[3]

 The world's greatest swordsman, chosen defender of Barokan, was not an early riser; he did not emerge from Elder Priestess's guest room until the sun was halfway up the eastern sky. Breaker had been waiting impatiently, eager to talk over what the wizard had told him—and to find out just what was actually involved in accepting a role among the Chosen, if not just a wizard's spell. The wizard had refused to explain, saying it would be better to hear it from the man who knew it all firsthand.

Elder had let him into the house, but then gone about her own business; she knew no one in Mad Oak would touch anything in her home without her permission. When at last the Swordsman ambled out into Elder's parlor he found

Breaker standing there, almost bouncing with anticipation.

The man blinked at the youth, then said, "I take it you've decided to give it a try."

   "I think so," Breaker said. "It depends." He tried not to stare, but he could not help noticing that the Swordsman, apparently fresh from his bed, the laces of his shirt and trousers awry, nonetheless had his sword on his belt. Breaker wondered if the man slept with it.

"Depends on what?"
"On exactly what's involved. I think I want to do it, but. . . well, you've been the Swordsman a long time. Do
you ever regret it?"

The Swordsman snorted as he wandered past Breaker toward the pantry. "Lad, I don't know that there's much of anything worthwhile a man can do that he'll never regret. You'll always wonder how it might have been if you'd done otherwise. All in all, though, I've been glad I chose to be what I am."

   Breaker followed as far as the kitchen doorway. "The hour's practice?"

   "It's no great hardship. One gets accustomed to it quickly enough." The Swordsman opened the pantry door, then hesitated. "I am an invited guest in this home," he announced to no one in particular, "and a stranger to this town. If I am violating any customs or edicts, I am unaware of it." He waited.

   "I think Elder would have told the ler you're her guest," Breaker said.

   "It never hurts to speak up," the Swordsman said, leaning into the pantry to look around. "What's custom in one village is a crime in the next. You've got a few things here— this thing about never using any of a person's true name is unusual, for example."

"Is it?"
"Well, I won't say this is the only place that does it, but yes, it's unusual. There are villages where it's an insult
to not use part of a true name."

"I've never been in another village," Breaker said.

   "No?" The Swordsman pulled his head out of the pantry and glanced at the youth. "No surprise, really. Well, if you take the role, that'll change. You'll be expected to travel to keep up on the news, so you'll know if the Wizard Lord is misbehaving."

"All the time?"
"No, no—just occasionally. Where is the priestess, anyway? I don't feel right opening her jars and boxes
when she's not here." He thrust his head back into the pantry.

   "She's out in the fields talking to the ler, hearing what they have to say." "Keeping up with the gossip, is she?" Breaker heard the rattle of an earthenware lid.

   "Asking about the weather and the crops, I think." "Ah, that would make sense. I'm sure she knows the ler of her land better than anyone else, and knows what they want. What's in . . . oh, raisins! Excellent." Pottery rattled, and the Swordsman emerged from the pantry a moment later with both hands dripping raisins and his mouth too full to speak. He crossed the kitchen, gesturing for Breaker to accompany him out to the yard.

Breaker followed, and the two seated themselves on a wooden bench beneath a graceful willow; the shade was hardly necessary on so cool a day, but it was pleasant enough. Breaker could see flickering shadows among the leaves, too faint to be birds, and knew some of the more visible ler were watching them. He waited politely while the Swordsman chewed and swallowed. "Like some?" the older man said, holding out a still-full hand.

"No, thank you," Breaker said. He wondered slightly at the audacity of the man, grabbing great wallowing handfuls of Elder's goods that way—but then, not only was he an invited guest, he was the Swordsman, one of the Chosen. Presumably his position allowed him certain liberties and privileges. "They're good." "No." Breaker didn't have any special privileges—at least, not yet.

The Swordsman shrugged, and said, "Tell me what else you need to know," before stuffing more raisins in his mouth.

   "What exactly is involved? I mean, what do I need to do? What will my life be like?"

