A Man Rides Through (3 page)

She shook her head dumbly and studied the wreckage of the catapult as if she couldn't believe her eyes.

"It is possible," he muttered for her ears alone, "that during King Joyse's peace we have forgotten too much of the abomination of Imagery. Clearly the Masters have not been inactive under his rule.

"My lady"—he closed his eyes just for a moment and allowed himself to be appalled—"the Congery
must not
fall into the hands of High King Festten."

Then the Prince took command of himself again and left her. First he ordered the captain of catapults to bring forward another siege engine and try again, taking whatever precautions were necessary to protect the men. After that, he went to talk to his father.

The Alend Monarch's tents were sumptuous by his standards. Margonal liked to travel in comfort. Also he knew that upon occasion a grand public display was good for morale. Nevertheless High King Festten would have considered the Monarch's quarters a hovel. Alend lacked the seaports and hence the trade of Cadwal. Compared to Festten, Margonal was no wealthier than one of his Lieges. If Mordant hadn't lain between Cadwal and Alend—and if the Cares of Mordant hadn't been so contentious, so difficult to rule—a quality which made them an effective buffer—the High King and the forces which his wealth could procure would long since have swallowed up his ancient enemy.

Prince Kragen was conscious of this, not because he was jealous of the High King's riches, but because he felt acutely vulnerable to Cadwal, as he pushed the canvas door-flap aside and was admitted to his father's presence. He could feel Alend's peril in the cold wind that curled about his neck like a garotte.

The Alend Monarch sat in the fore-tent where he held councils and consultations. The Prince could see him well enough: braziers intended for warmth gave off a flickering illumination that danced among the tentpoles and around the meeting chairs. But there was no other light. The seams of the tent were sealed with flaps, and Margonal didn't permit lamps or torches or even candles in his presence. Privately, Prince Kragen considered this arbitrary prohibition a vestige of the tyranny to which his father had formerly been accustomed. Nevertheless he accepted it without question. As anyone who looked on the Alend Monarch's face in good light could see, Margonal was stone blind.

It was unimaginable that any vision could penetrate the white film which covered his eyes like curtains.

Obviously, his battles with King Joyse hadn't been his only losses in life. And it had been when he had begun to lose his sight that he had first started to search for surer ways to rule, safer means of preserving the kingship for himself and his successor. As he had repeated until everyone near him was sick of it, "Loss teaches many things." Again privately, however—and without any disrespect— Prince Kragen dropped
loss
and substituted
fear.
A man who couldn't see his enemies couldn't strike at them. For that reason, he had to find new ways to protect himself. Kragen understood his father's fear and honored it. A lesser man than Margonal would have retreated into terror and violence.

Old and no longer strong, the Alend Monarch sprawled in the most comfortable of the meeting chairs and turned his head toward the sound of his son's entrance. Because he was punctilious, he didn't speak until the Alend Contender had been announced, and had greeted him in the formal manner prescribed by custom. Then he sighed as if he were especially tired. "Well, my son. My guards have already been here, whispering lurid reports which they were unable to explain. Perhaps you will tell me something comprehensible."

"My lord," Prince Kragen replied, "I fear I can only increase the range of your incomprehension." Succinctly, he described Master Quillon's visit and the destruction of the catapult. When he was done, he told his father what he was thinking.

"The Imager's actions were strange, unquestionably. But to my mind the great mystery is that King Joyse behaves as if he had not made himself weak—as if we were nothing more than an annoyance to a sovereign in an invulnerable position. And he is able to command men such as Castellan Lebbick and Master Quillon to preserve that illusion.

"Yet we know it
is
an illusion. Cadwal marches against him. He has a hole in his wall, few men to defend it, and no water for them to drink. Despite his control over the Congery, the Imagers who serve his enemies are more powerful. They are able to strike him at will anywhere in Mordant or Orison, passing through flat glass as if they were immune to madness. In addition, there are Masters on the Congery who would abandon his cause if they could. Men such as Eremis may be loyal to Mordant, but they are no longer committed to their King.

"His lords will not help him. The Armigite is a coward. The Termigan values nothing but his own affairs. And the Perdon resists Cadwal, not for King Joyse, but for his own survival. Of the Cares, only Domne, Tor, and Fayle are truly loyal. Yet the Domne does not fight. The Tor is old, sodden with wine—and
here,
where he is unable to muster his people. And the Fayle cannot come to Orison's aid because we stand in his way.

"And
still
King Joyse treats us as if we lack the means to harm him."

The more he thought about it, the more unsure the Prince became. For a moment, he chewed on his moustache while his doubts chewed on him. Then he concluded, "In truth, my lord, I cannot decide in my own mind whether his audacity constitutes raving or deep policy."

Again, the Alend Monarch sighed. With apparent irrelevance, he murmured, "I suffered an uncomfortable night. The loss of sight has sharpened my powers of recollection. Instead of sleeping, I saw every trick and subterfuge he has ever practiced against me. I felt every blow of our battles. Such memories would curdle the blood of a young sovereign with his eyes clear in his head. For me, they are fatal."

Facing his son as if he could see, Margonal asked in a husky voice, "Can you think of anything—anything at all—that a king such as Joyse might gain by feigning weakness—by allowing Imagers to bring atrocities down on the heads of his people—by permitting us to invest him when his defenses are so poor?"

