Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (13 page)

He was halfway to the
pavilion when he began to feel the wrongness. He might have sensed it sooner
had he not already been confused by the meeting with his mother,
and he tried to
tell himself that that encounter was responsible, that he was merely upset
because his mother was getting old and he was growing apart from her; he
pressed on, but a few steps later his stomach clenched and his skin began to
crawl, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck despite the cold, and he knew
something more was at work.

He swallowed hard, and stopped in his tracks,
trying to feel what was wrong.

He had done his daily practice, so it was not
that. He could think of nothing he had done, or failed to do, that might have
displeased the village
ler
—yet he could definitely sense something
very wrong, and getting worse.

His gloved hands were shaking, and his knees
felt weak, as if he were frightened or ill, but he knew he was not afraid, and
he had been well enough to wield a sword just a few minutes before. He looked
down at himself, at his heavy brown coat and sturdy gray boots.

He was not wearing
his sword belt, he realized—but he didn't always carry a sword, not here in Mad
Oak, so i
t
wasn't that.

He swallowed again,
struggling to stay upright and not to vomit or piss himself, and tried
desperately to think what it might be. This was nothing he had experienced
before, nor did he recall hearing anyone else describe such a thing, so he
guessed it had
something to do with being Chosen. Was this some warning? Did it have something
to do with the Wizard Lord? Had some wizard put a curse on him? He reached for
the pouch where he kept the silver talisman, to see whether it was glowing or
otherwise acting strangely....

The pouch wasn't
there, arid he realized he had left it at home, on his bed—and he further
realized that this was the first time since becoming the Swordsman that he had
ever been more than a few feet from the talisman, and compr
ehension burst upon
him.

"Oh," he said, to no one in
particular. He turned around, and the wrongness faded—though he still felt weak
and sick.

With each step back toward his family home,
his room, his bed, his talisman, he felt stronger. His vision cleared—he had
not even consciously noticed that his sight had been blurred and dim. His
stride lengthened, his throat relaxed.

At the door of the
house he burst in without knocking, and almost collided with Harp; he hurried
past without apology, and snatched th
e pouch from his bed.

Strength and joy surged through him now that
the talisman was in his grasp, and he laughed aloud.

"Sword?"

His mother was standing behind him, in the
door of the room.

"You're back quickly; did you get the
wood?"

"No; I forgot something," Breaker
replied, turning around and grinning broadly. The euphoria of restored health
was already fading.

"Well, hurry up, then."

His smile vanished. He wanted to say
something to her, to explain about what had happened, how strongly he was bound
to the talisman, how careless he had been to leave it behind, but the words did
not come; she wouldn't understand, he was sure of that, and might instead see
this as a chance to berate him once again for agreeing to become one of the
Chosen. He closed his hand more tightly on the pouch and nodded wordlessly.

When he returned with the wood he said
nothing to anyone.

Being the Swordsman was not just a job, he
knew now—it was a part of who he was, and a burden he could not walk away from.
Even a simple bit of carelessness like leaving his talisman behind could sicken
him; who knew what might happen if he did something
really
wrong? He was bound by rules he barely understood, and could not afford
to test them, let alone break them, until he knew more of what it m
eant to be Chosen.

After that, he always checked to be sure the
talisman was secure before he set foot outside the house—and he never spoke of
it to anyone. He did not think anyone in Mad Oak would understand—or care.

The days came and went, and his vague dissatisfaction
grew.

Spring was not long
in coming; the snow melted quickly that year. For the most part life returned
to normal as Breaker helped with the cleaning, the plowing, the planting—but he
still spent an hour of every day practicing with the sword the old man had left
him. There were times when taking an hour to himself was inconvenient, and angered
friends or family, but he had no choice. Even when the spring plowing kept him
in the fields from dawn to dusk, he lit a lantern after supper and ca
rried it out behind
the house to practice in the dark.

He still spent time
with Joker, Brokenose, and the other young men, and danced and flirted with
Curly and Little Weaver, but somehow he felt more detached than ever. Jokes
about his role in the Chosen
that had been common at first faded much more
quickly than he had expected, leaving only an odd sense of disconnection. It
was as if the
ler
of Mad Oak knew he was no longer truly
part of the town—as, Breaker realized, they probably did.
They
would have ob
served his connection to his talisman, and understood that it replaced
and weakened his link to his old home.

And then at last the
planting was done, summer coming on, he was no longer urgently needed to tend
the crops, and in the idleness of the lengthen
ing days the feeling that he no longer
belonged in Mad Oak became overwhelming. He bore it for a time, but finally one
day Breaker informed his parents that he felt it was time he did some
traveling—it was his duty as the Swordsman to see more of Barokan.

To his mild surprise no one argued; if
anything, his father looked relieved by the announcement. As Breaker looked
around at the faces of his family, he realized that the disconnection he felt
had not been one-sided.

"Where will you go?" his mother
asked.

He shrugged. "I'm not sure yet—I've
never traveled before, I don't know what it's like. If I can, though, I think
I should visit the Wizard Lord in the Galbek Hills, and see what I think of
him." He smiled, as if uncertain he wasn't joking.

