A Man Rides Through (32 page)

"Then what do you mean to do, my lord Prince?" demanded Elega. Apparently, she didn't hear him. Perhaps she couldn't. "Are you prepared to simply
wait
here until the High King arrives to crush you?"

Prince Kragen lifted his head. Too many of his people were watching. By an act of will, he smoothed his scowl, put on a sharp smile.

"I am prepared to do what I must."

Bowing to conceal the grimness in his eyes, he walked away.

That night, covered by the dark, he sent a squadron of sappers to try to dig the keystones out of the curtain-wall.

Another failure. Scant moments after his men set to work, Orison's defenders poured oil down the face of the wall and fired it. The flames forced the sappers back—and gave enough light for Lebbick's archers. Less than half the squadron escaped.

The next morning, when he had had time to absorb the latest news, Prince Kragen announced that he would take no more risks.

He didn't withdraw from his position. He spent all his time projecting confidence to his forces, or designing contingency plans with his captains, or consulting with the Alend Monarch. But he took no chances, incurred no losses. He might have been waiting for High King Festten to join him in some elaborate and harmless wargame.

Elega understood why he did this. He told her why, publicly and privately. And his explanations made sense. Nevertheless his passivity drove her to distraction. At times, she couldn't face him under the eyes of his troops; at times, she could hardly bring herself to be civil to him in bed. She wanted
action
—wanted the wall down, the battle joined; she wanted King Joyse deposed, and Prince Kragen in his place.

She wanted the fact that she had betrayed her own father to mean something. While the Alend forces spent their time in training or leisure—enjoying the suddenly beautiful spring—instead of in bringing Orison to its knees, everything she had done was pointless.

She kept track of the days; nearly kept track of the hours, gnawing them like a dry bone. It was late in the evening of the fifth day of Kragen's inactivity, the sixth day of the siege, while she waited in her tent for the Prince to finish discussing his day and his plans with Margonal, that a soldier from one of the sentry posts brought her a visitor.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lady." The soldier was a wary old veteran, and he appeared unsure that he was doing the right thing. "Wouldn't trouble you with her, but she wasn't trying to sneak into camp. Walked right up to the sentry and asked to see you. Isn't carrying any weapons—not even a knife. I said I would take her to the Prince. Or at least the sentry captain. She said she didn't think that was a good idea. Said if I brought her here you could decide what to do with her."

Elega made an effort to be patient with all this explanation. "Who is she?"

The soldier shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Says she's your sister."

Elega blinked at him while the blood seemed to drain out of her heart.

Carefully, so that her voice wouldn't betray her, she replied, "You did well. You can leave her with me. I'll decide what to do with her when I hear what she has to say."

The soldier lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. Pushing the tentflap aside, he ushered Myste into Elega's presence.

The two sisters stood as if they were stunned and stared at each other. The soldier left them alone, closed the tentflap behind him; they stood and stared at each other.

Physically, Elega was in her element. She was wrapped in a gauzy robe the Prince liked. Lamps and candlelight brought out the lustre of her short, blond hair, the beauty of her pale skin, the vividness of her violet eyes. In contrast, Myste needed sunshine to look her best. Indoors, by the light of fires, she tended to appear sullen or dreamy, and her gaze had a faraway quality that gave the impression she was immersed in her own thoughts—less interested in events around her than Elega was; therefore less important. Her thick cloak had seen hard use.

Yet Myste had changed—Elega saw that at once. Her carriage had become straighter; the set of her shoulders and the lift of her chin made her look like a woman who had lost her doubts. A scar that looked like a healed burn ran from her cheekbone to her ear on the right side; instead of marring her beauty, however, it had the

effect of increasing her air of conviction. She had earned whatever certainty she felt. For the first time in their lives, Myste's simple presence caused Elega to feel smaller in some way, less sure of herself.

A quick intuition told her that Myste had done something that would make her own efforts to shape Mordant's fate appear trivial by comparison.

Myste met Elega's regard for a long moment. Then, slowly, she began to smile.

It was too much, that smile; it was the way their father used to smile, back in the days when he was still himself; a smile like a sunrise. She couldn't bear it: her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh, Myste," she breathed. "You scared me to death, disappearing like that. I thought you were dead long ago."

Helplessly, she opened her arms and caught her sister in a tight hug.

"I am sorry," Myste whispered while they clung to each other. "I know you were scared. I had no wish to do it that way. I had no other choice."

Awkwardly, Elega stepped back, wiped her eyes, found a handkerchief and blew her nose. "You rotten child," she said, smiling gamely.

Myste smiled back and borrowed the handkerchief when Elega was done with it.

"Do you remember?" Elega murmured. "I used to call you that. When we were little. When I did something forbidden and got into trouble, I used to try to blame it on you. Even when you were so small you could hardly walk, I used to try to convince Mother you tricked me into—whatever it was. I told her you were a rotten child."

Lightly, Myste laughed. "No, I do not remember. I was too young. Anyway, I can hardly believe you ever tried to pass responsibility off on anyone else." She sighed as if the sight of her sister gave her great pleasure. "And now after all these years I have proved that you were right."

