Authors: Steven Brust

Brokedown Palace (36 page)

The giant’s fury was as red as his wounds that opened anew as he strained. A meaningless growl came from his throat as he demanded more of his body than he ever had before.

And, for just a moment, the ceiling lifted perhaps an inch.

He had left his arms free, and he faced the cages. He snatched them both with one hand to leave the other free to help him climb. He huddled down as the ceiling settled again. As he turned to run, he saw something white lying on the ground and, without thinking, picked it up and put it into his pocket.

He gave himself no chance to feel weakness, relief, or joy for his victory, however. He dashed to the hole in the floor. More rubble
had fallen through it, so that now when he stood on it, his waist reached up to the bending, cracking floor. He leapt up onto it, almost lost his balance, and began running. He kept his body bent over the cages to shield them.

For the first time he looked up.

His eyes and his mind refused to grasp what he saw.

The air was filled with more collapsing stone and wood than Vilmos had thought the Palace could ever hold. And in the center was a whirlwind of green dust with lightning flashing from it. He could recognize no part of the Palace that he saw, except that, straight ahead of him, ran a circular stairway that had once led up to the Great Hall.

It seemed impossible that it still stood, almost as if someone or something were providing him a way of safety where otherwise there would be none. Yet was it true safety? It seemed so fragile. Even as he watched it shook and nearly fell.

And, to confound the impossibilities, the air was becoming even more filled with blocks of stone and with beams—as if the Palace had eaten these things over hundreds of years and was now disgorging them. They were becoming larger and heavier, too, and he knew that even he would not live if one of those fell on him.

There was no choice then.

But, just before he began to run, he saw Mariska, standing amid the falling ruins, staring at the heart of what had once been the Palace.

“Come, Countess,” he said. “You’ll be killed.”

“No I won’t,” she said, as if she were saying, “I don’t care.” Then she saw that he held the norska, and for a moment almost smiled. “Bring them to safety, Vilmos. Hurry.”

“But you—”

“I will be fine, my friend. Or I won’t. Go.”

“I—” As he stopped and turned to go once more, he realized
what it was that he had picked up. Then, quickly, he set the cages down and dug into his pocket. “Here, lady,” he said, handing it to her. “Here is your fan.”

Then he sprinted to the stairway, hoping it would hold his weight, and started up.

FOR WHAT SEEMED AN ETERNITY, MIKLÓS STARED AT THE spot in the wall where Vilmos had stepped through. Andor, next to him, rose to his feet and touched the wall. Then he turned away and walked back to the middle of the room. Brigitta touched Miklós’s arm.

I will know it if he dies. I will feel it. I felt it with László, I will feel it with Vili. I know I will
.

He held himself together in the same way one holds one’s breath—with tension. He found that he had clenched his hands into fists.

His eye was drawn to another part of room, then, as Viktor stood up, still holding a sabre, and began walking toward him. Brigitta tensed at his side.

VIKTOR’S HATE WAS COLD—ALMOST PASSIONLESS.

Something—he didn’t know what—had happened to destroy all of his hopes, plans, and dreams. He could see no cause, but the feeling was unmistakable. Everything was different now. The notion of somehow removing László was now laughable; László himself was laughable. They were all laughable. It was fitting that he had chosen to kill himself and pleasingly ironic that Vilmos had joined him. This left no one to protect Miklós, who had been behind it all from the very beginning.

And Miklós would be so pitifully easy to kill.

His eyes went to the stump of Andor’s arm. So, László had accomplished that much at least. On the floor between Andor and
Miklós lay the hilt of Állam, and, seeing it, Viktor paused for a moment. What could have broken the sword? He almost went over to pick it up, but first things first.

He looked into Miklós’s eyes, but the fear he had seen there earlier was gone, leaving only a tired resignation. Not what he would have wanted, but it would do.

He raised his sword. Brigitta stepped into the way. How sweet. He chuckled, then chuckled again as Miklós pushed her out of the way. Perhaps he should hold his stroke until they came to blows, and let them both die remembering that.

Something caught his eye, just past Miklós. He squinted, and realized that half of a small cage had pushed its way through the wall. A cage? And another one. And in them were norska.

Vilmos?

Vilmos.

The giant stumbled rather than walked into the room, tattered and bleeding, his eyes vacant. Cold sweat broke out on Viktor’s forehead. He had almost had Miklós, too. But there was no way to defeat Vilmos; he could see that now.

The giant set the cages down, then bent over, not appearing to notice that his brother was about to lose his life, and held his knees, gasping.

Thank you, Goddess who is no more! A better chance there could never be!

He shifted his direction, and, with all the speed of which he was capable, struck down at the exposed neck.

Miklós cried, “Vilmos!” in a pleasingly agonized tone, but Viktor knew it was too late. The giant looked up and caught Viktor’s eye just as the blade struck his neck.

A sensation passed through the captain’s arm that was nearly identical to what he’d felt when striking at the root. His blade
bounded back, and Vilmos straightened up. He looked at Viktor for a moment, then slowly reached out his hand.

It can’t be!
He knew he should move, throw himself through the wall and trust to luck, but he couldn’t summon the will to move.

