Dzur by Steven Brust Page A

behind me and to my left, and my hand slipped under my coat to touch the hilt of Lady Teldra, but even as that pleasant, reassuring warmth went through me I saw that it was only a bird taking flight, and relaxed. I kept my right hand on Lady Teldra's hilt under my coat, just be-cause it was pleasant to be in touch with her. I had seen Morrolan and Aliera caressing the hilts of their Great Weapons fairly often; now I understood why.
    There was a small icon next to me, about four feet in height, in the form of a rounded tower of black marble. I rested my left hand on it while I considered matters.
    This is not important, Taltos Vladamir, let her touch your thoughts as she will. However it may look, it doesn't matter; let it drift into the shadows where your own demons dance about spots of light like the laughter of innocence. It doesn't matter, because it is not real It isn't real? What did you mean when you said it wasn't real, Goddess? I remember now; I remember your voice that went past my ears into my head, echoing there, and I don't think you ever intended me to. But I remember the sounds that came like water, to drown me, and I was screaming denials inside my head, and you just kept droning on and on.
    Bitch.
    It was strange seeing Morrolan on his knees. It was stranger when there came a flicker, too clear to be my imagination, running along the length of the sword at which he stared; a sword made of marble, and held by a marble hand
    Yes. That's right. The statue had its own kind of life, and I in-tended to ask Morrolan if the spirit of Kieron dwelt within the marble, or if it was a life of another sort. But I never did ask him. Because of that voice? Yes, because of that voice. And there was another voice, too, only for a moment.
    I'm sorry Uncle Vlad. I have to. But it isn't lost, and you'll have it all back someday
    Yes. There it was. And who do I trust now? She sounded so harmless; the epitome of all that could be trusted: sweet and innocent. But she was older than I, and she was Verra's granddaughter. I had other memories of her, too, and many of them came rushing back, begging to be reinterpreted, with all my natural cynicism let loose on them. And I could feel the part of myself that wasn't crippled fighting it, wanting to believe, fighting through those images as a swimmer fights a strong current
    There is pool of clear water in the Paths of the Dead, before the tall arch that leads to the Halls of Judgment, and you must immerse your-self in it before you pass through, as if to be purified. But it does not purify you; it just removes from you that which might balk at accepting what you have just seen as real. It holds the secrets of the Paths, which is why you are warned not to swallow any of the water. By the time you are dry, you have forgotten how you got wet
    Yeah, that's how it began. There, in that pool. Perhaps a natural part of that place, only now I knew that it hadn't been operating alone. The Goddess had dipped her hand into it, and into my head, and done what she had chosen to do for her own reasons. Maybe I wasn't supposed to have remembered that pool, either. Maybe I only remembered it because she had tried to make me for-get so many other things. Maybe she was being undone by her own deviousness.
    Around me are walls of white, white, white. I'm wondering why they are white, when I suddenly realize that the question should be: Why do I perceive them as white? And to ask it that way is to answer it, and then comes the touch again
    That's right! I had returned to her halls. I could hear myself asking her questions, demanding answers, and she just shook her head and started talking; I was seeing her distorted, as through a rippling pool, and as she spoke, I realized that how I was hearing her had nothing to do with my ears. I felt myself trembling all over again. Yes, it was coming back. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, and opened them again, trying to remember.
    Several people were staring at me, some