The young Master at the mirror was beginning to breathe like a poorly trained runner. Sweat trickled from his beardless chin to the ground at his feet, where it grew slowly into ice. Shaded from the sun, the air in the gap was cold. One of his hands was clenched too tightly on the frame; the other rubbed the mimosa wood too hard, threatening the focus of the Image.
Master Barsonage was absolutely sure that he heard boots and armor among the rocks above him.
The chasm was vital now, vital. The Masters were prepared to release it, if necessary; close it. If, for instance, the Cadwals threw a bridge across the cleft, the chasm could be erased and then replaced, destroying the bridge. Nevertheless for the sake of the mirrors themselves the translation had to remain steady. If the chasm wavered or failed, nothing could stop the Cadwals from shattering the mirrors – or killing the Imagers.
In theory, at least, King Joyse’s men – and the Masters – were ready for any attack which came at them over the rocks.
“Gently,” the mediator breathed into the young Imager’s ear, “gently. You are a Master, a Master. Translation has become a simple matter for you, an easy matter. You do not require such effort. Only relax. Hold the translation in your mind. Let your arms rest.”
The young Master didn’t nod or speak. His eyes were shut in strain. Nevertheless he managed to soften his grip, ease his rubbing; some of the exertion left his shoulders.
“Good,” Master Barsonage whispered. “You are doing well. Very well indeed.”
He was sure he heard boots and armor in the rocks—
He was right. From a hiding place twenty yards away, one of Norge’s bowmen loosed a shaft, and a Cadwal with an arrow in his throat dove headfirst down the wall, gurgling audibly as he fell.
Past the young Master’s shoulder, Barsonage saw soldiers of all kinds clambering toward the opposite mirror.
“Be ready, Harpool,” he breathed. “Cover yourself with your glass. Remember that a mirror open for translation cannot be broken from the front.”
For some reason, Master Harpool chose this moment to say, “You know, Barsonage, my wife begged me to stay at home. Said I was too old for such goings-on. If I fail to return, she promised to curse me—” Without warning, his old eyes spilled tears.
“Look out!” yelled a guard. Arrows flew. Cadwals staggered down the rocks, spattering blood everywhere.
“Cover yourself, you old fool!” Master Barsonage cried in desperation.
He himself was set to protect the opening through which he watched the valley. The space behind the mirror, the space through which he and his companions had entered the room, was Master Harpool’s responsibility. Harpool turned toward it with an old man’s fumbling slowness, a teary husband’s confusion.
As if from nowhere, a brawny Cadwal appeared. He wore a helmet spiked like a less assertive version of the High King’s, a brass breastplate rubbed to resemble gold; the longsword in his hand looked heavy enough to behead cattle. “Here!” he roared when he saw the Masters. “Found ’em!”
So quickly that Master Barsonage had no chance to do anything except flinch, the Cadwal drove his sword straight at Master Harpool’s glass.
Master Harpool may have been old and grieved, but he understood translation: he had been doing it for decades. Somehow, he seemed to put himself in the right frame of mind without transition, achieve the right kind of concentration as simply as striking a flint.
The sword passed into the glass.
Carried forward by his own momentum, the Cadwal stumbled into the Image and vanished—
—into the ballroom of Orison, where (the mediator devoutly hoped) Artagel was ready to receive such gifts.
Another Cadwal came after the first. He fell into the mirror with an arrow in his back; already dead.
Master Barsonage was too busy watching Harpooclass="underline" he missed the rope as it uncoiled across the opening he was supposed to guard. But he heard a grunt of effort from the man on the rope, turned in time.
The swing of the man’s descent brought him within reach. The mediator hugged his mirror, muttered his concentration ritual as well as he could. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think while the Cadwal released one hand from the rope, pulled out a knife. He didn’t have the right kind of nerves to face danger. For one stupid, necessary instant, he shut his eyes.
Another present for Artagel.
There he nearly made a mistake, nearly let his glass close. Luckily, the sudden pressure on the rope warned him. Artagel must have been ready, must have gotten the message Master Harpool sent. Someone in the ballroom had a grip on the rope, was hauling on it fiercely.
If Master Barsonage had stopped his translation, the rope would only have been cut. Or the mirror would have broken. But he kept the glass open—
Abruptly, the three men anchoring the rope in the rocks above were dragged off their perch. They fell screaming past the mediator’s vantage.
More arrows: more shouts. From somewhere out of sight came the clash of swords.
Then silence.
The attack was over. Temporarily. Some of the Cadwals were probably hidden among the rocks, marking the mirror’s position while they waited for reinforcements; others must have gone back to report. Barsonage risked a look out over the young Master’s shoulder and saw men still fighting around the opposite end of the chasm. The forces of Orison and Alend, however, seemed to be winning.
“Harpool,” Master Barsonage panted, “I told you to cover yourself. You stood beside your mirror begging them to cut you down.”
Master Harpool didn’t say anything. He had his eyes closed. Maybe he was taking a nap. More likely he didn’t want to witness his own peril.
From the distance of the pennon, of course, Terisa and Geraden, Elega and King Joyse and Prince Kragen couldn’t see the details; but they saw the threat to the mirrors approach, saw it beaten back. Terisa let out a sigh to ease her cramped lungs. “How long can they keep that up?”
“A good question,” replied King Joyse calmly. “All translation is arduous. The Masters are already weary. And as his frustration mounts, High King Festten will redouble his attacks.
“As a defense, however, that chasm has already exhausted most of its usefulness. Its chief purpose now is to protect the Masters themselves – and to give us a period of time during which we can try to counter the catapults. When we must, we will muster a charge of our own. The Masters will close the chasm – and while we ride to engage Cadwal outside the valley, they will retreat to prepare another unexpected crevice somewhere else.
“At the moment, we are as effectively besieged as we ever were in Orison. If the High King trusted to that and held back, we would eventually be defeated. But he will not. He wants our blood – and he wants it today. That is another of his weaknesses.
“As for the catapults—”
One party of Prince Kragen’s assault on the walls brought back a Master with an arrow in his shoulder. They hadn’t been able to find any way upward which wasn’t exposed to the defenders of their target; and after the Master with them was hit, they were forced to retreat. So there were still seven engines.
All seven of them were already cocked.
Another series of hard wooden thuds, like the sound of bones being broken: another hail of scattershot. This stone deluge did less harm than the last because the soldiers and guards were more careful. Nevertheless Terisa thought she saw as many as a hundred men go down.
At once, physicians ran with horses and litters to do what they could for the wounded. The procession of injuries toward Esmerel and the infirmary seemed to go on continuously. The dead were left where they lay.
If this onslaught continued, the army would be forced to protect itself by leaving the center of the valley, moving closer to the walls – too close for the catapults to hit. And then the King’s men would be vulnerable to rockfalls, avalanches—