A Man Rides Through (91 page)

Swirling snowflakes burned her eyes. They prickled on her cheeks like bits of premonition; hints sharp enough to cut, cold enough to numb the damage they did.

Despite the caution of the riders, they reached their part of the camp sooner than she would have believed possible. The men of Orison and the Alend soldiers had laid out a protected position for their commanders near Esmerel and the head of the valley, away from the exposed foot of the wedge; so Terisa and Geraden, Master Barsonage and Castellan Norge didn't have as far to go as the rest of the guards. And tents had already been set up for them: Master Harpool and his companion had apparently been at work with their mirrors for some time, translating equipment and supplies from Orison.

Master Barsonage and Geraden hurried to join them.

From horseback, Terisa saw bonfires and torches around her, some of them as much as twenty or thirty feet away. Maybe the snowfall was thinning. Even so, it was at least four or five inches deep. And—unless her sense of time had failed completely—sunset was still an hour or so away. Even if the snowfall
was
thinning, there might be a foot or more on the ground before night.

A guard urged her to dismount and enter a large tent which had been raised for the Tor and Castellan Norge; but she stayed where she was, trying to read the suggestions in the snow, until the Tor himself reached the camp. Then she got down and went with him into shelter.

A servant took his cloak, then brought food and wine, which the old lord rejected with a grimace. Supported by Ribuld and another guard, he lowered himself into a camp chair. He had snow in his eyebrows, snow on his head. His cheeks were the color of worn out ice. Ribuld knelt in front of him, offered to pull off his boots; he declined that comfort as well. "I must go out again soon," he murmured. "There is no escaping it."

"My lord Tor," Ribuld said in a tone Terisa hadn't heard him use since Argus' death, "you don't need to go out. Prince Kragen and Castellan Norge will come to you."

"Ah, true," sighed the Tor. "But if I remain here, who will give the King's guard my blessing? I must visit every campfire tonight, every squadron, so that every man will know his bravery is valued and his loyalty, precious.

"No, Ribuld, I will wear my boots. I do not mean to take them off again."

Ribuld bowed and withdrew to stand with Terisa. Around his scar, the veteran's face was tight with unexpected grief.

"Ribuld—?" she tried to ask; but she couldn't find the words she wanted. All she knew about him was that he had been Argus' friend; he liked and served Artagel; he seemed to enjoy suggestive conversation. And he had killed Saddith to save Lebbick. He would have saved Lebbick from Gart, if he could.

"My lady," he said, almost snarling to control himself, "my home's in the Care of Tor. Not far from Marshall. I fought for the Tor—that's how he knows my name—and for the Perdon, too, before I joined the King's guard." He looked at her as if, like her, he couldn't find the right words.

Maybe she understood. "Take good care of him," she replied softly. "He needs you more than Geraden and I do."

The twist of Ribuld's expression could have meant anything.

Terisa left the tent and went to see if Master Harpool required help.

As she and the Masters finished translating the last of the tents and bedrolls, the snowfall abruptly lessened. She felt cold to the bone; her face was wet and numb; her fingertips left trails of moisture down the frame of Master Harpool's glass. Nevertheless the easing of the snow caught at her attention like a call of horns—

—
the call for which her heart had always been waiting.

She jerked her back straight, lifted her head, spun around before anyone else noticed the change.

Yes. Blowing down from the head of the valley, the wind parted the snow like curtains, let the gray light of early evening through the clouds. As if without transition, Esmerel and the valley became a winter landscape before twilight, a scene which needed only sunshine to reveal its surprising beauty.

Perhaps the horns
—
and those who sounded them
—
were on the far side:
the far side of the manor, where the defile brought the brook gamboling over its ice into the valley.

Now Geraden joined her, looked around. Several of the Masters breathed thanks that the snow was stopping. Guards expressed the same sentiment less delicately. None of them could hear the premonition in the air
whetted with cold,
the implication
as penetrating as splinters.

"Get the Tor," she said as if the horns had lifted her out of herself, despite the fact that she couldn't hear them, could hardly remember them; maybe she had never heard them. "Get Prince Kragen. Tell them to hurry."

"Terisa?" Geraden asked. "Terisa?"

She ignored him. She didn't need reason: intuition was enough. She was fixed on Esmerel and couldn't look away.

Master Barsonage sent Imagers into motion. Someone shouted for the Castellan. Infected by an urgency they couldn't explain, guards began to obey, began to run. She had that much credibility with them, anyway.

Then past the snow-clogged side of the manor
came charging men on horseback. As the horses fought for speed, their nostrils gusted steam, and their legs churned the snow until the dry, light flakes seemed to boil.
The sides of the valley and the snow muffled every sound, but each movement was distinct,
as edged as a shard of glass.

Three riders with longswords held up in their fists and keen hate in the strides of their fierce mounts. The riders she had seen in the Congery's augury. The riders of her dream.

"Bowmen!" Norge snapped from somewhere nearby. "Be ready! We'll pick them off as soon as they get in range."

"No!" coughed the Tor. He had come out of his tent; he stood with his legs splayed in the snow, supported by Ribuld. "That is a traitor's deed. Let them approach. We kill no one unless we must!"

