“But that would be so foolish of them, Lord! We here, the men of my patrol, are under no compulsion. Quite the opposite. It is only that now our eyes have been opened to your true nobility.” And he looked as if he might be considering breaking his stance at attention to make some obeisance, something on the order of casting himself at Murat’s feet.
“Yes, of course, you are quite right. Their attitude is foolish,” the Crown Prince murmured soothingly. “But send no message for the time being.”
“As you wish, Lord.”
Murat shook his head, seeing no way at the moment for him to communicate with the Princess credibly. I am one sane man, he thought, for the moment surrounded by those who cannot see straight or think straight. So I, at least, must retain my sanity. Because it is my responsibility to think for us all. And I must decide what will be best for Kristin and her people too.
Murat raised his voice: “We will all of us march together for the time being. Lead the way to her summer retreat.” The cavalry detachment, having been prudently provisioned for a long patrol, carried food enough to feed not only themselves, but the former bandits as well, adequately for the several days it would take for the combined group to approach Princess Kristin.
Further inquiries among his newest adherents gleaned for Murat a welcome confirmation that at least Prince Mark, whose presence might have complicated things immeasurably, was, as so often, out of the country. But Mark was expected back at any time now.
From certain things that the soldiers said, certain expressions that crossed some of their faces when Mark was mentioned, the Crown Prince got the idea that they might retain a high regard for Mark as a fair Prince and a capable soldier. But these indications of regard for Kristin’s husband vanished as soon as the men learned that their new master’s attitude toward Mark was less than cordial. From now on several of the men had only black looks and dark mutterings at any mention of their former commander. These, Murat decided, were probably men who had nursed some resentment against Mark even before they caught the vibrations of Murat’s feelings toward him.
As for the Princess herself, all the troopers were glad to see and hear how highly Murat thought of her. They also continued to hold Kristin in great esteem.
Murat decided that he had learned all he needed to know for the time being.
“Let us march on,” he ordered his combined force. “Toward the Princess, in her summer retreat.”
Chapter Six
Following the surrender of the border patrol, the Crown Prince and his newly enlarged entourage enjoyed several days of almost uneventful travel. All during this time the Sword remained sheathed at Murat’s side. As they traveled he observed his followers carefully, to see how and when the Mindsword’s influence would begin to wear off—sooner or later, he knew, it probably would. And indeed, some of the men’s behavior did change with the passage of hours and days. The Crown Prince thought that within two days three or four of the bandits and some half a dozen of the troopers had begun to have second thoughts about their quick conversion. The process, unlike that of their metamorphosis into his followers, was quite gradual, manifesting itself only in solemn faces and thoughtful stares; he had no fears of a sudden betrayal.
As the enduring effects of the shock of magic continued to weaken, the undisciplined bandits grew a trifle lax in obeying Murat’s orders, and Carlo reported that some of the troopers were beginning to recall their broken oaths of fealty to Tasavalta’s Princess. No dramatic event occurred to illustrate these changes, but small signs were visible to one who watched for them as the Crown Prince did. Quietly he asked his son’s opinion on what was happening.
Carlo seemed dismayed at the thought of anyone who had once seen the light choosing to turn away from it again. He suggested that his father draw the Sword once more.
But Murat declined to do that. Instead, calling all his followers to attend him, he explained again, as openly and fairly as he could, his reasons for wanting to visit Princess Kristin. He maintained that his goals were just, and that reasonable people ought to be able to perceive them as such without the help of magic. Certainly he meant no harm to the Tasavaltans’ beloved Princess or to any of her subjects. Just the opposite, in fact, or he would not be bringing her this great Sword as a gift. This was the first time many of his new followers had learned the nature of his intended gift, and he saw that it made a strong impression.
After he dismissed the meeting, the Crown Prince saw that Carlo was frowning again, and demanded to know what his son was thinking.
“Nothing you have not heard before, Father.”
“Then tell me again.”
“I am worried,” Carlo said. “Worried by the idea of power such as the Mindsword’s being simply given away. If someone other than yourself possessed it, such magic could easily convince people to follow the wrong leader.”
“I’m sure it could. But Princess Kristin is hardly an evil leader. And the Sword is mine, to do with as I will.”
“Yes, of course, Father. But is it in your best interest to have such a treasure pass completely out of the family? The ruling family of Tasavalta are practically strangers to us. And how do we know that they will always want to behave in a friendly way toward us in Culm? In the wrong hands, your Sword’s magic might—thoroughly confuse people.”
Murat took thought, and smiled. “Well, Carlo, as things have worked out, you and I are seldom in Culm anyway. I doubt that either of us has much future there. And I think what the Princess might choose to do with the Sword after she has it is beside the point. The point is that I owe her restitution for a great wrong, and I intend to give her this Sword to make up for the one I took away.”
“As you say, Father,” agreed Carlo dutifully.
* * *
But, once out of his father’s sight, the son shook his head, still worrying. It did little good to keep telling himself that anything and everything his father did was right, and therefore Father must have a good reason for what he wanted to do with the Sword.
