[22]

 

                                

 The others stared at the Leader in astonishment. "What do you mean, why?" the Seer demanded. "Because he's a murderer, a butcher, who killed dozens of innocent people, and he needs to be removed before he does it again!"

 "But what makes you think he would ever do it again?" the Leader asked. "After all, he has no other enemies, does he? And by your own account it's been five years since the killings; has he killed anyone else in those five years?"

   "No," the Seer said. The Archer glanced at her, startled. "No rogue wizards or other wandering criminals?"

"No one," the Seer said. "I'm certain of it."

   "But shouldn't he have?" the Archer persisted. "Weren't there any fleeing murderers? In all the old stories . . . "

   "The stories sometimes exaggerate," the Scholar said. "Most of them are about events that happened centuries ago, even if the tellers may say otherwise."

   "The Wizard Lord hasn't killed anyone since the slaughter in Stoneslope," the Seer insisted. "Perhaps he should have killed someone, I can't tell that, but he hasn't."

   "Then why not recognize this one instance as a special case?" the Leader asked, spreading his hands. "He's been a good Wizard Lord otherwise—the weather has been pleasant, the crops good, there are no reports of bandits or disorder. Why is this so unforgivable?"

   "He killed babies, Boss. He killed his own aunt, and his betrothed, and his first girl. He's a monster."

   "Seer, it is his duty as Wizard Lord to kill those who deserve to die. We have all of us made him a monster, if that's what he is, because that's what we need to protect us from ourselves . . . "

   "That's ridiculous," the Archer said, interrupting. "We didn't make him anything. The Council of Immortals made him, and made us to keep him in check."

   "And he is held in check—he has killed no one for five years!"

   "Boss," the Seer said, "I held a baby's skull in my hand. It takes more than five years of mercy to atone for what he did—it takes a life."

   "Agreed," the Archer said. "He has to die." 'The devastation in Stoneslope was quite impressive," the Scholar said. "And while he made no attempt to deny it, which is good, he made no apology for it, either. He still felt that he was justified in slaughtering his entire village, and furthermore he said that if we attempted to remove him from power he would kill us. I do not believe we can trust him to behave himself in the future, five years of good behavior notwithstanding."

"He deliberately killed innocents," Breaker said. "We are supposed to punish him for that. The ghosts in Stoneslope are . . . they want. . . " "The souls of the dead cry out for vengeance," the Speaker interrupted, her singsong startling everyone. "The ler of the lost yet linger, seeking justice for their slayer." 

"Yes," Breaker said. "They do. I felt them." 

"As did I," the Seer said. 

"And I," the Scholar confirmed.

"All of you agree, then," the Leader said. "Then why did you come here?" 

"Because you're our leader," the Seer said. "It's your duty to lead us against him." 

"But if I don't believe it wise . . . "

"He killed an entire village!"

"And if he had done that last month or last year, I would indeed be packing my belongings and preparing for the march to the Galbek Hills—but it was five years ago, and he has done no more harm! A man can change, and repent his deeds, and if he is no danger . . ."

   "There is a story," the Scholar said, "that I remember well, so I presume it to be true—though perhaps it merely struck my fancy, and I recall it for that. In any case, it tells of a man who built a home in Shadowvale, close beneath the cliffs, in a spot where the ler were gentle and generous, so that the land was rich and the crops munificent, despite the great barrier blocking out the eastern sky. This man built his house atop the scree, up against the cliff itself, and when he was building it his neighbors, who had come to assist him after the northern fashion, looked up, and noticed that far above them, at the very- top of the cliff, was a section that had cracked and leaned out from the surrounding stone. This great block of stone, fifteen or twenty feet wide, was hanging by a corner.

" 'You can't build here!' one of them said to the homeowner. 'Look, that stone is ready to fall and crush you!'

   "But the builder laughed. 'That stone has hung from the cliff for as long as I have lived in this vicinity,' he said, 'and it has never fallen yet. Perhaps the ler hold it, or perhaps that comer is stronger than it appears, but I will be as safe here as any of you.' And he completed his house, with his neighbors' aid, and moved i n , and lived there in peace—perhaps more peace than he had intended, as the hanging rock made many reluctant to visit him. "And one day, a dozen years after the house was finished, with no warning, the stone fell, and crushed the house to splinters, killing the man and his young daughter. His wife had been down at the river, and she lived, but lost her home and family.

   "Boss, you may choose to live beneath the hanging rock, but the rest of us do not. We have seen what the Wizard Lord can do, and we do not want to risk seeing it happen again."

