The Ninth Talisman by Lawrence Watt-Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

moving now, heading up to the pavilion to celebrate properly; Sword could see Flute and Fiddle hurrying to fetch their instruments, and probably to rouse Drum and Sword’s sister Harp. There would be music and dancing, and someone would undoubtedly convince Brewer to roll out a barrel or two of his best.
    Sword had not done much dancing of late. His experiences as one of the Chosen had not given him anything to dance about.
    Perhaps, though, that was a mistake. Perhaps it was time he cheered up. This road—it was a change, certainly, a big one, but wasn’t it a change for the better? Couldn’t a Wizard Lord use his power not just to protect Barokan from storms and outlaws, but to improve life for ordinary people?
    Sword did not remember hearing of any Wizard Lord who had ever done that, but why not?
    Those disturbed
ler
and the discomfort they caused the priestesses would fade soon enough, while the road would remain. Anyone who wanted to travel to Willowbank or beyond could do so, even though the last Willowbank guide had retired without training a successor. Oh, a few
ara
feathers might be a good idea, to ward off hostile
ler
to either side, but there would be a
road,
a clear and open route to follow. And presumably it would, in time, have
ler
of its own, and as with nearly all man-made things, those
ler
would be cooperative and helpful.
Ler
always reflected the nature of the objects they ensouled, so that a hammer’s
ler
helped it strike hard and true, a knife’s
ler
helped it cut,and a road’s
ler
would, it must be assumed, guide travelers’ feet to their destination.
    Of course, a knife’s
ler
sometimes thirsted for blood, since that, too, was in the nature of a blade; Sword’s mother had thrown away at least one outwardly good knife because it insisted on nicking fingers at every opportunity. A road’s
ler
might have some unwanted aspects, but really, they could hardly be as dangerous as the wild
ler
of the forest.
    Perhaps the
ler
of the road would coax people to travel, to wander, to hunger to see what lay beyond the next bend.
    In fact, Sword found himself thinking now, when surely the road’s
ler
could be only half-formed at best, that it was time he did some more traveling himself. And it was obvious where he would go—down the new road to Winterhome, to talk with the Wizard Lord, and perhaps meet with some of the other Chosen.
    He had briefly seen Winterhome before, years ago, during the reign of the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills. Likewise, he had met the Wizard Lord before, when the man was simply the Red Wizard, an ordinary member of the Council of Immortals. The Red Wizard had even visited Mad Oak, when Sword was preparing to claim his place among the Chosen.
    It would be interesting to see how both Winterhome and the wizard had changed.
    And then the cheering crowd was spilling into the pavilion, shouting and laughing, and the time for serious thought was past; this was a time to join in the celebration. Within minutes a barrel was rolled out, cakes were fetched, and the music began.
    Sword made a halfhearted effort to join in, but did not dance much. He took a few quick turns with Younger Priestess in an attempt to take her mind off the disturbed and scattered
ler,
but she quickly regretted the motion and insisted on returning to her chair. He danced one gavotte with young Potter, who had only recently finally escaped her childhood nickname of Mudpie. Mostly, though, he stood and watched, and the sword on his hip was enough to deter anyone who might have tried to intrude on his thoughts or drag him into the festivities.
    The men of the road crew were pleasant enough company, and whilethey 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