“It isn’t . . . it hasn’t been that bad for me,” he said. “Nothing like that. I’m only the Swordsman, after all.”
“I don’t know why I did it,” she said. “I was young and stupid, but even so, how could I possibly have thought that becoming even more beautiful would make anything better?”
“Did you? That wasn’t what you said before.”
She laughed musically, and Sword found himself blushing for no reason he could explain. “No, that’s right, I didn’t think it would make it any better,” she said. “You’re right. I thought I was already so beautiful that I might as well put it to some use, and that it couldn’t be much worse. But it was.”
“I’m sorry. It hasn’t been like that for me; people still talk to me, I can still walk through town without people staring. It’s much subtler than that; it’s as if they keep expecting something of me, but even they don’t know what it is. But they’re disappointed all the same when it doesn’t happen.”
She nodded. “I can imagine,” she said.
He smiled. “There’s one thing you can probably appreciate better than anyone,” he said. “How the women look at me.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, according to legend, my magical abilities extend to wielding anything even remotely swordlike with superhuman skill, including that rod which every man is born with. There may be some truth in it, I don’t know, as it isn’t a matter that lends itself to open and honest comparison, but certainly the women of Mad Oak have all heard the tales and believe them. They very rarely say anything aloud in my hearing, but I see the way they look at me, the considering glances and curious stares.”
“Are they all eager to share your bed, then?”
“No.” Sword shook his head. “They all think about it, certainly, I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices, but I spend as many nights alone now as I ever did. I think they’re afraid to test the legend—but whether they fear it to be true or false, I couldn’t say. And I think they treat me differently. When they consider me as a lover, I believe they look on me as a possible diversion, not a possible husband. That was never the case before I became the Swordsman.” He shook his head. “I would have thought the tales of my skill would make me more desirable as a husband, not less.”
“A husband doesn’t spend most of his time in bed,” the Beauty replied. “As one of the Chosen you will always have obligations beyond your family, and your legendary prowess probably makes them think you more likely to stray, less likely to be satisfied with one ordinary woman. Better to enjoy a night or two and move on than to try to hold what you can’t.”
“I suppose that’s it. Is that how men look on you, then? As a brief amusement?”
“No. On the contrary, they want to possess me, to own me, as if I were a thing rather than a person. But they’re men, and the ones who lust after you are women; our sexes differ in more than the physical.”
“I suppose we do.”
For a moment the two of them sat in companionable silence; then the Beauty said, “And why are you here, Sword? Surely you didn’t come to Winterhome just to share our discontentments.”
“No. I came to Winterhome to see what sort of man the Wizard Lord was, and why he had ordered the construction of roads through the vales.”
She nodded. “Of course. And that’s a very good reason. Have you learned what you sought to know?”
“Not really. Not enough. I’ve spoken with him, and heard him say he built the roads because he just wanted to help, but there’s more to him than I’ve seen and heard, and I’m not sure I like it.”
“I’m sure I don’t like it, but I can’t really explain what troubles me.”
“Oh? I know you refused to speak with him.”
“I refuse to let any man save the Chosen see me without my hood and scarf, and he wanted me to consent to be searched by his guards, to be sure I had no dagger beneath my robes, ready to thrust into his heart.”
“I thought that might be it. But he could speak to you through a beast, couldn’t he?”
“He tried, but I won’t speak 1:0 him. I’m afraid I might say something that will turn him against me. I don’t trust him.”
“Why not? Have you seen any harm come from these grand plans of his?”
“No, on the contrary, the roads have brought traders to Winterhome, and let the Host People travel elsewhere, and so far that’s all been good. The priests complain, especially when the roads are being built, but for most people the results are clearly an improvement. It appears this is exactly what the Wizard Lord intended, and it’s working well.”
“Then why don’t you trust him?”
The Beauty studied Sword’s face for a moment before replying, “You worry because he built roads where there had never been roads, yes?”
“And palaces where there had never been palaces, yes.”
“Yes, his palaces, with guards and servants everywhere—two immense palaces, where every other Wizard Lord has been content with one. The moment the first was complete he sent his workers to begin another. He has road crews working their way northward down Longvale and Shadowvale, and up and down the coast, and deep into the southern hills. I have heard he has canals and bridges and other projects under way, as well.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
“And you worry about the roads and the palaces—you’re a man, you look at the things being built.”
Sword frowned. “What? And you do not?”
“No. I’m a woman. I look at the people building them. I look at the guards and the servants and the laborers and the designers and the road workers, and I ask myself, where did they come from? Why did they come? Who are they? How does he keep them, and why? He is terrified of being assassinated by the Chosen, you know that, but why doesn’t he fear anyone else? Why is he so certain the captain of his own guard won’t turn on him over some petty slight?”
“I don’t know,” Sword said, startled. “I hadn’t thought of any of that. But wouldn’t his magic protect him from any ordinary assassin?”
“If he has a chance to use it, perhaps.”
“Where did he get all those people? Do you know?”
