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

      Even as she spoke, Yambu was wishing that she had gone off by herself to so apostrophize Wayfinder. Certainly the others were watching and listening with intense interest. But now, as if he were embarrassed, Ben motioned to the two younger men, and all of them moved away, leaving the Lady alone with Wayfinder.

      The mute Sword only quivered uncertainly, in response to the questioner’s uncertainty.

      “Changeable, are you? At least you are a silent counselor, and there’s wisdom to be found in that.”

      Rejoining the others, she sought out Valdemar, and held out the black hilt of the sheathed Sword. Yambu said: “I am having but poor success. Will you try it for yourself once more?”

      The young man in farmer’s clothing hesitated, then shook his head doggedly. “No, I have already used Wayfinder more than once, and each time it has led me to you. My purpose has not changed. So, for now, let me continue as I am.”

      “Even if I have changed? If I no longer know where I am going?” The young man smiled faintly. “Very well then, let me try the Sword once more.”

      As steadily as ever, the Sword of Wisdom with its black hilt once more in the huge hands of Valdemar, pointed straight toward the Silver Queen.

      He returned the weapon to her hilt-first, making an almost courtly flourish. He said: “I am content to follow, Lady, whatever you decide to do.”

      She sighed. “Then let your fate be on your own head.”

Chapter Eight

      This night it was Valdemar’s turn to stand the last watch, the hours just before dawn.

      At the proper time Ben woke him, and silently held out to him the black hilt of the Sword of Wisdom, with which his comrades were to be protected as they slept.

      The young man sat up, the folds of his blanket falling from around his massive shoulders, and held both hands to his head for a long moment before he accepted Wayfinder.

      “Bad dreams?” Ben inquired in a low voice.

      “No. Yes, I think so, but I don’t remember.” Valdemar shook his head. “I keep worrying about my vineyard.”

      “Once upon a time,” said Ben, “when I was very young, all I wanted out of life was to be a minstrel. I really thought that I could be one, too. Carried a lute around with me everywhere. Can you believe that?”

      “Yes, I can,” said the other after a moment’s thought. “Were you any good?” he asked with interest.

      Ben appeared to consider the question seriously. “No,” he said at last, and turned away. “Me for my own blanket.”

      Valdemar began his watch in routine fashion, by asking the Sword of Wisdom a question concerning the safety of the camp. Testing the limits on the kind of question the Sword would answer, he tended to keep trying new variations. Tonight’s first variant was: “Will we be safer if we move?”

      To this query the Sword in Valdemar’s hands returned him no detectable answer; he presumed that Wayfinder would have pointed in the proper direction had its powers decided that the camp would indeed be more secure somewhere else.

      The general safety assured, for the moment at least, to the sentry’s satisfaction, he asked his second question of this watch. This one was whispered so softly that he could not hear his own words. “Where is the nearest person present whose advice I should be following?”

      The Sword of Wisdom indicated Yambu, who appeared to be fast asleep.

      Valdemar nodded. Carrying Wayfinder drawn and ready, he paced the vicinity of the small camp, applying the good sentry’s technique he had learned from his new friends. He varied his route and pace, turning sharply at irregular intervals, eyes and ears alert to the surrounding darkness. He kept his eyes averted from the small fire’s brightness to preserve their sensitivity in the dark.

      Meanwhile his routine worries returned. Counting the days he had already been away from home, confirming his estimate of the advancing season by the current phase of the Moon, Valdemar knew with certainty that his vines would soon be leafing out, and would need care. He had done all he could for the plants before he left, but they would soon be growing wild, and insects would attack them.

      He lacked the skills of magic necessary to do anything effective about these problems at a distance, though of course he could try. Valdemar doubted whether he could project any potent spells against insects, at least not over more than a few meters. He’d make the effort, of course, but not now. Right now he had to concentrate upon his duties as a guard.

      Once more he put a safety question to the Sword, on the chance that circumstances had changed adversely in the past few minutes. Once more Wayfinder seemed to assure him that all was well.

      Time continued to pass uneventfully. Ben had hardly hit the ground before falling fast asleep, as a faint rumble of snoring testified. The night wind ghosted past Valdemar’s ears, and the moon and the familiar stars, though only intermittently visible through a patchwork of clouds, moved in their familiar paths above his head.

      Where, he wondered suddenly, was Woundhealer resting at this moment? He tried to remember who had been carrying the Sword of Mercy. Then, in the course of his next sharp turn as he patrolled, the young man, peering intently by the vague light of stars and moon, caught a glimpse of the black hilt. The Sword was currently in Zoltan’s custody, its shape unmistakable within its wrappings, lying in contact with his sleeping body.

      All was well, then. Valdemar relaxed though he reminded himself sternly to remain alert. But as his watch dragged on, he strayed into asking Wayfinder one private question after another, only to realize guiltily once more that long moments had passed in which the Sword of Wisdom was no longer really charged with protecting the camp.

      Tonight he was not only worried about his vineyard, but also bothered by particular concerns about his bride-to-be. As pictured in his imagination,