, the Monomach gauged the distance past Geraden to Terisa; he looked at the door as the latch lifted; he glanced over his shoulder at Eremis.

With his left hand, he reached to his belt and produced a keen iron dirk.

As the door pounded open and the first guard started into the room, Gart cocked his arm.

A third pillow thumped against his shoulder and spoiled his aim. He missed Terisa.

Master Eremis let out a cackle of laughter.

Now the Monomach had no time for hesitation. Cursing vehemently, he met the first guard’s blow with his sword, then kicked the man’s legs out from under him. While the second struggled to avoid trampling his comrade, Gart retreated into the bedroom.

Without a glance at Master Eremis, he dove into the wardrobe.

“After him!” Eremis yelled at the guards. “That passage leads to Havelock’s chambers! Go! I will summon reinforcements!”

Terisa saw the guards falter distinctly before they plunged into the wardrobe. Perhaps they didn’t want to face the High King’s Monomach in a narrow place. Or perhaps they were reluctant to intrude on Adept Havelock’s private domain – especially if, as Master Eremis seemed to suggest, the Adept were in league with Gart.

With a bouncing stride, Master Eremis left the bed and came into the sitting room. The glow of the fire and his own mirth lit his face, but Terisa thought he had never looked more dangerous. Briskly, he approached Geraden and stabbed a finger at the Apt’s chest.

“I intend to call a meeting of the Congery.” Despite his humorous expression, his tone was savage. “You will answer me for this in front of the Masters, boy.”

“No, I won’t,” Geraden replied unsteadily. “They’ve disbanded themselves.”

Master Eremis snorted. “Again you are mistaken. Quillon holds them together with the King’s authority.”

Flourishing his chasuble like a threat under Geraden’s nose, he left the room.

Geraden’s features twisted as if he had just been kicked in the stomach.

Terisa sat straight down on the floor. The noise of the guards’ boots echoed dimly out of the wardrobe, but she heard nothing that sounded like the clash of swords.

TWENTY-FIVE: MASTER EREMIS IN EARNEST

“Are you all right?” Geraden asked. His tone wasn’t sympathetic.

Sitting cross-legged on the rug, Terisa clamped her hands to the sides of her head to keep her mind from flying apart. She didn’t understand: none of it made any sense. Master Eremis. Gart. What were they doing to her?

“Terisa?”

And why was Geraden so angry at her? He was her friend. Why was he suddenly blind to her pain?

“Did he hurt you?”

He was her friend. He must have a good reason for snarling at her as if she had broken his heart. She struggled to concentrate. The room was full of disaster. She had to think.

Heavy boots hammered the stone. Three guards burst into the room with their swords out. Master Eremis had certainly gotten their attention. Once in the room, however, they hesitated, waving their blades warily, until Geraden snapped, “There’s a wardrobe in the bedroom with a passage behind it.” Then they charged away. The boards of the wardrobe resounded as they went through it.

How many different kinds of pain were there? There was the dull ache where Master Eremis had gripped the back of her neck. There was the grief that seemed to throb in the secret places of her heart. There was the sharp strain around her chest which grew tighter every time Geraden spoke to her in that clenched and bitter tone. There was the belabored sensation inside her skull, as if her mind had been beaten with clubs.

And somewhere else – somewhere indefinable – there was a new certainty as pure as a knife. It needed a name. Perhaps that was why it hurt so much: because she had no name for it.

Dully, she said, “At least now we know he and Gart aren’t working together.”

“Terisa.” That word would have sounded like a cry if Geraden hadn’t whispered it so softly.

Before she could reply, another voice intervened. “Don’t torture yourself, Geraden,” Castellan Lebbick said from the doorway. Four more guards clattered past him on their way to the wardrobe. “She isn’t worth it.”

She scrambled to her feet so that she wouldn’t appear so defeated in front of the Castellan.

Geraden stood with his back to the wall, his arms folded like fetters across his chest. His face looked like a stone mask from which all the joy had been chipped away. Firelight reflected out of his eyes, as dry as fever.

“Save your insults, Castellan,” he rasped quietly. “We don’t need them.”

Castellan Lebbick cocked an eyebrow. “All right. I’ll be civil. You be cooperative. For a change. What happened?”

Geraden seemed to shrink slightly, as if he were being compacted by the pressure of his grip on himself – as if he were squeezing himself down to his essence. “We were attacked. The High King’s Monomach tried to kill her again.”

A grin pulled the Castellan’s lips back from his teeth. “And you’re still alive? How did you manage that?”

“Master Eremis saved us. He fought Gart off until the guards could get in.”

“Master Eremis? What was he doing here?”

Bitterly, Geraden didn’t look at Terisa.

With an effort, she met Lebbick’s gaze. “He came to see me.”

“And do you always receive him dressed like that?”

In shame, she bit her lip. Shame was yet another kind of pain. Somehow, she murmured, “He came when I was asleep.”

The Castellan turned back to Geraden. “Apparently, Master Eremis was welcome. In that case, what were you doing here? I doubt that either one of them invited you.”

“When I arrived,” Geraden said like a piece of the wall where he stood, “her guards said she was alone. Don’t you want to know how he got in? Don’t you want to know how Gart got in?”

“Go on. Tell me.”

“Both of them used the secret passage behind her wardrobe.”

At that, Castellan Lebbick drew a hissing breath through his teeth. “Ballocks! How did they know about it?”

“Saddith and Master Eremis are lovers. In fact, she volunteered to be Terisa’s maid to please him. She noticed the chair in the wardrobe and told him about it. I presume he told Gart.”

“Wait a moment. You said Master Eremis saved you. Now you say he is in league with Gart?”

“Where else could Gart find out about the passage?” retorted the Apt. “Who else knew enough to tell him? There’s just me and Terisa. Saddith and Master Eremis. And you, Castellan. Even Artagel doesn’t know about it.”

Involuntarily, Terisa remembered that Myste knew.

Clenching his fists on his hips, the Castellan rasped, “All right. If Gart knew, why didn’t he use it to kill her long ago?”

“At first,” Geraden said, “he didn’t know. Saddith told Master Eremis where Terisa was, but she didn’t know any more than that. I don’t know when she found the passage. And I don’t know when he got her to tell him about it. I certainly don’t know how busy Gart is. But I think Master Eremis decided he wanted to let her live because he wanted her for himself. He didn’t tell Gart about the passage until the Alend army arrived and they both ran out of time.”

Abruptly, Castellan Lebbick turned on Terisa. “Is this true? Have you been making it worthwhile for Master Eremis to keep you alive when he really wants you dead?”

His tone made her wince. She was starting to understand Geraden’s hurt, and his reasons dismayed her. Nevertheless she met the Castellan squarely.

“He did save us.” And her certainty was precise, if only she could put a name to it. “He said he’s going to make Geraden answer for this in front of the Congery.”

She wasn’t prepared for the virulence with which Lebbick snarled under his breath, “Bitch!” Fortunately, he swung back to Geraden too soon to see her flinch.

“I have a few questions myself. I want to know how you suddenly became an expert on what Saddith does or doesn’t tell her lovers. And I want to know some of the things you haven’t told me yet.

“But as it happens, you’re not my only problem right now. I have the rest of Orison to worry about. I’ll wait until the Congery meets.

“When my men come back from not finding Gart, tell them to report to me.”

Brusquely, Castellan Lebbick strode to the door and left.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Terisa turned toward the fire so that she wouldn’t have to look at Geraden. She was afraid to look at him. He was so hurt— And almost everything he believed about her was true. He had saved her from her own weakness. Master Eremis had claimed her – and she had resisted him so little. Even choosing against him, she had been unable to struggle. Shame seemed to demoralize her; she couldn’t face the accusation of his pain.

Yet her cowardice disgusted her. He had never let fear prevent him from doing anything for her. At last, she forced herself to turn again and meet his distress.

“Geraden, I—”

He hadn’t shifted his stance an inch. Dim gray from the windows and dull red from the hearth lay along the stone lines of his cheeks and jaw, his straight nose, his strong forehead. Not a muscle moved. His hair curled into darkness.

