by Steven Brust
But, in any case, it was none of her affair anymore. She was going home. Home! She was suddenly aching for the scent of the spruce, the drone of the cicadas, and the song of the mountain winds.
The title of "Countess" didn't sound so bad, after all. Her mother would have understood.
She clutched her fan once more and was surprised to find that, for the first time, it was a different face that appeared to her.
* * * *
Between them, Andor and Miklós rolled the staff over to where Brigitta tended Vilmos.
"What is it?" she asked.
"How is he?"
She nodded. "He'll be fine."
Even as she spoke, his breathing seemed to be easier. To Miklós's eyes he was pale, but his eyes looked about alertly. "Good," he said. "There is something you should see."
He and Andor turned the staff so the carved end faced her. Brigitta gasped. "Bölk!"
"As always," said the horse.
"No, different this time, I think," she said.
"Yes," said Bölk. "As always."
"Oh. All right."
Vilmos looked at Miklós. "What does he mean about being different being the same?"
Brigitta said, "He means—"
"Pay no mind," said Miklós, wanting suddenly to laugh. He looked into Brigitta's eyes, almost shouting with joy.
"What is it?" she asked.
"We both hear the same things now," he said.
Her eyes widened.
"Not all of us," said Andor.
"You will soon, I think," said Brigitta. Then, suddenly, she turned to Miklós. "You are very, very happy," she said. "In fact, you are finding it difficult not to laugh from sheer joy, although you aren't sure of the reason."
He nodded. "Yes. But why do you say it like that?"
She laughed. "Pay no mind."
* * * *
Brigitta didn't know which brought her more happiness—the discovery that Bölk was alive or the pleasure of being able to see into Miklós's mind through his face.
She saw that he wished to hold her and wrapped her arms about his waist. Then she turned back to Bölk. He was staring at her somberly.
"What is it, Bölk? Is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" he said. "No. But there is something you should know. Something you do know, although you won't yet believe it."
"All right," she said. "Tell me what it is, then I shall know that I know."
"Do you wish me to say it aloud, to everyone?"
She hesitated, then, "I have no secrets," she lied.
"Then know, Brigitta, that you are with child. Miklós is the father. The child is, at this moment, healthy. Beyond that, I know nothing of it."
Brigitta stared at him. It took a moment for understanding to penetrate, bringing with it meanings and associations and repercussions. Then the world reeled around her, and she feared she would faint.
She turned to Miklós, and there was such joy on his face he seemed ready to burst.
She began to tremble.
* * * *
To Miklós, this was all that was needed. The thoughts of his dead brother were driven from his mind. Before him was his first real love, and now they were bound together in a way that, in his naïveté, he had not foreseen as possible.
A child. His child. Their child. To bring life into the world and into a world that was now, he dared to hope, a better place than it had been. A son? Perhaps even that. Either way, a child.
In a sense, that is what they had done with the Palace; the old giving way to the new, a birth, with a death necessary to clear the way for it. Miklós chuckled. Was Rezső still alive? If so, he would be pleased that there was now at least one heir in the royal family.
He took Brigitta into his arms again, holding her head against his shoulder and rocking gently back and forth. He felt Andor's arm upon his shoulder and smiled at him. Vilmos said, "Uncle Vili. That doesn't sound bad, eh, Atya? What do you think? Do you like it?"
The norska chittered.
Miklós noticed that there seemed to be a wet spot on his shoulder. He pulled back to look into Brigitta's eyes. She was crying.
* * * *
The old King and Queen had died quietly, unnoticed by themselves or the Palace as their tower gave way and fell to the ground, crushing them quickly beneath stone and rolling their bodies into the River.
László's body lay beneath a block of stone that had once been part of his tower. Perhaps he had found his Goddess again.
Andor had felt an urge to put a hand on his brother's shoulder, and had reached out before realizing that there was no hand there. Yet, Miklós had not seemed to notice. Miklós had turned and smiled at him, and never even seemed aware that there was the stump of an arm on his shoulder. Yet, in a way, it pleased him even more that he, Andor, hadn't noticed. Perhaps there was hope.
Vilmos closed his eyes and let Anya chitter into his ear as she tickled it with her vibrissae. Atya and Húga were sleeping, and Csecsemő was scouting around somewhere, perhaps looking for food. It was past their feeding time. Well, they could wait. He hadn't realized it before, but he had almost died, and several times at that. No wonder he felt such a need for sleep and the wounds were enough to knock him out by themselves. He began to drift off. Uncle Vili! Nice sound.
Viktor's body lay on the floor for a while, but then, pushed by some invisible hand and unnoticed by anyone, it rolled past the wall and out, where it fell into the courtyard to lie at the feet of László's corpse.
And the wizard, dead, floated down the River he had always hated.
Mariska rode back toward her home, not looking back, afraid that if she did, she wouldn't have the strength to leave.
Brigitta buried her head in Miklós's neck and let the tears come as they would.
* * * *
Miklós stroked her hair, speaking quietly, what could it be? How could news which filled him with such joy be such a sorrow for her? He wondered if it was a reaction to all they'd been through and somehow not really related, in any way, to the news itself. Yet, somehow, he thought that it was not so.
