Brokedown Palace

by Steven Brust

  Miska closed his eyes again. After a moment, Viktor said, "Well?"

  The coachman opened one eye. "Well, what?"

  "Is that the end?"

  "What more is needed, Captain?"

  "Which one became King?"

  "Neither. There was war with the Northmen and the strong brother was slain in battle, while the smart brother ran away and was never heard from again."

  Viktor stared at him for a moment, then turned his back on the coachman. He filled a bowl with potato soup from the large pot near the kitchen and sat down to eat it.

  After a moment, Sándor came in and sat down next him.

  "How is it today?" asked the wizard.

  "The soup? Too hot for Rezső, I think," said Viktor. They exchanged a smile.

  Sándor filled a bowl and returned. "Not bad," he said, tasting it. "I wonder if any of the potatoes will be left tonight?"

  "Maybe," said Viktor. "It tastes like they used lamb and beef this time. Probably still trying to impress the Countess."

  They ate in silence for a while, Viktor holding his bowl in one hand, Sándor having set his on a low table next to the chair, and leaning over it to eat. The pose looked uncomfortable to Viktor, but he said nothing. He thought about the coachman's story, but, if there was a point to it, he couldn't see what it was.

  "Have you seen the King?" asked Sándor eventually.

  Viktor shook his head. "I wonder if he learned anything."

  "Yes."

  "I wonder why he needs to?"

  Sándor looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

  "There are at least two things he could try that don't require asking questions."

  "I assume one of them is Vilmos."

  "Yes. When he spoke to me, it was clear that he had the strength to pull up the roots. Why doesn't the King order him to?"

  "I don't think it is that easy a thing, Viktor. He has influence on Vilmos, but he doesn't command him. If he were to put Vilmos's loyalty to a strong test it might break, and that could have dire results for all of us."

  Viktor snorted. "He is one man, Sándor!"

  "His strength makes him more than that. I think the King is right not to push him unless he has to."

  Viktor bit back a reply of, Then he isn't a King. Instead he said, "Then I don't understand why he doesn't use Állam."

  The wizard's eyes burned brightly for a moment. "To be blunt, my friend, neither do I. And I know as much about it as he does."

  "What is it about that blade, Sándor? Both you and he have alluded to it, but—"

  "Have the King tell you. He will, if he's in a talkative mood. But something about using it against the tree frightens him. I think—no, never mind."

  "Don't start on that, Wizard. What is your theory?"

  Sándor sighed. "My theory, Captain, is that he fears his own blood lust. That once he begins wielding Állam against that tree, he won't stop until he actually has killed his brother. It is that kind of weapon, and the King is that kind of warrior."

  "Well then, so be it," said Viktor.

  "It isn't your brother we are discussing."

  "Perhaps. But then he could let me wield it. I am not likely to lose control in battle."

  Sándor set his spoon down in the bowl and searched Viktor's eyes with his own. "Have a care," he said. "Who holds Állam holds the kingdom."

  "Well then," said Viktor softly, "so be it."

  Sándor studied him for a long moment. "Why are you saying these things to me?"

  Viktor answered his question with another. "Did you know that I am the eldest son of King Vendel's daughter? And that she was older than Gellért, János's father, by—"

  Sándor smiled. "Monika. You are Monika's son. How is she?"

  Viktor stared at him a moment. Then he swallowed. "Well. But without ambition."

  Sándor nodded. "Does the King know who you are?"

  Viktor shook his head.

  "I see," said Sándor. Then, "Why are you choosing to trust me? And why now?"

  "I trust you because I've known you for five years. You serve the kingdom more than the King. And you can see as well as I what is happening around us. As for why now? I think you know that, too."

  Sándor studied him for five blinks. At last he grunted and resumed eating. "Have a care," he said again.

  Before Viktor could respond, he was interrupted by the arrival of László and Mariska, who approached and greeted them. Servants brought chairs, and soon they had made a small circle. Viktor noticed that the King seemed tired, as if he had spent a sleepless night.

  "My friends," he said, "I have spoken to the Goddess."

