by Steven Brust
“Well, there is nothing wrong with that.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“Only—”
“Well?”
“Bide a moment, while I contrive a way to come down from this rock without breaking my neck.”
“So much the better,” said Piro, “as looking up at you is causing my neck to become quite stiff, and my eyes to water at the same time, and I have nevertheless been quite unable to make out any of your features, so that, in truth, I cannot even tell of what House you are.”
“Oh, as to that,” said the other, looking around for a means of descent, “can you not guess?”
“Well, I might take you for a Dzurlord.”
“And you would be right,” she said, eventually finding a ledge where, with two jumps, neither of them from too great a height, she could make her way to the path. She gave them a deep bow. “I am, indeed, of the House of the Dzur, and my name is Tazendra Lavode.”
“Tazendra!” cried Piro.
“Lavode!” cried Kytraan.
“Exactly,” said Tazendra, who, as no doubt the reader realized some time ago, was none other than our old friend.
“Then you,” said Piro, coming to the same conclusion as the reader, “must be that very Tazendra of whom my father has so often spoken.”
“Well, but that would depend upon who your father is.”
“Why, he is Khaavren of Castle Rock.”
“Cracks and Shards!” cried Tazendra. “You are Khaavren’s son?”
“I have that honor.”
“But this is delightful! Come, my boy, let me embrace you!”
“Gladly,” said Piro, filled with emotion at meeting one of his father’s old comrades. They embraced warmly, after which Tazendra held Piro at arm’s length and looked him over carefully. For his part, Piro studied the Dzur of whom he had heard such stories. By any standards, she was still a beautiful woman, her hair was still long and quite black, her eyes still piercing, and her skin still as smooth as any courtesan’s. Moreover, she had that quality about her that comes with a body that is in supreme good health, well conditioned and athletic. These observations left Piro with a certain confusion, for the lady before him was without question an attractive woman, and Piro could hardly be insensitive to this; yet he was also acutely aware that she was a friend of his father, and looking at her the way a man looks at a desirable woman made him uncomfortable. It is only fair to add that Tazendra, for her part, had no trace whatsoever of this confusion.
Kytraan, who had no part in any of this, waited a moment, then coughed discreetly, commanding the attention of Tiassa and Dzur.
“Your pardon,” said Piro, flushing slightly. “Tazendra Lavode, this is my good friend Kytraan e’Lanya of the North Pinewood Hold, the son of Uttrik, whom you may recall.”
“An honor,” said Kytraan.
“A pleasure and an honor,” said Tazendra happily. “Uttrik’s son? Shards!” Tazendra appeared about to speak more, no doubt to ask questions about Uttrik, but Kytraan spoke first, saying, “I observe that you have added the appendage ‘Lavode’ to your name.”
“How, you noticed that?” said Tazendra, looking pleased.
“Very much so.”
“Well, it is true.”
“And I am glad it is, only—”
“Yes?”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“What does it mean?”
“Yes. I know of Sethra Lavode, but—”
“You do not know of the Lavodes, the magical arm of the Emperor from time immemorial?”
“Well, I have heard certain stories, it is true.”
“Oh, on my honor, they are all true.”
“And yet, were the Lavodes not all destroyed in Adron’s Disaster?”
“Pah! You know very well that Sethra still lives. Or, that is to say, she exists.”
“Well, that is true of Sethra.”
“And if Sethra exists, why can she not cause there to be more Lavodes?”
“If you put it in those terms, my good Tazendra—”
“Oh, I do, I assure you.”
“Well, then I can make no answer.”
“And there you are.”
“But I still congratulate you upon it.”
“As do I,” put in Piro.
“Thank you,” said Tazendra modestly.
“You are, then, a wizard?” continued Kytraan.
“Well, not yet, but I hope to become one once there is an Empire again.”
“I wish you well of it.”
Tazendra bowed and appeared about to say more, but Piro interrupted, saying, “Your pardon, my good Dzur, but is it not time to continue, and to meet Sethra?”
“Yes” said Kytraan. “And we must introduce you to Zerika.”
“How,” said Tazendra. “You know Zerika?”
“No, but I am told that she would be here by the time I returned, and that Piro was to meet her.”
“Well, let us go, then.”
Piro at once dismounted and prepared to lead his horse. Kytraan frowned; then it occurred to him that Tazendra had no horse, and none of them, of course, could be expected to ride the lackey’s mount, so Kytraan dismounted as well, and Lar did the same.
“This way,” said Tazendra, and guided them up the path.
