Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  ‘Havelock—’ She faltered momentarily, then took hold of herself, straightened her shoulders. ‘You had a reason for coming here. It was a good reason. You hurt yourself to make us notice you. Tell us what it was.’

  ‘A reason?’ he cackled, laughing instantly. ‘A madman like me?’ And just as quickly, his mirth vanished. He extinguished his light, put his mirror away in a pocket somewhere, then raised his hand to his mouth to lick the blood. Red smeared his lips, his chin; a spot of blood appeared on his fierce nose.

  Between licks, he said casually, ‘Trust me.’

  Terisa stared at him, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t say anything else, she shook her head. The air was cold – too cold for the time of year. Even the stones under her bare feet were warmer. And she was angry.

  ‘I went to you for help. Master Gilbur was after me, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. You refused.

  ‘Tell me how to trust you.’

  To her chagrin, his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and his face twisted until he looked like a damaged schoolboy. His voice ached and cracked.

  ‘I know it’s hard. I’m crazy, aren’t I? Vagel took my mind away. He showed me how to understand everything. Most of the time, I can’t tell shit from shallots.

  ‘But Joyse does it.’ Trying to rub the tears from his eyes, he wiped blood across his face. ‘Joyse does it.’

  ‘Tell us—’ Geraden put in softly, carefully, ‘tell us where he is.’

  One of Havelock’s eyes turned toward Geraden; the other seemed to plead with Terisa. ‘He told me not to.’

  ‘Havelock—’ Terisa was never able to sustain her anger against him. His dilemma moved her. As far as she was concerned, there was no real reason why she hadn’t emerged in a condition like this from the closet where her parents had locked her. And maybe a certain kind of madness was required to play hop-board successfully with human beings as pieces.

  ‘Havelock, you killed that creature in the dungeon.’ Behind bars, helpless; burned down to tallow and stink. ‘The one that attacked Geraden. With your mirror. But when Gart tried to kill me, you let him live. You didn’t even damage him. You just blinded him temporarily.

  ‘I want to trust you. He was trying to kill me. Tell me why you didn’t even damage him.’

  Geraden drew a breath between his teeth, held it hard.

  ‘Oh, that.’ Somehow, the Adept passed from distress to scorn without any discernible effort. ‘You disappoint me. You should have figured that out long ago. How many times has Joyse told you to think?’

  Terisa clamped her mouth shut and waited.

  ‘It’s obvious.’ Havelock fluttered his hands as if he meant to start dancing. ‘If I hurt him – if I really blinded him – he would have been caught. We’d lose the chance that he might lead us to his allies. If I killed him, we’d have the same problem, only worse.’ Sharply, the Adept giggled. ‘If you think things are bad now, try to guess how much trouble you’d be in if Gart hadn’t accidentally betrayed Eremis by charging in here.

  ‘And,’ he went on, ‘if I killed him, everybody would think you did it. Try to guess how long they would have let you live if they thought’ – he giggled again – ‘thought you were Imager enough to charcoal the High King’s Monomach.

  ‘No, you’re being stupid.’ From scorn and humor, he lapsed into vexation. ‘You’re wasting my time. If you aren’t going to let me fondle your female beauties, at least learn something useful.’

  In a rough voice, Geraden demanded, ‘Tell us what you want us to know.’

  For a moment, the Adept faced Geraden as if he couldn’t bring the younger man into focus with either eye; then he muttered, ‘Idiot. It’s not that simple,’ and headed back into the wardrobe.

  Desperately, Terisa called after him, ‘You said you saw the King’s daughters in an augury,’ because she didn’t have any better ideas. ‘Tell us what Elega was doing.’

  Slapping at clothes, with a gown wrapped over his head and both fists full of fabric, he replied, ‘Spreading her legs for Prince Kragen.’

  That shocked Terisa; for a moment, it paralyzed her brain. Helplessly, she echoed Geraden. ‘Tell us what you want.’

  The Adept ripped the gown off his head. With both arms, he flung a bundle of clothes to the floor.

  ‘I want you to trust me!’

  Banging the hidden door after him, he vanished into the darkness of the passage.

  She stared after him, dumbfounded.

  Spreading her legs. For Prince Kragen.

