Havelock reset the checkerboard, although King Joyse hadn’t retrieved all the pieces.
“Again I ask your pardon,” the King muttered without glancing at Terisa. He scrubbed his hands over his face, sighed, and lowered himself back into his chair. “My wits aren’t what they were.” His smile was gone, replaced by sadness. “Be honest with me, my lady. Do you have family? Are there those who will be grieved by your absence? They shouldn’t be made to suffer for our necessities. I’ll command Geraden to find some way to translate a message for them, to reassure them. Poor boy, it will keep him out of trouble. What message would you have sent, my lady?”
“There’s –” she began, but her voice caught. There’s nobody. She didn’t say that, however. She was lost in this situation, and her fear and her ignorance fed on each other. Nevertheless an unfamiliar part of her was almost trembling with anger at the way she was treated. With an effort, she cleared her throat. “There’s only my father.”
“How can he be reached?”
Forced to the truth, she said thinly, “He’ll never notice I’m gone.”
When she said that, the King’s gaze flashed at her. For an instant, she couldn’t see the white of his hair, the weakness of his stature, the blue tinge of his wrinkled old skin: she saw only the direct strength of his eyes. He was looking at her as though she had somehow moved him.
“Then perhaps” – phlegm made his voice husky – “you may wish to consider it fortunate that you are here.”
Carefully, trying to keep her panic under control, she said, “I don’t know how to consider it. I don’t have enough information. When do you think you might be willing to tell me what’s going on?” Then she held her breath in the quick rush of alarm which accompanied temerity.
“Ah, my lady.” King Joyse sighed and spread his hands. His swollen knuckles made the gesture appear at once world-weary and decrepit. “That surely depends upon yourself. When will you make clear the truth of your origins, your skill in Imagery, your purposes?”
A weakness that felt like vertigo grew in her head. For some reason, it didn’t cloud her mind – it simply made her want to lie down. “You mean,” she said wanly, “you’re not going to tell me anything until I can prove that I exist – that I wasn’t created by any mirror – and until I show you everything I know about Imagery – and until I tell you why I pulled Geraden away from what he thought he was doing when he tried to translate that champion” – in fact, all the things she couldn’t possibly do in this crazy situation – “and until I make you believe it.”
Down in the pit of her stomach, she felt a giddy and unexpected desire to laugh.
The King didn’t shirk her gaze. Nevertheless the lines of his face became sadder and sadder. She was causing him pain which he didn’t choose to explain. After a moment, she had to turn away, unable to go on challenging his peculiar vulnerability. The sound of someone knocking at his door came as a relief to her.
The guard reentered the room, bringing a woman with him.
At the sight of her, King Joyse frowned involuntarily, as if he had made a mistake; but at once he rubbed his expression clear. “Saddith. Just the one I wanted.”
The woman was shorter than Terisa, with bright eyes, a pert nose, long brunette hair tumbling over her shoulders in natural waves, and a spontaneous smile. She wore a russet skirt that went down to her ankles and a shawl of the same color and material over her shoulders – like the other women Terisa had seen, she was prepared for the cold. But her blouse was open several buttons below the hollow of her throat, and her ripe bosom stretched the fabric. Looking at her, Terisa thought that she must be the kind of woman whom men noticed – the kind who never had any reason to doubt her own reality. The arch of her eyebrows and the angle of her glances suggested that she knew what she was doing.
She scanned Terisa quickly, her eyes wide as she noted Terisa’s unfamiliar clothes, a small frown between her brows as she took an inventory of Terisa’s face and figure. Then, almost instantly, she shifted her attention. “My lord King,” she replied, dropping a graceful curtsy. “You asked for a maid.”
“None better,” he said, making an effort to sound jovial, “none better. Saddith, this is the lady Terisa of Morgan. She is the guest of Orison. My lady, Saddith will attend upon you as your maid. I’m confident that you’ll be pleased with her.”
“My lady,” Saddith murmured, her eyes now downcast. “I hope that I will serve you well.”
Nonplussed, Terisa fell back on her customary silence. She hadn’t expected to be assigned a servant. On the other hand, she luckily had some acquaintance with servants. At least she knew how to live with them – how to spend her time without disturbing the rhythms of their activities, how to keep her requests for actual service to a minimum.
“The lady will be using the peacock rooms,” King Joyse went on. He sounded more and more distant – perhaps because of the distance in Terisa’s head, perhaps because his own interest was wandering. “She’ll need a wardrobe. The lady Elega will be able to assist you. Or better the lady Myste – they’re more of a size, I think. Whatever food or refreshment she asks, serve her in her rooms.
“My lady” – he had returned his gaze to the board and was studying the checkers – “we will speak again soon. I look forward to testing your prowess at hop-board.”
The guard held the door open. Saddith looked up at Terisa expectantly. It was obvious that she had been dismissed. But she felt too tired to understand precisely what that meant. The stress of strangeness was wearing her out. And now that she thought about it, she was probably long overdue for some sleep. She had spent a whole day at the mission, typing that letter over and over again, then returned to her apartment for what she had known was going to be a bad night. But she had had no real conception how bad—
Fortunately, Saddith came to her rescue. Terisa let the maid’s touch on her arm guide her out of the King’s chamber.
The guards closed the door behind her.
“This way, my lady.” Saddith gestured down the hall, and Terisa automatically started walking in that direction. The maid moved with her head demurely bowed; but she cast repeated speculative glances at Terisa. As they descended the stairs, she asked, “Have you made a long journey to Orison, my lady?”
Terisa shook her head. “I don’t know. I came through a mirror – I think.” How far was that? It seemed like forever.
“Imagery!” Saddith responded with polite astonishment. “Are you a Master, my lady? I have never known a woman who was a Master.”
In spite of her sleepiness, Terisa sensed an opportunity for information. “Don’t women do things like that here?”
“Become Imagers?” The maid laughed delicately. “I think not, my lady. Men say that the talent for Imagery is inborn, and that only those so born may hope to shape glass or perform translations. They believe, I’ll wager, that no woman is born with the talent. But what is the need for it? Why should a woman desire mirrors”– she gave Terisa a coy smile—“when any man will do what she wishes for her?”
From the stairs, they entered a wing of the immense stone building that Terisa hadn’t seen before. Many of the rooms off the long, high halls seemed to be living quarters, and the people moving in and out of them apparently belonged to the middle ranks of the place – merchants, secretaries, ladies-in-waiting, supervisors. Terisa pursued her question with the maid.
“So you don’t know anything about mirrors – or Imagery?”
“No, my lady,” replied Saddith. “I only know that any Master will tell me whatever I wish – if I conceive a wish for something he knows.”
“That must be nice.” Terisa thought she understood what she was hearing; but the idea was too abstract to seem real. No man had ever found her that attractive.