Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (91 page)

"Was
it
bad?"
she
asked.
"Killing
him?" "It
was
quick,"
Breaker
replied.
"That's
not
the
problem,
not
really." "He
killed
dozens
of
people—is
that
it?"
"Hundreds,
maybe.
Yes."

"But
without
a
Wizard
Lord,
wild
lightning
might
kill
just
as
many—crops
could
fail,
floods
wash
people
away,
storms sink
fishing
boats
..."

"But
...
it's
not
the
same.
That's
not
deliberate.
It's
not
evil."

"The
people
would
be
just
as
dead." "I
suppose."

"We
can
tell
the
Council
we
think
they
should
reconsider,"
she
suggested.

"We
can,
yes,"
Breaker
agreed.
"We
will."
He
hesitated, unsure
what
to
say,
not
wanting
to
tell
the
truth,
then
rose. "Let's
go
find
those
talismans."

They
did
not
find
the
talismans,
but
the
maids
did,
as
they
cleaned
the
Wizard
Lord's
body—all
eight
were
sewn
onto
a
leather
belt
the
dead
man
wore
beneath
his
faded
robe.
No one
had
any
difficulty
in
identifying
which
one
to
remove,
as each
matched
the
talisman
one
of
the
Chosen
already
carried.
Breaker
pulled
the
silver
blade
from
the
belt,
ripping
it
loose
without
bothering
to
sever
the
threads
that
held
it,
and watched
as
the
Archer
took
the
golden
arrow,
the
Beauty
the silver
mirror,
the
Seer
the
crystal
orb.

The
Leader
hesitated,
his
hand
hovering
over
the
golden crown;
he
looked
at
Breaker.

"Take
it,"
Breaker
said,
and
Boss
obeyed.

The
wounded
Babble
had
to
be
helped
over
to
the
cooling corpse
to
collect
the
vaguely
tongue-shaped
garnet,
and
the

Scholar
waited
until
last
to
retrieve
the
tiny
rune-carved stone
tablet.

That
left
an
iron
key,
which
clearly
represented
the
Thief.
Breaker
prodded
it
experimentally,
and
found
that
his
fingers
could
not
close
on
it,
and
any
touch
left
his
fingertips
bleeding
from
dozens
of
tiny
cuts.

"She'll
need
to
come
and
fetch
it,"
he
said,
putting
his bleeding
fingers
in
his
mouth.

The
others
nodded,
and
they
left
the
Wizard
Lord's
body
to
his
maids.

They
stayed
the
night
at
the
tower,
the
maids
waiting
on them
as
if
they
were
mighty
lords,
and
the
next
morning,
as
they
were
readying
the
wagon
for
departure
and
idly
debating
whether
they
should
bother
tearing
off
the
lightning
cage to
lighten
the
oxen's
burden,
the
wizards
began
to
arrive.

The
first
came
by
air,
of
course—an
old
man
Breaker
had never
seen
before.
The
winds
that
carried
him
alerted
the
Chosen
to
his
approach,
as
they
suddenly
howled
and
whistled
from
a
clear
sky;
Breaker
and
the
others
looked
up
from where
they
stood
to
see
the
wizard
sailing
over
the
hills,
and a
moment
later
he
stumbled
to
the
snowy
ground
a
dozen
yards
from
the
wagon.

No
one
moved
to
aid
him.
Breaker
felt
a
twinge
of
shame
at
that,
an
old
man
on
one
knee
in
the
snow
and
no
one
rushing
to
help
him
up,
but
on
the
other
hand—this
was
a
wizard. This
was
a
member
of
the
Council
of
Immortals
that
had sent
them
to
kill
the
Wizard
Lord,
and
had
given
them
no
assistance
whatsoever.
No
one
had
given
them
much
help,
but the
wizards
least
of
all.