by Steven Brust
We must confess that we have nothing but admiration for the worthy Athyra: it was he, after all, who first identified the Five Parts of Literature, and who, moreover, took the first Chair in the great debate before His Imperial Majesty Fecila the Third over the ban on works of fiction proposed during the Eleventh Vallista Reign, with the result that a destruction of literary works that we shudder to contemplate was, in the end, avoided.
Nevertheless, upon this point, we must dispute him. It seems to us that, in any serious work, all of these classes are contained, and all the issues within them addressed; and if more or less emphasis is placed on one or the other in a certain work, this does not mean that the others are not present, by implication if not explicitly, in every work of literature that merits the name.
If we were to use our own humble effort as an example, we might say that our treatment of Tazendra could be considered ironic; whereas when we address ourselves to certain of the Teckla, such as Lar, we strive for the strictest realism; many of those persons who make their way through our history are, at least in the opinion of the author, admirable: Sethra Lavode, Aerich, and, we hope, many others.
Yet we have not, hitherto, dared to directly address the gods in this work. Indeed, we would not do so now, except that at this point our history absolutely requires it.
Therefore, we must ask our reader to permit us to take him to the very Halls of Judgment, where those beings who control, as best they can, the fate of our entire world sit and pass judgment, not only on all of those who come before them, but on all of the events that take place over which they exert, or attempt to exert, some measure of control.
While it is beneath our dignity as historian to plead excuses to the reader, we must, nevertheless, explain that to describe the Halls of Judgment is no easy task. In the first place, this is because there are few witnesses who have returned with such a description. In the second place, it is because the descriptions that do exist seldom agree. And in the last place, it is because the realm comes from the dreams of the gods themselves. The reader may consider the problem for himself: if the reader could dream and then make that dream real, and share that dream with a score of others who were making their own dreams real, and if some observer were to enter this place which was an intersection of all of these dreams, and if, moreover, the dream was constantly changing as new presences were added and removed, well, we beg liberty to doubt the reader's ability to precisely—or even meaningfully—describe the place he had visited.
This noted, however, we will say that, by all accounts, the Halls of Judgment were spacious. Let us say, then, that we observe a large open space, such as the Terraces of Finance behind the Silver Exchange in the old city of Dragaera. And like the Terraces of Finance, there is no ceiling, but neither is there the Enclouding of the Empire, nor the sparkling holes in the sky that are visible in the East; rather, there is simply naked, empty blue-black sky. There is no light of lamp or torch, nor is there the natural light of the Furnace; rather the Halls of judgment are perpetually in that state that comes just after twilight; one can see clearly enough, but one always wishes for just a little more light.
As for the gods, they sit upon "thrones" that are as diverse as their characters, to say nothing of their forms. They sit in a great circle—so great, indeed, that were the reader to stand directly before one and by turning his head look around, he could only barely see the one directly behind him. Yet, by the deep wizardry that is a part of the Halls of Judgment, three or four steps are all that is needed to be before the other, and he whom one had been addressing before would now appear to be an incalculable distance behind. The conclusion is inescapable: in this dream of place, distance has no meaning.
We have put this chapter here, interrupting Piro's arrival at Dzur Mountain, for two reasons: the first is that, insofar as we can judge, it was at just about this point in history that what follows actually occurred. But secondarily, it was to emphasize that time, as it applies to the Halls of Judgment, cannot be understood as the normal, orderly progression of moments where it is elsewhere experienced. From everything we know, at least this much is clear from those few who have entered the Halls of Judgment and returned to the normal world: a day spent in the Halls might be an hour outside of it; or it might be a year, or ten years. The conclusion is inescapable: in this dream of sequence, time has no meaning.
We have used the terms sorcery, and necromancy, and witchcraft, and wizardry, to refer to the different techniques of holding in abeyance natural law—or, to be more precise, temporarily substituting one set of natural laws for another. These different forms of magic are understood to different degrees, and, after the manner of all branches of science, the efforts to understand them more deeply never cease. To use is to learn, and to learn is to use better, and to use better is to learn more deeply. This is a continuing process, and one that gives meaning to the term progress (however much certain desert-born mystics might sneer at the word). Yet, in the timeless, placeless place that we call the Halls of Judgment, the realm of the gods, there are no natural laws, because all is a dream of the gods. And where there are no natural laws, there can be no abeyance of these laws. Where everything is possible, nothing is possible. Where all laws of magic and reality operate, no laws of magic and reality apply. The conclusion is inescapable: in this dream of truth, magic has no meaning.
Of course, this confusion of distance, time, and magic will make no difference to the residents of the Halls of Judgment, by which, be it clearly understood, we mean the gods; we are not at this time concerned with those poor souls who wear the purple robes and are the servants of all who pass beyond Deathgate Falls; nor with those who await judgment or rebirth; nor those who, like Kieron the Conqueror, have simply chosen to remain within the Paths for a time more or less protracted. As we look upon this scene, he who is, some believe, the most powerful of all the gods, that being Barlen, sits in a chair that appears to be a stone that has been chiseled to conform to his reptilian shape. Always near him are the Three Daughters of Darkness, who appear very nearly human, and whom we know as Verra, Moranthë, and Kéurana. Some say Verra, who is either the eldest or the youngest, is Barlen's lover; upon this subject the historian will not speculate. Others might be here as well: Ordwynac, the embodiment of fire; Nyssa, who most often appeared as a dim shape floating in the air, Tri'nagore, similar to Barlen, although larger and darker; Kelchor, the cat-centaur; Trout, supposed to be the wisest of gods.
