Stephen Donaldson - Mordants Need 2 - A Man Rides Through

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Mordant’s Need 2
A MAN RIDES THROUGH
"Steeped in the vacuum of her dreams,
A mirror's empty till
A man rides through it."
—John Myers Myers, Silverlock
TWENTY-SEVEN: THE PRINCE'S SIEGE
Early the next morning, the siege of Orison began.
The huge, rectangular pile of the castle stood on slightly lower ground, surrounded by
bare dirt and straggling grass—and surrounded, too, by the Alend army, with its supporting
horde of servants and camp followers. From Prince Kragen's perspective, Orison looked
too massive—and the ring of attackers around it too thin—for the siege to succeed. He
understood sieges, however. He knew his force was strong enough to take the castle.
Nevertheless the Prince didn't risk any men. He felt the pressure of time, of course: he
could almost taste High King Festten's army marching out of Cadwal against him, a
sensation as disturbing as a stench borne along on the edges of the raw wind. And that
army was large—the Prince knew this because he had captured a number of the Perdon's
wounded men on their way to Orison and had taken the information from them. Composed
half of mercenaries, half of his own troops, the High King's troops numbered at least
twenty thousand. And of the Alend Monarch's men there were barely ten thousand.
So Kragen had to hurry. He needed to take Orison and fortify it before those twenty
thousand Cadwals crossed the Broadwine into the Demesne. Otherwise when the High
King came he would have no choice but to retreat ignominiously. Unless he was willing to
lose his entire force in an effort to help Joyse keep the Congery out of Cadwal's hands. The
lady Elega's plan to paralyze Orison from within had failed, and now time was not on the
Alend Contender's side.
Still he didn't risk any men. He was going to need them soon enough.
Instead, he ordered his catapults into position to heave rocks at the scant curtain-wall
which protected the hole in the side of the castle.
He had seen that wound from a similar vantage point the day after the Congery's mad
champion had blasted his way to freedom, the day when as the Alend Monarch's
ambassador he had formally departed Orison: a smoking breach with a look of death about
it torn in one face of the blunt stone. The damage had been impressive then, seen against a
background of cold and snow, like a fatal hurt that steamed because the corpse was still
warm. The sight of it had simultaneously lifted and chilled Prince Kragen's heart,
promising as it did that Orison could be taken—that a power which had once ruled
Mordant and controlled the ancient conflict between Alend and Cadwal was doomed.
In some ways, however, King Joyse's seat looked more vulnerable now. The
inadequacies of the curtain-wall were so simple that a child could measure them.
Considering his circumstances, Castellan Lebbick had done well—quite well, in fact. But
circumstantial excuses wouldn't help the wall stand against siege engines. The Prince's
captain of catapults was privately taking bets as to whether the curtain-wall could survive
more than one good hit.
No, the obvious question facing Prince Kragen was not whether he could break into
Orison, but rather how hard the castle would defend itself. The lady Elega had failed to
poison Lebbick's guards— but she had poisoned the reservoir, putting the badly
overcrowded castle into a state of severe rationing. And as for King Joyse— He wasn't just
the leader of his people: he was their hero, the man who had given them identity as well as
ideals. Now he had lost his mind. Leaderless and desperate, how fiercely would the
Mordants fight?
They might find it in themselves to fight very fiercely, if Joyse kept his word. He had
certainly lost his mind, there was no doubt about that. Yet he had met Alend's demand for
surrender with the one threat which might give heart to his followers: King Joyse intends to
unleash the full force of the Congery against you and rout you from the Earth!
Elega didn't believe that, but the Prince lacked her confidence. If Joyse did indeed
unleash the Congery, then what happened to Alend's army might be worse than a rout. It
might be complete ruin.
So Prince Kragen held his troops back from the walls of Orison. Wearing his spiked
helmet over his curly black hair, with his moustache waxed to a bold gloss that matched
his eyes, and his longsword and breastplate exposed by the negligent way he wore his
white fur robe, he was the image of assurance and vitality as he readied his forces, warned
back the army's camp followers, discussed weights and trajectories with his captain of
catapults. Nevertheless every thought in his head was hedged with doubts. He didn't intend
to risk any men until he had to. He was afraid that he might soon need them all.
The terrain suited catapults. For one thing, it was clear. Except for the trees edging the
roads, the ground was uncluttered: virtually all the natural brush had been cut away, and
even the grass struggling to come out for the spring was having a hard time because of the
chill and the lack of rain. And the roads weren't in Kragen's way: they met some distance
outside Orison's gates to the northeast of the castle, and the wound in the wall faced more
toward the northwest. For another, Orison's immediate setting was either level with or
slightly lower than the positions of Alend's army. As Prince Kragen's military teachers and
advisors had drummed into him for years, it was exceptionally difficult to aim catapults
uphill. Here, however, the shot which actually presented itself to his siege engines was an
easy one.
The lady Elega came to his side while the most powerful of the catapults was being
loaded. His mind was preoccupied; but she had the capacity to get his attention at any time,
and he greeted her with a smile that was warmer than his distracted words.
