Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 (86 page)

Breaker
began
to
wonder
just
what
was
really
happening. Had
the
Chosen
been
gathered
together
and
lured
here
deliberately?
Had
Seer
and
Lore
been
sent
to
Stoneslope
on
purpose?

But
no,
that
was
ridiculous.
The
Wizard
Lord
had
done
everything
he
could
to
keep
the
massacre
secret.
This
was
just
his
backup
plan,
his
way
of
dealing
with
the
Chosen
if
it could
not
be
avoided.

But
how
elaborate
was
it?
The
Archer
was
undoubtedly trapped
somewhere
deep
in
the
corridors,
safe
for
the
moment—but
where
was
the
Leader?

Breaker
struggled
to
remember
everything
he
had
seen
and
heard
since
entering
the
tower,
and
concluded
that
he had
never
heard
the
Leader's
footsteps
on
the
stairs,
had never
seen
the
Leader's
shadow
blocking
the
light
from above.

He
had
never
come
down
here
at
all.

That
was
baffling;
why
hadn't
he
been
right
on
Breaker's
heels?
Had
the
Wizard
Lord
somehow
trapped
him
before
he
even
got
that
far?

By
the
time
he
had
thought
this
through
he
was
on
the
stairs,
climbing.

On
the
entry
level
he
paused,
and
glanced
around.

There
were
four
doors
and
one
open
passage
opening
off
the
central
chamber;
all
four
doors
were
closed,
and
as
far
as he
could
see
by
lamplight
did
not
appear
to
have
been
disturbed
in
some
time—two
were
adorned
with
cobwebs
that would
have
been
broken
had
the
doors
been
opened.
The
Wizard
Lord
and
his
maids
clearly
did
not
use
those
doors often.

The
passage
led
back
to
the
entrance,
still
held
open
by the
Archer's
wedged
arrow.

The
Leader
might
have
gone
back
out
to
gather
reinforcements,
but
would
he
have
left
the
arrow?
And
...
Breaker
could
hear
voices.
Faint,
too
faint
to
make
out
words,
but definitely
voices,
and
they
were
coming
from
above.

They
were
strangely
familiar.
They
were
very
much
like the
voices
he
had
heard
now
and
then
when
he
awoke
in
the middle
of
the
night
on
the
journey
from
Winterhome
to
this tower,
the
voices
he
had
dismissed
as
dreams
or
audible
ler
—those
same
voices
were
speaking,
somewhere
higher up
in
the
tower.

And
one
of
them
might
have
been
the
Leader's.

And
every
time
he
had
heard
those
voices
in
the
night,
he now
realized,
one
of
them
could
have
been
the
Leader's.

Sword
in
one
hand,
lamp
in
the
other,
Breaker
headed
up the
spiral.

Once
he
was
above
the
entry
level's
ceiling
Breaker discovered
that
most
of
the
tower
was
an
empty
shell;
there
were
no
intermediate
levels,
no
floor
across
the
beams
that
supported
that
ceiling,
but
simply
a bare
stone
cylinder,
some
fifty
feet
in
height,
with
a
stone
spiral
up
the
center
leading
to
the
floor
above.

And
there
were
two
voices
coming
from
that
upper
level,
one
of
them
definitely
the
Leader's;
he
hastened
his
pace.

And
then
he
stopped
dead,
just
as
his
head
reached
the level
of
the
floor,
when
he
heard
the
Leader
say,
"I
suppose
they've
realized
they're
trapped
by
now.
You're
sure
there's no
way
they
can
escape?"

"I
certainly
hope
not,"
the
other
voice
said—a
thin
tenor
Breaker
did
not
recognize,
but
mat
he
supposed
must
be
the Wizard
Lord's
real
voice.
Up
until
now
he
had
only
heard the
Wizard
Lord
speaking
through
animals,
but
this
voice sounded
human.
"I
suppose
that
eventually
the
Swordsman
might
manage
to
hack
his
way
through
the
doors,
but
it should
take
hours,
at
the
very
least,
and
I'd
expect
my
maids
to
warn
me." Breaker's
hand
trembled,
and
he
felt
ill.
"You
can't
just
tell
where
they
are?"
the
Leader
asked. "Not
with
those
confounded
ara
feathers
the
Swordsman
has—I'm
not
the
Seer."
At
that,
Breaker's
hand
fell
to
the feathers
in
his
belt,
the
feathers
he
had
bought
from
a
passing
guide
to
ward
off
bad
dreams.
They
had
apparently
done
more
good
than
he
realized.

"No,
you're
the
Wizard
Lord,"
the
Leader
said.
"You're supposed
to
have
all
our
magic."

"I
have
my
own
magic,
not
yours.
Eight
times
as
much,
yes,
but
not
the
same."

"How
long
do
you
think
I
should
wait
before
luring
in
the
others?"

"You
know
them
better
than
I
do.
My
maids
are
undoubtedly
setting
up
the
next
corridor
by
now,
if
you
want
to
get on
with
it."

"Oh,
there's
no
hurry.
After
all
this
time
I
want
to
enjoy
this."

"You
enjoy
it?
Betraying
your
comrades?"

"Of
course!
The
seven
people
in
all
Barokan
my
magic
can't
affect,
and
who
don't
have
the
sense
to
see
that
our
magic
should
make
us
rulers,
and
who
dragged
me
halfway
across
Barokan
in
the
rain—of
course
I
enjoy
knowing
where
their
folly
has
brought
them."

"It's
not
all
seven.
The
Thief
is
still
back
on
her
farm
outside
Quince
Market,
with
her
husband
and
brats."

"It's
six
of
them;
that's
good
enough
for
now."