When he was done with his particular responsibilities, he gave the best report he could on the state of the castle. So far, the Tor’s authority and Norge’s were being accepted without much resistance: eagerly by most of the guard, men who favored almost any change which promised action; and eagerly as well by the servants, for whom the departure of six thousand guards would mean that much less work; more stoically by Orison’s visiting population, people who felt King Joyse’s absence keenly in theory, but in practice found Artagel’s assurances persuasive; with ill grace and no little suspicion by many of King Joyse’s minor lords and functionaries – excise-tax assessors, for example, or storeroom accountants, or secretaries to the Home Ambassador – men whose entire existence depended on the King, on his style of kingship. And without any active opposition to the Tor or Norge, most of Orison’s social machinery continued to function. Meals were cooked, despite the chaos Ribuld had described. Halls were patrolled, guarding against unrest – and against attacks of Imagery. Duty rosters were maintained, the walls and gates manned.
In short, thanks to the Tor’s quick assumption of authority, and to Norge’s demonstrated acceptance, and to Artagel’s grinning support, Orison remained almost miraculously intact after King Joyse’s disappearance.
“Thank the stars,” Geraden breathed when Master Barsonage was done. “You’re right, Terisa. We’re luckier than we look.” Then his eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled tight over his teeth. “I wonder how many times Eremis has thought he could get away with laughing at the Tor. If he can see us now, he isn’t laughing anymore.”
“And he isn’t laughing at the Congery,” Terisa put in, partly to please Master Barsonage, and partly because the mediator had impressed her. “Or he won’t be, when he finds out what he’s up against.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Barsonage replied quietly. “We have been useless for a long time, while we distrusted both our King and ourselves. It is a pleasure to think that we will be effective at last.”
“If only Prince Kragen had listened to us,” Geraden mused.
“Or if he changes his mind—” added Terisa, remembering the strange conflict she had seen in the Prince’s face.
Master Barsonage looked back and forth between them. Geraden knotted his fists as if to control an irrational hope.
Terisa started to say something about Elega and Margonal, then stopped because she heard voices at the door.
Someone – Ribuld? – guffawed at an unexpected joke.
Without knocking, Artagel swung the door open and entered the room.
He was grinning; his eyes flashed steel fire. If there hadn’t been a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, or a slight pallor of old pain in his cheeks, or a barely discernible hitch in his stride, he would have looked ready and able to carry the whole castle on his shoulders into battle. He was primed for action, packed full of necessity by long days of recuperation, by emotional stresses he couldn’t relieve, by betrayals and self-doubt and grief. As soon as she saw him, Terisa knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to tackle an entire platoon of Gart’s Apts.
The mere sight of him did her good.
And it scared her. It reminded her that if eagerness went too far it could become a form of suicide.
For some reason, she noticed that the sunlight slanting in through her windows was tinged with red, approaching dusk.
Leaving the door for Ribuld to close, Artagel approached Geraden. Geraden surged upright, and Artagel clasped him in a hug which gave no sign of weakness or injury. Then Artagel came to Terisa and dropped to his knees, actually dropped to his knees, in order to capture both her hands and kiss them. Before she could protest or respond, however, he retreated to his feet again, glared at the empty wine decanter, humorously muttered a soldier’s obscenity, then dropped himself half-sprawling into the nearest chair.
“Mirrors preserve us,” he drawled in a joking tone. “Seeing you two makes me weak in the head. I don’t think I can do much more of this dance between hope and despair. First you’re gone forever. Then you show up – with Prince Kragen, may his skull ache for the rest of his life. Then he provokes a fight with King Joyse, and Gart appears, and the King disappears, and you’re abducted” – he indicated Terisa – “and you” – Geraden – “run off with the mediator. Then the Tor tries to make an alliance with Prince Kragen, and it looks like the only reason that isn’t going to work is because I hit him. And suddenly you both come back, and everything starts to go right, and I don’t care what that pig-brained Alend decides to do about it. I don’t even care where King Joyse is. I’m sure it’ll all make sense eventually.
“Incidentally, I haven’t exactly been cautious in the things I’ve said to keep people from worrying.” By worrying he obviously meant questioning Norge and the Tor. “What scares them most is the idea of translations into Orison. Terrible Imagery, monsters, fire, a few hundred thousand Cadwals – that kind of thing.” He faced Terisa frankly. “I’ve been telling everybody you can solve that problem. I’ve been saying you can shift Eremis’ mirrors so they won’t translate here. If that’s not true, you might want to keep it to yourself.”
Shift Eremis’ mirrors, Terisa thought while her stomach twisted. Oh, shit.
“Just tell me one thing.” Artagel hauled himself erect, nearly laughing. “What in the name of sanity is going on here?”
“I’ll be glad to explain it,” Geraden replied, grinning like his brother’s reflection. “All you have to do is shut up.”
With a gleam of joy, Artagel collapsed back into his sprawled posture.
At once, however, he jerked his spine straight, squared his shoulders. “No,” he said, and all the mirth fell out of him. His expression turned to sweat and pallor. “Tell me what happened at home. You said Houseldon was destroyed.”
Geraden made a warding gesture, warning his brother back from an explosion.
As if on summons, there was a knock at the door.
Ribuld pushed the door open, and two servingmen entered, carrying trays loaded with food and wine.
Artagel contained himself; but his eyes burned like fuses while the servingmen set out the food, poured the wine, handed around goblets. Master Barsonage accepted his goblet gratefully, emptied it in one long pull, and held it out to be refilled. Geraden and Artagel gripped their goblets without drinking, without looking anywhere except at each other.
Until one of the servingmen knelt to light a fire in the hearth, Terisa didn’t realize that the air was turning cooler.
“No lamps tonight,” Ribuld commented generally. “No oil. We used up what we had protecting the gates. There’s just enough left to keep King Joyse’s quarters and the public halls lit for a few more days. Don’t let your fire go out.”
Ushering the servingmen out of the room, he paused to add, “The Tor wants to talk to you. Before we march. The Castellan will send somebody to get you in the morning. Early.”
On that cheerful note, he closed the door.
At once, Master Barsonage articulated, “You said, ‘Houseldon is destroyed,’ ” speaking steadily so that Artagel wouldn’t have to shout. “ ‘Sternwall is falling. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls.’ Everyone who heard you wants an explanation, Geraden.”