"My lady, we are about to begin."
Clutching her robe about her, she looked hard at her home. "What will happen, my lord
Prince?" she murmured as if she didn't expect an answer. "Will the curtain-wall hold? The
Castellan is a cunning old veteran. Surely he had done his best for Orison."
Prince Kragen studied her face while she studied the castle. Because he loved her, even
admired her—and because he was reluctant to acknowledge that he didn't entirely trust a
woman who had tried so hard to betray her own father—it was difficult for him to admit
that she wasn't at her best under these conditions. Cold and wind took the spark out of her
vivid eyes, turning them sore and puffy; stark sunlight made her look wan, bloodless, like a
woman with no heart. She was only lovely when she was within doors, seen by the light of
candles and intrigue. Yet her present lack of beauty only caused the Prince to love her
more. He knew that she did indeed have a heart. The fingers that held her robe closed were
pale and urgent. Every word she said, and every line of her stance, told him that she was
mourning.
"Oh, the wall will fall," he replied in the same distracted tone. "We will have it down
before sunset—perhaps before noon. It was raised in winter. Let Lebbick be as cunning
and experienced as you wish." Kragen didn't much like the dour Castellan. "He has had
nothing to use for mortar. If he took all the sand of the Congery— and then butchered
every Imager for blood—he would still be unable to seal those stones against us."
The lady winced slightly. "And when it comes down?" she asked, pursuing an unspoken
worry. "What then?"
"When this blow is struck," he said, suddenly harsh, "there will be no turning back.
Alend will be at war with Mordant. And we cannot wait for thirst and fear to do our work
for us. The Perdon is all that stands between us and High King Festten. We will make the
breach as large as we can. Then we will fight our way in." A moment later, however, he
took pity on her and added, "Orison will be given every conceivable opportunity to
surrender. I want no slaughter. Every man, woman, and child there will be needed against
Cadwal."
Elega looked at him, mute gratitude on her chafed and swollen face. She thought for a
while, then nodded. "Castellan Lebbick will never surrender. My father has never
surrendered in his life."
"Then they must begin here," snapped the Prince.
He believed that. He believed that the curtain-wall couldn't hold—that apart from
Imagery, Orison didn't have the resources to withstand his assault. Yet doubts he could
hardly name tightened their grip on his stomach as he ordered the captain to throw the first
stone.
In unison, two brawny men swung mallets against the hooks on either side of the
catapult; the great arm leaped forward and slammed against its stops; a boulder as heavy as
a man arced out of the cup. The throw raised a shout of anticipation from the army, but
Prince Kragen watched it go grimly. The flat smack of the mallets, the groan of stress in
the timbers, the thud of the stops and the protest of the wheels: he seemed to feel them in
his chest, as if they were blows struck against him—as if he could tell simply by the sound
that the stone was going to miss.
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 have 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, Mar-gonal 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 forward 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 fore-tent 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.
Obviously, his battles with King Joyse hadn't been his only losses in life. And it had
been when he had begun to lose his sight that he had first started to search for surer ways
to rule, safer means of preserving the kingship for himself and his successor. As he had
repeated until everyone near him was sick of it, "Loss teaches many things." Again
privately, however—and without any disrespect— Prince Kragen dropped loss and
substituted fear. A man who couldn't see his enemies couldn't strike at them. For that
reason, he had to find new ways to protect himself. Kragen understood his father's fear and
honored it. A lesser man than Margonal would have retreated into terror and violence.
Old and no longer strong, the Alend Monarch sprawled in the most comfortable of the
meeting chairs and turned his head toward the sound of his son's entrance. Because he was
punctilious, he didn't speak until the Alend Contender had been announced, and had
greeted him in the formal manner prescribed by custom. Then he sighed as if he were
especially tired. "Well, my son. My guards have already been here, whispering lurid
reports which they were unable to explain. Perhaps you will tell me something
comprehensible."
"My lord," Prince Kragen replied, "I fear I can only increase the range of your
incomprehension." Succinctly, he described Master Quillon's visit and the destruction of
the catapult. When he was done, he told his father what he was thinking.
"The Imager's actions were strange, unquestionably. But to my mind the great mystery
is that King Joyse behaves as if he had not made himself weak—as if we were nothing
more than an annoyance to a sovereign in an invulnerable position. And he is able to
command men such as Castellan Lebbick and Master Quillon to preserve that illusion.
"Yet we know it is an illusion. Cadwal marches against him. He has a hole in his wall,
few men to defend it, and no water for them to drink. Despite his control over the Congery,
the Imagers who serve his enemies are more powerful. They are able to strike him at will
anywhere in Mordant or Orison, passing through flat glass as if they were immune to
madness. In addition, there are Masters on the Congery who would abandon his cause if
they could. Men such as Eremis may be loyal to Mordant, but they are no longer
committed to their King.
