The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “But if I don’t believe it wise . . .”

  “He killed an entire village!”

  “And if he had done that last month or last year, I would indeed be packing my belongings and preparing for the march to the Galbek Hills—but it was five years ago, and he has done no more harm! A man can change, and repent his deeds, and if he is no danger . . .”

  “There is a story,” the Scholar said, “that I remember well, so I presume it to be true—though perhaps it merely struck my fancy, and I recall it for that. In any case, it tells of a man who built a home in Shadowvale, close beneath the cliffs, in a spot where the ler were gentle and generous, so that the land was rich and the crops munificent, despite the great barrier blocking out the eastern sky. This man built his house atop the scree, up against the cliff itself, and when he was building it his neighbors, who had come to assist him after the northern fashion, looked up, and noticed that far above them, at the very top of the cliff, was a section that had cracked and leaned out from the surrounding stone. This great block of stone, fifteen or twenty feet wide, was hanging by a corner.

  “ ‘You can’t build here!’ one of them said to the homeowner. ‘Look, that stone is ready to fall and crush you!’

  “But the builder laughed. ‘That stone has hung from the cliff for as long as I have lived in this vicinity,’ he said, ‘and it has never fallen yet. Perhaps the ler hold it, or perhaps that corner is stronger than it appears, but I will be as safe here as any of you.’ And he completed his house, with his neighbors’ aid, and moved in, and lived there in peace—perhaps more peace than he had intended, as the hanging rock made many reluctant to visit him.

  “And one day, a dozen years after the house was finished, with no warning, the stone fell, and crushed the house to splinters, killing the man and his young daughter. His wife had been down at the river, and she lived, but lost her home and family.

  “Boss, you may choose to live beneath the hanging rock, but the rest of us do not. We have seen what the Wizard Lord can do, and we do not want to risk seeing it happen again.”

  “Lore, we will always have a Wizard Lord—the question is not whether we will always have the threat of a Wizard Lord going mad hanging over us, but whether this particular Wizard Lord deserves to be removed, perhaps killed. You all seem to believe that this particular stone is leaning out too far and must be removed for those beneath to be safe, but it seems to me that it has been secure enough for five years. Yes, it slipped once, but now it seems to me to be as solid as ever.”

  “And the man who built the house thought that because the rock above him had never fallen after the initial crack, it never would.”

  “Boss,” the Seer said, “if the Wizard Lord is truly as sane and harmless as you think, then wouldn’t he simply acknowledge that our concerns are reasonable, and resign? After all, ending his reign as Wizard Lord simply means retiring to the long and peaceful life of a member of the Council of Immortals, whereas resisting us means his death. How sane can he be, to refuse to resign?”

  “Has he refused? Have you asked him?”

  “We suggested it,” Lore replied.

  “And he said . . . ?”

  “ ‘Perhaps,’ ” Lore said. “He said, ‘Perhaps.’ ”

  “Then any talk of killing him is premature, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll resign and we can end all this worry calmly and sensibly.”

  “That would do,” the Seer said. “Mind you, I still think he deserves worse for what he did to the children of Stoneslope, but if he resigns, then we, as the Chosen, will have done our duty and fulfilled our role.”

  “Well, then!”

  “He hasn’t resigned,” the Seer said. “We have not spoken with him in . . . some time.”

  “Almost a month,” the Scholar said. “And even that silence is indicative. He knew our intentions, and could have told us he was resigning, if that was his intention. He could have bargained with us. He has not done so.”

  “Perhaps he thought you would come to your senses, and realize we aren’t a bunch of heroes out of some ancient legend.”

  “But, Boss,” the Seer said, “we are heroes out of legend.”

  “We are sensible modern people.”

  “We are the Chosen, and more than mortal,” the Speaker sang.

