“But you think it’ll work any better with eight of us, instead of two or three?” the Archer demanded, hurrying after him.
“I don’t know,” Breaker admitted. “I’m beginning to wonder how our predecessors killed those five Dark Lords—how did it ever get that far? Why didn’t they all resign, rather than fight to the death?”
“Three did resign,” the Scholar reminded him, from behind the two. “I think it’s safe to conclude that the five who died were either completely irrational in their madness, or convinced they could win the battle somehow.”
“Or they were caught by surprise, and dead before they could react,” the Archer suggested.
“That might be,” the Scholar conceded. “Certainly, the Dark Lord of Kamith t’Daru was caught off-guard.”
“That’s the approach I’d prefer,” the Archer said. “An arrow through the eye before he even knows we’re near!”
“We noticed,” Breaker said dryly, as he approached the guide. “But the way it’s supposed to operate is that the eight of us work as a team—a band of heroes, not a handful of assassins.” As he spoke, Breaker wished that the five of them felt more like a team; he hoped that the Leader’s presence would bring them together. That was perhaps his strongest reason for voting to find Boss before turning back toward the Galbek Hills.
“I don’t see much of a difference,” the Archer said.
“In many languages there is no difference,” the Speaker murmured.
Breaker glanced at her, startled. He found that very strange—how could a language not distinguish between defenders and predators?
“Really,” the Archer said, “if the idea is simply to remove a wizard who threatens all of Barokan, does it matter how it’s done? Do we really need all this rigmarole gathering the Chosen?”
“That’s how it works,” Breaker said. “That’s the system that protects us all. The ler guard the world. The priests and wizards control the ler and guard us from any that turn hostile, the priests in our homelands, the wizards in the wider world. The Wizard Lord protects us against bad weather and bad men and any wizards who go bad, and the Chosen protect us when a Wizard Lord goes bad. That’s how the Council of Immortals set it up, and it’s why we’re all here instead of safe at home with our families.”
The guide, who had apparently been listening to at least this speech, asked quietly, “And what happens if the Chosen go bad?”
“That’s why there are eight of us,” the Scholar said. “If there’s just one of us who goes mad, then the Wizard Lord or the other Chosen can deal with him.”
“And what if all eight of you go mad?”
“How likely is it that eight of us would go mad?” the Seer responded, catching up.
“If you travel together often, and go astray on certain routes, it’s not that unlikely,” the guide said.
“We don’t usually travel together,” Breaker said—but he glanced around uneasily at the surrounding forest, aware that the spirits of the trees were watching him, and that some of them might well be just as mad and just as predatory as the Mad Oak back home.
“The five of you are here,” the guide said.
“And this is the first time in the twenty years I’ve been the Scholar that we’ve had so many together,” the Scholar said.
The guide glanced at him, startled.
“Then—you really are going to kill the Wizard Lord? This isn’t just . . . But why? What did he do?”
“He wiped out an entire town,” Breaker said. “He killed every man, woman, and child in it, deliberately.”
The guide looked from face to face; the Speaker was listening to something off to the side that the others couldn’t hear and didn’t meet his eyes, but the Scholar and the Archer nodded.
“I didn’t see it myself,” the Archer admitted, “but they swear to it.”
“I did see it,” the Scholar said. “So did Seer and Sword. We saw the bones and the burnt-out ruins, and felt the lingering spirits of the dead crying out for justice.”
“Why did he do it?” the guide asked, obviously frightened. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Is he mad?”
“Revenge,” Breaker said. “He wanted revenge.”
“What?” The guide’s expression was so astonished Breaker almost laughed. “Who could have harmed the Wizard Lord so badly that he needed vengeance?”
“He killed the people who had teased him as a child,” the Scholar said.
“And everyone else in town, while he was at it,” Breaker said.
“That’s insane!”
“That’s why we’re going to kill him,” the Archer agreed.
“And . . .” The guide paused and looked around, then leaned forward and whispered, “Does he know you know?”
“He knows,” the Seer said.
“Then—then isn’t it dangerous? Isn’t he likely to try to kill you before you kill him?”
“Quite possibly,” the Scholar said. “Though so far he hasn’t tried.”
“Am I in danger, for guiding you?”
The Chosen glanced at one another. None of them had considered that possibility.
“I don’t know,” Breaker said. “I hope not.”
“But I could be?”
“He knows that if he harms any more innocents he’ll only make it worse,” the Archer said.
“But you’re already planning to kill him! How could it be worse?”
“Oh, so far we’d settle for his resignation,” the Scholar said. “If he kills any more people, we may not give him that option.”
“And . . . why are you going north? Isn’t his tower to the south, in the Galbek Hills? You just came from there!”
“We need to find the other three Chosen,” the Seer said.
“Or at least the Leader,” Breaker said.
“You know where he is?”
“I do, yes,” said the Seer. “And right now he’s moving east, while we’re just standing here talking. Can we move on?”
“Oh!” The guide started. “Oh, of course.” He looked around. “We need to bear to the right up ahead to avoid the ler of the ancient ants . . .” He started walking.
