Brokedown Palace
, by Brust, StevenNote: Supplemental materials are not guaranteed with Rental or Used book purchases.
- ISBN: 9780765315045 | 0765315041
- Cover: Paperback
- Copyright: 9/5/2006
Back in print after a decade, a stand-alone fantasy in the world of Steven Brust's bestselling "Vlad Taltos" novels. Once upon a time'Šfar to the East of the Dragaeran Empire, four brothers ruled in Fenario: King Laszlo,a good man--though perhaps a little mad; Prince Andor,a clever man--though perhaps a little shallow; Prince Vilmos,a strong man--though perhaps a little stupid; and Prince Miklos,the youngest brother, perhaps a little--no, a lot--stubborn. Once upon a timethere were four brothers--and a goddess, a wizard, an enigmatic talking stallion, a very hungry dragon--and a crumbling, broken-down palace with hungry jhereg circling overhead. And then'Š
Steven Brust is the bestselling author of Issola, Dragon, The Phoenix Guards, Five Hundred Years After, and many others. A native of Minneapolis, he currently lives in Las Vegas.
Chapter One
The Horse
First, consider the river.
It began in thunder; a cascade from Lake Fenarr, pouring over the lip of Mount SzaniszlĂł. From there it cut a deep, straight path through the center of Fenario, eventually joined by other, lesser rivers. It cut a gap in the Eastern Grimwall, after which it turned south toward the sea, passing beyond the ken of Fenario's denizens.
Once, when MiklĂłs was eleven, he had been in a mood of pleasant melancholy and had gone down to the near bank, to a secret place between the Palace loading docks and Midriver Rock. There, hidden by rushes and reeds, he had sat holding a single yellow flower that he had wanted to present to his middle-older brother. But his brother had been busy and had brushed him off, which was the reason for his melancholy. So he had taken the flower and thrown it into the river. The idea was to watch it as it floated out of sight, while thinking of how the world mistreated him. With luck, he could bring tears to his own eyes, which would cap the event nicely.
But the River, perverse thing that it was, had carried the offering back to him, spoiling the gesture completely. It always did things like that.
Now, remembering this, MiklĂłs decided that the River ought to rise from its banks and sweep his wounded, broken body away, out of sight to the east. But it wouldn't.
MiklĂłs was twenty-one years old, and dying.
Next, the palace:
It loomed over the bend in the River, over the city of Fenario, over the River Valley, over the land, and over MiklĂłs's left shoulder.
It had stood for nearly a thousand years if you count the hut. Nine hundred and fifty years if you count the fort. Seven hundred years if you count the Old Palace. Four hundred years by any way of counting, and that is a long time. And for all of that time, back to when it was merely the hut where Fenarr had dwelt, the idol of the Demon Goddess had watched over it.
MiklĂłs craned his neck to look at the Palace and to try to forget the pain. It jutted up against wispy night clouds and a few halfhearted stars. The central tower resembled a stiletto; the River Wall resembled a blank, gray shield. Above it and above him, jhereg circled ominously, their cries harsh and distant, commenting on his state and, obliquely, on the Palace itself.
It looked its age. The nearest tower had a perceptible tilt, and he'd overheard his eldest brother, the King, speak of the way the wind played games with it. The River Wall was cracked and breaking. Its bones were showing.
Are my bones showing? he wondered. Enough of them are certainly broken, and I'm bleeding in enough places. There are probably a few bones coming through the skin.
The thought would have made him retch, but he hadn't the strength.
Now, observe the interior:
Start at the bottom. The Palace had been built without a basement of any sort, but tunnels had been dug during the long siege when the Northmen came down from the northern Grimwall Mountains and swept over the land more than three hundred years before.
The siege had lasted five years, and by the end of that time the whole area beneath the Palace, and beneath much of the surrounding city, was riddled with cunning tunnels that were used to sneak food in, or to harass the Northerners, or to spy out fortifications. When the enemy was finally driven out, the tunnels were promptly turned into wine cellarsâwhich is one of the reasons that the wines of Fenario are known for thousands of miles around.
Let us move up from the cellars.
The walls throughout on the main floor were done in the palest of pale blues, and thought had been given to the areas of darkness and of light. Rippling patterns from a candelabrum, unlit, drew and erased wavering lines on the floor before the entrance. Now, was the candelabrum responsible for the patterns, or were the hanging, swaying oil lamps? Both, certainly. One determined essence, the other determined shape.
Here was the nursery, when MiklĂłs was very young. All thoughts of taste had been left for other chambers. Here was a cacophony of colors and hanging beads and flowing streamers. It had been filled with things that rolled and things that tumbled and things that pushed or pulled other things that rolled or tumbled.
When MiklĂłs was five, it was time for Prince LĂĄszlĂł, then fifteen, to have his own chambers. MiklĂłs had to move out. The nursery was emptied of things that rolled and tumbled, and filled with things that cut and stabbed. It was emptied of bright colors and filled with tasteful decorations of people cutting and stabbing.
But let us not be heavy-handed.
Every room was in use. Many were used for things for which they were not intended. This bedchamber was once a library. That servants' dining room was once a private study. MiklĂłs's bedchamber, which had been one in the original design, was in the process of becoming a study. Now, was the bedchamber a misused library, or has the change in function changed the definition? Do definitions matter?
Well, define âdying.â How about: âthat state where the absence of life is imminent.â
It would seem clear that MiklĂłs cannot be blamed for having received the beating when, really, all he did to bring it on was to be there for twenty-one years. But consider the candelabrum and the lamp.
If you don't find this a fair analogy, rest assured that MiklĂłs didn't either.
MiklĂłs thought that it would be nice, in any number of ways, if the River would pick him up and drown him or carry him off to die far away. The longer he lay there dying, the nicer the idea seemed. In his chambers at night, alone, death was a mysterious, terrifying mysteryâa wall whose contemplation sent shudders through him while he couldn't help trying to see over it. But here, death was merely a relief from painâa relief that he began to fear would never come. Above him, the jhereg had given up, save one whose cries now seemed to say, The River! The River!
Finally, MiklĂłs used what little strength he had in his right leg (which had only a hairline fracture) to push himself down the bank and into the icy water, which should have been the end of it.
But, as was pointed out earlier, the River is perverse.
