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Authors: Steven Brust

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The traveler carefully counted out nine pennies, then made his way up the stairs and, finding the room with no more trouble than one might suppose after hearing the simple directions, let himself into it He looked around and noted with pleasure that the bedding appeared to have no holes through which straw could emerge, and that, moreover, the room possessed both a chair and a window. He set his satchel on the floor, and studied the view from the window. As there was little of interest to him, and less of interest to the reader, we will forbear to describe the scene upon which he looked, and merely follow him as he left his room in order to have, as he thought, a brief walk through the town before retiring for the evening and continuing his journey in the morning.
He came down the stairs, then, and turned up the narrow street to see if he might find a public house where he could take a glass of wine and meet a few of the local denizens. It took him some time to locate it, because it was a small house unadorned with any sign or indication of its nature, but at length he happened
to notice that it was uncommonly busy for a simple home and asked a passerby, who confirmed his deduction.
Upon entering, the young warlock observed a single room, well lit by hanging lamps. There were a few hard wooden chairs scattered about, but most of the patrons were standing in groups of four or five drinking beer or wine. Discovering that he felt suddenly uncomfortable, the traveler made his way to a corner that appeared to be more-or-less deserted, and which, moreover, contained an unoccupied chair. This chair, we should say, was next to a small round table, which table contained a head full of dark, curly hair, which head was attached to a body that occupied the table’s other chair. Presuming that this other individual was in no condition to object to company, the traveler at once seated himself, and set about considering how to acquire for himself something to drink.
Several moments passed, during which our friend became acclimated to the warmth of the room, and the atmosphere, in which humanity commingled with stale wine and the sweet harshness of burning tobacco leaves, inhaled for their mild euphoric effect by many of the patrons. Eventually, a portly woman carrying a tray full of glasses came by, and, before the young man could speak, set down before him a mug of wine that was so dark as to be almost black. He accepted it in the spirit of inquiry, and paid for it with a coin that the hostess looked at carefully before accepting. She hurried on, and he tasted the wine, finding it to be very dry and acidic. Though hardly a connoisseur, he did have something of a palate, and winced slightly at the taste.
“You should,” said someone, “have asked for the reserve. It costs only a little more, and is not nearly so harsh, with a not unpleasant peppery aftertaste. Or, better yet, the
brandy,
which, while falling short of excellent, has the virtue of quickly causing the drinker to stop caring about such niceties as taste.” We should explain that
brandy
is what the Easterners call that class of wine which is distilled after being fermented; that they have a special name for this drink may, indeed, give us several significant clues about the Eastern culture, but now would not be the time for this discussion, interesting though it might be.
It took the traveler a moment to identify the speaker, but
eventually he realized that it was none other than his companion at the table, whom he had taken to be asleep. Though this individual had not moved, his eyes were open, and he gave no appearance of intoxication; nor did he slur his speech, though he spoke Olakiska, the language of the district, with an odd rhythm, rather like a horse about to jump an obstacle, then suddenly stopping and reconsidering the affair, and continuing in this manner throughout the length of the sentence.
Notwithstanding the odd speech, which meant only that the speaker was, like so many others, not native to the region, the traveler replied politely, saying, “I thank you for your advice, and will avail myself of it the next time our good hostess passes by.”
“You are most welcome,” said the other, still not moving. “Might I inquire as to your name?”
“You may, indeed, inquire, but, alas, I cannot tell you.”
“How, you cannot tell me?”
“I’m afraid that I cannot”
“You will pardon me if I find that singular.”
“Well,” said the traveler, “there is an explanation.”
“Ah, well, that is less astonishing. And will you give me this explanation?”
“Certainly, and this is it, then: I cannot tell you my name, because I am traveling to find it.”
We should note that, during this entire conversation, our friend’s companion had not stirred from his position of resting his head upon his arm, and his arm upon the table. Upon hearing this, however, he lifted his head, showing a trim mustache, a few strands of hair upon a strong chin, a thin, narrow face with deep-set eyes, and a small mouth, all of which were framed, as it were, by masses of curly black hair tumbling down to his shoulders. He then said, “Ah. I comprehend.”
