The Summer Palace (28 page)

If there was anyone else anywhere on this vast plain, he thought, they would be able to find him from a hundred miles away by following that smoke.

He had no food left, none at all; he resisted the temptation to chew on tree bark, since he did not recognize the species of tree and knew some bark was toxic. He did not care to have survived the long, cold winter only to succumb to accidental poisoning. He was able to melt snow in a stolen saucepan for drinking water, but there was nothing he could do for his gnawing hunger. He was used to it by now, but even so, it still hurt.

On the fourth day after leaving the palace he suddenly understood how to find a flock of
ara,
and wondered why it had taken him so
long to realize it. The snow was vanishing rapidly, but it was not gone, and even where patches of bare ground showed through, it was not hard-packed turf that was revealed, but mud.

And where hundreds of man-sized birds had run across the plain, the snow was churned into muddy slush, leaving a trail a blind idiot could easily follow. Sword turned his steps to the north again, following the broad swath of cold muck, and the sun was still above the cliffs when he spotted the
ara
ahead.

Hunting
ara,
he discovered, was much more difficult alone than with a partner, and being weak and tired did not help. Hunger and desperation, though,
did
help, and with rope and spear, one end of the rope tied to a scraggly tree, at last he managed to bring down a smallish male, which he quickly beheaded with his sword.

The rest of the
ara
fled, of course, and Sword let them go. He had more meat here than he could eat in several days, and it would be easy enough to follow the flock's trail. He stood over the dead bird, exhausted, panting, sweaty despite the still-cool air; the smell of blood and death was simultaneously nauseating and appetizing. He stared down at his prey.

Those distinctive black, white, and pink feathers could shield a person from
ler.
The flocks of
ara
forced the
ler
of earth and winter into quiescence. How had such a thing ever come to be?

It didn't matter, he told himself. What mattered was that he had food again. He knelt and began the unpleasant job of butchering his kill, and when that was done he set up camp and built himself a fire. Waiting for the meat to cook, when he could smell its savory odor, was hard, but he was used to hardship.

When he could wait no more he tried to restrain himself and not eat too much, but as he had expected, the fresh, half-cooked meat was too rich for his shrunken stomach; he spent an unhappy hour curled into a ball in the mud as cramps twisted his guts. When he finally vomited, that helped; he was able to relax, and even eat a little more before settling to sleep for the night.

In the morning his belly seemed to have made its peace with him;
he ate a good breakfast of
ara
thigh, and it stayed down without discomfort.

After that, he squatted by the fire and tried to plan.

He did not want to go too far from the palace; he needed to know when the Wizard Lord came up from Winterhome. On the other hand, he needed to eat, which meant staying near the
ara,
which did not seem inclined to go too near the cliffs. He also needed to decide whether he was going to try to live on his own, or rejoin the Clan of the Golden Spear, or perhaps find a temporary home with some other clan.

For now, he decided, he would expect to live on his own—after all, he didn't know when the Uplanders would return. If he encountered any of the nomads, though, he would try to join them; it would be safer to live in a group. He would stay near the
ara,
but not too near, and would make trips back to the Summer Palace every so often, to reconnoiter.

And sooner or later Artil im Salthir would come, and Sword would kill him, and there would be an end to the whole system of Wizard Lords and Chosen—or else Sword would die, and what became of the world would no longer be his concern.

The possibility of
not
killing the Wizard Lord occurred to him, but after surviving the winter, he dismissed it. He could not hear the ghosts of Babble and Azir shi Azir calling out for vengeance, not up here on the plateau, but he knew they were there, all the same. Lore and Boss were in the Wizard Lord's dungeons, and Snatcher, Beauty, and Bow might still be out there somewhere trying to find him. He could not let them all down. He could not leave the Wizard Lord to rule Barokan in peace. He
would
try to kill Artil im Salthir.

What would become of him if he succeeded, what he would do after he killed the Wizard Lord, he had no idea. Artil's guards might kill him in revenge, he supposed.

Or he might just go home to Mad Oak, raise barley and beans for the rest of his life, and let the rest of Barokan look after itself. That was certainly what he hoped for. Perhaps he might even find a wife—with
no Wizard Lord, there would be no need for the Chosen, and he could give up his magic.

At least, he hoped he could; he wasn't sure just how that would work. He knew that when any of the Chosen died, the Wizard Lord's matching talisman stopped working, but the reverse wasn't true. When he had slain the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, his own magic hadn't been interrupted. He might remain the Swordsman even if there was no Wizard Lord.

And there would be no new Wizard Lord. Artil's men had slain almost all the remaining wizards, and the handful of survivors surely wouldn't be stupid enough to try to choose one of their number to take on the role.

If they
did
try it, Sword decided, he would finish the job Artil had begun, and kill them all.

His own thirst for blood startled him; after all, it wasn't so very long ago that he had told his mother that he never wanted to kill anyone, and more than once during the winter he had wept over what he had become. He had never thought of himself as a killer, yet he had slaughtered a dozen or more of the Wizard Lord's soldiers, and here he was, calmly considering the murder of every surviving wizard in Barokan.

He did not weep this time; he had food in his belly and hope for the future. Yes, he was a killer. That was what the Wizard Lords had done to him, he told himself. And that was why there could be no more Wizard Lords.

He glanced at his supply of meat, and reached for his knife. He had gotten out of the habit of eating whenever he chose, but now, he told himself, he was free to regain it; if he didn't eat, most of the bird's flesh would spoil and go to waste.

