The Mirror of Her Dreams (51 page)

Black against grey, Terisa's enemy and the newcomer faced each other.

For a moment, they paused. The man in grey commented pleasantly, 'It might be interesting to know who you are.'

The man in black barked a laugh and exploded at his opponent.

Iron flashed and scraped. Blows resounded. The man in black was knocked to the wall. He recovered and countered as if he were immune to pain. With his cloak, he made an attempt to snare the man in grey. The ploy failed. Their swords clashed; caught and held; clashed again. Attacking, retreating, flinging their bodies from side to side, they wove quick sparks about them like fireworks.

The man in grey kept smiling, but his concentration was savage.

Terisa should have helped. She knew that. She should have gotten to her feet, picked up one of the fallen swords, tried to intervene. For Prince Kragen. Or the man in grey. But she didn't move. Instead, she lay on the cold, wet stone with her hands at her temples, terrified by the enormity of what was happening because of her.

She had no idea
why.
What had she done to deserve such hate? Or to be defended from it?

The man in grey moved with such speed that it was difficult to realize how graceful he was, difficult to follow the way his sword swept and cut as if it were avid in his hands. He and his opponent wove gloom and echoes and hot sparks around each other. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, he blocked his opponent's blade, then dropped one fist from his swordhilt and struck a backhand blow which staggered the man in black.

Smoothly, almost contemptuously, Terisa's attacker brushed aside the onslaught which followed. He gripped her defender's blade with one gloved hand long enough to chop his elbow down on the man in grey's neck.

The man in grey staggered to the floor. He caught himself on one knee, countered a brutal assault, regained his feet. He was still smiling,
still smiling.
But his opponent had single-handedly beaten Argus and Ribuld. Sweat ran from his face. The lanterns showed a glare of desperation in his eyes.

Shouts rang along the corridor. He made the mistake of glancing to see what they meant.

His opponent responded with a belly-thrust so swift it couldn't be parried.

He parried it.

The convulsive effort cost him his balance, however. Although he stopped the next blow with his blade, it was so powerful that it knocked him on his back.

For a fraction of a second, he was as helpless as Terisa.

Then Prince Kragen sprang into the struggle, whirling his bloody blade.

The Perdon was only half a step behind him.

The man in black flung a look of yellow hate at Terisa.

An instant later, he leaped back. His hands and sword made a strange gesture.

Without warning, he disappeared. Before the echoes of combat died, he was gone from the passage as completely as if he had never been there.

The Perdon gaped. Prince Kragen dropped his sword in stunned surprise. The man in grey regained his feet, hunting the air as though he thought he might hear or smell some sign of his opponent.

Shivering, Terisa got her arms under her and pushed her chest off the floor.

The Prince was breathing in harsh gasps, near exhaustion; but he went to look at his men. When he saw that one of them had been beheaded, he clenched his fists over his heart, and his face twisted into a snarl. They were my friends,' he rasped. 'I was in your debt, my lady. But now I think I have made repayment.'

The Perdon spat, 'Pigswill!' He wasn't talking to Prince Kragen. 'Who weie they? How could they know we would be here?'

Braced on her hands and knees, Terisa watched her rescuer wipe his sword and sheath it, then kneel in front of her to help her to her feet. He had a nice smile-he was trying to reassure her-and his face was strong. It reminded her of someone. Nevertheless his eyes were clouded with trouble.

'My lady, I'm Artagel. One of Geraden's numerous brothers. He asked me to watch over you. I haven't done very well.

'Apparently'-he grimaced-'someone really wants you killed.'

The smell of blood on her clothes was so strong that she simply couldn't help fainting.

13 Folly in Good Faith

WHEN SHE CAME TO, she suffered a moment of disorientation. Half of her seemed to be standing up: the other half was upside down. She thought she was going to fall, but something hard held her by the waist.

'We were betrayed,' the Perdon rasped. 'Does this not make you suspicious? Perhaps in Alend the word alliance has another meaning. What better way to fill Mordant with dissension than by bringing violence to an unprecedented meeting between the lords of the Cares and the Masters of the Congery? This ensures that we will not be strong enough to defend ourselves.'

'My lord Perdon-' Prince Kragen began in a dangerous tone.

'And if we are not strong enough to defend ourselves,' the Perdon snarled, 'where else shall we turn for help, but to Margonal and you?'

'Two of my friends are
dead!'
the Prince retorted. His diplomatic self-control was badly frayed. 'If I desired dissension in Mordant, I would have one of the
lords
killed, not any of
my men!'

As her eyes squeezed into focus, she saw that she was indeed upright; but her arms and torso dangled towards the floor. The backs of her hands scraped lightly on the cold stone. A forearm clasped about her waist kept her from falling on her head.

'If you must have traitors,' Prince Kragen went on fiercely, 'I advise you to look for them among your fellow lords. Who gains if the Cares are not united against their King?'

'Precisely, my lord Prince,' demanded the Perdon. 'Who?'

'Any lord who can hope to become King directly, without disloyalty to Joyse. The Tor does not mean to return to Marshall. Queen Madin has had considerable time to forge a bond between her husband and the Fayle. Is it inconceivable that the road to power may be shorter if it does not pass through a union of the lords with Alend and the Congery?'

'Are you all right, my lady?' Artagel asked. He was the one holding her.

