Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (11 page)

And then he was no longer aware of anything
at all.

[The new Swordsman did not so much awaken as
| gradually become aware of his surroundings.

He was lying in his own bed, fully dressed—in
fact, he still had his boots on, though his coat had been removed. He was
lying on his back, staring up at the blue flowers his mother had long ago
painted on the plaster ceiling of his room. His hands were at his sides, and
both were clutching something; his right hand was closed on something hard and
cold, while his left held something sharp and hot. He had no memory of how he
had gotten down from the loft and into his own room at the back of the house.

And all through him
he could feel the rushing of... of
something.
He
didn't have a name for it. It wasn't heat or cold or raw magic, nor was it any
of the natural emotions or physical sensations he was familiar with. It was
something numinous, something of
ler,
but he could not give it a name.

He blinked, his first conscious movement
since he had lost himself in the wizard's chant, and that seemed to break some
small part of the spell; he could still feel the rushing, and his hands still
held whatever they held, but he was once again entirely himself, the young man
called Breaker—or the Young Swordsman.

He raised himse
lf up on his elbows
and looked around.

The thing in his
right hand was the hilt of a sword, one of the two the Old Swordsman had
brought—hardly a surprise, since they were the only swords in Mad Oak. He
raised the blade and looked at it, then let it fall a
t his side.

He opened his left hand to find the silver
talisman clutched to his palm; he closed the hand again.

He was not alone in the room; his mother was
sitting on his one chair, watching him. She had that familiar worried
expression she wore whenever one of her children was ill, whether from eating
too many sweets or angering the
ler
or whatever other causes might put a child to
bed with aches and fever.

He glanced at the window and asked,
"What time is it?" Then he reconsidered, and without waiting for a
reply asked, "What
day
is it?"

"It's still the same day," his
mother said. "It's a little after noon."

"Oh, good," he said, sitting up.
"That's not bad."

"Not
bad?
You were unconscious for
hours!
Even when
that black-coated wizard and the Old Swordsman
and your father hauled you down the steps
you didn't so much as stir!"

"I wasn't exactly
...
well, I was unconscious, I suppose, but
it
...
I can't explain. It's
magic."

"Of course it's magic!" she
snapped. "You've gone and gotten yourself involved in things you shouldn't,
you have wizards putting spells on you and Elder Priestess arguing with half
the
ler
in Mad Oak about you, you defeated the world's
greatest swordsman in battle—of
course
it's
magic! It's a wonder you're still alive and have your own soul
!"

He grinned, and
asked, "How do you
know
I still have my own soul?"

"Erren Zal Tuyo, do you think I don't
know my own son?"

The sound of the first three elements of his
true name was a shock; he could not recall ever having heard his mother say all
three of them aloud before. People in Mad Oak didn't
do
that. The mysterious
rushing seemed to swirl and eddy at the psychic impact.

"I suppose you do," he admitted,
still smiling. "Though I'm not entirely sure / do anymore! That spell—it
connected me to the
ler,
to everything, and it took me a while to remember
who I was and find my way back. I wouldn't have been surprised if it had taken
a few days, or even months."

"So it's all worked, then?"

"I think so."

"And you're the Swordsman? The world's
greatest swordsman? One of the Chosen?" "I
think
so."

"And now you're ready to go kill the
Wizard Lord if someone asks you to?"

Breaker's cheerful mood dimmed at that
question. "I suppose I am," he said—but as he spoke he remembered
the talking rabbit, and how the Wizard Lord had been reluctant to hurt the
creature's throat by forcing it to continue its unnatural speech. That was
hardly the act of a cruel or thoughtless man; Breaker could not easily imagine
why he might be called upon to kill such a man.

But as he re
membered the fight
he was reminded of other questions. Why had the Old Swordsman fought so
fiercely, when he had come to Mad Oak and spent months in preparation
specifically to lose that very duel? Why had the Wizard Lord's rabbit spoken up
when it did, startling the Old Swordsman and giving Breaker the opening he
needed?

Why did the Wizard Lord live virtually alone,
out in the wilderness? He had not dared ask that before, but now
...

"Where's the Old Swordsman?" he
asked. "I need to talk to him
..."
He belatedly remembered thrusting a sword point into the man's shoulder.
"Is he all right?" He glanced down at the sword in his right hand,
and saw that yes, it was the same weapon, and a bit of his opponent's blood was
still streaked on the tip, though someone had wiped away the worst of it.