  So King Joyse had known. Before the Prince ever came to Orison as the Alend Monarch’s ambassador, King Joyse had known that the Contender and his eldest daughter would become lovers. And he had let it happen. He had practically driven Elega into Kragen’s arms.

  Suddenly, the test King Joyse had arranged for Prince Kragen, the strange game of checkers in the audience hall, became poignant to her – poignant and awful. By that test, King Joyse had learned that his daughter would betray him.

  By that test, he had forced her to betray him.

  Now his last message to her made sense. She carries my pride with her wherever she goes. He had chosen to put her where she was. And Terisa’s nagging sense that Elega had a vital role to play in his plans was confirmed.

  And yet, despite what she had just learned, she knew she had missed the point of Havelock’s visit.

  Left weak by what had happened, what she was thinking, she murmured, ‘What was that all about?’

  Glowering darkly, Geraden thought for a moment. Then, to her surprise, his expression lightened, and he smiled like a son of the Domne.

  ‘I think he wants us to trust him.’

  Trust him. The man who advocates sacrificing pieces to win the game.

  Oh, shit.

  Really, she needed to increase her range of expletives. Thinking oh, shit over and over again just wasn’t an adequate way to express herself.

  Eventually, she and Geraden went back to bed.

  The summons of the guard came much too early.

  When Geraden stumbled into the sitting room to answer the door, the guard handed him a breakfast tray and said, ‘The Tor wants you in an hour. In the King’s rooms.’

  Outside, the sky was still dark, too full of night to give any hint of dawn.

  Today, the march would begin.

  The air was unconscionably cold.

  Blearily, Terisa asked, ‘Is there any chance we can get some bathwater?’

  ‘Use all the water you want, my lady.’ She didn’t recognize the guard’s voice: he must have come during the night to relieve Ribuld. ‘No rationing this morning. But you’ll have to heat it yourself. Nobody has time to do it for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ muttered Geraden.

  After he had closed the door and put down the tray, he came into the bedroom. ‘I’ll put a bucket on the hearth,’ he offered. ‘We don’t have time to let it get hot, but at least we won’t freeze to death.’

  Pulling a blanket around her, she forced her tired limbs out of bed. Off the rugs, the floorstones were still warmer than the air. On her way to help put more wood on the fires, she asked, ‘What’s happened to the weather?’

  Geraden’s tone conveyed a shrug. ‘We had an early thaw. Now it looks like we’re having a late freeze.’

  Good. Perfect. I love being cold.

  When she had put three more logs on the coals in the bedroom fireplace, she nearly climbed into the hearth in an effort to absorb some of the new heat.

  Once the logs had begun to burn warmly, however, she went to look for some clothes.

  Apparently undaunted by the cold – or maybe simply saving as much warmer water for her as he could – Geraden splashed around in the bathroom for a while; he came out toweling himself urgently. Still wrapped in her blanket, with a pile of the clothes Mindlin had made for her nearby, she set out the breakfast and began to gulp down hot tea, warm porridge. Then, when she and Geraden were done eating, she took the bucket from the hearth a
nd retreated into the bathroom.

  She didn’t notice until she had given herself the best sponge bath she could manage, and had started to get dressed, that all her clothes carried a faint smell of blood.

  Every garment she had – everything she could possibly wear on horseback, on a march – was stained with a few drops or a small smear of Havelock’s blood.

  For a moment, she wanted to break down and cry. The night seemed to have taken the courage out of her, cost her her immunity to panic. But the Adept’s visit meant something. He wanted to be trusted. Or he had promised that he could be trusted. And King Joyse had known all along that Elega and Prince Kragen would become lovers.

  Roughly, Terisa washed the fear off her face with the coldest water available. Then she put on a sturdy twill riding habit over some of Myste’s silk undergarments.

  Havelock’s vehemence had left a crescent smear on the fabric over the curve of her left breast; but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. As soon as she stopped thinking about it, the smell of blood receded.

  Geraden grinned as she emerged from the bathroom. He had found her sheepskin coat and boots.

  ‘What’re you going to wear?’ she asked.

  He wasn’t worried. ‘I’ll get something from the guards.’