But his eyes were closed.

This was her fault: he was in so much pain because of her. Because he had found her nearly naked with Master Eremis. Because he had seen the Master touch her so intimately. Helplessly, she asked, “What’re we going to do?”

He didn’t open his eyes. Perhaps the sight of her was intolerable. When he spoke, he couldn’t restrain his voice. It shook as if he were freezing.

“I need to know whose side you’re on. You don’t have to tell me anything else. You have to make your own choices. I can’t tell you who to love. But I’m going to have to stand up in front of the Masters and tell them everything I can think of. They aren’t going to want to believe me. I’ve spent too many years making too many mistakes.

“You’re my only witness. You’re the only one who can tell them I’m telling the truth. If you’re planning to call me a liar—” He couldn’t go on.

She wanted to reply at once, but his distress closed her throat. What could she say? Nothing was adequate. He had touched her near the point of her certainty, but she still didn’t know what to call it.

Yet she was unable to bear his rigid silence. Somehow, she mustered an answer.

“I didn’t invite Master Eremis here. He came while I was asleep. That’s why I’m dressed like this.

“He wanted me to choose between you.”

A muscle twitched in Geraden’s cheek, a knot of pain.

“I think he’s probably the only man in Orison who has a chance to save Mordant. He has the ability to make things happen.” That was the limit of her honesty. “But I chose you.”

His eyes popped open. A subtle alteration of the planes and lines of his expression made him appear both astonished and suspicious. His voice continued to shake.

“Your robe was open.”

“He did that. I didn’t.”

For a long moment, he remained motionless – and yet, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t moving, she seemed to see the entire structure of his face being transfigured, the whole landscape behind his eyes and emotions reforming. He didn’t smile: he wasn’t ready for that. But the potential for a smile was restored.

Slowly, he unbent his arms from his chest. Slowly, he reached out his hand and stroked her cheek as if to wipe away tears she hadn’t shed.

Unable to hold back, she flung her arms around him and hugged him desperately, as if he could cure her shame.

The embrace with which he answered her was as tight and needy as hers, as hungry for solace. And somehow, because he wanted so much from her, he gave her what she needed.

A short time later, nine guards came trooping up out of the passage behind her wardrobe. They had nothing of any use to report.

***

The gray afternoon wore down toward evening. All around Orison, campfires glimmered against the wind. Tents everywhere formed a ripple of hillocks over the bare ground. Even the siege engines looked small in this light, at this distance. Wind thudded without remorse at the windowpanes of Terisa’s rooms, until the atmosphere felt crowded and bitter, full of threats.

Late afternoon brought her an incongruous visitor: the seamster, Mindlin, come to deliver her new clothes. He wanted to give them a second fitting, to be sure that she was satisfied – perhaps he thought her approval would have some value when the siege was over – but she accepted them and sent him away.

For the fourth or fifth time, she said, “We’ve got to do something.”

Geraden sighed. “I know the feeling. But I’m not exactly brimming with ideas.”

She needed to put her certainty into words, so that it would be good for something. It would come to her, she told herself, if she stopped pushing it. Or if she pushed it in the right way. Abruptly, she shook off her irresolution.

“You wanted to talk to Artagel, but you didn’t get the chance. Why don’t you do that now?”

The suggestion surprised him. “What’s that going to accomplish?”

“It might make you feel better.”

“And you think I might not get another chance? You think I might have a little trouble getting my brother to forgive me after I’ve been tossed in the dungeon for treachery?”

She couldn’t suppress a grin. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” In spite of himself, he caught her mood. “I said it for you.”

“So you did. If you think it’s such a terrible idea” – now she was grinning broadly – “I’m afraid I’ll have to apologize for bringing it up.”

At once, he waved his hands defensively. “No, no. Anything but that. I’ll do it.” His playfulness faded almost immediately, however. “Do you want to come with me?”

She shook her head.

“What are you going to do?”

Firmly, as if she were sure of herself, she said, “I’m going to make sense out of this. Somehow.”

He spent a moment studying her. Then, in a purposely sententious tone, he said, “My lady, I’ve got the strongest feeling you’ll succeed.”

“Oh, get out of here,” she returned.

***

Nevertheless she hoped he was right. As soon as he was gone, she got dressed, putting on her warm new riding clothes and her winter boots because she didn’t want to be hampered by her more ladylike gowns. Then she went to see the King.

She had no clear plan in mind. She simply wanted him to intervene on Geraden’s behalf.

As she climbed the stairs toward the royal suite, however, she remembered more and more vividly that she had lied to the King the last time she had talked to him. And she still had no idea how he had guessed that she had helped his daughter Myste sneak out of Orison. Before she reached his door, she was tempted to turn back.

The ordeal Geraden had ahead of him determined her to keep going. He needed answers. She needed answers in order to help him. If King Joyse would do nothing else for her, or for the Domne’s son, or for Mordant, he might at least supply a few answers. The chance was worth what it might cost her.

And if the King refused to see her, she could always talk to the Tor.

The guards outside the suite saluted her. Practicing steadiness, she asked them if she could be admitted. One of them stayed at the door while the other entered the suite. A moment later, she was given permission to go in.

Her pulse was laboring enough to make her regret her temerity. Blind to the room’s luxurious appointments, she had eyes only for the three old men sitting like bosom companions before the ornate fireplace.

King Joyse lay as much as sat in an armchair with his legs stretched over a hassock toward the fire. His purple velvet robe showed the benefits of a recent cleaning, and his cheeks were freshly shaved: his appearance, if not his posture, suggested readiness.

In contrast, the Tor slumped as if his skeleton no longer had enough willpower to support his fat. Like his flesh, his robe spilled over the arms of his chair; the green fabric was stained with splotches of wine. Too plump to look haggard, his face sagged like wet laundry. He gave the impression that he had become so involved in Orison’s preparations for defense that he had stopped taking care of himself.

Between the two old friends sat the King’s Dastard, Adept Havelock, looking grimier and loonier than ever in his ancient surcoat, with his unruly tufts of hair and his disfocused gaze.

All three men held large, elegant goblets.

All three turned their heads toward Terisa as she was announced. The Tor peered at her through a haze of exhaustion and wine. Adept Havelock licked his lips salaciously. King Joyse nodded but didn’t smile.

She had been hoping that he would smile. It would have done her good to see his luminous smile again.

He greeted her casually; his tone implied that he was a bit the worse for drink. “My lady, come join us.” His cheeks were red, scraped raw with shaving, but behind their color his skin looked pale. “Pour yourself some wine.” He nodded toward a decanter and extra goblets on a table against the paneled wall. “It’s quite good – a fine wine from—” A look of perplexity crossed his face. “Where did you say this wine is from?” he asked the Tor.

The Tor shook himself as if he were in danger of falling asleep. “Rostrum. A small village near the border of Termigan and Domne, where the babes drink wine instead of milk from their mothers’ breasts, and even the children can do exquisite things with grapes. Rostrum wine.”

King Joyse nodded again. “Rostrum wine,” he said to Terisa. “Have some. We’re celebrating.”

She stood in the center of the thick blue-and-red rug and tried to watch all three men simultaneously. “What’re you celebrating?”

Adept Havelock giggled.

“Are we celebrating?” The Tor’s voice sounded damp. “I thought we were grieving.”

“Grieving? My old friend.” King Joyse glanced at the Tor kindly. “What for? This is a celebration, I tell you.”

“Oh, of course, my lord King.” The Tor waggled a hand. “A celebration. I misspoke.” His fatigue was plain. “Orison has been invested by the Alend Monarch. Your daughter has poisoned our water. While we sit here, the men of Perdon die, spending themselves without hope against Cadwal. And the royal Imager, Adept Havelock” – he inclined his head courteously in Havelock’s direction – “has burned to death our only clue as to where – and who – our chief enemy is. We do well to celebrate, since we can accomplish nothing with sorrow.”

“Nonsense,” replied the King at once. Although his expression was grave, he appeared to be in good spirits. “Things aren’t as bad as you think. Lebbick knows a trick or two about sieges. We still have plenty of Rostrum wine, so we don’t need much water. As soon as he realizes we can’t reinforce him, the Perdon is going to back off and let Festten through. That will stop the killing.”

