Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  It did.

  Not entirely, of course: Orison was too big a target for that. But the boulder hit high and to the left, away from the curtain-wall.

  The impact left a scar on the face of the castle. That was trivial, however: the projectile itself shattered. The plain purple swath of the King’s personal banner continued to snap and flutter, untouched, unconcerned.

  Under his breath, Kragen cursed the wind, although he knew it had nothing to do with the miss. In fact, a miss was normal: a hit would have been uncommon. The captain of catapults needed a few throws to adjust his engine, get the range. Yet Prince Kragen felt an irrational pang, as if the miss were an omen.

  Perhaps it was. Before the captain’s men could start hauling on the tackle which pulled back the arm of the catapult, the entire besieging force heard the cry of a trumpet.

  It wasn’t one of the familiar fanfares, announcing messengers or defiance. It was a high, shrill wail on one note, as if the trumpeter himself didn’t know what he was doing, but had simply been instructed to attract attention.

  Kragen glanced at the lady Elega, implicitly asking for an explanation. She shrugged and nodded toward Orison.

  From his present position, the Prince couldn’t see the castle gates. They must have been opened, however, because a man on a horse came around the corner of the wall, riding in the direction of the catapult.

  He was a small man – too small for his mount, Prince Kragen gauged automatically. And not accustomed to horses, judging by the precarious way he kept his seat. If he carried any weapons or armor, they were hidden under his thick mantle.

  But over his shoulders, outside his mantle, he wore the yellow chasuble of a Master. The wind made the ends of the chasuble flap so that they couldn’t be missed.

  The Prince cocked a black eyebrow, but didn’t let anything else show. Conscious that everything he said would be heard and reported throughout the army, he murmured calmly, ‘Interesting. An Imager. A Master of the Congery. Do you know him, my lady?’

  She waited until there was no possibility of mistake. Then she responded softly, ‘Quillon, my lord Prince.’ She was frowning hard. ‘Why him? He has never been important, either to the Congery or to my father.’

  Prince Kragen smiled toward the approaching Master. So that only Elega could hear him, he commented, ‘I suspect we will learn the answer shortly.’

  Master Quillon came forward, red-faced and laughable on his oversized mount. His eyes watered as if he were weeping, though there was no sorrow in his expression. His nose twitched like a rabbit’s; his lips exposed his protruding teeth. But as the Master brought his horse to a halt in front of Prince Kragen and the lady Elega – as Quillon dismounted almost as if he were falling, blown out of his seat by the wind – the Alend Contender had no difficulty suppressing his mirth. Regardless of what Quillon looked like, he was an Imager. If he had a mirror with him, he might be able to do considerable damage before he was taken prisoner or killed.

  ‘My lord Prince,’ he said without preamble – without a glance at King Joyse’s daughter or a bow for the Alend Monarch’s son – ‘I have come to warn you.’

  The men around the Prince stiffened; the captain of catapults put his hand on his sword. But Prince Kragen’s demeanor gave no hint of offense.

  ‘To warn us, Master Quillon?’ His tone was smooth, despite the piercing glitter of his gaze. ‘That is an unexpected courtesy. I distinctly heard Castellan Lebbick threaten to “unleash the Congery” against us. Have I misunderstood your King’s intent? Have I not already been warned? Or’ – he held Quillon’s eyes sharply – ‘is your warning different in some way? Does your presence here imply that the Congery is no longer under Joyse’s rule?’

  ‘No, my lord Prince.’ The Imager had such an appearance of being frightened that the assertion in his voice sounded unnatural, unexpectedly ominous. ‘You rush to conclusions. That is a dangerous weakness in a leader of men. If you wish to survive this war, you must show greater care.’

  ‘Must I?’ replied the Prince, still smoothly. ‘I beg your pardon. You have misled me. Your own incaution in coming to speak to me inspired my incautious speculations. If you mean merely to repeat the Castellan’s threats, you could have spared yourself an uncomfortable ride.’

