by Steven Brust
“Well, I remember.”
“I remember as well, my lord husband. I remember how the light seemed to shine from your face at such times, as if you were fully alive, and living each moment.”
“Well, that is true.”
“And then?”
“There may be something in what you say.”
Daro smiled.
“But,” added Khaavren, “it matters little now, wouldn’t you say?”
“You think it matters little?” said the Countess.
“You disagree?”
“I nearly think I do.”
“Well, and how does it matter?”
“In this way: I believe there are serious matters afoot.”
“Serious matters?”
“Well, was not our son sent for?”
“That is undeniable.”
“Well, I believe it is a portent.”
“It is possible you are right.”
“I am convinced of it.”
“And then?”
“If there are serious matters afoot, then you must be involved in them.”
Khaavren shook his head. “No, my dear Countess, I am afraid that my time for being involved in serious matters is long past.”
“Ah, you think so!”
“I am certain of it.”
Daro didn’t answer him; she knew that further argument from her would do no good. Therefore, she did the one thing she could do: she gave an eloquent look to Tevna, the pyrologist. Tevna, for his part, saw at once that he was being looked at, and, moreover, understood that this glance was significant. To Tevna’s credit, this glance, along with the conversation of the previous night, were sufficient for him to understand, at once, what was being asked of him.
“Well now,” said Tevna, turning his eyes from the Countess and looking, not at the Count, but rather at the fire. He then seemed to address the fire, rather than Khaavren, as he said, “I hate to dispute with you, my dear kinsman, but I am not entirely certain that what you have said is correct.”
“How, you think I have erred in some way?”
Tevna now looked away from the fire, as if he had seen what it had to show him, and turned to the Count, saying, “That is, there may be matters that you have not yet considered.”
“Well, that is possible, because one cannot consider everything; the mind is unable to grasp everything.”
“That is certainly true,” said Tevna. “And so you will listen to what I have to say?”
“Of a certainty I will, for two reasons: In the first place, because what you say makes sense; and, in the second, because you are both a guest and a kinsman, and therefore I owe you the courtesy of listening to you in any case.”
“Well, then, here is what I have to say.”
“I assure you, you have my entire attention.”
Tevna started to speak, then hesitated.
“Come, kinsman,” said Khaavren. “Say what you wish.”
“Well, but I’m afraid I may be overstepping the bounds of courtesy.”
Khaavren shrugged. “Nevertheless, I wish to hear it.”
“Very well, then: I tell you that you are in pain.”
“In pain?”
“Yes, my dear host. Your soul has been hurt from what you perceive as a failure, and this causes you discomfort. I know this pain, because it is a twin of my own.”
“I beg your pardon, but, even if what you say is true—and I don’t deny it—I fail to see how this relates to our conversation.”
“You do not?”
“Not in the least, I assure you.”
“Well, I will explain it.”
“Very well, I will continue to listen while you do so.”
“Here it is, then: There is one thing that pain, whether of the body or the soul, always does.”
“And that is?”
“It draws the sufferer’s attention inward.”
“You think so?”
“Believe me, Count; in my work, I have seen many people in pain, and the one thing they have in common is that it is very difficult for them to consider what is going on around them, because pain in the body or suffering in the soul invariably pulls the mind to itself; it is when we are not in pain that we are able to see clearly outside of ourselves.”
Khaavren considered this carefully; Daro, we should add, remained utterly silent, but listened to Tevna with her whole attention. At length, Khaavren said, “Well, you may be right.”
“I am convinced that I am. And, if I am right—”
“Well, if you are?”
“Then you must permit me to continue.”
“Very well, continue then.”
“Here, then, is the rest: Because you are in pain, you are unable to look clearly at all that occurs around you, and, because of this, you have missed a vital fact.”
“Ah! I have missed a fact?”
“I believe so.”
“And a vital fact?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, what is this vital fact that I have missed?”
“You wish me to tell you?”
“I should like nothing better.”
“Here it is, then: The events that are happening in the world, if your wife the Countess is correct, are bigger than you.”
“Well, but I do not disagree with that.”
“You do not?”
“Not at all.”
“But, you perceive, if they are bigger than you, than, my dear kinsman, your own pain, and your own desires, are suddenly less important than they were.”
“How, less important?”
“Indeed. They matter to you, and those who love you, but go no further than that. You have been asking what you could do in the great events that are now stirring, and have found that you could do nothing. But that is because your suffering has caused you to phrase the question in the wrong way.”
“I have phrased the question wrongly?”
“That is my opinion.”
“By asking what I could do, I have asked the wrong question?”
“Entirely.”
“But then, will you tell me what I ought to have asked?”
“I will do so this very instant, if you wish.”
“I am most anxious to hear it.”
“Then I will tell you.”
“And you will be right to do so.”
