As soon as the greetings between old friends had been concluded, Valdemar and Ben were introduced. Valdemar was certainly the taller of the two gigantic men, but Zoltan, watching, thought it hard to judge which was the more massive. The two clasped hands, and sized each other up with quick appraising glances.
Presently Ben heard what Valdemar’s request to the Sword of Wisdom had been: to be guided to some woman who would match his image of an ideal wife.
The older man sighed wearily. “Maybe I should have asked that oracle the same question, years ago.”
The day had been gray ever since sunrise, and now a threat of rain was materializing. Casting about for a place of safety and reasonable comfort, the party of four took shelter from a shower under an overhang of cliff. From here it was possible to look back in the direction Ben had come from the river, so any bandits who might be after him ought to become visible in time to be avoided.
The three old friends naturally had much to talk about. Zoltan demanded of Ben: “Tell us how things are going back in Sarykam. How long ago did you leave there?”
Some of the cheerfulness so recently restored now faded swiftly from Ben’s eyes. He said softly: “They are not going well.”
Yambu, like Zoltan, was strongly interested in what news of Tasavalta Ben might provide. “Then tell us,” she urged.
Ben drew a deep breath. “I’ll try to put the worst of it in a nutshell. There was an attack on the palace last year; all of the royal family survived, but Princess Kristin was badly crippled in a fall from the roof. For a time everyone feared that she would die. Now—some say death is the happiest result that can be expected.”
All of them were quick with more questions. Ben’s answers offered them little or no comfort. The stones of a Palace courtyard had badly damaged Kristin’s spine, had broken other bones, and crushed internal organs. Her mind, spirit, and body had all been badly damaged.
Zoltan, who was Prince Mark’s nephew, muttered blasphemies in a low voice. Yambu frowned in silence.
Valdemar, who knew next to nothing of Tasavalta or its rulers, still expressed his indignation, and his loathing of villains who could cause such pain. He then demanded to know who was guilty of launching the attack.
Ben shrugged. “Chiefly Vilkata and his demons, along with a certain Culmian prince. We’re rid of them all now. Good riddance. But—too late to help our Princess.”
Yambu was looking closely at her old associate. “And you, Ben? How are you, apart from this evil that has befallen those you love? How are your own wife and daughter—Barbara and Beth are their names, are they not?”
“As far as I know, my daughter and my wife are well enough in body,” Ben answered shortly. “Let me put it this way. My life at home has recently been such that I do not mind spending most of my days and nights away from home.”
Yambu was sympathetic. “How old is the girl?”
“Seventeen.”
“That can be an age of difficulty.”
Ben made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “When I myself arrive at some age that fails to bring its troubles, lady, I will make a note of it.”
Zoltan gave Ben one sympathetic look, but then the young man’s thoughts quickly turned to the difficulties his aunt and uncle, and all their realm, must be experiencing.
He asked: “Tell us of my Uncle Mark.”
Ben seemed glad to leave the talk of his personal affairs. “Your uncle is unhappy,” he answered shortly, “as one might expect.”
At that point he fell silent, staring past the lady’s head. When the others turned to see what he was looking at, they saw, and Yambu and Zoltan recognized, one of the half-intelligent messenger birds of Tasavalta, sitting on a branch of the only sizable tree in the immediate vicinity.
Getting to his feet, Ben addressed the bird: “I had given you up, messenger. Well, now I am here, free to talk with you. What word have you for Ben?”
Spreading soft wings, gliding from its branch to a nearby rock, the creature chirped in its inhuman voice: “Ben, the Prince asks you for news. The Prince asks you for news.”
“Well, when you reach the Prince again, tell him the news could be a lot worse; because here I am, still alive, and I have met friends who are armed with a Sword. But it could be better, because I am no closer to finding the Sword we want.”
“Say message again. Say message again.”
“I will, messenger, I will. But later. There’s no hurry about this one.” Ben spoke slowly and distinctly, as if to a child. “Rest now. Message later. Rest now.”
