“I think that should do it,” the captain said, looking over the path his men had cut through the rockfall. It wasn’t as wide or as smooth as the original trail, and both sides were lined with piles of rubble, but it was entirely serviceable for a party walking in single file.
Three dozen soldiers and at least a score of other workers had aided in the task, and were now spread along the length of the newly cleared route; the supplies the servants had carried, and most of the soldiers’ spears, were stacked at the head of the canyon, out of the way. Artil im Salthir’s body lay undisturbed where he had fallen, and his sedan chair had been unceremoniously dumped beside him.
Sword and Farash had done their share of hauling stone and were as dirty and sweaty as any of the others. They stood by a pile of rocks that had accumulated in a wide part of the trail, and watched as the captain passed a few more orders to his men.
Then the captain turned and looked at them.
Sword looked back.
The captain gave a signal, a gesture, and two dozen soldiers drew swords or raised spears as civilians hurried to get out of their way. Sword frowned, and let his hand fall to the hilt of his own weapon as the captain marched toward the two Chosen.
A moment later the captain faced the two of them from about six feet away, with his soldiers forming a half-circle behind him, their weapons ready.
“We need to decide what to do with you,” the captain announced.
Sword and Farash exchanged glances. “Why?” Sword asked.
“You’re responsible for the Wizard Lord’s death. I can’t just let you go as if nothing happened.”
Before the captain could reply, Farash asked, “What did you have in mind?”
“Even with the Wizard Lord dead, I could take you prisoner,” the captain said. “Law and authority or no, my men will obey me.”
“What would be the point in capturing us?” Sword asked. “What would you do with us?”
“I’ll hold you until the new Wizard Lord can decide whether you acted properly,” the captain replied. “I know you’re two of the Chosen, and it’s your duty to remove Dark Lords, but the Lord of Winterhome was no Dark Lord! He built roads, he brought trade, he created our army—that’s not evil!”
“Indeed it was not,” Sword agreed. “But killing my companions, and all those wizards, was.”
“Captain,” Farash said, “there will be no new Wizard Lord.”
The captain looked uncertain. “Of course there will,” he said. “There always is.”
“Not this time,” Sword told him. “Your late master did his best to kill all the candidates. The Council that chose the Wizard Lords is destroyed.”
“Artil did that deliberately,” Farash added. “He believed the system had outlived its purpose. He intended to be the last Wizard Lord, and he was.”
“No Wizard Lord?” The captain appeared visibly shaken. “But . . . but the weather . . .”
“The weather can take care of itself,” Sword said. “It did for centuries before the Wizard Lords took control of it.”
“And criminals, and rogue wizards—”
“There are no more rogue wizards,” Farash told him.
“And if there ever are,” Sword said, “who was it actually killed the Blue Lady, and the Cormorant, and Kazram of the Bog, and the rest? It wasn’t Artil im Salthir, Captain—it was ordinary men, soldiers like yourself. If there are rogue wizards, you could handle it without any magic.”
“But there must be someone in authority.” The captain sounded less certain now.
Sword and Farash exchanged glances.
“The roads and canals will need maintenance,” Farash said.
“Keeping outlaws in check is useful,” Sword agreed.
“Deposing the priests in Bone Garden and Drumhead would not upset me.”
“The one in charge doesn’t need to be a wizard for any of that.”
“He doesn’t need any magic at all.”
“Magic might be useful, though. Boss could certainly use hers.”
“I don’t think anyone would trust the Chosen anymore, after this last year, even if one of us wanted the job. Besides, remember Doublefall? The temptation to do something like that would be great.”
“You’re probably right. Not Boss, then—at least, not her alone.”
“Well, I’m sure no one would trust me. Taking the role through assassination would be a very bad precedent, in any case.”
“Indeed.”
Sword turned back to the soldier. “Captain,” he said, “you command the army, do you not?”
“I . . . yes.”
“Then, Captain, you are the man in charge, the person with authority.”
