“Good morning,” she said. “Eat, and then we’ll talk.”
He ate, and they talked. Snatcher returned with more food and drink, then departed again.
Eventually, when they had asked each other all the questions that came to mind, and discussed every subject Sword could think of, they left the attic and strolled back to the Winter Palace.
They parted at the door, to Boss’s annoyance.
“I would prefer that we present ourselves as a unified group,” she said.
“But we aren’t,” Sword said. “Three of us are dead, one is missing, one is in exile, and I, Boss, want little more than to go home and see my family. You and Lore present yourselves as you please, I won’t disagree. I’m no leader, nor a scholar; I’m only a swordsman, and the captain has dozens of swordsmen of his own.”
“But—”
“Not to mention,” Sword interrupted, “that Snatcher isn’t here, either.”
Boss started, and looked around. Sure enough, the Thief had vanished into the crowd. “That little—”
“Let them go,” Lore said. “With the end of the Wizard Lords and the destruction of the Council of Immortals, the Chosen will be chosen no more. We are relics, Boss. Leftovers. We may find places for ourselves, but we are no longer a team with a unified purpose.”
“And my purpose is to go home and grow barley,” Sword said.
Boss glared at him. “Fine, then,” she said. “Go.”
Sword bowed to her, and turned to go. He had taken just three steps when she called again.
“Sword!”
He turned.
“Thank you,” she said. “Be well, be safe, and live well.”
“Thank you,” he said in return, startled. “And best of luck in your dealings with the captain.” Then he nodded, and turned his steps northward again.
[ 26 ]
It was more than two years later when Erren Zal Tuyo, formerly called Sword, finally managed to track down the Beauty.
Captain Azal had long since taken the title King of Barokan, and Sword had been in attendance at his wedding to Zrisha oro Sal a month before. The Leader of the Chosen had been proud to exchange her former title for that of Queen.
No one called her Boss anymore.
No one mentioned the Chosen much.
And Erren carefully didn’t mention to anyone that she still had the magical power to give orders that people obeyed without thinking, the ability to persuade people with sketchy arguments, and a knack for jumping to accurate conclusions from inadequate information. Those were useful abilities in a queen; why bring them to anyone’s attention?
No one ever suggested openly that perhaps the marriage had been more Queen Zrisha’s idea than King Azal’s. The possibility that his fondness for her might owe something to magic never came up in conversation. Similarly, no one mentioned that one of her husband’s advisors had once been the Chosen Scholar, or that the man who had once been the Chosen Thief seemed to have a curiously undefined position in the royal retinue.
And if anyone knew that Erren had been offered the post of commander of the royal guard and had turned it down, they kept it quiet. The wedding celebrations were unmarred by any awkward facts or disturbing questions.
It was at the wedding that Erren had heard rumors about a strange house somewhere in Shadowvale, and now he stood among the dripping trees, looking at the bizarre structure the rumors had described.
The day had been rainy, and everything was soaked, but the sun had just broken through the clouds, and now the still-wet house, standing in a little clearing in the woods, gleamed brilliantly in the sun.
It was a good-sized structure, larger than he had expected, two stories and an attic, easily fifty feet from one end to the other, and every inch of the walls and roof was covered in feathers—ara feathers, in intricate patterns of black, white, and pink. Black feathers lined the shutters, and where those shutters stood open he could see pink and white feathers woven into the curtains.
The effect was strange and beautiful; especially now, with wisps of steam curling off the shining black-and-white roof as the midday sun warmed the feathers, it hardly looked real.
It was now obvious why no magic had been able to locate the Beauty.
Erren strode up the flagstone path and knocked sharply on the front door; the sound was somewhat muffled by the layer of feathers. He stood, waiting politely, for what seemed like a very long time before the latch rattled and the door swung in.
An elderly man peered out through the crack at him—not a tottering ancient, by any means, but a sturdy gray-haired man with a lined face. “Yes?” he asked.
