by Steven Brust
For a moment there was silence, and Zerika dared to hope that, whatever the outcome, her ordeal was over.
But it was not.
Barlen spoke—not to Zerika, however, but to Verra. “You believe her,” he said. “Do you think she has the mettle to see it through?”
“I know one thing for certain,” said the Demon Goddess. “One thing that cannot be argued with.”
“And that is?” said Barlen.
“She has arrived here, over Deathgate Falls, and through the Paths of the Dead.”
“Pah,” said Ordwynac, or something very like it. “What is involved in that? A few tricks of memory, no more.”
Zerika did not permit herself to become angry at this unkind and untrue—or, at the very least, oversimplified—denigrating of her task. Rather she let the anger wash over and past her, knowing that she could not be at her best if in the grip of anger, any more than she could were she in the grip of fear.
Verra said, “Tell me something, my dear little Zerika. How did you traverse the Falls?”
“The Falls themselves? Why, I jumped from them.”
Verra quickly glanced across the way toward Ordwynac, and said, “How, you jumped?”
“I did, Goddess.”
“But then, why would you have done that?”
“For the simple reason that, as my escort and I were under attack at the time, there was no other choice.”
Verra nodded to Zerika, then looked up and directed a complacent smile at Ordwynac.
At length Ordwynac addressed Verra. “Well then, she has courage. This is not something I have doubted. But courage, by itself, is hardly sufficient, is it?”
Zerika turned and addressed the god directly, saying, “I believe I have more to offer than mere courage.”
“Perhaps,” said Ordwynac. “But is what you have sufficient? That is what we must decide.”
“I have already decided,” said Verra.
“Well, that doesn’t startle me,” said Ordwynac.
“For my part,” said Barlen, “I am not far from agreeing with Verra on this occasion.”
“Well,” said Ordwynac. And then, to Zerika, “What is it you have to offer, that is more than courage?”
“As I have had the honor to tell you, I am Heir to the throne, that is, the only remaining Phoenix. And I have the wit to have arrived here through the Paths of the Dead while yet living. And I have the aid of the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain. And I have the will to do what I have to. All of this you know. What more is needed?”
“I will tell you what is needed—” began Ordwynac, but, by this time, Zerika had had enough.
“Nonsense,” she said.
She remained still, feeling the weight upon her of the scrutiny of the gods, and aware of their surprise at the word she had dared to utter.
When none of the gods spoke, Zerika began to do so once more, in this fashion: “I do not know what you are doing, but it is not determining if I should take the Orb. You know—all of you—that I must take the Orb from this place, and that I must—that I am destined to—reawaken the Empire, or to try until I am slain in the effort. You pretend to be evaluating my worthiness, but you are doing nothing of the kind, because I know and each of you knows that there is no other choice.”
Zerika paused for a breath.
“So I must ask myself just what you are doing?”
She allowed her glance to cover the entire circle, looking at them all with an unwavering glance.
“I have an answer,” she said. “I believe that you not only want me to leave with the Orb, but you—or at least some of you—want me so intimidated that I will put together the Empire as you see it, in the way you wish it, to serve your ends.”
She paused.
“This will not be.
“You are the Guardians of the World, and the Lords of Judgment. But I will be the Empress. If there is a thing you wish of my Empire, you may ask me for it, as it always has been, and I will decide, as the Emperor always has. That is how it will be.”
She paused, then said, “Now give the Orb into my hands. I have spent too much time here, and I must reach a place of safety beyond this realm before I sleep, and I am very weary.”
There was a considerable silence that followed this declamation. So long was it, in fact, that Zerika had time to realize that, in fact, she was every bit as weary as she had said; she was wondering if she would be able to remain on her feet. At that instant, she found that she was looking at one of the gods she had not hitherto confronted. This one appeared to her as a being not unlike a Serioli, a very old Serioli—one with wrinkles and splotches of great age, and whose gnarled hands rested palms up upon thin knees the outlines of which were visible beneath a frail garment of dark blue. And in these hands and upon these knees was an object that Zerika knew at once, though she had never seen it, nor, indeed, heard more than the most cursory description of it.
It was a sphere about eight or nine inches in diameter, and of a grey so dark it was almost black, yet she fancied she could see the faintest sparkles from various points on its surface, as if certain jewels were inside it, their color breaking through here and there. The god spoke softly, saying, “Zerika of the House of the Phoenix, here is what you have come for. Bear it to good fortune.” With this, the ancient god extended the Orb, and Zerika took it into her hands, feeling its weight gradually settle. It did not seem especially heavy to her; she judged that it could not weigh more than ten or fifteen pounds. She stared at the god, uncertain of what to do or to say. It seemed to her that he smiled a little, and she found that she had dropped her eyes, bashful as a girl, and given him a bow.
When she raised her head again, she was no longer in the circle where she had been, but now stood directly before the Cycle itself, which realizing caused in her such astonishment that she nearly dropped the Orb.