The bird flew back to its higher perch, where it settled itself as if to rest. “The Prince is at home, then,” Zoltan commented.
Ben nodded. “Since Kristin’s crippling, he’s spent more time in Sarykam than he did in the past two or three years put together. No more roaming the world, trying to look out for the Emperor’s business.”
“And what of their sons?” Yambu wanted to know. “How old are the two princelings now?”
Ben considered. “Stephen must be twelve. He has a temper. He’ll be a dangerous man in a few years.”
“And Prince Adrian?”
“Two years older. Secluded, somewhere well away from home, I don’t know where, perfecting his wizardry. I expect we’ll not see much of him for a year or two to come.” It was common for serious apprentices in the arts of magic to withdraw from the mundane world for a time of preparation.
“And nothing can be done for Kristin?”
“In the ordinary ways of healing and of magic, nothing. There is only one real hope, of course,” Ben concluded shortly.
“The Sword Woundhealer.” Yambu nodded, and sighed.
Ben nodded too. “Of course we had the keeping of it there in Sarykam for years, but … there’s no use worrying over that now. Mark nowadays thinks of little else but somehow getting Woundhealer back. He stays in Sarykam himself, but he sees to it that every clue, every hint we can obtain—whether reasonable or not, I sometimes think—is followed to the end.
“That is why I am here now. There was one rumor, one hint, about Woundhealer, that we thought especially promising. It put the Sword somewhere in this area.”
“And you came alone to track down this hint?” asked Valdemar, who until now had been largely silent.
Thunder grumbled overhead, and more rain was starting to come down. Ben looked at his questioner. “I was not alone when I set out. Six other people and three of the great birds came with me. I can give you the unpleasant details later, but at this point only I, out of seven humans, am still alive; as for the birds, they no longer travel with me, but one of them finds me from time to time, as you have seen. Thus I am kept somewhat in touch with Sarykam.”
Ben related to Yambu, Zoltan, and Valdemar additional details of his struggle with the band of river bandits, and his escape.
Zoltan asked: “Are they seeking the Sword of Mercy too?”
“Perhaps. They had something going with the Blue Temple, besides selling me to them—or they thought they did.”
In turn, the Silver Queen and Zoltan told Ben the tale of their recent harassment by the leatherwings, of their fortunate encounter with Valdemar and the Sword he had been so strangely given, and how during the last few days the three of them, with Wayfinder’s help, had managed to avoid the flying reptiles.
Ben gestured toward the Sword of Wisdom. “Speaking of your treasure there, I suppose you’ll have no objection to my borrowing its powers for a while?”
Yambu smiled faintly. “I have been expecting you to ask. Let me see if I can guess for what purpose.”
“No doubt a single guess will be all you’ll need. I want first to locate the Sword of Healing, and then to get my hands on it.”
“Have you no more selfish wants than that, big man?” “That will do for the time being.”
In unconsciously queenly fashion, Yambu raised Wayfinder in her own hands and apostrophized the Sword: “I asked you, Sword, for peace, and you have
led me to this man of blood.”
Zoltan saw Ben frown slightly at that.
Yambu continued: “I see my own quest must give way to one of greater urgency. But before I hand you over to him, Sword, what else do you have to tell me? Is it possible that by following him I will discover the peace that has eluded me for so long?”
The other three, watching closely, could see plainly how the Sword tugged, slowly twisting in her hands until it bent her wrists, aiming itself at the huge man.
Without further comment the Silver Queen reversed her grip on the black hilt, and handed Wayfinder over to Ben.
Reaching for the weapon eagerly, he murmured thanks. Once Wayfinder was in his grasp he wasted no time, but at once demanded of it bluntly: “Sword, lead me where I want to go!”
