The Mirror of Her Dreams (45 page)

Squinting into the breeze to keep his vision clear, Geraden stared out at the riders. After a long moment, he breathed softly, 'Sand and ttnct! That looks like the Tor. The Tor himself. He hasn't been to Orison since I came here.' To Terisa, he added, 'Some people say he's too fat to travel. But I think he's probably just too old. He's at least ten years older than King Joyse.' Then he murmured distantly, 'If that's him, what's he doing here? At this time of year?'

As he spoke, Terisa felt the cold reach around her heart, and she turned towards the stairs leading back into the tower. The Perdon was keeping the promise he had made to Master Eremis.

But one of the Masters had said-or implied?-that the Tor was incapable of making such a journey. There wasn't enough time? The distance was too great?

Without warning, Geraden burst past her, half running for the stairs. 'Come on!' he called over his shoulder. That's definitely the Tor! He's got a litter with him!'

For a second, she was frozen. A
litter!
Then Geraden's urgency grabbed hold of her.

He took the descent two steps at a time. The long skirt of her gown made it impossible for her to keep up with him. But he glanced back at her from the first landing, saw her difficulty, and slowed his pace.

Nearly together, they hurried down out of the tower.

A few moments ago, she had been cold: now she was hot. In spite of his haste, she stopped on the stairway to pull off her coat. He tried to calm himself, but his face betrayed his vexation at the delay. Tin sorry,' she murmured as they started moving again.

Before he could reply, he missed a step, let out a yelp, and dived headlong down the length of the stone stairs.

'Geraden!' She rushed after him in panic.

As she reached him, he got to his hands and knees and pushed himself off the floor. His head wobbled from side to side as if he couldn't remember which way was up. She took him by the arm, tried to lift him erect. 'Are you all right?'

Although he looked stunned, he put his weight on her until he propped his feet under him. Then he was able to stand.

'Don't worry. If this didn't happen at least once a day, I wouldn't know who I was.' Awkwardly, he lurched into motion. 'Come on. I've missed everything else recently. I don't want to miss this.'

His strides grew slowly steadier as he led her down more stairways towards the level of the gates.

Abruptly, the air turned cold again. They were approaching a high, wide doorway which gave access to Orison's enormous inner courtyard. Guarded doors made of heavy timbers and bolts stood ready to close the entrance if necessary; but they were open.

Shouts began to echo off the walls of the castle. Guards came running down the hall; more guards splashed out into the mire of the courtyard, running towards the gates. A moment later, Castellan Lebbick appeared. His commands carried more sharpness than the cold as he, too, headed for the gates.

'Put on your coat,' Geraden whispered tensely.

As soon as Terisa had complied, he took her arm and drew her out into the open court.

Her feet sank into the mud up to her ankles. She groaned to think of damaging such nice boots, then had to forget about them in order to concentrate on pulling herself from step to step against the suction of the muck.

She and Geraden were in the southeast end, which was relatively clear: the shops of the bazaar and the wagons of the farmers were crowded to the northwest; and among them were pitched the tents of their attendants, as well as of the guards who were responsible for maintaining order and honesty. But even this half of the courtyard looked large enough to exercise several squadrons of horses.

The castle stood open. The gate itself, a tremendous construct of timbers the size of tree-trunks and lashed with iron, had been raised, as it was every day: during the tour, Geraden had showed her the gigantic winches which cranked the gate up into the wall above its architrave. Ahead of her, the Castellan was forming his men into an honour-guard to greet the lord of the Care of Tor. A trumpeter blew an announcement. Geraden took her as close as the guards permitted to the place where the Tor's riders would enter Orison and dismount. There they stopped.

The riders were on the road outside the castle: they had almost reached the gate, despite their mourning pace. She saw now that the men were all in black. The breath of the horses steamed silver in the iron cold; but their trappings were black. Black draped the litter which four of the mounts supported from their saddles. The man who led the group hid his face under a black hood, and a black cloak was wrapped around him.

This figure was so fat that Terisa wondered how his horse could bear his weight.

He led his riders towards Castellan Lebbick, then halted within the precise formation of the honour-guard. Their horses seemed to sag under the burdens they carried.

'Greetings, my lord Tor,' the Castellan said gruffly. His shoulders were braced as if they had the weight of the whole winter on them; the purple band across his forehead emphasized the anger of his eyebrows. 'You're welcome in Orison. No matter what reason has brought you here at such a time, you're welcome.'

Slowly, the Tor raised his black-gloved hands and lifted his hood, revealing thin white hair that straggled from his pale scalp, features the shape and colour of cold potatoes, bleak eyes. His fat cheeks were hurt with cold.

In a husky voice, he rasped, 'I will see the King.'

The sharpness of the air made everything distinct. Terisa saw the shadow of a wince pass across Lebbick's hard face. 'My lord Tor,' he replied, 'King Joyse has been informed of your coming.

At present, he's busy with other matters.' He couldn't keep his disdain for those
other matters
out of his tone. The King was probably playing hop-board. 'I'm sure he'll grant you an audience shortly.'

The clouds sealing the sky were the colour of tombstones. Cold seemed to close around the courtyard. For a long moment, the Tor didn't move or speak. His eyes blinked as if he were going blind. Then, with a grunt of effort, he heaved his leg over the back of his horse and dismounted. The guards were silent: the champing of the horses and the squelching sound of his boots in the mud could be heard clearly as he moved like an old man among his people towards the litter.

