The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story Page 7

  “Ah.”

  “Yes, ‘Ah’ indeed. Just consider the possibilities, when the occupant of the rack or of the boot can be revived over and over, times without number. When one is entertaining one’s enemy under such favorable conditions, one always hates to say a permanent goodbye. Imagine the guest, just as final unconsciousness is about to overtake him—or her—being restored to perfect physical health and strength, every nerve and every blood vessel intact again. And restored quickly, almost instantly! No need even to remove him—or her—from the rack for a period of recuperation.”

  Wood sighed faintly. “I tell you, Tigris, I would give a great deal to be able to take the Sword of Love—and a few well-chosen guests, of course—and retire to one of my fortresses for a few years of well-earned rest and entertainment.”

  “My Master, I look forward to making such a retreat with you. What pleasures could we not devise?” The blond young woman giggled, a delicious sound.

  “Yes.” Wood stroked her hair, and his features softened momentarily. “You are a beautiful creature.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And loyal to me.”

  “Naturally, Master.”

  “Naturally.” The stroking hand moved on. “Really beautiful. And, of course, still really young. That is a rare quality among my close associates, and one I value. Yes my dear, you are precious to me.”

  The head of yellow curls bowed humbly.

  But Wood’s expression was hardening again. His fondling hand fell to his side. “Unfortunately, we can spare no time for any prolonged diversion now.”

  “No, Master.”

  Standing with hands braced on his workbench, issuing brisk commands, the Ancient One dictated the reply he wanted sent back to his people in the field.

  The necessary materials were readily at hand. Tigris wrote what she was ordered to write. The message was short and to the point; the written words glowed briefly, then disappeared from the thin parchment, not to regain their visibility until the proper spell should be recited over them.

  Now the wizard paced as he completed the dictation. “Tell my people that they are graciously granted permission to use Woundhealer to cure whatever wounds they may have suffered.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “As for healing anyone else, if the question should come up … I think not.” The handsome man smiled his youthful smile.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, standing on the battlements to make sure that the winged messenger was properly dispatched, she gazed upon the open sky, and heard bird-song again.

  This time, as she listened, the faint crease of a frown appeared above her eyes. There was something she did not understand. Something that bothered her.

  Something those cheerful voices not only symbolized, but actively conveyed. A plea, or a warning, that she ought to, but still did not, understand.

  The singers of course were only birds, nothing more than they seemed to be, she was very sure of that. And that point perhaps had meaning. Small and mindless and meaningless animals. Perhaps, though, simplicity, an absence of trickery, was not altogether meaningless.

  Tigris had the irrational feeling that, years ago, when she was only a child, she might have been able to comprehend the birds … though the child she had been of course had not begun to understand the world as it really was.

  Yet recently—today was not the first experience—she had been nagged by the notion that in childhood she must have known something of great importance, something essential, which she had since utterly forgotten. Recently there came moments when it seemed to her that the thing forgotten had once been, might still be, of overriding importance in her life.

  It was unsettling.

  Tigris closed her eyes, long enough to draw a breath and let it go. For no longer than that did she allow herself to waste the Master’s time. Here in the stronghold of the Ancient One, one had to guard one’s very thoughts with extreme care.

  * * *

  At that same hour, the Sword of Wisdom gripped in the huge right hand of Ben of Sarykam was guiding four people across an extensive wasteland.

  They were making good time for travelers on foot, and Zoltan, the most impetuous of the four if not precisely the youngest, did a good job of restraining his impatience with the comparative slowness of his elders. But he kept wanting to hurry them along. As soon as Zoltan had heard of his Aunt Kristin’s horrible injury and desperate need, he had become wholeheartedly committed, perhaps even more than Ben, to the search for Woundhealer.

  Their march across what was basically an uninhabited plain had gone on for two days now. In the afternoons the spring sun grew uncomfortably warm. Shade was scarce in this wasteland, and the walkers were all thankful that summer was yet to come.

  Now and then Ben grumbled that if they kept on much longer in this direction, they were bound to come back to the river on which he had left the bandit boat, though at a point considerably downstream from that where he had made his escape.

  “You are reluctant to reach a river?” Valdemar asked him. “I think it would be a refreshing change.”

  “This one has bandits on it. I’ll tell them you’re the real Ben of Purkinje.”

  * * *

  As the day drew toward its close, the four, led to water by the sight of thriving vegetation, came upon a small stream that issued from a spring at the root of a rocky outcrop. Ben consulted with the lady, and by agreement they called a halt for food and rest.

  Shrugging out of his small pack, Valdemar remarked: “I have no doubt that we are being led toward Woundhealer. But I wonder how far we have to go.”

  Zoltan, shedding his own pack, answered: “No telling. We may not even be going straight toward the Sword itself.”

  “Ah. It has already been explained to me that I may not be going directly toward my bride. Whoever she may be.”

  “Right,” Ben grunted abstractedly.

  “My purpose then may well be twice delayed.” For the first time since he had joined the others, the young vineyardist sounded faintly discouraged.

