My regrets are due to the fact that this work seems to have been set aside, if not abandoned, and while I would for nothing be without the books we have and have promised, still the selfish promise of assisting in the historical research seems a lost thing, and all the more romantic therefore.
I could go on, but as the pressmen have been advised that The Viscount of Adrilankha is to be published in three volumes, so I am instructed that it is not to become four.
And now, worthy patrons, to our story. It is one generically known to mythographers as The Gods Play at Eidolons, and it is unusual in that it involves the entire pantheon, and shows them playing not the common games of Orbs or Bones, but a variant on the contest of symbols known in our gambling houses as Seven-Clawed Jhereg.
As the play begins, the gods settle themselves into their circle within the Halls of Judgment—this step is always mentioned, sometimes with considerable detail of the taking of positions—and each deity receives a secret allocation of two eidolons—images of a particular type and value. Most often the types match those found in the gaming cards of this world—Swords, Orbs, Dzurs, Maidens, and suchlike. Other times they are exotic: Storms, Wounds, Songs. In a few tales the symbolism is obscured from us, though it may somewhat weaken the story to have Verra, let us say, holding the Threes of the Nameless, the Endless, and the Timeless.
It is often asked how the gods, who are given to know all things, at least in the immediate present and the majority of the past, can not know what eidolons their companions have drawn forth. Some maintain that the gods, as part of the system of balance that must exist among such powers, can keep secrets from one another; another view, much favored by the common population, is that the gods could know if they so wished, but they politely do not ask.
When the players pronounce themselves satisfied with the distribution of the eidolons—and in this no one questions that it is not an issue of possible error but solely of courteous assent—they examine their secret holdings, and decide whether or not to enter a wager and join the play, or withdraw.
In the instance to hand, Barlen found himself with the Ace and Seven of Swords. He decided that the strong card and suitedness were worth the risk, and entered his wager.
Verra saw the King and Heir of Orbs, a very strong draw. She no doubt debated whether to match Barlen’s wager or advance upon it; seeing the number of players yet to speak, she only matched.
Moranthë saw the Three of Orbs and Heir of Cups, and quietly withdrew.
Kéarana saw the Eight of Orbs and Heir of Dzurs, and, after a long moment of hesitation, likewise left the play.
Ordwynac held the Four of Cups and Five of Swords. He entered his matching wager as if the process bored him.
Nyssa held the Six and Eight of Cups, and matched.
Kelchor saw the Nine of Orbs and King of Dzurs, and remained.
Trout held the Eight of Dzurs and Heir of Swords, and being a wise god departed the hand.
Tri’nagore held the Two of Swords and Ten of Cups, and stayed.
In the next phase of play, three more eidolons appear before all the assembly (those who have abandoned play generally still watch, and often comment sharply). These new images are the common property of all, because, as will surely be apparent on reflection, while each deity has his or her own aspect and power, the greater substance of the Universe is held in common among them. These three additions are known as “the Fall,” in token of the great shift from the prior world of gods and their dreams alone, to the establishment of the mortal, material plane.
Our Fall was the Seven of Orbs, Seven again of Cups, and Three of Dzurs.
Barlen now had three Sevens, and wagered again.
Verra saw three Orbs, but no real improvement, and of course the prospect of the remaining two eidolons being suited was small. She withdrew.
Ordwynac needed a Six to make a straight. He wagered and advanced.
Nyssa matched this wager, for what reasons we cannot guess.
Kelchor and then Tri’nagore saw no prospects and dropped out.
Now another jointly held eidolon is added, this one known as “The Four Ways,” both because it is the fourth such symbol and representing the paths of the compass, the winds, even a mundane crossroad. In our case, this was the Five of Cups.
Barlen still held his three Sevens, and wagered once more.
Ordwynac now had two pairs, though one was in common (and that the higher in value). Perhaps only from his oft-remarked inertia, he matched wagers.
Nyssa now had four cards in line for a straight, and a straight flush as well. Some tell this story with a touch of precognition on her part, though no gambler would so descend. She raised the wager. The others matched.
Finally one last joint eidolon is shown, this one known as “The River of Dreams.” (In certain mortal games, I have heard it called “The Paths of the Dead,” but this jest has not yet entered the mythic literature.) All those who remain in competition after the wagering then select five eidolons from the seven available to them, in an attempt to create the most powerful combination.
In our instance, the Four of Orbs appeared.
Now, anyone who held a Six would have a straight. Barlen still held only his three Sevens. He gave what we might call (in mythographic terms) a sigh, and withdrew.
Ordwynac had the choice of three pairs, but of course could choose only two, and another high card, for his final pattern. He wagered and advanced.
The non-gambler may wonder at this, and even the amateur player might ask how deities could hope to bluff one another into withdrawing with superior holdings. The simple answer (and there are complex ones) is the same as that of the wager at all: while one does not wish to walk away, one also does not wish to lose more greatly than necessary, particularly when the option to walk away was there.
Nyssa matched the wager.
Ordwynac said, “Show.”
Nyssa’s nothingness rippled faintly. “Your pardon?” she said, but revealed her straight.
“Well,” Ordwynac said. “And they say I am a gambler.”
When I first encountered Paarfi of Roundwood, he had just gone through a distressful round with his former publishers and suffered the storms of academic criticism (though, as has been observed, it was a storm that brought down a great many trees no one heard fall), and I asked him, over a dish of “outlaw’s soup” and a spectacular Soproni wine, why he had chosen the (then) rare and difficult task of recasting history in this particular narrative fashion, given its uncertain prospects, footloose manner of life, and highly variable reputation.
He answered me as the wise Trout answered Tri’nagore: “Because it is the only game in town.”
Steven Brust, Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha)
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