And the city:
It was called Fenario, as was the land. It was the largest city in the countryâthe largest for thousands of miles in any direction beyond it. Well, any direction except west. West of the land of Fenario were the Mountains of Faerie, and who knows what lay beyond? But the city was a huge, sprawling thing on both sides of the River, with a population of well over five thousand. From the city, the towers of the Palaceâall sixâwere infallible landmarks. Each was distinct: the tall and leaning King's Tower, the pockmarked Tower of the Goddess, the squat and rotund Tower of Past Glories, the worn and threadbare East Tower of the Watch, and crowned West Tower of the Watch, and the graceful, silvery Tower of the Marshal. Though the dwellers in the city were unaware of it, they oriented themselves by these towers. Should the towers vanish one day, the merchants and artisans of Fenario would have suddenly felt lost.
The walls surrounding the Palace courtyard ended some two hundred feet from where the city began, and, by the natural course of things, it was the most prosperous of inns and markets that were located nearest, along with homes of noble families who chose not to live among their estates.
Oddly, from the Palace the city was all but invisible. The wall hid the view from the lower two stories, and the third story, containing almost nothing but the Great Hall, had only windows high upon it. The towers had no windows at all (these having been filled in during one especially cold winter some years before), save for the East and West Towers of the Watch.
The city was built where the River of Faerie joined the North River, and grew slowly. Along the North River came grapes, as well as lamb and bacon, both liberally spiced to preserve them against the summer's heat. The spices traveled back north much more slowly. Wool also came along this river.
Down the River of Faerie came cotton from the marshes to the south, and timber and mushrooms from the Forest. There were docks along the south bank to receive these things, and two bridges over to the north bankâthe Merchant's bridge and the King's bridge.
MiklĂłs used to wander the city during the day with Prince Andor, who was the second oldest and his elder by six years.
âWhat is that, Andor?â he said once, pointing to the clouds moving in from the west.
âThe Hand of Faerie, MiklĂłs,â his brother answered. âThe people say it bodes great ill when it covers the whole land.â
âDoes it?â asked MiklĂłs in wonder.
Andor shook his head. âI've seen it cover the whole sky two or three times, and nothing ever happened except that it has blown away in a few days.â
And MiklĂłs nodded, content, and took his brother's hand. That evening, he asked his brother Prince Vilmos, who was only three years his elder. Vilmos grinned wickedly and, for two hours, told him stories of what had happened during âDark Times.â The next day, MiklĂłs asked LĂĄszlĂł, but the latter only grunted and returned to his studies.
In any case, the sky was clear and the stars were bright and piercing when, during MiklĂłs's sixth year, half of the west wing collapsed. It had been snowing hard for a week, although this only sped up what would have happened anyway, sooner or later. The collapse injured MiklĂłs's father and, indirectly, led to MiklĂłs's present situation.
At night there weren't many of the denizens of the city who visited the Riverbanks, so it wasn't surprising that no one saw the youngest brother of King LĂĄszlĂł being carried away, his head somehow staying above the water, by the River that runs down out of the Mountains of Faerie.
Finally, the land:
One could describe the terrain by the foodâapples, for instance. North was crisp and tart, from the hills at the feet of the Grimwall Mountains, East was sweet, from the valley carved by the River, South, near the Great Marsh, were crab apples.
Corn from the silt loams along the River in the east. The western forests had as many varieties of mushroom as the central plains near the city had varieties of pepper. The colder and dryer north gave wheat. Rice grew in the south. Cattle and pigs were raised below the northern hills; sheep upon the hills themselves.
The land was enclosed by mountains on three sides: the Grimwall to the north and east, the Mountains of Faerie to the west. In the southwest the Wandering Forest, which for the most part rested like a skirt at the ankles of the Mountains of Faerie, gradually meshed with and turned into marshland. Then fens and bogs as one went farther south until, along the southern borders, the way was impassible save in the very depths of the coldest of winters.
Now consider early autumn. Consider the first hints of color from the birch and the elm and the hickory. Notice the strings of red peppers hanging like scraggly beards from the eaves of the peasants' houses. Find the place where a gentle curve in the River causes a small eddy before the exposed roots of an oak that has watched the Riverbank forever. Notice MiklĂłs clutching the roots and wonder, as he does, why the weight of torn shirt, leather boots, and heavy cotton doublet hasn't dragged him under.
And we're ready to begin.
MiklĂłs awoke to hot breath in his face and the corresponding sound of breathingâno, blowing. These things were accompanied by a dull ache in his lower back. His eyes opened to stare up into what he finally recognized as the nostrils of a horse.
Then it came to him that his back hurtâthat is, that only his back hurt. His last memories were of swirling water; his mind clouded by the misery of broken arms and legs, cracked ribs, and a collection of cuts and bruises that had made consciousness an agony.
The human mind being what it is, however, he looked for the source of his current pain before considering the absence of his past pain. He discovered that he was lying on exposed tree roots. As he moved away from them, the horse backed away several steps, and MiklĂłs got his first good look at it.
There were three distinct breeds of horses in Fenario. This was like none of them. It had the gray coloring sometimes found among the small, fast lovassĂĄg breed from the central plains; was as large as the munkĂĄs workhorses of the north; and had the high head, broad chest, strong shoulders and thin ankles of the repĂŒloÂŽÂŽ, owned only by the proudest among the nobility. Its legs were thin but strong, its stance seemed narrow. Its eyes were wide and blue above a swirl of hair perhaps half a shade lighter than that around it.
MiklĂłs, though he had no horse of his own, had been around them all his life, and knowledge of horses was so automatic to him that he took no pride in it. As he studied the horse, it stared back as if studying him.
Let us, then, pause long enough to say that MiklĂłs was a tall, lanky young man with light brown hair, brown eyes, a thin face, and something of a distant look about him. His face was clean-shaven but gave the impression that he would have had trouble growing a beard even had he wanted to. His hands were long and thin, his cheekbones high, his eyes perhaps a bit narrow and slanted. His complexion was dark, with the least trace of yellow if one looked closely.
After a moment MiklĂłs rose to his feet, shakily. He looked around. From the position of the sun, he decided that it was early afternoon. He studied the River and saw that it had carried him a long way. His clothing was only slightly damp, so he must have left the River several hours before. His eyes returned to the horse, which was still staring at him.