“Here it is then: Instead of asking what you could do, you ought to have been asking what needs to be done.”
Khaavren considered this for a moment, then said, “The difference, you perceive, is very subtle.”
“Perhaps it is subtle, but I believe it is important.”
“You think so?”
“More than important, it is vital.”
“You believe, then, that were I to look at matters differently, I would reach a different conclusion?”
“Well, but is that not often the case? Consider a man at some distance holding a sword. When looked at one way, you might perceive a sword, when looked at another way, you might see only a thin line, or perhaps not even that.”
“Well, you are right about that.”
“And yet, it remains a sword.”
“The Horse! You are right again!”
“I am glad we agree, my dear kinsman.”
“But what conclusion do you pretend I would reach, were I to see matters differently?”
“Oh, as to that—”
“Well?”
“I cannot say.”
“Ah! That is too bad!”
“And yet—”
“Well?”
“I suspect—”
“You have, then a suspicion?”
“Exactly. I have a suspicion.”
“Well?”
“I suspect that you would cease worrying about your infirmities, and, instead, you would set out to do what must be done.”
“Cha! But then, I have never been good for much, save that my sword arm was tolerably steady.”
“Well, that is not so little.”
“Perhaps not, yet that, by itself, is no longer true.”
“How, it is no longer true?”
“I give you my word, I can no longer lift my old sword, much less wield it in a manner to threaten another.”
“Well, but have you considered exercise?”
“Exercise?”
“Yes. In order to rebuild your strength.”
“Do you know, I had not thought of that.”
“Well.”
Khaavren turned Daro, a look of astonishment upon his countenance. “Do you think,” he said, “that such a thing is possible?”
“My dear Count,” she said, “I am convinced you can do whatever you set your mind to.”
“Ah. But then, I was never much good without Aerich, Tazendra, and Pel.”
“Pel can be found, I think, inasmuch as he left a means to reach him when he visited us.”
“Well, that is true.”
“And, as for your other friends—”
“Yes, as for them?”
“Once you have your strength back, well, you can send for them, or, if you do not know where they are, you can go and look for them.”
“Yes, that is true as well.”
Khaavren looked at his hand. He inspected both sides of it, as if wondering if there remained any strength within it upon which he might draw. Daro, as if reading his thoughts, laid her own hand on top of his, and, at the same time, smiled at Tevna.
“Let no one say,” she told the pyrologist, “that you are not highly skilled at your profession.”
Tevna rose to his feet and bowed to her.
Khaavren appeared not to have heard this remark, but stared into the fire, thinking, the flames reflecting in his eyes as if, indeed, the fire were coming from within him.
Chapter the Twenty-Sixth
How Piro and Company Traveled
Toward Deathgate Falls,
Passing Sites of Some
Historical Interest
It was on a Farmday in late winter of the 246th year of the Interregnum that Piro, Kytraan, Tazendra, and Zerika, accompanied by Mica and Lar, set out from Dzur Mountain, bound for Deathgate Falls and the Paths of the Dead. In addition to their horses, they brought a pack horse, upon which were blankets, axes, rope, whetstone, needle and thread, leather tools, and various other supplies deemed necessary or desirable for the journey.
Zerika insisted upon riding in front, and, because of this, Tazendra could not be prevented from riding with her. Piro and Kytraan came behind, and the two lackeys brought up the rear, leading the pack horse.
The first part of the journey was pleasant enough—they rode northeast toward their meeting with the Laughing River, through what had once been good farmland, although during the last two centuries the forests were beginning to reclaim it.
“Do you know,” said Kytraan, “we have set out at a remarkably fortuitous time.”
“How so?” said Piro.
“Well, you perceive that it is still winter.”
“Well, that is true, but it never becomes cold in these latitudes.”
“Exactly. And we are traveling north, are we not?”
“Well, and if we are?”
“Just this: By the time we reach the colder climes, well, it will be at least spring, if not full summer, and thus we will miss the worst of the cold as well as the worst of the heat.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“It is a stroke of fortune, is it not?”
“Well, if it is an omen, I think it is a good one.”
“We cannot ask for more than that.”
“Did we bring the maps?”
“All of them. Why do you ask?”
Kytraan turned around and gestured toward Dzur Mountain, which still loomed over them. “It is not yet too late to turn back, if we have forgotten anything.”
“Ah. Well, we have the maps. And our swords. And, above all, we have Zivra, that is to say, Zerika.”
“Then we have forgotten nothing important.”
“That’s my opinion.”
Piro looked around. “This is all new to me. You perceive, on the way here we approached from the southwest. But this district I do not know.”
Kytraan said, “It is the county of Southmoor, and was once a domain of the House of the Dragon dating back to the earliest days of the Empire.”
“Well, it is very old then,” observed Piro.
“It would have been grand to live then!”
“When? In days of the formation of the Empire?”
