Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

‘Here, my lady.’

  Carefully, the guard maneuvered her into a chair, then pressed a goblet of wine into her hands. She drank deeply; for a moment she felt spikes hammering through her skull. After that, however, she began to feel better.

  With an effort, she said, ‘Thanks.’ Now what she wanted was a nap. But there was some reason why she couldn’t take one. What was it? Oh, yes. ‘Did you say the King wants to see me?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. When you’re well enough to walk.’

  She turned her head to look at him and smile. She didn’t remember ever having seen him before. He was a relatively young man with a thin face and earnest eyes – perhaps not the most promising candidate to convey a message that would infuriate Castellan Lebbick. But he had carried out his orders. And she was grateful for his courtesy.

  ‘We might as well try,’ she said. ‘Maybe the walk will do me good.’

  Nodding encouragement, he assisted her to her feet. Then he gave her his arm to lean on. She took a few experimental steps and found that the condition of her head continued to improve. Incredible. Judging by appearances, it was actually possible to survive having a man like the Castellan furious at her. A man like her father. She could hardly believe it.

  Moving cautiously, she let her escort guide her to the tower where King Joyse and his daughters had their suites. By the time she arrived at the high, carved door of the King’s apartment, she felt reasonably stable – balanced between light-headedness and the aftereffects of Lebbick’s vehemence.

  The King’s guards opened his door without question: clearly they were expecting her. One of them announced her while the other bowed her inward. In a moment, she found herself standing for the second time in the richly furnished chamber where King Joyse played his games of hop-board.

  The room was lit by candles in candelabra and brass wall-holders, and the thick blue-and-red rug contrasted warmly with the decorated blond wood paneling of the walls, bringing out the carving and the delicate black inlay-work. An ornamental mantel framed the fireplace. On the hop-board table, a game was in progress. No one was playing, however.

  ‘My lord King,’ the guard pronounced firmly, ‘here is the lady Terisa of Morgan.’ Then he withdrew, taking his companion and Terisa’s escort with him and closing the door. But King Joyse didn’t react. He sprawled in a gilt-edged armchair with his legs extended on a fat hassock and his head propped against the chair back. His purple velvet robe covered him like a shroud: it was starting to look as old and ratty as Adept Havelock’s surcoat. A long sheet of parchment – an open scroll – was draped over his face; his arms dangled beside him, his swollen knuckles nearly scraping the rug. The floor around his chair was littered with more scrolls, some of them open, others haphazardly tied with string.

  He was snoring decorously. The stiff parchment rustled whenever he breathed.

  The King’s Dastard wasn’t present. Instead, King Joyse was being kept company by Geraden and the Tor.

  Involuntarily, she gaped at them.

  ‘My lady,’ rumbled the Tor. ‘It is a pleasure to renew your acquaintance.’ His fat overflowed his chair, and his plump hands gripped a flagon of wine as if he couldn’t function without it. His thin white hair straggled disconsolately from his pale scalp. But his voluminous black robe was clean; his jowls were decently shaved. Although his small eyes were bleary, they seemed marginally less blurred than she remembered them.

  Geraden met her surprise with a grin. Almost at once, however, his expression changed to distress. He jumped out of his chair and approached her. Lightly, he stroked the hot skin of her cheek. ‘That unscrupulous bastard,’ he whispered. ‘He hit you.’ Then chagrin overcame him. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I didn’t think he would go that far. I thought I would be fast enough. I ran all the way – all the way—’

  ‘Enough, young Geraden,’ the Tor interposed, peering morosely into his flagon. ‘You are a son of the Domne. Have more dignity.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Terisa felt that she had abruptly become stupid. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘As little as I can,’ the Tor replied as though she had spoken to him. ‘King Joyse keeps good wine and an excellent fire. I have no other needs.

  ‘It was awkward, I admit,’ he mused, frowning to himself. ‘He refused to see me. After that cell, I felt as cold as my son. I wanted to be warm again. And I thought I would share a last flagon with my old friend the King of Mordant. Did I say that I would not leave him? I meant to say so. But he refused to see me. Very awkward.’

  Unexpectedly, he smiled. Under other circumstances, it would have been a happy smile; but it didn’t touch the sadness in his eyes. ‘He underestimated me. I sat down outside his door and commenced howling. Not polite, deferential howling, I assure you, but howling to alarm the dead.’

