The Ninth Talisman (20 page)

“And so you came here, where . . .” He hesitated; neither of them had yet said this openly. Then he finished, “Where your magic doesn't work.”

The Wizard Lord smiled at him. “Exactly. I can look down and see that the land is at peace. If there are catastrophes I'll see them, or messengers will bring me word, and I'll deal with them—if possible without magic, but should it be necessary I can go back down to the boundary on the trail.” He gave no sign of surprise that Sword had known his magic did not work outside Barokan, and presumably that meant he knew that
Sword's
magic did not work here, either.

That was probably why he was willing to speak to one of the Chosen at such close quarters, without forcing Sword to strip bare and be searched. Handing over his sword was enough; here Sword was just an ordinary man.

At least, so the Wizard Lord thought; he did not consider, might not even know, that Sword was a man who had practiced swordplay for an hour or more every day of the past seven years. That acquired expertise had not entirely vanished with his magic.

And he was a man who still had questions. “What about criminals fleeing into the wilderness, or rogue wizards?”

“There have been no rogue wizards in more than a century,” Artil replied. “You know that. And I know all my seventeen remaining compatriots in the Council of Immortals; I doubt any of them would ever run amok. If one of them should, though, or if a murderer should escape justice somewhere, then word will be brought to me and the matter will be attended to. In fact, I hope I
will
get a chance to demonstrate that such things can be handled by ordinary men, with a modicum of courage and a sound organization, without resorting to magic.”

Sword considered that, looking out at the fading colors in the western sky. “What about the weather?” he asked.

“I have left bindings and instructions upon the relevant
ler,
and matters should proceed quite well without me. The weather may not be quite as perfectly regulated as it would be were I minding it, but it should be good enough. After all, our ancestors got by for centuries before Wizard Lords learned to control the weather.”

“So you're trying to demonstrate that we don't need a Wizard Lord.”

“Yes! Just as you said, all those years ago in the Galbek Hills, just before I was chosen for the job. I want to be the
last
Wizard Lord Barokan will ever see.”

Sword stared out at the darkening western horizon, trying to decide what he should think of this. He
had
said that perhaps the time had come to abandon the system of Wizard Lords, but this was not how he had envisioned it happening. He had not really
had
any clear idea of how it might work, of what could replace the existing system; he had merely been tired and angry at the waste and death and destruction the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills had spread across Barokan, and certain that there had to be a better alternative.

And now the new Wizard Lord, the only person in a position to deliver it, was offering him exactly what he had said he wanted. Logically, he should be overjoyed, but he wasn't. Perhaps he had changed in the intervening years, or perhaps he had merely had time to recover from his anger and betrayal and realize that the old system had indeed worked for seven hundred years.

He wasn't overjoyed, but he was not sure what he
did
feel.

“You can't stay up here all year,” he said.

“No, of course not,” Artil agreed. “This is the
Summer
Palace, and I will indeed return to the Winter Palace, and my magic, in the autumn. But spending months up here will show everyone that it's
possible
to run Barokan without the Wizard Lord's magic.”

Sword nodded, and did not say what he was thinking—that this might also demonstrate that it was possible for Barokan to function without a Wizard Lord, or any other ruler, and that Artil might someday find himself deposed without the intervention of the Chosen.

Nor did he mention that one reason the Wizard Lord's scheme made him uneasy was that it removed one of the major holds the Chosen had over him. Traditionally, no Wizard Lord dared to kill any of the Chosen because each of the eight was tied to one-eighth of his own magic; killing any of the Chosen would reduce the Wizard Lord's own magical ability by that eighth. But this was a Wizard Lord who did not want to use his magic in the first place; he might well have no compunctions about killing the Chosen, should they threaten him or his power. The loss of a part of his magic might not matter to him.

This was, in fact, the
strangest
Wizard Lord Sword had ever heard of. There was nothing in any of the old songs or stories he knew that suggested any other Wizard Lord had been reluctant to use his magic, or had ever considered setting foot outside Barokan.

It didn't even seem entirely consistent with what little Sword knew of Artil im Salthir's personal history. The first time Sword had ever seen the Red Wizard he had been
flying,
which was hardly something one would expect of someone who didn't like magic. He had been flamboyantly dressed even then, carrying a staff strung with dozens of talismans. . . .

But then Sword realized he had never seen the Red Wizard perform any magic
other
than flying; maybe those talismans and fancy clothes had just been for show. He remembered that the
ler
of Mad Oak had not initially allowed Artil to land in the town; his feet had been held in the air until a priestess asked the
ler
to let him land. Did that have any connection with his present attitudes?

Did it matter?

Really, all that mattered was whether the Wizard Lord was doing more good than harm as ruler of Barokan. If he was a benefit to the
land, when all was said and done, then Sword had no business with him; if he was a danger, then it was Sword's duty to remove him. Other than that, his actions were no concern of the Chosen.

And his reasons, his moods and motives, were never any of Sword's business. All that mattered were his actions.

And right now, Sword could not decide whether the Wizard Lord's actions would do more good than harm. His plans were so different from everything Sword had ever thought about that Sword could not judge them.

He would have to wait and see what came of them; that was all there was to it.

“So?” the Wizard Lord said.

