Brokedown Palace (23 page)
Authors: Steven Brust
László stood up, reached over, and clapped Vilmos on the shoulder. “It is all right, Vili. You tried. That is all that matters.”
He left the Hall, Sándor following.
The wizard tried to fit this into his scheme of things, knowing it to be important. But it was like nothing he had experienced before.
Where Miklós was a novice in the use of the power of Faerie, Sándor had taken it fully into his life. It colored all of his thoughts, all of his deeds and actions—even those that made no direct use of it.
To use the power of Faerie, one must know and understand a harsh, unforgiving logic. The mind must be disciplined and firm, and go where the will wishes it to. This discipline is all that limits the wielder of this power, for the Source will send as much as is asked for.
But there is a cost, as in all things.
He could still recall, though less vividly than once, the first time he had taken the power, as one will take a drink; not to use, simply
to hold. The memory, the experience, might fade—but it would never leave him. Its effects lingered, and the effects of holding the essence of Faerie within himself as he had done again and again had left their mark upon him, upon how he used the power, and perforce upon the kingdom.
to hold. The memory, the experience, might fade—but it would never leave him. Its effects lingered, and the effects of holding the essence of Faerie within himself as he had done again and again had left their mark upon him, upon how he used the power, and perforce upon the kingdom.
For Sándor, the shapes and patterns of the world around him became first symbols—means of expressing his desires so they could be turned into a form he could use. A lesser man would have lost his understanding of the difference between symbol and reality then, but Sándor refused this, and forced his understanding deeper.
Then he began to see all things as expressions of his power, and that each expression must fit into the patterns his mind cast. The world became patterns of the power, and events were beads the colors of emotions that made up these patterns. A break, an error, a failing in this pattern was almost painful to him.
Yet, the world being what it is, and not what we imagine it to be, these breaks in the patterns came often.
And so, the last stage: Sándor’s life was one of finding a way to look at things—a way that allowed him to fit them into a pattern he could create, control, and manipulate. No longer painful, these discontinuities were challenges to his mind.
For one who would master the power of Faerie and not be mastered by it, there is no better way to look at the world. But, as with all things, there is a cost.
Sándor paid this cost gladly.
They passed the paintings on the walls of the upper corridor, and, as always, Sándor’s eye was drawn to The Hand—reaching out for him, now as if to hold him, now as if to crush him, now as if to beckon. So simple, yet so perfect. And the stagnant pond, where there should have been no life, yet the potential, as it were, was captured beneath in the gentle disturbance on the surface where a stone had been thrown an instant before the moment the
artist had chosen to portray. Ahead of him, he noticed László staring at the little statue, nearly crumbling to dust before their eyes, and almost sighed to himself. Always, with the Lászlós and the Viktors, it was the violence, the action, that appealed. But there was more power in the dark, stagnant pool than László could ever imagine. They began walking again at the same moment.
artist had chosen to portray. Ahead of him, he noticed László staring at the little statue, nearly crumbling to dust before their eyes, and almost sighed to himself. Always, with the Lászlós and the Viktors, it was the violence, the action, that appealed. But there was more power in the dark, stagnant pool than László could ever imagine. They began walking again at the same moment.
As they reached the audience chamber, Sándor forced his mind back to the problem at hand. “There is more at work here than I had thought,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I had thought that Prince Vilmos was being contrary or stubborn, and—”
“He isn’t like that.”
“Perhaps. But there is more to it than that. Whatever it is that prevents my powers from affecting this tree is also stopping Vilmos the only way he can be stopped—by sapping his will.”
László considered this, then nodded. “I think you are right.” Then, “The Northmen?”
Sándor shrugged. “How is their invasion attempt progressing?”
“It is all but over. Henrik led them over the southern border, where they met with an enemy they deserve. They are now fleeing from our land as fast as they can. Henrik is hounding them to be certain they do no damage on the way.”
“In that case,” said Sándor, “I don’t think it is they. If a man is doing this, he must be at it almost constantly, and why continue to harass us after they have been defeated? Besides, how can they do with the power of Faerie what I cannot undo?”
“I don’t know,” said the King. “I know nothing of these matters. If not the Northmen, however, then who?”
“Or what,” said Sándor.
“What do you mean?”
“I am not certain. But I find it hard to believe that there is anyone
who can do this. To use the power in such a way as to influence a man as strongly as Vilmos has been influenced is no easy task. And to create a thing that cannot even be affected by the power is beyond my comprehension—if it is the power of Faerie that is being used.”
who can do this. To use the power in such a way as to influence a man as strongly as Vilmos has been influenced is no easy task. And to create a thing that cannot even be affected by the power is beyond my comprehension—if it is the power of Faerie that is being used.”
“Go on,” said the King.
“Your Majesty, there are other powers than mine in the world.”
“For instance.”
Sándor shrugged. “You know, do you not, that there are still witches, hiding in covens in the Wandering Forest or in the marshes to the south.”
“You think a witch—”
Sándor waved it aside. “No, no. It was only an example. I can smell their puny efforts when I meet them. It is nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
“I am not yet certain. I must find out. I am only saying that it would be an error to assume—”
“By the Goddess, Sándor!” exploded the King. “I am assuming nothing! I want to know what is causing this, and how we can remove it.”
Sándor sighed. “Do you know of nothing that has power other than Faerie, near us, of which the legends tell strange stories?”
László said softly, “The River.”
“Yes,” said Sándor. “Think, Your Majesty: We have a tree sinking its roots into soil that is saturated with water from the River. You and I, who have studied these things, know that many strange tales have been told of the River. I, who have studied the power of Faerie, know that these tales do not speak of things such as that power would do.”
László shook his head. “But how—?”
