THE
NINTH
TALISMAN
Volume Two of
THE ANNALS OF THE CHOSEN
“Waft-Evans always delivers a good story.”
SCIENCE FICTION CHRONICLE
ALL THE WORLD is kept in a delicate balance under the supervision of the Wizard Lord. It is his duty to govern lightly and protect his domain . . . but if he should stray from the way of the just, then it is up to the Chosen to intercede.
The Chosen are the Leader, the Seer, the Swordsman, the Beauty, the Thief, the Scholar, the Archer, and the Speaker. They are magically infused mortal individuals who for the term of their service have only one function—to remove an errant Wizard Lord.
The Chosen fulfilled this role when they removed the insane and tyrannical former Wizard Lord and exposed treachery within their own ranks.
Since their last adventure, the world has returned to apparent peace and prosperity. The newly chosen Wizard Lord appears to be loved by all. He rules benevolently . . . but with an eye toward modernization through technology instead of magic.
Do such plans jeopardize the delicate balance of power?
Is a Wizard Lord who is able to rule without magic a threat to the Chosen?
Breaker, the Swordsman, hopes for the best but fears that the Chosen must intervene . . . before it is too late.
THE
NINTH
TALISMAN
TOR BOOKS BY LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS
THE OBSIDIAN CHRONICLES
Dragon Weather
The Dragon Society
Dragon Venom
LEGENDS OF ETHSHAR
Night of Madness
Ithanalin’s Restoration
Touched by the Gods
Split Heirs (with Esther Friesner)
THE ANNALS OF THE CHOSEN
The Wizard Lord
The Ninth Talisman
THE
NINTH
TALISMAN
VOLUME TWO OF THE
ANNALS OF THE CHOSEN
LAWRENCE WATT-EVANS
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
New York
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE NINTH TALISMAN: VOLUME TWO OF THE ANNALS OF THE CHOSEN
Copyright © 2007 by Lawrence Watt-Evans
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-1027-9
ISBN-10: 0-7653-1027-9
First Edition: May 2007
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedicated to Susan Carscadden,
for all the help she’s given my family through the years
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Brian Thomsen, Russell Galen, Kristin Sevick, Deborah Wood, and Terry McGarry for making this series better than it might otherwise have been, and again, my thanks to Timothy S. O’Brien for essential aid in world-building.
THE BALLAD OF THE CHOSEN
(as sung by the soldiers of Winterhome)
When day turned dark and shadows fell
Across the broken lands
And madness turned to taloned claws Our ancient ruler’s hands
Then eight were called by whims of fate
To save us from our doom;
The Chosen came to guard us all
And lay evil in its tomb
[chorus] If a Wizard Lord should turn
Against the common man
These Chosen eight would bring him down,
Bring peace to Barokan!
The Leader shows his bold resolve
Confronting every foe
His words would guide the Chosen as
He told them how to go
The Seer sought the comrades out
And gathered them to fight
Nor could their foeman hide from her;
She has the second sight
[chorus]
The Swordsman’s blade is swift and sure
His skill is unsurpassed
If any stood against him, then
That stand would be his last
A lovely face the Beauty has,
And shapely legs and arms
She distracted evil men
And lured them with her charms
[chorus]
There is no lock nor guarded door
That can stop the Thief
He penetrates the fortress dark
To bring the land relief
Every song and story told,
The Scholar knows them all
He knew the wizard’s weaknesses
To hasten evil’s fall
[chorus]
The Archer’s missiles never miss;
His arrows find their mark
He struck at evil from afar
To drive away the dark
The Speaker harks to every tongue,
Of stone and beast and man
She found the Dark Lord’s secrets out
So no defense could stand
[chorus]
When in the Galbek Hills there was
A monster come in human shape
The Swordsman struck the evil down
To save the land from magic rape
And thus the last of evil’s spawn
Was driven out of Barokan
Never more will madness come
To trouble Barokan
No new Wizard Lord will turn
Against the common man
These Chosen eight shall keep him wise,
Bring peace to Barokan—
Yes, the Chosen guard us all,
Bring peace to Barokan!
THE
NINTH
TALISMAN
[ PROLOGUE ]
His true name began Erren Zal Tuyo kam Darig seveth Tirinsir abek Du, but the people of Mad Oak, in Longvale, did not use true names, for fear of the power they granted. He had grown up with the nickname Breaker, but after he took on the role of the Chosen Swordsman even his family and closest friends came, in time, to call him Sword. He was a big man—”Breaker” had reflected not his temperament, but his awkwardness before his coordination caught up with his growth—but now that he had reached his full height and become comfortable with his size, he moved with speed, grace, and assurance.