It soon became evident that, even had they chosen to remain mounted, they would have quickly had to dismount, for the path rose sharply until at last they were helping the horses to negotiate the incline, rather than the reverse.
“This is not as easy as some things I have done,” gasped Piro as they struggled.
“The more difficult the climb, the more satisfying the view,” said Kytraan.
“Then,” said Piro, “I think this view will be breathtaking, for, by the Horse, the climb is nothing less.”
Tazendra, of them all, appeared to have no difficulty making her way up, and even helped to pull the animals as she did so; whereas Lar was huffing and puffing as if to take in all the unused air that might be found for the surrounding miles.
At last they came to a place where the ground leveled off, a sort of wide ledge, with sheer grey rock before them and the path forking to either side. They took a moment to recover from the exertion of the climb; then Piro, looking from one path to the other, said, “Which way?”
“Forward,” said Tazendra.
Piro looked at the unyielding grey rock before him, then turned back to Tazendra, a look of inquiry upon his countenance.
By way of answer, Tazendra turned to Kytraan and said, “Would you care to do the honors, my dear Dragon?”
Kytraan bowed and said, “With pleasure, my good Dzur.”
This said, Kytraan walked forward as if he would go through the rock itself, but then stopped directly before it, placed his hand upon the grey slate, and appeared to push lightly, whereupon a door swung open in the edifice, as if to mock Piro for not having seen it before. They all became aware at once of the odor of fresh straw wafting out from it, as well as other, less pleasant, but equally familiar odors.
“Cracks and shards,” said Piro.
Kytraan stepped aside. “Welcome to Dzur Mountain,” he said. “Or, at any rate,” he amended, “to its stables.”
Piro shrugged. “As we have horses, it is good to find the stables.”
“That was my thought as well,” said Tazendra, and led them into the stables, where they found all that was necessary to see to the comfort of their animals. Lar, without a word, set to work.
“When you have finished,” Kytraan told him, “go through that door, climb the stairs to the very top, and follow your nose until you find the kitchens.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lar, and continued his ministrations to the horses. This matter attended to, Tazendra led them through the very door Kytraan had just indicated. Here they were at the bottom of a narrow stairway that curved to the left and, as Piro looked up, seemed to go on forever.
Kytraan said, “Had you thought you were don
e climbing?”
Piro shrugged, and followed the Dragon and the Dzur up the stairway.
While it is undeniable that Piro and Kytraan, if not Tazendra, were wearied by the long climb up from the stables, yet we do not believe it necessary to weary the reader by bringing him along that same climb, the more-so as the exhaustion of our friends precluded any conversation, and, in addition, it cannot be denied that there is little to say of a long stairway, in which each stair is much like another, and the wall, save for the occasional torch, is without features. To be sure, they did pass three or four landings, each with a doorway, but, as they did not trouble to open these doors, there is little reason to speculate upon what lay upon the other side. Let it be said, then, that, after a long time, they reached the end of the stairway, at which time Tazendra pulled open the door, and they stepped into the residence of Sethra Lavode.
Piro was so filled with awe that he was unable to move, until Kytraan said, “Come, my friend, it is only a corridor. You may as well wait until you meet the Enchantress before being struck dumb.”
Piro swallowed and nodded. “Lead on, then; I am with you.”
We shall no more describe the twists and turns of the passages and stairways they now took than we earlier described the stairway; suffice it to say that presently the three of them found themselves in a room of bare, grey walls, appointed with large chairs that were themselves, to all appearances, carved out of stone, although these chairs were covered with padding to provide comfort. One wall held a massive hearth, which was burning with a bright fire, although Piro could not see what was actually burning in it: there was no sign of wood, but only what appeared to be several rocks. We wish we could solve this mystery for the reader, but, alas, we know no more than Piro, from whose report we know of it, what strange magic was causing this fire.
Tazendra at once sat down in a chair as if there were nothing remarkable in being in Sethra Lavode’s lair.
Piro said, “Should we not inform her that we are here?”
“Pah,” said Tazendra. “She knows.”
Piro started to ask how she knew, but then, on reflection, merely nodded. At this point, someone entered who was clearly not Sethra. In the first place, the individual gave no appearance of being undead, and, in the second place, was a man. He was of middle years, and rather short than tall. He wore black and bore the insignia of the House of the Dzur upon his shoulders, yet his features were those of the House of the Teckla, distinguished by thick, black eyebrows that seemed always to be in motion: rising, falling, or attempting to compress themselves together. Piro found the effect distracting.