All of these, and, perhaps, others, sit in a great circle, and communicate with each other by pure thought, thus eliminating, the reader should understand, the need for them to speak each other's languages, because many of them do speak different languages, and some, such as Ordwynac, are believed to have no means to speak at all (a proposition which, frankly, this historian finds dubious, if not impossible).
As we listen in on this conversation, there are questions that, no doubt, will at once occur to the reader First, the reader will be curious as to how we will reproduce thoughts from the minds of the gods. To this question, we will say the way thoughts are always reproduced—that is, we will turn them into language. If there are perhaps certain turns of phrase that are introduced in this way, the reader may be assured, at least, that the most important aspect of the thought, that is, the substance, will be faithfully rendered.
But then, the reader might wonder, how can the historian pretend to know conversations that occurred where distance, time, and magic have no meaning, far from anywhere, and only within the minds of beings who are not subject to the understanding of a mere human. This is a more difficult question, and deserves an answer that is as honest in its substance as it is brief in its exposition.
The answer, then, is this: While we cannot, for the reasons outlined above, know precisely what was expressed, nevertheless, we can know from testimony of those monks who commune with the gods, and those priests who intercede with them, and those sorcerers who have made pacts with them, some of what they did during thi
s fascinating era of our history. And, as the thought is to the deed as the road is to the destination, so, by examining the results, we can arrive at certain conclusions concerning their thoughts. Moreover, we have, from writings that go back far into the depths of history, certain clues concerning the personalities of these deities. Last, we know that the Orb was present, and the Orb cannot forget, and hints that Her Majesty the Empress has been gracious enough to drop are also useful in providing us with material with which to make informed guesses.
It is true, the ability to make an informed guess is often over-used and mis-used by historians and pretended historians: It is well known, for example, that the military historian is at his best when giving the names of field officers who fell in battle, and at his worst when attempting to explain the reason for the general officer to have made a certain decision at a certain time. Nevertheless, we believe that, just as there are times when conclusions are so obvious that the cold recitation of fact and nothing but fact best serves the ultimate goal of history, which is the discovery of truth, still, there are other times when a judicious application of careful, responsible guesswork is not only permitted, but very nearly required. We further contend that this is just such a circumstance, and we hope the reader will be willing to give us his trust as we explore these difficult yet vital matters.
To begin, then, Kelchor spoke, saying, "Great matters are stirring in what once was the Empire of Men."
"That may be," said Ordwynac. "But need we concern ourselves? That is, does it involve the Cycle? Or is it only more playing by those who have already wasted the opportunity we gave them."
"It was not wasted," said Moranthë.
"It was not their fault," said Kéurana.
"Opportunity who gave them?" said Verra.
"Nevertheless," said Ordwynac. "The question is, do these 'great matters,' as you call them, involve the Cycle, or do they not?"
Nyssa said, "They involve the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, at any rate, for I have seen her stirring."
"Well," said Kelchor, "that is something. I have known her as long as any of you, and you will all agree, I think, that she rarely involves herself in trivialities."
"So then," said Barlen, "it may involve the Cycle. In fact, I begin to become convinced that it does."
Ordwynac said, "Very well, it involves the Cycle. And yet, the Cycle is broken—"
"The Cycle is never broken," said Barlen. "Only the Empire is shattered, but the Cycle which was its foundation cannot be broken, for it is part of the fundamental nature of the universe. As long as there is one living being—"
"There is no remaining Phoenix!" said Ordwynac. "How can the Cycle survive with no Phoenix?"
"There is one," said Moranthë.
"Actually two," said Verra, "though they are both female."
"How, there are two?" said Barlen.
"Yes," said Verra.
"You are certain?"
"The House of the Phoenix is my watch," she said. "I am certain. There are two."
"I am astonished," said Barlen. "This may change everything."
"And yet," said Verra, "as I have said, they are both female."
"Then," said Ordwynac, "that is the same as if there were none."
"How so?" said Kéurana. "You perceive, if two is the same as none, then all of the sciences must be redefined, beginning with arithmetic."
"Because," said Ordwynac, ignoring the irony the goddess did him the honor to share, "these are beings who require a male and a female to reproduce."
"And so?" said Verra.
"And so, even if there is a Phoenix now, there can never be another, and so, by the time the Cycle returns to the Phoenix, it will be broken."
"You know little of the Phoenix," said Verra.
"And less of the Cycle," added Barlen.
"Then explain it to me," said Ordwynac.
"And to me as well," said Kelchor, "for, you perceive, I do not understand how the Cycle is to survive either, and, if there is to be no Cycle, well, then why are we here?"
