The Mirror of Her Dreams (98 page)

In fact, most of Orison's burgeoning population was hoping for snow. But the next morning brought, not clouds and cold, but a warming trend. Apparently, the weather was on Alend's side.

Castellan Lebbick wasted no time cursing the weather, however. He had other things to swear about.

The influx of people and livestock and supplies into Orison was actually going quite well. Of course, life in the courtyard was little better than thinly structured chaos; and people who found themselves quartered in the once-unused depths of the castle had to contend with a damp which only grew worse as the walls were warmed by fires and bodies. But there was room for everybody somewhere. And the added livestock and supplies compensated for the increased number of people who had to be fed.

The causes of Castellan Lebbick's compressed fury lay elsewhere.

He had heard nothing from his scouts-but that was good news, not bad. On the other hand, he had also heard nothing from the men who were backtracking Geraden's attackers. As news, that was uncontestably bad. It left open the ominous possibility that an entire horde of creatures was gathering somewhere to sweep down on Orison at the worst possible moment.

Unfortunately, the Castellan also had other provocations. One was that the Tor refused to leave him alone. Having failed to dent King Joyse's detachment, the fat old lord now insisted on knowing everything about Orison's defences. He wasn't content with generalities: he wanted specifics-the names of officers who had been given certain orders; the quantity and disposition of certain stores; the important routes for moving men and weapons (and water-was the Castellan ready in case of fire?) through the castle. The lord's interference was enough to make a kind man savage.

As another provocation, King Joyse refused to take seriously Lebbick's report from Master Barsonage. 'Disbanded?' he snorted. 'Nonsense. Barsonage has just lost his nerve. Find Master Quillon.' The King hopped a piece on his board and studied the resulting position. Tell him he's the new mediator. I need those Imagers.'

Although Castellan Lebbick gnawed at an outrage that was starting to taste like despair, King Joyse refused to say anything further.

And the lady Elega appeared to have vanished without a trace. The guards not only failed to find her: they also failed to find any sign of her-any little stores of food and water; any clothes; any lamps or candles; any (the guards were thorough) carrier pigeons. All they found was Adept Havelock, who appeared at awkward intervals and treated them to displays of wisdom and decorum which would have embarrassed the ruffians at a carnival. The Adept seemed to be having the time of his life. Nevertheless Castellan Lebbick wasn't diverted.

Behind his anger, and his concentration on his duty, and his determined belief that no one woman could deliver him and Orison to the King's enemies, he was beginning to sweat.

'Do you think,' Geraden asked Terisa, 'it's something stupid and obvious, like suborning the guards? That might work if nobody suspected her. It's at least imaginable that she could arrange to have the gates opened in the middle of the night.'

He was calmer today, which relieved her sense of responsibility for him and freed her to feel worse herself. Perhaps his obsession was starting to soak into her, making her tense and irritable for no good reason. Or perhaps there was something-she ground her teeth at the idea. Something she knew and couldn't remember? Something she ought to understand? Damn it.

Scowling at the Apt as if he were to blame, she tried to make sense out of the little she knew.

Tell me something. Why haven't Alend or Cadwal-or both -attacked Mordant long before this?'

They were afraid of King Joyse. They were afraid of what he would do with the Congery.'

She nodded. 'And why is Margonal attacking now? Why isn't he still afraid?'

'Because he's heard'-this was painful for Geraden to say- 'from Prince Kragen and probably a few dozen other sources that King Joyse doesn't care any more.'

'No.' She felt that she was pouncing. 'That's not good enough. So what if the King doesn't care? Why isn't Margonal still afraid of the Congery? Why isn't he afraid the Masters will defend themselves no matter what King Joyse does?'

'Because they've disbanded.'

'He doesn't know that.
She
probably doesn't know it.'

At that, Geraden faced her with an awakening light in his eyes, as if she had suddenly become more beautiful or brilliant. 'In that case, she's promised to do something that will keep the Masters from fighting back.'

'Yes.' That made sense to her. For a moment, she felt vindicated, sharply triumphant.

But she was misleading herself, of course. After scrutinizing what she had suggested, he asked, 'What, exactly? What
can
she do? What power does she have over the Congery?'

Terisa had no idea.

This time, it was Geraden who stared morosely out the window. 'I told you an early thaw was dangerous,' he muttered for no particular reason.

The next day was overcast and gloomy, full of cold wind: it seemed to promise a return of winter. Castellan Lebbick kept an eye cocked at the sky while he fretted at the Tor's persistent attention and stewed over the fact that his scouts hadn't come back. Without realizing it, he fell into the pattern of announcing, when he had nothing more direct or withering to say, that he intended to have the Armigite charbroiled at his earliest convenience.

From a superficial point of view, Orison demanded a great deal of him. The castle was over-crowded-and over-crowding bred quarrels as well as vermin. People were angry because they had been forced to leave their homes. Some merchants were angry because everything they owned had been commandeered;

others were angry because almost no one could afford to pay the exorbitant prices dictated by scarcity. Guards were angry because they were being cooped up, or drilled too hard, or assigned to duties they didn't like. Lords and ladies were angry because anger was in the air. Everybody was angry because everybody was afraid. And fear made anger seem more urgent, righteous, and justified.