He brought her away with him into a corner and helped her sit. He let her cry for a while, then, when he felt it was the right thing to do, he said, "Would you like to talk about it?"
She looked up at him and shook her head. But, before she looked down again, he thought he saw in her eyes a vision of a Palace, new and strong and alive, glittering in the reflected light of the River.
INTERLUDE
Fenario?
Fenario.
Where the Mountains overlook Faerie, but never go too close, nor stray too far. Where a rock still stands that Fenarr slept on, and turned over to find a sword.
Maybe.
Mountains, mountains, mountains. The River has cut a path through on the other side, called the Grimtail Fissure. See the geysers? Some say Fenarr came from there.
Why not?
Smell the pine trees, and the spruce, where the streams flow with silver, and the silver flows like water. The Forest? Big and dark, as a forest should be, and filled with all that forests should be filled with.
And demons, demons, demons.
They are everywhere, and doubtless have their own tales to tell. They gibber and they squeak; they chatter and they speak. They speak truth and tell lies, reward and chastise. They are part of life in Fenario, though not everyone knows this.
Pretty, pretty Margit, who lost her lover in the inn where the dzur stand. Will you never learn? Your daughter will learn, won't she? But only too late. Perhaps your daughter's daughter will fare better, and some say that will justify everything.
But in this land, which it is our pleasure to style Fenario, we don't ask to justify. We watch, and we wait, and we learn. A mother cat carries a dead kitten by the neck, denying death as we thought only a man could, and we weep with her. A lad jumps backward into the River, splashing higher than anyone has ever splashed, and we cheer with him. Go elsewhere with your judgments; they aren't wanted here
.
Get your feet wet on the shores of Lake Fenarr, and look around. You can see a long way, from there.
She sleeps amid the roses, or she lies on a bier, but she will awake in time to see pretty Margit wed the demon while Jancsi rides the turtle through the River, plowed with the head of a dragon by the biggest liar Fenario has ever known.
All we ask for is a miracle or two. Is that so much? All we need is to see ourselves as we are, so we can become what we wish, for Fenario is the place where that may be. But to do that we need to look, and to do that we need to stop.
If that isn't a miracle, what is? Stay here with us, with the Northman who built the River, rode the turtle, and fell in the inn where the pair of dzur guard the door. Or was it Jani?
Why Fenario? Why not. It is worth it for the glimpse of Margit, or so Miska tells us.
But why are we standing here?
There is a room that was green and existed in a tree that was not a tree. Now it is in a Palace, and it has many doors. In the room are those who, each in his own way, allowed the Palace—or is it a tree?—to achieve its destiny.
As is ever the case, each must choose his own door.
The horses are all táltos and the coachman waits.
SEVENTEEN
The Palace
It took Miklós a moment to realize that the sudden change was the lack of breaking and rumbling sounds from outside. He looked about the room, nodding approvingly. The walls were solid now, and pleasing to look upon. He studied the room for a moment, until Andor touched his arm and indicated the staff that Miklós still held precariously balanced.
Miklós and Andor rolled the staff over to one wall and set it there so Bölk could look out at them. Andor looked around. "We'll have to find some way to secure it on the wall. Perhaps the throne could go over there." He stopped. "Do you think the throne survived?"
"It doesn't matter," said Miklós. "László rarely sat in it after his coronation. We don't need it."
"I suppose," said Andor.
Miklós looked at his brother with a new affection. His face was eager and alive, and he gave the impression that Miklós was now the older brother.
Andor went to speak to Vilmos. Miklós sat down in a corner next to Brigitta. He took her hand. She didn't resist, but there was no answering grip.
"Can you tell me about it?" he said.
She didn't look at him. "I don't know."
"Try. I need to understand."
After a moment, she said, "There is no place for me here."
He stared at her through eyes suddenly misted.
"Why?"
"I think because I was too involved in winning the battle; there is nothing left for me now that we have. Perhaps that is wrong. But I must leave, I know that."
Miklós fought to keep the trembling out of his voice because it wouldn't be fair to let her hear it. "You aren't telling me everything."
She inhaled sharply but didn't answer.
"Our child will have a place here," he said.
To his surprise, she nodded. "I know. I think that is why I cried. If it weren't for him, I could have slipped out, away from here, without pain—or at least without so much. You would hardly have noticed with all you will be doing, and—"
"That's not true!"
"Yes, it is. Only, now it isn't. I didn't want to have to tell you, but now I must, because of our child. I am sorry, Miklós, but I must leave."
He shook his head. "Why?"
She was silent for a long time. Then, sighing, she said, "Do you wonder how I found you and Bölk, the first time, by the oak?"
"You followed the river."
"And how it was that I could hold Sándor long enough to strike him?"
"You moved quickly. What are you saying?"
"And how—"
"Stop it, Brigitta. Tell me what you are talking about."
She looked at him fully. "When I was small, I used to walk through the woods—the Wandering Forest. Sometimes, even into the foothills. I continued to do this as I grew older. When I was fourteen, I—ran away from home. I went into the foothills—and beyond…"
He stared at her. "Faerie?"