   "Lore, we will always have a Wizard Lord—the question is not whether we will always have the threat of a Wizard Lord going mad hanging over us, but whether this particular Wizard Lord deserves to be removed, perhaps killed. You all seem to believe that this particular stone is leaning out too far and must be removed for those beneath to be safe, but it seems to me that it has been secure enough for five years. Yes, it slipped once, but now it seems to me to be as solid as ever."

   "And the man who built the house thought that because the rock above him had never fallen after the initial crack, it never would."

   "Boss," the Seer said, "if the Wizard Lord is truly as sane and harmless as you think, then wouldn't he simply acknowledge that our concerns are reasonable, and resign? After all, ending his reign as Wizard Lord simply means retiring to the long and peaceful life of a member of the Council of Immortals, whereas resisting us means his death. How sane can he be, to refuse to resign?"

   "Has he refused? Have you asked him?"

   "We suggested it," Lore replied.

   "And he said . . . ?"

" 'Perhaps,'" Lore said. "He said, 'Perhaps.'" "Then any talk of killing him is premature, isn't it ? Perhaps he'll resign and we can end all this worry calmly and sensibly."

   "That would do," the Seer said. "Mind you, I still think he deserves worse for what he did to the children of Stoneslope, but if he resigns, then we, as the Chosen, will have done our duty and fulfilled our role."

    "Well, then!" "He hasn't resigned," the Seer said. "We have not spoken with him in . . . some time."

   "Almost a month," the Scholar said. "And even that silence is indicative. He knew our intentions, and could have told us he was resigning, if that was his intention. He could have bargained with us. He has not done so."

   "Perhaps he thought you would come to your senses, and realize we aren't a bunch of heroes out of some ancient legend."

"But, Boss," the Seer said, "we are heroes out of legend." "We are sensible modern people." "We are the Chosen, and more than mortal," the Speaker sang.

   "Listen," the Archer said. "If he wants to resign rather than face us, he's welcome to do that, but so far he hasn't. Until he does, it's our job to go to the Galbek Hills and try to kill him, and that's what we're going to do. If he wants us to stop coming after him, he can resign at any time, and we'll stop—but for now, I say v/e get on with our business. If we just sit here in Winterhome arguing, he won't think we're serious. If we march to Galbek either his nerve will crack, and save everyone a lot of trouble, or we'll get there and kill him; either way, our mission will be accomplished and we can split up and go home and get on with our lives. So we march. That's sensible—and heroic."

   "Yes," the Seer said. "We must go after him as if we mean to kill him."

   "We really do mean to kill him," Breaker said. "But he can stave us off by resigning."

   "Fair enough," Boss replied. "That's fair enough all around. We'll head to the Galbek Hills, then. Now, you say the Thief won't come with us?"

   "We couldn't convince her," the Seer said. "You might do better."

"What about the Beauty?"

"We haven't spoken to her," the Scholar said. "We found you first."

"Then I'd say it's time we found her, wouldn't you?" "I suppose it is," the Seer said. "Then let's do that, shall we? You said she was half a mile from here?" "That way." The Seer pointed.

   "Should we all go?" the Scholar asked. "I wonder whether a small delegation might not be a better idea; it seems she's been living among the Host People for some time, and a group of half a dozen descending upon one of their women might not make the right impression."

The others glanced at one another.

   "A fine suggestion," the Leader said. "Seer, I'll need you to find her, and of course I'll go, but that should do, and the rest of you . . ."

"A third," the Speaker interrupted. "The ler counsel a third."
"I agree," the Seer said. "I'd like to have someone else." The Leader shrugged. "If you want." He looked over the
candidates.

"I'll wait here," the Scholar said.

"The streets do not welcome me, the Beauty's words need no interpretation," the Speaker said.

   That left the Archer and the Swordsman; the Leader glanced at the two of them, then said, "Come on, Sword— it'll give us a chance to get to know one another a little better." He clapped the young man on the back.

"All right," Breaker agreed.

The Archer grimaced. "Enjoy the view, Sword," he said. "I suppose I'll get a look at her soon enough."

That reminded Breaker that most of his companions had never met the Beauty; Lore had, but none of the others he had traveled with. As the threesome descended the stairs he asked the Leader, "Have you ever met her before?"

The Leader glanced at him. "No," he said. "I understand she was already something of a recluse by the time I was Chosen."

"She was," the Seer agreed.

   "How long has she been Chosen?" Breaker asked. "I mean—she's supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world, so . . . I mean, she . . ."

   "You mean, doesn't she have to be young?" the Seer said, as they walked across the common room to the door. "Well, let's just say she can't hold the title forever. The present Beauty took on the role when she was only fifteen or sixteen, and has held it more than twenty years—she doesn't need to find a successor quite yet, but she probably will before she reaches my age."

