“Fascinating,” drawled the Prince. “From this distance, you will destroy my siege engines? What new horror has the Congery devised, that you are now able to project destruction so far from your glass?”
The Master didn’t answer that question. “Withdraw or not, as you choose,” he said. “Kill me or not.” The twitching of his nose was unmistakably rabbitlike. “But do not make the error of believing that you will be permitted to enter or occupy Orison. Rather than surrender his Seat and his strength, King Joyse will allow you to be crushed between the hammer of Cadwal and the anvil of the Congery.”
The lady Elega couldn’t restrain herself. “Quillon, this is madness.” Her protest sounded at once angry and forlorn. “You are a minor Imager, a lesser member of the Congery. You admit that your life has no importance. Yet you dare threaten the Alend Monarch and his son. How have you gained such stature, that you claim to speak with my father’s voice?”
For the first time, Master Quillon looked at her. Suddenly, his face knotted, and an incongruous note of ferocity sharpened his tone. “My lady, I have been given my stature by the King’s command. I am the mediator of the Congery.” Without moving, he confronted her as if he had abruptly become taller. “Unlike his daughter, I have not betrayed him.”
Loyal to their Prince, the Alend soldiers tensed; a number of them put their hands on their swords.
But Elega met the Master’s reply squarely. She had a King’s daughter’s pride, as well as a King’s daughter’s commitment to what she was doing. “That is unjust,” she snapped. “He has betrayed all Mordant. You cannot be blind to the truth. You cannot—”
Deliberately, Master Quillon turned away as if she had ceased to exist for him.
Unheeded, her protest trailed into silence. In the chill spring wind she looked like she might weep.
With difficulty, Prince Kragen checked his anger. The Master’s attitude infuriated him because he understood it too well. Nevertheless he resisted the impulse to have Quillon struck down. Instead, he murmured through his teeth, “You risk more than you realize, Master Quillon. Perhaps you do not consider death to be of great importance, but I assure you that you will attach more significance to pain.”
At that, Elega’s head jerked, and her gaze widened, as if she were shocked. The Prince and the Imager faced each other, however, ignoring her reaction.
Master Quillon’s eyes flicked; his nose twitched. He might have been on the verge of panic. But his tone contradicted that impression. It cut fearlessly.
“Is that your answer to what you do not understand, my lord Prince? Torture? Or do you inflict pain for the simple pleasure of it? Be warned again, son of the Alend Monarch, you are being tested here, as surely as you were tested in Orison, at the hop-board table – and elsewhere. I do not advise you to prove unworthy.”
Without Prince Kragen’s permission, Quillon left. He mounted his horse awkwardly, gathered up the reins. He was surrounded by Alends; yet when he pulled his mount’s head toward Orison the soldiers seemed to open a path for him involuntarily, without instructions from their captain or their Prince, as if they were ruled by the Imager’s peculiar dignity.
Looking slightly ridiculous – or perhaps valiant – on his big horse, he rode back the way he had come. In a short time, he rounded the corner of Orison and disappeared from sight.
Kragen chewed his lips under his moustache as he turned to the lady. You are being tested here— He would have asked, What was the meaning of that? but the darkness in her eyes stopped him.
“Elega?” he inquired softly.
Her jaw tightened as she met his gaze. “ ‘Pain,’ my lord Prince?”
Her indignation made him want to shout at her. We are at war here, my lady. Do you believe that we can fight a war without hurting anyone? He restrained himself, however, because he was also a little ashamed of having threatened Master Quillon.
It was certainly true that in the old days of the constant struggle between Alend and Cadwal, no supporter or adherent of the Alend Monarch would have hesitated to twist a few screams out of any Mordant or Cadwal. And the barons of the Lieges still tended to be a bloodthirsty lot. But since his defeat at King Joyse’s hands, Margonal hadn’t failed to notice that his opponent was able to rule Mordant with considerable ease by winning loyalty rather than extorting it. Never a stupid man, the Alend Monarch had experimented with techniques of kingship other than those which hinged upon fear, violence, and pain, and had been pleased with the results. Even the barons were becoming easier to command.
