And from out of the smoke as it passed overhead came plummeting a rock as big as the one which the catapult had pitched at Orison.
Powerful with the force of its fall, the rock struck the catapult and shattered the wood as easily as if the engine had been built of kindling. Splinters and bolts burst loose on all sides; chunks of timber arced away from the impact and hit the ground like rubble. Two of the men fleeing from the catapult went down, one with a ragged stave driven through his leg, the other with his skull crushed by a bit of the engine’s iron. The rest were luckier.
The vague brown shape had already dropped out of sight beyond the parapets of the castle.
A shout went up from the army – anger and fear demanding an outlet, calling for blood. But Prince Kragen stood still, his face impassive, as if he had never been surprised in his life. Only the white lines of his mouth hidden under his moustache betrayed what he felt.
“My lady,” he said to Elega in a tone of grim nonchalance, “you have lived for years in the proximity of Imagers. Surely Orison has always been full of rumors concerning the Congery. Have you ever heard of or seen such a thing before?”
She shook her head dumbly and studied the wreckage of the catapult as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“It is possible,” he muttered for her ears alone, “that during King Joyse’s peace we have forgotten too much of the abomination of Imagery. Clearly the Masters have not been inactive under his rule.
“My lady” – he closed his eyes just for a moment and allowed himself to be appalled – “the Congery must not fall into the hands of High King Festten.”
Then the Prince took command of himself again and left her. First he ordered the captain of catapults to bring forward another siege engine and try again, taking whatever precautions were necessary to protect the men. After that, he went to talk to his father.
The Alend Monarch’s tents were sumptuous by his standards. Margonal liked to travel in comfort. Also he knew that upon occasion a grand public display was good for morale. Nevertheless High King Festten would have considered the Monarch’s quarters a hovel. Alend lacked the seaports and hence the trade of Cadwal. Compared to Festten, Margonal was no wealthier than one of his Lieges. If Mordant hadn’t lain between Cadwal and Alend – and if the Cares of Mordant hadn’t been so contentious, so difficult to rule – a quality which made them an effective buffer – the High King and the forces which his wealth could procure would long since have swallowed up his ancient enemy.
Prince Kragen was conscious of this, not because he was jealous of the High King’s riches, but because he felt acutely vulnerable to Cadwal, as he pushed the canvas door-flap aside and was admitted to his father’s presence. He could feel Alend’s peril in the cold wind that curled about his neck like a garrote.
The Alend Monarch sat in the fore-tent where he held councils and consultations. The Prince could see him well enough: braziers intended for warmth gave off a flickering illumination that danced among the tentpoles and around the meeting chairs. But there was no other light. The seams of the tent were sealed with flaps, and Margonal didn’t permit lamps or torches or even candles in his presence. Privately, Prince Kragen considered this arbitrary prohibition a vestige of the tyranny to which his father had formerly been accustomed. Nevertheless he accepted it without question. As anyone who looked on the Alend Monarch’s face in good light could see, Margonal was stone blind.
It was unimaginable that any vision could penetrate the white film which covered his eyes like curtains.
Obviously, his battles with King Joyse hadn’t been his only losses in life. And it had been when he had begun to lose his sight that he had first started to search for surer ways to rule, safer means of preserving the kingship for himself and his successor. As he had repeated until everyone near him was sick of it, “Loss teaches many things.” Again privately, however – and without any disrespect – Prince Kragen dropped loss and substituted fear. A man who couldn’t see his enemies couldn’t strike at them. For that reason, he had to find new ways to protect himself. Kragen understood his father’s fear and honored it. A lesser man than Margonal would have retreated into terror and violence.
Old and no longer strong, the Alend Monarch sprawled in the most comfortable of the meeting chairs and turned his head toward the sound of his son’s entrance. Because he was punctilious, he didn’t speak until the Alend Contender had been announced, and had greeted him in the formal manner prescribed by custom. Then he sighed as if he were especially tired. “Well, my son. My guards have already been here, whispering lurid reports which they were unable to explain. Perhaps you will tell me something comprehensible.”
“My lord,” Prince Kragen replied, “I fear I can only increase the range of your incomprehension.” Succinctly, he described Master Quillon’s visit and the destruction of the catapult. When he was done, he told his father what he was thinking.
“The Imager’s actions were strange, unquestionably. But to my mind the great mystery is that King Joyse behaves as if he had not made himself weak – as if we were nothing more than an annoyance to a sovereign in an invulnerable position. And he is able to command men such as Castellan Lebbick and Master Quillon to preserve that illusion.
“Yet we know it is an illusion. Cadwal marches against him. He has a hole in his wall, few men to defend it, and no water for them to drink. Despite his control over the Congery, the Imagers who serve his enemies are more powerful. They are able to strike him at will anywhere in Mordant or Orison, passing through flat glass as if they were immune to madness. In addition, there are Masters on the Congery who would abandon his cause if they could. Men such as Eremis may be loyal to Mordant, but they are no longer committed to their King.
“His lords will not help him. The Armigite is a coward. The Termigan values nothing but his own affairs. And the Perdon resists Cadwal, not for King Joyse, but for his own survival. Of the Cares, only Domne, Tor, and Fayle are truly loyal. Yet the Domne does not fight. The Tor is old, sodden with wine – and here, where he is unable to muster his people. And the Fayle cannot come to Orison’s aid because we stand in his way.
“And still King Joyse treats us as if we lack the means to harm him.”
The more he thought about it, the more unsure the Prince became. For a moment, he chewed on his moustache while his doubts chewed on him. Then he concluded, “In truth, my lord, I cannot decide in my own mind whether his audacity constitutes raving or deep policy.”
Again, the Alend Monarch sighed. With apparent irrelevance, he murmured, “I suffered an uncomfortable night. The loss of sight has sharpened my powers of recollection. Instead of sleeping, I saw every trick and subterfuge he has ever practiced against me. I felt every blow of our battles. Such memories would curdle the blood of a young sovereign with his eyes clear in his head. For me, they are fatal.”
Facing his son as if he could see, Margonal asked in a husky voice, “Can you think of anything – anything at all – that a king such as Joyse might gain by feigning weakness – by allowing Imagers to bring atrocities down on the heads of his people – by permitting us to invest him when his defenses are so poor?”
“No.” Prince Kragen shook his head for his own benefit. “It is madness. It must be madness.”
“And the lady Elega? She is his daughter. Her knowledge of him is greater than yours – greater even than mine. Can she think of anything that he might gain?”
Again, the Prince said, “No.” He trusted her, didn’t he? He believed what she believed about her father, didn’t he?