"Yes, you have." Elega wanted to joke, and laugh, and yell at Myste, all at the same time. "Completely despicable." She tried to pull some organization into her head, keep her thoughts from spinning out of control. "Sit down. Have some wine." She pointed toward a pair of canvas camp chairs beside a small, brass table. "I really am delighted to see you. I have been so alone—" But she couldn't do it; Myste's unexpected appearance made her brain reel. "Oh, Myste,
where have you been?"

A hint of self-consciousness touched Myste's gaze. No, Elega realized almost at once, it was more than self-consciousness. It was caution. Slowly, Myste's smile faded.

"That is a long story," she replied quietly. "I have come to you because I must make a number of decisions. Among them is whether I should tell you where I have been and what I have been doing."

More than self-consciousness. More than caution.

Distrust.

Elega felt like crying again.

At the same time, however, her own instinct for caution sprang awake. The Alend camp was a dangerous place in more ways than one; it was especially dangerous for a daughter of King Joyse who hadn't demonstrated her loyalty to Prince Kragen.

"What is the difficulty?" she asked carefully. "I am your sister. Why should you not tell me?"

Whose side are you on?

"Thank you." Myste's manner was firm, unflawed. "I will have wine. As you see"—she dropped her cloak, revealing a battered leather jacket and pants which apparently had nothing in the world to do with lovers and bedchambers—"amenities have been few in my life for some time."

But Elega couldn't respond. She was too busy fighting down an impulse to demand,
Whose side are you on?

"Elega," sighed Myste, "I cannot tell you my story because I do not know why you are here. I do not know how an Alend army came to besiege Orison. I do not know"—for an instant, she blinked back tears of her own—"if our father still lives, or still holds his throne. Or still seems mad.

"I can decide nothing wisely without the answers to such questions.

"I knew that you were here," she explained. "I saw you ride with Prince Kragen to meet Castellan Lebbick on the day Orison was invested. The distance was considerable," she admitted, "but I was sure I saw you. It has taken me this long, however, to persuade"—she faltered oddly—"persuade myself to approach you."

Obviously trying to defuse Elega's tension, she asked pleadingly,
"May
I have some wine?"

"Of course. Surely." Jerking herself out of her paralysis, Elega went to the brass table. It held a jug and two goblets. Despite the possibility that she might eventually have to explain to the Prince how his goblet came to be used in his absence, she poured wine for herself and Myste, then sat down and urged Myste to do the same.

Myste accepted the chair and the wine. Over the goblet's rim as she drank, another sun dawned in her eyes. When she lowered the goblet, she grinned longingly past Elega's shoulder. "That is good. I wish I could take a hogshead of it with me."

A few swallows of wine helped restore Elega's composure. With a better grasp on herself, she asked, "Why do you speak of going? You have only just arrived. And"—she attempted her best smile— "you have not yet said anything I can understand about why you came in the first place."

Myste drank again, then held the goblet in both palms and gazed into its depths. "I came to ask the answers to questions, so that I can make my decisions with some hope that they will lead to good rather than ill."

"In other words"—Elega kept her voice steady—"you wish me to trust you enough to help you decide whether you can trust me." Her question refused to be stifled. "Myste, who has your allegiance now? Whom do you serve?"

Myste's eyes darkened. All at once, the distance in them seemed poignant to Elega. Myste was the youngest of the King's daughters, and in some ways the least respected; alone in her romantic dreams, her strange notion that there were no real limits to the lives of ordinary men and women. Only her father had ever listened to her with anything except kind contempt or outright mockery—and now his kingdom was in ruins, and the fault for it was his alone.

Yet here she was, clad more completely in her own courage than in the worn leather on her body. It was quite possible that she was out of her mind. How else to explain the fact that she was here, that she considered it reasonable to simply walk into the Alend camp and ask for answers? Even if she were sane, she had become something Elega didn't know how to evaluate or touch.

On the other hand, what harm could she do, one brave, foolish daughter of a failed King? Was it conceivable that she had somehow gone over to Cadwal? No. The High King's army was too far away— and the Perdon's forces still intervened. Then what harm could she do?

Why, none.

She made no attempt to answer Elega's question. After a long moment, Elega let it drop. Feeling an unexpected sympathy—and a hint of nameless admiration—toward her lonely sister, she decided suddenly, irrationally, to gamble. "Very well," she said. After all, risks came to her more naturally than caution. Prince Kragen's inaction had her at her wit's end. "Ask me something specific."

Her words lit a spark in Myste's gaze.

Myste raised an unself-conscious hand to her cheek. "Again, thank you," she murmured. "It will be a great service to me."

Almost at once, she inquired, "Is Father well? Is he"—she swallowed quickly—"still alive?"

"To the best of my knowledge." As soon as she heard the question, Elega's throat went dry. "It has been some days since I spoke to him." Now that she had decided to gamble, she realized that her own story would be hard to tell. Myste's fundamental assumptions were so different. "Nevertheless emissaries and messengers such as the Castellan and Master Quillon make reference to him without hesitation. He remains King in his own castle, even though his rule over Mordant has collapsed."

Myste let a breath of relief between her lips. "I am glad," she said, nodding to herself.

"And Terisa? How is she?"

Elega muffled her discomfort with asperity. "I fear that the lady Terisa has fallen victim to Geraden's instinct for mishap."