Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Then, as the old servant continued to do his job, and the light improved, she realized that the benches and chairs weren’t empty.

  The gathering was small, compared to the one which had greeted Prince Kragen’s first visit. Terisa suspected, however, that the people here were the ones who mattered. No courtiers were present, no lords or ladies whose sole claim to significance arose from birth or wealth. Around the benches were several more guards, each wearing the insignia of a captain: Lebbick’s seconds-in-command. Artagel sat among them, grinning encouragement. She saw some of King Joyse’s counselors, men she had met only once before: the Lord of Commerce, for example; the Home Ambassador; the Lord of the Privy Purse. And in the chairs—

  To the right of the throne sat the Tor, sprawling his bulk over at least two chairs. To all appearances, he hadn’t changed his robe since Terisa had last seen him: it was crumpled and filthy, so badly stained that it looked like it would never come clean. The dull red in his eyes and the way his flesh sagged from the bones of his face gave the impression that he was drunk. If he recognized either Terisa or Geraden, he didn’t show it.

  As if to avoid him – as if he stank or had lost continence – everyone else was seated on the left.

  The men there were Masters. Terisa knew Barsonage, of course: the mediator was scowling at her as if she had betrayed everything he valued. And most of the Imagers with him she had seen before. But at least one of them looked so unfamiliar – and so young – that she thought he must be an Apt who had just recently earned his chasuble.

  Two of the three of them were breathing hard. They must have come at a run. After all, the Castellan’s men hadn’t had much time to summon people to this audience.

  The reason for the attendance of the Masters was obvious. King Joyse had threatened to defend Orison with Imagery. To do that, he needed the support of the Congery.

  The Imagers made her think of Master Quillon, and her heart twisted.

  Then she realized that Adept Havelock was missing. The High King’s Dastard wasn’t in the hall anywhere.

  Neither was Master Eremis, however. That was a relief.

  Soundless on the carpet, Castellan Lebbick strode toward the chairs on the right and sat down a few places away from the Tor, leaving Prince Kragen, Geraden, and Terisa in the open space before the throne. Inconsequently, she noticed the burned spot on the rug, where Havelock had once dropped his censer. No one had bothered to mend it. King Joyse hadn’t had much use for his audience hall in recent years.

  He didn’t have much use for it now, apparently. He wasn’t present.

  Prince Kragen surveyed the hall; he scanned the balconies. The corner of his moustache lifted as if he were sneering. When he had completed his study of the King’s defenses, he said clearly, ‘Remarkable. Is this the best audience King Joyse can produce? If an ambassador came to the Alend Monarch, at least a hundred nobles would commemorate the occasion, regardless of the hour – or the urgency.’ A moment later, however, he remarked politely, ‘Most impressive, Castellan. For the first time, I truly believe that you do not intend to harm us. You would not need so many men – and so many witnesses – to procure our deaths.

  ‘What do you intend? Where is King Joyse?’

  Castellan Lebbick remained sitting. In a voice which resembled his laugh, he barked, ‘Norge!’

  Slowly, almost casually, one of the captains stood and came to attention. He saluted the Castellan calmly. In fact, everything about him seemed calm. He sounded like he was talking in his sleep.

  ‘My lord Castellan?’

  ‘Norge, where is King Joyse?’ demanded Lebbick.

  Norge shrugged comfortably. ‘I spoke to him myself, my lord Castellan. I told him what you said. I even told him what the Prince said. He said, “Then you’d better get the audience hall ready.”’

  Apparently, the captain didn’t think any other comment was necessary. He sat down.

  Terisa heard a door open and close as the servant left, his job done.

  Castellan Lebbick faced the Prince. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you know as much as I do. Are you satisfied?’

  ‘No, Castellan,’ put in King Joyse. ‘I doubt that he knows as much as you do. And I’m sure he isn’t satisfied.’

  Somehow, Terisa had missed the King’s arrival. He must have entered from a door hidden behind his seat: she jumped to that conclusion because he was beside the pediment now, with one hand braced on the base of the throne as if he were about to go up the four or five steps and sit down. Nevertheless she hadn’t seen him come in. For all she knew, he had appeared by Imagery.

