by Steven Brust
"Yes?"
"Miki, is the horse… talking?"
"Yes, Vili."
"This is a táltos horse?"
"Yes."
"I had never thought they were real."
"Nor had I, Vili."
"And he is yours?"
"He chooses to stay with me for now."
"Why?"
Miklós sighed. "If I knew that, Vili, I would understand many things that I would feel much better for knowing."
Vilmos nodded, though he still looked puzzled. Bölk made no response.
"The food is adequate, Bölk?" said Miklós.
The horse laughed. "You remember how I am nourished, master. The food is minimal, but the best I can get for now."
"Oh," said Miklós.
"It's almost as if I can understand him," said Vilmos.
"Yes," said Miklós. "Me, too."
As they walked back to the Palace, Miklós said, "Laci told me that you had some problems when you went to pull up the roots from the tree that seems to be growing in my old chamber."
"Yes."
"What sort of problems?"
Vilmos sighed. "I don't know, Miki. There was something about them that—I don't know."
"Did you think they were—" Miklós hesitated. "Beautiful?"
"Beautiful? No. It wasn't that. They seemed so determined, somehow. I can't explain."
"All right. Would you be willing to try again?"
They reached the doors of the Palace and entered.
"Let me think about it."
"All right, Vili. We'll speak of this again."
Vilmos continued toward his room. Miklós hesitated, then made his way down into the cellar to see how Anya was getting along. She had always been his favorite.
* * * *
It was late at night when Miklós, unable to sleep, returned to his old chamber. He set his lamp down on the floor and slowly walked around the tree.
"Tell me, tree," he said in a whisper, "why are you beautiful? How should I look at you so I can see beauty in you? Can you tell me that?"
The tree remained silent.
The Prince approached it and took a leaf into his hand. It felt like velvet, but cool, and seemed stronger than its looks indicated. He held the lamp close to the leaf and traced its veins with his eyes.
"Why did you grow in my room, tree? Are you tied to me, somehow? Am I to climb you, out of the Palace, until I can walk from star to star? Is that what you are, tree? A ladder to the land of the gods?"
He stepped away from it and held the lamp high, studying the top where it brushed against the ceiling. It waved to and fro, like a dancer, it suddenly seemed. Miklós had a sudden image of Brigitta, dancing. Dancing for him alone, slowly, her long face somber, her eyes holding his, fascinated. He felt himself becoming aroused and smiled self-consciously at his fantasies.
Yet, still, the swaying top of the tree held his attention with its flowing, its dancing, its beauty.
INTERLUDE
The leaves began to fill out a bit, and the trunk, still hidden behind the greenery, began to thicken. The attacks made on the roots had not been as unnoticed as the attackers would have thought. Though mindless, the growing thing seemed to know that it had been threatened. Just to be safe, it responded by sending a few tentative roots out to the sides, hoping to find more soil in case the roots below should be damaged.
The body still grew, but more slowly. Now it was brushing the ceiling. Now it seemed too large for the chamber it was in.
But this would not keep it from growing.
TEN
The Wizard
Sándor sat in the great hall, stroking his beard and considering the passing of years. Sometimes he could almost imagine that he heard them, rushing by like the River as he stood motionless on an island in their midst. At other times, like now, the passing of time stopped, holding its breath, waiting to see what direction it would take.
From time to time, the forces that drove events to become history would enter the sphere of his influence. Then he could put aside the toys and games and know that, with a push here, and a tug there, he was guiding the fate of the kingdom.
The beginning had faded almost beyond recall. He knew that he had made the pilgrimage across the mountains, but little of that time remained to him—and even less to those who knew him. No one except Rezső now remembered that he was not native to Fenario, and it mattered not at all to the King's advisor. Sándor had been one of the chosen few to make the journey to Faerie from his village in the land to the south of Fenario. They had sent him and a few other boys and girls as they did every year, hoping that one might return in a few years and be their high priest. And so it always worked. But of the many who never made it back home, some of them didn't choose to; so it was with Sándor. He no longer remembered what he had seen when he came back over the mountain to Fenario, but he remembered how he had felt. He still felt that way. This was his home.
"You're getting old, Alfredo," he chided himself in his birth tongue. "You have things to do or at least think about."
The tree.
What was there about it? It fascinated and intrigued him, and was the first thing to do so in—no point in that! But how could it be that the power didn't hurt it? How had it come to be? He had been around too long to feel the panic that the young King felt—nothing was as urgent as youth made it seem. Still, it was a mystery; one that he, Sándor, ought to be able to solve.
The youngest Prince, Miklós, had to be behind it. Sándor was not yet so old that he was dotard, and the tree growing in the Prince's room was a Sign if there ever was one. That Miklós was a close one, too. He always seemed so honest and young, like a puppy. What was he up to, and why? He had the power of Faerie at his command; was he scheming against Sándor for his position? If so, what form would the threat take?