“Exactly! Every rock or bush, you perceive, might conceal an ambuscade. Every chance meeting might lead to mortal combat. Every—”
“But, that is exactly what we face today,” observed Piro.
“Well, that is true. But then they were building an Empire.”
“How, is that not what we are doing here?”
“Yes, but we have no army.”
“It is true that we have no army. Yet—”
“Well?”
“Perhaps, before all is over, we will.”
“That would be splendid!”
“You think so?”
“I am convinced of it. You see, if there is an army, there must necessarily be spectators to watch it.”
“And then?”
“Well, some of them will certainly be girls.”
“That is true,” said Piro. “And we can watch to see which of the girls are the bravest, and pick them to have conversation with.”
“Well, there is some justice in what you say, only I had thought of it more in the sense of the reverse.”
“How, pick the least brave?”
“No, no. I had referred to permitting them to see us being brave, so they could choose to have conversations with us.”
“I see, I see. Yes, that would be a fine thing as well.”
“Then we are in agreement?”
“Perfectly, my dear Kytraan.”
That night, they made camp still within sight of of Dzur Mountain. As Tazendra prepared to light the fire that they would use to cook (or, more precisely, to heat) their evening meal, Piro said, “Do we need a schedule of watches?”
“As it happens, we do not,” said Tazendra.
“How, we do not?”
“Not in the least.”
“And yet, is there no danger in this region?”
“There is some,” said the Dzurlord.
“But then, should we not stay alert for this danger?”
“Oh, certainly, but no watch is required.”
“And yet, my dear Tazendra, I fail to comprehend.”
“Shall I explain?”
“Oh, if you should explain, well, I assure you I will be most grateful.”
“Well, this is it, then: I have learned sufficient sorcery to be able to establish an enchantment around the area to alert us if anything larger than a norska approaches our camp.”
“How, you can do this?”
“Of a certainty. And the proof is, it was Sethra Lavode who taught me the spell.”
“Even without the Orb?”
“Even without the Orb.”
“Well, my dear friend, I can only say that I am pleased you are here with us, and for more reasons than I had thought.”
Tazendra bowed, and turned her attention back to the fire, over which, after preparing it in the usual way—with larger fagots on the bottom, interspersed with small twigs and such dried leaves as could still be found, as well as a good number of pine needles with which the area was abundantly supplied—she passed her hand several times, and, muttering certain enchantments under her breath, caused a small fire to begin.
Piro watched in awe, for he had never before actually witnessed sorcery. When the fire was going, she pulled from it a burning stick of medium length and with it walked in a circle about thirty feet in diameter, still muttering under her breath. When she had finished, she took in her a hand a long, pale staff with a small green jewel at its tip, and, with this, walked around the circ
le once more. When she had finished, she said, “Well, that should be sufficient.”
“If you believe it is,” said Kytraan, “than I, for one, am satisfied.”
“As am I,” said Zerika.
Tazendra bowed.
Whether the Dzurlord’s enchantment was successful is something that we cannot know with any certainty, because it chanced that they were not disturbed that night.
Piro had not remained at Dzur Mountain long enough to have lost his acclimation to sleeping on the ground; therefore he slept well, and by the time ten or twelve days had passed, it seemed that he had spent his whole life in that way: riding and riding, stopping to eat and rest the horses, then more riding, a night’s sleep, and back to riding. And yet, the company made for a time that was not unpleasant: Piro would discuss history with Kytraan, and reminisce with Zerika about their childhood, and speak with Tazendra about her adventures with his father, and jest with the two lackeys, and in this way the miles fell behind them.
“Do you know this region, my good Piro?” said Tazendra one day.
“I must confess that I do not.”
“Well, you should, because we are now in the duchy called Luatha.”
“Ah!” said Piro, looking around eagerly. “And the Sorannah?”
“Do you mean Sorannah the region, or Sorannah the county? You perceive, this entire province has the name as well as a county within the duchy of Two Rivers.”
“I mean the county; because that county has a certain history for me.”
“It is that way,” said Tazendra, pointing with her left hand. “Across the Shallow River.”
“The Shallow River?” said Piro. “And yet, I had thought it was the Laughing River.”
“Oh, it is called that, too,” put in Kytraan. “It is all a matter of who you ask.”
“And so, where is Newmarket?”
“If it still exists,” said Tazendra, “it is thirty or forty miles in that direction.”
“Well, I should like to visit it, but perhaps we should postpone that journey for another occasion.”
“That is my opinion,” said Zerika.
“And then,” said Piro, “the marquisate of Khaavren cannot be far.”
“No, it cannot,” said Tazendra, “and yet, I do not know precisely where it is. But then, were we to turn around and travel back downriver to the place where the Yendi River joins with the Shallow, and were we to wait there, well, even now we might see barges carrying that famous wine down to the delta.”