  He was wearing what she took to be his formal attire: a robe of purple velvet, not especially clean; a circlet of gold to keep his white hair off his forehead. And from a brocade strap over his right shoulder hung a tooled sheath which held a longsword with a jeweled pommel. His blue eyes were as watery and vague as she remembered them; his hands appeared arthritic, swollen and inflexible. The way he moved conveyed the impression that he was frail under his robe, barely able to support his own weight; too frail for dignity or decision.

  Only his beard had changed. It had been trimmed short and neatly combed. Under his white whiskers, his cheeks showed a flush of exertion or wine.

  At once, everyone stood. A bit too slowly for decorum, Lebbick stood also and bowed. ‘Attend,’ he drawled by way of announcement. ‘This audience is granted to Prince Kragen, the Alend Contender, by Joyse, Lord of the Demesne and King of Mordant. It’s a private audience. Everyone here is commanded to speak freely – and to say nothing when they have left the hall. To speak outside of what is said here is treason.’

  Bitterly, as if he had no use for the King’s permission, he sat down.

  No one else sat. Even Lebbick’s captains remained on their feet while King Joyse looked up and down the hall as if he were making a mental note of everyone present. Meeting Terisa’s gaze, and Geraden’s, he scowled so dramatically that she was tempted to think he didn’t mean it; tempted to think he was scowling to conceal a leap of joy. She had no way of knowing the truth, however. Instead of addressing her or Geraden – or the audience generally – he turned abruptly and ascended his seat, dragging his sword upward like a millstone. When he reached his throne, he collapsed into it; he had to pause and breathe deeply for a moment before he was able to tell the gathering to sit.

  The assembled captains and counselors and Imagers obeyed.

  Of course, Prince Kragen, Terisa, and Geraden had to remain standing.

  Her reaction to the sight of King Joyse was more complex than she had expected: she was at once gladder and more distressed. He had a strange power which always surprised her, an attraction of personality that made her want to believe he was still as strong and idealistic and dedicated and, yes, heroic as he had ever been. That was why his appearance upset her. He was simply too weak. There on his throne, with Mordant in shambles, and Eremis poised to strike the last, crushing blow, he was too close to his grave – the burial ground as much of his spirit as of his decaying frame. She understood why Geraden loved him. Oh, she understood. Everything in her chest ached because he wasn’t equal to the love people gave him anymore.

  Somebody else would have to save Orison and Mordant.

  He seemed to share her opinion. In a dry, querulous tone that made him sound nearly decrepit, he said without preamble, ‘You first, Kragen. And be quick about it. I don’t have much patience for men who threaten my daughters.’

  Prince Kragen’s fists knotted on his anger; he held his voice steady. ‘Then you must have no patience at all for yourself, my lord King. I have come because I have news which you must hear. Thanks in part to Apt Geraden and the lady Terisa – and in part to other sources of knowledge – I have an astonishing range of threats to lay before you. But they are all of your own making, not mine. Even the lady Elega is entirely safe – unless you have lost even the small honesty necessary to respect a flag of truce.’

  Unexpectedly, the Tor let out a snorting no
ise like a snore. His eyes seemed to be falling closed; his head began to loll on his thick neck.

  ‘Whoreslime,’ commented Castellan Lebbick unceremoniously. ‘You must have noticed that we’re besieged. Maybe you’ve even noticed that you’re the one besieging us.’

  When King Joyse didn’t intervene to silence the Castellan, Terisa’s heart sank. The King had to listen, had to. He had to understand. Nevertheless he didn’t look capable of understanding – and he didn’t seem to be listening. He only stared at Prince Kragen as if the Alend Contender’s presence were no more pleasant – and no more interesting – than a bad smell.

  ‘No, my lord King.’ Prince Kragen did what he could, under the circumstances: he treated Lebbick’s words as if they came from King Joyse. ‘Even that threat you have brought upon yourself. When I first came to you seeking an alliance, you humiliated me deliberately. And since that time your only ambition has been to destroy your realm before you die. You forget that Alend also is bound up in Mordant’s need. You created the Congery, my lord King, and now you must face the consequences. If the power of all Imagery falls to High King Festten, our ruin is certain. We must fight for our survival. Even dogs will do as much. If you are determined to let the Congery fall to Cadwal, then we have no choice but to prevent you as best we can.’