"Well said, my lord Tor!" Prince Kragen arrived at a run, with his sword in both hands. Using the blade as a pointer, he commanded, "Look more closely!"

The light wasn't good: at first, she couldn't see what the Prince was pointing at. But after a moment she realized that each of the riders had a white cloth tied to the tip of his sword.

Flags of truce.

A
truce,
Eremis? With
you?

One of the riders was certainly Master Eremis: that was unmistakable. He drove his mount plunging forward with an air of jaunty peril, as if he were in the grip of an exquisite and unutterable joy.

Beside him came Master Gilbur, hunchbacked and murderous.

The third man she didn't know by sight. Nevertheless she was sure of him. The arch-Imager Vagel. A relatively small man, at least compared to Eremis and Gilbur; dwarfed by his charger. Lank gray hair fluttered from his skull. He rode with his toothless mouth open like the entrance to a pit.

The riders of her dream.

"The gall of those bastards," someone whispered. Ribuld? "The
gall."

Abruptly, Gilbur and Vagel hauled on their reins, wrenched their horses to a halt. Just beyond reliable bow-range, they wheeled and stamped, waiting.

Master Eremis came forward as if he feared nothing. Intensely nonchalant, he approached his enemies.

There he stopped.

"My lord Prince." His tone was full of secret laughter. "My lord Tor. Master Barsonage. Terisa and Geraden. How fortuitous that you are all here together."

The Tor leaned on Ribuld as if he had lost the power of speech. Geraden scowled intently, concentrating not on anger but on the ramifications of Master Eremis' presence. Terisa faced the tall Imager and felt the blood congeal in her chest.

"We are not patient with traitors," snapped Prince Kragen: he was the Alend Contender, accustomed to authority. "Tell us what you want and be done with it."

Master Eremis paid no attention to that demand. "My companions fear you," he said. "They believe you will kill them if they come near, despite our flags of truce."

Prince Kragen snorted. "That would be an action worthy of you, Eremis. We are not such men."

In response, Master Eremis laughed along the wind, sent mirth and scorn across the snow. "Do you hear?" he called over his shoulder. "The Alend Contender thinks he is not such a man as we are."

"You're lucky Lebbick isn't here," muttered Norge. "He'd castrate you first and worry about honor later." But no one listened to him.

Spurring their horses, Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager came forward to join Master Eremis.

"Tell us what you want," Prince Kragen repeated harshly.

"As I say," gloated Master Eremis, "it is fortuitous that you are all here together. Because you
are
all here, you will be able to give me what I want. I have a requirement for each of you. Each of you except the Congery"—he sneered at Master Barsonage—"which has my permission to go sodomize itself whenever it chooses."

Instead of retorting with threats, the mediator folded his arms on his thick chest and produced a grim smile. "Be careful what you say, Master Eremis," he articulated. "Your insults only betray your fear."

"Fear!" Master Gilbur waggled his sword mockingly. "The day you teach me to fear you, Barsonage, I will walk into this camp naked and let you use me however you wish."

The Tor made a weak gesture, requesting silence. In a thin voice, he said, "You mentioned requirements, Master Eremis."

"Indeed," Eremis replied with a grin. "And if you satisfy me, I am willing to let you all live."

Norge pronounced an obscenity. No one else spoke.

"By now," the tall Imager explained, "even the thickest-headed among you must realize that we have an alliance with High King Festten. By force of Imagery and arms, we are prepared to crush you completely. We will wash the ground with your blood until you beg to share the Perdon's fate."

"Try it," grated Ribuld. Again, no one else spoke.

"As it happens, however," Master Eremis continued humorously, "the High King is not a comfortable ally. He wants to rule the world—and I intend that mastery for myself. Our ambitions are not well mated."

"Doubtless," the Tor sighed. "What are your requirements?"

Master Eremis straightened his legs, raised himself high in his saddle. "My lord Tor, my lord Prince, I require you to surrender."

This time, it was Prince Kragen who laughed—a bloody and mirthless guffaw.

"If you do so," Eremis went on smoothly, "if you will pledge your precious honor and your lives to me, we will turn against Festten. Our Imagery and your arms will break him here, far from his sources of supply, his reinforcements. Then it will be Mordant which rules the world, not Cadwal.

"From the first," he commented while everyone stared at him, "my plans have cut in two directions. We are prepared to
annihilate
you, my lords. You are too paltry—you have no hope against us. At the same time, however, I have maneuvered Festten and his strength into a position of vulnerability—here, my lords,
here
—so that he, too, can be annihilated.

"Your choice is simple. Serve me and live. Refuse me and die."

Geraden held himself still. Terisa glanced at him and saw that he wasn't looking at Master Eremis. He was watching the Tor with a dangerous brightness in his eyes.

Growling curses through his moustache, Prince Kragen also turned toward the Tor.

For a long moment, the Tor said nothing. In fact, the way he stood, his slumped and dependent posture, suggested that he didn't know what was going on. Nevertheless, before the Prince could lose patience with him, the old lord found his voice.