Master Barsonage followed them quickly. The bristling of his eyebrows and the frown of his concentration gave him a look of unfamiliar certainty.
Behind them, Havelock picked up his feather duster and went back to cleaning his already immaculate mirrors. The particular glass he chose to work on now happened to show the Image in which he had found the flying brown cloud that he had used against Prince Kragen’s catapults.
Like Castellan Lebbick, he had been abandoned.
He didn’t seem to be aware that he was weeping like a child.
Terisa, Geraden, and Master Barsonage heard weeping, especially in the lower levels of the castle, where most of Orison’s newer occupants had been crowded: small children; frightened women; helpless oldsters and invalids. They heard shouts of alarm and fear, cries of protest and distrust. They heard blows. Once they saw several guards raise the butts of their pikes to strike at men who wanted to break out of a closed corridor. The men cursed and pleaded as they were forced back; the rumor of Gart’s attack had reached them, and they wanted to clear a path for their families out of Orison before Cadwal’s army arrived from nowhere to butcher them all.
But there was no sign of a riot.
Instead of rioting, the castle was full of guards. They were everywhere, blocking the movement of people and panic, controlling access to crucial passages or stairs or doors, facing down farmers and merchants and servants and stonemasons who wanted to attack or flee with their loved ones because Orison had been penetrated.
“Who is in command?” Master Barsonage demanded of the guards. “Where is King Joyse?”
The answer was, Pissed if I know. Or the equivalent.
“Where did you get your orders?” asked Geraden.
That was easier. Norge. Castellan Lebbick’s second.
For the moment, the fact that Norge was actually only one of the Castellan’s seconds-in-command seemed unimportant. The point was that power still existed in Orison. It was being held together by someone from whom the guards were willing to take orders. Someone with enough credibility to be obeyed during an emergency.
Norge himself? What gave him precedence over the other captains? Who gave him precedence?
A Master of the Congery? Impossible. Never in the mediator’s absence.
One of King Joyse’s counselors? One of Orison’s lords? Unlikely.
Prince Kragen himself? Inconceivable.
Artagel?
Was the situation so bad that no one could be found to take charge except Geraden’s independent-minded and slightly crippled brother?
Terisa wanted to run. She would have run if Geraden hadn’t held her back.
As she and her companions left the castle’s lower levels, however, Orison’s mood improved. Here the halls were under better control; less frightened by the possibility of an attack by Imagery. Soon a guard appeared who saluted the mediator. “Master Barsonage,” he panted. Apparently, he had come running from the Imager’s quarters. “Geraden. The lady Terisa?” He knew enough about the day’s events to be surprised. “You’re wanted in the King’s rooms.”
The King’s rooms? Terisa and Geraden and Master Barsonage stopped in their tracks.
“The audience hall is no longer safe,” explained the guard.
“Who wants us?” demanded Barsonage instantly.
Breathing hard, the guard replied, “My lord Tor. He says he’s taken command. In the King’s absence. He and Norge. Norge is the new Castellan.”
The Tor. Terisa felt a surge of energy. Bless that old man!
“What about Prince Kragen?” she asked.
The guard hesitated as if he were unsure of how much he should say. After a moment, however, he answered, “It’s just a rumor. I was told my lord Tor offered him an alliance.”
Geraden let out a fierce cheer.
Together, he and Terisa started into a run.
Master Barsonage took time to pursue the question. “What was the Prince’s reply?”
The guard said, “I don’t know.”
Barsonage did his best to catch up with Terisa and Geraden.
In the King’s tower, more guards joined them, escorted them upward. Guards swept the King’s doors open; Terisa, Geraden, and the mediator went in. For the sake of dignity – not to mention caution – they slowed their pace as they entered.
The King’s formal apartment was just the way she remembered it – richly appointed, paneled blond, carpeted in blue and red. She hardly noticed the furnishings, however. Although there were only eight or ten men – most of them captains – in the room, it seemed crowded; too full of anxiety and passion, conflict.
Before the door closed, she heard Prince Kragen’s voice blare like a trumpet, “I will not do it!”
Her chest tightened. She found suddenly that she was breathing harder than she had realized. The Prince’s shout seemed to throb around her, and the hope she had felt at the idea of an alliance began to curdle.
On one side of Prince Kragen stood Artagel, close enough to react to what the Prince did, far enough away to dissociate himself from the Alend Contender. On the other side was a captain Terisa didn’t know. Norge?
All three of them had their backs to the doors. Each in his separate way, they confronted the chair where King Joyse used to sit when he played hop-board.
There sat the Tor, slumping over his great belly as if he were barely able to keep himself from oozing out of the position he had assumed.
“The alternatives you propose,” the old lord was saying as if he were in a kind of pain which had nothing to do with Prince Kragen, “are intolerable.” He had a hand over his face. “I will not permit you to occupy Orison, making us little more than a hostage population. I do not call that an alliance.”
“And I do not call it an alliance to wait outside in danger while you sit here in safety,” retorted the Prince hotly.” If – no, when High King Festten marches against us – we will be helpless while you remain secure, watching the outcome. We must be allowed to enter Orison. I will not remain where I am, waiting for King Joyse to return – if he ever does return – and tell me his pleasure – if his pleasure involves anything more productive than a game of hop-board.”
The Tor didn’t look strong enough to raise his head. “I understand your dilemma, my lord Prince. Of course I do. But you cannot believe that Orison’s people – or Orison’s defenders – will sit quietly on their hams while Alend takes power over them. I have already said that I will open the gates to you if you—”
“No!” Prince Kragen barked. “Do you take me for a fool? I have no intention of making Orison’s people hostage. I will grant them precisely as much freedom and respect as the necessary crowding of so many bodies permits. But I will not submit my forces to your authority.”
Orison’s captains muttered restively. Some of them were viscerally incensed at the idea of an alliance with Alend. And some of them had noticed Geraden and Master Barsonage – had noticed Terisa—
“My lords!” Geraden cut in sharply. His voice carried potential authority across the room; and a thrill prickled suddenly down Terisa’s back. “There’s no need to argue about waiting. We’re done waiting. It’s time to march!”
The Tor snatched his hand down from his face, peered bleary pain and desire at Terisa and Geraden. Artagel wheeled with joy already catching fire across his features. Norge turned more cautiously; but Prince Kragen spun like Artagel, his swarthy face congested with conflicting needs.
“Terisa! My lady!” Artagel crowed. “Geraden! By the stars, you did it!” As if he had never been injured in his life, he caught Geraden in an exuberant bearhug, lifted him off his feet, then dropped him to snatch up Terisa’s hand and kiss it hugely. “Every time I see you, you’re even more wonderful!”