“I’m the Chosen Swordsman,” Erren said. “I’ve come to see the Beauty.”
“Who?”
The old man was a very poor liar; his feigned ignorance was utterly transparent. “I understand,” Erren said. “Tell her I’m here, though. I think she’ll want to talk to me.”
The old man contemplated his guest for a moment, then nodded. “Just a moment.” He closed the door.
Sword waited. He listened, but could not hear any voices; perhaps the feathers provided soundproofing, as well as warding off magic.
Then the faint sound of approaching footsteps reached him, and he straightened up just as Beauty opened the door. She peered out through the crack, just as the old man had, and Erren’s breath stopped as he saw her face once again—she was not wearing a scarf or hood, as she always had before, but only a simple robe, leaving her face and hair exposed. She appeared to have aged a little, but she was still by far the most beautiful woman Sword had ever seen, and he had rarely had such an unobstructed view of her features.
Then she threw the door wide and flung herself at Erren, and he staggered back, finding himself holding her in his arms. “Sword!” she said. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Hello,” he said, too startled to come up with anything else. He returned her embrace, and realized that she did not seem to be wearing anything except the plain brown robe.
“Come in, come in!” she said, sliding out of his arms and taking him by the hand.
He followed her inside.
He had half-expected the interior of the house to be as bizarre as the outside, but it was not. Except for the feathered curtains at every window, it was a very traditional, if unusually large and luxurious, home.
Something felt very strange about it, though; the instant Erren crossed the threshold the world seemed to shift, much like the transition he had felt when passing a town’s boundary marker, back before the roads connected everything. He realized immediately what it was—the feathered covering served to shut out ler. Inside the house was not completely dead, like the guesthouse in Seven Sides, or completely asleep, like the Uplands in summer, but it was supernaturally calm; the only ler here were the spirits of the house itself, its furnishings, its inhabitants, and the earth upon which it stood. All others were shut out by the feathers.
It was a place of peace and happiness, though; Erren could sense that. He looked around with something approaching reverence. This was a good place, a happy place. He was pleased to know that the Beauty had found such a home.
There was one mildly discordant note, though. The old man was standing in the central hallway, watching Beauty and Erren with concern.
Beauty pulled Erren to him. “Kiamar, this is Erren Zal Tuyo, the world’s greatest swordsman,” she said. “Sword, this is my husband, Kiamar fis Poririn ta Parum eza Shesir.”
Erren blinked. “Husband?”
“I’m honored to meet you,” Kiamar said, holding out a hand. Erren took it, and shook.
“Husband?” he said again.
“Oh, yes,” Beauty said. “He took me in when I fled from Winter-home, and we fell in love, and we were married that winter.”
“I fell in love with her the moment I first saw her, of course,” Kiamar said, withdrawing his hand. He smiled apologetically.
Beauty smiled. “I’m afraid I wasn’t that quick about
it,” she said. “But it came to me in time.”
Erren stared at her, trying to think which of a million questions he should ask first—and besides, staring at her was easy, just as it had always been.
She turned her gaze from her guest to her husband. “Kiamar?” she said. “Could you—?”
The old man shook himself. “You two must have a great deal to catch up on,” he said. “Why don’t you talk in there, while I see about something to eat?” He gestured into one of the rooms opening off the hall.
Erren and Beauty followed his gesture, while Kiamar vanished in the opposite direction, into the depths of the house.
The two Chosen settled on either end of a velvet-upholstered couch, and for a moment simply looked at one another—which was surprisingly difficult for Erren. He had to struggle to resist reaching out for Beauty, to grab her, or to pull open her robe to see whether he was correct in his surmise that she was wearing nothing else.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“I heard stories about a house covered in feathers,” he said. “I guessed that it was your hiding place; why else would anyone want to cover a house with ara feathers?” He shook his head. “But you didn’t need to, you know. With the Seer dead, the Wizard Lord didn’t magically know our whereabouts. That talisman stopped working when she died.”
