by Steven Brust
“Good luck, my dear Viscount, and I hope Fortune permits us to meet again.”
Piro said, “Zivra—”
This was, however, all the Phoenix had to say. Without another word, then, she turned her horse, and, applying her heels to its flanks, charged forward—that is, directly over the edge of Deathgate Falls, and so down to the Paths of the Dead waiting far below.
Chapter the Thirtieth
How They Battled Above
Deathgate Falls
The reader, who is certainly aware that not everyone who plummets a great distance into a landscape full of the mystical and the arcane is gone forever, must bear in mind that those who found themselves atop Deathgate Falls having seen the Phoenix ride off the cliff had no such awareness at all, but, rather the opposite: the certainty that they had seen the last of Zerika. We must therefore ask the reader, who knows the outcome of Zerika’s action, to remember that those who lived through the experience had neither the foreknowledge of the oracle, nor the hindsight of the historian, but knew only what they could see: Zerika had just ridden straight off Deathgate Falls. Indeed, even Zerika’s own remarks upon the subject, which the reader might think should have given them a clue, were lost in the suddenness of the event.
For a moment, no one stirred—everyone astonished by Zerika’s precipitous action. Piro, who had been watching her, continued to stare at the place from which she had jumped, as if he expected her to emerge from the Falls in the exact spot from which she had departed. While, to the right, he knew that his friend was dead, yet, to the left, he was unable to truly accept it. The others, though shocked, managed to recover more quickly. It was Kytraan who spoke first, saying, “My dear Orlaan, and you, my good Wadre, it seems that your reason for being here has just, well, vanished.”
“That is true,” said Tazendra. “But I hope if you were, as I believe, about to do us the honor of charging us, well, the mere fact that there is now no reason to do so will not be sufficient to dissuade you.”
“I must admit,” said Wadre, “that it is very near to doing so.”
Orlaan did not reply, but contented herself with staring at the place from which Zerika had jumped, as if she, like Piro, expected to see the Phoenix return from over the thundering waterfall.
“Bah,” said Tazendra. “We cannot have you come here, threaten us, prepare for violence, excite us, intrigue us, make us ready ourselves for mortal combat, and then have you simply turn and ride away. It would be, well, it would not be right. I say so. Upon my word, if you will not charge us, well, we will charge you.”
“It is useless,” said Wadre, shrugging.
Orlaan slowly brought her eyes up to meet Tazendra’s. After giving the Dzurlord a look of hatred, she turned away once more. Tazendra, for her part, frowned and said, “There is something familiar about you.”
Orlaan shrugged.
Piro was finally able to pull his eyes and his attention away from Deathgate Falls, and return it to those in front of him. Using only his knees, he brought his horse forward until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Tazendra and Kytraan.
Wadre, meanwhile, said, “Are you certain you will have it so? As you have said, there is no longer a reason—”
“Certainly,” said Tazendra.
“No,” said Piro.
Tazendra looked at him. “I beg your pardon, young man, but—”
“We have come here for a purpose. Our purpose has failed. To take out our frustration by bloodletting is, well—what would your friend Aerich say? Or my father, Khaavren?”
“Oh, as to that—”
“Well?”
Tazendra sighed. “Yes, you are right, Viscount. I concede the argument. And yet—”
“Yes?”
“There is something about that woman.”
“Who, Orlaan?”
“Yes. She made a gesture that seemed familiar to me, and, moreover, did you notice how, when you mentioned the name of your father and of Aerich, her eyes gleamed, as if with hatred?”
“I noticed,” said Kytraan.
Orlaan scowled, and lifted her hand, palm out. Tazendra, for her part, matched this gesture by quickly raising the staff that had been hanging from her saddle. Orlaan scowled and, evidently not prepared to face a sorcerous duel with someone who was obviously a wizard, lowered her hand. Tazendra lowered her staff and shrugged.
Orlaan turned to Wadre and said, “Kill them.”
