He had not been out here lately, he realized. He had not looked down at his homeland in some time.
It was gray and white, like the Uplands. Winter had arrived later down there, but arrive it obviously had, some time ago. A few tiny flickers of orange indicated life and warmth, where people had lit fires, but most of Barokan lay beneath a thick carpet of snow, every detail blurred and softened, or hidden entirely.
But there were those flickers. Warmth and food and friendly voices were all waiting for him down there.
Along with the Wizard Lord and his army.
Sword grimaced, then blinked, trying to restore a little moisture to his eyes.
If he was going to give up and go down the trail, he told himself, he had to do it soon, while he still had the strength. He would want his sword, of course, and his spear, but he didn’t need to take anything more than that; whatever happened when he reached Winter-home would probably happen quickly.
If he left now, he thought, he would arrive at the plaza gate long after midnight, in the dead hours before dawn, when the guards would be least alert, least ready to fight, and when the Wizard Lord would probably be asleep in his bed, thinking himself safe.
Not that Sword knew exactly where that bed was, but he thought he could find it.
It would mean climbing down the cliff in the dark, but he had spent so much of his time in darkness lately that the idea did not particularly trouble him. He turned and marched back into the palace to retrieve his weapons.
[ 15 ]
An hour later he was fighting his way through a six-foot snowdrift in the surreal landscape of a winter night on the plateau, where the endless expanse of snow seemed to capture and magnify every trace of light. It was as if the snow itself were glowing, rather than merely reflecting the moon and stars; the sky was dark, and all color had been leached from the world. His boots were full of powdery snow that was melting and soaking his feet; his coat was frosted with snow that had been blown from the drifts, and the butt of the spear he had slung on his back dragged across the mounded snow wherever the drifts came much above his knees, tugging at him every so often.
He was having second thoughts. The chances of getting to the Wizard Lord before an alarm was raised were not really good, he knew, and anywhere in Barokan, Artil would have his magic. He could fly away and leave Sword facing a hundred guardsmen. He could fly out of reach and send animals or weapons at Sword. He could summon storms. The Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had used beasts and storms against the Chosen, and while Artil had never done so, had instead relied on his soldiers, there was no reason to think that would last. If Sword became a real threat, then Artil would surely resort to magic, as Wizard Lords always did.
Before, the Chosen had always fought Dark Lords as a group. Sword had intended to take him on alone, unsupported.
True, he had been acting alone when he killed the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, but he had gotten close enough only as part of the team, and had caught that Dark Lord completely by surprise at a time when he had thought Sword was imprisoned. Catching Artil that way was very, very unlikely; the Red Wizard had taken his predecessor’s fate to heart, and created his army largely to prevent exactly that sort of surprise.
Even if the guards served as nothing more than a warning that Sword was on his way, that ought to be enough. The warning would allow Artil to prepare magic Sword could not defeat.
If Beauty were with him, she might be able to persuade the soldiers to let Sword in, so that he could catch Artil off guard. If Bow were with him, the Archer would able able to shoot the wizard out of the air as he tried to fly to safety. If Snatcher were available, he might be able to open the door to the Wizard Lord’s bedchamber and slip Sword inside. Lore might know of some means of attack Sword had not thought of, and Boss might inspire Sword somehow.
But they were not here. Sword was alone. When he reached Winterhome he would need to find and kill Artil, and he would need to do it unaided.
He was not at all sure that was possible.
Simply climbing down that long, narrow, winding trail in the snow to get to Winterhome would not be easy.
Then he caught his first sight of the long triangular canyon that was the start of the descent, and realized “not easy” was an under-statement. The canyon was full of snow; its walls had served to trap the blowing powder, and sheltered it from the sun, and now, instead of a steep trench cutting down into the cliff, there was nothing but a gentle depression in the unbroken snow.
Sword crouched, tugging at the collar of his coat, and stared at that snow-filled ravine.
He could not just walk down the path; he would need to tunnel, just as he had in the cellar, though here it would be through snow rather than stone. Or at the very least, he would need to dig a trench.
That was impossible. It would take days, days of working out here in the cold and wind. His fingers were already going numb even now; what would happen to them after he spent hours out here?
And what was the rest of the trail like? That narrow path down the cliff face—was it, too, covered in snow? Shivering, Sword turned westward and began trudging along the northern rim of the canyon to take a look.
An hour later he found himself approaching the edge on his hands and knees, so that the howling wind could not blow him over the precipice. He watched great swirling plumes of snow blow out from the clifftop, like white-speckled spiraling banners a hundred feet long, gleaming in the moonlight, and he knew that if he were to stand too close, he would be swept off the edge as well.
He, however, would not glitter and swoop gracefully in the night air; instead he would tumble down the cliffs to a horrible painful death.
He fell to his belly and crept forward through the snow, so low to the ground that each time he brought up a knee the opposite end of the spear on his back would slap against the snow to the side. Despite this, in time he found himself peering over the top of that final snowbank.
He could not look straight down; there was no way to safely get that close to the edge. Instead he was looking along the curve of the cliff face, toward where the trail doubled back on itself two miles south and half a mile down from where he lay.
