The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) by Steven Brust Page B

the Circle hurt?”
    “Ricardo sustained a cut on his left arm that went to the bone; he is being attended to. And Marya hurt her ankle in avoiding them. That is all.”
    “We were lucky.”
    “Yes, milord.”
    “What were they after?”
    “I believe, my lord, that they were looking for you.”
    “For me?”
    “They took Tamas, and beat him to make him tell them where you were.”
    “He didn’t tell them?”
    “He didn’t know.”
    “Is he all right?”
    “Bruised, no more.”
    “I must see for myself what they have done.”
    “I understand, milord.”
    We trust the reader will understand if we do not follow Morrolan too closely. We confess that the sight of burned-out structures, and, even more, the twisted and bleeding remains of what once were people, will no doubt appeal to some of our readers. Indeed, we are not unaware that there are entire schools of literature which devote themselves to enthusiastic depictions of exactly such events, dwelling in loving detail on each drop of blood, each broken limb, each agonized scream, each countenance made grotesque by an expression of pain. Of course, it is the nature of the history as it is written that any tendency within literature will find a reflection within it; and naturally the reverse is true, because those who create literature read history as much as those who write history read literature.
    We understand why some of our brothers find themselves drawn to such depictions: whereas history becomes stronger when the emotions of the reader are engaged, literature absolutely requires it; and dwelling on agony in its most graphic form is an easy way to engage the emotions of the reader. Yes, we understand this, but will not ourselves indulge in such appeals to the most base and unsophisticated instincts of our intended audience, because we hope and believe that those who have done us the honor to follow us through these histories will best respond to a higher order of stimulation.
    However, while we are not choosing to show the reader what Morrolan saw on the streets of Blackchapel, we must, nevertheless, insist that Morrolan saw all of it. He spent hours on the streets, speaking with the injured, consoling the bereaved, and shaking his head over the damage to the village. It should not be necessary to make the observation that Morrolan, after living there for a hundred years, knew well all of those who had been killed or hurt; indeed, had known all of their families for many generations, and the tears and groans could not leave him unmoved.
    When he returned at length to the chapel, Arra, upon seeing
his countenance, involuntarily stepped back from him, for she had never seen him in this mood, nor had she realized that he was capable of such wrath as he now displayed, though still tightly contained. His eyes were lit with such a hate that, while it had been seen on a thousand thousand battlefields in the Empire, had, perhaps, never been seen before on this side of the Eastern Mountains. His hand had gripped the hilt of his sword. His teeth were clenched, and his words, when he spoke, were delivered in a low, even tone through lips that barely moved.
    “Let us see, then. They killed and burned without stealing, and they were looking for me.”
    “Yes.”
    “Whence came they?”
    “The northeast.”
    Morrolan nodded. “Then that is where I will go and look for them.”
    “How, look for them?”
    “Yes.”
    “Milord—”
    “Well?”
    “There were seventy or eighty of them. And, while our Circle now numbers considerably more, well, they are witches, not warriors.”
    “I said nothing of taking the Circle.”
    “How, you will attack seventy or eighty of them?”
    “Why not?”
    “With that number, they will probably kill you.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “And if that is what they came here to do, and failed, why gift them with exactly what they wanted?”
    Morrolan frowned as Arra’s reasoning penetrated the rage that consumed him. “Well, there is