"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 Stoneslope."
"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 Winterhome 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.
"Not that they ever do," she added.
The Speaker and the Beauty had no burdens save their inability to cease their magic, and the Beauty's inability to conceive a child, but Breaker thought those quite enough. His own daily practice, or the Archer's, seemed trivial by comparison.
It was a pleasant surprise that the Beauty had some talent as a healer, but other than that the magical abilities described were no more than Breaker had expected. He wondered whether the others neglected to mention anything when listing their talents; he knew that he was not being completely truthful himself, since he said nothing about his skill with women, and he suspected the others of similarly keeping their own counsel about irrelevant matters.
When these introductions and explanations were complete the discussion moved on to the Wizard Lord—where he lived, how best to get there, what they might do to penetrate his defenses.
The Wizard Lord watched the proceedings through the eyes of a mouse; the Seer pointed it out, but no one saw any point in chasing the creature away, or killing it. The Wizard Lord would undoubtedly know their plans soon enough no matter what methods they tried; real secrecy was simply not possible. Details might be concealed, but at present they had no details to hide; the plan so far consisted simply of, "Go to the Wizard Lord's tower in the Galbek Hills and kill him."
That was hardly a secret worth worrying about.
The Leader assured them that he would devise a better plan in time, but as yet he did not have enough to work with. They knew little about what they might find in the Galbek Hills. The Wizard Lord was said to dwell in a lonely tower he had built atop a hill, attended only by a handful of young women from the neighboring town of Split Reed—and that was all they knew.
That did not lend itself to detailed schemes.
At last, later than Breaker liked, they all took to their beds. The Beauty invited the Seer and the Speaker to stay the night in her home, while the Leader had bedding brought for the Archer, the Scholar, and the Swordsman to sleep in his room at Karregh's Inn.
Breaker slept only fitfully; the excitement of finally having the Chosen gathered and agreed, the knowledge that they would soon be on their way to the Galbek Hills, kept him from resting soundly.
At one point as he lay half-awake he thought he heard voices outside the door of the room, but when he bestirred himself to listen, they stopped. He waited for a moment, but they did not resume, and in the end he decided he had imagined them—or perhaps, in his state midway between the waking and sleeping worlds, he had momentarily been able to hear the ler around him, talking among themselves.
At last he fell asleep again, though in his dreams he could sometimes still hear strange voices, murmuring just out of earshot.
In the morning the seven Chosen gathered at the inn, met the old woman Beauty had hired to guide them to Riversedge, and set out.
They began walking west while still in the shadow of the Eastern Cliffs, of course; all of Winterhome lay in that shadow for much of every morning, and they could hardly justify waiting until the sun cleared the cliffs before starting their journey. That meant that for the first hour or so the sky directly above was bright and blue, while the world around them remained dim. Clouds huddled on the western horizon, but the air in Winterhome was dry and pleasantly warm.
Before they cleared the shadow of the cliffs they passed the great guesthouses bearing the banners of the Uplander clans; the Beauty identified each banner along the route and provided a few details about the clan that flew it, facts she had learned in her years in Winterhome.
Breaker was only mildly interested in the stories, but the sound of the Beauty's voice was a never-ending pleasure, so he listened avidly—as, he noticed, did the other three males in the party, while the other three women took the lead and paid no attention to her recitations.
The Scholar seemed genuinely fascinated by her account, and asked pertinent questions; he was undoubtedly adding to his store of historical and cultural knowledge, and had presumably filled his daily quota of new learning from this discussion. The Leader appeared to be listening out of habit. And the Archer was clearly only interested in the Beauty, and not what she was telling them; on the few occasions when he spoke, his remarks were always general and unrelated to whatever the Beauty had been saying.
When they passed the last of the clan houses Breaker asked, "Were you born among the Host People? You seem to know Winterhome well."
"No, I was born in a town called Hen's Corner, in Shadowvale, but I have lived here more than twenty years, since I was a girl of seventeen."
"Because of the attire?"
"Yes."
"We're out of Winterhome, though," the Archer said. "You can take off that hood and scarf now—the day is warm enough."
"I would prefer to keep them on," the Beauty replied. "These clothes are comfortable at this temperature, and I'm accustomed to them."
"We'll all see your face eventually, you know," the Archer said.
"Yes, I suppose you will," she agreed, "but could it please wait a while longer?"
The Archer glanced at the Leader, then shrugged. "As you please," he said. He looked up. "You might be glad of the warmer clothing soon, in any case."
