The men of the road crew were pleasant enough company, and while they were eager to dance with the village women they took no unwelcome liberties, so far as Sword could see. Perhaps they were too tired to make trouble after the day’s labor.
The idea that some of them might be seriously interested in taking Mad Oak women as wives occurred to Sword. That would be . . . odd.
Normally, people in Longvale married within their own village, since there were so few people who traveled, but with this road open that might change. It would be easy for men from Mad Oak to go courting in Willowbank, or men from Willowbank to come to Mad Oak, and everyone knew that strangers were more interesting than the same old people one had grown up with. That exotic appeal had meant that the local girls had often flirted with guides and bargemen, but only rarely had such flirting led to marriage; the unsettled life of such men held little appeal for most people.
A road that let ordinary folk travel between towns might be very different, though. A farmer from strange and distant Willowbank might seem more attractive than a farmer from dull old Mad Oak, and the road would make it easy for such strangers to visit. Strangers had been rare before, but that might be about to change.
In fact, this road crew was probably the largest group of strangers ever to be seen in Mad Oak. Sword wondered whether they themselves realized that.
He did not speak to any of the road-builders directly, having asked his share of questions earlier and having no desire to spoil anyone’s fun, but he listened with interest when any of their conversations happened to take place nearby. He did not hear anyone mention any changes in courting behavior, but he did hear some of the foreigners talk about traders bringing goods up from the south or west.
He had not thought about that, but of course it made sense. The roads in the Midlands allowed wagons to pass easily between towns, vehicles far larger than any of the carts used in Mad Oak, so that things grown or made in one place could be sold in another. There were often entire marketplaces devoted to such business, and the Midland towns all used coined money to simplify such commerce.
Mad Oak’s only trade heretofore had been the handfuls of jewelry or spices that the guides brought in their pockets, or the limited variety of goods the bargemen brought along the river, and payment had been made in goods and services—mostly beer and barley—so that the town had no currency of its own.
That might be about to change. Sword was unsure whether that was entirely a good thing.
At one point he found himself standing between old Brewer and Little Weaver, neither of whom seemed to be participating in the festivities. He glanced from one to the other, then asked, “And what do you think of this new road?”
“I’m not sure,” Brewer said. “All this talk of traveling merchants—what if they bring that southern wine?”
“What if they do?” Sword asked, puzzled.
“Well, then they won’t need my beer, will they?”
Sword was one of the few people in Mad Oak who had ever actually drunk wine, when traveling in the Midlands and the southern hills. “It’s not the same,” he said. “I think people will still want good ale, especially in the summer.”
“Will they?” Brewer did not seem very reassured.
“I think so, yes. After all, the bargemen always seemed happy to take your beer in trade. And perhaps you could take some down to Willowbank yourself, and sell it there—you might do very well for yourself.”
“Don’t they have their own beer in Willowbank? The barges come from the north, but Willowbank isn’t north, it’s south.”
“I don’t know,” Sword admitted. “I’ve never visited Willowbank. But the barges go both ways.”
“My mother’s worried about whether people will still need our weaving,” Little Weaver said. “One of the road-builders was talking about the fine fabrics he’s seen in the markets of the south.”
While the local woolens were of excellent quality, Sword remembered some of the fine linens and woven cotton he had seen while traveling. “She may have a point,” he said.
“And what’s this going to do to the guides?” Brewer asked. “Who’s going to pay the Green water Guide if he can just stick an ara feather in his cap and stroll down the road to Willowbank?”
“I don’t know,” Sword replied. He looked at the dancers, whirling happily across the floor. “I suppose they’ll have to find new occupations. Perhaps they can become traders.”
Brewer made a wordless noise that clearly meant he was unconvinced, then turned and stamped off.
The others watched him go, then looked at one another.
“I think I’d like to dance again,” Little Weaver said. “Sword?”
“Thank you, but no,” Sword said. “Perhaps later.”
Little Weaver frowned, then shrugged, and hurried away, leaving Sword to his thoughts.