“Very well, then,” said Wadre, who then turned to Mora and said, “Kill them.”
“That’s better,” said Tazendra.
Now our friends were positioned, at this time, on the west bank of the Blood River, and those in back (by which we mean the lackeys, Mica and Lar) were only ten or fifteen feet from the waterfall itself, so they had very little room to retreat. Not that Tazendra had a moment’s thought of retreating—on the contrary, she at once spurred her horse forward, giving a loud cry rather like the screech of the creekowl, and began swinging her sword in what appeared to be wild, uncontrolled motions over her head. In reality, these motions were neither wild nor uncontrolled, but, rather, precisely calculated to inflict as much damage as possible upon her enemy—that being, in fact, Mora herself—while making it appear that the Dzurlord had less skill as a swordsman than she had; and, simultaneously, doing everything she could to startle and perhaps even frighten the enemy. The efficacy of these tactics we shall prove at once.
In addition to Orlaan, who was standing aside from the fight, and Wadre, who was, although commanding it, not yet directly participating, there were ten of the brigands. Now, it is well known that in a fight on horseback, the initiative belongs to those who are moving; that is, the usual laws of military science that make the defender stronger than the attacker are overridden, if the reader will excuse the unintentional play on words, by the inherent strength of a mounted attack and the inherent weakness of a mounted defense. This was one advantage our friends had, which helped make up for the disparity of numbers. Another advantage occurred almost at once when Tazendra’s blade snaked its way under Mora’s guard and cut her solidly in the side, breaking two of her ribs as well as knocking her onto the ground.
At the same time, Piro, who had now experienced his first battle, was taking no chances with his own skin, but allowed his horse to carry him forward while maintaining a good guard position until he saw that he had an opening, where one of the brigands, thrown off balance by an instinctive response to Piro’s rapidly charging horse, left his sword too far out of line, a mistake for which he paid dearly, as the point of Piro’s sword took him in the side of his neck, giving him a deep puncture that was not easily mended, and even less easily ignored.
Kytraan lost no time in upholding his end. He at once charged directly at Wadre, reasoning that the brigands would be less inclined to fight if their leader were dead. The reasoning was good, but made without Wadre, who objected to the idea of permitting his skin to be punctured, and who registered this objection by turning his horse’s head and taking himself out of combat, whereupon Kytraan turned his attention to another rider, with whom he dueled in splendid, and, one might even say, classic style for two or three passes before giving his enemy a cut in the shoulder that caused him to drop his weapon.
By this time, we should say that the enemy, by which we refer to Wadre’s band, was well scattered; this scattering being augmented by Mica, who though he had not hit anyone with his famous bar-stool, had at least made several of them duck as he rode directly through the middle of the melee, swinging wildly. Moreover, Lar had made his presence felt, which was proved by the pale expression upon the Teckla’s face, and by a brigand who was stretched out insensible full length upon the ground.
“Now that was well done,” said Mica admiringly.
Lar did not answer, being too overcome by his first taste of combat; but he did manage to make a small bow to acknowledge the compliment.
“But tell me,” said Mica. “What did you hit him with that laid him upon the ground so effectually?”
For answer, Lar held up a large pan made entirely of cast iron.
“Well,” said Mica. “That seems to be a strong argument.”
Lar gestured back toward the man lying on the ground, as if to say, “He thinks so, at any rate.”
In the meantime, our friends turned their horses, prepared to receive a countercharge as best they could, pleased that they had evened up the numbers somewhat, and even more pleased that they no longer had the waterfall at their back. However, there was no countercharge. Indeed, there was no one to make a countercharge. The one called Orlaan was nowhere to be seen, and, except for those who were wounded or insensible, the brigands had scattered to the winds; indeed, Wadre could be seen and even heard trying to call them together.
“What,” said Tazendra. “Have we won so easily?”
“I think we have,” said Piro.
“Their heart was not in the fight,” said Kytraan.
