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Authors: Steven Brust

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How the Author Returns
To Blackchapel After a Year
And Morrolan Becomes Annoyed
 
 
 
W
e will advance in time by something like a year from the time of our previous chapter, though remaining in the same geographical position—that is, in the village of Blackchapel. As we look upon the village (or, perhaps we should say, the town), now in full summer of the 244th year of the Interregnum, the astute observer might notice a few changes since we were last there: The public house where Morrolan met Miska is entirely gone, except for its brick chimney, which stands as a monument. Of the place where he spent his first night, not even a chimney stands, although there are a few scattered stones about to show where it once stood. The cottages that had been built to house those of the Circle are vanished, save for smoking ruins. Indeed, there is scarcely a house or building remaining at all on what was once the main street of the village. Nor, in fact, are there people in evidence; the street would appear to be entirely deserted, save for a small number of rats scurrying about looking for anything edible, and a smaller number of dogs sniffing about after the rats.
After a close inspection, the observer might conclude that some sort of disaster had occurred in and around Blackchapel, and, in this, the observer would be entirely correct.
To find the cause of this catastrophe, let us journey to the chapel itself, which, although showing signs of damage—a
few stones have been pried out, and there are some indications that an attempt was made to burn it—is still standing, and is, moreover, occupied: Morrolan and Arra stand at the altar, conversing with one another, which conversation we will take the liberty to intrude upon, at very nearly the point where matters of interest to us are being discussed. At the moment we have chosen, Arra is just saying, “Everyone is in hiding now.”
“That is best,” said Morrolan.
Arra nodded. “They will reappear soon.”
“It happened quickly?”
“While you were in your trance.”
Morrolan said, “It seems that I only spent two or three hours in my attempt at astral traveling.”
“How was the effort?”
“There was a point when I felt that I was very close to achieving something.”
“Well, that is good.”
“But they came and went during that time?”
“Yes,” said Arra. “They were very fast. Indeed, they were gone in less than an hour. I came to get you, but it was over already.”
“They killed many people, didn’t they?”
“Nine were killed, twenty or thirty more hurt, and, as I have said, the entire village has been razed.”
“And did they steal as well?”
“No. They burned and killed, that is all.”
“Indiscriminately?”
“So it seemed.”
“Were any of the Circle hurt?”
“Ricardo sustained a cut on his left arm that went to the bone; he is being attended to. And Marya hurt her ankle in avoiding them. That is all.”
“We were lucky.”
“Yes, milord.”
“What were they after?”
“I believe, my lord, that they were looking for you.”
“For me?”
“They took Tamas, and beat him to make him tell them where you were.”
“He didn’t tell them?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Is he all right?”
“Bruised, no more.”
“I must see for myself what they have done.”
“I understand, milord.”
We trust the reader will understand if we do not follow Morrolan too closely. We confess that the sight of burned-out structures, and, even more, the twisted and bleeding remains of what once were people, will no doubt appeal to some of our readers. Indeed, we are not unaware that there are entire schools of literature which devote themselves to enthusiastic depictions of exactly such events, dwelling in loving detail on each drop of blood, each broken limb, each agonized scream, each countenance made grotesque by an expression of pain. Of course, it is the nature of the
history
as it is written that any tendency within literature will find a reflection within it; and naturally the reverse is true, because those who create literature read history as much as those who write history read literature.
We understand why some of our brothers find themselves drawn to such depictions: whereas history becomes stronger when the emotions of the reader are engaged, literature absolutely requires it; and dwelling on agony in its most graphic form is an easy way to engage the emotions of the reader. Yes, we understand this, but will not ourselves indulge in such appeals to the most base and unsophisticated instincts of our intended audience, because we hope and believe that those who have done us the honor to follow us through these histories will best respond to a higher order of stimulation.
However, while we are not choosing to show the reader what Morrolan saw on the streets of Blackchapel, we must, nevertheless, insist that
Morrolan
saw all of it. He spent hours on the streets, speaking with the injured, consoling the bereaved, and shaking his head over the damage to the village. It should not be necessary to make the observation that Morrolan, after living there for a hundred years, knew well all of those who had been killed or hurt; indeed, had known all of their families for many generations, and the tears and groans could not leave him unmoved.
When he returned at length to the chapel, Arra, upon seeing
his countenance, involuntarily stepped back from him, for she had never seen him in this mood, nor had she realized that he was capable of such wrath as he now displayed, though still tightly contained. His eyes were lit with such a hate that, while it had been seen on a thousand thousand battlefields in the Empire, had, perhaps, never been seen before on this side of the Eastern Mountains. His hand had gripped the hilt of his sword. His teeth were clenched, and his words, when he spoke, were delivered in a low, even tone through lips that barely moved.
