by Steven Brust
There was no sensation of movement, but he could still hear crumbling and falling from outside of this—what was it? Best not to know. He didn't ever want to know.
He cleared his throat to make sure his voice wouldn't crack when he spoke then said, "Miklós."
His brother looked up and seemed startled that he was on his feet. László tossed him the hilt of Állam. Miklós caught it, then set it down. László said, "This is yours now. Do as you will with it."
He stepped over to the green, wavering wall and was not surprised that he was able to step through it. He was not surprised to find that he was falling—in the open air, in daylight, in the real world of courtyard and crumbling walls.
He felt his ankle twist when he struck the ground and looked up in time to see some of the delicate tracings on the carved sandstone block that killed him.
* * * *
Brigitta took a step over to Miklós. He took her hand.
"I think he's dead," he said.
"László?"
"Yes. I felt it."
"I'm sorry."
Miklós held her hand to his cheek and pressed.
She said, "What are you going to do with that?"
He looked up and saw that she was looking at the hilt of Állam. "I don't know. Do you have any ideas? Bury it, maybe?"
She shook her head. "Use it. It is a useful symbol for now. Its power is broken, and I imagine it will rust away soon, but it isn't worthless yet."
"All right," said Miklós. He realized that he felt too numb to argue about anything. It was good that someone could make a decision for him. "Did you see Vilmos? He seems better somehow."
"Better?" She said, turning to look. When she turned back, there was puzzlement on her face. "You're right. I don't understand it; he was dying. I must go to him."
Miklós nodded. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and studied the jewels on the hilt. Some of the sapphires on it were missing; they'd probably never be found. Unimportant, yet sad.
He glanced around the room once more. Vilmos sat up, even as Brigitta knelt down next to him. Then Miklós saw Andor and his eyes narrowed. He stood up quickly.
* * * *
Why is there no pain?
Andor studied the place he was in. This is what I've been searching for, said one part of him. But the other part stared at the bandages where his right hand used to be. Why is there no pain?
Maimed, by the Goddess! And now—a one-handed Prince? Doing what? He looked at those around him and felt a peculiar pride. He had done something, this time. Whatever else anyone could say about him, this time he had acted. There was that side to his wound, too. No one could ever look at him again without knowing that he had helped to save his brother's life.
It was a strange and oddly pleasing feeling. And there was no doubt in his mind that, if he'd been whole, he could have enjoyed it. He stretched both arms out in front of him. The bandages made them almost the same length. Why was there no pain? Never mind. Accept it; it probably wouldn't last.
Nothing of this moment would last, he realized.
He had taken his stand and done his part. From now on, he would be a useless fixture around the Palace. And with every passing year, his one useful deed would get smaller and smaller. Eventually he would return to being the parasite—now he could face it—that he had been up until now.
But now he could not go back to that.
He looked to where László had gone and suddenly understood his oldest brother. Andor's mind ran through all he had said and done since Miklós's return from Faerie, and his stomach actually churned with self-disgust.
But only two steps away from him was a wall of green. He knew that he could follow László through. He knew that death awaited him when he did. He had always wanted to be like László, he thought ironically.
For the one moment that resolve was strong in him, he stood, faced the wall, and stepped forward.
* * * *
The transition from lethargic to energetic was almost enough to shock Miklós back to lethargy. But, the crisis upon him, he knew enough to act at once.
Andor had just begun his second step, the one that would take him into the wall, when Miklós reached him. He took both of his brothers' shoulders in his hands, dropping Állam along the way, and wrenched him backward. "No!"
Andor fell back and stared at him, unmoving. His eyes were dead, and his expression one of puzzlement. "Why did you stop me, Miki?" he asked in the tones of a hurt child.
"Because we need you, Andor."
The other blinked. "For what?"
Miklós clutched him desperately, as if Andor might still tear free and throw himself outside. "Just to be. We love you. You're our brother. We have already lost one brother, we can't lose you, too. Please!"
Andor shook his head. "But what will I do?"
Miklós, somehow, understood the question. "I don't know, Andor. But it will be something useful, and it will make you happy. I promise you. I can't know what it. is yet, but there will be something."
Andor didn't seem convinced, but after a moment he nodded and said, "All right. I'll try. Thank you, Miki. I love you." Miklós buried his head in his brother's chest.
* * * *
Vilmos took great gulps of air into his lungs and almost laughed for the sheer joy of it. He looked at Brigitta and matched her smile with his grin.
"I thought you were dying," she said.
"Ha!"
"How do you feel?"
"Weak," he admitted. "But good. There is no pain. I think I could lift—"
The sounds from around him. The place they were in. The tree. It was protecting them. It was protecting them from the Palace that was falling into pieces. All of it. Collapsing.
With a cry he sprang fully to his feet. He dimly heard Brigitta and Miklós calling to him, but he had no time for that. The wall before him was either solid or it was not, he couldn't tell, but there was no time to find out. He crashed through it, and wasn't really aware that it let him pass easily.
He landed in the courtyard and paid no attention to the maelstrom around him. He felt things brushing him, like leaves falling from a tree, and noted absently that they were boards, blocks, and beams from the Palace. He brushed them off.