"You explain it," said Verra to Kéurana. "The breeding of humans is your domain; I cannot explain why two that are hidden can produce one that is seen."
"Let Moranthë explain, because she understands the phoenix and its significance, and how it lives when it dies, and creates when it destroys, and prophesies while making its prophecies come to pass."
"No, let Verra explain," said Moranthë, "because she comprehends the Cycle better than I, and moreover knows how, to preserve itself, it can summon the phoenix, and even cause people to fall in love who otherwise might not have met."
"Well," said Verra. "That is true, but it needs help from time to time."
"Yes," said Barlen. "And I believe that now may be that time."
"You think so?" said Kelchor.
"Very possibly," said Barlen. "At least, the fact that the Enchantress is stirring is, as Verra has said, not insignificant."
"But," said Ordwynac, "is that all? Are there other signs?"
Moranthë turned her gaze away for a moment, then said, "The Cycle has not turned."
"Well," said Ordwynac. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," said Moranthë, "except that, if you have been paying attention, you will observe that Time is slowing down. And if Time is slowing down, and the Cycle has not turned, then, well, then it means something else."
"That is true," said Ordwynac.
"And," added Kelchor, "I can tell you that one of the warlords, a certain Kâna, is growing in power at an alarming rate."
"He wishes to found an Empire?" said Nyssa.
"It seems so," said Kelchor.
"Perhaps," said Tri'nagore, "he is deserving of the Orb himself."
"Hardly," said Verra coldly. "He is a Dragon, and the Cycle still points to the Phoenix."
"Very well," said Ordwynac. "What other signs are there?"
"How," said Kéurana. "Isn't that enough?"
"Not for Ordwynac," said Moranthë. "He is lazy, and looking for an excuse not to have to do anything."
Ordwynac glared, but did not otherwise speak.
"Two young girls will meet," continued Moranthë. "A Dzur and a Tiassa. I do not know why I have been drawn to this meeting, but drawn to it I was. It is caused by the machinations of Kâna, and may be significant. The Dzur is likely to be the Dzur Heir when the present Heir comes to us. As for the Tiassa, I do not know."
"What else?" said Ordwynac.
"There is," said Verra, "a joining of East and West."
"How, a joining?" said Barlen, who seemed startled by this news.
"At least, there is the potential."
"Explain."
"Very well. A Dragonlord, raised in the East, is gathering power and moving west."
"Well, and if he is?"
"He is of the e'Drien line."
"Forgive me, Verra, but I am not as familiar with the lines of the Dragon as you are. What is the significance of this?"
"Surly you remember Drien, do you not? You were there when he was judged."
"Yes, I know him."
"He had the ability to bring disparate forces together, and to forge powerful combinations. He did this in battle, and in politics, and in the subtle social weavings where small things can have great effects."
"Well, I understand. And this descendant of his is moving west?"
"Yes. With a force of witches and an Issola, and—"
"Yes?"
"A pact with me."
Barlen frowned. "You made this pact without consulting any of the rest of us?"
"Yes," said Verra.
"Knowing the sort of effect it could have?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I wished to."
"And you believed that was sufficient reason?"
"I not only did then, but, what is more, I still do."
"And yet, now we are all involved with this man."
"Not in the least."
"How, we are not?"
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br /> "Only I have made a pact with him."
"And yet, through this pact, he has a hand in the Halls of Judgment. And a foot in the Empire. And his head in the magic of the East."
"Well, he is flexible."
"There is no question of joking, Verra."
"Very well, then let us not joke, but rather be as serious as an Iorich."
"That is what I wish."
"Well?"
"This Dragonlord may come into conflict with Kâna, or with Sethra. The results are unpredictable."
"I favor results that are unpredictable."
"You favor—!"
Moranthë broke in, then, saying, "There is more. This Kâna has allied himself with a certain Yendi, who has plans that I cannot read, but that stretch out still more."
Barlen shook his head. "I do not like this. There is too much happening too quickly, and we are not fully aware of it, nor of what it means."
"We can never be fully aware, nor can we always know the meaning," said Trout, speaking for the first time.
"And then?" said Barlen.
Nyssa said, "Perhaps now is the time to watch, and to wait."
"That has never been my particular skill," said Verra.
"I know," said Barlen.
"Where is the phoenix now?" asked Nyssa.
"If you do not know," said Ordwynac, "how are the rest of us to?"
"If she has any sense," said Moranthë, "she is hiding."
"Hiding," said Kéurana, "and waiting until her moment."
"Which moment," added Verra, "may not occur for nearly an entire Cycle."
"We have an opportunity," said Barlen, "as well as a danger."
"An opportunity?" said Kelchor. "What sort of opportunity?"
"To inflict a blow upon Those We Do Not Name."
"Why," said Verra, "do we not name the Jenoine?"
"Hush," said Barlen.
"What sort of opportunity?" said Ordwynac.
"We have the Orb in our possession," said Barlen. "We have the chance to have Nyssa engage with it, and remove some of the, if I may use the term, rough edges."
"But think of the power that would give these mortals," said Kelchor. "Consider, even without that, they very nearly destroyed the entire world."
