The Summer Palace

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

To the west there were hundreds of thousands of people, down below the cliffs, and there were undoubtedly still Uplanders making their way down the trail. Up here, though, he was alone.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  Thousands of miles of empty prairie!

  No people, and no ara.

  But there were ler everywhere, of course, and if any of them wanted to talk to a human, well, he was it. He was their only option.

  But he had never heard of them wanting to talk before.

  Well, he had all winter to figure it out, and right now the cold was seeping through his cloak and blankets, filling his boot-tops and spilling up past his breech-cuffs. His fingers were freezing, and handling the metal ladle and the metal pots was becoming painful. He stacked up the snow-filled pots and hurried back into the palace.

  Closing the door behind him shut out the wind, but the air in the palace was almost as cold now as the air outside. He shivered and headed for the stairs, wishing he had somehow contrived a pair of gloves, or at least brought some bits of rag to put between flesh and metal.

  Moments later he sat in the dim kitchen, warming his hands over a candle and trembling with the cold. The pots of snow were arranged nearby, and so far showed no signs of melting. He hadn’t wanted to start a fire, not so soon, not when he had not even been in the palace for a second night, but the chill was intense, and he glanced longingly at the bureau and drawers he had brought down earlier.

  It was still so early in the season!

  While he could not remember ever experiencing cold much worse than this, he had never before spent a winter in the Uplands. For all he knew this was nothing, just a cool spell, and the real cold was yet to come.

  He shuddered and pulled his cloak and blankets more tightly about him.

  If he was still shivering when the candle was half-gone, he told himself, he would start a fire . . . Or if the snow hadn’t started to melt by then . . . Or if he thought he might be freezing to death.

  He tried to remember how one knew he was freezing to death. No one in Mad Oak had frozen to death in decades, perhaps centuries; the Wizard Lord wouldn’t allow the winters to be really bad, and not even poor stupid drunken Blackhand had been that careless. He knew that fingers and toes went numb, and he seemed to remember something about getting sleepy. . . .

  But how would anyone know what it felt like to freeze to death? Obviously, anyone who reported on the sensations had survived! He shook his head.

  His ears felt strange—the lobes and the top edge were tingling and felt hot. He reached up and touched one. He had felt this once before, as a young boy, he realized. His ears had partially frozen and gone numb while he was out gathering snow, and now that he was in the warmer confines of the kitchen, with his candle warming his hands, they were thawing out. And it was going to hurt, he remembered. He bit his lower lip.

  He should have wrapped something around his head, even if he didn’t have a proper hat or hood that wasn’t feathered.

  Still, his ears were thawing, now that he was in here and out of the wind. The numbness wasn’t spreading. He didn’t need a fire, not yet.

  But if he was already freezing his ears, then the cold was serious. He wasn’t just being weak and soft, as he had feared. And it would probably get much colder. He glanced at the bureau again.

  There were plenty of rooms full of furniture up there. The carpets and draperies would probably burn, as well. He could last out the winter, and he could afford a fire tonight, if he thought it necessary. It would mean the palace’s furnishings would be in ruins by the time the Wizard Lord’s staff returned in the spring, but he had already known he couldn’t keep his presence a secret.

  “Forgive me, O ler, for what I must do to survive,” he murmured.

  The candle flame flickered, then flared up more brightly, and the pain in his ears began.

  [ 13 ]

  In the end, he decided he did not need a fire yet. His ears returned to normal, and the pans of snow did begin to melt eventually, though only very slowly. He spent hours doing little more than huddling over a candle, thinking.

  He ate another half-strip of jerky and sipped a little snowmelt for his supper, and then decided there was nothing more to be accomplished until he could coax a few answers out of the ler. He stripped off his clothes and curled up on the mattress under a stack of blankets.

  He did not fall asleep quickly; he couldn’t decide whether that was entirely a bad thing or not, given his vague memory that an early sign of freezing to death was sleepiness. He found himself thinking too much, and worrying too much, to doze off easily, and the very question of why he was not falling asleep merely added to those concerns.

  He was unsure whether he had enough food, or enough fuel, or even enough water, to survive the winter—what if there wasn’t enough snow? Gathering and melting it required so much time, effort, and heat that he could not easily build up a reserve, and water evaporates.

  How would he ever actually get at the Wizard Lord? Artil was cautious, and constantly guarded.

  What did the ler want? Why had they spoken to him in his dreams, but then refused to answer questions when he was awake? Why had they demanded he remove his protective hides and feathers if they did not have something specific in mind that they wanted of him? He lay awake for what seemed like hours, worrying about all these questions.

  And there was a thin thread of fear, as well—what if the ler answered all his questions in his dreams, and he didn’t like the answers? What if his dreams were to be nightmares?

  In the end, though, he did finally sleep.

  And in time, dreams came.

  At first it seemed to him that they were just ordinary dreams—not pleasant ones, but the sort he would expect after a day such as the one he had had. He dreamed he was running through endless corridors as ice formed on the walls and snow drifted from nowhere onto the carpeted floor; he dreamed he was digging up snow with his bare hands, desperate to find something buried beneath the white powder, but more snow appeared as quickly as he could move it; he dreamed he was walking across the Uplands of late autumn searching for water, and a sparkling stream glittered in the morning sun ahead of him, but no matter how fast he walked, it came no closer, and when he began to run, it slid away even faster, receding into the distance.

