Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha) (44 page)

“And now that the battle is over, and something of normalcy is returning—”

“You wish to bring them to Deathgate?”

“Yes, Majesty. I would wish a leave of absence, in order to complete this errand, which is of no small concern to me. The bodies have been anointed, and preserving spells have been cast on them, but, nevertheless—”

“Yes, Captain. I understand. How long will your errand require?”

“I do not know, Your Majesty. Perhaps as much as a year, as we have chosen, in honor of Aerich in particular, who would have preferred it, to bring him the long way, rather than using teleportation.”

“I quite understand, Captain. Very well. I grant you, and your friend the Prime Minister, leaves of absence for two years from tomorrow.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious.”

“And then it only leaves me to wish you the very best of fortune.”

Khaavren bowed and took his leave, going at once to the terrace, where he found Daro, Piro, and Ibronka all engaged in conversation. He tenderly kissed Daro’s hand, embraced Piro, and nodded cordially to Ibronka. “Come,” he said, “what is the subject under discussion? Tell me, and perhaps I will have something to say on it.”

“Perhaps you will, my lord,” said Daro tenderly.

“Look, then.” She pointed out toward the sea. Khaavren, looking in the indicated direction, at once saw what he identified as the masts of a ship.

He turned to the Countess and smiled, no words being necessary.

How They Returned
To Deathsgate Falls

I
t was on a mid-summer’s day in the third year of the Reign of the Empress Zerika the Fourth that Khaavren, Pel, Piro, Ibronka, Röaana, Ritt, Lar, and Clari came to the place where the Blood River begins to flow fast and straight, picking up speed for its plunge over Deathgate Falls. The air was sharp and cold, and there was a trace of snow upon the ground as they made their way along the bank.

Ritt and Lar each drove the wagons, as they were the only ones who could handle a two-in-hand; the others rode horses. The giant jhereg circled high overhead, but, because of the size of the party, were content merely to observe.

They stopped just past the icon of the Chreotha. Lar and Clari managed to pick up Mica’s body, wrapped in its black blanket, carry it across the water, which here came only to mid-thigh, and bring it to the icon of the Teckla. They each lit a stick of incense, and Clari left an offering of wheat and tears. Then they dragged him out into the water, removed the blanket, and watched him drift away. Lar set in the water his bar-stool, which drifted off behind the body. Khaavren, Pel, and the others watched in silence until it had vanished behind a gentle curve.

They returned to the west bank, mounted their horses once more, and continued.

They did not stop at the icon of the Tiassa, although Piro, Röaana, and Khaavren all solemnly saluted it. Khaavren said, “Viscount, when my time comes—”

“Of course, Father.”

Pel, who was riding behind them, said, “I suppose that, if there is a time to be morbid, well, this is it.”

Khaavren turned around and gave him a look that is impossible to describe.

When they reached the icon of the Dragon, they drew rein, and the wagons creaked to a halt.

Piro lit incense at the icon and left an orange as an offering (though we have not mentioned it before, Kytraan was especially partial to this fruit). Then Piro, Ibronka, Röaana, and Ritt picked up the white blanket holding Kytraan’s body (his head had been sewed in place before the embalming oils and preservation lotions had been applied, as was customary under such circumstances), and, wading out into the river, they set him down, held on to the blanket, and let the current carry him away.

They continued a little farther; then it was time to pick up Tazendra’s body and bring it across the river, wading through water over their knees, to the icon of the Dzur. Pel lit the incense, and Khaavren left an offering of dogwood. Pel and Khaavren, by themselves, then carried her body back into the water, set it in the current, and removed the blanket. Tazendra drifted away toward the Falls while Khaavren and Piro stood in the middle of the stream, watching her.

“She seems to be smiling,” said Pel. “Was that deliberate, when she was embalmed, or was it actually her expression?”

“I’ll leave you to wonder about that,” said the Tiassa.

An offering of bread was left at the icon of the Tsalmoth for Iatha, and one of sugar was left at the icon of the Iorich for Belly. Ritt performed both of these rituals, and helped to bring their bodies into the river.

