by Steven Brust
“Nevertheless—”
“How, have you some quarrel with this plan?”
“I, that is to say, well, none, in point of fact.”
“Then it is agreed?”
“Very well, it is agreed.”
“Follow me then, my lord.”
“I am following.”
“That is well, for I am leading.”
“Ah, when put that way, well, as the Count, it seems that I should be leading.”
“There is some justice in what you say, Lord Morrolan, only—”
“Well?”
“I know where we are going.”
“Yes, your argument is full of logic.”
“I am delighted that you think so.”
“But then, where are you leading us? Because it seems that we have entered a cave, and my horse appears not entirely happy about it.”
“Well, but soon we will reach a stable, with a manger, and your horse will be more pleased. And, as for where I am leading you, well, where do I appear to be leading you?”
“Into the mountain.”
“That is exactly right, then.”
“You live inside the mountain?”
“No, no. Only inside a portion of it.”
“Still, you must have little problem with storage.”
“Oh, as far as storage is concerned, you could not be more correct—I have as much space as I could wish.”
“But, as for living quarters—”
“My living quarters are tolerably comfortable, as you will soon see.”
“Well, if so, it will be very strange for the inside of a mountain.”
“Indeed? Well, but how many mountains have you seen the inside of?”
Morrolan considered this for a moment, before saying, “I have taken refuge from storms in certain caves, but, in fact, it is true that I have never been inside of a mountain.”
“And so, you perceive, you have nothing to judge against.”
“That is true, and yet it seems—but here are the stables, just as you said.”
“Does that astonish you, sir?”
“Not in the least, madam.”
“Leave your horse here, then, and I shall arrange for her care.”
“I no longer doubt you in anything.”
“That is best, believe me.”
“You perceive, I am following you once more.”
“Very well.”
“Are there many of these stairs?”
“Forgive me if I have never counted them, but, you see, we must come to a place very near to the mountain’s peak, which is where I make my living area.”
“I see. So that, yes, there may be many stairs. It is of no matter, for I should have had to climb this distance anyway, and stairs are easier than mountain paths.”
“That is my opinion as well, which is why I had the steps cut into the rock.”
“And it was well done.”
“I am delighted that you think so. And here we are, arrived at my living area. Now, just a few more short steps, and you may sit at your ease.”
“I will not deny that I shall be glad to do so.”
“Apropos, have you a taste for wine?”
“Why yes, I rather like wine, if it is good.”
“As to that, you must be the judge.”
“Very well, I shall be happy to sample what you have.”
“That is good, for, you perceive, I have plenty of space that is ideally suited for storing wine, and so I have devoted a considerable portion of it to that noble task.”
“How, noble?”
“You do not the think the word well chosen?”
“I had not previously considered the word as it might be applied to the storing of wine.”
“Well—ah, here we are. Please, sit. Well, it would seem to my mind that storing wine is far more noble than for large groups of strangers to come together on ground none of them care about for the purpose of slaughtering one another.”
“I had not considered things in this way—but who is this?”
“You may call him Tukko; I have been calling him that more often than anything else of late. Tukko, bring the young Dragonlord some wine. Something peppery, I think, and rich. And I will have whatever you select for him.”
The servant bowed and departed.
“Come, you were saying?” said the Enchantress.
Morrolan spent a brief moment looking around, considering where he was, and the quiet, dark elegance of the furnishings, and realized that he had, to some degree, lost control of the encounter from its very beginning, and, furthermore, that he had not the least idea with whom he was dealing, nor what her powers, resources, or abilities might be.
“I am here,” he said without further preamble, “to discuss the matter of tribute.”
“How,” said Sethra in apparent confusion. “You wish to give me tribute?”
Morrolan cleared his throat. “That was not, in fact, precisely my meaning.”
“Well, but then, explain further.”
“I am about to do so.”
“Very well, I am listening.”
“This is it, then: I am the Count of Southmoor.”
“I do not dispute that.”
“You do not?”
“Not the least in the world, I assure you.”
“That is well then.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“Oh, I do.”
“And, as I am the Count of Southmoor—”
“Yes, as you are the Count?”
“And as, moreover, Dzur Mountain lies within the county of Southmoor—”
“Yes?”
“Well, then it would seem …”
“Yes?” said the Enchantress after a moment. “It would seem—? Ah, here is the wine.”
“Yes, and I find it most excellent.”
“Do you? Then I am gratified.”
“I am glad you are.”
“But then, you were saying? It would seem—?”
“Well, it would seem that you would owe me a certain tribute, as I am your liege.”
“That I—?”
“Judging by your countenance, I beg to submit that I have astonished you.”
“Nearly,” said Sethra after a moment.
“That was not my intention.”
“Nevertheless, I confess that you have done so. I am astonished.”
“And yet, it would seem—”
“Well, but what sort of tribute would you imagine you are owed?”
