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

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.

      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