Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha)

by Steven Brust

  “It is after noon!” he cried suddenly. “Why, they are giving a battle to-day, and, well, they have certainly started without me. In fact, no doubt it will all be over before I can get there.

  “It is terribly vexing,” he told the horse.

  He frowned. “I wonder how long it will be until I can teleport again.”

  He patted the horse once more, and, addressing it, he added, “I wonder how you will feel about being teleported?”

  Chapter the Ninety-Sixth

  How Piro and His Band

  Attempted to Rescue

  Tazendra and Aerich

  It was shortly after the hour of noon, on the third day of the Month of the Jhegaala in the second year of the Reign of Her Majesty Zerika the Fourth.

  In Adrilankha there was battle on two of the roads and four of the bridges, where soldiers clashed, screamed, fought, and died. The Warlock, Brimford, continued attempting to make his particular brand of magic work for the glory of the Empire and the safety of the woman he loved, who happened to also be the Empress.

  In Whitecrest Manor there were bodies strewn from the front gate to the covered terrace, and in that terrace the wounded lay with the dead, while Sethra Lavode fingered her dagger, which was called Iceflame, studied a map, and consulted with the Necromancer about such arcane matters as moving out of one world to another, in order to return to the first in a different place. Even as this was happening, a company of soldiers was being instructed by Khaavren on the guarding of Her Majesty, and another waited for instructions to lead away the prisoners.

  Far away, in the East, Morrolan mounted his horse and waited until the Orb should begin to function again so that he could teleport himself back to Castle Black.

  And in a cave on South Mountain, Mica and Kytraan lay dead, the one stabbed in the back, the other decapitated by sorcery. Tazendra held nothing in her hand but the hilt of a knife, which she quickly discarded; Aerich was slowly rising, still slightly stunned, from where he had been thrown against the wall of the cave. Piro stood at the mouth of the cave with Ibronka on one side and the trapper Tsira in the other, while behind Ibronka was Iatha, still staring at Kytraan’s headless body. Röaana, Ritt, and Belly pressed forward, with Lar and Clari hesitantly bringing up the rear.

  At the time it happened, the death of Kytraan did not seem real to Piro. The astonishment of seeing Tazendra and Aerich, and then the strange darkness that nearly filled the middle portion of the cave, took up nearly all of his attention, concentration, and emotion. Moreover, his training had come, first, from Khaavren, and next from the circumstances of surviving as a highwayman, and so it was instilled in him that under any circumstances, the threat must be addressed first before any emotion, whether happy or otherwise, can be permitted its expression.

  He therefore turned to face his enemies, only to hear, from behind him, two unexpected sounds: the first was a sort of yell or cry from Clari, and the next was the now-familiar sound of a cast-iron cooking pan striking flush and crushing bone.

  Piro did not dare take his eyes from his enemies, but he was saved from the necessity of doing so by Belly’s remark, “We are attacked from behind.”

  Piro turned his head only slightly, in order to address the laconic order “Dispatch them” over his shoulder.

  “Certainly,” said Ritt, though his answer was nearly submerged in the sounds of clashing steel as he and his comrades demonstrated through action that the order, if even necessary, was entirely understood.

  This segment of the battle, that is, the attack on Piro’s band by the dozen or so soldiers loaned by Kâna, was, as it turned out, over almost before it began. This was thanks, first of all, to brave Lar, who, having learned from poor Mica that an attack by a Teckla is rarely expected, struck the first soldier such a blow in the head that she was not only laid stone dead on the ground, but those around her were momentarily taken aback.

  And this moment was sufficient to decide the battle. Belly disarmed his man with a quick flick of his wrist, while Röaana gave hers such a slash across the face that he at once became discouraged and left the engagement. The trapper Tsira, on behalf of her brother, though too far away to engage them directly, turned and quickly threw a knife with such skill that it seemed to weave its way around her friends and strike one of the enemy, point-first in his chest, convincing him that this was not a game in which he cared to participate. Iatha and Ritt wounded four of the enemy in as many seconds, and even Clari contributed by throwing a stone that, while it did no damage to the enemies per se, certainly tended to discourage them.