That was one of the things Margonal had done which Prince Kragen believed in. He wanted to make more such experiments himself.
So despite the fact that he was angry and alarmed and full of doubt, he lowered his guard enough to offer Elega a piece of difficult honesty.
“I said more than I meant. The Imager affronted you, my lady. I do not like it when you are affronted.”
His explanation seemed to give her what she needed. Slowly, her expression cleared; moisture softened her gaze until it looked like a promise. “I should not be so easily offended,” she replied. “Surely it is obvious that anyone who still trusts my father will be unable to trust me.” Then, as if she were trying to match his candor, she added, “Yet I thank you for your anger, my lord Prince. It is a comfort that you consider me worth defending.”
For a moment, Prince Kragen studied her, measuring his hunger for her against the exigencies of the situation. Then he bowed and turned away.
The wind seemed to be getting colder. Spring had come early – therefore it was possible that winter would return. That, the Prince thought bitterly, would be just what he and his army needed: to be encamped and paralyzed by winter outside Orison like curs outside a village, cold and hungry, and helpless to do anything except hope for table scraps. Yes, that would be perfect.
But he kept his bile to himself. To his captain of catapults, he said briskly, as if he were sure of what he was doing, “We will heed the Imager’s warning, I think. Withdraw all who are unnecessary, and prepare the rest to retreat. Then resume the attack.”
The captain saluted, began to issue orders. Men obeyed with nervous alacrity, artificially quick to demonstrate that they weren’t concerned. Taking Elega with him, Prince Kragen walked in the direction of his father’s tents until he had put nearly a hundred yards between himself and the catapult. There he turned to watch.
He didn’t have to wait long for Master Quillon’s threat to be carried out. The mediator of the Congery must have given the signal almost as soon as he entered the courtyard of the castle. Moments after the Prince began to study Orison’s heavy gray profile for some hint of what was coming, he saw a brown shape as imprecise as a puff of smoke lift off the ramparts of the northwest wall.
It looked like it would dissipate like smoke; yet it held together. It looked like it was no bigger than a large dog, no more than twice the size of a buzzard; yet the way it rose seething and shifting into the sky made it seem as dangerous as a thunderbolt. A bit of brown smoke—Like nearly ten thousand other men and virtually all his army’s adherents, Prince Kragen craned his neck and squinted his eyes to trace the shape’s movement against the dull background of the clouds.
So high that it was almost certainly beyond arrow range, even for the iron-trussed crossbows some of the Alends carried, the brown shape sailed out toward the catapult and over it and away again, back in the direction of the castle. The Prince thought he heard a faint, thin cry, like the wail of a seabird.
And from out of the smoke as it passed overhead came plummeting a rock as big as the one which the catapult had pitched at Orison.
Powerful with the force of its fall, the rock struck the catapult and shattered the wood as easily as if the engine had been built of kindling. Splinters and bolts burst loose on all sides; chunks of timber arced away from the impact and hit the ground like rubble. Two of the men fleeing from the catapult went down, one with a ragged stave driven through his leg, the other with his skull crushed b
y a bit of the engine’s iron. The rest were luckier.
The vague brown shape had already dropped out of sight beyond the parapets of the castle.
A shout went up from the army – anger and fear demanding an outlet, calling for blood. But Prince Kragen stood still, his face impassive, as if he had never been surprised in his life. Only the white lines of his mouth hidden under his moustache betrayed what he felt.
“My lady,” he said to Elega in a tone of grim nonchalance, “you have lived for years in the proximity of Imagers. Surely Orison has always been full of rumors concerning the Congery. Have you ever heard of or seen such a thing before?”
She shook her head dumbly and studied the wreckage of the catapult as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“It is possible,” he muttered for her ears alone, “that during King Joyse’s peace we have forgotten too much of the abomination of Imagery. Clearly the Masters have not been inactive under his rule.
“My lady” – he closed his eyes just for a moment and allowed himself to be appalled – “the Congery must not fall into the hands of High King Festten.”
