Sightblinder's Story Read online

  If he, Arnfinn, who now feared to cross the town square because of the strangers who might accost him, were in that castle, what would he be able to do there?

  Assuming that the magicians on the island were as subject to Sightblinder’s powers as the peasants along the road—but how could he even assume that?—then what would happen? What image would those wizards and clever warriors see when they looked at Arnfinn? When no two of them, perhaps, saw him as the same person, how long would it take them to understand what was happening?

  For an hour he sat brooding on the hillside, the drawn steel of Sightblinder in his hands, digging little holes in the earth with the god-forged point of it and cutting up twigs with the almost invisible keenness of its edge.

  Fear receded gradually. His breathing grew easier, his heartbeat slowed and steadied, and the knot in his stomach began to untie itself. Because he wasn’t going to start for the island this moment. No, he saw now that he couldn’t do that. This was going to require some planning.

  * * *

  Later in the day, wandering hesitantly among the hills at the far end of town from the manor, unable to make up his mind on any decisive course of action, Arnfinn came upon a deserted hut. The shack stood at some distance from any of the regularly used paths and roads that crossed the landscape. The hut provided him with partial shelter, and that night and on succeeding nights he slept uneasily in it, with an intermittent drizzle penetrating the overhanging branches and the ruined roof. At least he felt secure that no one was going to bother him here.

  Each night, after a day of aimless wandering and scrounging food, he dozed off in the hut, hoping that no one would find him—and hoping even more fervently that no wild beast was going to come along, indifferent to the personal identities of its human victims as long as they had flesh and blood to eat. But in his cooler moments, Arnfinn supposed it unlikely that any such large predator would lurk so close to a large town.

  He was still living in that hut three days later, scrounging food in and near the town as best he could, avoiding human contact as much as possible, and trying to nerve himself for the attempt to do what Lady Ninazu wanted done, when the three ill-assorted strangers waylaid him and took his magic Sword away from him.

  * * *

  And an hour after he had lost the Sword, rousing himself from his hopeless vigil across the road from the gates of Lady Ninazu’s manor, he moved and thought with a fatalistic calm. There was nowhere in the world for him to go, nothing else that he could do, until he had retrieved the Sword—somehow—and used it as he knew he must, to try to make amends to the lady he had so cruelly wronged.

  When, later, Arnfinn saw the huge man and the shifting form of one who must hold the Sword, walking together along the shore of the lake, he stalked them.

  Chapter Ten

  Against this terror, the Sword of Stealth was as useless as a pin. Riding the griffin high above the lake, Arnfinn gritted his teeth to keep himself from screaming in dread of the sheer drop below him. In the distance, the last tinges of the sunset were reflected in the water, but directly underneath him there was nothing but an incredible gulf of air with black water at the bottom of it.

  In the next moment he had to close his eyes as well. But even with his eyes closed he could still feel in his stomach that he was aboard a flying creature, with only a vast emptiness beneath. Even the escort of small creatures with which he had left the shore had now been left behind.

  He remembered once, when he was a small boy, seeing a small flying predator struggling terribly to lift a half-grown rabbit, and in his guts he could not really believe that this beast beneath him could go on from one moment to the next supporting his weight.

  Arnfinn’s right hand was entwined in a death grip in the long hair of the griffin’s leonine mane, while his left hand, close beside the right, was having trouble finding a solid grip. It grabbed at one tuft after another of what felt like eagle feathers, which pulled loose every time his fingers clamped upon them. He opened his eyes long enough to shift his grip, getting a firm hold with both fists on the hairy mane.

  If this had been a riding-beast or a load beast Arnfinn would have felt reasonably confident of being able to control it, even without reins or saddle. But he was totally ignorant of the proper way to give this creature orders. He wondered if it was interpreting his efforts to cling to its back as some kind of commands.

  That possibility was unsettling enough to force Arnfinn’s eyelids open again. This latest terrified glimpse suggested to him that he had now reached an altitude almost equal to that of the surrounding distant hills. On the positive side, he made the reassuring discovery that if he did not look straight down, he could keep his eyes open.

  Presently he was sure that the griffin was now descending gradually, in almost a straight path toward the approximate center of the watery plain ahead, where from an island there arose the shadowed shape of the dark castle, marked here and there with sparks of torchlight.

  Arnfinn had not appreciated how swift the griffin was, until, unbelievably, the castle was already very close beneath him. And then the creature was down, achieving a soft and springy landing. In a moment Arnfinn slid from its back and once more had solid rock beneath his feet, though he was still high above the surface of the surrounding lake.

  Here, atop the highest tower of the castle, was an aerie the size of a small house, a place set aside to serve the arrivals and departures of aerial spies and messengers, and to provide the beasts with living space as well. Right now most of the roosts and cages stood empty. Whatever birds had once been kept there by Honan-Fu were dead now or departed, and evidently most of the reptilian and avian creatures serving the new masters of the castle were out on patrol.

  The newly landed griffin, bulking larger than a riding-beast when it spread its wings, dominated the space. The few smaller creatures present were sent flapping and fluttering out of its way, making noisy cries of protest.