He knew at once where the hole in the flooring was, but it was covered by rubble. That meant—no, he wouldn't think about it. The floor he stood on seemed to be bending from the weight of wood and stone falling on it, but he wouldn't think of that, either.
For a time his mind went blank. When he could think again, he stood by the hole down to the cellar, which was now cleared of blockage.
Then he was down it.
Anya and Atya chittered angrily at him and looked nervously above them as the bending planks from the ceiling slowly crushed the cage. There was no longer room for them to stand. Csecsemő and Húga crouched fearfully in the one end of their cage that hadn't been flattened.
Then Vilmos saw why they had not yet been crushed: the tree roots—the very roots that he had chosen not to remove—had stretched out and covered them, protected them.
Vilmos had no time to feel relief. The roots were giving way before the awesome weight pressing down on them. Even as he watched, the ceiling collapsed a little more. He crouched down until he was under it, then bent his head so the ceiling rested on his shoulders, neck, and head. Then he pushed up.
Never, in all his years, had anything been so heavy. Vilmos had never tested his strength, so he had no knowledge of its limits; the ceiling was heavier than he had ever imagined anything could be.
It fell another notch, and Vilmos saw rather than felt his knees bend. Csecsemő emitted a cry that was either terror or pain. Vilmos felt rage build up in him, and for the first time he understood how poor László must have felt those times when his eyes had become so fiery, and his mouth had twisted into a snarl.
The giant's fury was as red as his wounds that opened anew as he strained. A meaningless growl came from his throat as he demande
d more of his body than he ever had before.
And, for just a moment, the ceiling lifted perhaps an inch.
He had left his arms free, and he faced the cages. He snatched them both with one hand to leave the other free to help him climb. He huddled down as the ceiling settled again. As he turned to run, he saw something white lying on the ground and, without thinking, picked it up and put it into his pocket.
He gave himself no chance to feel weakness, relief, or joy for his victory, however. He dashed to the hole in the floor. More rubble had fallen through it, so that now when he stood on it, his waist reached up to the bending, cracking floor. He leapt up onto it, almost lost his balance, and began running. He kept his body bent over the cages to shield them.
For the first time he looked up.
His eyes and his mind refused to grasp what he saw.
The air was filled with more collapsing stone and wood than Vilmos had thought the Palace could ever hold. And in the center was a whirlwind of green dust with lightning flashing from it. He could recognize no part of the Palace that he saw, except that, straight ahead of him, ran a circular stairway that had once led up to the Great Hall.
It seemed impossible that it still stood, almost as if someone or something were providing him a way of safety where otherwise there would be none. Yet was it true safety? It seemed so fragile. Even as he watched it shook and nearly fell.
And, to confound the impossibilities, the air was becoming even more filled with blocks of stone and with beams—as if the Palace had eaten these things over hundreds of years and was now disgorging them. They were becoming larger and heavier, too, and he knew that even he would not live if one of those fell on him.
There was no choice then.
But, just before he began to run, he saw Mariska, standing amid the falling ruins, staring at the heart of what had once been the Palace.
"Come, Countess," he said. "You'll be killed."
"No I won't," she said, as if she were saying, "I don't care." Then she saw that he held the norska, and for a moment almost smiled. "Bring them to safety, Vilmos. Hurry."
"But you—"
"I will be fine, my friend. Or I won't. Go."
"I—" As he stopped and turned to go once more, he realized what it was that he had picked up. Then, quickly, he set the cages down and dug into his pocket. "Here, lady," he said, handing it to her. "Here is your fan."
Then he sprinted to the stairway, hoping it would hold his weight, and started up.
* * * *
For what seemed an eternity, Miklós stared at the spot in the wall where Vilmos had stepped through. Andor, next to him, rose to his feet and touched the wall. Then he turned away and walked back to the middle of the room. Brigitta touched Miklós's arm.
I will know it if he dies. I will feel it. I felt it with László, I will feel it with Vili. I know I will.
He held himself together in the same way one holds one's breath—with tension. He found that he had clenched his hands into fists.
His eye was drawn to another part of room, then, as Viktor stood up, still holding a sabre, and began walking toward him. Brigitta tensed at his side.
* * * *
Viktor's hate was cold—almost passionless.
Something—he didn't know what—had happened to destroy all of his hopes, plans, and dreams. He could see no cause, but the feeling was unmistakable. Everything was different now. The notion of somehow removing László was now laughable; László himself was laughable. They were all laughable. It was fitting that he had chosen to kill himself and pleasingly ironic that Vilmos had joined him. This left no one to protect Miklós, who had been behind it all from the very beginning.
And Miklós would be so pitifully easy to kill.
His eyes went to the stump of Andor's arm. So, László had accomplished that much at least. On the floor between Andor and Miklós lay the hilt of Állam, and, seeing it, Viktor paused for a moment. What could have broken the sword? He almost went over to pick it up, but first things first.
He looked into Miklós's eyes, but the fear he had seen there earlier was gone, leaving only a tired resignation. Not what he would have wanted, but it would do.
