The Ninth Talisman (42 page)

The Beauty might be alive, or might be dead. Sword was sure that the Wizard Lord
wanted
her dead, but his little squad of soldier-women had been wiped out, and Beauty could probably handle any males sent after her.

He realized he had no idea what she would do, with her home destroyed. He could not begin to guess.

And Bow—Bow was probably dead. Yes, he had the knack of not being noticed, but he wasn't invisible, and with a hundred men after him it seemed unlikely he even got down from that rooftop alive. He would put up a fight, certainly, but his magic was intended for use at long range, and his supply of arrows was not infinite.

If he had somehow escaped, as Sword had, then he would be just as lost and helpless as Sword was. Neither of them could hope for shelter in Winterhome, or anywhere they were known; the Wizard Lord's men were hunting for them, and the ordinary people would almost certainly choose the man who had built their roads over the ones who had slaughtered two dozen soldiers. Even in Mad Oak, Sword was not sure he would be welcome—and of course, that would be almost the first place the Wizard Lord would look for him.

Sword needed to find some village where he would not be recognized, some place he could be a harmless traveler rather than the Chosen Swordsman, but how was he to do that? If he simply set out across the countryside at random he might never find another outpost of civilization.

Or at least, that would be a risk in the northern vales—but he wasn't in the vales, he was in the eastern corner of Barokan, beneath the cliffs, and to the west lay fifty miles of flat, densely populated land. If he stayed in the thickly settled Midlands he should be able to find his way without road or guide; the towns were often in sight of one another.

And he might see smoke he could follow, or firelight by night.

He would manage somehow.

He pushed himself upright, still tired, and slid his sword into its sheath; then he took a bearing from the sun, and began walking, bound west by southwest, to whatever he might find.

There was one detail Sword had not initially considered; he still wore the distinctive loose black garb of a Hostman, and everyone knew Host People didn't travel, even now that there were so many new roads. This realization struck him as he peered across the twilight fields at the brightly clad people of whatever village he had found. The men he saw here wore red shirts, and the women wore brightly patterned yellow gowns; his black clothes would make him immediately recognizable as a foreigner.

Well, he told himself, he didn't really have much choice. He couldn't have passed for a native in any case; everyone in a village this size surely knew each other by sight. And perhaps he could pass himself off as coming from some far northern town that affected black clothes; he had a northern accent, after all, and surely the Host People weren't the
only
ones who dressed entirely in black.

But he was still only a few miles from Winterhome, and these people would know how their neighbors dressed. The gathering darkness and his accent would help, but not that much. He looked down at himself. He could remove the ties at ankle and wrist, perhaps roll the waistband up…

And then what? Walk in across the field? They would know something was wrong then;
nobody
just walked in from the wilderness.

He would need to circle around and come into town on a road—any town this close to Winterhome would surely have a road by now. And he really ought to do it before full dark. The sun was already just a narrowing orange sliver on the western horizon.

He began adjusting his clothes as he walked, trying to make them look as strange as possible without being silly. He unstrapped the sword from his back and tucked it under one arm, then detoured to a distinctive
tree, shinnied up the trunk, and set the sword securely in the branches, some eight or nine feet off the ground, well hidden from the casual eye by the surrounding leaves.

He was fairly certain he could find it there when the time came. He had already done his hour's practice, on his way through the wild, so barring disaster he would not need the weapon again until morning. He dropped back to the ground, brushed himself off, and trotted toward the road.

A few minutes later he strode into town, looking for some sign of a guesthouse or inn, and found himself the target of a hundred astonished eyes. He stopped, realizing that something was wrong.

Could word of his outlawry have reached here already? Had he been recognized so quickly? He had thought that his route across country had gotten him here faster than any of the Wizard Lord's soldiers could have come by road, even if they knew where to go. Had he misjudged that badly?

But he didn't
see
any soldiers. . . .

For a moment no one spoke; then someone called, “Didn't you see the shrine?”

Sword blinked, startled. In fact, he
hadn't
seen a boundary shrine, since he had come cross-country. When he had found the road he was already well inside the borders.

“What do you . . . ” he started, but he didn't complete the sentence; every person in sight had cringed, and most of them had clapped their hands over their ears.

“Don't speak!” someone called.

Baffled, Sword stood where he was, trying to decide what to do.

The village was arranged in a circle around a central green; brick buildings formed a broken ring around the grass, with seven streets—he counted—leading away in various directions. He had come in on one of these seven streets, and now faced across the circle toward the largest structure in sight, a brick-and-marble building that filled the entire space between two streets.

And as he watched, the black doors of this building suddenly burst open, and three black-haired girls in yellow dresses came tripping hastily down the front steps, each clutching a handful of brightly colored
ribbons. The last to emerge also carried a small drum, which she beat with the hand holding the ribbons. They ran across the green toward him, their steps keeping time to the drum.

Obviously, the local
ler
required some sort of formal greeting ritual.

Sword silently cursed himself, he had been so caught up in his own situation, the conflict of the Chosen and the Wizard Lord, that he had not given local customs any thought at all. The Wizard Lord, the Chosen, and the Council of Immortals might determine the fate of all Barokan, but on a day-to-day basis, it was the local
ler
that mattered.

“Oh,
ler
of this place, forgive me,” he murmured under his breath as the girls approached. “I meant no disrespect. I most sincerely beg your pardon.”

