by Steven Brust
It was from a shelf on one of these that Miklós, perched like a hawk ready to dive (though feeling more like a teckla ready to scurry), watched the dragon, trying to guess its path. Even from this vantage, forty feet above the floor of the forest, he could only rarely glimpse the massive form of the beast, weaving in and out of trees that it doubtless found as strange as Miklós did. Odd how silently a dragon could move, even on unfamiliar terrain.
The dragon was a mountain animal, he reflected. Odd that it was only when he came down out of the mountains that he encountered one.
The dragon stopped suddenly, and the Prince could see its neck tentacles becoming hard and rigid. He chuckled to himself at the vaguely sexual impression it gave. Then he realized that the dragon was standing in almost the same place he had vacated a few minutes before, and he was very pleased he had moved. But what had it found? The athyra?
Then he saw the dragon's head snapping at the branch of a tree and knew that it was true. He shook his head in sudden sympathy with the foolish bird. Apparently dragons were so rare in the Forest that the athyra didn't know how to contend with one. The athyra was a hunting bird; it lured its prey to it with mind-tricks, sending out silent messages of safety and food. Its means of defense were similar—hiding itself and sending messages of fear to keep predators away. It was a shame, Miklós reflected, that it didn't know better than to play mental games with a dragon. Or maybe it did know, but the dragon had snared it in the same sort of web it wove, so it was powerless to escape.
The dragon struck again, and the prince's straining eyes could almost make out a few feathers, drifting softly to the ground.
* * * *
An hour before, Miklós had had some idea that he was traveling in the right direction. Now, he had none. He had blundered by many streams and pools, but not the River. Was he anywhere near it? He had had no time to search. Whichever way he went, it seemed, the dragon was behind him.
Yet the oddest thing was his feeling, almost a conviction, that the dragon wasn't following him. Certainly, there was no reason why it should, unless it had gotten a good, strong scent where it had killed the athyra, but there was no indication that it was following or looking for anything. It was more as if, no matter which way Miklós turned, the dragon happened to turn that way, too. And every time Miklós turned, he became that much more lost.
Yet the fires of Faerie had tempered him, and even pursuit by a dragon didn't shake the stubborn confidence he had learned among that people—fighting for everything he needed during days of labor and nights of hopelessness. He was lost and he was pursued; he was not frightened.
He heard a snarl off to his left and stepped back, alert. He found himself staring into the yellow eyes of a dzur, about thirty feet away from him. Five hundred pounds of black death.
He let out his breath. "Nice kitty," he remarked.
Thoughts of the Power came flickering through his mind, but he brushed them off; even his master would have feared to use it against such an animal. The dzur snarled again.
Miklós had encountered dzur before and knew that they didn't usually attack men. He watched its rear legs and took a slow step back. The cat continued watching him. Miklós sensed, rather than saw or heard, that the dragon was approaching. Another step back and he bumped into a tree. His start almost made the dzur leap, but not quite. He stepped around the tree, and the dzur's head suddenly swung.
Miklós followed the dzur's gaze, and gasped. He had never before been so close to a dragon. It is one thing to know that a dragon's head is taller than you are, another to see one close up. The dragon wasn't looking at him but at the dzur; and all of its tentacles were fully erect. This time Miklós found nothing amusing about it. He stared, mesmerized, until he heard a louder snarl than he'd heard yet, and a thin black streak launched itself across his line of sight and into the dragon's face.
As the dragon gave a bellow, Miklós came to himself enough to turn and run. The bellow echoed through the forest and left the prince with a ringing in his ears that went on and on and on. He wasn't really aware that it had stopped until, some time later, as he lay face down at the edge of the River, another sound came to him from behind.
This far-off sound he recognized as the death wail of a dzur.
* * * *
Two hours later Miklós lay on his back, chuckling to himself. Instinct, of course; his own and the dragon's. The dragon had never been following him, and he had never really been lost. Both of them had been making for the River.