When she had recovered a little, she stared at the Cycle, the most ancient and sacred of all artifacts. It was larger in diameter than two men, made of a stone that does not erode, and, perhaps, older than Time. It was close enough to reach—in—deed, the symbol of the Vallista was directly before her face—but she dared not touch it. She looked up toward the top, her neck straining, and she saw that, indeed, the symbol of her House, the Imperial Phoenix, was still at the pinnacle, flanked by the Athyra retiring and the Dragon advancing. Here was most mystical of the forces of the universe made tangible. All of the responsibilities of rulership, and all of her connections with other Emperors dating back to her ancestor, Zerika the First, suddenly seemed real and present to her as she studied the massive stone artifact.
We cannot, however we may try, communicate to the reader the emotion experienced by Zerika at this moment. Indeed, we cannot imagine how she must have felt: overwhelmingly weary, ultimately triumphant, tightly holding the Orb and now facing the Cycle itself, that most ancient of artifacts which brought forth all the humbleness and pride that is the birthright of any legitimate Emperor.
Soon, as she stood there, she realized that she was not alone. She turned her head, and saw a man dressed in the purple robes of the servants of the dead. Zerika turned to him and waited. The Purple Robe bowed, and indicated with a slow, graceful gesture that she was to follow him. She took a last look at the Cycle, blinking back tears, and set off after him.
She found that they were walking downward along a path of flat stones set into a grassy hillside. The path continued up another hill, this one topped with deciduous trees of some sort she didn’t recognize, and also thick with bushes. The Purple Robe remained with her as they reached the bottom of the hill and began climbing. Zerika looked up at what, in fact, was a rather small hill and wondered if she would be able to climb it without assistance. But, she reflected, to receive aid in climbing from a Purple Robe would be, well, it wouldn’t be right.
She fixed her eyes at the top of the hill, set her countenance in an expression of determination, and began walking. She felt her hands, holding the Orb, begin to tremble,
and clutched it more tightly to her, holding it against her body. She began to take smaller steps as the path rose more steeply, and as she felt her strength deserting her. She glanced over at the Purple Robe who walked next to her, and thought again about leaning against him, but set her teeth and simply continued walking.
Eventually, she reached the trees, and observed that the stones of the path were now set more deeply into the ground, and seemed older. With each step now, it seemed, the forest grew thicker, the path narrower, the stones even older, and she had the sense she was walking backward in time.
The stones at her feet were now cracked. In a few more steps, they were broken, with weeds and grass growing up among them. In not much longer she was walking upon soft grass. At around that same time, she realized that she was alone; the Purple Robe had, somehow, been left behind.
At about this same time, she became aware that the Orb was no longer a burden her hands—indeed, it seemed that it weighed nothing at all. She glanced down at it, and realized that it was emitting a very soft, pale yellow glow. Without breaking stride, she opened her hands. The Orb floated into the air, and began slowly and gracefully circling her head.
At this time she realized with momentary confusion that, not only was there no longer a covering of tree branches over her head, but neither was there a sky; instead, it was as if she stood under a roof of stone. At the same time she detected a musty odor, and overlaying it, familiar scents: grass, pine needles, and wildflowers.
This confusion was, however, as we have said, momentary—she quickly realized exactly where she was. She wondered where Piro and his friends were, and then knew that, too. She became aware of the Enchantress, in her lair at Dzur Mountain, and now she understood much of that most peculiar of abodes as well. And, as she concentrated upon the Enchantress, it seemed to her as if the two of them were looking at each other from only a few meters apart, and it seemed that Sethra Lavode looked into her eyes.
Zerika spoke to her, saying, “It is done.”
“Yes,” said the Enchantress, permitting herself a small smile. “Now matters become difficult.”
“Of course,” said the Empress Zerika. “We must move at once. There is no time to delay.”
Then the Empress turned her attention to other matters, and Sethra was gone.
Zerika the Fourth, Empress of Dragaera, realized that she was no longer tired.
A Few Words of Welcome and Celebration from the Publisher
In my two hundred years as publisher of Glorious Mountain Press, I have never seen such excitement over the publication of a book as there is in these offices over the novel you hold in your hands, The Viscount of Adrilankha.
Everyone here read Paarfi of Roundwood’s Five Hundred Years After, of course. What novel in the last Cycle has been as wildly popular, as surprisingly successful, as that delectable tale of Lord Khaavren and his loyal friends and their role in the lurid events of Adron’s Disaster? In hindsight, it’s almost unthinkable that the book would not prove to be a popular fiction bestseller.
But Five Hundred Years After was meant to be a scholarly work in the form of an historical novel. It was published by the University press, and written in what some reviewers described as a “quaint” style (and what others, who are still being twitted for it by their peers, called “pure egocentric gas-bagging”). Certainly Paarfi’s University editors had no notion what they’d midwifed.
Then, like some talking familiar out of an Eastern folktale, the novel ventured forth into the world and made friends for its scholar-author. It was the topic of conversation in every klava-house in Adrilankha In salons and silk merchants’ shops, on parade grounds and palace balconies, people of every House discussed the sword fights, the scheming … and, of course, the romance. Even literate Teckla sought out the book, identifying with the brave, clownish servant Mica and his sweetheart. Rumor has it that Lord Khaavren’s admirers include high-ranking members of the Empress’s court. (No names—that would be indiscreet—but a certain celebrated Dragonlord was seen with a copy peeking out from under his cloak!)
