Authors: Steven Brust
Brokedown Palace (9 page)
Its body gave a great spasm. The neck struck Vilmos across his chest, throwing him out into the middle of the River, where he began splashing against the current. Miklós started to run toward him. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, Miklós saw the dragon’s tail whipping around. It hit him, and he felt himself flying through the air. He had time to be amazed that he seemed unhurt before he noticed a tree rushing toward him, as if desperate to catch him before he hit the ground.
MIKLÓS HAD NEVER SEEN A WALL LIKE THAT BEFORE. IT seemed to be made of millions of small, fuzzy things, that … oh. So was the sky. He blinked a couple of times and realized that he wanted very much to throw up. He knew that if he could just throw up he would feel so much better. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed up with his arms. If he could only … the ground rushed up at him, much as the tree had. He had time to be glad that he hadn’t tried to stand up.
THE NEXT TIME HE WOKE, HIS VISION WAS CLEAR, BUT HE STILL felt sick. He rolled over onto his back to see if he could, and nothing hurt more than it had before. He saw that it was either early morning or late evening, depending on which way he was facing. He decided to look for the River. Deciding was as far as he got.
IT WAS NIGHT. TIME TO SLEEP, HE DECIDED.
So he did.
MIKLÓS DIDN’T KNOW HOW MANY DAYS HAD PASSED, BUT HE was finally able to stir himself. He pulled himself up by holding onto a nearby tree. It occurred to him that this was the one he had hit. He resisted looking for marks of where he had struck the tree for fear that he might find them. He stumbled away to practice walking and to clean himself and his garments, which he apparently soiled sometime in the last day or two or three … .
He bathed in the River, upstream from the body of the dragon which lay in the water, covered with jhereg. Of Vilmos there was no sign. It occurred to him that, if it weren’t for the meal the dragon offered to the local scavengers, he wouldn’t have survived, helpless as he had been. He shuddered.
While his clothing dried, hanging over the bough of a tree, he
kindled a fire. He took out his shaving knife and held it. He drew once more upon the Power, and soon a norska came to him. He killed it quickly, skinned it, and roasted it over the fire. He ate every bit of meat and much of the fat.
kindled a fire. He took out his shaving knife and held it. He drew once more upon the Power, and soon a norska came to him. He killed it quickly, skinned it, and roasted it over the fire. He ate every bit of meat and much of the fat.
Then he washed himself again, allowed wind and fire to dry him, and put on once more the ragged and tattered clothing which identified him as Prince Miklós of Fenario.
He took his whetstone from his pack, sharpened his shaving knife, and put knife and stone away. He smothered the fire and returned to his raft. He picked up the pole he had crafted, pushed off, and carefully negotiated around the body of the dragon. Several jhereg hissed at him. He hissed back.
Soon dragon and jhereg were lost behind a bend in the River.
The Palace was ahead.
A
SINGLE DROP OF BLOOD, DEEP IN THE FLOOR BOARDS … Yet, let us be careful not to put too much emphasis upon its effect. There is a strict limit to how much blame may properly be assigned to any catalyst. There are always the questions: would there have been another catalyst? Would any catalyst have been necessary?
SINGLE DROP OF BLOOD, DEEP IN THE FLOOR BOARDS … Yet, let us be careful not to put too much emphasis upon its effect. There is a strict limit to how much blame may properly be assigned to any catalyst. There are always the questions: would there have been another catalyst? Would any catalyst have been necessary?
There was a thing in the Palace, built into its very structure from the beginning. Why? Perhaps it was carried on a log sent downriver from the Wandering Forest when the Palace was built. Perhaps only because the Palace was built next to the River that flowed down from the Mountains of Faerie. Perhaps it was in the very nature of the Palace itself. Perhaps these things cannot be separated.
Nevertheless, there was a thing in the Palace. It waited, very much like a seed, for the proper time to sprout. Call it a seed. Two years ago, a single drop of blood had touched the seed, and things began to happen. Not fast, nor in any way apparent. Yet, it began to grow.
At first it was weak, as such things will be. But gradually it acquired a shape, still hidden. Had its shape not been hidden, at this
point, it could have been easily destroyed. Yet, if it had been, another would have begun to grow.
point, it could have been easily destroyed. Yet, if it had been, another would have begun to grow.
Whatever it was that caused this growth to sprout had, at the time, seemingly unlimited strength. This would not always be the case.
Rest assured, we will return to this again.
The Splinter
A
ND OR STIFLED A CURSE AND LOOKED AT THE FOREFINGER of his right hand. He squeezed it, and a tiny drop of blood appeared near the tip just to the left of the nail. He looked closer but didn’t see the sliver.
ND OR STIFLED A CURSE AND LOOKED AT THE FOREFINGER of his right hand. He squeezed it, and a tiny drop of blood appeared near the tip just to the left of the nail. He looked closer but didn’t see the sliver.