   "Well, we told you about the daily exercises," the Swordsman said thoughtfully, licking raisin residue from his fingers. "And every so often you'll travel to either the home of one of the other Chosen, or some predetermined meeting place, to discuss whatever rumors the two of you might have heard about the Wizard Lord. Sometimes someone will drop in on you, too, or meet you somewhere while you're traveling. You'll get messages from the other wizards every so often—the Council of Immortals, they call themselves, though that's just bragging."

"Messages? What sort of messages?"

   "Oh, mostly just checking up to make sure you're paying attention. They . . ." He suddenly stopped and threw Breaker a sideways glance. "Can you read, lad?"

   "A little. My sister learned it to help with her music, and she taught me the letters."

   "Well, you'll need to read and write sometimes. Not much. Let's see, what else?" He looked up at the luminous green of the willow leaves, and Breaker noticed light and shadow flitting across the greenery in ways that had nothing to do with sun or wind, but only with the movement of the ler. The Swordsman's presence seemed to have disturbed them somewhat.

   "You need to keep a sword handy, of course," the Swordsman said. "And you need to carry certain talismans when you travel, and have them nearby when you do your practice."

That explained why the man had his sword with him here in Elder Priestess's home, where no one was going to attack him. "What else?"

The Swordsman pursed his lips thoughtfully, then blew out a puff of air. "Nothing else. That's all of it, as long
as the Wizard Lord behaves himself."
Breaker hesitated, then said, "And if he doesn't, you kill him."

   "In theory, yes. The Chosen would gather, discuss whether the misbehavior is bad enough to call for removal, and if it is we would devise a plan, then go and deal with him. But it hasn't happened for a century, remember. My father used to say they should have disposed of the Lord of the Golden Hand, but apparently the Chosen at the time didn't think so. My father thought he made the winters much too cold, but that wasn't really a crime, was it?"

   "So you've never killed a wizard?"

   "No."

"Have you ever killed anyone? I mean, if you're the world's greatest swordsman, then you must fight other swordsmen sometimes ..."

The Swordsman snorted. "Who'd be stupid enough to fight me to the death? Everyone knows that I'm the best in the world, that the ler of steel and flesh make sure I can't be beaten. Oh, sometimes people want to duel me just for fun, I've fought any number of duels, but it's always just until I disarm them, or at most to first blood. No, I've never killed anyone, and I fervently hope to keep it that way. If you're thinking taking my role means you can go out and slaughter anyone who annoys you, then you're wrong—being one of the Chosen doesn't exempt you from the law, and we can be hanged or otherwise punished just as effectively as anyone else. And if you are thinking along those lines, then we've all misjudged you."

"No! No, I don't want to kill anyone. I just wanted to be sure I wouldn't need to."

   "Not unless a Wizard Lord goes bad."

   "And that hasn't happened for a hundred years."

"That's right." For a moment he looked as if he intended to say more, and Breaker waited, but nothing more came.

After a brief silence, Breaker asked, "What's it like? How do people treat you? Do women . . . Are you married?"

"I was married once," the Swordsman said. He frowned. "She died in childbed. So did the babe."

"I'm sorry."

The Swordsman shrugged. "It was a long time ago." "But. . . well, what is it like, being one of the Chosen?"

The Swordsman had been looking off down the valley; now he turned his attention to Breaker and met the youth's gaze.

   "I ought to tell you it's wonderful," he said. "I want you to take the job, so I can retire and rest and just forget about practicing and listening to all the nasty gossip and the rest of it, so I ought to tell you whatever will make it sound good to you. I should say that everyone loves you, and women throw themselves at your feet, and all that—but I won't, because not only do I have too much respect for you, for myself, and for the truth, but if I did lie to you like that, and you took the job and found I'd lied, you might hunt me down and kill me, and there wouldn't be much I could do to stop you, and I might well deserve it."

   "Then it's . . . it's that bad?" Breaker's visions of a lifetime of glory shattered. He swallowed.

