Brokedown Palace (31 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Brokedown Palace
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She laughed. “In that case, I will wish even more that you had not forced this upon me.”
She’s so human,
thought Miklós.
Bölk didn’t answer. She stirred then and said, “Well, let it be
done as it must.” She turned to László and said, “Oh, King, I am sorry that this must be, but it must. Perhaps you feel a need to intervene on your brother’s behalf, yet feel loyalty to me. I do not wish to torment you so. Therefore, this!” Her hand moved slightly, and László jumped a bit, then stopped. Miklós had never seen anyone so still. He didn’t even seem to be breathing.
“He is well,” said the Goddess. “Merely unable to move. Now, let us be done. Are you prepared?”
Miklós faced her fully.
What now, Bölk? You haven’t seemed surprised by anything. What is to happen? What will prevent her from destroying me?
It was unclear whether the terror that Miklós was holding at bay was stronger than his trust in Bölk but he had no choice so he couldn’t find out. “I am ready,” he said.
She pointed her right forefinger at him. There was a flicker of motion to his right. He saw that Brigitta was running toward him, and a cold fear paralyzed him for a moment, but she could never make it in time. Then there came a flash of blue from the Goddess’s finger. At the same time, a dark shape flashed in front of him, so close that he fell backward.
There was a loud
crack
followed by the sound of a falling body. Miklós rolled over and came to his knees.
Bölk lay on his side not far away.
“NO!”
He ran to the horse and saw there was a great rent in his side, and all around it were burn marks, as if a hole had been cut and a poor attempt made to cauterize the wound. Miklós could see the horse’s ribs and pale strips of muscle pulsating, and the ground around him was covered with blood. Miklós knelt next to his head. “Bölk.”
“Master, listen to me.”
“Bölk, don’t die!”
“It was necessary, master. Now, here is what you must do.”
“Bölk! You can’t—”
“Quiet, master. I had to. Now listen closely, or all is wasted and you will die.”
“I don’t care!”
“Yes, you do. You must.”
“This is why you wouldn’t tell me what you were going to do! You knew I’d never let you do this.”
“Bring your head closer. I must whisper, for my strength is waning.”
He shot a quick glance at the Goddess, who was watching sadly. She caught Miklós’s eye. “I am sorry,” she said. “We were allies once.”
Then Bölk spoke to her. “If you please, Goddess, a word with my master before I die.”
She frowned but nodded. There were no other sounds in the courtyard. The wind had died.
Miklós turned away from her and put his ear next to Bölk’s mouth. An instant later he pulled away. “I cannot!” he said in a fierce whisper. There was commotion around him now, but he ignored it. He leaned closer and listened more. He shook his head, feeling overwhelmed with horror and disgust. Bölk continued to speak for a moment, then his head fell back against the ground.
The commotion stopped. Miklós looked around and saw Brigitta stretched out a little way away. He turned. “What—”
“She only sleeps, my sad Prince. Had she done as she wished, I would have had to kill her; yet I did not wish to leave her awake but unable to intervene, to watch you die.”
Miklós felt he should thank her, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He felt tears well up in his eyes and wondered how he could do what he must—what Bölk required of him.
“Stand away,” said the Goddess. “I have no wish to further harm his body.”
He stood up and steeled himself. “A moment,” he said. “A request from Bölk before he died.” Without giving her time to answer, he moved so he could shield his actions from her view and drew his knife.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Only what he wished,” said Miklós, without turning around. Once, in the service of a lord of Faerie, he had butchered a calf. One slit to open up the rib cage, then reach in with the knife and … He knew what to do, and, hating himself, he did it.
It was only seconds later that, dropping the knife, he turned around. The Goddess saw what he held in his hands, and her eyes narrowed in disgust. “What is this?”
“He wished me to offer it to you, Goddess.”
She stared at him. “I don’t wish to have it, Prince.”
A sudden, terrible anger flared in him. “I don’t wish you to have it either, Goddess! Demon Goddess! You who kill me and my friends, while showering us with kindness—you deserve no part of him. But he said to give it, so, by the River, I’m going to give it to you one way or the other!” He took two steps forward, until he was inches from her. Then, into her face, he flung Bölk’s severed heart.