  The Prince had moved a step closer to King Joyse. Terisa and Geraden were on either side of him, a bit behind. Across Prince Kragen’s back, she whispered to Geraden, ‘This isn’t going to work. We’ve got to do something.’

  A clenched glitter filled Geraden’s gaze. ‘My lord King—’ he murmured as if the words stuck in his throat. ‘My lord King, please. Give us a chance.’

  King Joyse paid no attention to him.

  ‘No, my lord Prince.’ Master Barsonage glared from under his shrubbery eyebrows. He didn’t stand. On the other hand, he did speak courteously. ‘Your view of the situation is persuasive, but not entirely fair. You forget that the Congery is composed of Imagers – and Imagers are also men. Like yourself, we must fight for our survival. Unlike you, however, we are men who have accepted the King’s ideals, the King’s purposes. Oh, there are some among us who serve the Congery only because they dislike the alternatives available to them. But they are few, my lord Prince – only a minority. The rest of us value what we are.

  ‘Do you think we will calmly resign ourselves to High King Festten when Mordant collapses?

  ‘You say you must keep the Congery from falling into Cadwal’s hands, and that is a worthy endeavor, I am sure. But the assumption on which your actions are based is that the Congery is a thing, not men – that we do not choose, or believe, or have worth as men.

  ‘Why do you believe you have the right to determine our survival – and our allegiance – for us?’

  Prince Kragen received this argument with a closed face. Once again, he treated what was said as if it came from King Joyse. Only the sweat at his temples betrayed the pressure he felt.

  ‘A fascinating debate, my lord King,’ he said grimly, ‘but irrelevant. We cannot leave Alend’s future in the hands of men who are so confused – either by Imagery itself, or by the necessity of achieving decisions through debate – that they believed the translation of an uncontrollable battle-champion to be a sensible action.

  ‘No, my lord King. Your people will defend you, as they must. Nevertheless the responsibility for this siege is yours.’

  King Joyse shrugged. At least he was listening well enough to know that Prince Kragen had paused. He gave the Prince a chance to go on, then said abruptly, ‘I know all this. Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me about your “astonishing range of threats.”’

  The Tor snorted again, softly, and opened one eye. ‘So Terisa and Geraden are traitors after all,’ he rumbled. He was lost in a world of wine. ‘How sad.’ At once, he closed his eye again, dismissing whatever happened around him.

  ‘In any case, my lord Prince,’ the Castellan grated as if King Joyse hadn’t spoken, ‘you do have choices. We’ve already told you what they are. Withdraw to a safe position. Wait and see what happens. If you do that, King Joyse is willing to meet Margonal under a flag of truce and discuss an alliance.’

  When she heard that, a small flame of hope leaped up in Terisa.

  And was quenched immediately. Before Prince Kragen could reply, King Joyse muttered shakily, ‘No, Castellan. It’s too late for that. It’s too late for anything.

  ‘It’s time for the truth.’

  His swollen hands gripped the arms of his seat; he had trouble holding himself upright. Almost whining, he said to the Prince, ‘Tell me about your threats. Tell me what Terisa and Geraden know. Tell me why you stopped beating on my gates.’ Under his whining, however, lay an iron blade, too well whetted and keen to be mistaken. All the light in the hall seemed to shine on him. ‘Tell me now.’

  A tight silence closed around the onlookers. Terisa couldn’t bear to look at King Joyse any longer. She glanced at Geraden, saw him chewing the inside of his cheek; his eyes were wide and white, as if he were thinking desperately. Because Prince Kragen stood closer to the throne than she did, she couldn’t see most of his face; but she could see a twitch run down the long muscle of his jaw, a bead of sweat trail from his temple across his cheekbone. Ignoring the proprieties of a royal audience, she turned her head and caught Artagel’s eye; she was looking for inspiration. He didn’t have any to give her, however. He looked stretched and pale, as if he were stifling nausea.

