Mordant's Need by Stephen R. Donaldson
The mirror had broken into dozens of fragments.
Each of them showed a different Image.
And all the Images were moving. When she first looked at them, they seemed to be groping blindly toward each other, as if they aspired to some kind of wholeness.
Pieces of what will come.
The sight made her momentarily dizzy: it seethed like migraine. She felt that she was going to fall. But she closed her eyes and pushed down her queasiness. When she looked again, she held herself steady by concentrating on one or two Images at a time.
—of what will come.
At first, she was startled by how many of them she recognized – and by how precise they were, despite their small size. In one, King Joyse hunched over a game of hop-board, a game that had collapsed into chaos, the men scattered everywhere. He stared at it as if he were determined to make sense of the confusion, and his hands moved aimlessly over the board. In another, Geraden had begun to step into a mirror; but his body blocked the Image within the Image. In another, he appeared again, this time standing surrounded entirely by mirrors, all of them reflecting scenes of violence and destruction against him. And in yet another, the armored warrior in the alien landscape fired his weapons past the edge of the glass.
But in fact those were only a small handful of the Images. The others reached beyond her experience. One shard showed a castle – she guessed it to be Orison – with a smoking hole torn in one side and a look of death about it. Several pieces of glass held Images of battle: men on horseback hacking at each other so vividly that she could see the blood in the wounds; figures that looked like kings rampaging; soldiers on foot spitted by spears; corpses trampled; carnage. Smoke blotted out the sun. And other Images were of things that could only have come into existence through Imagery: rocks falling from the sky as if off the side of a mountain; creatures so hot that whatever they touched caught fire; devouring worms. Villages were razed. Castles fell. Crops burned. Men, women, children died.
And yet here and there in the squirming mosaic were scenes of peace, perhaps even of victory: a plain purple pennon set on a hillside; a celebration that might have been a wedding, taking place in a high ballroom; farmers planting a field still scarred by battle.
Then another Image caught her eye.
Three riders. Driving their mounts forward, straight out of the glass, driving hard, so that the strain in the shoulders of their horses was as plain as the hate in the keen edges of their upraised swords. Fixed on her across the gulf of augury and translation, and riding hard to hasten the moment when she and her future would come together.
The riders of her dream.
Of course.
At once, a wonderful and ludicrous calm came over her. It lasted for only a moment; but while it endured she lifted her head, half expecting to hear the heart-tug of horns. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before?
Not the riders. She didn’t know what they meant. She hardly cared. But the future. Mirrors didn’t simply span distance or dimension: they had the capacity to span time as well. Pieces of what will come. That was why she had been able to see the same Image in two different seasons, the same scene in spring and winter: time. What she had witnessed wasn’t proof that the mirror that had brought her here was false; she had seen only another demonstration of the potential that made augury possible.
And that meant—
From across the dais, Master Quillon asked blandly, ‘Does this shed any light for you, my lady?’ as though he were inquiring only out of politeness. ‘I confess that it baffles me.’
‘The secret of interpretation, my lady,’ Master Eremis murmured, ‘is to read the flow of the Images. Their movement is not random. There is a – perhaps it might be called “current” – which runs from crisis to action to outcome. Unfortunately, this current is not easily discerned. We see Mordant’s danger. We see the importance of Geraden. He is in august company – King Joyse, High King Festten, the Alend Monarch. And he is the only individual who appears twice. The champion we thought he would bring to us is here. Also, we see scenes we do not understand.’ He pointed at Geraden surrounded by mirrors. ‘And we see outcomes – ruin and hope. But how the Images flow is harder to determine. Does Apt Geraden lead to hope, or to ruin? What does King Joyse meditate upon while his enemies ride against him?’
‘In brief,’ Master Gilbur rasped from his seat, ‘nothing has changed. The augury tells us only what we have already seen.’
‘When we decided that Apt Geraden should attempt to translate our champion,’ explained Master Barsonage, overriding Gilbur, ‘the logic of it seemed plain enough. He clearly could not be the cause of ruin. Ruin confronted us already. Therefore he must be a source of hope.
