by Steven Brust
Raising his hand, he stared at the hilt of the sabre at the guard's belt. At first, it seemed that his right forefinger was joined to the hilt by a single strand, thin as a spider's web. But then the strand became a string, then a cord, then a rope. Miklós began to pull, and the sabre slid freely out of the guard's sheath.
At that instant, however, the door burst open and two more guards stood in the doorway. Miklós's concentration was broken and the sabre fell to the floor. No one moved for a moment, then the guard picked up his sword, staring wide-eyed at Miklós as he did so.
The Prince composed himself to begin again, this time to take it forcibly from the guard's hand. But Bölk spoke then, saying, "It is not necessary, master."
Miklós turned to him. "What?"
"You need not."
"Why?"
"Because," said Bölk, and he reared back. The rope holding his head broke as if it were the thinnest twine. He reared again, the ropes holding his legs stretched, frayed, and snapped. Bölk shook his head, and rope fragments fell from him, lying on the ground like dead snakes.
"The more tightly I am bound," said Bölk, "the harder I am to contain."
The guards backed out of the stable, turning to run the last few steps. Miklós nodded.
"I think I will speak to my brother now. There is no call for him to have done this."
"Perhaps not, master. But neither is there reason for you to speak to him about it."
"Why not?"
"If for no other reason, because it was not his doing. It was the wizard."
"Sándor!"
"Yes. He took ill many of the things I said to the King, and—"
"Said to the King? What did you say to the King?"
"Things not to his liking, I think. I asked him to justify his reliance upon the Demon Goddess."
"But—very well, then. I will have a word with Sándor."
"Will you, master? What sort of word?"
"One he will not soon forget!"
"I think you plan to attack him."
Miklós hesitated. "And if I do?"
"Then I am curious, master. With what weapon?"
"I—" Miklós frowned. Then he said, "You are the one who spoke of attacking. I only said I would speak to him."
"It is foolish to speak to an enemy without a weapon to hand, master."
"Then you think I should do nothing?"
"Master, never in the long, long years of my existence have I counseled anyone to do nothing. I merely question what it is that you plan to do, and why."
"Why? Because he had no right to bind you!"
"Because I am your horse?" There was, perhaps, the least trace of irony in Bölk's voice as he said this.
Miklós snorted. "From which I am to conclude that no, you are no one's, right? In that case, why do you keep calling me master? And even if you are not mine, he doesn't know that. And don't claim that you can take care of yourself. You didn't. If there was a reason why you didn't, you'll have to explain it to me."
Bölk was silent for a while, then he nodded. "You grow, young master. I am pleased. For now, I only say that no good will be done by a confrontation with the wizard on my behalf, and I ask you not to start one."
Miklós chewed his lower lip. "Very well."
"Good. Now, did you have a question to ask me when you came in here?"
"Heh. Many."
"Start with the first then."
"What is it that is growing in my room?"
"What does it look like?"
"A tree. What do you think it is?"
"To be honest, master, I can't manage even to guess. Tell me about it."
"It is strong, so that Viktor could not scratch it with his sword. Vilmos could not gather the will to pull its roots out. Sándor could not harm it with the power of Faerie. Brigitta thinks it is beautiful."
Bölk considered this. "Brigitta thinks it is beautiful, you say?"
"So she has told me."
"Then it is. Brigitta is not likely to be wrong about something like that. But you don't find it beautiful?"
"Two days ago I spoke to you about not feeling something, when I think I ought to."
"Ah! You think you should see beauty in it, but you don't. Is that it, master?"
"Well—"
"Yes?"
"The last time I looked at it, for a moment… I don't know, Bölk."
"I don't understand this thing, master. It is important, somehow, but it escapes me. I mislike this."
"It is evil, though. Isn't it? I know Brigitta thinks it beautiful, but a thing may be both evil and beautiful, may it not?"
"Yes, indeed. I wish I could see this tree for myself."
"I also wish you could. But I can see no way to arrange it."
Bölk chuckled. "I wouldn't fit through the door." And he added, "Yet."
"What do you mean?"
"Pay no mind."
"Heh. All right, then. Since I cannot think of a way to make you smaller, I will return and study it some more."
"Tell me what you learn, master."
"Heh again. More likely you will tell me what I learn."
He walked back into the courtyard, blinked in the sunlight, and looked around. Several of the guards sent unreadable glances at him, but no one seemed to be looking for him. Strange. There had been plenty of time to have alerted László or Sándor. Was there some deception here? Had it not really been they who had given the orders? Or were they unconcerned with what he did? Or were they waiting?
They were probably waiting.
He walked past the idol and looked up at it. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the Demon Goddess was glaring at him. He shook his head.
Near the gate, a coach with four white horses stood ready. He saw a figure leaning against it, and the feather in the cap indicated Miska, the coachman. Miklós approached him.
"The Countess isn't leaving, is she?" he asked.
Miska smiled ironically and shook his head. "No. The Count is returning to his home to make preparations there."
"I see. Well, does this mean I am to get no more stories?"