Paarfi of Roundwood was transformed from obscure historian to celebrity almost overnight. And what an elegant, gossip-worthy celebrity he makes! Who will ever forget his stunning appearance at the opening reception of the Imperial Academy of Fine Arts, where he dressed in white from hat to boots? “Artists,” he declared, “are of no House and every House. I prefer to dress to suit the first proposition, as dressing to suit the second would be garish.”
He became—and has remained—the must-have guest at every party. It is his arm that every rising young actress wishes to be seen on of an evening. That august poet, Ahadam of Hoodplain, has said of Paarfi, “He always buys the Wine. And he’s a damn fine writer.” What a testament to Paarfi’s artistic accomplishments and his personal generosity!
The University press, far from delighting in and capitalizing on Paarfi’s new notoriety, was taken aback. Anyone could have predicted that the gist of the University’s mean-spirited notes and conversations would leak out. After all, what environment is so much a hotbed of gossip as an academic institution? The details of Paarfi’s parting with the University have remained strictly private (as one would expect from such a gentlemanly and professional artist), but the rumors can’t be wholly unfounded. An author who brings so much prestige and—let’s not discount the material sphere—wealth to his publisher should certainly be rewarded by a few paltry perquisites and a quite humble increase of his royalties.
But that was not to be. Thus it was that when The Viscount of Adrilankha and its author sought a new publisher, Glorious Mountain was able to acquire them both, and the honor that comes with them, after lively competition with other worthy bookmen of the city. (All of us at Glorious Mountain extend deepest sympathies to Zerran and Bolis over the inexplicable flooding of their warehouse. It could not have come at a worse time for them, and we regretted the appearance of taking advantage of their misfortune.)
An author as popular as Paarfi of Roundwood has many obligations to his readers and admirers. He has been so much in demand for personal appearances, readings, lectures, and charity events that his writing time has been somewhat curtailed. But I’m sure none of his readers begrudge the extra decade it took him to complete this book, beyond our announced date of publication. Certainly we here in the editorial offices understood completely, and are sure our creditors will, as well.
Paarfi has begun work on the next volume of this landmark series, so we’re sure there will be no similar delay with its appearance. Still, he makes time for other projects that enrich our culture. The Orb Theatre has commissioned him to adapt this very book for the stage, as a starring role for the great Valimer. Paarfi also lectures on writing at academies around the city, and especially provides encouragement to young women, whose voices are so underrepresented in our fiction.
Before Five Hundred Years After, few publishers would have acquired an historical novel, let alone competed for the privilege. Now historical novels are the rage, and even mediocre efforts are flying off the bookshop tables. What makes them so attractive to the sophisticated modern reader?
Nostalgia, says the cynical critic—and yes, there is something to what he says. Our world is fast-paced and obsessed with efficiency over grace. Teleportation flicks us from our door to our friends’ without a chance for a happy survey of the landscape in between. Psychic communication robs us of the tactile pleasure of pen and paper, and the leisure to select the perfect phrase before we send our message to its intended recipient.
We face social upheaval that our ancestors were spared. We deal with Easterners, rebellious Teckla, and decidedly unchivalrous behavior in some of our most noble houses. How lovely it is to be transported, if only for a few hours, to a world where there is time for contemplation and elegance, and where the natural order is understood and secure!
But historical fiction isn’t merely an escape from the present. It illuminates the things we have in common with the
ancients. They, too, faced what were for them new sciences, new peoples, and new social situations. Their solutions to their problems might suggest solutions to our modern ones.
And of course, our uncertain times make us that much more fascinated with the cataclysm of Adron’s Disaster, and the upheaval of the Interregnum. The great moral questions involved in those events are still alive, though in a different tunic. People who are uncomfortable discussing contemporary issues and personalities can instead examine events that seem safely in the past. By doing so, they come to terms with our sometimes painful present.
It would be coy not to at least touch on another reason for the success of Five Hundred Years After, specifically: scandal. I can’t deny that I was eager to read a book that produced so much outcry from family members of certain historical figures who dispute Paarfi’s interpretation of their ancestors’ actions.
It’s fitting that Paarfi of Roundwood should be the author to lead the rebirth of the historical novel. Paarfi’s charming, slightly old-fashioned treatment of the elements of popular fiction—violence, sex, betrayal, humor—makes them easier to accept as part of history and as the stuff of contemporary life. The historian’s well-verified facts don’t offer the entertainments of character and language to draw the reader in. The deliberately shocking fiction of the “Truthful Art” school of popular modern novelists appeals only to those readers who already believe that life is shocking. Readers who seek diversion and pleasure in novels reject these novelists’ insights along with their plots. Paarfi’s approach to history and fiction has been called “dishonest” and “fantastical:” But it is that very approach that enables him to make history, philosophy, and politics available and attractive to those who believe they have no interest in them.