By stages Terisa couldn’t measure, the turmoil of men and horses seemed to resolve itself. More and more guards climbed onto their beasts. The Masters began to mount – except for those who intended to drive the wagons, or to ride on them to watch over the mirrors. The frost from the horses’ nostrils was gray now, as pearly as mist, lit by the dawn rather than by torches. Geraden nudged Terisa’s arm, indicated the horses; but she didn’t move until she saw the Tor emerge from one of the main doors and waddle toward his charger.
She mounted when he did.
Slowly, accompanied by his personal guard – the men who had come with him from his Care – as well as by Castellan Norge and Artagel, he rode to the gates so that when they were raised he would be the first to face the Alend army, the first to face the march. For some reason, his black cloak and hood – the mourning garb which he had worn to bring his son to Orison – made him appear smaller. Or maybe her horseback perspective deemphasized his bulk. He didn’t look large enough to take King Joyse’s place, imposing enough to threaten King Joyse’s enemies.
Yet when he lifted his voice he lifted her heart as well, like the remembered call of horns.
“It is a dangerous thing we do.” Somehow, the old lord made his words carry across the courtyard, made them echo around the face of Orison. “Barely six thousand of us go to meet Cadwal and vile Imagery on the ground they have chosen for battle. And we will have the Alend army at our backs – if I cannot persuade the Alend Monarch to see reason at last. An attempt may be made to take Orison in our absence. King Joyse is not with us, and the power against us is staggering.
“It is a dangerous thing we do.
“But it is the best we can.
“The Congery rides with us. We have powers which our enemies cannot suspect. Artagel will preserve Orison for us – and High King Festten is weaker than he knows, helpless to supply his forces by any means which cannot be cut off. King Joyse has planned and labored for years to reach this moment. It will not fail.
“It is a dangerous and desirable thing we do. I am proud to take part in it.”
The Tor signaled with one hand. At once, the castle’s trumpeter blew a fanfare which echoed against the walls, rang into the sky. Groaning, the great winches began to crank the gate open.
While the gate went up, the Tor pulled his charger around to face the opening and the future as if he had never been afraid in his life.
Artagel withdrew. Castellan Norge called the guard to order.
When the gate was up, the trumpeter sounded another fanfare.
With the Congery and six thousand men behind him, the Tor rode out of Orison.
FORTY-FIVE: THE ALEND MONARCH’S GAMBLE
Out in the dawn, the Alend army waited.
Prince Kragen had withdrawn all his forces – his patrols and scouts, his siege engines, his battering rams – to the great circle of his encampment. Beyond the gates, none of his men came closer than the tree-lined roads from Tor and Perdon and Armigite. But his foot soldiers stood ready, holding their weapons. His mounted troops were on their horses. Past the intervening guards, past the Tor and Norge, Terisa could see the Alend strength among the trees like a black wall wrapped around the castle.
One of the riders who held the roads was a standard-bearer with the Alend Monarch’s green-and-red pennon.
A cold wind came up out of the south, out of Tor, making the pennon flutter and snap like a challenge.
The standard-bearer held no flag of truce.
As always, however, Prince Kragen’s men avoided the intersection where the roads came together. This created a gap in the Alend line, as if Kragen intended to let Orison’s guard through.
The Tor spoke to Norge; Norge muttered a command Terisa didn’t hear. At the head of the guard, King Joyse’s plain purple insignia was raised.
Maybe Prince Kragen would think the King had returned.
Maybe he would reconsider.
Terisa gripped her reins with icy hands and prepared to nudge her nag into motion. Geraden held his head up as though he were waiting for sunrise. Ribuld scratched at his scar as if it itched in the chill, an old wound remembering pain.
Snorting steam, shaking their heads, rattling their tack, crunching the crusted mud, the horses began to follow the Tor and Castellan Norge.
Artagel still had his back to the Alends. By holding his mount stationary, he sifted through the vanguard until he was directly in front of Terisa and Geraden – until he came between them, forcing them to stop. As she had feared, he was wearing Lebbick’s old, bloody mail over his shirt and leggings, Lebbick’s purple sash and headband. The sword belted to his hip looked so dark and grim that it must have belonged to the dead Castellan.
When he was dressed like that, she was afraid of what he might do.
At the moment, however, he didn’t do anything fearful. He clasped his brother’s shoulder; without quite managing to smile, he said, “Take care of yourself. Take care of her. Rescue Nyle. This family has already suffered enough.”
Geraden replied with a grin that looked like it belonged to Artagel.
Artagel turned to Terisa. Striving to appear ready and whole – perhaps for her benefit, perhaps for his own – he said stiffly, “Don’t make a liar out of me now, my lady.”
“A liar—she repeated as if the cold numbed her mouth. She had no idea what he was talking about.
“I’ve told half the men and women in Orison you can shift Eremis’ mirrors so they won’t translate here.” He watched her, studied her, like a man who didn’t want to get caught pleading. “The Tor is heading straight for the place where the Perdon and his men were attacked.”
Terisa thought her heart was going to stop.
The mirror which had brought those ravening black spots down on the Perdon and his men out of nowhere—Shapes no bigger than puppies, and yet as fatal as wolves—
She had forgotten it. Forgotten, forgotten.
Geraden winced. “Terisa—” he started to say. “Terisa—”
“Stop him,” she said, gasping gouts of steam. “Stop him. I need time to think.”
Instantly, Artagel wheeled his mount and plunged through the press of horses, chasing after the Tor.
—gnarled, round shapes with four limbs outstretched like grappling hooks and terrible jaws that occupied more than half the body—
The idea shocked her to the marrow, revolted her. The same creatures had attacked her and Geraden outside Sternwall – but that was different; then they had attacked completely by surprise, without time for panic or nausea. This time—The Tor and Castellan Norge were effectively defenseless. If they met Prince Kragen in the intersection, all the leaders of the armies could be struck at once. How had she forgotten?
Artagel had told everyone that she could shift Eremis’ mirrors.
Outside the gates, Artagel caught up with the Tor and Norge, spoke to them urgently. Master Barsonage brought his horse up between Terisa and Geraden. “What is amiss?” he asked. “I was unable to hear.”
Geraden overrode the mediator. “Why hasn’t he used it already? If he still has that mirror set up – if it’s ready – why hasn’t he used it before this? He could bring anything through. Even if he didn’t hurt us, he could cripple the Alends, maybe even kill Prince Kragen – or the Alend Monarch.”
“Because he didn’t need it then.” Terisa wasn’t thinking about what she said; the words seemed to come out by themselves, reasoned into clarity by a separate part of her mind. “He needed time to set his traps, time to spring them. He needed time to get Festten’s army in position, time to get rid of the Perdon, time to make all his mirrors.” The rest of her brain blundered helplessly around the edges of the promise Artagel had made in her name. “But we let him do all that safely. Prince Kragen held off – he held off from trying to take Orison. Nobody interfered with what Eremis was doing. So he didn’t need to use this mirror. He could afford to leave Alend alone.”