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.’
‘How so?’ Myste’s tone conveyed a suggestion of alarm.
Remembering the reservoir, Elega drawled, ‘She has learned to make the same mistakes he does.’
Again, Myste nodded; she clearly didn’t understand what Elega meant – and didn’t want to pursue it. She thought for a moment, then asked slowly, as if she wanted better words, ‘Elega, why are you here? If our father still rules in Orison, how have you come to take the part of his enemies?’
There it was: the place where all their common ground fell away, the point on which they would never comprehend each other. If the truth hit Myste too hard, Elega might be forced to summon guards and have her sister delivered to Prince Kragen.
Nevertheless she was faithful to the risk she’d chosen. Dryly, she replied, ‘That is the wrong question, Myste. You should ask why the Prince and his forces are here. My reasons hinge on theirs.’
Myste studied her intently. ‘I suspected as much. That is why I feared for Father. I thought the Alends might have come because he was dead. But I had no wish to offend you by leaping to erroneous conclusions.
‘When I left Orison, Prince Kragen had been insulted in the hall of audiences. Yet the fact that he remained made me think that he had not given up hope for peace.
‘Why is he here, attempting to pull the King from his Seat?’
‘Because,’ Elega answered, bracing herself for Myste’s reaction, ‘I persuaded him to do it.’
In a sense, Myste didn’t react at all; she simply went still, like an animal in hiding. The change was so unlike her, however, that it seemed as vehement as a shout. Where had she learned so much self-possession – and so much caution?
‘I made his acquaintance after his audience with the King.’ Elega struggled to keep a defensive tone out of her voice. ‘He taught me to believe him when he said that Margonal’s desire for peace was sincere. Yet Alend faced a dilemma he must resolve. Cadwal has no desire for peace – and the King’s strength had become plainly inadequate to keep the Congery out of Festten’s hands. Alend must take some action, so that the High King would not gain all Imagery for himself.
‘First I required of the Prince some indication of his good faith. He replied with the promise that if Orison fell to him he would make the Perdon King of Mordant – that Alend would keep nothing for itself if the Congery was made safe from Cadwal.
‘Then I persuaded him that a siege was his best hope.’
‘But, Elega,’ Myste protested, ‘that is untrue. Father is the only man who has ever taken Orison by storm. A siege may well last for seasons. And High King Festten surely will not allow seasons to pass before he comes to prevent the Alend Monarch from claiming the Congery.’
‘It is true,’ insisted Elega. Honesty, however, forced her to admit, ‘Or it was. Two things made it so. First, the curtain-wall is fragile at best – and no one could have foreseen that one of the Masters would conceive a way to defend it.
‘And second—’
Involuntarily, she wavered. This lay at the heart of her ache for action, her desire to see the siege succeed. It was her doing: she had convinced Kragen to attempt it.
If he held her to blame for her failure, he gave no sign of it. Perhaps he had accepted the hazards of what he did, and felt no recrimination. Or perhaps he found a new hope in the reasons for his present inaction. In either case, she blamed herself enough for both of them. Sure of herself, determined to save her world, she had taken Mordant’s fate in her own hands.
And she had dropped it.
‘Second?’ Myste prompted.
‘Second,’ said Elega, more harshly than she intended, ‘I promised to deliver Orison to him with little or no bloodshed.’
Myste sat completely still; not a muscle in her face shifted. Yet her eyes seemed to burn with outrage.
‘How?’
Elega’s knuckles tightened on her goblet. ‘By poisoning the reservoir. Not fatally. But enough to indispose the defense until the castle could be taken.’
Without a flicker of expression, almost without moving her mouth, Myste said, ‘That should have sufficed. What went wrong?’
Deliberately, Elega permitted herself an obscenity which she knew Myste particularly disliked. Then she said, ‘Geraden and Terisa caught me. They were unable to stop me – or indeed capture me. But they warned the Castellan. No one was indisposed because no one drank the water. The defense holds – and I was forced to flee.’
Unable to contain her self-disgust, she concluded, ‘Does that answer your questions? Can you make your decisions wisely now?’
Gradually, Myste let herself move. Her gaze left Elega’s face; she lifted her goblet and drained it. Automatically, far away in her thoughts, she poured more wine and drank again.
‘Ah, Elega. How terrible that must be for you – to attempt the betrayal of your own home and family, and to fail.’
‘It is worse,’ retorted Elega fiercely, ‘to do nothing – to let every good thing in the world go to ruin because the man who created it cannot be bothered to defend it.’
Still slowly, still peering into the distance, Myste nodded. ‘Perhaps. That is one of the decisions I must make.
‘Please tell me. Why does the Prince “do nothing”? Since the first day of the siege, he has taken no action I can see. To all appearances, he is simply waiting for High King Festten to come and destroy him.’
