Brusquely, he returned the captain’s salute, but didn’t speak. Instead, he surveyed the men before him. When he spotted Ribuld with Argus’ body, he went abruptly in that direction.
Geraden put a hand on Terisa’s arm as if to steady or comfort her. But his expression was too harsh to be convincing.
Rigid with silence, the guards waited as Castellan Lebbick thrust among them to Argus’ side. Roughly, he clenched a fist in Argus’ hair and lifted the dead man’s head as if to check his face, verify his identity. The look the Castellan gave Ribuld was enough to make the veteran turn away.
Lebbick aimed a glare at Nyle’s sealed belligerence. Then he considered the inhuman attacker. For a moment, the two measured each other across the gulf of their antagonism and strangeness. Without turning his head, he demanded unexpectedly, “Is this his horse?”
“Yes,” answered Geraden between his teeth. “There were three of them. One was killed. Terisa and I would have died, but Nyle killed the other.”
The Castellan, however, wasn’t interested in how many red-furred creatures had been killed. “This horse?” he insisted. “This tack?”
“Yes.”
Castellan Lebbick moved toward Geraden. In a soft voice, hardly louder than a whisper, which nevertheless sounded like it could be heard on the highest ramparts, he said, “I don’t like losing men. Do you understand me, boy? I don’t like it.”
Geraden didn’t try to respond. In any case, the Castellan turned away without waiting for a reply. To the captain he snapped, “Put Nyle and that monster of Imagery in the dungeon. I’ll see you, Geraden, and” – he sneered her name – “the lady Terisa of Morgan in the south guardroom.”
Trailing wisps of vapor from his shoulders, he stalked away.
“The dungeon,” Geraden groaned to himself. He put his hands over his face. “Oh, Nyle. What am I doing to you?”
Nyle raised his voice sharply. “Don’t worry about it, little brother. This isn’t any different than what you’ve done with the rest of your life. And Lebbick probably hasn’t had anybody to torture for a long time. For him, this will be more fun than a carouse.”
Geraden’s shoulders tightened. Terisa stared at Nyle numbly. But it was Ribuld who spoke.
“I advise you to keep your mouth shut.” He tried to sound casual in spite of the way his voice shook. “Nobody cares what happens to you. If you weren’t a son of the Domne – and if your brothers weren’t so much better men than you are – we would have let you ride off and make a shitass of yourself in front of the Perdon. You talk about fun.”
“Ribuld,” warned the captain, “that’s enough.”
But Ribuld couldn’t stop. “I’m sure the Perdon would have thought it was fun to be offered the kingship of Mordant” – he was ventilating a vicious grief – “if we captured that fornicating Prince, and the whole Alend army was helpless against us. Geraden did you a favor.”
Nyle avoided the guard’s gaze.
“Argus did you a favor, you rotten—”
“Ribuld!” The captain’s voice cut like a whip. “I said, that’s enough.”
Ribuld rolled the whites of his eyes, glaring like a wounded predator. His scar flamed with blood. Nevertheless the captain’s command caught and held him. He turned his back on Nyle, began untying Argus’ wrists.
“He doesn’t have any family. Somebody has to bury him.”
Lifting the body in his arms, he carried his friend away, out of the courtyard.
Terisa feared that if she didn’t get inside soon she would begin to cry.
Dourly, the captain issued instructions to his men. Nyle and Geraden’s attacker were escorted rather ungently in the direction of the dungeon. The remaining guards took charge of the horses while the captain himself guided Geraden and Terisa toward the south guardroom.
She seemed to have no sensation left in her. What was going on made no sense, and she was afraid of the Castellan. How had she survived being so cold? It was probably a lie that there was warmth in Orison. She was afraid of Castellan Lebbick because of his relentless anger. Or was it because she had lied to him?
When had she lied to him? How many times? She had killed one of Geraden’s attackers, and all these falsehoods were going to destroy her.
In spite of lies and cold, however, a door opened and closed, and suddenly something blissful touched her face. She was inside the castle; she was still cold, frozen almost to the marrow, carrying her misery with her like a cocoon of ice; but the air was warm, warm. She could breathe it. She could stretch out her fingers to it. She tried to clear her throat, and a snuffling noise like a sob emerged.
