“That’s true, my lord King,” Castellan Norge reported without his usual ease. “They were just two, but they hit at the right time. They did just enough damage, caused just enough confusion—” Like Barsonage, Norge seemed to be losing his voice. “Without them, we wouldn’t have saved the mediator. Or Master Harpool, either.”
Dully, as if he had said the same thing a dozen times, Master Harpool murmured, “My wife promised to curse me if I don’t return. She was that angry—” His nose was running; but he didn’t have anything to wipe it with, so he snuffled loudly.
King Joyse looked at the Tor’s body; he started to speak. Nevertheless he couldn’t: he was breathing too hard. As if the sight of his friend’s crushed head hit him harder than he was expecting, dealt him a blow for which he had thought he was braced and now found he wasn’t, not braced at all despite the fact that he must have seen this moment coming, his chest began to heave, and he fought for air urgently, in great gasps. To stifle the sound, he clamped his hands over his mouth, against the sides of his nose; but he couldn’t restrain his harsh respiration, his labor against grief.
After all, he wasn’t young anymore. He had been alone for a long time; comforted – or at least understood – by only mad Havelock and lost Quillon. And the cost of his efforts to save Mordant kept growing. Without the Tor, there would have been no Mordant, no kingdom to defend; no King to be so profligate with the blood of those who loved him.
Fiercely, he pulled his hands down from his face, gripped the side of the Tor’s litter. He seemed to want to lift his old friend in his arms, pick the Tor’s body up out of death. But of course the corpse was too heavy. Four men were needed simply to support its slack weight.
Involuntarily, King Joyse sank to his knees in the trampled slush.
Terisa and Geraden started toward him without thinking; their desire to console him somehow was obvious in their faces. The lady Elega stopped them, however. She put a finger to her lips. Then, smiling despite the Tor’s end and her father’s sorrow, she pointed toward the riders approaching the pennon.
Prince Kragen. The Termigan. And the two cloaked figures, with everything about them except their size wrapped and hidden, kept secret.
Prince Kragen had a few battlemarks on him: some blood, plainly not his own; lines like galls across his mail. He looked worthy to Elega, worthy beyond question, like a man who had met the consequences of his most hazardous decisions and deserved his victory. The Termigan was in worse condition, gaunt from hard travel, strained and bitter around his eyes. Yet he, too, had an air of worth, almost of triumph, as if he knew now that he had done the right thing. His hard, flinty face held no reproach.
“My lord King,” he said, “I’ve come to help you. I’ve only got two hundred men – all I could spare. But they’re enough.”
“Enough and more,” put in Prince Kragen, kinder toward the. King’s grief. “Is it not true that Mordant itself began with only two hundred men?”
“Father.” Myste pushed her hood back from her face, raised her strong gaze and her scarred cheek into the sunlight reaching past the valley rim.
“Myste.”
Terisa was at once so surprised and so thrilled that she nearly shouted; her whole body seemed tight with pleasure.
“You’re all right.”
Geraden nearly burst out laughing in delight. Men all around the King’s pennon whispered Myste’s name as if it were powerful and dangerous.
“With the Termigan’s aid,” she said, “I have brought your champion.”
While the reaction to her appearance spread, the huge figure beside her dropped his cloak, revealing bright, blank armor scorched black in several places, burned open twice, with a flat, impenetrable plate over his face. Strange guns hung on his hips; the rifle with which he had blasted his way out of Orison was strapped to his back.
The circle of guards and soldiers stared. A number of them grabbed at their swords; a few unslung bows.
But the champion didn’t make any threatening moves. Slowly, he reached one hand to his head, touched a stud in the side of his helmet. Without a sound, his visor slid up and away, exposing his face.
It was a man’s face, ordinary in its details: pale eyes; a large nose, crooked as if it had been broken more than once; tight lips above an assertive jaw. Only the strange way he moved his mouth when he spoke betrayed his origins.
“My lord King,” he said in an alien voice, a tone with an incongruous resemblance to birdsong, “I’m lost on this God-rotting planet. Myste says it’s not your fault I’m here. Says the only people who might be able to help me are your Imagers. But you can’t help me while you’re stuck in this mess.
“I’m willing to do what I can. For her. On the off-chance your Imagers can help me.”
“So that’s what it meant,” Terisa breathed, her tone hushed with relief and wonder. But at the moment even Geraden didn’t have any attention to spare for her.
Kneeling beside the Tor, King Joyse had jerked his head up at the sound of Myste’s voice, had stared at her and the champion with joy dawning in his blue eyes. Now he rose to his feet as if all his courage had come back. At first, however, he didn’t speak to her, or to Prince Kragen and the Termigan, or even to the champion. Instead, he addressed Norge briskly.
“Several things, Castellan. Provide for my lord Termigan’s men. Get those that need care to the physicians. Those that do not, assign among our horsemen. If I judge rightly” – he glanced toward the foot of the valley – “High King Festten is regrouping. He will attack again shortly. We need riders desperately.
“My dear friend the Tor,” he continued without pausing, “must be given an honorable grave outside Esmerel. Command as many men as necessary, bury him well. And the Perdon beside him – two faithful and valorous lords who spent their lives so that we will have a chance to save our world. If we succeed, their names will be praised before any other.”
Then, in a rush, he left the Tor’s litter, pulled Myste off her mount, and hugged her to his heart.
At once, the champion, Darsint, dismounted; he seemed to think Myste might need his protection. When he had pushed the horses out of his way, however, he stopped, apparently content to leave Myste and the King alone.
Watching her sister and her father, Elega’s only regret was that she had never been able to smile the way they did, with that clarity, as if they were able to go through life with their innocence intact.
“Dear child,” King Joyse murmured thickly, “my Myste, I’m so glad—Havelock told me to trust you, but I couldn’t help being afraid. My little girl, in such danger—I wanted you to be safe. And yet I needed you to do what you did.” He tightened his embrace momentarily, then released it and stepped back. “Your mother would break my pate if she knew how I risked you.”
“Father,” Myste replied like the sun, “all children must be risked. Mother knows that. How else are we to discover ourselves?”
If anything, her smile became warmer, cleaner, as she turned toward Elega.
Elega wanted to say, You have saved us – meant to say, Oh, Myste, you have saved us – but her throat closed suddenly, and her vision ran with tears. Myste’s smile still had the power to make everything worthwhile.
Myste came to stand close to her. They didn’t embrace: the way they felt was too private for the occasion. Nevertheless Myste said softly, “You did it. Everything I wanted – everything I couldn’t say. I’m so proud of you.”
Elega looked up at Prince Kragen, still on his horse, and held his gaze happily while Myste went to hug both Terisa and Geraden, then moved back to King Joyse.
“Now that the truth is revealed, my lord King,” the Prince said, speaking dryly to cover his pleasure, “I suppose I must admit that the Alend Monarch’s motives – and my own – have not been entirely disinterested recently. We withheld the siege of Orison to give you time in which to mature your plans. We kept open the possibility of an alliance, even when we had refused it, so that we might be able to aid you at need. But we also did those things” – he grinned under his moustache – “because the lady Myste threatened to bring the champion’s fire down on us otherwise.”