Brokedown Palace Page 3

  By the time the bread was toasted, grease began to drip from the bacon. He used his right hand to occasionally hold pieces of bread under it to catch the drippings as it cooked. Bölk watched him in silence.

  A gentle wind came from the west, shifting slightly every minute or so. Miklós sat facing the wind, though the smoke stung his eyes, so he could more easily stare at the Mountains of Faerie as he ate his breakfast and cooked his lunch.

  "Bölk," he said at one point.

  "Yes, master?"

  "I've never seen you eat. Don't you?"

  "Not as you do, master. I am fed by the use folk such as you make of me."

  Miklós turned from the mountains to stare at him. "Is that true?"

  "I cannot lie, master."

  "But… then are you always accompanied by someone or other?"

  "No. Often I go for years, or hundreds of years, seeing no one who needs my help. Or no one who can use it."

  "What do you do then?"

  "I starve, master."

  Miklós continued staring at him. "I can't leave you!" he burst out at last.

  Bölk chuckled. "Yet you wish to go to Faerie. So, from that time on, you can't make use of me whether you want to or not."

  Miklós, with no answer to this, continued looking at the horse for some time until, at last, his gaze was drawn back to the mountains.

  * * * *

  Miklós wiped water droplets from his face and turned his back to the spray. Behind and above him, the waterfall towered white and blue and brown, and there was thundering in his ears.

  "You can go no farther?" he asked.

  "No farther," said Bölk. "But I assure you that getting to Faerie will be easy. Up this cliff to the lake, then west, and down the other side. You can see that the climb will not be difficult."

  Miklós studied it, then nodded (wiping more water droplets from his face).

  "It's funny," he said. "You don't realize how sharply you're climbing until you see how far you've come."

  "Mountain trails are like that."

  "Yes." Then, "Will I see you again?"

  "I don't know, master. Returning to Fenario will be harder than leaving it. But if you wish to, and you manage, we may meet again. But then, I will no longer be the same."

  Miklós snorted. "Nor will I."

  Bölk nodded slowly. "Perhaps," he said, "you will come to understand."

  * * * *

  "What are you doing up here, little girl?"

  "That was a pretty horse, mister."

  "My name is Miklós."

  "I'm Devera. Where are you going?"

  "I'm on a journey to Faerie. The horse couldn't take me any farther."

  "Where's Faerie?"

  "Huh? Why, just down the mountain, over there."

  "Oh. Is that what you call it?"

  "What do you call it?"

  "What's down that way?"

  "That's Fenario. Why don't you… say! You're from Faerie, aren't you, Devera?"

  "Well, sort of."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I have a… friend, who said I should go to… what did you say it was called?"

  "Faerie? Fenario?"

  "Fenario. He said I should go to Fenario because I would be able to learn something about—well, I'm really not supposed to say. But I must have missed, since I'm way up here, and that means I'm probably early, too."

  "Early?"

  "Never mind, Mister Miklós. I like your name."

  "Thank you. You sound like Bölk. That's the horse."

  "He talks? Or do you mean mentally?"

  "How can you talk mentally?"

  "Never mind."

  "You do sound like Bölk. No, he talks. He's a táltos horse."

  "What's that?"

  "Never mind."

  "Okay. I sure do like this lake, Mister Miklós."

  "Yes, it's pretty, isn't it? It's called Lake Fenarr. How did you…"

  "What is it, Mister Miklós?"

  "Your eyes. For just a second there, I thought I saw something in them. Like a palace, but not like any palace I've ever—"

  "Well, it was nice to meet you, Mister Miklós. I have to go down that way now."

  "No, don't—"

  "Oh, I'll be fine. Maybe we'll see each other again, Mister Miklós. Good-bye now."

  "But… now where did she go?"

  INTERLUDE

  The king stood in the chamber that had been his brother's.

  He had ordered servants to clean it and to remove the bloodstains from the floor and the walls. A few hours before, he had followed the bloody trail down to the River and into it. This would have convinced him that his brother was dead had he not just returned from his tower where he had a vision of the Demon Goddess warning him about Prince Miklós.

  He considered the plans to turn this bedchamber to his own uses, but for some reason couldn't concentrate on them just now. He shook his head and walked out the door.

  He left a footprint behind. He had been standing on a bloodstain that wasn't quite dry. A few drops seeped into a crack in the tiled wood of the floor and into a crack in the hardwood beneath. This chamber, where Miklós had spent so much of his time, had a drop of blood to remember him by. The Palace, where Miklós had lived most of his life, had this to remember him by. The land of Fenario, where Miklós had lived all his life, had this to remember him by.

  We will return to it presently.

  TWO

  The King

  Think of the cellars as feet, and the sandstone pillars emerging from them as legs. The east and west wings (the latter of which collapsed many years ago) are arms. The hallways are veins and arteries; the Great Hall on the third story is the heart. The high, central tower, where only the King is permitted, is the head.

  Can we stretch our analogy even further? The kitchen on the second story is the belly, and the dining room below it is the digestive system. Nestled in among these organs is the room that, only two years ago, was occupied by Miklós, the missing Prince of Fenario.

  This room holds a position analogous to that of a womb.