He seemed unaware that what he was saying didn’t convey much reassurance.

“And the death of the prisoner?” inquired the Tor glumly.

King Joyse dismissed that question. “Also, we have another reason to celebrate. The lady Terisa is here. Aren’t you, my lady?” he asked Terisa, then went on speaking to the Tor. “Unless I’ve gotten it all wrong, she’s here to tell us that she has found a new cure for stalemate.”

Again Adept Havelock giggled.

For a second, Terisa nearly lost her head. A cure? A cure for stalemate? She wanted to laugh feverishly. Did King Joyse really think this was all just one big game of hop-board? Then they were all doomed.

Fortunately, she caught hold of her reason for being here before all her thoughts veered off into panic. Geraden. That was the important thing. Geraden.

“I don’t know anything about stalements. Or cures.” Her tone was too curt. She made an effort to moderate it. “My lord King. I came because I’m worried about Geraden. Master Eremis is going to try to ruin him in front of the Congery.”

The King gave her his attention politely. “Ruin him, my lady?”

“He and Master Eremis are going to accuse each other of betraying Mordant.”

“I see. And don’t you call that a stalemate?”

“No.” She wasn’t getting through. She had to do better. “No, my lord King. The Congery will believe Master Eremis.” And yet she was certain—” But he’s lying.”

The Tor twisted in his seat to study her more closely. With a show of effort, Adept Havelock picked up his chair, turned it, and plumped it down again so that he could sit facing her.

King Joyse, however, gazed toward the fire. “Master Eremis?” he asked as if he were losing interest. “Lying? That would be risky. He might get caught. Only innocent men can afford to tell lies.”

“My lady,” said the Tor quietly, “such accusations are serious. Master Eremis is a man of proven stature. The Congery might have some justification to take the word of one of their own number over the charges of a mere failed Apt. How do you know that Master Eremis is lying?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. What could she say? The piece of information lodged in her brain refused to come clear. Something Master Eremis had said, or revealed— Or was it Geraden? After a moment, she admitted, “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“I see, my lady.” The old lord returned his attention to the fire. “You simply trust Geraden. That is understandable. I trust him myself. There is no help that I can give you, however. I am no longer my lord King’s chancellor.”

What?

Adept Havelock grinned at her.

King Joyse sighed and leaned his head against the back of his chair. “My old friend was wearing himself toward his grave with the business of Orison. He doesn’t want to admit he’s no longer young. Sadly, it’s true.”

“My lord King,” the Tor explained, “has given instructions that I am not to be obeyed, except in matters of my personal comfort. With the arrival of Alend’s army, my power ended.” He snorted to himself. “You may imagine Castellan Lebbick’s delight. Remember, he thinks it possible that I am a traitor myself. He did not like my interest in our defenses. Though my lord King does not say so, I believe he has taken away my position to protect himself in case the good Castellan’s suspicions prove correct.”

At that, King Joyse jerked up his head. His watery eyes were suddenly acute, and his mouth twisted. He didn’t reply to the Tor, however. Glaring at Terisa, he demanded, “Just what is it you want, my lady?”

She was startled: for a moment, she had lost herself in empathy for the old lord. Almost stammering, she said, “Geraden doesn’t stand a chance in front of the Masters. Master Eremis will chew him to pieces. You’ve got to stop them. Don’t let them do this to him.”

“But if Master Eremis is telling the truth,” returned the King in a voice like a rasp, “Geraden deserves to be caught and punished.”

“No.” She couldn’t think. It was maddening. “You don’t believe that.”

King Joyse aimed his gaze at her like a nail and spoke as if he were tapping his words into wood. “That is not the point, my lady. At the moment, it isn’t him I doubt. It’s you.”

She blinked. Her heart began to labor again, pounding alarm in all directions. “Why?”

“Are you surprised? You underestimate me. I warned you this game is dangerous.

“After we talked, I had Myste’s rooms searched. She took nothing personal with her – none of her little mementos of childhood, none of her favorite gifts. Does that seem likely to you? If she had gone back to her mother, she would have taken everything she could carry.

“You lied to me, my lady. You lied to me about my daughter.”

Inside her chest, a cold hand knotted into a fist. Both the Tor and Adept Havelock squinted at her as if she were being transformed to ugliness in front of them.

“Where did she really go?”

This was what Terisa had feared: King Joyse had found her out. She had learned the danger of lies when she was still a child. Falsehood had been exquisitely tempting to her; her dread of being punished had made her ache to deflect every manifestation of parental irritation, discontent, or disapproval. She had learned, however, that the punishment was worse when she got caught.

In simple defensiveness, she tried to counter as if she had cause to complain. “How did you know she came to see me? Were you having your own daughter spied on?”

Adept Havelock swung his chair back to face the fire, sat down again, and began to twiddle his fingers.

The King continued to glare at her for a moment. She met his gaze because she was afraid to do anything else. Then, abruptly, he too turned away. “You were warned,” he muttered. “Remember that. You were warned.

“My lord Tor, be so good as to summon the guards. I want this woman locked in the dungeon until she condescends to tell me the truth about my daughter.”

“No!” The cry burst from her before she could stop it. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you anything. Geraden needs me. If I’m not there, he’ll have to face the Congery alone.”

None of the men were looking at her. The Tor emptied his goblet, but didn’t trouble to refill it.

Terisa took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a second. “She went after the champion. She thought he needed help.” She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

To Terisa’s astonishment, King Joyse’s profile quirked toward a smile. But almost at once his expression turned sorrowful, and he leaned his head morosely to rest against his chair again. “More wine would be nice, don’t you think?” he commented in the direction of the ceiling.

The Tor seemed to slump farther down in his seat.

With a strangled chortle, Adept Havelock tossed his wine into the fire. While the wine hissed and burned, he threw his goblet behind him, narrowly missing Terisa.

“Fornication,” he pronounced, “is hard to do well alone.”

“My lady,” the King breathed as if he were going to sleep, “I didn’t know Myste went to see you. I reasoned it. If you were more honest, I would have less trouble trusting you. You ought to try using a little reason yourself.”

Terisa had expected him to be appalled and angry. Obviously he wasn’t. Preconceptions were being jerked out from under her. This new surprise seemed to knock the last bit of sense out of the situation. Myste was doing something that had been foreseen in Havelock’s augury of King Joyse. Was that why a lie made the King furious and the truth had nearly made him smile?

“I don’t understand,” she murmured weakly. “Don’t you care?”

King Joyse reached out a swollen, unsteady hand and nudged Adept Havelock, who in turn nudged the Tor. “My lord, I said, ‘More wine would be nice.” ’

Sighing, the Tor pried his bulk out of his chair and moved to fetch the decanter.

“You want me to use a little reason.” Terisa had difficulty holding her voice down. “How about giving me some information to reason with? Myste is probably dead. If the cold didn’t kill her – and the champion didn’t kill her – then that firecat probably did. You act like the only thing you care about is that she didn’t go see her mother!”

“No.” The King sounded sad, but he answered without rancor. “What I care about is that she did something I can be proud of.”

Like an echo, Terisa seemed to hear Castellan Lebbick quoting King Joyse to Prince Kragen: She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. For her sake, as well as for my own, I hope that the best reasons will also produce the best results.

She wanted to yell, But that doesn’t make any sense! Elega betrayed you! Myste is probably dead! The words died in her throat, however: they were hopeless. The thought that she would have to go support Geraden with nothing except more confusion made her feel sick.

The Tor refilled the King’s goblet and his own, then eased himself into his chair. “The lady Terisa is distressed,” he remarked distantly. “It would be a kindness, my lord King, if you gave her what she desires.”

King Joyse lifted his head once more, scowling sourly as if he meant to say something acid to the Tor.

But he didn’t. Instead, he growled, “Oh, very well.”

Over his shoulder, he addressed Terisa. “The reason I told Geraden not to talk to you when you were first brought here is the same reason I didn’t intervene when the Masters decided to translate their champion. It’s the same reason I’m not going to intervene now. I’m trying to protect you. Both of you.”