She reeled back a step, and, with a wave of her hand, the heart vanished. Only a few drops of blood remained on her face. Her eyes lit up with rage, then widened in surprise.
Then she screamed.
The walls and the Palace seemed to shake, and he desperately tried to cover his ears. He found himself on his back, then he was rolling away. He looked up and saw that László was moving, and a quick glance showed him that Brigitta was stirring; but he couldn’t look because the sound hurt too much. He kept rolling.
The scream ended abruptly. He glanced over, and the Goddess was on her knees. Her lips were moving, but Miklós heard no sound. Was she praying, he wondered? To whom?
She fell onto her face next to her idol and clawed the ground. Then, shimmering as she had when appearing, she vanished.
Beside her, the icon cracked in many places. Then it fell to pieces. Then the pieces crumbled to dust.
Silence settled over the courtyard.
Brigitta came to Miklós and put her arm around him. Andor gave one great sob, then ran off into the Palace. Miklós followed him with his eyes, understanding something of what he felt. He, too, had lost a god this day.
B
Y NOW, IT HAD FILLED THE ROOM COMPLETELY. ALL four walls and the ceiling trapped its expansion. But the tremor that passed through the entire structure freed it from somnolence, and it began to push.
Gently, gently, so gently, but firmly, irresistibly, it began to push. The strengthened and reinforced walls felt it. They pushed back.
Who would win this match of strength? The chick, seeking to escape, or the egg, seeking to contain and smother it? The answer is unknowable, for things could not remain in this state; something else had to happen.
And something
did
happen: the scream of a dying Goddess pierced the air and the walls.
Even before the scream found its way into the room, that which grew there was having an effect on its enclosing structure. It couldn’t break the walls, but it could bend them. And, when bent, perhaps they could break themselves. If anyone had happened to walk over that spot on the floor above, he would have noticed a bulge from where the ceiling in Miklós’s room was being pushed up.
Then the scream came, at such volume and pitch that the very roots of the Palace vibrated for a moment in sympathy with the dying Goddess.
Now a few cracks appeared in the walls.
The Wake
S
HE STROKED HIS HAIR.
They sat in the courtyard, and Brigitta watched as Andor entered the Palace and Miklós followed him with his eyes. What was he thinking?
When she had worked at the sign of the Two Rivers, she had often carried the mugs of ale and glasses of wine without thinking about it while she amused herself by studying the people there, learning to read their faces and their gestures to see what they were thinking or guess at their conversations from across the room. She was good at it. Why couldn’t she read Miklós? He mystified her. She had even been able to read Bölk.
That brought it back again.
Bölk and the Goddess and death.
The events had been going in and out of her head since she had awakened after the sleep the Goddess had cast upon her. Anger flared again, anger she knew was irrational. But to miss Miklós’s moment of glory! To have seen him—but put that aside.
The King was looking at her. She felt herself flushing, and tossed her head defiantly. What must he think of her now? Casting herself
at his brother now that he no longer wanted her. And why hadn’t he sent her away?
She had risen in the world, though. To have been the King’s, albeit for a while, would give her pleasant memories when she was old and ugly and—no! Don’t think of it. Never think of it! But why was the King—?
Then she realized that he wasn’t looking at her at all; he was looking at Miklós. In his face she read only shock. He had not yet accepted what had happened, perhaps couldn’t accept it. When he did—then what? Would he have Miklós put to death? She must help him get away from here! She looked at him then, and knew that he would never leave. This was his home.
Why wasn’t she afraid of him? He was a Prince, which ought to count for something. And more, he had slain the Goddess. She ought to be afraid to touch him. Strange.
She looked closely at Miklós, trying to see what he needed now. Did he want to be left alone? Why couldn’t she tell? Perhaps that was what fascinated her so much about him. And it was fascination—or had been at first. The mysterious vanished Prince, practically walking into her in the middle of the night. But it was more than that, now. He was gentle, sometimes too gentle, she thought wryly. And the way he moved—so graceful, as if he danced. And his shocking innocence never failed to amaze and delight her.