“Are you troubled, young Master Carlo?” The old blind man, sitting as usual on the fringe of the camp, raised his sightless face as Carlo approached. Evidently the beggar had sensed that something was wrong.
Carlo’s feet slowed and stopped. He sighed, wondering if the beggar had recognized him by the sound of his footsteps. He wished he could confide in someone.
“Is there trouble, then, young Master, between you and your esteemed father?”
“I don’t know,” answered Carlo soberly. “I hope not. No, I don’t really believe there’s any trouble.”
“Something, perhaps, concerning the Sword he carries?”
“Tell me, Metaxas—you say you have known the Princess—?”
“Years ago,” returned the beggar cautiously.
“Tell me, what is she really like? What would she do with the Sword of Glory if she were to possess it?”
The old beggar heaved a wheezing sigh. Sounding worried, he suggested that it might be better if the Sword were not given to Kristin, nice lady though she was. Metaxas thought it would be much better, for all concerned, if the Crown Prince could be made to see that he should keep such a superb weapon for himself.
“As long as the Sword of Glory rests in the noble hands of the Crown Prince, we can all feel safe. Whereas, in any other hands…” Shaking his head, Metaxas let his words trail off.
“That is my own thought,” Carlo sighed in turn. “But how can I persuade my father to do anything?”
“It is not for me to intrude between the two of you.”
“Of course not. But…”
“But—sometimes—I feel it is my duty to make at least one small suggestion.”
“Do so.”
“It is just this. Blind agreement, blind obedience, is not always the greatest, truest loyalty.”
“Blind—?”
“I mean, young man, that if there is some real danger to your father, and he is unable to see that danger clearly, it becom
es your duty—and mine, of course, and all his followers—to help him. Even if what we say, or do, should anger him at first.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Metaxas.”
“Perhaps I have already said too much, young master. Anyway, it is my opinion that if your father feels he must give the Sword to someone, it should be you.”
“Me!”
“That is not so surprising, is it? That such an inheritance should pass to a faithful, loyal son?”
“No—” said Carlo, then fell silent. Then he turned and walked away, not knowing if he was angry with the blind beggar or not. To have the Mindsword in his own hands … no, he told himself firmly. He did not wish for anything of the kind.
* * *
Later that night, with everyone but a pair of patrolling sentries fast asleep, Vilkata lay rolled in a borrowed blanket on the edge of camp. Choosing a time when both sentries were well out of earshot, he muttered certain antique words into his blanket, meanwhile holding the fingers of his left hand contorted into an unusual position.
Within the space of a few breaths he became aware of the silent arrival of an intelligent presence, inhuman and invisible.
“What news, Master?” inquired the demon’s voice. The dry leaves seemed to be swirling right in the Dark King’s ear, but still they were barely audible.
Keeping his head three-quarters under the blanket’s folds, and whispering, Vilkata reassured his partner that he still remained free of the Mindsword’s influence. So far, using the demonic vision secretly provided by Akbar, he had managed to scramble out of range of the Mindsword’s power each time that violence threatened. On the last occasion it had been close.
“I believe that most of these fools, if they take notice of me at all, think it only natural that a blind man should try to get himself out of danger when swords are drawn. At the same time they assume that the Mindsword must have caught me at some time, and that I am as loyal to their precious master as they are. I act the part, of course.”
“And does the Crown Prince too assume you are his slave?”
“He is a fool like the others. I doubt he thinks of me at all, except as a surprise gift for his beloved Princess.”
“Ah. Excellent. I have no doubt that you have managed to deceive them all. When will you seize the Sword, Dark Master?” The dry-leaves-and-bones voice of the demon nagged him eagerly. “Tell me, when?”
“I’ll grab it from him as soon as I can, fool!” Vilkata in his frustration had to remind himself to keep his whisper low; mere subvocalization was more than ample for the demon to hear and understand. “I do not enjoy this game, as you can understand, but I must play it patiently. Any man who has worn a sword as long as our friend Murat, and faced as many treacherous enemies as he, is always on guard against being suddenly disarmed, just as he is always breathing. And if I should try to get the weapon from him, and fail, I’ll get no second chance.”
There was a silent pause.
“Of course, Master. Forgive any suggestion of disrespect that I may have given in my impatience.”
“You are forgiven.” The Dark King had no intention of offending his partner until he felt confident of being strong enough to exercise control.
Vilkata whispered on, venting his frustration, lamenting the fact that he had still been unable to find an opportunity to seize the Sword from Murat, even though in the Dark King’s demon-powered perception Skulltwister loomed ever as a brilliant beacon.
He came near suggesting—though he stopped short of doing so—that Akbar have a go at snatching the Sword himself if he thought it would be so easy.
Then the man had a request. “Can you not make my human body younger, swifter, stronger? That would help.”
“I assure you, Great Master, matters are not that simple. The man Murat is magician enough to detect any sudden magical alteration in your person. Magician enough to sense my presence should I come any nearer him than this. The instant he grows suspicious he will draw his Sword. Where should we both be then?”
Vilkata grumbled, but forbore to press his partner to give him more help, or to make an attempt to grab the Sword of Glory himself. He really had no wish to see the Sword in Akbar’s hands.