“Protect us!” She was too upset to restrain herself. “How does it protect me to keep me ignorant? How does it protect us to let that champion be translated? We were buried alive.” I almost lost my mind. “How does it protect him to let Master Eremis destroy him? All you’re doing is making us look foolish.”

The King turned his head away and sketched a frail gesture with both hands. “You see?” he observed to the Tor. “She doesn’t reason.” Then his tone grew bitter.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you? Do you have any conception how unlikely that was when you first arrived? Better minds than yours were sure neither of you would last for three days. A little foolishness is a small price to pay for your lives.”

Terisa stared at the back of his head with her mouth open as if he had taken all the air out of the room.

“ ‘Better minds’!” crowed Adept Havelock like a man addressing a crowd of admirers. “He means me. He means me.”

“If I had welcomed you with open arms,” King Joyse went on, “my enemies would have formed a higher estimate of how dangerous you are. They would have put more effort into killing you.” He sounded querulous and old, peevishly incapable of the things he ascribed to himself. “As long as they thought I had no interest in you – that I was too stupid or senile to have an interest in you – they could afford patience. Wait and see. Gart attacked you that first night because my enemies hadn’t had time to find out I hadn’t welcomed you. But as soon as people heard that I wasn’t treating you like an ally, Gart held back for a while.

“Are you satisfied?”

His demand took her by surprise. She scrambled to ask, “Do you mean the reason you can’t help Geraden now is that if you do your enemies will know you’re his friend and they’ll start trying even harder to have him killed?”

“I mean much more than that,” he snapped. “I mean that if I had given him permission to tell you whatever you wanted to know I would have doomed you both. My enemies would have taken anything like that as a sign that you were on my side.

“Now are you satisfied?”

“But what—?” It was too much: his explanation increased her confusion. It had all been an elaborate charade. “Who are your enemies? Why can’t you protect anybody you want in your own castle?” Images of Geraden and Myste and Elega and Queen Madin and Master Barsonage and even Castellan Lebbick rose in her, all of them lost and aggrieved. “Why do you have to make everybody who’s loyal to you think you don’t care what happens?”

“My lady.” His tone was no longer petulant. Now it was as keen and cutting as ice. “If I had any desire to answer such questions, I would have done so earlier. As a courtesy to your distress, I have already told you more than I consider wise.” Like Geraden’s, his speech became more formal as it gathered authority. Despite his years, his voice still had the potential to lash at her. “I advise reason and silence, my lady. You will not prolong your life by speaking of what you have heard.”

He dismissed her without a glance. “You may go.”

But—? But—? She knew she should have been stronger. She should have demanded a better explanation. But what she wanted to ask couldn’t get past her mental stutter into words. She had no sure ideas left to stand on. King Joyse knew what he was doing – he knew with a vengeance. He was being passive and obtuse on purpose – hurting the people who loved him on purpose. But what purpose was that? It was inconceivable. He—

“My lady,” he said again, “you may go.”

In a tone of faraway sadness, the Tor murmured, “My lady, it is generally unwise to disregard the will of a king.” He spoke as if from personal experience.

With a fierce effort, Terisa quelled her insistent incomprehension. The exertion left her angry and panting, but in control of herself.

“Thank you, my lord Tor,” she said stiffly. “My lord King, I’m sorry. I lied to you about Myste because she trusted me. She was afraid somebody would try to stop her. She asked me to protect her. I lied to you because I didn’t know you would have let her go.”

None of the three men looked at her. They stared vacantly into the fire, as if they had used up their allotment of words for the day and had nothing left to think with. King Joyse let her get as far as the door before he breathed softly, “Thank you, my lady.”

She left as if she were escaping.

***

Geraden joined her in her rooms for supper.

His expression was a strange mixture of relief and dread. His conversation with Artagel made his spirits soar; the upcoming meeting of the Congery hung on him like lead. The good news, he reported, was that Artagel was healing well after his earlier setbacks. And Artagel was still his friend. The bad news was that the swordsman was still in no condition to stand up in front of the Masters and defend his brother.

“When will the meeting be?” she asked.

“I don’t know what kind of mediator Master Quillon is. I used to think he wasn’t assertive enough to pull a meeting together. But now—” He shrugged.

Fervently, he listened while she described her session with King Joyse, the Tor, and Adept Havelock. Unfortunately, it changed nothing. “You know,” he commented after a while, “all this would do us a lot more good if we had any idea why we’re so important.”

“I don’t think so.” She felt sour and imperfectly resigned. “It doesn’t cheer me up to believe King Joyse is really our friend only he can’t risk doing anything about it. What good are friends who treat you just like your enemies do?”

He nodded slowly without agreeing with her. “The important thing is, it’s hope. He certainly sounds like he has reasons for what he’s doing.” Geraden’s mood seemed to improve as hers deteriorated. “And if he has reasons, we can at least hope they’re good ones.”

“On the other hand,” she countered, “look at the way he’s treating the Tor.”

That made Geraden scowl. “You heard King Joyse say he ‘defies prediction.’ There’s probably a danger he’ll do something to mess up one of the King’s plans. So King Joyse is trying to keep him under control.”

A moment later, he added in a black tone, “I don’t like plans that hurt the Tor.”

“Neither do I,” said Terisa.

After a while, he remarked with more humor, “It’s too bad nobody much cares what we think of their plans.”

Damn you, Geraden, she thought, you’re starting to cheer up again. I don’t understand it.

***

In spite of his improved humor, however, he didn’t smile when one of the younger Apts knocked on the door and announced that the Congery wanted him. When the Apt used the words “at once,” Geraden’s eyes widened slightly.

“That was fast,” he muttered to Terisa. “Master Eremis knows how to get action.”

The young Apt avoided looking at Geraden. “The lady Terisa isn’t invited.”

“The lady Terisa,” she snapped, “is coming anyway.”

The Apt didn’t look at her, either.

Geraden tried to give her one of Artagel’s combative grins; but its failure only made him appear sick. “Let’s go get it over with.”

Together, they followed the young Apt through Orison down to the laborium.

Until her knuckles began to ache, she didn’t realize that she was clenching her fists.

Although she was warmly dressed, she felt the chill as soon as she crossed the disused ballroom and descended into the domain of the Masters. Castellan Lebbick’s new curtain wall defended the breach the champion had made, but didn’t seal it. Because of the strong wind outside, there was a noticeable breeze in the passages. As a result, the atmosphere was cold enough to make her wish she had brought a coat.

If Geraden noticed the cold, he didn’t show it. His manner was distracted. As he entered the laborium, he grew tense. He had spent all his adult life – and a good part of his adolescence – trying to earn a place for himself in these halls and passages, and now his failure threatened to become so dramatic that it would be considered treason.

For his sake as well as her own, Terisa was getting angrier.

The young Apt led her and Geraden to a part of the laborium where she had never been before – to the room the Masters had used for their gatherings ever since the champion had destroyed their meeting chamber.

This room was small by comparison, but still more than large enough. It was a long rectangle; and something in the color or cut of its cold, gray stone, in the worn but uneven floor, in the number of black iron brackets set into the walls created the impression that it had originally served as a storeroom for the instruments of torture. It was the kind of place where ways of inflicting pain might wait while they weren’t needed: racks and iron maidens being taken to and from the interrogation chamber might have rubbed those hollows in the floor; thumb-screws and flails might have hung in the brackets. A few of the brackets had been adapted to hold lamps, but the rest were empty. The empty ones seemed especially grim.

The Masters were already gathered.

They sat in heavy iron-pegged chairs which lined the two long walls, roughly half of them on either side facing each other as if they had deliberately set out to form a gauntlet. Because of the length of the room, however, a sizable space at each end was unused. The doors were there, several strides from the nearest seats.

Two guards on strict duty held the door through which Terisa and Geraden entered the chamber. Neither man acknowledged the Apt’s glum nod.

