The Ninth Talisman (8 page)

He stepped past the boundary shrine, unsure what to expect. Ordinarily, when he crossed from an inhabited area into the wilderness, he could sense the change immediately, as he moved from the presence of familiar, accepting
ler
into the territory of wild, often hostile ones. This road, though, had been torn out of the wilderness, forced through without
the consent of the
ler.
The old
ler
had been dislodged, and new ones would evolve in time, and everyone seemed to assume that the new would accept human traffic as natural and right—but did they actually know that? And the new
ler
would not be fully formed yet . . .

When he passed the shrine and set his foot on the new road he felt not the hostility of the wilderness, but a disorientation and confusion, as if he had suddenly been turned around. He took another step, then paused.

The
ler
here were disturbed, unquestionably. Even he could feel it, despite the magic-deadening
ara
feathers in his hat, and he was no priest or sensitive. He swallowed, steadied himself, and began walking.

It was a very odd sensation. He knew that physically, he was simply walking straight ahead along a broad, straight, flat path, a good seven or eight feet wide, but mentally, spiritually, it felt as if he were balancing on a wobbling edge. He remembered what one of the road crew had told him about maintenance—if the road were not used regularly, it would close up, turn hostile, become perhaps even more dangerous than the wilderness it replaced. Physical maintenance, keeping it clear of obstructions, was relatively simple; spiritual maintenance, keeping it fit for human use, was more difficult. People had to walk it as if they belonged there, and force the road's new
ler
to accommodate human needs, rather than allowing the
ler
the upper hand. If the
ler
ever became dominant the road would require its own priesthood, like a village.

He could feel that the
ler
here were still in turmoil, and he tried to think
at
them, to impose upon them the idea that this road was
his
place, not theirs.

It seemed to help—or perhaps he was adjusting as he moved, or the
ler
were less distraught farther from Mad Oak. The dizzy, unsteady feeling subsided by the time he had gone half a mile, and he was able to concentrate on enjoying the walk and his surroundings.

The morning sun was well above the Eastern Cliffs, slanting brightly through the trees; the leaves above were vivid green, the undergrowth on either side of the road a tangle of green and brown and gray. Birds sang somewhere nearby, though he did not see them.

Willowbank lay perhaps ten or twelve miles south-southeast of Mad Oak—a long walk, but by road it should be easily done in half a day.
When the old Willowbank Guide had been leading people between the towns he had taken a safe but more circuitous route, and the journey had required almost a full day, typically starting before the sun had cleared the cliffs and arriving just before sunset.

Sword studied the wilderness on either side of the road, trying to guess what dangers the old guide had found it necessary to avoid, but he could see nothing that looked especially hazardous. There were deadfalls and hanging vines, uneven ground and scurrying squirrels, flickers of light and movement that appeared to have no natural cause, but no obvious threats.

But then, why would they be obvious? That was why people needed guides in the first place, to warn them of
hidden
dangers. He heaved his pack a little higher on his shoulder and marched on.

Perhaps four miles from Mad Oak the road took its first real departure from a direct line between the two towns; up until now it had shifted slightly to one side or the other to avoid the largest trees, but had generally been straight. Now, though, the land ahead grew marshy, and the road veered to the right to stay on solid ground. Sword knew the Longvale River lay beyond that marsh, and he peered off into the wilderness, but was unsure whether he could see it, or whether he was imagining it. He could definitely hear splashing, though, whether it was frogs in the marsh or fish in the river or something else entirely.

He stayed on the road, and resisted any temptation to investigate. That was wilderness out there, and he was on his way to Willowbank and Winterhome, not just out exploring. Not that any sane person would go exploring in the wild merely on a whim in any case, even with
ara
feathers and the protection conferred by his status as one of the Chosen.

