The Wizard Lord

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Now the Seer and her comrades seek to slay me for my actions, but why? I wish no one else any harm. I am content. I am satisfied. I have done what needed to be done, and no more remains. Let us live in peace.”

  “You killed innocent children,” the Seer said. “Babies. Old women. Your own aunt. Their ler are screaming for justice.”

  “I removed a blight from the face of Barokan, as is my duty as Wizard Lord. No more than that.”

  “Teasing children do not deserve slaughter.”

  “If by ‘teasing children’ you mean my torturers, I disagree. I have done nothing unjustified—and if you use this as an excuse to attack me, then I will be justified in defending myself by any means necessary. I truly hope it won’t come to that.”

  “You killed people who hadn’t been born yet when you left Stone-slope.”

  “But their families were my tormentors, and if I had left the children alive, what would have become of them? They would have spread lies about me through all Barokan.”

  “So you killed them just to not leave any witnesses?” Breaker asked.

  The cat glowered at him, then turned to the Beauty. “I hope you will be reasonable, and not let these misguided people sway you. Think of the risks and dangers in opposing me, and consider what I have said. I mean you no ill—but I will defend myself. Now, let me go before I wear out your poor cat’s jaw with all this talking—the beast is not designed for such speeches!”

  And with that something seemed to change in the cat’s eyes; it meowed loudly, once, then jumped from the hearth and ran for the door again.

  The four of them watched it go; then the Beauty turned to the Seer. “Can he still hear us?” she asked.

  “Not at the moment,” the Seer said, “but he could begin listening again at any time—if not through your cat, then through a spider or a beetle, a mouse in the wall or a bird in the chimney.”

  “We have to kill him,” the Beauty said. “We have to kill him now, as soon as possible. He’s a monster.”

  “Yes,” the Seer said, startled. “Yes, we do.”

  “There’s no need for haste,” the Leader said. “We want to do this right.”

  “But soon,” the Beauty said. “Before he remembers some other youthful horror he needs to avenge.” She shuddered, but Breaker thought he saw an odd light in her eyes.

  “We’re gathering at Karregh’s Inn,” the Leader said. “We’ll be making plans there tonight.”

  “I’ll be there,” the Beauty said, rising from her chair. “I need to pack, and find someone to watch my cat, but I’ll be there.”

  “Good,” the Leader said. “Good! I’ll see you there this evening, then.” He held out a hand.

  The Beauty looked at it in confusion for a moment, then shook it. “The Host People don’t shake hands,” she said. “You might want to remember that while you’re here.”

  “Ah, thank you,” the Leader said. “I hadn’t noticed that.”

  There were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of questions that Breaker wanted to ask the Beauty, about why she lived in Winterhome as she did and how she had made her decision so swiftly, and of course he wanted a look at her face more than ever after that tantalizing glimpse of nose, but he did not say anything; instead he followed Boss and the Seer to the door, only glancing back once at the Beauty as she stood in the center of the room, watching her visitors depart.

  After all, he told himself, they would be traveling together all the way to the Galbek Hills; he would have plenty of time to ask his questions, and he would undoubtedly see plenty of her face along the way.

  And then the three of them were in the street, and marching back down the street toward the inn where they had left the others—Karregh’s Inn, Breaker supposed it was.

  They found the Scholar trading stories with half a dozen Hostmen while the Speaker listened to the walls; the Archer was nowhere to be seen. At the sight of the returning trio the Scholar stood and politely took his leave of his listeners, and the Speaker wandered away from the wall.

  “Well, then,” the Leader said, turning to the others, “we’ll want to take a few days to prepare . . .”

  “Why?” Breaker asked, startled.

  “I would think the sooner we left, the better,” the Scholar agreed.

  “We need to get this done,” the Seer agreed. “The longer we put it off, the more chance the Wizard Lord has to find a way to stop us.”

  “But no Wizard Lord has ever stopped the Chosen,” the Leader pointed out. “We are destined to succeed—that’s the whole point of being the Chosen. We want to do this as carefully as we can, so that none of us die in the process, but the eventual outcome is assured!”

