“Has it? It has been growing quickly, true. Yet, if it had grown quicker, perhaps it would have reached its full growth before the floor fell on the norska.”
Miklós shifted uncomfortably. “Are you saying it is my fault for not being here? What could I do? László would have killed me.”
“Perhaps, if it was your fault, it is because you annoyed László unnecessarily. Yet, I think not. Could you not have hid yourself in the Palace?”
“Heh. I tried. Andor betrayed me.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Miklós sarcastically, “the Goddess told him to.”
“I hear scorn in your voice, master. Do you doubt that he spoke to the Goddess?”
Miklós was silent for a moment. Then he said, “No. Many in our family receive dreams from her. I have no reason to think that he is different.”
“So you believe him?”
Miklós cursed. “Yes! I believe him. What is the point to this?”
“I think you have found your task, then.”
“What do you—?” Then, “No.”
“No, master? I thought you had agreed to act?”
“But—the Goddess? You can’t be serious.”
“Have I ever been anything else, dear master?”
“But
how
? How can I fight the Goddess?”
“It is what I am for.”
“But you said you couldn’t—”
“I cannot. You can. I shall be your weapon.”
“But what will it gain us?”
“It will remove a powerful weapon from those who wish to destroy the tree. It is the Goddess who inspires them against it. Without her, much of their will to fight will be gone.”
Once more, the memory returned of Andor revealing his hiding place to László. “You’re right,” he said. “But they’ll kill me, you know.”
“Perhaps they will, master. But I think they will be too stunned to do so until it is too late.”
“Too late? What do you mean?”
“If the tree is a shelter, as you said, then surely it will protect you.”
“I am to run and hide under a tree?” He heard his voice becoming hysterical, but could do nothing to stop it.
“I think that, too, will prove unnecessary.”
Miklós closed his eyes until he felt himself growing calm enough to speak. Then he opened them and stared at his feet. “There must be another way.”
“There is.”
“Eh?” The prince looked up at him. “What?”
“Are you prepared to kill László?”
“He’s my brother!”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Then there is no other way.”
Miklós stood suddenly. He felt light-headed. He felt his pulse throbbing in his temples, and he felt feverish. “All right, then. We go fight the Goddess. Why not? Let’s do that. Right now.”
Bölk merely nodded. As if on its own, the door to the stable swung open. Bölk walked out.
Miklós stared at him, then swallowed. The horse stared back. “Well?” said Bölk.
“All right,” said Miklós, hearing a tremor in his voice. “How do we go about it?”
“We must bring her to us.”
“How?”
“I am not certain, master. Have you any thoughts?”
Miklós walked over to the doorway that led out into the courtyard. He looked for a while, then said, “Maybe. But what happens after we have summoned her?”
“You will destroy her.”
“How?”
“I will be your weapon.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
THEY SPENT HALF AN HOUR DISCUSSING HOW THEY WOULD summon the Goddess, and then they emerged into the autumn sunlight. The courtyard was almost free of shadows and looked hot. The breeze, however, was pleasant on Miklós’s face. He had left his cloak on the stable floor and loosened his blouse, so the air moved over his chest, cooling him.
When they were in the middle of the courtyard, he faced the wind, which was from the west, and let it play over his face. Bölk waited for him patiently.
“Tell me,” said the Prince, “why are you being so mysterious about just what we do after the Goddess appears?”
“Am I being mysterious, master? Or are you merely unable to understand?”
“You are being mysterious. I can tell the difference. Why?”
The horse snorted. “Come. We have a task to perform.”
Miklós chewed his lip. Bölk had been evasive all through the discussion on the summoning. There was certainly a reason. He sighed to himself. There was no real question, however. If he couldn’t trust Bölk, there was no point in doing anything.
“Very well,” he said.
The courtyard was all but deserted. A few of the guards on the walls looked at them idly. They came to the sculpture of the Demon Goddess that stared back at the Palace. Miklós studied it. It was twelve feet in height, plus three feet of pedestal. The Goddess stood with both hands stretched out before her. There was something peculiar about her hands, but Miklós couldn’t quite see what. Odd that he’d never studied it before. And the smile! Was it warm, or was it malicious? It changed with the angle at which he studied it, or the amount of light, or even his mood. Perhaps that was why she was called the Demon Goddess. An odd name for a patron deity. Even odder that he’d never questioned it before. In Faerie, gods were thought of—but never mind that now.
He turned to Bölk. “Is it true that Fenarr himself brought that back with him from Faerie?”
“Perhaps it is, master. I do not remember.”
Miklós nodded. He touched the base. Both it and the statue were in good shape for stone that been there for hundreds of years. The base was granite, and the surface had been left rough. The figure was done in marble, and had lost none of its smoothness. Miklós touched the leg. It was cool but seemed almost alive.
Yes, perhaps this would, indeed, work. He ran his hand briefly up and down the leg, and smiled to himself. Was this a desecration or perhaps the expression of a sick perversion?
He stepped back and looked once more at the entire figure. Yes, there was beauty here. More importantly, there was power. He glanced around the courtyard. Still, no one seemed to be paying any attention to them.
“Let us begin,” he said.
Bölk spun and kicked. There was a surprisingly loud
thud
as his hooves struck the figure’s right leg, just at the knee.
“The knee is weak on a man,” he remarked. “Why not on a statue? Or a Goddess?”
