by Steven Brust
"Lewchin," said Shant, smiling, "reasons like an Athyra."
"It is sad," said Ibronka, "that sorcery is now so much more difficult."
"And there are no good fights anymore, either," said Shant.
"I know," said Ibronka sadly.
Röaana caught Lewchin's eye for just a moment, then looked away, each of them suppressing a smile.
When the meal was over, Shant proved as good as his word, summoning a servant to drive Röaana to Whitecrest Manor. The coach was brought up, Röaana's horse tied behind, and the Tiassa bid Shant and Lewchin thanks and farewell, while warmly embracing Ibronka. "We will meet again, I think," said Röaana.
"Well, I am convinced of it."
"Until then, embrace me."
"Gladly."
After a warm embrace, the Tiassa climbed into the coach, which, at a word of command, rattled away through the gathering dusk. While in the coach, Röaana closed her eyes, and let the motion of the coach, which had a certain regularity to its bounces and jostling, lull her into a sort of sleep, for which reason she wasn't certain how long they were traveling before the coach at last came to a stop. The door opened, and Röaana looked out.
"But this is not Whitecrest Manor," she said.
The answer came, "It is, nevertheless, your destination."
These words, which appear so ominous on the page, were delivered in a tone of kindness, or, at any rate, with no menace, so that the Tiassa took no threat from them.
"But where are we? I see two roads meeting, and both continue, forward and backward, left and right."
"You are, then, where you need to be to go anywhere."
"Who are you? You are certainly not the servant I remember when leaving Nine Stones."
"I am the coachman."
"I don't understand."
"A coachman is a man who drives a coach."
"No, I don't understand what has happened to me."
"Ah, it is nothing. You are dreaming, that is all."
"Dreaming? Now?"
"Certainly."
"Then why can I not awake?"
"Because you are in my dream, and so it ends when I wake."
"Oh. Well, I must be dreaming, because that very nearly made sense."
"Well."
"But what am I doing here?"
"Making a choice."
"Ah. Well, but is it an important choice?"
"For you? It may be."
"Well, but I do not feel ready to make an important choice."
"To put off choosing is to choose."
"Is it?"
"Sometimes. At other times, well, it is merely to put off choosing."
"I beg your pardon, Coachman, but, do you know, you are not helpful."
"I am not helpful? But you must understand that I am not here to help. I am here to bring you to a place."
"Well, yes, but what place?"
"Oh, as to that, sometimes it is where you tell me to bring you. Sometimes it is where you wish me to bring you. Sometimes it is where you require me to bring you. Sometimes it is to a crossroads."
Röaana considered. Then she said, "I am not certain what I am being asked to choose."
The coachman nodded. "That makes it more difficult, does it not?"
"But—"
"Well, consider that you are choosing your future. Does that help?"
"The Gods! It is worse than I had thought!"
"Well."
"What if I continue on? What will I find?"
"Who knows? Most likely love and contentment, or something else as worthless."
"How, you pretend these things are worthless?"
"I don't know, I've never had them."
"And if I turn back?"
"There are too many directions to discuss them all, my dear."
"And yet, you say I must choose."
"At any rate, you may choose."
"I can have what I wish?"
"Whatever choice you make."
"But then, I could ask for love, and adventure, and wealth, and happiness, like those tales of helping a spirit to Deathgate Falls, and his demon appears and grants one whatever—"
"It is not a wish I offer, merely a choice."
"Well, I do not understand."
"I promise nothing. I give nothing. You may chose a path, that is all."
"Well, then I choose adventure, danger, and to risk all in pursuit of fortune and glory."
"You choose that? And yet, it is your friend who is the Dzur."
"Well, and why should she have all the fun? She can have the love and contentment."
"Very well. That, then, is your choice."
"Do you think it a good one?"
"It is not my place to judge."
"Well, but I still do not understand."
"That is natural."
"But can you tell me why was I given this choice?"
"Why? Perhaps it is a stroke of Fortune, good or ill. Perhaps you have pleased or displeased some fate, because of your looks, or your manner—"
"Manner?"