No one said a word in reply; no one smiled
back.

And why should they? There was no reason that
would be a joke. For an ordinary traveler it might be, but not for one of the
Chosen. His smile vanished.

"I'll go where the
ler
guide me," he said. "It may be to the Wizard
Lord's tower, or it
may just be to Greenwater—I'll see how it goes. Don't worry; I'll be fine, and
I won't make any trouble."

"Be careful, then."

"I will."

And it was decided, far more easily than
Breaker had expected.

He spent the next few
days trying to decide what to bring, and how much he could comfortably carry.
He had a barley sack that would serve as a carry-all, and he obviously needed
to bring his sword, his talisman, and an assortment of clothing appropriate for
all weathers, since he h
ad no idea how long
he would be gone or what the climate was like in the Galbek Hills, but beyond
that he was at something of a loss.

On the fourth day,
around midafternoon, the Greenwater Guide arrived, which decided his route—he
had been considering bartering for passage with the bargemen, should a
southbound barge come by, and there was always a chance the Birches Guide would
make her annual visit early, or the long-promised new Willowbank Guide the
now-retired one had supposedly been training would fin
ally arrive, but Greenwater had seemed like the
most promising destination.

As soon as Breaker
heard the guide was in town he hurried up to the pavilion, where he found the
traveler sitting on a bench surrounded by women. It was not immediately obvious
just what had attracted them all; they were
staring at something spread on the bench beside the guide, pointing and
chattering happily.

"What's
that?" Breaker asked.

Several
of the women turned. "Jewelry," one of them said.

"Ah."
Breaker knew that the guides sometimes brought trade goods of one sort or
another; there weren't enough people along their routes who needed guiding or
had messages to send to make constant traveling worthwhile, so they augmented
their regular services with lace, cosmetics, jewelry, tools, spices, feathers,
and the like—small, valuable items that wouldn't weigh them down and that the
barges didn't bother with.

"Was
there something I can help you with, Young Swordsman?" the guide asked.

Breaker
took a deep breath, and said, "I need a guide.
I'm
going to the Galbek Hills."

"Oh?
I've never been there. I can get you as far as Valley-mouth, at the edge of the
Midlands, but from there you'll need to find someone else."

"Good
enough." Breaker tried not to notice that several of the women were staring
at him now.

"Would
tomorrow morning suit you? I'd like to stay here tonight, perhaps sell some of
this jewelry."

"Of
course. Tomorrow would be fine."

"Then
shall we meet here, tomorrow at midmorning?"

"That
sounds very good," Breaker said. "Thank you."

"Make
sure you bring your pack—we'll leave directly from here." "My
what?"

"Your
pack. Your luggage. The belongings you're bringing with you." Someone
giggled.

"Oh.
Of course." Flustered, Breaker turned away, his face reddening.

He
felt foolish—and he resented that. He was a man—a young one, still unmarried,
but a man. Furthermore, he was one of the Chosen. He should not, he told
himself, be so easily thrown off-stride. An unfamiliar term and a girl's laugh
should not leave him blushing like a silly child.

And
the next day he was waiting in the pavilion, his barley-sack pack at his side,
his talisman secure beneath his tunic, and his sword on his belt, when the
Greenwater Guide arrived.

The
guide was a stocky, middle-aged man, the same man who had brought the former
Swordsman to Mad Oak, and who had led him away three months earlier; he alone
had worked the roads from Mad Oak to Ashgrove in the north and Greenwater in
the southwest for as long as Breaker could remember. Despite the warmth of the
late spring day he wore a long leather coat with
ara
feathers
around the collar, across the shoulders, and down the sleeves and back, as
well as the traditional guide's feathered hat. He glanced at the sack, but made
no comment about it.

He
did ask, however, "How do you plan to pay me?"

"Uh
..."

That
caught Breaker completely off-guard; he had not thought about payment. "Do
you have any money?"

"No—why
would I have money? I'm going overland."

The
guide sighed. "The bargemen aren't the only ones who use money, lad—you'll
see that soon enough. In the Midlands
everyone
carries money, and everything is bought and
sold; they'd laugh if they saw how you people up here manage."

"What's
wrong with how we manage?"

"Oh,
nothing, for a village of brewers and bean-farmers, but in the wider world
things get too complex for your everyone works, everyone shares system. No
matter, you'll see soon enough—and you'll want to get your hands on a few coins
as soon as you can. For now, though—do you expect me to see you safely to Valleymouth
out of the kindness of my heart?"

Breaker
had, in fact, expected exactly that, but it was clear that saying so would not
be wise. "Do the Chosen get no special privileges, then?"

"Not
from me."

Breaker
frowned. "Then my mother will cook you a dinner, when next you come to
Mad Oak—will that be sufficient? Perhaps Harp might play a tune for you, as
well."

The guide nodded, a
sharp motion that set the long white plumes on his hat bobbing. "Good
enough," he said. "And you think you have everything you need?"