Breaker looked up as well, and saw what the Archer meant—clouds were blowing in from the west and thickening rapidly, the blue of the sky fading. A cool breeze
brushed his face, ruffling his hair.
"You think a storm is coming?" he said. "In the daytime?"
"And fast," the Archer replied.
"The Wizard Lord controls the weather," the Scholar said, in a surprisingly unsteady voice, "and I do not believe the storm he sent on our way to Stoneslope was even close to the worst he can do. That was just an attempt to discourage us; this time he may mean us real harm."
Breaker threw the Scholar a glance, then looked back at the sky.
The clouds were indeed thickening with unnatural speed—or at least, Breaker thought it was unnatural; since he had always lived in Barokan, where the Wizard Lord's magic moderated the weather, he could not be sure just what natural weather was like.
How bad could a storm be, though? There were tales of the great gales that swept across the Uplands, driving the flocks of ara before them and blowing down the Uplanders' tents, but what could the Wizard Lord send down here beneath the cliffs? Could he really do more than he had in the forests of the southern hills?
"He waited until we were west of Winterhome," the Leader said. "Away from shelter."
"The guesthouses are right there," Breaker said, gesturing.
"But we'd have to turn back .. ." the Leader began.
"And they're locked for the summer," the Beauty interrupted. "We can probably break in if we need to, but..."
"We aren't going back," the Seer said. She had heard the conversation and dropped back to join it. "We can't let him slow us down. After all, how bad can it be? We've all seen storms before, I'm sure."
"I don't know," the Beauty said. "The Uplanders say that we don't get true storms in Barokan, even at night, that the Wizard Lord keeps them back—they get real storms up on the plateau that make our worst seem like a summer breeze."
"Do you believe them?" the Archer asked. 'They were probably just boasting to impress you."
"I hope you're right," the Beauty said, as the first clouds reached the sun and the light suddenly dimmed.
"It doesn't matter," the Leader said. "If the Uplanders can survive the worst storms, then so can we."
"He sent a storm when we went to Stoneslope," the Seer said. "We came through it well enough."
That memory cheered Breaker; the Seer was right. That storm had been impressive, and by the time they had reached Stoneslope he had been tired and soaked through, but no worse than that. The Scholar was surely worrying about nothing, suggesting the Wizard Lord could do much worse.
He glanced at the Scholar and noticed that Lore was huddling in his woolen coat.
T think he can send much more severe storms than that one," the Scholar said. "But there's nothing we can do about it now. If we're ever to reach the Galbek Hills, we'll have to face his storms sooner or later."
Breaker had not thought about it in those terms, but the Scholar was obviously correct—any attempt to wait it out would be pointless, as the Wizard Lord could wait them out, and send a storm when they finally moved on.
The sun had vanished, and the sky was gray from end to end; the wind was starting to whip at their hair and clothes and stir the trees—not just the leaves, but the limbs. When Breaker glanced back he saw dust swirl from the rooftops behind them. The wind made his eyes sting, but squinting and blinking kept them clear enough.
"He must know this won't stop us," he said.
"He's just trying to discourage us," the Leader said. "To let us know he won't make it easy for us."
Breaker nodded; that made good sense.
They marched on—and the clouds continued to darken; by noon the sky was darker than when they had set out. The wind continued to rise, as well, until it not merely whistled in the trees, but screamed; dying leaves fluttered like bees' wings, and branches snapped like whips. Deadwood crackled and splintered, and broken twigs and shreds of bark flew in the travelers' faces as they walked.
And then the storm broke, and the rain poured down in blinding torrents.
This was far worse than the path to Stoneslope—but then, the Wizard Lord had taken longer to build it. Lore had been right, and Breaker wrong. Breaker had never imagined such a rain was possible; within, seconds his cloak was soaked through, his boots filled by the water streaming down his legs. Even when he had cleared the water from his eyes and sheltered them as best he could, he could barely see the Scholar to his left, the Beauty to his right; the Leader's laden back, ahead of him, was just a vague gray shape, and the others were invisible in the downpour. He tried to keep staggering forward, but every step was a struggle, as the wind pressed him back, his saturated clothing weighed down his limbs, and his waterlogged boots seemed to weigh a hundred pounds apiece. The pack on his back seemed heavier than ever, and had presumably taken on water, but his back beneath it was the one part of him that remained dry.
The roar of wind and rain drowned out all other sound, and his attention was focused entirely on placing one foot ahead of another; it was not until he felt the Beauty's hand on his sleeve that he realized anyone was speaking.
