The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) (45 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha)
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“I am the Heir. By rights, it is mine, and I can do what is needed. If it has no purpose here, then, well, why not permit me to take it where it belongs?”
“It is not so simple, little Phoenix,” said one of the gods, and Zerika found that she was now facing the one we know as Moranthë. Zerika looked at the goddess—similar in some ways to Verra, yet different—and waited. The goddess said, “We have one valuable thing that you do not, little Phoenix: we have time.”
“I am not certain that is true,” said another.
“Whereas,” said yet a third, “I am convinced it is entirely incorrect. While we have time, we also know others who have time.”
“Yes,” came from another. “If we delay, they will not. And what then?”
“Nevertheless,” said Ordwynac. “If she is not able to do what she must do, then by putting this artifact in her hands, we are not only leaving their world defenseless, but ourselves, as well.”
“Why do you believe,” said Verra, “that she will not be able to do what she must?”
“Why do you believe she will?” replied Ordwynac.
Zerika found herself again facing Verra, who looked at her closely, as if, indeed, attempting to see through her. The Demon Goddess then spoke, saying, “She has said she will.”
“Then,” said Ordwynac, “you will place the fate of the
world, and our own fate, on what this human chooses to say of herself?”
“Well, my dear Phoenix,” said Verra, addressing Zerika again. “Tell us, if you will, why we should believe you can do what you say.”
“Because,” Zerika replied with no trace of hesitation, the words spilling forth before she had time to consider them, “I am far too frightened at this moment to prevaricate.”
There were various sounds from around her, and it came to Zerika that the gods were laughing. She felt her face become red, but held her ground and continued to meet Verra’s eyes. After a moment, Vera nodded slightly, still smiling a little, and said, “I, for one, believe you.” Zerika had the feeling that this remark was directed less to her than to the other gods. She remained still, and waited.
“That is all very well,” said someone who had not yet spoken. Zerika abruptly found herself listening to a feminine voice and facing what at first she thought was nothing at all until she became aware that there was, perhaps, a certain vague discoloration before her; as if something were almost but not quite there. As she was attempting to decide if something were wrong with her eyes, or if there was, indeed, a goddess before her, she heard the voice again. “But I should very much like to know if you have a plan for how to face these difficulties. That is, a specific plan.”
“I do not,” said Zerika at once. “I have no plan. I do, however, have resources that I believe will be adequate to the task, and I will, in the first place, marshal these resources. Then I will determine what sort of problems confront the Empire, and I will attack each in its proper place.”
“That is not a bad answer, little one,” said the goddess whom, by the now, the reader has identified as Nyssa.
“Yes,” said Ordwynac. “She is, without question, good with answers.”
Zerika looked up at this god, feeling her eyes narrow, and she said, “Words represent thoughts, and I am sharing my thoughts, because they are all I have to hand at present. Give me something stronger than words to wield, and I will gladly do so.”
“Indeed?” said Ordwynac. “Little human, do you think to threaten me?”
“Not at all,” said Zerika coolly.
“That is good. I am glad to see that at least you do not think to match your strength and resources against the Guardians of the World.”
“I certainly do not,” said Zerika, and added, “not unless I must.”
This remark was greeted by unanimous silence among the gods—a silence that lasted for what seemed to Zerika to be some few minutes. Then, once more, there was the sound of laughter—this time a veritable cacophony of all different sounds of mirth. Zerika maintained her poise like an Issola and waited until the laughter had died away. When, at last, it had, Verra raised her head to address all of the Lords of Judgment. “Are there any other questions from any of you?”
For a moment there was silence, and Zerika dared to hope that, whatever the outcome, her ordeal was over.
But it was not.
Barlen spoke—not to Zerika, however, but to Verra. “You believe her,” he said. “Do you think she has the mettle to see it through?”
“I know one thing for certain,” said the Demon Goddess. “One thing that cannot be argued with.”
“And that is?” said Barlen.
“She has arrived here, over Deathgate Falls, and through the Paths of the Dead.”
“Pah,” said Ordwynac, or something very like it. “What is involved in that? A few tricks of memory, no more.”
Zerika did not permit herself to become angry at this unkind and untrue—or, at the very least, oversimplified—denigrating of her task. Rather she let the anger wash over and past her, knowing that she could not be at her best if in the grip of anger, any more than she could were she in the grip of fear.
Verra said, “Tell me something, my dear little Zerika. How did you traverse the Falls?”
“The Falls themselves? Why, I jumped from them.”
Verra quickly glanced across the way toward Ordwynac, and said, “How, you jumped?”
“I did, Goddess.”
“But then, why would you have done that?”
“For the simple reason that, as my escort and I were under attack at the time, there was no other choice.”
Verra nodded to Zerika, then looked up and directed a complacent smile at Ordwynac.
At length Ordwynac addressed Verra. “Well then, she has courage. This is not something I have doubted. But courage, by itself, is hardly sufficient, is it?”
Zerika turned and addressed the god directly, saying, “I believe I have more to offer than mere courage.”
“Perhaps,” said Ordwynac. “But is what you have sufficient? That is what we must decide.”
“I have already decided,” said Verra.
“Well, that doesn’t startle me,” said Ordwynac.
“For my part,” said Barlen, “I am not far from agreeing with Verra on this occasion.”
“Well,” said Ordwynac. And then, to Zerika, “What is it you have to offer, that is more than courage?”
“As I have had the honor to tell you, I am Heir to the throne, that is, the only remaining Phoenix. And I have the wit to have arrived here through the Paths of the Dead while yet living. And I have the aid of the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain. And I have the will to do what I have to. All of this you know. What more is needed?”
