Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Ushering the servingmen out of the room, he paused to add, ‘The Tor wants to talk to you. Before we march. The Castellan will send somebody to get you in the morning. Early.’

  On that cheerful note, he closed the door.

  At once, Master Barsonage articulated, ‘You said, “Houseldon is destroyed,”’ speaking steadily so that Artagel wouldn’t have to shout. ‘“Sternwall is falling. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls.” Everyone who heard you wants an explanation, Geraden.’

  Geraden didn’t hesitate; he had had time to marshall a reply. ‘The Domne is all right,’ he said promptly. ‘At least he was when we left. Our family is safe. Most of the people we know survived. Under the circumstances, our losses were small.

  ‘But Houseldon was burned to the ground.’

  Holding his hands together because he didn’t have a sword, Artagel listened to every word as if he were studying his enemies to learn how to fight them.

  Grimly, Geraden described the salient features of his arrival at the Closed Fist, and Terisa’s; he described the consequences for Houseldon. Then he explained, ‘That’s what made Nyle do it. That’s why he cooperated with Eremis. The threat of an attack like that.

  ‘But when we left, the Domne and all our people were going to dig themselves into the Closed Fist. If Eremis tries the same threat again, our father wants us to ignore it.’

  At the moment, Terisa didn’t care that Geraden had promised to call the Domne Da.

  Slowly, Artagel sighed, letting violence out of his lungs. ‘Tholden must be a lot tougher than he thinks.’

  ‘So is the Tor,’ Geraden muttered.

  ‘But you did not return to Orison by translation,’ prompted Master Barsonage. ‘I gather the lady Terisa did not know then that her talent could reach across such distances.’

  Terisa nodded; and Geraden said, ‘But it might not have helped, even if she had known. She can translate herself through flat glass. If she translated me, I’d lose my mind.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the mediator. ‘For that reason, you were required to cross Mordant on horseback. And you chose a road which took you to Sternwall and Romish.’

  ‘Yes,’ Geraden replied. ‘That’s how we happened to be at Vale House when the Queen was taken. We were trying to gather support for King Joyse – trying to get the Termigan and the Fayle to ride against Eremis.’

  As briefly as possible, he told the story of the journey back to Orison, controlling his outrage at Eremis’ tactics as well as he could. Terisa listened to him for a while; gradually, however, her attention drifted. The room was growing darker as the sun set. A few hints of crimson still clung to the plumage on the walls, but most of the light was gone. Darkness accumulated against Orison. She didn’t want to remember pits of fire in the ground, or ghouls. She wanted to remember the Fayle.

  The evening after the battle to save Naybel, sitting with her and Geraden in his camp, Queen Madin’s father had talked about King Joyse. With one hand clenched into a fist he couldn’t sustain, he had said, In all his years of warfare against Cadwal and Alend and Imagery, he has never asked a lord for aid when that lord’s Care was under attack. He came to me, freed my people. He did not ask me for any help until my Care was safe.

  He will not ask me now. He has no wish to break my heart.

  Terisa understood the Fayle better now. She grieved for him – for his losses, his inadequacy in the face of the ghouls – but she understood him. And she wanted to believe that he and the Termigan were doing the right thing by not riding to King Joyse’s support. By protecting their pieces.

  I will not leave my people to die undefended.

  She also wanted to believe that King Joyse wasn’t making a horrible mistake.

  Then Geraden was done. He drank some of his wine and began to pick at his food as if his story had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  ‘Well,’ Master Barsonage muttered morosely. ‘Well. You have worked wonders to bring us this news, Geraden – my lady. But I am like other men in Orison, I suppose. I must admit that I had hoped to hear a more encouraging tale. We have all dreamed of the Perdon in vain. Annihilated, you said.’ The mediator scowled. ‘And now we learn that any dreams we may have had of the Termigan or the Fayle are also in vain.

  ‘King Joyse has chosen a bad time to disappear.’

  ‘He didn’t choose it,’ Artagel countered. ‘There aren’t any good times to have your wife abducted.’

  ‘Do you believe,’ Master Barsonage asked carefully, ‘that is where the King has gone? To rescue Queen Madin?’

