Two pikemen closed the doors and stood to hold them. Four more were at attention beside the King’s seat. She counted them again: fourteen guards. Sourly, she supposed that Lebbick’s refusal to permit the attendance of Prince Kragen’s honor guard made sense. If the Castellan could only produce fourteen guards, Kragen’s ten soldiers might have been sufficient to protect him from the consequences of treachery.
Then, as the old servant continued to do his job, and the light improved, she realized that the benches and chairs weren’t empty.
The gathering was small compared to the one which had greeted Prince Kragen’s first visit. Terisa suspected, however, that the people here were the ones who mattered. No courtiers were present, no lords or ladies whose sole claim to significance arose from birth or wealth. Around the benches were several more guards, each wearing the insignia of a captain: Lebbick’s seconds-in-command. Artagel sat among them, grinning encouragement. She saw some of King Joyse’s counselors, men she had met only once before: the Lord of Commerce, for example; the Home Ambassador; the Lord of the Privy Purse. And in the chairs—
To the right of the throne sat the Tor, sprawling his bulk over at least two chairs. To all appearances, he hadn’t changed his robe since Terisa had last seen him: it was crumpled and filthy, so badly stained that it looked like it would never come clean. The dull red in his eyes and the way his flesh sagged from the bones of his face gave the impression that he was drunk. If he recognized either Terisa or Geraden, he didn’t show it.
As if to avoid him – as if he stank or had lost continence – everyone else was seated on the left.
The men there were Masters. Terisa knew Barsonage, of course: the mediator was scowling at her as if she had betrayed everything he valued. And most of the Imagers with him she had seen before. But at least one of them looked so unfamiliar – and so young – that she thought he must be an Apt who had just recently earned his chasuble.
Two or three of them were breathing hard. They must have come at a run. After all, the Castellan’s men hadn’t had much time to summon people to this audience.
The reason for the attendance of the Masters was obvious. King Joyse had threatened to defend Orison with Imagery. To do that, he needed the support of the Congery.
The Imagers made her think of Master Quillon, and her heart twisted.
Then she realized that Adept Havelock was missing. The High King’s Dastard wasn’t in the hall anywhere.
Neither was Master Eremis, however. That was a relief.
Soundless on the carpet, Castellan Lebbick strode toward the chairs on the right and sat down a few places away from the Tor, leaving Prince Kragen, Geraden, and Terisa in the open space before the throne. Inconsequently, she noticed the burned spot on the rug, where Havelock had once dropped his censer. No one had bothered to mend it. King Joyse hadn’t had much use for his audience hall in recent years.
He didn’t have much use for it now, apparently. He wasn’t present.
Prince Kragen surveyed the hall; he scanned the balconies. The corner of his moustache lifted as if he were sneering. When he had completed his study of the King’s defenses, he said clearly, “Remarkable. Is this the best audience King Joyse can produce? If an ambassador came to the Alend Monarch, at least a hundred nobles would commemorate the occasion, regardless of the hour – or the urgency.” A moment later, however, he remarked politely, “Most impressive, Castellan. For the first time, I truly believe that you do not intend to harm us. You would not need so many men – and so many witnesses – to procure our deaths.
“What do you intend? Where is King Joyse?”
Castellan Lebbick remained sitting. In a voice which resembled his laugh, he barked, “Norge!”
Slowly, almost casually, one of the captains stood and came to attention. He saluted the Castellan calmly. In fact, everything about him seemed calm. He sounded like he was talking in his sleep.
“My lord Castellan?”
“Norge, where is King Joyse?” demanded Lebbick.
Norge shrugged comfortably. “I spoke to him myself, my lord Castellan. I told him what you said. I even told him what the Prince said. He said, ‘Then you’d better get the audience hall ready.’ ”
Apparently, the captain didn’t think any other comment was necessary. He sat down.
Terisa heard a door open and close as the servant left, his job done.
Castellan Lebbick faced the Prince. “Now,” he said, “you know as much as I do. Are you satisfied?”
“No, Castellan,” put in King Joyse. “I doubt that he knows as much as you do. And I’m sure he isn’t satisfied.”
Somehow, Terisa had missed the King’s arrival. He must have entered from a door hidden behind his seat: she jumped to that conclusion because he was beside the pediment now, with one hand braced on the base of the throne as if he were about to go up the four or five steps and sit down. Nevertheless she hadn’t seen him come in. For all she knew, he had appeared by Imagery.
He was wearing what she took to be his formal attire: a robe of purple velvet, not especially clean; a circlet of gold to keep his white hair off his forehead. And from a brocade strap over his right shoulder hung a tooled sheath which held a longsword with a jeweled pommel. His blue eyes were as watery and vague as she remembered them; his hands appeared arthritic, swollen and inflexible. The way he moved conveyed the impression that he was frail under his robe, barely able to support his own weight; too frail for dignity or decision.
Only his beard had changed. It had been trimmed short and neatly combed. Under his white whiskers, his cheeks showed a flush of exertion or wine.
At once, everyone stood. A bit too slowly for decorum, Lebbick stood also and bowed. “Attend,” he drawled by way of announcement. “This audience is granted to Prince Kragen, the Alend Contender, by Joyse, Lord of the Demesne and King of Mordant. It’s a private audience. Everyone here is commanded to speak freely – and to say nothing when they have left the hall. To speak outside of what is said here is treason.”
Bitterly, as if he had no use for the King’s permission, he sat down.
No one else sat. Even Lebbick’s captains remained on their feet while King Joyse looked up and down the hall as if he were making a mental note of everyone present. Meeting Terisa’s gaze, and Geraden’s, he scowled so dramatically that she was tempted to think he didn’t mean it; tempted to think he was scowling to conceal a leap of joy. She had no way of knowing the truth, however. Instead of addressing her or Geraden – or the audience generally – he turned abruptly and ascended his seat, dragging his sword upward like a millstone. When he reached his throne, he collapsed into it; he had to pause and breathe deeply for a moment before he was able to tell the gathering to sit.
The assembled captains and counselors and Imagers obeyed.
Of course, Prince Kragen, Terisa, and Geraden had to remain standing.
Her reaction to the sight of King Joyse was more complex than she had expected: she was at once gladder and more distressed. He had a strange power which always surprised her, an attraction of personality that made her want to believe he was still as strong and idealistic and dedicated and, yes, heroic as he had ever been. That was why his appearance upset her. He was simply too weak. There on his throne, with Mordant in shambles, and Eremis poised to strike the last, crushing blow, he was too close to his grave – the burial ground as much of his spirit as of his decaying frame. She understood why Geraden loved him. Oh, she understood. Everything in her chest ached because he wasn’t equal to the love people gave him anymore.
Somebody else would have to save Orison and Mordant.
He seemed to share her opinion. In a dry, querulous tone that made him sound nearly decrepit, he said without preamble, “You first, Kragen. And be quick about it. I don’t have much patience for men who threaten my daughters.”