“I know about some of them. I know that he visited several towns and called for volunteers. He said he wanted strong, brave young men to help him in making Barokan a better place. He promised good pay and satisfying work and the respect of honest people.”
“That seems . . .” Sword paused. “How is that different?”
“Ordinarily, a Wizard Lord or anyone else says what roles he needs to fill, and lets people come to him until all the roles are filled. This Wizard Lord went to half the towns in the Midlands saying he would find work for anyone who wanted it.”
Sword frowned, puzzled. “That does seem odd. What will he do with the extras?”
“That’s what worries me, Sword. There are no extras. He does find work for all of them. I’m not sure how, or where they all go.”
Sword’s frown deepened.
“I can’t say what he’s done wrong, Sword, but I don’t trust him,” Beauty said.
“I can see that,” Sword replied.
“And if you tell him that, he’ll probably make my life miserable.”
“He might, yes,” Sword agreed.
“Maybe it’s time to give it up, then,” she said. “Ask the wizards to find my successor.”
That startled Sword anew. He started to speak, to say something re-assuring, but then he stopped. The Beauty was in her mid-forties, after all, and handing the role on to a young woman or a girl was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
But on the other hand, doing it under pressure from the Wizard Lord . . .
Blade, the old Swordsman, had given up his role and turned his place among the Chosen over to Sword in part because he mistrusted the last Wizard Lord. Although all had turned out well enough in the end, he had been hesitant to do so, and Sword remembered why.
�
��No,” he said. “Then you’ll have no defense against him. He’ll be able to kill you on a whim.”
Beauty stared at him. “Why would he do that? Why would he care about me, if I have no magic?”
“I don’t know,” Sword admitted. “Maybe he wouldn’t—but I don’t trust him, any more than you do. He isn’t following the traditional models, fitting into the traditional roles; there’s no way of knowing what he might do.”
“Then what am I to do?” she asked, a note of despair creeping into her voice. “I want nothing to do with him, but will he accept that, and not think it makes me his enemy, to be destroyed?”
“He ought to accept it, if it’s put to him properly.”
“That doesn’t mean he will.”
“I’ll do my best to convince him. And I’ll remind him that harming any of the Chosen is one of the things forbidden to him. I’ll try to convince him this extends to those who were Chosen, but are no longer.”
“Thank you.”
It was all Sword could do to remain in his chair and not reach for her, go to her, take her in his arms—she was so beautiful, and she was so obviously grateful, so welcoming . . .
But she was too old for him. Or he was too young for her.
“I should go,” he said.
“Why?”
“The Wizard Lord is leaving for the Summer Palace soon, and he wants me to come along.”
“And you’re going?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sword considered making up a more noble explanation, but then decided she deserved the truth.
“I want to see it,” he said. “I want to see what the Uplands really look like, and what the view from the top of the cliffs is like. I’m told the air is different up there, harder to breathe somehow—I can’t imagine how that could be, but I have heard it said. I want to know what that feels like, what it tastes like and smells like. And I want to see more of what the Wizard Lord is doing, but mostly, I want to see that palace.”
“I see. I don’t blame you, I’ve often wondered myself what it would be like to stand up there and look down at Barokan—but don’t bother asking, I’m not coming, and you know why. Maybe someday, when we’re sure this Wizard Lord can be trusted.”
“Maybe,” he said.
And then he rose, and took his leave.
[ 9 ]
Sword looked up the path ahead, at the lines of guardsmen and porters and courtiers making their way up the shadowy slope, and wondered what the Uplanders made of all this. Didn’t they resent this intrusion on the lands they had held for centuries? Why had they allowed the Summer Palace to be built at all? Had the Wizard Lord made threats of some sort, perhaps said that they would no longer be welcome in Winterhome if they did not cooperate?
That was probably the reason, even if no explicit threat was made. The Uplanders needed access to Winterhome. It was generally accepted that no one could survive a hard winter up on the plateau, and the Uplanders did not try. They came down into Barokan to escape the wind and cold and snow and replenish their supplies, and the Wizard Lord ruled Barokan.
And this particular Wizard Lord, unlike any of his predecessors, had set up his home and headquarters in Winterhome itself, where the Uplanders couldn’t ignore him. They probably didn’t feel they could kill him, either, with his guards and his magic protecting him.
Sword wondered whether any Uplanders had tried to contact any of the Chosen. Neither Lore nor Beauty had mentioned anything about such an attempt, and he certainly hadn’t met any Uplanders himself, but perhaps one had spoken to Boss—whoever the new Leader might be—or one of the others.
They must know about the Chosen. After all, they did spend three or four months a year in Winterhome, and interacted freely with the Host People. They would know that the Chosen were responsible for removing out-of-control Wizard Lords. They could have asked.
Or perhaps they really didn’t mind this intrusion, though Sword found that a bit difficult to imagine. If someone built a gigantic palace in any town in Barokan without permission, the townspeople there would be very unhappy indeed. Usable land, land with cooperative ler, was too precious to waste.
