Meanwhile, the blind man was spinning out his tale of troubles. “Ah, if only my blessed mistress knew to what a state I have been reduced!”
“And who’s your mistress, fellow?”
The answer came firmly, and without hesitation: “I was honored to be able to serve the glorious Princess Kristin, who still rules in Tasavalta—if only word of my plight could reach her!”
Murat paused, staring at the man. “I see—on good terms with royalty, are you?” A laugh went up from those of his armed retainers who were listening.
The wretch, as if he were truly capable of injured feelings, seemed to be trying to summon up his dignity. “Sir, for years I served faithfully the royal house of Tasavalta. You will not believe the old beggar, sir, and for that no one can blame you—but these hands have many a time held the little Princess, when she was only a child, and bounced her on this knee.”
Murat paused again, longer this time, wondering.
“Are you lying to me, fellow?” he asked at last, in a quiet voice. “About knowing the Princess? If so, admit it now, and no harm shall come to you. I’ll even give you another coin.” He jingled his purse temptingly.
The blind man was silent for a moment; but then he had risen to his feet, and was lifting his angular face toward the Crown Prince, and shaking his head ever so slightly from side to side, as if he might be straining to use the sense that he no longer possessed.
At last he blurted out: “I am not lying, Lord. Great Lord, if you can bring me to the palace at Sarykam, blessed be your name, and granted be all your wishes.” And with that he fell on his knees before Murat.
Murat turned to look at his son. But since his exposure to the Mindsword, Carlo had ceased to offer him any advice or argument. Now, whatever happened, Murat’s son only waited worshipfully to see what his lord and master and father would decide.
Sighing, Murat turned to one of his new followers, and gave orders that the strange beggar be given food and drink, and one of the bandits’ spare mounts.
Then he faced the trembling beggar again. “Fellow, I take it you are able to ride? Of course if I present you to the Princess, and she looks at you like the piece of rotten meat that you appear to be, and does not know you, I’ll look quite a fool. If that proves to be the case, I’ll see to it that you don’t slip away forgotten.”
But the fellow only raised his quivering arms, his repulsive face almost radiant with apparent joy. “A million blessings on you, glorious Master!”
Murat nodded absently. Already he half regretted his decision. “What is your name, by the way?”
“I was called Metaxas, Lord,”
When a riding-beast was led to the fellow, he groped for saddle and stirrup and managed to get himself aboard. Meanwhile Murat had noticed one of the bandits picking the forgotten coin out of the bowl, and stuffing it away in his own pocket. Well, why not? thought the Crown Prince. The one wretch probably deserved it as much as the other.
“Ride on!” Murat commanded, and signaled the advance.
That night, while Murat’s eager servants were making camp for him and Carlo, Murat strolled over to the former beggar, intending to question him further. But he was distracted from his questions by the fellow’s greeting: “I see, Master, that you carry a great treasure with you. I see also that you have suffered much, but that in the future you will be rewarded as you deserve.”
Murat was not impressed. He supposed that the man might well have overheard some talk among the bandits about the Sword. He said: “For one without eyes, you claim to see a great deal.”
Metaxas only bowed in his new clothing—new to him—cheap worn stuff, but still a vast improvement.
The Crown Prince turned away from the beggar, but he had not gone far when he was approached, humbly, by Gauranga of the Mountains, the former leader and acting wizard of the bandit group.
“What is it?”
“Master,” gray-mustached Gauranga whispered, “I sense something wrong about this ugly foundling.”
“Wrong? In what way?”
“I don’t know, Master.” Gauranga shook his head. “But there’s something I do not like. A bad smell, and I don’t mean the kind of stink that can be removed by scrubbing. Beware of him!”
Murat cast a look over his shoulder at the beggar, who looked about as unthreatening as a man could look. “I will my friend. Thank you for your warning. The old wretch seems harmless enough to me, but keep an eye on him just in case.”
Again the Crown Prince walked on. A few minutes later, Carlo, frowning suspiciously in the direction of the blind man who was well out of hearing, approached his father and volunteered his first advice in days. “It would be good, I think, Father, to hear this beggar’s history in more detail, to test if his claim is genuine.”
The father shook his head. “I assumed at first that he was probably lying when he said he knew the Princess Kristin. But when I offered to bring him to Sarykam, he accepted at once, with what appeared to be unfeigned joy. Either he’s an excellent actor, or he may be speaking the truth after all, in which case the Princess will be pleased to have me bring her an old family retainer I’ve rescued from disaster. Of course, it’s still possible that our newest recruit has deluded himself with dreams of a happy past.”
“That may be the answer, Father. And I was wondering, has it occurred to you…?”
“What?” Murat demanded impatiently.
“Well—that Woundhealer would have been used to cure him of his blindness, empty eyesockets or not, had he really been a favorite at the Tasavaltan court during the years when that Sword was there.”
The older man frowned. “We’ll see. Certainly we’ll have to clean the fellow up further before we can bring him near the Princess. Remind me to have a couple of the men see to it tomorrow, when we reach running water somewhere.”