“I don’t know. That is why I have been reluctant to speak of it. But I am suspicious. I don’t like that River—”
The King laughed softly. Sándor glared at him. “I know, I know,” said the King, still laughing. “You don’t like the River. You have spent more than a hundred years dwelling next to it, and you have hated it every moment. And such impotent hate, too, Sándor. The River provides the livelihood for half of the people of the realm, it—”
“Not that many.”
“Allows us to move our goods back and forth, it feeds us, and more. And who could stop it anyway? You?”
Sándor shook his head.
“So,” the King continued, “when you see something you don’t understand, you rush to blame—”
“No, Your Majesty,” said Sándor firmly. “As I have said, I am not yet sure, but I am not rushing to blame the River for no reason. Think about what I have said. What else could it be? We know that there is a mysterious power associated with the River, and we know that anything planted near the River grows faster than anything planted elsewhere. It affects people strangely. It—”
“Why this hatred, Sándor? I have never understood it.”
The wizard stopped and considered. Oddly, he had never even asked himself this question. It had been an instinctive thing, as far back as he could remember. What was it?
“Have you ever spoken to a Riverman?” he said at last.
“I have spoken to my brother Miklós,” said László, laughing lightly. “He spent nearly his whole childhood there.”
“Miklós knows something of it,” Sándor admitted. “But a real Riverman, such as a few of the fishermen in town, can tell you every tiny whirlpool along it, and where you can find how many fish of what kind. Some of them know only a small part of it, but they know it so well they could name every pebble in it. It seems they know each time someone throws a stick into the water.”
“Well?” said László. “What of it?”
Sándor shook his head. “I don’t know. But there is a mystery there that defeats me. Some are so fascinated by the River they make it their lives. Others take it for granted. Others fall in between. A few hate it. I am one of those. I don’t know why.”
The King nodded.
“But,” said Sándor, “this in no way affects what I am saying. It would be just as true if I loved the River as Miklós does. There is something about it that is feeding and protecting that tree. I am convinced of it.”
“It is true,” said László, “that the River is known for making things grow faster. Yes, what you say may be. But if so, what do we do about it? We can’t stop the River.”
“I know. But I also know that for every problem there is a solution. I have not yet found the solution for this problem. Rest assured, Your Majesty, I will.”
The King nodded. “Very well, Sándor. But whatever the solution, it should be soon. The tree is growing at a truly alarming rate. I begin to fear for the Palace.”
“I am considering it.” Then, “Your Majesty?”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen Miklós’s horse?”
“The
táltos
horse? No. I’ve been almost afraid to. I never thought there would be a
táltos
in the Palace during my lifetime. Why do you ask?”
táltos
horse? No. I’ve been almost afraid to. I never thought there would be a
táltos
in the Palace during my lifetime. Why do you ask?”
“I think it is involved in this.”
“Do you? Why?”
“Because it is there.”
“Eh?”
“Consider: the tree is growing in Miklós’s room. Miklós turns up with this horse. The horse is arrogant and hostile to you and all you stand for. We know little of
táltos
animals, but they could have the power to—”
táltos
animals, but they could have the power to—”
“What about the River?”
Sándor shrugged. “There is no reason why both could not be involved.”
László shook his head. “What you are doing, without saying it in so many words, is accusing Miklós of causing this.”
Sándor said, “I am not certain that he is. But consider the possibility.”
“I have considered it,” said the King. “And I still am. I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because I saw the look on his face when he saw the tree in his room, and I heard his voice while we talked about it.”
“Could you not have been fooled?”
“I could have been. I don’t think I was.”
Sándor nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. Perhaps—” He paused.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you should see this horse, after all.”
László looked at him. “Very well, then. Let us go.”
They stood up, and Sándor slowly led the way down to the main floor, then out toward the stables. It was late afternoon, and the sun was nearly behind the outer walls. Sándor made a sign to the idol of the Demon Goddess as he passed.
They found the horse at once. It turned to look at them and Sándor caught a malicious gleam in its eye.
“Greetings, horse,” said the King. “I am László, King of Fenario.”
“Greetings, doomed King,” said the horse. “I am Death.”
Sándor heard the sharp intake of breath from the King, but controlled his own rage.
“Why am I doomed?” asked László carefully.
The horse seemed to consider before answering. “Because you have failed.”
“Failed? How?”
“Look! Your house is falling down around you! What else could that mean?”
Sándor caught a flicker of motion as the King’s hand went to Állam at his side. He didn’t draw it, however. He said only, “Have a care, horse, if you can be hurt.”
“I can be hurt, unhappy King,” said the horse. “But not by the likes of you.”
Sándor could see that László’s lip was now trembling with controlled rage. The King said softly, “Miklós should have not brought such an animal to our home.”
The horse’s ears pricked forward. “He has done nothing,” said the horse. “Nor have I. I can do nothing, while I remain out here. But the instant I am in your home, beware! I will be the end of you, King. And, more particularly, of you!” This last was said to Sándor, who suddenly felt the first fear he had experienced in more than a hundred years. In an odd way, it was almost pleasing to discover an emotion he had thought lost years ago. He smiled as he touched the scar on his forehead where the horse had kicked him before.
The King said, “Sándor, can we do nothing about this animal? I will at least ask Miklós to remove it from the stables, and judge him by his answer!”
“Poor judgment,” said the horse, “is the mark of a poor ruler.”
László’s grip on the sword tightened, but he made no answer.
“We cannot easily kill him, I think,” said Sándor. “He is
táltos
, and he is tricky. I tried once before.” He again touched the scar on his forehead. “But perhaps we can make it easier if we—”
táltos
, and he is tricky. I tried once before.” He again touched the scar on his forehead. “But perhaps we can make it easier if we—”
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