The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Well, then let us both hope that your worries are groundless. You don’t want to die, and I . . .” Breaker swallowed, and grimaced. “. . . and I don’t want to kill.”

  [9]

  Neither swordsman said a word of any of this to anyone else in Mad Oak, of course. The Young Swordsman claimed to be tired from the duel and the magical rite that had bound him to the ler of muscle and steel and kept to himself, and after Breaker clambered back down the steps the Old Swordsman made sure he was too busy tending his wound and preparing to depart to talk to anyone else.

  The wizards had all flown away by midafternoon; Breaker’s younger sisters watched the four departures and came running in speckled with snow, gasping and giggling as they asked each other repeatedly, “Did you see that?” Fidget tried to pantomime the whole scene for her parents, spreading her arms, flapping, twirling, and leaping, while Spider wildly applauded her performance.

  The familiar Greenwater Guide arrived at the pavilion that evening, as the lanterns were being lit, and word was sent to the swordsmen. Breaker was told first, and in fact, it was he who carried the news up to the loft.

  “The road to Greenwater is supposed to be open, if you aren’t in a hurry,” he said from the open trap. “The guide made it here from Ash-grove in about half a day; he’s staying with Elder Priestess tonight, and will meet you at the pavilion in the morning. But he says the roads beyond Greenwater may still be blocked; he has no reports from the ler there.”

  “I think I have outlasted my welcome in Mad Oak,” the old man replied from his bed. “Greenwater can surely tolerate me for a few days.” He shuddered. “Though I’m not looking forward to that walk through the snow, with this hole in my shoulder, and I don’t know how the High Priestess will receive me, this time of year and in my condition. The lake must be frozen, and I have no idea what that does to their customs and rituals—and when I visited there before I was one of the Chosen, not a mere outcast.”

  “You aren’t an outcast.”

  “Well, I . . . no, I suppose not.” He shifted on the bed, whether to get more comfortable or disguise embarrassment Breaker could not be sure.

  “And the guide wouldn’t be willing to take you if he thought they would not tolerate your presence.”

  “True enough. But my wound and the snow are real enough, even if my other worries aren’t.”

  “Yes, they are. You should have asked one of the wizards to carry you.”

  “Oh, they hate that. It would probably take more than one of them, for one thing. They’ll do it, if they must, but they hate it.”

  “Surely the Council of Immortals owes you that much for forty-four years of service!”

  “You’d be surprised how few of them see it that way.”

  Breaker nodded, and hesitated. He had delivered his news, but there were still so many things he wanted explained to him, so much to ask about how the Council of Immortals and the eight Chosen operated, so much more he would like to know about what the other Chosen were like, so many details of why the Old Swordsman was suspicious of the Wizard Lord, so much about what he could expect in the days and years ahead, that he scarcely knew where to begin.

  “You know, lad, you’re one of eight—don’t take too much weight on your own shoulders,” the old man said, obviously guessing the trend of Breaker’s thoughts. “It’s not just up to you to decide anything, or to kill the Wizard Lord single-handedly should it become necessary—there are seven others with just as much say and just as much responsibility in the matter. Perhaps more, given that one of them is the Leader of the Chosen, with the magic to make others heed his words.”

  “How does that work, then?” Breaker asked, taking another step upward. “You said something about that before. How strong is his hold on the Chosen? And does everyone else simply obey his commands, whether they want to or not? It seems to me that such a power could be as easily abused as the Wizard Lord’s own!”

  The old man snorted. “If that were how it worked, it could. No, his magic is only that others will listen to him, no matter how dire the circumstances or how distracted they may be, and take seriously what he tells them—he can always command the attention of everyone in earshot, should he choose to do so. He can’t outright control them unless he knows their true names, any more than anyone else can, but they can’t ignore him. The Chosen can ignore him, but he’s very persuasive, even to us—to you, I mean. The ler guide him to choose wisely when presented with a clear choice of paths, and that’s important to consider before refusing his instructions. He will listen to what others say, weigh the options, and then quickly reach a decision; the magic ensures that he will never hesitate in finding his course. It may not always be the best course—even the ler aren’t infallible—but he will always be confident in his actions. He has an aura of certainty about him—you’ll see, when you meet him.”

  “And how will I ever meet him? You said I was to travel, but surely the Chosen are scattered all across Barokan; what are the chances I’ll stumble across the others?”

  “Who said it would be left to chance? The wizards and the ler will see to it, when the time seems right—you may never meet them all, but at some point you’ll meet Boss. Everyone always does, somehow. And you can seek the others out; most of the Chosen aren’t hard to find. They have their homes and their preferred routes when they travel, like anyone else. And if you find the Seer, she always knows where the others are.”

  “I may go looking for them in the spring.”

  “You could do that.”

  “I might see what they think of the present Wizard Lord.”

  “You might well do that, yes.”

  “Do you know where you’re going, from Greenwater?”

  “Home to Dazet Saltmarsh; I still have land and family there.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Yes.” He did not go into detail, but the tone of that single word convinced Breaker that wherever Dazet Saltmarsh was, the old man would not be there any time soon.

