A Man Rides Through (39 page)

At once, both sides of the war joined forces against her. Every movement anywhere in her body took on a dimension of agony.

She sat up anyway and pushed her feet over the edge of the bed.

Her knee commemorated the occasion with a throb as sharp as a howl. She gave an inarticulate gasp. For a moment, she had to sit without moving, hold herself stationary while she tried to regain some measure of control.

She still had the smell of green blood in her hair. It was still nauseating.

Geraden, she thought.

Who hit me?

Despite the pain, she forced her eyes into focus.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed in a large but rather austere bedchamber. A number of candles lit the stone walls and wooden ceiling, the mats of woven reeds on the floor; the massive chairs, so heavy that they might have been designed to accommodate the Tor; the dark planks of the door. Compared to the places she had slept recently, the bed was luxurious.

She wasn't alone.

A man sat across the room from her, in a chair beside the door. He wore a plain brown shirt and breeches, simple boots; he had no weapons that she could see. His eyes were flat; his hair seemed to have no color. The lines of his face and the edges of his features were rough, crudely shaped. His arms were folded across his chest as if he were prepared to wait for her indefinitely.

She recognized him.

The Termigan. The lord of the Care.

"So," he said after scrutinizing her for a while. "You turn up unexpectedly, my lady."

She stared back, trying to fight down the pain so that she could think.

"The last time I saw you," he went on, "you were there for no good reason except to demonstrate that things went wrong when the Congery tried to obey King Joyse. We were supposed to believe you were just an accident, a nothing—only a woman. Now you're here, and Geraden says you're an arch-Imager.

"I want an explanation."

His posture suggested that he would never let her leave this room until she satisfied him.

Terisa made an effort to clear her throat. "Where's Geraden?"

The Termigan shrugged slightly. "Next door. My men didn't have the nerve to hit a son of the Domne, so he's been struggling and shouting ever since I had you taken away from him. But he's bolted in, and he won't get out until I decide to let him see you."

"When is that going to happen?"

The lord shrugged again. His flat gaze didn't shift from Terisa's face. "I'll make up my mind when I hear what you're going to tell me."

She couldn't keep her voice from shaking. "Your men didn't hit Geraden. Why did they hit
me?
Do you beat up women as a matter of general policy, or have I done something personally to offend you?"

Sarcasm had no effect on the Termigan. "My men," he explained evenly, "didn't know I knew you. They just heard Geraden say you're an Imager. I don't like Imagers, my lady. When my father was killed in the wars, and I became the Termigan, I fought beside King Joyse for years because I don't like Imagers. All my life, most of the people I value have been killed by Imagers. Or Alends. I've never let Havelock inside these walls. Even when he wasn't crazy.

"Now we're under attack by Imagery. Sternwall is going to fall soon, and there's nothing we can do to defend ourselves. My men have standing orders to make any Imager who comes here helpless first and ask questions later.

"My lady, how did you become an Imager? Or how did you convince Eremis and Gilbur you weren't an Imager? Or"—his tone sharpened—"why did they lie to us about you?"

The Termigan was definitely at war.

She looked away. Searching for the means to control her anger and pain—and her nausea at the stink in her hair—she scanned the room. I don't like Imagers. Almost immediately, she spotted a decanter of wine and a pair of goblets on a table near the bed, beside a tray that held what appeared to be a cold collation. Carefully, moving her head and neck as little as possible, she stood up, limped to the table, poured some wine. Helpless first and ask questions later. On the other hand, he didn't mean to starve her. Tremors ran down her arms from her shoulders, but she was able to keep most of the wine in the goblet. Lifting it with both hands, she drained it.

Just for a second, her stomach heaved and her head pounded; she thought she'd made an idiotic mistake. Then, however, she began to feel a little better.

Deliberately, she faced the Termigan. In effect, he had taken Geraden prisoner. Geraden was probably worried sick about her. And he, too, was an Imager. What would the Termigan do if he knew that the son of the Domne was also an Imager? He might keep them locked up for the rest of the war—until Sternwall fell, and Mordant was destroyed, and Master Eremis had slaughtered everybody who stood in his way. Anger gave her the strength she needed.

"My lord, they were lying to both of us. Practically everything they said to us was a lie."

The Termigan didn't move; he hardly blinked. "Why would they lie to
you?
You're one of
them."

She gaped at him. Her brain was sluggish; a moment passed before she was able to say, "No, I'm not.

"I didn't even find out I've got a talent until"—she counted backward quickly—"five days ago. How could I be 'one of
them'?
They didn't want me to know I had any talent. That's why they were lying to me. That's why they've been trying to kill me. That's why Houseldon got burned. They were trying to kill us. They think I'm some kind of threat to them."

"What kind of threat?"

"I don't know," she admitted bitterly. She wanted Geraden with her. She didn't like the risk of talking to the Termigan by herself. "But we're trying to find out. In the meantime, we want to make as much trouble for Eremis and Gilbur as we can. That's why we're here."