  ‘I mean nothing of the kind. I came to warn you that we will destroy this catapult. If you remain near it, you may be injured – perhaps killed. King Joyse does not wish you killed. This war is not of his doing, and he has no interest in your death.’

  A cold, unfamiliar tingle ran across Kragen’s scalp and down the back of his neck. We will destroy— Like everyone else he had ever known, he was afraid of Imagers, afraid of the strange power to produce atrocities out of nothing more than glass and talent. One consequence of this was that he had distorted the shape of his siege to avoid the crossroads because he knew from Elega that the Perdon had once been attacked by Imagery there. And Quillon’s manner made his words seem mad – unpredictable and therefore perilous. King Joyse does not wish you killed.

  At the same time, Margonal’s son was the Alend Contender: he occupied a position, and carried a responsibility, which no one had forced on him. In other lands, other princes might become kings whether they deserved the place or not; but the Alend Monarch’s Seat in Scarab could only be earned, never inherited. And Kragen wanted that Seat, both because he trusted his father and because he trusted himself. More than anyone else who desired to rule Alend, he believed in what his father was doing. And he felt sure that none of his competitors was better qualified than himself.

  So there was no fear in the way he looked at Quillon, or in the way he stood, or in the way he spoke. There was only watchfulness – and a superficial amusement which wasn’t intended to fool anybody.

  ‘What, no interest at all?’ he asked easily. ‘Even though I have taken his daughter from him and brought the full strength of the Alend Monarch to the gates of Orison? Forgive me if I seem skeptical, Master Quillon. Your King’s concern for my life appears to be – I mean no offense – a little eccentric.’ As if he were bowing, he nodded his head; but his men understood him and closed around Quillon, blocking the Imager’s retreat. ‘And you risk much to make me aware of his regard for me.’

  Master Quillon’s gaze flicked from side to side, trying to watch everything at once. ‘Not so much,’ he commented as if he hadn’t noticed his own anxiety. ‘Only my life. I prefer to live, but nothing of importance will be lost if I am killed. This catapult will still be destroyed. Every catapult which you presume to aim against us will be destroyed. As I say, King Joyse has no interest in your death. If you insist on dying, however, he will not prohibit you.

  ‘The risk to my life is your assurance that I speak the truth.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ drawled the Prince. ‘From this distance, you will destroy my siege engines? What new horror has the Congery devised, that you are now able to project destruction so far from your glass?’

  The Master didn’t answer that question. ‘Withdraw or not, as you choose,’ he said. ‘Kill me or not.’ The twitching of his nose was unmistakably rabbitlike. ‘But do not make the error of believing that you will be permitted to enter or occupy Orison. Rather than surrender his Seat and his strength, King Joyse will allow you to be crushed between the hammer of Cadwal and the anvil of the Congery.’

  The lady Elega couldn’t restrain herself. ‘Quillon, this is madness.’ Her protest sounded at once angry and forlorn. ‘You are a minor Imager, a lesser member of the Congery. You admit that your life has no importance. Yet you dare threaten the Alend Monarch and his son. How have you gained such stature, that you claim to speak with my father’s voice?’

  For the first time, Master Quillon looked at her. Suddenly, his face knotted, and an incongruous note of ferocity sharpened his tone. ‘My lady, I have been given my stature by the King’s command. I am the mediator of the Congery.’ Without moving, he confronted her as if he had abruptly become taller. ‘Unlike his daughter, I hav
e not betrayed him.’

  Loyal to their Prince, the Alend soldiers tensed; a number of them put their hands on their swords.

  But Elega met the Master’s reply squarely. She had a King’s daughter’s pride, as well as a King’s daughter’s commitment to what she was doing. ‘That is unjust,’ she snapped. ‘He has betrayed all Mordant. You cannot be blind to the truth. You cannot—’

  Deliberately, Master Quillon turned away as if she had ceased to exist for him.

  Unheeded, her protest trailed into silence. In the chill spring wind she looked like she might weep.

  With difficulty, Prince Kragen checked his anger. The Master’s attitude infuriated him because he understood it too well. Nevertheless he resisted the impulse to have Quillon struck down. Instead, he murmured through his teeth, ‘You risk more than you realize, Master Quillon. Perhaps you do not consider death to be of great importance, but I assure you that you will attach more significance to pain.’