And then the girls were surrounding him, ringing him in hastily strung ribbons, and dancing in a circle to the simple rhythm the drummer beat. He stood and waited, assuming they would give him a sign if he needed to do anything more.

They were pretty things, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old—a little out of breath from their hurried arrival, but all dancing eagerly and gracefully.

When they had caught their breath a little, the drummer signed to the others, and all three began singing, first in a language he didn't recognize, and then in an archaic-sounding Midlands dialect of Barokanese.

“Oh, stranger, who disturbs our order, who are you that comes to our border?”
they sang, in clear, sweet voices, though one stumbled a bit on the word “border,” glancing uneasily up the road. The tallest girl, who was in front of him at the moment, beckoned for him to reply.

Sword knew better than to lie to
ler,
but he also did not want to announce his role. Fortunately, there was a simple alternative.

“I am Erren Zal Tuyo,” he said, trying to give his voice a sing-song quality.

This was apparently satisfactory; the three girls exchanged glances, never stopping their dance, and then one signaled the others.
“You who speak a foreign name, what have you come here to claim?”
the girls sang. “
What brings you to our humble home, why have you seen fit to roam?”

“I
am passing through,” Sword replied. “I just want lodging for the night, and perhaps supper and a bath, and I'll be moving on in the morning.”

“One more request we three must dare,”
the girls sang.
“We have an oath that you must swear.
”

Sword waited, but they did not continue; instead they were watching him as they danced, clearly anticipating a response.

“Tell me what I must swear,” he said.

“By sky above and earth below, you must vow in peace to go; by light and water and by air, now swear you will no weapon bare; by blood and sinew and your heart, swear you take no foeman's part; by sun's bright light and moon's soft glow, vow you'll strike no hostile blow.”

Sword hesitated, remembering for a moment what he had done and seen on the streets of Winterhome, but then he said, “I do so swear and vow.” His eyes felt suddenly damp; he blinked to clear them.

He hoped very much that he could keep that oath.

“Then welcome stranger, to our town; now may you lay your burdens down!”
And with that the girls broke their ring, twirling apart, whipping their ribbons into bright spirals above their heads before bursting into giggles and running wildly away.

With the ceremony complete, several of the villagers now approached, smiling. Sword stood where he was, careful to make no threatening moves.

“Good to meet you,” one burly man said, holding out a hand. “Erren, was it? I'm Dal—my daughter's Second Dancer.” He nodded toward one of the girls.

“Thank you,” Sword said. “I'm glad to be here.”

“You have us all wondering, though—why didn't you wait at the boundary shrine? Can't you read? You gave us all a fright, walking in without ringing the bell, and starting to speak to us!”

“I can read,” Sword admitted, “but the truth is, the day was so pleasant and the
ler
seemed so agreeable that I cut across the fields a little, and missed the shrine entirely. I'm very sorry.”

This was not exactly correct, but Sword doubted the local
ler
would care; people lied all the time in most towns. Names were special, the
ler
concerned themselves with names, especially during rituals like that
dance, so he had not dared give a false identity, but now that he was simply talking man-to-man he thought he could stretch the truth.

Dal shook his head. “Dangerous, leaving the road like that. You young men think nothing's going to hurt you, but one of these days you'll step on the wrong ground and find yourself cursed.”

“Well, I hope that hasn't happened yet, and I'll be more careful in the future,” Sword said. “I've very sorry if I upset anyone, and thank you again for your welcome. Is there an inn here, perhaps? Or a guesthouse at the temple?” He glanced around and discovered that he was now surrounded by villagers, but none of the others were speaking; they seemed content to let Dal act as their spokesman.

“Nothing like that,” Dal said. “We don't get enough overnight visitors to need such a thing. But there's a spare bed in my attic, where my son used to sleep, or Iza might rent you a room.” He nodded his head toward an old woman, who smiled toothily at Sword.

“An attic will do fine,” Sword said, smiling in return.

“This way, then.” Dal glanced at Sword's back, and the complete absence of a pack of any kind. “You travel light, I see; may I ask where you're heading?”

“I'm not really sure,” Sword said, thinking feverishly. This was a time to not merely stretch the truth, but avoid it entirely—he needed a reason to be traveling alone, with no goods or money, other than fleeing for his life.

Fortunately, there was an obvious possibility. “The priests in Ashgrove sent me to find an herb called widow's finger that's said to grow in the southern hills, and bring them back seven leaves,” he improvised. “Would you know anything of such a plant?”

“No, but I'm neither priest nor herbalist. You'll want to talk to Mother Forrik. So you're from Ashgrove?”

“Not by birth, but I'm courting a girl there. I'm from Brokenbirch, in Shadowvale.” He didn't think any such town existed, but he wasn't very familiar with Shadowvale, even if it
was
just beyond the eastern ridge from Mad Oak. He hoped these people weren't familiar with it, either. “By the way, I've been hurrying so, I forgot to ask—what do you call your town?”

Dal was startled. “You never heard of Morning Calm?”

“Oh, this
is
Morning Calm?” Sword replied, a trifle hastily. “I thought I had farther to go to reach it! If I'd realized, I'd have stopped at the shrine.”

“Of course,” Dal said, smiling. He clapped Sword on the back.

Sword was not sure whether he had ever heard of Morning Calm or not, but admitting that would hardly endear himself to his host. “So tell me about your town; are the stories true?”