“Here.” Geraden stopped her and undid the front of her coat to let more warmth reach her. “You aren’t used to this.” He took her hands and slapped them, firmly but not too hard, then rubbed her wrists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were feeling it so much.”
She began to shiver again.
He put his arm around her and helped her toward the guardroom.
It proved to be a low hall with a bare stone floor and all its walls unadorned except one, which supported a large slate chalkboard. Most of the space was taken up by rows of wooden benches facing the chalkboard: apparently, this was where Castellan Lebbick explained their orders to his captains and men. The warmth was stronger here; it made her shivering worse.
The Castellan arrived a moment after she entered the guardroom. Slamming the door behind him, he confronted her and Geraden. For some reason, she noticed his hands were curled. At first, she thought that was because he was angry. Then she realized he had spent so much of his life with a heavy sword in his grasp that he could no longer completely straighten his fingers.
He was looking at her closely, and something strange happened in his face. His expression softened; his constant, simmering rage let go of his features.
As abruptly as he had entered the guardroom, he left again.
Mystified, she and Geraden turned to the captain. He shrugged and tried to keep his own surprise from showing.
They waited. Geraden glowered at the ceiling. Terisa shivered.
When Castellan Lebbick returned, he was followed by a maid carrying a tray. There were three brass goblets on the tray. Whatever was in them gave off a sweet, heavy steam.
“Mulled wine,” he announced without quite meeting anyone’s stare. His manner suggested that he was ashamed of himself. “You look like you could use it.”
The maid delivered the goblets to Terisa, Geraden, and the captain, then withdrew.
Straining to conceal his surprise, the captain emptied his goblet with unceremonious haste. Then he gaped into it as though he were fervid for more wine to occupy his attention until someone else spoke.
Geraden looked at his drink suspiciously, as if he were wondering if it was drugged.
Terisa couldn’t wait for him to make up his mind. Wrapping her hands around the heat of the metal, she sipped at the dark liquid as though she were sampling nectar.
Mulled wine. She sipped some more. She had never had mulled wine. In fact, she had never had hot wine before. It was lovely. She drank a large swallow. It ran down into her, as delicate as the guards’ brandy was rough; and it tightened her shivering into a knot and then released it, so that all the strain seemed to flow suddenly out of her muscles. She was warm again, warm in places that had given up hope. Mulled wine. Her goblet didn’t hold enough, but she drank what there was down to the last drop.
In sudden resolution, Geraden tossed down several swallows too quickly, with the result that he inhaled some of the spiced liquid and went into a spasm of gagging and coughing. Trying to help, the captain pounded him discreetly between the shoulder-blades.
“Thank you,” Terisa said to Castellan Lebbick as she lowered the goblet. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me.” The Castellan sounded bitter, but his expression was still soft and ashamed. “You should be more like Geraden. He thinks I put something in it to make you talk.”
&nb
sp; She sighed – and was relieved to hear no quaver or catch in her breathing. “That’s all right. You didn’t bring it for him. You brought it for me. I’m grateful.”
Scowling, Castellan Lebbick turned to the captain.
“Your report?”
Back on familiar ground, the captain regained his poise. Without wasting time, he conveyed what he knew, described what he had done, and pointed out – rather unnecessarily – that he himself still had no idea what had happened to Geraden and the lady Terisa after Ribuld had left them.
The Castellan absorbed the details, nodded once. “All right. Muster a squad. Send them back where your men found Geraden and her. I want them to backtrack those three creatures. As far as possible. I want to know where they came from. I want to know how creatures of Imagery happened to be mounted on horses and saddles like that.
“While you’re at it, set up supplies and relays for your trackers. Prince Kragen isn’t going to make any mistakes – but if he does, I want him to pay for them.
“And,” he concluded, “find me a falconer. I want to know more about these” – he snarled the words, glancing at Terisa – “carrier pigeons.”
The captain saluted. With an unmistakable air of relief, he left the guardroom.
