A Man Rides Through (80 page)

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?"

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.

Artagel didn't look at either Geraden or Terisa as he followed the new Castellan out of the room.

Simply because she hated to see Artagel hurt like that, she groaned to herself. But what was the use of being upset? The Tor had found a better answer to Orison's problem—and to Artagel's— than she had been able to imagine for herself. Geraden had told his brother the truth. She could understand how Artagel felt—but so what? He—

"You also, my lady," the Tor said as if he had boulders rolling around in his gut, "will remain here."

What—?

She looked around her. Geraden was gaping at the old lord, frankly dumbfounded. Master Barsonage's expression was white with consternation.

She had heard right. The Tor intended to leave her in Orison.

Which was why Ribuld hadn't brought any protective clothing or weapons for her. And why he had evaded her eyes, her inquiries. Of course.

Unexpectedly calm, she faced the lord. Her gaze was steady; even her pulse didn't flutter. Geraden started to speak for her; but when he noticed her demeanor, he bit his mouth closed. "My lord Tor," she said gently, as if he were as mad as Havelock, unable to be questioned, "you don't want me to go with you."

The tone of her reaction seemed to weaken his resolve. Speaking loudly in an apparent effort to shore up his position, he retorted, "You are a woman."

Because he had raised his voice, she lowered hers. "And that makes a difference to you."

"I am the lord of the Care of Tor." His face grew redder, goaded toward passion by the fact that she wasn't yelling at him. "And I am the King's chancellor in Orison. His honor is in my hands, as is my own. You are a
woman,"

Deliberately rejecting sarcasm, she replied quietly, "Please be plain, my lord Tor. I want to understand you."

As if she were driving him to distraction, he shouted, "By the heavens, my lady,
I
do not take women into battle!"