‘Now,’ he sighed, ‘the interpretation is less obvious.’
‘Oh, forsooth.’ Master Gilbur was growing steadily angrier. ‘“Less obvious,” indeed. Nothing has been more obvious. The Apt’s involvement in our plight is the path which leads to ruin. Only the champion you see before you offers any hope.’
Through his teeth, the mediator replied, ‘That is what we must decide.’
For another moment or two, the Imagers stood around the dais. Some of them whispered among themselves. Others pointed out details of the augury which their companions might have missed. Then, slowly, they returned to their benches. Still holding Terisa’s arm, Eremis steered her back to her seat.
But when the Masters were in their places again, a silence fell over the Congery. Everyone except Gilbur seemed lost in thought – perhaps frustrated that the augury didn’t provide a clearer answer, perhaps hesitant to consider the drastic solution Master Gilbur had proposed. And he continued glowering about him as if he were determined not to speak first.
At last, an Imager Terisa didn’t know asked, ‘Is there no middle ground? Must we either do nothing or risk doing too much?’
‘No,’ another muttered. ‘The King has not left us that choice. Our plight is extreme. By governing Mordant like a madman, he has made the situation too grave to be met on any middle ground.’
‘I have heard a rumor,’ said a third Master portentously. ‘It is said that the Perdon came yesterday to speak with King Joyse. He reported an army of thirty thousand Cadwals mustering against him beyond the Vertigon, and he demanded reinforcement.
‘He was refused.’
The shocked expressions of several of the Imagers showed that this story hadn’t reached them. Master Eremis smiled vacantly.
‘Nevertheless,’ Master Barsonage put in more loudly than necessary, trying to shore up a weak position, ‘he is the King. That decision was his to make. We do not know what reasons he may have had for his refusal.’
‘True,’ retorted Master Gilbur. ‘And I, for one, do not care. When an assassin tries to strike a knife into my heart, and the man who is sworn to protect me steps aside, I do not ask for his reasons. First I fight the assassin. And when I have defeated him, and have bound them both in irons, and perhaps broken a few of their limbs for good measure, then I ask my sworn protector what his reasons may have been.’
‘Master Gilbur.’ The mediator swung his bulk to face Gilbur squarely. A combination of anger and fear stained his skin. ‘How have you become so savage? Your arguments I understand, but not the tone of hatred in which you utter them. Whatever else we may say of him, we must say that King Joyse created the Congery. He made us who we are.’
‘Who we are,’ sneered Gilbur. ‘Divided and useless.’
Grimly, Master Barsonage continued, ‘We cannot make our decisions now on a basis of blind passion. What causes your loathing of him, Master Gilbur?’
Master Gilbur clenched his hands together until the knuckles whitened.
‘Personally,’ drawled Master Eremis, ‘I believe that good Master Gilbur once had the insolence to ask for the hand of one of the King’s daughters in marriage. Quite understandably, King Joyse laughed at him.’
A few of the Imagers might have been tempted to laugh, bu
‘Am I savage, Master Barsonage? Do you hear hatred in my voice? Do I display loathing? I have cause.
‘As you know, I was one of the last Imagers brought into the Congery in the days before the defeat of the arch-Imager Vagel. But the story of how I was brought to the Congery has never been told.
‘I have given my life to my researches, and in those days no other question interested me, although of course I knew of the King’s invitation to all Imagers to leave their private laboriums and join him in Orison. I did not know, however, that another Imager had moved secretly near to my lone cave in the Armigite hills. This corrupt wretch coveted my research – and he attacked me, seeking to wrest what I knew from me. I defended myself, but he had taken me by surprise, and I could not win. In our struggle, a portion of the ceiling of my cave collapsed, pinning me under a block of stone I was unable to shift. My attacker snatched what he desired most of my possessions and fled.