"What?" he bellowed.
He could not make out all of her words, but he could see her gesture, and one phrase penetrated—". .. turn back?"
"No!" he shouted. "No! We can't let him see..." He realized she couldn't hear him, and just shook his head and roared, "NO!" He pointed at the road ahead.
She screamed something in reply, and he thought he heard her say, "... shelter!"
He nodded, and pointed ahead again. "First chance we get!" he agreed. "Shelter, first chance!" He turned to the Scholar.
"/ heard!" the Scholar said, before Breaker could speak. Breaker was unsure whether it had something to do with the direction of the wind, or whether the Scholar simply had a far more powerful voice than he had realized, but the words were clear.
Breaker looked ahead, where he could see the Leader's back; he knew the guide, the Seer, and the Speaker were somewhere beyond, but he despaired of communicating with them. Then he looked to his right, past the Beauty, where he could see the Archer clinging to the Beauty's right arm.
He had obviously heard, just as the Scholar had.
Breaker considered taking the Beauty's left arm, to make sure they were not separated in the howling madness of the storm, but he dismissed the idea; he knew he was just looking for an excuse to touch her. If he had genuinely been concerned for the party's collective welfare he would have reached for the Scholar, who did not already have the Archer's aid.
He turned his gaze ahead again, and saw the Leader turning.
"We're looking for shelter!" the Leader shouted. "We'll wait it out—he can't keep this up for long!"
Breaker nodded, and waved an acknowledgment.
They pressed on, and after a few more minutes Breaker began to wonder how they would ever see any shelter if they reached one. The rain showed no sign of slacking; if anything, it was heavier than ever. The wind continued to blow directly in their faces, forcing them to keep their heads down.
After several more minutes Breaker was no longer worrying about such details; he was focusing all his attention on his feet, on simply continuing to walk. Lifting each foot meant pulling it out of inch-deep water and a thick layer of sticky mud beneath, heaving it forward against the wind's pressure, then dropping it back through the icy water and trying to find firm footing under the mud.
Breaker took some very, very small comfort in the realization that the road here was slightly elevated; if it had been sunken below the surrounding terrain it would undoubtedly be flooded up to his knees by now. The sheer volume of water spilling from the sky was incomprehensible, like nothing he had ever imagined; any crops that had been standing in this area must surely have been washed away. Fields would be flooded, drainage ditches becoming overflowing rivers. The soil would be too wet to work for weeks. Fruit would have been ripped from the orchards, as well—if the wind hadn't snapped the branches right off!
What could the Wizard Lord be thinking, unleashing such a disaster? He already had the Chosen after him
, and a thing like this storm must unquestionably anger the Council of Immortals, as well.
The Wizard Lord, scourge of rogue wizards, had himself become a rogue wizard, misusing his magic and carelessly harming innocents.
If, of course, this storm was really the Wizard Lord's doing. Perhaps some other wizard ...
But no. The Wizard Lord controlled the weather, for the good of all Barokan. A storm like this could not be natural, and surely no other wizard had the power to create such a thing. The Wizard Lord was doing this to delay them, to deter them...
There was a touch on his sleeve, and Breaker looked up to see the Leader's face just inches from his own.
"Barn!" the Leader bellowed, pointing. "Barn, over there! Shelter!"
Breaker had no extra breath to shout back; he nodded, and began turning his steps.
Their route took them across a hundred yards of pasture, and as Breaker had feared, it was flooded at least six inches deep with freezing-cold, fast-running water. He slogged on, his ankles and feet numb from the cold, water spilling from his boot tops with every step, only to be immediately replaced by new, colder rain.
The rain was getting colder, he realized. It had been chilly to start with; now it was icy. He risked an upward glance as he passed under a fair-sized oak, and saw that yes, the rain was freezing onto the branches, sheathing them in glittering ice.
That should not be possible this early in the year, Breaker knew; he shuddered with cold and dismay.
And then his shin collided with something hard, and he felt hands closing on his arms, pulling him upward. He stumbled across a platform, then through an opening into utter darkness.
And he was out of the rain.
It was as if he had thrown off a great weight; he straightened up, his back aching, and water spilled from his hat brim as if poured from a bowl. He flung open his drenched and freezing cloak and took a deep breath of the damp air— he had been unable to fill his lungs properly in the downpour.
Then he turned and saw the others, silhouetted against the door—the Seer and the Speaker helping the Beauty and the Scholar into the barn, the Leader guiding the Archer across the platform.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 Page 26