  Artagel’s confidence was greater than Terisa’s or Geraden’s. He said, ‘Of course.’

  The mediator considered that for a moment. Then he said, ‘I hope you are right. I hope he is not simply cowering somewhere, overwhelmed by the consequences of his actions. To pursue the Queen at such a time may be foolish, but it is certainly understandable.’

  Without waiting to debate the point, Barsonage rose to his feet. ‘I will leave you to your supper. I have no urgent need of food’ – he slapped his girth – ‘and many other things to do. With your permission, Geraden, I will tell your story to the Congery.’ Geraden nodded. ‘And to Castellan Norge.’ Geraden nodded again. ‘And to the Tor. It will do us no good to march with false expectations of help.’

  Geraden shrugged his assent.

  ‘One other small matter,’ the Master added before he reached the door. ‘Do you want a chasuble, Geraden? Do you, my lady? I am prepared to initiate you to the Congery whenever you wish.’

  The proposal seemed curiously irrelevant to Terisa. When Geraden heard it, however, his face turned as crimson as the sunset. Master Barsonage had just offered him his life’s dream. The fact that he had tears in his eyes embarrassed him acutely.

  ‘Later—’ he murmured. ‘Maybe later.’ Roughly, he rubbed his hands into his eyes; then he met the mediator’s gaze. ‘All I want right now is to stop Eremis.’

  Master Barsonage accepted that answer. ‘My lady?’

  Terisa shook her head. She had no desire to become a member of the Congery.

  Still, she was glad to see that the mediator didn’t take her refusal as a reproach. He had too many other things on his mind. Saying only, ‘As you wish. We will see each other in the morning,’ he let himself out of the room.

  Terisa and Geraden and Artagel looked at each other.

  She was starting to feel hungry, but that could wait a little longer. Reflections from the hearth continued to cast a red hue into Geraden’s face. Rising to her feet, she moved around behind his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. His muscles were hard, knotted like iron. A chasuble: his life’s dream. And now it didn’t make any difference. He didn’t need it. Deliberately, she dug her fingers into the knots, trying to massage them loose.

  Artagel opened his mouth like a man who intended to say something facetious, perhaps at the mediator’s expense; but his brother forestalled him. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ Geraden said, still struggling to regain his composure. ‘I want you to tell us everything that happened while we were away.’

  ‘“Everything”?’

  Terisa felt a tremor under her hands which wasn’t audible in Geraden’s voice. Acerbically, he returned, ‘Leave out the part where you refused to eat all your vegetables and drank too much wine. And terrorized the serving girls. Tell us the rest.’

  For a moment, Artagel chuckled, but there was no mirth in him now. Drawling to soften his tone, he warned, ‘You aren’t going to like it.’

  ‘I know that already.’ Slowly, Geraden’s trembling eased. ‘If I thought I was going to like it, I’d eat first. But I don’t think I can stand it on a full stomach.’

  Terisa rumpled his hair, kissed the top of his head. Then she went back to her chair.

  ‘Castellan Lebbick,’ she said, as if she had the strength to mention his name without panic or outrage; without sorrow. ‘Tell us what happened to him.’

  Artagel nodded stiffly in the gloom. He
refilled his goblet as if he needed courage; however, he didn’t drink.

  As well as he could, he told Lebbick’s story.

  Along the way, of course, he mentioned Saddith. He discussed his own efforts to persuade Master Barsonage that Eremis was a traitor. He sketched the extent of Eremis’ popularity after the refilling of the reservoir. He described the Tor’s long drunkenness, as well as King Joyse’s sudden interest in swordsmanship. He detailed the progress of the siege – and of the defense of Orison, by Adept Havelock as well as by the guard.

  But mostly he talked about Castellan Lebbick. From his perspective, Orison’s story had become the tale of Lebbick’s wild and doomed struggle against disintegration. The Castellan had been driven to such desperation, and at last to such lorn heroism – the heroism, not of fighting Gart, but of keeping at least some grasp on sanity – by the fact that he stood almost alone for the castle and its people against Master Eremis’ betrayals. And against King Joyse’s abdication of responsibility.