Just to see what would happen, he held out his hand, made clucking sounds, and said, âC'mon, boy. C'mon.â He was surprised at how strong his voice sounded.
The horse shook its head and walked up to him. Its step was high. It stopped only a few feet away. It opened its mouth then and said, âI'm glad you have recovered, master.â
MiklĂłs felt his eyes widening, and sudden understanding came to him. âYou . . . you're a tĂĄltos horse, aren't you?â
âIndeed I am, master,â said the horse.
âThen it was you who healed my wounds!â
âWho can say?â The horse flung his head back and shook it.
MiklĂłs shook his head, unconsciously imitating the horse. After a moment of desperately searching for something to say, he came up with, âWhat's your name?â
âI am called BölcsesĂ©g,â said the horse. The prince's mouth worked a bit as he tried to pronounce this. After a moment, the horse said, âBölk will do, master.â
âBölk,â repeated MiklĂłs. âGood. I can say that.â
âBut can you understand it?â
âUnderstand it?â
âPay no mind, master. But tell me, if you will, how you came to be injured.â
MiklĂłs bit his lip but made no reply. Bölk continued to study him, his large, bright blue eyes somber. At last, MiklĂłs sat down with his back against the hard ridges of the tree. He said, âMy brother LĂĄszlĂł did it.â When Bölk remained silent MiklĂłs added, âI don't really know why.â
The horse blinked. âYour brother LĂĄszlĂł,â repeated Bölk. âDo you mean King LĂĄszlĂł?â
MiklĂłs said, âYes, that's right.â
âBut you still think of him as your brother,â Bölk said.
MiklĂłs nodded.
âAnd yet,â continued the horse, âyou don't know why you were beaten?â
MiklĂłs turned his head to the side and squinted, pulling up his knees and hugging them. âI see what you mean,â he admitted.
âTell me what happened, master,â said Bölk.
âWell, I was in my room reading andâmy brothâthat is, the King entered, without announcement.â MiklĂłs paused, waiting for Bölk to make an interjection. When the horse remained silent, he continued. âHe told me he needed my bedchamber. That he needed a room of that size to pursue his studies. He said he was having one of the servants' quarters cleared for me. I didn't argueââ
âWhy not, master?â
âWell . . . he's the King.â
âAnd it does you no good to argue in any case?â
âYes, that's right.â
âSo what did you say?â
âThat he could have the blasted room. That the walls were cracking anyway, and the ceiling was sagging, and what did I care.â
âAnd he attacked you?â
MiklĂłs trembled with the memory. âI've never seen him so angry! We've never gotten along well, but this! He drew his swordâhe always carries itâand struck me with the flat and then with the pommel. He keptââ MiklĂłs stopped, his eyes growing wide again. âMy clothes!â he cried. âThey were torn to rags! He half ripped my doublet trying to hold on to me and now it's whole!â
Bölk chuckled. âSo, the mending of your clothing seems more startling to you than the healing of your body?â
âNo, no, it isn't that . . . well, I guess it is. I don't know. How did you do it?â
âI had no part in it, master. But how did you escape?â
MiklĂłs closed his eyes, trying to remember. Already it seemed so long ago. âIt's mostly a blur,â he said finally. âI remember crawling out of the door, thinking that LĂĄszâthat the King would follow me, but he didn't. I remember wanting to reach the River and to throw myself into it. I thought I was dying. I was dying! What happened?â
âWho can say, master?â said Bölk. âYet here you are. Do you think your brother will pursue you?â
MiklĂłs considered. âI doubt it. But I can't go back home now. I'm afraid to.â
âYou needn't,â said the horse. âI will bear you wherever you wish.â
âYou will?â
âI have said so, dear master.â
âBut . . . why will you?â
âBecause you have found me at a time when I needed to be found.â
âBut it was you who found me.â
âWas it?â
MiklĂłs fell silent. After a time, Bölk said, âWhither shall we go then, master?â
âI don't know, Bölk. I have nowhere to go.â
âAnd nothing to do?â
âNothing that I know how to do.â
âNothing you want to see?â
âI don't know what to look for.â He looked up suddenly. âExceptâI would like to look for whoever or whatever healed me, so I can give thanks and perhaps do a service for him or her or it.â
Bölk's head drooped for a moment and shook in that manner peculiar to horses and shake-dancers. Then he looked back at MiklĂłs once more and said, âDo you really not know?â
MiklĂłs closed his eyes. He thought of the Demon Goddess, but he hadn't called out to her, so how could she have known to come to him, even if she chose to? Then, suddenly, he realized that he did know. âIt was the River, wasn't it?â he said quietly.
âThe River,â said Bölk, âflows down out of the Mountains of Faerie.â
âThen,â said MiklĂłs, standing, âI wish to go to Faerie.â
TĂĄltos horse and young Prince remained still, as if this announcement had created or removed a barrier between them and they weren't sure which.
âFew from this land,â said Bölk, âever travel that way. Fenarr himself; perhaps others. Are you certain you wish to go there?â
MiklĂłs shook his head. âNo,â he said, âI'm not sure. You asked what I wished to see, and that is the answer. But I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. Do you think it's a foolish thing to do?â
âI am not certain myself, master,â said Bölk. âYou may find there what you need. You may not. I have some knowledge of Faerie, but what I know causes me to turn from it.â
âWhat do you mean?â
The horse said, âI have been there once. To return, one must embrace it. I reject it; I cannot go there. I can bring you to the border, high in the mountains, but no farther.â
âYou reject it?â said MiklĂłs.
âI do. I must. But that does not mean you should. I am old, master. I am from another age. Once I was stronger than the power of Faerie. Now, it is stronger than I. Perhaps someday I shall be the stronger again. I know that in Faerie, should you go and return, you will learn much. But I don't know if this knowledge is good or ill. If you go, you must decide this yourself.â
â âAnother age . . .' Was it you who carried Fenarr? You, yourself? But I thought you had died!â
Bölk made that sound which is called snorting in a horse or a man. âMyself? Another? Who can say? The land has changed; I have changed; the world has changed. All things become what they were not, and I am no different. I remember Fenarr, if that is what you mean; but my memory differs from the legends, and I am not certain that the legends are not more accurate. But master, the choice is still before you.â
As the horse finished speaking, MiklĂłs suddenly knew that all thought of not going had left him. He straightened his back and said, âCome then, Bölk. Take me as far as you may, and I will learn what I learn.â
âBut what will you do with what you learn, master?â
âDo?â
âPay no mind. Only climb onto my back. We have a hundred leagues of plains before we come to the foothills that bring us to the pass the River has carved, and from there we must find our way to the great waterfall that is its source. I think we should avoid the city, and doing so will add yet more time.â
âWe're in no hurry, Bölk.â
âAre we not, then, master?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âPay no mind.â
They emerged from the wandering forest late at night, after riding to it for four days and through it for another three. They camped just beyond its border. The next morning, MiklĂłs rose, stretched, turned, and gaped.