He blinked snow from his eyes and squinted, trying to interpret what he saw in the colorless moonlight. At first the white and gray and black seemed mere meaningless lines and shapes, but at last he managed to resolve the image into stone, snow, and ice. He found the trail, and followed it with his gaze.
The path was not lost beneath drifting snow, as he had feared; snow had not clung to the sheer cliffs and piled up on the trail. No, it was worse.
It was covered in ice.
He could see how it would happen; the afternoon sun shining on the snowpack atop the cliffs produced a thin trickle of meltwater, which ran down the cliffs and pooled on the first horizontal surface it struck—which would usually be the trail. And there most of it froze again, building up over time into the thick sloping layer of slick gray ice he now saw shimmering glassily in the moonlight.
The entire route down the cliff was utterly impassable. He could not possibly hope to climb down mile upon mile of ice without sooner or later slipping over the edge and plummeting to a bloody death.
Whether going down to Winterhome to confront the Wizard Lord was a good idea or not no longer mattered. It wasn’t possible. He was trapped in the Uplands until that ice melted in the spring thaw.
He was trapped—and he didn’t have enough food.
He would just need to eat less, he told himself. He would need to make what he had left last. He would reduce the size of his meals.
Although perhaps that would just be prolonging the inevitable. Might it be better to just get it over with, and die now? Perhaps if he started down the trail, and fell to his death, his ghost would haunt Artil.
But then, he might just as well haunt the Summer Palace.
A thought struck him. If he started down the trail, he would be back in Barokan, and would have his magic again
. He would have the superhuman reflexes of the world’s greatest swordsman, the gifts of ler of muscle and bone and steel. Perhaps he could somehow climb down that path.
He looked down the cliff again, and shook his head. No, his magic was not that strong. The trail was simply gone, buried beneath the ice, and even the Chosen Swordsman could not run down the face of a sheer cliff for thousands of feet and live.
Shivering, he pushed himself back from the edge, turned around, and began shuffling through the snow; when he was fifty feet from the cliffs he arose, bent against the wind, and started the long, weary walk back to the palace.
He would eat less, he told himself as he slogged through the colorless world of snow and wind and night. He would make his food last, somehow. He would ignore the grumbling of his belly.
He would probably die all the same, he knew that. He would die, and his ghost would haunt the palace. . . .
Or would it? In Barokan the soul of someone who had suffered an untimely and unjust death lingered, and could be felt, but in the Uplands? This land was so different that he could not be sure. He had never heard any of the Clan of the Golden Spear mention ghosts, and as it happened no one in the clan had died during his stay with them. Perhaps ghosts dissipated in the thin air.
He did not like that thought at all.
And if he died, Artil im Salthir would reign untroubled over Barokan. The spirits of Babble and Azir would linger unavenged and unappeased in the streets of Winterhome, while Lore and Boss rotted in the Wizard Lord’s dungeons.
Barokan as a whole might be happy, he knew—all the lesser wizards were gone, dead or in hiding, while the Wizard Lord presided over expanded trade, safer travel, lesser hazards everywhere. Magic was fading away, and that made life more comfortable for most people.
Much as he hated to admit it, Sword thought that might be a good thing. When Artil finally died, the system of Wizard Lords would presumably be at an end forever.
Or would it? What did Artil plan? Perhaps he intended to train a successor and pass on his amulets and talismans.
And while he lived—yes, he was suppressing other magic, and improving everything he could think of, but he was a tyrant, allowing no threat to his rule. He had destroyed the Council, and broken the Chosen; would he really stop there?
Sword shivered as he pressed on through the snow toward the gate he had left standing open. Artil had found and destroyed potential enemies before they actually threatened him; why would he stop? Anyone and everything was a potential enemy, after all; anything might turn against him in time. The Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had exterminated his own hometown, innocent and guilty alike, rather than take the trouble to sort them out, or risk leaving witnesses alive—once he began killing, it was easier. Why would Artil be any different?
If he turned his attention to Bone Garden, for example, might he simply wipe out the entire community, guilty and innocent alike?
Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps his own better judgment would prevent it—though it hadn’t when he went after the Council and the Chosen. If it didn’t, well, nothing else could stop him.
The Council of Immortals had created the Chosen for good and convincing reasons, Sword thought, and now Artil im Salthir had defeated the Chosen.
He had to be killed.
Sword remembered a conversation he had had with Farash inith Kerra, then Leader of the Chosen, in Winterhome, years ago. They had been arguing about whether the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had to be removed. Sword and old Seer had pointed out that the man had killed the entire town of Stoneslope, and Farash had argued that there was no reason to think he would ever do anything like that again.
Sword had been horrified at that. He had done it once; that was all the evidence they needed that he might do it again and could not be trusted. Sword had been astonished that Farash could even question the necessity.
Later, of course, it had all made sense, when he learned that Farash had secretly been conspiring with the Wizard Lord to betray the Chosen and rule Barokan.
Artil was a different Wizard Lord, a better one; he had done many good things, and had greatly improved the lot of the ordinary people of Barokan. All the same, he had already murdered innocents not once, but twice—first the Council, then the Chosen. The principle was the same as it had been with Galbek Hills.