Sounding as malleable and cowardly as ever, and repeatedly fretting about the dangers of discovery, Akbar wondered querulously if they were even safe from discovery here on the edge of camp, with almost everyone else asleep.
“There are no magicians here but me—certainly not the Crown Prince. No real magicians at all—well, there is one amateur who might conceivably be dangerous.”
“Ah?”
“His name is Gauranga, the bandit with the gray mustache, and he possesses a sensitivity, if no real skill, in matters of magic. I am beginning to fear what he may detect.”
“Yes, I see, Master. Such an individual could present a problem—let me try to solve it.”
“I trust you will succeed. Without alarming anyone.”
* * *
It was early on the morning after this conference that four of the converted Tasavaltan guardsmen approached the Crown Prince and asked his permission to speak.
“Permission granted.”
Standing before Murat, the troopers informed him timidly, in one or two cases rather sullenly, that they wished to leave him and return to the service of the Princess.
Murat had begun to expect such a request from some of his men, and readily gave those who asked permission to leave his service. They looked somewhat relieved.
He raised a cautioning hand. “I would ask you, however, to delay your return to your former duties until after I have a chance to make contact with the Princess, which should be very soon now. Will you promise me that much?”
Standing as they were, confronting Murat directly, the troopers were unable to refuse him that much, although their Tasavaltan loyalties had obviously regained an ascendancy. The foundations of their conversion, Murat thought, had been built on nothing substantial in the mundane world, and were now eroding swiftly; in another day or two they might be capable of becoming his enemies once more.
The thought bothered him unreasonably.
“Wait another day,” said Murat, “and I will put in a good word for you with the Princess. As soon as I have the opportunity.”
He had thought that this gracious offer would relieve the men’s remaining worry. But to his surprise the troopers looked more uneasy than before.
“Your pardon, sir, but…” Their spokesman hesitated.
“Well, what is it? Spit it out. Speak freely.”
“To put it bluntly, sir, the Princess doesn’t like you.” The man hesitated, then plunged boldly on. “I mean, sir, in the case of someone like Princess Kristin, who doesn’t really know you yet, who’s never had the benefit of your Sword to clear her vision—well, in the light of what happened last year, isn’t it natural that she at least thinks she doesn’t like you?”
“What I believe you are trying to tell me, trooper, is that she won’t listen to me, won’t give me a chance to explain about last year. You believe that instead of my being able to put in a good word for others, I’m badly in need of one myself, as far as the Princess is concerned.”
The soldier was relieved at not having to spell it out. “That’s about it, sir. We’d be glad to put in a word for you, you’ve sure treated us handsomely. Only…”
“Only you will be regarded, at best, as deluded victims; at worst as deserters. Nothing you say will be believed. I understand.” Murat paused. “But you are wrong.”
“Sir?”
“Not about the kind of reception you may expect when you report back for duty; I’m afraid you’re right about that. But you are mistaken about your Princess.” The Crown Prince nodded for emphasis. “She’ll listen to me. She’ll be angry at me at first, over what happened last year, but she will still listen.”
“Yes sir. If you say so, sir.” And perhaps, Murat thought, the soldier was convinced.
Shortly afterward th
at man and the three other Tasavaltans who had chosen to return to their original loyalties rode away. Murat made no further effort to delay them; according to the best information his loyal people could give him, the Princess in her summer retreat was now no more than a few hours’ ride away.
And scarcely were they out of sight than another small delegation came to report to Murat that the bandit-magician Gauranga seemed to have been overtaken by an accident during the night. He had died of a plunge down a small cliff.
“Walked away in the darkness to relieve himself, it looks like, sir, and just walked a step too far.”
The Crown Prince went to take a cursory look at the body. An odd incident indeed, but there was no evidence of foul play, and certainly nothing to connect Gauranga’s death with the beggar. If any faint shadow of suspicion of the blind man crossed Murat’s mind, he dismissed it in the next instant as preposterous.
* * *
That day Carlo reported to his father that one of the troopers who had chosen to remain with them was a veteran of that famous battle of fourteen years ago, when the armies of the Silver Queen and the Dark King had clashed in battle, each ruler armed with a different Sword.
That night, with most of the group sitting around a campfire some kilometers closer to where they might expect to find the Princess, Murat encouraged this soldier to speak to them of those days.
This veteran had served in the Silver Queen’s victorious army, and told now how he had seen the great Lord Vilkata’s soldiers overwhelmed by the Sword of Despair, many of them slaughtered on the field, but most taken prisoner while in a state of helplessness. There was no humor in the story, and no joy; it seemed that even the victors in that battle still bore the psychic scars of it.
* * *
At the beginning of the tale Vilkata had been crouched at the far end of the camp, alone and distant from the fire. But as the story progressed, the Dark King, seeing more than any of the others dreamed, gradually edged his way closer to the storyteller’s fire, and listened unnoticed to this tale of events in which he had played one of the principal roles. The veteran, noticing at last the presence of the Eyeless One, remarked that he’d had an aversion to blind men ever since that day of battle, when he had glimpsed the Dark King from afar.
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