"Manner. Whitecrest Manor."
"I fail to comprehend."
"Whitecrest Manor, madam. We have arrived."
Röaana opened her eyes, and saw that she was, indeed, outside of the very manor which we have already had the honor of visiting. Röaana glanced quickly at the manor, and then looked hard at the servant who held the door for her, but he seemed to be the same servant with whom she had left Nine Stones some few hours before.
After some hesitation, she permitted the servant to assist her from the coach. By this time, the night-groom had become aware of something occurring, and had come out to meet the coach. After acquiring Röaana's name and errand, he escorted her to the door, promising to attend to her horse as soon as possible. This established, the coach drove off, leaving Röaana's horse tied to the rail. And only a few minutes later, Röaana found herself in the presence of Daro, the Countess of Whitecrest.
Röaana gave her a courtesy and said, "I present to you the respectful greetings of my father, Lord Röaanac, and my mother, the Lady Malypon."
"Well," said Daro, "you must tell us of them, after you have refreshed yourself. You understand, I hope, that you are welcome here for as long as you wish."
"You are very gracious."
"Not at all. Was the journey difficult?"
"No, my lady, merely long."
"The longer the journey, the more pleasure in the rest at the end."
"I had not heard that before, my lady, yet I testify to its veracity. But, if I may ask, I had heard that the Count, Lord Khaavren, was here as well."
"He is here, but is resting at the moment; no doubt you will meet him to-morrow."
"I shall look forward to that very much."
"Well, but in the meantime, have you eaten?"
"The Lord Shant and his friend Lewchin were kind enough to feed my friend Ibronka and I."
"Shant? The Dzurlord?"
"Why yes, my lady. Do you know him?"
"He is a close friend of my son, Piro, the Viscount."
"Ah. I had not known you had a son."
"Indeed, my dear, and very much your own age. But he has been on an errand these past several months, and I cannot say how long it will be until he returns."
"Well, I shall very much look forward to meeting him, my lady."
"And he you, as well," said Daro with a knowing smile, after she had made a quick calculation, as will all mothers under such circumstances, as to the closeness or distance in relationship between an attractive and interesting young woman of the proper House and her own son. Needless to say, Daro, after making this calculation, found it to be of sufficient distance. As for Röaana, well, the idea of a young man of her own House, and one, moreover, who was engaged on an "errand" of some months' duration (which to Röaana could only mean an adventure), this idea could not help but meet a response in her imagination. Yet, the young gentleman not being present, she did not spend a great deal of time considering the ma
tter, but permitted her active mind to leap on to other matters at once.
And whither did it leap? Well, from the young gentleman, it went at once to his mission, wherefore, with that directness that so characteristic of the Tiassa, she said, "What is this mission upon which the young gentleman has left?"
"As to that," said Daro, "I have no knowledge, save that it involves the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, and that Sethra Lavode considers it important."
"The Enchantress of Dzur Mountain!" cried Röaana, astonished.
Daro smiled. "She was acquainted with my lord the Count before the Interregnum, and even, I believe, considered him a friend."
Röaana gasped, dumbfounded. In the meantime, the cook appeared, bringing a bottle of wine, which Daro caused to be opened and poured, after which she held up her glass and said, "Welcome, my dear."
Röaana managed to drink the wine, and to mumble a thank-you, though she had not quite recovered her composure from the shock of discovering that Sethra Lavode was not only real, but, moreover, was known to the very people with whom Röaana was now staying. At length, Röaana managed, "Did you ever meet her yourself, my lady?"
"The Enchantress? Well, I was at court then, and Sethra was there also, and so our paths crossed briefly once or twice, but that is all."
"Upon my word, that is sufficient!"
"You think so?" said Daro, smiling.
"You must forgive me, madam, but, you perceive, this is outside of my experience, for I am from the duchies, where the Enchantress is a legend, not a reality."
"Yes, I understand that well enough. Think nothing of it."
At this time, the night-groom entered said, "My lady, our guest's horse has been stabled, brushed, and fed. But what am I to do with her valise?"