  And that is going quite far enough.

  * * * *

  László III, King of Fenario, watched his brother Vilmos out of the corner of his eye. László was pretending to concentrate on a large slab of veal cooked with white wine, black currants, red peppers, onions, and slices of imported orange peel. Vilmos, on the other hand, really was concentrating on his food.

  László smiled to himself sadly. If it were a half pound of raw beef, he thought, Vilmos wouldn't care. As long as there was enough of it.

  Across from Vilmos was Andor, older than Vilmos but younger than László. The King spared him a quick glance, then returned to his clandestine observations of Vilmos.

  To give you the proper framework for this, we should explain the following: The meal was taking place in the Informal Dining Room, a small area next to the kitchen and above the Formal Dining Room. The decor was simple, and mostly beige. The table was large enough to seat eight. The three brothers clustered toward the end away from the kitchen. Serving dishes filled the near end, creating a sort of balance.

  At the head was King László: thin, with curly hair and a long drooping mustache. His complexion was pale for a Fenarian, so his dark eyes dominated his face when he opened them wide. Deep lines were chiseled around the corners of his eyes and mouth.

  At his right was Prince Andor. His hair was close-cropped on top of a thin head, with a large, strong nose, and what would have been a finely carved face were it not for the fat around his cheeks—visible despite the full beard he had grown to hide his double chin. He was also paunchy around the middle, though not excessively so. Seeing him for the first time, one might get an impression of physical strength, then reconsider. Andor, as László would sometimes reflect, often proved to be less than first impression made of him.

  Across from Andor was Vilmos, the object of László's study. Vilmos did not appear to come from the same family a
s the other two. His hair was black and curly and fell to his shoulders. His face and head were huge, on a massive pair of shoulders. At fourteen years old, he had once had both of his older brothers face each other and, with one hand, picked them up by their belts. His eyes were deep and wide and brown. His mouth was full of shiny white teeth, his face full of soft brown beard. There were, around the Palace, chairs that had been designed for him in particular, and he had to be careful to use only those, lest his weight break a normal piece of furniture. This weight, you may be sure, was solid muscle.

  As László surreptitiously studied this giant, he sighed to himself. He has done so much for me—and for the kingdom. I wonder if he knows it? Probably not. My brain and his muscle. It's a good arrangement, and we both prosper by it.

  He sighed again.

  So why am I so afraid of him?

  * * * *

  László left the informal dining room, following a relatively wide corridor around a corner and through an arch. The audience chamber lay beyond, around another turn in the passage and down a small ramp that Vilmos had put in one day when that part of the Palace had settled unexpectedly. But László, as always, paused here a moment.

  This archway was of knotty pine, with strips of varnished rosewood around the edges. But through it, on a small shelf built into the wall itself, was a stone carving placed there by László's distant forebear, King Gellért I. It showed a man on a wild bull, holding a sword at his side as the animal reared. László approached it slowly, as he always did, and slowly took in more detail. Yes, he thought, touching the hilt of his own blade, the sword could only be Állam. And the way the rider's cloak was furled by the wind, only a bit, made him catch his breath anew. Who was it? Where? What battle? Why a bull? Certainly, a táltos bull, but there were no legends that quite fit what was depicted. Perhaps it was merely a symbolic comment, tucked away where only the King and a few others ever saw it.

  As László came closer still, the expression on the rider's face fascinated him, as always. There was no glee as of battle, merely a stern expression of duty done. At what was he looking—and why was he looking out instead of toward the target his sword had found?

  Yes, it was a message—by and for the Kings of Fenario. Sometimes László thought it contained the most important lesson he had learned and was learning. It spoke of duty and of dignity. It was well placed.

  He mentally saluted it, then continued through the corridor.

  The audience chamber showed fewer signs of age than any other room in the Palace. As much work had been put in on the Great Hall one story above, but there was only so much that could be done with a chamber that size.

  But the place where the King met with his advisors or with powerful lords from the outlying districts was clean, shining, and always in good repair. The walls were of pine. There were hanging lamps and a single table with room for twelve. Two doors led into the room: one from a stairway up to the Great Hall, the other, which László had taken, led to a corridor, and down another set of stairs to the ground floor.

  When the King entered Rezső was waiting for him. He rose and gave a small bow, which László perfunctorily acknowledged. Rezső waited for the King to seat himself, then did the same.

  Rezső was a short, squat, older man, descended from horsemen of the northeast. Though he had seldom ridden, his legs were bowed, as the legs of that people are. As he walked, he would lean slightly to either side. His round face was clean-shaven, with wide-set eyes beneath a fringe of light brown hair. He had been an advisor to László's father for many years, and his attitude toward László alternated between respectful deference and affection, depending on whether he agreed with any particular decision of the King. His tunic was mostly a pale yellow, and the embroidery on it might have been attractive once. He wore sandals. He didn't wash his feet often enough.

  "Well, my friend," said László. "What is first, today?"

  "It's been cold in the north, Your Majesty."

  "And?"

  "The wheat crop has suffered."

  "I see. Famine?"

  "It doesn't seem to be that bad, but the Count—"

  "Északimező?"