Vilmos’s hand closed around his throat. He felt it constrict, then twist. He heard a cracking sound and wondered if, by a miracle, the giant’s wrist had broken.

MIKLÓS STEPPED OVER VIKTOR’S BODY AS IF IT WERE A LUMP in a carpet. There had been too much grief and joy intermixed for him to comprehend any of it anymore, and he felt that it still wasn’t over. He could only act as the situation called for and try to understand it when it was over—if he were still alive then.

He helped Vilmos to lie down. The giant looked at Viktor sadly, then shook his head. He stretched out, then, mumbling incoherently, pointed at the cages. Miklós nodded and, finding the catches, opened the doors. All four norksa slipped out, the small one limping slightly. They clustered around Vilmos’s face, nuzzling him, and a certain measure of joy for his brother penetrated the haze through which Miklós walked.

Brigitta knelt at the giant’s head and began, once more, to treat his wounds.

SÁNDOR CONTINUED WATCHING THROUGH HIS ALMOST-CLOSED eyes—a trick he had learned early in the Palace. So. László was dead, Viktor was dead, Vilmos was invulnerable. That last was interesting; the legends of the heirs of Fenarr might have that much truth in them.

And what about the staff? Well, well, there was much to think of here. But first, he must find a place where he could feel secure. This
wasn’t it, certainly. There were too many conflicting patterns here; the destruction of the Palace, the battles among the brothers, and the staff all created too much confusion.

This would be a day to remember, all right. That in itself was pleasing. There had been fewer and fewer of those as the years wore on, and to think of being around for the destruction of the Palace itself! This would certainly make a fine story someday to amuse and delight the great-great grandson of this young Miklós, who had bungled his way to the cleanest usurpation of a throne Sándor could imagine.

He chuckled to himself. Enough of this, anyway; it was time to be leaving. He opened his eyes fully and stood up. Miklós, seeing the motion, turned to him.

“What now, wizard?”

Sándor shrugged. “I must be leaving. If you wish, I will be at your service after I’ve settled down a bit.”

“No,” said Miklós slowly, “I do not believe that will be necessary. I think this kingdom does not require the power of Faerie any more.”

“As you wish.” Young idiot! In a week he would be begging for help to handle the settling in of his rule. But Kings will be Kings, and young Kings will be young Kings. “I will be leaving you, then,” he said.

He stepped through the wall at his back and called for the power. He looked down, and was instantly saddened to see the broken body of Rezs

lying in the ruins next to the cursed river.

He realized that he was falling. Tch! Mustn’t get overconfident now, Alfredo. He demanded the power to support his flight, and considered where to go.

He was still considering when he hit the water. The icy chill of the River struck him, and he felt water rush into his mouth and his lungs.

This is absurd
, he thought, calling for power to propel himself to the surface.

Only then did he become aware of something big and powerful between him and the source. The next thing he realized was that his lungs were bursting. He felt his feet touch the ground at the bottom of the River, and he knew panic for the first time in more than a hundred years.

Panic was the last thing he knew.

MIKLÓS WATCHED THE WIZARD VANISH. HE SHRUGGED AND turned away. Brigitta was tending Vilmos, and the giant, though his breathing was labored, seemed to be doing well enough. Or, at least, Brigitta did not seem to be worried. Andor was in a corner, staring at the staff.

Miklós went over to him. “What do you see, brother?”

Andor stared at him, wide-eyed. “Bölk. He says that Sándor is dead.”

“Indeed?” said Miklós smiling. “Well, I’m not surprised. I—wait, you understood him?”

“Yes! I don’t believe it!”

Miklós found himself smiling, though he would have had trouble explaining exactly why.

MARISKA PULLED ON THE REINS OF THE HORSE SHE’D TAKEN from the Palace stables, turning it away from the smoke she could see billowing up from the Palace.

So, László had had his way and burned down the tree and the Palace with it. Who had lived and who had died? Would Vilmos and the norska survive? Somehow she thought they would. At least, they would share the same fate.

But, in any case, it was none of her affair anymore. She was going home. Home! She was suddenly aching for the scent of the
spruce, the drone of the cicadas, and the song of the mountain winds.

The title of “Countess” didn’t sound so bad, after all. Her mother would have understood.

She clutched her fan once more and was surprised to find that, for the first time, it was a different face that appeared to her.

BETWEEN THEM, ANDOR AND MIKLÓS ROLLED THE STAFF over to where Brigitta tended Vilmos.

“What is it?” she asked.

“How is he?”

She nodded. “He’ll be fine.”

Even as she spoke, his breathing seemed to be easier. To Miklós’s eyes he was pale, but his eyes looked about alertly. “Good,” he said. “There is something you should see.”

He and Andor turned the staff so the carved end faced her. Brigitta gasped. “Bölk!”

“As always,” said the horse.

“No, different this time, I think,” she said.

“Yes,” said Bölk. “As always.”

“Oh. All right.”

Vilmos looked at Miklós. “What does he mean about being different being the same?”

Brigitta said, “He means—”

“Pay no mind,” said Miklós, wanting suddenly to laugh. He looked into Brigitta’s eyes, almost shouting with joy.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We both hear the same things now,” he said.