She nodded. "I was there for more than a year. In that time, I learned much of the ways of the power. Not enough to challenge Sándor, but enough that it is now a part of me. Do you understand, Miki? There is no place for me here."
He shook his head. "I, too, learned of the power. I have put it behind me."
"I know. I cannot."
"Why?"
"There was a time when we spoke, in your old chamber. I knew what you had felt there, what you had experienced. I was afraid to say anything. But I have done that—I have allowed the power to flow through me until it became part of me, until to live without it would snap my mind. Don't you understand, Miki? I'm not human. I'm not elf. My father was—" She stopped and shook her head.
Miklós found that he needed to swallow several times before he could speak. He tried to clear his mind. Was she raving? Could there be truth in what she was saying? "Yet you understood Bölk."
"In my own way."
"The same as I did, at the end."
"It doesn't mean anything, Miklós. It was over, then. Don't you see?"
He shook his head. "I don't see how that can be."
"You needn't. I'm sorry, Miki, but you must accept it."
He bowed his head. Then, "What will you do?"
"I am going back there."
He stared. "To Faerie? Over the mountain? You can't! The path is gone; it is a sheer drop. I was hardly able to climb down!"
She shook her head. "There are other ways. The River turns south beyond the borders to the west. It runs a long, long way then, and it meets the sea. Mariska told me of it, how some of the peppers are sent that way. From the sea, there are ships that sail to Faerie and trade with them. I will take such a ship. The journey should not be beyond my powers."
He took both of her hands. He whispered, "Must you?"
"I am sorry, for I have loved you."
He released her hands and buried his face in her shoulder. "How soon must you leave?"
She stroked his hair. "It needn't be at once," she said.
A while later, Miklós felt a tap on his arm. He turned around. "What is it, Vili?"
The giant held out the two halves of Állam. "These are yours now, Miki. We must decide what we are to do."
He looked the jewel-encrusted hilt and the blackened blade. "Keep it, Vili. I don't want it."
The other shook his head. "What am I to do with them?"
"You are older than I, brother."
"Yes," said Vilmos. "And Andor is older than I."
Andor, a few feet away, looked up. "Do not speak of me," he said. "I will have no part in it. I cannot hold even a broken sword with my right hand—or rather, stump. I will not waste the use of my left in learning to. You two decide."
"You see?" said Vilmos.
"Yes. There is nothing to decide. By the laws of the realm, you are King if Andor refuses. Further, we won only by your actions. You, of all of us, have the strength to wield the sword, broken or whole. The kingdom is yours."
"But it was your guidance—"
"It was Bölk's guidance, and you can understand him now as well as I."
"Not as well. And you have done more than that."
"Perhaps. But I am going nowhere. If I can help, I will be here to do so."
"But what about the Northmen? The southern invaders?"
"They are all quiet now. I am sure that you will find solutions to these problems if it becomes necessary. And, as I said, I will be here any time you wish to ask my advice."
"But I have no heir."
Miklós looked at Brigitta and fought back tears. "Nor have I. But wait, perhaps a year, perhaps less. Send for the Countess of Mordfal. She will come. She will be different, but she will come."
Vilmos said, "Are you certain, Miki?"
"I am certain."
He still seemed
unconvinced. He turned to Andor. "What think you, brother?"
Andor drew himself up to his full height, then he bowed, low. "I think it is well, Your Majesty."
Vilmos blinked and a shy smile came over his face. "Then you will help me?"
"Whatever you command," said Andor. He paused, then smiled. "Or even ask for."
Vilmos sat on his haunches and addressed one of the norska that still ran about the room. "What about you, Atya? Will you be good for me?" The norska chittered. "Huh! No, Atya, I don't think I will send you out after dragons. You have enough to do, taking care of Anya and Húga and Csecsemő. So."
Miklós watched, smiling. When he turned back to Brigitta, she was gone. The door closed on its leather hinges. He started to follow her, then stopped. Why? One more tear-filled scene? One more try at pleading with her? For what reason? Her will was as strong as his own, at least. She had granted him a few days; he would have to be content with that.
On impulse, he went over to the staff and knelt down. Bölk still remained there. "Is there anything I can do, Bölk?"
"Much, master. You can aid your brother in the ordering of his kingdom. It is most important that you be here now, for the first days are hardest. And you can write down what has happened so others will know of it when it is time for them to. You can—"
"I meant about Brigitta."
"I know. I am answering you."
"I don't understand."
"Yes, you do."
Miklós looked down at the floor, then back at the horse head. "Yes," he said. "I guess I do." Then, "Very well. What do you mean about when it is time for others to know?"
Bölk looked around the room. "Do you think, master, that this Palace, or any Palace, will last forever?"
Miklós shrugged. "It is too soon to think about that. It isn't even finished, as far as I can see. We will all be sleeping on floors tonight."
"That is true. You must help see to the finishing of it. But someday this Palace, too, will need to be replaced. It would be well if, when that happens, there are those who understand how it came to be built. Some will always insist on holding on to the old, no matter what. Those who do not will need to know how it was here and now, and that their fight, always new, is always old as well."