  But the Chosen were expected to travel, and Breaker was now one of the Chosen—the still-new sensations of his magical transformation constantly reminded him of that. He nodded. “Perhaps I’ll see you there someday.”

  “Perhaps you will,” the old man agreed.

  And with that, Breaker decided he had had enough of his former teacher for the moment; he looked down, and began his descent. The old man said nothing as the youth sank out of sight, but Breaker thought he heard a sigh just before he closed the trap.

  Breaker slept late the next morning, after a restless night of strange dreams about swords and rabbits, and by the time he awoke the old man had left the house and headed up the ridge to the pavilion.

  For a moment Breaker considered going after him to ask more of the endless questions that troubled him, but then he thought better of it. The old man’s answers were never satisfying, but only led to more questions, and breakfast was waiting.

  By the time he did finally get to the pavilion the former Swordsman and the guide had departed, their footprints leading up the Greenwater route, past the boundary shrine and past the immense gnarled tree the town of Mad Oak was named for. Breaker stared at the broken snow for a long moment before turning back.

  He had better things to do than run after the old man. For one thing, he needed to practice his swordsmanship. He needed an hour of practice, he knew—and he could feel the ler, and the talisman in his pocket, impatiently waiting for him to begin.

  He quickly settled back into a daily routine much like the one he had followed before the duel—he would practice for an hour each morning, do the chores that needed doing, and then spend time with friends and family. He practiced alone now, of course, but the biggest difference was the loss of the evening talks with the old man. He could no longer ask questions about the wizards or the Chosen, or about points of swordsmanship, or about the world outside Mad Oak; instead he talked to his mother and sisters about the ordinary affairs of the village, or walked up to
the pavilion and listened to the other young men boast about their amorous accomplishments, or discuss their plans for the future—plans that usually centered on growing barley, bedding women, swindling bargemen, and the like.

  And the old dissatisfaction that had prompted him to speak up when the Swordsman and wizards first arrived, the dissatisfaction that had faded away during his training and been replaced with frustration with his inability to best the old man, gradually returned. Mad Oak seemed to close in around him; the ordinary concerns of the people around him seemed petty and meaningless. Even Little Weaver’s chatter about her dreams or the fanciful things she hoped to create on the loom one day, which had always delighted him, seemed pointless and silly.

  The frustrations of practice, though, had vanished. Anything that it was physically possible for a man to do with a sword, he could now do. He had nothing more to learn, nothing anyone human could teach him about using a blade—the ler had seen to that. He was, indeed, the world’s greatest swordsman. The purpose of practice was no longer to learn, but merely to do each move more smoothly, more quickly, than before.

  In a way that made it less interesting and less challenging, but on the other hand there was still a great deal of simple satisfaction in doing the incredibly difficult just a little bit better, a little bit faster, than he had ever done it before.

  On warmer days he sometimes acquired an audience, but it usually didn’t last long; as Harp told him when he discussed it with her, utter perfection quickly became boring.

  “Besides,” she said, “you’re so fast sometimes now that we can’t even see you move—one instant you’re standing with the sword at ready, and the next you’re in a different position and whatever it is you’ve sliced to ribbons is falling to the ground, and we haven’t seen a thing in between!”

  Breaker had not realized he was that fast. He could still see—or at least feel—every move he made. He grimaced, and dropped the subject.

  One day in midwinter, when his father was ill again and the supply of firewood low, he came in from practice and flung coat, sword, and pouch on his bed, then emerged from his chamber to find his mother waiting for him.

  “Swordsman,” she said, “could you fetch a few sticks for the fire from the pavilion’s woodpile?”

  He looked down at her, really looked, and for a moment he hardly recognized her. His mother had always called him “Breaker,” not “Swordsman,” and was she really so small and old as this, her hair gray, her skin more red than the white that had won her her nickname? Was this the first time she had called him “Swordsman”? He could not recall with any certainty, and that made him uneasy and eager to escape.

  “Of course,” he said, stepping back in his room and grabbing his coat. He pulled it on quickly and hurried out the door.

  He was halfway to the pavilion when he began to feel the wrongness. He might have sensed it sooner had he not already been confused by the meeting with his mother, and he tried to tell himself that that encounter was responsible, that he was merely upset because his mother was getting old and he was growing apart from her; he pressed on, but a few steps later his stomach clenched and his skin began to crawl, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck despite the cold, and he knew something more was at work.

  He swallowed hard, and stopped in his tracks, trying to feel what was wrong.

  He had done his daily practice, so it was not that. He could think of nothing he had done, or failed to do, that might have displeased the village ler—yet he could definitely sense something very wrong, and getting worse.

  His gloved hands were shaking, and his knees felt weak, as if he were frightened or ill, but he knew he was not afraid, and he had been well enough to wield a sword just a few minutes before. He looked down at himself, at his heavy brown coat and sturdy gray boots.

  He was not wearing his sword belt, he realized—but he didn’t always carry a sword, not here in Mad Oak, so it wasn’t that.