He was staring now, at Bölk. That brought it back again. Bölk—she couldn’t think of him as a horse,
táltos
or not. He was a friend. They had only spoken a few times, but he could see down to the tiniest hidden corner of her soul and liked her anyway. Everyone, it seemed, had the feeling that, “If he knew me he would despise me,” and most knew that it wasn’t true. But the certain knowledge that there was someone who knew her and still liked her brought her a kind of peace she had never felt before.
But Miklós was like that too, almost. He didn’t know her, but she knew, without trying it, that if she were to dredge up her most shameful secrets, he would find ways to tell her that it was all right, that none of those were horrible things. That was how he was. She smiled to herself.
Yes, my Prince. I am starting to know you. I still can’t tell what you’re thinking about, but I’m starting to know you
.
She looked up suddenly and saw László standing over them, looking at Miklós. He stared back.
“You have slain the Goddess,” said the King, whispering.
“Yes,” said Miklós.
László shook his head. His mouth moved between the shape for “How” and “Why,” but no sound came forth. Miklós only shook his head. At last László took a deep breath and said, “I must think, Miki. Do not leave here. I will speak with you and—do whatever I must.”
He turned and walked back into the Palace.
Miklós stared at the ground. Brigitta squeezed his arm. He stirred, then stood up. “He doesn’t want to kill me,” he said, as if this surprised him.
She stood up also. He gave her his arm without thinking. They walked to Viktor, who still watched the empty pedestal. Viktor looked at Miklós, and Brigitta read hate—hate so strong it almost took her breath away. Viktor was hiding it well, so Miklós probably didn’t see it, but it was clear to Brigitta. Miklós said, “Viktor, have someone dig a hole. Here, in the courtyard. I want the horse buried next to the pedestal. I’ll find something to put over it later.”
Viktor gave no answer except to stare inimically. “Well?” said Miklós, almost harshly.
Brigitta squeezed his arm as she saw the captain’s lip trembling. Was he going to attack Miklós? Now? But he seemed to get himself under control. “I must ask the King about this.”
“No, you must not,” said Miklós. “It is nothing to bother him with. If you ask him, he’ll be forced to refuse. If you don’t, he won’t care. I want it done at once. See to it.”
Viktor’s wooden face worked to let nothing past. Brigitta suppressed a shudder. The captain nodded, however.
Miklós returned to the Palace. As they entered, Vilmos was emerging from the cellar on a rope ladder.
“I heard something out here,” he said. “What happened?”
Miklós stared at him. “You were inside the whole time?”
“Yes? What was it?”
Miklós shook his head and walked past. Brigitta said, “Miklós has slain the Demon Goddess,” and left him gaping behind her.
They came to the guest room that Miklós was using and lay down together. She held him, and they didn’t speak for some time. But she wondered … .
What had he seen, when he had taken the power into himself? That was certainly what he was doing; nothing else made one look or act that way, though it was funny how different it looked from the inside and the outside. But had he seen the same things she always saw when—
No. Don’t think about it. It is behind you; part of another life
. But the memories, the visions, returned anyway. Euphoria, streaming patterns and flowing, blending shades of texture. It was all there. And, just behind it, her father, assuming his natural shape to torment her mother, or bringing his “friends,” to her. “Here, Brigitta. Here is what you will do … .” And the smile. The horrid, horrid smile. “Lineage,” the Goddess had said. She had recognized her.
Finally the escape to—to the city, at the last. Best not to think of what had gone before, either. Leave the pleasure with the pain and accept contentment. But Miki. Dear, dear, Miki. He must not become one of
them
, as she was. He must not.
But how to tell him without telling him too much?
“He planned it all, you know,” said Miklós suddenly, jolting Brigitta out of her reverie.
“I … excuse me.” She struggled to recall what they’d been discussing, and it came back with a sudden ache that she had forgotten about Bölk. “I was not awake for much of it,” she managed. “What happened?”
