Gradually, Myste let herself move. Her gaze left Elega’s face; she lifted her goblet and drained it. Automatically, far away in her thoughts, she poured more wine and drank again.
“Ah, Elega. How terrible that must be for you – to attempt the betrayal of your own home and family, and to fail.”
“It is worse,” retorted Elega fiercely, “to do nothing – to let every good thing in the world go to ruin because the man who created it cannot be bothered to defend it.”
Still slowly, still peering into the distance, Myste nodded. “Perhaps. That is one of the decisions I must make.
“Please tell me. Why does the Prince ‘do nothing’? Since the first day of the siege, he has taken no action I can see. To all appearances, he is simply waiting for High King Festten to come and destroy him.”
Abruptly, as if a stunned part of her mind had just been kicked, Elega realized that Prince Kragen was overdue. Usually, he finished discussing the day with his father and came to her tent before this.
If he caught Myste here, he would have no real choice but to make her a prisoner. Her potential value as King Joyse’s daughter was too great to be ignored. But Myste was also Elega’s sister – and Elega wasn’t sure yet what her own decision would be. The only thing she was sure of was that Myste wouldn’t reveal any of her secrets as Prince Kragen’s prisoner.
Muttering, “Wait here,” Elega jumped up and hurried past the curtains into the back of the tent.
There she roused the Alend girl who served as her maid. “Hurry, child,” she hissed. “Find the Prince. He may still be with his father, or on his way here. Beg him to forgive me. Tell him I feel unwell. Tell him I am half blind with headache – but it will pass if I am allowed to sleep.
“Go quickly.”
She hustled the girl out into the night, paused to quiet the hammering of her heart, then returned to Myste.
Myste looked at her inquiringly. Elega explained what she had done – and was more relieved than she considered reasonable when she saw that Myste believed her. So Myste’s new caution, her distrust, had its limits. Despite the things Elega had already done, Myste didn’t expect her sister to betray her.
In the back of her mind, Elega began to wonder whose side she herself was on.
She sat down again, poured more wine. Myste was still waiting for an explanation of Prince Kragen’s inaction. Elega took a deep breath because for the first time what she was about to say might be interpreted as evidence of disloyalty. Then she asked, “Do you remember the day we first met Terisa? The day the Perdon came storming into Orison, demanding help, and King Joyse refused him?”
“Yes.” Once again, Myste’s sober gaze was fixed on Elega’s face.
“I think I told you about it.” Elega remembered the Perdon’s rage vividly. You tell him this, my lady, he had roared at her. Every man of mine who falls or dies defending him in his blind inaction, I will send here. “Well, he is doing what he said he would. In small groups and squadrons, injured or dead men and their families arrive almost daily from the Care of Perdon, sent to the purported safety of Orison – and as a reproach to King Joyse.
“They are Alend prisoners now – although it would be more just to say that they are under the care of the army’s physicians, and not permitted to leave. Being hurt, exhausted, or bereaved, few of them have the will to refuse when they are questioned.”
Myste watched Elega’s face and said nothing.
“From them,” Elega sighed, “we have learned that the High King’s army is not coming here.”
At that, Myste’s eyes widened. “Not?” she whispered as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Not?”
Elega nodded. “Not directly, in any case. That much is certain. Festten’s forces move with what speed they can manage through the hills of Perdon – through the Perdon’s resistance. But all recent reports agree that the High King’s movement brings him no nearer Orison.
“That is why Prince Kragen believes he can afford to wait.”
At last, Myste sounded like her self-control might slip. “Then where is High King Festten going?”
“South and west,” Elega answered. “Into the Care of Tor.
“The Perdon’s survivors say that the Cadwal army moves along the best route it can find toward Marshalt, the Tor’s seat.”
“But why?” demanded Myste. “Why go there? The Congery is here.”
Elega had no idea. “I have heard it rumored,” she said for the sake of hearing how Myste would reply, “that the Castellan considers the Tor a traitor.”
Myste’s head twitched. “The Tor? Nonsense.” She thought for a moment, then continued, “And if he is a traitor, that would be even less reason for High King Festten to invade Tor. It makes no sense.
“What is the Perdon doing?”
To preserve her composure, Elega put on a hard front. “Apparently, he is more dedicated to Mordant’s service than his King deserves.” The truth was that every thought of the Perdon made her chest ache – made her want to scream because there was nothing she could do. “Festten appears uninterested in Orison. But rather than taking this opportunity to flee – perhaps here, perhaps toward a dubious alliance with the Armigite, or a stronger one with the Fayle – the Perdon shifts his forces so that they are always in Cadwal’s way. He began with scarcely three thousand men against at least twenty thousand. If the reports are true, he has less than two thousand now, and every day he is whittled down. And yet he continues fighting. He spends every life in his command, merely to hinder Festten’s approach to whatever it is the High King wants.
“Clearly, he is engaged in a personal struggle against Cadwal. If King Joyse had not abandoned him long ago, he would have saved himself – and aided Orison – by coming here.
“Does that answer your questions?”
While Elega spoke, Myste’s expression changed. Her gaze turned toward Orison; her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Father,” she murmured thickly. “How have you been brought to this? How do you bear it?”
Elega’s urge to scream intensified. “If it does,” she snapped, “perhaps you will consent to answer mine. I have told you enough to get myself beheaded if I were not in the Prince’s favor. I would like some return for my risk.”
“Yes.” Suddenly, Myste rose to her feet, facing through the wall of the tent toward Orison as though Elega weren’t present. “I can make my decisions now. Thank you.
“I must go.”
Without a glance at her sister, she started toward the tentflap.
For an instant, Elega was stuck, caught between contradictory reactions. She was full of outrage; she wanted to make scathing demands which would rip Myste’s reticence aside. At the same time, the thought that her sister was about to leave her – without trusting her, without trusting her – went into her heart like a spike.
She was about to shout for a soldier when a new thought flashed through her, a bolt of illumination.
Before her sister reached the tent flap, she said, “Father sent me a message, Myste.”
Myste stopped immediately; she turned, came back toward Elega. As if involuntarily, she asked, “What was it?”
Too absorbed in Myste’s importance to be self-conscious, Elega answered, “Castellan Lebbick brought it. According to him, Father said, ‘I am sure that my daughter Elega has acted for the best reasons. She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. For her sake, as well as for my own, I hope that the best reasons will also produce the best results.” ’
Unexpectedly, Myste closed her eyes. Tears spread under her lashes and down her cheeks, but for a long moment she didn’t move or speak. Then she looked radiantly at her sister, smiling like a new day.