Now she understood: he had put her in that position because she had fainted. He helped her pull herself upright, and she found that she was able to keep her balance. Watching her closely, he withdrew his hands from her waist. A glance down the passage showed her that he had moved a short distance from the scene of combat. Her clothes still stank; but now she was able to stomach that. She took a deep breath, pushed her hair back from her face, and murmured, 'I think so. Thanks.'

He gave her a fleet smile and at once turned away. 'The alternative, my lords,' he said, striding towards Prince Kragen and the Perdon, 'is that you were betrayed by an Imager.'

'I would like to believe that,' said the Perdon gruffly. He seemed to regard Artagel as an equal. 'But only Master Eremis and Master Gilbur knew the place of our meeting. And it was Master Eremis who brought that meeting about. If he desired disunion among us, he did not need to go to such lengths. All that was required was to leave us alone.' He paused, then said, 'I cannot speak so positively for Master Gilbur.'

'And I,' said Prince Kragen, 'did not know that Imagery could do such things. Is it not true that such a translation would require a flat glass? And is it not true that translation through flat glass produces madness? Who could have performed the feat we have witnessed?'

No one had spoken to Terisa. She wasn't sure they knew she could hear them. But she replied, 'The arch-Imager. Vagel.'

For a moment, the three men stood still. Then the Perdon growled, 'As Master Eremis said. But who in Orison-or in all Mordant-would be foolish or vile enough to ally himself with that fiend?'

'Let's look, my lords.' Artagel moved past the Perdon and Prince Kragen towards the nearest of the fallen attackers.

Terisa followed, walking warily back into the memory of bloodshed. Artagel was kneeling over the body when she drew near him. He turned it on to its back; she flinched at the sight of the gory wound in its chest. Nevertheless she watched as he pushed aside the cloak in order to inspect the dead man's face and armour.

The hardened leather chestplate was so black that she couldn't make out any of the details Artagel appeared to be analysing. She didn't know what he was talking about when he suddenly tapped the covering over the dead man's heart and said, 'Here.'

'I lack your eyes,' growled the Perdon. 'What is it?'

'A sigil.' Abruptly, Artagel rose to his feet. 'I've seen it before.' His eyes held no expression; his face looked as hard as the stone around him,
'This
man is a Cadwal. The sigil indicates that he trains with and serves the High King's Monomach.'

'Gart?' Prince Kragen asked incredulously.
'Here?
Was that Gart you fought?'

'I don't know who I fought.' Artagel's voice was like his face, blank and rigid, 'Whoever he was, he beat me. But this man is one of Gart's Apts. The others must be the same.'

'Entrails and carrion!' spat the Perdon. 'An Apt of the High King's Monomach!'

'But
here?'
the Prince persisted. 'How could such men come here? How could they gain admittance to Orison? They could not simply enter the gates. Castellan Lebbick is not so lax.'

Artagel nodded curtly. They must have come the same way their leader vanished.'

'Vagel?' Prince Kragen scowled in frank dismay. 'Why did we ever believe the story that he was dead?'

The Perdon had no answer. At the mention of Lebbick, he had jerked up his head as if he were reminded of something important. Now he glanced rapidly back and forth down the corridor, trying to watch both directions at once. 'I have a better question. Do we wish to be found here when the Castellan comes?'

The Prince became instantly alert. 'Will he come? Are we not beyond earshot of his nearest guard?'

That spineless fop, the Armigite,' explained the Perdon. His voice dripped venom. 'When we heard the sounds of attack which brought me to your side, he fled in the opposite direction, yowling murder. He must have missed his way, or the Castellan would already be here. In any case, we have little time,'

'He will question me, whatever I do,' mused Kragen. 'My men are dead. But if I am not here, he will not be able to connect me to this bloodshed.' Promptly, he made his decision. 'My lord Perdon-Artagel of Domne-I thank you for my life. But I will not remain with you, to give us all the look of treachery. My lady, farewell.'

Retrieving his sword, he slapped it into its sheath and ran. Swiftly, the sound of his strides receded into the distance.

'I will leave you also,' the Perdon said to Artagel. 'I do not know what role this woman means to play in our doom, but I will not risk an accusation of treason to protect her.'

Muttering angrily, 'Cadwals! Horsepiss,' he rushed away after the Prince.

Terisa looked at Artage! and saw that the gleam was back in his eyes; he was smiling again. In reply to her gaze, he bowed humorously. 'For my part, my lady, I haven't got anything worth hiding. Whatever happens, all Orison will assume I had something to do with this many dead bodies. I'm afraid I have that kind of reputation-I don't know why. In any case, I have a better opinion of Lebbick than most people do. But there's no reason why you should have to spend the rest of the night listening to him sneer at you.' He gestured down the passage. 'Shall we go?'

Again, she said, Thanks.' She wished he would take her arm: she needed the support. 'I don't think I can face him. He doesn't like me.'

'Nonsense.' As if guided by inspiration, he slipped his arm through hers and braced her companionably. His tone jollied her along. 'You don't know him as well as I do. Our good Castellan only insults the people he likes. And if he likes you a lot, he becomes positively scathing. His wife-rest her soul-was the only person in Orison who was ever able to get civility as well as affection out of him.'

Together, they moved through the gloom towards the next lantern.