  He swallowed again, struggling to stay upright and not to vomit or piss himself, and tried desperately to think what it might be. This was nothing he had experienced before, nor did he recall hearing anyone else describe such a thing, so he guessed it had something to do with being Chosen. Was this some warning? Did it have something to do with the Wizard Lord? Had some wizard put a curse on him? He reached for the pouch where he kept the silver talisman, to see whether it was glowing or otherwise acting strangely. . . .

  The pouch wasn’t there, and he realized he had left it at home, on his bed—and he further realized that this was the first time since becoming the Swordsman that he had ever been more than a few feet from the talisman, and comprehension burst upon him.

  “Oh,” he said, to no one in particular. He turned around, and the wrongness faded—though he still felt weak and sick.

  With each step back toward his family home, his room, his bed, his talisman, he felt stronger. His vision cleared—he had not even consciously noticed that his sight had been blurred and dim. His stride lengthened, his throat relaxed.

  At the door of the house he burst in without knocking, and almost collided with Harp; he hurried past without apology, and snatched the pouch from his bed.

  Strength and joy surged through him now that the talisman was in his grasp, and he laughed aloud.

  “Sword?”

  His mother was standing behind him, in the door of the room.

  “You’re back quickly; did you get the wood?”

  “No; I forgot something,” Breaker replied, turning around and grinning broadly. The euphoria of restored health was already fading.

  “Well, hurry up, then.”

  His smile vanished. He wanted to say something to her, to explain about what had happened, how strongly he was bound to the talisman, how careless he had been to leave it behind, but the words did not come; she wouldn’t understand, he was sure of that, and might instead see this as a chance to berate him once again for agreeing to become one of the Chosen. He closed his hand more tightly on the pouch and nodded wordlessly.

  When he returned with the wood he said nothing to anyone.

  Being the Swordsman was not just a job, he knew now—it was a part of who he was, and a burden he could not walk away from. Even a simple bit of carelessness like leaving his talisman behind could sicken him; who knew what might happen if he did something really wrong? He was bound by rules he barely understood, and could not afford to test them, let alone break them, until he knew more of what it meant to be Chosen.

  After that, he always checked to be sure the talisman was secure before he set foot outside the house—and he never spoke of it to anyone. He did not think anyone in Mad Oak would understand—or care.

  The days came and went, and his vague dissatisfaction grew.

  Spring was not long in coming; the snow melted quickly that year. For the most part life returned to normal as Breaker helped with the cleaning, the plowing, the planting—but he still spent an hour of every day practicing with the sword the old man had left him. There were times when taking an hour to himself was inconvenient, and angered friends or family, but he had no choice. Even when the spring plowing kept him in the fields from dawn to dusk, he lit a lantern after supper and carried it out behind the house to practice in the dark.

  He still spent time with Joker, Brokenose, and the other young men, and danced and flirted with Curly and Little Weaver, but somehow he felt more detached than ever. Jokes about his role in the Chosen that had been common at first faded much more quickly than he had expected, leaving only an odd sense of disconnection. It was as if the ler of Mad Oak knew he was no longer truly part of the town—as, Breaker realized, they probably did. They would have observed his connection to his talisman, and understood that it replaced and weakened his link to his old home.

  And then at last the planting was done, summer coming on, he was no longer urgently needed to tend the crops, and in the idleness of the lengthening days the feeling that he no longer belonged in Mad Oak became overwhelmin
g. He bore it for a time, but finally one day Breaker informed his parents that he felt it was time he did some traveling—it was his duty as the Swordsman to see more of Barokan.

  To his mild surprise no one argued; if anything, his father looked relieved by the announcement. As Breaker looked around at the faces of his family, he realized that the disconnection he felt had not been one-sided.

  “Where will you go?” his mother asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet—I’ve never traveled before, I don’t know what it’s like. If I can, though, I think I should visit the Wizard Lord in the Galbek Hills, and see what I think of him.” He smiled, as if uncertain he wasn’t joking.

  No one said a word in reply; no one smiled back.

  And why should they? There was no reason that would be a joke. For an ordinary traveler it might be, but not for one of the Chosen. His smile vanished.

  “I’ll go where the ler guide me,” he said. “It may be to the Wizard Lord’s tower, or it may just be to Greenwater—I’ll see how it goes. Don’t worry; I’ll be fine, and I won’t make any trouble.”

  “Be careful, then.”

  “I will.”

  And it was decided, far more easily than Breaker had expected.

  [10]

  He spent the next few days trying to decide what to bring, and how much he could comfortably carry. He had a barley sack that would serve as a carry-all, and he obviously needed to bring his sword, his talisman, and an assortment of clothing appropriate for all weathers, since he had no idea how long he would be gone or what the climate was like in the Galbek Hills, but beyond that he was at something of a loss.

  On the fourth day, around midafternoon, the Greenwater Guide arrived, which decided his route—he had been considering bartering for passage with the bargemen, should a southbound barge come by, and there was always a chance the Birches Guide would make her annual visit early, or the long-promised new Willowbank Guide the now-retired one had supposedly been training would finally arrive, but Greenwater had seemed like the most promising destination.