Some of that grace doubtlessly came from his magic, of course. The ler of muscle and steel had made him the world’s greatest swordsman as part of the complicated pact that gave the Wizard Lord authority over all Barokan, and tha
t gave the eight Chosen the right to remove the Wizard Lord, by any means necessary, should he violate the limits set upon his power.
He had played his role as Swordsman, and had slain the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills, a Wizard Lord gone mad. He had played his part, and then he had returned home to Mad Oak.
And now, three years after the Dark Lord’s death, Sword sat in the pavilion talking with Younger Priestess, one of the three individuals in the town who could communicate with the spirits of land and life and thereby keep Mad Oak habitable. Without Priest, Elder Priestess, and Younger Priestess, there would be no one to coax the soil into yielding crops, no one to convince game to allow hunters to kill it, no one to keep the wild ler beyond the borders from encroaching on the town.
That sometimes meant that the priestesses had little time to spare to talk to other humans; talking to the ler kept them busy. For the moment, though, on a cold night in early winter, after most of the town’s inhabitants had gone home to huddle in their beds, Younger Priestess had found time to speak quietly with Sword in the town’s deserted pavilion.
The two of them sat on the edge of the great stone hearth, the remains of a fire flickering amid the ashes behind them, keeping the worst of the winter’s chill at bay. Most of the lanterns had gone out; a few still glimmered by the door, but most of the vast interior was dim and shadowed. The glowing sigil on the priestess’s forehead, the sign of the lefs favor, shone vividly gold in the darkness.
They sat quietly for several minutes after the last other people had left, but eventually Younger Priestess broke the silence.
“You don’t seem happy, Sword,” she said. “Your soul is clouded.”
He shrugged without looking directly at her. “I am well enough,” he said.
“Well enough? No more than that?”
He turned to face her directly. “Should I be more than that?”
“Why not? Your sisters are more than just well enough. I see Harp’s soul shining like the dawn when her fingers are on the strings and the drums are beating, or when she thinks about the child she is to bear. Fidget’s soul leaps like a flame when she watches the boys at play, and Spider’s dances in delight when she runs through the streets with her playmates. Your mother is still weighed down by your father’s death, and by your role among the Chosen, and the knowledge that you aren’t happy, so hers is clouded as well. Time will help with her sorrows, but yours? I don’t know what causes them, so I don’t know if time will disperse or thicken them. I would like to dispel those clouds, if I can.”
“I doubt you can,” Sword said, turning away again. “After all, I killed a man; shouldn’t my soul be darkened forever by such an act?”
“But he was a murderer and a madman, a Dark Lord who deserved nothing but death,” Younger Priestess said. “You played your role well.”
“A role I no longer believe should exist,” Sword said.
“Oh?” Younger Priestess frowned. “You think you should pass the role of Swordsman on to another?”
“No, I didn’t say I shouldn’t be the Swordsman; I said the role shouldn’t exist at all. I don’t think there should be a Swordsman.”
Her frown deepened. “But then who would slay a new Dark Lord, should one arise? Do you think the Archer and the other Chosen could do as well without a Swordsman?”
“There shouldn’t be any Chosen. There shouldn’t be any Dark Lords. There shouldn’t be any more Wizard Lords.”
“No Wizard Lord? But then who would keep the other wizards in check?”
“No one. The other wizards are no longer a threat. There hasn’t been a rogue wizard in centuries.”
“Because we have the Wizard Lord to prevent them!”
“But there are so few wizards left, we don’t need a Wizard Lord!”
She stared at him for a moment, then said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Startled, he turned and stared back.
“Haven’t you learned your ballads?” she asked him. “ ‘The Siege of Blueflower’? ‘The Slaughter at Goln Vleys’?”
“I know the songs,” Sword replied, a trifle sullenly. “That was a long time ago. There were hundreds of wizards back then; there aren’t even two dozen left today.”
“One is all it takes to cause trouble.”
“How much trouble can one ordinary wizard cause?”
Again, she stared at him in silence for a moment. Then she said, “Did you know that a wizard once came here, to what’s now Mad Oak, intent on carrying off women for his harem? One wizard, and that was enough to cause havoc.”