  “No Wizard Lord has stopped the Chosen yet,” the Seer corrected him. “This system of ours was not divinely ordained, Boss; it was created by the Council of Immortals, and they’re not infallible. It’s been a long time since the Chosen were called upon to serve, and we can’t be sure this won’t turn out to be the Wizard Lord who finds a way to defeat the system.”

  “Oh, nonsense.”

  “The Wizard Lord doesn’t think so—if he was certain we’ll defeat him, wouldn’t he retire right now, rather than waiting for us to act?” Breaker asked.

  “You’re assuming he’s rational,” the Leader replied. “I think his actions in Stoneslope and his words just now demonstrate otherwise.”

  Breaker started to open his mouth to protest, to say that less than an hour before Boss had been arguing the opposite, saying that a single massacre did not indicate the Wizard Lord had gone mad, but then he stopped, unsure just why he would want to argue when the Leader’s new position matched his own.

  It was still unsettling that his position had changed so quickly. Breaker remembered that part of the Leader’s magic was the ability to make swift and firm decisions; was this an example?

  “He thinks he’s going to win,” the Seer said. “After all, none of us were even alive the last time a Dark Lord had to be removed—how will we know what to do? It’s never been so long between Dark Lords before!”

  The Scholar cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, “this isn’t even close to the longest hiatus. The Dark Lord of the Tsamas was not removed until the four hundred and seventy-fourth year of the Council of Immortals, some one hundred and sixty-nine years after the Dark Lord of Kamith t’Daru.”

  The Seer glared at him.

  “But this is the second-longest gap,” the Scholar added hastily. “It’s been a hundred and three years since the Swordsman of Crab Leg Key killed the Dark Lord of Goln Vleys, and the other gaps have never approached a century.”

  “If we just rush to the Galbek Hills without a plan or strategy, maybe the Wizard Lord will be able to stop us,” the Leader said. “We need to decide how we want to approach him.”

  “We need to see just what the situation is before we can make plans,” the Seer said. “What his tower is like now, how it’s defended—we need to go look. Maybe we don’t want to just march in the front door when we get there, but there’s no reason to sit around here—we can make our plans along the way, and adjust them once we’ve seen what his stronghold is like.”

  “I agree,” Breaker said.

  “As do I,” said the Scholar.

  “The ler don’t understand why we even need to discuss it,” the Speaker said. “They think we’re already—yes, I know—on our way.”

  Before anyone could reply the door opened, and the Archer stepped in, bow in one hand and an arrow in the other.

  “Just practicing,” he said. “So, you found the Beauty?”

  “Yes,” Breaker said.

  “Then we leave in the morning?”

  “We were just discussing that,” the Leader began.

  “Yes,” the Seer said.

  “Yes, we do,” Breaker said. “As soon as I’ve had my morning practice.” He glanced at the Leader. “Some of us are going, anyway—Boss, here, isn’t entirely sure he’ll be coming.”

  It w
as very odd, but even while the Leader’s mere presence seemed to have transformed the Chosen into a unified team, Breaker did not necessarily want Boss to lead that team—his switching positions so quickly and carrying on as if he had always agreed with the others made Breaker nervous.

  But that was foolish, surely.

  The Archer eyed the Leader with interest. “Really?”

  “He’s joking,” the Leader said. “I had suggested we might want to rest and prepare a little, that’s all.” He shrugged. “I realize now that the sooner we leave, the better.”

  “Will we be stopping to talk to the Thief again, or heading directly for the Wizard Lord’s tower?”

  The Leader looked at the Seer. “I believe the Thief’s home is on the way?”

  “Almost,” the Seer agreed. “We might find a route a day or so shorter if we skipped it, but no more than that.”

  “Then we’ll stop and have a word. Her talents may well be wanted.”

  “What about the Beauty?” the Archer asked.

  “She’ll be here this evening,” the Leader said.

  “She’s coming with us,” Breaker agreed.