   "No, it isn't. Honestly, it isn't. But it's not that wonderful, either. It's a job. People don't treat you as a hero; you're just someone with a strange occupation, like a fletcher or a well-digger. You get respect, but no more than that, and sometimes people forget that you've got just the one promise to keep and expect you to be a hero in other ways, not just in keeping the Wizard Lord in line. You get teased for not killing the Wizard Lord, sometimes by people who've just been talking about what a nice master he is, how safe and calm everything is and how well-behaved the weather is, or even about how he tracked down some ghastly criminal who had fled the village—yes, the Wizard Lord himself sent bears to drag that nasty rapist back before the priest magistrate, and that was wonderful, he's such a great man, why haven't you killed him?" He shook his head. "People can be so odd sometimes. And of course, it doesn't pay anything, being one of the Chosen—you still need to earn your living somehow. I've got an acre and a half of rice back in Dazet Saltmarsh, and I sometimes work as a courier when I travel, to pay my way. But there are good points. Sword tricks do impress people, even when they know it's as much magic as skill, and yes, they impress women at least as much as men.

I don't regret choosing to take the job—I was a few years older than you are, but only a few, when I started, and I could have been making a stupid choice, but I don't think I did. I've had a good life. Still, I'm getting old and tired and it's time to hand it on to someone else. Do you want to be that someone?"

   "Yes," Breaker said. The Swordsman's honesty had decided him, at least for the moment—but then, he had thought he had decided before, and had kept having second thoughts.

   For now, though, he wanted the role. If the older man had claimed it was all fame and fortune Breaker might have balked, thinking it too good to be true, but the description was well within believable bounds. It wasn't perfect—but it sounded like a worthy role, one he thought he could fill, one that would please him more than a lifetime raising barley and beans.

And he wouldn't have to kill anyone, his mother's doubts notwithstanding. The current Swordsman never had . . . Or at least so he said, and Breaker believed him. "Yes, I do," he repeated.

"Then let's see if you have what it takes," the Swordsman said, getting to his feet and brushing the last few bits of raisin from his beard and shirt.

   "I don't understand," Breaker said, also rising. The Swordsman sighed. "Son, if you're going to be the world's greatest swordsman, then you have to

demonstrate that you're better than the other candidates. You need to show the ler that you're trying. You need to give the magic something to work with." "I don't think ..."

"You need to learn to use a sword, boy. Then you need to beat me in a duel. Fortunately for both of us, we
need only fight to first blood, and I don't need to try my hardest—but you still have to have some idea what
you're doing."
"Oh," Breaker said.

He hadn't expected this; he had been assuming it would all be done instantly, by magic—that the Swordsman or a wizard would wave a hand or chant an invocation to the appropriate ler or hand him a talisman, and he would simply become the world's greatest swordsman, knowing how to use a blade.

   He felt foolish; that was never how anything worked. The priestess didn't just ask the ler for the crops, and have them magically appear, after all—they still had to be planted and tended and harvested, and it took months. Why, then, would this far less common magic be any easier or quicker?

   "That's why I haven't started my daily hour of practice yet," the Swordsman said, drawing his sword. "You're going to practice with me."

"But I don't have a sword!" Breaker protested.

   "I have another in my baggage, but no, I'm not going to trust you with it yet. You'll start with a stick— something that isn't sharp. If you show promise after a few days we'll get you a real blade."

   "Oh." This sounded much more likely than transformation with a word and a wave, but also worse than he might have hoped—days before he even picked up the tool he was supposed to master? Just how long an apprenticeship was he beginning—assuming he was beginning it, and the whole thing didn't fall apart? Breaker eyed the bare steel of the sword, noticing how it shone dully in the morning sun. "And you'll use that?"

   The Swordsman shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe not; it depends what we're doing. Right now, though, I want to teach you the very basics, beginning with what a sword is." He held out the blade and pointed.

   "This is the blade. The point, the edge, the back—much like a big knife. But see these grooves?"

   Breaker looked.

"They're called blood gutters," the Swordsman said.

   Breaker swallowed uncomfortably at this reminder of the weapon's nature. "Oh. To let the blood flow more freely from the wound?"

The Swordsman snorted. "That's why they're called that," he said, "because people think that's what they're for. Actually, though, they're just to save weight, making the blade thinner without weakening it. That's important, much more important than any tricks with blood flow—a sword doesn't weigh much, but move it around long enough and every ounce matters. After an hour waving this about, you'll be glad of those gutters even if you never draw a drop of blood."

Breaker ventured an uneasy smile.