“Oh,” said Morrolan, suddenly confused, because he had not gotten that far in his calculations, “whatever is customary.”
“Customary?”
“Yes. Excuse me, but a singular expression has crossed your countenance.”
“And if it has?”
“It nearly seems as if you are trying to contain laughter.”
“Well, that is not impossible.”
Morrolan stood abruptly. “Come then, perhaps we ought to arrive at a place where there is sufficient space to laugh together.”
At this, Sethra did laugh, albeit only briefly. “I do not believe, my dear liege lord, that you wish to duel with me. Besides, I am armed, as you see, only with a knife.”
“Bah. You must have a sword about the place.”
The Enchantress chuckled. “Come, come. Sit down and drink your wine, young Dragon.”
“Sit down? I hardly think so. So far am I from sitting down, that I must beg you to arm yourself at once.” And, as if to impress upon Sethra the sincerity of his feelings, he drew his sword.
Sethra sighed. “It seem you have drawn a weapon.”
“Well, and if I have? Come, you must know that such a statement is not ambiguous, but, on the contrary, can only have one interpretation.”
“Oh, I do not argue that, and yet—”
“Well?”
“I perceive you have not pointed it at me.”
“Well, but I promise you I shall do so, the instant you have armed yourself
.”
“So then, you keep your weapon out of line because I am unarmed?”
“How, does this astonish you?”
“Nearly.”
Morrolan frowned. “But why?”
“I begin to believe that you truly have no notion of with whom you are conversing.”
Morrolan shrugged. “You have given me your name.”
Sethra tilted her head to side, as if this view of the young Dragonlord might provide a clue as to his character that would not be otherwise apparent. As she studied him, she idly tapped the blue hilt of the dagger at her waist. After a moment, she sighed and rose to her feet. “For some reason, Morrolan, I am loath to destroy you. And yet, you seem insistent—”
“Madam—” said someone from behind Morrolan.
Sethra’s eyes focused on a spot over Morrolan’s shoulder. Morrolan did not turn around, but, rather, moved to the side so that he could observe who had entered behind him without, even momentarily, losing sight of his opponent. In this way, he observed the strange wizened little man that the reader has met before.
“What is it, Tukko?” said Sethra.
“I beg you to recall what I told you some years ago.”
“Tukko,” said Sethra, who had still not drawn her dagger, “I must observe that you have told me a thousand thousand things over the years. Which do you have in mind.”
“Need I repeat myself, madam?”
“I’m afraid you must,” said Sethra.
Tukko’s face seemed to twitch peculiarly, and he intoned slowly, “From the east shall he come, strong in ignorance, short in patience, hiding his wit beneath arrogance—”
Morrolan felt his eyes narrow, and he said in a low voice, “If this is to refer to me, sir, I must insist—”
Tukko continued, “And he shall be searching for blood, yet he shall find a black wand, and this wand in his hand will preserve a world.”
Sethra stared at Tukko. “He—?”
Morrolan said, “Black wand?”
Tukko nodded to Sethra, turned on his heel, and left.
Sethra stared at Morrolan, who said, “Madam—”
Sethra shook her head and made a quick motion of her hand, and Morrolan’s sword suddenly split lengthwise, from point to pommel, and fell to the floor with more of a tinkle than a crash.
Morrolan stared at the Enchantress. “Madam—”
Sethra seated herself once more, a singular expression on her countenance, as one who has just experienced an epiphany.
Morrolan said, “My sword—”
“We will attend to that by and by, my lord Morrolan.”
“And yet, I insist—”
“Please,” said Sethra. “Let us not fight. I promise you, I had not the least intention in the world of giving offense. Moreover, I believe I shall come to like you. As for a sword, it will be replaced. And, as for tribute, well, I shall, no doubt, find something suitable.”
Morrolan stared at her, unable to decide precisely how to respond to these astonishing words. Before he was able to make a decision, Sethra was continuing as if nothing had happened.
“Please sit down,” she said. “Tell me about yourself. From the way you attack your consonants as if they were an enemy swordsman and swallow your vowels as if they were a light snack, I would judge that you were raised in the East. Is it not so?”
Morrolan still hesitated, as if uncertain if he were being mocked, but at length he relented and sat down once more. “Yes, I was raised in the East.”
“Should you meet my apprentice, she will, no doubt have many questions for you, as she has no small interest in the East.”
“You have an apprentice?”
“Over the years, I have had several.”
“But, what are they apprenticed to? That is, what do they learn?”
“Well, sorcery, for one thing.”
“Sorcery?”
“Magic.”
“I know of the Eastern magical arts. Is it, perhaps, another word for the same thing?”
“I do not believe so. Perhaps, now that the Orb has returned, I could show you something of sorcery, if you become a citizen.”
“Citizen?”
“Of the Empire.”
“You perceive, I know nothing about this.”