  In short, in less time than it takes to tell it, the attackers were put to flight, leaving the field to Piro’s band, our friends safe from attacks from the rear, and Lar staring at the body of the man he had killed, wondering where he had seen him before.

  Even as this was occurring, Piro and Ibronka were considering the enemies before them, that is to say, Grita and Illista.

  Illista’s remark, “You cannot harm us,” had certainly shaken the confidence of the young Tiassa, the more-so as it had been proven true the instant before she said it. He observed the faint but unmistakable glow that appeared to either come from or surround Grita and Illista, and observed moreover that Grita had her hand so far into that strange area of darkness that, in fact, the hand was entirely invisible. He concluded that, whatever it was, it was this that accounted for their apparent invulnerability.

  Unfortunately, this conclusion did not present him with any means of counteracting it.

  Piro, however, had been raised in the traditions of Imperial service, and, moreover, had grown up with the stories of his father and his father’s friends facing overwhelming odds as a matter of course; moreover, two of those friends were actually present. He therefore understood instinctively, as it were, that the mere fact of a task’s being impossible was no reason not to attempt it. Accordingly, he at once took his sword into his right hand. With his left, he gently pushed Tsira back behind him, from a feeling that, although she had stumbled into it with them, this was not her fight.

  For their part, neither Grita nor Illista had the least worries, whoever was present. Though perhaps slightly concerned that they had been invaded by a larger force than they had anticipated, and disappointed that their own forces had been defeated so easily, they were perfectly aware, first, of their invulnerability, owing to the defensive spells that they had been able to reach, if we may use the expression, from the presence or near presence of the Jenoine (from which we may conclude that Piro, in fact, had understood exactly what was occurring); and second to the offensive power at their disposal, coming from the same source. In fact, Grita in particular was not in the least concerned about survival, but, rather, how to make the suffering of her enemies last as long as possible, according to the wisdom she had earlier dispensed regarding the pleasure of revenge.

  Consequently, she made a quick determination to begin by destroying Piro’s band, one by one, so that Aerich, and, even more, Tazendra, could be made to suffer by observing the death of those attempting to rescue them.

  The first one Grita struck was Iatha, whose throat was bloodily ripped out by some unseen force. At nearly the same instant Illista, who faced a now unarmed Tazendra, swung her weapon at the Dzurlord’s legs. Tazendra slipped to the side and took a moment to look around for a weapon, even as Iatha fell lifeless to the floor of the cave. Illista advanced and struck again, this time drawing blood from the Dzurlord’s left hip. She followed this cut with a thrust to Tazendra’s right knee that, although it barely went home, must have caused her no little degree of pain.

  “It is easier to fight,” observed Illista as she stepped forward and swung her weapon once more, “when one cannot be hurt. It imparts a certain confidence, which, in turn, imparts an agreeable and effective tendency toward aggression. Don’t you find it so?”

  For once, however, Tazendra was in no mood for banter. We can only speculate on what she felt upon seeing her lackey, and, we must admit, her
friend Mica, killed before her eyes; and feeling, as Grita and Illista had wished, the humiliation of friends dying in an attempt to rescue her. At least in this sense, the plan for vengeance was working exactly as they wished it to.

  But we must add that another factor was at work: While the warriors of the House of the Dragon are justly known for the rage that often consumes them in battle, still, even the most loyal of Dragonlords will confess that, when a Dzurlord passes beyond the joy of battle, and, instead, is consumed by fury, nothing can compare—Dzurlords have been known to kill friend and foe alike in such circumstances.

  And it must additionally be remembered that Tazendra was more than a warrior; she was also a wizard, and one who had been trained by Sethra Lavode, and trained during a time when there was no Orb to draw upon; and though she had no weapons nor even artifacts in hand, she was not helpless.