  Viktor leaned forward intently.

  "What did she say?" asked Sándor.

  "She said that, unless we do something, there is no doubt that the tree will destroy the Palace. She also said that it wasn't a tree, but wouldn't say what it was. It isn't good, whatever it is. We must destroy it at all costs."

  Inaudible sighs seemed to pass around the rest of them, as if a fear they had felt all along were confirmed. For Viktor, the words that remained ringing in his ears were, "at all costs." I wonder, does László understand what that means?

  Mariska said, "Did you ask her about strengthening the supports of the Palace?"

  "No," said the King. "It didn't come up."

  "You should have."

  He looked at her. "My bride," he said, "have you ever communed with the Demon Goddess?"

  "She has never chosen to come to me, and I am not permitted to visit your tower."

  "Then do not speak of things you know nothing about."

  Mariska's face turned red and Viktor thought she was going to leave, but she only clutched her fan tighter and settled back into her chair.

  Viktor said, "What about Állam, Your Majesty?"

  The King looked away. "Állam," he repeated softly. "Yes, there is Állam. When Fenarr, my ancestor, returned from the land of Faerie, he ruled from a keep that was built on the same spot this Palace stands upon. He ruled for forty years. They say that when the Goddess came for him at last, he begged that his son be given something to help him hold the kingdom against the Northern barbarians."

  He looked directly into Viktor's eyes. "They never found Fenarr's body, but on his bed was the sword, Állam." He stood up and drew it, holding it in front of Viktor's eyes. It was a light-looking blade, the metal of silvery-gray and shockingly plain against the ornate hilt and jeweled scabbard. Viktor thought that he had never seen anything more beautiful.

  The King held it in front of him for the space of several breaths, then fluidly resheathed it and sat down.

  "Fenarr's son became King József the First. He led the kingdom to war against the Northmen, and there Állam was tested. They say that when József drew it, he became a demon and slew many of his own men as he ran in and out of the ranks of Northmen, like a living spear.

  "And there is one more thing: all Kings of Fenario are granted a death-boon by the Goddess. Fenarr's gift was the sword. József asked if the sword could be made so enduring that it would last as long as she, the Goddess, should live. We are told that the Goddess replied, 'It cannot be done. The sword is destined to live longer than I.'

  "This, Viktor, is the sword whose power you wish me to unleash within my own Palace. Are you certain you are wise in what you are asking?"

  Viktor knew that he ought to consider carefully before risking an answer, yet the words came out of him before he could check them. "Yes, Your Majesty, I am certain."

  The King studied him, then turned to Sándor. "And you, wizard? Are you, also, certain that this should be done?"

  "No, Your Majesty, I am not. Yet what else can we do? Can you convince Vilmos?"

  László sighed. "Perhaps."

  Sándor nodded. "Because, if not, I see no other—"

  "If I may be permitted," said Mariska suddenly.

  László nodded to her. "You may."

  "Are you quite certain, Your Majesty?"

  He
flushed, then suddenly smiled. "Yes. I am sorry, Countess. I should not have spoken to you so. I have had no sleep, and am worried. What have you to say?"

  "Are you still convinced that the growth is Miklós's fault?"

  "It is likely," he said dryly. Sándor nodded.

  "Then perhaps, before doing anything else, we should ask Miklós to remove it."

  "Ask Miklós! If he put it there—"

  "Are you certain he knew what he was doing? That it could destroy the Palace? And are you certain he would still want to? It would do no harm to ask."

  "A reasonable thought, Countess," said Viktor, "but Miklós isn't here."

  "This is his home, Captain, whether he likes it or not. He will be back."

  The King stared at her. "I will consider the matter," he said. "But I cannot afford to wait. Each hour, it seems, that thing in his room grows and becomes stronger. Whatever we do must be done soon."

  Mariska bowed.

  At that moment a servant appeared at the King's elbow.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "Your Majesty, a horseman has appeared at the gate, asking for admittance."

  "Well? What of it?"

  "Your Majesty, he says he is Prince Miklós."