The Mountains of Faerie stood before him, awesome and magnificent.
Ten millions of years before, a battle had taken place. On one side had been billions of tons of rock, mostly granite, wishing to go east. On the other, billions more tons of rock, mostly limestone, sandstone, and shale, desiring to travel west. The battle lasted for hundreds of thousands of years of pushing, withdrawing, looking for avenues of escape, and head-to-head duels of pure strength. In the end, the limestone had succeeded in passing beneath the granite.
The victorious limestone, except for occasional patches, remained invisible. The granite could be seen for scores of miles. All conception of distance left MiklĂłs as he viewed the closest peak. Its base was near enough that individual evergreens could be seen, yet trees at the top were merely a blur. The peaks farther back, and higher, gleamed white with snow in the early morning sun. Those still farther back showed faint white that the sun couldn't reach because the Hand of Faerie loomed over them like a blanket, shaken, about to settle.
âIt's beautiful,â he said at last.
Bölk stood next to him, watching Miklós's face instead of the mountains.
After what seemed like hours, Miklós noticed the morning chill and hastened to don a plain gray cloak that he had purchased in a village on the other side of the forest, trading his ring for it and for other things Bölk had said he would need.
âWe must leave soon, master,â said Bölk.
âI know,â said MiklĂłs, almost to himself. âWe'll be travelingâhow far can you bring me?â
âTo the base of the flats that come from Lake Fenarr and signal the beginning of the River of Faerie.â
âHow far is that?â
âThere is a path into the mountain before us that soon joins the Riverbed. We will reach the path a few hours after we start, and the base of the falls a few hours after that.â
âSo today is our last day together?â
âIt is, master.â
Miklós said nothing, but stared at the mountain before him while laying a hand on Bölk's neck.
âYou should eat, master,â said Bölk, gently.
MiklĂłs sighed and put wood into the shallow pit where the fire had been placed the night before. He kindled flame using flint and thin pieces of bark he had picked up while traveling through the forest. When the fire began to burn, he took a loaf of bread and cut it into strips which he set on the rocks next to the fire.
From the pack which he had purchased at the same time as the cloak, he took a slab of bacon and pushed a stick through it. Holding the stick with his left hand, he used his knife to make a checkered pattern on both sides of the bacon. Then he held the slab over the flame exactly the way his brother Vilmos had taught him.
By the time the bread was toasted, grease began to drip from the bacon. He used his right hand to occasionally hold pieces of bread under it to catch the drippings as it cooked. Bölk watched him in silence.
A gentle wind came from the west, shifting slightly every minute or so. MiklĂłs sat facing the wind, though the smoke stung his eyes, so he could more easily stare at the Mountains of Faerie as he ate his breakfast and cooked his lunch.
âBölk,â he said at one point.
âYes, master?â
âI've never seen you eat. Don't you?â
âNot as you do, master. I am fed by the use folk such as you make of me.â
MiklĂłs turned from the mountains to stare at him. âIs that true?â
âI cannot lie, master.â
âBut . . . then are you always accompanied by someone or other?â
âNo. Often I go for years, or hundreds of years, seeing no one who needs my help. Or no one who can use it.â
âWhat do you do then?â
âI starve, master.â
MiklĂłs continued staring at him. âI can't leave you!â he burst out at last.
Bölk chuckled. âYet you wish to go to Faerie. So, from that time on, you can't make use of me whether you want to or not.â
MiklĂłs, with no answer to this, continued looking at the horse for some time until, at last, his gaze was drawn back to the mountains.
MiklĂłs wiped water droplets from his face and turned his back to the spray. Behind and above him, the waterfall towered white and blue and brown, and there was thundering in his ears.
âYou can go no farther?â he asked.
âNo farther,â said Bölk. âBut I assure you that getting to Faerie will be easy. Up this cliff to the lake, then west, and down the other side. You can see that the climb will not be difficult.â
MiklĂłs studied it, then nodded (wiping more water droplets from his face).
âIt's funny,â he said. âYou don't realize how sharply you're climbing until you see how far you've come.â
âMountain trails are like that.â
âYes.â Then, âWill I see you again?â
âI don't know, master. Returning to Fenario will be harder than leaving it. But if you wish to, and you manage, we may meet again. But then, I will no longer be the same.â
MiklĂłs snorted. âNor will I.â
Bölk nodded slowly. âPerhaps,â he said, âyou will come to understand.â
âWhat are you doing up here, little girl?â
âThat was a pretty horse, mister.â
âMy name is MiklĂłs.â
âI'm Devera. Where are you going?â
âI'm on a journey to Faerie. The horse couldn't take me any farther.â
âWhere's Faerie?â
âHuh? Why, just down the mountain, over there.â
âOh. Is that what you call it?â
âWhat do you call it?â
âWhat's down that way?â
âThat's Fenario. Why don't you . . . say! You're from Faerie, aren't you, Devera?â
âWell, sort of.â
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI have a . . . friend, who said I should go to . . . what did you say it was called?â
âFaerie? Fenario?â
âFenario. He said I should go to Fenario because I would be able to learn something aboutâwell, I'm really not supposed to say. But I must have missed, since I'm way up here, and that means I'm probably early, too.â
âEarly?â
âNever mind, Mister MiklĂłs. I like your name.â
âThank you. You sound like Bölk. That's the horse.â
âHe talks? Or do you mean mentally?â
âHow can you talk mentally?â
âNever mind.â
âYou do sound like Bölk. No, he talks. He's a tĂĄltos horse.â
âWhat's that?â
âNever mind.â
âOkay. I sure do like this lake, Mister MiklĂłs.â
âYes, it's pretty, isn't it? It's called Lake Fenarr. How did you . . .â
âWhat is it, Mister MiklĂłs?â
âYour eyes. For just a second there, I thought I saw something in them. Like a palace, but not like any palace I've everââ
âWell, it was nice to meet you, Mister MiklĂłs. I have to go down that way now.â
âNo, don'tââ
âOh, I'll be fine. Maybe we'll see each other again, Mister MiklĂłs. Good-bye now.â
âBut . . . now where did she go?â
Copyright © 1986 by Steven K. Zoltån Brust
The Horse
First, consider the river.
