Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Putting down her tray, she surveyed Terisa.

  Her immediate reaction was a gleam of mirth and a quick giggle. ‘My lady, you look awful!’ At once, however, she made an effort to swallow her amusement. ‘My poor lady, how terrible! To be buried like that. And to be recovered in such a state, with all those men around—!’ She frowned. ‘What a shame that this dull gown was not damaged more. A few strategic tears would have done much to make your appearance more appealing.’

  The maid continued to babble, apparently controlling her desire to laugh by saying whatever came into her head. Until that moment, Terisa had had no idea what to do. But the sense of weakness which made her want to simply fold at the knees and forget everything came to her rescue like a flash of inspiration.

  ‘I need help,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so weak.’ Her voice sounded wan and distant in her ears. ‘I want a bath, but I keep passing out when I try to get undressed.’ She had left enough dust on the rug to make that statement credible. ‘I can’t seem to get warm.’

  Through the fog in her head, she felt remarkably clever. No one could say she was really lying. And she would gain precious time while Saddith arranged to have hot water brought to her rooms.

  But her imitation of frailty was perhaps a little too convincing. With increased sympathy, Saddith came to her and took her arm. ‘My poor lady, lean on me. You should sit down.’ Gently, she moved Terisa toward a chair. ‘It will take me only a moment to begin heating water. Then we will remove that foul gown, and I will bathe you.’

  Unable to raise a reasonable objection, Terisa allowed herself to be seated.

  Saddith went into the bathroom. Terisa heard running water; then the maid emerged carrying the tin bucket, which she set in the fireplace as close to the grate as possible. As she added wood to the fire, she announced, ‘It is too cold in the bathroom. I will bathe you here.’

  Pushing back the rug, she made room in front of the fire. Then she brought the tub from the bathroom and positioned it next to the hearth. After that, she began unfastening Terisa’s gown.

  For the first time since chidhood, Terisa had the experience of being undressed and washed like an invalid. It made her acutely self-conscious.

  The result was undeniably pleasant, however – sitting in the tub before a hot fire while Saddith poured warm water through her freshly scrubbed hair. The relief of being clean and warm compensated for the embarrassment of Saddith’s comments on her body. When she heard the unmistakable sounds indicating that guards were now on duty outside – unmistakable because Master Quillon complained peevishly about the delay as he left – she felt almost equal to her next trick, which was to get rid of Saddith without allowing the maid to bring her any clothes.

  ‘This feels wonderful,’ she murmured. ‘I think I’ll just soak here for a while,’ it’ll be all right for you to leave, ‘and then go to bed.’

  Saddith nodded approval. ‘I will bring you a robe.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Terisa barely escaped betraying her fright. ‘I don’t need one. The fire’s warm, and I have plenty of towels.’ Hoping it would help, she added shamefacedly, ‘I don’t wear anything in bed.’

  ‘Nonsense, my lady,’ replied the maid. ‘What if you change your mind and decide to eat something before going to bed? You must not risk a chill.’

  Before Terisa could stop her, Saddith walked into the bedroom.

  Terisa nearly fell out of the tub. Water splashed and steamed on the hearth as she scrambled to her feet.

  But Saddith returned almost immediately with the burgundy velvet robe in her arms and a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Terisa, her heart hammering.

  ‘Nothing, my lady.’ Saddith shook her perplexity away. ‘I cannot remember leaving your robe on the chair when I cleaned the room this morning.’

  Terisa felt so light-headed with relief that she almost collapsed. Myste was more quick-witted than she would have believed possible. ‘I got it out’ – she seemed to hear herself from far away – ‘when I thought I was going to be able to undress myself.’

  ‘My lady,’ Saddith said reprovingly, ‘you must not stand there wet.’

  As calmly as if she were levitating, Terisa reached for a towel.