The truth was, however, that Castellan Lebbick now had the castle organized to function almost entirely without him. His men knew what to do; their officers knew what to do. Everybody was angry, but virtually no one got hurt. The Castellan really had nothing to do but fret and stew-and keep an eye on the weather.

That night, what was left of the squad backtracking Geraden's attackers rode into Orison: two battered veterans with wounds that still bled, kept open by hard riding. The squad had been ambushed by a number of the same creatures. And the ambush had taken place not far south of the Broadwine-not far into the Care of Tor.

To commemorate the occasion, the Tor broached a new hogshead of wine. But Castellan Lebbick concentrated on snow. If the weather turned to snow, the men he had sent to the Perdon, the Fayle, even the Termigan might have time to get through.

In the morning, the weather turned to spring.

Sunlight poured through the windows, leaving a gold largesse on the stone floors and the thick rugs. A breeze like a harbinger of flowers wafted through the courtyard. A few patches of bare ground appeared on the hillsides, and some of the distant trees looked distinctly like they intended to bud. Unexpected flocks of birds swirled over the roofs of the castle, alighted in loud clusters on the tiles and gutters, and sang.

Shortly after noon, the Castellan's scouts returned to report that the Alend army was already in the Demesne. Barring a cataclysmic disaster or a miraculous reprieve, Orison would be under siege no later than noon the next day.

The scouts gauged that Margonal had ten thousand men-two thousand mounted, eight thousand on foot-and enough engines of war to take the castle apart stone from stone. As it happened, many of the engines were of Armigite design. Apparently, Prince Kragen's dealings with the Armigite hadn't been as simple as the story he had told Nyle.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the only bad news.

Shortly before sunset, a trumpet announced the arrival of riders. Nearly a hundred soldiers came down the road from the Care of Perdon. They looked old and weary, as if they had been travelling for an indecent length of time. They carried the Perdon's banner and wore the Perdon's insignia, and they moved slowly. All of them were injured: limbs were missing; heads and chests bandaged; faces haggard. Many of their horses supported litters bearing dead men.

When he realized who the riders were, the trumpeter changed his note to the wail of a dirge.

'Oh, no,' Terisa groaned, watching from her window as the procession approached. 'He said he was going to do this.'

'Cadwal is marching,' muttered Geraden grimly. The Perdon isn't going to come to our rescue. He's already at war.'

Then he bit his lip. 'We have got to stop her. If she betrays us now, we don't have any hope.'

Castellan Lebbick and the Tor met the riders at the gate. The Tor made a short speech. The Castellan didn't know how to express grief or compassion, so he remained silent.

To Orison's welcome and the Tor's speech, the captain of the riders replied only, 'We are dying. The Perdon commanded us to come.'

The sunset that evening was especially glorious.

Terisa pushed her supper away untasted. Geraden picked at a piece of bread, rolling bits of dough into pellets and tossing them at the hearth. The mood in the room was as dark as the night outside the window. Neither of them had spoken for a long time.

At last, he murmured, 'It isn't enough.'

'Hmm?' she asked vaguely.

For no special reason, they had both neglected to light the lamps. The only illumination came from the hearth. Flickering firelight cast streaks of orange and shadow across the Apt's face; bits of flame echoed in and out of his eyes.

'It isn't enough,' he repeated. 'Suppose Elega knows some way to neutralize the Masters. For example, suppose-just for the sake of supposing-that she has some kind of acid that eats glass. And she knows a way to sneak into the laborium where the mirrors are kept.
And
she knows where all the Masters keep all their 'private' mirrors. Suppose she has time to ruin every mirror in Orison. That's a lot-but it isn't enough.'

As he spoke, she was gradually struck by the impression that his face had changed. The firelight seemed to emphasize an alteration in the line of his jaw, the planes of his cheeks, the shape of his frown. The pressure of the past few days had ground the puppy out of him. He no longer looked like a man who tripped over his own feet and smiled lopsidedly at the results.

'It wouldn't defeat Orison,' he mused into the fire, talking mostly to himself, 'Castellan Lebbick wouldn't surrender for a reason like that. There has to be some other answer.'

Yes, she said inside herself. There has to be some other answer. But she wasn't agreeing with him. She was consciously and explicitly angry. She was angry at Artagel and Castellan Lebbick and Nyle. She was angry at King Joyse, who knew what he was doing to people who had spent their lives trusting him. She was angry at the Masters for their derision, their unwillingness to understand. She had
liked
Geraden's puppyish look. She had
liked
his ability to tumble all over himself without feeling that he was to blame for the destruction of everything he loved.

Why are
we
responsible for Elega? Why is it
our
fault she's probably going to betray everybody?

A moment later, however, her memory brought another image back to her, as vivid as Geraden's face-an image of the lady Myste. Sitting in this same room, Myste had explained to Terisa why she wanted to go after the champion.
I have always believed,
she had said,
that problems should be solved by those who see them. This is more true rather than less for a kings daughter.

Myste! Terisa murmured with a silent ache. What happened to you? Where are you?

What is Elega doing?

Without thinking, she said aloud, 'Water.'

Geraden's face shifted through patches of light and darkness until he was looking at her. 'Water?'

'Where do we get water?'