For a long time, Castellan Lebbick didn’t say anything. Initially, he didn’t look at Terisa and Geraden: he acted like a man lost in thought. Then he began to study them carefully, scrutinizing each of them in turn while his choler mounted. He seemed to be waiting for one of them to speak first, to blurt out something he could use. Or he might have been giving himself a chance to recover from his unaccustomed charity.
The expression with which Geraden met the Castellan’s scrutiny wasn’t belligerent, but it was tight and wary, and he didn’t open his mouth.
For her part, Terisa had nothing to say. The hate in the strange faces of her attackers held her.
Finally, the Castellan pulled up a chair for himself and sat down, folding his arms on his chest. His manner didn’t invite Terisa and Geraden to do the same. “So,” he said. His gaze was aimed somewhere between them, ready to strike in either direction. “Again something strange happens, and again the lady Terisa of Morgan is involved.” He articulated each word with hard-edge consonants and blunt vowels, so that it had an almost tangible impact. “This time, at least one mystery is solved. I don’t know who she’s plotting with. I don’t know why. But finally I know how.”
“Plotting?” Geraden was immediately incensed. “Terisa? What are you talking about?”
Castellan Lebbick looked at the Apt. A baleful light was growing in his eyes. “I’m talking about carrier pigeons.”
“But that’s crazy! She doesn’t have any pigeons. Where would she keep them?”
“Perhaps they bring messages to her first and carry her answers back. Then all she has to do is open her window to hatch treachery with anyone in the world.”
“No,” Geraden insisted. “No, that’s still crazy. They would still have to be trained. When has she had a chance to do that?”
“We don’t know how much training they need.” Lebbick’s face had been forged out of iron and extremity. He seemed deaf to the impossibility of what he was saying. “But that’s really unimportant. Didn’t she come here out of a mirror? A mirror that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with her? She’s an Imager of some kind.” His tone slapped down contradiction. “How do you know how much chance she’s had? For all you know, she’s already spent years here secretly, getting ready to betray King Joyse.”
Terisa shook her head. “You don’t understand.” She couldn’t take Lebbick’s charge personally. It was too loony. And she was too tired. “Carrier pigeons only work one way. You take them away from home, and they fly back. That’s all. Prince Kragen can send messages to his father. He can’t receive them.” Then she stopped because the effort of explaining to him that he ought to concentrate on Elega was beyond her.
“You see?” demanded Geraden. “It’s crazy. The Alend Monarch is marching an army through Armigite right now, and you’re wasting your time on impossible accusations. We’re going to be besieged. Don’t you understand that?”
For just a moment, the muscles in Castellan Lebbick’s neck corded, and his arms clamped hard across his chest. He was at the edge of his self-control. Nevertheless he shifted his glare deliberately to Terisa, as if Geraden hadn’t spoken.
“A falconer may be able to tell me whether you’re telling the truth. If you are, I’ll have to assume that your pigeons are being kept for you by an ally here in Orison.”
Geraden threw up his hands, but the Castellan ignored him. “How do you communicate with an ally, when you’re reasonably well watched by my men? Through the secret passage in your wardrobe. A child could do it.
“But let that pass for now. In the meantime, my lady, why don’t you tell me how you happened to know Nyle was going to meet with Prince Kragen this morning?”
Terisa blinked at him, her heart suddenly quailing.
“For someone as innocent as you are, I call it remarkable that you managed to be in just the right place to spy on that meeting. May I take it as proven that the people you’re plotting with aren’t Alend? Or are you exposing your own allies to conceal your real plans?”
Worn down by exposure and lulled by wine, she couldn’t meet his eyes. Maybe she was as guilty as he thought. That seemed possible. She understood the secret of recrimination: it was deserved because it was received; accusations instilled the sense of guilt that justified them. Because the Castellan looked at her so harshly, spoke to her so bitterly, she deserved it. She had no defense.
But Geraden was already speaking for her.
“Listen to me.” His voice lacked Lebbick’s clenched and whetted capacity for violence. “I’m going to explain a few things to you.” Yet he made the Castellan heed him.
“The first day of the thaw, Terisa and I went out to the bazaar with the lady Elega. You know that.” And the more he spoke the more he seemed to push back the pall that Castellan Lebbick had cast over her. “While we were there, we saw a mountebank. Terisa recognized him. He was Prince Kragen.”
