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

      “That tells me almost nothing.”

      “I am a grower of vines and grapes.”

      For a moment Tigris regarded this reply as brave mockery indeed, and was on the brink of administering punishment. Then, reconsidering the tone of the answer, she came to the belief that it had been sincere.

      She shook her own wet blond curls, impatient but wary, pondering, ready to kill or to bless, as might be required. “I can smell some kind of magic about you, I believe … though not, I think, any impressive power of your own. What have you to do with the Swords?”

      Again the towering youth shook his head. “Nothing at all. Except that the one you now hold, lady, was once given to me.”

      That surprised her. “Given to you? Why?”

      The young giant sighed. “I wish someone could tell me why.”

      “Who gave it?”

      “I don’t know that either.”

      Tigris made a disgusted sound. “I fear that getting at the truth about you is going to take time, and my time just now is in extremely short supply. If I thought you were being willfully stubborn … but of course that may not be the case at all. You may in fact know nothing, and still be vitally important—somehow.”

      When Valdemar’s feet slowed, and his shoulders moved as if he wanted to wave his arms and argue, Tigris with a gesture of her own increased the paralytic restriction on the movement of his arms. “Keep moving, and be quiet!”

      Then she once more consulted the Sword, murmuring: “Guide us to the safest place within a hundred meters.”

      Following Wayfinder’s indication, she continued to march her prisoner quickly along until after another forty meters or so they reached a place where the Sword indicated that they should stop.

      Here Valdemar thought at first that the two of them were now entirely alone. But when he looked and listened carefully, calling into play such sense of magic as he did possess, he became aware of a faint disturbance in the air, just at the limit of his perception. They were in fact being attended by certain immaterial powers, of which his human captor evidently was well aware.

      And in another moment these magical attendants were gone, dismissed by a wave of a small white hand.

      Their mistress looked steadily at Valdemar. “When Hyrcanus had this Sword,” she asked, “what question or questions did he put to it?”

      “As I have already mentioned, lady, he spoke chiefly of the Emperor, and the Emperor’s treasure. Why the Chairman of the Blue Temple should do that I do not know—I have always thought that the Emperor, if he really existed, was no more than a clown.”

      The lady was not interested in Valdemar’s opinions. “And what exactly did Hyrcanus ask of this Sword?”

      “I don’t remember the exact words. He wanted to be shown the way to the Emperor’s greatest treasure.”

      “And what answer was he given?”

      “Nothing very definite. The Chairman discussed this with his colleague—the man you were just talking to back there—and they thought the ambiguity might mean the Emperor was actually approaching. But … you arrived instead.”

      The red lips smiled faintly. “Perhaps the real answer was that the Great Clown has no treasure.” The smile vanished. “But you and I, grape-grower, we have no time to worry about that now.”

      “What are we to worry about instead?”

      Tigris did not reply.

      Her one overriding worry was Wood, escape from whose domination was the single thing in the world which she most desired. Now she caught herself instinctively looking over her shoulder. A useless gesture, of course, and she was irritated to catch herself doing it more than once.

      Valdemar took note of this quirk of behavior, and of the expression on the young woman’s face when she looked back toward the encampment where her troops were busy with the tasks she had assigned them. He wondered silently who or what it was that this mighty sorceress feared so much.

      He asked: “You are very powerful in magic. Also you have just won a victory, and captured one of the gods’ own weapons, which you now hold in your hands. What are you afraid of?”

      She raised the Sword a little, as if she wanted to pretend that she would strike him with it. “Yes, this is indeed one of the gods’ own weapons—but remember that the gods are dead. Or did you know that, grape-grower?”

      “I think the gods are not all dead, my lady. I still pray to Ardneh. Ardneh of the White Temple, who never allowed himself to be caught up with the other deities in their games—“

      “Ah yes—well, grape-grower, it may surprise you, but I could wish sometimes that Ardneh still lived, and still ruled the world—not that I believe he ever really did.”

      “Why should such a wish surprise me? I could share it. I was once,” continued Valdemar, not really knowing why he chose this moment for his revelation, “a novice monk in a White Temple.”

      “So? And did those fat Brothers in their Temple warn you, when you abandoned safety for the great world, that you should choose to stay instead?”

      Without waiting for an answer, Tigris once more raised the Sword of Wisdom.

      Careless of the fact that Valdemar watched and listened, she couched her next question in clear terms: “Hear me, Sword! Show me the way to gain freedom from the one I fear above all others! I do not mean my own death; that road to freedom I could find without your help. I want a long life, in safety from any harm that he may try to do to me.”

      And again Wayfinder pointed, immediately and steadily, straight at Valdemar.

      “Just who,” he asked the enchantress, “is this one you fear above all others?”

      She ignored him. She gave the impression of a woman fighting back panic, trying to remain patient. There was a faint tremor in her voice. “Very well, Sword. I now have firmly under my control this great clod of farmyard mud that you keep pointing at. You are able to perceive that,