  And Artagel, who valued heroism, had watched Lebbick’s story unfold, and had tried to affect its outcome. Now he didn’t know whether he had helped or failed.

  Listening to him, Terisa found her anger at King Joyse returning. To cut a man like Lebbick adrift, merely for the sake of a stratagem – merely because the Castellan had no duplicity in him and couldn’t be trusted to tell lies—

  Maybe the King wasn’t particularly interested in preserving his pieces after all. Maybe Master Quillon’s account of his actions was false. Maybe his disappearance – and everything else he did – had a completely different meaning.

  Terisa wondered how Artagel had been able to retain his faith in King Joyse.

  Geraden’s thoughts, however, had taken a different turn. When Artagel was finished, Geraden muttered into the inaccurate light of the flames, ‘It’s hard to feel sorry for him. After what he did to Saddith. What he meant to do to Terisa.’

  ‘No,’ Terisa said at once, ‘it’s easy. His wife died. She and Orison and King Joyse were his reasons for living.’ Curse that old man anyway, curse him. ‘King Joyse would have been kinder to cut him off at the knees.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ murmured Artagel, while Geraden studied Terisa bleakly. ‘It was hard to watch. I just couldn’t get him to look at things the way I did.’

  ‘How did you look at them?’ Geraden asked.

  Artagel shifted in his chair, a bit embarrassed. ‘Well, take you two, for example.’ Terisa supposed he was thinking of the bad days during which he had believed the worst of his brother. ‘All the evidence was against you. Eremis did a good job of making you look terrible. We only had two things to go on. Lebbick saw you’ – he faced Terisa – ‘disappear into a mirror without Master Gilbur. Whatever you did together, you escaped separately. And it was easy to guess Saddith got the idea of going to Lebbick’s bed from Eremis. But that was enough. Because we knew you. We knew you weren’t the kind of people Eremis made you look like. We didn’t need much to make us question the whole situation.

  ‘So I tried to tell him’ – Artagel swallowed at the emotion in his throat – ‘to look at King Joyse the same way. We knew the King. We knew he wasn’t what he looked like. All we needed was some reason to believe in him.’

  ‘What reason?’ Geraden demanded. He sounded hungry.

  ‘You two,’ repeated Artagel. ‘Why was Eremis afraid of your talent, my lady? Why was he afraid of yours, Geraden? Well, why else? He knew you were his enemies. He knew you were loyal to King Joyse.

  ‘Why were you loyal? We didn’t know. But you must have had a reason. I was sure of that. And it was enough. You know me. You know I don’t exactly have a towering mind. There are probably lots of things I’ll never understand. But you had a reason.’ He made a sweeping gesture, at once vague and vehement in the dim light. ‘That was enough for me.

  ‘But Lebbick couldn’t do it. I think he took it all too personally. The hurt’ – Artagel stumbled over the word – ‘went too deep. I know he tried. He held himself together because he didn’t have anything else to hope for. But in the end—’ Abruptly, Artagel shrugged; he picked up his goblet and drank it dry. ‘In the end I guess he was glad to find a way to get killed.’

  After a while, Terisa breathed to Geraden, ‘You see? It’s easy.’

  Geraden nodded once, roughly. His gaze burned back at the embers of the fire.

  The unexpected cold in the air made her pull her chair closer to the hearth.

  Artagel stayed and talked for some time after supper. He wanted detailed news from Domne: he wanted to know about the Domne’s health, and how tall Ruesha was now, and if Tholden and Quiss were likely to have more children; he wanted to know whether any irate husbands had succeeded at beating sense into Stead, or whether Minick’s wife had lost any of her shyness. And talking about things like that did Geraden good. It eased Terisa, bringing back to her memories she treasured, memories which reminded her what the battles ahead would be fought for, as well as what they would be fought against. Nevertheless the day had been long – not to mention difficult. At last, she grew too tired to stifle her yawns.

  Artagel took the hint, such as it was. Promising to see them early the next morning, he left her and Geraden alone.

  They didn’t have any trouble persuading each other that they needed to go to bed.