“But he had other magic,” she said. “I thought he might be able to find us somehow.” She shuddered. “Is he really dead? I know that’s what everyone said, but there are stories that his body was never found.”
“He’s really dead,” Erren told her. “Farash inith Kerra, the Chosen Traitor, ran him through with a borrowed sword. I saw it. Last I saw, his body was lying beside the trail to the Uplands.”
She blinked at him. “Farash inith Kerra? Old Boss?”
“Yes.” Erren hesitated; he knew she wanted the entire story, and he intended to tell her all about it, but there were other things he wanted to say before her husband returned. “I’ll explain, but first—how did you come here? Are you really married? Do you really love him?”
She smiled. “I really love him. Were you hoping you’d find me alone? I know you had hopes, despite our ages. . . .”
Erren shrugged. “Hopes, yes, but nothing more. I was alone for a long time, and I thought of you often. But if you’re happy, then I won’t intrude. How did it come about?”
“Well, when Boss and Lore were captured, they told us to scatter and flee, so I fled. I headed north, into Shadowvale—no particular reason, it just seemed as good a direction as any. When I got far enough from Winterhome that my normal attire as a Hostwoman began to seem out of place, I started finding men alone and asking them for help; as I’m sure you understand, most were eager to help me however they could, but were not entirely trustworthy. I didn’t need to worry about being delivered into the Wizard Lord’s hands, but I did need to worry about being imprisoned or raped. I managed, though, and changed my clothes around enough to disguise my origin, while still keeping my face hidden as much as possible.”
“I see,” Erren said.
“I hadn’t used my magic, my beauty, like that in years. It felt very strange to be doing it again, as if I were once again that miserable young girl fleeing a hundred suitors, the girl who idiotically agreed to be the Chosen Beauty.” She sighed. “And then I met Kiamar, who was on his way home from a trading expedition to the Soreen Coast, and he fell under my spell, but I liked him better than most. Even when almost overcome with lust, he was kind and considerate. He was strong enough to have done whatever he pleased with me while I slept, but he did not—his strength was not just in his body, but in his soul. So I took him as my protector, promising him endless delights if he would guide and shelter me. I hadn’t initially intended to keep that promise, but by the time we had reached his home I was beginning to think I might—he was such a nice man! Honest and direct, with a cheerful laugh and a bright smile. But I told him that I did not dare take off my clothing, that my enemies would find me with their magic; I had intended that to be my excuse for breaking my word. He accepted it, but the next thing I knew he was down in Fernbridge, buying ara feathers.” She laughed.
“Then it was his idea to cover the house?”
“Oh, yes. At first he merely made feather bedcurtains. Then he papered the entire bedchamber, and eventually, he set out to cover the entire house. Isn’t it lovely?” She gestured at the curtains in the nearest window.
“In its own way, yes,” Erren acknowledged. He did not mention that it must have been fantastically expensive; she surely knew that.
“Do you know, I spent most of my life wrapped in cloth, hiding my face? But here, in this house, there was no one to see me but Kiamar, and the feathers protected me from being found by anyone else, and he took such pleasure in seeing me unclothed. I’m sure you’ve noticed that my face and feet are bare, that I’m wearing only a robe—well, ordinarily I don’t wear that much. I don’t wear anything. It’s such freedom!”
Erren swallowed, trying not to think too much about what she must look like without the robe.
“You don’t need the feathers anymore, though,” he said. “The Wizard Lord is dead. The Chosen have been pardoned by the new King—in fact, Boss has just married him and become his queen. Lore is an advisor to King Azal, and I think Snatcher is working for him as a spy.”
“There’s a King?”
Erren stared at her silently for a few seconds before saying, “You don’t hear much news here, do you?”