  We cannot state for certain what powers she drew on, nor how she did it (for we confess freely that the arcane science of wizardry is as far beyond our understanding as it is beyond the comprehension of everyone who is not himself a wizard, and we have reason to believe that many of them do not understand it either). But as Illista raised her sword yet again, she gave a cry and dropped it clanging to the floor of the cave—the hilt had become, in seconds, as hot as a burning coal. Tazendra then advanced upon her, the Dzurlord’s eyes glowing with such hatred that it would have checked Kieron the Conqueror himself.

  While Tazendra could see as well as Piro the luminescence that appeared to radiate from Illista’s skin, she could not know the properties of the spell with which the Phoenix was protected by the Jenoine any more than we can know the properties of Tazendra’s magic. But, whatever it was, she was determined to test it. Driven by anger, pain, and hatred, she lifted her hands, and a terrible fury of red and amber lights flashed over Illista.

  The Phoenix felt the walls of her protection spells threatened, perhaps even crumbling, and screamed “Grita!” in a piercing voice of desperation.

  Grita had been, as we have said, setting about to destroy Piro’s band. After killing Iatha, she attacked Belly, who fell with a horrid, gaping hole in his chest, his countenance drawn up in a expression of surprise as he pitched forward. Piro and Ibronka lunged at her together, which produced no effect except a smirk as the weapons sheared away from her. She raised her hands once more, this time toward Ibronka, but at this moment, Illista’s scream reached her, and, turning, she understood at once the peril her friend faced.

  She pointed her right hand, and from it, in quick succession, came three flashes like black spears, all of them striking Tazendra in the back, producing three gaping wounds, each perhaps as big around as a man’s fist, with charred edges.

  The Dzurlord, however, appeared not to even notice that she had been touched, much less terribly injured, so set was she upon her task. Illista gave an even greater cry than she had an instant before, and, enveloped now in a reddish haze, she appeared almost to collapse in on herself, as if the very protection afforded her by the Jenoine was crushing her. She shook her head in denial, unwilling, perhaps, to believe what was happening, her eyes wide, and, with the terrible sound of cracking bones, she collapsed onto the floor, lifeless, eyes still wide open, her body limp and distorted.

  “That’s better,” said Tazendra coolly, speaking for the first time since Mica’s death. She turned around and caught the eye of Aerich, who was even now rising from where he been thrown against the wall, and was staring at Tazendra with something like horror on his countenance. “Do you know,” she observed, “I believe I have bested a Jenoine in single combat.” After saying this, she smiled sweetly, dropped to her knees, gave a sort of sigh, and pitched forward onto her face.

  Aerich, the cool Lyorn, the man whose nerves were as cold as ice and as hard as iron, who had spent his life learning the discipline of the Lyorn warrior, where each action, even each thought, is predicated upon efficiency, Aerich, we say, cried out, “Tazendra!” in a high wail, and then, his face twisted in a snarl, he threw himself at Grita.

  She gestured, and he was once more flung against the wall, but this time his impact was accompanied by the sickening crack of bone breaking. He slid onto the floor, and lay still, breathing shallowly, his eyes blinking, but not otherwise moving.

  There was a flash of golden light, and a sound like the crackling of a fire, and Sethra Lavode appeared, followed closely by the Necromancer, Khaavren, and Pel.

  Of all of them, it was Röaana who reacted quickly and efficiently. “Enchantress,” she said in a voice both cool and piercing, “she is protected by some sort of spell which prevents our weapons from piercing her.”

  “Ah,” said Sethra Lavode. “Yes, I know of such things. And yes, I can see it.”

  “Well, and?” said Röaana.

  Sethra Lavode raised her dagger, pointing it at the darkness that concealed, contained, or, perhaps was the Jenoine. The darkness appeared to thicken, and, at the same moment, the glow that had seemed to come from Grita’s skin abruptly vanished.

  Piro reacted to this even before Grita herself was aware of what had happened: The Tiassa lunged and ran his sword through her body.

  “Now, it seems, we can harm you,” he observed.

