Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  ‘No trouble,’ Artagel replied. ‘Margonal is a model enemy. Yesterday he sent me a dozen sides of beef. Sovereign’s courtesy. I sent him a cask of the King’s best wine. We’re becoming friends. As long as Orison doesn’t panic, I’m not needed here.’

  Terisa set herself in front of the glass she had chosen and tried to relax.

  Now that she had assumed this responsibility, it promised to be more difficult than she had allowed herself to imagine. She needed to conceive an Image of a place she had never seen, a place she knew only in small pieces, by feel. And during the relatively short time she was there, she hadn’t exactly been concentrating on exact, concrete details. It had been dark – dark – Master Eremis had chained her to the wall; he had talked to her, threatened her, touched her. The arch-Imager Vagel had visited her. She had found and spoken to Nyle. And all the time her attention, her talent, had been directed elsewhere, groping for an answer to her fear – reaching out to the room in which she stood now, rather than teaching itself to recognize her prison.

  She could make the mirror’s desert Image melt into darkness: that was easy. But there were many different kinds of darkness in the world, in many different places. How could she be sure that the Image she conceived wasn’t buried away inside the heart of some mountain, or lost in the depths of the sea?

  Light: she remembered a faint, ambient illumination, a glow from an imperfectly sealed window above the bed. That was a start. How large was the bed? What was it made of? She had no idea. But the chain— Roughly ten feet of it, long enough to permit the exercises Eremis intended; stapled to the wall at the head of the bed. What else did she know?

  Vaguely, the location of the doorway.

  The distance between her fetter and Nyle’s.

  And she could remember exactly what those two iron staples felt like. Nyle’s short chain. His wrist in its manacle. The rough, warm fabric of his sleeve—

  Wait a minute. Wait a minute.

  Images focused on places, not on people. But Nyle had been chained to the wall; she assumed he was still chained to the wall. Didn’t that make him part of the place, an essential component of the Image she needed?

  If she could remember what he looked like—

  That, too, was easy: he looked like Geraden; slightly shorter; Geraden aged or embittered by disappointment and pessimism. Geraden reduced to despair by Eremis and Gilbur, no, don’t think about that now, don’t be distracted, take a deep breath, concentrate. She even remembered what Nyle was wearing.

  A brown worsted cloak which covered him from neck to ankles, to keep the blood and the knife Eremis had given him hidden.

  If she put together an Image of Nyle chained in that position, in those clothes, that close to the bed and her chain and the window, about that far from the door— Would it be enough?

  She wanted to ask Geraden, but she knew he didn’t know the answer. No one had ever measured her talent; no one knew what she could do. And there was only one way to learn. She had to test herself and see what happened.

  She had to do the same thing to herself that King Joyse had done to her.

  She wondered where he got his courage.

  But she had no time for doubt. Geraden and the Adept and Artagel were watching her silently; they may all have stopped breathing. And back in the Care of Tor, in the valley of Esmerel, more lives and hopes were lost with every moment she delayed.

  One deliberate piece at a time, she began to construct the Image.

  Fortunately, before she made a mistake, she felt a sting of recollection.

  Clothes – clothes— There was something wrong with Nyle’s clothes.

  Of course. Nyle wasn’t wearing the clothes she remembered. After the physician Underwell had been butchered, disfigured, he had been dressed in Nyle’s clothes. Otherwise no one would have jumped to the conclusion that the dead man was actually Geraden’s brother.

  Her pulse beat in her throat so hard that she had trouble speaking.

  ‘What did Underwell have on? When he went to treat Nyle?’

  The three men behind her shifted their feet; she heard their boots distinctly on the stone floor. ‘My lady?’ Artagel responded uncomfortably, as if he thought she might be losing her wits.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she breathed. ‘Just tell me. I’ve got to concentrate.’

  ‘If I told Joyse once, I told him a dozen times,’ remarked the Adept, ‘don’t trust women.’ He sounded especially happy. ‘They’ve got their hearts in their finery and their brains in their loins.’