"Put it in the western-most of the rooms set aside for guests," said Daro, "for the young lady will be giving us the pleasure of her company for some time."
"Yes, my lady. And, if I am permitted, I should like to extend my welcome to the lady who has done us the honor to visit us."
Röaana smiled a thanks at the servant, who bowed and departed.
"To-morrow," said Daro, "you will meet my lord Khaavren. Until then, as you say you are not hungry, perhaps you would care to rest."
"Indeed, my lady, I cannot deny that I long, above all, to sleep in a real bed."
"And so you shall, my dear. The cook will show you to your room, and I bid you a good night."
Chapter the Thirty-Third
How Zerika Negotiated
The Paths of the Dead
We will now, at last, return to the noble Phoenix, Zerika, whom we last saw having jumped, horse and all, from Deathgate Falls. The reader may have observed that some time has passed; that is, we have brought our history forward since Zerika made what has been called "the Great Leap Into History." During this time, it may be correct to say that Zerika was suspended, but it would be just as accurate to say that she has fallen behind, because it is well known that time, ordinarily so well behaved, moving forward at a rate of something like sixty seconds for each minute, sixty minutes for each hour, and thirty hours for each day, becomes bewildered in the strange region below Deathgate Falls, and begins to behave in a manner that defies all common sense, so that we would require it to come forward with an explanation for this behavior were there any practical means of enforcing such a decree.
Put in simpler terms, this is what the reader ought to understand: Time behaves differently in the Paths of the Dead, and, as time is the mode in which history occurs (let the reader try for himself to imagine history without time if he wishes to understand this), there is, in the narration of events that occur within the Paths and have an effect outside of them, a necessary confusion that mirrors this peculiarity of time. We assure the reader that we will do our best to keep this confusion to a minimum, in the first place by not bringing up the matter again during the remainder of this chapter, as it has no effect on the matters we are presently endeavoring to describe.
This understood, we will discover Zerika at the bottom of the waterfall, which towered above her for a distance she was unable to determine for the simple reason that the mist and the spray from the crashing waterfall clouded her vision. It was while she was considering this, and also attempting to wipe from her eyes the droplets that continued to fall into them, that it occurred to her that she had lived through the fall. Her next thought was, in fact, to wonder if she had lived through it; it was certainly possible that she was dead, and had come, as a dead person, to just the place that the dead go.
"I feel as if I were alive," she remarked to herself. "But then, having never been dead, I do not know what that feels like, and am thus unable to make a fair comparison. Well, we will make certain tests, so that at the end of them I will know that I am alive, or I will know that I am dead, or, in the worst (and, I must admit, most likely) case, I will be unable to tell and be forced to conclude that it doesn't matter."
This decision taken, she made her first test by the simple expedient of standing up, only coming to the realization in this way that she had been lying in shallow water. Her next discovery was that, as a result, she was wet, not to mention cold. "Were I a disembodied soul," she said to herself, "would I feel wet? It seems unlikely. But then, perhaps I would—the mind is capable of lying to itself to a remarkable degree, such as when we fancy we have observed an interested glance on the part of a young man we find attractive, or when we believe that our opponent in some game must have violated the rules, for otherwise we would have won. Well then, do I have a pulse? Yes, it seems that I do, inside of my elbow where it always resides. And, moreover, a remarkably rapid pulse at that. Once more, it is hardly conclusive, but an indication nevertheless."
It was only then that she noticed her horse, lying in the stream, and obviously quite dead. "Ah, poor Sparrow!" she sighed. "You were a good friend. Who knows, perhaps you saved me at the end; as I have no memory of my fall, and still less of the sudden stop that always follows a rapid descent, it is possible that I survived because you absorbed the impact for me." Although, as she thought about it, it seemed unlikely that, even with her fall broken by the horse, she would have emerged without at least a certain number of bruises.