The Teckla bowed to them, and said, “I am Tukko. May I bring any of you refreshment?” His voice was high, and reminded Piro of the door to his father’s study, which was always so much in need of oil that the entire manor was alerted each time it was opened or closed.
They each asked for wine, and Tukko bowed and walked out, returning shortly thereafter with a sparkling sweet Truil for Tazendra, a white Furnia for Kytraan, and a full, red Khaav’n for Piro. Piro sipped it, identified it at once by the dry, spicy flavor with a hint of nuttiness, and the mild tingling upon the tongue, a combination produced only by wines from that district, whereupon he graced Tukko with a glance of inquiry.
“In honor of your family,” said Tukko in explanation.
“Ah, then you know who I am.”
Tukko bowed, which gesture he managed to make at once stiff and undignified. This confused Piro, until it occurred to him that Sethra would have little use for a servant skilled in the ways of court, especially in the ways of a court that no longer existed. After bowing, Tukko said, “You will observe a small rope near the Lady Tazendra’s left hand; should you require anything else, pull upon it; I will hear, and will return” With these words and another clumsy bow, he left the way he had come.
Piro said, “Will the Enchantress be here soon?”
Tazendra shrugged. “Soon? Late? Who can say?”
Kytraan smiled. “Are you anxious to meet her?”
“The word anxious is well chosen, my friend,” said Piro, smiling. “I must confess to you, the stories one hears about her give rise to a feeling not unlike trepidation. Yet while you have not told me that these stories are true, neither have you said that they are false. You perceive, therefore, I don’t know what to believe, and I therefore don’t know what to expect, and, therefore I am, as you have said, anxious.”
“Well, but I have not told you for the best of all possible reasons: I don’t know.”
Tazendra said, “For my part, I believe them.”
“All of them?” said Piro.
“Why not? That is no more foolish than if I believed none of them.”
“Cha! I nearly think I agree with you.”
“Do you?” said Tazendra, smiling. “Well, that is good, then. It is pleasant to find that Khaavren’s son agrees with me. In the old days, you know, he often agreed with me.”
“Did he?” said Piro. “Well, that does not astonish me”
Tazendra nodded. “The truth is, when I would suggest an idea, why, it was most often Khaavren who was the first to agree with me. ‘Tazendra, my friend,’ he would say, ‘I think that is an excellent plan you have suggested, and I, for one, vote that we adopt it at once!’ That is how he would speak to me.”
“I am certain that is just how it was,” said Piro, who was certain it was nothing like that at all.
“Oh, those were grand days! Adventure at every turn! To save this Dragonlord, to foil this Jhereg, to protect this Emperor—”
She stopped suddenly as if fearful that Piro might take her words amiss. The Tiassa shrugged, however, and said, “And adventures are gone now?”
“Oh, I don’t say that! I had thought they might be, but then Zerika appeared last week—”
“Ah! You mention Zerika!”
“Well, and why should I not?”
“It is only that I am curious about her.”
“Well, and it is right you should be, because she will save us all.”
“How, she will save us?”
“Yes, but first we must save her.”
“You perceive,” said Piro, “that I am now bewildered.”
“You are? But, what has bewildered you?”
“Why, you have said she will save us, and we must save her, and she has changed everything, and yet, I have no idea of who she is.”
“Ah! And you wish to know why I said all of those things about her?”
“That is exactly what I wish.”
“Well, I said them for the simplest possible reason: because that is what Sethra said, and I am convinced that if Sethra Lavode said it, it must be the truth.”
“So then,” said Piro, “is that why I am here? To save Zerika?”
“Oh, as to that—”
“Well?”
“I have not the least idea in the world, I assure you.”
Kytraan looked up suddenly. “Well, but here is someone you can ask, if you wish.”
Piro stood up, startled, and turned to see a tall dark figure standing in the doorway.
“Piro,” said Kytraan, also rising to his feet. “I am honored to introduce you to Sethra Lavode, the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain.”
BOOK TWO
In Which Sethra Lavode’s Plans
Are Not Only Revealed, but Attempted
To Be Put into Action
Chapter the Eighteenth
How the Gods Conerned
Themselves with the Momentous
Events That Were Taking Place
According to the Athyra scholar Ekrasan of Sibletown, writing in the Eleventh Cycle during the Reign of the Issola or the Tsalmoth, we forget which, there are four classes of literature: The ironic, which concerns the actions of men to whom the reader is invited to feel superior; the realistic, which concerns the actions of men with whom the reader is invited to identify; the romantic, which concerns the actions of men the reader is invited to admire; and
the mythic, which concerns the actions of the gods.
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.