  “Listen,” the Archer said. “If he wants to resign rather than face us, he’s welcome to do that, but so far he hasn’t. Until he does, it’s our job to go to the Galbek Hills and try to kill him, and that’s what we’re going to do. If he wants us to stop coming after him, he can resign at any time, and we’ll stop—but for now, I say we get on with our business. If we just sit here in Winterhome arguing, he won’t think we’re serious. If we march to Galbek either his nerve will crack, and save everyone a lot of trouble, or we’ll get there and kill him; either way, our mission will be accomplished and we can split up and go home and get on with our lives. So we march. That’s sensible—and heroic.”

  “Yes,” the Seer said. “We must go after him as if we mean to kill him.”

  “We really do mean to kill him,” Breaker said. “But he can stave us off by resigning.”

  “Fair enough,” Boss replied. “That’s fair enough all around. We’ll head to the Galbek Hills, then. Now, you say the Thief won’t come with us?”

  “We couldn’t convince her,” the Seer said. “You might do better.”

  “What about the Beauty?”

  “We haven’t spoken to her,” the Scholar said. “We found you first.”

  “Then I’d say it’s time we found her, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose it is,” the Seer said.

  “Then let’s do that, shall we? You said she was half a mile from here?”

  “That way.” The Seer pointed.

  “Should we all go?” the Scholar asked. “I wonder whether a small delegation might not be a better idea; it seems she’s been living among the Host People for some time, and a group of half a dozen descending upon one of their women might not make the right impression.”

  The others glanced at one another.

  “A fine suggestion,” the Leader said. “Seer, I’ll need you to find her, and of course I’ll go, but that should do, and the rest of you . . .”

  “A third,” the Speaker interrupted. “The ler counsel a third.”

  “I agree,” the Seer said. “I’d like to have someone else.”

  The Leader shrugged. “If you want.” He looked over the candidates.

  “I’ll wait here,” the Scholar said.

  “The streets do not welcome me, the Beauty’s words need no interpretation,” the Speaker said.

  That left the Archer and the Swordsman; the Leader glanced at the two of them, then said, “Come on, Sword—it’ll give us a chance to get to know one another a little better.” He clapped the young man on the back.

  “All right,” Breaker agreed.

  The Archer grimaced. “Enjoy the view, Sword,” he said. “I suppose I’ll get a look at her soon enough.”

  That reminded Breaker that most of his companions had never met the Beauty; Lore had, but none of the others he had traveled with. As the threesome descended the stairs he asked the Leader, “Have you ever met her before?”

  The Leader glanced at him. “No,” he said. “I understand she was already something of a recluse by the time I was Chosen.”

  “She was,” the Seer agreed.

  “How long has she been Chosen?” Breaker asked. “I mean—she’s supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world, so . . . I mean, she . . .”

  “You mean, doesn’t she have to be young?” the Seer said, as they walked across the common room to the door. “Well, let’s just say she can’t hold the title forever. The present Beauty took on the role when she was only fifteen or sixteen, and has held it more than twenty years—she doesn’t need to find a successor quite yet, but she probably will before she reaches my age.”

  Breaker did not know just what the Seer’s actual age was,
but he was not fool enough to ask. At a glance she appeared to be in her fifties.

  Breaker had no trouble imagining a woman in her fifties who was still handsome, and perhaps even beautiful, but the most beautiful woman in the world? That didn’t seem possible.

  Of course, the Beauty’s appearance was magical, so anything might be possible, but so far nothing Breaker had seen of magic had been so . . . so unnatural. Magic came from ler, and ler were a part of nature—to an extent they were nature. Magic shaped nature, exaggerated it, redirected it, but it was still nature; a rabbit or a crow might speak, but with the voice of a rabbit or crow, not in a human voice. The Wizard Lord might summon wind and storm, but those winds and storms were no different from natural ones—the clouds were not red or blue, the rain still fell down and didn’t fly sideways or spiral about.

  And it was natural for a woman’s beauty to fade with time, like a man’s strength.