Then the Prince took command of himself again and left her. First he ordered the captain of catapults to bring forward another siege engine and try again, taking whatever precautions were necessary to protect the men. After that, he went to talk to his father.
The Alend Monarch’s tents were sumptuous by his standards. Margonal liked to travel in comfort. Also he knew that upon occasion a grand public display was good for morale. Nevertheless High King Festten would have considered the Monarch’s quarters a hovel. Alend lacked the seaports and hence the trade of Cadwal. Compared to Festten, Margonal was no wealthier than one of his Lieges. If Mordant hadn’t lain between Cadwal and Alend – and if the Cares of Mordant hadn’t been so contentious, so difficult to rule – a quality which made them an effective buffer – the High King and the forces which his wealth could procure would long since have swallowed up his ancient enemy.
Prince Kragen was conscious of this, not because he was jealous of the High King’s riches, but because he felt acutely vulnerable to Cadwal, as he pushed the canvas door-flap aside and was admitted to his father’s presence. He could feel Alend’s peril in the cold wind that curled about his neck like a garrote.
The Alend Monarch sat in the fore-tent where he held councils and consultations. The Prince could see him well enough: braziers intended for warmth gave off a flickering illumination that danced among the tentpoles and around the meeting chairs. But there was no other light. The seams of the tent were sealed with flaps, and Margonal didn’t permit lamps or torches or even candles in his presence. Privately, Prince Kragen considered this arbitrary prohibition a vestige of the tyranny to which his father had formerly been accustomed. Nevertheless he accepted it without question. As anyone who looked on the Alend Monarch’s face in good light could see, Margonal was stone blind.
It was unimaginable that any vision could penetrate the white film which covered his eyes like curtains.
Obviously, his battles with King Joyse hadn’t been his only losses in life. And it had been when he had begun to lose his sight that he had first started to search for surer ways to rule, safer means of preserving the kingship for himself and his successor. As he had repeated until everyone near him was sick of it, “Loss teaches many things.” Again privately, however – and without any disrespect – Prince Kragen dropped loss and substituted fear. A man who couldn’t see his enemies couldn’t strike at them. For that reason, he had to find new ways to protect himself. Kragen understood his father’s fear and honored it. A lesser man than Margonal would have retreated into terror and violence.
Old and no longer strong, the Alend Monarch sprawled in the most comfortable of the meeting chairs and turned his head toward the sound of his son’s entrance. Because he was punctilious, he didn’t speak until the Alend Contender had been announced, and had greeted him in the formal manner prescribed by custom. Then he sighed as if he were especially tired. “Well, my son. My guards have already been here, whispering lurid reports which they were unable to explain. Perhaps you will tell me something comprehensible.”
“My lord,” Prince Kragen replied, “I fear I can only increase the range of your incomprehension.” Succinctly, he described Master Quillon’s visit and the destruction of the catapult. When he was done, he told his father what he was thinking.
“The Imager’s actions were strange, unquestionably. But to my mind the great mystery is that King Joyse behaves as if he had not made himself weak – as if we were nothing more than an annoyance to a sovereign in an invulnerable position. And he is able to command men such as Castellan Lebbick and Master Quillon to preserve that illusion.
“Yet we know it is an illusion. Cadwal marches against him. He has a hole in his wall, few men to defend it, and no water for them to drink. Despite his control over the Congery, the Imagers who serve his enemies are more powerful. They are able to strike him at will anywhere in Mordant or Orison, passing through flat glass as if they were immune to madness. In addition, there are Masters on the Congery who would abandon his cause if they could. Men such as Eremis may be loyal to Mordant, but they are no longer committed to their King.
“His lords will not help him. The Armigite is a coward. The Termigan values nothing but his own affairs. And the Perdon resists Cadwal, not for King Joyse, but for his own survival. Of the Cares, only Domne, Tor, and Fayle are truly loyal. Yet the Domne does not fight. The Tor is old, sodden with wine – and here, where he is unable to muster his people. And the Fayle cannot come to Orison’s aid because we stand in his way.