The five Chosen followed.
Six days later they were in a town called Dust Market, going through the cleansing ritual that the local ler required before permitting them to stay the night, when the Seer said, “He’s gone past her—Stealth is now closer than Boss.”
“Stealth?” Breaker asked, as one of the naked priestesses poured a pitcher of scented water over his head.
“The Thief,” the Scholar explained. “Seer calls her Stealth.”
“Ah.” Breaker would have nodded, but he was afraid he would get water in his eyes. “Lore, Boss, Blade, Babble, Bow, Stealth—but she’s just Seer.”
The Scholar shrugged. “Why not? And Blade is gone—you’re Sword now.”
“What do you call the Beauty?”
“I’ve never met her,” the Seer said. “I call her the Beauty.”
That startled Breaker. “You’ve never met her?”
“Not the present one. I knew the last one; we called her . . . well, we had a name for her. It wasn’t a nice one, and I regret it now.”
“How long has this one been Chosen?”
The Seer glanced at the Scholar, but had to wait until most of the just-poured water had run off before he could reply.
“Twenty-three years,” Lore said.
“That long? And you’ve never met her?”
“I’ve met her,” the Scholar said. “She’s been Chosen a little longer than I have. Not long after I became the Scholar she found me to ask a few questions about Barokan’s history, and about the Uplanders. But I haven’t seen her since.”
“I haven’t met her,” the Seer said.
“I have spoken with her memories, but never seen her face,” the Speaker said.
Breaker wasn’t sure how literally to take that; he glanced at the Archer, but then remembered that he had already admitted never meet
ing the Beauty.
“I’m surprised you haven’t,” he said.
“Don’t be,” the Seer said. “It’s deliberate. I don’t want to meet her—but we’ll probably have to, now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. But you do need to help us decide—now that the Thief is closer than the Leader, do we go on chasing him, or do we talk to her first?”
“You said you just wanted to get Boss and his magic,” the Archer said, as the priestesses began distributing towels.
“Historically, the Thief has sometimes been essential,” the Scholar pointed out. “The Thief’s magical talents with locks and stealth have been very useful in two of the five killings our predecessors carried out, and in the case of the Dark Lord of Goln Vleys, it’s possible that the Swordsman might not have ever managed to gut him at all had the Thief not safely opened the seals on the fortress gate.”
Breaker swallowed. Although he had become accustomed to talking about killing the Wizard Lord, every so often a particular turn of phrase would bring it home to him once again that in a few months at most he was almost certainly going to be trying to kill a person, that he was planning to stick his sword right through someone. Yes, the Wizard Lord was a special case, being a wizard and a mass murderer, but he was still a human being.
“I have never heard the Thief’s voice,” the Speaker said. “I cannot judge her worth.”
“I haven’t talked to Stealth in, oh, fourteen or fifteen years,” the Seer said. “That would have been just before you were Chosen, Babble. She doesn’t travel much.”
“Is she along our route?” Breaker asked.
“We don’t know where Boss is going,” the Seer said. “How can we tell?”
“Well, if we head directly for Winterhome, how far out of our way would the Thief’s home be?”
“Not far,” the Seer said. “Not far at all.”
“Then why not? We’ll probably want her to join us eventually.”
“Sword has a point,” the Archer said.
“Then we’ll go there next,” the Seer agreed. She accepted a towel and began drying her hair as she got to her feet.
“Agreed.”
[20]
The farmhouse stood well off the road, surrounded by bright yellow flowers of a variety Breaker did not recognize; the five Chosen approached cautiously.
“I would have thought a thief would live in town,” Breaker said, as the others slipped through the gate he held open. “In the largest town she could find, in fact.”
“She’s here,” the Seer said, as she stepped through. Her tone did not allow further argument, and Breaker shrugged as he latched the gate behind her. He turned to see the Archer trotting unhesitatingly up to the door, and hurried to follow.
The others were still hastening along the graveled walk when the Archer rapped loudly on the blue-painted door.
No one answered at first, and the five of them had time to cluster around the threshold before the Archer grew impatient and knocked again.
This time Breaker heard a faint voice from within, and the Speaker announced, “She’s coming. Her feet are heavy on the floorboards, and the spirits of home and hearth . . .”
She was interrupted by the rattle of the latch, and the door swung open to reveal a rather tired-looking woman in apron and cap. She was of moderate height, taller than the Speaker or the Seer, and thin; the thick curls that escaped her white cap were straw-colored, her skin pale. Her ears appeared oversized to Breaker, but he knew that was exaggerated by the way her tucked-back hair pushed them forward, and by the narrowness of her face. Her dress was a faded blue that did not quite match her eyes, the apron stained a dozen shades of off-white and gray.
She blinked at the five visitors—or perhaps at the bright sunlight—and said, “Yes?”
The Archer started to speak, but Breaker cut him off. “Please pardon us for disturbing you, ma’am, but we’re looking for someone . . .”
“It’s her,” the Seer interrupted. “She’s the Thief.”