The Sword of Wisdom in his hands at once twisted around sharply; Zoltan, though no stranger to the Swords and their powers, felt his scalp prickle. The weapon reminded him of some intelligent animal, responding differently as soon as it came under the control of a different master, perhaps a warbeast roused from sleep and scenting blood. Zoltan thought that this time he saw the blade actually bend, until the tip pointed somewhere to the northeast. That direction, he thought, was close to, though it did not exactly coincide with, the bearing of Sarykam.
Still holding the Sword leveled, Ben shuffled his feet, as if getting his weary legs ready to move again. He asked his companions: “Are all of you ready to move?” It did not appear to have entered his thoughts that any of the three might choose not to accompany him.
Valdemar stood up, towering over everyone else. He said slowly: “I began my journey holding in my hands that Sword you now have, and with my own goal, not yours, in mind. And so now I have my doubts about going with you.”
At that Zoltan turned on him sharply: “I suppose you think your quest is more important than this one?”
Valdemar raised his eyebrows. He said mildly: “It is important to me.”
The two young men were of the same age, or very nearly so; but Valdemar—only partially because of his size—generally gave the impression of being older.
“Well, perhaps you can manage to locate a wife without the help of Wayfinder,” said Zoltan. “Or—who knows?—if you come with us you might discover one to your liking in Sarykam.”
The other shrugged. “Perhaps, friend Zoltan. Anyway, you should remember that I am not ready to abandon my purpose. But I have already given the Sword to Lady Yambu, given it freely, and so I have no claim on it any longer.”
“You are welcome to take it back, long enough to ask a question,” the lady assured him.
Ben nodded. “Just don’t be all day about it.”
The lady paused in the act of handing Wayfinder back to Valdemar. Frowning, she said to him: “You are something of a magician, are you not?”
The tall youth blinked at her as if the question had surprised him. “I have a certain knack for doing tricks with light, and mirrors, and sand and water,” he admitted. “No more than that. Depending on the company in which I find myself, I sometimes claim to know a little magic. But how did you know?”
“I have known another magician or two in my time. The art is wont to leave its traces.” Yambu shrugged. “In this company you may freely claim competence,” she told Valdemar. “I doubt that any of us are able to surpass you, in whatever it is you do with light and mirrors.”
Valdemar received the Sword from her, and held it steadily. “I ask—” he began firmly, then hesitated, looking at the others. “I suppose there is no preferred formula of words?”
“None I know of,” said Ben impatiently. “Just ask your question.” The rain was falling harder now, though so far the overhang of cliff had kept them almost dry.
“Then I ask,” said Valdemar, with perhaps a hint of embarrassment in his voice, “the same question as before. When I spoke to this Sword in my own house.”
Wayfinder pointed straight in the direction of the Silver Queen.
The rain slackened somewhat. Ben, though tired, was eager to get moving, and none of the others insisted on a chance to rest. All four set out together, in the direction indicated by Wayfinder.
Ben, who walked with Zoltan in the lead, now wore the Sword of Wisdom at his belt—drawing and using it occasionally, to confirm that they remained on the proper course—while Lady Yambu walked at Valdemar’s side.
They had been hiking for a quarter of an hour when Valdemar asked: “What lies ahead of us?”
“Not much but desert,” Ben returned shortly. “And somewhere in it, I suppose, the river I went boating on yesterday.”
“A wasteland,” said Yambu. “One that will take us days to cross.”
Chapter Five
Once Wood decided to depart the city where he and Tigris had visited the Blue Temple headquarters, he summoned up his preferred form of rapid transportation. He and his young lieutenant were soon mounted upon a griffin, riding the wind a kilometer above the land. The Ancient One’s chosen destination was one of his remoter strongholds. He and Tigris were bringing with them only a few assistants, chosen from those of his people he least mistrusted, who rode clinging for their lives on the backs of similar steeds.
As soon as the Ancient One and his party had reached their goal, all of his helpers, including Tigris, were promptly assigned their tasks of magic, and set to work.