Abruptly, as if a stunned part of her mind had just been kicked, Elega realized that Prince Kragen was overdue. Usually, he finished discussing the day with his father and came to her tent before this.
If he caught Myste here, he would have no real choice but to make her a prisoner. Her potential value as King Joyse’s daughter was too great to be ignored. But Myste was also Elega’s sister – and Elega wasn’t sure yet what her own decision would be. The only thing she was sure of was that Myste wouldn’t reveal any of her secrets as Prince Kragen’s prisoner.
Muttering, ‘Wait here,’ Elega jumped up and hurried past the curtains into the back of the tent.
There she roused the Alend girl who served as her maid. ‘Hurry, child,’ she hissed. ‘Find the Prince. He may still be with his father, or on his way here. Beg him to forgive me. Tell him I feel unwell. Tell him I am half blind with headache – but it will pass if I am allowed to sleep.
‘Go quickly.’
She hustled the girl out into the night, paused to quiet the hammering of her heart, then returned to Myste.
Myste looked at her inquiringly. Elega explained what she had done – and was more relieved than she considered reasonable when she saw that Myste believed her. So Myste’s new caution, her distrust, had its limits. Despite the things Elega had already done, Myste didn’t expect her sister to betray her.
In the back of her mind, Elega began to wonder whose side she herself was on.
She sat down again, poured more wine. Myste was still waiting for an explanation of Prince Kragen’s inaction. Elega took a deep breath because for the first time what she was about to say might be interpreted as evidence of disloyalty. Then she asked, ‘Do you remember the day we first met Terisa? The day the Perdon came storming into Orison, demanding help, and King Joyse refused him?’
‘Yes.’ Once again, Myste’s sober gaze was fixed on Elega’s face.
‘I think I told you about it.’ Elega remembered the Perdon’s rage vividly. You tell him this, my lady, he had roared at her. Every man of mine who falls or dies defending him in his blind inaction, I will send here. ‘Well, he is doing what he said he would. In small groups and squadrons, injured or dead men and their families arrive almost daily from the Care of Perdon, sent to the purported safety of Orison – and as a reproach to King Joyse.
‘They are Alend prisoners now – although it would be more just to say that they are under the care of the army’s physicians, and not permitted to leave. Being hurt, exhausted, or bereaved, few of them have the will to refuse when they are questioned.’
Myste watched Elega’s face and said nothing.
‘From them,’ Elega sighed, ‘we have learned that the High King’s army is not coming here.’
At that, Myste’s eyes widened. ‘Not?’ she whispered as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Not?’
Elega nodded. ‘Not directly, in any case. That much is certain. Festten’s forces move with what speed they can manage through the hills of Perdon – through the Perdon’s resistance. But all recent reports agree that the High King’s movement brings him no nearer Orison.
‘That is why Prince Kragen believes he can afford to wait.’
At last, Myste sounded like her self-control might slip. ‘Then where is High King Festten going?’
‘South and west,’ Elega answered. ‘Into the Care of Tor.
‘The Perdon’s survivors say that the Cadwal army moves along the best route it can find toward Marshalt, the Tor’s seat.’
‘But why?’ demanded Myste. ‘Why go there? The Congery is here.’
Elega had no idea. ‘I have heard it rumored,’ she said for the sake of hearing how Myste would reply, ‘that the Castellan considers the Tor a traitor.’
Myste’s head twitched. ‘The Tor? Nonsense.’ She thought for a moment, then continued, ‘And if he is a traitor, that would be even less reason for High King Festten to invade Tor. It makes no sense.
‘What is the Perdon doing?’
To preserve her composure, Elega put on a hard front. ‘Apparently, he is more dedicated to Mordant’s service than his King deserves.’ The truth was that every thought of the Perdon made her chest ache – made her want to scream because there was nothing she could do. ‘Festten appears uninterested in Orison. But rather than taking this opportunity to flee – perhaps here, perhaps toward a dubious alliance with the Armigite, or a stronger one with the Fayle – the Perdon shifts his forces so that they are always in Cadwal’s way. He began with scarcely three thousand men against at least twenty thousand. If the reports are true, he has less than two thousand now, and every day he is whittled down. And yet he continues fighting. He spends every life in his command merely to hinder Festten’s approach to whatever it is the High King wants.
‘Clearly, he is engaged in a personal struggle against Cadwal. If King Joyse had not abandoned him long ago, he would have saved himself – and aided Orison – by coming here.
‘Does that answer your questions?’
While Elega spoke, Myste’s expression changed. Her gaze turned toward Orison; her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Father,’ she murmured thickly. ‘How have you been brought to this? How do you bear it?’
Elega’s urge to scream intensified. ‘If it does,’ she snapped, ‘perhaps you will consent to answer mine. I have told you enough to get myself beheaded if I were not in the Prince’s favor. I would like some return for my risk.’