   "Now, here's the guard—and it's called that because it guards your hand, of course; no tricks with the name there. The crosspiece here is the quillons. The base of the blade that extends through the hilt is the tang, just as it is in a knife, but it's narrow—I can't show you, but take my word for it. That goes through the wooden hilt, with the leather grip bound to it with wire, and here at the end is the pommel. Know what that's for?"

Breaker blinked at the little metal knob. "To keep your hand from slipping off?" he guessed.

"To keep the hilt from slipping off, more nearly—but it wouldn't need to be so large for that. No, it's a counterweight, to balance the sword."

"A weight? But I thought you just said ..."

   "I did. I said you don't want any extra weight in the blade. This isn't in the blade." He held out the first two fingers of his left hand and laid the sword across them; it balanced neatly an inch or so from the quillons. "A good sword will balance just there. Too much weight in the blade and you'll tire quickly, you'll have trouble controlling it, it will turn in your hand; too much weight in the hilt and your blows will have no force behind them. It needs to balance. Hold out your hand."

Reluctantly, Breaker obeyed, and watched nervously as the Swordsman laid the blade across his palm. "Feel how it balances?"

Breaker almost trembled at the touch of the cold metal; he had never seen or felt such fine steel before, and he could sense the ler within it—hard, fierce ler, kin to those he had felt in knives and arrows, but more intense, more alien, far more powerful, and most especially colder. He had never before encountered anything that felt as coldhearted, even though he knew the physical metal was no colder than any ordinary implement.

Quite aside from the blade's spirit, though, it was immediately obvious what the Swordsman had meant about balance; the sword did indeed balance perfectly at the point he had indicated. It took no effort at all to hold it steady on his open hand.

   It didn't seem quite natural—but of course, it wasn't natural. Swords were the product of technology and magic working together.

"Pick it up."

Breaker hesitated, then closed his other hand on the worn black leather of the grip.

   It fit perfectly into his hand, as if it had been made for him, or as if he had used it every day for a season. He turned his wrist and the blade flashed upward like a startled bird— still cold, but now alive and eager.

"It's so light!" he exclaimed.

"It's a good sword," the Swordsman replied. "It feels lighter than it is."

   Breaker essayed a few cautious moves with the sword, turning it this way and that, as the Swordsman watched. Breaker glanced at the older man, who gestured for him to continue.

   Still hesitant, Breaker took a few swings at an imaginary foe, and could sense the sword's chill pleasure in being used this way. He closed both hands on the hilt for a long swooping chop at the air.

He was vaguely aware as he did that the Swordsman was moving away. The traveler bent down as Breaker clove the air with a wild swing. . . .

   And then the Swordsman was in front of him, a long willow twig in hand, and the stick was thrusting toward Breaker's eyes. Instinctively he swung the sword around, chopping at the green stick, but somehow the twig moved around his blade and still came at him, as if it had writhed like a snake.

   And then the tip of it touched the tip of his nose and pulled away, and he stepped back, trying to gather his wits. The sword in his hand wanted him to do something, but he did not know how to respond.

The willow twig slashed at the back of his hand, a stinging blow, but Breaker held on to the sword and twisted it around to face this attack.

   "Oh, excellent!" the Swordsman said, stepping back and raising his stick to vertical. "You didn't drop it, you didn't try to use your empty hand—for a barley farmer who never held a sword before, nor saw anyone wield one, that was excellent!"

   "What?" Breaker said, feeling very stupid. The weapon he held seemed suddenly ordinary, just another metal tool.

"My dear lad, you do have a swordsman's instincts. You have a natural talent. The wizards' ler who guided me to you have served us both well."

   "I don't understand." "I am telling you, my boy," the Swordsman said patiently, "that you have the inborn ability you need. You have the instincts to work with the sword's ler. With my training and the necessary magic, by spring you will be the world's greatest swordsman—and / can go home and live out my life in peace!"

Breaker looked at the Swordsman, then down at the sword in his hand. "Oh," he said.

It had never really occurred to him that he might not have the ability. What he had doubted was whether he truly wanted to be one of the Chosen.

And he still wasn't entirely certain of that, but at this point, after being told that he was indeed chosen by ler and not simply a random volunteer, he was not about to admit it.