In Viktor there was no hope. All of Sándor's life he had seen Viktors in one form or another. If you don't like someone, kill him. If you want something, take it. If you have power, use it. So crude, so vulgar. And, ultimately, so futile. Yet his plans could not be ignored. That these schemes at usurpation came up often was no reason to be certain one would not succeed. And the schemers always thought Sándor would help them. Why was that? But he wouldn't, of course; any more than he would warn the King. These matters were in the hands of the Goddess, and he would not interfere. Still, forget Viktor in the solution of this problem.
Rezső? Nonsense! In a crisis, he'd be better off depending on Andor, and this was becoming a crisis.
No, if there was anyone to whom he'd be able to turn for aid, it was the foreign Countess, Mariska. She had at least the seeds of understanding. Contain the problem, keep it from becoming worse. Of course, that was only the beginning. And where to go from there? How to turn it to the advantage of King and kingdom?
And, above all, why did his powers not affect it?
A nearby sound startled him and he opened his eyes—surprised that he had closed them—to find that young Miklós was pulling up a chair.
"Good morning," said the wizard.
"Thank you."
"Was there something you wished to speak of with me?"
"Yes. The tree in my old room."
"Well?"
"I was told that you attacked it with the Power." Sándor heard him pronouncing the capital letter and almost smiled.
"Yes, I did," he said.
"And it had no effect?"
"None."
"Do you have any idea why?"
"Not yet. Why do you ask?"
"Huh? Because I want that thing out of my room, that's why. I'd like to move back in there. I have spoken to Vilmos, asking him to try once more. I am not certain that I was able to convince him."
Sándor studied him, but found no flaws in his playing of the role, if that was, indeed, what he was doing. Sándor said, "There will need to be many improvements to the Palace, now that the King is to be married. Certainly, we will address that one, too."
"Do you think it will wait that long, Sándor? It is growing—"
"It cannot grow larger than the room it is in."
"Can't it?"
Sándor's eyes narrowed. "You think it could actually break apart the room?"
"It might."
"Hmmm. Our future Queen suggests that we strengthen the walls around it."
Miklós considered. "That might work. But I can't believe we are helpless against it. It seems absurd."
Sándor nodded and decided to risk honesty. "I would give a great deal to be able to understand it—where it came from, why, what it really is, and why my powers are useless against it."
"Yes. As would I."
The wizard considered him. He was quick, and his mind worked well. He was willing to listen to alternatives to his own ideas and apeared to actually consider plans. He didn't go rushing into things headlong, but was willing to take his time—or was as willing as anyone his age ever could be. Of course, Sándor still didn't trust him, but that argument ran in both directions. Yes. In fact, the more he considered it, the better the idea seemed.
"There is a thing, Miklós."
"Yes?"
"I am old."
"I know."
"Do you know how old?"
"Not exactly."
"That is well. I am old. The power of which we are both initiates has allowed me to extend my lifetime. But this will not last forever."
"What are you saying, Sándor?"
"That the realm of Fenario should not be left without a wizard."
Miklós squinted at him. "Do you feel you will be… leaving us soon?"
"Not soon as you count it. But someday. Perhaps during László's reign, perhaps not."
"I don't know what to say."
"That is because I haven't asked you anything yet. I do so now. Will you consent to become my apprentice? To allow me to guide you further into the mysteries, so that you can take up the task after me?"
Miklós's eyes grew wide. He stared at Sándor, as if he were seeing an apparition.
"Sándor, I—"
"Well?"
"I don't know."
"That is right. You do not know. There is much you do not know. Have you ever spoken to anyone, mind to mind?"
"Eh?" Something like a memory flickered behind the young Prince's eyes, but he said, "No."
"This can be taught. The power lies within you. And more—much more than you would have learned in Faerie."
Miklós swallowed. "What is involved in this?"
"Study. Practice. Hard work. As in any apprenticeship."
"And after? What duties are there? Forgive me if asking is tactless, but—what do you do for the realm?"
"Sometimes I am called upon to study the signs and make predictions to help guide the King. Sometimes I must counter the actions of other wizards who seek to disrupt our realm. Always, I attempt to learn more of the way the world works and to make our land safer and more prosperous. It is not a bad life."
"No," said Miklós slowly, "it isn't. I can see that."
"Well? What say you?"
"I am honored that you ask me, Sándor."
The wizard grunted.
"I'm not certain," said the Prince at last. "I need time to think about it."
"That is well." Sándor nodded. "Take as much time as you need." He closed his eyes and leaned back. Presently he heard Miklós walking away.
* * * *
Later in the day Sándor found the king in the audience chamber and spoke to him of what Miklós had reported about Vilmos.
László nodded. "Perhaps I should see him again. It can do no harm."
László stood and left the room. Sándor, on impulse, followed.
The Great Hall, thought Sándor, was like a mirror that reflected the state of the Palace, and therefore the kingdom. It was empty in the morning, full in the evening, and in between ebbed and flowed unpredictably. The conversation was subdued when the King was tense, loud when the King was happy. Now it was empty save for Vilmos, who sat in his special chair before an unlit fire.
"Excuse me, Vili," said the King.
Vilmos opened one eye. "Yes?"