It began in thunder; a cascade from Lake Fenarr, pouring over the lip of Mount SzaniszlĂł. From there it cut a deep, straight path through the center of Fenario, eventually joined by other, lesser rivers. It cut a gap in the Eastern Grimwall, after which it turned south toward the sea, passing beyond the ken of Fenario's denizens.
Once, when MiklĂłs was eleven, he had been in a mood of pleasant melancholy and had gone down to the near bank, to a secret place between the Palace loading docks and Midriver Rock. There, hidden by rushes and reeds, he had sat holding a single yellow flower that he had wanted to present to his middle-older brother. But his brother had been busy and had brushed him off, which was the reason for his melancholy. So he had taken the flower and thrown it into the river. The idea was to watch it as it floated out of sight, while thinking of how the world mistreated him. With luck, he could bring tears to his own eyes, which would cap the event nicely.
But the River, perverse thing that it was, had carried the offering back to him, spoiling the gesture completely. It always did things like that.
Now, remembering this, MiklĂłs decided that the River ought to rise from its banks and sweep his wounded, broken body away, out of sight to the east. But it wouldn't.
MiklĂłs was twenty-one years old, and dying.
Next, the palace:
It loomed over the bend in the River, over the city of Fenario, over the River Valley, over the land, and over MiklĂłs's left shoulder.
It had stood for nearly a thousand years if you count the hut. Nine hundred and fifty years if you count the fort. Seven hundred years if you count the Old Palace. Four hundred years by any way of counting, and that is a long time. And for all of that time, back to when it was merely the hut where Fenarr had dwelt, the idol of the Demon Goddess had watched over it.
MiklĂłs craned his neck to look at the Palace and to try to forget the pain. It jutted up against wispy night clouds and a few halfhearted stars. The central tower resembled a stiletto; the River Wall resembled a blank, gray shield. Above it and above him, jhereg circled ominously, their cries harsh and distant, commenting on his state and, obliquely, on the Palace itself.
It looked its age. The nearest tower had a perceptible tilt, and he'd overheard his eldest brother, the King, speak of the way the wind played games with it. The River Wall was cracked and breaking. Its bones were showing.
Are my bones showing? he wondered. Enough of them are certainly broken, and I'm bleeding in enough places. There are probably a few bones coming through the skin.
The thought would have made him retch, but he hadn't the strength.
Now, observe the interior:
Start at the bottom. The Palace had been built without a basement of any sort, but tunnels had been dug during the long siege when the Northmen came down from the northern Grimwall Mountains and swept over the land more than three hundred years before.
The siege had lasted five years, and by the end of that time the whole area beneath the Palace, and beneath much of the surrounding city, was riddled with cunning tunnels that were used to sneak food in, or to harass the Northerners, or to spy out fortifications. When the enemy was finally driven out, the tunnels were promptly turned into wine cellarsâwhich is one of the reasons that the wines of Fenario are known for thousands of miles around.
Let us move up from the cellars.
The walls throughout on the main floor were done in the palest of pale blues, and thought had been given to the areas of darkness and of light. Rippling patterns from a candelabrum, unlit, drew and erased wavering lines on the floor before the entrance. Now, was the candelabrum responsible for the patterns, or were the hanging, swaying oil lamps? Both, certainly. One determined essence, the other determined shape.
Here was the nursery, when MiklĂłs was very young. All thoughts of taste had been left for other chambers. Here was a cacophony of colors and hanging beads and flowing streamers. It had been filled with things that rolled and things that tumbled and things that pushed or pulled other things that rolled or tumbled.
When MiklĂłs was five, it was time for Prince LĂĄszlĂł, then fifteen, to have his own chambers. MiklĂłs had to move out. The nursery was emptied of things that rolled and tumbled, and filled with things that cut and stabbed. It was emptied of bright colors and filled with tasteful decorations of people cutting and stabbing.
But let us not be heavy-handed.
Every room was in use. Many were used for things for which they were not intended. This bedchamber was once a library. That servants' dining room was once a private study. MiklĂłs's bedchamber, which had been one in the original design, was in the process of becoming a study. Now, was the bedchamber a misused library, or has the change in function changed the definition? Do definitions matter?
Well, define âdying.â How about: âthat state where the absence of life is imminent.â
It would seem clear that MiklĂłs cannot be blamed for having received the beating when, really, all he did to bring it on was to be there for twenty-one years. But consider the candelabrum and the lamp.
If you don't find this a fair analogy, rest assured that MiklĂłs didn't either.
MiklĂłs thought that it would be nice, in any number of ways, if the River would pick him up and drown him or carry him off to die far away. The longer he lay there dying, the nicer the idea seemed. In his chambers at night, alone, death was a mysterious, terrifying mysteryâa wall whose contemplation sent shudders through him while he couldn't help trying to see over it. But here, death was merely a relief from painâa relief that he began to fear would never come. Above him, the jhereg had given up, save one whose cries now seemed to say, The River! The River!
Finally, MiklĂłs used what little strength he had in his right leg (which had only a hairline fracture) to push himself down the bank and into the icy water, which should have been the end of it.
But, as was pointed out earlier, the River is perverse.
And the city:
It was called Fenario, as was the land. It was the largest city in the countryâthe largest for thousands of miles in any direction beyond it. Well, any direction except west. West of the land of Fenario were the Mountains of Faerie, and who knows what lay beyond? But the city was a huge, sprawling thing on both sides of the River, with a population of well over five thousand. From the city, the towers of the Palaceâall sixâwere infallible landmarks. Each was distinct: the tall and leaning King's Tower, the pockmarked Tower of the Goddess, the squat and rotund Tower of Past Glories, the worn and threadbare East Tower of the Watch, and crowned West Tower of the Watch, and the graceful, silvery Tower of the Marshal. Though the dwellers in the city were unaware of it, they oriented themselves by these towers. Should the towers vanish one day, the merchants and artisans of Fenario would have suddenly felt lost.