He ran his thumb back and forth along the finger, trying all directions until he found the way of rubbing it that felt as if he were being poked with a needle. He rubbed it a few more times, wincing, then raised it to his mouth and tried to pull the sliver with his teeth. After several tries he thought he had it, but discovered when rubbing still hurt that he had only removed a small piece of skin.
He took time out to scowl at the windowsill, then closed the shutters with his left hand, holding the forefinger of his right awkwardly to the side.
He had gotten the sliver while absent-mindedly running his hand along the sill, staring out at the Riverbank where he had planted his flowers. The sill had had little use before Andor had begun the planting; there had been nothing to see from the window except the River. But these last several mornings he had risen,
thrown open the shutters, and strained to see if any growth had broken through, before running outside to take a close look.
thrown open the shutters, and strained to see if any growth had broken through, before running outside to take a close look.
The sliver, however, had driven all thoughts of flowers from Andor’s mind. He brushed aside the curtain that separated his room from the corridor outside (carefully, so as not to knock the rod out from where the braces were coming loose), and went looking for—
Let us pause here. In this world, or any world, there are people who never need help in removing splinters, people who need help in removing splinters, and people who need help in removing splinters but can find no such help.
Of those who made their home in the Palace, only László had never felt the need to have help with a splinter. Andor had gone to his mother for many years, until the accident, after which she had moved to the tower with her husband and so was unavailable. Miklós had gone to Nurse.
Nurse was gone now, as was Miklós. László still needed no one. Andor needed someone, and so had settled naturally on Sándor. Vilmos, from time to time, came to Andor, but—
Did we have three categories, there? Pardon, there is a fourth: Those who need no help with splinters, but aren’t aware of it.
Andor trudged up the stairs, still holding his finger off to the side. The steps shifted and grumbled beneath his weight, but they had been doing that for as long as he could remember. At the top, he turned left (avoiding a small puddle—there had been a light rain the night before) and went back down. As he followed the next turning of the corridor, he spared a glance for the carving of the bullrider. It seemed such a silly place to put a carving. He came to the audience chamber.
László, alone in the room, looked up.
“Where is Sándor?” asked Andor.
“The Old Library,” said László tersely.
Andor muttered his thanks and followed the corridor to the indicated room. He paused in the doorway for a moment, looking at the edges.
It is odd
, he thought,
how much more aware of cracked wood one is when one has just received a splinter.
It is odd
, he thought,
how much more aware of cracked wood one is when one has just received a splinter.
After he entered, it took him a moment to find the old wizard, hidden as he was behind stacks of books. The room itself was large, and seemed curiously empty despite the piles of books that nearly filled it. The books in the Old Library were mostly stacked on the floor, for much of the shelving had fallen down over the years. The books in the New Library were all copied and bound in Fenario by clerks and monks in the service of the Demon Goddess. The Old Library held books brought over the border from far lands, or traded for the wines and spices of Fenario before being given to one or another King on one or another occasion. Many of these books, if truth be told, were in better shape than the room that contained them.
Andor approached Sándor and sat down next to him. The wizard held up a forefinger (in unconscious parody of Andor) while he ran his other finger along lines of ancient script. Andor winced in false sympathy to see him rubbing his finger, and looked away. Then he looked back, once more admiring the wizard’s calm demeanor. Dignity, that was it. Even the unpretentious pale green robes added to the effect of calm self-assurance.
After a moment, Sándor looked up. “Yes?”
Andor was flustered for a moment to be caught staring, but he held out the injury. “Do you think you could help me with a sliver? I’ve tried digging it out, but I can’t seem to—”
“Certainly,” said Sándor. He grasped the end of the finger tightly, turning the tip purple, and reached down deftly with the fingernails of his other hand. Between the pressure from the squeezing and the light pain from the digging of the nails, Andor
didn’t actually feel the sliver come free, but Sándor was holding it, and rubbing now produced no pain.
didn’t actually feel the sliver come free, but Sándor was holding it, and rubbing now produced no pain.
“Thank you,” he said.
Sándor nodded brusquely. Andor settled back and sighed. Sándor seemed to resign himself to a long conversation. “What is it?” he said.
“The flowers,” said Andor. “They don’t seem to be coming up. It’s been more than a week now, and—”
Sándor snorted.
“What is it?” asked Andor.
Sándor snorted again. “Late autumn is not the time to plant flowers, my foolish friend.”
Andor, who had been prepared for either a shocking revelation about the Nature of Truth or a severe tongue-lashing for lack of trust in the Power of Life, felt his jaw drop with amazement.
After a moment, he managed to stammer out, “But you said—”
“I said nothing. I was speaking in generalities. You chose to take my examples literally and wouldn’t listen when I tried to correct your error. Flowers, indeed!”
Andor stared at him, trying desperately to understand. At last he said, “Please, Sándor.”
“Please what?”
“Help me. There is something … .”
“Yes?”
“Something missing. Something that I’m not seeing or doing.”
“And it’s making you unhappy, is that it?”
Andor nodded miserably.
“You feel an emptiness in your life, and you come to me because I seem to be fulfilled.”
“Yes.”
