Abruptly, the Alend Monarch raised his voice. “Then he is a madman, a madman. He must be rooted out of his stronghold and made to pay for this. Do you hear me? It is insufferable!”
As if he didn’t know what they were doing, his fists began to beat on the arms of his chair.
“I understand his desire to take Mordant from us and rule it as his own. He was able to do it – therefore he did it. Who would not? And I understand his desire to gather all the resources of Imagery for himself. Again he was able to do it – therefore he did it. Who would not? And perhaps I understand also his restraint when he had created the Congery, his refusal to use his power for conquest. That is not what Festten would have done. It is not what I would have done. But perhaps in that he was saner than we.
“But this—! To create all he has created, and then abandon it to destruction!” Now the Alend Monarch was shouting. “To forge such a weapon as the Congery, and then make himself vulnerable to attack, neglect responsibility, turn his back on those who serve and trust him, so that his enemies have no choice but to attempt to wrest his weapon from him for their own survival!” Margonal half rose from his seat, as if he intended to go to demand sense from King Joyse in person. “I say it is insufferable! It must not continue!”
As quickly as it had come up, however, his passion subsided. Sinking back, he wiped his hands across his face.
“My son,” he whispered hoarsely, “when I received your message asking us to march, a chill went into my heart. I cannot warm it away. I know that man. He has beaten me too often. I fear that he has lured us here to destroy us – that his weakness is a pose to bring us and Cadwal within reach, so we can be crushed at his ease, instead of met in honest battle. You say this cannot be true. The lady Elega says it cannot be true. My own reason says it cannot be true – if only because in fifty years he has never shown any desire to crush us. And yet I fear it.
“He has witched me. We have come here to our doom.”
Prince Kragen stared at what his father was saying and tried not to shudder. Fear teaches many things, he thought. Have all the rest of us been blind? Why have we never believed that Joyse is malign? Softly, he answered, “My lord, say the word, and we will retreat. You are the Alend Monarch. And I trust your wisdom. We will—”
“No!” Margonal’s refusal sounded more like pain than anger or protest. “No,” he repeated almost at once, in a steadier tone. “He has witched me, I say. I am certain of only one thing – I cannot make decisions where he is concerned.
“No, my son, this siege is yours. You are the Alend Contender. I have given our doom into your hands.” A moment later, he added in warning, “If you choose retreat, be very certain that you can answer for your decision to the others who seek my Seat.”
Mutely, the Prince nodded. He had caught Margonal’s chill much earlier: long before this conversation, the cold of the wind had crept into his vitals. But the Alend Monarch had named his doubt for him – and the name seemed to make the doubt more palpable, more potent. We have come here to our doom. When his father asked, “What will you do?” he chewed his lip and replied, “I do not know.”
“Choose soon.” Now Margonal spoke to him harshly, as he himself had spoken harshly to the lady Elega. “Festten will not be patient with your uncertainty.”
In response, Kragen stiffened his spine. “Perhaps not, my lord. Nevertheless our doom will be Cadwal’s as well. Until the issue is proven, I will do my best to teach the High King better uses for his impatience.”
Slowly, the Alend Monarch relaxed until he was sprawling in his chair once again. Unexpectedly, he smiled. “Festten, I have heard, has many sons. I have only one. I am inclined to think, however, that I have already bested him in the matter.”
Because he didn’t know what else to do, Prince Kragen bowed deeply. Then he withdrew from his father’s presence and went to watch a vague brown shape rise above the walls of Orison and wreck another of his best catapults.
Fortunately, his men escaped without injury this time.
His face showed nothing but confidence as he went to consult with all his captains.
TWENTY-EIGHT: A DAY OF TROUBLE
Castellan Lebbick stood with the three Imagers on the ramparts of the northwest wall and watched as the brown shape which Adept Havelock had translated reduced the second Alend catapult to firewood and splinters. At this elevation, behind the defensive parapet built into Orison’s outward face, he had a good view despite the distance.
Judging by the old scowl cut into the lines of his face, the knot of his jaw muscles, the bleak glare in his eyes, he wasn’t impressed.
He ought to have been impressed. He had had no idea that this mirror existed – or that a creature with no more definition than dense smoke could be translated and controlled, could be made to carry rocks as heavy as a man anywhere the Adept commanded. And that wasn’t all. In plain fact, he had had no idea that Havelock was still sane enough to cooperate in Orison’s defense – that plans could be designed on the assumption that the Adept would carry out his part in them. In some way, the Castellan’s warrior spirit probably was impressed. Unquestionably he ought to have been.
He wasn’t conscious of it, however. He certainly didn’t show it. The truth was that only a harsh act of will enabled him to keep his mind on what he was doing, pay any attention to the situation at all.
“Well done,” Master Quillon breathed as the airborne shape returned to Havelock’s glass, gusting easily across the wind. “You surpass yourself, indeed you do.” And he actually patted the Adept’s shoulder like an old friend – which would have surprised Lebbick under other circumstances, since Havelock’s lunacy had made friendship with him impossible for everyone except King Joyse. Who was himself, the Castellan thought sourly, no longer particularly sane.
“Fornication,” Adept Havelock replied negligently, as if he normally performed such feats of Imagery standing on his head. “Piss on the slut.” In spite of his tone, however, he was concentrating so hard that his misaimed eyes bulged slightly.
“Of course,” murmured Master Eremis. “My thought exactly.” He was the only other man near the mirror, although a number of guards and several Apts were clustered a short distance away, watching raptly. “Yet it occurs to me that you have been a bit too coy with your talents, Adept Havelock.”
Nominally, Eremis was here only because the Castellan wasn’t done with him. Too many questions remained to be answered. Nevertheless his interest in what happened was intense: his wedge-shaped head followed everything, studied every movement; his eyes gleamed as if he were having a wonderful time. “If the Congery had known of your resources, we might have made different decisions entirely.”
Master Quillon glanced rapidly at the taller Imager. “Is that so? Such as?”
In response, Master Eremis smiled distinctly at the Castellan. “We might have decided to defend Mordant ourselves, rather than waiting politely for our beloved King to fall off the precarious perch of his reason.”
Lebbick really should have replied to that jibe. Eremis intended to provoke him – and provocation was his bread and meat. It fed the fires of dedication and outrage which kept him going, sustained him so that he could continue to serve his King past the point where his own common sense rebelled and his instinct for fidelity turned against him. In addition, he had work to do where Master Eremis was concerned – issues to resolve, explanations to obtain. But this time the Master’s sarcasm didn’t touch him. His heart was elsewhere, and without it he wasn’t able to think clearly.
His heart was in the dungeon, where he had left that woman.