of his men. Slowly and steadily, unconscious of what he was doing, he beat his forehead against the wall until he had regained enough self-possession to call for more guards without howling. Then he had the dead carried out and gave orders for the sealing of the rooms, in case Geraden or his allies wanted to use this way into Orison again.
Geraden wasn't just a murderer. He was a butcher, crazy with hate for his own brother, and nothing made sense anymore.
For the rest of the day, Castellan Lebbick concentrated on keeping himself busy, so that he wouldn't go down to the dungeon. Eremis' innocence seemed to weaken him in ways he couldn't explain, cut the ground out from under his rage. He was afraid that if he saw that woman now he would end up begging her to forgive him.
Keeping himself busy was easy: he had plenty of duties. While he heard reports about the state of the siege, however, while he settled disputes among Orison's overcrowded population, or discussed tactical alternatives in case Adept Havelock became ineffective against the Alend catapults, he didn't say anything about water to anyone. He didn't want to raise any hopes until Master Eremis proved himself. Nevertheless he sent men to adjust all the valves of the water system and incurred the outrage of hundreds of thirsty people by using the little water which the castle's spring had accumulated to flush any possible residue of the lady Elega's poison out of the pipes.
And when one of his men finally brought him word that Master Eremis was at work in the reservoir, he went to watch.
The Imager was doing what he had said he could do. In the high, cathedral-like vault of the reservoir, he stood on the stone lip of the empty pool and held his mirror leaning out over the edge. The glass was nearly as tall as he was, and set in an ornate frame; therefore it was heavy: even a man with his unexpected strength wouldn't be able to support its weight in that position for any length of time. He had solved the problem, however, by bringing two Apts to help him. One braced the bottom of the mirror to keep it steady; the other held the top of the mirror by means of a rope looped over one of the timbers which propped up the network of pipes and screens above the pool. The assistance of the Apts enabled Master Eremis to concentrate exclusively on his translation.
As he stroked the frame and murmured whatever invocations triggered the relationship between his talent and the glass, rain came gushing from the uneven surface of the mirror.
He was right: the process was going to take time. However torrential the rain was, the amount which could be translated through the mirror was small compared to the size of the pool and Orison's need. Nevertheless Castellan Lebbick could see that the glass gave significantly more water than the spring. If Master Eremis was able to keep going—and if the water was good.
Lebbick tested one worry by requiring the Imager to drink two cups of the rainwater himself—which Master Eremis did with no discernible hesitation. But a close look at him only increased the Castellan's other concern.
Master Eremis was sweating in the cool air of the reservoir. His breathing was deep and hard, and his features had the tight pallor of clenched knuckles. His expression was uncharacteristically simple: for once, what he was doing required him to concentrate so acutely, exert himself so fully, that he had no energy to spare for secrets.
He had been at work for only a short time, and already the strain had begun to tell on him. To keep his translation going, he would need more than unexpected strength. He would need the stamina of an iron bar.
Castellan Lebbick didn't bother to curse. He could feel something inside him failing: the Imager was beating him. This was just perfect. Eremis was going to save Orison—but that wasn't enough for him, oh, no, not enough at all. He was going to save Orison heroically,
Geraden wasn't just a murderer. He was a butcher, crazy with hate for his own brother, and nothing made sense anymore.
For the rest of the day, Castellan Lebbick concentrated on keeping himself busy, so that he wouldn't go down to the dungeon. Eremis' innocence seemed to weaken him in ways he couldn't explain, cut the ground out from under his rage. He was afraid that if he saw that woman now he would end up begging her to forgive him.
Keeping himself busy was easy: he had plenty of duties. While he heard reports about the state of the siege, however, while he settled disputes among Orison's overcrowded population, or discussed tactical alternatives in case Adept Havelock became ineffective against the Alend catapults, he didn't say anything about water to anyone. He didn't want to raise any hopes until Master Eremis proved himself. Nevertheless he sent men to adjust all the valves of the water system and incurred the outrage of hundreds of thirsty people by using the little water which the castle's spring had accumulated to flush any possible residue of the lady Elega's poison out of the pipes.
And when one of his men finally brought him word that Master Eremis was at work in the reservoir, he went to watch.
The Imager was doing what he had said he could do. In the high, cathedral-like vault of the reservoir, he stood on the stone lip of the empty pool and held his mirror leaning out over the edge. The glass was nearly as tall as he was, and set in an ornate frame; therefore it was heavy: even a man with his unexpected strength wouldn't be able to support its weight in that position for any length of time. He had solved the problem, however, by bringing two Apts to help him. One braced the bottom of the mirror to keep it steady; the other held the top of the mirror by means of a rope looped over one of the timbers which propped up the network of pipes and screens above the pool. The assistance of the Apts enabled Master Eremis to concentrate exclusively on his translation.
As he stroked the frame and murmured whatever invocations triggered the relationship between his talent and the glass, rain came gushing from the uneven surface of the mirror.
He was right: the process was going to take time. However torrential the rain was, the amount which could be translated through the mirror was small compared to the size of the pool and Orison's need. Nevertheless Castellan Lebbick could see that the glass gave significantly more water than the spring. If Master Eremis was able to keep going—and if the water was good.
Lebbick tested one worry by requiring the Imager to drink two cups of the rainwater himself—which Master Eremis did with no discernible hesitation. But a close look at him only increased the Castellan's other concern.
Master Eremis was sweating in the cool air of the reservoir. His breathing was deep and hard, and his features had the tight pallor of clenched knuckles. His expression was uncharacteristically simple: for once, what he was doing required him to concentrate so acutely, exert himself so fully, that he had no energy to spare for secrets.
He had been at work for only a short time, and already the strain had begun to tell on him. To keep his translation going, he would need more than unexpected strength. He would need the stamina of an iron bar.
Castellan Lebbick didn't bother to curse. He could feel something inside him failing: the Imager was beating him. This was just perfect. Eremis was going to save Orison—but that wasn't enough for him, oh, no, not enough at all. He was going to save Orison heroically,
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