"No." Prince Kragen shook his head for his own benefit. "It is madness. It must be madness."

"And the lady Elega? She is his daughter. Her knowledge of him is greater than yours—greater even than mine. Can she think of anything that he might gain?"

Again, the Prince said, "No." He trusted her, didn't he? He believed what she believed about her father, didn't he?

Abruptly, the Alend Monarch raised his voice. "Then he is a madman, a
madman.
He must be rooted out of his stronghold and made to pay for this. Do you hear me? It is unsufferable!"

As if he didn't know what they were doing, his fists began to beat on the arms of his chair.

"I understand his desire to take Mordant from us and rule it as his own. He was able to do it—therefore he did it. Who would not? And I understand his desire to gather all the resources of Imagery for himself. Again he was able to do it—therefore he did it. Who would not? And perhaps I understand also his restraint when he had created the Congery, his refusal to use his power for conquest. That is not what Festten would have done. It is not what I would have done. But perhaps in that he was saner than we.

"But
this
—
!
To create all he has created, and then abandon it to destruction!" Now the Alend Monarch was shouting. "To forge such a weapon as the Congery, and then make himself vulnerable to attack, neglect responsibility, turn his back on those who serve and trust him, so that his enemies have no choice but to attempt to wrest his weapon from him for their own survival!" Margonal half rose from his seat, as if he intended to go to demand sense from King Joyse in person. "I say it is
unsufferable!
It must not
continue!"

As quickly as it had come up, however, his passion subsided. Sinking back, he wiped his hands across his face.

"My son," he whispered hoarsely, "when I received your message asking us to march, a chill went into my heart. I cannot warm it away. I
know
that man. He has beaten me too often. I fear that he has lured us here to destroy us—that his weakness is a pose to bring us and Cadwal within reach, so we can be crushed at his ease, instead of met in honest battle. You say this cannot be true. The lady Elega says it cannot be true. My own reason says it cannot be true—if only because in fifty years he has never shown any desire to crush us. And yet I fear it.

"He has witched me. We have come here to our doom."

Prince Kragen stared at what his father was saying and tried not to shudder. Fear teaches many things, he thought. Have all the rest of us been blind? Why have we never believed that Joyse is malign? Softly, he answered, "My lord, say the word, and we will retreat. You are the Alend Monarch. And I trust your wisdom. We will—"

"No!" Margonal's refusal sounded more like pain than anger or protest. "No," he repeated almost at once, in a steadier tone. "He has witched me, I say. I am certain of only one thing—I cannot make decisions where he is concerned.

"No, my son, this siege is yours. You are the Alend Contender. I have given our doom into your hands." A moment later, he added in warning, "If you choose retreat, be very certain that you can answer for your decision to the others who seek my Seat."

Mutely, the Prince nodded. He had caught Margonal's chill much earlier: long before this conversation, the cold of the wind had crept into his vitals. But the Alend Monarch had named his doubt for him—and the name seemed to make the doubt more palpable, more potent.
We have come here to our doom.
When his father asked, "What will you do?" he chewed his lip and replied, "I do not know."

"Choose soon." Now Margonal spoke to him harshly, as he himself had spoken harshly to the lady Elega. "Festten will not be patient with your uncertainty."

In response, Kragen stiffened his spine. "Perhaps not, my lord. Nevertheless our doom will be Cadwal's as well. Until the issue is proven, I will do my best to teach the High King better uses for his impatience."

Slowly, the Alend Monarch relaxed until he was sprawling in his chair once again. Unexpectedly, he smiled. "Festten, I have heard, has many sons. I have only one. I am inclined to think, however, that I have already bested him in the matter."

Because he didn't know what else to do, Prince Kragen bowed deeply. Then he withdrew from his father's presence and went to watch a vague brown shape rise above the walls of Orison and wreck another of his best catapults.

Fortunately, his men escaped without injury this time.

His face showed nothing but confidence as he went to consult with all his captains.

TWENTY-EIGHT: A DAY OF TROUBLE

Castellan Lebbick stood with the three Imagers on the ramparts of the northwest wall and watched as the brown shape which Adept Havelock had translated reduced the second Alend catapult to firewood and splinters. At this elevation, behind the defensive parapet built into Orison's outward face, he had a good view despite the distance.

Judging by the old scowl cut into the lines of his face, the knot of his jaw muscles, the bleak glare in his eyes, he wasn't impressed. He ought to have been impressed. He had had no idea that this mirror existed—or that a creature with no more definition than dense smoke could be translated
and controlled,
could be made to carry rocks as heavy as a man anywhere the Adept commanded. And that wasn't all. In plain fact, he had had no idea that Havelock was still sane enough to cooperate in Orison's defense—that plans could be designed on the assumption that the Adept would carry out his part in them. In some way, the Castellan's warrior spirit probably was impressed. Unquestionably he ought to have been.

He wasn't conscious of it, however. He certainly didn't show it. The truth was that only a harsh act of will enabled him to keep his mind on what he was doing, pay any attention to the situation at all.

"Well done," Master Quillon breathed as the airborne shape returned to Havelock's glass, gusting easily across the wind. "You surpass yourself, indeed you do." And he actually patted the Adept's shoulder like an old friend—which would have surprised Lebbick under other circumstances, since Havelock's lunacy had made friendship with him impossible for everyone except King Joyse. Who was himself, the Castellan thought sourly, no longer particularly sane.