Elega looked at him, mute gratitude on her chafed and swollen face. She thought for a while, then nodded. “Castellan Lebbick will never surrender. My father has never surrendered in his life.”
“Then they must begin here,” snapped the Prince.
He believed that. He believed that the curtain-wall couldn’t hold – that apart from Imagery, Orison didn’t have the resources to withstand his assault. Yet doubts he could hardly name tightened their grip on his stomach as he ordered the captain to throw the first stone.
In unison, two brawny men swung mallets against the hooks on either side of the catapult; the great arm leaped forward and slammed against its stops; a boulder as heavy as a man arced out of the cup. The throw raised a shout of anticipation from the army, but Prince Kragen watched it go grimly. The flat smack of the mallets, the groan of stress in the timbers, the thud of the stops and the protest of the wheels: he seemed to feel them in his chest, as if they were blows struck against him – as if he could tell simply by the sound that the stone was going to miss.
It did.
Not entirely, of course: Orison was too big a target for that. But the boulder hit high and to the left, away from the curtain-wall.
The impact left a scar on the face of the castle. That was trivial, however: the projectile itself shattered. The plain purple swath of the King’s personal banner continued to snap and flutter, untouched, unconcerned.
Under his breath, Kragen cursed the wind, although he knew it had nothing to do with the miss. In fact, a miss was normaclass="underline" a hit would have been uncommon. The captain of catapults needed a few throws to adjust his engine, get the range. Yet Prince Kragen felt an irrational pang, as if the miss were an omen.
Perhaps it was. Before the captain’s men could start hauling on the tackle which pulled back the arm of the catapult, the entire besieging force heard the cry of a trumpet.
It wasn’t one of the familiar fanfares, announcing messengers or defiance. It was a high, shrill wail on one note, as if the trumpeter himself didn’t know what he was doing, but had simply been instructed to attract attention.
Kragen glanced at the lady Elega, implicitly asking for an explanation. She shrugged and nodded toward Orison.
From his present position, the Prince couldn’t see the castle gates. They must have been opened, however, because a man on a horse came around the corner of the wall, riding in the direction of the catapult.
He was a small man – too small for his mount, Prince Kragen gauged automatically. And not accustomed to horses, judging by the precarious way he kept his seat. If he carried any weapons or armor, they were hidden under his thick mantle.
But over his shoulders, outside his mantle, he wore the yellow chasuble of a Master. The wind made the ends of the chasuble flap so that they couldn’t be missed.
The Prince cocked a black eyebrow, but didn’t let anything else show. Conscious that everything he said would be heard and reported throughout the army, he murmured calmly, “Interesting. An Imager. A Master of the Congery. Do you know him, my lady?”
She waited until there was no possibility of mistake. Then she responded softly, “Quillon, my lord Prince.” She was frowning hard. “Why him? He has never been important, either to the Congery or to my father.”
Prince Kragen smiled toward the approaching Master. So that only Elega could hear him, he commented, “I suspect we will learn the answer shortly.”
Master Quillon came forward, red-faced and laughable on his oversized mount. His eyes watered as if he were weeping, though there was no sorrow in his expression. His nose twitched like a rabbit’s; his lips exposed his protruding teeth. But as the Master brought his horse to a halt in front of Prince Kragen and the lady Elega – as Quillon dismounted almost as if he were falling, blown out of his seat by the wind – the Alend Contender had no difficulty suppressing his mirth. Regardless of what Quillon looked like, he was an Imager. If he had a mirror with him, he might be able to do considerable damage before he was taken prisoner or killed.
“My lord Prince,” he said without preamble – without a glance at King Joyse’s daughter or a bow for the Alend Monarch’s son – “I have come to warn you.”
The men around the Prince stiffened; the captain of catapults put his hand on his sword. But Prince Kragen’s demeanor gave no hint of offense.
“To warn us, Master Quillon?” His tone was smooth, despite the piercing glitter of his gaze. “That is an unexpected courtesy. I distinctly heard Castellan Lebbick threaten to ‘unleash the Congery’ against us. Have I misunderstood your King’s intent? Have I not already been warned? Or” – he held Quillon’s eyes sharply – “is your warning different in some way? Does your presence here imply that the Congery is no longer under Joyse’s rule?”
“No, my lord Prince.” The Imager had such an appearance of being frightened that the assertion in his voice sounded unnatural, unexpectedly ominous. “You rush to conclusions. That is a dangerous weakness in a leader of men. If you wish to survive this war, you must show greater care.”
“Must I?” replied the Prince, still smoothly. “I beg your pardon. You have misled me. Your own incaution in coming to speak to me inspired my incautious speculations. If you mean merely to repeat the Castellan’s threats, you could have spared yourself an uncomfortable ride.”
“I mean nothing of the kind. I came to warn you that we will destroy this catapult. If you remain near it, you may be injured – perhaps killed. King Joyse does not wish you killed. This war is not of his doing, and he has no interest in your death.”
A cold, unfamiliar tingle ran across Kragen’s scalp and down the back of his neck. We will destroy— Like everyone else he had ever known, he was afraid of Imagers, afraid of the strange power to produce atrocities out of nothing more than glass and talent. One consequence of this was that he had distorted the shape of his siege to avoid the crossroads because he knew from Elega that the Perdon had once been attacked by Imagery there. And Quillon’s manner made his words seem mad – unpredictable and therefore perilous. King Joyse does not wish you killed.
At the same time, Margonal’s son was the Alend Contender: he occupied a position, and carried a responsibility, which no one had forced on him. In other lands, other princes might become kings whether they deserved the place or not; but the Alend Monarch’s Seat in Scarab could only be earned, never inherited. And Kragen wanted that Seat, both because he trusted his father and because he trusted himself. More than anyone else who desired to rule Alend, he believed in what his father was doing. And he felt sure that none of his competitors was better qualified than himself
So there was no fear in the way he looked at Quillon, or in the way he stood, or in the way he spoke. There was only watchfulness – and a superficial amusement which wasn’t intended to fool anybody.
“What, no interest at all?” he asked easily. “Even though I have taken his daughter from him and brought the full strength of the Alend Monarch to the gates of Orison? Forgive me if I seem skeptical, Master Quillon. Your King’s concern for my life appears to be – I mean no offense – a little eccentric.” As if he were bowing, he nodded his head; but his men understood him and closed around Quillon, blocking the Imager’s retreat. “And you risk much to make me aware of his regard for me.”
Master Quillon’s gaze flicked from side to side, trying to watch everything at once. “Not so much,” he commented as if he hadn’t noticed his own anxiety. “Only my life. I prefer to live, but nothing of importance will be lost if I am killed. This catapult will still be destroyed. Every catapult which you presume to aim against us will be destroyed. As I say, King Joyse has no interest in your death. If you insist on dying, however, he will not prohibit you.