“Let us see, then. They killed and burned without stealing, and they were looking for me.”
“Yes.”
“Whence came they?”
“The northeast.”
Morrolan nodded. “Then that is where I will go and look for them.”
“How, look for them?”
“Yes.”
“Milord—”
“Well?”
“There were seventy or eighty of them. And, while our Circle now numbers considerably more, well, they are witches, not warriors.”
“I said nothing of taking the Circle.”
“How, you will attack seventy or eighty of them?”
“Why not?”
“With that number, they will probably kill you.”
“Perhaps.”
“And if that is what they came here to do, and failed, why gift them with exactly what they wanted?”
Morrolan frowned as Arra’s reasoning penetrated the rage that consumed him. “Well, there is something in what you say,” he admitted.
“I think so, too.”
“Only—”
“Yes?”
“They have burned and destroyed my village, and killed nine of my people.”
“Well, and?”
“I wish to kill them.”
“That is but natural. Perhaps—”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps the goddess will help.”
“You think so?”
“It is possible.”
“Has she spoken to you?”
“Not in a hundred years.”
“Well?”
“It can do no harm to ask.”
“That is true. Let us ask, then. What is required?”
“Very little.”
“Then let us attempt it.”
“Place your hands upon the altar.”
“Very well, I have done so.”
“Now close your eyes.”
“They are closed; what next?”
“Now you must think about the goddess.”
“How, think about her?”
“Yes.”
“But, what shall I think about her?”
“What you know about her.”
“But in truth, I know very little.”
“You have feelings for her.”
“Well, yes.”
“Concentrate on those.”
“It is difficult, Arra. I feel little now except anger.”
“You must do your best.”
“Very well.”
“Now you must visualize her.”
“Ah. Visualize her.”
“Yes. That means to picture her in your mind.”
“Oh, I know what it means well enough, only—”
“Yes?”
“What does she look like?”
“I assure you, I have not the least idea in the world.”
“Well, that will make it more difficult.”
“That is true, but you must do the best you can.”
“Very well.”
“Are you visualizing her?”
“As best I can.”
“That is good. Continue doing so.”
“What then?”
Arra did not respond; or, rather, her response was not to him. She began speaking in some language that Morrolan was unfamiliar with—indeed, a language he had never before heard pronounced. At the same time, he noticed that the altar seemed to be growing warm beneath his hands; he considered remarking to Arra upon this strange phenomenon, but then thought better of it.
He did his best to do as Arra had bid him, difficult as it was to concentrate when in his heart he wished for nothing except to confront his enemy and rend them. Nevertheless, he tried.
He created a picture of the goddess in his mind, thinking of her with flowing yellow hair, and bright eyes, dressed in a gown of shimmering white; at the same time he held to his feelings about her, those being composed of a measure of fear, a touch of awe, and even perhaps an element of love. In his mind—already trained, as it were, by his studies of the heathen Eastern arts, which teach discipline if nothing else—the droning of Arra’s voice gradually faded from his awareness. As sometimes happens in that state when one is no longer fully awake, and yet is not entirely asleep, his thoughts began to slip out of his control, and take almost the form of a dream. On this occasion, Morrolan did not afterward remember any details or events from the dream; only that it seemed to him that he left his body, and for a while he was aware of a presence all around him. He was also aware of time passing, though he could not tell how much; it could have been minutes, hours, or days. Arra continued her chant, or, if the reader prefer, her incantation, but Morrolan had ceased to be aware of it in the way that the noise of the chickering, however irritating when it begins, soon vanishes from one’s awareness so thoroughly that one is startled and even a little puzzled when it abruptly ceases.
We shall not, however, carry the analogy any further. The sound did not abruptly cease; rather, Morrolan gradually became aware that some time had passed. He then realized that Arra was no longer standing next to him, but, rather, had collapsed
onto the floor next to him. Once fully aware of this occurrence, he lost no time in kneeling next to her. Or, to be more precise, he began to kneel next to her, but, for reasons he did not at once understand, he continued down until he was next to her indeed, on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling of the chapel. After some thought, he came to the conclusion that whatever he and Arra had done had been more exhausting that he had at first realized. He considered further and decided he would take some time before attempting to rise.
After a moment, he said, “Arra? Are you well?”
“Sword,” she said, which seemed to be a not entirely responsive answer.
“I beg your pardon,” he said after a moment, “but I fail to comprehend what you have done me the honor to tell me.”
“Sword,” she repeated.
“Well, I do have a sword,” he said. “Shall I draw it? I am not quite able to do so at this moment.”
Arra shook her head, tried to struggle to her feet, and failed. “Sword,” she said.
Morrolan would have shrugged, but he lacked the strength to do so, wherefore he decided to wait until either he was able to move, or matters became clearer.
Presently Arra stirred, and said, “My lord Morrolan, are you well?”
“Well enough. Did you speak with her?”
“Yes. She said you must have a sword.”
“Well, yes. If I am to attack these people, I must indeed. But, as it happens, I have a tolerably good one.”

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