They returned to the west bank, and continued past the icon of the Hawk until they reached the Lyorn, just before the sculpture of Kieron the Conqueror, which in turn was just before the wide area leading to the lip of the Falls.

“That is where the fight was,” observed Piro.

Khaavren looked around and nodded, his sharp eyes and lively imagination re-creating the battle in his mind. “And she leapt from there,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I can nearly see it.”

Piro nodded. “I honor her for it,” said Khaavren as he dismounted. “It was one of those moments that define a person. You have the choice between
the desperate but necessary, and the possible but useless. Not many can make the right choice there.”

“And for others,” said Pel, glancing at the black blanket in the wagon that contained the remains of Aerich, “it is easy.”

Khaavren nodded. “There were, indeed, things that were easy for him that would have been difficult or impossible for anyone else.”

Pel knelt by the icon of the Lyorn and lit a stick of incense. Khaavren laid a topaz there.

“Do you think he enjoyed life?” said Pel.

“Of course,” said Khaavren with no hesitation.

“How, you really think so?”

“Certainly. When you are making your plans and schemes, and watching them come together piece by piece, or when you have discovered a way to cross a street by manipulating a sorcerer into teleporting a crate there, after manipulating a warehouseman into concealing you within the crate, then you are enjoying life.”

Pel chuckled. “I do not deny what you say. And then?”

“And when Tazendra was in a battle, the odds overwhelmingly against her, she was enjoying life.”

“You are right again. And Aerich?”

“For Aerich, well, he was one of those who took pleasure in merely the passing of the days, and the growing of his grapes, and the knowledge that he had done his duty.”

“There are not many like him,” said Pel. “Even among the Lyorn.”

“That is true.”

“And what of you?” said Pel.

“Me?” asked Khaavren.

“Yes. When are you happy?”

“Come, help me with his body.”

They brought him into the stream and released his body into the river, watching as it went over the lip of Deathgate Falls and disappeared in the swirling mist.

How the Author, At Last, Closes His History

I
n the sixth year of Zerika’s Reign the Palace was deemed, if not finished, then at least ready to occupy, and so Khaavren and Daro had their home to themselves once more. For some years Piro and Ibronka shared this home with them, but, in the long run, the strain of living with Khaavren’s grudging approval began to irritate Ibronka, and so she and Piro acquired an apartment in the city—an apartment which they continue to occupy, for which reason it would be indiscreet to reveal here its precise location; and discretion, while not the most stern duty of the historian, must nevertheless be considered.

It was also the case that, every morning, Khaavren was required, instead of going down stairways and through corridors, to instead mount his horse and ride three-quarters of an hour to the Palace in order to arrive at his post. More than this, there was always a delay, more or less prolonged, while he made arrangements for the stabling of his horse in whatever was being used that day for temporary stables. Remembering the old Palace, where horses were not permitted to be stabled within a certain distance of the Imperial Wing, Khaavren did not see fit to complain of this. Another effect of Zerika’s occupation of the Palace was that Khaavren no longer saw Pel quite as often, as the Prime Minister believed he could do his work the better the less visible he was.

If the reader is confused about our reference to Her Majesty occupying the Palace in the sixth year of her reign, while the reader recalls very well the procession and celebration accompanying her entry into the Palace at the beginning of the eleventh year, we should observe that when Her Majesty officially announced the Palace as ready to occupy, she had already been unofficially conducting Imperial business there for some years.

There is no reason to imagine that there is any truth to the stories
of artisans working on the Palace and messengers running errands there becoming lost among construction and amid the constantly altered temporary passageways, so that they were never found, wandering still to this day within closed-off sections. As we say, we have no reason to believe such tales, but the nature of the construction then occurring was certainly such as to give these stories a certain veracity.

Piro and Ibronka continued to see Khaavren and Daro socially, which was better for all concerned. In addition, they also saw Zerika, and Shant and Lewchin (the latter two of whom eventually became more friendly with Khaavren, in spite of the Dzurlord’s innate stubbornness). Röaana and Ibronka were officially accepted into the Society of the Porker Poker, though the Society never did actually meet as such during the remainder of Zerika’s Reign. Zerika claimed it would begin meeting once more when she stepped down from the throne. There are rumors that it still gathers once every decade; whether this is true we cannot say.