* * *
Some hours later, laboring inside a stone-vaulted chamber enclosed by many barriers of matter and of magic, the master of the establishment raised his head over a massive wooden workbench lighted by Old World globes and marked with an intricacy of carven diagrams.
He asked: “Tigris, are we completely secure against unfriendly observation?”
“Master?” Across the room the young woman, startled, looked up from her own work.
“I mean observation from outside. Are there spies, human or otherwise, anywhere in sight of our walls? Do you make sure that there are none. I would attend to the matter myself, but I am otherwise engaged at the moment.”
“Now, Master?”
“Now.”
Suffering in silence the interruption of her own work, the young woman methodically disengaged herself from her current task. Then she employed her considerable powers to satisfy her Master’s latest wish, sending her perception outwards, while her body remained standing beside the bench.
Outside the stronghold, not many meters distant and yet a world away, behind grim walls of heavy rock and curtains of dark magic, some trees and other vegetation grew naturally. There a handful of birds were singing. Not messengers, these. These birds were wild and small and totally unintelligent.
Of unfriendly observation there was not a trace. Unless the small birds could be counted as unfriendly to the Master and his cause.
For another moment, a moment longer than was really necessary, Tigris harkened carefully. Her body standing indoors did not move, except that her red lips parted.
“Well?”
The young woman returned fully to her body. “Nothing, Master. Nothing and no one out there now.”
“You sense nothing?”
Again Tigris employed the full range of her trained perceptions. Again she came back. “Only songbirds.”
The Ancient One grunted something, a sound of grudging satisfaction, and returned to his powerful ritual, whose goal, his assistant knew, was the discovery of information about certain of Wood’s enemies, notably the Emperor, and the Emperor’s son, Mark of Tasavalta.
Tigris, aware of a strange reluctance to do so, firmly put from her thoughts her memory of the outside world. She also returned, but more slowly, to her tasks.
At odd moments during the next few hours, she pondered her own reactions. She had been somewhat surprised—though not entirely—to find herself prolonging the reconnaissance unnecessarily, simply to harken to the songbirds for one moment more.
* * *
The hours passed. Lesser aides, bringing messages, were intercepted by Tigri
s, so that her Master should not be disturbed. The great magician had been isolated at his workbench for some time with certain half-material, semi-animate powers, and his own thoughts.
At length, when it seemed a safe moment to interrupt her lord, Tigris approached him.
His eyes, coming back from a great distance, at length focused on hers. “Well?”
“Master, a reptile scout has just arrived at the stronghold, carrying intelligence.” She named a region that was many kilometers away.
“So? What word, then?”
“Sire, some Blue Temple people in that area have very recently acquired the Sword of Mercy.”
Now the man’s beautiful blue eyes were truly focused. “Woundhealer.” He breathed the name in a hoarse whisper. “We know just where it is? There is no mistake?”
“The location is only approximate. But I believe the report.”
In excitement he seized her arm. His grip for some reason felt icy cold. “Tigris, my plans bear fruit!”
“Master, we all expected nothing less.”
Wood paused in thought, clasping his hands in front of him, smiling and nodding with satisfaction. “Woundhealer, my dear,” he remarked to his young associate, “is perhaps the only Sword that I would be willing to trust in the hands of a subordinate.
“Therefore I am not rushing out into the field to take it away from those Blue Temple fools—I may decide to send you. When you have completed your present tasks.”
The blond head bowed deeply. “I will of course be honored, Master.”
“We shall see. As usual, I have other important tasks to perform. Though I must admit that, in a way, there is no other Sword that I am more anxious to possess.”
Tigris allowed herself a display of mild surprise. “Master, the Sword of Mercy is certainly a tool of great value. We are, any and all of us, subject to injury sooner or later.”
“Obviously. But I think you miss my point.”
“Master?”
“Certainly, when one is badly hurt, healing is priceless. But surely you cannot fail to see that Woundhealer will also be of exquisite value in the torture chamber.”
The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story Page 6