  Arnfinn, once he had slipped gratefully from the creature’s back, lost no time in getting clear of it altogether. At the moment he scarcely cared where his feet were taking him, as long as they were firmly on solid ground again.

  But even as the griffin moved away, walking somewhat awkwardly on its two mismatched pairs of legs, Arnfinn realized that a pair of human observers had witnessed his arrival. One of these men was standing by with a broom in hand, while the other held a small measure of grain. They were obviously low-ranking beast masters, handlers and caretakers of the creatures here.

  It was equally obvious that the two unquestioningly accepted Arnfinn as a person of overwhelming importance, for they bowed themselves immediately out of his way, one of them spilling the grain from his measure in his haste to do so.

  Behind them as they moved, Arnfinn observed the upper end of a ladder. When he had scrambled down it he saw the head of a descending stair.

  Flames in wall sconces of twisted metal burned at intervals on the way down, set close enough together to let him see the footing. After two turns of the spiral, when Arnfinn had reached a place where he was for the moment sheltered from all human sight, he paused. Leaning his back against the wall he took a few deep breaths. Clutching the talisman of his Sword with one hand, Arnfinn used the tattered sleeve of his free arm to wipe sweat from his face, despite the chill draft blowing down the stair.

  He had done it now. He was really here.

  The next question was, where would an important prisoner like Kunderu, a wizard and a wizard’s son, be likely to be hidden? Though Arnfinn had never been inside a castle before, he like everyone else knew that they were supposed to have dungeons underneath them. But he had also heard an old story or two in which prisoners of high rank and deemed especially important, or for some other reason deserving of special treatment, were kept locked up in high towers instead.

  Anyway, since he had arrived atop the castle’s highest tower, he might as well begin his search efforts at the top.

  There was another problem,
which only now occurred to Arnfinn: once he had located Kunderu, and somehow secured his release, how were the two of them going to return to the mainland? Briefly he toyed with the idea of persuading the magically powerful griffin to carry two passengers at once. The flight had been a hideous experience, and he had no wish to repeat it, but it had the one blessed advantage of being quick; either he and Kunderu would promptly effect their escape, or else they would be promptly killed. The alternative to using the griffin would be to commandeer a boat…. Arnfinn decided he wasn’t going to make his choice just yet.

  At the next landing down the tower stair, about twenty steps down from his first rest stop, he came to a narrow window through which he was able to survey the deepening night outside. Light enough remained for him to see that his griffin-mount, along with an escort of smaller flyers, had just taken off again, evidently heading out once more on patrol.

  One question settled. He and Ninazu’s brother were going to have to get away by boat, and that in a way was a relief. He would not have to fly again.

  Arnfinn moved on down.

  Presently, now only moderately high in the castle’s architecture, he came out on a small terrace. This would be a good spot, he thought, from which to try to see what might be going on below, where parts of several open courtyards were visible. There were several lighted windows, as well, at his own level or a little higher, which he thought might repay investigation. He stood there beginning a survey.

  * * *

  Some time ago, Lady Yambu had given up listening at the door of the apartment to which she had been conducted as a guest. It was a comfortable enough place, even somewhat luxurious; but she was quite sure that if she left, or tried to leave, there would be a confrontation. She was effectively a prisoner. It was no more than she had expected.

  Is this how I search for truth? she thought. But if I were not here, if I had determined to persevere very strictly in my pilgrimage, where would I be? Back at that damned room at the inn, probably, still waiting for another boat that might or might not be willing to take me down the Tungri.

  Looking out from one of her gracefully thin windows—these quarters were certainly quite a change from her room at the inn—she saw, on a balcony at a slightly lower level, the figure of the Emperor. He was wearing his gray cape and a clown’s mask, and looking tentatively about him. In that first moment of recognition, despite her experience only hours ago, she had no doubt that it was really the Emperor she saw.

  Only when she saw him inexplicably turn into the hideously pallid figure of the Dark King, dead now these many years, did Yambu suddenly realize that this must be Zoltan or Ben. One of them at least must have managed to reach the island with the Sword of Stealth.

  Lady Yambu brought a candle over to the window, and began some cautious signaling.

  * * *

  Arnfinn’s attention was drawn to one window by the tiny movement of the flame inside it. The window was not many meters away, and despite the poor light, he at once recognized the gray-haired lady as one member of the infamous trio who had assaulted him and taken away the Sword. He was more than a little surprised to see her here. What she and her companions had said when they took his Sword away had made him think that they were not connected with the new lords of the lake and islands.

  But, who was she seeing when she looked at him? Obviously not someone she greatly feared.

  Arnfinn waved back, a slight, cautious gesture, and then began to work his way nearer her apartment, a task made considerably more difficult by his complete ignorance of the interior layout of the castle. Traveling through corridors that were almost completely dark, he found his vision somehow enhanced, he thought, by Sightblinder. What little was shown him by stray glints of light was easier to interpret in terms of real surfaces and distances.

