The Summer Palace

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  As he had stripped off his clothing, the garments had seemed almost alive; he hoped that was his imagination, and not due to an accumulation of parasites. If there were mites and fleas, he hoped the water would discourage them.

  He had debated whether to build a fire in one of the hearths and ovens, using the scraps he had found in the wood-bin, and had decided not to bother—the kitchen was not so very cold, as yet, and his fuel supply was very limited. The wind had chilled the upper floors, but that chill had not yet penetrated into the depths where he sheltered. He assumed he would need every scrap of fuel eventually, and therefore could not afford to waste it now. Instead of starting a fire he had wrapped himself in the fine woolen blankets, three or four of them covering almost every inch of his flesh, and curled up on his makeshift bed. That was warm enough, and he dozed off easily, feeling oddly calm.

  At first he slept deeply and untroubled, but somewhere in the darkness between midnight and dawn he found himself dreaming strange, uneasy dreams, dreams of flying across endless plains of snow, of plunging through the earth into hidden recesses in the stone beneath, of shrinking down to the size of a worm or a beetle and crawling through dark cracks somewhere.

  In these dreams he was unsure of his own identity, whether he was a man named Erren Zal Tuyo and called Sword, or a beetle going about its insectile business, or a swirl of snow, or a gust of wind, or something else, something he had no words for, or some combination of all of these. At times he was not a single soul, but a great gathering of ler, of spirits merging and separating in ways beyond mortal understanding.

  And somewhere in that maze of dreams he realized that these were not just dreams. He had removed all the ara feathers that had guarded him from hostile magic. Feathers were sewn into his clothing, pinned to his cuffs, tied onto his pack—but he had put aside his pack, stripped off his clothes, and left them all a few yards away from where he slept.

  But he wasn’t in Barokan, where everyone knew ler sent dreams. He was in the Uplands, where ler did not trouble anyone. He had dreamed a few times during his stay with the Clan of the Golden Spear, but those had been ordinary dreams, stray images and bits of memory tangling randomly in his head; they were nothing like this.

  But now, he realized, he was not in a tent of ara hide, supported by poles made of ara bone, sleeping on ground where generations of ara had dwelt; he was wrapped in Barokanese bedding, on a mattress made in Barokan, a mattress that was resting upon the bare stone beneath the prairie, stone that no ara had ever touched. He had exposed himself to the ler of the Uplands in a way no one ordinarily did.

  But the Wizard Lord and his staff had slept here in the Summer Palace, and Sword had heard no stories of strange dreams or visitations.

  What was different now?

  He tried to wake, to free himself of the dreams. He thought about the feather-lined coat that hung on the far side of the kitchen; if he could awaken . . .

  No.

  In his dream he now stood naked on the endless plains somewhere far to the east of the Summer Palace, a cold wind whipping his hair out behind him, unable to move, unable even to shiver in the frigid blast that was freezing his breath to ice in his beard, and a voice spoke to him from everywhere and nowhere.

  You will not wake until we allow it.

  His jaw moved, and he was able to speak. “Why? What do you want of me?” he asked, his gaze still unwillingly fixed on infinity.

  At first there was no reply to that that he could put into words, but he felt a sense of bemusement; then the voice replied, To understand.

  “Understand what?”

  Who you are. What you are. Why you are here.

  “I’m . . . you must know my true name. . . .”

  Yes, Erren Zal Tuyo kam Darig seveth Tirinsir abek Du. A chill ran through his entire body at the sound of that. Sword had the feeling that the rest of his name, or at least much more of it, was somehow implied as well, without being spoken. But the name is not the whole of the thing. It is the essence, but we are intrigued by what surrounds that essence.

  “And who are you? You are ler, I know that, but what ler?”

  Ler of earth and ice, wind and sky. Ler of the Uplands.

  Ler of the Uplands—of course they were. The ler of his blankets and mattress could hardly have had the power to command his dreams.

  But no one spoke with the ler of the Uplands. The Uplanders had no priests, no wizards. The presence of ler could not be felt clearly anywhere in the Uplands. Some people even thought there were no ler in the Uplands, though Sword had known better than to believe that. Sword had always assumed that no one had ever communicated with the Upland ler, but here he was, dreaming of them, and he knew this was no ordinary dream.

  But why?

  If these ler were so easily contacted, why hadn’t any of the Uplanders ever become priests or wizards in all the centuries they had lived on the plateau?

  Suddenly frightened, he called, “Let me wake!”

  A bargain: Swear by your name you will not hide again behind the hides and feathers, and we will let you wake.

  He hesitated. “For how long?” he asked.

  There was no clear answer to that; instead, after an uncertain pause, he heard a single word.

  Swear.

  “I swear by my true name that I, Erren Zal Tuyo, will not clothe myself in ara feathers for . . . for three days. Is that enough?”

  There was no reply; wind howled wordlessly around him, but he found that he could move now, he could turn his face away from the wind, wrap his arms around himself, and crouch down, shivering.

  “Let me wake!” he shouted, his voice almost inaudible now against the screaming wind. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. . . .