“If you were to use your Sword now, Father, to make the blind man your loyal servant, then you could be sure of him at once.”
Murat darted a sharp look at his son. “I told you that I am not going to use the Princess’s Sword again.”
Next day Murat took time to see that the blind man was cleaned up more thoroughly, dressed in somewhat better clothing, and his eyes—or rather the holes where his eyes had been—covered with a clean bandage. There could be at least no doubt about his blindness.
* * *
Within another day or two Murat, Carlo, and their crew of converted bandits, bringing with them Metaxas the sightless beggar, were closely approaching the frontier of Tasavalta. This boundary ran unmarked over vast stretches of country, but the robbers assured Murat they knew exactly where it lay.
“What will you do, Father,” Carlo was asking now, “if Her Highness does not welcome you as a friend?”
“I thought I had explained that. I will talk to her. I believe she is as reasonable as she is beautiful, and she will listen,”
“But suppose she doesn’t?”
Murat looked steadily at his son. “I can assure you of this much. Whatever problem of credibility I might face when we reach Sarykam, there can be no question of my using the Sword to persuade Kristin to see me as a friend. Is that what you were going to suggest?”
“I wasn’t planning to suggest that, Father. I was just—” “Good.”
Carlo was silent.
“This power,” his father continued, thumping the black hilt, “is going to remain safely muffled in its sheath, until I can hand over the sheath and all to Princess Kristin. I wish to be fairly reconciled with the Princess, not win her over in a one-sided contest of magic.”
Still, from time to time during the day, Carlo continued to express his doubts about his father’s plan.
“I don’t see, Father, why you are so reluctant to draw the Sword in her presence—or in anyone’s. Now having experienced the effects for myself, I can testify that the Sword of Glory does not deceive—at least it doesn’t when you are holding it. In your hands, it only enables the object of its influence to see
the truth about its holder.” After noting the way his father looked at him, the young man shook his head and dared to argue further. “It’s true, Father! You really are a great man, and worthy of great devotion!”
The Crown Prince smiled, shook his head, and rode on.
* * *
Murat had heard that long stretches of the borders of Tasavalta were usually left not only unmarked but unguarded, so that more often than not it was possible to cross back and forth without being seen or challenged. Again, some of his magically reformed bandits confirmed this, though otherwise they had little good to say about the land they were about to enter.
But this time fortune decreed that they were not to achieve an unseen crossing. Scarcely had Murat’s little party set foot inside the realm of Princess Kristin than it encountered a Tasavaltan cavalry patrol.
Chapter Five
The land in the vicinity of the encounter was relatively flat and almost treeless; it was quite possible that the patrol had been a kilometer or more away when they caught sight of Murat’s party crossing the border. However they had made the discovery, the Tasavaltans were now riding quickly to intercept the intruders.
“No doubt we are a suspicious-looking crew,” muttered the Crown Prince to his son. “To the border patrol, we can hardly appear to be anything but bandits.”
“What are we going to do, Father?”
“We are certainly not going to run away.”
Ordering his followers not to flee, nor to begin a fight, Murat led them slowly forward. As the riders in green and blue drew near, the thuggish-looking members of Murat’s escort closed ranks protectively about their leader and his son.
Sternly the Crown Prince ordered his bandit-escort to lower their weapons, and move into an open formation, so he could see the Tasavaltans and they would have a good view of him. Then he continued to ride forward, raising empty hands in a peaceful gesture. Carlo followed of his own accord, keeping a little behind his father.
When Murat had come within fifty or sixty meters of the patrol, some of the troopers began pointing toward him, and calling to their officer. The Crown Prince, when he thought about it, was not surprised; he supposed that probably the whole Tasavaltan army must have been alerted to watch for last year’s most notorious villain, the foreign potentate who had been royally entertained by the Princess, and then had treacherously repaid Tasavaltan hospitality by stealing Woundhealer.
Finally the patrol’s commanding officer shouted: “Ho, there! You are Crown Prince Murat of Culm?”
Murat reined his animal to a halt, and called back in a firm voice: “I am the man you name. I come in peace, Lieutenant, with my son beside me, to speak to your most honored Princess. I will require an escort to your capital, and I ask that you provide it.”
The officer was very young, and his uniform impeccable, even after what must have been several days in the field. He glared at Murat in triumph. “As to the matter of escorts, you’ll get one, all right. I have my orders as to what to do, should you ever be caught trespassing within our boundaries. And I intend to carry out my orders. If your son and the rest of your gang wish to depart now, they’ll save themselves some trouble. I have no orders concerning them.”
The officer, thought Murat, must have felt confident that the ragtag ruffians before him would take to their heels rather than confront regulars at equal odds, the moment he gave them leave to do so. But instead Murat’s fanatical bandits, enraged at the very idea of their lord made captive, gripped their weapons and surged forward. Only the Crown Prince shouting at them made them stop.
Startled, the cavalry officer yelled commands at his men, quickly deploying them in readiness for combat. Then, his face reddening, he informed Murat that he and all his escort were prisoners, and that they had better throw down their arms at once.