The walls surrounding the Palace courtyard ended some two hundred feet from where the city began, and, by the natural course of things, it was the most prosperous of inns and markets that were located nearest, along with homes of noble families who chose not to live among their estates.
Oddly, from the Palace the city was all but invisible. The wall hid the view from the lower two stories, and the third story, containing almost nothing but the Great Hall, had only windows high upon it. The towers had no windows at all (these having been filled in during one especially cold winter some years before), save for the East and West Towers of the Watch.
The city was built where the River of Faerie joined the North River, and grew slowly. Along the North River came grapes, as well as lamb and bacon, both liberally spiced to preserve them against the summer's heat. The spices traveled back north much more slowly. Wool also came along this river.
Down the River of Faerie came cotton from the marshes to the south, and timber and mushrooms from the Forest. There were docks along the south bank to receive these things, and two bridges over to the north bankâthe Merchant's bridge and the King's bridge.
MiklĂłs used to wander the city during the day with Prince Andor, who was the second oldest and his elder by six years.
âWhat is that, Andor?â he said once, pointing to the clouds moving in from the west.
âThe Hand of Faerie, MiklĂłs,â his brother answered. âThe people say it bodes great ill when it covers the whole land.â
âDoes it?â asked MiklĂłs in wonder.
Andor shook his head. âI've seen it cover the whole sky two or three times, and nothing ever happened except that it has blown away in a few days.â
And MiklĂłs nodded, content, and took his brother's hand. That evening, he asked his brother Prince Vilmos, who was only three years his elder. Vilmos grinned wickedly and, for two hours, told him stories of what had happened during âDark Times.â The next day, MiklĂłs asked LĂĄszlĂł, but the latter only grunted and returned to his studies.
In any case, the sky was clear and the stars were bright and piercing when, during MiklĂłs's sixth year, half of the west wing collapsed. It had been snowing hard for a week, although this only sped up what would have happened anyway, sooner or later. The collapse injured MiklĂłs's father and, indirectly, led to MiklĂłs's present situation.
At night there weren't many of the denizens of the city who visited the Riverbanks, so it wasn't surprising that no one saw the youngest brother of King LĂĄszlĂł being carried away, his head somehow staying above the water, by the River that runs down out of the Mountains of Faerie.
Finally, the land:
One could describe the terrain by the foodâapples, for instance. North was crisp and tart, from the hills at the feet of the Grimwall Mountains, East was sweet, from the valley carved by the River, South, near the Great Marsh, were crab apples.
Corn from the silt loams along the River in the east. The western forests had as many varieties of mushroom as the central plains near the city had varieties of pepper. The colder and dryer north gave wheat. Rice grew in the south. Cattle and pigs were raised below the northern hills; sheep upon the hills themselves.
The land was enclosed by mountains on three sides: the Grimwall to the north and east, the Mountains of Faerie to the west. In the southwest the Wandering Forest, which for the most part rested like a skirt at the ankles of the Mountains of Faerie, gradually meshed with and turned into marshland. Then fens and bogs as one went farther south until, along the southern borders, the way was impassible save in the very depths of the coldest of winters.
Now consider early autumn. Consider the first hints of color from the birch and the elm and the hickory. Notice the strings of red peppers hanging like scraggly beards from the eaves of the peasants' houses. Find the place where a gentle curve in the River causes a small eddy before the exposed roots of an oak that has watched the Riverbank forever. Notice MiklĂłs clutching the roots and wonder, as he does, why the weight of torn shirt, leather boots, and heavy cotton doublet hasn't dragged him under.
And we're ready to begin.
MiklĂłs awoke to hot breath in his face and the corresponding sound of breathingâno, blowing. These things were accompanied by a dull ache in his lower back. His eyes opened to stare up into what he finally recognized as the nostrils of a horse.
Then it came to him that his back hurtâthat is, that only his back hurt. His last memories were of swirling water; his mind clouded by the misery of broken arms and legs, cracked ribs, and a collection of cuts and bruises that had made consciousness an agony.
The human mind being what it is, however, he looked for the source of his current pain before considering the absence of his past pain. He discovered that he was lying on exposed tree roots. As he moved away from them, the horse backed away several steps, and MiklĂłs got his first good look at it.
There were three distinct breeds of horses in Fenario. This was like none of them. It had the gray coloring sometimes found among the small, fast lovassĂĄg breed from the central plains; was as large as the munkĂĄs workhorses of the north; and had the high head, broad chest, strong shoulders and thin ankles of the repĂŒloÂŽÂŽ, owned only by the proudest among the nobility. Its legs were thin but strong, its stance seemed narrow. Its eyes were wide and blue above a swirl of hair perhaps half a shade lighter than that around it.
MiklĂłs, though he had no horse of his own, had been around them all his life, and knowledge of horses was so automatic to him that he took no pride in it. As he studied the horse, it stared back as if studying him.
Let us, then, pause long enough to say that MiklĂłs was a tall, lanky young man with light brown hair, brown eyes, a thin face, and something of a distant look about him. His face was clean-shaven but gave the impression that he would have had trouble growing a beard even had he wanted to. His hands were long and thin, his cheekbones high, his eyes perhaps a bit narrow and slanted. His complexion was dark, with the least trace of yellow if one looked closely.
After a moment MiklĂłs rose to his feet, shakily. He looked around. From the position of the sun, he decided that it was early afternoon. He studied the River and saw that it had carried him a long way. His clothing was only slightly damp, so he must have left the River several hours before. His eyes returned to the horse, which was still staring at him.
Just to see what would happen, he held out his hand, made clucking sounds, and said, âC'mon, boy. C'mon.â He was surprised at how strong his voice sounded.
The horse shook its head and walked up to him. Its step was high. It stopped only a few feet away. It opened its mouth then and said, âI'm glad you have recovered, master.â
MiklĂłs felt his eyes widening, and sudden understanding came to him. âYou . . . you're a tĂĄltos horse, aren't you?â
âIndeed I am, master,â said the horse.
âThen it was you who healed my wounds!â
âWho can say?â The horse flung his head back and shook it.
