“In that case” – Prince Kragen straightened his shoulders – “the Alend Monarch wishes to speak with you. He asks you to accept the hospitality of his tent, with Geraden, the lady Terisa, and Master Barsonage – and Castellan Norge, of course.”
Terisa and Geraden stared. Norge clenched his jaws as if he were stifling a yawn. The Tor’s eyes showed an undisguised gleam of hope. Nevertheless he didn’t ask what Margonal wanted to talk about. Instead, he inquired firmly, “What guarantee of safety does the Alend Monarch offer us? As his guests, we will be deeply honored – and completely vulnerable.”
Prince Kragen shrugged slightly. “My lord Tor, the Alend Monarch is a man of honor. He neither insults nor betrays his guests. On this occasion, however, he is prepared to match your vulnerability with his own. You may bring with you a hundred horsemen, who will be permitted to surround his tent. Surely no treachery on our part will succeed at killing a hundred men before they can threaten or kill the Alend Monarch himself.”
“A remarkable gesture,” Master Barsonage whispered to Terisa and Geraden. “The Alend Monarch is not notoriously complaisant about hazards to his person. Perhaps there is hope for an alliance yet.”
Terisa and Geraden didn’t reply. They were waiting to hear what the Tor would say.
“My lord Prince,” drawled the old lord as if nothing surprised him, “the Alend Monarch is unexpectedly considerate. I am prepared to rely on his honor entirely. I will accompany you at once, with Master Geraden and the lady Terisa of Morgan.”
The Tor held up his hand to forestall movement. “Castellan Norge will remain among his men – as will the mediator of the Congery. They will keep their strength ready to march at the earliest possible moment.”
Norge nodded amiably. Master Barsonage started to object, but subsided at once. The point of the Tor’s decision was obvious: if the old lord was betrayed, most of Orison’s fighting force would remain intact.
Prince Kragen permitted himself a bleak smile. “As you wish, my lord Tor.” With a look toward Terisa and Geraden, he asked, “Will you mount and join us?”
Trying not to hurry – trying not to look like people who desperately wanted an alliance – Terisa and Geraden found their horses, swung themselves up, and rode to the Tor’s side.
Without discernible anxiety, Castellan Norge withdrew his escort; he retreated a short distance down the road and immediately sorted his men into a defensive shield around the Congery and its wagons. At his orders, what remained of the mounted guard emerged from Orison, fanning out into a formation ready either to commence battle or to resume marching. Then Norge followed the men on foot, while Master Barsonage told the other Masters what had happened and prepared them for the possibility that they might have to defend themselves.
At the same time, Terisa and Geraden – with Ribuld trailing after them as if he thought no one would notice him – rode beside the Tor and Prince Kragen toward the tent where they had talked with the Prince and Elega less than two days ago.
As they moved, Geraden tried discreetly to wipe some of the mud off his clothing.
Terisa was distantly surprised to discover that her own clothes weren’t especially dirty. The mud in the intersection had been frozen hard. And somehow she had escaped all that blood—Even the gnarled creatures had died without marking her.
In the open area surrounded by luxurious living tents, the riders dismounted. Refusing the Prince’s offer of help, the Tor got down by himself; but he had to hold his breath and hug his gut until his face turned black in order to do it. Gasping thinly, with his legs wedged to keep him upright, he murmured as an explanation, “My lord Prince, I hope the Alend Monarch does not require his guests to be in good health. The blow I received from the High King’s Monomach troubles me” – his face twisted – “considerably.”
“My lord Tor,” replied the Prince evenly, “the Alend Monarch will require only that you be seated comfortably, that you enjoy a flagon of wine” – Kragen bowed his guests toward the most sumptuous of the tents – “and that you consent to see him without light.”
Allowing Terisa, Geraden, and the Tor no opportunity for questions, Prince Kragen approached the tentflaps and told the soldiers on duty to announce him.
Terisa and Geraden glanced at each other; but the Tor ignored both of them. Struggling as if he were up to his thighs in mire, he followed Kragen into the tent.
“Oh, well,” Geraden whispered. He had recovered his sense of humor. “If we aren’t allowed any light, at least I don’t have to worry about appearing before the Alend Monarch looking like a pig wallow.”
Terisa wanted to smile for him, but she was too busy trying to control her sense that the defenders of Mordant urgently needed some good to come of this meeting with the Alend Monarch.
They entered the tent behind the Tor.
Ribuld tried to go with them. Kragen’s soldiers stopped him.
As on the occasion of their previous visit, the fore-tent was illuminated only by braziers which had been set for warmth: apparently, Margonal suffered from an old man’s sensitivity to cold. Now, however, Prince Kragen summoned no lamps to augment the glowing embers. In the gloom, slightly tinged with red, the chairs and furnishings were hard to see – imprecise; vaguely suggestive. Tent poles loomed out of the dark like obstacles.
A moment passed before Terisa realized that she and Geraden, the Tor and Prince Kragen weren’t alone. Two soldiers held the tentflaps tightly closed. Servants waited around the walls.
And the dark shape of a man sat in a chair across the expanse of the fore-tent.
“My lord Tor.” The voice issuing from the dark shape was old and thin. “I like courtesy, but I will dispense with it today, so that your march will not be delayed. Yet I must take time to give you my thanks for not bringing the hundred men I offered to permit. Even if I meant you ill – which I do not – your decision made you safe with me. A man of Mordant must be valorous to trust the honor of an Alend.”
“My lord Monarch,” replied the Tor, “I also like courtesy. It would please me to give you the formal salutations and gratitude which custom and humility suggest. Unfortunately, I have been injured. I confess that I am hardly able to stand. Forgive me, my lord – I must sit.”
Prince Kragen had moved to stand beside his father. From that position, he made a sharp gesture. At once, a servant hurried forward with a broad stool for the Tor.
Groaning involuntarily, the Tor lowered his weight to the seat.
“You are injured, my lord Tor,” said the Alend Monarch, “and yet you propose a hard march of three days in order to confront High King Festten and his new cabal of Imagers. Is that wise?”
Behind the age in Margonal’s voice, Terisa heard another quality. Perhaps because the gloom in the tent gave every shape and tone an ominous cast, she thought that the Alend Monarch sounded haunted; harried by doubt.
He had invited – no, summoned – her and Geraden and the Tor here in order to test them in some way. Because he was afraid.
“My lord Monarch” – the Tor seemed to lift his voice by main strength off the floor of his belly – “I am sincerely unsure that it is wise. King Joyse would never permit me to do such a thing in his place, if he were here to forbid it. But he is not here, and so I determine the nature of my own service to my King.
“The question is not one of wisdom, my lord. It is one of necessity. I go to fight the High King and his Imagers simply because they must be opposed.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Abruptly, Prince Kragen made another gesture. As if a ritual had been correctly completed, servants now came forward with chairs for Terisa and Geraden. Silently, they were urged to seat themselves.
Then a tray was brought around; it held four wine goblets, one each for Terisa, Geraden, and the Tor, one for the Alend Monarch himself. Margonal drank briefly before inviting his guests to do the same.