The Ninth Talisman

Free The Ninth Talisman by Lawrence Watt-Evans

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Authors: Lawrence Watt-Evans
half an hour later, after he had had his hands and face thoroughly scrubbed and his hair and beard vigorously brushed, after his boots had been polished, and after a flimsy white robe had been draped over his dusty traveling clothes, Sword was led into the Priest-King’s throne room.
    The room was large and moderately luxurious without lapsing into ostentation; carpets covered much of the floor, and the beams supporting the ceiling were carved and painted. The Priest-King himself slouched in a welter of cushions on an oversized chair atop a broad, low dais at the far end, a nimbus of golden light flickering around his head; Sword swept off his hat, bowed deeply, and awaited instructions.
    â€œCome here, come here,” the king said, beckoning from his slouch.
    Sword obeyed, rising from his bow and approaching with head bent, as the acolytes had instructed.
    He had never seen anyone with a halo before, though he had heard of such things; the effect was impressive, far more so than the sigils worn by Mad Oak’s handful of clergy. It left little doubt that this man was indeed favored by the local
ler.
    â€œWhat brings you to Willowbank?”
    Sword stopped and said, “I am only passing through, on my way to Winterhome to talk to the Wizard Lord.”
    â€œJust talk?”
    â€œI hope so.” He raised his head. “I intend to ask him a few questions about these roads he has ordered built, and perhaps other projects. I don’t expect anything serious or unpleasant to come of it.”
    That halo was fascinating; it did not behave like ordinary light. It cast no shadows, and although it appeared fairly bright, it did not seem to illuminate at all anything more than a foot or so from the Priest-King’s head. Sword found himself staring at it.
    â€œAh! So what do you think of the roads? How was the walk from Mad Oak?”
    Sword answered as best he could as the Priest-King barraged him with questions, just as the villagers out by the boundary shrine had. He found himself recounting the story of how he and the other Chosen had slain the Dark Lord of the Galbek Hills—though he left out a great many details he did not think the king needed to know.
    At last, though, the king seemed satisfied; he swung himself around and rose from his throne. He was a tall man, a bit plump, a bit soft, with long curling brown hair that reached halfway down his back, and a close-trimmed beard streaked with gray; Sword did not think he would have been considered especially handsome were it not for that ethereal glow that surrounded him and flattered his features.
    â€œYou must be hungry,” the Priest-King said. “Come take supper with me.”
    This invitation, like any other the Priest-King gave, had the force of an order, so Sword followed without argument, and found himself seated at a great carved-oak table weighed down with delicacies of every sort. Half a dozen lovely young women in low-cut dresses waited on them as they ate and drank, making sure neither of the men had to reach for anything, and that no goblet ever stayed empty for more than a few seconds.
    As they ate, the king asked more questions, and Sword noticed that the serving maids listened intently to the answers, that in fact the Priest-King appeared to be timing his questions so that the women could hear Sword’s responses. That undoubtedly explained why the king deliberately repeated certain questions Sword had already answered in private; they were matters the Priest-King thought were of general interest, and his staff would spread the answers throughout Willowbank.
    The food was excellent, as might be expected at the Priest-King’s table, and dish followed dish almost endlessly—thick soup and fine bread and assorted fruit and grilled meat and a stew of spiced vegetables, until Sword felt as if his belly were bulging and his sword belt had become uncomfortably tight.
    At last, though, the meal was done, and the king

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