Abruptly, the lord nodded. "Now I'm beginning to believe you. They want to kill you. You want to cause trouble for them. All this"—his manner referred to more than just the pits of fire outside Sternwall—"is just another contest between Imagers. We're the victims"—now he meant the people of his Care—"but we aren't really the point.

"The point is
power."

He had misunderstood her. She made an effort to explain. "That isn't what I meant. We're trying to defend Mordant. It's King Joyse that Eremis and Gilbur want to destroy. We're secondary—Geraden and I are in the way, that's all. It's King Joyse who needs your help."

Without a flicker of expression or inflection, the Termigan replied, "Pigslime."

Terisa stopped and studied him, trying to see past his face into his mind. But he was as closed as a piece of flint. In an effort to pull herself together, she poured more wine for herself, then returned to the bed and sat down again.

Slowly, she said, "You don't like Imagers. Is that it?"

"Joyse needs my help, I'm sure of that," he retorted, "but not because you ask it. You don't care about him. You want me to do something that will help you against Eremis and Gilbur. If that helps the King today, it will help destroy him tomorrow."

"Is it because I'm an Imager?" Terisa asked, speaking mostly to herself. "It must be. Everybody who knows the Domne trusts his sons."

"The one thing you all want is to get rid of
him.
That's the one thing you're all united on. He's the only man who's ever succeeded at
controlling
you."

"I see." Terisa had learned a lot from Castellan Lebbick: she had learned how to speak harshly to angry men. "You think an Imager can't be honest. You think that talent—an accident of birth— precludes loyalty. Or compassion. Or even ethics."

Still the Termigan didn't shift in his seat; he didn't raise his head or his voice. "In the end," he articulated flatly, "no Imager is loyal to anyone but himself. That's the nature of power. It seduces—it requires. An Imager can appear loyal only as long as his power and his loyalty don't come into conflict. The only thing"—now just for a moment he did raise his voice—"my lady, the
only
thing which has saved us for the past ten years is Havelock's madness. If Vagel hadn't cost him his mind, he would have gotten rid of Joyse as soon as the Congery was complete. He would have established a tyranny in Mordant to make the atrocities of Margonal and Festten look like boys pulling wings off butterflies."

The virulence, not of his tone, but of his belief, shocked her. "You think that? Even though Havelock was the King's friend and counselor for—what was it?—more than forty years? Even though he gave up his
sanity
for his King?" Pain and the aftereffects of nearly being killed made her savage. "What would he have to do to make you trust him? Slaughter every Imager ever born? Exterminate talent from the world?"

With a small flick of his hand, the lord dismissed her protest. "Even that wouldn't be enough. The Imager I trust is the one who kills himself.

"If you're telling me the truth—which is always possible, I suppose—you haven't known about your talent very long. You've only had a few days to discover what it does to you. My lady, I'll tell you what it does.

"It teaches you—no, it
forces
you to believe you're more important than other people. Because you can
do
more. If you're smart enough, and strong enough, and nobody gets in your way, you can change the outcome of the world. You can remake Mordant in your own image. So how can you let anybody stand in your way? How can you let anybody tell you what to do? How can you submit to any kind of control?

"You can't, my lady. You'll find out that you can't.

"And when you find that out, you'll learn Joyse is your enemy.
I'm
your enemy. Even if you think you're honest now, and loyal, and trustworthy, you'll learn you want us all dead. You'll learn it's better to translate pits of fire to roast us out of our homes than to take the risk that we might get in your way."

Terisa was more than shocked: she was appalled.
How can you let anybody stand in your way?
The Termigan was right: she knew Imagers who met his description. And more than that: she knew people who would meet his description if they became Imagers. Her father was one of them.

If she was her father's daughter, she might be one of them herself.

"Now, my lady," the Termigan said like a sharp stone, "tell me what you think I can do to help my King."

Fortunately, she didn't get a chance to answer. A knock at the door saved her from babbling incoherently. The Termigan turned his head, rasped, "Enter," and one of his soldiers came into the room.

"My lord," the man said in a pale voice. His face was ashen, but his eyes still held the red glow of lava. "It's getting worse."

"'Worse'?" the lord demanded without moving.

The soldier jerked a nod. "They're translating more lava. We can see it pouring out of the air. It's building up against us faster. Two of the pits ran together." He hesitated, then said, "Part of the wall just gave way."

A sting of alarm went through Terisa. Half involuntarily, she said, "That's because we're here. We're too dangerous."

And because they were approaching the crisis—the point where Master Quillon said Eremis would be vulnerable.
So that he would attack here.
The point at which King Joyse intended to strike back. If in fact he had ever had the
policy
Quillon ascribed to him—or if he were still King enough to carry it out. Eremis needed to kill or paralyze the King's allies before that moment, so that King Joyse wouldn't have any force with which to strike.

It was probably true—although the thought made her sick— that Eremis wouldn't try so hard to kill her and Geraden if she hadn't convinced the Master that King Joyse knew what he was doing, that the King's choices were deliberate, purposive, rather than passive or accidental.

"'We'?" asked the Termigan. He sounded fatal—too calm for the extremity of his outrage and dismay. "One new Imager and a failed Apt? I don't believe it."