by Steven Brust
In what was, by all reasonable reckoning, the same instant, it ended for those in the Palace, whether Guinn the jailer, fighting a futile battle against death from the wounds Mario had inflicted when he rescued Aliera; or Brudik, Lord of the Chimes, staring in horror at His fallen Majesty; or Noima, the Consort, not knowing that the sudden sorrow filling her was because of her husband’s death and still, perhaps, weaving her schemes; or Jurabin, alone in the Seven Room, wondering if he had fallen forever out of favor; or Thack, wondering if he were on his way to earning a promotion from his revered Captain and thinking, perhaps, that there was a certain warmth; or Sergeant, standing helplessly among the courtiers wishing someone would tell him his duty; or Ingera, Lord of the Keys, resting quietly while awaiting the hour when duty would call her again, and idly wondering whether the uprising represented any real danger; or Dimma, on his knees, weeping bitterly and realizing that he, too, had loved Tortaalik, for all his faults; or Erna, planning ways to convince His Majesty to restore funds to the Institute of Discretion; or Bellor, in the Imperial prisons, speculating on her ultimate fate; or Vintner, reading quietly in the Lyorn Wing and wondering what the Council of Princes would ultimately decide about the Imperial Allotment.
As the Palace was devoured, so, then, was the city. Raf, the pastry-vendor, died hiding from the upheavals he did not understand and hoping his new home would be safe; Cariss, the Jhereg sorceress, fingering the bill she held on the Jhereg treasury as she felt the effect of Mario’s spell and wondering, but never knowing, why he had wanted it; Tukko, at the Hammerhead Inn, wondering if the Captain needed the horses in connection with the uprising or with the battle; Wensil, in the Silver Shadow, hastily putting boards up in front of his beloved glass window in hopes of preserving it; Tibrock, at the University of Pamlar in Dragaera, attempting to find the words that would convince His Majesty to receive another delegation from the people; the Count of Tree-by-the-Sea and the Baroness of Clover, together on his wide bed in the Dzur Wing, she wondering if she would see him again, he wondering how to go about learning from her the whereabouts of the Baroness of Newhouse, to whom he found himself attracted.
In a flash, in an instant, all were gone, as was the Palace, and all of the landmarks and buildings by which the city was known and for which it was loved, as well as those others, all but unknown, yet landmarks in their own way—the Silver Exchange, the Nine Bridges Canal, Pamlar University, the nameless cabaret in the Underside where Lord Garland had conspired with his daughter, the equally nameless inn where, upon entering the Guard five hundred years before, Khaavren had killed a man named Frai. All of these were now gone forever, preserved only in the memories of those who had seen them, or in such works of art as happened to depict them—of all the buildings and artifacts by which the city was known, only the Orb itself was preserved.
Yes, indeed, the Orb, as every child knows, reached the Paths of the Dead; inert, quiescent, and useless except in potential; but it survived.
The same, in fact, might be said of Aliera, for she, too, reached the Paths of the Dead, only not, as Sethra had intended, as a living woman, able to return. In concentrating her powers on sending Aliera after the Orb (thinking that this would ensure at least one potential Emperor of the Dragon Line, which she had thought would immediately take the throne), Sethra had only managed to bring Aliera’s body; Aliera’s life-essence, or soul, was ripped from her body in the maelstrom of elder sorcery which was even then beginning to cascade through the city, and her soul found its way no one knew where. Indeed, Sethra herself thought for many years that it had never escaped the fall, but had been destroyed along with so many others. It is not impossible that the belief that she had failed accounts for Sethra’s vanishing from human intercourse, if, indeed, she has not met her fate in some awful battle or tragic mischance.
We now know that Aliera’s soul survived, but was lost to all knowledge until a time that exceeds the scope of this history.