From the litter, he lifted in his arms the black-draped shape of a man or woman who must have been taller than he was. He didn't look strong enough to bear so much weight; nevertheless he cradled the body against his belly, carrying it forward until he stood directly in front of Castellan Lebbick.

In the same dried-out, hollow voice, he said, This is my first son. I will see the King.'

Now the Castellan's distress was unmistakable. 'Your son, my lord Tor? That's a terrible loss.' Terisa remembered that Lebbick was acquainted with loss. 'All Mordant will sorrow with you. How did he die?'

For a moment, a flicker of passion lit the Tor's speech. 'His face was torn away by a wolf such as Mordant and Cadwal and Alend together have never known. Do you care to see the wound?' He extended the shrouded body towards Lebbick.

But almost at once his energy faded. Dully, implacably, he repeated, 'I will see the King.'

'That won't be possible.' Castellan Lebbick sounded thick and hoarse, like a man in pain. 'King Joyse doesn't yet grant you an audience.'

Through the silence, the riders at the Tor's back muttered curses. How far had they ridden in order to present the Tor's slaughtered son to his King?

Abruptly, Geraden left Terisa's side. Striding through the mud as if he couldn't be held back by any slip or accident-as if he had forgotten his talent for mishap-he went towards the Tor. The boyish prance-and-fumble of exuberance and mistake was gone from his manner entirely. The way his chestnut hair crowned the strong lines of his face made him look incontestable, as sure of himself as if he had power and knew how to use it.

Ignoring Castellan Lebbick's fierce glare, he said, 'My lord Tor, I am Geraden, youngest son of the Domne. In the name of my father and all his family, please accept my grief. King Joyse will see you. When he hears why you have come, he will see you.'

'Geraden,' the Castellan snarled in an undertone, 'be warned. You forget yourself, whelp.'

At once, Geraden turned towards Lebbick. 'No, Castellan.' He had become taller almost without transition, certain of his authority. 'Be warned yourself. You may despise me as much as you wish. But the day has not yet come when you may despise the Domne. I speak in his name.

'In his name, I claim the responsibility. Let it crush me if it will. The King will see my lord Tor.'

The Tor said nothing. He stood there with his son in his arms as though he had been stricken mute, unable to articulate his grief except by demanding the King's acknowledgement of it.

A snarl twisted Castellan Lebbick's mouth. His hands knotted at his sides. After a moment, he said softly, 'You can try, whelp. Gestures like that come cheaply to those with no duty-to those who can ignore the consequences of what they do. It's my place to ensure that King Joyse is obeyed, and I will do it'-his fist beat the words against his thigh-'if I must.'

Then he stepped aside. With a barked command, he ordered the honour-guard to do the same.

Geraden put his hand on the Tor's arm to help support the great weight of what the man carried. Together, they moved towards the nearest open door. Perhaps a dozen guards took formal positions behind them and followed.

Terisa started after them.

The Castellan stopped her with a hard gesture. 'No, my lady. There's harm enough here without your contribution.' He spat the words like gusts of steam. 'I won't expose my King's plight to a woman of your dubious allegiance.'

Raising his voice, he instructed two of his guards to return the lady Terisa of Morgan to her rooms.

For a moment, she stood right on the edge of resisting him,

though she had never done anything like that before and wouldn't have been able to do it if she had thought about it in advance. She wanted to go with Geraden. If anything could be done for the Tor, she ached to do it. But the quality of Lebbick's glare pushed her back. It was outraged and extreme, and it seemed to say that if she forced him to do her violence she would drive him mad.

She turned to the men he had assigned and let them take charge of her.

As she slogged through the mud, she heard Castellan Lebbick stiffly welcome the Tor's retinue and offer the riders and their mounts Orison's best hospitality. Then he went after the Tor and Geraden himself.

Back in her rooms, with her boots cleaned as well as possible and drying in the bathroom, she reflected that the Tor had obviously
not
come to Orison in response to any summons from the Perdon. On the other hand, what difference did the Tor's reasons for being here make now? His presence was what mattered. It worked in Master Eremis' favour.

Master Eremis wasn't a comfortable subject of contemplation. His absence gave her a secret ache of frustration and fear. Nevertheless thoughts of him were an improvement over the image of the Tor which remained with her, the fat, old man standing ankle-deep in mud, his dead son in his arms and his eyes bleak with grief. When her mother had died, and Terisa had dared to cry, her father had hit her, once, to make her stop. Then he had gotten drunk for the first and only time that she could remember. Then he had begun bringing other women into the house as though his wife had never existed. Terisa definitely preferred thinking of Master Eremis.

An hour or so passed before she realized how restless she was. She wasn't ordinarily a woman who paced, but now she caught herself tensely measuring the rugs and stone of the floor-waiting for Geraden. He had stood up to the Castellan. She felt that it was a long time since she had seen so much strength in him. Surely he would come tell her what had happened?

He did. Before lunchtime, she heard a knock on her door. When she answered it, she found Geraden outside.

He looked like a little boy. His eyes were stilt puffy from crying, and the expression in them was so forlorn that she wanted to put her arms around him.

She couldn't go that far. A lifetime of inhibition held her: she had never learned how to reach out to other people. But instinctively, without gauging what she did, she put her hand on his arm and breathed, 'Oh, Geraden. What happened?'