As the door closed behind her, she scanned the room. At first, the only face she recognized was that of Master Barsonage. Since she had last seen him, the former mediator seemed to have developed a nervous tick: one of his thick, stiff eyebrows twitched involuntarily. Under the pressure of the Congery’s mistakes and indecision, his face had taken on a jaundiced hue. She saw no hope there.

Looking for Master Quillon, her eye was caught by Castellan Lebbick.

When she saw him, her throat suddenly went dry.

He had Nyle with him.

Geraden’s brother sat beside the Castellan at the far end of one row of chairs. He wore a brown worsted cloak over his clothes. Inside it, his arms bunched across his chest, holding the cloak shut. His head hung at a dejected angle. He didn’t look up at Terisa and Geraden.

Geraden was frozen with shock. All expression had been wiped from his face. The spark that animated his features most of the time was gone – hidden or extinguished – and he seemed smaller, as if he were shrinking in on himself. He stared blankly at Nyle while two bright spots of color slowly spread in his cheeks. She had never seen him look so lost. The glazing of his eyes made her irrationally afraid that he was having a heart attack.

“The lady Terisa was not invited,” said one of the Masters loudly.

“But she is welcome,” rasped Castellan Lebbick. “Isn’t she, Master Quillon.”

The rabbity mediator rose to his feet, gazing brightly at everything and nobody. Wrinkling his nose, he answered, “As welcome as you are, Castellan.”

Castellan Lebbick grinned like a snarl.

Master Eremis was sitting on the other side of the Castellan. “Oh, I insist,” he said at once. “If Castellan Lebbick and Nyle are permitted, it is only fair to permit the lady Terisa also.” His expression was difficult to read. For no clear reason, he looked pleased.

“Why is he here?” Geraden asked. He sounded like a sleepwalker.

Everyone understood to whom Geraden was referring. Master Quillon started to reply, but Castellan Lebbick spoke first. Still grinning, he said, “Master Eremis claims he’s going to support the accusations against you.”

“Nyle!” Terisa cried softly.

All the Masters were staring at her, but none of them seemed to have faces. She didn’t know who they were.

Geraden moved to the nearest chair and sat down as if he were crumbling.

Nyle tightened his grip on his cloak. He didn’t raise his head.

“Castellan Lebbick,” Master Quillon said as if he were thinking about something else, “this is the meeting of the Congery, not a congregation of your guards. You have no authority here. You are permitted only because you refuse to let Nyle among us without you. Please be quiet.”

The Castellan accepted this admonition without retort, but also without acquiescence.

“My lady,” the mediator continued in the same tone, “will you sit down so that we may begin?”

Terisa wrestled with an impulse to start shouting. Abruptly, she turned and took a seat beside Geraden.

He looked so stunned that she whispered, “What is Nyle going to say about you?”

He didn’t answer.

Master Eremis watched Geraden curiously, as though he were genuinely interested in what the Apt was thinking.

“Very well,” said Master Quillon. He took one or two quick steps out into the middle of the floor between the rows of chairs. “Let us begin.”

The chairs were old; perhaps they were left over from the days when the lords and ladies of Orison liked to watch the way prisoners were questioned. The wood was dry and porous enough to hold bloodstains.

“We hold this meeting to consider a question which I will not attempt to soften.” His manner suggested that he might be looking for a place to hide, yet his voice was firm. “As you all know, Master Eremis claims that Apt Geraden is a traitor – a traitor to the Congery and to Orison, to King Joyse and to Mordant. He also says that Apt Geraden will make the same claim of him. We will hear both speak. They will give their reasons. They will provide what corroboration they can. And we will try to determine the truth.”

“And when the truth has been determined,” Castellan Lebbick put in casually, “I’ll act on it.”

Master Quillon ignored the interruption. “This matter must be dealt with speedily. There is a blot on the honor of the Congery, and it must be removed at once. Orison is under siege because of us – because we are desirable to the King’s enemies. And we are not much trusted at the best of times. Therefore it is urgent that we determine the truth – and that any traitor is delivered to the Castellan.

“Apt Geraden” – the mediator’s eyes sparkled – “will you speak first?”

Everybody turned to look at Geraden – everybody except Nyle, who slumped in his chair as if he were contemplating suicide.

Terisa wanted to say, demand, No. Make Master Eremis go first. But the words didn’t come. She watched like one of the Imagers as Geraden got slowly to his feet.

The spots of color in his cheeks had darkened until they resembled a flush of exertion. His movements were tight, constrained. His chest rose and fell as if he were trying to take a deep breath and couldn’t. He didn’t look at Nyle: in fact, he didn’t look at anybody. He had been given a shock he didn’t know how to face.

Terisa found herself thinking, Nyle is doing this because Geraden stopped him.

“Masters—” The Apt had to swallow hard to clear his throat. His voice seemed to be choking him. His life’s ambition had been to belong to the Congery. He had spent years obeying and honoring these men. “We’ve all been betrayed. I can’t prove any of it.”

Oh, Geraden

Master Eremis appeared to be suppressing a desire to laugh.

“You must make the effort, Geraden.” The mediator’s words were sterner than his tone. “Master Eremis will prove everything he can. Are you speaking of Master Gilbur, or of someone else?”

Geraden nodded aimlessly. His gaze stumbled to the floor. Yet he said nothing.

At the sight of his pain, something turned over in Terisa. He had suffered too much, borne too much. And now his brother hurt him like this – personally, deliberately. He was finally breaking under the strain.

“It’s simple, really,” she said in a voice she hardly recognized. “There has to be a traitor. Someone else – not just Master Gilbur.”

Master Quillon swung toward her. His nose seemed to twitch with eagerness, but the rest of his face was still.

“It’s simple, really,” Geraden echoed like a ghost. “There has to be a traitor. Someone else.”

Then he raised his head.

“It has to be somebody here.”

Terisa held her breath, praying that he would go on.

“She’s been attacked by Gart four times.” His tone was a little slurred, but the glaze in his eyes seemed to be fading. “The third time was out in the bazaar. That doesn’t prove anything. But the fourth time Gart came through a secret passage in her room. Somebody must have told him about that passage.”

He stopped.

“That is true,” Master Eremis observed as if he were agreeing with Geraden. “Someone must have told him. I was there to feel his attack. It is possible, I suppose, that I was his intended victim.”

“Master Eremis,” said the mediator with unexpected force, “you will be given all the time you need to speak. Defend yourself then. The Apt must be left to say what he will.”

A Master with a heavy paunch and no eyebrows interposed, “You were there, Master Eremis? How did you survive? How did any of you survive?”

Smiling, Eremis made a deferential gesture for silence.

Without hesitation, Master Quillon prompted Geraden, “Continue, Apt. Who knew of the secret passage?”

At once, Geraden said, “The Castellan, of course. King Joyse. His daughters. Terisa. Her maid. And Master Eremis.”

Terisa released an inward sigh of relief because he hadn’t mentioned Master Quillon or Adept Havelock. He still had enough sense to keep that secret.

The mediator, however, gave no sign that he had noticed Geraden’s restraint. “And what does this prove?”

“Everybody knew about the passage all along. Except Master Eremis. He only found out about it recently. Soon after he found out about it, Gart used it.”

“That means nothing!” protested Master Eremis at once. “What opportunity have I had to confer with the High King’s Monomach? I have been away, as you all know. I have been visiting Esmerel.”

Geraden straightened his back. “But that’s not the crucial one.” At last he began to sound stronger. He was breathing more easily, and his gaze had come into focus. “It’s the second attack that’s crucial. It was right after Master Eremis and Master Gilbur met with Prince Kragen and the lords of the Cares.”

A look of outrage jerked across Castellan Lebbick’s face as old suspicions were confirmed. “They met—?”

Geraden overrode the Castellan. “That lets out everybody else. Everybody who didn’t know about the meeting. But Master Eremis took her to it. When it broke up, he left her with Prince Kragen. Gart came out of a mirror with four of his men to attack them. The Perdon and Artagel saved them. Only Master Eremis could have arranged that. He’s the only one who knew she would be there. He’s the only one who had any control over where she would be after the meeting.”

An expression of mock horror widened Master Eremis’ eyes and stretched his mouth.