  He came out on another untenanted small balcony, from which he hoped to be able to see the window, and found to his satisfaction that he was closer to it. Taking a shortcut that involved some risky climbing—by this time risks were assuming a different proportion—he soon found himself standing on yet another balcony, near enough to the lady’s window to allow them to conduct a quiet conversation.

  “Who is it?” she whispered out to him, the imperious tone that he remembered still lingering in her voice. “Zoltan or Ben?”

  Arnfinn, trying to understand that question, wondered if the lady could be speaking of a pair of twins, so that she did not know which one she thought she saw. Or, were Ben and Zoltan two different people, and had she seen him as first one and then the other as he approached?

  “What does it matter?” he whispered back. Then, bluntly: “I must know. Where are the important prisoners being held?”

  He could see her shake her head impatiently and blink. “Prisoners? I know where the one of most importance is, at least. If you can get me out of this comfortable cell, I’ll take you directly to him.”

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as Zoltan felt steady enough on his feet to travel, he continued with Ben along the shoreline in the direction away from Triplicane. They met no one as they walked. From time to time Ben cast a glowering look out over the lake, but the griffin, along with its unknown rider, and their flying escort of lesser creatures, had all disappeared into the distances of the darkening lacustrine sky.

  Still Ben and Zoltan moved on. As the dusk deepened around them they stumbled around and over two more deserted docks, but except for one half-sunken hulk there were no boats of any kind to be discovered.

  By this time both men were almost staggering with weariness. Abandoning their efforts for the time being, they sought shelter in a small hillside grove of evergreens, only a stone’s throw from the water. There, on ground softly carpeted with needles, they slept until it was almost dawn.

  Zoltan, who was the first to come fully awake, immediately set about scrounging up some breakfast. Seldom had he ever undertaken a journey of any length without bringing along a fisherman’s line and a few hooks, and this trek to Alkmaar had been no exception. He could hear the downhill rush of a small stream that ran nearby, screened by trees. The underside of a log yielded a few juicy grubs for bait. Meanwhile Ben, groaning himself awake at last, came up with the flint and steel necessary to get a fire started.

  Zoltan’s skill, aided by moderate good luck, soon provided a few fish. As the two men breakfasted, discussing their problems and peering out over the lake, a pair of large rowboats came into sight through the usual sunrise mist and the accompanying strange optical effects. The boats, filled with soldiers uniformed in gray and red, were following the shoreline from the direction of the town.

  Ben cast a quick glance upward, making sure that his small fire was producing no visible smoke. But the soldiers in the boats were not scanning for evidence of campfires. A little farther along the shore, in the direction they were going, stood a small fisherman’s house, dark and deserted-looking in the dawn. But the house proved not to be deserted. When the big rowboats grounded in front of it and the troops poured ashore and into the building, screams and cries for mercy followed quickly.

  Soon the soldiers were dragging a woman out of the house, while screams in a man’s hoarse voice went on inside. And now they were bringing children out.

  Zoltan, young as he was, had seen bad things before, but still he could not watch this. Instead he moved to a little slope facing away from the house, where he sat with his fingers in his ears.

  Ben, his ugly face looking as if it were carved from stone, the breeze from the lake ruffling his graying hair, sat watching through it all. He wanted to know all that he could about the enemy. Even at the distance he tried to pick out individuals among them, for possible future reference.

  The officer in charge of the troops, a red-haired man with a penetrating voice, looked on indulgently during the rape and killing. When that had been concluded, he ordered a few of his men aboard the single small fishing boat tied at the dock beside the house. The little craft appeared to be leaky—Ben co
uld see the prize crew bailing industriously before they put their oars into the locks. Soon all three boats were rowing back in the direction of the town.

  Ben swore gloomy oaths. He said to Zoltan, who by now had rejoined him: “One of the things the bastards are doing, then, is rounding up all the available boats. No wonder we couldn’t find one to borrow last night.”

  “If we’d just kept going a little longer we might have had that one,” Zoltan grumbled, watching it disappear. He was still pale from listening to the screams, and now and then he touched the place on the back of his head where he had been hit.

  “And it’s small wonder, too,” Ben went on, “that we have seen practically no people on the shore. The fisher folk all around the lake, or this end of it anyway, must be abandoning everything and moving out.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know.” Zoltan turned his head. “Sounds like someone coming. Uphill, that way.”

  There was a path in that direction, not very far away, but pretty effectively screened by evergreens. And now there was a lone man, in drab civilian clothing, walking on the path.

  “Shall we keep quiet, or say hello to him?”

  “Let’s ask him how the weather’s been.”

  When they appeared suddenly on the path, one in front of the man and one behind him, he collapsed at once in a terrified heap, signing that his pockets were empty and he had nothing to give them. But he was quickly convinced that they were not robbers and meant him no harm. Then he became willing to talk; indeed it was almost impossible to stop him for long enough to get a question in.

  He was a wiry man of middle size, with bushy black eyebrows starting to turn gray. His name, he said, was Haakon, and he was, or had been, a part-time weaver of fishing nets, as well as a former member of the constabulary serving Honan-Fu. It had not been a very energetic or well-disciplined outfit, according to Haakon, and now he, like the other members that he knew about, was lying low and had even burned his old uniform.