“How, you comprehend?”
“Yes. You are training in the arts of the warlock.”
“You have understood me exactly.”
“That is hardly surprising; I have been acquainted with warlocks before. My name is Miska.”
“How do you do, Miska?”
“I am, to my deep regret, entirely sober. This is because I do not have sufficient coinage to remedy the condition. If you
would be good enough to buy me a drink, I will repay you by giving you a name.”
“As to giving me a name, well, that may not be as simple as you pretend. Yet I will gladly buy you a drink nevertheless.”
“Splendid. You are an amiable fellow, and I believe I like you:” Miska then turned his head and called, in voice that carried throughout the room, “Two
brandies,
my good woman!”
The traveler, who, in fact, would have preferred the reserve wine, decided not to say anything, and soon enough two small glasses of
brandy
appeared before them, for which the warlock-in-training cheerfully paid. He then sipped his, winced again, and set his glass down; Miska, for his part, drained his glass in one long swallow, his head thrown back, then set the glass down on the table with a hard crack. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, “Your name is Dark Star.”
“Dark Star?”
Miska nodded.
“Why?’
“Why?”
“Yes, why is that my name?”
Miska looked at him, and it seemed to the young warlock that the other’s black, black eyes were seeing deeply into him, and he said, “Because in the land of Faerie all the stars are dark, but you will be the darkest. You will give light, but few will know it. Your rod will be black, your home will be darkness, but you will shine. You will be the Dark Star of Faerie.”
“I will go to the land of Faerie?”
“You will.”
“Dark Star.”
“Yes. Or, in my own language, Sötétcsilleg.”
“I do not believe I could pronounce that.”
“Do you speak the language of the Silatan? In that language, it would be Morrolan.”
“That is not one I speak.”
“Then, in the language of Faerie—”
“But I am able to pronounce it.”
“Let us hear you.”
“Morrolan.”
“Well, there you have it. Your quest is complete. What will you do now, Dark Star?”
“What will I do now?”
“Yes, my friend Sötétcsilleg. Your quest is complete. Will you now return to your home?”
“Oh, but I had more to do than merely acquire a name.”
“Ah, more?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. In fact, that was to happen near the end.”
“Well, what else have you do, Morrolan? Perhaps we will dispatch those tasks as easily.”
“What else have I to do?”
“Yes, yes. Come Dark Star. Tell me your tasks and we will consider them together. After all, you have bought me a drink.”
“And you have given me a name.”
“Then it may be that we have the beginning of a fine partnership. Or, perhaps, a legendary friendship. At all events, come. Let us hear what you have to do.”
“Well, in addition to a name, I am to find a holy artifact, and a place of power, and a kindred soul. Ah!”
“Excuse me, you say, ‘ah.’”
“Well, and, if I do?”
“It would seem that, to say ‘ah’ in that tone of voice, my dear Sötétcsilleg, would indicate that something has occurred to you.”
“Well, in fact, something
has
occurred to me.”
“And that is?”
“Well, it is this: Perhaps you, my good Miska, are my kindred soul.”
“Alas, good Morrolan, it seems unlikely.”
“How, unlikely?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because I am only a coachman.”
“Well, and if you are?”
“The kindred soul for whom you search is someone with whom you can make many journeys, and, in each one, you will grow closer together. As for me, well, once you have completed this journey, my work will be done.”
Morrolan considered this in silence, at something of a loss for how to respond. At last he said, “Would you care for another
brandy
?”
“If we are not kindred spirits, Dark Star,” said Miska, “at least, it seems to me, we understand one another, and that is not so little.”
Morrolan acquired more
brandy
for Miska, and a glass of the reserve for himself; we should add that, as Miska had promised, this wine was a noticeable improvement over either of the other drinks. Miska, for his part, seemed content to sip his
brandy
on this occasion, rather than quaffing it as he had the first glass.
Morrolan watched the other for a moment, wondering at the whims of fate and fortune that bring people together, and said, “How is it you come to be in Blackchapel, Miska? For it is clear that you are not from here; and are, in fact, Fenarian, if I do not mistake your accent.”