“No.” She smiled. “I like it that way. When I first came here, and Kiamar made those bedcurtains, I didn’t want to get out of that bed at all for weeks. I knew I should be doing something to defeat the Wizard Lord and free our comrades, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was enjoying it here too much. I was enjoying Kiamar too much. By the time I finally began to feel guilty about it, and began planning what to do—well, that was when the first reports of the Wizard Lord’s death reached us. So I stayed here and did nothing, and do you know something, Sword? I don’t regret it. I spent thirty years of my life hiding away, waiting to play my role; I did my part against the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, and I tried to help against the Dark Lord of Winter-home, but that was enough. It’s time for me to please myself now—myself and my husband. If I knew how to pass my role on to a new Chosen Beauty, I would, but all the wizards are gone. . . .”
“Not quite all,” Erren said. “There are rumors of the last few still being out there. There might be as many as six of them, though most of us think it’s probably only three or four. However many it is, they’re still in hiding. The King has let it be known that he would prefer they stay in hiding.”
“Well, if you ever find one—”
“We aren’t passing on our roles,” Erren interrupted. “We are the last of the Chosen, just as Artil im Salthir was the last of the Wizard Lords. The old system is broken forever.”
She nodded. “Good,” she said. “Now, tell me how it happened.”
Erren saw Kiamar standing in the doorway, holding a tray, and beckoned for him to join them. Cakes and tea were distributed, the three settled in their seats, and Erren began the tale.
When he had finished, Kiamar asked, “What happened to this Farash? Did he survive the winter?”
“We don’t know,” Erren said. “The King agreed to pardon him, and let him stay in the guesthouse with the Clan of the Golden Spear, but he never appeared. The Patriarch said that Farash had gone off on his own some weeks before. He spoke highly of him; apparently Farash made a good impression during his stay with the clan. He hasn’t been seen since, so far as we have heard.”
“And you went home to Mad Oak?” Beauty asked.
Erren nodded. “I grow barley and beans there, and care for my mother, and try to keep my younger sisters out of trouble.”
“That doesn’t sound very exciting after all your adventures!” Kiamar exclaimed. “Surely, this King you say now rules Barokan could have found a use for
the world’s greatest swordsman!”
Erren smiled. “I’m sure he could,” he said. “But I didn’t ask. Farming is a good life. And it’s the life I chose.”
Beauty smiled, and looked at Kiamar. “Just as I chose this life, here with my husband.”
Kiamar returned her smile, then gathered up the dishes. “I’m sure you two have more to discuss; let me just clear this away.”
The two Chosen watched him go; then Beauty turned back to Erren, her smile fading.
“You said Boss is the Queen, now?”
“Yes.”
Beauty frowned. “Sword,” she said, “I didn’t think about that at first, but . . . she still has her magic, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” Erren said.
“Do you think . . . well, you remember . . .”
“I remember what Farash did to Doublefall when he was the Leader, yes. Do I think Boss may have . . . encouraged King Azal in some of his decisions?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
“But if she did—then she’s just another Wizard Lord, isn’t she?”
“Maybe.”
“But Sword—then we are still the Chosen, and we have to defend Barokan!”
“From what? She may be using her magic to rule, yes. That might make her something like a Wizard Lord, yes. But she isn’t a Dark Lord—or Dark Lady, I suppose it would be. So far, she and Azal have been doing just fine at running things. Remember, most Wizard Lords filled the role peacefully.”
“But . . . but the system . . .”
“The old system is broken,” Erren told her. “There are still vestiges of it, yes—we’re two of them, and Queen Zrisha is another. But we’re the last. None of us has the magic to choose a successor and pass on his or her role. Queen Zrisha is helping to establish a new system, one that will have to work without magic once she’s gone. Let her have a chance to help.”
“But what if she does turn dark?”
Erren shrugged. “I still have my sword,” he said. “I’m immune to her magic, and she doesn’t have anything like the same magical power the Wizard Lords had, in any case. She thinks of me as a friend. If I choose, I can kill her. Or Snatcher can. We don’t need the entire Chosen.”
The Summer Palace Page 29