The woman blinked again. “The what?”
“You’re the Thief,” the Seer said.
The woman stared at her five visitors—the two strong young men and the ordinary older man, the sturdy white-haired woman, and the tiny dark-haired woman who seemed to be whispering silently to herself. “I haven’t stolen anything!” she protested. “If you’ve been listening to that silly redheaded boy and his gossip, I’ll have you know that he tells so many lies the ler themselves despair of him! Ask his mother, she’ll tell you!”
“We haven’t spoken to any redheaded boy,” the Seer said, “and we didn’t say you’d stolen anything. I said you’re the Thief—the world’s greatest thief, one of the eight Chosen, one of the heroes who are charged with protecting Varagan from the Wizard Lords.”
“I am no such thing,” she said. “Now, go away.” She tried to close the door.
The Archer thrust his foot in the way. “If the Seer says you are the Thief, then I believe you are the Thief,” he said. “How you might not know that baffles me, though.”
She glared at him, then turned that withering stare on the rest of them. “I am not a thief,” she said. “I may have made certain foolish decisions when I was young, and agreed to things I shouldn’t have, but that was a long time ago and I know better now, and I am not a thief. I have not kept anything that belongs to another, and I have nothing here that isn’t mine by right.”
“No one said you had,” Breaker said mildly. “If you’d prefer a more diplomatic phrasing, we believe you are the one chosen to be the best in the world at those skills associated with housebreaking and thievery, just as I am the one chosen to be the best in the world at wielding a sword. That does not mean that you have stolen anything, any more than my own title means I have killed anyone.”
“You know who you are,” the Seer said wearily. “Arguing semantics won’t change that.”
“I am Merrilin tarak Dolin, wife of Sezen piri Oldrav, mother of Kilila tesh Barag and Garant asa Dorhals,” she said defiantly. “I have a name and a place here, and they have nothing to do with any legends about Chosen Heroes.”
“But you are also the bearer of the talisman of thievery,” the Seer said.
The Thief snorted. “ ‘Bearer’? I have it somewhere, put away in a drawer—I don’t carry it around the house with me.”
“But you have it,” the Archer said. “That makes you one of the Chosen.”
“It makes me someone who did something foolish when I was seventeen, and was too embarrassed to admit it and pass the silly thing on,” Merrilin retorted. “I should have gotten rid of it years ago.”
Breaker remembered his own unpleasant experience back in Mad Oak when he had left his talisman behind, and wondered whether the Thief could get rid of it—had she ever tried? Was the illness he had felt something shared by all the Chosen, or unique to the Swordsman?
“Your pardon, ma’am,” the Scholar said, “but might we take a moment of your time to discuss this, please? It’s a matter of some concern to us all. Might we come in?”
“No. Garant’s taking his nap.”
“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to wait out here until you speak with us.”
She glared at him, then looked down at the Archer’s foot. “When my husband gets home . . .” she began.
“Your husband is not going to interfere,” the Seer said. “Not only are there five of us to the two of you, but we include the world’s greatest swordsman, and the world’s greatest archer! We are equipped to slay the Wizard Lord himself; do you really think your husband frightens us?”
She stared at the Seer for a moment, then glanced back over her shoulder, then looked out at her unwelcome visitors again. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” she asked.
“If you speak with us, that may well be explained,” the Scholar said.
“Your children will be safe,” the Speaker said, startling everyone with her high-pitched singsong
. “Ler will watch over them. Garant will sleep an hour and a moment more, and Kilila’s game with her dolls will occupy her even longer. The ler will see to it.”
The aproned woman stared at her. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Gliris Tala Danria shul Keredi bay Sedenir, who hears all tongues and answers when I must.” The Speaker jerked her head suddenly in the middle of this reply, but completed the sentence without interruption.
“The Speaker,” the Seer said. “And I am the Seer, and he is the Scholar, and he is the Archer, and he is the Swordsman.”
“You’re all Chosen?”
“Yes.”
She frowned, glanced back into the house again, then at the Speaker. Then she reached a decision and stepped out onto the path, pushing Breaker and the Archer aside and closing the door behind her.
“We can speak here,” she said.
“Good. We’ve come because we have learned something terrible . . .”
Merrilin ignored her and asked the Speaker, “How do you know that, about my children and the ler? Are you a priestess?”
“I am the Chosen Speaker of All Tongues,” the Speaker replied. “I can hear the ler, and speak to them—but I have no power over them save the power words give us all over each other. In this case the spirits of your home and hearth were troubled by our presence, and wish our business here resolved quickly, one way or another, and agreed to soothe and guard your children so that we might accomplish that.”
“So you can’t make the ler watch over them indefinitely?”
“No.”
“Then how can you expect me to leave? Who would care for my children?”
“I am . . . no, no, no. Let me . . . no. I am not the one, Merrilin tarak Dolin kal Toria bal Siris, who expects you to leave.”
The Seer and Archer snapped their heads around to stare at the Speaker, but neither Breaker nor the Scholar was surprised to hear this.
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