“I am of all places and all times,” said Miska. “At least, when I am drunk. When I am sober, yes, I am Fenarian, and was most recently employed by a nobleman of that land, who took an excursion to visit the Lake Nivaper in order to fish and to swim. He failed to catch any fish and so for reasons best known to himself he chose to get drowned, leaving me in a foreign country without employment.” Miska then belched prodigiously and swallowed about half of his drink. “I decided, then, to come here because I have been here before and fancy their
brandy
.”
“So you are, then, waiting for something to come along?”
“Something always does, my dear Sötétcsilleg, in a day or a year or a hundred years.”
“A hundred years is too long for me, good Miska; I doubt I shall live that long.”
Miska gave him a quick glance, but made no other reply.
Morrolan said, “You have, then, his coach?”
Miska shook his head. “I gave it into the care of the servants who came to look for his body.”
“And so, you must use your feet to return?”
“Yes, my good Morrolan, if I return.”
“Ah, then you may not return?”
“It is possible that I won’t return, or that my return will be delayed. There is nothing waiting for me there.”
“And so?”
“And so, I drink. I drink, and I wait to see what is in the cup fate sets before me. It is not a bad life, Dark Star. You do the same, only—”
“Yes? Only?”
“Only you are unaware of it.”
“Perhaps you are right. Then, you believe that some fate or destiny has caused us to meet?”
Miska shrugged. “Who can say?” He drained his glass, then, and stood up suddenly, appearing perhaps a bit unstable on his feet, but he said, “Come. Let us continue your quest.”
“What, this very instant?”
“Why not?” said the coachman.
 
 
How Morrolan Met Someone
Who Was Not, in Fact, a Goddess
 
 
 
M
orrolan nodded and stood, leaving his wine unfinished, taken by a sudden desire to move forward in his mission. “Yes, let us do so, then,” he said, and followed the coachman out of the house and into the street. The air was clear and bracing after the closeness of the public house, and very dark, as this Eastern village had not yet found a way to light its streets, so the only light came from that which spilled, as it were, out of a few windows behind which lamps or tapers were burning.
As they stepped out, they were greeted by someone who said, “A very pleasant day to you, sir. I see that you found a room.”
“Why, yes,” said Morrolan. “And I thank you, sir, for your assistance earlier.” We need hardly add that the irony of Morrolan’s statement was lost on Erik, for, of course, it was he who had spoken.
“Good evening to you, Erik,” said Miska. “I hope the night finds you well.”
“Why, as it chances, it does,” said Erik. “And I hope the very same to you, uh …”
“Miska,” prompted the coachman.
“Yes, Miska,” said Erik. “That is right,” as if Miska required reassurance. “Are you two off to visit the goddess?”
“Goddess?” said Morrolan. “I was unaware that a goddess had taken up residence here.”
“How, you were unaware of this fact?”
“Entirely, I assure you.”
Miska said, “Tell me, my dear Erik, when this goddess arrived.”
“Oh, as to that, I have not the least idea in the world. But I know she is here, for I saw her not five minutes ago near the chapel.”
“That,” said Miska, “is a good place to find a goddess.”
“Why, do you know, that thought had not occurred to me.”
“Well.”
At this, Erik smiled and continued on his way.
“A goddess?” said Morrolan.
“I hardly think so,” said Miska. “Were it, in fact, a goddess, the good Erik would have identified her as something else entirely.”
“Ah,” said Morrolan.
“Nevertheless,” said Miska, “I see no reason not to walk over to the chapel and make our observations.”
“Yes, let us do so.”
This decided, they set off, Miska leading through one or two turns of the little streets of Blackchapel, until they came to the place for which the village was named. The original Blackchapel, was, in fact, no more than a large black rock of the type the wizards call sparkstone, which, coming to the height of an Easterner’s chest, was peculiarly flat on the top, giving the appearance of a high table, or altar, and stretching out some five feet in length, and perhaps three or four in depth. Upon its discovery, somewhere far back in prehistory, it became, quite naturally, a place where the Easterners would gather to practice their primitive rites. At times the altar was open to the sky, at other times it was covered by some structure or another.