“And,” Geraden insisted, “he may be the only Master who knew where she was that first night, when Gart broke into her rooms to kill her. He’s Saddith’s lover. She volunteered to be her maid because he asked her to.

“Master Eremis is the only man in Orison who could have told Gart where and when to attack Terisa.”

As if he were having trouble keeping his balance, Geraden sat down and braced his hands on his knees.

Castellan Lebbick was on his feet, dangerously calm. “I suspected something like this. Tell me about that meeting.”

“Is that all, Apt?” demanded an Imager with a red complexion and bad teeth. “Do you expect us to believe that?”

“Be seated, Castellan,” advised Master Quillon. “This does not concern you.”

“What does Artagel say?” someone else asked.

“I still do not understand why the High King’s Monomach wants to kill the lady Terisa. What threat is she to Cadwal?”

“Why weren’t we told about the second attack?”

“He hasn’t done anything right since I’ve known him. I think we can take it for granted that if he says something it must be wrong.”

“Ballocks and pigsoil!” Castellan Lebbick roared over the babble. “Tell me about that meeting!”

Silence echoed after his shout.

“You have reached a hasty conclusion, Castellan,” Master Eremis volunteered without rising from his seat. “The Perdon suggested a meeting between the lords of the Cares and the Congery so that we could discuss our mutual problem – the inaction of our good King. He arranged the coming of the lords to Orison. Master Gilbur and I were chosen to represent the Congery – I because I favored the meeting, he because he opposed it. I took it upon myself to invite Prince Kragen, believing his mission of peace to be sincere.”

He shrugged eloquently. “Nothing came of it. The Fayle and the Termigan were too stiff-necked, the Tor too drunk, the Armigite too cowardly. Only the Perdon and Prince Kragen displayed any understanding of each other.

“Incidentally, if I am trusted by Alend, I am unlikely to be a servant of Cadwal. Don’t you agree?

“I believe,” he concluded, “that the blood you found belonged to Gart’s men. Their bodies left as they came – by Imagery. We can only assume that Master Gilbur escaped in the same way, as the arch-Imager Vagel’s ally.”

His explanation was so close to the truth that it made Terisa squirm. The air in the room seemed to be getting colder. She wondered if she would ever be warm again.

“It was treason,” Castellan Lebbick breathed through his teeth. “You were plotting treason.”

“It was nothing of the kind,” sighed Master Barsonage, speaking for the first time. His weariness cut deep. “The truth is that we were hoping the lords would give us cogent reasons not to risk the translation of our champion. We only took the risk of that translation because the lords convinced us they had no answer to Mordant’s plight.”

“In any case,” Master Eremis said more sharply, “it came to nothing. There is no cause for your outrage, Castellan, because no harm was done. In retrospect, it is clear that the gravest danger arose simply from the presence of so many lords – and Prince Kragen – here at the same time. If the champion had chosen to blast his way in some other direction” – Master Eremis rolled his eyes humorously, but his tone didn’t lose its edge – “he might have brought Orison down on the head of every important man in the kingdom.”

Castellan Lebbick muttered a few dark oaths.

“Can we get on with it?” Terisa asked, still speaking in the voice she hardly knew. “I want to hear why Nyle thinks Geraden is a traitor.”

The Master with the paunch snapped, “My lady, what you want is not of great consequence to us at present.”

With a gesture, Master Quillon demanded silence. Facing Lebbick, he inquired acerbically, “Castellan, may we continue? Or do you wish to go on abusing us because we see our circumstances and Mordant’s need differently than you do?”

Castellan Lebbick spat another curse, then clamped his mouth shut. Like a coiled spring, he returned to his seat.

The mediator rubbed his nose, trying to stop its twitch. “Apt Geraden, have you finished what you wish to say?”

Geraden gave an abrupt nod.

“Do you have any corroboration? Is there anything you can show us or tell us to support your assertions?”

Geraden shook his head.

An odd thought crossed Terisa’s mind. Geraden, she realized, had done what King Joyse wanted her to do: he had used his reason. His accusation against Master Eremis was based on reason rather than on proof.

Unfortunately, it was proof the Masters wanted. “Master Eremis was the only one who knew I would be at the meeting,” she said. “I was there. Everyone else was surprised to see me.”

“No, my lady,” Master Eremis put in immediately. “That is incorrect. You cannot be sure that I did not mention my intent to Master Gilbur – or even to Prince Kragen. You cannot be sure that the surprise you saw did not have another cause.

“But even if your assertion is true, what does it mean? Master Gilbur and I left the meeting together, going – as you know – to report what had happened to our fellow Masters. But he parted from me almost at once, saying that he had an urgent need to visit his rooms. Knowing now that he, at least, is a traitor, how can you believe that he did not take that opportunity – unforeseen though it may have been – to translate Gart against you?”

“Because,” someone Terisa didn’t know remarked incisively, “such an attack could not have been done without preparation. The necessary mirror could not have been made on a whim. Indeed, the location of the meeting must have been chosen to match the proximity of the mirror. Was it not you who chose the location of the meeting, Master Eremis?”

Almost instantly, everyone in the room fell still. Attention concentrated the atmosphere. Geraden took a deep breath, and some of the unnatural color left his face.

Master Eremis, however, wasn’t daunted. “Of course it was,” he snapped. “I had that responsibility because neither the Perdon nor Prince Kragen knew Orison well enough to make the choice themselves. But you assume that the mirror was created for the sake of Gart’s attack on the lady. There were only six days between the planning of the meeting and the meeting itself. Do you think such a mirror could be conceived and researched and shaped in six days? Is it not more probable that the mirror was created for an entirely different purpose – perhaps to give Gart access to Orison whenever he wanted it – and that the opportunity to attack the lady was merely fortuitous, an accident of circumstance which Master Gilbur hurried to turn to his advantage?”

Several of the Imagers shuffled their feet; few of them met Eremis’ gaze. The ease with which he had turned the accusation made Terisa’s thoughts spin.

“Very well, Master Eremis,” the mediator murmured after a long pause. “I presume that Geraden has no more to say. Since you have already begun to defend yourself, please continue.”

“Thank you, Master Quillon,” Eremis said as if he were deliberately suppressing contempt. He didn’t trouble to rise. “I will give you my reasons. Only if they do not persuade you will I call on Nyle to prove what I say. He is understandably reluctant to condemn his brother.”

That statement may have been true. Nyle did look reluctant: he looked reluctant to go on living.

“I have been curious about Apt Geraden since the moment when he brought the lady Terisa to us from a mirror which could not have performed that translation.” The Master sat nonchalantly, half sprawled in his chair with his legs outstretched. While he spoke, his long fingers played with the ends of his chasuble. His manner was so negligent that Terisa had to study him closely to notice that he was watching the entire room. “The link between him and Master Gilbur turned my curiosity to suspicion. When Master Gilbur finally proved himself false, my worst doubts were confirmed.”

No one interrupted him as he recited the arguments he had already presented to Terisa. She had to admit that they sounded plausible, almost inevitable. It was Master Gilbur who shaped the glass which first showed the champion, Master Gilbur who guided every step of Geraden’s attempt to match that mirror. Therefore if Geraden’s abilities had made a mirror which could do things no mirror had ever done before, Master Gilbur must have been a witness to them. Or else Master Gilbur must have been responsible for the mysteries of that mirror himself, guiding Geraden to accomplishments which the Apt couldn’t have achieved for himself. In either case, the two men were confederates. Geraden’s difficulties had always been ones of talent rather than of knowledge: Master Gilbur couldn’t have employed him to do something unprecedented without the Apt’s awareness of it.

“No,” Geraden murmured. “I had no idea.” But no one paid any attention to him.

Master Eremis also explained his theory about why Cadwal was marching. On that basis, he claimed, the rest was obvious. Who was the only man who always knew exactly where the lady Terisa was? Apt Geraden, of course, who first arranged to have her rooms guarded, then persuaded his brother Artagel to follow her. Who was the man most likely to have aided Master Gilbur in translating Gart after the meeting of the lords? Apt Geraden, of course, Master Gilbur’s confederate. Why was it that all Geraden’s apparent loyalty to King Joyse came to nothing? Because it was only a clever disguise to help him hurt those who most trusted him. He was in league with Gart and High King Festten.