“You think there must be some secret that I have, knowledge of how to be happy.”
“No, but—”
“No
buts.
I can hear it in everything you say.”
buts.
I can hear it in everything you say.”
Sándor’s expression was midway between exasperation and disdain. Andor looked down, like a child confronted with the evidence of a dish found under his bed with remnants of months-old pudding still on it.
Sándor said in a suddenly gentler tone, “It isn’t that easy, Andor. I have paid for my peace of mind with the burden of power, and paid for the power with years of study. The ways of the Goddess—”
“The Goddess?”
“Certainly, the Goddess. She is the living embodiment of the power of Faerie. That is why we worship her.”
“Then the power comes from her?”
Sándor frowned, considering. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose it does, but—”
“I understand!” cried Andor. It felt as if, after hours of chasing lanterns, he had emerged for the first time into the full light of day. His pulse raced as exhilaration swept through him.
For years, he realized, he had been going through the duties of worship and obligation to the Goddess as if such things were separate from his personal life. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that again and again the Goddess had spoken to him, but he had chosen not to listen.
Little things, such as the flowers refusing to grow, or the fountain breaking down when he had been looking forward all day to cooling off in it, or his consistent failures at tests of arms, or even today, the splinter received while watching for flowers that would never break the soil. Hundreds of things should have pointed him in the right direction, but he had been blind.
Well, that was over, now. His search had been long, but at last he was on the right path. He could feel it.
Andor realized that Sándor was still talking.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I missed that. What were you saying?”
Sándor stopped, then looked exasperated. He threw up his hands and sighed. “Never mind. You’ll do what you’ll do, as always. I don’t know why I bother. Now go away and—”
The door burst open. Andor turned to it, so he didn’t see the peculiar color that came over Sándor’s face. Instead he saw Vilmos, and a scream froze on his lips.
His brother’s tunic was torn, and there were deep red stains over the tatters of it, running down to his blue leggings. His bare chest was a mass of scabs. His lips were drawn up in the snarl of a wild animal, his eyes were wide and blazing, even his beard seemed to stand on end.
Vilmos took a step into the room. He didn’t bother to duck under the doorway; his head cracked against the wood at the top, breaking off a piece of the intrados. He didn’t seem to notice. He took another step. Sándor rose to his feet. Andor backed up.
Vilmos took another step, then another. Sándor spoke in a low, even tone. “Tell me what happened, Vilmos.” The giant growled and took another step.
Sándor stepped behind a table and backed up again. “Didn’t the spell work, Vilmos? I can’t think why it didn’t.” Vilmos lifted the table with his right hand and flung it casually behind him. Andor heard the sound of wood cracking and splintering when it landed, but he didn’t look around. Sweat poured from Andor’s brow as he tried to think of something to do. He took a hesitant step forward, but froze when Vilmos half turned to him.
Sándor scurried back. “Please, Vilmos!” he cried. “At least tell me what happened!”
Vilmos stopped, a look of scorn replacing the rage. “Can’t you see my chest, wizard?”
“But the spell—”
“Yes! The spell! It made the dragon angry, wizard. I killed it anyway, but do you see what the thing did to me? And all because I was fool enough to listen to you!”
He lifted his hands and walked toward Sándor again. His massive back blocked Andor’s view of the wizard. In desperation, Andor screamed. “No, Vili! Don’t—”
“Quiet, brother,” said Vilmos without turning.
“Vilmos,” said Sándor, fighting to remain calm. “You need rest and healing. Look how injured you are.”
The giant was upon him now, and his hands began to descend. A blue light suddenly flickered around Vilmos. He jumped back, startled, then advanced again.
“Your tricks are useless against—”
“No trick, Vilmos. I’m healing you. See? Already your chest is better, isn’t it.”
Vilmos looked down, then growled. For a moment, he seemed unsure of himself. The blue light flickered again.
“Do you see, Vilmos?” came Sándor’s quivering voice. “Don’t you feel better?”
The giant stirred. “Nice try, wizard,” he said, stepping forward again. “But—”
“Vilmos!”
Andor turned, and László stood in the doorway. The King entered quickly, his eyes flicking from his brother’s chest to the crumpled, frightened form of his wizard.
“Did his spell fail you, Vili?”
“It did, brother. But we need never worry about that again.” He turned back. But with speed that amazed even Andor, who thought he knew him, László ran up and leapt between giant and wizard.
Vilmos stopped. “What are you doing, Laci?”
“I need him, Vili. The kingdom needs him. If you want to harm him, you’ll have to harm me, too.”
“I could destroy you, Laci,” said Vilmos.
“I know,” said László.
For a moment, Andor studied the tableau as an outsider. The giant’s hands were still raised, but László stared up calmly. The loudest sound in the room was Vilmos’s breathing. Andor became aware of a pungent odor, and realized that he was smelling his own perspiration.
Then, with a curse that Andor shuddered to overhear, Vilmos turned and stormed from the room, his head making yet a new dent in the structure of the doorway where he refused to bow upon passing through.
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