Morrolan’s entertainments at Castle Black continued to be legendary, as did his sword, which became especially famous at the Wall of Barrit’s Tomb years later. Sethra the Younger and the Sorceress in Green were often to be seen at these affairs, along with less savory characters, and the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain herself was an occasional visitor, as was the Necromancer, who continued to live at Dzur Mountain, and, so far as we know, never returned to her own world.

Ritt joined the Imperial Guard, where, in the year eighty-five, he received a promotion to ensign, which post he continues to occupy at this writing.

Her Highness Sennya died in Adrilankha in the ninetieth year of Zerika’s Reign. It is known that Ibronka was at her deathbed, although we do not know of what their last conversation consisted; nor would we be inclined to divulge it if we did, because there are some matters that should, perhaps, remain beyond the scope of history.

To the reader who has, we hope, a certain sympathy for the brave Khaavren, and wishes to know how he lived out the remainder of his days, we cannot answer this question, for the simple reason that, as we write these pages during the glorious reign of Her Majesty Norathar, he is still alive, and at his post, and, perhaps, making more of the history we have endeavored to tell. While we do not anticipate continuing to chronicle his actions (at some point, after all, the historian
must give way to the purveyor of
news
even though these two categories of the reporting of facts are often interchangeable and sometimes very nearly identical), we shall pretend to place a terminus on a road that continues to open before us.

Yet, the reader may wonder, as Pel did: Is Khaavren happy?

This question, in addition to being intrusive when considering a man who yet lives, breathes, and perhaps even reads these words, is more complex than it may appear. The Khaavren we first met—that is, the bright, talkative enthusiast who arrived one day at a hostel in the village of Newmarket—is dead. He died once when betrayed by Illista, again when His Majesty Tortaalik was killed, yet again when he became estranged from his son, and again at the death of Tazendra and Aerich, who were, in essence, a part of him.

Yet there is a man who wears his boots (and his sword), and who speaks with his mouth, and feels with his heart. This man is, as far as we can know, happy in the continued affection of his son, and the love of his wife, and the performance of his duty—that is, the continued feeling of being useful in a cause in which one fervently believes. Is this happiness? Insofar as the duties of an historian require an answer to this question, permit us to suggest that it will do.

While we know, then, how Khaavren lives, it is less certain with regard to he for whom this history is named, that is, the Viscount of Adrilankha.

There are stories, here and there, of occasional appearances by the Blue Fox. These take the forms of popular songs, folktales, rumors, and poorly established reports to local constabularies. In these stories he is most often found rescuing a noble but helpless widow, orphan, or Teckla. It is possible that these stories have some substance in truth, but then, the author is certain that these stories would occur whether or not this dashing and romantic figure ever donned his azure cloak again—he had become a legend, which removes him from the realm of history, and thus from the concerns of this author, whose only concern with legend must be to the extent that the belief in these legends has an influence on the actual course of history.

And yet, it must be admitted that such an influence can be considerable. When man acts upon a belief, the truth or spuriousness of the belief does not alter the action that has been taken, and the actions of men are based upon beliefs, whether the prosaic and obvious belief
that, perhaps, one is more efficient after a night’s rest, or the more daring and intriguing belief that one can convince another to take a particular action by reasoned argument, or the courageous and idealistic belief that one knows how to make the world a better place. It is always man’s ideas which drive his actions. This has, at times, resulted in great evil; but as we look around us, we cannot doubt that it has resulted in greater good.

History and legend, as well as the individual’s own experience (of which the knowledge of history and the sensibility of legend are a part), help to form the beliefs that determine action, and here is where the telling of history finds its intent. In giving the reader an understanding of even a small part of the truth, and thus helping him to understand his world, and perhaps even helping him to understand something of the consequences of choice, we have, to paraphrase Master Hunter, made a contribution to keeping at bay the evils of despair that follow from a false vision of inevitability.