  And then he saw the Leader and the Scholar standing on the far side of the stream, calling a warning to him that he could not understand, and then the stream was not water but blood, spilling from the mangled corpses of the Seer and the Speaker, and the Archer was running alongside him saying, “I could have killed him long ago, if you’d let me.”

  Sword had had many dreams like this since the Wizard Lord’s soldiers had killed or captured half the Chosen; he needed no ler to send them, or to interpret them.

  But then the dream-Archer said, “You have questions to ask, don’t you?”

  Sword stopped running. “Yes,” he said, unsure whether this was still an ordinary dream, or whether the Uplander ler might be starting to intrude.

  Suddenly Lore and Babble, miraculously restored to life, were standing beside Bow, and Lore said, “Then ask them.”

  “Is this real, then? Are you . . . are you avatars of Uplander ler, or are you just figments of my imagination?”

  “Does it matter very much?” Bow asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Sword said. He looked up at an infinite blue sky. “O ler, if you hear me, whatever spirits there are who wish me well, I need to know whether this is a vision of truth, or just my own thoughts playing tricks on me. I need to know whether I can depend on what I’m told here.”

  “Can you ever know?” the dream-Babble asked. “Ask and appeal and answer can all be illusion. Every day, when you think you walk the waking world, how do you know you do not dream it?”

  “I know,” Sword replied. “When I’m awake, I trust my eyes, I know that what I see is really there. I trust my ears, and I know what I hear. I may not always know what it means, or whether someone
is lying to me, but I know I’m not just making it up myself.”

  And if we say to you, this is a true vision?

  The words came from everywhere and nowhere, entering his mind with no need for sound.

  “I don’t know for sure,” Sword said unhappily. “I think you are Uplander ler, talking to me while I sleep, but I don’t know.”

  You did not doubt us last night.

  Lore and Babble and Bow had vanished now, and he was once again standing naked on the snowy plain, talking to empty sky.

  “I know,” Sword said. “I believed you, and I didn’t wear hides or feathers, and it felt as if I had really spoken with ler, but now I’m not so certain. Maybe I fooled myself. Or perhaps that was real, but I’m fooling myself now.”

  Why are you so unsure?

  “I have no proof! Maybe I’m just dreaming you, because I so desperately want help against the Wizard Lord, because I don’t want to be completely alone in the Uplands.”

  We do not understand doubt. What is, is, and what is not, is not, and we are aware of what concerns us and do not perceive that which does not.

  “You’re spirits. I’m a man.”

  Speaking to you when you are awake is more difficult, but if you cannot believe us without it, perhaps we can accommodate you.

  “Or just a sign, to let me know this was real,” Sword said. “Something to tell me I didn’t imagine it.”

  A light, perhaps?

  “That would be perfect,” Sword said, remembering the light of ler playing in the trees along the riverbank in Mad Oak at twilight.

  Then you will see light when you awaken, seven lights in seven colors. Now, ask your questions.

  Sword hesitated.

  He was fairly certain now that this was a vision, rather than just a dream, and that he was really conversing with ler, but he didn’t know which ler, or how patient they would be with his questions. Where, then, to start?

  “Are there any hidden entrances to the Summer Palace?” he asked. “Ways in and out that aren’t obvious? Tunnels, or concealed doors?”

  No.

  Well, that was definite, anyway. “Could I make one?”

  You know your own capabilities, surely.

  “But . . . is there anything that would prevent me from digging a tunnel? Can you help me dig one safely, or advise me in the best way to go about it?”

  There was a moment of near-silence, when the only sound was the wind; then the reply came.

  There are spirits in the earth who will guide you.

  “Thank you!” That was perfect; that was all he could hope for. He quickly asked his next question. “Can you aid me in surviving the cold?”

  We can. Whether we will do so remains to be seen.

  That was disappointing, but not surprising. “Why . . .” He paused, then continued, “Why is it so cold, so soon? It doesn’t get this cold this fast down in Barokan.”

  The birds have gone, and we are free to act.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Our strength lies in the winter, when the birds are gone, when the sky is cold and the winds are free.

  “You made it turn cold?”

  As we do every year, as soon as we are free to do so.

  “Free?”

  The birds have gone south, and we are free to speak and to act.

  “The birds?” Realization dawned. “You mean, the ara don’t just shield the birds, or the people wearing their hides and feathers?”

  The birds trample the life from our land. Their feathers ward us off. The hot sun of summer burns us away. Our strength lies in the winter, when the birds are gone, when the sky is cold and the winds are free.

  “You’re only powerful in the winter? Only when the birds are gone?”

  Yes.

  “The ler of Barokan aren’t like that.”

  We are not the ler of Barokan.

  “I know that. I know.” He stared out at the empty sky and shivered. “And when you’re free, each year, you turn the air cold, and bring snow and wind, as quickly as you can?”

  Yes.

