Brokedown Palace Page 4

  László fought to keep his voice calm. How can I explain to this old man what he is asking for? "Rezső," he said finally, "I'll be blunt with you. Dalliance, as you are sometimes pleased to call it, is the only pleasure I have. I know it is unbecoming to complain, but by the Demon Goddess! My whole day, every day, is given to this damned kingdom. Show me a woman I'll fall in love with or who won't cause a civil war every time she catches me with a kitchen maid. If you do that, if she has a position that makes it a good match, I'll marry her. I promise. But in the meantime—"

  "Will you consent to see her at least?"

  "How old is she?"

  "Fifteen."

  "At least you aren't trying to palm any more children off on me." László sighed. What's the use? "Oh, very well. Whenever you want."

  Rezső bowed his head. "Thank you, László. I will send for her at once."

  "Hmmph. Now, is that all?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty. That is all."

  "Good. If you need me, I'll be in the courtyard, working off some of my excess passion in preparation for this charmer of yours."

  Rezső bowed his head again as the King stood and left.

  * * * *

  "Good day, Your Majesty," said viktor.

  László snarled at him.

  Viktor smiled. His teeth were even, and no trace of yellow marred them. His smile was more a baring of the teeth than anything else. "One of those moods, Your Majesty?" he said. "I suppose Rezső the Righteous still wants you to get married, eh?"

  "Just shut up and fetch the practice swords, will you?"

  "I have them here, Your Majesty."

  "Then give me one and hit at me with the other before I lose my patience and use Állam." He touched the hilt of the straight sabre that hung in the ruby-encrusted sheath at his side.

  Viktor did as he was told, still smiling. Viktor was twenty-three years old, but still youthful. He seemed to bounce rather than walk; his long, straight dark hair doing its own bouncing above his shoulders, yet remaining perfectly arranged. His eyes were brown and full of light, his face had a square jaw rare in Fenario. He wore the bright red of the Palace Guard that he commanded, and his buttons always, always glittered. He had once joked that he was so strong, it would only take ten of him to defeat Vilmos in a contest of strength.

  Still, he was well matched with King László. After their first few bouts, the King had learned, for the most part, how to avoid matching strength with Viktor. From then on it had been a contest of the captain's speed against the King's remarkable sense of timing.

  Nor did they stop short of striking with the wooden swords, when an opening presented itself. They made the one concession to safety of not striking to the head save when wearing practice helms which neither liked. Other than that, the blows were as powerful as could be given with the light sticks. And, while a good thwack with such a weapon is unlikely to do more than sting, a thrust, which was also legitimate, could cause injury. So far, in the two years they had been partners, they had avoided such an injury. But not through lack of trying on either side.

  As they practiced, some of László's anger worked itself off. Viktor sensed this and began talking. It was a sign of the condition of both men that, after three minutes of hard work, they could converse without gasping.

  "So, Your Majesty," said Viktor, "has he gotten you to agree to a wedding date yet?"

  László snorted.

  Viktor chuckled. "If that means no, I'll tell you I met someone new in town yesterday."

  "What good does that do me?"

  "She has a friend."

  "Ah, now! Keep talking, my captain, and perhaps I'll make you a Count."

  Viktor saw what he thought was an opening and struck for the King's side. László sidestepped neatly and brought his wooden sword up over Viktor's and down for a satisfying thump on the shoulder. Viktor grimaced, acknowledged the touch, and waded back in.

  "Being a Count, Your Majesty, interests me almost as much as being a married man interests you. But, as to this young lady—"

  "How old is she?"

  "Seventeen."

  "And not married? I hate to think what she looks like!"

  "Trust me, Your Majesty."

  "If you let me down, the dungeon always has room."

  "Trust me."

  Viktor feinted a cut for the head, although this was not a legal target. László took the fake and Viktor struck the King just above his right knee. By their agreement, the forward leg, from the knee up, was legal. László stepped back, saluted, and went in again.

