Perhaps four miles from Mad Oak the road took its first real departure from a direct line between the two towns; up until now it had shifted slightly to one side or the other to avoid the largest trees, but had generally been straight. Now, though, the land ahead grew marshy, and the road veered to the right to stay on solid ground. Sword knew the Longvale River lay beyond that marsh, and he peered off into the wilderness, but was unsure whether he could see it, or whether he was imagining it. He could definitely hear splashing, though, whether it was frogs in the marsh or fish in the river or something else entirely.
He stayed on the road, and resisted any temptation to investigate. That was wilderness out there, and he was on his way to Willowbank and Winterhome, not just out exploring. Not that any sane person would go exploring in the wild merely on a whim in any case, even with ara feathers and the protection conferred by his status as one of the Chosen.
He paused at roughly the halfway point to eat the barley bread and drink the beer he had brought with him, then looked thoughtfully at the earthenware bottle he had just emptied. He knew that if he dropped it in the wilderness it would anger the ler enough to cause him bad dreams and minor misfortune, but what if he dropped it on the road? The ler there were still in flux, unformed. They might not know yet that castoffs were something they could and should object to.
But why risk it? Why encourage bad habits? And why throw away a perfectly good bottle? Its weight wasn’t enough to justify discarding it on a journey of this length. He pushed the cork back in and stuffed the bottle into his pack, then marched on.
The sun was halfway down the western sky when he knelt at the boundary shrine and asked the ler to make him welcome in Willowbank.
Several villagers had already spotted him, of course, and were waiting just inside the border to welcome him. They looked much like the people of Mad Oak, but their clothing was subtly different, with odd embroidery and slanting cuffs, and several of the women wore their hair in a style Sword had never seen before, pulled into an off-center ponytail that draped over one shoulder.
“Mad Oak! You’re from Mad Oak, yes?” someone called.
“I am,” Sword answered, rising.
“The north road works! It’s safe!”
“He has ara feathers in his hat . . .”
“But he didn’t have a guide, and he came alone! Who cares about the feathers?”
“He has a sword,” a girl pointed out.
That silenced everyone for a moment, as they stopped, turned, and stared, verifying the girl’s observation.
“He does have a sword.”
“He’s the Swordsman, then. Of course he was safe.”
“Are you the Chosen Swordsman?”
“Yes, I am,” Sword replied, stepping across the boundary.
The air suddenly seemed still, the light brighter, colors sharper, the ground beneath his feet steadier, as he left the half-formed ler of the road for the mature spiritual community of Willowbank. He took a deep breath and tasted the air, smelled the village’s crops and livestock and cooking fires, the faint whiff of a distant tannery, the hot breeze from a blacksmith’s forge. Apparently, he thought, it was not so much that the ler had become so very much less confused as he traveled, but that his own senses had adjusted, and now that he was back among healthy, friendly, and experienced ler, everything seemed preternaturally clear.
“Welcome to Willowbank!”
A man in a long white shirt stepped forward and held out a hand. “I am Toru an Sailor, acolyte to the Priest-King. Welcome to Willowbank!”
Sword took the hand. “Erren Zal Tuyo,” he said. “The Chosen Swordsman.”
The priest tilted his head. “I thought the people of Mad Oak did not use any part of their true names.”
“We don’t. But I’m not in Mad Oak, and the Swordsman is part of all Barokan. If you tell me a part of who you truly are, it might be considered rude not to reciprocate. What’s custom in one village is a crime in the next, after all, and I have no desire to displease the ler of Willowbank.”
When Sword had last gone traveling he had avoided the use of any of his true name as much as possible, as it had made him uncomfortable to hear it spoken, but in the intervening years he had thought it over and decided that was just habit, not reason, and that he should make more of an effort to suit his actions to the customs of the places he visited. After all, thousands of people in Barokan used parts of their true names every day without suffering any ill effects. Villages that totally avoided true names, as Mad Oak did, were scarce.
Saying the name aloud still made him uneasy, though, even if the priest did not seem to have noticed.
“Very good. And why have you come to Willowbank? Are you testing the road, as some of us assumed? Because it seems to me hardly a fair test to send one of the Chosen.”
“No one sent me. In truth, I’m merely passing through, on my way to Winterhome. With the roads open, this route is undoubtedly faster than following the Greenwater Guide down to Valleymouth and then finding my way through the Midlands.”
“Winterhome?” The priest dropped Sword’s hand. “Surely, you don’t mean you’re on your way to kill the Wizard Lord?”
“No, no!” Sword hastily raised both hands in protest. “Of course not—unless you know of some reason I should. I do want to speak with him, if he’s willing, but I have no reason to wish him harm.” He gestured at the road. “I came here from Mad Oak by myself, unguided, in just half a day. If anything, I owe him my thanks.”
“Yes! Yes, we’re very excited about these roads—though I must say, the construction was quite painful for myself and the other priests. Even the king felt it. For myself, I lay sick in bed for four full days, and I still can’t eat certain foods without dire consequences. When we saw you coming we had hoped it was the start of regular trade with Mad Oak.”
