A Man Rides Through (64 page)

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

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

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

And yet he did what the Tor needed.

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

Prince Kragen couldn't hide his surprise at this information, but the Tor clung to his pain and let everything else pass over his head.

Unexpectedly, his spirits lifted a bit. There was good reason why everybody in Orison liked Artagel.

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

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

Without hesitation, Artagel answered, "You do, my lord Prince. We've got the Congery."

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

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

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

"I know where High King Festten's army is."

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

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

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

"I must discuss it sitting down."

FORTY-ONE: THE USES OF TALENT

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

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

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

Simple.

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

And then he remembered so hard that he nearly gasped.

Terisa.
Eremis had
Terisa.

"We've got to help her."

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

Terisa!

"Let me go. We've got to help her."

"How?" demanded the Master bluntly. "How will you help her?"

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

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

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

Let me go!

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean? Why is it impossible?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The only one of importance was yours."

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

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

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

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

A riot against Castellan Lebbick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A riot against
Castellan Lebbick?

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

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

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

"She incited the riot to gain revenge."

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

"Master Barsonage"—Geraden was mildly astonished by his own calm—"why did he beat her? That's where it started—the 'series of coincidences.' What did she do?"

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