  "Since when," said Viktor, "has the Palace had a dungeon?"

  "It can have one in a matter of hours, my friend. Set me up with an ugly wench and you'll see."

  "Yes, Your Majesty," said Viktor. He wove an intricate attack around the King's weapon, but before he could culminate it, the other slipped past his guard and landed a solid blow on his wrist. Viktor sighed. "That's two out of three," he said.

  "Yes," said László. "And I feel much better for it. Go ahead and send me this wench."

  "It'll be tonight, Your Majesty. I'll have her bring in a message from me so the guards will let her pass."

  "I'll tell you tomorrow if you're safe from the dungeons." He gave Viktor his practice sword. "Have you seen Prince Andor?"

  Viktor's face was expressionless as he said, "He's down by the River, Your Majesty. Planting flowers."

  László's brows came together. "Planting flowers?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "Why, in the name of the Demon Goddess, is he planting flowers?"

  "He didn't say, Your Majesty."

  László shook his head. "This is going to be interesting."

  * * * *

  "Marigolds," explained Andor, "must be planted each year; they do not return unassisted. Roses, on the other—"

  "Andor," interrupted the King.

  "Yes?"

  "When did this sudden interest in flowers come over you?"

  Andor looked up from the neat rows he had dug in the dirt of the Riverbank.

  "Not long ago," he said. "A few days."

  "I see. And what happened to your interest in the magical effects of proper diet?"

  Andor made a brushing-off gesture. "Unimportant," he said. "Only the surface manifestation of a deeper principle."

  "The principle of gardening?"

  With obvious effort, Prince Andor rose to his feet. He wiped his hands on his royal garments, leaving brownish smudges across the bright blue tunic on either side of his ribs. László controlled his reaction.

  "It's an expression of the life force," said Andor. "Every time I put a seed into the ground and bring it to fruition, I am strengthening my own force of life, binding myself closer to every other living thing. I am strengthening my will to live, my ability to—"

  "I understand," said László. "Or, well, I don't really, but never mind. I hope it gives you what you want."

  Andor smiled. "Thank you, brother. It will. Sándor himself gave me the idea."

  "I see. Sándor. And where is Sándor, since we speak of him?"

  "Oh, around." Andor gestured vaguely.

  "Well, if you see him, tell him I'd like a word."

  "I shall."

  László nodded and turned to leave. Andor said, "Where are you going?"

  "To visit our parents."

  "Ah! Yes! I'll have to do that myself, soon. Give them my regards."

  "I shall, Andor. A pleasant day to you."

  "And to you, brother."

  László walked away as Andor, whistling, returned to his gardening.

  * * * *

  They lay in beds next to each other in a room done in red and purple. The old King, János VI, and his Queen, Teréz, now slept most of the time, but awoke when László came to visit them.

  János's eyes opened. "Who is it?" he asked in a whisper.

  "It is I, father. László."

  "Welcome, my son," said the old man, managing a feeble smile. "How rests the kin
gdom?"

  "Well enough, father," said László. "There is a dragon to the west and Northmen to the north, but all is under control."

  János nodded, still almost smiling. He was small, shrunken, and had not moved since losing the use of his legs when the west wing had collapsed many years ago, forcing his abdication. He had taken it well, though, and maintained an interest in the running of a kingdom that he had no part in. His face was animated and alert when László came to see him, as he did every day. Teréz could walk if she wanted, but seldom did, being content to sleep most of the time.

  King János stirred. "Have you given thought to the Palace itself?" he asked, as he always did. "I admit that, in my day, I did little to see to its repair."

  "The Palace is as it has ever been," said László, as he always did.

  The old King seemed about to say more, but then he shook his head.

  László looked at his father's withered face, pleased that he could meet his eyes, and said, "Andor sends his regards." János and Teréz accepted this without comment or change in expression. László sat on his mother's bed and took her frail, shrunken hand in one of his, and his father's in the others.

  "Is there anything I can get for either of you?" he said, as he always did.