Startled, Sword looked up, and realized he had been staring silently over the cliff for several minutes. The landscape below was mostly dark now, the rich colors faded to blacks and grays, though several orange pinpricks showed here and there where people had lit fires and lanterns.

“I'm sorry?”

“So—what do you think of my plan? I want to say, ‘Isn't it magnificent?' but for all I know you think it's some sort of ghastly violation of the rules, and you'll try to whack my head off if you can't talk me out of it.”

“No, I don't think it's ghastly,” Sword said. “I don't know
what
to think of it.”

Artil smiled at him. “It
is
different, isn't it? But I think it's the right thing to do. You know as well as I do that things have changed since our ancestors created the first Wizard Lord. The wilderness is less wild than it once was, the
ler
of field and town far tamer than before, and instead of hundreds of wizards roaming about wreaking havoc there are only eighteen of us left. Magic is fading, or at least changing, and we no longer need it to live in Barokan—so why not discard it entirely? Eighteen wizards—and did you know only one of us has an apprentice? We've given ourselves such a bad reputation, put so many restraints on ourselves these past seven centuries, that no sensible youth would want to be a wizard. Oh, we still get a few applicants, but for the most part they're clearly unsuited. They want to be wizards for the sake of petty revenge, or to impress the girls in their villages.”

Sword could not help remembering that the man he had killed six years before, the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, had been one of those who became a wizard for the sake of revenge. Apparently wizards were not always as careful as they should be about who they accepted as apprentices.

Or perhaps Laquar kellin Hario had just been very good at hiding his true nature.

“We do need to be careful, since we don't want any more rogues or Dark Lords,” Artil continued. “We made one mistake that you and your comrades had to remove; we really don't want another. But that means that in another hundred years, even if I don't change a thing, there may not be
any
wizards; the last member of the Council of Immortals will appoint himself the final Wizard Lord, and what will happen when
he
dies? Better to change the system
now,
and remove the wizards from power peacefully, while a few of us are still around to oversee the transition.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” Sword said, startled.

“Neither had most of my compatriots on the Council, so far as I can tell,” Artil said, looking out over the rail as if he expected to see other wizards there. “When we were discussing who would be the new Wizard Lord I tried to bring it up, but no one else seemed concerned.”

“I suppose most people don't worry much about things that can only happen after they're dead,” Sword replied.

“Perhaps that's it.” He stared out into the darkness a moment longer, then clapped Sword on the shoulder. “Come on, let's go in and see if my people have managed to put together any sort of supper. You must be hungry after the long climb.”

“I am,” Sword acknowledged. He turned away from the rail, and accompanied the Wizard Lord into the Summer Palace.

It was only later, when the tables had been cleared and the Wizard Lord departed, that a guard finally returned his sword.

Sword remained at the Summer Palace for four days, and with each day he felt the emptiness in his heart grow. With each day he wondered why Lore and Artil were not similarly afflicted. He did not ask them; finding the energy to speak about it, in the thin air and his enervated condition, was beyond him.

He spent most of those four days observing the Wizard Lord, talking with Lore, exploring the palace, or simply leaning on the terrace rail, staring down at his homeland.

He practiced his swordsmanship for an hour each day, even though he was fairly certain it was not magically required of him here in the Uplands. He had definitely lost some of his skill, and the sword often seemed heavy and awkward in his hand, but he could still wield the weapon effectively. On those occasions when other people happened to see him in action, they seemed quite impressed;
he
knew he had lost much of his speed and dexterity, but apparently it wasn't obvious to the casual observer.

He made sure to keep his silver talisman, the Talisman of Blades, with him at all times, even though it now seemed nothing but a lifeless bit of metal. It would not do to get into any dangerous habits.

He also spent a good part of each day just looking at the Uplands. That vast, flat expanse, utterly devoid of any perceptible spirit, did not seem entirely real. The occasional flock of
ara
did not make it any less fantastic, nor did the rare glimpses of the Uplanders in the distance, stalking the giant birds or moving their tents from one spot to another or doing whatever it was they did with those strange frameworks of theirs. Streaks of smoke from their campfires straggled up the eastern sky on the calmer days, but calm days were few. On most days winds whistled through the grass and around the palace eaves. The weather
was much cooler than Sword was accustomed to in summer, and the nights were downright chilly.

But then, that was one reason for putting the
Summer
Palace up here in the first place—to escape the heat and humidity of the lowlands.

His diet was rather different than it had been back home. Uplander traders had sold the Wizard Lord what appeared to be several tons of
ara
meat, smoked or salted or dried, and a large quantity of
ara
eggs, which the palace cooks used in a variety of interesting ways. Sword had never eaten
ara
before, and did not particularly like it at first, but soon found himself acquiring a taste for the stuff.

Although a goodly stock of food and other necessities had been laid in before the Wizard Lord moved his household, a steady stream of supplies and messengers trickled up the trail from Barokan, bringing news and perishables. The haulers and messengers generally stayed only a single night before heading back down, so that each morning saw a procession trudging out, and every afternoon found new arrivals appearing from the valley as if rising out of the earth itself.

As promised, Sword became accustomed to the thinner air after a day or two. Adjusting to the absence of his magic took longer; after four days he still felt weak and slow and hollow, even though he was once again breathing normally, and the psychic emptiness was growing worse, not better.