  “Is she . . . I mean . . .”

  “We didn’t see her face,” Breaker said. “She kept her scarf and hood up.”

  “Seems to defeat the whole purpose,” the Archer said.

  A realization finally flickered into Breaker’s mind.

  “I think that’s why she does it,” he said. “In fact, I think that’s why she lives here in Winterhome—so she can keep her face hidden.”

  “Several of the Beauties have lived here,” the Scholar said.

  “Have they?” Breaker nodded. “That would make sense. I never heard it mentioned, though.”

  “I don’t understand,” the Archer said.

  “She probably wants to be able to lead a normal life,” Breaker said. “She has a house and a cat, she sews—if she showed her face she would spend all her time fending off suitors.” He remembered those eyes, the glimpsed curves, and the sultry voice—if the rest of her was equally alluring, then he knew that men would flock to her like crows to corn.

  And the prospect of traveling in her company, which had seemed so appealing before, suddenly lost its charm—he would be around her constantly, hearing that voice, seeing those eyes, perhaps seeing more, and he almost certainly wouldn’t be permitted to touch her. They would have urgent business, and he would be one of four men . . . He suspected he would be living through weeks or months of frustration.

  “That didn’t bother Slut,” the Seer said bitterly. “She enjoyed it.”

  “That was the previous Beauty?” Breaker asked, startled.

  The Seer nodded.

  “You called her Slut?”

  “I regret to say we did.”

  Breaker had more questions he wanted to ask, but hardly knew where to begin—and then he was interrupted before he could choose.

  “Don’t call this one that,” the Leader said. “Nor Whore or Trollop or any of the other names of that sort. You understand me?”

  “I wasn’t going to,” the Seer said. “I understand very well how wrong I was, all those years ago.”

  “Good.”

  “But . . .” Breaker began, then cut off even before the Leader glared at him.

  “If we’re leaving in the morning,” the Leader said, “then we should be gathering supplies, hiring a guide, and making sure we’ve had a good supper. There’s a widow down the street who sets a fine table, though I don’t know whether she could feed all of us on short notice.”

  “What about this place?” the Archer asked, gesturing at the room around them.

  “Oh, they’ll have something they call food, but I wouldn’t necessarily agree. The Host People pride themselves on their hospitality, of course, but the truth is that this time of year they haven’t much to offer—the Uplanders stripped their larders bare over the last winter, and they haven’t yet restocked everything. Much of it will be arriving in the next few weeks, just before the snow. Nor would we, as mere travelers, receive their best, in any case—that’s reserved for the Uplander clan leaders.”

  “Some of us should stay here, though, in case the Beauty comes sooner than we expect,” Breaker said.

  “A good point,” the Leader agreed. “Then let it be you two, Sword and Bow—make her welcome when she comes, and the rest of us will see whether the widow can find room for us at her table. Come, then.” He beckoned.

  Breaker stood flat-footed and watched as the Leader led the Seer, the Scholar, and the Speaker out the door. Then he looked at the Archer.

  The Archer looked back. “Now what?”

  “Now,” Breaker said, “we find out who’s in charge around here, and what there is to eat!”

  [24]

  The Beauty did arrive before the others returned, securely wrapped in her hood and scarf, and once they were secure in the upstairs room Breaker introduced her to the Archer, who bowed elaborately.

  “The pleasure is mine,” the Archer said.

  “You may not mean that, but it’s largely true,” the Beauty said. “I take no great delight in meeting you, since it is dozens of deaths that brought us here, and the need for one more that drives us forth. We are thrown together by the roles we live, not by choice.”

  “Yet I would have chosen to meet you, had I but known where you were.”

  “Of course you would,” the Beauty said, and Breaker could hear the disgust in her voice. “You’re a man, and I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  The Archer opened his mouth to respond, but apparently could find no words.

  “My mother used to say that true beauty comes from within, in actions and words,” Breaker said, hoping to avert what he feared might become an ugly confrontation.

  The Beauty turned her attention to him. “Your mother spoke platitudes. You don’t know what beauty is, and neither did she.”