   Breaker did not know just what the Seer's actual age was, but he was not fool enough to ask. At a glance she appeared to be in her fifties.

   Breaker had no trouble imagining a woman in her fifties who was still handsome, and perhaps even beautiful, but the most beautiful woman in the world? That didn't seem possible.

Of course, the Beauty's appearance was magical, so anything might be possible, but so far nothing Breaker had seen of magic had been so . . . so unnatural. Magic came from ler, and ler were a part of nature—to an extent they were nature. Magic shaped nature, exaggerated it, redirected it, but it was still nature; a rabbit or a crow might speak, but with the voice of a rabbit or crow, not in a human voice. The Wizard Lord might summon wind and storm, but those winds and storms were no different from natural ones—the clouds were not red or blue, the rain still fell down and didn't fly sideways or spiral about.

And it was natural for a woman's beauty to fade with time, like a man's strength.

   But the Beauty was not yet forty, if the Seer had the numbers right; she might have several years left before she would have any reason to seek out her successor.

"This way," the Seer said, as they emerged into the street, and the three of them marched northward, up the street.

A few moments later, sooner than Breaker had expected and scarcely out of sight of the inn where they had found the Leader, the Seer pointed.

"There," she said.

The stone-and-wood structure the Seer indicated was no inn; the blackened oak door was closed tight, the windows small and shuttered. The Leader said as much.

"She's in there," the Seer said.

The Leader nodded. "Very well, then," he said. He stepped up and rapped on the door.

For a moment nothing happened, and the Leader looked questioningly at the Seer.

"She heard you," the Seer said. "And the Wizard Lord is watching us." She pointed at a bird perched on an adjoining rooftop.

The Leader looked where she indicated. "He's using the bird's eyes? Has he been watching you often? With five of you traveling together, I assume he's noticed."

   "He's looked and listened from time to time," the Seer agreed.

   "Then he knows what you have in mind." "Of course."

   "Is she coming?" Breaker asked. Now that the possibility of seeing the Beauty was so close, he found himself growing impatient, trying to imagine what the most beautiful woman in the world would look like.

The Seer turned her attention back to the closed door. "No, she isn't," she said.

   "No?" The Leader knocked again, more loudly.

   "She's moving now, but she isn't coming straight to the door," the Seer said. "I'm not sure why. If the Speaker were here she could ask the ler, but I' m not. . . my magic doesn't. . . " She glanced up at the bird again.

   "Is he interfering somehow?" Breaker asked, following her gaze.

The Seer shook her head. "No, that's not it," she said. "At least, I don't think so. He's still watching us, not her. But he's watching me, trying to see what I'm seeing."

   "Can he do that?"

   "I don't think so—but he can try."

The Leader gave the bird one last look, then knocked again.

"She's coming now," the Seer said.

   Breaker turned back to the door expectantly. The latch rattled, and the door swung inward; a face appeared in the opening.

   Or part of one, in any case; the woman in the door wore the black hood and scarf of the Host People, so that all Breaker could see of her face was her eyes.

Those eyes were startlingly lovely—a deep, rich green, surrounded by smooth, perfect skin—but still, Breaker had expected more. He had expected an entire face.

Though now that he thought about it, he should have known better; he had been told that the Beauty lived in Winterhome, so naturally she would take on the customs of the Host People. The delay in opening the door might well have been to fetch her scarf and pull up her hood.

And all he could see of her was those lovely, lovely eyes, and a vague outline in black. He could see she was tall, and the outline of her hood suggested the shape of her head, but beyond that she was invisible.

   "Beauty," the Leader said. "We meet at last. I am the Leader of the Chosen. We need to speak with you." The veiled woman glanced quickly at the other two. "There must be some mistake," she said, in a soft voice that sent a thrill through Breaker—though he was not pleased by the words; had she, like the Thief, come to regret her role? Would she, too, refuse to help?

"There is no mistake," said the Seer. "I am the Chosen Seer, and I know you for what you are."

   "And what is that?" the woman asked, a n edge of annoyance in her voice.

   "The most beautiful woman in the world, made so by magic, chosen by the Council of Immortals as one of the eight heroes who will depose the Wizard Lord should he stray into madness or evil."

   "I don't suppose you would believe me if I denied it; the mere fact that you found me would seem to indicate that you're what you say you are. Which is intriguing, to say the least." She looked at Breaker. "And who's this? Is this another of the Chosen, or a witness to some atrocity? I can see by his attire he's neither Host nor Uplander."

"I'm called Sword," Breaker said. "And you're the world's greatest swordsman?"

"So they tell me."

   She stared at him for a moment, then stepped back and swung the door wide. "Come in, then," she said. "And try not to track mud on the carpets."