  Sooner than she was expecting, someone knocked on the door again. This time, it was Ribuld. He brought with him a mail shirt and a longsword in a shoulder scabbard for Geraden, in addition to a winter cloak. Something about the way he avoided looking at Terisa made her wonder why he hadn’t brought any protection or weapons for her; but he started talking about the march, and she forgot her question.

  ‘Six thousand men,’ he said as he pulled the mail over Geraden’s head. ‘Two thousand horse. Four thousand foot. Castellan says we can make it to Esmerel in three days. Only sixty miles across the Broadwine, and the terrain isn’t bad. But we couldn’t do it carting supplies. If this translation business works, it’s going to be the biggest thing in warfare since crossbows. Traveling light and fast.’

  ‘Is the guard ready?’ asked Geraden.

  Ribuld nodded. ‘But that isn’t the hard part. Armies march on food. If we had to wait for it, we wouldn’t get out of here for two or three more days. That’s another way we save time, having our supplies translated. Orison can keep cooking for us long after we’re gone.’

  Getting as much information as he could, Geraden inquired, ‘How’s the Tor?’

  ‘His physician says he should stay in bed. But he’s got more guts than the rest of us put together.’ Ribuld chuckled. ‘He’s up yelling at everybody.’

  A sudden thought alarmed Terisa. ‘He’s staying here, isn’t he? Somebody has to defend Orison. And he’s in no condition to ride a horse.’

  Deliberately, Ribuld continued not meeting her gaze. ‘You tell him that, my lady. Ever since Lebbick took my hide off for saving you from Gart without orders, I’ve given up arguing with lords and Castellans.’

  Geraden’s features seemed to grow sharper. ‘Who’s he going to leave in command?’

  Ribuld shrugged. ‘Better ask him yourself. That way, he’ll end up yelling at you instead of me.’

  Geraden looked at Terisa hard. ‘I don’t think I like the way this is starting to sound.’

  ‘Come on.’ She moved toward the door. ‘Let’s go see him.’

  Geraden followed her with his sword dangling against his hip as if he had no idea what it was for.

  Ribuld brought up the rear, brandishing his scar cheerfully.

  Outside the peacock rooms, four more guards joined them, an escort to protect them from Master Eremis’ unpredictable resources – creatures of Imagery, the High King’s Monomach, flat mirrors. Terisa found, however, that she wasn’t particularly concerned about a surprise attack here. If that was what Eremis wanted, he could have done it at any time. She felt sure that his real intentions were considerably nastier.

  And she was worried about the Tor—

  When she and Geraden reached the King’s formal apartment, she noticed the fire blazing in the hearth. Apparently, the lord of Tor felt the cold as badly as she did.

  There were four men already in the room: the Tor himself, Castellan Norge, Master Barsonage, and Artagel. Norge stood with his back to one wall, casually at attention: he looked like a man who never needed sleep because he was always napping. In contrast, Master Barsonage seemed to be actually wringing his hands; he faced the Tor and Artagel alternately with a discomfited expression, as if he wanted to intervene but didn’t know what to say.

  The Tor and Artagel confronted each other like combatants. The old lord thrust his belly forward assertively; his cheeks were red with wine or exertion. Artagel stood in a fighter’s balanced stance, his hands ready to go for either his longsword or his dagger.

  As Terisa and Geraden entered the room, Artagel turned toward them. His grin twisted her stomach. He looked primed for battle, as fatal as his weapons – and yet in some way lost, like a man who needed help he wasn’t going to get against impossible odds.

  ‘Just in time,’ he said, denying the Tor the bare courtesy of a chance to speak first. ‘My lord Tor is a bit confused this morning. He doesn’t realize I’m your bodyguard. You better tell him. I’m your personal bodyguard.’

  Master Barsonage cast an unhappy look at Terisa and Geraden, then retreated to give them room in front of the Tor and Artagel.

  ‘Artagel,’ the Tor rumbled to them as if he were on the verge of an outburst, ‘refuses a direct command. He refuses to obey me.’

  Terisa looked at Geraden, baffled by the hostility in the room and the knot in her stomach. Geraden’s gaze shifted to Artagel, then back to the Tor. ‘Don’t tell me, my lord Tor,’ he said with a bitterness of his own. ‘Let me guess. You want him to stay here.’