And why not? It was cool and pleasant to his legs. Lifting his head to look downstream through a tunnel of elms dotted with occasional willows, he was certain it was cool and pleasant to the dragon's feet as well. He chuckled again.
There was, however, a more serious side to it. Now that he was at the River, it would be dangerous to leave it; he might become lost indeed. But the dragon was downriver from him, and he did not relish the idea of walking past it. Dragons, unlike dzur, had no objection to manflesh; or so the stories said.
He lifted his head and considered crossing over. That would be a solution, except that here, fresh from the waterfall and the trip down the mountain, the water was cold, fast, and deep. A raft? That would do, if he could make sure the raft would bring him to the other side before it brought him to the dragon. The idea of floating into the dragon's maw was not appealing. A pole? Would that be enough?
As much to test his skill as for any other reason, he found a large tree and brought forth the Power, forcing his mind through the rigid paths and strict logic required to bend it to his will. The tree fell. The dragon looked up, startled, then went back to drinking from the River.
Using the same Power, Miklós cut the tree into eight even sections. He laid them next to each other and concentrated still harder. Using the power of Faerie to destroy was hard; using it to build was even harder. Or, at least, using it to build something that would last.
The Power was there, and the Pathway in his mind, and the Source whence came the Power. All that was needed was understanding—strict, inflexible rules guided the use. They must be remembered without error and applied without hesitation.
Three hard, sweating hours later he lay back, exhausted. The sun had set long ago, but he had scarcely noticed. He wasn't even sure if he had succeeded, but that was for tomorrow. Now he needed sleep.
* * * *
The next morning he studied his raft. It was bound together by the Power of Faerie, and only by his desire could those logs be broken from each other. He dragged the raft over to the River (yes, the dragon was still there) and made sure it floated. Good. Now, for a pole.
He pulled the raft ashore, found a sapling, and cut it easily. He used his shaving knife to trim off the small twigs and branches. Good.
Now, of course, the question was did he trust his ability as a waterman to carry him past the dragon, or, alternately, did he trust the dragon to leave him alone?
He was considering this when he heard the sound of splashing from downstream, surprisingly loud over the rushing of the River itself. He couldn't see the cause of the splashing, but apparently the dragon could, for its tentacles were growing stiff and its head was turned to look farther down the River.
Miklós stood up and took a hesitant step forward, then changed his mind. The dragon turned ponderously to face the shore; evidently whatever it was was coming on land. Then he heard another sound—so strange he couldn't believe he had heard it—a human voice shouting.
He heard it again but still couldn't make out the words. But—didn't that voice sound familiar?
He began walking toward the dragon, almost against his will. It couldn't be…
He was a hundred feet away when he saw that it was. He stopped. He would have yelled, but his tongue felt frozen against the roof of his mouth. Some analytical part of the back of his mind said, So this is what being paralyzed with shock is like. I hadn't thought it would ever really happen.
And his brother Vilmos, now close enough to h
ear, had eyes only for the dragon. He cried out, "All right, monster. My turn first." He held up one of his massive fists, and there was a sudden flash of light. Miklós, now beyond surprise, felt the emanations of the Power.
The dragon felt them, too. It flinched back and roared, sending waves rippling down the River that knocked Miklós onto his back, though only his feet had been in the water.
He got to his knees and heard Vilmos cursing wizards in general and Sándor in particular, and saw him heaving something up over the dragon's head and away, apparently in disgust.
The dragon seemed surprised, but not harmed. It was on Vilmos faster than Miklós would have believed possible. For a moment Miklós feared the worst, but then his brother emerged from the River, his back to Miklós, having dived under the dragon. He was waist deep in water, but his strength allowed him to stand against the current, at least for a while.
Miklós thought of calling out to him, but feared it would only distract him. Miklós began running.
He was fifty feet away when Vilmos leapt onto the dragon's back, crying, "I said I'd strangle you, and by the Demon Goddess I will!"