MiklĂłs shook his head, unconsciously imitating the horse. After a moment of desperately searching for something to say, he came up with, âWhat's your name?â
âI am called BölcsesĂ©g,â said the horse. The prince's mouth worked a bit as he tried to pronounce this. After a moment, the horse said, âBölk will do, master.â
âBölk,â repeated MiklĂłs. âGood. I can say that.â
âBut can you understand it?â
âUnderstand it?â
âPay no mind, master. But tell me, if you will, how you came to be injured.â
MiklĂłs bit his lip but made no reply. Bölk continued to study him, his large, bright blue eyes somber. At last, MiklĂłs sat down with his back against the hard ridges of the tree. He said, âMy brother LĂĄszlĂł did it.â When Bölk remained silent MiklĂłs added, âI don't really know why.â
The horse blinked. âYour brother LĂĄszlĂł,â repeated Bölk. âDo you mean King LĂĄszlĂł?â
MiklĂłs said, âYes, that's right.â
âBut you still think of him as your brother,â Bölk said.
MiklĂłs nodded.
âAnd yet,â continued the horse, âyou don't know why you were beaten?â
MiklĂłs turned his head to the side and squinted, pulling up his knees and hugging them. âI see what you mean,â he admitted.
âTell me what happened, master,â said Bölk.
âWell, I was in my room reading andâmy brothâthat is, the King entered, without announcement.â MiklĂłs paused, waiting for Bölk to make an interjection. When the horse remained silent, he continued. âHe told me he needed my bedchamber. That he needed a room of that size to pursue his studies. He said he was having one of the servants' quarters cleared for me. I didn't argueââ
âWhy not, master?â
âWell . . . he's the King.â
âAnd it does you no good to argue in any case?â
âYes, that's right.â
âSo what did you say?â
âThat he could have the blasted room. That the walls were cracking anyway, and the ceiling was sagging, and what did I care.â
âAnd he attacked you?â
MiklĂłs trembled with the memory. âI've never seen him so angry! We've never gotten along well, but this! He drew his swordâhe always carries itâand struck me with the flat and then with the pommel. He keptââ MiklĂłs stopped, his eyes growing wide again. âMy clothes!â he cried. âThey were torn to rags! He half ripped my doublet trying to hold on to me and now it's whole!â
Bölk chuckled. âSo, the mending of your clothing seems more startling to you than the healing of your body?â
âNo, no, it isn't that . . . well, I guess it is. I don't know. How did you do it?â
âI had no part in it, master. But how did you escape?â
MiklĂłs closed his eyes, trying to remember. Already it seemed so long ago. âIt's mostly a blur,â he said finally. âI remember crawling out of the door, thinking that LĂĄszâthat the King would follow me, but he didn't. I remember wanting to reach the River and to throw myself into it. I thought I was dying. I was dying! What happened?â
âWho can say, master?â said Bölk. âYet here you are. Do you think your brother will pursue you?â
MiklĂłs considered. âI doubt it. But I can't go back home now. I'm afraid to.â
âYou needn't,â said the horse. âI will bear you wherever you wish.â
âYou will?â
âI have said so, dear master.â
âBut . . . why will you?â
âBecause you have found me at a time when I needed to be found.â
âBut it was you who found me.â
âWas it?â
MiklĂłs fell silent. After a time, Bölk said, âWhither shall we go then, master?â
âI don't know, Bölk. I have nowhere to go.â
âAnd nothing to do?â
âNothing that I know how to do.â
âNothing you want to see?â
âI don't know what to look for.â He looked up suddenly. âExceptâI would like to look for whoever or whatever healed me, so I can give thanks and perhaps do a service for him or her or it.â
Bölk's head drooped for a moment and shook in that manner peculiar to horses and shake-dancers. Then he looked back at MiklĂłs once more and said, âDo you really not know?â
MiklĂłs closed his eyes. He thought of the Demon Goddess, but he hadn't called out to her, so how could she have known to come to him, even if she chose to? Then, suddenly, he realized that he did know. âIt was the River, wasn't it?â he said quietly.
âThe River,â said Bölk, âflows down out of the Mountains of Faerie.â
âThen,â said MiklĂłs, standing, âI wish to go to Faerie.â
TĂĄltos horse and young Prince remained still, as if this announcement had created or removed a barrier between them and they weren't sure which.
âFew from this land,â said Bölk, âever travel that way. Fenarr himself; perhaps others. Are you certain you wish to go there?â
MiklĂłs shook his head. âNo,â he said, âI'm not sure. You asked what I wished to see, and that is the answer. But I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything. Do you think it's a foolish thing to do?â
âI am not certain myself, master,â said Bölk. âYou may find there what you need. You may not. I have some knowledge of Faerie, but what I know causes me to turn from it.â
âWhat do you mean?â
The horse said, âI have been there once. To return, one must embrace it. I reject it; I cannot go there. I can bring you to the border, high in the mountains, but no farther.â
âYou reject it?â said MiklĂłs.
âI do. I must. But that does not mean you should. I am old, master. I am from another age. Once I was stronger than the power of Faerie. Now, it is stronger than I. Perhaps someday I shall be the stronger again. I know that in Faerie, should you go and return, you will learn much. But I don't know if this knowledge is good or ill. If you go, you must decide this yourself.â
â âAnother age . . .' Was it you who carried Fenarr? You, yourself? But I thought you had died!â
Bölk made that sound which is called snorting in a horse or a man. âMyself? Another? Who can say? The land has changed; I have changed; the world has changed. All things become what they were not, and I am no different. I remember Fenarr, if that is what you mean; but my memory differs from the legends, and I am not certain that the legends are not more accurate. But master, the choice is still before you.â
As the horse finished speaking, MiklĂłs suddenly knew that all thought of not going had left him. He straightened his back and said, âCome then, Bölk. Take me as far as you may, and I will learn what I learn.â
âBut what will you do with what you learn, master?â
âDo?â
âPay no mind. Only climb onto my back. We have a hundred leagues of plains before we come to the foothills that bring us to the pass the River has carved, and from there we must find our way to the great waterfall that is its source. I think we should avoid the city, and doing so will add yet more time.â
âWe're in no hurry, Bölk.â
âAre we not, then, master?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âPay no mind.â
They emerged from the wandering forest late at night, after riding to it for four days and through it for another three. They camped just beyond its border. The next morning, MiklĂłs rose, stretched, turned, and gaped.
