In short, save for the odd landscape, the journey was much like others Breaker had made in his travels, and like those others it went smoothly, and late in the afternoon, as the sun neared the western horizon, he and the guide made an uneventful arrival in the town of Tumbled Sheep, which nestled beside a river at the foot of an unusually steep hillside. Breaker supposed that the hillside was connected with the silly name somehow.
The guide paused at the boundary shrine only long enough to kneel briefly, then led Breaker to the largest building in town, a wooden structure with wide but sagging porches on every side. Breaker was unsure whether it was a public house, a community center like the pavilions in the northern valleys, or a temple to the local ler, but whatever it was, several people were sitting on the porches. They had been chatting quietly when Breaker had first glimpsed them from well beyond the boundary shrine, but someone had spotted the approaching travelers, and now every eye was focused on them, every tongue still.
A month or two before that would have made him unbearably nervous, but his travels had accustomed him to this sort of reception—it was not at all unusual. He ignored the stares as he followed the guide around to the north porch and up the two low steps.
A woman rose at his approach, a woman roughly his mother’s age, but shorter and plumper, her hair gone prematurely silver-gray. She wore a white cotton tunic embroidered in red and gold, and a long green wool skirt, both worn soft with long use; her hair hung to her waist. The top of her head barely reached Breaker’s chin, but she looked boldly into his eyes, clearly not intimidated by his size. Her own eyes were green and intense, her nose long and prominent; she was not smiling. She did not look as if she smiled often.
She held out a hand. “Hello, Swordsman,” she said. “I’m the Seer.”
Behind her a man got to his feet, a thin man of medium height with a graying beard and a cheerful grin, clad in a long vest of brown leather.
Breaker accepted the woman’s hand and bowed to her. “I am honored,” he said.
“Oh, nonsense. You’re one of the Chosen, I’m one of the Chosen—we’re equals, and there’s no honor involved in meeting me.”
Before Breaker could reply, the thin man held out his hand and said, “Call me Lore.”
Breaker released the Seer’s hand and turned to look at this other person.
He was midway between Breaker and the Seer in height, his dull brown hair pulled back in a tight braid, his face tanned but not heavily so; Breaker could not guess his age, though he was sure that it fell, like his height, somewhere between the Seer’s and his own. His eyes were a soft brown, and reminded Breaker of the puppy one of the bargemen had brought along two summers back; unlike the Seer he was smiling, though his grin seemed a bit tentative.
He wore a long, many-pocketed vest over a tan blouse and brown denim pants—practical garb, appropriate for most circumstances. And his grip was surprisingly firm.
“You’re the Scholar?” Breaker asked. The man’s healthy color, cheerful expression, and sensible clothing hardly fit the stereotype of a man devoted to learning.
“I am. I understand you’re from Mad Oak in Longvale?”
Startled, Breaker nodded.
“Is the Mad Oak still standing?”
“Yes, it is; it almost got me when I left.”
“As bad as ever, then? A shame. And is Flute still in mourning?”
That was more than startling, that was astonishing. Breaker glanced at the Seer, then said, “No, he’s done grieving. When I left he was courting Brewer’s sister Sugar Cake.”
“Lore, that can wait,” the Seer interjected before the Scholar could ask any more questions. “We have more urgent concerns.”
Up until then, everything they had said and done had been consistent with simple curiosity, a desire to meet their new compatriot—but “urgent concerns”? That did not sound so benign, and the Old Swordsman’s words came back to him.
Breaker glanced around, and realized that at least a score of the residents of Tumbled Sheep were staring at the three Chosen. The guide who had brought him from Dog Pole was standing a few feet away, making a point of not staring.
That was hardly surprising; after all, seeing even one of the Chosen must be fairly unusual, and to have three of the eight gathered here, and to have one of those three speaking of “urgent concerns” . . .
Breaker swallowed. These people knew what the Chosen had been chosen for; they would undoubtedly be guessing what could gather three in one place, and probably guessing one thing.
Breaker hoped that obvious guess was wrong, but he remembered the Old Swordsman’s suspicions. The old man might have been right—and if so, then Breaker would need to do something about it. He might have to become the killer his mother had feared he would be.
The old man had tricked him—but it didn’t matter. He was here now, and he had accepted his role, regardless of whether he had been deceived about its nature.
“Should we be speaking out here in the open?” he asked.
“No,” the Seer replied immediately. “Just a moment.” She turned to the guide, pulled something from a pouch on her belt, and thrust it into the guide’s hand. He opened his hand and counted the coins.
The Seer did not wait for the guide to total up his pay; she took both Breaker and Lore by the hand, one on either side, and led them across the porch and into the building.
It appeared to be a public house, or perhaps an inn; there were several tables, dozens of chairs, and a row of barrels along one wall in the main room, but the Seer led them quickly past that and down a corridor. She found the door she wanted and opened it, ushering the two men into a small room where a narrow bed stood against either wall, a nightstand at the head of each bed, a pitcher and basin on each nightstand. There were no other furnishings, but a large rucksack stood at the foot of one bed, and shutters were closed over the window, leaving the room only dimly lit.
