“Hmmmm. If you like, László, I will speak to Vilmos. He and I have always been close. Perhaps I can convince him—”
László clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes! Thank you, brother. That would be a help, indeed.”
“I’ll do it then,” said Miklós.
They left the room and walked back up toward the main hall. “Until this plant is destroyed,” said László, “I don’t see how you can stay there. When the Count of Mordfal leaves, we will have a room free. I will see that it is prepared for you.”
“Thank you, Laci. Where is Vilmos, now?”
“I imagine he is with his norska. You will see him at dinner. I was going to dine alone with Mariska, but now we will all be together, and I don’t want to delay our first dinner as a family in two years.”
“Yes. I look forward to it.”
“Oh, and Miki, speaking of two years …”
“Yes.”
“I, too, am sorry. That night when I drove you away. I—”
“There is no need to speak of it, Laci. Please don’t. I understand.” The King put his arm around his brother’s shoulders, and so they returned to the Great Hall; taking the long way up because the circular stairway would not accommodate two abreast.
THEY FOUND ANDOR IN THE GREAT HALL.
“I was told you had returned,” he said.
Miklós nodded.
Andor said, “We will look for better things from you in the future.”
Miklós heard the sharp intake of breath from László, but neither of them answered. Miklós made himself smile, then walked away. He heard sharp whispers from behind him, but couldn’t catch the words that were spoken.
He was the first into the small dining room, followed by László escorting Mariska, then Andor. László took his place at the head of the table; Mariska took hers at the foot, László indicated a place for Miklós. He was moving toward it when he heard the familiar rumble from the floor and walls. An instant later Vilmos stepped into the room, freshly washed and changed from working with the norska. His eyes fell on Miklós, and his face lit up like the Great Hall on Ascension Day.
“Miki!” he cried. “You are back! Are you back?” He lumbered forward and they embraced.
“Yes, Vili,” he said when he could breathe again. “I am back.”
Vilmos looked at him, grinning from ear to ear. “It is good,” he said, as if it were a proclamation.
“Yes,” said Miklós.
“Let us eat,” said László, but he, too, was smiling.
Miklós fairly bounded into his chair, set between Vilmos and Mariska. He chuckled. “I’ve been smiling so much today that my face is starting to hurt.”
László matched his chuckle. Vilmos let go a booming laugh. Andor half smiled, half scowled, then looked down. Mariska watched László.
Juliska came in from the kitchen, looking fresh and bright in a lavender dress with embroidered white apron, her hair drawn up into a tight bun. She set before each of them a small plate which held a steaming towel, boiled in lemon water. Miklós pressed the towel against his face. It was just short of scalding, and the scent
reminded him of things he hadn’t known he had missed for two years.
He quickly ran the towel over his hands and set it down for Juliska to pick up. She vanished into the kitchen and emerged almost at once with five large bowls of the same soup that Viktor had remarked on the day before. Miklós, in his turn, smiled after his first taste. The soup was thick with potatoes and onions, and strongly flavored with garlic and red pepper.
“I know what the main course is going to be,” he said.
“Yes,” said László.
“I don’t think I have yet congratulated you and the Countess. Good luck. I’m certain everything will be—”
“Why did you return?” said Andor suddenly.
László slapped down his spoon. “Stop it,” he said.
Andor said, “I want to—”
This time he was cut off by a low rumbling sound from Vilmos. He grimaced and went back to eating his soup. There was a brief silence, broken by Mariska saying, “Thank you, Prince Miklós.”
Next Juliska appeared with cabbages stuffed with rice, pork, onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms, covered with a red pepper and garlic sauce and sour cream, and each wrapped in a thin slice of bacon. With this, Máté, Juliska’s assistant, brought out the first wine. It was the famous “Sandwine” from the east fermented near Mariska’s homeland of Mordfal. She smiled to acknowledge the compliment. Máté presented the wine to László, but he indicated that Miklós should approve it.
As was customary among the family, there was no talk during the second course or the third, which was a suckling pig roasted whole and stuffed with peppers, mushrooms, onions, and lamb—to make a transition to the fourth course. It was just before this course that the men adjusted to their second trouser buttons.
Juliska brought out another wine, this one a light wine from the
north, as the chef himself, Ambrus the Fat, presented and served the potatoes. Two halves for each of them, stuffed with lamb and beef. The potatoes themselves consisted only of skins, as the rest had gone into the soup, along with the meat juices that weren’t used in the sauce. Only the tiniest hint of wine could be identified in the meat.
Vilmos grunted to the chef and said, “Good.”
Miklós said, “There is plenty of garlic. Thank you.”
Mariska said, “It is beyond praise. This is happiness.”
Andor said, “Very nice. Yes. Very nice.”
László stood and bowed to the chef. Smiling, the latter retired to the kitchen. Máté served bean sprouts and green peppers with ginger and lemon peel while Juliska poured the wine, then the two servants also returned to the kitchen.
“I had forgotten what eating was like,” said Miklós.
László smiled. “I told Ambrus that you had returned.”
“Ah. I’m flattered.”
Andor scowled into his plate. László ate in small bites, alternating with sips of wine. Miklós noticed Vilmos watching the King eat and smiling, but avoided asking what he was smiling about. Instead he said, “When is the wedding?”
“A few months,” said the King.
“My father,” said Mariska, “will see to the arrangements at home. He is preparing his departure now.”