Listening to this made Terisa feel sick.

The pain in Geraden’s eyes was acute, but he said nothing.

When Master Eremis was done, the rest of the Imagers were slow to speak. A few of them looked shocked. More were relieved, however, as if they had been rescued from believing that a member of the Congery had betrayed them. And some were plainly delighted by the prospect of finally being rid of Geraden.

After a moment, however, a slightly cross-eyed young Master countered, “But this is inconsistent, Master Eremis. If I understand rightly, it is Geraden who has kept the lady alive by providing her with defenders.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Master Eremis shortly. “The guards he first arranged for her could not be a match for the High King’s Monomach. And since then his duplicity has been more profound than you realize. He has put Artagel at the lady’s side so that Mordant’s best swordsman might also be killed, thus freeing Cadwal of two important enemies with one betrayal.”

“You can’t believe that!” Geraden’s protest was like a groan. At once, however, he closed his mouth again.

“No, Geraden.” Master Barsonage heaved his bulk upright. His gaze lingered momentarily, sadly, on Terisa. “I do not believe that.” His face had the color and texture of prolonged strain. “The truth is that I do not believe anything I have heard here. You and Master Eremis denounce each other as though what you say cannot be doubted, but you do not answer the most important question, the question on which all else stands or falls. You do not explain why.

“Why does the High King’s Monomach go to such lengths to attack the lady Terisa? Why does Master Eremis wish her killed?” Over his shoulder, he demanded, “Master Eremis, why does Geraden wish her killed?” Then he addressed the Congery. “Nothing that these men have said has any meaning unless they can tell us why.”

Before either accuser could answer, Terisa stood up. “I’ll tell you why.” A shiver ran through her voice – a shiver of anger rather than of cold. She wasn’t cold: she was sure. The frustrating certainty that she hadn’t been able to name was suddenly clear. “I’ll tell you exactly why.” If he had not been rescued— She wasn’t talking about Master Barsonage’s question; she had no answer to that. But it gave her a way to say what she meant.

“Geraden doesn’t have any reason to ant me dead. He’s spent enough time with me since I got here to know I’m no threat to anybody. If he were in league with Gart, I would never be attacked. He wouldn’t risk the High King’s Monomach on someone like me.

“But Master Eremis has a reason.”

The Master sat up straighter. He appeared to be taken aback. “My lady,” he said wonderingly, “I have saved your life. I have done everything a man can do to gain your love. How can you think that I wish you harm?”

She wanted to throw up. “Because I know you’re lying.”

At that, his expression darkened. She heard a hiss of indrawn breath from the Imagers behind her as he rose ominously to his feet. “Be sure of what you say, my lady,” he murmured in warning.

“I’m sure,” she flung back at him. Pressure mounted in her voice. She didn’t want to yell, but she needed passion to control her fear, to keep her going despite the fact that she had never defied anyone like this before and didn’t believe she could do it, certainly not Master Eremis, he was too much for her, he was like her father, he had been too much for her from the start. “You know all about the attack after the meeting. I told you that. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. But you left without coming to see me again.” If he had not been rescued— “I never had a chance to tell you about the attacks on Geraden. Who told you about them?

“You could know about those riders in the woods. That’s common knowledge now. Anybody could have told you.” —rescued as he was, I assure you— “But you knew about the first time, too.”

Master Eremis stared at her as if she had caught him completely by surprise.

“Nobody knew about that except Artagel, Geraden, and me. And Adept Havelock. He didn’t tell you.” Master Eremis had made a mistake. Under the pressure of Geraden’s accusations, he had made a mistake. “Artagel told the Castellan.” Lebbick nodded shortly. “None of us told you. You weren’t here. But you still said that attack was just a ploy. You knew all about it. You said, ‘If he had not been rescued as he was, I assure you that they would have recalled their insects before he was slain.’

“You said ‘their insects.’ How did you know he was attacked by insects?”

A light of amazement and vindication broke across Geraden’s face.

Struggling for self-control, she concluded, “You’re trying to accuse Geraden for the same reason you want me dead. Because we’re dangerous to you. We know you’re the traitor.”

For just a moment, Master Eremis continued to gape. Then he began chuckling.

His mirth didn’t sound particularly cheerful.

“My lady,” he said, “you are outrageous. You told me about the attack yourself.”

“That’s another lie,” she shot back in fury.

“No, my lady. The lie is yours. I had the story from your lips between kisses.”

“I don’t think so, Master Eremis.” Geraden stood at Terisa’s side. Her audacity had galvanized him: he was poised for battle, and his eyes burned. “She doesn’t have any reason to lie. She doesn’t have anything to gain here.”

“Does she not?” Master Eremis’ mouth twisted scornfully. “You are naive, boy – or a fool. You are her reason. She has you to gain.”

That argument stopped Terisa: it set her back on her heels, like a dash of cold water in her face. It was true—

It was true enough to make her look foolish.

Nevertheless it was a miscalculation. Before Eremis could go on, several of the Masters burst out laughing.

“With your reputation for women?” said the Imager with the bad teeth. “Do you ask us to credit that she prefers Geraden fumble-foot?”

“I would not have believed any other proof,” another Master put in, “but I believe this. If Master Eremis is reduced to claiming that he could not win a woman away from the Apt, then there is no truth in him.”

“On the contrary,” someone else returned uproariously. “If Master Eremis is reduced to admitting that he could not win a woman away from the Apt, then he must be speaking the truth.”

“Enough!” barked Master Eremis. He slashed the air with his hands, demanding silence. “I have endured enough!”

His shout made the walls ring fiercely. The fury in his voice and the relish in his eyes stilled the room, commanding everyone’s attention.

“It is intolerable that all my service to Mordant and the Congery is met with distrust. It is intolerable that any of you will believe this weak boy when I am accused. Now I will prove what I say. I will ask Nyle to speak.”

The Masters stared. Geraden opened his mouth, closed it again; the color seeped out of his skin. Down inside her, Terisa’s shivering suddenly got worse.

Master Quillon cocked his head reflectively. After a moment, he commented in a tone that almost sounded threatening, “For the sake of everyone here, Master Eremis, I hope that you are sure of what he will say.”

“I am sure.” Eremis’ certainty was absolute, as unshakable as his grin.

Everyone looked at Nyle.

Geraden’s brother seemed unaware of what was going on. His dejected posture didn’t shift: his head didn’t rise. The grimace that distorted his features was as deep as despair.

Abruptly, he turned and whispered in Castellan Lebbick’s ear.

The Castellan listened, frowned – and said, “Masters, Nyle wants a private word with Geraden.”

Nyle returned his gaze to the floor.

No one moved. Terisa’s heart pounded against the base of her throat. Geraden knotted his fists and kept his head high; his jaw jutted. Master Eremis turned a measuring gaze on Nyle, but didn’t say what he was thinking. The Imagers glanced uncertainly at each other, at the Castellan, at Master Quillon.

At last, the mediator asked curiously, “Why?”

Castellan Lebbick shrugged. “Maybe he thinks he can persuade Geraden to confess.”

“Do you object?”

Lebbick shook his head. “The room is guarded.” Then he added sarcastically, “Anything Geraden has to confess is bound to be fascinating.”

Once again, Master Quillon looked as though he wanted to run and hide. Nevertheless he said, “Then let us be seated. Nyle and Geraden may go to the end of the room.”

Master Eremis shrugged and complied. The other Masters resumed their seats.

Terisa turned to Geraden. What is Nyle going to say about you? Oh, Geraden, what’s wrong?

But Geraden didn’t meet her gaze. Everything in him was focused on his brother – the brother he had tried to save from committing treachery; the brother he had humiliated to the bone.

“Be careful,” Terisa breathed. She could feel disaster gathering around him. There was no way to forestall it. “Please.”

Aching with suspense, she sat down.

Stiffly, Geraden moved to stand in front of Nyle.