  Still avoiding the King, she faced Master Barsonage. You’re wrong about us. That was what she ought to say to him. All the assumptions here are wrong. Geraden didn’t kill Nyle. I didn’t kill Master Quillon.

  But she didn’t say anything. The silence held her.

  Why were Geraden and Prince Kragen sweating? Surely the air was cooler than that?

  Prince Kragen’s fist sprang involuntarily from his side; he forced it down again. ‘No,’ he said through his teeth, ‘I will not.’

  A grin split Castellan Lebbick’s face. He was going to laugh. Or wail. ‘Why not, Prince? Why else did you come?’

  Kragen ignored the Castellan. ‘I will not suffer this senseless treatment. I will not trade my only hopes to a King so contemptible that he respects no one else.’ Despite his efforts to speak quietly, his voice grew thick with passion until he was nearly shouting. ‘The lady Elega persuaded me to come. Apt Geraden and the lady Terisa persuaded me. They are all deluded by the idea that their lord remains possessed of some vestige of wisdom – or of courage – or of bare decency.’

  To Terisa, every word sounded like a nail being driven into the lid of Mordant’s coffin.

  ‘Do you hear me, Joyse?’ Prince Kragen raged. ‘You are deaf to everything else. You are deaf to the misery of your people, locked in a useless siege – caught in Cadwal’s path – slaughtered by renegade Imagers. You are deaf to the simplest requirements of kingship, the wisdom and the necessity of dealing fairly with other monarchs. You are deaf to love, deaf to the loyalty which destroys your friends and family.’

  ‘Enough, my lord Prince.’ King Joyse raised one hand. ‘I have heard you.’ Now he didn’t sound querulous. And he didn’t sound angry. He sounded oddly like a man who was experiencing a personal vindication. ‘You have said enough.’

  But Prince Kragen had gone too far to stop. For a second, he let his fists pound the air. ‘By the stars, Joyse, it is not enough. You will not pull Alend down in Mordant’s ruin. I will not allow it.

  ‘I will tell you nothing!’

  Abruptly, he wheeled away from the throne.

  Catching hold of Terisa and Geraden, he pulled them with him toward the doors.

  Instinctively, she wrenched her arm out of his grasp.

  She hadn’t made a conscious decision, either against him or for King Joyse. She was simply so torn, so hurt by the difference between what was needed and what was happening, so urgent for another outcome that she couldn’t bear to give up.

  Geraden was clea
rer. He, too, jerked free of Prince Kragen. Swinging toward the throne, he cried out like a trumpet, ‘My lord King—! Houseldon is destroyed. Sternwall is falling. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls. Your people, my lord King, everywhere!’

  King Joyse was on his feet. Terisa hadn’t seen him stand: she only saw him standing now, towering over her on the pediment with his beard thrust forward and his hair full of light.

  ‘And?’ he demanded. ‘And?’

  As if he left her no choice, she replied, ‘And the Queen is gone. She’s been abducted.’

  Then her stomach knotted as if she were about to be sick.

  The idea that he would crumple now, that she had hurt the King hard enough to break him, was too much for her. Prince Kragen was shouting, ‘You fools! He will have me killed!’ Too late. She turned her back on King Joyse, hugged her arms over her belly.

  A movement on the balcony caught her eye. She cast a glance upward in time to see one of the archers fold to the floor.

  Hands grabbed her, spun her. King Joyse had come down from his seat so fast that she didn’t have time to think, to react; he clenched his fists in her soft shirt. Shouting the King’s name, Geraden tried to intervene. King Joyse thrust him away.

  ‘Who took her?’ The king seemed to swell over Terisa. His eyes were blue fire; his teeth flashed; he shook her as if her heart were an empty sack. ‘I’ll have that man’s head! Who took her?’

  Terisa struggled to turn her head, look back up at the balcony. But King Joyse was shaking her too hard; she couldn’t get her gaze into focus.

  ‘Alends!’ cried Geraden. ‘She was taken by Alends!’

  So suddenly that Terisa nearly fell, King Joyse dropped her. His sword came into his hands swiftly, catching the light like a whip of fire.

  She stumbled around to scan the balcony.