The coachman looked at him carefully, his weathered face serious for a moment. "I don't think you want to hear any more stories, my Prince. If your horses will bear you to the end of yours, that will be enough. But I have something for you," he added, reaching under the seat of his coach. He pulled forth a bottle of pálinka, and handed it down to Miklós.
"Thank you, Miska."
The other nodded. "Think of me when you drink it."
Miklós stared at him. "Fare you well then, good coachman."
Miska smiled. "Fare you well, my garabonciás."
Miklós turned his back on the coach and entered the Palace. He stood for a moment just inside the door and ran his finger along a crack in the sandstone wall. The wall had been painted white, and the paint was new, but the jagged crack could not be painted over. In other spots, the sandstone had crumbled, rather than cracking, and Miklós could see depressions in the wall.
"Is there something wrong, my Prince?"
He turned, taking a moment to focus in on the guard—what was his name?—who stood at the door.
"No, nothing, Károly," he said at last. Then he added, "If Sándor or the King should be looking for me, tell them I am in my old chamber."
He watched Károly's reaction closely, but the guard only nodded. "Károly," he said then, "I am sorry about your hand." The other flushed, the color of his face nearly matching his uniform.
Just as Miklós had said, he went to his old chamber and stepped past the curtained entrance. The tree had grown again. Now it was touching three walls; only on the wall with the bed was there a little space left. And now, everywhere that it touched a wall, the leaves seemed to curl backward, as if the tree were bracing itself to push. The ceiling had certainly stopped the upward growth, yet as Miklós looked closely, he saw nothing that made him think the tree was exerting pressure.
He sat down on the floor of the chamber
and stared up at the tree. He thought once again to try to see beauty in it, if for no other reason than to have more to say to Brigitta, whom he seemed unable to get out of his mind.
Yet other thoughts intruded. The change in László—could he really trust it? The wizard—what of his offer? And more than these, the strange feeling that had come to him in the stable, flooded with the power, alive in a way he had never been alive before. It had felt so strange…
On impulse, he tried something he had never done before. He relaxed in his seated position against the wall, took a deep breath, and opened the Pathway just a little. The Power came to him, as slowly as he wished, but he did nothing with it. He held it inside himself, and let it build.
He felt as if he were glowing. Tiny lines seemed to run across his eyes, and he seemed to be floating. He stopped the flow from the Source and concentrated on holding the energy within himself. He discovered that his eyes were closed and he opened them.
The air around him shimmered. Were there more lines, running through the room, around the tree, through the window, to the doorway? Were they real or imaginary? He discovered that he could allow himself to see them or not, and a kind of euphoria came over him. Yes, everything was connected—he could see that now. He saw the joining of tree to floor, and realized that it was not a wrongness, but a necessity. Yes. Everything was as it was because it must be that way. The levels of connection between himself and his world were breathtaking. And all of it so easily controlled. Just a tap here, or a nudge there, and—was this what Sándor was offering him? His heart beat faster. That felt wrong so he ordered it to slow down, and giggled when it did.
"Hello? Who is there?"
He looked up and saw Brigitta. She was wrapped in light of the purest green, and shimmered with it. He saw that he loved her, and the revelation was almost painful in its intensity.
She was looking at him oddly. "Are you all right?"
"Yes," he said, finding he could answer. But why did she need to ask? Couldn't she see him as clearly as he could see her? No, of course not. But she stood out so sharply. And he saw that yes, she could come to love him, too. She looked down on him with an expression of puzzlement, but why did she try to conceal her feelings, when with each little motion of her limbs, each crease in her forehead, each minute adjustment of her position, she shouted them to him. I trust you, Miklós, she was saying, and it scares me. I don't want to love you. It scares me more.
Even this wasn't as surprising as the realization that she had been saying these things to him—shouting them—ever since she had met him by the oak. He had been blind. Why? What did it mean? They were part of the same world, the same universe, the same life. That was important. He had never before realized how important it was. It was—
"Miklós, you should sleep now."
He stared into her deep, deep, brown eyes. Even as he looked he saw her melt, and wanted to laugh with the pure joy of it. She cared for him so much. So very, very much. But how could he let her know?
"Sleep, Miklós."
That was the answer. She wanted him to sleep. He would show how much he cared for her by sleeping. He closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. He felt, with a bit of sadness, the Power drain out of him, then oblivion.
* * * *
"Good afternoon, Prince Miklós."
He looked around, finding himself stretched out on the floor of his old chamber. "Good afternoon, Brigitta."
She looked at him without expression—without acknowledging the experience they had shared. "What are you doing here?"
But had they shared it? Had it been a dream? It was gone now, save for the memories. But he did have the memories, and they were real. Real. What was real? He cleared his throat and answered her question. "Looking for beauty, Brigitta. I have found it."
She smiled a little sadly and shook her head. "But you still see none in the tree, my Prince."
The tree? How could she bring up the tree at a time like—but of course, she couldn't know. He glanced at it, noticing for the first time how much it resembled the fountain outside, when that had worked. The frondlike boughs and leaves erupted from the center and almost sprayed down around it on all sides in a splash of green, brushing the floor like spray at the fountain's base. He turned back and answered her question. "Only where it reminds me of you, Princess."