  ‘You’ve seen it,’ Geraden put in at once. ‘It’s kind of a uniform. All the physicians wear it. So they’re easy to spot when they’re needed. A gray doublet. Cotton breeches.’ His voice trailed off; he may not have had much confidence in his ability to describe clothing.

  He had said enough, however. A gray doublet with long sleeves and rough-spun fabric; not the worsted cloak she remembered.

  As if by an act of will, she added that detail to the Image in her mind.

  All she needed, she kept reminding herself, all she needed was a close approximation. Her unexpected abilities would take care of the rest.

  Gradually, the mirror’s reflection dissolved from hot sunlight to an almost impenetrable blackness.

  How dare you embarrass me like this?

  I’m ashamed of you.

  I’m going to punish you—

  Ha! she snorted reflexively. Try it.

  She had a cramp between her shoulder blades. Every muscle in her body was knotted around itself. There were too many different kinds of dark in the world, too many different kinds of pain.

  Studying the lightless Image, she said, ‘I need a lamp.’

  ‘What for?’ inquired Artagel.

  She wanted to repeat, Don’t ask. I’ve got to concentrate. This time, however, it was important to be understood. Geraden had to be ready.

  ‘I can use flat glass. You can’t. I’m going to translate myself – there.’ Into a blackness she couldn’t read, even though she peered at it until her temples throbbed. ‘With a lamp. If I don’t lose control over this mirror, you’ll be able to see where I am. Geraden can make another Image. A normal Image.’

  As she spoke, Geraden brought her a lamp. She risked a glance at him, risked losing her concentration— He was intent and keen, tight with determination; she couldn’t imagine him losing heart. Nevertheless a shadow of fear darkened his gaze.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he whispered.

  She shook her head. ‘Being sure is a weakness. Let Eremis have it.’

  Let her father have it.

  Surprised by the steadiness of her hands, she accepted the lamp. Its flame seemed to come between her and the glass, changing the adjustment of her vision so that now she couldn’t see anything.

  An almost impenetrable blackness—

  Oh, well.

  Before she had time to think of any more reasons why she might fail, she opened the Image and stepped into it—

  —into the disorienting, endless, momentary absence between existence and existence.

  When she hit the floor, she nearly dropped the lamp.

  The cramp in her back hampered her, kept her from moving her arms freely. As a result, she had to struggle for balance, and her jerky movements almost threw the lamp out of her hands.

  She caught herself, caught the lamp, drew a gasping breath.

  There was a door in front of her, a wooden door banded and barred like the entrance to a cell. Her lamp was the only light in the room; her small flame sent shadows dancing across the raftered ceiling, down the stone walls. Like every other part of the world, the room was chilly.

  Immediately, she turned to look around, at the place where the bed and the window and the iron staples were supposed to be – at the place where Nyle was supposed to be—

  The sight of him suspended there in his manacles filled her with such triumph that she nearly shouted.

  Geraden, hurry, I did it, I did it!

  She didn�
�t realize that she was losing her grip on the mirror in Orison until the details of Nyle’s appearance struck her.

  His face was chalky, not physically battered, but nonetheless haggard and abused. His eyes stared at her, dark pits from which the intelligence had been burned out. In spite of her sudden arrival, he slumped against his chains, unable to lift his weight off the manacles. Old blood crusted his wrists. A small caked pool marked the stone between his feet. Master Gilbur had strange tastes. Nyle looked like a man who had been used until the only part of him left alive was his sense of horror.

  And that was the fate Master Eremis had intended for her. He had planned to reduce her to that condition, in order to hurt both her and Geraden as much as possible.

  ‘Oh, Nyle!’

  No, concentrate, don’t think about it! In swift fright, she flung her attention back to Adept Havelock’s mirror room, back to the glass which had translated her here. Keep the Image. There was light in Nyle’s prison now, she held the lamp up, Geraden could see the scene, he could copy it in a curved mirror – if he was fast, if he did it before Nyle’s blank, dead stare made her start to weep and rage—

  If he didn’t end up someplace else entirely—

  Without warning, Artagel came through at a run.

