by Steven Brust
"I suppose," he said, "that if I asked who heard you correctly, you'd only say, 'all of you,' or 'none of you,' or something obscure like that."
Bölk chuckled. "Not quite, master. It is a question of understanding. Sándor is a part of the kingdom and the Palace, and hears all with the King's ears. Andor is torn between King and family, so, hearing both, he understands neither."
"I see. And Brigitta."
"For that, you must ask her."
Miklós looked to where she sat with her back to the River. Her knees were pressed against her chest, her arms wrapped around them, and her face buried in her arms.
The Prince turned back to Bölk. "It seems that you can't be hurt by the Power. You protected me from it, and earlier, when I attacked you, you didn't seem to notice. Why is that?"
Bölk considered. "It isn't completely true, master," he said at last. "It isn't easy for the Power of Faerie to hurt me, but it can. The Power of Faerie is a manifestation of something that I have little to do with, and has little to do with me. It is rare that we can hurt each other."
Miklós nodded. "Then that is why you couldn't cross over to Faerie itself."
"Yes," said Bölk.
"The power is manifestation, you said. Of what?"
"Of the use men make of it."
"I don't understand."
"I know that, master."
Miklós considered for a while longer. "Is it the Demon Goddess?"
Bölk's head snapped up. "No, master. But the question is astute. The Demon Goddess is a manifestation of the power of Faerie. That is why I am powerless against her."
"Against her? Why should you be against her?"
"Because I am what I am."
"The thought makes me uncomfortable."
"I hope it will become less uncomfortable. You must defeat her."
Miklós gasped. "Defeat her!"
"Certainly," said Bölk. "The Goddess is a tool in the hands of your enemies. You must defeat her to gain what you want."
"How—? I don't even know what it is I want! How can you say—?"
Bölk chuckled softly. "You wish to assume your rightful place as Prince of Fenario. The Goddess aids those who would stop you."
Miklós started to argue, then remembered László's dream and how the mention of the Goddess had caused Andor to betray him.
"I can't fight a Goddess, Bölk," said Miklós. "I can't fight anyone. I'm not a fighter."
"That is the problem, master. As for the Goddess, I cannot fight for myself, but I may be an effective weapon against her. Not alone, but I may be useful in the right hands."
Miklós shook his head again. "I still don't understand."
"No," said Bölk. "You cannot. Your weapon is the Power of Faerie, but you cannot best Sándor with wizard's tricks; he is better at them than you are."
"I already know that."
"Then you must find other weapons and learn to use them."
"What? Swords? László is better than I ever will be. Longbow? There are guards who—"
"None of these, master."
"Then what?"
"That I cannot tell you. All I can say is before you can pick up another weapon, you must drop the one you carry."
Miklós felt himself flushing. "How can you tell me—?"
"Another thing, too, master," said the horse.
Miklós stopped. "Yes?"
"You must decide to fight. That is the first thing. I am a warrior's mount, master. Remember that."
So saying, Bölk turned away and trotted up to the River and stared upstream toward the Palace. Miklós watched him and then saw that Brigitta was no longer looking down. He caught her eye.
"Were you listening?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I tried to at first, but what you said and what he said didn't make any sense. I gather that that is what you were talking about at first. After that, I don't know."
"He explained it—a little. But tell me something. When I asked you why you'd warned me—"
"No," she said.
"All right."
They sat facing each other, both of them glancing at Bölk periodically. Suddenly Miklós said, "Do you really consider yourself to be the King's whore?"
She caught his eye, her face somber, and he felt as if there were an explosion in the pit of his stomach. But she said, "You must understand, Prince Miklós, how great an improvement that is over my previous state."
She stood up. "I think I'll return to the Palace now. Perhaps I'll see you there."
Miklós stood up also. "I didn't mean to offend you."
She met his eyes and gave him a small smile. "You didn't, Miklós. Don't worry."
He bowed his head. "Very well, then. And Brigitta—thank you."
She nodded and turned away. "Farewell, Bölk."
"Farewell, Brigitta," called the horse.
Whatever she heard made her gasp. She turned and hurried away back up the River. As Miklós watched her leave, Bölk returned and stood next to him. After a moment, Miklós sighed and seated himself once more.
"What now, Bölk?"
"What do you wish to do, master?"
"I don't know. I want to return to the Palace, but—"
"Why?"
"Eh?"
"Why return to the Palace?"
Miklós chewed his lip, then said, "Because it is my home."
"No," said Bölk. "It is László's home."
"Oh? At least one room of it is mine."
"I had thought László took that room two years ago."
"He was going to, but it seems he didn't."
Bölk cocked his head to the side. "That is interesting," he said.
"Why?"
"Is it like your brother to change his mind about something like that?"
"No, I suppose it isn't."
"Well then."
"What do you make of it?"
"I'm not certain, master."
A memory came to Miklós then. "Perhaps—"
"Yes?"
"Perhaps he is using the room after all. I noticed something strange in it."
"What sort of thing, master?"
"I'm not sure. A growth, a plant of some kind, that seemed to be growing from the floor."
