Then past the snow-clogged side of the manor came charging men on horseback. As the horses fought for speed, their nostrils gusted steam, and their legs churned the snow until the dry, light flakes seemed to boil. The sides of the valley and the snow muffled every sound, but each movement was distinct, as edged as a shard of glass.
Three riders with longswords held up in their fists and keen hate in the strides of their fierce mounts. The riders she had seen in the Congery’s augury. The riders of her dream.
“Bowmen!” Norge snapped from somewhere nearby. “Be ready! We’ll pick them off as soon as they get in range.”
“No!” coughed the Tor. He had come out of his tent; he stood with his legs splayed in the snow, supported by Ribuld. “That is a traitor’s deed. Let them approach. We kill no one unless we must!”
“Well said, my lord Tor!” Prince Kragen arrived at a run, with his sword in both hands. Using the blade as a pointer, he commanded, “Look more closely!”
The light wasn’t good: at first, she couldn’t see what the Prince was pointing at. But after a moment she realized that each of the riders had a white cloth tied to the tip of his sword.
Flags of truce.
A truce, Eremis? With you?
One of the riders was certainly Master Eremis: that was unmistakable. He drove his mount plunging forward with an air of jaunty peril, as if he were in the grip of an exquisite and unutterable joy.
Beside him came Master Gilbur, hunchbacked and murderous.
The third man she didn’t know by sight. Nevertheless she was sure of him. The arch-Imager Vagel. A relatively small man, at least compared to Eremis and Gilbur; dwarfed by his charger. Lank gray hair fluttered from his skull. He rode with his toothless mouth open like the entrance to a pit.
The riders of her dream.
“The gall of those bastards,” someone whispered. Ribuld? “The gall.”
Abruptly, Gilbur and Vagel hauled on their reins, wrenched their horses to a halt. Just beyond reliable bow-range, they wheeled and stamped, waiting.
Master Eremis came forward as if he feared nothing. Intensely nonchalant, he approached his enemies.
There he stopped.
“My lord Prince.” His tone was full of secret laughter. “My lord Tor. Master Barsonage. Terisa and Geraden. How fortuitous that you are all here together.”
The Tor leaned on Ribuld as if he had lost the power of speech. Geraden scowled intently, concentrating not on anger but on the ramifications of Master Eremis’ presence. Terisa faced the tall Imager and felt the blood congeal in her chest.
“We are not patient with traitors,” snapped Prince Kragen: he was the Alend Contender, accustomed to authority. “Tell us what you want and be done with it.”
Master Eremis paid no attention to that demand. “My companions fear you,” he said. “They believe you will kill them if they come near, despite our flags of truce.”
Prince Kragen snorted. “That would be an action worthy of you, Eremis. We are not such men.”
In response, Master Eremis laughed along the wind, sent mirth and scorn across the snow. “Do you hear?” he called over his shoulder. “The Alend Contender thinks he is not such a man as we are.”
“You’re lucky Lebbick isn’t here,” muttered Norge. “He’d castrate you first and worry about honor later.” But no one listened to him.
Spurring their horses, Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager came forward to join Master Eremis.
“Tell us what you want,” Prince Kragen repeated harshly.
“As I say,” gloated Master Eremis, “it is fortuitous that you are all here together. Because you are all here, you will be able to give me what I want. I have a requirement for each of you. Each of you except the Congery” – he sneered at Master Barsonage – “which has my permission to go sodomize itself whenever it chooses.”
Instead of retorting with threats, the mediator folded his arms on his thick chest and produced a grim smile. “Be careful what you say, Master Eremis,” he articulated. “Your insults only betray your fear.”
“Fear!” Master Gilbur waggled his sword mockingly. “The day you teach me to fear you, Barsonage, I will walk into this camp naked and let you use me however you wish.”
The Tor made a weak gesture, requesting silence. In a thin voice, he said, “You mentioned requirements, Master Eremis.”
“Indeed,” Eremis replied with a grin. “And if you satisfy me, I am willing to let you all live.”
Norge pronounced an obscenity. No one else spoke.
“By now,” the tall Imager explained, “even the thickest-headed among you must realize that we have an alliance with High King Festten. By force of Imagery and arms, we are prepared to crush you completely. We will wash the ground with your blood until you beg to share the Perdon’s fate.”
“Try it,” grated Ribuld. Again, no one else spoke.
“As it happens, however,” Master Eremis continued humorously, “the High King is not a comfortable ally. He wants to rule the world – and I intend that mastery for myself. Our ambitions are not well mated.”
“Doubtless,” the Tor sighed. “What are your requirements?”
Master Eremis straightened his legs, raised himself high in his saddle. “My lord Tor, my lord Prince, I require you to surrender.”
This time, it was Prince Kragen who laughed – a bloody and mirthless guffaw.
“If you do so,” Eremis went on smoothly, “if you will pledge your precious honor and your lives to me, we will turn against Festten. Our Imagery and your arms will break him here, far from his sources of supply, his reinforcements. Then it will be Mordant which rules the world, not Cadwal.
“From the first,” he commented while everyone stared at him, “my plans have cut in two directions. We are prepared to annihilate you, my lords. You are too paltry – you have no hope against us. At the same time, however, I have maneuvered Festten and his strength into a position of vulnerability – here, my lords, here – so that he, too, can be annihilated.
“Your choice is simple. Serve me and live. Refuse me and die.”
Geraden held himself still. Terisa glanced at him and saw that he wasn’t looking at Master Eremis. He was watching the Tor with a dangerous brightness in his eyes.
Growling curses through his moustache, Prince Kragen also turned toward the Tor.
For a long moment, the Tor said nothing. In fact, the way he stood, his slumped and dependent posture, suggested that he didn’t know what was going on. Nevertheless, before the Prince could lose patience with him, the old lord found his voice.
“You mentioned requirements for each of us. Except the Congery. What do you want from Master Geraden and the lady Terisa?”
Terisa caught her breath while the knot of anger and fear inside her pulled tighter.
Master Eremis shrugged, grinning as if only an iron will kept him from laughing his heart out. “A small sacrifice, my lord. It will cost you little. I require them for myself.”
Master Gilbur snickered.
No, Terisa ached inside herself. No.
Geraden watched the Tor as if he expected something wonderful or terrible from the old lord.
“As a condition of your surrender,” Eremis explained. “When you have pledged your honor to me – and when Terisa and Geraden have been given into my hands – at that moment, High King Festten’s doom is assured.”
No.
Prince Kragen started to retort; but the Tor stopped him with another weak gesture. “An interesting suggestion, Master Eremis.” The old lord’s frailty made him sound mild. “Unfortunately, you are a demonstrated traitor. What assurance is there that you can be trusted?”
“You need none,” Master Eremis shot back hotly, happily. “Your choice is too simple for assurances. If you do not satisfy me, you will be destroyed.”