The Mirror of Her Dreams (55 page)

The mediator was staggered. 'Is this true?'

'It is,' Master Eremis said crisply. 'He admitted his intention to inform King Joyse, so that we would be prevented from any exercise of our own judgement or will.'

Startled out of concentrating on Geraden, Terisa thought, That's not really the way it happened. Is it? But it was. The more she tried to remember, the more she had to agree with Master Eremis and Master Gilbur. It was only her personal reaction to the Fayle's dignity which misled her.

'Then why,' Master Quillon inquired unexpectedly, 'has the King done nothing to prevent us?'

Suddenly angry, Master Eremis whirled to face Quillon. 'You ask me to explain
his
decisions? If I had
that
power, I could save Mordant single-handedly.'

'We can't explain them,' an Imager who hadn't spoken before said urgently. 'We've got to act-before Lebbick and his men get here to stop us.'

Geraden's face wore an intent frown, as if he were listening hard.

'Very well.' Master Barsonage rose heavily to his feet. 'I have conceded everything else.' He had an air of defeat: even his eyebrows looked wilted. 'I concede the need for haste also. Be plain, Master Eremis. What do you propose?'

Eremis turned to the mediator. The way he pivoted, balanced himself, and faced Master Barsonage conveyed so much sharp energy that he seemed to give off sparks. His expression was too intense for Terisa to interpret.

Translate our champion,' he said. 'Now.'

Master Barsonage nodded. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he asked, 'Why?'

Master Eremis was ready. To prove our good faith. We are not heeded because it is believed that we have no commitment to anything except ourselves. Or because as the King's tools we have, in effect, lost our minds as badly as he has,'

Now he raised his voice so that it throbbed and thrilled in the chamber, as clarion and moving as a trumpet. 'We have no way to convince anyone otherwise except by taking single and unselfish action in Mordant's defence. Only by opposing the evil ourselves can we show that we are worthy of trust and alliance.'

That might have been enough to gain what he wanted. It was enough for Terisa: his electricity and passion swept her with him. But Master Gilbur didn't leave it alone.

'In addition,' he rasped, 'we must consider the possibility that Prince Kragen and the lords came to our meeting for an entirely different reason. We were created by Joyse. He set an example for Cadwal and Alend to follow. They think we are to be used as they see fit, and they manoeuvre against each other in order to
possess
us.' His hands made fierce fists on the railing in front of him. They want to own us as if we were things instead of men.

'We have no swords or soldiers.' His voice lacked resonance, but it had the force to be terrifying. 'We can never protect ourselves
unless we show our power!'
Through the silence which followed his shout, everyone heard the hammering at the door. It sounded like the haft of a sword or the butt of a pike belabouring the wood.

Everyone heard the command:

'In the King's name, open this door!'

For a fraction of a second, Terisa had time to wonder why King Joyse had changed his mind.

Then Geraden jerked up his head.
'The Castellan'
At once, he tried to gain his feet, yelling, 'Castellan Lebbick! Break down the door! Stop them!'

Gilbur jerked him back. With one stone fist, the Master struck him so hard across the side of his head that his whole body flopped suddenly. His eyes glazed.

Terisa froze. Everything was happening at once. King Joyse had finally made a decision. Master Eremis' plans were in danger.
Geraden was hurt.

Most of the Imagers were on their feet, shouting at each other frantically; but Master Barsonage sank to the bench. His face had no strength left: he looked lost. 'Then it must be done,' he murmured to no one in particular. 'Or else we will cease to exist.'

'Gilbur!' Master Eremis barked. A grin bared his teeth. 'Do it now!'

Master Gilbur dropped Geraden and hurried into the centre of the chamber, towards the dais and his mirror.

Several of the Imagers cheered. Others dithered in alarm. They all got out of Gilbur's way, however. They crowded past the pillars towards the walls, as far as possible from Castellan Lebbick's hammering and the mirror.

Eremis took Master Gilbur's place, lifting Geraden from the stone and holding both him and Terisa with a grip they couldn't break.

The mirror faced them directly. Geraden plainly had no idea what was going on-he couldn't even hold up his head-but Terisa had a perfect view.

Master Gilbur put his hand on the frame and deftly began to adjust the focus of the glass. After one heartbeat, the champion was centred in the Image: after another, he seemed to sweep forward until he filled the mirror.

The pounding on the door had become a heavy, rhythmic thud. Terisa could hear wood cracking. But the iron-bound timbers were too stout to yield easily. Between blows, Castellan Lebbick shouted, 'Master Barsonage! Imagers! By the stars, I will have this door open!'

Master Gilbur shot a glance towards Master Eremis.

'Translate him!'
Eremis hissed.

Geraden stirred, shook his head. Blinking rapidly, he tried to clear his vision.

Master Gilbur braced his hands against the edge of the mirror as though he were preparing to pull the champion through by main force. His guttural voice rasped words Terisa couldn't understand.

'Got to stop him.' Geraden sounded like he was choking. Somehow, he fell forward over the rail. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he stumbled towards Master Gilbur.

