whatever he did would be out of her control. She had used up all her weapons. She wasn't Saddith: she couldn't use her body to protect her spirit, even though he apparently desired her. Even if she had been willing to make the attempt—a purely theoretical question—she lacked the knowledge, the experience. And somewhere between the poles of love and violence Castellan Lebbick had lost his way. He might no longer be able to distinguish between them.
She should have gone with Geraden.
She should have come to her own conclusions about him earlier, much earlier.
She should have stuck a knife in Master Eremis when she had the chance. If, in fact, she had ever had the chance.
The Castellan would be coming back.
What hope was there for her now? Only one: that Artagel might look at the body and be sure it wasn't Nyle's. If that happened—if she were proved right on that point—the Castellan might doubt his own rage enough to treat her more carefully. He might. She had to hope for something, now that she couldn't hope to be left alone.
She had to hope that Geraden's talent was strong enough to save him. Somehow, he had bent his mirror away from its Image in order to appear in her apartment and translate her to Orison. That was one thing. But to bend the same mirror so that it functioned as if it were flat—that was something else. A more hazardous attempt altogether. And yet she had reason to think it was within his abilities. With that same glass, he had put her partway into a scene which bore no resemblance to the Image, a scene which he called "the Closed Fist" in the Care of Domne, and she hadn't gone mad. If he could do that for her, surely he could do it for himself?
Surely?
Oh, Geraden.
The truth was that she wasn't sure of anything anymore. She wasn't accustomed to the confidence she had projected in front of Castellan Lebbick: it was easier to forget than to sustain. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything inevitable about the explanation of events she had urged on him. Like her capacity for love, it was purely theoretical. She knew how Master Eremis would laugh, if anyone told him what she had said. At bottom, her defense of herself rested entirely and exclusively on the conviction that Geraden was innocent. If she was wrong about that—
The implications were intolerable, so she tried to close her mind to them. Because she didn't know whether the Castellan would come back soon or late—and either way it could mean anything, good or bad—she made an effort to distract herself by counting the granite blocks which formed the walls of the cell.
Both of the end walls had been built in the same way. At a glance, the construction looked careless: ill-fitting blocks had simply been piled on top of each other. So it might be possible to work some of them loose, especially up near the ceiling. But time and use had worn off the rough edges, leaving a surface that couldn't be hurt. In contrast, the back of the cell was flat, seamless stone—cut, not built. No doubt the work had been done by the Mordant-born slaves of Alend or Cadwal, during the long years of conflict between those powers.
And now she was a prisoner of the same conflict. In a sense, dungeons never gave up their victims. The faces and the bodies changed—died and were dragged away—but the old stone clung to its purpose, and the anguish of the men and women locked within it never changed. King Joyse hadn't gone far enough when he had altered Orison to make it a place of peace. Much of the extensive dungeons had been given over to the Congery for a laborium: that was good—but not good enough. The whole place should have been put to some other use. Then perhaps the Castellan wouldn't have spent so many years thinking about the things he could do to people who offended him.
She didn't know what to say to him.
She had never known what to say to her father, either. So far, however, she had had
She should have gone with Geraden.
She should have come to her own conclusions about him earlier, much earlier.
She should have stuck a knife in Master Eremis when she had the chance. If, in fact, she had ever had the chance.
The Castellan would be coming back.
What hope was there for her now? Only one: that Artagel might look at the body and be sure it wasn't Nyle's. If that happened—if she were proved right on that point—the Castellan might doubt his own rage enough to treat her more carefully. He might. She had to hope for something, now that she couldn't hope to be left alone.
She had to hope that Geraden's talent was strong enough to save him. Somehow, he had bent his mirror away from its Image in order to appear in her apartment and translate her to Orison. That was one thing. But to bend the same mirror so that it functioned as if it were flat—that was something else. A more hazardous attempt altogether. And yet she had reason to think it was within his abilities. With that same glass, he had put her partway into a scene which bore no resemblance to the Image, a scene which he called "the Closed Fist" in the Care of Domne, and she hadn't gone mad. If he could do that for her, surely he could do it for himself?
Surely?
Oh, Geraden.
The truth was that she wasn't sure of anything anymore. She wasn't accustomed to the confidence she had projected in front of Castellan Lebbick: it was easier to forget than to sustain. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything inevitable about the explanation of events she had urged on him. Like her capacity for love, it was purely theoretical. She knew how Master Eremis would laugh, if anyone told him what she had said. At bottom, her defense of herself rested entirely and exclusively on the conviction that Geraden was innocent. If she was wrong about that—
The implications were intolerable, so she tried to close her mind to them. Because she didn't know whether the Castellan would come back soon or late—and either way it could mean anything, good or bad—she made an effort to distract herself by counting the granite blocks which formed the walls of the cell.
Both of the end walls had been built in the same way. At a glance, the construction looked careless: ill-fitting blocks had simply been piled on top of each other. So it might be possible to work some of them loose, especially up near the ceiling. But time and use had worn off the rough edges, leaving a surface that couldn't be hurt. In contrast, the back of the cell was flat, seamless stone—cut, not built. No doubt the work had been done by the Mordant-born slaves of Alend or Cadwal, during the long years of conflict between those powers.
And now she was a prisoner of the same conflict. In a sense, dungeons never gave up their victims. The faces and the bodies changed—died and were dragged away—but the old stone clung to its purpose, and the anguish of the men and women locked within it never changed. King Joyse hadn't gone far enough when he had altered Orison to make it a place of peace. Much of the extensive dungeons had been given over to the Congery for a laborium: that was good—but not good enough. The whole place should have been put to some other use. Then perhaps the Castellan wouldn't have spent so many years thinking about the things he could do to people who offended him.
She didn't know what to say to him.
She had never known what to say to her father, either. So far, however, she had had
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