A Man Rides Through Read online

  A Man Rides Through is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Del Rey eBook

  Copyright © 1989 by Stephen R. Donaldson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Del Rey, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Originally published in Hardcover in 1989 by Del Rey, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Del Rey and the Del Rey colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81923-9

  www.delreybooks.com

  v3.1

  “Steeped in the vacuum of her dreams,

  A mirror’s empty till

  A man rides through it.”

  -John Myers Myers, Silverlock

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  BOOK THREE

  Twenty-Seven: The Prince’s Siege

  Twenty-Eight: A Day of Trouble

  Twenty-Nine: Terisa Has Visitors

  Thirty: Odd Choices

  Thirty-One: Hop-Board

  Thirty-Two: The Benefit of Sons

  Thirty-Three: Peace in Houseldon

  Thirty-Four: Frustrated States

  Thirty-Five: An Old Ally of the King

  Thirty-Six: Gathering Support

  Thirty-Seven: Poised for Victory

  Thirty-Eight: Conflict at the Gates

  Thirty-Nine: The Final Piece of Bait

  BOOK FOUR

  Forty: The Lord of Last Resort

  Forty-One: The Uses of Talent

  Forty-Two: Unexpected Translations

  Forty-Three: The Only Reasonable Thing to Do

  Forty-Four: Men Go Forth

  Forty-Five: The Alend Monarch’s Gamble

  Forty-Six: A Place of Death

  Forty-Seven: On the Verge

  Forty-Eight: The Congery at Work

  Forty-Nine: The King’s Last Hopes

  Fifty: Careful Risks

  Fifty-One: The Things Men Do with Mirrors

  Fifty-Two: No More Fighting

  Epilogue: Crowning the Pieces

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  BOOK

  THREE

  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 a
ttention 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.”