  She felt safe in the peacock rooms. If Eremis had the means to attack here, he might hesitate, concerned by the impossibility of estimating what she or Geraden could do in retaliation. And she seemed to have left panic a long way behind her.

  As soon as she was sure that Geraden was drowsy enough to sleep – that he wouldn’t get out of bed to sit up and brood all night – she let herself slide away into dreams.

  At first they were easy dreams, full of rest: in them, she watched herself sleep soundly. But gradually they took on rhythm – the slow labor of blow and rebound, repeated again and again. The rhythm grew faster. Out of the dark, she kicked at Eremis as hard as she could, felt her foot strike; then she recoiled, plunged backward to get away from his fury, backward against the wall, through the mirror. This time, however, there was no mirror, no translation. Her heart was too full of rage for fading, and the wall admitted nothing, allowed nothing; it only held her where he could reach her. So she kicked again, recoiled again; and he sprang at her again and again, violent, ultimately irresistible, a man who knew how to have his way with anyone; and horror rose in her throat like sobs because there was nothing she could do to fight him, no way she could beat him—

  —until Geraden shook her shoulder, hissed, ‘Terisa! You’re having a nightmare!’ and she heard the flat, wooden sound she made when she kicked against the blankets, the knock which seemed to pitch her back into the mattress.

  The knock—

  Abruptly, she locked herself still, sweating in runnels; and the sound went on, a wooden sound, not her feet belaboring the bed.

  Someone was pounding on the door hidden inside one of the wardrobes. She could feel her pulse hammer against the bones of her skull.

  She jerked upright.

  At once, the sweat seemed to freeze on her skin. The dim glow from the embers in the hearth lit Geraden as he leaped past her. He grabbed his underclothes and breeches, pulled them on; tossed a couple of logs into the fire. Then he went into the sitting room, unbolted the door, warned the guard outside.

  The knocking was steadier than the rhythm of her heart.

  A small crackle of flame caught at the new wood. As if that small sound, that little jump of light, released her, she swung her legs out of bed.

  Luckily, her robe was in the other wardrobe, the safe one. Shivering as if her limbs were crusted with ice, she snatched out the garment, got her arms into the sleeves, sashed the velvet around her.

  The knocking went on. Whoever was in the secret passage was apparently determined to pound there all night if necessary.

  ‘You all right?’ Geraden whispered.

  She nodded. ‘Just a b
ad dream.’ She faced the wardrobe. ‘Let’s open it.’

  The door of the wardrobe was already slightly ajar. Geraden swung it out of the way, then reached in and unblocked the chair from the hidden entrance.

  As the secret door opened, light filtered through the clothes like sunshine through a forest.

  Adept Havelock.

  The light came from his hand-sized mirror, his piece of translated sun – the same mirror he had used to incinerate the redfurred creature which had attacked Geraden.

  Seeing the Adept, Geraden let out a slow breath. At once, he turned away, left the bedroom. Terisa heard him tell the guard to relax, heard him bolt the door.

  Havelock held his light with an unsteady hand. Its shifting illumination, and the dance of the flames in the hearth, cast wild shadows across his features – winks and leers; deathmasks; contortions of sorrow. His insanity looked irreparable.

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ he commanded her, grinning like a dog. ‘I haven’t seen a good pair of teats for a long time. Don’t ask me any questions.’

  Don’t ask— To herself, she groaned bitterly.

  Just to be on the safe side, she clenched one hand in the v of her robe, holding it closed.

  Then Geraden rejoined her. ‘You heard,’ she said, afraid that any question might upset the Adept.

  ‘I heard,’ Geraden muttered. ‘No questions. This is going to be such fun.’

  ‘Have you been rutting?’ demanded Havelock. He was incensed for a moment, full of righteous indignation. ‘Naked as animals? Avid as goats?’ Without transition, his self-righteousness became self-pity. ‘Why didn’t you invite me?’

  Terisa hardly noticed what he said. She was watching the way his light weaved and wavered – the way it moved through the illumination from the hearth; the darkness across the back of his hand. Until she saw black drops spatter to the floor, she didn’t understand that his hand was bleeding.

  Knocking on the door inside the wardrobe, he had damaged his knuckles.