‘Yes.’ Suddenly, Myste rose to her feet, facing through the wall of the tent toward Orison as though Elega weren’t present. ‘I can make my decisions now. Thank you.
‘I must go.’
Without a glance at her sister, she started toward the tentflap.
For an instant, Elega was stuck, caught between contradictory reactions. She was full of outrage; she wanted to make scathing demands which would rip Myste’s reticence aside. At the same time, the thought that her sister was about to leave her – without trusting her, without trusting her – went into her heart like a spike.
She was about to shout for a soldier when a new thought flashed through her like a bolt of illumination.
Before her sister reached the tentflap, she said, ‘Father sent me a message, Myste.’
Myste stopped immediately; she turned, came back toward Elega. As if involuntarily, she asked, ‘What was it?’
Too absorbed in Myste’s importance to be self-conscious, Elega answered, ‘Castellan Lebbick brought it. According to him, father said, “I am sure that my daughter Elega has acted for the best reasons. She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. For her sake, as well as for my own, I hope that the best reasons will also produce the best results.”’
Unexpectedly, Myste closed her eyes. Tears spread under her lashes and down her cheeks, but for a long moment she didn’t move or speak. Then she looked radiantly at her sister, smiling like a new day.
‘Of course,’ she breathed. ‘Why did I not see it for myself?’
At once, she returned to her chair. Smiling so beautifully that she wrung Elega’s heart, she said, ‘Very well. Ask me something specific.’
Elega gaped at her – gaped like a fish until Myste started laughing.
Elega couldn’t help herself; she was suddenly so full of joy and relief and confusion that she laughed herself.
After a while, Myste subsided. ‘Ah, Elega, we have not done that together since we were girls.’
Mocking her own dignity, Elega replied primly, ‘Do not be arrogant, child. You are hardly old enough yet to be called a woman.’
Myste chuckled happily. For a moment, the only thing that prevented her from looking like the Myste Elega remembered – romantic and dear, vaguely foolish, not to be taken seriously – was the scar on her cheek.
But that scar changed everything. It made the new Myste impossible to ignore or forget. She inspired a rush of confusion in Elega.
‘Myste, where were you? Where did you go? Why did you go? And those clothes. What have you been doing all this time?’
‘Elega,’ Myste protested humorously, ‘I said, “Ask me something specific.” ’ But then she sighed, and slowly the laughter faded from her face. ‘Well, I will tell you.’ Her expression became one Elega didn’t know how to interpret: sober and contemplative; a little sad; a little excited. ‘If you do not take it well, however, there will be trouble for us all.
‘I left Orison to search for the Congery’s champion.’
Elega was so surprised that she cried, ‘You did what?’ before she could catch herself.
The Myste Elega used to know would have flinched or blushed; she might have hung her head or sounded defensive. The new Myste did none of these things. She only raised her head slightly, squared her jaw a bit, and repeated, ‘I left Orison to search for the Congery’s champion.’
A moment later, she added, ‘Terisa helped me.’
Take it well. Elega didn’t want to make a fo
ol of herself, so she stared at her sister and said nothing.
‘I went from her rooms through the secret passages down to the breach he made in the wall. It was not very well guarded then, so I was able to escape without being seen. From there, I followed his trail in the snow.’
Elega stared, waiting for Myste to say or do something that made sense.
‘Eventually,’ Myste continued, ‘I caught up with him. He was hurt, not able to move quickly. In fact, he was down in the snow, bleeding his life into his armor.
‘I startled him – he thought he was being attacked again.’ Myste’s tone remained mild and firm. ‘He fired at me.’ She touched her cheek. ‘Fortunately, he did little harm. Then he saw that I was a woman, and dropped his weapon. I was able to approach him.’
Elega forced herself to blink her eyes, clear her throat, shake some of the astonishment out of her head. Carefully, she said, ‘Go back to the beginning. Tell me why.’
‘Why?’ Myste’s gaze drifted into the distance. ‘Why not? There were so many reasons. There was Father’s strange decline, his impulse of destruction – and our helplessness, which I enjoyed no more than you did. There was Terisa, who faced a world she did not know or understand with more courage and resourcefulness than I could find in myself. And there was the dishonesty of the Congery’s action.’
‘“Dishonesty”?’ objected Elega. ‘The Masters were trying to defend Mordant. The translation of their champion was the only action they could have taken that might have aided us.’
‘No.’ Myste was certain. ‘I will not speak of the ethical question – whether it is ever permissible to impose an involuntary translation on any living thing. But the Masters were not honest with themselves. They claim that they translated their champion in response to Mordant’s need, trying to find the hope of their auguries – but how did they expect him to react to what they did? He was injured – he and all his men were embattled for their lives – and suddenly he found himself in another world.’ Her voice took on a hint of passion. ‘What could he think? Surely he could think nothing except that this change was yet another attack by his enemies.
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