“You will come to understand, I have no doubt. Where you lived in the East, was there not a kingdom?”
“There was a small principality where I lived, but then, in Blackchapel—”
“Blackchapel?”
“A village I came to. There was nothing in Blackchapel except Blackchapel.”
Sethra frowned, as if there were something about the name, Blackchapel, that engaged her interest.
“You came to a village where they worshiped black?”
“Well, yes, you could say that.”
“On foot?”
“I was, in fact, walking, yes.”
“And you met there a fool?”
“How could you have known that?”
“And the fool led you to your name?”
“I … that is to say, well, that is one way to look at it.”
“And then the fool brought you to a lady who rode in a coach?”
Morrolan frowned. “It was more complicated than that. There was one lady, and then the coach brought another, but that was a hundred years—”
“And the lady brought you to three sisters?”
“I—well, yes, but really only one of them. You see—”
“And you dreamed of a black staff?”
“That much is true.”
“And of water that had never seen the light of day?”
“How do you know all of this?”
Sethra continued staring intently at Morrolan. “It is an old prophecy,” she said. “Very old.”
Morrolan shifted in his chair. “I am not,” he said, “entirely certain I enjoy being in a prophecy.”
“Well, but this will happen, if your soul-mate is a goddess.”
Morrolan was now, without doubt, truly amazed. “How could you know—?”
“I am,” she said, “the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain.”
“But, madam, how is it that being the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain gives you this knowledge?”
“I read a great deal,” said Sethra. “But come, tell me about this village of Blackchapel, for you perceive it interests me greatly.”
Soon, without being entirely aware of how it happened, Morrolan was answering the Enchantress’s questions as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he do so. Indeed, as the evening wore on, he found that he was answering questions about himself more fully than he had ever done before, and even that he was often required to stop and consider carefully in an effort to give his host the most truthful and complete answer he could to questions that from another he should have considered an impertinence at best, and a deadly insult at worst. And if she rarely said a word of herself, and then only in the most general terms, well, it did not occur to Morrolan to question this until much later when he was reviewing in his mind the remarkable events of the day.
Presently he found that he had accepted an invitation to stay for a meal; no small matter—for in the Eastern culture in which he had been raised, it was considered dishonorable to share food with an enemy. While he was never afterward able to recall exactly what was served, he did remember enjoying it at the time, although his attention was mostly on the conversation, in which Sethra continued to ask probing and personal questions which Morrolan answered fully and forthrightly. The conversation, we should add, continued for some hours.
It was early the next morning that Morrolan rode away from Dzur Mountain, on a horse which was no little refreshed, and with Sethra Lavode’s “tribute” hanging from the scabbard at his side. We should say that at this time he was aware that there were unusual properties about this weapon, but he was not aware of what they were—the Enchantress had told him little, merely handing it to him with a wry remark as he prepared for his departure. H
e had, we should say, entirely forgotten the matter of the tribute he was supposed to have collected, and so accepted the offering with silent astonishment. “We shall meet again, I am certain” had been Sethra’s final remark, to which Morrolan had replied with a bow.
During the return journey, Morrolan often let his hand come to rest on the pommel of the weapon while he considered the peculiar feelings that came over him when he touched it, yet he denied himself the pleasure of actually drawing it from its scabbard, which was of wood and iron, covered in leather, and decorated with a peculiar symbol. He slept under the open sky, and arrived the next day back at his encampment, where he was at once pleased by the visible progress that had been made in the temple during his absence. Moreover, it seemed that his small army had noticeably grown, and this could not help but delight him.
As he gave his horse into the care of a groom, he observed the Warlock standing near the temple, speaking with Lady Teldra. The dog and the cat lay near their feet, both looking about as if uncertain the area could yet be considered safe. Teldra and the Warlock both looked up and bowed, which salute Morrolan returned politely.
“Welcome back,” said Teldra. “I hope your journey was pleasant.”
“And,” added the Warlock, “I hope that it was productive.”
“Both,” said Morrolan laconically. “But tell me, what has happened here while I was gone? Is there news?”
“In a sense,” said the Warlock.
“In a sense?”
“That is to say, after a fashion.”
“Come, I am certain you can speak more clearly than that.”
“I mean only this: There is news of some kind, but I do not know it. I have observed scouts arriving, and consulting with your commander, Fentor, and being sent out again. But I do not know what they have reported.”
“Ah, well, I understand perfectly, and I will speak with Fentor.”
“An admirable plan, if I may be permitted an opinion,” observed the Warlock.
“My lord,” said the Issola, “would you permit me to bring you refreshment?”
“Why, yes, Teldra. That would be splendid.”
“I shall do so at once.”
“Inside, near the altar. And have Fentor and Arra sent to me, and we will consult.”
“At once, my lord.”
“And,” added the Warlock, “please accept my compliments on your new weapon. Is there a story that comes with it?”