  ‘You did that?’ Geraden grinned in spite of himself, surprised out of his contrition.

  The Tor nodded. ‘It is well that my family did not see me. They would not have thought better of me for it. But I succeeded.’ He glanced toward King Joyse and commented, ‘Since admitting me, he has found it impossible to make me depart.’

  This didn’t make much sense to Terisa. She shook her head to clear it, but the movement had the opposite effect. She needed to sit down. Or lie down.

  ‘But why?’ She couldn’t forget how the Tor had looked standing in the mud of the courtyard with his dead son in his arms, or what Geraden had told her about King Joyse’s reaction to the Tor’s son’s death. ‘All the other lords left. Why do you want to stay?’

  The Tor grimaced.

  ‘Revenge.’

  Geraden was startled. ‘Revenge?’

  ‘For most of my life,’ explained the lord in a husky voice, ‘I have been haunted by the knowledge that I did not give King Joyse my full support when he needed it. This would have been wise policy – if he had failed. But he succeeded, thereby making me a conniving ingrate in the eyes of all Mordant. I mean to be revenged for that.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Terisa repeated weakly. Maybe the Tor was joking. But what kind of joke was it?

  ‘The King needs a chancellor.’ The lord didn’t raise his head. ‘Someone who can put two coherent commands together better than that mad Imager. As long as I sit here’ – he flopped one hand on the arm of his chair – ‘and speak as though I have authority, I will be obeyed. Whether he wishes it or not, Joyse will no longer be a passive ruler. Either I will take action in his name, or he must take action to stop me.’

  Geraden’s eyes gleamed appreciatively; but Terisa said, ‘Wait a minute.’ She was too slow: she had to catch up. She had believed that the Apt was abandoning her when he left her to Lebbick. ‘You’re giving orders in the King’s name.’ She turned to Geraden. ‘You came here – you ran here – to get King Joyse to stop Castellan Lebbick.’ Geraden nodded. She glanced over at the King. ‘Does he really want to see me?’

  With the exaggerated care of too much wine, the Tor scanned the room as if searching for eavesdroppers. Then he said, ‘No.’ At once, one plump finger jumped to his lips to hush himself. In a thick whisper, he added, ‘But he would if he had any sense. He was asleep, so I took the liberty of speaking for him.

  ‘Young Geraden is right,’ he continued sententiously. ‘The good Castellan should not be allowed to make decisions where women are concerned.’

  She felt that she hadn’t stopped gaping at him. She wanted to say several things at once. What do you hope to accomplish? Oh, Geraden, I’m sorry! Do you really think he’ll let you get away with this? But that wasn’t the point, of course. The point was to make King Joyse declare himself – to make Mordant’s sovereign take a stand that would reveal his true intentions. So she didn’t ask any of her questions. Instead, she said sincerely, ‘I’m glad you did it. I needed rescuing.’

  The Tor gave her a lugubrious wink. To Geraden, he commented, ‘You see? Already my revenge begins to bear fruit.’

  ‘My father tells a lot of stories about y
ou, my lord,’ said Geraden. ‘I don’t think they do you justice.’

  But Terisa wasn’t done. She turned to Geraden. Because she had become brave enough to tell lies – and even to speak insults – she was brave enough to say, ‘I’m sorry. When you left, I thought you were running out on me. I should have known better.’

  He met her gaze sharply, and his shoulders straightened. ‘That’s right.’ His tone was earnest. ‘You should have known better. I would rather cut off my hands than run out on you.’

  Almost at once, however, he relapsed to self-consciousness. ‘I’m glad I did something right.’ His smile was embarrassed and happy. ‘Please don’t count on it. It doesn’t happen that often.’

  ‘Tush, young Geraden,’ the Tor interposed. ‘You malign yourself.’ He drained his flagon and waved it until the Apt found a decanter and poured more wine for him. ‘Your difficulty is quite simple. You have not found your true abilities. As the King’s chancellor, I dispense advice freely to all. Born swordsmen make very clumsy farmers, as I am sure your brother Artagel would agree. Give up Imagery. A son of the Domne should not spend his life providing jokes for Imagers.’