The most recent form of the temple had come to be several hundred years before, when a priest of the Three Sisters, who were much worshiped in the East, caused to be built a small temple around it, made of sparkstone, obsidian, pumice, and other black stones that could be found in the district, from
which the village soon gained its name. There were two large stone doors to the chapel, also black, which would have been difficult to open were they, in fact, ever closed; but by custom they remained open at all times, and it was at these doors that our friends at length arrived.
Upon entering the chapel, which was lit by half a dozen torches evenly spaced upon the wall to the left and the right, and which emitted thick, oily smoke that blended into the dark walls and ceiling, they at once saw a figure standing at the altar, facing them.
“Well,” remarked Miska quietly. “Erik was closer to the truth than I’d have thought.”
This comment was drawn from Miska by the sight of the individual who stood at the altar, and was, perhaps, more of a comment on Miska’s taste in female beauty than in any attribute of this person. On the other hand, we cannot but admit that “beauty” as the concept might apply to an Easterner is not something of which this historian could claim to have any knowledge or appreciation—indeed, it is obvious that such an abstraction as “beauty” is hardly meaningful except within a species. This said, however, it does not mean that the historian can abnegate his duty of sketching, however briefly, every new person who brings himself to the reader’s attention, and with whom the reader will be expected to spend some time. This description may appear before the individual appears, as the individual appears, or even, in some cases, after the reader has come to know the individual more or less well; but appear it must, and so, the time being so convenient, we will pause now to say two words about the woman who faced our friends from across the altar of Blackchapel.
She was, then, small, even by Eastern standards, slight, with dark hair around a narrow face dominated by large, bright eyes, and she wore a plain black garment, rather like a robe, save that it was belted at the waist and fit rather snugly, and, as that was all our friends could see as they entered, it will have to do for our initial sketch.
While her frame was slight, her voice was strong as she said, “Greetings, my friends. I have been expecting you.”
“How,” said Morrolan. “Expecting us?”
“For some reason,” murmured Miska, “that does not astonish me.”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “I knew the time, and the place, although I did not know you would be a, that is, I did not know who precisely. And I knew you would be accompanied by a guide, although I did not know the nature of the guide. I take you to be a coachman, sir?”
Miska bowed at this.
“There are many stories of coachmen.”
“Indeed, madam. And coachmen, on their part, take revenge by telling stories of everyone else.”
“Yes, I have heard of this. And your name, my good coachman?”
“Miska.”
The woman nodded. “Very well, Miska. You have done well. Here is your fee.” So saying, she threw him a small purse, which he caught out of the air.
“How,” he said. “That is all for me?”
“You wish more?”
“Indeed.”
“What more would you wish?”
“How much is available?”
“Nothing,” said the woman.
Miska sighed. “Well, I should at least like to know how this all comes out in the end. You perceive, it might give me another story.”
“I have no doubt,” she said, “that you will come to learn about it, sooner or later. But for now …”
Her voice trailed off, her sentence punctuated by an eloquent look. Miska interpreted the look, bowed to each of them, and, addressing Morrolan, said, “Well, at least some of your tasks are now completed.” With this he backed out of the chapel, leaving Morrolan alone with the strange woman.
“I am called Arra,” she said after Miska had left.
“I am Morrolan.”
“Morrolan?” she said. “‘Black Star.’ An auspicious name”
“I hope so. And who—”
“I am a priestess.”
“Ah! Yes, of course. I should have realized. A priestess of—?”
“The Demon Goddess. I serve her. You will serve her as well.”
“You think so?” said Morrolan.
Arra nodded. “Yes,” she said. “In fact, I am entirely convinced of it.”
“Well then,” said Morrolan. “Perhaps you are right. But will you do me the honor to explain why I will do this?”
“Because you wish for knowledge, and for power.”
“And I can gain these things by serving the goddess?”
The priestess indicated by a sign that, in fact, he could.
“Well,” said Morrolan, “I do not wish to say that I doubt you—”
“That is good. You should not doubt me.”