He kicked again. Miklós looked. Was there, perhaps, the slightest indication of a crack? In solid marble? But this was a
táltos
horse, after all.
Bölk kicked once more. Yes, there was a crack in the marble, at the knee.
Someone called, “Hey!” Miklós looked up and saw the two guards from the tower above the gate staring at him. “What are you doing?”
Miklós smiled and waved. Bölk kicked again, and a pyramid-shaped piece of marble fell from the knee. Bölk kicked again, and a larger piece fell.
Miklós looked around. Now they were beginning to receive attention. Servants and guards stared at them as if paralyzed, save for a few who were running toward the Palace, doubtless to tell someone.
Bölk kicked once more. “That will do for that leg,” he said. He seemed to be blowing hard. Miklós realized with a shock that never before had Bölk shown any signs of exhaustion.
Bölk began kicking the other knee. Miklós watched the Palace door. It swung open, and László appeared. From where he stood, Miklós could see other forms behind him, standing on the planks that covered the hole in the Palace floor.
Bölk kicked again. László rushed toward them but stopped
about twenty feet away, his eyes wide. Behind him came Andor, Sándor, Viktor, Mariska, and Brigitta.
None of them moved. Bölk kicked again. Miklós, turning his head, saw the figure begin to tilt. Andor gave a cry then and rushed forward, his expression one of mixed rage and anguish.
Miklós moved away from Bölk a little, to see which one he would attack. Andor’s direction did not change—it was the horse. The fool! To attempt to battle a
táltos
horse, unarmed, was sheer idiocy. He was liable to get himself killed.
As he ran by, Miklós tripped him. Andor sprawled on his face. Bölk kicked the sculpture again. It tottered and seemed ready to go over.
He grabbed Andor’s shoulders and pulled him. “Better get up, brother.”
Andor rose to his knees and looked up at Miklós. “Why?” he whispered.
Bölk kicked again, then quickly walked away.
For an instant, the figure seemed to hang on by one knee. But it was leaning too far forward. There was a crumbling sound, and the Demon Goddess fell forward; landing first on her outstretched hands, then on her side next to where Andor had lain a few seconds before. To Miklós’s surprise, the statue didn’t shatter—or even crack, as far as he could tell.
Andor stared, stricken. Miklós looked at those around him, who stared at him wide-eyed.
“We should not have long to wait, master,” said Bölk.
They didn’t.
The dust had hardly settled over the fallen sculpture when it began. First, the wind picked up. It took a moment for Miklós to realize it, but the wind didn’t seem to come from any one direction—it blew in everyone’s face, whichever way he looked, and the dust on the ground was not disturbed. The sky seemed to
darken, yet there were no more clouds than before. It was as if the sun were giving off less light. Less heat as well, it seemed, for Miklós was suddenly chilly.
Someone—Andor, perhaps—gasped. Miklós turned. Near the fallen idol, above the head, the air seemed to be shimmering. At first it looked like sunlight on the River; he couldn’t quite look at the dancing, dazzling specks of light. Then it seemed to grow and weaken at the same time. Very gradually, it took a form slightly larger than human. Then, rather than turning into the Goddess, she seemed to appear from within it.
The winds died.
She must have been over nine feet tall. She wore shapeless gray robes, and her face was sharp and angular, her ears pointed, her eyes slightly slanted, her hair curled dark. She reminded Miklós of someone, but he couldn’t remember who. He strained his neck looking up, but could read no expression on her face.
She pointed to the icon. Miklós noticed that each of her fingers had an extra joint. She said, “Who has done this?”
No one spoke. Miklós looked around and saw that he was the only one who had not fallen to his knees. It was strange that he had had no urge to do so, yet it had seemed involuntary with the others. It was even more strange how calm he felt.
He was prepared to find his voice and answer her, but there was no need. He was the only one not kneeling, and all of the others were looking at him. The Goddess turned to him fully. He could suddenly imagine that there was a shield around him, for her glance didn’t seem to penetrate past the surface of his eyes. He could still read nothing in hers.
Then, as if from another world, a voice intruded. “I did it.”
Miklós, startled, glanced in the direction of the voice. Brigitta had stood up. Her hands were on her hips, and the look on her face was stern, but Miklós could see that she was pale.
The Goddess looked at her and smiled. “You are very brave, little girl.” Her voice was thin and airy, yet deep. It seemed to come from miles away. “But,” she added, “I’m sorry to say that I don’t believe you. Your effort speaks well of your—
lineage
.” She laughed, then, but it was not an evil laugh; more a sad one.
She turned back to the Prince. “Your name is Miklós, is it not?”
He found his voice. “Yes, Goddess. I am Miklós.”
“Why have you done this, Miklós?”
Of all she could have done or said, this was the most unexpected. How could he answer such a question. To kill you? Because my horse told me to? He finally managed, “To bring you here.”
Someone, off to his left, gave a gasp. Probably Andor.
The Goddess looked around, and seemed to see Bölk for the first time. She said to Miklós, “The horse aided you.”
Since it wasn’t a question, Miklós didn’t answer. It seemed none was needed. To the horse, she said, “You are Bölcseség, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Goddess,” said the horse. “I am surprised you remember me.”
“You have changed.”
“You have not.”
“Is that why you think you can destroy me?”
“Yes.”
“I must kill your new master, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then you.”
“I know.”
“I wish you had not forced this upon me.”
“Perhaps it will work the other way, Goddess.”