“Hello? Who is there?”
He looked up and saw Brigitta. She was wrapped in light of the purest green, and shimmered with it. He saw that he loved her, and the revelation was almost painful in its intensity.
She was looking at him oddly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said, finding he could answer. But why did she need to ask? Couldn’t she see him as clearly as he could see her? No, of course not. But she stood out so sharply. And he saw that yes, she could come to love him, too. She looked down on him with an expression of puzzlement, but why did she try to conceal her feelings, when with each little motion of her limbs, each crease in her forehead,
each minute adjustment of her position, she shouted them to him.
I trust you, Miklós
, she was saying,
and it scares me. I don’t want to love you. It scares me more
.
Even this wasn’t as surprising as the realization that she had been saying these things to him—shouting them—ever since she had met him by the oak. He had been blind. Why? What did it mean? They were part of the same world, the same universe, the same life. That was important. He had never before realized how important it was. It was—
“Miklós, you should sleep now.”
He stared into her deep, deep, brown eyes. Even as he looked he saw her melt, and wanted to laugh with the pure joy of it. She cared for him so much. So very, very much. But how could he let her know?
“Sleep, Miklós.”
That was the answer. She wanted him to sleep. He would show how much he cared for her by sleeping. He closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. He felt, with a bit of sadness, the Power drain out of him, then oblivion.
“GOOD AFTERNOON, PRINCE MIKLÓS.”
He looked around, finding himself stretched out on the floor of his old chamber. “Good afternoon, Brigitta.”
She looked at him without expression—without acknowledging the experience they had shared. “What are you doing here?”
But had they shared it? Had it been a dream? It was gone now, save for the memories. But he did have the memories, and they were real. Real. What was real? He cleared his throat and answered her question. “Looking for beauty, Brigitta. I have found it.”
She smiled a little sadly and shook her head. “But you still see none in the tree, my Prince.”
The tree? How could she bring up the tree at a time like—but of
course, she couldn’t know. He glanced at it, noticing for the first time how much it resembled the fountain outside, when that had worked. The frondlike boughs and leaves erupted from the center and almost sprayed down around it on all sides in a splash of green, brushing the floor like spray at the fountain’s base. He turned back and answered her question. “Only where it reminds me of you, Princess.”
She laughed a little. “Where did you learn such sweet talk, Prince Miklós? You didn’t seem to know it even yesterday.”
“I don’t know,” said Miklós. “Perhaps Bölk taught me without my knowing it. Most of what he teaches me I don’t know I’ve learned until I use it.”
She nodded. “In any case, I am not a Princess.”
“You are
my
Princess.”
She looked back at the tree, as if to say that it, not her, should be the object of his attention and affection.
“Brigitta,” he said at length. “Don’t you understand that this tree may pull the whole Palace apart if it keeps growing?”
“It hasn’t done any damage yet, has it? Save a few cracks in the flooring.”
“That is only a start. László—I mean, the King—tells me that the Goddess has said it would happen.”
Brigitta still stared at the tree’s crown where it rubbed the ceiling. “I have only been here a short time, Prince Miklós. The Palace means little to me.”
“It means a great deal to me.”
She looked at him suddenly. “Why?”
“Eh? I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Yes? And? Go on.”
He considered carefully. “There have been many happy times here.”
“I believe that, Prince Miklós. But happy times may occur anywhere. Why is the Palace important?”
“It has sheltered us.”
“Any house would have done as much.”
“And therefore, any house would mean something to me. This happens to be the one I’ve known. And you cannot deny that there is beauty here.”
Brigitta made a show of looking around the dim, plain room, with dust covering faded pictures.
Miklós flushed. “I didn’t mean this room in particular.”
“Then what?”
“Well, the gardens, the—”
“Those are outside.”
“All right, the furnishings in the—”
“Furnishings. You could have them anywhere.”
Miklós glared at her. Then he said, biting out the words, “The other day, I was noticing the shape of the archways in the Great Hall. I think they are very attractive.”
Brigitta nodded. “So. The Palace means so much to you because of the archways in the Great Hall.”
“There are things other than beauty, you know!” Miklós found that he was almost shouting.
“I know that very well,” she said. “You are the one who said the beauty of the Palace appealed to you. But tell me, if not appearance, what makes it so important to you?”
“It has kept my family safe for a thousand years.”
Brigitta remained unruffled. “Not this Palace. Other buildings on this spot, perhaps. But we are not discussing other buildings.”
“All right. Four hundred years then.”
She nodded. “A long time. One should respect any structure that has stood for four hundred years. Where I come from, near the
Wandering Forest, there are few trees that are four hundred years old. Most of them rot before then. We are sorry when such an old tree falls, but we make no effort to prop it up. That would be foolish.”
Miklós continued glaring at her. “So. We should let the Palace fall like an old tree, just so a real tree, which you happen to find appealing, can be allowed to grow. Is that it?”
“I didn’t say so. I merely pointed out—”
“I know you didn’t say. You’ve been picking holes in what I say without giving anything in answer.”
Brigitta frowned. “Yes, I suppose I have. I’m sorry.”
“Heh,” said Miklós.
Her lips were suddenly pressed tightly together. Miklós involuntarily took a step backward. “Very well, then,” she snapped. “What if I say that this tree isn’t a threat to the Palace, it is salvation to those who live here? What then?”