Bölk's nostrils twitched, and his ears came forward. "Could you tell nothing at all about it?"
"Only what I said. It was green, perhaps as tall as my calf. I saw no flowers or buds on it."
"This is very peculiar, master."
"Yes."
"Were others in the room with you?"
"Yes, for a while. They attacked me there."
"What did they seem to think of it?"
"None of them noticed it, as far as I could tell. They were too busy trying to kill me."
"It is in a corner, then? Hidden?"
"No; as a matter of fact it is in the middle of the floor."
"In the middle, master? Calf high? And none of them noticed? They must have had to step around it to attack you."
Miklós closed his eyes, remembering. "Yes," he said at last, "they did."
"And yet they seemed not to notice this plant?"
"As I have said, Bölk."
"That is very peculiar, master."
"Well, now that you mention it…"
"I cannot conceive of what it might be, but I am certain it is important."
"In that case," said Miklós, "that is another reason for me to return to the Palace."
Bölk pawed the ground. "You are right, master," he said after a moment. "I can think of no other way. You must return."
Miklós smiled. "Good. Will you bear me? It is a long walk."
"Let us rest for today and tonight. Tomorrow I will bear you to the gate."
"And then?"
"I do not know, master. Perhaps I should return here, and await the next time the River sends you to this spot."
"I doubt that will be necessary, Bölk."
"Do you?"
"Yes. I think that the next time the River sends me
this way, I will be dead."
INTERLUDE
It had sent roots searching down through flaws in the floor, and they had had a long struggle indeed to find a path to good, solid earth, but they managed. And all of this time, the small seedling was soaking up the sunlight, sending its shoot higher and higher into the room.
The roots were firmly entrenched now, and had worked their way deeply into the earth below the cellars. Back in the room with the broken shutter, what had seemed before to be a small plant began to grow up and out.
The branches were still thin, but there were many of them. Oddly, they sprang in all directions, not just toward the light. The leaves, though each was thin, were now so thickly clustered that they formed a shell around the trunk. The total height was about that of a man's waist, and thin branches and stringy green leaves, the latter of which reached down to the floor, acted to hide its center.
Some water it brought up from the roots. Some it took from the very air around it, moist as it was from the River below the window.
Sometimes at night it seemed to shimmer in the starlight. Sometimes it swayed in the wind. Sometimes it swayed in the stillness.
EIGHT
The Captain
Viktor took the wooden sword from László's hand. "Another round, Your Majesty?"
"Not now," said the King. "That helped, however. Thank you."
Viktor nodded brusquely and watched his master buckle on Állam, in its bejeweled sheath. He had only seen it drawn three times in his life, and on only one such occasion had been able to get a good look. What a weapon! Its edge fairly gleamed, its delicate lines shouted its perfect balance, its hilt asked to be taken into the hand and used. Oh, for such a weapon as that!
He sighed under his breath as he wiped sweat from his forehead onto his tunic and adjusted the bandage on his hand. László walked away, then stopped and turned back.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"You know that Sándor was unable to remove those roots in the cellar?"
"No, I hadn't heard. Are you going to ask Prince Vilmos to help?"
László looked away. "I'd rather not. See if you can do it."
Viktor wondered at this. Was there some new trouble between the King and Vilmos? But he said, "Very well."
The King walked away again, and Viktor had the pleasure of seeing him rub his upper arm where the captain had landed a clean strike. Smiling to himself, Viktor replaced the wooden swords and strapped his own belt around his waist.
He walked the same path the King had, past the stables, through the central courtyard, and so into the main door of the Palace. Károly stood just inside. Viktor nodded approvingly to himself. Károly was young, undisciplined, loud, brash, and as fearless as a dzur. Viktor allowed the young guardsman to see a small smile.
"How is your hand?" he asked.
Károly held up his own bandage. "Fine, Captain. Thank you. And yours?"
"Well. Thank you. All quiet?"
"All quiet, Captain. The King has just been by."
"Yes."
He continued past. As he walked, he idly ran a finger along the plaster covering the wall, amusing himself by watching the fine dust fall in a stream from where his finger passed. His high, black boots clicked against the floor, sending echoes against the walls, the metal plates on the soles sounding crisp and sharp. He went through the doorway that had once led to the west wing and now only led to a stairway going up to the second floor and a smaller stairway leading to the cellars.
He took the latter, grabbing a lamp and striking a light to it on the way down. The instant his head crossed the level of the floor, his nostrils were assailed by the musky odor of norska, mixed with the ageless smell of dust. He grimaced. As he walked away from the alcove where Vilmos kept the animals, he heard them chittering.
He walked around the back of the first tier of wine racks. To his left, to his right, and ahead were the mouths of other tunnels, now locked and barred, that led under the city; all of them filled with aging bottles, barrels, and casks of wine. It was as if the Palace had grown tendrils which were supporting the city, with wine as the blood flowing through them all. The thought pleased him.
He held up his lamp, looked around, strode forward, and stopped short. The roots, which only two days ago had been thin tendrils, had thickened until they were as big around as his fist. He came closer, started to grasp one, and drew back. It was unnatural. Weird. The thought of touching it made the hair on his arms bristle and his heart palpitate. Then he cursed at his own cowardice and touched it anyway.