Master Eremis was no longer holding Terisa. Had he tried to grab Geraden and missed? Lost his grip on her at the same time? She had no idea: she didn't see him. Her attention was concentrated on Geraden.

Swinging her legs over the rail, she went after him.

He was too late. If he hadn't been stupefied by Master Gilbur's blow, he would have seen that he couldn't reach the glass in time.

In front of him, the surface of the mirror went dark as the champion surged through it.

His armour made him at least seven feet tall. His head showed no face, but only a thick plate which must have been a visor. The metallic skin which protected him was scored black in several places: it had been breached at least twice. Acrid smoke curled from the wounds. He moved as if he were hurt.

But his huge rifle was ready. As he caught his balance on the dais, he aimed the muzzle straight at Geraden's chest.

Terisa got her arms onto Geraden's shoulders. He was so weak and woozy that her weight pulled him to the floor.

The first shot went over them. The Masters shouted. At least one of them screamed.

Trying to pull her legs under her, fighting to stand, she suddenly found herself staring down the barrel of the rifle.

For a period of time as quick and intense as a heartbeat, she watched the champion's metal-clad hand tighten on the firing mechanism.

Then he jerked up the barrel, and the blast hit the ceiling.

Broken stone began falling into the chamber.

The champion unclosed one hand from his rifle, gripped her neck and forced her down on top of Geraden. 'Stay there.' His voice blared like a megaphone, but it was barely audible through the thunder of collapsing stone. 'I don't shoot women.'

The next instant, he started firing again.

In a rush, the entire ceiling came down.

BOOK TWO

CASTELLAN LEBBICK suspected that he was foundering inside. Of course, life in Orison had been going from bad to worse for some time now; but suddenly the purpose of his life had sprung leaks in all directions.

Because of Congery's gamble, he had several crises to deal with at once. But they were only symptoms; they weren't fundamental. As he strode to face them, he was smiling like a hawk; and only his wife-and perhaps King Joyse-had ever known him well enough to realize that this smile was a bad sign. To other people, he probably looked like he was in his element, eager for the conflicts of disaster which would provide an outlet and a justification for his rage. Only his wife and his oldest friend could have understood the particular ferocity of his grin.

Unfortunately, his wife was dead-miserably dead, killed by a long, hacking illness that cut her life out as effectively as a knife in her lungs. Nearly a year had passed, and he still missed her so acutely that it seemed to make his guts tremble.

And King Joyse had cast him adrift-

He had refused to hear the Fayle.
One way or another, he blocked every vital act, interfered with every hope.

The Castellan clenched his teeth tighter, stretched his smile thinner, and refused to think about it. King Joyse was his reason for living. The passions which had led to the founding of Mordant, the ideals which had inspired the creation of the Congery-these things were the blood in his veins, the air in his chest. He was the King's hands. The King had rescued him-

Now the King
had refused to hear the Fayle.
He had abandoned it all to die, Mordant and passion and purpose, abandoned it to die miserably, hacking its life out while Castellan Lebbick cradled it in his arms and couldn't let go.

No, he was definitely not going to think about that. He had too many other problems in front of him.

That woman.

To himself, he chewed out a long, scathing curse. She was in everything somehow. The connections were there, if he could find them: she was doing this to Orison and Mordant somehow.

And she made the back of his throat ache with a desire he hadn't felt since the days of his wife's best beauty.

He wasn't going to think about that, either. He was going to do his job,
cling
to it until he recovered what it meant.

For a start, he was going to sort out the consequences of the latest catastrophe perpetrated by those pig-brained Imagers.

His task had the advantage of being both dramatic and subtle. All the crises were linked together in some way.

First in point of time, if not in degree of urgency, there was the matter of Prince Kragen's dead bodyguards.

Clearly, they had been killed for
some
reason. And they couldn't have shed all that blood themselves. Furthermore, it seemed unlikely that they were responsible for tracking their own blood away from the places where they lay dead.

And that woman had returned to her rooms liberally besmirched with blood.

There was a band of renegade soldiers-or worse-loose in Orison. They were skilled and numerous enough-or worse- to kill trained bodyguards and carry away their own dead or wounded. They had friends to conceal them. They had something to do with that woman. And their purpose was to instigate a war between Mordant and Alend. Or worse.

That brought up other matters. What had happened to the man in black who had tried to kill her during the night after her arrival? He had escaped easily enough. Why hadn't he made another attempt?

What came next? An attack on the King himself?

And King Joyse
had refused to hear the Fayle.
The old lord had tried to warn the King of the Congery's intentions, and the King had refused to hear him. The Fayle had spoken directly to the Castellan because he had no other recourse.

Which raised the question of how the Fayle had come to know what those Imagers meant to do. He had flatly declined to answer when Lebbick had demanded an answer.

As for the Congery's crazy defiance of King Joyse's prohibition against forced translations, Castellan Lebbick knew who was responsible-or, more accurately, he knew whom he could blame. He had compelled the Fayle to mention a name or two. But they would have to wait. The results of that translation posed more immediate problems.