  Geraden’s face darkened, not with anger, but with pain. ‘I would if I could.’ The quick distress in his voice went straight to Terisa’s heart. ‘I’m a disappointment to my whole family. I know that. But I can’t – I can not give it up.’

  The Tor studied his wine with the air of a man who didn’t want to meet Geraden’s eyes. ‘At least you are your father’s son. Take comfort in that. He, too, is stubborn. I have heard King Joyse say that he would rather break his head on a stone wall than argue with the Domne.’

  Privately, Terisa thought that if Artagel had been present he would have denied being disappointed in his brother at all.

  Abruptly, the King made a snorting noise. A twitch of his head dislodged the scroll, and the parchment slipped aside, curling around itself among the others on the rug. Blinking, he raised his hands to his chest and flexed them as if they had gone numb. ‘The Domne,’ he muttered at the ceiling. ‘Stubborn man. Rather break my head on a stone wall.’

  In an effort to push himself upright, he fumbled at the arms of his chair, but he seemed too stunned with dreams – or too weak – to succeed.

  ‘My lord King.’ Geraden went to him and helped him.

  With awkward hands, King Joyse tried to rub the sleep off his face. Seen in this way, his old skin and watery eyes had a vulnerability which pained Terisa. He didn’t look like a perverse or half-mad ruler who refused to defend his kingdom: he looked like a frail semi-invalid, nearly crippled by arthritis and age, who had lost most of the people he loved and now could barely keep his grip on reason.

  But when he saw her – when he got his eyes into focus and saw who she was – he answered her unspoken concern with a smile of clean, uncluttered joy.

  That was where the lady Myste had come by her look of sunshine: she had inherited it from her father. Terisa tried to distance herself from his transparent pleasure, but she couldn’t. If he had simply smiled at her like that and done nothing to change the way she felt about him, she would have done anything for him.

  Unfortunately, he spoke.

  ‘My lady, have you come to offer me a game? How kind of you. I have a problem here’ – he gestured toward his hop-board table – ‘that defies my poor brain.’

  Her disappointment was so acute that she had to turn her head away.

  He levered himself upright in a way that suggested his legs weren’t as weak as his arms. ‘Havelock set it up for me. If I understand him – which isn’t always easy – he once found a solution. These are his notes.’ King Joyse nudged a nearby scroll with one foot. ‘Since I haven’t been able to design a solution for myself, I’ve been reading his notes, hunting—’ His voice trailed away as he lost the thread of what he was saying. His gaze shifted toward the Tor and Geraden as if he couldn’t quite remember who they were. Then he looked back to Terisa and resumed, ‘—hunting for his answer.’ He shrugged. ‘Without success. Maybe you can give me some fresh ideas.’

  Memories of her game with Prince Kragen made her stomach twist. King Joyse had lured her into that situation with his smile. She didn’t want to find herself in a similar mess again. Carefully, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t come for that. The Tor’ – she hoped the lord would forgive her for putting him on the spot – ‘had your guards bring me here.’

  ‘Ah, my old friend the Tor.’ King Joyse grimaced as though his mouth were full of bile. ‘He is one of the few mummers in this masque who defies prediction.’ He seemed to drift between colloquial and more formal diction according to his mood. ‘Who could have foreseen that he would feel compelled to force his service upon me, after all the indignities I have required him to suffer?’ He didn’t glance in the direction of the old lord. ‘This is not in the rules. It is enough to drive me mad, my lady.’

  ‘My lord King’ – the Tor’s voice was quiet and harsh – ‘I am sure you understand that I am not motivated by benevolence.’

  The King ignored him. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said to Terisa, working visibly to recover his equanimity, ‘we must all bear our burdens as we can. Mine is hop-board.’ Again, he gestured toward the table. ‘This problem beats me. Are you sure you won’t take a look at it for me? It’s really quite demonic.’ Slowly, the skin around his eyes crinkled with humor and enjoyment. ‘And I think you know something about it.

  ‘Please?’

  Without quite intending to do so, she faced the table. After all, it wasn’t entirely fair to say that his smile alone had seduced her into her game with Prince Kragen. She had had her own odd reasons for what she did. It wasn’t fair to place all the blame on King Joyse.