  At that, Elega’s head jerked, and her gaze widened, as if she were shocked. The Prince and the Imager faced each other, however, ignoring her reaction.

  Master Quillon’s eyes flicked; his nose twitched. He might have been on the verge of panic. But his tone contradicted that impression. It cut fearlessly.

  ‘Is that your answer to what you do not understand, my lord Prince? Torture? Or do you inflict pain for the simple pleasure of it? Be warned again, son of the Alend Monarch, you are being tested here, as surely as you were tested in Orison, at the hop-board table – and elsewhere. I do not advise you to prove unworthy.’

  Without Prince Kragen’s permission, Quillon left. He mounted his horse awkwardly, gathered up the reins. He was surrounded by Alends; yet when he pulled his mount’s head toward Orison the soldiers seemed to open a path for him involuntarily, without instructions from their captain or their Prince, as if they were ruled by the Imager’s peculiar dignity.

  Looking slightly ridiculous – or perhaps valiant – on his big horse, he rode back the way he had come. In a short time, he rounded the corner of Orison and disappeared from sight.

  Kragen chewed his lips under his moustache as he turned to the lady. You are being tested here— He would have asked, What was the meaning of that? but the darkness in her eyes stopped him.

  ‘Elega?’ he inquired softly.

  Her jaw tightened as she met his gaze. ‘“Pain,” my lord Prince?’

  Her indignation made him want to shout at her. We are at war here, my lady. Do you believe that we can fight a war without hurting anyone? He restrained himself, however, because he was also a little ashamed of having threatened Master Quillon.

  It was certainly true that in the old days of the constant struggle between Alend and Cadwal, no supporter or adherent of the Alend Monarch would have hesitated to twist a few screams out of any Mordant or Cadwal. And the barons of the Lieges still tended to be a bloodthirsty lot. But since his defeat at King Joyse’s hands, Margonal hadn’t failed to notice that his opponent was able to rule Mordant with considerable ease by winning loyalty rather than extorting it. Never a stupid man, the Alend Monarch had experimented with techniques of kingship other than those which hinged upon fear, violence, and pain, and had been pleased with the results. Even the barons were becoming easier to command.

  That was one of the things Margonal had done which Prince Kragen believed in. He wanted to make more such experiments himself.

  So despite the fact that he was angry and alarmed and full of doubt, he lowered his guard enough to offer Elega a piece of difficult honesty.

  ‘I said more than I meant. The Imager affronted you, my lady. I do not like it when you are affronted.’

  His explanation seemed to give her what she needed. Slowly, her expression cleared; moisture softened her gaze until it looked like a promise. ‘I should not be so easily offended,’ she replied. ‘Surely it is obvious that anyone who still trusts my father will be unable to trust me.’ Then, as if she were trying to match his candor, she added, ‘Yet I thank you for your anger, my lord Prince. It is a comfort that you consider me worth defending.’

  For a moment, Prince Kragen studied her, measuring his hunger for her against the exigencies of the situation. Then he bowed and turned away.

  The wind seemed to be getting colder. Spring had come early – therefore it was possible that winter would return. That, the Prince thought bitterly, would be just what he and his army needed: to be encamped and paralyzed by winter outside Orison like curs outside a village, cold and hungry, and helpless to do anything except hope for table scraps. Yes, that would be perfect.

  But he kept his bile to himself. To his captain of catapults, he said briskly, as if he were sure of what he was doing, ‘We will heed the Imager’s warning, I think. Withdraw all who are unnecessary, and prepare the rest to retreat. Then resume the attack.’

  The captain saluted, began to issue orders. Men obeyed with nervous alacrity, artificially quick to demonstrate that they weren’t concerned. Taking Elega with him, Prince Kragen walked in the direction of his father’s tents until he had put nearly a hundred yards between himself and the catapult. There he turned to watch.