“Neither was mine, come to that,” said Piro, looking at the top of the cliff. Indeed, if we have failed to reveal what was passing in Piro’s heart during the moments of battle, it was, in part, because his own confusion provided little room for any other emotion. The reader, we believe, can understand readily enough: a friend with whom he had grown up was now, so he believed, lost. He recalled his delight upon meeting her at Dzur Mountain, and how he had spoken with pleasure of setting out with her on an “adventure.” He had been aware that adventure means danger, and it had even occurred to him that he could die in the course of carrying out his duty; he had never considered that he might have to watch his friend die, and that in his duty he would utterly fail.
Now, for the first time, he had some understanding of the remorse that dominated his father’s life: the sense of having committed himself to a cause, and to fall short in the test. Though still stunned by the suddenness of what had happened, he also tasted bitterness. Piro had been prepared for hardship, for pain, even for death; he had not been prepared for failure and the loss of a friend.
And yet, we must remind the reader that Piro came of strong stock, and that he was, moreover, young. And so for this reason, the bitterness to which we have just alluded, while there, did not overwhelm him. As he stood upon the cliff, staring out over Deathgate Falls, he set his jaw, and he clasped the hilt of his sword.
“Well, but what do we do now?” said Tazendra.
“To remain here is useless,” said Kytraan.
“Well, but then? If our mission has failed—”
“Yes?” said Kytraan. “If it has?”
“Well, then at least we can gain satisfaction.”
“How, satisfaction? What sort of satisfaction do you speak of?”
“What else, but the satisfaction of tracking down the rest of those brigands?”
“Ah,” said Kytraan. “Yes, I can understand that. For my part, I think it an excellent plan.”
“Do you?” said Tazendra. “That is splendid. And you, Piro?”
“No,” said Piro, turning from the cliff to look at his companions.
“No?”
“No, we return to Dzur Mountain.”
“And yet—”
“Above all, we must speak with Sethra Lavode. It was she who gave us this mission, and to her we must report on its results.”
“And yet,” said Tazendra. “To permit those brigands to escape—”
“They are nothing. They are beneath our notice.”
“Well, but what about that Orlaan?”
Piro frowned. “Well, as to Orlaan, there is something there.”
“Yes. I wish I could remember … ah! I have it!”
“Well?”
“She is Greycat’s daughter.”
“How, Greycat? Garland? Who hurt my father’s hand, assassinated several nobles, and was the cause of so much trouble at the end of the last Phoenix Reign?”
“The very one. His daughter ran from the fight, and must have escaped the Disaster, though it could not have been by much. Now, what was her name?”
“Grita,” said Piro, who, perhaps because of how rarely his father was willing to speak of the past, was all the more certain to remember every detail when he did.
“That is it,” said Tazendra.
“Grita,” repeated Piro, as if to himself.
“What then?” said Kytraan.
Piro considered for several minutes; then at last he said, “We return to Dzur Mountain. And as for Grita, well, we need not worry about finding her; she will find us. And I think it may be that our friend Wadre will find us as well. We must not relax our vigilance for an instant.”
“We will not relax our vigilance,” said Tazendra, who, the reader may note, at this moment surrendered to Piro the command entrusted to her by Zerika. We hope the reader will not judge her too harshly for this. In any case, so far as we know, the Empress at no time uttered a word of criticism on the subject.
“And what of the wounded?” said Kytraan.
Piro looked at the brigands, one insensible, others wounded and striving to stanch their bleeding. “Leave them,” he said. Let us go.”
Piro gave a last look at Deathgate Falls, then turned and led his friends in retracing their steps, less than an hour in time from when they had reached that place. No one spoke as they made their way slowly back up the Blood River.