Eight days later, when the snow had shrunk to scattered patches, the first Uplanders appeared on the western horizon; a day after that three armed men approached Sword's camp, bearing a small banner emblazoned with a dragon.

It seemed very strange to see other human beings again, and Sword met them with his hand on his sword hilt and his spear on his back.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” one of them asked.

“I am the Chosen Swordsman of Barokan,” Sword replied. “I have taken refuge from the Dark Lord of Winterhome as a guest of the Clan of the Golden Spear.”

The three men exchanged glances.

“The vanguard of the Clan of the Golden Spear is five days behind us, and is reported to be heading north of this area,” the spokesman said. “Why are you
here,
then?”

“I did not return to Winterhome with them,” Sword explained. “I took shelter where I could, and stayed in the Uplands through the winter, and am now awaiting their return.”

“You're waiting in the wrong place,” the dragon-clan spokesman told him. “North, on Blue Toad Creek.” He pointed.

“This was where I found food,” Sword said, pointing at the remains of the
ara
carcass.

“Why would the Golden Spear give shelter to one of the Chosen?” another man asked before the spokesman could say anything more. “While we were in Winterhome we all heard what you did there.”

“You called the Wizard Lord a
Dark
Lord?” the third man asked.

“He killed some of the Chosen,” Sword said. “That's not permitted.”

“But he built the roads and canals—the markets in Winterhome are
amazing
now!”

“The same man can do both good and evil,” Sword replied.

“Enough,” the spokesman said, raising a hand to silence his comrade. “You claim to be a guest of the Golden Spear, and we want no quarrel with them. Go to them, then. If we find you wandering about again, it will not go well with you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“If you wish it to be.”

“Your companion said you had heard what I did in Winterhome,” Sword said. “You know I am the Chosen Swordsman, and that I fought a score of the Wizard Lord's men and defeated them. If you are threatening to kill or enslave me, consider well what you are attempting.” He pulled his sword a few inches out of its scabbard.

“You are not in Winterhome now, Lowlander,” the spokesman said. “This flock is our clan's flock for this year, and this is
our
land.”

Sword looked at him thoughtfully. “Yet you cannot hear its spirits, can you?”

“What spirits? This is the Uplands, where we do not truckle to
ler.
Here we rely on muscle and bone and our wits, not dickering with every little spirit.”

“Your lands have
ler,
just like any other,” Sword said.

“What would you know of it?”

Sword started to reply, then thought better of it. Really, what did he hope to accomplish by arguing with these people? He had not come here to talk to them, but to kill Artil im Salthir.

And if they wanted him to rejoin the Clan of the Golden Spear, well, wasn't that just what he had intended to do in any case?

“Nothing,” he said. He pointed. “You say the Clan of the Golden Spear is over there?”

“Roughly. It was agreed in council last month that they would follow Blue Toad Creek.”

Sword nodded. “Then I will find them there. Thank you.” He started to turn away.

“Wait,” the spokesman said.

Sword turned back. “Why?”

“You said . . . you stayed up here all winter?”

“Yes.”

“In that?” He gestured at Sword's makeshift little tent.

“Of course not,” Sword replied.

“But then—”

“I am the Chosen Swordsman of Barokan,” Sword said. “I have magic.”

“Yes, but—”

“You told me I wasn't welcome here,” Sword interrupted. “Let me break camp and begone, then.”

“But—”

Sword turned away and began gathering up his belongings as the
spokesman struggled for words. He did not find them, and Sword offered no help.

By the time Sword had the tent down, the three Uplanders had given up and headed back toward their clan's camp.

The looks on the faces of the Clan of the Golden Spear, when at last Sword found them, were not welcoming; some were astonished, while others were hostile. Sword ignored them as he trudged into the camp.

He had been careful to dress entirely in Uplander clothing—
ara
-hide trousers and vest over an
ara
-cloth shirt, his pack on one shoulder and his spear on his back—but there was still no chance he would ever be mistaken for an Uplander.

And then Fist, Dancer, and Whistler were there with spears pointed at him.

“What are you doing here?” Fist demanded.

“Seeking shelter,” Sword replied, “as I did last year.”

“You really are the Swordsman?” Whistler asked.

“Yes.” Sword wondered whether he had really lost that much weight, or otherwise changed so drastically. He had done his best to keep his hair and beard in check and maintain himself; the Summer Palace had no shortage of mirrors and blades. Perhaps some changes had been so gradual, he hadn't noticed them.

“Where have you been?” Dancer asked. “Where did you hide in Winterhome?”

Sword looked from one to another. “I didn't hide anywhere in Winterhome,” he said. “I stayed in the Uplands, as I said I would.”

“But you're alive!” Fist said.

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Sword said dryly.

“You really . . . ,” Fist began, then stopped, as if suddenly realizing how admiring he sounded.

“I really survived a winter in the Uplands,” Sword affirmed. “I took shelter in the Summer Palace.”

“That can't be,” Dancer said. “No one can live in such cold!”

Sword shrugged. “I did. In the cellars.”

“What did you
eat
?” Fist asked.

“Was that jerky enough?” Whistler asked.

“No,” Sword said. “I found other food.”

“How?”

“The
ler
led me to it.”

All three looked baffled at that. “What
ler
?” Fist said. “The
ler
in your sword? How did they know where to find food?”

“Uplander
ler,
” Sword said.