Terisa felt rather than saw the Castellan’s gaze shift to Geraden.
“Purely by chance,” the Apt went on, “she happened to see the mountebank and Nyle” – he said the name as if it didn’t hurt him – “come out from behind a tent as if they’d just had a private conversation. That was before Gart attacked her.
“I decided the best way to find out what was going on was to have Nyle followed. So I asked the Tor to get Argus and Ribuld released from their duties, and I put them to work on Nyle’s trail.”
Lebbick’s jaw jutted ominously.
“It’s that simple.” Geraden stood his ground as though he were the Castellan’s equal in courage and determination. “She isn’t plotting with anyone. If she were using carrier pigeons herself, it would be incredibly stupid of her to let us know she knew anything about them.”
Terisa hung her head and kept quiet.
“Very interesting, boy.” Lebbick’s tone was like the thrust of a dagger. “She told you what she saw, and you decided what to do about it. But I’m the Castellan of Orison. Defending the King from all enemies is my job. If there’s any danger in the Demesne or Orison, I need to know it.” He was a coiled spring, tightened to the point of outbreak. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because, good Castellan,” a familiar voice rumbled, “you are prone to excess.”
Terisa looked up in surprise as the Tor entered the guardroom.
He seemed to be in an affable mood – a bit unsteady on his feet, perhaps, but full of good will. He came into the room wearing a fleshy smile that appeared to have nothing behind it except more fat. The way he walked suggested that he had filled every cavern and crevice of his bulk with wine before venturing out of the King’s suite.
“My lord Tor,” said Castellan Lebbick between his teeth. He didn’t get up. “I’m surprised you
trouble to join us. Today would be a good day for men with nothing better to do to stay in bed.”
“Ah, true,” replied the lord amiably. “Very true. It is my extreme misfortune that there is a voice which brings me the news of this stone pile – brings me the news implacably. Its custom is to whisper, but the closer I drowse toward sleep, the louder it shouts. This morning I thought it imaginable that King Joyse himself would awaken.
“Alas,” he went on, “the King seems unlikely to take an interest in the great events of the day. Therefore the burden falls to his chancellor.”
Lumbering forward to the nearest bench, he seated himself with a sigh. The stout plank groaned under him.
“That’s very diligent of you, my lord Tor,” grated Lebbick. “It also happens to be unnecessary. I’m perfectly capable of handling ‘the great events of the day’ myself.”
“Certainly you are.” The Tor was like a lump of pastry dough, impervious to sarcasm – and immune to argument. “Doubtless you understand sieges as well as most men understand their wives. I am sure you will do everything that must be done to prepare for the coming of the Alend Monarch. Nevertheless, good Castellan, I must point out” – he sounded kindly, almost avuncular – “that if the matter had been left to you, you would still be unaware of Margonal’s approach. As I say, you are prone to excess.”
Castellan Lebbick’s eyes bulged slightly in their sockets. “In what way, my lord?”
The Tor spread his plump hands. “Suppose young Geraden had come to you with his suspicions of his brother? What would you have done? Why, you would have arrested Nyle, of course. Instead of following him to his assignation and overhearing his plans, you would have tried to take those plans from him by persuasion or force. And if he had resisted both persuasion and force—” The lord rolled his thick shoulders.
“Or suppose again that young Geraden had given you his reasons for suspecting his brother? Suppose he had mentioned that hints dropped by the King’s daughter Elega led the lady Terisa to suspect that she was involved with Prince Kragen?” Now the lord was no longer pastry dough talking. His voice became like the grinding of heavy stones against each other. “Suppose he had revealed that the guards Argus and Ribuld were following Elega – that in fact they had no other reason for being near enough to save Artagel’s life when the High King’s Monomach assailed the lady Terisa?” His hands lay limp on his fat thighs, but his eyes grew harder. “Suppose he had informed you that the lady Terisa had rejected Elega’s effort to win her support for the Prince – and that, forewarned by this rejection, Elega had made herself fruitless for Argus and Ribuld to trail? What would you have done then, good Castellan?
The Mirror of Her Dreams Page 64