“I . . . but that’s not my role!”
“It is now,” Sword said. “The roles have changed. If you aren’t happy with your new position, you don’t need to keep it, but for now, you are in charge.”
“You did a fine job clearing this path,” Farash said. “I’m sure you can handle maintaining order, and keeping the roads and canals functioning.”
The captain looked from the Swordsman to the Traitor, and back.
“Now, if you want to take us prisoner, it’s your decision,” Sword said. “No one else’s. You no longer serve anyone but your own conscience. You won’t be delivering us to someone; you’ll be taking us for yourself.”
“But you will need to answer to the people of Barokan,” Farash added. “You can rule harshly, and live in fear of the assassin’s blade as the last Wizard Lord did, or you can rule generously, and be loved—as the last Wizard Lord also did.”
The captain stared at them for a moment, then stepped nearer and asked quietly, “If I release you, what will you do?”
“I’ll go home to Mad Oak and plant barley,” Sword replied. “I’ve done what my role required of me, and with no more Wizard Lords, that role is done.”
“And I don’t know what I’ll do,” Farash said. “I have no place in Barokan, I know that.”
“You’ll stay in the Uplands, then?”
“Yes.”
“And in the winter? Will you come down to Winterhome?” The captain watched Farash’s face intently.
“Would I be welcome?”
“I don’t know,” the captain said. “Things can change in so many months. It’s too soon to say.”
“I will come if I am welcome. I will stay in the Uplands if not.”
“If you stay in the Uplands through the winter, you’ll die.”
Farash glanced at Sword, then shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said.
“You are really one of the Chosen?”
Farash looked at Sword.
“He is,” Sword said.
The captain straightened, and announced, “Then as Captain of Winterhome, I acknowledge that your killing of the Wizard Lord was not murder, but I must nonetheless sentence you to exile from Barokan, effective immediately. You may apply for a pardon in no less than six months’ time.” He turned to Sword. “And I recognize that your actions last year were in self-defense, and I grant you pardon now.”
The watching soldiers greeted this decision with applause. Sword suspected this was as much at the promise of avoiding a fight as because they thought justice was being done.
“All right, men,” the captain called. “Fall in, and let’s see if we can get home before dark!”
A moment later the soldiers had marched down through the narrow gap they had made, and the civilians were hurrying to gather up the supplies and equipment they had set down.
No one touched the Wizard Lord’s body; one of the bearers glanced at the abandoned chair, then shrugged and left it where it lay.
Sword and Farash stood silently amid the bustle, and watched them all go.
“You know, you don’t need to go back to Mad Oak and be a farmer,” Farash said as the last servant trotted down the path. “You could stay in the Uplands. You can talk to the ler here; you could be the first Uplander wizard. You could be the only Uplander wizard, and make yourself their wizard lord, just as Artil said.”
“No,” Sword replied immediately. “No more wizards, and no more wizard lords, here or anywhere. The Uplanders have done just fine for centuries without any wizards, and I see no need to change that. If it’s time for Barokan to stop living with wizards, why would I want to see the Uplands start?”
“Because you can,” Farash said, but then he held up a hand before Sword could reply. “I know, I know—that’s not a good reason. You won’t do it any more than I would let you charge into those spears trying to get at Artil.”
“And because if I stayed in the Uplands, you wouldn’t be alone?” Sword asked.
“Perhaps,” Farash admitted.
Sword considered his reply for a moment before saying, “You know, we may agree on many things, and we were on the same side against the Wizard Lord this time, but I still don’t like you. You did betray us nine years ago. You did enslave Doublefall. I don’t want to like you, and I don’t want to keep you company.”
“I understand,” Farash said sadly. “Believe me, I understand. I wish I had lived a better life and been a better man, and I am trying to become one, but I know what I was.”
“I took pity on you once before, and came to regret it,” Sword continued. “But today, you redeemed yourself, so I’m going to take pity on you again, and hope that this time I won’t ever have cause to regret it.”
