“The next move will be Eremis’,” Elega said softly to Terisa and Geraden. “We have introduced Imagery to the conflict. He will attempt to counter it.”
“How?” asked Geraden anxiously.
The lady looked at him, a faint smile on her lips. Sunlight cost her much of her beauty, but couldn’t weaken the color of her eyes. “You know him better than I do. You understand Imagery better. What can he do?”
“I don’t know,” Geraden muttered. “I’m willing to bet he has a mirror he can see us in. In fact, if I were him – and if Gilbur and Vagel are as good as they think – I’d have two. One to watch with, one to use. But he has to be careful. Terisa has already shattered one glass for him. If he gives her the chance, she can do it again.”
Terisa had no idea whether or not this were true. It seemed irrelevant.
The gaze King Joyse sent toward her and Geraden was curiously bland, like a mask.
The air was warmer than it had been for several days, but it didn’t warm her. Clenching herself inside her robe, she shivered and ached. No matter how often she turned to Geraden, no matter how she clung to him, he couldn’t help her. Helplessness and watching made her frantic. He had the strongest feeling they were in the wrong place. But what choice did they have? Where else could they be?
For some reason, the Cadwals were massing again outside the valley. The sackbut bleated raucously: the war drums commenced their labor: horsemen cleared the way. Foot soldiers drew forward, as if High King Festten had decided to drive them into the chasm for their failures.
King Joyse studied them hard, his blue eyes straining to pierce their intentions. Abruptly, he put out a hand to the Prince. “Reinforcements,” he snapped. “Where in all this rout is Norge? The Masters must be reinforced.”
Prince Kragen had apparently passed the point where he needed – or even expected – explanations from the King. Wheeling away, he headed for his horse, shouting to his captains as he ran.
When Terisa first heard the distant, throaty rumble, as if the earth were moving, she had no idea what was about to happen.
When the Tor woke up – gasping, as he always did these days, at the great, hot pain in his side – the rumble hadn’t started yet. Outside his tent, the valley was strangely quiet. That disconcerted him: he was expecting combat. The relative silence sounded like an omen of disaster, an indication that bloodshed and death had lost their meaning.
Opening his eyes, he saw from the hue of the canvas overhead that day had dawned. He was alone in the tent, except for Ribuld, who dozed against the tentpole with his head nodding on his knees. An experienced veteran, Ribuld could probably sleep on a battlefield, if he were left alone.
Silence outside: only a few shouts from time to time; the mortal sound of catapult arms against their stops. And a few daring or oblivious birds, following their calls among the rocks. The Tor knew all the birds of his Care. He would be able to identify each call, if he listened closely enough. For the sake of his sons, who had grown up in more peaceful times than he had, he had become avid at birding.
But there should have been a battle going on. Strange—
The Congery. Of course. Master Barsonage had promised to translate that crevice somewhere.
Must be quite a sight – clefts in the ground out of nowhere; the fate of Mordant depending on Imagery as well as swords.
“Ribuld,” said the old lord, “help me up.”
Not loud enough: Ribuld didn’t move.
“Ribuld, help me up. I want to see what is happening.”
I want to strike a blow for my son and my Care and my King in this war.
Ribuld jerked up his head, blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Alert almost at once, he rose and came to the cot where the Tor sprawled. “My lord,” he murmured, “the King says you’ve got to rest. He commands you to rest.”
Speaking softly around his pain, the Tor replied, “Ribuld, you know me. Did you believe I would obey such a command?”
The guard shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I’m supposed to make sure you do.”
The Tor managed a thin chuckle. “Then let him execute us both when this war is done. We will share the block with Master Eremis for our terrible crimes. Help me up.”
Slowly, a grin tightened Ribuld’s scar. “As you say, my lord. Disobeying the King is always a terrible crime. Anybody fool enough to do that deserves what he gets.”
Bracing himself on the sides of the cot, Ribuld helped the lord roll into a sitting position.
Agony threatened to burst the Tor’s side. He took a moment to absorb the pain; then, hoping he didn’t look as pale as he felt, he said, “Some wine first, I think. After that, mail and my sword.”
May it please the stars that I am able to strike one blow for my son and my Care and my King.
Ribuld produced a flagon from somewhere. The sound of catapults came again, followed by cries and curses, yells for physicians. May it please the stars—Some time passed before the Tor realized that he was staring into the flagon without drinking.
Gritting his courage, he swallowed all the wine. Before he could lapse into another stupor, he motioned for his undershirt and mail.
With gruff care, Ribuld helped him to his feet, helped him into his leathers and mail and cloak, helped him belt his ponderous and unusable sword around his girth below the swelling in his side. Several times, the old lord feared that he would lose consciousness and fall; but each time Ribuld supported him until his weakness went away, then continued dressing him as if nothing had happened.
“If I had a daughter,” the Tor murmured, “who obeyed me better than the lady Elega obeys her father, I would order her to marry you, Ribuld.”
Ribuld laughed shortly. “Be serious, my lord. What would a boozing old wencher like me do with a lord’s daughter?”
“Squander her inheritance, of course,” retorted the Tor. “That would be the whole point of marrying her to you. To give you that opportunity.”
This time, Ribuld’s laugh was longer; it sounded happier.
“Now,” grunted the lord when Ribuld was done with his belt, “let us go out and have a look at the field of valor.”
He managed two steps toward the tentflaps before his knees failed.
“My lord,” Ribuld murmured repeatedly, “my lord,” while the Tor’s head filled up with black water and he lost his vision in the dark, “give this up. You need rest. The King told you to rest. You’ll kill yourself.”
Precisely what I have in mind, friend Ribuld.
“Nonsense.” Somehow, the Tor found his voice and used it to lift his mind above the water. “I only want to watch King Joyse justify the trust we have placed in him. I want to watch him bring High King Festten and Master Eremis to the ruin they deserve.
“A horse to sit on. So I can see better. Nothing more.”
Ribuld’s eyes were red, and his face seemed congested in some way, as if he understood – and couldn’t show it. “Yes, my lord,” he said through his teeth. “I’d like to watch that myself.”
Carefully, he helped the Tor upright again.
Together, they reached the tentflaps and went out into the shadowed morning.
From the tent, they could see most of the valley, including the slope where King Joyse had planted his pennon. That purple scrap looked especially frail in contrast to the bright sunlight beyond the valley, the massive strength of the ramparts, the active violence of the siege engines. Around the standard stood King Joyse and his daughter, Prince Kragen and Terisa and Geraden. They were all watching the foot of the valley, however, watching unmounted troops mass as if the Congery’s chasm could be defeated by swords and spears; they didn’t notice the Tor and Ribuld. And neither the Tor nor Ribuld called attention to themselves.
Ribuld moved the Tor a little to the side, a bit out of sight. Then the guard went looking for horses.