Aliera’s soul survived, but so many others, as we have shown, did not. Yet, what of those who, thanks to distance from the city, survived the first catastrophic effects, yet could not survive the following moments? For, indeed, most of the city was consumed in an instant, but after this instant, the effects of the spell spread at blinding speed: The dwellers in the small communities that existed outside of the walls of the city (or, at any rate, those to the north and west) heard a low, continuous rumble which brought them from their homes in time to hear the rumble become louder and louder, and to see a great red and black cloud descend on them in the drawing of a breath, and then—oblivion.
Others, further away, had time to run, but not to escape. Indeed, no one who was closer to the site of the explosion than five leagues survived; but there can be no doubt that many who were closer had time to realize their fate, to run helplessly, or to grasp their children to their bosoms and cry to the heedless Gods. Of the following days, weeks, and years of the plagues, the invasions, the starvation, this history will not speak; but of all of the facets of the Disaster, none captures the horror so well as the consideration of those in the floating castles of the e’Drien line of the House of the Dragon. The reader, then, is invited to think of those proud Dragonlords, masters of their particular (although, perhaps, decadent) sorcery, who, upon realizing that, inexplicably, the Orb had vanished from awareness, then realized that sorcery had abruptly become useless, and then that they were falling.
The magnitude of horror accompanying the Disaster is such that it seems almost profane to give more than passing reference to that upon which we have concentrated—that is, to Sethra’s ironic success. The irony to which we have just made reference, and which consists, as much as in the backdrop of horror against which it occurred, in the Enchantress’s conviction of failure, is augmented when we consider that the assassin, Mario, through no one’s planning, even his own, was caught in the spell, and thus he, too, was teleported. No one knows where he went either, but many believe that he, body and soul, arrived in the same place as Aliera’s soul—arrived bewildered, perhaps without his memories, but alive. It is believed by many, especially among the Jhereg, that he still lives, practicing his grim trade and always searching for the one woman he ever loved, Aliera e’Kieron, daughter of the man who brought down the Dragaeran Empire.
What could be more ironic, yet what could be more beautiful? The cruel assassin, who, as much as Adron himself, was responsible for the Disaster, saved himself, by accident, because of his overwhelming love for Aliera—the very love that caused him to commit the act which, conjoined with Adron’s, destroyed a city and an Empire.
If Aliera and Mario ever found each other again after the disaster, no one knows of it, and we will not demean ourselves by indulging in speculation. But, yes, Aliera and Mario, Srahi and Mica, Daro and Khaavren had all, amid catastrophe, found love which endured the fall of the Empire. In the opinion of the historian, this is no small matter.
The greatest evil, the greatest heroism, the greatest disaster, the greatest triumph, the greatest horror, the greatest love—what could better summarize, and bring to a close, the history we have had the honor to humbly lay before the reader?
Conclusion
HAVING SAID, AND WITH THE best of intentions, that we have finished our history, we find that we cannot in good conscience leave the reader without letting him know something of the fate of those with whom he has traveled so far, it is our opinion, moreover, that dramatic effect must necessarily take its proper place behind justice—whether justice to the accused and accuser at court, or justice to the reader of history; and those to whom we have gone for counsel and advice have convinced us that justice absolutely forbids such an abrupt ending as we had at first contemplated.
Let us, then, wasting none of the reader’s valuable time with further explanation, bring ourselves to Aerich’s home of Brachington’s Moor, where, several hours after the events we have just related, we find Aerich prostrate amid a grove of trees; we find him, in fact, frowning at a
certain confusion in his mind, as if the sight before him—a lush green meadow, a pond, and certain familiar formations of vegetation, were at once expected and surprising.
After some few minutes, the reason for his confusion became apparent to him: He had, in his last conscious moment, been thinking of nothing else but this, his home, and wishing fervently to be there; yet he could not imagine how such a thing had come to pass. But we have failed utterly in our depiction of the character of our Lyorn if we have allowed the reader to believe that he was the sort to doubt the evidence of his own senses; that is, Aerich realized that he was home, and accepted it at once, resolving to put off until another time consideration of how it had happened.