He raised his sword. Brigitta stepped into the way. How sweet. He chuckled, then chuckled again as Miklós pushed her out of the way. Perhaps he should hold his stroke until they came to blows, and let them both die remembering that.
Something caught his eye, just past Miklós. He squinted, and realized that half of a small cage had pushed its way through the wall. A cage? And another one. And in them were norska.
Vilmos?
Vilmos.
The giant stumbled rather than walked into the room, tattered and bleeding, his eyes vacant. Cold sweat broke out on Viktor's forehead. He had almost had Miklós, too. But there was no way to defeat Vilmos; he could see that now.
The giant set the cages down, then bent over, not appearing to notice that his brother was about to lose his life, and held his knees, gasping.
Thank you, Goddess who is no more! A better chance there could never be!
He shifted his direction, and, with all the speed of which he was capable, struck down at the exposed neck.
Miklós cried, "Vilmos!" in a pleasingly agonized tone, but Viktor knew it was too late. The giant looked up and caught Viktor's eye just as the blade struck his neck.
A sensation passed through the captain's arm that was nearly identical to what he'd felt when striking at the root. His blade bounded back, and Vilmos straightened up. He looked at Viktor for a moment, then slowly reached out his hand.
It can't be! He knew he should move, throw himself through the wall and trust to luck, but he couldn't summon the will to move.
Vilmos's hand closed around his throat. He felt it constrict, then twist. He heard a cracking sound and wondered if, by a miracle, the giant's wrist had broken.
* * * *
Miklós stepped over Viktor's body as if it were a lump in a carpet. There had been too much grief and joy intermixed for him to comprehend any of it anymore, and he felt that it still wasn't over. He could only act as the situation called for and try to understand it when it was over—if he were still alive then.
He helped Vilmos to lie down. The giant looked at Viktor sadly, then shook his head. He stretched out, then, mumbling incoherently, pointed at the cages. Miklós nodded and, finding the catches, opened the doors. All four norska slipped out, the small one limping slightly. They clustered around Vilmos's face, nuzzling him, and a certain measure of joy for his brother penetrated the haze through which Miklós walked.
Brigitta knelt at the giant's head and began, once more, to treat his wounds.
* * * *
Sándor continued watching through his almost—closed eyes—a trick he had learned early in the Palace. So. László was dead, Viktor was dead, Vilmos was invulnerable. That last was interesting; the legends of the heirs of Fenarr might have that much truth in them.
And what about the staff? Well, well, there was much to think of here. But first, he must find a place where he could feel secure. This wasn't it, certainly. There were too many conflicting patterns here; the destruction of the Palace, the battles among the brothers, and the staff all created too much confusion.
This would be a day to remember, all right. That in itself was pleasing. There had been fewer and fewer of those as the years wore on, and to think of being around for the destruction of the Palace itself! This would certainly make a fine story someday to amuse and delight the great-great grandson of this young Miklós, who had bungled his way to the cleanest usurpation of a throne Sándor could imagine.
He chuckled to himself. Enough of this, anyway; it was time to be leaving. He opened his eyes fully and stood up. Miklós, seeing the motion, turned to him.
"What now, wizard?"
Sándor shrugged. "I must be leaving. If you wish, I will be at your service after I've settled down a bit."
"No," said Miklós slowly, "I do not believe
that will be necessary. I think this kingdom does not require the power of Faerie any more."
"As you wish." Young idiot! In a week he would be begging for help to handle the settling in of his rule. But Kings will be Kings, and young Kings will be young Kings. "I will be leaving you, then," he said.
He stepped through the wall at his back and called for the power. He looked down, and was instantly saddened to see the broken body of Rezső lying in the ruins next to the cursed river.
He realized that he was falling. Tch! Mustn't get overconfident now, Alfredo. He demanded the power to support his flight, and considered where to go.
He was still considering when he hit the water. The icy chill of the River struck him, and he felt water rush into his mouth and his lungs.
This is absurd, he thought, calling for power to propel himself to the surface.
Only then did he become aware of something big and powerful between him and the source. The next thing he realized was that his lungs were bursting. He felt his feet touch the ground at the bottom of the River, and he knew panic for the first time in more than a hundred years.
Panic was the last thing he knew.
* * * *
Miklós watched the wizard vanish, he shrugged and turned away. Brigitta was tending Vilmos, and the giant, though his breathing was labored, seemed to be doing well enough. Or, at least, Brigitta did not seem to be worried. Andor was in a corner, staring at the staff.
Miklós went over to him. "What do you see, brother?"
Andor stared at him, wide-eyed. "Bölk. He says that Sándor is dead."
"Indeed?" said Miklós smiling. "Well, I'm not surprised. I—wait, you understood him?"
"Yes! I don't believe it!"
Miklós found himself smiling, though he would have had trouble explaining exactly why.
* * * *
Mariska pulled on the reins of the horse she'd taken from the Palace stables, turning it away from the smoke she could see billowing up from the Palace.
So, László had had his way and burned down the tree and the Palace with it. Who had lived and who had died? Would Vilmos and the norska survive? Somehow she thought they would. At least, they would share the same fate.