“Sit down if you want,” the Seer said, gesturing at the nearer bed. “You must be tired after the long walk.”
Breaker didn’t argue—he was tired, and hungry, as well. He sat and reached for the pitcher.
It held a modest amount of water; he poured it into the basin, then rinsed his hands and splashed a little on his face while the Scholar settled on the other bed and the Seer placed herself between them.
“Now,” she said, “let’s speak frankly.”
“About what?” Breaker asked, wiping his face.
“About the Wizard Lord, of course. You’re traveling around Barokan looking for information about him, aren’t you? You’re on your way to visit him, to see whether he might need to be removed?”
Breaker shook his hands dry, then turned to face her. “How is it,” he asked, “that you two know so much about me and my home and my intentions, when I know nothing about you?”
The Seer and the Scholar exchanged glances.
“I’m the Seer,” the Seer said. “I always know who and where all the eight Chosen are, and where the Wizard Lord is, and whether he’s watching us. Which, I am pleased to say, he is not, just now. He’s eating his supper, and not worrying about us.”
“I wish I were eating supper,” Breaker muttered to himself.
“They’ll be serving here in half an hour,” the Seer replied. “We’ll eat then.”
That was heartening news. “I still don’t understand how you know these things,” Breaker said.
The Seer gave him a look, one he had gotten from his mother on occasion, a look that clearly meant he was being stupid.
“I’m the Seer,” the Seer repeated. “It’s my magic—I know where all Chosen are just as you know how to use a sword.”
“I had to learn to use a sword,” Breaker protested. “How do you learn knowing things you can’t see?”
The Seer scowled at him. “All right, fine—it’s not the same, but it is my magic, as one of the Chosen. I always know where the nine of us are, and more or less what condition we’re in, though I usua
lly have only a vague idea what we’re all doing. And sometimes I see other things, as well. So I know who you are, and where you’ve been. Is that clear enough?”
“I suppose it is,” Breaker conceded. Then he turned to the Scholar. “But how do you know about the Mad Oak, or about Flute?”
“That’s my magic,” the Scholar explained. “I learn things—and I don’t forget them. I never forget a true story, any true story. It’s not just the old tales and legends I remember, it’s all the stories I’ve ever heard, and it doesn’t matter whether it’s how the first three Chosen slew the first Dark Lord, or how a girl from Mad Oak almost ran away with a guide from Willowbank, but changed her mind at the last minute when she realized he was so scared she could smell it.”
Breaker blinked. “Oh.” He frowned as he thought this over. “Only true stories? Do they have to be entirely true? I mean, what if someone gets a few things wrong?”
“I remember the true parts of every story I hear, but I can forget the lies and exaggerations and embroidering. For some stories that doesn’t leave much—with made-up stories sometimes I only remember what the tale told me about the author, and not a word of the story itself.” He smiled. “It’s not a very useful sort of magic as a general thing, but I enjoy it.”
“But you said the first three Chosen slew the first Dark Lord—my mother said there were eight Chosen, just as there always are, and the Dark Lord killed six of them.”
The Scholar shrugged. “Your mother was wrong. There were only three then—the Swordsman, the Seer, and the Leader. The Dark Lord killed the Leader, and the other two survived. The Council of Immortals chose a new Leader, and added the Beauty after that. Your mother probably only heard that two survived, and assumed that meant six had died.”
“How do you know it was my mother who was wrong, and not your version of the story?”
“Because I’m the Scholar. It’s my magic.”
“But . . .”
“How do you know what your opponent is going to do before he does it?” the Seer interjected.
“Oh, because you can see his muscles tense, and his eyes adjust, and his weight shift,” Breaker said.
“And how do you know how to see and interpret those signs, and do it so quickly that you can counter every move? Have you had years of training to learn this?”
Breaker was at a loss for a moment, then yielded. “All right, it’s magic,” he said. “But I still think my magic makes more sense than yours.”
“It’s more like ordinary human skills, certainly,” the Scholar agreed. “My magic was created hundreds of years later than yours, when the wizards of the Council had learned greater subtlety and finesse.”
Breaker resented the implications in that, but before he could think of a reply the Seer said, “Fine, that’s all settled, then—you appreciate each other’s magic. Now, could we get down to business?”
“I assume,” Breaker said, “from your summoning me here, and saying we had urgent matters to discuss, that the Wizard Lord has done something unfortunate. I haven’t heard anything about it; everyone I’ve spoken to seems satisfied with him. Still, he must have done something. What is it? When did it happen?”
The Seer and the Scholar exchanged glances.
“It’s not that simple,” the Scholar said.
“It started years ago,” the Seer said. “About five years ago, in the third or fourth year of the Wizard Lord’s reign. I saw him kill several people—not with my own eyes, but with my magic. I couldn’t see any details, but I knew he had killed people—I didn’t know exactly how many, or who they were, but he had killed. I could feel it. So I went to the Leader and told him—that’s my job, after all. And I spoke to two wizards from the Council of Immortals, as well. And they all asked me to please not say anything about it yet—there was no point in starting a panic if the Wizard Lord was behaving himself, and no reason to warn him that he was discovered if in fact the Chosen would have to remove him. So I didn’t say anything more, and then Boss came back and told me that it was all right, that the Wizard Lord had merely been doing his job, wiping out a group of rogue wizards who were organizing to overthrow him and destroy the Council. These wizards supposedly intended to set themselves up as overlords of Varagan . . .”