Even his massive hands couldn't come close to actually fitting around the dragon's throat, but he took one of its great tentacles and twisted and pulled it.
The dragon lurched and fell into the water. Miklós stopped, then shook his head and continued at a walk. He didn't know whether the moisture on his face was from the River, from sweat, or from tears.
Vilmos stood up in the water at the same moment that the dragon did, towering above him. It spotted him at once, and its head came crashing down. Vilmos threw himself out of the way, then rolled quickly up onto shore. The dragon followed, leaping.
Vilmos spun around, as if looking for something, then threw himself once more out of the way of the dragon's jaws. Teeth, however, are not the dragon's only weapon. A claw that was as big as Vilmos himself swung out too quickly to be seen, but somehow Vilmos wasn't there. He retreated, still searching the ground. Then the dragon was between Miklós and his brother.
Miklós broke into a run again. He was only twenty feet away when the dragon struck again, first with one claw, then the other. Vilmos screamed, and Miklós heard himself scream as well.
The dragon's head came down hard, and the ground shook with the force as it missed its target. Miklós saw his brother, his chest soaked with blood. Over his head, Vilmos held a rock half as big as he was. For an instant their eyes locked, and Miklós saw his brother's widen. Then Vilmos brought the rock crashing down on the dragon's head.
Its body gave a great spasm. The neck struck Vilmos across his chest, throwing him out into the middle of the River, where he began splashing against the current. Miklós started to run toward him. Then, out of the corner of his eyes, Miklós saw the dragon's tail whipping around. It hit him, and he felt himself flying through the air. He had time to be amazed that he seemed unhurt before he noticed a tree rushing toward him, as if desperate to catch him before he hit the ground.
* * * *
Miklós had never seen a wall like that before, it seemed to be made of millions of small, fuzzy things, that… oh. So was the sky. He blinked a couple of times and realized that he wanted very much to throw up. He knew that if he could just throw up he would feel so much better. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed up with his arms. If he could only… the ground rushed up at him, much as the tree had. He had time to be glad that he hadn't tried to stand up.
* * * *
The next time he woke, his vision was clear, but he still felt sick. He rolled over onto his back to see if he could, and nothing hurt more than it had before. He saw that it was either early morning or late evening, depending on which way he was facing. He decided to look for the River. Deciding was as far as he got.
* * * *
It was night. Time to sleep, he decided.
So he did.
* * * *
Miklós didn't know how many days had passed, but he was finally able to stir himself. He pulled himself up by holding onto a nearby tree. It occurred to him that this was the one he had hit. He resisted looking for marks of where he had struck the tree for fear that he might find them. He stumbled away to practice walking and to clean himself and his garments, which he apparently soiled sometime in the last day or two or three…
He bathed in the River, upstream from the body of the dragon which lay in the water, covered with jhereg. Of Vilmos there was no sign. It occurred to him that, if it weren't for the meal the dragon offered to the local scavengers, he wouldn't have survived, helpless as he had been. He shuddered.
While his clothing dried, hanging over the bough of a tree, he kindled a fire. He took out his shaving knife and held it. He drew once more upon the Power, and soon a norska came to him. He killed it quickly, skinned it, and roasted it over the fire. He ate every bit of meat and much of the fat.
Then he washed himself again, allowed wind and fire to dry him, and put on once more the ragged and tattered clothing which identified him as Prince Miklós of Fenario.
He took his whetstone from his pack, sharpened his shaving knife, and put knife and stone away. He smothered the fire and returned to his raft. He picked up the pole he had crafted, pushed off, and carefully negotiated around the body of the dragon. Several jhereg hissed at him. He hissed back.
Soon dragon and jhereg were lost behind a bend in the River.
The Palace was ahead.
INTERLUDE
A single drop of blood, deep in the floor boards… Yet, let us be careful not to put too much emphasis upon its effect, There is a strict limit to how much blame may properly be assigned to any catalyst. There are always the questions: would there have been another catalyst? Would any catalyst have been necessary?