  As the simple process of making camp got under way, Ben began to reminisce about another journey once taken under the guidance of the Sword of Wisdom. That had been nineteen years ago, and Wayfinder had been then in the hands of the vengeful Baron Doon, who had used the powers of the Sword to guide himself and his band of plunderers to the main hoard of the Blue Temple’s treasure.

  “You speak as if you were there,” commented Valdemar.

  “I was,” Ben answered shortly.

  “I have heard some version of the story.”

  “Would you like to hear the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe one of these nights, when we are resting.”

  * * *

  The four had pooled their food supplies, but the total was quickly becoming ominously low. Zoltan expressed a hope of being able to find game in this country, despite its barrenness. He had with him a sling, a weapon with which he had gained some proficiency over the last few years. Zoltan went away to hunt.

  At least two kinds of wild spring berries were ripening in this otherwise harsh land. And edible mushrooms were also coming up after recent heavy showers. Yambu and Valdemar were able to gather a useful amount of food within a short distance of the camp.

  Meanwhile Ben was building a fire of dried brush and twigs. In anticipation of making a stew of small game and vegetables, he also cut a large gourd from a last year’s groundvine. This receptacle he hollowed out with a skillful knife, to serve as a cooking pot. A couple of hot stones dropped in would boil the water nicely.

  * * *

  Once darkness had fallen, and the rabbit stew had been cooked and consumed, Ben and Yambu drifted into serious talk beside the small campfire.

  Their conversation acquired an earnest tone when Ben began to reminisce about that last time, nineteen years ago, he had taken part in an expedition guided by Wayfinder.

  “Oh, I trust our guide, all r
ight.” He patted the black hilt as if it might have been a favorite riding-beast. “As some of you well know, this is not the first time I have held this Sword, and followed it.”

  Zoltan and Yambu nodded.

  Ben was coming to the point now. He turned his ugly face toward Yambu. “Ariane too was a member of that party.”

  She returned his meaningful gaze with an intent look of her own. “I know that.”

  Valdemar, looking from one of the two older people to the other, asked innocently and idly: “Who is Ariane?” There was not much hope in his voice; doubtless he thought it unlikely that any woman who had been robbing the Blue Temple nineteen years ago would qualify now as a good wife for a man of twenty.

  Yambu answered without looking at him. “She was my daughter, and the Emperor’s. And she died, nineteen years ago, in that damned Blue Temple treasure-dungeon.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” said Valdemar after a moment. He sounded as if he truly was.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on Ariane’s mother, Ben said: “Four years ago, you and I had a chance to discuss what happened in that treasure-dungeon, as you aptly call it. Four years ago we started to talk of Ariane, but it seems to me that, for whatever reason, we said nothing important. Now I want to talk with you about her, whom we both loved. And about the Emperor.”

  Silence held. Yambu was not looking at Ben, but no one doubted that she was listening.

  “Because there is something I did not tell you when we met four years ago,” Ben continued, frowning.

  “Yes?” Yambu’s tone was noncommittal. She tossed a handful of fresh fuel on the fire.

  “A few years before our last meeting I encountered Ariane’s father. The Emperor told me that she was still alive. That she had been living with him.”

  Ben’s words hung in the air. Meanwhile the small campfire went on about its business, snapping with brisk hunger at its latest allotment of twigs. In the infinite darkness beyond the firelight wild creatures prowled, not always silent. Yambu was looking at Ben now. She stared at him in silence for what seemed a long time.

  At last she asked: “Where, under what circumstances, did you have this conversation with the Emperor?”

  “On the shore of Lake Alkmaar. I was pretending to be a carnival strongman, he was pretending to be a clown. You, as I recall, were not far away, nor was Zoltan; you must both remember our situation.”

  Zoltan nodded thoughtfully.

  Ben went on: “Understand, at the time my mind was on other things entirely. I was afraid Mark might be dead, and I said something about that. He said no, Mark was alive, it was hard to kill one of his—the Emperor’s—children. And then he said to me something I have never forgotten: ‘My daughter Ariane lives also. You may see her one day.’ At the time I could not even begin to think about Ariane again. But her father’s words have kept—coming back to me. Though I’ve never allowed myself to believe them.”

  “How … strange.” Yambu was staring into some distance where none of her companions thoughts or even imaginations were able to follow.

  Ben’s eyes remained fixed on the Silver Queen. His voice was urgent: “You know him better than I do. You tell me how likely he is to be truthful in such a matter.”

  “I, know him?” The Silver Queen, shaking her head, gave a kind of laugh. “I’ve shared his bed, and borne his child. But I don’t even know his true name—assuming that he has one. Know him? You’ll have to seek out someone else for that.”

  “But does he tell the truth?”

  The gray-haired woman was silent for what seemed to Ben a long time. At last she said: “More than anyone else I’ve ever known, I think. One reason, perhaps, why he’s so impossible to live with.”

  No one said anything for a time. Then Valdemar, yawning, announced that he intended to get some sleep.