Murat, struggling to control his restive riding-beast, could feel his anger escalating and the situation slipping away from him. “I have told you that I come in peace—”
The patrol commander interrupted, ordering his archers to nock arrows.
Murat’s fanatical defenders bristled; they were not disciplined troops, whom he would have been able to hold in check. His veteran judgment warned him that whatever sway he still held over the situation was rapidly disappearing. Now it seemed that everyone was shouting, so his own conciliatory words had no chance of being heard. A fight was on the verge of breaking out, in which his own life and Carlo’s would be at stake. And if they were to kill Tasavaltan border guards, how could they approach the Princess afterward with a claim of peaceful intentions? But neither could Murat surrender and allow himself to be disarmed.
Once again, with a reluctance as great as on the first occasion, but now feeling a fatalistic acceptance also, he drew his Sword. Uppermost in Murat’s mind as the dazzling steel cleared leather was the thought that he could not allow his own son to die in his defense.
This time the Crown Prince felt even less of the shock of unleashed magic than when he had first drawn this Sword. But this time, as on that first occasion, every other human being within a hundred meters was engulfed, overwhelmed by the Mindsword’s influence.
* * *
In the matter of a few moments, the once-arrogant officer of the patrol had joined his men in abandoning their sworn duty without a qualm, and proclaiming their undying devotion to Murat. The Crown Prince, observing their behavior as disinterestedly as possible, thought the scene was very much like that of the bandits’ conversion, except that this time the bandits were on hand to welcome their new comrades to the fold, and make them feel more comfortable with their new status.
And this time Murat found himself able to view the matter somewhat more calmly; true, Carlo had now been exposed twice to the Mindsword’s power. But there was really no reason to think the experience would do him any harm.
The young lieutenant, as soon as he had regained control of himself, ceased groveling in the dust, brushed off his no-longer impeccable uniform, drew himself up stiffly at attention before the Crown Prince, introduced himself by name and rank, and asked his new lord’s pardon for his inexcusable misbehavior of a few minutes ago, when in his confusion of mind he had actually dared to utter threats against his glorious master.
Murat, speaking in a distant voice, pardoned him freely. The Crown Prince, feeling suddenly depressed, was wondering to himself how he had managed, all unintentionally, to land himself in this situation.
One single pardon, in dry words, did not appear to be enough. The lieutenant, stumbling verbally, trying to control himself, and now, despite being forgiven, apparently on the verge of suicidal guilt and shame, explained that he and his men—he asked pardon for them also—had been unable to understand the situation clearly until the Sword was drawn. Its powerful magic had cleared their eyes and their minds.
Murat silently congratulated himself on the graciousness with which he listened to all this and once more granted absolution. This time he tried to sound more concerned, more human, even while concealing his mounting impatience.
Taking a swift visual inventory of all the men around him, the Crown Prince noted in passing that the old beggar, Metaxas, had evidently retreated to a safe distance in the rear at the first threat of combat. One of the bandits was now bringing the blind man forward again to rejoin the group.
Still more patience was required in soothing and forgiving the officer and his troopers. When the Crown Prince had finally convinced them of his forgiveness, he went on to assure them that he and those who followed him meant no harm to any of the Tasavaltan people, least of all the noble and deserving Princess. He, the Crown Prince—as he patiently explained once more—only wanted to be reconciled with Princess Kristin, and with that purpose in mind he was bringing her an impressive gift.
The Tasavaltan soldiers cheered this news—of course, Murat reminded himself, knowing the power of the Swords, these converts at the peak of their fresh-caught enthusiasm doubtless would have cheered their new master just a
s loudly and fervently had he announced his intention of raping and murdering their wives and sisters.
Eagerly, several of the frontier guards informed the Crown Prince that the Princess Kristin was not currently in residence in Sarykam, the capital city on the coast. Rather, she and her younger son, the only members of the royal family now in the country, were to be found at their summer retreat high in the mountains, some kilometers inland.
“Good! Very good!” Murat found the news pleasing. The difficulties brought on by encountering the patrol had given him pause, and started him worrying seriously about how he was going to approach the city. If the entire Tasavaltan army had standing orders to take him prisoner on sight—and the newly converted officer, reddening with shame, now confirmed that this was indeed the case—then he, Murat, could hardly expect to approach the capital without having to draw his Sword again, and very likely more than once.
But a summer retreat in the mountains was almost certain to be much more readily accessible. On his way there he and his escort would be able at least to avoid the larger population centers. Murat was about to call for a volunteer from among the guardsmen, to ride swiftly ahead carrying an important message to the Princess; but before doing so he had second thoughts.
Taking the Tasavaltan officer aside, Murat patiently explained the difficulty to him. “If I dispatch a man with a message for the Princess, and that man says he comes from me, and speaks only good of me, the Princess and those around her will certainly believe that I have some of their troops under a magical compulsion. Therefore they will credit nothing the messenger tells them. Instead they will dispatch their own messengers to the capital, to mobilize the entire land against me.”
The young lieutenant blinked, trying to grasp a point of view he now found so inherently absurd.
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