  Teréz shook her head as she always did. János said, "Only your company."

  László smiled sadly. He looked at his mother and for just a moment imagined he saw, reflected in her eyes, a vision of the Palace as she'd known it: bright, strong, alive with color and visitors. This, too, had happened before.

  "Father?" said László suddenly.

  "Yes?"

  "Did you find, as King, that the more power you had, the more you must placate?"

  The old King almost smiled. "That is not your only choice," he said. "You can also be a bad King."

  László matched his father's smile.

  János stirred. "Tell me something," he said suddenly.

  "Yes, father?"

  "Your brother, Miklós…"

  "Yes?"

  "You've told me often enough how much you regret what you did, but—do you miss him?"

  Now, what brought that on? he wondered. He pressed the old man's hand. "Yes, father. I miss him. More than I can say."

  János nodded, the sudden tears in his eyes matching the sudden tears in his son's. "Maybe," said the old King, "maybe someday…"

  * * * *

  "Your Majesty, Sándor is waiting to see you."

  "Thank you, page," said László, entering the Great Hall. "Send him to me,"

  The page left to do so. As the King sat down, the wizard entered. He was older than Rezső and, reflected László, looked it. He moved his small, wiry frame with an easy gait; yet beneath the long white hair and beard, he somehow gave the impression of frailty—that he was ready to fall over dead with no warning. His odd green robes—too hot for early winter and always looking as if they would make the old man trip—added an element of the ridiculous to the brew that made up Sándor. Still, he had been a fixture around the Palace since before László's grandfather's time.

  "I was told," said the wizard as he drew near, "that Your Majesty wished to see me."

  László nodded brusquely. Sándor's voice, unlike his countenance, betrayed no sign of weakness. It was firm, strong, and confident, and could have come from a youth of sixteen.

  "Yes," said László. "Please, sit down." The wizard nodded and did so. "I'm wondering," continued the King, "about Andor. Do you know what he's doing now?"

  "Yes," said Sándor. "Planting flowers."

  László nodded. "He claims to have gotten the idea from you."

  "I don't doubt it," said Sándor. "He asked me how I lived so long. I told him that my strength was the strength of Faerie. Which," he added, looking sharply at the King, "is only the truth."

  "I don't see how he got from there to raising flowers," said László.

  "Does his raising flowers bother you, Your Majesty?"

  László considered this. "No, not in itself. But he seems to flit from one thing to another, without any sense to it. I worry about him as a brother."

  "Hmmph. Well, there's nothing wrong with that."

  László felt a sudden flash of anger. Do you think I need your approval, old man? But kept his thoughts to himself.

  The wizard continued, "I spoke to him about how anything that wasn't growing was dying, as a principle of life. I used flowers as an example, and I went on to describe how the power of Faerie allows my powers to continue to grow. But, as usual, your brother heard only what he wanted to hear. He took the metaphor as the law, and by the time I realized this, there was little I could do to shake him of it."

  "I see," said László.

  "Don't let it worry you, Your Majesty." Sándor chuckled. "He'll find something else soon enough."

  "That," said László, "is what worries me. But very well. There is another thing. Do you know a spell that will help a man defeat a dragon?"

  * * * *

  The walls shook, the floor trembled, and the ceiling quaked. The page flung the door open but, before he could speak, László said, "Send him in."

  A moment later, Vilmos entered, his muscles bulging within his tunic. "Greetings, brother!" he boomed, finding a chair and sitting in it. For perhaps the thousandth time, László wondered why it never bothered him that Vilmos didn't treat him as King, yet it had bothered him so much that Miklós hadn't. But it was a fruitless question, and led László to dwell on things that only saddened him. If he only could apologize—

  He shook the mood from himself. "Hello, Vilmos. We have a problem."

  "What kind of problem, László?"

  "There's been a dragon sighted, just west of the Wandering Forest."

  "A dragon!"

  "Yes. It hasn't done any damage yet—"

  "It will, though!"