  Saddith wound a second towel around her hair while Terisa dried herself. When she was done, she stepped out of the tub and let Saddith lift the robe onto her shoulders. ‘Thanks,’ she said again. ‘You can go now.’ She had lost the capacity to be subtle. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  The maid studied her for a moment. Then she winked. ‘I believe,’ she said mock-seriously, ‘that I recognized the voice of one of your guards. He has a good reputation in these matters. You may find it restful – and rewarding – if you ask him to warm your bed. If I had come so close to death, I would be eager to remind myself’ – she moved her hands suggestively down her thighs – ‘that life is worth living.

  ‘He is the tall one with the green eyes,’ Saddith added, laughing happily as she let herself out of the room.

  Immediately, Terisa rushed to the door and bolted it.

  When she turned around, she found Myste standing in the doorway of the bedroom. The lady’s face wore a distracted and thoughtful expression.

  ‘That was close,’ breathed Terisa. ‘I don’t know how you can think so fast.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Myste murmured. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. ‘Oh, the robe.’ With a shrug, she dismissed the subject. ‘Terisa, I think it is not a good idea to leave that chair in your wardrobe.’

  ‘Why not?’ Surprise and reaction gave Terisa’s tone a note of asperity. ‘I don’t know where those passages go. I’ve got to do something to keep people out of here.’

  A smile quirked Myste’s lips. ‘I see your point. The precaution is tempting. The difficulty is that the position of the chair announces to anyone who sees it that you are aware of the passage. I want to ask how you chanced to notice it—’

  Terisa held her breath.

  ‘—but you owe me no explanations. We must simply hope that your maid will not volunteer what she knows to the wrong ears. I assure you, however, that your life will become much more burdensome if Castellan Lebbick sees a chair in your wardrobe.’

  ‘Oh.’ Terisa let the air out of her lungs in a sigh of self-disgust. ‘You’re right.’ Why wasn’t she able to think of things like that for herself?

  At once, Myste became reassuring. ‘I doubt that you have any cause for worry. Your maid has already told everyone she is likely to tell. And Castellan Lebbick has had no reason to search your rooms.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Terisa made an effort to relax. Of course the Castellan had no reason to search her rooms. She was probably safe. And Myste’s kind refusal to pursue the question of how she had become aware of the passage was another relief.

  By degrees, she began to feel that her bath had done her a lot of good. And a tray of food was waiting for her. When she sniffed it, she discovered that she was hungry. Inviting Myste to join her, she sat down to a meal.

  Myste had left her cloak in the bedroom. Taking off her bandolier, she accepted Terisa’s invitation.

  While they ate, Terisa returned to the subject of Myste’s intentions. ‘You were telling me why you think the champion needs your help. That’s the point, isn’t it? At least that’s what I don’t understand. You don’t even know him. What difference does he make to you?’

  The lady cleared her throat with a swallow of wine. ‘You ask several questions at once. The truth is probably nothing more profound than that when I heard of his plight it wrung my heart – and when I thought that I might help him the pain turned to gladness. But I will try to give you reasons.

  ‘That he needs help is obvious. Consider.’ Her gaze was fixed on something beyond the wall of the room. ‘He is a man of war, accustomed to hostility on all sides. Subjugation and destruction are his life. And now – suddenly, without explanation – he is alone in a world surely as unfamiliar to him as any he
has ever conquered.

  ‘You are aware of the great debate of Imagery. Do the people, places, and creatures seen in mirrors have independent existence, or are they merely like reflections in a pool of water, unreal apart from the glass in which they have been cast? Is the champion a man, deserving the rights and respect of a man? Or is he, in effect, nothing more than an animal – a being like a horse that can be decently, even honorably, deprived of its own will?

  ‘Terisa, by either standard he must have help.’

  Myste’s excitement impelled her to her feet. She began to pace the rug. ‘If he is a man – as my father would surely insist he is – then what the Masters have done is abominable. We cannot judge whether he is a good man. Perhaps he is a foul enslaver – that lies outside our knowledge. But any man deserves better than to be wrenched out of life, away from world, home, family, purpose, and explanation, to serve what are, essentially, the whims of Imagers. Think of him! He knows no one here, understands nothing. He was not invited to cast his lot among us. To him we must appear simply as enemies. He will fight us until weapons, food, and hope fail him. Then he will die.