  “You could show us,” the Archer challenged.

  The Beauty sighed. “I could,” she said. “But the sight of my face or body would arouse your lust, and I don’t care to deal with that just now.”

  The Archer clapped a hand to his bosom. “Do you think so little of me, that you think I could not control my passion?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the Beauty said, before he could continue. Breaker smiled.

  “It’s magic,” he said. “Remember, Bow? Her beauty is just as supernatural as your skill with an arrow, or mine with a sword, and would pierce our hearts figuratively just as surely as arrow or sword would do literally.”

  “Yes,” the Beauty said, slightly startled.

  “It must be a curse, really,” Breaker continued. “Far worse than our need to practice our arts daily, perhaps even worse than the constant chatter the Speaker hears—you can never know what any man would think of you were the magic not there.”

  “That’s right,” the Beauty said, gazing at him with interest. “I’m surprised you understand so well—did the Seer or the Scholar explain it to you?”

  “No,” Breaker said. “It seems plain enough—how could it be otherwise? You live here so you can keep your beauty concealed without abandoning the company of others, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you only lower hood and scarf when no men can see, I suppose? Among women?”

  “Not even then,” the Beauty said. “Women—well, it’s never so simple as the lust of men. There’s envy in it, and lust of another kind, and often enough outright hatred.”

  Breaker blinked. “Ah,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that. But of course, women aren’t blind to beauty.”

  “Indeed.”

  “The Seer said she actively avoided meeting you. Now I think I see why. She would not like her reactions.”

  “You see much, for so young a man!”

  “She knew your predecessor; they were not friends. I hadn’t appreciated the reasons.”

  “I can guess.”

  “But I still cannot,”
the Archer said. “You speak of your beauty as a curse, but the mere sound of your voice has my heart pounding in my chest!”

  “And other parts pressing at your breeches, I’m sure,” the Beauty said dryly. “But what makes you think I want that?”

  “But I . . . uh . . .”

  “I can’t make it stop,” she said. “I can’t turn it off. Ara feathers can help—they drive away the ler that provide the extra glamour. And in theory, the men of the Chosen are less susceptible to the magic than anyone else. But the feathers and the immunity don’t change the sound of my voice, or the shape of my face, or the color of my eyes. They don’t make my breasts sag or my belly bulge. I know from when I met the Scholar, long ago, that the Chosen are still men, and I cannot talk to a man without arousing him. I cannot walk down a street uncovered without drawing every eye. Men would follow me wherever I go—if I work in the fields, they trample the crops the better to gaze at me; if I fetch water from a stream, they muddy the water with their boots. Work goes undone, wives and lovers are abandoned—do you think I enjoy that?”

  “I don’t . . . uh . . .” The Archer muttered in confusion.

  “For twenty-three years, since I was but fifteen, I have lived with this curse,” the Beauty continued. “As did others before me, and for a hundred years it’s been for nothing. We have had our lives ruined by it, our chances for happy families destroyed—but at least now I will be able to use it for its intended purpose, and accomplish something! I almost feel as if I should be thanking the Wizard Lord for his atrocity.”

  “I would hardly go that far,” Breaker said.

  “But at least now I can make my misery mean something!”

  “Vengeance,” the Archer said. “We can avenge the dead of Stone-slope.”

  “Justice,” Breaker said.

  “Call it what you will,” the Beauty said, “so long as I have a purpose!”

  And with that she turned away.

  An hour later the others returned, and the seven Chosen gathered in a council of war. The Beauty promised to hire the best guide in Winter-home to see them safely back west as far as Riversedge in the Midlands, and all of them reviewed their abilities and talents—and the accompanying burdens—for the group. Breaker was interested to hear that the Scholar was required every day to learn at least one true thing that he had not previously known, that the Leader’s daily task was to convince someone (or something, if he was alone) to do something he or she would otherwise not have done, and that the Seer was required to wake for an hour each night and spend it in meditation, receptive to any visions the ler might see fit to send her.