When he saw Geraden’s boots near his own, Nyle wrenched himself to his feet. Without releasing his grip on his cloak, he strode away to the far end of the room – as far as he could get from the Masters; the farthest point from Terisa.

There he waited for Geraden to join him.

The Masters watched without moving. Castellan Lebbick’s jaws chewed indigestible thoughts; his gaze didn’t shift an inch from the brothers.

They stood with Geraden’s back to the room. Terisa could see Nyle’s face: it was set and savage, more implacable – and more desperate – than it had been when he had ridden away to betray Orison. He looked at once homicidal and appalled, as if he were involved in a crime which made every inch of him cringe.

Whispering, he said something to Geraden.

It must have been something hurtful: Geraden reacted as though he had been struck. He flinched; he surged forward. From the back, he appeared to have taken hold of Nyle’s cloak.

Between the brothers, an iron dagger dropped to the floor, clattering metallically on the stone.

It was covered with blood.

Nyle slumped against the wall. His eyes rolled shut. Then his knees bent. Geraden tried to catch him, but he collapsed on his back. His cloak fell open, exposing the red mess the knife had made of his abdomen.

Like the dagger, Geraden’s hands were covered with blood.

TWENTY-SIX: FRATRICIDE

In the stunned silence of her mind, Terisa started screaming. Fortunately, she didn’t scream aloud.

For a moment, no one said anything aloud. No one did anything at all. Everyone simply gaped at Geraden and Nyle.

Then Geraden made a constricted noise like a sob, and the Congery erupted.

Masters jumped out of their chairs and headed in all directions. Castellan Lebbick burst into motion, hurtling like a destructive projectile toward Geraden. Geraden cowered against the wall as if he were cornered.

Over the chaos, Terisa cried out, “Geraden! Run!”

As if she had set him on fire, he flung himself at the door.

He was too late, too slow: he was in a state of shock and couldn’t match the Castellan’s instinct for action. But a few of the Masters were also rushing at him, perhaps wanting to capture him, perhaps hoping to help Nyle. One of them was Master Quillon.

As fast as a rabbit, he dove after Geraden – and stumbled.

He fell directly in front of Castellan Lebbick, accidentally cutting the Castellan’s legs out from under him. Lebbick plunged to the stone.

Geraden reached the door and jerked it open.

“Stop him!” Castellan Lebbick roared at the guards outside. “Stop Geraden!”

The door slammed shut in time to cut off his shout.

Master Barsonage stood alone in the middle of the confusion. While Imagers shouted at each other and tried to decide which way to run, he clasped his hands together and gaped at nothing. Even his involuntary tick was paralyzed.

Still roaring, the Castellan sprang upright, heaved Masters away from him on both sides, charged the door.

Master Eremis wasn’t the first to reach Nyle. Nevertheless he shoved everyone else aside, swept the bloody form up in his arms, and began dodging toward the far exit. “A physician!” he barked although no one was listening to him. “He must have a physician!”

Automatically, Terisa followed Master Eremis and Nyle.

Without warning, someone caught her by the arm. Forced to turn, she found herself facing Master Quillon.

His bright eyes shone; his nose twitched extravagantly. “Come!” he demanded in a voice that seemed to pierce straight through the confusion into her heart. “We must help him!”

At once, he started forward, hauling her into motion toward the door Master Eremis had just taken.

The two guards assigned to that door were in the room, shouting for order and answers. Master Quillon ducked past them. They made an effort to stop Terisa, then let her go: the turmoil of the Congery demanded their attention.

With his gray robe flapping against his knees, Master Quillon broke into a run.

She had no idea where he was going: she followed him simply because he had used the word help. But suddenly she began to recognize this part of the laborium. Down a corridor, then along an intersecting passage, Master Quillon brought her to a door small and heavy enough to be the door of a cell.

This door also was guarded.

“Quickly!” Master Quillon shouted at the men. “Someone has been killed!” He pointed back the way he and Terisa had come. “The Castellan needs you!”

His urgency was so convincing that both guards left their post at full speed, drawing their swords as they ran.

Immediately, Master Quillon swung the door open, ushered Terisa through it, and closed it again.

They had entered the antechamber of the network of cells that had been rebuilt for the storage and display of the Congery’s mirrors.

“Will he come here?” she asked. She was panting hard.

With unintended brutality, Master Quillon replied, “He has nowhere else to go.” Taking her arm again, he impelled her through the nearest entryway into the warren of showrooms.

But he didn’t accompany her.

When he stopped, she turned back to question him.

“Go!” he snapped. “Help him! I will gain as much time as I can. I will be believed when I say he did not come here – at least for a minute or two.”

She stared. Help him?

“Go, I say!” He gave her a push.

She stumbled, caught her balance, and fled the antechamber.

Help him? Geraden?

Nyle was dead. His belly had been cut open with a knife.

Why?

So he wouldn’t speak to the Congery. So he wouldn’t support Master Eremis’ accusations.

Geraden!

As soon as she found the room where the mirror that had brought her to Orison was on display, she spotted him. He was trying to dodge past an entryway, trying to hide, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid her.

Master Gilbur’s original glass had been destroyed by the champion, of course: this mirror was Geraden’s copy. Because it was covered, she couldn’t see what scene it showed.

“Geraden!” she whispered. She was afraid to shout. “It’s me. Terisa.”

After a moment, he came out of hiding to confront her.

He had become a different person. His face was iron; his eyes were steel. He spoke as if he could call up authority against her at any time.

“Have you come to persuade me to surrender?”

“No.” She could hardly force out words. Something inside her was breaking. “He told me to help you.”

“He?”

“Master Quillon.”

“He should have come himself.”

The sound of a door echoed faintly through the rooms. Terisa heard a distant murmur of voices.

“If you are an Imager, my lady,” Geraden went on, “you may be able to help me. Otherwise, I have no escape.”

“You know I’m not an Imager.” Oh, my love! “What was Nyle going to say about you?”

He looked unreachable – too hard and inhuman to be touched. Yet something in her voice or her face or the way she stood must have penetrated him. His defenses cracked.

“Nothing,” he said as if he had arrived without transition on the verge of tears. “Nothing at all. It’s a trick. Something Master Eremis cooked up against me.

“Terisa, I did not kill my brother.”

She heard Castellan Lebbick clearly. “Spread out! He’s got to be in here. I want him alive.”

“I’m not an Imager!” she cried. “I can’t help you!”

In misery, she flung her arms around Geraden’s neck.

He clung to her until they both heard the sound of hard boots approaching them from one of the other rooms. At once, they sprang apart.

He had become iron again.

Without hesitation, he turned to the mirror and swept off its cover.

The glass showed the bitter alien landscape where the champion and his men had failed.

“No, Geraden!” she gasped. “You’ll be lost! You’ll never get back.”

He didn’t heed her. “As soon as I am translated, my lady,” he said as if she were a stranger, “please shift the focus of the mirror. If I am visible in the Image, I will be pursued.”

He said something she didn’t understand. His fingers stroked the wooden frame in parting; his hands made a gesture of farewell.

Then he stepped into the mirror and left her alone.

But he didn’t appear in the Image.

She searched the scene feverishly: there was no sign of him. Once again, his glass had performed an impossible translation. It had taken him to a place it didn’t show.

This time, however, no one was holding on to his foot. He had no way to come back. He was gone completely.

Castellan Lebbick came upon her so suddenly that she would have wailed if she hadn’t been in such dismay.

He looked around the room, peered into the glass. Then he put his hands on her arms and ground his fingers into her weak flesh. A ferocious triumph burned in his face.

“Now you’ve done it, woman,” he said almost cheerfully. “You’ve done something so vile that nobody is going to protect you. You’ve helped a murderer escape.”

She should have said something to defend herself. A denial would have cost Geraden nothing. He was beyond harm. But she only held her head up and met the Castellan’s flagrant gaze as well as she could with her own distress and didn’t speak.

“Now,” he said through his teeth, “you are mine.”

This is the end of

THE MIRROR OF HER DREAMS.

Mordant’s Need concludes in the next volume,

A MAN RIDES THROUGH.