“I need to know whose side you’re on. You don’t have to tell me anything else. You have to make your own choices. I can’t tell you who to love. But I’m going to have to stand up in front of the Masters and tell them everything I can think of. They aren’t going to want to believe me. I’ve spent too many years making too many mistakes.
“You’re my only witness. You’re the only one who can tell them I’m telling the truth. If you’re planning to call me a liar—” He couldn’t go on.
She wanted to reply at once, but his distress closed her throat. What could she say? Nothing was adequate. He had touched her near the point of her certainty, but she still didn’t know what to call it.
Yet she was unable to bear his rigid silence. Somehow, she mustered an answer.
“I didn’t invite Master Eremis here. He came while I was asleep. That’s why I’m dressed like this.
“He wanted me to choose between you.”
A muscle twitched in Geraden’s cheek, a knot of pain.
“I think he’s probably the only man in Orison who has a chance to save Mordant. He has the ability to make things happen.” That was the limit of her honesty. “But I chose you.”
His eyes popped open. A subtle alteration of the planes and lines of his expression made him appear both astonished and suspicious. His voice continued to shake.
“Your robe was open.”
“He did that. I didn’t.”
For a long moment, he remained motionless – and yet, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t moving, she seemed to see the entire structure of his face being transfigured, the whole landscape behind his eyes and emotions reforming. He didn’t smile: he wasn’t ready for that. But the potential for a smile was restored.
Slowly, he unbent his arms from his chest. Slowly, he reached out his hand and stroked her cheek as if to wipe away tears she hadn’t shed.
Unable to hold back, she flung her arms around him and hugged him desperately, as if he could cure her shame.
The embrace with which he answered her was as tight and needy as hers, as hungry for solace. And somehow, because he wanted so much from her, he gave her what she needed.
A short time later, nine guards came trooping up out of the passage behind her wardrobe. They had nothing of any use to report.
***
The gray afternoon wore down toward evening. All around Orison, campfires glimmered against the wind. Tents everywhere formed a ripple of hillocks over the bare ground. Even the siege engines looked small in this light, at this distance. Wind thudded without remorse at the windowpanes of Terisa’s rooms, until the atmosphere felt crowded and bitter, full of threats.
Late afternoon brought her an incongruous visitor: the seamster, Mindlin, come to deliver her new clothes. He wanted to give them a second fitting, to be sure that she was satisfied – perhaps he thought her approval would have some value when the siege was over – but she accepted them and sent him away.
For the fourth or fifth time, she said, “We’ve got to do something.”
Geraden sighed. “I know the feeling. But I’m not exactly brimming with ideas.”
She needed to put her certainty into words, so that it would be good for something. It would come to her, she told herself, if she stopped pushing it. Or if she pushed it in the right way. Abruptly, she shook off her irresolution.
“You wanted to talk to Artagel, but you didn’t get the chance. Why don’t you do that now?”
The suggestion surprised him. “What’s that going to accomplish?”
“It might make you feel better.”
“And you think I might not get another chance? You think I might have a little trouble getting my brother to forgive me after I’ve been tossed in the dungeon for treachery?”
She couldn’t suppress a grin. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” In spite of himself, he caught her mood. “I said it for you.”
“So you did. If you think it’s such a terrible idea” – now she was grinning broadly – “I’m afraid I’ll have to apologize for bringing it up.”
At once, he waved his hands defensively. “No, no. Anything but that. I’ll do it.” His playfulness faded almost immediately, however. “Do you want to come with me?”
She shook her head.
“What are you going to do?”
Firmly, as if she were sure of herself, she said, “I’m going to make sense out of this. Somehow.”
He spent a moment studying her. Then, in a purposely sententious tone, he said, “My lady, I’ve got the strongest feeling you’ll succeed.”
“Oh, get out of here,” she returned.
***
Nevertheless she hoped he was right. As soon as he was gone, she got dressed, putting on her warm new riding clothes and her winter boots because she didn’t want to be hampered by her more ladylike gowns. Then she went to see the King.
She had no clear plan in mind. She simply wanted him to intervene on Geraden’s behalf.
As she climbed the stairs toward the royal suite, however, she remembered more and more vividly that she had lied to the King the last time she had talked to him. And she still had no idea how he had guessed that she had helped his daughter Myste sneak out of Orison. Before she reached his door, she was tempted to turn back.
The ordeal Geraden had ahead of him determined her to keep going. He needed answers. She needed answers in order to help him. If King Joyse would do nothing else for her, or for the Domne’s son, or for Mordant, he might at least supply a few answers. The chance was worth what it might cost her.
And if the King refused to see her, she could always talk to the Tor.
The guards outside the suite saluted her. Practicing steadiness, she asked them if she could be admitted. One of them stayed at the door while the other entered the suite. A moment later, she was given permission to go in.
Her pulse was laboring enough to make her regret her temerity. Blind to the room’s luxurious appointments, she had eyes only for the three old men sitting like bosom companions before the ornate fireplace.
King Joyse lay as much as sat in an armchair with his legs stretched over a hassock toward the fire. His purple velvet robe showed the benefits of a recent cleaning, and his cheeks were freshly shaved: his appearance, if not his posture, suggested readiness.
In contrast, the Tor slumped as if his skeleton no longer had enough willpower to support his fat. Like his flesh, his robe spilled over the arms of his chair; the green fabric was stained with splotches of wine. Too plump to look haggard, his face sagged like wet laundry. He gave the impression that he had become so involved in Orison’s preparations for defense that he had stopped taking care of himself.
Between the two old friends sat the King’s Dastard, Adept Havelock, looking grimier and loonier than ever in his ancient surcoat, with his unruly tufts of hair and his disfocused gaze.
All three men held large, elegant goblets.
All three turned their heads toward Terisa as she was announced. The Tor peered at her through a haze of exhaustion and wine. Adept Havelock licked his lips salaciously. King Joyse nodded but didn’t smile.
She had been hoping that he would smile. It would have done her good to see his luminous smile again.
He greeted her casually; his tone implied that he was a bit the worse for drink. “My lady, come join us.” His cheeks were red, scraped raw with shaving, but behind their color his skin looked pale. “Pour yourself some wine.” He nodded toward a decanter and extra goblets on a table against the paneled wall. “It’s quite good – a fine wine from—” A look of perplexity crossed his face. “Where did you say this wine is from?” he asked the Tor.
The Tor shook himself as if he were in danger of falling asleep. “Rostrum. A small village near the border of Termigan and Domne, where the babes drink wine instead of milk from their mothers’ breasts, and even the children can do exquisite things with grapes. Rostrum wine.”