  “And do you keep it cold until the ara return?”

  Until the sun grows warm, and the birds come, yes.

  Sword stood silently for a timeless dream moment—it seemed like years, but he knew it was probably just a few seconds. Then he asked, “Are the ler of Barokan growing weaker, as Artil im Salthir says?”

  Barokan is not our concern.

  “But they might be?”

  We know nothing of Barokan.

  “Could it be because the Uplanders bring ara feathers down every year, and sell them to the Barokanese? Are the feathers weakening the ler?”

  We know nothing of Barokan.

  Sword could not be sure, but he thought he detected a trace of irritation in that response, and quickly switched topics. “Why did you speak to me? Why did you come to me in my dreams, last night and tonight?”

  You interest us. We have not spoken with a human for a thousand years.

  “A thousand years?” Sword knew it had been a long time, but a thousand?

  Yes.

  “In all that time, no Uplander has ever slept naked, or conjured you somehow?”

  Not in winter. Not when the birds were gone south, and we were free to speak.

  “Who are you, exactly? I know you are Uplander ler, but are you the spirits of this particular place?”

  We are the ler.

  “In Barokan, there are ler of each place, and ler that move about freely—which are you?”

  We are not the ler of Barokan. We are what we are.

  “So if I walked a hundred miles east . . .”

  We would be there.

  That was interesting, very interesting. It was different.

  And it bore more thought than Sword could manage in his confused, dreaming state, so he put it aside and went on to matters of more direct, personal importance.

  “The man who ordered this palace to be built is the Wizard Lord of Barokan,” he said. “I want to kill him. Can you help me accomplish this? Will you help me?”

  You speak of Artil im Salthir dor Valok seth Talidir?

  “I do. I intend to kill him next summer, when he returns to this palace.” He hesitated, then asked, “Does that trouble you, that I’m planning murder?”

  Not in the slightest.

  Sword remembered that he was speaking to untamed ler. Of course they wouldn’t care if one foreigner killed another. “Will you help me slay him?”

  Will his death benefit us?

  “I don’t know,” Sword admitted. “It will benefit me.”

  You have dealt with us thus far honestly and respectfully. We may aid you. We may not. We promise nothing.

  That was better than an outright refusal, but not by much. “Have you ever promised anything to anyone?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of any Uplander magic.”

  No one treats with us. No one commands us. We serve no man, neither by choice nor compulsion.

  Before he could stop himself, Sword asked, “Why?”

  There was no answer; instead the wind rose into a howl and he was swept off his feet and borne through the air like a leaf on the wind, and the world spun around him until he could no longer tell snow from sky.

  And then he woke up.

  He lay for a moment looking up at the arched stone ceiling, and gradually became aware that something was wrong. How could he see anything? Colored light was flickering across the stone. . . .

  He sat up, pushing aside the blankets despite the cold air.

  Lights were moving in the gloom of the kitchen—not candlelight, or lanternlight, but hazy patches of glowing color that sometimes seemed to be moving across the wall, and at other times appeared to be drifting in midair.

  They were all different. Blue, and gold, and red, and a pale pink, and a dark rich purple, and the intense green of leaves in springtime, and a watery blue green . . .

  And that was all. Seven of them.

  These were not
the glittering firefly sparkles he used to see in the trees around Mad Oak, which was why he had not immediately recognized them as ler-light, but now he knew they could be nothing else. These were the seven colors he had been told he would see, to attest to the reality of the vision he had just seen.

  So the ler could do more than just talk. How much more remained to be seen, as did whether or not he could make any use of them.

  The Wizard Lord had no magic in the Uplands, and thought none of the Chosen had any magic here, either; what would happen if he found himself facing a real Uplander wizard, the first one in a thousand years, perhaps the first ever?

  That was a very tempting possibility. Sword had never particularly wanted to be a wizard; like most Barokanese, he had grown up thinking of wizards as horrible, callous old brutes who couldn’t be trusted. The Uplands, though, were a different realm. Wizards here might be something else entirely, something new.

  And besides, thinking back on what he had done in Winterhome to avenge Azir shi Azir and Babble, remembering the bloody corpses he had left sprawled on the street, Sword could hardly claim not to be a horrible brute. He had already been corrupted by this mad system of wizards, Wizard Lord, and Chosen, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. He had killed the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, he had killed those soldiers in Winterhome, and he intended to kill the Dark Lord of Winterhome, and if these Uplander ler could help him do that, he would happily use them, no matter what further damage it might do to his own already-polluted soul. He had become a killer, despite what he had told his mother when he first accepted the role of the Chosen Swordsman. He hoped he had not become a monster, but he had definitely become a killer.

  And now he wanted to corrupt these mysterious new ler, to turn them into killers for the sake of his vengeance.

  But they had said that no man commanded or coerced them.

  “Why?” he asked the air, looking at those eerie colored lights. “Why have you not spoken to anyone in so long? Is it just the ara?”

  The lights flickered and danced, but no words came.

  Sword sighed. Uncooperative ler were nothing new, but back in Mad Oak he had been able to talk to the priestesses, to ask them to intervene. Here there were no priestesses.