  He didn’t have to wait long for Master Quillon’s threat to be carried out. The mediator of the Congery must have given the signal almost as soon as he entered the courtyard of the castle. Moments after the Prince began to study Orison’s heavy gray profile for some hint of what was coming, he saw a brown shape as imprecise as a puff of smoke lift off the ramparts of the northwest wall.

  It looked like it would dissipate like smoke; yet it held together. It looked like it was no bigger than a large dog, no more than twice the size of a buzzard; yet the way it rose seething and shifting into the sky made it seem as dangerous as a thunderbolt. A bit of brown smoke – Like nearly ten thousand other men and virtually all his army’s adherents, Prince Kragen craned his neck and squinted his eyes to trace the shape’s movement against the dull background of the clouds.

  So high that it was almost certainly beyond arrow range, even for the iron-trussed crossbows some of the Alends carried, the brown shape sailed out toward the catapult and over it and away again, back in the direction of the castle. The Prince thought he heard a faint, thin cry, like the wail of a seabird.

  And from out of the smoke as it passed overhead came plummeting a rock as big as the one which the catapult had pitched at Orison.

  Powerful with the force of its fall, the rock struck the catapult and shattered the wood as easily as if the engine had been built of kindling. Splinters and bolts burst loose on all sides; chunks of timber arced away from the impact and hit the ground like rubble. Two of the men fleeing from the catapult went down, one with a ragged stave driven through his leg, the other with his skull crushed by a bit of the engine’s iron. The rest were luckier.

  The vague brown shape had already dropped out of sight beyond the parapets of the castle.

  A shout went up from the army – anger and fear demanding an outlet, calling for blood. But Prince Kragen stood still, his face impassive, as if he had never been surprised in his life. Only the white lines of his mouth hidden under his moustache betrayed what he felt.

  ‘My lady,’ he said to Elega in a tone of grim nonchalance, ‘you have lived for years in the proximity of Imagers. Surely Orison has always been full of rumors concerning the Congery. Have you ever heard of or seen such a thing before?’

  She shook her head dumbly and studied the wreckage of the catapult as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  ‘It is possible,’ he muttered for her ears alone, ‘that during King Joyse’s peace we have forgotten too much of the abomination of Imagery. Clearly the Masters have not been inactive under his rule.

  ‘My lady’– he closed his eyes just for a moment and allowed himself to be appalled – ‘the Congery must not fall into the hands of High King Festten.’

  Then the Prince took command of himself again and left her. First he ordered the captain of catapults to bring for
ward another siege engine and try again, taking whatever precautions were necessary to protect the men. After that, he went to talk to his father.

  The Alend Monarch’s tents were sumptuous by his standards. Margonal liked to travel in comfort. Also he knew that upon occasion a grand public display was good for morale. Nevertheless High King Festten would have considered the Monarch’s quarters a hovel. Alend lacked the seaports and hence the trade of Cadwal. Compared to Festten, Margonal was no wealthier than one of his Lieges. If Mordant hadn’t lain between Cadwal and Alend – and if the Cares of Mordant hadn’t been so contentious, so difficult to rule – a quality which made them an effective buffer – the High King and the forces which his wealth could procure would long since have swallowed up his ancient enemy.

  Prince Kragen was conscious of this, not because he was jealous of the High King’s riches, but because he felt acutely vulnerable to Cadwal, as he pushed the canvas door-flap aside and was admitted to his father’s presence. He could feel Alend’s peril in the cold wind that curled about his neck like a garotte.

  The Alend Monarch sat in the foretent where he held councils and consultations. The Prince could see him well enough: braziers intended for warmth gave off a flickering illumination that danced among the tentpoles and around the meeting chairs. But there was no other light. The seams of the tent were sealed with flaps, and Margonal didn’t permit lamps or torches or even candles in his presence. Privately, Prince Kragen considered this arbitrary prohibition a vestige of the tyranny to which his father had formerly been accustomed. Nevertheless he accepted it without question. As anyone who looked on the Alend Monarch’s face in good light could see, Margonal was stone blind.

  It was unimaginable that any vision could penetrate the white film which covered his eyes like curtains.