“—but how am I to know that serving her will lead me to knowledge and power?”
“Oh, you wish to know that?”
“Yes. In fact, I so strongly wish to know, that I cannot conceive of committing myself to the goddess before this question has been answered.”
“But then, what do you know of the goddess?”
“Very little. I know that her feast day falls in the winter, and that she is one of the Daughters of Night, and that she is said to take an interest in certain of the smaller kingdoms.”
“Have you heard that she takes an especial interest in those who study the arts of the witch?”
“I had not heard this. In fact, I had thought that was one of her sisters.”
“They are sometimes hard to tell apart.”
“Very well.”
“Nevertheless, it is true.”
“Then I accept that she interests herself in the study of the Art. What next?”
“Next? She is very powerful.”
“That is but natural in a goddess.”
“That is true, but, moreover, she is loyal.”
“Ah! She is loyal, you say.”
“I not only say it, but I insist upon it.”
“Well, I admit that makes a difference.”
“And then?”
Morrolan suddenly found himself in one of those moments
where the direction of one’s whole life can change in an instant. Another might have hesitated, but Morrolan was not of a character for hesitation, and, moreover, he had set out from home with the idea in mind of putting himself into the path of just this sort of event.
“Very well, I accept,” he said. “Is there a ritual or a ceremony?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Well, when shall we perform this ritual?”
“Unless you can think of a reason to delay, well, we can do so at once.”
“I can think of no reason,” he said.
“Then let us begin,” said Arra.
Morrolan went forward to the altar and, towering over Arra, he said, “What, then, must we do?”
“Will you agree to serve the goddess?”
“I will.”
“Very well, then.”
“How, that is it?”
“No, but it is a good beginning.”
“I see. Well then, what next?”
“Next is the consecration.”
“Ah, the consecration!”
“Exactly.”
“Well, but—”
“Yes?”
“What is being consecrated?”
“Your soul, to the goddess.”
“Ah.”
“Then you have no objection?”
“None at all. One’s soul must do something, after all.”
“That is true, though I had not thought of it in precisely those terms.”
“And from this, I will get power?”
“You will.”
“And will there be a cost for this power?”
“Of course.”
“And that is? For it is always good to inquire as to the cost.”
“Yes, I understand that. Well, the cost will be that you must serve the goddess.”
“Oh, I have no qualms about serving her.”
“It is good that you do not. Next, when you die—”
“Yes?”
“She will then have disposition of your soul.”
“What happens when I die does not concern me excessively.”
“That is good. Then can we begin?”
“I nearly think so.”
“Very well, then.”
As to the exact nature of the ritual through which Arra led Morrolan, we must confess that it has not come down to us; indeed, even if it had, we would no more reveal its details than would a Discreet reveal the intimacies which had been confided to him. Yet we can say that the matter consumed several hours, and involved various rare herbs, long incantations, body paints of certain colors, some amount of blood from both participants; and was, as far as Morrolan was concerned, physically and emotionally exhausting. When it had at last been concluded, at very nearly the exact hour of midnight, Morrolan fell into a deep sleep, stretched out behind the stone altar.
While he slept, Arra cleaned up the devices and material which had been used in the consecration, and, while she did so, Morrolan had a dream, which he later reported this way: “I was standing knee deep in a large, calm lake, that seemed to be Lake Vidro, only there were no trees along the shore, only large boulders. And as I stood there, I thought that I was looking for something, but I could not remember what it was. Then the water was disturbed, and a whistlefish broke through the surface and looked up at me, and it seemed that its eyes were two jewels, one green and the other red. After it had looked at me for a moment, it dived into the lake, and I knew I was to follow it. I did so, holding my breath, and under the water, which in my dream was very clear, I swam easily to the bottom, and there I saw, sticking in the sand at the bottom of the lake, surrounded by glittering light, a short black staff or wand. I took it in my hand, and it came away easily. I swam back toward the surface, which now seemed an impossible distance away, and I thought I should never make it, but at last, just as my lungs seemed ready to burst, I broke out onto the surface, and at that moment, I woke up, gasping for air.”

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