He glanced to the left, where the land fell away from the path and he could look down on the roofs of Winterhome, and the fields around it, and to the north even the forests beyond that; he and his fellow travelers had already climbed hundreds of feet, and Sword had a completely new and unfamiliar perspective on his homeland. Everything looked smaller from up here; he knew that was simply because of the distance, a sort of visual trick, but he could not entirely convince himself that those little black things moving through the streets were full-sized men and women, that the roofs he saw covered full-sized homes and shops, that the bigger buildings on the western roads were actually the gigantic guesthouses where the Uplander clans spent the winters.
The sharp line between the cliffs’ shadow and the sunlit lands to the west added to the sense of unreality; it was still morning, and the sun was climbing the eastern sky, so that the cliff face was dim, the sun still hidden from those on the path. Looking out of the shadows at the brightness below added an oddly dreamlike feel—but he knew he was awake. The buildings below were real and solid, and only light and distance made them appear otherwise.
The slope dropping away beside the trail didn’t look all that steep, but he knew it actually was. If he were to slip and fall he would not stop until he fetched up against the back wall of the Winter Palace, hundreds of feet away, and he would probably be a corpse by the time he got there, battered to death by rolling and bouncing down that long expanse of rocks.
He slowed his pace; the group ahead of him was coming to the next switchback, which was also where the path was steepest, and getting people and baggage safely around the bend meant not rushing anything or crowding anyone. He watched as they all made the maneuver, one by one, and marveled that he had never heard of anyone falling down the cliff to his death in all the years the Uplanders had been using this route.
He would have to ask Lore if that was simple ignorance on his part.
And he would ask Lore for more information about the Uplanders, as well. Did they object to the presence of the Summer Palace?
And if they did, did that make Artil a Dark Lord? If he harmed innocent Barokanese that was a crime calling for the Chosen to act, but if he harmed Uplanders, was that any business of the Chosen? They were the Chosen Defenders of Barokan, not of the entire world. Uplanders were human beings, and deserving of consideration for that, but they had explicitly set themselves outside Barokan’s laws and customs.
Lore might know of some obscure decision on the subject.
Lore, however, was up at the front of the expedition, with the Wizard Lord and Old Boss, while Sword was halfway back, among assorted servants and retainers. A score or so of the Wizard Lord’s housekeeping staff had gone on ahead, departing before dawn to get the Summer Palace ready for occupation, but the main party had a dozen guards at the fore, then the Wizard Lord and his contingent, with everyone else strung out willy-nilly behind them, in a parade stretching for miles.
Sword supposed he could try to work his way forward to catch up with Lore, but even on the wider portions of the trail passing anyone seemed unnecessarily risky. He decided his questions could wait, and pressed on.
As he walked he could feel the ler of the surrounding rock, hard and still, not quite like any others he had sensed; he had crossed stone before, but never anything so steep and solid as this. When he turned to look down he could also feel ler of air and sky, but they seemed oddly distant and detached.
He remembered that he had heard stories long ago that there were no ler in the Uplands, that the entire plateau was spiritually lifeless, but Lore had said that was mere myth. That did not mean, though, that the Upland ler might not be different. He was leaving Barokan, with its familiar magic, behind. . . .
He stopped dead in his tracks, almost colliding with the heavily laden chambe
rmaid behind him.
That was what had troubled him about the very concept of the Summer Palace, that was the little something that had nagged and nibbled at him but that he hadn’t identified. The Wizard Lord, along with everyone who accompanied him to the Summer Palace, was leaving Barokan—and all the Wizard Lord’s magic came from the ler of Barokan!
As did all the magic of the Chosen.
Sword stepped to the side as best he could, pressing himself against the rocky cliff to let the chambermaid with her bundle of linens pass him, and then the wine steward with his cart, and a guard, and a dozen others. Several of them glanced at him curiously as they passed, but he paid them no attention as he fumbled in his pocket and found the Talisman of Blades, the little silver device that bound the ler of steel and muscle to him and made him the world’s greatest swordsman. He pulled it out and looked at it, cupping it in his hand.
It gleamed silver, glowing more brightly than the dim light in the cliff’s shadow could justify. Clearly, its magic was still working—and if it continued to work, he reminded himself, that meant that he would need to find an hour to practice his swordsmanship before he slept that night. That was not likely to be terribly difficult, though; he hoped to reach the Summer Palace before full dark. He knew that some of the people making this pilgrimage would need to make camp and finish the journey tomorrow, but he was reasonably certain he could do it in a single day.
He still had his magic.
Was he still in Barokan, then? If the magic still worked, then presumably he was. But didn’t Barokan end at the Eastern Cliffs?
He glanced up. He hadn’t actually passed the Eastern Cliffs yet—he still had hundreds of feet to go. So far the trail had zigzagged up the pile of stony debris at the foot of the cliffs, and up ahead it ran along ledges somehow cut from a crooked portion of the cliff face itself. Not too much farther above that the path turned east into a break in the cliff’s edge, running up a steep triangular valley that led to the surface of the plateau; that turn might be where he would actually leave Barokan and cross into the Uplands.
The Ninth Talisman Page 12
