A few swallows of wine helped restore Elega’s composure. With a better grasp on herself, she asked, “Why do you speak of going? You have only just arrived. And” – she attempted her best smile – “you have not yet said anything I can understand about why you came in the first place.”
Myste drank again, then held the goblet in both palms and gazed into its depths. “I came to ask the answers to questions, so that I can make my decisions with some hope that they will lead to good rather than ill.”
“In other words” – Elega kept her voice steady – “you wish me to trust you enough to help you decide whether you can trust me.” Her question refused to be stifled. “Myste, who has your allegiance now? Whom do you serve?”
Myste’s eyes darkened. All at once, the distance in them seemed poignant to Elega. Myste was the youngest of the King’s daughters, and in some ways the least respected; alone in her romantic dreams, her strange notion that there were no real limits to the lives of ordinary men and women. Only her father had ever listened to her with anything except kind contempt or outright mockery – and now his kingdom was in ruins, and the fault for it was his alone.
Yet here she was, clad more completely in her own courage than in the worn leather on her body. It was quite possible that she was out of her mind. How else to explain the fact that she was here, that she considered it reasonable to simply walk into the Alend camp and ask for answers? Even if she were sane, she had become something Elega didn’t know how to evaluate or touch.
On the other hand, what harm could she do, one brave, foolish daughter of a failed King? Was it conceivable that she had somehow gone over to Cadwal? No. The High King’s army was too far away – and the Perdon’s forces still intervened. Then what harm could she do?
Why, none.
She made no attempt to answer Elega’s question. After a long moment, Elega let it drop. Feeling an unexpected sympathy – and a hint of nameless admiration – toward her lonely sister, she decided suddenly, irrationally, to gamble. “Very well,” she said. After all, risks came to her more naturally than caution. Prince Kragen’s inaction had her at her wit’s end. “Ask me something specific.”
Her words lit a spark in Myste’s gaze.
Myste raised an unself-conscious hand to her cheek. “Again, thank you,” she murmured. “It will be a great service to me.”
Almost at once, she inquired, “Is Father well? Is he” – she swallowed quickly – “still alive?”
“To the best of my knowledge.” As soon as she heard the question, Elega’s throat went dry. “It has been some days since I spoke to him.” Now that she had decided to gamble, she realized that her own story would be hard to tell. Myste’s fundamental assumptions were so different. “Nevertheless emissaries and messengers such as the Castellan and Master Quillon make reference to him without hesitation. He remains King in his own castle, even though his rule over Mordant has collapsed.”
Myste let a breath of relief between her lips. “I am glad,” she said, nodding to herself.
“And Terisa? How is she?”
Elega muffled her discomfort with asperity. “I fear that the lady Terisa has fallen victim to Geraden’s instinct for mishap.”
“How so?” Myste’s tone conveyed a suggestion of alarm.
Remembering the reservoir, Elega drawled, “She has learned to make the same mistakes he does.”
Again, Myste nodded; she clearly didn’t understand what Elega meant – and didn’t want to pursue it. She thought for a moment, then asked slowly, as if she wanted better words, “Elega, why are you here? If our father still rules in Orison, how have you come to take the part of his enemies?”
There it was: the place where all their common ground fell away, the point on which they would never comprehend each other. If the truth hit Myste too hard, Elega might be forced to summon guards and have her sister delivered to Prince Kragen.
Nevertheless she was faithful to the risk she’d chosen. Dryly, she replied, “That is the wrong question, Myste. You should ask why the Prince and his forces are here. My reasons hinge on theirs.”
Myste studied her intently. “I suspected as much. That is why I feared for Father. I thought the Alends might have come because he was dead. But I had no wish to offend you by leaping to erroneous conclusions.
“When I left Orison, Prince Kragen had been insulted in the hall of audiences. Yet the fact that he remained made me think that he had not given up hope for peace.
“Why is he here, attempting to pull the King from his Seat?”
“Because,” Elega answered, bracing herself for Myste’s reaction, “I persuaded him to do it.”
In a sense, Myste didn’t react at all; she simply went still, like an animal in hiding. The change was so unlike her, however, that it seemed as vehement as a shout. Where had she learned so much self-possession – and so much caution?
“I made his acquaintance after his audience with the King.” Elega struggled to keep a defensive tone out of her voice. “He taught me to believe him when he said that Margonal’s desire for peace was sincere. Yet Alend faced a dilemma he must resolve. Cadwal has no desire for peace – and the King’s strength had become plainly inadequate to keep the Congery out of Festten’s hands. Alend must take some action, so that the High King would not gain all Imagery for himself.
“First I required of the Prince some indication of his good faith. He replied with the promise that if Orison fell to him he would make the Perdon King of Mordant – that Alend would keep nothing for itself if the Congery was made safe from Cadwal.
“Then I persuaded him that a siege was his best hope.”
“But, Elega,” Myste protested, “that is untrue. Father is the only man who has ever taken Orison by storm. A siege may well last for seasons. And High King Festten surely will not allow seasons to pass before he comes to prevent the Alend Monarch from claiming the Congery.”
“It is true,” insisted Elega. Honesty, however, forced her to admit, “Or it was. Two things made it so. First, the curtain-wall is fragile at best – and no one could have foreseen that one of the Masters would conceive a way to defend it.
“And second—”
Involuntarily, she wavered. This lay at the heart of her ache for action, her desire to see the siege succeed. It was her doing: she had convinced Kragen to attempt it.
If he held her to blame for her failure, he gave no sign of it. Perhaps he had accepted the hazards of what he did, and felt no recrimination. Or perhaps he found a new hope in the reasons for his present inaction. In either case, she blamed herself enough for both of them. Sure of herself, determined to save her world, she had taken Mordant’s fate in her own hands.
And she had dropped it.
“Second?” Myste prompted.
“Second,” said Elega, more harshly than she intended, “I promised to deliver Orison to him with little or no bloodshed.”
Myste sat completely still; not a muscle in her face shifted. Yet her eyes seemed to burn with outrage.
“How?”
Elega’s knuckles tightened on her goblet. “By poisoning the reservoir. Not fatally. But enough to indispose the defense until the castle could be taken.”
Without a flicker of expression, almost without moving her mouth, Myste said, “That should have sufficed. What went wrong?”
Deliberately, Elega permitted herself an obscenity which she knew Myste particularly disliked. Then she said, “Geraden and Terisa caught me. They were unable to stop me – or indeed capture me. But they warned the Castellan. No one was indisposed because no one drank the water. The defense holds – and I was forced to flee.”
Unable to contain her self-disgust, she concluded, “Does that answer your questions? Can you make your decisions wisely now?”