He sat up slowly, feeling a certain lassitude coupled with disorientation, and looked around. Khaavren lay next to him, his eyes closed; Pel was just beyond, and appeared to be awakening, while Tazendra was already sitting up, although she did not seem entirely aware of her surroundings. Aerich caught her eye, and she said, “I am reminded strongly of the occasion some years ago when I caused an explosion while working with certain spells. Either I have done it again, and had a monstrous strange dream while doing so, or there has just taken place an event of no small importance and no few repercussions.”
“I do not think you have been dreaming,” said Aerich. “Although it is possible, for we have been unconscious for—” He paused in order to find the time, and realized that the Orb had vanished from his awareness. He said, “The Orb—”
“So I have noticed,” said Tazendra, and only then did Aerich notice that the Dzurlord appeared to be distraught, and was only with difficulty managing to speak in an even tone.
“Well,” said Aerich. “No doubt …” but he fell silent, frowning, and left his thought incomplete.
“We ought to bring our friend inside,” said Pel softly.
“Yes yes,” said Tazendra, springing to her feet as if delighted to be active. She assisted Aerich to rise, then Pel. The three of them then half-carried the ailing Khaavren into the manor. For his part, the worthy Captain said nothing except, “Daro,” which name he called or moaned once or twice as he was brought to bed, assisted by Steward and certain other servants, whom our unwillingness to introduce new characters at such a late stage of our history prevents us from giving the attention they perhaps merit. During this time Steward, who appeared disturbed, and, indeed, alarmed by the sudden disappearance of the Orb, as, in point of fact, was the case with everyone else, contrived to inform Aerich of all that had happened during his absence, none of which, we should add, requires our attention, for we have no reason to believe that the reader has any wish to learn about the “peasant’s duel” between Loch and Handsweight, which resulted in the former’s broken arm; nor the elegant lyorn the artisan Smith engraved into the hinges on the lower door; nor the number of fish caught by certain peasants in Aerich’s pond; nor the number of poachers apprehended by Warder who were now awaiting Aerich’s justice; nor the riot of miners in the Shovelful Market; nor any of the other details with which our Lyorn was forced to contend.
In the same way, we will not discuss Tazendra’s experiences when she returned to her estates except to say that she had rather less to contend with, and even less interest in contending with it, wherefore her sojourn was of only the briefest character; she came back to Bra-Moor within three hours after leaving.
Khaavren slept, although not well; he woke from time to time, sometimes calling for Daro, at other times speaking as will those who are delirious, the details of which remarks we will withhold out of respect for our brave Tiassa. Pel spent a great deal of time with him, as did Aerich when he was not attending to his estates; Tazendra, after returning from home, returned also to Khaavren’s bedside. From time to time, we should say, his eyes opened, but they rarely focused, although once he looked directly at Aerich and named him before falling asleep again.
The next morning’s dawn—that is to say, the dawn of the first day of the month of the Jhereg in the first year of the Interregnum—saw no improvement, and we may state with confidence that it was worry over Khaavren, and, indeed, over Mica, Fawnd, and Srahi (and, at least on Khaavren’s behalf, over Daro), that kept our friends from dwelling too much upon what had become of the Empire herself, although, to be sure, this was not a matter that could keep itself from their discourse. And yet, when the subject of the Emperor, or the Empire, or the Orb presented itself, they all of them shied away from it, as if each entertained thoughts he did not wish to express.
On the second day of the Interregnum, Khaavren awoke in truth, although only long enough to take a bit of soup and water brought by Steward and fed him by Aerich himself. After eating what he could, he slept again, and, awakening a second time late that night, said, “Daro?”
“She has not yet arrived, my dear,” said Pel, who now sat alone with Khaavren in the darkened room.
“Ah. Yet, no doubt she will,” said Khaavren in a quivering voice.
“No doubt,” said Pel. “No doubt she will. How are you feeling, my friend?”
But Khaavren was asleep once more. He was still asleep, and appeared pale and drawn, when, late the next morning, the three of them gathered again to discuss his condition, and to determine if, in the absence of a physicker, anything could be done.