  INTERLUDE

  Long ago, in the days of your grandfather's grand-father's grandfather, it was the time of Tividar the Renewer. Now, as is well known, the King had many sons and daughters. One of his sons, who was called Jani, courted a lady named Margit who dwelt in the city.

  It was their custom to spend time in the city in the public houses, for Jani was well-beloved by all the people, as were all the sons and daughters of the King then. On a time, they came to one such house they often chose and found that all of the people were gathered on the street outside.

  "Is it a fire, then?" asked Jani.

  "No," they told him. "There is a man inside who is bigger than a house, and he is fiercer than a dzur, and he is carrying a great sword, so we are afraid to enter."

  "Well," said Jani, "what have you done?"

  "We have sent to the Palace for aid."

  "Then that is right," said Jani.

  But then Margit spoke of how Jani needed no one else, as he was so brave. Some of the people laughed at this, so Margit took one of her gloves and threw it as far as she could inside of the doors. Then she asked Jani if he would return it to her.

  "Certainly," he said, smiling. And, though he carried no weapon, he walked into the house. Well! You can imagine how this made the people gasp. A moment later he came out again, and you may cut my tongue from my mouth if he wasn't carrying her glove. My father was there, right in the front of it, so you may be sure I am speaking the truth.

  Well, he hands her back the glove just as calm as you please. And the people said, "Didn't he hit you with that great sword?"

  Jani smiled at this, and said, "No ordinary weapon may harm a Prince of Fenarr's blood. I was in no danger."

  Well, then Margit says, "But Jani, you would have done it anyway, wouldn't you?"

  So Jani shakes his head and says, "You will never know that." And he walks away, and from that day forward, he would never have anything to do with her.

  As for where it happened, why, by the Goddess herself, we're sitting in the same place now! If you don't believe me, ask old Pista over there; he'll tell you the same as me. But I'll have more wine, first; talking is thirsty business.

  NINE

  The Homecoming

  Let us, for a moment, move backward along the flow of time and look up Miklós and Bölk, the one upon the other, as they progress toward the Palace and, temporally, to the point at which we have, with the assistance of Viktor, already arrived.

  After crossing to the north bank of the River they made slow, steady progress westward, passing before diminutive villages stuck onto the Riverfront like an afterthought of whoever had crafted the landscape. Between the villages, the strings of peppers were gone from the peasants' houses, replaced by new caulking to prepare the stone and wood frames for the winter.

  The sky was a deep, powerful blue, enhanced by occasional clouds dotting it in the same way the villages dotted the Riverfront. The air had turned chilly, and Miklós folded his cloak tightly around him. No one took notice of them, though Miklós, for his part, was fascinated by the brief glimpses he received of people. Hundreds of people going about their business with no thought for the Palace or those who lived in it.

  "I don't wish to sneak in this time," he said suddenly.

  "There is no need to, master."

  "But the guards—will they let us in?"

  "Indeed, master. Are you not a Prince of the realm? They will let you in. The question is, what will happen to you after that?"

  "Yes. But do you think I should just go up to the gate?"

  "You didn't fare well the last time when you tried stealth."

  "True, but—"

  "There may come a need to hide what you are doing, but as long as it isn't necessary, you shouldn't."

  They saw, on the opposite side of the River a tall, narrow house of some Baron or perhaps a minor Count. It was built all of wood and had been painted yellow. The paint was fresh. The houses of peasants became more frequent, as did the villages. Soon, almost unnoticeably, they were in what seemed to be one village, on both sides of the River. It was not so much large as long. That is, the houses and markets and an occasional inn (distinguishable from the houses only by a badly painted sign hung to one side or the other) were built only on the Riverfront itself, never back from it; yet they stretched unbroken.

  The wall that marked the city of Fenario was broken in more places than not. Looking closely, Miklós was able to see where sections had been shattered by rams during the siege of King Istvan II or had been pulled down by ropes and oxen after the invasion during the reign of King János IV. There were neither gate nor guard, but the places for both were still discernible.