  ‘I want him’ – the Tor contained himself with difficulty – ‘to rule Orison in my absence.’

  Rule Orison—?

  Artagel snarled an obscenity. ‘It comes to the same thing. He thinks I’m a cripple.’

  Terisa stared at him, at the Tor; she was simultaneously surprised, relieved, and appalled. The idea of putting Artagel in charge of Orison had never occurred to her.

  ‘No!’ the Tor retorted, almost retching, ‘it does not come to the same thing. I do not ask you to remain behind because you are unfit to go. I command you to stay here because you are needed!

  ‘I must leave Orison with less than two thousand men to defend it. And I have no alliance with the Alend Monarch. He will let us depart, of that I am sure. But when we are gone, he will not hesitate to renew his siege. Prince Kragen considers this castle to be the best safety available.

  ‘If Orison is not defended – well defended – it will be lost.’

  Artagel was in no condition for fighting. And yet the cost of having to stay behind – the price he would pay for remaining in Orison while Mordant’s fate was decided without him – would be severe.

  ‘After King Joyse,’ the Tor concluded, ‘you are the only man who can hope to hold these walls against the Alend army.’

  ‘How?’ Artagel snapped back. ‘I don’t have any authority. I don’t even belong to the guard. I’ve never been able to take orders. How do you expect me to give them?’

  ‘By being who you are,’ the Tor answered heavily. ‘The best-liked man in Orison.’

  The old lord was right, Terisa thought. The guards would fight to the death for Artagel, of course. But so would half the population of the castle. He was the best swordsman in Mordant; his feats were legendary. And he was a son of the Domne. By simple likability, he might be able to rule Orison even more effectively than Castellan Lebbick.

  Cursing, Artagel returned to his brother. ‘Tell him,’ he demanded. ‘I’m going with you. You need me. When you go up against Eremis, you’ll need somebody to watch your back. I want—’

  The look on Geraden’s face stopped him.

  ‘You want to try Gart again,’ Geraden said softly, ‘is that it?’<
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  Anger and distress pulled Artagel’s expression in several directions at once.

  ‘With muscles in your side that haven’t finished healing?’ Geraden continued: soft; relentless. ‘You want to tackle a man who’s already beaten you twice, when you can’t even lift that sword without a twinge?’

  Artagel flinched in helpless fury or frustration; he took a step backward. ‘I’m coming with you somehow,’ he said between his teeth. ‘I won’t stay here.’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ rasped the Tor. ‘You may succeed in refusing to obey me, but I assure you that you will stay here.’

  Artagel flung a glare like a challenge at the old lord. ‘Are you going to make me, my lord Tor?’

  ‘No, Artagel. I will not “make” you. Norge will do that. He will support me in this.’

  From his place against the wall, the new Castellan nodded amiably. His bland calm was more convincing than a shout.

  ‘Your choices,’ the Tor finished, ‘are to remain in command of Orison – or to remain in the dungeon.’

  Artagel studied the Tor and Norge; he directed a last appeal at Geraden.

  In response, Geraden muttered miserably, ‘Don’t you understand, you halfwit? You’re too valuable to waste on a senseless contest with Gart. The Tor wants you to do the hardest job there is. King Joyse needs someplace to come back to. If everything else fails, he needs a castle and some men for the last defense of Mordant. He needs someone to give him that. He can’t do it for himself. He needs someone like you, who can make old men and serving girls and children fight for him just by smiling at them.’

  For a moment, Terisa feared that Artagel would break out in protest, do something wild. He was a fighter, by temperament and training unsuited to sit still for sieges. But then his face took on a smile she had never seen before – a grimace bloodier and more bitter than his fighting grin; a look that chilled her heart.

  To Norge, he said, ‘I want Lebbick’s mail – I want all the things he was wearing when Gart got him. I want his insignia – his sash and that headband. The more blood on them, the better. Anybody who looks at me is by the stars going to know what I stand for.’

  Norge glanced at the Tor. The Tor nodded; his eyes were glazed with pain. Phlegmatically, Norge said, ‘Come,’ and left the wall.