  "Yes. He writes of murmurs of uprising among the peasants."

  László sighed. "That's nothing new up there, is it? My father mentions the same thing when I speak to him and in his diaries."

  Rezső nodded. "As did his father, and his father."

  László thought for a moment. "As I recall, my father sent a hundred troops up there, then a good supply of grain, then took the troops out. It worked, I believe."

  Rezső nodded. "Should we do the same thing?"

  "We'll try it at least."

  "Very well, László. I'll attend to it."

  "What next?"

  Rezső scribbled some notes, then set the paper aside and found another.

  "The Northmen," he said finally.

  "Ah, yes. Are there new developments?"

  "More of the same. The reavers seem to be gathering. I think it likely they'll test us before the year fails, unless they dispense with testing and invade outright."

  "You think they might, Rezső?"

  "It is possible, Your Majesty."

  "All of our problems seem to come from the north, don't they?"

  Rezső didn't answer, apparently interpreting this as a remark to kill time while trying to think of a solution. He knows me too well, thought the King, then he smiled at himself. After a bit, he said, "I don't have any ideas. But since we're bringing troops up there anyway, we could certainly bring a few more and maybe frighten them off."

  Rezső cleared his throat. László knew enough to interpret this as the I-have-another-suggestion throat clear, as opposed to the that-may-not-be-the-best-idea throat clear, or the remember-I'm-here-waiting-for-you-to-notice-me throat clear, or the I-have-something-in-my-throat throat clear.

  "Well?" he said. "What is it?"

  "The Northmen invaded last about a hundred and fifty years ago," he said. "They caused a great deal of damage."

  "I know that," said the King. "What of it?"

  "About seventy-five years before that, they threatened, during the reign of King János the Third."

  "And?"

  "They caused no harm, that time."

  "I see," said László. "Well?"

  "The King was a very wise man, Your Majesty. He brought his army to the pass by the North River where the Grimwall meets the Mountains of Faerie, which is the only path from the north into Fenario."

  "Get on with it, Rezső."

  The latter blinked at the young King's impatience, and continued in his own leisurely fashion.

  "When they entered, he harassed them but never actually fought them. They tend not to know our land very well, so he was able to guide them along the western edge of the Wandering Forest by pretending that he was ready for full-scale battle at any time. The Northmen are fond of such things, being confident that they can win in any battle."

  "Hmmmph! I'm not sure they're wrong, either. Go on."

  Rezső paused to remove a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wipe the corners of his mouth where saliva had been collecting.

  László controlled an urge to look away. The advisor continued, "He led them south until they were near the Southern Marshes, which took months of careful planning and maneuvering. When the Northmen were practically at our southern border, he sent a raiding party against the southern marauders. Of course, he disguised this raiding party as Northerners. And he left a clear trail back to the Northmen."

  László's eyes widened, then he laughed. "Yes!" he said. "And the marauders, of course, charged in and did to the Northmen what we couldn't do ourselves! Wonderful! Can Marshal Henrik do the same trick, do you think?"

  "I believe he can, László," said the advisor.

  László shook his head, still laughing. "Excellent! Have the order written up, and I'll sign it."

  Rezső nodded and made some notes. Then he found another scrap of parc
hment and said, "There is a dragon."

  "Indeed?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "Well," he said. "Well, well, and well. We haven't had a dragon in Fenario in close to twenty years. I've been wondering when it would happen."

  Rezső remained silent.

  "I assume it's to the west, near the border." Rezső nodded. "Has it done any damage?" asked the King.

  The minister consulted the parchment. "It's frightened a few peasants and a few merchants, but nothing more than that."

  László nodded. "Do you think it has something to do with the Northmen, or is it just coincidence?"

  Rezső considered this, then said, "I think it's coincidence, Your Majesty. If the Northmen could control a dragon, they would either use it to greater effect or leave it hidden."

  "Hmmmm," said the King. "We can't really spare part of the army, can we?"

  "Not very well. In any case, history has shown that armies are a poor means of fighting dragons."

  "Yes… well, I think I have an idea."

  "Your Majesty?"

  "Never mind. I'll take care of it. Anything more?"

  Rezső looked unhappy but didn't insist. He carefully set the papers down, folded his hands, cleared his throat, and looked at the King.

  László groaned. "Not again."

  "Your Majesty," said Rezső, "it is my duty. You are thirty-three years old. To be blunt, every day past forty should be counted as a blessing. I know, because I have given thanks to the Demon Goddess every day for the past twenty years."

  "I know, I know." László swallowed with difficulty and looked away. Rezső must have studied with the old King and Queen, he thought. And more than statesmanship. He is the only man I know who can almost bring tears of frustration to my eyes.

  "Your Majesty, if Andor succeeds you to the throne, I shudder to think what will happen to the kingdom. And he is unmarried as well, for that matter, and hardly younger than you. Nor has Vilmos found a wife. That leaves the throne of Fenario going to some Baron or other who is probably descended from your grandfather's eldest sister or something."

  "I know, Rezső."

  "Your Majesty, I have a proposal here from the Count of Mordfal—-an important county with the galena mines near the Grimtail Fissure and part of the defense against—"