“I am not,” remarked Tazendra, “especially skilled in the healing arts, yet, could I but reach the Orb, I do not doubt that I could be of some help to our poor friend.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Pel. “Nevertheless, we must not give up hope; no doubt the confusion will be resolved, and the new Emperor, whomever he may be, will put things in order quickly. Do you not agree, Aerich?”
“I do not know,” said Aerich. “Yester-day I should have agreed with you, and yet, I have never heard of an entire day passing with no sign of the Orb’s existence, much less three; but, if I am not mistaken, it is very nearly ninety hours since we were abruptly transported, or, if I may, teleported here.”
“That is true,” said Tazendra. “Nevertheless—but what is that?”
“Someone has arrived,” said Aerich, glancing at the door with an expression in which he could not conceal a certain degree of disquiet.
An instant later Steward, upon clapping, was admitted, and said, “Fawnd has returned.”
Aerich shrugged, meaning, “And was he alone?”
“There are two Teckla with him, one of whom is being carried on a sort of makeshift stretcher, for he appears to have left part of his leg behind him on his journey.”
Aerich shrugged once more, this time to indicate that they had made good time. Tazendra leapt to her feet and rushed down to greet her loyal servant, while Aerich and Pel remained by Khaavren’s bedside.
“I am pleased they survived,” said Pel.
Aerich nodded. “I have grown accustomed to Fawnd, and should have missed him; and Mica has become—dare I say it?—nearly a member of the family.”
“Do you know,” said Pel. “It is true—we are nearly a family. Is it not strange how our friendship has survived all of these years and trials?”
“Strange?” said Aerich. “Call it so, if you will.”
“And you? What would you call it?”
“Tell me, do you believe everything Tazendra says of herself?”
Pel laughed. “Not the least in the world, I assure you.”
“Well then, you must not believe everything you think of yourself, either.”
Pel frowned, and there was a glint of something like anger behind his eyes. “I do not understand the answer you have done me the honor to make.”
“Do you not?” said Aerich. “Well then, let us only say that we have this friendship that so sustains our spirits because, very simply, we have earned it.”
Whether Pel would have made any rejoinder to this observation we cannot say, because at that moment Tazendra entered the room, a wild look in her eyes, saying, “The Gods! The entire city is gone!”
Pel stood at once. “What is th
is you tell me?”
“I have it from Mica that not one stone is left standing upon another in Dragaera.”
“Impossible,” said Pel.
“They were, he tells me, overtaken by any number of people fleeing the downfall, and they all speak of catastrophe beyond imagination. Fawnd and Srahi,” she added, “agree with all he says.”
Pel and Aerich looked at one another, then said, “Let us go and interrogate them ourselves.”
“Pray,” said Khaavren weakly, “rather bring them here, so that I may listen, too.”
“My friend!” cried Aerich. “You are awake!”
“Well,” said Khaavren.
“How are you feeling?”
“If you please, let us hear this story.”
The three friends interrogated one another with looks, punctuated by one of Aerich’s most eloquent shrugs, after which, with no words needing to be spoken, they brought Mica’s bed up into Khaavren’s room along with Srahi and Fawnd, and they spoke for several hours, questioning each of the servants carefully. The scope of the disaster gradually unfolded before them in the second- and third-hand accounts taken from those with whom the Teckla had spoken. Mica spoke quietly, eschewing the bombastic style of oration he usually affected in imitation of his master; Srahi, when she added a detail or two, was more quiet than anyone had ever seen her, and Fawnd, though he spoke as always, appeared from his countenance to have been deeply shocked by what he had witnessed.
And, if this were not enough, from time to time, as they spoke, refugees would arrive to be given a meal and a place to sleep in one of the outbuildings, and Steward would convey their tales of woe as they arrived. Aerich made occasional sounds of sympathy, Tazendra would, from time to time, gasp in horror, and Pel would ask questions in his quiet voice—questions that, most often, had no answer. Khaavren spoke no word during this time, but seemed to sink deeper into his pillow.