  But the Beauty was not yet forty, if the Seer had the numbers right; she might have several years left before she would have any reason to seek out her successor.

  “This way,” the Seer said, as they emerged into the street, and the three of them marched northward, up the street.

  A few moments later, sooner than Breaker had expected and scarcely out of sight of the inn where they had found the Leader, the Seer pointed.

  “There,” she said.

  The stone-and-wood structure the Seer indicated was no inn; the blackened oak door was closed tight, the windows small and shuttered. The Leader said as much.

  “She’s in there,” the Seer said.

  The Leader nodded. “Very well, then,” he said. He stepped up and rapped on the door.

  For a moment nothing happened, and the Leader looked questioningly at the Seer.

  “She heard you,” the Seer said. “And the Wizard Lord is watching us.” She pointed at a bird perched on an adjoining rooftop.

  The Leader looked where she indicated. “He’s using the bird’s eyes? Has he been watching you often? With five of you traveling together, I assume he’s noticed.”

  “He’s looked and listened from time to time,” the Seer agreed.

  “Then he knows what you have in mind.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is she coming?” Breaker asked. Now that the possibility of seeing the Beauty was so close, he found himself growing impatient, trying to imagine what the most beautiful woman in the world would look like.

  The Seer turned her attention back to the closed door. “No, she isn’t,” she said.

  “No?” The Leader knocked again, more loudly.

  “She’s moving now, but she isn’t coming straight to the door,” the Seer said. “I’m not sure why. If the Speaker were here she could ask the ler, but I’m not . . . my magic doesn’t . . .” She glanced up at the bird again.

  “Is he interfering somehow?” Breaker asked, following her gaze.

  The Seer shook her head. “No, that’s not it,” she said. “At least, I don’t think so. He’s still watching us, not her. But he’s watching me, trying to see what I’m seeing.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “I don’t think so—but he can try.”

  The Leader gave the bird one last look, then knocked again.

  “She’s coming now,” the Seer said.

  Breaker turned back to the door expectantly. The latch rattled, and the door swung inward; a face appeared in the opening.

  Or part of one, in any case; the woman in the door wore the black hood and scarf of the Host People, so that all Breaker could see of her face was her eyes.

  Those eyes were startlingly lovely—a deep, rich green, surrounded by smooth, perfect skin—but still, Breaker had expected more. He had expected an entire face.

  Though now that he thought about it, he should have known better; he had been told that the Beauty lived in Winterhome, so naturally she would take on the customs of the Host People. The delay in opening the door might well have been to fetch her scarf and pull up her hood.

  And all he could see of her was those lovely, lovely eyes, and a vague outline in black. He could see she was tall, and the outline of her hood suggested the shape of her head, but beyond that she was invisible.

  “Beauty,” the Leader said. “We meet at last. I am the Leader of the Chosen. We need to speak with you.”

  The veiled woman glanced quickly at the other two. “There must be some mistake,” she said, in a soft voice that sent a thrill through Breaker—though he was not pleased by the words; had she, like the Thief, come to regret her role? Would she, too, refuse to help?

  “There is no mistake,” said the Seer. “I am the Chosen Seer, and I know you for what you are.”

  “And what is that?” the woman asked, an edge of annoyance in her voice.

  “The most beautiful woman in the world, made so by magic, chosen by the Council of Immortals as one of the eight heroes who will depose the Wizard Lord should he stray into madness or evil.”

  “I don’t suppose you would believe me if I denied it; the mere fact that you found me would seem to indicate that you’re what you say you are. Which is intriguing, to say the least.” She looked at Breaker. “And who’s this? Is this another of the Chosen, or a witness to some atrocity? I can see by his attire he’s neither Host nor Uplander.”

  “I’m called Sword,” Breaker said.

  “And you’re the world’s greatest swordsman?”

  “So they tell me.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then stepped back and swung the door wide. “Come in, then,” she said. “And try not to track mud on the carpets.”