  And awoke in the utter darkness of the palace kitchens.

  He could see nothing but blackness, hear nothing but his own heart and breath, but he could feel the blankets that wrapped him, and the mattress beneath him, and he could smell the stone and the smoke and the lingering traces of grease, so he knew where he was, and that he was no longer dreaming.

  And the world around him, the darkness itself, felt different now. Ever since passing the boundary between Barokan and the Uplands he had been cut off from the ler, from his link to magic, his connection to both the local ler and the ler that made him one of the Chosen—even the ler of his own sword had been quiescent. It was as if his sight had dimmed, his hearing had been muffled, his hands wrapped in thick wool.

  That had changed now.

  He could see nothing in the utter blackness of the underground kitchen, yet he could sense a thousand shades of darkness, could feel the air and the blankets and all the world around him.

  The world was alive again—alive and awake.

  “Oh,” he said aloud, to no one in particular.

  He lay there in the darkness for a moment. He had carefully laid out flint, steel, and tinder, and set a candle nearby, so that he could make a fresh light when he awoke, but he did not reach for them, not yet. He wanted to think first.

  He had sworn an oath—or had he merely dreamed that he swore an oath? Was a dream binding? He could not say for certain whether he had been in control of his actions in the dream.

  Did it matter, though? Could three days unguarded by ara feathers do him any real harm?

  That was a stupid question; of course they could! He wasn’t safely home in Mad Oak, he wasn’t protected by his talisman here; he was in the home of unknown, perhaps hostile ler, with no other defense against them. They could destroy him—perhaps not directly, but they could undoubtedly find a way. The intense awareness of his surroundings he now felt removed any possibility that his dream had not truly been sent by the local ler; they were real, they were here, and they had taken note of him.

  He remembered when he had first left Mad Oak, years before, and had almost been caught by the tree that gave the town its name. For all he knew, there could be things in the earth here that would make the old oak seem as harmless as a
kitten. Surely, there was a reason the Uplanders had made no attempt to bargain with the ler in all these years, but had instead used the feathers to shut them out.

  But they hadn’t harmed him yet. They had accepted his vow and let him wake.

  They knew his true name—they had seen into his unguarded soul.

  For all he knew, even ara feathers might not be enough to protect him now.

  And whether a dreamed oath was truly binding or not, he had given his word.

  You did, something said in the darkness.

  He had not imagined it; ler had truly spoken to him in his dream, and were speaking to him now.

  Either that, or he was still asleep and dreaming, or he was going mad.

  He did not think he was asleep, or that he had gone insane; the feel and smell of his blankets and the kitchens were too real, too solid and detailed and unchanging, to be a dream, and he had never had any real doubts about his sanity.

  And why shouldn’t ler speak to him? There were no others around for them to address.

  “You heard my thoughts?” he asked.

  We know you now, Erren Zal Tuyo.

  “So I have no secrets? You know who I am and why I’m here?”

  We do.

  “Then what do you want of me?”

  For a moment there was no answer; then something replied, That we do not know. Not yet.

  A different spirit said, We are not of one mind.

  He lay still for a moment longer, absorbing that; then he asked, “Is the sun up?”

  Nothing spoke; no words came to him. Perhaps the local ler weren’t even aware of the sun, as such. After all, he was underground, and presumably speaking with the spirits of stone and earth; what would they know of lights in the sky?

  For his own part, he had no sense of time at all; his dreams had disturbed his normal sleep so badly that he could not say whether he had slept an hour or an entire day, and the darkness was too complete to give him any clue. Carefully, he turned and reached for his flint.

  His hand brushed the stone floor, and he gasped and snatched it back. The stone was cold and alive; he could feel a solidity and a timeless satisfaction in it, a sense of calm antiquity—there really weren’t any words for it in Barokanese, but it seemed as if he had reached into the stone’s soul as deeply as any ler had reached into his mind.

  He had felt ler before, of course; as the Swordsman he had been intimately acquainted with the ler of muscle and steel, he had felt the hard hunger of his sword, but that had been in Barokan. He had been in the Uplands, cut off from the spirits of his homeland, for months, and he had not anticipated finding such a link to Uplander ler.

  But apparently that link had been made, and he still needed to make a light and see where he was.

  Shuddering, he reached out again, and pressed his fingertips to the stone.

  It was as if he had set them into a pool of something a thousand times slower and thicker than water, but just as receptive. The stone floor was welcoming him, in its fashion, allowing his fingers to rest against it. He had the definite feeling that if he kept his fingers where they were, in an eon or two the floor would let them sink in, and ripples would spread outward, too slowly for any human to perceive.

  “Thank you,” he said, and then he groped for his flint and steel and tinder.

  The steel was as cold as the stone, but not so calm, and less yielding. It wanted to strike, to break.

  The flint was warmer, not so hard, and it held a knowledge of fire and heat.

  The tinder was soft and hot, crumbling with decay, eager for its own destruction.

  The candle was slick and soft and young, and almost seemed to squirm in his grasp.