  Conversation immediately turned to the practical business of standing guard—whoever was standing watch would of course be armed for the job with the Sword of Wisdom.

  * * *

  Zoltan, having by lot been given the honor of standing the first watch, paced in random fashion for a time, his worn boots making little sound in the sandy soil. Slowly he looped round the still-smoldering fire in an irregular pattern, remaining at a considerate distance from the three blanket-wrapped forms of his companions.

  Now and again the young man, his face vaguely troubled, stopped to gaze at the naked weapon he was carrying. Then he silently and deliberately paced on.

  During one of these pauses, as Zoltan stared at the Sword of Wisdom, his lips moved, as if he might be silently formulating a new question.

  Even in the night’s near-silence, the words were far too soft for anyone else to hear: “If I were—if I, like Valdemar, were seeking the right woman for myself—which way would I go?”

  If the Sword reacted at all to this hypothetical new command, the turning of its point, the twisting of its black hilt in Zoltan’s grasp, must surely have been very subtle, a movement right at the limit of his perception.

  But probably, he thought, the Sword would not answer such a conditional question at all.

  Ought he to make the query definite? No, That part of his life he ought to be able to manage for himself.

  But it did cross Zoltan’s mind that perhaps it would be wise for him to ask, now when the Lady Yambu could not hear him, whether he should remain with the Lady Yambu any longer or not.

  In response to this question—if it was indeed a real question—the reactions of Wayfinder in Zoltan’s hands were very tentative, indicating first one direction and then another.

  Or was he only imagining now that the Sword responded at all?

  Frowning with dissatisfaction, Zoltan sat down for a time, his back to the dying fire, the weight of the drawn Sword resting on the sand in front of him, faint stars and sparks of firelight reflecting in the blade.

  * * *

  When the stars in their turning informed the young man that his watch had passed, he crawled softly to Valdemar’s side and woke him with a gentle shaking.

  “All quiet?”

  “All quiet.”

  Moments later, Zoltan was wrapped in his own blanket and snoring faintly.

  * * *

  Now Valdemar was the one holding Wayfinder, and pacing. Presently, like Zoltan, he sat down for a time, and like the smaller youth he found another question to whisper to the oracle.

  “Sword, how soon will you bring me to the goal I have asked for? Another day? A month? A year?”

  There was no reply.

  Softly he pounded his great fist on the ground. He breathed: “But of course, how can you answer such a question? It is only Where that you must tell, never When or Why or How—or Who. So Where must be enough for me.”

  * * *

  Ben’s turn on watch followed in due course. The older man did little pacing—his legs felt that they had accomplished quite enough of that during the day just past. But he moved around enough to be an effective sentry. And he stayed creditably alert.

  Ben too, found some serious personal thoughts and questions that he wished to put to the Sword. But none of these queries were voiced loudly enough for anyone else to hear.

  He did not fail to keep track of time, or neglect to wake the Lady Yambu when her turn came around, well before the sky had begun seriously to lighten in the east.

  Yambu took advantage of the opportunity to have a word or two with Ben.

  “What do you think of him?” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the sleeping Valdemar.

  Ben shrugged. “Nothing in particular. I doubt he’s much more than he seems to be. What I do wonder…”

  “Yes?”

  “How it is that the Sword will satisfy his wish, and yours, and mine, by leading us all together in the same direction.”

  * * *

  If the Silver Queen nursed private thoughts during the hours she spent alone with Wayfinder she was not inclined to share them, even with the Sword. Her watch passed uneventfully.r />
  When the sun was up the party of four adventurers broke camp and moved on, following the guidance of the Sword of Wisdom, once more in the hands of Ben.

  For another day or two the Sword continued to lead them steadily northeast. Foraging and hunting kept them tolerably well fed. At night they camped by water when it was available, and made dry camps when it was not, and in either case stood watch in turn, in turn armed with the Sword of Wisdom.

  Still there was no sign of the river Ben said they must inevitably encounter; evidently its winding course was carrying it also farther to the east.

  Progressively the country surrounding the four seekers became more and more a desert. And then one day the river, of which Ben had been so wary, was again in sight.

  Chapter Six

  The course of the rediscovered river, as indicated by the vegetation growing thickly along its banks, ran ahead of the travelers and somewhat to the east. A kilometer or so after slicing its way into view between hills to the north, the watercourse emerged from a rocky gorge onto relatively flat land. Becoming visible at approximately the same time was a faint road or track, the first sign of human endeavor the travelers had seen for days. This came gently curving toward the river from the west, with a directness suggesting that the point of intersection would provide a ford.

  Shortly after this road came into their view, the sight of half a dozen scavenger birds, circling low in several places above the near bank of the river, alerted the four travelers to the presence of death. The number and position of the gliding birds suggested that destruction of animal or human life might recently have occurred on a substantial scale.

  Less than an hour after first sighting the birds, the four seekers, advancing steadily but cautiously, their afternoon shadows now gliding far ahead of them, reached the place where the sketchy road descended a shallow bank to ford the river.