Chapter the Thirty-First
How Sethra Lavode Received a Visitor
As our friends rode, there was a very remarkable sight some five hundred leagues away—indeed, one very worthy of remark, had there been anyone there to see it. Of course, it is an oft-debated question as to whether there is such a thing as a sight without an observer, a sound without a hearer, or a flavor without a taster. This debate, we should point out, occurs mostly among philosophers of the House of the Athyra, rarely among historians of the House of the Hawk. The reason for this is simple enough: An event happens, and it produces an effect. Both the event and its effect are part of history whether they are known at once, learned of centuries later, or never discovered at all. To put it another way, the historian must take history as it actually occurred, and has not the freedom (or, rather, the apparent freedom) to consider whether or not something that happened has a metaphysical unreality, any more than a Dragonlord in the midst of battle has the luxury to consider whether enemy soldiers are mere phantasms conjured by his imagination for the playing out of tactical scenarios. The reader might argue that there are, indeed, certain persons who are both mystics and historians; to this, we can only suggest the reader take for himself the trouble to read what such persons produce, after which the reader is invited to draw his own conclusions as to the result of such unnatural combinations.
This settled, then, we repeat that, though there was no one to see, there was a remarkable sight some five hundred leagues to the south and a little west. An observer would have seen, in a grove of trees in a small wooded area in the western part of the duchy of Arylle, a peculiar shimmering in the air, similar to the distortion that can be caused by particularly warm air, although confined to a narrow space. This shimmering gradually intensified, and took on a golden, glittering quality, as if the sparks of a fire were swirling about in a minuscule cyclone. Over the course of just a few seconds, these sparks coalesced until they came to resemble the outline of a human body standing upright. The sparks became more solid until it was, indeed, a human body, in particular one resembling a lady of the House of the Dragon, standing there—although whether it enveloped a human soul is a question we will leave to those Athyra philosophers with whom we dispensed in the preceding paragraph.
She stood still for a moment, her eyes closed, then opened them and looked around with the curiosity of a baby; or, at any rate, of something newly born into the world. She showed no fear; indeed, other than a mild curiosity, she displayed upon her countenance no emotion of any kind. After looking around for some few moments, she began moving. We will not say “walking” because what she did was not precisely walking, although her feet moved bac
k and forth in much the manner of someone walking. Nor did she appear to be flying, because she never rose in altitude. It was, perhaps, not unlike floating, except that she remained in an upright position and, as we have said, her feet continued to move.
We must say that, in all of history, and in all of the natural and magical sciences, we have never heard, before or since, of anyone traveling in this manner, and, what is more, we must regretfully admit that we do not know how it was accomplished, yet there is no question that it happened, because the traveler was witnessed repeatedly during the journey; and it should come as no surprise to the reader that to the simplehearted peasants along the traveler’s route, the sight was a cause of fear and awe; and stories are still told of the ghost, or the ghoul, or the demon, or the evil wizard, who walks through the fields at night and eats babies, or steals cattle, or does whatever else monsters are supposed to do for the entertainment and terrorizing of children.
Needless to say, none of these things happened. All that happened was that the traveler continued, and at great speed—indeed, whatever else can be said for her method of locomotion, it was certainly the quickest that had ever been seen in those regions, save for the occasional glimpses of cat-centaurs—so quick, in fact, that she had covered twenty leagues before three hours had elapsed from her mysterious appearance. Now, we should add that these were not any twenty leagues—that is, not twenty leagues in general, but a very specific twenty leagues; to be precise, the twenty leagues between where she arrived upon the world and Dzur Mountain, which was her immediate destination. In other words, three hours after she had arrived she was upon the slopes of Dzur Mountain, where she slowed down, and began walking in a more typical manner, perhaps because she did not wish her peculiar means of travel to be observed, or perhaps because that means of travel could not be used except on level ground, or perhaps for some other reason unknown to this historian.
She came to Dzur Mountain from the north and the east, which permitted a more gentle, gradual ascent up that part of the mountain that resembled the tail of the great cat, and then along its back until, reaching its head, she came around to the west in order to climb that which can be called its face for two different yet related reasons.