  ‘If he is a man, his death will be murder—

  ‘If he is less than a man,’ she continued after a long pause, ‘a being comparable to a horse or a hunting dog, then it is his right to have help. There is a responsibility which accompanies the service we impose on animals. In exchange for what we take away, we give food, shelter, healing, perhaps even kindness. If we do not, few will call us admirable. Does not a champion with the mind and needs and desires of a man deserve at least as much consideration as a beast? Even if he did not truly exist until the moment of his translation, he is real now and should not be harried to death simply because, like an animal, he does not understand what we require of him.’

  Perhaps reaction to the day’s events left Terisa punchy; perhaps her emotions were bouncing out of control. Whatever the cause, her heart lifted as she listened to the lady. She was glad that she had decided to help Myste, very glad. This was worth doing. Simply because she wanted confirmation, she said, ‘Maybe all that is true. But what does it have to do with you? Why do you think you have to sneak out of Orison and chase after him on foot in this weather?’

  Myste frowned for a moment. Then she smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘There you touch me on my weakest point. I am a bundle of romantic ideas which defy common sense.’ As she spoke, however, she became stronger. ‘Yet I have always believed that problems should be solved by those who see them – that when a difficulty presents itself the person who becomes aware of it should answer it instead of trying to pass it to someone else.’ Her voice cast hints of passion like glints of gold in the firelight. ‘This is more true rather than less for a king’s daughter. What is a king if not a man who accepts responsibility for problems when he sees them? And should his daughter not do the same?’

  Her eyes flashing like Elega’s, she faced Terisa. ‘But the truth,’ she said as intensely as a cry, ‘is that I want to go. I am tired of waiting for my life to have some kind of purpose.’

  At once, however, she made an effort to tone down her manner. ‘“Romantic,” as I say.’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘But I cannot claim that I have been happy since the hall of audiences, since my father’ – she was uncomfortable mentioning him – ‘forced you to play hop-board against Prince Kragen. When my mother and Torrent left, I remained in Orison because I thought I had a purpose. I wanted there to be at least one person at the King’s side who would believe him if he chose to explain himself. Perhaps I could not help him solve Mordant’s problems, but I could offer him the company and support of my willingness.

  ‘But when for a whim he insulted an ambassador of Alend to the point of war – for a whim, Terisa! – and I went after him, he refused to hear me.’ She couldn’t keep her emotion down. ‘“My daughter and that Kragen mean to betray me,” he snapped. “They have already begun. Do not hover. I am tired of daughters.” Then he slammed his door.’

  Again, Myste was silent for a while. But then she shrugged, and that small gesture seemed to restore her balance, her excitement. ‘I am still enough his daughter to want to take action when I see a need. And I do not want to watch him continue as he is going.’

  Terisa did the best she could to help. Slowly, she said, ‘When the champion first appeared, he nearly killed me. But he stopped himself. He said, “I don’t shoot women.”’

  Myste smiled like a beam of sunshine through the storm piling snow over Orison.

  The snowfall began to lessen shortly after sunset. Because she didn’t want to risk departing Orison under an open sky and a clear moon, across an expanse of new snow in which she would leave obvious tracks, Myste left Terisa’s room promptly. Her supplies over her shoulder under her cloak, a small oil lamp in one hand, she opened the hidden door and clambered through the wardrobe into the passage.

  ‘Be careful,’ Terisa whispered after her. ‘If you get lost, and Castellan Lebbick has to send a search party down there to find you, we’re both going to look pretty silly.’

  ‘Do not let him bully you,’ replied the lady almost gaily. ‘He only does it because he loves my father. I thank you with all my heart. I think I have not been this happy for years.’

  As an afterthought, Terisa asked, ‘What shall I tell Elega?’