  [23]

  The interior of the Beauty’s home—and it was instantly obvious that this was indeed someone’s home, and not a business or shop of any kind—was warm and cozy. Two rocking chairs stood on either side of a broad hearth, where a moderate fire burned; a rag rug covered much of the plank floor. Two of the walls were dressed stone, and two were dark wood hung with simple tapestries; a rough table held a bowl of nuts, a basket of sewing supplies, and scraps of black fabric that Breaker only belatedly recognized as the pieces of an unfinished garment. A vase on a shelf by the hearth held a dozen curling white ara feathers.

  A ginger cat had been curled on the corner of the hearth, but it leapt up and bolted at the appearance of strangers, vanishing through an open door at the rear of the room.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t enough chairs for everyone,” the Beauty said as she led them inside. Her voluminous black robe swirled about her as she moved, and Breaker tried not to notice when it happened to shape itself briefly here or there to the curves of her body. “I live alone, and have few guests.”

  “Why?” Breaker blurted, before he could catch himself.

  She turned to stare at him, then said, “Because it suits me. Now, why have you come?”

  The Leader replied, “I think the Seer can best explain.”

  The Seer frowned at him, then turned her attention to the Beauty.

  “Five years ago,” she said, “the Wizard Lord slaughtered the entire population of his home village of Stoneslope, men, women, and children, to avenge childhood slights. We cannot . . .”

  She stopped abruptly and turned toward the open door; Breaker, startled, directed his own gaze there.

  The ginger cat had reappeared.

  “Slights, you call them?” it said.

  The Beauty screamed, a short, wordless shriek, and clapped a hand to her heart.

  “Yes, slights,” the Seer replied.

  “Say rather ‘torments.’ Say ‘heartless abuse.’ Say ‘vicious cruelty’ and ‘unrelenting evil.’ ”

  The Beauty stared in horror at her cat.

  “Are you all right?” Breaker asked, stepping forward to offer support; the Beauty looked none too steady on her feet.

  “He talks!” she said. “He never spoke before!”

  “It’s not your cat,” Breaker said. “It’s magic.”

  “It’s the Wizard Lord
,” the Seer agreed. “He’s speaking to us through your cat.”

  The Beauty’s head whipped around so fast her scarf slipped, and Breaker glimpsed the most perfectly shaped nose he had ever seen or imagined; he felt a stirring in his loins that he would never have guessed a mere nose could inspire. Then she tugged the scarf back into place and said, “He can do that?”

  “Obviously,” the Seer said.

  “It must be a shock,” the Leader said. “Here, sit down.” He took her elbow and guided her to one of the rockers. She settled warily into the seat.

  The cat strolled across the room and leapt up on the hearth, where it turned to face the four Chosen; the Beauty watched it as a trapped mouse might.

  “She says I killed my tormentors,” the cat said. “I admit it; I did. I sent fire and plague and killed them all—and I say that they deserved it. They had made my life constant unremitting pain for fifteen years, from my birth until I fled. I tried to forget, to put it all behind me, and to ignore them, and for all the years when I was an ordinary wizard I did them no harm, despite the lingering nightmares and the countless opportunities; when I first became the Wizard Lord I still had no intention of avenging the countless wrongs they had done me. As the time passed, though, and I carried out my duties and sent the freshening rain and warming sun across the southern hills, and warded away the great storms, and listened for reports of fugitives, and watched everywhere for the depredations of rogue wizards, the temptation grew. I began to watch my old foes through the eyes of birds and beasts, to see whether they had repented of their crimes, and I saw that they had not, and finally I could bear no more. I could not stand the thought that I was repaying their offenses with the blessings of fine weather and safety, and in a fit of cold rage I destroyed them.

  “It would have been wiser to have resisted, I suppose—but in all honesty, these past five years I have lived content for the first time in my life, happy in the knowledge that all those who wronged me when I was an innocent child have paid for their crimes, and that their feet no longer soil the earth, their breath no longer fouls the air.