The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story Fred Saberhagen (phonics books txt) 📖

a course that seemed calculated to intercept his own. Ben halted, squinting with a hand raised to shade his eyes. Even at a distance it was obvious that these three were not members of Brod’s cutthroat gang.

      Shrugging his shoulders, he resumed his advance. As the distance between them diminished, he observed that there was something familiar about two of the approaching figures; and one of those two was holding in both hands a gleaming thing, like a long sword.

      Or, rather, like a very different kind of weapon. Something much more than any ordinary sword.

      A minute after making that discovery, Ben was exchanging enthusiastic greetings with two of the travelers he had so fortunately—as he thought—encountered.

      One of these two old acquaintances, she who had once been the Silver Queen, was saying to Ben: “So, you are my gate to peace and truth, you man of blood? It seems unlikely. And yet the Sword of Wisdom has fastened me upon your trail.”

      Ben looked at the Sword, and at the woman who held it. He said: “I think I must hear some explanation.”

      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