There was a thing in the Palace, built into its very structure from the beginning. Why? Perhaps it was carried on a log sent downriver from the Wandering Forest when the Palace was built. Perhaps only because the Palace was built next to the River that flowed down from the Mountains of Faerie. Perhaps it was in the very nature of the Palace itself. Perhaps these things cannot be separated.
Nevertheless, there was a thing in the Palace. It waited, very much like a seed, for the proper time to sprout. Call it a seed. Two years ago, a single drop of blood had touched the seed, and things began to happen. Not fast, nor in any way apparent. Yet, it began to grow;
At first it was weak, as such things will be. But gradually it acquired a shape, still hidden. Had its shape not been hidden, at this point, it could have been easily destroyed. Yet, if it had been, another would have begun to grow.
Whatever it was that caused this growth to sprout had, at the time, seemingly unlimited strength. This would not always be the case.
Rest assured, we will return to this again.
FOUR
The Splinter
Andor stifled a curse and looked at the forefinger of his right hand. He squeezed it, and a tiny drop of blood appeared near the tip just to the left of the nail. He looked closer but didn't see the sliver.
He ran his thumb back and forth along the finger, trying all directions until he found the way of rubbing it that felt as if he were being poked with a needle. He rubbed it a few more times, wincing, then raised it to his mouth and tried to pull the sliver with his teeth. After several tries he thought he had it, but discovered when rubbing still hurt that he had only removed a small piece of skin.
He took time out to scowl at the windowsill, then closed the shutters with his left hand, holding the forefinger of his right awkwardly to the side.
He had gotten the sliver while absent-mindedly running his hand along the sill, staring out at the Riverbank where he had planted his flowers. The sill had had little use before Andor had begun the planting; there had been nothing to see from the window except the River. But these last several mornings he had risen, thrown open the shutters, and strained to see if any growth had broken through, before running outside to take a close look.
<
br /> The sliver, however, had driven all thoughts of flowers from Andor's mind. He brushed aside the curtain that separated his room from the corridor outside (carefully, so as not to knock the rod out from where the braces were coming loose), and went looking for—
Let us pause here. In this world, or any world, there are people who never need help in removing splinters, people who need help in removing splinters, and people who need help in removing splinters but can find no such help.
Of those who made their home in the Palace, only László had never felt the need to have help with a splinter. Andor had gone to his mother for many years, until the accident, after which she had moved to the tower with her husband and so was unavailable. Miklós had gone to Nurse.
Nurse was gone now, as was Miklós. László still needed no one. Andor needed someone, and so had settled naturally on Sándor. Vilmos, from time to time, came to Andor, but—
Did we have three categories, there? Pardon, there is a fourth: Those who need no help with splinters, but aren't aware of it.
Andor trudged up the stairs, still holding his finger off to the side. The steps shifted and grumbled beneath his weight, but they had been doing that for as long as he could remember. At the top, he turned left (avoiding a small puddle—there had been a light rain the night before) and went back down. As he followed the next turning of the corridor, he spared a glance for the carving of the bullrider. It seemed such a silly place to put a carving. He came to the audience chamber.
László, alone in the room, looked up.
"Where is Sándor?" asked Andor.
"The Old Library," said László tersely.
Andor muttered his thanks and followed the corridor to the indicated room. He paused in the doorway for a moment, looking at the edges. It is odd, he thought, how much more aware of cracked wood one is when one has just received a splinter.
After he entered, it took him a moment to find the old wizard, hidden as he was behind stacks of books. The room itself was large, and seemed curiously empty despite the piles of books that nearly filled it. The books in the Old Library were mostly stacked on the floor, for much of the shelving had fallen down over the years. The books in the New Library were all copied and bound in Fenario by clerks and monks in the service of the Demon Goddess. The Old Library held books brought over the border from far lands, or traded for the wines and spices of Fenario before being given to one or another King on one or another occasion. Many of these books, if truth be told, were in better shape than the room that contained them.