He paused at roughly the halfway point to eat the barley bread and drink the beer he had brought with him, then looked thoughtfully at the earthenware bottle he had just emptied. He knew that if he dropped it in the wilderness it would anger the
ler
enough to cause him bad dreams and minor misfortune, but what if he dropped it on the road? The
ler
there were still in flux, unformed. They might not know yet that castoffs were something they could and should object to.

But why risk it? Why encourage bad habits? And why throw away a
perfectly good bottle? Its weight wasn't enough to justify discarding it on a journey of this length. He pushed the cork back in and stuffed the bottle into his pack, then marched on.

The sun was halfway down the western sky when he knelt at the boundary shrine and asked the
ler
to make him welcome in Willowbank.

Several villagers had already spotted him, of course, and were waiting just inside the border to welcome him. They looked much like the people of Mad Oak, but their clothing was subtly different, with odd embroidery and slanting cuffs, and several of the women wore their hair in a style Sword had never seen before, pulled into an off-center ponytail that draped over one shoulder.

“Mad Oak! You're from Mad Oak, yes?” someone called.

“I am,” Sword answered, rising.

“The north road works! It's safe!”

“He has
ara
feathers in his hat . . .”

“But he didn't have a guide, and he came alone! Who cares about the feathers?”

“He has a
sword,”
a girl pointed out.

That silenced everyone for a moment, as they stopped, turned, and stared, verifying the girl's observation.

“He
does
have a sword.”

“He's the Swordsman, then. Of course he was safe.”

“Are you the Chosen Swordsman?”

“Yes, I am,” Sword replied, stepping across the boundary.

The air suddenly seemed still, the light brighter, colors sharper, the ground beneath his feet steadier, as he left the half-formed
ler
of the road for the mature spiritual community of Willowbank. He took a deep breath and tasted the air, smelled the village's crops and livestock and cooking fires, the faint whiff of a distant tannery, the hot breeze from a blacksmith's forge. Apparently, he thought, it was not so much that the
ler
had become so very much less confused as he traveled, but that his own senses had adjusted, and now that he was back among healthy, friendly, and experienced
ler,
everything seemed preternaturally clear.

“Welcome to Willowbank!”

A man in a long white shirt stepped forward and held out a hand. “I am Toru an Sailor, acolyte to the Priest-King. Welcome to Willowbank!”

Sword took the hand. “Erren Zal Tuyo,” he said. “The Chosen Swordsman.”

The priest tilted his head. “I thought the people of Mad Oak did not use any part of their true names.”

“We don't. But I'm not in Mad Oak, and the Swordsman is part of all Barokan. If you tell me a part of who you truly are, it might be considered rude not to reciprocate. What's custom in one village is a crime in the next, after all, and I have no desire to displease the
ler
of Willowbank.”

When Sword had last gone traveling he had avoided the use of any of his true name as much as possible, as it had made him uncomfortable to hear it spoken, but in the intervening years he had thought it over and decided that was just habit, not reason, and that he should make more of an effort to suit his actions to the customs of the places he visited. After all, thousands of people in Barokan used parts of their true names every day without suffering any ill effects. Villages that totally avoided true names, as Mad Oak did, were scarce.

Saying the name aloud still made him uneasy, though, even if the priest did not seem to have noticed.

“Very good. And why have you come to Willowbank? Are you testing the road, as some of us assumed? Because it seems to me hardly a fair test to send one of the Chosen.”

“No one sent me. In truth, I'm merely passing through, on my way to Winterhome. With the roads open, this route is undoubtedly faster than following the Greenwater Guide down to Valleymouth and then finding my way through the Midlands.”

“Winterhome?” The priest dropped Sword's hand. “Surely, you don't mean you're on your way to kill the Wizard Lord?”

“No, no!” Sword hastily raised both hands in protest. “Of course not—unless you know of some reason I should. I do want to speak with him, if he's willing, but I have no reason to wish him harm.” He gestured at the road. “I came here from Mad Oak by myself, unguided, in just half a day. If anything, I owe him my thanks.”

