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

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 right.” 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