‘As it happened, he fled straight into the arms of King Joyse. The King had learned of my attacker before I had, and he was riding toward us to deal with the man when I fell. Instantly, my attacker turned his power against the King. But he was no match for Adept Havelock in those days, and he was killed.
‘Weakened by the damage it had suffered, the ceiling of my cave continued to fall. But King Joyse risked his life to enter and lift the stone and carry me to safety. He could not heal the harm done to my back – the harm which marks me still. But he restored my health, recovered my researches, and gave my life purpose in the Congery.’
‘And for this you hate him?’ asked Master Barsonage incredulously.
Master Gilbur slashed the air with hooked fingers. ‘Yes! Oh, he was wise in the creation of the Congery. He was strong and valiant in the making of Mordant. And he was good to me. But he did not teach me to look upon his subsequent weakness, his folly, his refusal to act, as though such things were anything except betrayal.
‘I despise what he has become, Master Barsonage. If you or I slipped into our dotage, the servants of Orison would tend us in our beds, and our responsibilities would pass elsewhere. Our incontinence or loss of mind would do no hurt. But he remains King. And he takes no action except to prevent any action that might offer us hope.
‘You should be savage, as I am. The man in all Mordant whom we have most cause to love has betrayed us!’
His shout echoed through the chamber. At once, however, he sat down. Into the silence, he growled softly, ‘I have been attacked and broken once. We must have power to defend ourselves.’
Then he bowed his head into his hands and sat still.
No one spoke. Master Eremis shifted in his seat as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it. Master Quillon appeared to be shrinking: he might have been making a conscious effort to disappear into the background. The mediator clenched his arms over his heavy chest like a man who felt like raging and did not intend to let himself go. Some of the Imagers watched the rest of the circle as if they were looking for hints. Others studiously avoided anyone else’s gaze.
Terisa listened to the tension and wondered what the implications of being real were. What did it demand of her? What should she do?
Abruptly, Master Gilbur hit the rail in front of him so hard she thought she heard the wood crack. ‘Balls of a dog!’ he roared. ‘Will you sit there forever? If you consider me wrong, say so. Does not one of you possess bowels enough to tell me to my face that I am wrong?’
At once, the young Imager who had jeered at Master Eremis said loudly, ‘I second Master Gilbur’s proposal. We must call our champion to us.’
His words broke a dam: suddenly, the air was full of voices urging that the matter be put to a vote.
Still gripping himself hard, Master Barsonage waited until quiet was restored. Then he said stiffly, like a breaking board, ‘Very well. This is madness, but it must be answered. I know my duty. You have heard the proposal. Shall it be accepted? What is the will of the Congery?’
Terisa counted the show of hands as rapidly as she could. Master Barsonage, Master Eremis, Master Quillon, and several others voted against the proposal.
They were in the minority. Master Gilbur had won.
The mediator snarled his disgust.
As if shocked by what it had just done, the Congery relapsed into silence. Imagers blinked at each other uncertainly. A grin of anticipation bared Master Gilbur’s teeth; but he savored his victory and said nothing. Nobody seemed to know what to do next.
Then Master Eremis rose to his feet. If anything, his manner was more nonchalant than ever; but Terisa saw in his face – especially in his eyes – a new excitement, a taste for the game he was playing.
‘I am surprised,’ he drawled. ‘This is madness, as Master Barsonage has said. I will not challenge the vote, however. It is conceivable, I suppose, that my judgment may be in error.’ He flashed a smile to which no one responded.
‘Be that as it may,’ he continued, ‘you must next decide when to attempt this translation. Let me beg for a delay. Six days should suffice.’
Master Gilbur jerked up his head as though he had been poked in the ribs. Master Quillon watched Eremis like a small animal staring at a snake.
‘A delay, Master Eremis?’ asked Barsonage. ‘Six days?’ A quickness had come into his attention; his distress receded. ‘If Master Gilbur has his way, we will begin the translation at once. Why should we delay?’