It was hard and tough, with the feel of tree roots that had been years growing. His jaw worked as he walked around the edge of the jungle of roots that had seemed to sprout from nowhere. He knelt and studied one where it entered the ground. There was a small crack in the earth leading from it and extending perhaps a foot in either direction. He tried tugging on the root, but felt no give. He put both hands to it, straightened his back, and lifted with his legs. Nothing. It was as if he were trying to lift the Palace itself.
He took the lamp again and stood up. He was somehow afraid to walk among the roots, as if being surrounded by them were tantamount to being encircled by an army. That, he decided, was ridiculous, so he quickly stepped past the outermost circle. Though nothing happened, the feeling intensified there rather than disappeared.
As he stood considering, a sudden feeling of dread came over him, and he almost cried aloud as he tried to back out of the center. Each time he bumped a root, like bumping the bars of a cage, his panic increased and he wanted to whimper like a frightened puppy. After what seemed like minutes, he stood gasping outside of the circle once more. The light jumped and flickered from the trembling of his hand, and he found himself wishing for more lanterns to dispell the darkness that seemed to be nourishing whatever it was that was invading the Palace.
It was only then that the full import of the king's statement reached him: "Sándor failed to remove those roots… ." Sándor had failed. The wizard had not managed to hurt them. All at once this strange plant became a threat to the realm itself. Worse than a threat, in fact: an enigma. The King had been right after all; Miklós was up to something.
And yet, with that thought, his attitude changed. Finding a cause for it, a human cause, made it somehow less of a mystery. And that was enough to alleviate his fear and confusion as quickly as they had come, to replace them with anger.
The King didn't tell you to analyze it, he berated himself. He told you to destroy it. So destroy it!
He set the lamp back down in the pitted and pockmarked dirt of the cellar floor and drew his sabre. He took one deep breath, made sure he had room to swing, and struck the root nearest him with all of his strength. A dull thud issued forth, accompanied by a faint overtone, almost metallic in quality. At the same time, a shock traveled up his arm and into his shoulder, jarring his teeth in his skull. This only made him more angry. He struck again, and yet a third time, and a fourth. He put his left hand over his right and, using both of his arms, struck again and again and again, until, at last, the sabre dropped from his exhausted fingers.
Brought to his knees by his own struggles, he finally stood up, lamp in hand, and inspected the root he had been attacking.
Not the least scratch marred its surface.
He picked up his sword and inspected it. The edge was notched in several places. Perhaps, in some sense, he should have felt despair, but the number of emotional turnabouts that he had experienced in the last few moments were too much for his normally cool makeup. He stood for the space of several heartbeats considering, then, lamp in one hand and sabre in the other, he turned and walked back around the wine racks, up the stairs, and into the Palace proper.
Guards snapped to attention as he walked by, ignoring them. None commented on seeing, through the high Palace windows, their captain stride purposefully past, in full daylight with a lamp in one hand and a naked sabre in the other. None among those who saw him closely commented on the sweat that
covered his forehead and neck, nor on the light brown smudges of dust upon the knees of his bright red uniform. The guardsmen who saw this were startled, certainly. The captain was normally cool and clean, and garbed in a uniform crisp and pressed. Yet, startled though they were, it occurred to none of them that this must mean that someone, or something, had brought the captain to his knees. They were, to a man, incapable of thinking this. The King was the King, and they would gladly have died for him; but the captain was their own personal god—he to whom they looked for help, punishment, and justice in all its fine nuances. They knew that nothing could humble the captain.
He took the spiral stairway from the dining room up to the kitchen, unconsciously shifting his sabre to allow for the narrow walls and tight curve. From there he made his way to the audience chamber, stopping for a moment in front of the fine stone carving. His eyes took in the chipped ear of the bull and smudging of the rider's eye, and he tsked to himself. "Stay with it, old fellow," he told the statuette, "it will all come home for you someday." He continued to the audience chamber.
Tobias, on duty outside of it, at first made a motion to bar his way. Seeing who it was, the guard stepped back, then seemed to hesitate, as if he weren't sure whether his captain should be admitted or not. He held out a tentative hand as if to stop him. Viktor, without appearing to see him, handed him the lamp, muttered "thank you," and entered the room.
The King seemed to be in a deep discussion with Rezső. László was seated, staring down at a piece of parchment, while the advisor stood looking over his shoulder and pointing at something on it. Rezső's clothing, if it could be dignified with such a term, tried to be yellow. The rags of stitching upon them had once, perhaps, been embroidery. He seemed to have made no effort to comb his hair. Viktor felt his lips tighten. If I were King, my advisors would dress as if they served a King.
When King and advisor noticed Viktor's presence, Rezső straightened up and seemed annoyed. The first expression to cross the King's countenance was anger; then he seemed to take a closer look at Viktor's face. His eyes came to rest on the sabre, and, for the briefest of instants, something like fear came over his features, to be replaced by wary curiosity.
"What is it, Viktor?" he asked evenly.