He had to be killed.
And if Sword did not give his best efforts toward that end, he was no better than Farash had been—than Farash was, since Old Boss was now serving as Artil’s chief advisor.
If Sword allowed himself to die of cold or hunger, he was betraying the ghosts of Azir and Babble, betraying the imprisoned Lore and Boss. He could not let himself die.
He staggered up to the open gate and caught himself against the frame, gazing in at the ghostly fountains and trellises, gleaming white in the moonlight, their outlines blurred into soft shapelessness by the snow.
He would survive the winter, Sword promised himself. Somehow, he would live through it—by eating less, by whatever it took. And when first the spring and then the summer came back to the Summer Palace, and the Wizard Lord came back with it, Sword would kill him. He didn’t know how he would survive, and he didn’t know how he would kill Artil, but he would do it.
He had to.
[ 16 ]
He did eat less, and within just a handful of days gnawing hunger became a constant distraction. As Sword practiced with his blade he imagined himself carving up ara, or hogs, or cattle; as he hacked and scraped in the tunnel he thought about chopping vegetables, or scooping barley. He tried to fill his belly with water, but the melted snow was cold and sat heavily in his gut. As the days slipped away and his supplies dwindled, he began to feel weaker, and his hands were less steady. His vision seemed blurry, and his thoughts, too, lost focus. His teeth hurt, and chewing the jerky became steadily more difficult.
He tried not to think about it. Instead he thought about anything and everything that might distract him from his present situation.
He thought about his mother, back in Mad Oak, and wondered how much of the Wizard Lord’s lies about him had reached her, and how much of them she believed. She had tried to talk him out of accepting the role of Swordsman; she had asked him whether he wanted to be a killer.
He had said no, that he wanted to be a hero.
Some hero he was. He had killed a Dark Lord, yes, but not in some epic battle suitable for a ballad; he had simply caught the man off guard and run him through. The whole thing had been over in a second.
And when another Wizard Lord had gone bad, Sword had been unable to stop it. He had been unable to prevent the murder of two of his friends, and the capture of two others. He hadn’t killed that Dark Lord. Oh, he had killed more than a dozen soldiers working for the Dark Lord, but what good did that do anyone? Artil im Salthir had his magic and his position, and could recruit all the men he needed.
And Sword had sworn to kill Artil despite that.
He had become the killer his mother had feared he would be. Did she know that?
Was she safe, back there in Mad Oak? Were her daughters, Sword’s sisters, taking care of her?
How were the townspeople treating her? They all probably believed the Wizard Lord’s tales of how the Chosen had rebelled, how they had tried to stop him from improving Barokan. Sword hoped they weren’t taking any of that out on a poor old widow.
And Harp, and Fidget, and Spider—what did they think of their brother now? Spider had been so proud that her own brother was one of the Chosen; would it hurt her that the Chosen were now seen as traitors trying to prevent Artil im Salthir from building roads and slaying monsters?
Of course it would hurt her, Sword told himself—but how much? Would she be heartbroken, or just annoyed? Would she believe the lies?
Would Harp still sing the old ballads about the Chosen Heroes? Would her brother’s supposed treason have soured her marriage to Smudge the blacksmith? Were their children being teased about their murderous uncle?
At least their father wasn’t around to hear anything bad about his only son.
At that thought, Sword’s eyes welled with tears.
He had never really wept over his father’s death; he had come home from his adventures, from slaying the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, to find the old man dead and gone. It had been over and done, and Sword’s entire world had changed so much that his father’s death had been just one more aspect of his new life, to be accepted and lived with, like his new name or the fact that he had killed a man. Grumbler’s son had been a youth named Breaker, a common barley farmer given to bouts of daydreaming and brief fits of ill temper; Sword, the world’s greatest swordsman, Chosen Defender of Barokan, slayer of Dark Lords, was someone else, someone who had no father.
But right now, as Sword sat in the cold palace kitchen chewing on a leathery bit of blackened bird-flesh, he wished more than anything else that he could go back to being that ordinary youth, that Grumbler was still alive, that father and son were living peacefully with White Rose in their little house in Mad Oak, a quarter-mile north of the town’s pavilion.
Breaker had never been very close to his father; the old man had been ill so much of the time, and even when he was healthy he had never been a very attentive parent. Still, Grumbler had always been there when Breaker was young, always a comforting part of the background.
And now he wasn’t.
The Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills was dead and gone, as well, and Sword doubted whether anyone missed him very much—he had been an orphan who had wiped out his native village, deliberately killing everyone who had known him before he went off to become a wizard. But everyone knew he had lived and died, and who, now, remembered that Grumbler had ever existed? No one outside of Mad Oak, most likely.
That thought led to another, and another, and as he readied himself for bed that night Sword found himself wondering what had become of the Dark Lord’s serving girls. His tent-mates in the Clan of the Golden Spear had heard that Sword had lopped the hands off one of them, which was untrue and absurd and insulting, but what had happened to them? The Chosen and the Council of Immortals had sent them back to their homes in Split Reed—what happened to them there? What sort of lives did they lead? Were they happier, with their former master dead?
The Summer Palace Page 18
