“Let’s go,” she said without meaning to speak aloud. “Let’s go look at it.”
Castellan Norge shrugged. The Tor blew his nose on the hem of his cloak.
Prince Kragen gave Terisa a bow which suggested either mockery or respect.
As if no one had actually given any commands, orders began to sift back to the main body of the armies. While the vanguard advanced on Esmerel, the Alend soldiers and the guard followed until they were well within the relative shelter of the valley, nearly halfway to the defile; then, with a company of five hundred horsemen, the vanguard pulled ahead, and the two armies – Alend on one side of the brook, Orison on the other – began to ready themselves for camp or battle. The men closest to the foot of the valley started throwing up a precautionary earthen breastwork from wall to wall.
In silence, the vanguard approached Esmerel.
“Do you know?” Master Barsonage said to no one in particular, talking simply to steady himself, “I had never seen this manor until Geraden made an Image of it in Adept Havelock’s glass. I am astonished now to observe how accurately he was able to envision it.”
No one in particular listened to the mediator.
The riders continued to advance. Now Terisa could tell that the pillars of the portico were redwood; that the sides of the manor were built of waxed boards supported by stone ribs and columns. A beautiful design – but the place was still vacant. Esmerel’s air of abandonment grew deeper as the riders moved farther into the gloom of the valley walls.
All the horses became restive: prancing; stamping; sawing against their reins.
Prince Kragen’s standard-bearer winded a call on his battle-horn, a fierce run of notes which nevertheless sounded forlorn and maybe doomed as it echoed back from the ramparts. Nothing shifted in Esmerel. None of the windows winked or opened. Under its portico, the door looked heavy enough to withstand anybody.
Abruptly, Geraden winced; Prince Kragen spat a curse; and all at once Terisa could smell what was disturbing the horses.
The sweet, rank, nauseating reek of blood and old rot, neglected death, flesh gone to carrion.
“What’s in there?” one of the captains asked as if he had forgotten that everyone could hear him.
“Lucky you,” Ribuld muttered in response. “Lucky us. We’re going to find out.”
As soon as she recognized the stench, however, Terisa lost her fear. She had been expecting something like this. A spiritual attack as much as physical. Adrenaline pumped through her; energy filled her muscles. This was Master Eremis’ domain: he was in his element here. Everything that happened now would happen because he intended it.
First she said, “It wasn’t like this four days ago. I couldn’t smell any of this.” Then she said, “This is where I saw Nyle. Inside.”
His face twisting, Geraden surged toward the door.
“Geraden!”
The Tor’s shout snapped like a whip, jerked Geraden back. Fierce and pale, he wheeled to face the old lord.
“Come on,” he whispered. “We’ve got to find him.”
The Tor didn’t drop Geraden’s gaze. “Castellan Norge,” he coughed, “open that door. Secure the rooms inside. We will enter when you signal for us.”
Norge saluted. At least three hundred guards rode away to form a protective perimeter around the manor and the vanguard. Some men dismounted to tend the horses. The rest followed Castellan Norge on foot.
In combat formation, swords ready, they approached the door.
It wasn’t bolted. When Norge lifted the latch, the door swung inward, opening on darkness.
He and his men entered the house.
Terisa scanned the harsh rims of the valley. For no clear reason, she expected to see men there: Cadwals clutching their weapons; an army moving to surround the forces of Orison and Alend. Esmerel was a trap. But that didn’t make any sense. She had been a prisoner here just a few days ago. Master Eremis had his own laborium here, his furnaces and glassworks. He had spoken to High King Festten here. It was inconceivable that he would surrender the seat of his power to his enemies.
Sure. Of course. So where was he?
Where had she gone wrong?
Abruptly, the Castellan reappeared.
The gloom – and the fact that he was a few dozen yards away – confused Terisa’s sight. She had the distinct impression that he had gone white. He held his arms stiffly at his sides; he moved as if he carried something breakable in his chest.
“My lord Tor—” His voice caught.
Peering at the portico and the door and Norge, the Tor asked, “Is it safe?”
Norge shook his head, nodded. His throat worked. “You need to see this. They’re all here.”
No, Terisa thought blindly, don’t go in there, don’t go, it’s too dangerous. But Geraden had already flung himself off his mount, was already running—
The Castellan stopped him, made him wait.
The Tor glanced wearily up at the sky. “The truth is,” he rumbled, “that three days in the saddle have done little to heal my belly.” The stubborn resolution which had brought him here appeared to be eroding. “I fear that once I dismount I will never get up onto my horse again.”
Prince Kragen’s gaze shone darkly. “I will go, my lord Tor.”
The Tor passed a hand over his face. The skin of his cheeks seemed to pull away from the bones, giving him a skeletal aspect for a moment despite his fat.
“We will all go, my lord Prince,” he sighed.
No, Terisa thought as if she were panicking, it’s a trap. Eremis is in there; he’s already killed all Norge’s men. Yet what she felt wasn’t panic. Instead of crying out against Norge’s pallor, Norge’s distress, she swung off her nag and went after Geraden.
“Nyle,” he muttered urgently when she joined him – the only explanation she needed.
Heaving against his mortal weight, the Tor got his leg over the saddle, stumbled to the ground. For a moment, he sagged there as if his capacity to support himself were crumbling. But then he called up his fading strength and lumbered into motion.
With Prince Kragen, half a dozen Alend soldiers, Master Barsonage, and Ribuld, the Tor approached Esmerel on foot.
Terisa was right about Norge: his face had turned the color of old ash. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to account for himself. When the Tor and Prince Kragen neared him, he pivoted harshly and stalked back into the manor.
They’re all here.
Holding Geraden’s hand to steady herself – and to restrain him from anything wild – Terisa entered Esmerel behind the old lord and the Prince.
Inside, the smell of blood and rot grew worse. Much worse.
Instead of fainting, Terisa tightened her grip on herself and went ahead.
The forehall was empty except for Castellan Norge and his men. They lined the walls, pale and grim, mirroring his distress. No one else was there – no one to account for the damage which nailed boots and mud had done to the once-fine floor. Some of the marks in the woodwork looked like swordcuts.
Full of misery, the Tor started for the nearest doorway off the forehall.
“Empty,” Norge croaked to stop him. “Damage like this.” He gestured at the floor. “And blood. There was a fight here. But there’s nobody left.”
“It was like this,” Geraden breathed. “In the Image I made.”
Master Barsonage nodded confirmation. “I saw it.”
“What do you want me to see?” the Tor demanded of Norge.
The Castellan pointed toward a wide staircase sweeping downward. His arm shook until he snatched it back to his side.
“The cellars!” Geraden spat.
Norge and the Tor, Prince Kragen and Master Barsonage, Terisa and Geraden followed a line of guards to the stairs.
The staircase blazed with light: the Castellan’s men had lit lamps down the walls. From the head of the stairs, the whole descent was visible until it reached bottom and spread out into the complex underground levels of Esmerel.