A day came when Sword realized he was sweating even though it was still morning, and he had not yet exerted himself in any significant way. It wasn’t summer yet, but spring was past its peak.
Time, he thought, to return to the Summer Palace and see whether the Wizard Lord’s servants had begun to put it right. He had become so settled into his lonely existence, the days spent hunting, butchering, curing, or cooking ara, the evenings in tending to other chores, that he had lost track of the date, and not thought about when he should make his move, but the right moment was obviously close. He turned his steps westward again, trudging across the plain, staying well clear of any Uplander camp.
He did not have a marked route to follow; he simply headed into the afternoon sun. That brought him to the cliffs in good time, but well south of the canyon and palace—he knew it was south, rather than north, by the view of Barokan. He turned again, heading north.
When Sword looped eastward around the end of the canyon he saw footprints on the trail—not just the old marks left by the returning Uplanders, but fresh steps that turned north. He frowned. Had he missed his foe? He picked up his pace.
The moment he came within sight of the palace’s outer walls, he knew that the Wizard Lord had indeed sent people up the cliffs. There were guards at the palace gate. He stopped some distance away, hoping he looked enough like an ordinary Uplander that they wouldn’t notice him, and tried to think this through.
If there were guards there, then there was someone in the palace—not necessarily the Wizard Lord, but somebody. It might be workmen, or the palace staff, trying to repair the damage Sword had done, or it might be Artil im Salthir himself.
The Wizard Lord would not have come up the cliff for the summer yet; it was still spring, far too soon for the heat to be seriously uncomfortable down in Winterhome. He might have come to inspect the damage, though, or even to hunt Sword down.
No, Sword corrected himself, not to hunt him down. The Wizard Lord had no magic in the Uplands, and would not have come himself. He wouldn’t take that risk. He would have sent his soldiers, just as he did when he slaughtered most of the Council of Immortals.
So Artil might or might not be in the palace.
Well, there was a way to find out, Sword told himself. This was, after all, exactly what he had spent much of the winter preparing for. He circled around, away from the gates, and then, once he was out of sight of the guards, he cautiously approached the rocky corner where his tunnel came out. He had never done this before, really; he had seen the outer end of the tunnel only when he emerged from it, and he had not done that since the snow melted. He was not at all sure he would recognize the place immediately.
In fact, at first, he did not—but then he felt something, almost as if he had heard a distant voice.
He was being guided, he realized. The ler were not so dormant as he had thought. They were subtly directing him, he knew, even though the weather had turned warm, even though he was wearing feathers and ara hide.
He was surprised they could reach him, under the circumstances, but he was not about to refuse their aid. He let his feet go as they would.
And then he was at the little outcropping behind the wall, and there was the opening, looking like just another little hollow in the rocks. He took a final look around, then stepped in and crouched down.
The darkness between the rocks had no bottom, and he could feel a cool movement of air. The tunnel was still there.
He took off his pack and spear and set them aside; he doubted they would fit through the narrower parts. He had no light, and he briefly considered making one—he had the necessary equipment in his pack—but decided against it. The tunnel had no branchings to lead him astray, and a light might be visible in the cellar at the far end; if a servant happened to see it, his secret would be lost. He would make his way by feel.
He wondered whether any ler might provide light, and caught himself. They wouldn’t while he was wearing ara hide, he knew. He retrieved his pack, then sat down and dug out some of the clothes he had made during the winter. He undressed quickly, and then pulled on the ara-free attire.
The air felt different in his new garb, more alive—not so much as it had in winter, or like the air of Barokan, but more vibrant than it had a moment before. Pleased, he stuffed everything he could back into the pack and set it aside again, hoping no one would stumble across it, or his spear, while he was in the tunnel.
No, he told himself, he could do better than that. First he carefully lowered the spear into the tunnel and lay it against one wall; then he lifted the pack over his head and sank down into the tunnel, filling the entrance with the pack and leaving his belongings to block the way as he crawled into the darkness.
The faint glow that leaked around his pack at the mouth of the tunnel faded quickly, but he found himself oddly untroubled by the utter blackness. The tunnel was familiar. He had spent much of the winter in here, and wiggling his way through its cool darkness now was almost like coming home again. The earth and stone around him felt comfortable and welcoming. He made far better time traversing its sixty yards or so than he had any right to expect, and quickly found himself behind the cellar wall, listening closely.
There were people moving around—not in the storeroom where the tunnel began, but not far beyond. He could hear the shuffle of feet, the rattle of tools, the murmur of voices. He knelt and listened, his ear pressed to a crack between the loose stones that closed off the tunnel’s mouth, trying to make out words.
He caught snatches of conversation, some meaningless without context, some clear but of no importance. His knees were getting stiff, and he was beginning to think he would need to sneak out into the kitchen, when he heard this:
“. . . just enough for supper.”
“He’s definitely coming?”
“So they tell me. And he wants to see how we found it, so don’t move anything you don’t need to.”
“But you said—”
“Yes, he’ll want his supper. So do what you need to to handle that, but leave the rest.”
“All right . . .”
Then the voices had moved away, and Sword sat up.
Luck had been with him.
That was what he had needed.