“Yes! Yes, we're very excited about these roads—though I must say, the construction was quite painful for myself and the other priests. Even the king felt it. For myself, I lay sick in bed for four full days, and
I still can't eat certain foods without dire consequences. When we saw you coming we had hoped it was the start of regular trade with Mad Oak.”

“I'm sorry,” Sword said. “It's just me. But if you want to trade, I'm sure the people of Mad Oak would be happy to see a merchant's wagon.”

The acolyte blinked. “A what?”

“A merchant's wagon. They use them in the Midlands—it's like a farmer's wagon, but closed in, and full of things to sell or trade.”

“Oh! Those! Three of them came down from Rock Bridge, with all manner of wondrous things, when the road first opened. That was what convinced our king to let more roads be built. But we don't have anything like that
here,”
Toru said.

“Of course you don't, not yet. Foolish of me. But you might see about building one, or bringing one of your own up the road from the Midlands.”

“Oh,” Toru said. “Oh!”

“Can we do that?” someone said. The little crowd had been listening to the entire conversation, of course.

“I don't see why not; would your
ler
forbid it?”

“The
ler
of Willowbank obey the Priest-King, just as we all do,” Toru said. “If he wants us to build wagons, we will build wagons.”

“I see.” Sword had encountered such places before, where humanity had gained ascendance over nature—or rather, where the priests had. Not all of them were pleasant. He hadn't realized Willowbank operated on that model. “If I might ask, how far is it to Rock Bridge? Could I reach it before dark?”

Toru glanced at the sun. “I doubt it,” he said. “Not unless you ran the entire way.”

“In that case, is there somewhere I could stay the night? I don't want to inconvenience anyone . . .”

“Nonsense! The slayer of the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills is always welcome in Willowbank!” Toru hesitated after completing this fulsome sentence, then added, “That is, I believe so, but of course, the king's word is final.”

“Of course. What is the proper etiquette for asking his permission?”

“I'll see to it myself, if you could wait here for a moment.”

And with that, the acolyte turned and trotted toward the village proper, leaving Sword surrounded by eager villagers asking questions about the road, Mad Oak, the Dark Lord he had slain, his sword, and every other remotely relevant subject they could think of. Sword did his best to answer them all politely, even if only to say, “I'm afraid I don't know anything about that.”

A few moments later the priest returned, with instructions to escort Sword to guest quarters in the Priest-King's own mansion. Escaping the eager little crowd was a relief.

The relief was short-lived, however. Once he had entered the great shadowy central corridor of the mansion, rather than taking him directly to his room, three more acolytes descended on him and hurried him to an ablutory; the Priest-King wanted him to freshen up, and then present himself for an audience. Refusing was out of the question, so half an hour later, after he had had his hands and face thoroughly scrubbed and his hair and beard vigorously brushed, after his boots had been polished, and after a flimsy white robe had been draped over his dusty traveling clothes, Sword was led into the Priest-King's throne room.

The room was large and moderately luxurious without lapsing into ostentation; carpets covered much of the floor, and the beams supporting the ceiling were carved and painted. The Priest-King himself slouched in a welter of cushions on an oversized chair atop a broad, low dais at the far end, a nimbus of golden light flickering around his head; Sword swept off his hat, bowed deeply, and awaited instructions.

“Come here, come here,” the king said, beckoning from his slouch.

Sword obeyed, rising from his bow and approaching with head bent, as the acolytes had instructed.

He had never seen anyone with a halo before, though he had heard of such things; the effect was impressive, far more so than the sigils worn by Mad Oak's handful of clergy. It left little doubt that this man was indeed favored by the local
ler.

“What brings you to Willowbank?”

Sword stopped and said, “I am only passing through, on my way to Winterhome to talk to the Wizard Lord.”

“Just talk?”

“I hope so.” He raised his head. “I intend to ask him a few questions about these roads he has ordered built, and perhaps other projects. I don't expect anything serious or unpleasant to come of it.”