Startled, Sword said, “A rogue wizard came here? Is there a song?”
“No, no song. No story. Just a memory, from long ago, before there was any Wizard Lord to protect us.”
“What? A memory? But there have been Wizard Lords for seven hundred years.”
“And this happened perhaps eight hundred years ago, before the Council of Immortals chose the first Wizard Lord, centuries before the Mad Oak first grew, when the village here had no name of its own.”
“Then how can there be a memory? No one lives eight hundred years.”
“No person does, but ler can, and ler can be made to pass along memories, from one priestess to another. One of my ancestors, the one who defeated that wizard, thought it was important that the story should be passed along, and she had no faith in human storytellers. She feared they would clutter the truth up with dashing heroics and grand speeches, so instead she gave her memories to the ler of the hearthstone in the village shrine, and each priestess since has received them from the stone in her turn.”
“So this lone priestess defeated a rogue wizard? That hardly makes it seem as if he was much of a threat. What happened?”
“I told you my ancestor did not trust human storytellers; I will not betray her trust by playing the part of one. If you would like to know what it was like, what she did and thought and felt, then come with me now, down to the shrine, and I will let you remember it for yourself.”
“You can do that?”
“I think so, yes. Perhaps not for just anyone, but you are one of the Chosen, bound to ler, so I think the hearthstone will let you receive it.”
Sword tried to look into her eyes, to read the expression there, but the surrounding darkness and the glow of the mark on her brow made it impossible to see anything there but blackness.
“All right,” he said. “Show me, then.”
Fifteen minutes later he knelt before the shrine, his forehead touching the bitterly cold stone of the unlit hearth, as Younger Priestess spoke quietly in a tongue not meant for human ears. He was beginning to regret agreeing to this when suddenly the cold vanished, the winter night disappeared, and he was walking between trees, walking in daylight, walking with an unfamiliar gait, with hips not his own, hips that swung in a way a man’s did not. His shoulders were suddenly narrower, his arms weaker, his chest pulled forward.
He was a young woman, returning from a ritual placating the game spirits in the forest northeast of town. He was a priestess named Tala. . . .
Tala brushed the dirt from her skirt as she walked out of the grove, and straightened the bow on her shoulder. Then she looked up at the village, squinting slightly—her eyes were unaccustomed to the bright sunlight after so long in the shade of the trees. A strong breeze stirred her hair, but she paid it no attention.
Something looked odd—or perhaps merely felt odd; she could never be entirely sure where her own perceptions ended and the influence of the local spirits began. She shaded her eyes and peered, and opened herself to the ler, but even then it took her a moment to realize what was wrong.
All the men were gone. There were women working in the fields, and children running about, but the men of the village were nowhere to be seen.
“Oh, now what?” she asked no one in particular.
The men are gone, something replie
d. She was unsure which ler, which spirit, had spoken, but she didn’t particularly care. They were all connected in any case.
“I can see that,” she said. “Why are they gone?”
To defend the village.
The “voice” came from the earth itself, she realized, rather than any lesser spirit. The essence of the village’s soil knew everything that happened within its bounds, a broad oval stretching from the far ridgetop to a point a little over half a mile into the forest she had just left, but it wasn’t an especially bright being by human standards—or perhaps it simply didn’t understand humans well enough to apply whatever intelligence it might have. Tala was fairly certain it was not going to volunteer any further explanations. Getting useful information from it was possible, but required asking exactly the right questions.
Tala did not have the patience to properly interrogate the earth-spirits just now, after spending three days and nights in the wood dealing with the stubborn forest ler. She was tired and hungry and her back was sore from sleeping on the hard ground, and once she got home she could ask Mama or Broom or Tanner what was happening. She did not ask any more questions, but began trotting toward the village.
She did say, “I thank you, spirits of my homeland, for your aid and answers,” as she took her first steps. She wasn’t about to forget the necessities in her hurry.
The path seemed straight and true before her, despite the wind rippling the barley in the fields, so she knew the ler had accepted her thanks and were not offended that she had not bothered to kneel. The earth-spirit was usually reasonable about that—not like the haughty, demanding spirits in her father’s metal that only the smith’s hammer could beat into submission, or the foul-tempered ler of the riverbank.
She saw her mother, up on the hillside with Tala’s younger sisters, and waved, but her path did not lead in that direction. She could have turned aside, but the village was closer, and there would be someone there who could explain.