The Wizard Lord wasn’t here yet, but he was on the way, and intended to eat his evening meal in the palace.
That meant he was on the path up the cliffs even now. Once he was past the boundary of Barokan, at the lower end of the canyon, he would no longer have his magic. If Sword could catch him there, Artil would be relatively defenseless. An ambush might be possible.
Once again, Sword wished he had practiced more with his spear. He twisted around, and began crawling back out.
At the tunnel’s mouth he paused to fish his spear out of the hole, pull on his winter coat, and sling the pack on his shoulder; he did not want to leave anything behind. Once everything was in place he set out southward at a brisk trot.
An hour later he had removed his coat again and was creeping up toward the south edge of the canyon, trying to stay out of sight of the guards at the palace gate. He had circled around, perhaps more widely than necessary, to avoid attracting their attention, hoping that the Wizard Lord would not arrive before he got into position. Here on the south rim he was far enough away that if any of the guards did see him—which seemed unlikely—he doubted they would be able to even identify him as a person, let alone recognize that he posed a threat to their master. Still, there was no need to take any chances.
He could hear voices from below. The procession was on its way up.
He peered over the edge, down into the long triangle of the canyon, where the path sliced up from the cliff face to the plain. No one was in sight yet.
He had set his belongings to one side; now he reached over and grabbed his spear, then swung the weapon into position.
He wished he had a bow and arrow—or even better, that the Archer were here with him. He had learned a little about how to u
se a spear during his stay in the Uplands, but he still wasn’t very good with it. All that sword practice in the palace, and never so much as a single spear-toss—what a fool he had been! Spearing ara that were tangled in a rope did not really help much with throwing at a human target a dozen paces away.
If he met the Wizard Lord on the path somewhere, of course, all he would need was his sword, but Artil would undoubtedly be accompanied by guards wherever he went. Here, outside Barokan, Sword could not be sure of dealing with those guards, and even if he did, the Wizard Lord would almost certainly have time to retreat back across the boundary. Once Artil had his magic again, he could escape by flying away.
That was why Sword was not going to cross the boundary himself; yes, he would have his own magic as well, but the Wizard Lord could simply step off the path, over the edge of the cliff, and let the wind ler catch him. Sword knew he had to strike when the Wizard Lord was well past the boundary, with no magic to help him escape.
Then a soldier appeared, turning the corner and peering warily up the canyon. Sword ducked back, and pulled back his spear.
The soldier trudged up into the canyon, giving no sign he had seen anything but bare rock.
Behind him were more soldiers—many more soldiers, all in the familiar red and black of the Wizard Lord’s guards. Sword frowned, and crouched lower, until his nose was pressed to the stone.
The soldiers marched past, dozens of them; Sword did not think to count, but estimated it at thirty or more. They were followed by servants carrying bundles, carters hauling supplies, and workmen with tools slung on their belts and leather sacks on their backs.
Then came another small cluster of guards, and in the center of this group was the Wizard Lord, riding in a contrivance like nothing Sword had ever seen before, a sort of chair on poles, carried by two brawny soldiers, one in front and one behind, with a square framework supporting curtains of some sort. Artil sat in the chair, leaning on one elbow, as if he were in his own throne room.
Sword wondered how they had gotten that thing around some of the corners in the path. Artil had probably had to dismount while the apparatus was wrestled around.
It didn’t matter, though; what mattered was that here was his target, approaching at a steady pace. Those two bearers would not be able to dodge or maneuver quickly without dropping the entire chair-thing. Sword reached for his spear.
And just then Artil, blinking in the sun, straightened up and reached behind himself. He tugged at the curtains, which slid along the frame, blocking him from Sword’s sight.
Sword froze.
He had already been concerned about throwing a spear well enough to kill the Wizard Lord, and now he would need to strike him through a drawn curtain.
He couldn’t do it. He knew how good he was with a spear—and more important, how good he wasn’t. He was not going to inflict a fatal wound through that drapery, not unless he was fabulously lucky.
Of course, sometimes luck could be provided. Fortune had favored him already, in putting him here in time to catch the Wizard Lord; perhaps it could be coaxed to do more.
“O ler,” he whispered, “will you guide my aim? Will you see that my spear strikes him down?”
There was no answer.
“Of course you won’t,” he said. “This is the Uplands, where all ler are wild, but weak.”
Only weak when the birds have come, something reminded him. It was very faint.
So ler were listening, just not cooperating—and that might not be their choice, given the shaft of the spear he was holding, how near his feathered coat was to his right arm, and how many other factors were weakening their power. And since the spear itself was made of ara bone and sinew, ler probably couldn’t guide it.
The Wizard Lord’s chair was approaching, and behind it Sword could see more people—more guards, and others. He recognized one face immediately.
Farash inith Kerra.
Farash the traitor, who had betrayed the Chosen to the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills.
Farash, who had enslaved the town of Doublefall.
Farash, who had mocked Zrisha oro Sal thir Karalba by naming her as the new Leader of the Chosen.
Farash, chief advisor to the Wizard Lord.
Sword tightened his grip on the spear. Farash wasn’t hidden by curtains, or riding in a chair that made him a smaller target, and he certainly deserved to die. . . .