László sat down. Sándor sat next to him. Vilmos ignored the wizard.
"I am told that Miklós spoke to you yesterday about the roots in the cellar."
"Yes."
"Have you thought about—"
"I went to look at them again, Laci."
"And?"
Vilmos looked down. "I couldn't do it. I am sorry."
"Why? What happened?"
For a moment, Vilmos didn't speak. Then he said, "I went there and I stood in the middle, with the roots all around me. I pulled on one, and it seemed to cling to the ground."
László stared, wide-eyed. "You couldn't pull it up?"
"No, no. It wasn't that. When I was there, in the middle of it all, I felt something. I—"
"Yes?"
"Forgive me, Laci. I have trouble with the words. But there was a feeling in there, that I belonged. That I was safe. But that isn't right either. It isn't that I feel unsafe, but it was…" His voice trailed off. He looked at his brother as if desperate for understanding.
"But you know that it may threaten the whole Palace, don't you? The Goddess herself has said—"
"I know, Laci. I know. But I couldn't make my fingers hold them or my shoulders pull them. I tried. I tried as hard as I could, Laci. I did. I'm sorry."
László stood up, reached over, and clapped Vilmos on the shoulder. "It is all right, Vili. You tried. That is all that matters."
He left the Hall, Sándor following.
The wizard tried to fit this into his scheme of things, knowing it to be important. But it was like nothing he had experienced before.
Where Miklós was a novice in the use of the power of Faerie, Sándor had taken it fully into his life. It colored all of his thoughts, all of his deeds and actions—even those that made no direct use of it.
To use the power of Faerie, one must know and understand a harsh, unforgiving logic. The mind must be disciplined and firm, and go where the will wishes it to. This discipline is all that limits the wielder of this power, for the Source will send as much as is asked for.
But there is a cost, as in all things.
He could still recall, though less vividly than once, the first time he had taken the power, as one will take a drink; not to use, simply to hold. The memory, the experience, might fade—but it would never leave him. Its effects lingered, and the effects of holding the essence of Faerie within himself as he had done again and again had left their mark upon him, upon how he used the power, and perforce upon the kingdom.
For Sándor, the shapes and patterns of the world around him became first symbols—means of expressing his desires so they could be turned into a form he could use. A lesser man would have lost his understanding of the difference between symbol and reality then, but Sándor refused this, and forced his understanding deeper.
Then he began to see all things as expressions of his power, and that each expression must fit into the patterns his mind cast. The world became patterns of the power, and events were beads the colors of emotions that made up these patterns. A break, an error, a failing in this pattern was almost painful to him.
Yet, the world being what it is, and not what we imagine it to be, these breaks in the patterns came often.
And so, the last stage: Sándor's life was one of finding a way to look at things—a way that allowed him to fit them into a pattern he could create, control, and manipulate. No longer painful, these discontinuities were challenges to his mind.
For one who would master the power of Faerie and not be mastered by it, there is no better way to look at the world. But, as with all things, there is a cost.
Sándor paid this cost gladly.
They passed the paintings on the walls of the upper corridor, and, as always, Sándor's eye was drawn to The Hand—reaching out for him, now as if to hold him, now as if to crush him, now as if t
o beckon. So simple, yet so perfect. And the stagnant pond, where there should have been no life, yet the potential, as it were, was captured beneath in the gentle disturbance on the surface where a stone had been thrown an instant before the moment the artist had chosen to portray. Ahead of him, he noticed László staring at the little statue, nearly crumbling to dust before their eyes, and almost sighed to himself. Always, with the Lászlós and the Viktors, it was the violence, the action, that appealed. But there was more power in the dark, stagnant pool than László could ever imagine. They began walking again at the same moment.
As they reached the audience chamber, Sándor forced his mind back to the problem at hand. "There is more at work here than I had thought," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I had thought that Prince Vilmos was being contrary or stubborn, and—"
"He isn't like that."
"Perhaps. But there is more to it than that. Whatever it is that prevents my powers from affecting this tree is also stopping Vilmos the only way he can be stopped—by sapping his will."
László considered this, then nodded. "I think you are right." Then, "The Northmen?"
Sándor shrugged. "How is their invasion attempt progressing?"
"It is all but over. Henrik led them over the southern border, where they met with an enemy they deserve. They are now fleeing from our land as fast as they can. Henrik is hounding them to be certain they do no damage on the way."
"In that case," said Sándor, "I don't think it is they. If a man is doing this, he must be at it almost constantly, and why continue to harass us after they have been defeated? Besides, how can they do with the power of Faerie what I cannot undo?"
"I don't know," said the King. "I know nothing of these matters. If not the Northmen, however, then who?"
"Or what," said Sándor.
"What do you mean?"
"I am not certain. But I find it hard to believe that there is anyone who can do this. To use the power in such a way as to influence a man as strongly as Vilmos has been influenced is no easy task. And to create a thing that cannot even be affected by the power is beyond my comprehension—if it is the power of Faerie that is being used."
"Go on," said the King.