  Riding through the streets of Fenario almost brought tears to Miklós's eyes. He hadn't seen these streets for more than two years, and they gave him a sense of peace and serenity that he hadn't known was in him. He attracted no attention, except from those who stopped to admire Bölk, so Miklós could ride and gawk as if he were a visiting peasant.

  The streets were, for the most part, narrow and winding. They were both long and short at the same time; that is, a street would run for the entire length of the city, sometimes even to a bridge over to the other side of the River or out of town, yet during that span it would change its name ten or twenty times. And any stranger looking for a house on Fenarr Street would have a hard time of it indeed, for nearly every street became a Fenarr Street at some point on its journey.

  In Fenario, unlike the villages along the way, the inns were easily identified: they were big, sometimes two or even three stories tall, and the signs were large and often accompanied by a statue or device. Miklós passed one which boasted a pair of life-sized black dzur, crouching, guarding the door. He remembered his experience in the forest and shuddered. He continued on his way, stopping now and then to take his bearings by the Tower of the Goddess and the King's Tower. Soon the Tower of Past Glories came into sight, and Miklós thought once more of his parents. He had seen little of his father when he was young, but much of his mother. She had spoken of little except to be sure he understood what a fine King her husband was.

  But thinking about it now, with the decaying Tower before him, he realized that there was much truth in what she'd been saying, as hard to accept as it had been at the time. King János had held his kingdom together with little change, and what more could a King do? The Kings that history spoke of as great had been those who had rebuilt the land after a disaster or defeated an invasion. And more, Miklós realized, it took a special kind of man to step down from such a position when he felt he could no longer fulfill his role.

  And as for his mother…

  He smiled. No one could remove a splinter as painlessly as she.

  Perhaps he would hav
e something to say to them after all.

  They came at length to the gates into the courtyard of the Palace.

  "Halt!" the guard-chief cried. "State your business!"

  Taking a deep breath, he answered: "I am Miklós, Prince of Fenario, and I seek entrance to my home."

  The guard stared down at him, wide-eyed, fidgeting with the spear in his right hand. "A moment, Prince Miklós. We will, that is…"

  There was a hasty conference of three guards in the tower atop the wall. Miklós smiled gently in sympathy and said nothing. Then the gate swung open.

  "It is time, Bölk," said Miklós. "Let us see what he has in mind." He entered the courtyard. He saw someone running off, doubtless with a message to László saying he was here. How would László react?

  He sat a little straighter. A servant whose name Miklós could almost remember approached respectfully.

  "May I see to your horse, my Prince?"

  Miklós considered briefly, then nodded. "Take special care of him," he said, dismounting. "See that he is well fed and well groomed."

  "Yes, my Prince."

  Bölk was led away, giving Miklós a glance that the Prince couldn't read. He began to walk toward the doors into the Palace. As he passed the icon, another guard, coming to him and bowing, said, "My Prince, the King has been informed of your arrival."

  "Very good," said Miklós.

  "If you would care to wait here, I'm sure we will be told—"

  "Nonsense. I am entering the Palace. Do you know any reason why I should not?"

  "I—that is, no, my Prince."

  "Good. Neither do I."

  He resumed walking forward. Yet he was still twenty paces from the doors when one was flung open from the inside by the servant who had carried the message. The servant stepped to the side, and, framed in the doorway, was his brother László, King of Fenario.

  They looked at each other, each refusing to be the first to show his feelings, whatever they were. Miklós felt a brief flash of regret that Bölk wasn't there to advise him on this, but what could he have said, anyway? Memories came and went through Miklós's head with the speed of arrows. His earliest memories, seeing László as a stranger. The years of desperate efforts to please him. The shock of the discovery that László would be King some day, and how Miklós had not dared to speak to him for a week. The brief times when László would sit down and tell him stories of the great battles to maintain Fenario's independence, or legends of Fenarr, or the history of their father's sword, which László now wore strapped to his waist. And the way László's eyes would get when he told such tales—dreamy, distant—and Miklós would understand that they were a part of a thousand years of history, and shudder with pleasure.