The Tor—! Eremis got his blade up just in time to keep the fat, old lord from splitting his head open.
Considering the Tor’s skill and age and drunkenness, his sword might as well have been a cudgel. Nevertheless it had weight behind it, and a mad, blubbering fury. Master Eremis parried as hard as he could, and again, and again; yet he was driven backward. He would have to disembowel that old slob to stop him.
“My lord!” Geraden yelled. “Look out!”
The Tor didn’t seem to hear the warning. He was still swinging his sword like a club when Gart kicked him in the stomach hard enough to rupture his guts.
Retching, he collapsed to his knees and presented his exposed neck to Gart’s blade.
Geraden jumped at Eremis.
Gilbur intercepted him, however, and flung him aside like a handful of rags. Like Prince Kragen, Geraden wasn’t important enough to risk death over. Terisa was the one who mattered. Eremis closed a hand around her arm. Gart braced himself for the quick satisfaction of beheading the Tor.
Fuming curses and agony, one knee crushed, an ankle cracked, Castellan Lebbick came up behind the High King’s Monomach. He was barely able to stand; every movement ground shards of bone against each other. His sword hung in his hands, too heavy to lift through the pain.
Yet he kept Gart from killing the Tor.
To save himself, Gart whirled and drove his sword straight through the Castellan’s heart.
Lebbick’s eyes flew wide, as if he had just seen an astonishing sight. Blood burst from his mouth, gushed down the front of his mail. He dropped his weapon. For a moment, his hands clutched at Gart’s blade as if he wanted to wrench it out of his chest. Then, like a man who had decided to let go, he released the iron.
“Bastard,” he breathed between gouts of blood as if he were talking to someone else, not Gart at all. “Now I’m free. You can’t hurt me anymore.”
Slowly, as if performing at last the only graceful action of his life, he slid backward off Gart’s sword.
In that way, Lebbick finished mourning for his wife.
Full of horror, Terisa tried to break Master Eremis’ grip; but she couldn’t do it. She had never been strong enough with him. Geraden lay on the floor without moving. Helplessly, she watched as Eremis made a strange, familiar gesture, a signal she had seen once before.
Only a heartbeat ahead of the charging guards, she and Eremis, Gilbur and Gart were translated out of the hall.
In the resulting confusion, a long time passed before anyone noticed that King Joyse had also disappeared.
BOOK FOUR
FORTY: THE LORD OF LAST RESORT
Norge ordered everyone to stay in the hall; but he was already too late. Most of King Joyse’s counselors had scattered, fled like their lord. And the Imagers were no better. Even Master Barsonage, who might in a reasonable world have been expected to set a good example – even the mediator of the Congery was gone. Apparently, he had taken Geraden with him. The only Master left was the man Eremis had killed; the creature which had actually slain him was still chewing on his head, oblivious to everything except food.
“Perfect,” Norge muttered generally. This was as close as he ever came to despair. All those Imagers and old men who could hardly hold their water for fear, already loose in Orison; already spreading panic. They would tell their friends, their wives, their children, their servants; some of them would tell total strangers. And when the story got out – when people heard that King Joyse was gone, and Lebbick was dead, and the “hero of Orison,” Eremis, was in league with Cadwal—Norge sighed to think about it. Orison was going to come apart at the joints.
The siege was going to succeed after all.
Doing what he could, he sent one of the captains to take command of the gates, control the courtyard; make sure nobody did anything wild. That was the crucial place, the point at which panic could spill outward – the point at which Alend could be made aware that Orison was in chaos.
He ordered two more men to dispatch Eremis’ vicious fruitbat. He detailed guards to locate the counselors and the Masters, so that decisions could be made. For no particular reason except thoroughness, he organized a search for the King. He made sure that Prince Kragen and Artagel were still alive.
Then he went to help the Tor get up.
The old lord was on his hands and knees, staring at Castellan Lebbick’s face.
The Tor was in terrible pain. No, that wasn’t true: he was going to be in terrible pain; he knew he was going to be in terrible pain as soon as the shock of Gart’s kick faded a bit. At the moment, however, he was still stunned, protected from agony by surprise and wine.
He wanted to raise his head, but the effort was too much for him. He couldn’t do anything except stare at Lebbick’s ruined and happy face.
People looked like that, he thought, when their kings betrayed them. When they let something as simple and fallible as an ordinary human monarch cut the strings which held their lives together, the cords of purpose. When they drank too much—And then were lucky enough to die without having to watch everything else come apart around them.
It would be better to die. Better to think Gart’s boot had torn something vital inside him and surrender to excruciation in advance. Better to let wine and loss carry him away. The alternatives—
The alternatives were distinctly unpleasant.
Unfortunately, the expression on Lebbick’s face wouldn’t let him go. Lebbick’s blood wouldn’t let him go. The first twinge of pain rumbled through his guts, and he nearly groaned aloud, Oh, Castellan. Mordant and Orison and you, he betrayed us all, abandoned us all – and you fought for him to the end. What did he ever do to deserve such service?
As soon as the Tor asked the question, however, he found that he knew the answer. Despite his tears, he could see it in Lebbick’s twisted face, his wounds and blood. What King Joyse had done was to create something larger than any one man, something which deserved loyalty and service no matter how fallible and even treacherous the King himself proved to be.
Mordant. A buffer between the constant, bloody warring of Cadwal and Alend.
The Congery. An end to the ravages of Imagery when mirrors were used for nothing but power.
Pain pushed against the back of the Tor’s throat, and his stomach knotted; but he clung to the cold stone with his hands and knees, kept his balance. When that captain, what was his name? Norge, when Norge came to him and tried to help him erect, he managed somehow to knot his fat fist in the captain’s mail and pull him down, so that Norge had to meet him face-to-face.
“The King—” he gasped. His voice was a sick whisper, lost in the hurt clench of his abdomen.
“Gone, my lord Tor. I’ve sent men to look for him, but I don’t expect any results.”
“Why not?”
Norge shrugged. “Men who vanish like that usually don’t want to be found.”
His immunity to distress was remarkable. Peering into the captain’s face, the Tor began to remember him better. It was possible that Castellan Lebbick had promoted Norge simply because Norge was the only man under him who never flinched.
A man like that was hard to talk to. What did he care about? What were his convictions, his commitments?
“Help me up.” The Tor made no effort to move. The pain squeezed his voice to a husk. “I will take his place.”
The Tor wasn’t trying to stand, and Norge didn’t try to lift him. Instead, the captain asked calmly, “You, my lord?”
“Me.” For all the strength the Tor could muster, he might as well have been whispering deliberately. Maybe Gart really had ruptured something vital. “Who else? I am the King’s oldest friend. Apart from Adept Havelock – and you will not offer him the rule of Orison and Mordant.”