  Chapter the Ninety-Seventh

  How Sethra Lavode, Not Without

  A Certain Amount of Assistance

  From the Necromancer, Engaged

  The Jenoine in Other-Worldly Battle

  Grita’s face screwed up in a grimace of hatred, and she uttered the single word “you” as if it were the worst sort of curse. Piro glared back into her eyes, and withdrew his blade with a cruel twist. Grita cried out, and then, blood blossoming on her shirt, her knees buckled. She fell to the ground and did not move again.

  “Well struck, Viscount,” said Khaavren.

  Sethra Lavode, standing before the Jenoine, looked over her shoulder and said, “None of you move. This is my affair.”

  Between these words, delivered in a tone that assumed obedience, and the shocked dismay of all that had just happened, no one was inclined to argue, with the exception of the Necromancer, who evidently determined that these words were not meant for her. She placed herself next to the Enchantress and directly before the region of darkness that still manifested itself within the cave.

  “You attack the Jenoine,” said the Necromancer. “I will close the portal.”

  “Very well,” said the Enchantress.

  Sethra held out before her the dagger called Iceflame, and, as if it were a tangible enemy, struck the darkness. At the same instant, the Necromancer spread her hands wide, as if to hold a large object, then compressed them, and began to make passes before the darkness in a classic vision of the enchanter at work—indeed, her actions were so like those that are fancifully represented as the manipulations of the sorcerer, and so unlike the actual workings of the sorcerer, that one is tempted to inquire if these fancies have their origins in necromancy, or if, to the left, the demon had spent some time attending the theater, and was making motions that she understood were expected of her. In addition to these actions with her hands, she also began murmuring in a language full of vowels and devoid of stresses—a language that, like the Necromancer herself, was not of our world.

  As to what exactly Sethra Lavode did here, we can know little; of what the Necromancer did we can know less. Yet we do know that, at this moment, as the Enchantress engaged directly with the Jenoine, deep in the bowels of Dzur Mountain lights rippled up and down stalagmites; walls changed their colors; sparks fired out from globes; disks, set upon slender rods, began to spin as if from their own power. Miniature lightning storms raced up and down walls, and the entire mountain seemed to move. And, in the middle of it all, sat the enigmatic figure called Tukko, turning his attention from item to artifact, from table to wall, sitting as utterly motionless amid the chaos around him as the Necromancer was animated in the stillness before her.

  A great deal must necessarily have happened in a very s
hort time; indeed, the author confesses to a certain embarrassment in being unable to devote the deserved amount of space to what must have been, in some ways, at least as great a battle as that being fought in Adrilankha. Yet, our several witnesses are able to reveal almost nothing of this contest. Sethra Lavode plunged her dagger into the darkness, the Necromancer made arcane gestures before it, and, in almost the drawing of a breath, the peculiar magical field, or pattern of energy, or emanation from another world, had collapsed on itself, dissolved, and vanished.

  In that instant, what had been the greatest challenge to the Orb withered away with it. Though not as profound in its effects as the Orb’s return that ended the Interregnum, the effects were more sudden.

  The warlock Brimford suddenly realized that his art was having an effect as far away the god Tri’nagore was banished. Morrolan was able to teleport to Castle Black. The adepts in the army were able once more to communicate with each other, and messages began to flow one way and another with a rapidity that threatened to overwhelm Sethra the Younger with information.

  In Whitecrest Manor, the Orb began to glow, and to circle Her Majesty’s head once more. For a moment, she just stared at it, as if it were some strange object she’d never seen before; then a slow smile spread over her countenance.

  And an instant later, as various sorcerous effects began to strike at his army, Kâna knew the first hints of despair.

  All of this, all of these effects, achieved in a mere instant the result of activity that, on the face of it at least, appeared infinitesimal.

  The Enchantress sighed and let her head drop, taking a single deep breath as the only indication of the effort she had expended, then sheathed her dagger; the Necromancer gave no indication that she had made any effort whatsoever.

  Khaavren, who had been all but oblivious to the events transpiring only ten or twelve feet from him, knelt down next to Aerich and said, “My friend, are you all right?”