  Unable to anticipate the floor underfoot after the plunge of translation, he stumbled as if he were hurling himself at the door. His reflexes saved him from a collision, however. Recovering his balance almost instantly, he spun toward Terisa and Nyle. He had lost his grin in shock and surprise.

  When he saw Nyle, he froze momentarily. The eagerness in him, the readiness for battle, seemed to shatter. Then he sprang past her and began trying to tear Nyle’s fetters out of the wall with his bare hands.

  Geraden was already there.

  She didn’t see him arrive, didn’t see how he emerged from his translation; she only saw him throw himself at the cot as if he had gone mad. Coughing curses, he picked up the cot and crashed it against the wall, hammered and belabored it against the stone until the frame and legs broke into pieces the size of clubs.

  With one of the legs, he went at Artagel and Nyle as if he meant to beat them both senseless.

  Shouldering Artagel aside, he jammed the end of the leg into the nearest staple and levered it savagely out of the wall.

  The iron staple sang like a sword as it skittered across the floor.

  Nyle collapsed into Artagel’s grasp.

  Panting, ‘Bastards bastards bastards,’ Geraden attacked the second staple. It let out a thin, metallic scream as it pulled loose.

  He and Artagel hunched over Nyle. Clenched sounds came between their teeth, as if both of them were weeping.

  Terisa thought for a moment that Nyle was unconscious, too badly abused to understand what was happening. But then, in a voice made hoarse and ragged by howls, he croaked, ‘Geraden? Artagel? Is it really you?’

  Fiercely, Geraden whispered, ‘We’re here. We’re here. Terisa brought us. As soon as you can stand, I’ll translate you back to Orison.’

  Too late, Terisa heard the door open, saw light from the corridor outside wash against her and the Domne’s sons.

  She whirled frantically away as a voice like silk said, ‘If you can do that, it will be miraculous. I am going to cut your heart out before you can make the attempt. In my experience, dead men make poor Imagers.’

  Stark against the unexpected light, the man seemed to have no face, no features. The longsword he held looked black and fatal, a blade of darkness.

  Terisa recognized him anyway.

  Gart.

  Crouched over Nyle, Geraden and Artagel were insignificant, pitiable, in the shadow of Gart’s silhouetted strength.

  Despite that, however, Artagel drawled without moving, ‘Don’t tell me Eremis knew we were coming. I won’t believe it.’

  ‘No,’ conceded Gart, as smooth as his blade. ‘Yet even coincidence conspires to help victors. I was sent to bring Nyle to the Image-room. Master Eremis considered that you might do something desperate – although seeing you I doubt that he grasps how truly desperate you have become – so he wished to have your brother made ready to use against you.

  ‘He may not be delighted to hear that I have slain you. He wishes that pleasure for himself. But I will answer for your deaths to the High King.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ Slowly, keeping his hands away from his sword, Artagel rose to his feet, left Nyle in Geraden’s arms. Light from the doorway burned along the tears on Artagel’s cheeks, lit sparks in his eyes. His fighting grin was gone; he seemed to have no heart left for it. ‘You’re forgetting just one thing.’

  ‘And what is that?’ the Monomach inquired maliciously.

  Artagel shrugged. ‘We aren’t dead yet.’

  As hard as she could, Terisa flung her lamp at Gart’s head.

  His quickness was appalling. As if he had known what she would do, he batted the lamp away from his face with the flat of his blade.

  Nevertheless the lamp struck his shoulder. Flaming oil splashed down his chest, bright on his black leather armor.

  In that instant, Artagel attacked.

  So swiftly that his leap and the sweeping pull with which he drew his sword looked like one movement, wildly, almost in a frenzy, crying out his rage and hurt, he hacked at the burning man.

  His assault was too sudden, too furious; Gart had trouble countering it. The High King’s Monomach beat at the fire with one hand, trying to put it out before it took hold of his armor; with the other, he parried Artagel’s blow awkwardly, barely succeeded at blocking it away from his head.

  His whole weight behind the blow, Artagel swung again.