  With the lamp in front of her, Myste seemed to be standing on the lip of a well of darkness. ‘Tell her nothing.’ Her voice carried a hollow sound like an echo. ‘Watch her. If she truly means to betray the King, stop her.’

  How do you expect me to do that? Terisa demanded. But she didn’t speak aloud. Myste was already gone.

  Oh, well. Terisa closed the passage and got out of the wardrobe. Tomorrow she would have to go looking for Master Eremis. He needed to know how he had been betrayed. For some reason, the prospect of talking to him didn’t appeal to her. She preferred to think about Myste.

  She wanted to believe that someday she would have as much courage as the King’s daughter.

  As soon as she went to bed, she slept like a dead woman all night.

  She was awakened early the next morning by the sound of horns.

  It snatched her out of bed as if it were the call from her dreams, the distant appeal and ache of music or hunting. In too much of a hurry to notice that her fires had almost died out and the air was chilly, she strode naked out of the bedroom, looking for the source of what she had heard.

  It came again.

  It wasn’t the call she remembered. It was the blare of a trumpet, the same solitary fanfare that had greeted the arrival of the lords of the Cares to Orison.

  Now she recollected herself enough to feel the cold. Nevertheless she went to the window and looked out over the muddy courtyard.

  The trumpet winded again. Apparently, each of the departing lords was being given a personal salutation. She saw the Fayle and his entourage emerge from the gate with the Perdon behind him, while the Termigan turned his horse away from the guards ranked formally behind Castellan Lebbick. Then came the Armigite, accompanied by his guards and courtiers – and by two or three women. Perhaps they were his mistresses or courtesans.

  Last was Prince Kragen.

  So he was leaving also. Apparently he – like the lords – had decided to remain only long enough to assess the consequences of what the Congery had done. Were they all abandoning Orison now because it was no longer safe, no longer proof against siege – or even against weather? Did Prince Kragen intend to bring down the war that the lords of the Cares fled?

  How much was the translation of the champion going to cost Mordant in the end?

  The cold of the stone against her arms and breasts made her shiver. The tempo of events was accelerating. She thought she heard a wild note of warning in the way the trumpeter blew his salute as Prince Kragen received his abrupt farewell from Lebbick and turned toward the gate, surrounded by his coterie of bodyguards.

  Shivering violently, she left the window.

  Firs
t she retrieved her robe and sashed it tightly; then she worked on her fires, stoking them with fresh kindling, blowing on the coals until the kindling caught flame, feeding the flames with generous quantities of wood. After a while, she began to feel warmer.

  She had become surprisingly hungry during the night. But Saddith didn’t usually bring her breakfast quite this early. When she had completely stopped shivering, she decided that she would get dressed, then ask one of her guards to call for the maid and a tray.

  She wanted to wear her own clothes: she had had enough of gowns for the time being. To her bafflement, however, she couldn’t find her moccasins. That was strange. When had she last worn them? The night before last, to the meeting of the lords. Where were they?

  Had Saddith taken them for some reason?

  Frowning, she finished dressing, put on the delicate buskins again, then went to the door and unbolted it.

  The guards outside looked vaguely familiar: they must have had this duty sometime recently. They saluted her, and one of them asked if she needed anything.

  ‘Can you call my maid?’ she asked. ‘I want breakfast.’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ A moment later, the man added, ‘Apt Geraden was here earlier, asking if you’re all right. I won’t be surprised if I see him again soon.’ He grinned. ‘Should I tell him you’re ready for visitors?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Smiling because Geraden must be well if his brother and the physician were willing to let him worry about others, she closed the door and returned to her windows to watch people – guards on duty, servants carrying supplies, men and women who had business with the few shops already open in the northwest end – watch them slogging through the cold and mud of the courtyard while she waited for Saddith or the Apt.

  Soon there was a knock at her door. Before she could answer it, Castellan Lebbick stalked into the room and slammed the door behind him.

  In the center of the rug, he stopped to face her. He had one arm clamped at his back, the other cocked on his hip. His jaws chewed anger; his shoulders were stiff with it.