As the evening wore on and the musicians began to tire, some of the older women who had been supplying food brought bedding instead, and those visitors to Mad Oak who did not make other arrangements, or who drank too much to go elsewhere under their own power, slept comfortably enough in the pavilion. The festivities did not so much end as gradually fade away, but in time the last of the music trailed away, the last steps were danced, and the townspeople drifted off to their homes, leaving the outlanders to themselves.
Sword made his way back to his mother’s house long after his mother and younger sisters had gone to bed. He took a seat in the kitchen and sat with the door open, looking out at the night sky, for a time.
A road to Willowbank—and if he had heard and understood some of the chatter at the dance correctly, the plan was to extend the road farther north, out beyond Mad Oak to Ashgrove or Reedy Bend, and perhaps to build another road leading south from Mad Oak to Birches.
No one had said anything about a road to Greenwater, perhaps because that would mean crossing the ridge from Longvale into Greenvale and finding a route past the Mad Oak itself, but Sword supposed that might happen in time, as well. Or perhaps someone would build a bridge across the river, or establish a ferry, and then build a road east into Shadowvale—after all, why not? If the Wizard Lord wanted it done, why not? There were roads all through the Midlands; why not in the vales?
And why had none been built in all the centuries before? Why was this happening now, in the reign of the Lord of Winterhome, when it had never happened before? What had prevented it? What had changed? Was it simply that no one had thought of it before? Had everyone assumed it would be impossibly difficult, and never attempted it?
Perhaps no one had dared defy the wild ler. The roads were disturbing ler, obviously, and upsetting priests everywhere; one of the road crew had said the Priest-King of Willowbank had not liked the idea at all at first, but had been brought around by the first caravan of trade goods from the Midlands. Since most towns were effectively ruled by their priests, and the priests would suffer the most from any road-building, that might have been enough to deter any experiments up until an even higher authority, the Wizard Lord, ordered it done.
But surely there was more to it than that. There had to be a story, and Sword knew who he could ask about stories. There was a man in Barokan who knew the truth of all the old stories—the Scholar, one of Sword’s fellows among the Chosen. He called himself Lore, as a general thing; Sword had heard his true name, but could no longer remember it with any certainty. Did it start with Olmir? Olbir?
It didn’t matter. Whatever his true name, Lore would be able to answer some of Sword’s questions. And perhaps the Wizard Lord, or his representatives, could answer a few, as well.
Sword had returned to Mad Oak six years ago after killing the Dark Lord, and had kept mostly to himself since then, working in the barley and bean fields, helping his mother tend the family home. He had thought he had had his fill of the world outside Mad Oak, when he came home disillusioned. He had once thought of the Chosen as heroes, of the Wizard Lord as a larger-than-life figure, but they had not lived up to
his expectations. Some of the Chosen had refused their roles or proven useless, and one had been an outright traitor, while the Dark Lord had, despite his magic, proven to be a selfish little man who died easily when a sword pierced his heart.
And the Council of Immortals, the band of wizards who chose each new Wizard Lord, had been arrogant and unwilling to listen to anything Sword might have to say about how he thought the whole system was unnecessary. He had tried to tell them that the time for Wizard Lords had passed, that the system did more harm than good and it was time to change, and they had ignored him—but perhaps the Red Wizard had been listening after all. Perhaps, now he was the Wizard Lord, he was making these changes, building these roads, because he saw that Sword had been right.
It would be very satisfying if that were the case, but the only way Sword could ever know for certain would be to ask the Wizard Lord himself. And even then, the man might lie.
On the other hand, the roads might somehow be a threat to the peace and safety of Barokan, part of some bizarre wizardly scheme. Sword could not imagine what such a scheme might be, but if there were one, then that would mean that the Wizard Lord of Winterhome was a new Dark Lord, and it was the duty of the eight Chosen to remove Dark Lords.
Sword was fairly certain there had never been two Dark Lords so close together as this; after all, if he remembered correctly there had only been nine in the seven centuries the system of Wizard Lords had existed. Had any Chosen Swordsman ever faced two Dark Lords in his lifetime? Sword had thought, when he came home from the Galbek Hills, that he had served his purpose and would not be called on again; had he been wrong?