  "Exactly. Could you—?"

  "Let me at it, brother!"

  László breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you, Vilmos. I was hoping you would respond in that way."

  "Well, how else?"

  "Sándor is preparing something—"

  Vilmos's snort, which had the power of a small wind storm, cut him off. "Sándor! I need nothing from wizards!"

  László felt suddenly worried. "But Vilmos, a dragon—"

  Vilmos flexed his biceps and showed his teeth. "I need no wizard's tricks, brother. I'll drop a rock on the dragon's head. If that doesn't work, I'll strangle it. Hmmmph. Wizards."

  László shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "Why do you dislike Sándor so much, brother?"

  "Huh. Why shouldn't I? I don't trust him, that's all."

  "He's done a lot for the kingdom, Vilmos."

  "He's done a lot for you, you mean. And our father, and his father. What's he done for me?"

  "What's good for the King, Vilmos—"

  "Yes, yes, I know. I still don't trust him."

  László sighed. "As you wish, then. But be careful."

  "Ha!" said Vilmos. "I'll leave in the morning." He lifted his fantastic girth from the chair and made his way out the door. László, watching him duck his head under the doorway as he left, drummed his fingertips against the edge of his throne. It's a good thing he agrees to help so much, he thought. It's good that everyone is so willing to be helpful just to be helpful. But if Vilmos chose not to, I couldn't make him.

  He nodded to himself. That's why he scares me so much.

  * * * *

  It was early evening when László met Brigitta, the friend of Viktor's current lover. He took her hand, and she stepped down from the carriage, performing a graceful curtsy with the same motion. She was a short woman with bright, clear brown eyes and a finely carved face. Her hair was light brown, straight, and cut short. She wore a bright green gown of cotton that concealed her figure, but László decided that there would be little cause for complaint. What pleased him at once, however, was that she didn't seem to be as, well, worn as he'd expected of a wench her age.<
br />
  "You are Brigitta?" he asked.

  "Yes, Your Majesty. I'm honored to be able to present myself to you."

  "It is my pleasure," said László. "Come. I'll show you the Palace, and we can dine."

  She dimpled, and curtsied again.

  As he crossed the courtyard, enjoying the gentle pressure of her arm on his, he overheard Vilmos's booming voice crying out, "All right, you cursed wizard! I'll take it! But by the Demon Goddess herself, if it betrays me I'll come tie you into knots and bounce you off the walls!"

  László felt as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Thank the Goddess for Sándor! The responsibility for losing two brothers would have been almost unbearable. He exchanged a smile with Brigitta and realized with a start that an understanding, an intimacy, had already begun to develop between them.

  The world was certainly looking up.

  If only Miklós could have been there.

  INTERLUDE

  Once there was a poor man who lived in The Grimwall Mountains and worked in the mines. He had about three hundred children, so you can imagine that he was pretty poor. Well, the youngest was a lad named Mózes, who was the handsomest youth you have ever seen.

  One day, the poor man hears that the King is looking for a handsome youth to be the husband for his daughter, who is just getting to marriageable age. So he says, "Mózes, you must go to the city and become the husband of the King's daughter, or else your old father and all of your brothers and sisters will starve to death." So, being a dutiful son, he went off.

  He hadn't been traveling more than a week and a day when he saw a calf lying by the side of the road, and there were two dzur just about to pounce on it. Well, Mózes felt sorry for the calf, so he walked right up to it, past the dzur, and carried it away. (Well, he was strong, too.)

  He was walking along with the calf, when suddenly the cow comes up to him. "Ho there," it says, "that is my calf you have there!"

  "Well then, mother," he says, "you may have it back, for I have just saved it from two dzur."

  And the cow says, "If that is true, I will help you as best I may, but if you have lied to me and were taking my calf to be slaughtered, I will gore you to death." (In those days cows had horns.) So she asks the calf, and the calf tells her that what Mózes said was true. "Very well, young Mózes," she said. "How should I help you?"