Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  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.’