“But the captain . . .”
“I don’t mean that,” Sword interrupted. “I mean you don’t know anything about the Uplanders, do you?”
“Not very much. I spoke to a few of their clan leaders during the winter, but . . . why?”
“They don’t allow Barokanese up here. If they find you, and you can’t account for yourself, they’ll either kill you or enslave you. I talked my way out of it, but that was because they respected me as the Chosen Swordsman.”
“Oh,” Farash said. He glanced after the retreating soldiery. “Perhaps I—”
“You might be able to convince them to let you live among them, as I did,” Sword said, again cutting him off. “Find the Clan of the Golden Spear, and tell them that I sent you to them. Demand to talk to the Patriarch. Tell him you slew the Wizard Lord, that I sent you to him and that you want sanctuary for what you’ve done.”
“Will that work?”
“It might. I can’t promise. But he let me live because I intended to kill the Wizard Lord.”
“Oh.”
“Can you use a spear?”
“Uh . . . not really.”
“You’ll want to have one anyway; you aren’t considered a man without one. Can you use a rope? Because the only way to live as a free man up here is to hunt ara, and the Uplanders hunt with ropes and spears.”
“I’ll learn,” Farash said.
“I hope so.” Sword hesitated, then said, “If you do spend the winter up here, you’ll need to provision yourself well—I almost starved. You need more food because of the cold. It’s far colder up here in winter than down in Barokan. You’ll need to find or build a shelter.”
“You stayed in the Summer Palace.”
“In the cellars, yes.” Again, Sword paused, then continued, “About the ler—they avoid the ara, and sleep when the ara are active. In the winter the ara migrate far to the south, and the ler awaken. They won’t talk to you if you have any feathers or bones or ara hide anywhere near you, but if you don’t, you may be able to bargain with them.” He grimaced. “Maybe you can be the first Uplander wizard, if you survive.”
“Thank you,” Farash said. “Thank you.”
“I need to fetch my pack,” Sword said. “I left it by the palace wall.” A thought struck him. “You can have my spear; I won’t need it anymore.”
“Thank you,” Farash said again.
The two men walked up the canyon side by side, and then turned north, toward the palace. They spoke little.
They reached the outer end of the tunnel without incident, where Sword presented Farash with his bone-handled spear.
Farash accepted it solemnly, and watched as Sword fished his pack out of the tunnel entrance. “So that’s how you got into the palace,” he said.
“Yes,” Sword said. “Digging it kept me warm and busy. I think I might have gone mad without something like that to do.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I did go mad, a little.”
By this time the sun was below the cliffs; Sword looked around at the fading light.
“I think I’ll stay the night here, in the Summer Palace,” he said.
Farash looked at the wall, and at the gold-streaked sky. “I prefer not to,” he said. “I spent too many nights here.”
“As you please, then.” Sword debated whether to offer the other man his little tent, or any other supplies, but something in the Traitor’s manner deterred him. “As you please.”
Farash nodded. “I wish you well, Swordsman,” he said. Then he turned and began marching out onto the plain, following the distant smoke of an Uplander campfire.
Sword stood where he was for a moment, and watched the other man trudging eastward.
He was, in truth, unsure whether he wanted Farash to survive or not. The man had been his ally, and had slain his enemy, but he had done much harm, as well. Twice a traitor, Farash could not be trusted, and the idea that he might be marching off to slavery or death did not trouble Sword’s conscience—but Farash seemed to have a knack for survival. He really might become the first wizard of the Uplands.
And if he did, it was none of Sword’s concern. Sword hoisted his pack onto his shoulder and turned toward the gate; there was no need to squirm through the tunnel again.
That night he made a point of sleeping naked in the kitchen, well away from his feathered clothing and other ara-fraught possessions, but when he woke he remembered no dreams.
He sat up in his bedding, still naked, and said, “I thought you might want to say goodbye.”