‘Why should we not?’ Master Gilbur retorted trenchantly. ‘The peril thickens around us like quicksand. Thirty thousand Cadwals are poised against Perdon. The Alend Monarch alone knows what treachery he contemplates. We are attacked by Imagery of all kinds – and in all places, as if our enemy has no limitations of time and distance. In six days we may all be dead. But doubtless we will bow to the wisdom of our esteemed Eremis.’
‘Master Gilbur’ – once again, the insouciant Imager looked hugely and secretly amused – ‘I advise you to watch your tongue. If you do not, I will watch it for you. In order to watch it well, I will remove it from your head.’
Gilbur replied with a bark of laughter.
‘Master Barsonage,’ Eremis went on smoothly, ‘I do not make this request lightly. Here is my reason. Yesterday, after his audience with King Joyse, I spoke with the Perdon. We spoke at some length, and we agreed that Mordant’s plight is dire, that the King’s passivity is insufferable, and that some action must be taken in spite of him.
‘Our own dilemma is severe, Masters,’ he said to the circle, ‘but consider the situation of the Cares. It is Perdon that will die first when Cadwal comes to war, Armigite that has always been the first victim of Alend’s aspirations, Termigan and Fayle and Tor that will have their people decimated. Therefore the Perdon promised that he will summon all the lords of the Cares to Orison – with the exception of the Domne, of course, who is too great a friend of the King’s – so that they can try to determine an answer to their common need. And so that they can try to forge an alliance with us.’
Terisa saw dismay on Master Quillon’s face. On the other hand, the mediator listened with visibly increasing enthusiasm.
‘They will meet during the night of the sixth day,’ Master Eremis continued. ‘I have been asked to confer with them, to speak for the Congery.’
‘What? In six days? For messengers to ride out and the lords to reply?’ an angry Master demanded. ‘At this time of year?’ A mutter of agreement rose around him. ‘If the Armigite is sent for, he may possibly ride the distance in time. Batten is little more than forty miles distant. But the Fayle? The Tor? That is madness. Under the best conditions, the Termigan has seldom made the journey to Orison in less than ten days.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Master Eremis replied, as suave as poison, ‘the Perdon has promised it. Will you call him a liar?’ Then he smiled. ‘I do believe, however, that he had decided on this gathering – and had sent out his call – well before he spoke to me. I merely persuad
At once, he resumed what he had been saying. ‘Masters, I believe that we must not ignore this opportunity to find support for what we do. If we ally ourselves with the lords of the Cares, explaining to them what we propose for Mordant, we will not risk their opposition to our champion. And we will gain friendships across Mordant which may prove of great value in the coming strife.’
Terisa found herself gazing up at him as though her face shone. The boldness and possibilities of what he proposed took her breath away. He was trying to fight for Mordant in a way that made sense to her.
‘Also,’ Master Barsonage put in promptly, ‘it may be that the lords will propose a defense which will make the calling of our champion unnecessary. And we will have six more days in which to be sure of what we do. Master Eremis, I congratulate your foresight and initiative. This is well done.’
‘Is it?’ demanded one of the younger Imagers. ‘By what right does Master Eremis speak for us in front of the lords of the Cares?’
‘As Master Barsonage has said,’ Master Eremis said with a gleam in his eyes. ‘By right of foresight and initiative.’
‘But you oppose the calling of our champion,’ another man protested. ‘How can we be sure that this is not some ploy to undercut our decision? How can we know that you will advocate our knowledge and position fairly to the lords?’
‘Masters,’ Eremis answered in a tone of good-natured sarcasm, ‘the lords will not agree to bare their hearts before the entire Congery. However we may look at the matter, we are the creation of King Joyse, and all men who fear his present policy fear us as well.’
‘My question remains,’ retorted the man who had just spoken. ‘How can you be trusted to form an alliance for us, when you oppose what we mean to do?’
For a moment, Master Eremis looked around him – at Master Barsonage, at Master Quillon, whose eyes seemed to bulge with stifled distress, at the Imagers who challenged him. Then he shrugged. ‘Very well. I will take one of you with me, to ensure that I deal rightly with your decisions. I will risk the ire of the lords.