But if Sword killed Farash, he would be letting everyone know he was here, and his chances of ever getting at the Wizard Lord would be lessened. He lowered the spear again. Perhaps, if he survived killing Artil, he could then go after Farash, but Artil’s death was the higher priority.
He looked over the others following the Wizard Lord’s chair, and saw several familiar faces, but no one he could attach a name to, no one he considered especially important. The captain of the guard was there, Sword recognized him, but Boss wasn’t there, nor was Lore; he had hoped that perhaps Artil might have brought them along, and that he, Sword, might have a chance to free them.
Snatcher wasn’t there, so far as he could see, but the Thief was a master of disguise; he could easily be one of those soldiers or courtiers or servants, so thoroughly changed in appearance that Sword had not spotted him.
Beauty couldn’t disguise herself unless she hid her face entirely, and Sword could see no sign of her in the procession, no one who might have been her. If she was still alive and free, she wasn’t here.
Although Bow had no great skill at disguises, he did have the knack of not being noticed. It didn’t work as well on Sword and the other Chosen as it did on ordinary folk, and for that matter it might not work at all here, outside the borders of Barokan, but Sword could not be absolutely certain the Archer wasn’t here somewhere. He had heard Uplanders say that the Archer was dead, but he did not necessarily believe it; the Wizard Lord was very good at spreading lies.
Still, it seemed unlikely that Bow could be there. He was a man fond of direct and simple action; if he were able to get this close to the Wizard Lord, he would have already shot him, he wouldn’t be carrying out any sort of stealth or deception.
So if any of the Chosen were here, other than himself, it would be Snatcher, the Thief—or perhaps the mysterious holder of the ninth talisman, if there really was one.
Sword had wondered often about that ninth talisman during the long, cold winter. He had no idea what role the Council of Immortals might have thought up, if they actually had devised a ninth member of the Chosen; his attempts to guess at one had never been convincing. Sword really didn’t see any other role that needed to be filled; the eight Chosen had every talent they needed.
Was the ninth talisman simply a ruse, then? Artil had said he had been unable to use the Talisman of Trust effectively, even though he knew it was powerful; perhaps it wasn’t really powerful. Its power might be an illusion, an attempt to convince the Wizard Lord that he had an unknown enemy with unknown abilities, to discourage him from turning against the Chosen. Perhaps it wasn’t really linked to another talisman at all.
Perhaps it was just a trick that had backfired. Artil had killed most of the Council, and had done so in part because of the ninth talisman. But if there really was a ninth member of the Chosen, he or she might be among the party marching up the canyon, and Sword would have no way of knowing.
If poor Azir, the Seer, were still alive, she might know. She had never been able to sense a ninth member of the Chosen clearly, but she hadn’t been certain there wasn’t one, either. Ara feathers could have hidden the ninth from her, or if not feathers, then some other magic might have been responsible.
But Azir shi Azir was dead, cut to pieces on the streets of Winter-home, and it was Sword’s job to avenge her, with or without the aid of any theoretical and mysterious ninth Chosen.
And it was clear now that he was not going to manage it here, from ambush, as he had hoped. That curtained chair protected the Wizard Lord from his spear as effectively as any armor.
&nb
sp; But he would not stay in the chair forever. In an hour or so he would be at the Summer Palace, presumably inspecting the damage Sword had inflicted on the place.
Sword knew every inch of the palace—all the servants’ corridors and hidden stairs, every niche and corner. And he had a way in that the Wizard Lord didn’t know about.
He watched for a moment longer as the parade of Barokanese trudged past; then he slid silently back from the canyon edge. He had not been spotted yet, but there was no need to take any further risks.
He could not go back to the tunnel immediately; there were too many people on the way from the canyon to the palace. He would need to wait until everyone had arrived at the gates. That would probably not happen until dusk.
He sank to his belly and lay quietly on the sandy soil of the Upland, aware that only a thin layer separated him from the solid stone of the plateau and the cliffs, stone that had been alive with ler all winter, but which slept now. He lay there, and thought about the Wizard Lords, and about the Chosen, and about the Council of Immortals.
Maybe the Uplanders had the right idea, eschewing magic entirely. No rogue wizards to worry them, no Wizard Lord, no Chosen to keep the Wizard Lord in check. Sword remembered poor little Azir shi Azir, the Chosen Seer, who had grown up in Bone Garden with the horribly simple and descriptive name “Feast.” There could never be a nightmare like Bone Garden among the Uplanders; they would never allow their ler to demand the horrors that the ler of Bone Garden did, and surely, no human beings would ever create such a place on their own.
That had been priests who told Azir shi Azir that she was destined to be eaten by her fellow townsfolk, priests serving as the link between humans and ler.
It had been one of the Chosen, their former Leader, Farash inith Kerra, who now walked behind the Wizard Lord, who had ensor-celled the entire town of Doublefall and taken several of its most beautiful young women as his harem. He had later freed them, and even chosen one of them as his successor, but still—one of the Chosen, the sworn defenders of Barokan, had enslaved a town with his magic.
The Summer Palace Page 22