She laughed a little. "Where did you learn such sweet talk, Prince Miklós? You didn't seem to know it even yesterday."
"I don't know," said Miklós. "Perhaps Bölk taught me without my knowing it. Most of what he teaches me I don't know I've learned until I use it."
She nodded. "In any case, I am not a Princess."
"You are my Princess."
She looked back at the tree, as if to say that it, not her, should be the object of his attention and affection.
"Brigitta," he said at length. "Don't you understand that this tree may pull the whole Palace apart if it keeps growing?"
"It hasn't done any damage yet, has it? Save a few cracks in the flooring."
"That is only a start. László—I mean, the King—tells me that the Goddess has said it would happen."
Brigitta still stared at the tree's crown where it rubbed the ceiling. "I have only been here a short time, Prince Miklós. The Palace means little to me."
"It means a great deal to me."
She looked at him suddenly. "Why?"
"Eh? I've lived here all my life."
"Yes? And? Go on."
He considered carefully. "There have been many happy times here."
"I believe that, Prince Miklós. But happy times may occur anywhere. Why is the Palace important?"
"It has sheltered us."
"Any house would have done as much."
"And therefore, any house would mean something to me. This happens to be the one I've known. And you cannot deny that there is beauty here."
Brigitta made a show of looking around the dim, plain room, with dust covering faded pictures.
Miklós flushed. "I didn't mean this room in particular."
"Then what?"
"Well, the gardens, the—"
"Those are outside."
"All right, the furnishings in the—"
"Furnishings. You could have them anywhere."
Miklós glared at her. Then he said, biting out the words, "The other day, I was noticing the shape of the archways in the Great Hall. I think they are very attractive."
Brigitta nodded. "So. The Palace means so much to you because of the archways in the Great Hall."
"There are things other than beauty, you know!" Miklós found that he was almost shouting.
"I know that very well," she said. "You are the one who said the beauty of the Palace appealed to you. But tell me, if not appearance, what makes it so important to you?"
"It has kept my family safe for a thousand years."
Brigitta remained unruffled. "Not this Palace. Other buildings on this spot, perhaps. But we are not discussing other buildings."
"All right. Four hundred years then."
She nodded. "A long time. One should respect any structure that has stood for four hundred years. Where I come from, near the Wandering Forest, there are few trees that are four hundred years old. Most of them rot before then. We are sorry when such an old tree falls, but we make no effort to prop it up. That would be foolish."
Miklós continued glaring at her. "So. We should let the Palace fall like an old tree, just so a real tree, which you happen to find appealing, can be allowed to grow. Is that it?"
"I didn't say so. I merely pointed out—"
"I know you didn't say. You've been picking holes in what I say without giving anything in answer."
Brigitta frowned. "Yes, I suppose I have. I'm sorry."
"Heh," said Miklós.
Her lips were suddenly pressed tightly together. Miklós involuntarily took a step backward. "Very well, then," she snapped. "What if I say that this tree isn't a threat to the Palace, it is salvation to
those who live here? What then?"
Miklós stared. "You can't be serious."
"I am quite serious, my Prince."
"Stop calling me that!"
This time it was Brigitta who took a step backward. "I'm sorry. I… what should I call you?"
"How about Miklós? That is my name. If you feel about me as I feel about you, you might even call me Miki."
"How is it you—? No, don't answer. Very well—Miklós."
He cursed under his breath. You've ruined it now, idiot! Then he said, in a calmer voice. "All right, Brigitta. Can you tell me how, in the name of the Demon Goddess, the tree is our salvation?"
In an instant, the expression on her face changed. For the first time since Miklós had known her, Brigitta looked miserable. She seemed close to tears. He had a great urge to take her in his arms, but he somehow knew that she wouldn't want him to. Very softly, she said, "No, Miki. I don't know how I know. I'm just sure of it. I wish by all the ancient gods of our ancestors that I did know. I've been certain of it since I saw it. I think Vilmos feels the same way. But he doesn't know why either."
Miklós slumped against the back wall. "By the River from Faerie," he said softly.
"Perhaps," she said hesitantly, "we should speak to Bölk."
Miklós nodded. "Yes. But not now. I want to think about this."
He went over and sat on his bed, fighting his way past part of the tree's leaf wall. It was the first time he had touched the bed in more than two years, and it felt surprisingly soft, almost too soft. He leaned against the wall and crossed his legs. Brigitta, in her turn, leaned against the wall where she stood, shutting her eyes.
Miklós cleared his throat. She opened her eyes, looking at him bleakly.
"What else do you know?" he asked. She shook her head. "Do you have any idea of what this tree—" he gestured at it with his head "—is going to save us from?"
"Not—not really," she said softly.
"What does that mean?"
"Since I saw that tree, I've been having nightmares."
"Nightmares? And you still think the tree is somehow good?"
"Please, Miki. In the dreams, I see a face. Always the same face. It isn't anyone I know. Sometimes she is angry, and I'm frightened of her. Sometimes she is laughing at me. Sometimes she just watches me."