“Of what?” Breaker interrupted.
“Varagan—oh, Barokan. In my native tongue we call it Varagan. At any rate, the Wizard Lord said that he had killed a group of rogue wizards, and of course that’s his job, and Boss and the Council had investigated and it was all in order. So that was fine, and I didn’t worry about it anymore. The Wizard Lord had done his job, just like in the old songs. The next time I saw Lore, here, I told him about it—I thought he should know, as one more item for his collection of facts and stories. And then we went our separate ways, and I forgot about it for years.”
Breaker glanced at the Scholar, who shifted on the bed and grimaced.
“And then last year old Blade went looking for a replacement—the Old Swordsman, I mean. I knew he was doing it, and I knew he found you and trained you, and I didn’t think much of it; he wasn’t a young man, in fact he was the oldest of us all by a few years, and if he wanted to pass on the talisman and retire, that was his business. I wanted to say farewell, though, and wish him well, so I met him on his way home to Dazet Saltmarsh this past spring, after he had lost the duel and you had become the new Swordsman. We chatted a bit, and then went our separate ways—but he mentioned that he had some doubts about the Wizard Lord. He knew he could speak freely to me, since I always know when the Wizard Lord is listening, so he told me that it wasn’t anything specific, and that he’d told you about his worries, as well.”
“Yes, he did,” Breaker agreed.
“I thought he was worrying about nothing—after all, the Wizard Lord has been in power for eight or nine years now, and nothing dreadful had happened, so far as I knew. So I wished him well, and he went west, and I came south. And then just recently, I saw you were coming this way, and realized you were following Lore, so I found him and told him you wanted to meet him.”
“That was just a few days ago,” the Scholar added.
“And I thought it would be nice to meet you, too, so we settled in together to wait for you, and we talked, as people will . . .”
“I wanted more stories,” the Scholar interrupted. “I always do.”
The Seer’s expression suddenly changed. “And you know, I think that’s a lovely sword the Old Swordsman gave you, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a new one, made to fit your own hand? Isn’t it awkward, fighting with someone else’s sword?”
“What?” Breaker said.
“The Old Swordsman had a sword made for him, you know—he went to the best swordsmiths, right under the cliffs in Winterhome, and had them make it just the way he wanted.”
“Yes, he did,” the Scholar agreed, nodding vigorously. “He told me the whole story.”
Breaker was not sure what was going on, but he was bright enough to play along. “Wouldn’t that be expensive, though? I’m just a barley farmer, after all—I don’t have much to trade.”
“Oh, but you’re one of the Chosen,” the Seer said. “I’m sure the armorers would be honored . . .”
She stopped in midsentence and let her breath out in a rush. Then she turned and deliberately stamped on a spider that stood on the floor by the corner of Breaker’s bed.
“I hate it when he does that,” she said. “Wouldn’t you think someone who’s ruling all Varagan would have better things to do with his time than spy on us?”
“The Wizard Lord was watching us?”
“And listening,” the Seer confirmed. “Through that spider.”
Breaker stared at the gooey smudge on the floor.
“As I was saying,” the Seer continued, “the two of us were waiting here for you—we both wanted to meet the new Swordsman. And we talked, and we discussed the Old Swordsman’s worries, and I mentioned that incident with the rogue wizards five years ago, wh
en the Wizard Lord had killed people for the first and last time.”
“And I didn’t remember a word of it,” the Scholar finished.
[14]
Breaker stared at the Scholar. “But I thought you said you remember everything.”
“Only if it’s true.”
Breaker looked at the Seer’s face.
“It was lies,” she said grimly. “The whole story about the rogue wizards must have been lies, from beginning to end.”
“But you’re a seer—couldn’t you tell?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m a seer, yes, but not that sort of seer. Sometimes I can’t tell truth from falsehood any better than any other woman my age—and I heard the story from Boss, from the Leader, and he can be very convincing. You’ll see when you meet him. He and the Wizard Lord both draw on the ler of persuasion for some of their magic; after all, they’re both expected to command people. As one of the Chosen the magic doesn’t work as well on me as it does on most people, but there’s still a little bit of an effect, or maybe Boss has just had so much practice being believed—whatever the reason, it’s hard to see when he’s lying, even when it would be obvious nonsense from an ordinary person.”
“But . . . I don’t understand. If there were no rogue wizards, then why did he say there were?”
“There were people who died, Swordsman; there’s no doubt of that. I felt it, knew it—the Wizard Lord killed them himself, summoning ler of fire and plague and storm. And they weren’t rogue wizards.”
“But then—who were they? Why did he kill them? Why did he lie about it? Or why did the Leader lie about it?”
“It may have been a misunderstanding,” the Scholar suggested. “You would be amazed how often stories are distorted, quite unintentionally, in the retelling. Especially stories about the Wizard Lord—there are several I remember very differently from how they’re usually told.”
The Wizard Lord Page 15