Miklós stared. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am quite serious, my Prince.”
“Stop calling me that!”
This time it was Brigitta who took a step backward. “I’m sorry. I … what should I call you?”
“How about Miklós? That is my name. If you feel about me as I feel about you, you might even call me Miki.”
“How is it you—? No, don’t answer. Very well—Miklós.”
He cursed under his breath.
You’ve ruined it now, idiot!
Then he said, in a calmer voice. “All right, Brigitta. Can you tell me how, in the name of the Demon Goddess, the tree is our salvation?”
In an instant, the expression on her face changed. For the first time since Miklós had known her, Brigitta looked miserable. She seemed close to tears. He had a great urge to take her in his arms, but he somehow knew that she wouldn’t want him to. Very softly, she said, “No, Miki. I don’t know how I know. I’m just sure of it.
I wish by all the ancient gods of our ancestors that I
did
know. I’ve been certain of it since I saw it. I think Vilmos feels the same way. But he doesn’t know why either.”
Miklós slumped against the back wall. “By the River from Faerie,” he said softly.
“Perhaps,” she said hesitantly, “we should speak to Bölk.”
Miklós nodded. “Yes. But not now. I want to think about this.”
He went over and sat on his bed, fighting his way past part of the tree’s leaf wall. It was the first time he had touched the bed in more than two years, and it felt surprisingly soft, almost too soft. He leaned against the wall and crossed his legs. Brigitta, in her turn, leaned against the wall where she stood, shutting her eyes.
Miklós cleared his throat. She opened her eyes, looking at him bleakly.
“What else do you know?” he asked. She shook her head. “Do you have any idea of what this tree—” he gestured at it with his head “—is going to save us from?”
“Not—not really,” she said softly.
“What does that mean?”
“Since I saw that tree, I’ve been having nightmares.”
“Nightmares? And you still think the tree is somehow good?”
“Please, Miki. In the dreams, I see a face. Always the same face. It isn’t anyone I know. Sometimes she is angry, and I’m frightened of her. Sometimes she is laughing at me. Sometimes she just watches me.”
Miklós nodded. “Go on.”
“I—I think she is the Demon Goddess.”
He nodded again. Somehow, he had almost known what she would say. He remembered Bölk, on the Riverbank near the old oak; “You must defeat her,” he had said.
“Bölk agrees with you,” Miklós told Brigitta.
“What?” She was suddenly alert.
“Bölk has said that I must defeat the Demon Goddess. I don’t know what he means. I guess I thought—no, hoped—that he was speaking metaphorically. It seems he wasn’t.”
She shook her head. “I have never thought of her as anyone to be defeated, or, well, as anything. I’ve never heard of her actually manifesting herself, except in tales as old as the mountains.”
“There are László’s dreams.”
“Anyone can have dreams.”
“Sent by the Goddess?”
“How do you know?”
“I guess—you’re right, I don’t. But it’s been accepted in our family for so long that the Goddess speaks to us in dreams, that—I don’t know.”
“I’ve seen that,” said Brigitta. “You—that is, your family—prays to the Goddess, asks her for things as if she might give them. Outside of the Palace, it isn’t that way at all. Most people seem not to really believe in her—or, at least, she has no part in their lives.”
“I know.”
“Why is it different here?”
“Because of our traditions that she is the guardian of the family and of the kingdom.”
“But why do you believe that?”
Miklós shook his head. “There is so much. Growing up with the belief, I suppose. And the dreams. I—I don’t know. I can’t accept the possibility that she isn’t real.”
“And yet, you are to defeat her?”
Miklós said, “I wouldn’t know how to even begin. The idea isn’t frightening, Brigitta, it’s absurd.”
“Yes. But Bölk—”
“I know, I know.” He looked at the tree once more. It was daylight outside and a clear day. The tree shimmered with green.
Miklós said, “I found Bölk tied up when I went out to see him this morning. And guarded.”
Brigitta gasped. “Tied up? Who did it?”
“László and Sándor.”
“Why?”
“It seems Bölk said something about the Demon Goddess. Neither of them would like that. The guards tried to stop me from helping him. When they failed, I am certain they must have alerted László and Sándor, but neither have spoken to me about it.”
“Did you free him?”
“I tried. But before I could, he freed himself. Isn’t that odd? If he could have freed himself any time, why did he wait?”
“To show you something?”
“Undoubtedly. But what?”
“I don’t know. Did you talk about the tree?”
“Yes. Bölk doesn’t know what it is, either. He certainly seems intrigued by it, though.”
“Humph. Intrigued. That is a great help.” She smiled. He grinned with her. She continued, “Bölk always knows more than he tells, doesn’t he?”
“You speak as if I know him. I don’t really. But no, I don’t think what you say is right. I think he tells us everything he knows as clearly as he can, and sometimes we just can’t understand him. Whether that is our fault or his doesn’t much matter.”
“All right,” said Brigitta. “But what do we
do
?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask you another one, though.”
“Yes?”
Miklós told her of Sándor’s offer to him. Her eyes grew wide. “Miklós,” she said when he had finished, “you must refuse.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But you must.”
He studied her, standing near the window, hidden from the neck down by foliage. Her eyes were almost burning, and for a moment he had the sick fear that she was developing brain fever. He turned his head and said in a whisper, “What is happening to us?”