The Mountains of Faerie stood before him, awesome and magnificent.
Ten millions of years before, a battle had taken place. On one side had been billions of tons of rock, mostly granite, wishing to go east. On the other, billions more tons of rock, mostly limestone, sandstone, and shale, desiring to travel west. The battle lasted for hundreds of thousands of years of pushing, withdrawing, looking for avenues of escape, and head-to-head duels of pure strength. In the end, the limestone had succeeded in passing beneath the granite.
The victorious limestone, except for occasional patches, remained invisible. The granite could be seen for scores of miles. All conception of distance left MiklĂłs as he viewed the closest peak. Its base was near enough that individual evergreens could be seen, yet trees at the top were merely a blur. The peaks farther back, and higher, gleamed white with snow in the early morning sun. Those still farther back showed faint white that the sun couldn't reach because the Hand of Faerie loomed over them like a blanket, shaken, about to settle.
âIt's beautiful,â he said at last.
Bölk stood next to him, watching Miklós's face instead of the mountains.
After what seemed like hours, Miklós noticed the morning chill and hastened to don a plain gray cloak that he had purchased in a village on the other side of the forest, trading his ring for it and for other things Bölk had said he would need.
âWe must leave soon, master,â said Bölk.
âI know,â said MiklĂłs, almost to himself. âWe'll be travelingâhow far can you bring me?â
âTo the base of the flats that come from Lake Fenarr and signal the beginning of the River of Faerie.â
âHow far is that?â
âThere is a path into the mountain before us that soon joins the Riverbed. We will reach the path a few hours after we start, and the base of the falls a few hours after that.â
âSo today is our last day together?â
âIt is, master.â
Miklós said nothing, but stared at the mountain before him while laying a hand on Bölk's neck.
âYou should eat, master,â said Bölk, gently.
MiklĂłs sighed and put wood into the shallow pit where the fire had been placed the night before. He kindled flame using flint and thin pieces of bark he had picked up while traveling through the forest. When the fire began to burn, he took a loaf of bread and cut it into strips which he set on the rocks next to the fire.
From the pack which he had purchased at the same time as the cloak, he took a slab of bacon and pushed a stick through it. Holding the stick with his left hand, he used his knife to make a checkered pattern on both sides of the bacon. Then he held the slab over the flame exactly the way his brother Vilmos had taught him.
By the time the bread was toasted, grease began to drip from the bacon. He used his right hand to occasionally hold pieces of bread under it to catch the drippings as it cooked. Bölk watched him in silence.
A gentle wind came from the west, shifting slightly every minute or so. MiklĂłs sat facing the wind, though the smoke stung his eyes, so he could more easily stare at the Mountains of Faerie as he ate his breakfast and cooked his lunch.
âBölk,â he said at one point.
âYes, master?â
âI've never seen you eat. Don't you?â
âNot as you do, master. I am fed by the use folk such as you make of me.â
MiklĂłs turned from the mountains to stare at him. âIs that true?â
âI cannot lie, master.â
âBut . . . then are you always accompanied by someone or other?â
âNo. Often I go for years, or hundreds of years, seeing no one who needs my help. Or no one who can use it.â
âWhat do you do then?â
âI starve, master.â
MiklĂłs continued staring at him. âI can't leave you!â he burst out at last.
Bölk chuckled. âYet you wish to go to Faerie. So, from that time on, you can't make use of me whether you want to or not.â
MiklĂłs, with no answer to this, continued looking at the horse for some time until, at last, his gaze was drawn back to the mountains.
MiklĂłs wiped water droplets from his face and turned his back to the spray. Behind and above him, the waterfall towered white and blue and brown, and there was thundering in his ears.
âYou can go no farther?â he asked.
âNo farther,â said Bölk. âBut I assure you that getting to Faerie will be easy. Up this cliff to the lake, then west, and down the other side. You can see that the climb will not be difficult.â
MiklĂłs studied it, then nodded (wiping more water droplets from his face).
âIt's funny,â he said. âYou don't realize how sharply you're climbing until you see how far you've come.â
âMountain trails are like that.â
âYes.â Then, âWill I see you again?â
âI don't know, master. Returning to Fenario will be harder than leaving it. But if you wish to, and you manage, we may meet again. But then, I will no longer be the same.â
MiklĂłs snorted. âNor will I.â
Bölk nodded slowly. âPerhaps,â he said, âyou will come to understand.â
âWhat are you doing up here, little girl?â
âThat was a pretty horse, mister.â
âMy name is MiklĂłs.â
âI'm Devera. Where are you going?â
âI'm on a journey to Faerie. The horse couldn't take me any farther.â
âWhere's Faerie?â
âHuh? Why, just down the mountain, over there.â
âOh. Is that what you call it?â
âWhat do you call it?â
âWhat's down that way?â
âThat's Fenario. Why don't you . . . say! You're from Faerie, aren't you, Devera?â
âWell, sort of.â
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI have a . . . friend, who said I should go to . . . what did you say it was called?â
âFaerie? Fenario?â
âFenario. He said I should go to Fenario because I would be able to learn something aboutâwell, I'm really not supposed to say. But I must have missed, since I'm way up here, and that means I'm probably early, too.â
âEarly?â
âNever mind, Mister MiklĂłs. I like your name.â
âThank you. You sound like Bölk. That's the horse.â
âHe talks? Or do you mean mentally?â
âHow can you talk mentally?â
âNever mind.â
âYou do sound like Bölk. No, he talks. He's a tĂĄltos horse.â
âWhat's that?â
âNever mind.â
âOkay. I sure do like this lake, Mister MiklĂłs.â
âYes, it's pretty, isn't it? It's called Lake Fenarr. How did you . . .â
âWhat is it, Mister MiklĂłs?â
âYour eyes. For just a second there, I thought I saw something in them. Like a palace, but not like any palace I've everââ
âWell, it was nice to meet you, Mister MiklĂłs. I have to go down that way now.â
âNo, don'tââ
âOh, I'll be fine. Maybe we'll see each other again, Mister MiklĂłs. Good-bye now.â
âBut . . . now where did she go?â
Copyright © 1986 by Steven K. Zoltån Brust
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