"He's packing
up," White Rose said. "Younger Priestess cleaned the wound and
started it healing, and one of those awful wizards used her magic to call a
guide, who said the southeastern road should be passable at least as f
ar as Green-water;
he's on his way here from Ashgrove now. He and the old man should be ready to
go first thing in the morning."

"He's leaving? Just like that?"

"He got what he came for. You're the one
with the magical job now, one of the Chosen; he doesn't belong here anymore.
He's just an old man going home to his family."

"I didn't think he had any family."

"Well, he's going
somewhere,"
his mother said
angrily. "He's not staying here in Mad Oak; we've had quite enough of
him."

"I thought
...
the roads
...
I mean,
I still have more to learn
..."
Breaker's voice trailed off as he realized he wasn't sure of the truth of his
own words.

"Not from him, you don't. He's
leaving."

"I need to talk to him." Breaker
sprang to his feet and flung the sword onto the bed, then marched past his
mother and out the door of the room.

The steps to the loft
were on the line between stairs and a ladder, very steep but not quite
vertical; Breaker scrambled up them as his mother called after him worriedly,
"Is it safe to leave you
r sword down here?"

Breaker ignored the question as he clambered
up through the open trap and looked around.

The Old Swordsman—the
former
Swordsman—was sitting on the edge of the bed, studying something he
held in his hand. He looked up at Breaker's entrance. "I suppose you have
more questions about how it all works, now that you know what it feels
like," he said, before his replacement could speak.

"Those,
too," Breaker agreed, as he closed the trap behind him. "But first I
need to know something else—why
did you
..."
He broke off in midsentence as he noticed the lump under the old man's shirt.
"Are you all right?"

The former Swordsman glanced down at the
hidden bandages. "Oh,
I'm
fine," he said. "Your pretty little priestess fixed me right up;
there's hardly even blood on the gauze."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, I hope not. It's a little late to
undo any of it."

"No, I just meant that I hadn't wanted
to hurt you that badly. A little cut on the arm would have been plenty,
wouldn't it? But you kept your guard up, you pressed me hard; I never had an
opening for your arm."

"I know," the old man said. He
grimaced. "Believe me, I know."

Breaker hesitated; now that he was here and
had a perfect opportunity, it was surprisingly hard to get the words out. At
last, though, he said, "Why did you fight so well?"

"So
well?
I
lost,
didn't
I? There I was, the world's greatest swordsman, and some overconfident kid
..."

Breaker cut him off. "You were supposed
to give me an opening. You were supposed to let me win."

"I
did
let you win.
"

"The rabbit startled you."

"I suppose it did." He set aside
the thing he had held, then turned his attention back to Breaker. "And
remember, boy, that the Wizard Lord isn't limited to rabbits. He can see and
hear and speak with
other
animals, as
well. Ra
ts
or mice, for example—well, I'm not sure he can make a mouse speak, there may
not be enough breath there to work with, but he can see through their eyes and
hear with their ears."

"I suppose he can," Breaker said,
unsure where this was leading.

"I know he can—I've spoken with him that
way plenty of times over the years." "All right, then."

"And is there
any reason to think that he can't do as well with insects, or spiders?" He
pointed at a web between two rafters. "That little eight-legged dot up
there mi
ght
be listening to our every word, sending it all to the Wizard Lord in his
hilltop tower. For all I know, the air itself might carry our words to
him."

"So he could be listening to us right
now?"

"Indeed he might. Quite a powerful
magician, our Wizard Lord. Master of all Barokan, from the Eastern Cliffs to
the Western Isles, and most likely able to see and hear anything he chooses
that takes place anywhere in his realm."

"But he can't be everywhere at
once."

"No, he's still more or less human, he's
not a
ler."

"So he probably
isn't
listening to
us."

"But he could be. After all, he did take
an interest in our duel. If the Seer were here, she could tell us—she always
knows when the Wizard Lord is listening or watching, it's part of her magic.
But / can't tell, and the Seer isn't here." He grimaced. "I didn't
want her here, for fear she would talk me out of
...
well, out of something."

Puzzled, Breaker asked, "Would she? Talk
you out of dueling me, I mean?"

"I don't know, any more than I know
whether the Wizard Lord is listening."

"And what if he
is
listening? Does it
matter?"