“I’m sorry,” Sword said. “It’s just me. But if you want to trade, I’m sure the people of Mad Oak would be happy to see a merchant’s wagon.”
The acolyte blinked. “A what?”
“A merchant’s wagon. They use them in the Midlands—it’s like a farmer’s wagon, but closed in, and full of things to sell or trade.”
“Oh! Those! Three of them came down from Rock Bridge, with all manner of wondrous things, when the road first opened. That was what convinced our king to let more roads be built. But we don’t have anything like that here,” Toru said.
“Of course you don’t, not yet. Foolish of me. But you might see about building one, or bringing one of your own up the road from the Midlands.”
“Oh,” Toru said. “Oh!”
“Can we do that?” someone said. The little crowd had been listening to the entire conversation, of course.
“I don’t see why not; would your ler forbid it?”
“The ler of Willowbank obey the Priest-King, just as we all do,” Toru said. “If he wants us to build wagons, we will build wagons.”
“I see.” Sword had encountered such places before, where humanity had gained ascendance over nature—or rather, where the priests had. Not all of them were pleasant. He hadn’t realized Willowbank operated on that model. “If I might ask, how far is it to Rock Bridge? Could I reach it before dark?”
Toru glanced at the sun. “I doubt it,” he said. “Not unless you ran the entire way.”
“In that case, is there somewhere I could stay the night? I don’t want to inconvenience anyone . . .”
“Nonsense! The slayer of the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills is always welcome in Willowbank!” Toru hesitated after completing this fulsome sentence, then added, “That is, I believe so, but of course, the king’s word is final.”
“Of course. What is the proper etiquette for asking his permission?”
“I’ll see to it myself, if you could wait here for a moment.”
And with that, the acolyte turned and trotted toward the village proper, leaving Sword surrounded by eager villagers asking questions about the road, Mad Oak, the D
ark Lord he had slain, his sword, and every other remotely relevant subject they could think of. Sword did his best to answer them all politely, even if only to say, “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that.”
A few moments later the priest returned, with instructions to escort Sword to guest quarters in the Priest-King’s own mansion. Escaping the eager little crowd was a relief.
The relief was short-lived, however. Once he had entered the great shadowy central corridor of the mansion, rather than taking him directly to his room, three more acolytes descended on him and hurried him to an ablutory; the Priest-King wanted him to freshen up, and then present himself for an audience. Refusing was out of the question, so half an hour later, after he had had his hands and face thoroughly scrubbed and his hair and beard vigorously brushed, after his boots had been polished, and after a flimsy white robe had been draped over his dusty traveling clothes, Sword was led into the Priest-King’s throne room.
The room was large and moderately luxurious without lapsing into ostentation; carpets covered much of the floor, and the beams supporting the ceiling were carved and painted. The Priest-King himself slouched in a welter of cushions on an oversized chair atop a broad, low dais at the far end, a nimbus of golden light flickering around his head; Sword swept off his hat, bowed deeply, and awaited instructions.
“Come here, come here,” the king said, beckoning from his slouch.
Sword obeyed, rising from his bow and approaching with head bent, as the acolytes had instructed.
He had never seen anyone with a halo before, though he had heard of such things; the effect was impressive, far more so than the sigils worn by Mad Oak’s handful of clergy. It left little doubt that this man was indeed favored by the local ler.
“What brings you to Willowbank?”
Sword stopped and said, “I am only passing through, on my way to Winterhome to talk to the Wizard Lord.”
“Just talk?”
“I hope so.” He raised his head. “I intend to ask him a few questions about these roads he has ordered built, and perhaps other projects. I don’t expect anything serious or unpleasant to come of it.”
That halo was fascinating; it did not behave like ordinary light. It cast no shadows, and although it appeared fairly bright, it did not seem to illuminate at all anything more than a foot or so from the Priest-King’s head. Sword found himself staring at it.
“Ah! So what do you think of the roads? How was the walk from Mad Oak?”
Sword answered as best he could as the Priest-King barraged him with questions, just as the villagers out by the boundary shrine had. He found himself recounting the story of how he and the other Chosen had slain the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills—though he left out a great many details he did not think the king needed to know.
At last, though, the king seemed satisfied; he swung himself around and rose from his throne. He was a tall man, a bit plump, a bit soft, with long curling brown hair that reached halfway down his back, and a close-trimmed beard streaked with gray; Sword did not think he would have been considered especially handsome were it not for that ethereal glow that surrounded him and flattered his features.
“You must be hungry,” the Priest-King said. “Come take supper with me.”
This invitation, like any other the Priest-King gave, had the force of an order, so Sword followed without argument, and found himself seated at a great carved-oak table weighed down with delicacies of every sort. Half a dozen lovely young women in low-cut dresses waited on them as they ate and drank, making sure neither of the men had to reach for anything, and that no goblet ever stayed empty for more than a few seconds.
As they ate, the king asked more questions, and Sword noticed that the serving maids listened intently to the answers, that in fact the Priest-King appeared to be timing his questions so that the women could hear Sword’s responses. That undoubtedly explained why the king deliberately repeated certain questions Sword had already answered in private; they were matters the Priest-King thought were of general interest, and his staff would spread the answers throughout Willowbank.