There was no reply.
“I’m returning to Barokan,” he said. “I won’t be back.”
Still, no response.
“The man who had this palace built is dead,” he continued. “I don’t know whether anyone will be using it again.”
They will not.
He blinked. “Why . . . how can you be so certain?”
We will ensure it. You have inspired us. This intrusion is ended.
“I don’t . . . how?”
Go. Now.
Sword did not like that message at all, but he didn’t try to argue; he quickly gathered his belongings and headed for the trail.
He found the Wizard Lord’s corpse still lying by the road in the canyon, beside the abandoned sedan chair; flies and other insects had discovered the remains. He debated whether he should provide some sort of burial, or try to cremate it, but decided against it. Really, he was surprised the soldiers had left the body lying there; it seemed disrespectful of the man they had served. Perhaps they would come back later to retrieve it.
And if they did, he realized, they might try to retrieve the Great Talismans, and Sword did not want that to happen. He paused long enough to search the body and systematically remove every amulet and talisman—not just the nine that had made Artil the Wizard Lord, but the dozens of lesser trinkets he still wore around his neck and wrists.
He knew he could not carry those safely into Barokan, where their magic would return; instead he gathered them up and placed them on a flat stone.
Then he picked up another fallen rock and began smashing the talismans, shattering them, flattening them, grinding them. For a quarter of an hour he slammed the rock down on them, reducing them to harmless powder.
Then at last he straightened up, tossed the rock aside, gave the corpse a final glance, and continued down the defile.
The path through the canyon beyond the corpse, once straight and easy, was now rough and winding, but at last he emerged from the crumbled stone, and had gone only a single step farther when he reached the border of Barokan.
The magic hit him with the force of a great wave, and he fell to his knees. As before, he had forgotten how intense the experience was. Sensation swept over and through him, and for an instant he felt as if all of Barokan’s life were flowing into him.
Then he thought that the feeling had passed, and he started to get to his feet, but he paused. The world around him was not yet steady; the earth was shaking, and a low rumble surrounded him.
For a moment he thought this was still some effect of his restored magic, but then the shaking grew worse, and a sharp crack sounded off to his right. He staggered, then fell back to his knees as the entire canyon seemed to writhe and twist.
Another earthquake. The ler of the Uplands were causing another quake.
The entire world seemed to jerk and shift, and then the movement stopped—but not the sound. Again, he heard a great cracking sound, somewhere to his right, to the north. He got unsteadily to his feet and stepped forward, to the mouth of the canyon. He braced himself against the north wall and peered cautiously out.
Barokan lay spread out before him, green and shining in the morning sun. The trail down the cliffs turned sharply; that was still in deep shadow, so that it almost seemed to vanish, but it was obviously still passable, since the soldiers had made their way down the day before.
But that had been before this new tremor; had the ler destroyed the trail, and trapped the Uplanders on the plateau?
The trail was in Barokan, where their power did not extend. Sword crept forward another few feet and looked down.
The trail was still there, zigzagging down the cliffs. Winterhome was visible far below, still deep in shadow, and the path down to it was unbroken.
He glimpsed movement somewhere to his right, and turned.
The cliff was splitting open, a mile or more away; a fissure had appeared, and was widening as he watched. That was where the deafening noise came from.
A great chunk of cliff broke free as he watched, and with a tremendous roar it tumbled, breaking apart as it fell, scattering earth and stone—and wood and cloth and glass. The entire piece of land on which the Summer Palace stood was falling down the cliff, shattering as it went, and the palace was being demolished in the process.
The ler had ended the intrusion of Barokan’s people into Uplander territory.
Sword watched in awe as a thousand tons of stone crumbled. This was magic, Uplander magic! Surely, it was just as well that no man had ever learned to control Uplander ler.
When at last the rubble had come to rest, far, far below the top of the cliff, when the last stone had rattled to a stop, Sword let out his breath, picked up his pack, and started down the trail toward Winterhome.