A Man Rides Through by Stephen Donaldson

guards." For the first time, Lebbick saw him look worried. "And I have spent all the rest of my time with you."
     
    The Master's point was reasonable, but Castellan Lebbick ignored it. "You're an Imager," he repeated. As he spoke, his voice took on a slight singsong tone, as if deep inside himself he were trying to rock his hurt like a sick child. "You think you're a good one. Do you expect me to believe 'our enemies' have a flat glass that shows your rooms and you don't know about it? They made it and then never used it, never gave you any kind of hint, never did anything that might possibly have made a good Imager like you aware of what they had? Are you serious?"
     
    To his astonishment, Lebbick discovered that he was almost in tears. His men had never had a chance to defend themselves, and there was nothing he could do to help them now, no way he could ever bring them back. Grinning as hard as he could, he twisted his voice down into a snarl. "I don't like it when my men are slaughtered."
     
    "An admirable sentiment." Master Eremis' face was tight; the concern in his eyes had become anger. "It does you credit. But it has no relevance. Our enemies appear to have flat glass which admits them everywhere. If I knew how that trick is done, I would do it myself. But that also has no relevance. Nyle was alive when I left him. A blind man could see that I was with you when he was killed. I am not to blame for this."
     
    "Prove it," retorted the Castellan as if he were recovering his good humor. "I know you didn't do this yourself. The traitors you're in league with did it. But you set it up. All you did"—with difficulty, he resisted a tremendous impulse to hit Eremis a few times— "all you did was bring Nyle here so that Gart and Gilbur and the rest of your friends could get at him."
     
    He wanted to roar, All you did was have my men slaughtered! But the words caught in his throat, choking him.
     
    "Castellan Lebbick, listen to me. Listen to me." Master Eremis spoke as if he had been trying to get Lebbick's attention for some time—as if Lebbick were in the grip of delirium. "That makes no sense.
     
    "If you believe I am responsible for Nyle's death, then you must believe he would not have defended me from Geraden's accusations. Therefore you must believe I had no reason to take him to the meeting of the Congery. What, so that he could speak against me? I say that makes no sense.
     
    "And if you believe I am responsible for his death, you must also believe I have the means to leave Orison whenever I wish—by the same glass which enabled Gilbur to escape. Then why do I remain? Why did I go to face Geraden before the Congery, when I could have fled his charges so easily? Why have I submitted myself to this siege? Castellan, that makes no sense.
     
    "I am not a traitor. I serve Mordant and Orison. I am not to blame for Nyle's death."
     
    Unable to think coherently, Lebbick rasped again, "Prove it." He wanted to howl. Eremis' argument was too persuasive: he didn't know what was wrong with it. "Talk doesn't mean anything. You can say whatever you want." And yet there had to be something wrong with it. There had to be, because he needed that so badly. He needed to do something with his despair. "Just prove it."
     
    Unfortunately, Master Eremis had recovered his confidence. The Imager's expression was again full of secrets—hidden facts or intentions which made Eremis want to laugh, restored his look of untarnished superiority.
     
    Smiling amiably, hatefully, he remarked, "You said that once before. Out on the battlements. Do you remember?"
     
    The gentle suggestion that Lebbick might not remember—that he might not have that much grasp on what he was doing—infuriated him enough to restore some of his self-command. "I remember," he shot back, relieved to hear himself sound trenchant and familiar. "You didn't do anything about it then, either."
     
    "No," the Master agreed. "But a possibility occurred to me. I was