“I will tell you what is needed—” began Ordwynac, but, by this time, Zerika had had enough.
“Nonsense,” she said.
She remained still, feeling the weight upon her of the scrutiny of the gods, and aware of their surprise at the word she had dared to utter.
When none of the gods spoke, Zerika began to do so once more, in this fashion: “I do not know what you are doing, but it is not determining if I should take the Orb. You know—all of you—that I must take the Orb from this place, and that I must—that I am destined to—reawaken the Empire, or to try until I am slain in the effort. You pretend to be evaluating my worthiness, but you are doing nothing of the kind, because I know and each of you knows that there is no other choice.”
Zerika paused for a breath.
“So I must ask myself just what you
are
doing?”
She allowed her glance to cover the entire circle, looking at them all with an unwavering glance.
“I have an answer,” she said. “I believe that you not only want me to leave with the Orb, but you—or at least some of you—want me so intimidated that I will put together the Empire as you see it, in the way you wish it, to serve your ends.”
She paused.
“This will not be.
“You are the Guardians of the World, and the Lords of Judgment. But I will be the Empress. If there is a thing you wish of my Empire, you may ask me for it, as it always has been, and I will decide, as the Emperor always has. That is how it will be.”
She paused, then said, “Now give the Orb into my hands. I have spent too much time here, and I must reach a place of safety beyond this realm before I sleep, and I am very weary.”
There was a considerable silence that followed this declamation. So long was it, in fact, that Zerika had time to realize that, in fact, she was every bit as weary as she had said; she was wondering if she would be able to remain on her feet. At that instant, she found that she was looking at one of the gods she had not hitherto confronted. This one appeared to her as a being not unlike a Serioli, a very old Serioli—one with wrinkles and splotches of great age, and whose gnarled hands rested palms up upon thin knees the outlines of which were visible beneath a frail garment of dark blue. And in these hands and upon these knees was an object that Zerika knew at once, though she had never seen it, nor, indeed, heard more than the most cursory description of it.
It was a sphere about eight or nine inches in diameter, and of a grey so dark it was almost black, yet she fancied she could see the faintest sparkles from various points on its surface, as if certain jewels were inside it, their color breaking through here and there. The god spoke softly, saying, “Zerika of the House of the Phoenix, here is what you have come for. Bear it to good fortune.” With this, the ancient god extended the Orb, and Zerika took it into her hands, feeling its weight gradually settle. It did not seem especially heavy to her; she judged that it could not weigh more than ten or fifteen pounds.
She stared at the god, uncertain of what to do or to say. It seemed to her that he smiled a little, and she found that she had dropped her eyes, bashful as a girl, and given him a bow.
When she raised her head again, she was no longer in the circle where she had been, but now stood directly before the Cycle itself, which realizing caused in her such astonishment that she nearly dropped the Orb.
When she had recovered a little, she stared at the Cycle, the most ancient and sacred of all artifacts. It was larger in diameter than two men, made of a stone that does not erode, and, perhaps, older than Time. It was close enough to reach—in—deed, the symbol of the Vallista was directly before her face—but she dared not touch it. She looked up toward the top, her neck straining, and she saw that, indeed, the symbol of her House, the Imperial Phoenix, was still at the pinnacle, flanked by the Athyra retiring and the Dragon advancing. Here was most mystical of the forces of the universe made tangible. All of the responsibilities of rulership, and all of her connections with other Emperors dating back to her ancestor, Zerika the First, suddenly seemed real and present to her as she studied the massive stone artifact.
We cannot, however we may try, communicate to the reader the emotion experienced by Zerika at this moment. Indeed, we cannot imagine how she must have felt: overwhelmingly weary, ultimately triumphant, tightly holding the Orb and now facing the Cycle itself, that most ancient of artifacts which brought forth all the humbleness and pride that is the birthright of any legitimate Emperor.
Soon, as she stood there, she realized that she was not alone. She turned her head, and saw a man dressed in the purple robes of the servants of the dead. Zerika turned to him and waited. The Purple Robe bowed, and indicated with a slow, graceful gesture that she was to follow him. She took a last look at the Cycle, blinking back tears, and set off after him.
She found that they were walking downward along a path of flat stones set into a grassy hillside. The path continued up another hill, this one topped with deciduous trees of some sort she didn’t recognize, and also thick with bushes. The Purple Robe remained with her as they reached the bottom of the hill and began climbing. Zerika looked up at what, in fact,
was a rather small hill and wondered if she would be able to climb it without assistance. But, she reflected, to receive aid in climbing from a Purple Robe would be, well, it wouldn’t be right.
She fixed her eyes at the top of the hill, set her countenance in an expression of determination, and began walking. She felt her hands, holding the Orb, begin to tremble, and clutched it more tightly to her, holding it against her body. She began to take smaller steps as the path rose more steeply, and as she felt her strength deserting her. She glanced over at the Purple Robe who walked next to her, and thought again about leaning against him, but set her teeth and simply continued walking.
Eventually, she reached the trees, and observed that the stones of the path were now set more deeply into the ground, and seemed older. With each step now, it seemed, the forest grew thicker, the path narrower, the stones even older, and she had the sense she was walking backward in time.
The stones at her feet were now cracked. In a few more steps, they were broken, with weeds and grass growing up among them. In not much longer she was walking upon soft grass. At around that same time, she realized that she was alone; the Purple Robe had, somehow, been left behind.
At about this same time, she became aware that the Orb was no longer a burden her hands—indeed, it seemed that it weighed nothing at all. She glanced down at it, and realized that it was emitting a very soft, pale yellow glow. Without breaking stride, she opened her hands. The Orb floated into the air, and began slowly and gracefully circling her head.

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