He briefly told her what she had slept through. He shuddered as he spoke. When he had finished, she fought to hold back tears. How could he have done it? She would never have had the strength to—
“Brigitta.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. For trying to save me twice, and for everything you’ve done since. You—I could never have spoken to the Goddess that way, trying to make her attack you. I don’t know how you did it. I hope, someday, I’ll be able to—never mind.”
Brigitta said nothing. How could she claim credit for those things? She had never really willed to do either of them, they had just happened. She held him closer.
Miklós whispered, “Bölk.”
She felt rather than heard his sobs, and she did her best to comfort him.
After a while, Miklós stirred. He looked around the room, then settled onto his back.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Brigitta.
He shook his head.
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“I don’t think you’d want to know.”
“You are probably right,” she said. “But tell me anyway.”
“Very well,” he said. “I am going to gather wood and oil and spread them throughout the Palace. Then I am going to burn it to the ground.”
Brigitta suppressed a gasp. “Why?” she said after a moment.
“Because I hate it. There has been too much death here. The norska. Bölk. Even the Goddess. Too much.”
“But if you destroy the Palace—no, it doesn’t matter to you.”
“What?”
“The tree. You will destroy that, too, but it seems I’m the only one who sees anything of value in it.”
He
didn’t
answer for a moment, then he said, “There was also Bölk.”
“Bölk? What did he say about it?”
“Didn’t he tell you what it was?”
“No. What is it?”
“Then he told the truth. He really didn’t know.”
“What?”
“Later.”
“Now.”
Miklós sighed audibly. “You are right. Bölk would not have wanted the tree destroyed. He says—this is going to sound strange.”
“Let it.”
But still he said nothing. He stood up abruptly. “Come, then. Let us look at it.”
She took his proffered hand and allowed herself to be led out of the room. On the way down to the main level they passed Mariska walking toward the Great Hall. She appeared not to see them, except to turn her body slightly to avoid collision. Brigitta glanced at Miklós. His lips were pressed tightly together.
They reached Miklós’s room and stepped past the curtain into it. The tree had grown even more. On all sides it was pressed fully against the walls. She turned to Miklós. “Well?”
“Bölk says that the Palace must be replaced and that this tree is what will replace it.”
She stared at him. “How can a tree—?”
“I don’t know. But that is what Bölk said.”
She shook her head. “Then how can you even consider doing anything that might harm it?”
He sighed and slumped against a wall. Thin leaves brushed against his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t know,” he said.
She turned back to the tree. Once again its beauty struck her, almost physically. It wasn’t merely the perfection, the symmetry of its form. Nor was it just the tiny perfection of every detail of every leaf. Had she passed it in the woods of home, before she came to the city, she would hardly have spared it a glance.
No, what was so shockingly beautiful about this tree was its newness, here, amid what was old and decrepit. The very thing, she reflected wryly, that prevented Miklós from admiring it. But on that score there was nothing to be—
“I see what you mean,” said Miklós suddenly.
“About what?”
“It is—attractive, isn’t it?”
For a moment, death and horror were swept from her mind and her heart was filled with clean joy, the like of which she hadn’t known since she was young. She crossed the three steps to where he stood, feeling as if she were skipping and, laughing, embraced him.
He laughed too. “I didn’t know it meant so much to you.”
She leaned back and looked at him. “Didn’t you?”
“Hmmm. Well, I suppose I did. But I’ve never seen it before. I suppose it’s a matter of attitude. Beauty ought to be independent of such things, though.”
“It is,” said Brigitta.
“If you say so,” said Miklós and squeezed her until she thought her ribs would crack. Then, smiling, he stepped away and began looking around the room.
“Come here,” he said after a moment.
She went over to him and looked where he pointed. There was a noticeable depression in the wall where one whole side of the tree was pushing against it like a battering ram.
She went to look at another spot where tree met wall and found a similar depression. Looking up, she saw the same thing was taking place on the ceiling.
“Mariska will be disappointed,” said Miklós.

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