It seemed unlikely. But then, it had seemed unlikely that the Lord of the Galbek Hills would turn out to be a murderous madman.
The more Sword considered the situation, the more certain he was that he had to go to Winterhome. He wanted to speak to the Red Wizard, and find Lore, and meet with the new Seer, whatever he or she was called, and perhaps with some of the other Chosen, to discuss it all and decide what, if anything, they should be doing.
It might well be that despite the doubts of the priestesses and weavers and old Brewer these new roads were a fine thing, something that should have been done centuries ago, and if so, then perhaps Sword and the other Chosen would see what they could do to assist the Wizard Lord. After all, even if their primary purpose was to remove Dark Lords, why not use their magic for other purposes? Why not help the good Wizard Lords, as well as remove the bad ones?
He would head for Winterhome, he decided. Not at once, not the next morning, but soon, when he had had time to review and prepare, when the ler had calmed and the roads had had time to recover from the violence of their creation. He would head south, at least as far as Willowbank. He might decide there was no need to go all the way to Winterhome, but he would definitely walk the new road as far as Willowbank.
Soon, he told himself.
Soon.
[ 3 ]
It was four days later that Sword hoisted his pack to his shoulder and set out on the road south.
During that four days the people of Mad Oak had been haunted by nightmares and ghosts. Some of the livestock had been skittish and intractable, half the milk in town had soured, and at least one barrel of beer had been mysteriously skunked, but the road had apparently stayed open, though no one from Mad Oak had yet dared to use it.
Nor had anyone more from Willowbank or farther south arrived. The road crew had returned to Willowbank after just a single night in Mad Oak, taking their tools and their padded, ara-feathered suits with them. They had talked about a possible return to extend the road north, but no one had seemed very certain of the details, and as yet there was no sign of any such continuation.
They had also spoken about opportunities for ambitious young men and women in Winterhome and the Midlands, and along the roads; it seemed that road-building was not the Wizard Lord’s only project, though details were scarce. Sword was eager to learn more about those other projects, and how this business of recruiting people to work outside their homelands functioned. He had always been told that most people were bound by their own ler to their native land, and that people who tried to relocate often sickened and sometimes even died.
The Chosen, of course, were immune to such things, protected by their magic, and guides and bargemen were people who either had never formed ties properly or were able to break them and survive, but most people were alleged to have these magical ties. How, then, could the Wizard Lord be gathering people from all over to build his roads and work on his other schemes without condemning them to suffering and possible death? Had he developed some magic to deal with the problem? Or had it all been a myth all along?
There was so much to ask!
Sword did not want to rush off while the displaced ler, or Mad Oak’s own ler that had been upset by the whole thing, were rampaging about. He had waited a few days to be sure that the disturbances would pass.
Indeed, the road’s disruptive effects had faded with each passing day as the priestesses gradually coaxed and wheedled the town’s ler back to their usual complacency, and chased the foreign ler back past the boundaries. Sword had chatted with Elder Priestess on the third day, as she rested up after a particularly difficult negotiation with the ler of the paths through town, and from what she told him he concluded that the worst was over, and there was no reason for him to linger. Soothing the ler was not his job in any case, nor anything he knew how to attempt, and the priestesses seemed to be handling things well enough.
With that settled, he had gathered a few things and said his farewells, and now he was marching south toward the road to Willowbank.
It felt odd to be leaving Mad Oak without a guide, but that was the whole point of the new roads—to let ordinary people travel from one town to the next unaided. Sword, of course, was not technically an ordinary person, but he had nonetheless followed the Greenwater guide when last he left Mad Oak, and had assumed he would do the same should he ever leave again.
Instead he had his sword on his belt, his talisman in his pocket, and three curling ara plumes in his hat, but he was alone, with no one to show him the route or protect him from hostile ler-he needed only to follow the road to reach Willowbank, and then Rock Bridge, and then Broadpool, and on along the length of Longvale until he emerged into the eastern Midlands, and then up across the downs to Winterhome, there beneath the Eastern Cliffs.
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.
The Ninth Talisman Page 5