"I hope
so," Breaker replied. He hesitated, glancing at the guide's clothing, then
said, "Except perhaps a few
ara
feathers, to guard me on the road."

"You're
one of the Chosen, are you not?"

"Yes."

"Then
surely the
ler
protect you, and you
don't
need feathers." "You're sure?"

"The
old man got here without any." "So he did. Lead on, then."

The
guide snorted, but without another word he did exactly that, picking up his
own pack and slinging it on his shoulder as he led the way toward the uphill
door.

Breaker
heaved his own bulkier load onto his back and followed, bound for the
wilderness—or at least, the lands beyond Mad Oak that he had always thought of
as wilderness.

The
two of them marched quickly along the ridgetop, out of the village, past the herbalist's
gardens, and up to the boundary shrine. The guide marched past it without
hesitation, but Breaker could not so easily overcome a lifetime of training;
he paused at the little stone structure, unable to continue immediately.

This was it; this was
the point at which he would leave Mad Oak behind—though he could see the tree
itself looming ahead of them, this was where the village ended. Beyond this
point the town's priests could no longer talk to the
ler,
could no longer
bargain with them
and coax them to be generous.
This was where he left his old life behind and entered the larger world beyond.

The
guide glanced back and slowed his pace, but obviously did not intend to stop,
despite his charge's hesitation.

Annoyed,
Breaker bobbed his head quickly and said, "I thank you, spirits of my
homeland, and pray that I may return safely to your protection." The
prayer seemed appropriate—he had heard it said by others as they left Mad
Oak—and provided an excuse for his delay.

Then he hastened past
the shrine to catch up with the guide on the path—the trail was too narrow and
faint to really deserve the name "road," Breaker thought.

And the minute he
crossed the boundary, the world around him felt different; the air was suddenly
cooler and somehow harder, the ground rougher beneath his boot soles, and
everything felt somehow less unified, less part of a harmonious whole. He had
always heard that the difference between a place where the
ler
knew you and one
where you were a stranger was noticeable, but he hadn't expected it to be quite
so abrupt a transition—especially not after having spent the last several
months feeling ever more disconnected from Mad Oak. He gasped.

The guide did not
respond, and Breaker broke into a trot to catch up. He stum
bled on the hostile and unfamiliar ground, but
hurried on, and a moment later he came alongside the guide. "I've never
been outside town before," he explained. "It feels so
different!"

The
guide acknowledged this with a grunt.

"It's
..
. it's a bit frightening,
really."

That
drew only a nod, and the guide's silence began to worry Breaker. "Have I
done something to annoy you?" he asked.

The
guide sighed, and turned. "Do you think I'd have become a traveler if I
liked talking to people?"

"Oh,"
Breaker said. "But you
...
I
mean, you talked back in town, and you don't always travel alone
..."

"I
have to earn my keep, don't I?"

"Oh."

"And
as for doing that earning, do you see that tree ahead? The big oak?" He
pointed.

The
tree the guide indicated was gigantic, and very familiar; Breaker had seen it
from Mad Oak every time he looked to the southeast, as it towered above its
surroundings. "Yes, of course," he said. "That's the Mad Oak
that the town is named for; there are all sorts of stories told about it to scare
children, so they won't cross the border. I don't know why it's
really
called
that, though."

"Oh,
it really
is
the main reason the town's lands come no farther along the ridge, and
why the priests have made no attempt to tame the
ler
beyond the shrine.
Those scary stories you heard may well be true. It's called the Mad Oak because
the tree's
ler
has gone mad, more than a century ago, and will not speak to the other
ler,
or to the village
priests. If you speak in its hearing it will strike at you; if you sleep
beneath it, it will devour your soul, and what's left of your body will go to
feed its roots. If you touch it, it will poison you or cut you or club you. If
you move swiftly and silently beneath it, without stopping and without
speaking, it will no
t notice you. Now, be
silent, and follow me."

With
that the guide crouched and began hurrying forward in an odd, stooped posture.
Breaker did his best to imitate this.

Together,
the two men dashed across the broad clearing around the oak—a clearing that
Breaker noticed was brown and dead, despite the lush green of the surrounding
area and the blossoming leaves of the Mad Oak itself. Dead leaves rustled and
crumbled beneath their boots as they hurried, brown powder scattering in all
directions and staining Breaker's legs. There were no green shoots anywhere, no
weeds, no moss, no mold, just dead leaves. It was plain that nothing lived in
the clearing, nothing at all but the immense oak.

Stooped as he was,
Breaker found himself looking down at the deep layer of dead leaves, surely the
accumulation of many years, as he ran, and he realized that here and there low
mounds rose above the even surface, and that here and there these mounds
revealed curves and corners of white bone, gleaming amid the rotting brown lea
ves.

This was a
bad
place; he could
feel
that. The air
around him felt wrong, far more than it had when he first passed the boundary,
and that strange and horrible ground cover only confirmed the wrongness. The
sensation reminded him somewhat of the wrongn
ess
he had felt that day when he went out without his talisman, though there was no
weakness or illness this time—just a certainty that this place was
wrong.