The food was excellent, as might be expected at the Priest-King’s table, and dish followed dish almost endlessly—thick soup and fine bread and assorted fruit and grilled meat and a stew of spiced vegetables, until Sword felt as if his belly were bulging and his sword belt had become uncomfortably tight.
At last, though, the meal was done, and the king sent Sword off to the appointed guest room, with a serving wench carrying a candle to light his way. It had been a long day, and Sword was ready to sleep, but when he reached his room he discovered that his hosts expected one more thing from him—the serving maid did not leave once his own candle was lit. He hesitated, then decided he was not that tired.
In the morning she fetched his breakfast, and carried his polite farewells to the Priest-King. As the sun cleared the Eastern Cliffs, he set out down the road to Rock Bridge.
The journey was uneventful, and Council of Priests in Rock Bridge made him welcome. They asked his opinion of the new roads; he answered truthfully that he had not yet formed an opinion. The roads certainly made travel easier, but they also disturbed the natural order of things, and he had not yet decided whether the benefits outweighed the damage.
The road from Willowbank to Rock Bridge was far less disorienting than the one from Mad Oak to Willowbank; it had had longer to recover from its creation, and the difference was obvious.
From Rock Bridge, Sword continued the following day to Broadpool. That stretch of road already showed traces of wagon ruts, and though he did not meet any traveling merchants in either town, the inhabitants of both towns were happy to tell him that some had been there, selling strange foods and fabrics and a variety of other wonderful things.
In Broadpool several of the witches, as the local priestesses were called, took turns interrogating him in various odd ways; the evening was well advanced before he realized that they were competing to see whose bed he would sleep in. He announced that he was exhausted and would sleep alone, and the questioning abruptly ceased.
In the morning he found every door in the village locked against him, and his pack placed beside the boundary shrine where the road led south; he took the hint and did not linger.
From Broadpool he had a choice of roads, to his astonishment. He took the more easterly route, to Beggar’s Hill, where he found lodging with a woodcarver turned innkeeper who went by the name of Nicker.
It was in Beggar’s Hill, as he was about to head up the stairs to his room in Nicker’s Public House, that the big brown hound by the hearth raised its head and said, “Hello, Swordsman.”
Sword stopped and turned.
The half-dozen other occupants of the taproom were staring at the dog in astonishment and fear, but Sword knew what was happening. He had encountered talking animals before, when he and the other Chosen went after the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills; the Wizard Lord could see through the eyes of lesser creatures, and control their actions, even to the point of making beasts speak. It was a convenient way for him to communicate over long distances, a trick of which no other wizard was known to be capable.
“Hello, Wizard Lord,” Sword said calmly.
“Are you coming to see me?” the dog asked. Its voice was rough, not remotely human, but the words were clear enough.
“Yes, I am,” Sword replied.
“I thought so. I can only see your exact location at night, for some reason, but your route seemed to be headed this way.”
“Yes. I’m coming to Winterhome,” Sword agreed.
“Why can’t I place you clearly along the way?” the hound asked. “Is there something wrong with the roads?”
“I don’t think so,” Sword said. “I assume it’s the ara feathers on my hat. Which I take off at night.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, that would explain it.”
“I don’t entirely trust the roadside ler, as yet,” Sword said.
“Sensible of you. Then I’ll se
e you soon?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to it—and the dog is getting upset, so I’ll speak with you when you get here.”
“As you please,” Sword said with a bow.
At that the dog started, getting quickly to its feet and letting out an unhappy yip. Then it shivered and trotted away toward the kitchens, whimpering.
The unnatural silence that had filled the room during the magical conversation suddenly burst into a murmur of hushed voices, and every eye in the room was focused on the Swordsman.
Sword paid the observers no attention. He watched the dog go, to make sure there would be no last-moment afterthought, then turned and continued upstairs. It was useful to know that the Wizard Lord was taking an interest in him, he told himself. Useful, but as always, a bit disconcerting.
It was the morning after, as he was raising his head after making his farewell prayer to the ler of Beggar’s Hill, that he looked up at the sun clearing the Eastern Cliffs. He had already taken a step past the boundary shrine onto the road, but now he stopped dead in his tracks.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing.
His host, Nicker, had escorted him to the border, as the town’s ler were wary of unaccompanied strangers. The innkeeper had started to turn back just short of the shrine, but upon hearing the traveler’s voice he paused. “What is what?” he asked.
Sword pointed. “That,” he said.
Nicker looked where the Chosen Swordsman was pointing.
Something stood atop the cliffs far to the southeast, a broad structure of some sort. It did not appear particularly remarkable, though details could not be seen at so great a distance and with the morning sun behind it, but it was not the architecture that had caught Sword’s eye. It was the location.
There were no permanent structures atop the cliffs. Everyone knew that. The Uplands were a vast windswept prairie, and the Uplanders who lived there most of the year were nomads who lived in tents as they followed the great flocks of ara, the gigantic flightless birds that provided them with meat, magic-resistant feathers, and the beaks and hollow bones they used to make their tools.
The Ninth Talisman Page 6