"His lords will not help him. The Armigite is a coward. The Termigan values nothing
but his own affairs. And the Perdon resists Cadwal, not for King Joyse, but for his own
survival. Of the Cares, only Domne, Tor, and Fayle are truly loyal. Yet the Domne does
not fight. The Tor is old, sodden with wine—and here, where he is unable to muster his
people. And the Fayle cannot come to Orison's aid because we stand in his way.
"And still King Joyse treats us as if we lack the means to harm him."
The more he thought about it, the more unsure the Prince became. For a moment, he
chewed on his moustache while his doubts chewed on him. Then he concluded, "In truth,
my lord, I cannot decide in my own mind whether his audacity constitutes raving or deep
policy."
Again, the Alend Monarch sighed. With apparent irrelevance, he murmured, "I suffered
an uncomfortable night. The loss of sight has sharpened my powers of recollection. Instead
of sleeping, I saw every trick and subterfuge he has ever practiced against me. I felt every
blow of our battles. Such memories would curdle the blood of a young sovereign with his
eyes clear in his head. For me, they are fatal."
Facing his son as if he could see, Margonal asked in a husky voice, "Can you think of
anything—anything at all—that a king such as Joyse might gain by feigning weakness—by
allowing Imagers to bring atrocities down on the heads of his people—by permitting us to
invest him when his defenses are so poor?"
"No." Prince Kragen shook his head for his own benefit. "It is madness. It must be
madness."
"And the lady Elega? She is his daughter. Her knowledge of him is greater than yours—
greater even than mine. Can she think of anything that he might gain?"
Again, the Prince said, "No." He trusted her, didn't he? He believed what she believed
about her father, didn't he?
Abruptly, the Alend Monarch raised his voice. "Then he is a madman, a madman. He
must be rooted out of his stronghold and made to pay for this. Do you hear me? It is
unsufferable!"
As if he didn't know what they were doing, his fists began to beat on the arms of his
chair.
"I understand his desire to take Mordant from us and rule it as his own. He was able to
do it—therefore he did it. Who would not? And I understand his desire to gather all the
resources of Imagery for himself. Again he was able to do it—therefore he did it. Who
would not? And perhaps I understand also his restraint when he had created the Congery,
his refusal to use his power for conquest. That is not what Festten would have done. It is
not what I would have done. But perhaps in that he was saner than we.
"But this—! To create all he has created, and then abandon it to destruction!" Now the
Alend Monarch was shouting. "To forge such a weapon as the Congery, and then make
himself vulnerable to attack, neglect responsibility, turn his back on those who serve and
trust him, so that his enemies have no choice but to attempt to wrest his weapon from him
for their own survival!" Margonal half rose from his seat, as if he intended to go to demand
sense from King Joyse in person. "I say it is unsufferable! It must not continue!"
As quickly as it had come up, however, his passion subsided. Sinking back, he wiped
his hands across his face.
"My son," he whispered hoarsely, "when I received your message asking us to march, a
chill went into my heart. I cannot warm it away. I know that man. He has beaten me too
often. I fear that he has lured us here to destroy us—that his weakness is a pose to bring us
and Cadwal within reach, so we can be crushed at his ease, instead of met in honest battle.
You say this cannot be true. The lady Elega says it cannot be true. My own reason says it
cannot be true—if only because in fifty years he has never shown any desire to crush us.
And yet I fear it.
"He has witched me. We have come here to our doom."
Prince Kragen stared at what his father was saying and tried not to shudder. Fear
teaches many things, he thought. Have all the rest of us been blind? Why have we never
believed that Joyse is malign? Softly, he answered, "My lord, say the word, and we will
retreat. You are the Alend Monarch. And I trust your wisdom. We will—"
"No!" Margonal's refusal sounded more like pain than anger or protest. "No," he
repeated almost at once, in a steadier tone. "He has witched me, I say. I am certain of only
one thing—I cannot make decisions where he is concerned.
"No, my son, this siege is yours. You are the Alend Contender. I have given our doom
into your hands." A moment later, he added in warning, "If you choose retreat, be very
certain that you can answer for your decision to the others who seek my Seat."
Mutely, the Prince nodded. He had caught Margonal's chill much earlier: long before
this conversation, the cold of the wind had crept into his vitals. But the Alend Monarch had
named his doubt for him—and the name seemed to make the doubt more palpable, more
potent. We have come here to our doom. When his father asked, "What will you do?" he
chewed his lip and replied, "I do not know."
"Choose soon." Now Margonal spoke to him harshly, as he himself had spoken harshly
to the lady Elega. "Festten will not be patient with your uncertainty."
摘要：

[Version1.0-FullyProofed-Sept.7,2002-InquiriestoRowanHatherallatalt.binaries.e-book]Mordant’sNeed2AMANRIDESTHROUGH"Steepedinthevacuumofherdreams,Amirror'semptytillAmanridesthroughit."—JohnMyersMyers,SilverlockTWENTY-SEVEN:THEPRINCE'SSIEGEEarlythenextmorning,thesiegeofOrisonbegan.Thehuge,rectangularp...

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