  When she saw the arrangement of the men on the board, she understood his idea that she knew something about it. The position was virtually a stalement: it was the same position she had played for against Prince Kragen. Whose move was it? If white’s, the game could go on; if red’s, the only available play would complete the stalemate.

  ‘It’s red’s turn,’ answered the King, although she hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I see what you mean,’ she murmured. ‘There’s no way out of that. Adept Havelock must be joking.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. He doesn’t have that kind of humor’ King Joyse frowned at the board. ‘There is a way out. I’m sure of it. I simply can’t imagine what it is.’

  Terisa shook her head. The subject of hop-board held no interest for her. To dismiss it, she said, ‘I haven’t played for years. The only thing I can see is to back up and start over again. Try to avoid arriving in this position.’

  He gave her another of his radiant smiles. ‘My lady, I wish life were that simple.’

  Under the influence of his joy, she thought suddenly that she caught Havelock’s joke. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘try this.’ Without pausing to reflect, she took hold of the edge of the table and tilted it back and forth just enough to slide most of the men off their squares. In an instant, the impending stalement became chaos.

  Grinning, she turned back to the King.

  He obviously didn’t think what she had done was funny. A look of nausea on his face, he stared at the board. His frailty came back over him; his eyes filled as if he were on the verge of tears.

  Hastily, she tried to explain. ‘I still think Adept Havelock was joking.’ She indicated the board. ‘Does he have that kind of humor?’

  King Joyse gave no sign that he heard her.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just a game.’

  Without warning, his eyes flashed like steel glimpsed through water. ‘To you, it’s just a game. To me, it’s the difference between life and ruin.’

  Moving so feebly that he nearly tottered, he went back to his chair. The difficulty with which he lowered himself into his seat made her ache as if in some way it were her fault.

  ‘My lord King,’ Geraden asked, ‘are you all right? Can I get anything f
or you?’

  Slowly, King Joyse shifted his damp blue gaze toward the Apt. ‘I notice you haven’t been paying much attention to my orders,’ he rasped acidulously. ‘I distinctly told you not to see or speak with the lady Terisa. I told you not to answer her questions. Do you call what you’ve been doing obedience? I expected better loyalty from a son of the Domne.’

  His accusation surprised Geraden. The Apt’s head jerked up; his concern changed to a scowl. ‘My lord King,’ he replied slowly, holding his emotions like a bit clamped between his teeth, ‘I would obey your orders if I understood them. But they don’t make any sense.

  ‘You’ve lost interest in Mordant. You insulted Prince Kragen badly enough to start a war with Alend. You let the Congery summon that champion, when the Fayle did everything he could to warn you. We need all the friends we can get. I’m not willing to treat the lady Terisa like an enemy.’

  King Joyse looked too tired and old to keep his head up, but his gaze didn’t waver. ‘Are you through?’

  Geraden took a sharp breath. ‘No.’ Stiffly, he said like a formal confession, ‘My lord King, the day after you commanded me not to see or speak with the lady Terisa, I took her to the mirror which brought her here and attempted to return her to her own world.’ Then he stopped, held himself still.

  Like Geraden, Terisa expected anger from King Joyse. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had sent for the Castellan. Apparently anticipating the same reaction, the Tor shifted forward in his chair, braced himself to speak.

  But the King only sighed. He leaned back and rested his chin on his chest. Staring vaguely into the rug, he murmured, ‘One grows old so quickly. This should have happened when I was younger. I was strong enough when I was younger.’

  Terisa wanted to ask – gently, gently – What should have happened? But Geraden had been too shaken by the King’s accusation to let it drop.

  ‘I tried to translate her back to her own world because I believe all the things you used to say about the reality and integrity of what we see in mirrors. I think she deserves the freedom to leave whenever she wants. If I had known you were going to let the Masters translate their champion – if I had known you were going to turn your back on the ideals you talked about when you created the Congery in the first place – I would have tried a lot harder to get her out of here.’ What he was saying wasn’t recrimination: it was an appeal. Terisa could hear his heart in it. ‘Why did you do it? Their champion nearly killed us. He left a hole the size of a small mansion in the northwest wall. We might as well invite Cadwal and Alend to besiege us. And he’s still out there, ready to tear down anybody who gets in his way.’