“And still King Joyse treats us as if we lack the means to harm him.”
The more he thought about it, the more unsure the Prince became. For a moment, he chewed on his moustache while his doubts chewed on him. Then he concluded, “In truth, my lord, I cannot decide in my own mind whether his audacity constitutes raving or deep policy.”
Again, the Alend Monarch sighed. With apparent irrelevance, he murmured, “I suffered an uncomfortable night. The loss of sight has sharpened my powers of recollection. Instead of sleeping, I saw every trick and subterfuge he has ever practiced against me. I felt every blow of our battles. Such memories would curdle the blood of a young sovereign with his eyes clear in his head. For me, they are fatal.”
Facing his son as if he could see, Margonal asked in a husky voice, “Can you think of anything – anything at all – that a king such as Joyse might gain by feigning weakness – by allowing Imagers to bring atrocities down on the heads of his people – by permitting us to invest him when his defenses are so poor?”
“No.” Prince Kragen shook his head for his own benefit. “It is madness. It must be madness.”
“And the lady Elega? She is his daughter. Her knowledge of him is greater than yours – greater even than mine. Can she think of anything that he might gain?”
Again, the Prince said, “No.” He trusted her, didn’t he? He believed what she believed about her father, didn’t he?
Abruptly, the Alend Monarch raised his voice. “Then he is a madman, a madman. He must be rooted out of his stronghold and made to pay for this. Do you hear me? It is insufferable!”
As if he didn’t know what they were doing, his fists began to beat on the arms of his chair.
“I understand his desire to take Mordant from us and rule it as his own. He was able to do it – therefore he did it. Who would not? And I understand his desire to gather all the resources of Imagery for himself. Again he was able to do it – therefore he did it. Who would not? And perhaps I understand also his restraint when he had created the Congery, his refusal to use his power for conquest. That is not what Festten would have done. It is not what I would have done. But perhaps in that he was saner than we.
“But this—! To create all he has created, and then abandon it to destruction!” Now the Alend Monarch was shouting. “To forge such a weapon as the Congery, and then make himself vul
nerable to attack, neglect responsibility, turn his back on those who serve and trust him, so that his enemies have no choice but to attempt to wrest his weapon from him for their own survival!” Margonal half rose from his seat, as if he intended to go to demand sense from King Joyse in person. “I say it is insufferable! It must not continue!”
As quickly as it had come up, however, his passion subsided. Sinking back, he wiped his hands across his face.
“My son,” he whispered hoarsely, “when I received your message asking us to march, a chill went into my heart. I cannot warm it away. I know that man. He has beaten me too often. I fear that he has lured us here to destroy us – that his weakness is a pose to bring us and Cadwal within reach, so we can be crushed at his ease, instead of met in honest battle. You say this cannot be true. The lady Elega says it cannot be true. My own reason says it cannot be true – if only because in fifty years he has never shown any desire to crush us. And yet I fear it.
“He has witched me. We have come here to our doom.”
Prince Kragen stared at what his father was saying and tried not to shudder. Fear teaches many things, he thought. Have all the rest of us been blind? Why have we never believed that Joyse is malign? Softly, he answered, “My lord, say the word, and we will retreat. You are the Alend Monarch. And I trust your wisdom. We will—”
“No!” Margonal’s refusal sounded more like pain than anger or protest. “No,” he repeated almost at once, in a steadier tone. “He has witched me, I say. I am certain of only one thing – I cannot make decisions where he is concerned.
“No, my son, this siege is yours. You are the Alend Contender. I have given our doom into your hands.” A moment later, he added in warning, “If you choose retreat, be very certain that you can answer for your decision to the others who seek my Seat.”
Mutely, the Prince nodded. He had caught Margonal’s chill much earlier: long before this conversation, the cold of the wind had crept into his vitals. But the Alend Monarch had named his doubt for him – and the name seemed to make the doubt more palpable, more potent. We have come here to our doom. When his father asked, “What will you do?” he chewed his lip and replied, “I do not know.”
A Man Rides Through Page 2