  Even when he had had his full magic, down in Barokan, he had not been so receptive as this to every ler around him; his perceptions had been filtered through the ler bound to his talisman. Was this, he wondered, what things felt like to the priests in Barokan? Once, years ago, he had been magically presented with the memories of an ancient priestess, and those memories had included something of her experience of the ler in the world around her, but it had been an old, faded memory, without the intensity, the immediacy of these sensations. He could not say whether she had perceived the ler as he was perceiving them now, or whether this was something new and different, something peculiar to the Uplands, perhaps even specific to this palace.

  He arranged the tinder, then took up the flint and steel and struck.

  The steel in his hand rejoiced, the flint accepted, and sparks leapt out in a burst of fiery creation. Those sparks were almost painfully bright; his eyes had adjusted too well to the blackness. He squinted as he struck flint against steel a second time.

  This time the tinder caught, and a moment later he was holding a candle high, careful not to look directly at the flame.

  The kitchen looked exactly as it had when he went to sleep—but it felt different, more alive, more real.

  Cautiously, he got to his feet.

  He wanted to get dressed, but he had promised the ler he would not wear hides or feathers for three days, and all his outer clothing either had feathers sewn into it somewhere, or was made of ara hide, or both. He could not wear any of it without breaking his word.

  Instead, he wrapped a lush Barokanese blanket around himself, holding it in place with one hand while raising the candle in the other, and headed for the stairs, the stone floor cold and smooth beneath his bare feet.

  Then he stopped. He would not wear the forbidden garments, but there were other things he wanted. He crossed to where he had hung his clothing and spread out several other items, and found what he wanted.

  His sword belt had no feathers on it anywhere, and was made of good Barokanese leather; he slung it around himself, belting the blanket in place, thereby freeing a hand.

  He poked a finger into the pocket of the breeches he had worn the previous day and fished out something small and sharp, letting it fall to the floor. The silver talisman that made him the Swordsman gleamed brightly in the candlelight, perhaps a little more brightly than could be accounted for naturally; he picked it up and clutched it against the candle, feeling it cut into the wax.

  In Barokan, if he was ever more than a few yards from the talisman, he would feel ill and weak; in the Uplands, cut off from his magic, that had not been the case. He was still cut off from all the powers of Barokan, but he had connected with ler again, and even if they were entirely different ler, he still did not care to take any chances—better to have the talisman and not need it than to suddenly need it after leaving it behind. He had not felt ill lying across the room from it, but now that he held it again he felt stronger, more alert.

  Thus equipped, he turned again to the stairs, the candle and talisman in one hand, the other holding a corner of blanket to his shoulder.

  When he emerged onto the ground floor, shivering with the cold, and peered out at the windows of the main dining hall, he could see at once why the kitchen had been so totally lightless—the sky outside was still dark, though when he looked to his right he could see a very faint grayness spreading in the east. He had awoken well before dawn.

  Ordinarily he might have tried to go back to sleep, but he was thoroughly awake now, after his unexpected contact with ler, and saw no point in pretending otherwise.

  He also saw no point in freezing; he turned and hurried back down the stairs to his underground retreat.

  There he lit a second candle and set both lights on the floor, one on either side, then settled down on his mattress, wrapping a second blanket around himself.

  “All right, then,” he said to the empty air. “What do you want of me?”

  No one answered.

  “I know you’re here,” he said. “You spoke to me before; speak to me now.”

  Again, nothing.

  “I don’t have any feathers on me.” He reached out and touched the wall; the stone was alive, he could feel it. The air around him was still, but still vital.

  “Spea
k to me!”

  Still, no response.

  “What, are you done with me already? Should I get dressed, then?”

  You swore an oath. Three days.

  The reply was so sudden and so clear that Sword started, dropping his talisman onto the mattress. He quickly snatched the bit of metal up again.

  “All right,” he said. “Three days, then.”

  There was no answer. He waited, listening, for several more minutes, then shrugged.

  “Fine,” he said. “Three days. I can do that.” He glanced longingly at his clothing, and pulled his blankets tighter.

  It was obvious that the ler were not ready to speak to him beyond ensuring he would abide by his promise not to shut them out, and he could handle that, he was sure. They would speak when they were ready.

  And, he admitted to himself, he did not particularly want to wear the hides and feathers again, now that he had experienced the Uplands without them, and had connected with his surroundings. He felt a part of the world once more, as if he belonged again, and was in no hurry to lose that. Quite aside from the fact that it simply felt better, he had begun to wonder whether he might be able to use the ler somehow. He was no wizard, nor a priest, but the Upland ler had spoken to him, had entered his dreams—he might be able to negotiate with them. They might help him survive the winter.

  And they might aid him against the Wizard Lord. After all, wasn’t Artil im Salthir an intruder here? Wasn’t his summer palace an invasion of territory to which he had no claim, a place where he had no right to be? Sword was an intruder himself, of course, but he had built no structures, dug no cellars, and he would be happy to return forever to the Lowlands once the Wizard Lord was dead.