Miklós nodded, then said, “Laci? Would you rather not discuss the problem in my chambers while we eat?”
László tapped his knife against the table, then said, “Yes. I would rather wait. Thank you for asking.”
Andor seemed about to say something, but was stopped by a look from Vilmos.
Before the salad course, everyone went to his third trouser button—except, naturally, for poor Mariska. The salad combined
fruits, vegetables, and cheeses in a way that no one but Ambrus could do, and was covered with a mild vinegar made from the Rozsanemes apple that grew in the eastern River Valley. Miklós turned his attention to surviving until the honey-cakes.
MIKLÓS MADE HIS WAY TO HIS OLD CHAMBERS FOR THE CUSTOMARY after-dinner nap, remembering halfway there that these rooms were no longer usable. He paused, then continued anyway, feeling a desire for another look at the strange tree that grew from the floor of his room.
He pushed aside the curtain and saw that the room was already occupied. Brigitta, standing off to one side, was staring intently at one of the long, narrow leaves. As Miklós entered she turned to him, nodded, and stepped back to survey the whole once more.
Miklós stepped closer to the tree, through the thickness of branch and leaf, and studied the web of cracks where the trunk emerged from the floor. He stepped out again and studied its height—perhaps a handbreadth from the ceiling. It wasn’t close to the walls around it yet, but then, it wasn’t too far from them either. Behind him, Brigitta said,
“tsk.”
“What is it?”
“You’re looking at it wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“You aren’t seeing what’s important.”
He studied her, standing half in the shadow of the tree, half lit by the evening sun peeking through the window. “Very well. What is important, then?”
“Look at a leaf. Do you see the way each one curves in on itself, like a hand? Study the veins. Or, if you want to look at the whole, look at the fresh green or the perfect symmetry of its shape.”
Miklós did these things, then said, “I still don’t understand.”
“It is beautiful. Can’t you see that?”
Miklós felt his eyes growing wide, but he turned back and studied it more. Beauty? It was a tree, and trees were beautiful in their own way—certainly he had enjoyed walking through the Wandering Forest for that reason. Yet here it was only incongruous. He said as much.
She nodded sadly. “I thought you’d feel that way.”
He leaned against a wall, then sat on his haunches. He spoke, as much because he wanted to continue speaking with Brigitta as for any other reason. “Can you teach me to see it another way?”
“I don’t think so. I feel it, I don’t think it.”
“What if I think I
should
feel differently than I
do
?”
“I don’t know. Ask Bölk.”
“Perhaps I will.”
He watched her watching the tree.
In the winter when he had turned seventeen, his portrait had been painted, as was done for all Princes at that age. He had compared his to the one of László. What had caught his eye had been the squareness of his older brother’s shoulders, as compared to the roundness of his own. His brother had seemed strong and complete, himself weak and vacuous. Yet Brigitta’s shoulders were rounder even than Andor’s, and they seemed right for her. The line made by her shoulders, neck, and cheekbones seemed more graceful to him than the idol in the courtyard.
He said, “I think
you
are beautiful.”
She looked at him, then back at the tree. After a moment she said, “Thank you.”
The silence became uncomfortable. Miklós stood up and dusted himself off.
“I think I will see Bölk then, as you suggested. Would you care to accompany me?”
“No, thank you.”
He watched her a moment longer. “The tree—it fascinates you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“As I’ve told you, it’s beautiful.”
“Yet no one else seems to think so.”
“No one else has looked at it.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps later then.”
“Yes.”
He stood up, stepped back into the corridor, and started toward the doorway. As he passed Vilmos’s room, his brother called out, “Miki!”
Miklós poked his head in. Vilmos lay on his massive bed, fully clothed, with three pillows holding his head up. “Yes?” said Miklós.
“Are you up from your nap so soon?”
“I haven’t taken a nap.”
“Ah! Busy.”
“Yes. I’m going to see my horse.”
“Your horse? That you rode here? I have been hearing that it is an amazing animal.”
“Yes.”
Vilmos pushed himself to a sitting position on the bed. “May I see him?”
“Certainly, Vili. If you wish.”
The giant got himself up, and the two of them walked out to the stables.
“You have changed,” said Vilmos as they walked.
“Have I?”
“I’m not certain how. Tell me, Miki, did you really travel to Faerie?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I had nowhere else to go.”
“Oh.” And, “What happened there?”
“I found out who I am.”
“Oh.”
They walked a little farther.
“Who are you?”
“Your brother.”
“Oh. Yes.”
As they walked through the courtyard, Miklós glanced briefly at the idol of the Demon Goddess. He thought about what Bölk had said about her, then shook his head. Vilmos stood beside him, saying nothing.
Just outside of the stable door they found the coachman, Miska. He lay on his back holding a bottle and snoring. As they walked past him, he said, “Prince Miklós.”
The Prince stopped and looked back. It was hard to see in the dimness of the courtyard, but it seemed that Miska’s eyes were open. “Yes?” said Miklós.
“That is a fine horse.”
“Yes,” said Miklós.
They entered the stable and quickly found Bölk in a large stall. Miklós felt a curious sense of unreality as he watched the horse. It was as if the entire stable area was part of one picture, and Bölk part of another, and the scales differed. Bölk seemed larger than his surroundings in a different way than Vilmos did; it was somehow nonphysical.
“Good evening, master,” said the horse.