With a last fond glance at her horse, she continued her inspection of the area. It did not take her long to discover that everywhere, on both banks, all up and down the river, were bones, all of them bare and white, and all of them scattered about, so that none could be seen to be the complete remains of anyone. It took Zerika no time at all to understand what they were or how they had come to this state. She glanced upward to see the giant jhereg circling overhead, and addressed them, saying, "Well, I hope I am truly alive, because to have my body eaten by you would be undignified, although it has been the fate of many who were better than I."
With this thought she shrugged, and said, "Now, to remember all of the lessons I was given. It would be a pity to have come all of this distance and through all of these trials only to have my mission fail when I became lost in the Paths simply because my memory did not perform as it should. Let us, then, concentrate, and try to remember."
With these stern instructions to herself given, she set to work to follow them, recalling everything the Book of the Phoenix had told her about the proper trails to follow, the dangers to avoid, and the obstacles to overcome. Her sharp, quick eyes looked around for the first landmark, and at once spotted a tree that grew as if it had been bent around a corner, with branches tapering away, save the topmost, which points in the direction to follow, as the book said. And, indeed, there it was; rather smaller than she had expected, but undeniably the tree, and there was no question of where it pointed. The edition of the book she had was amended with cautions that the leaves of the trees could be distracting, but not, evidently, in this season, as the branches were quite bare.
Zerika wasted no time in setting her feet upon the path appointed. To be sure, it was not much of a path; she had not gone three steps before
she found that she could not go forward because of the thickness of the foliage that sprang up in front of her as if out of nowhere. "Well, it is certainly too soon to be stopped, I have hardly begun. Let us see how deep this is." With these words, she plunged forward directly through the brush, which was difficult, but not impossible. For some time, the Phoenix was forced to continue on faith, hoping that she was continuing in the same direction as she had set out while looking for the next landmark. As she continued, wishing the book had been more precise about how long it was between signs, she quite naturally slowed her pace, worrying more with each step that she had gone in the wrong direction.
At length, however, the dense brush cleared, and she discovered that she had come to a small brook, which she could have crossed in three steps without getting her ankles wet, and, with some relief, she stopped momentarily, before starting again abruptly upon recalling that stopping unnecessarily within the Paths was—at the very least—unlucky. Do not drink of the water, else your soul will slip into the brook and be carried away, she had been cautioned. She followed the advice without difficulty, but it did remind her that she was becoming thirsty. "Well, there is nothing to be done now," she remarked to herself. The stone sticking up from the brook like a poniard menacing the sky was directly in front of her, just as it should have been. She crossed behind it. Then, looking back at the stream, she saw how the flow of the water past the obstruction created two branches, one of which indicated her next direction. She spent some time making certain she was properly in line with it, fixed her eye upon a landmark some distance ahead of her, and set off once more.
For a while it was tricky, as the marks she had memorized came almost too quickly for her to remember: Step over the stone shaped like a terrapin; make for the place where the brush forms a vee; double back upon your own steps when you see blue flowers in your path, then look for a place where two animal tracks diverge, and cut between them, and so on. It was an exercise in memory, and, moreover, in precision, but it was what she had prepared for.
She came to a pond, which was roughly circular, and a good thirty or thirty-five feet in diameter. The water was black and very still, and there she stopped, considering it. The book had said only, pass the pond neither to the right nor to the left, touching none of the water, and at no time stray from your path. "Well," she said to herself. "Here is a pretty little problem. If I go around it, I will be straying from my path, and I can hardly go directly through it without getting at least my feet wet, and perhaps much more, for it looks like it may be deep. If I could leap thirty feet it would solve the problem, and certainly if I could fly I would at once do so. And yet, lacking both wings and material to create a bridge, I—but what is that? A vine? It is above me; can I swing over on it, trusting it not to break? And yet, it does not seem that the vine will reach sufficiently far, it merely goes up to—but stay, to that very branch that stretches over the pond. And on the other side, is there a way down? Well, yes, if I can negotiate from the end of that branch to the one of that tree upon the other side, well, it might be done, and that will certainly put me upon the other side of the pond without straying either to the right or the left, and without touching the water. It looks as if it might be possible. Come, let us attempt it at once."