“My lord Tor, we need Terisa with us.”
The Tor looked back and forth between Master Barsonage and Geraden, his eyes swollen and baleful as a pig’s. His face was crimson with stress.
Nevertheless he acquiesced.
Slowly, he slumped into a chair; his hands made weak gestures of dismissal. Terisa had to remind herself that she wasn’t his only – or even his primary – reason for appearing so defeated. “Leave me,” he muttered. “We march at full dawn. I must have a moment’s peace.”
She felt that somebody ought to stay with him. He seemed to be in need of comforting. He had suffered so long, and to so little purpose. From the day when he had arrived in Orison with his eldest son dead in his arms until now, he had been groping like a doomed man, struggling against his own heart and King Joyse’s machinations for some way to heal his grief. Surely there were things he needed more than “a moment’s peace.”
But Master Barsonage moved to leave, and Geraden put a hand on her arm, urging her toward the door. “Come on,” he breathed, “before he changes his mind.”
Dumbly, she accompanied Geraden and the mediator.
Outside, trying to articulate her own sorrow, she said, “Gart must have hurt him pretty badly. He doesn’t look like he can stay on his feet much longer.”
Away from the Tor, Geraden’s expression turned bleak, unconsoled. “That doesn’t matter. King Joyse hurt him worse than Gart did.” To Master Barsonage, he explained, “Artagel told us the Tor spent most of the time we were away blind drunk.”
The mediator nodded grimly.
“What’s holding him together,” Geraden continued, “is feeling needed. As long as he knows he’s necessary, he can stand being kicked. That’s why it hurts him so much when we argue with him – even when he’s wrong. He hasn’t got the strength or the resolution or the hope left to survive doubting himself.”
Terisa hugged Geraden’s hand where it held her arm; she was grateful that he understood.
Master Barsonage thought for a while as they descended from the King’s tower. Then, speaking wryly as if to distance himself from what he felt, he said, “I, on the other hand, have a passion for doubt. I cannot resist it. That is why I try to surround myself with so much solidity.” He made a mocking reference to his girth. “Is he right, do you think? Are you certain of what we do? Are we on the path King Joyse would have chosen for us, if he were here?”
“And if we are,” Geraden growled, at least partially serious, “did King Joyse know what he was doing? Did he ever know what he was doing? Do any of us have even the vaguest conception of the consequences of our actions?
“No, I’m sorry, Master Barsonage. I don’t have any wisdom for you. We’re doing the only thing that makes sense to me.”
Terisa nodded once, grimly.
The mediator sighed. “We must be content with that, I suppose.”
More quickly than the circumstances required, they moved downward. The air took on a sharper edge as they neared one of the main public exits to the courtyard. No question about it, Mordant was having a late freeze. Terisa’s breath began steaming well before she reached the high doorway. She could feel cold prickling along her scalp like an omen of some kind.
The halls of Orison had been nearly deserted; but there was nothing deserted about the courtyard. She could hear shouts and movement, hundreds – no, thousands – of boots hurrying in different directions. And from the doorway she saw a dark, torchlit seething of men and horses, as troubled in the early gloom as the contents of a witch’s cauldron, brewed for destruction and bloodshed. From the cavernous stables under Orison, horses by the score had been led into the courtyard and readied for mounting. And more torches lit the passage which led like a throat down to the stables; in the passage more horses crowded, with more behind them. Most of the mounts were already tended by the men who would ride them, the men whose lives might depend on them.
And around the inner walls of the castle, around Orison’s benighted inward face, the guards who would travel on foot were gathering in squads and platoons; ordinary individuals uprooted from their lives in order to endure a forced march for three days so that they could be hurled against an army which outnumbered them nearly four-to-one. And for what? Well, Terisa knew the answer to that. So that men like Master Eremis and High King Festten wouldn’t have their way with the innocent of Mordant. To say such things, however, she had to believe that what the Congery and the guard, what she and Geraden were doing might work.
Failure meant annihilation. For all these people.
Clutching her coat against the cold, she followed Master Barsonage and Geraden, with Ribuld behind her, across the ice-crusted mud among the horses to the place near Orison’s gates where the Congery assembled with its beasts and wagons.
The Masters nodded and muttered to the mediator. Some of them greeted Geraden with salutations or smiles which seemed sincere in the erratic light of the torches; others were too embarrassed by their old scorn for him to say anything; one or two of them made it clear that they still didn’t believe what they had heard about his demonstrations of power. They all, however, acknowledged Terisa with as much courtesy as the circumstances allowed. Then they went back to the job of securing their cargo in the wagons.
She counted nine large bundles as big as crates: the Congery’s mirrors. Each glass had been wrapped in blankets, then lashed into a protective wooden frame, then wrapped in more blankets and tied tightly before being bound to the side of the wagon. And the wagons themselves were unusuaclass="underline" a new bed had been built to fit on padded supports inside each of the original ones, so that over particularly rough terrain the new bed holding the mirrors could be lifted out and carried by men on foot.
Wiggling her toes against the cold that seeped into her boots, Terisa looked up at the sky.
It was gray with dawn, and cloudless, at once translucent and obscure, like a mirror on which cobwebs and dust had accumulated for years.
The march would begin soon.
Curse this freeze. Yesterday she was ready to set out on a moment’s notice. But today, in the cold—She wondered if anyone was ever truly ready.
More men. More horses. Shouts rang hoarsely off the walls: questions; commands; messages. The bazaar was crowded with guards and their mounts. Gart had attacked her there once; Prince Kragen had used the bazaar to cover his meetings with Nyle. Now, at least temporarily, the whole place was unfit for business. But of course it had probably been unfit for days, cut off by the siege from any way to replenish its wares.
Grooms led horses forward for Terisa and Geraden. She glared suspiciously at the colorless old nag assigned to her, a beast clearly too decrepit for any rider except one who didn’t know what she was doing. Geraden’s mount, in contrast, was a spirited gelding with an odd white spot like a target on either side of its barrel.
Seeing her expression, he asked teasingly, “Want to trade?”
“This thing’s almost dead already,” she snorted. “After what we’ve already been through, I think I could ride a firecat.”
Ribuld grinned around his scar.
But she didn’t want to trade. She had an instinctive sense that she was in danger of overestimating her abilities.
As full dawn approached, and the level of noise in the courtyard increased, lights began to show in the windows around Orison’s inner face – children dragging their parents out of bed to see what was happening; lords or ladies rousing themselves to witness events; wives and children and loved ones wanting some way to say goodbye to the guards.