  And again, as fast as he could.

  Gart seemed to erase the flame, as if his touch were enough to extinguish it. Nevertheless he couldn’t meet Artagel’s attack one-handed. He was driven backward, into the doorway. And the door was too narrow for his strokes. His sword took chips out of the doorpost; the impact slowed him, so that he almost failed to lift Artagel’s cut over his shoulder.

  That counter left him off balance.

  At once, Artagel drove forward with one foot and booted Gart in the chest.

  Gart slammed against the far wall of the corridor and recoiled to the side, reeling to get his legs braced under him.

  Artagel went through the doorway after him, steel on steel, steel on stone, out of sight to the left.

  Terisa was already at Geraden’s side. ‘Come on,’ she gasped, ‘come on.’ With both hands, she heaved at him, trying to raise him to his feet.

  Clutching Nyle, Geraden surged upright.

  They staggered together; Geraden struggled to hold Nyle; Nyle fought to help himself. Still gripping the cot leg he had used as a lever, Geraden hauled his brother toward the door.

  In the corridor, Artagel fought for his life.

  Gart had recovered; he was beginning to return the attack. And the wildness of Artagel’s first assault was useless for defense. As a result, the nature of their combat changed. He was forced to meet Gart’s skill with his own, instead of with frenzy.

  He was still hampered by the tightness in his side.

  And Gart had already beaten him twice.

  The corridor clanged with blows, swirled with sparks. Artagel barely prevented the Monomach from returning to the doorway.

  ‘Come on,’ Terisa urged.

  Geraden cast one white, urgent look at Artagel’s back, then dragged Nyle in the opposite direction.

  Terisa followed, pushing Geraden and Nyle to move faster.

  Through the clamor of steel, they reached a corner.

  As soon as they rounded it, the noise diminished.

  They passed more doors: storerooms, cells, guards’ quarters. Terisa thought they must be near the chamber where Master Eremis had his glassworks. Unless it was in the opposite direction. What was the ‘Image-room’? Where was it?

  At the fourth door, Geraden stopped. He wrenched it open: a storeroom, apparently; beddi
ng and pillows. More roughly than he intended, he thrust Nyle inside.

  ‘Hide!’ he hissed. ‘Let us do the fighting! All you have to do is stay hidden, so they can’t threaten you.’

  Nyle gave his brother a look of dumb, helpless anguish. Then he stumbled into the dark, and Geraden jerked the door shut, catching it just in time to make it close softly.

  Pale and extreme, he faced Terisa. ‘I hope to the stars,’ he panted, ‘we know what we’re doing.’

  She grabbed at his hand and drew him into a run again, on down the corridor.

  Know what we’re doing.

  I want you to defeat Master Eremis.

  Artagel wouldn’t last much longer: she knew that. Yet she and Geraden were still alive because of him. And Eremis didn’t know they were coming. Maybe King Joyse and Prince Kragen had already been crushed. But she had promised in her heart that she would kill Master Eremis. The men who had treated Nyle like that were going to die.

  The cot leg in Geraden’s fist looked too short, too weightless, to do any good. Nevertheless he held it like a man who intended to find a use for it.

  She needed a weapon of her own; she didn’t have anything to fight with except her empty hands.

  She had no idea how big the stronghold was, how to find her enemies. She and Geraden kept running anyway, beyond the range of Artagel’s valiant struggle, around corners, along passageways. Geraden no longer seemed to be breathing hard: he had settled into a state of exertion where nothing could stop him. She saw suggestions of the Domne in him, hints of Tholden, as if he had all his family’s strength. Her own lungs were being torn open, but she didn’t care. Details like that had lost their importance; she had left them behind with her father.

  Then the corridor opened into a place of more light; a room with many windows, full of sunshine.

  A large, round room, as large as the Congery’s former meeting hall in Orison; high, with its domed ceiling encircled by clerestories so that the bright morning shone in from all sides; reached by several entrances around the walls, as if this chamber were the center of the stronghold, the hub around which all Master Eremis’ activities turned; and full of mirrors.