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

this woman’s other self—had been the one to accuse him of feigning an innocence too great for the real world.

      “It is indeed,” Valdemar replied at last, with the slow patience of near exhaustion. “It is a gigantic, tremendous magic. And also very sharp—be careful!” He had thought for a moment, from the eager way his charge was leaning forward, that she had been about to run a testing finger right along the edge of Wayfinder’s Blade.

      She who had once been Tigris had never objected to Valdemar’s having complete charge of the Sword of Wisdom. But from the way she was gazing at the weapon now, it was obvious that something—whether it was the bright beauty, the supernal keenness, or the intricate under-the-surface pattern of the steel—held a strong fascination.

      He slid Wayfinder back into the sheath still fastened at his waist.

      And then he leaned back against the tree. His eyelids were getting very heavy, and he would rest for just a moment.

* * *

      Delia, feeling a mixture of mischief and curiosity, reached for the Sword again as soon as Val, losing his battle to exhaustion, dozed off.

      And at that moment the griffin, as if sensing that something of importance was about to happen, silently turned its head, watching Delia keenly as she reached for Wayfinder.

      She could not test the sharpness of the edge while the Sword remained sheathed. Softly she put her hand on the black hilt and drew the weapon forth, so quietly that Valdemar slept on.

      Holding the Sword with a double grip on the sturdy hilt, made Delia feel strange. Her arms and hands were going tingly in a way that she knew—somehow—had something to do with magic. The sensation made her forget about testing the physical edge. She held up the Sword to smile at it in innocent admiration.

      Val had told her that the Sword answered questions, and helped people. “What should I ask?” she whispered aloud. The question seemed addressed more to herself than to the instrument of the gods.

      The griffin, at the moment chewing its mysterious nourishment, chewing with the jaw-motions of a cow, and the fangs of a gigantic lion, had no answer for her.

      Warily Delia turned her head, looking carefully at Valdemar to make sure that he was still asleep.

      Then inspiration came. Small hands white-knuckled with the strain of gripping the black hilt, she raised the heavy Sword of Wisdom and whispered to it again.

      “Show me the way to make him want to keep me with him,” she whispered devoutly. And smiled a moment later—because sure enough, Wayfinder had just twisted slightly in her hands—pointing at what?

      At nothing in particular, that she could see. Just at some bushes.

      Moving eagerly and quietly, holding the heavy Blade extended carefully in front of her, Delia investigated. The Sword led her through a screen of brush, and on a few meters more, to a point where she heard the sounds of murmuring water just ahead.

      Still following the Sword’s guidance, she soon arrived at a small stream, partially dammed by a fallen tree and lodged debris. Above the dam a pleasant little pond had formed, partially shaded by standing trees. The day was warm and sunny for a change, and the pool invited her to test it with her fingers. Not prohibitively cold. Certainly it looked deep and clear enough to provide a bath.

      Sniffing fastidiously at her armpits, she grimaced, and could not remember ever before being this dirty.

* * *

      What had awakened Valdemar he did not know, but full consciousness suddenly returned. Sitting up straight, with a reflexive wrench of all his muscles, he felt a cold hand at his heart when he saw that the Sword of Wisdom was no longer in its sheath, which was still belted securely at his waist.

      Delia was missing too. Maybe she had only stepped into the bushes to relieve herself. Jumping to his feet, Val called her name, first softly and then at considerable volume. To his vast relief, an answer came drifting from somewhere in the middle distance. A moment later, he thought he could hear prolonged splashing.

      Quickly the young man pushed his way through the bushes to investigate.

      He stopped abruptly as soon as the pond came into view. The Sword at least was safe, stuck casually into the moist earth at the water’s edge.

      Delia’s clothing, including an undergarment or two which Valdemar had never seen before, lay beside the upright Blade. The young woman herself, completely unclothed above the waist, covered by water below that, waved at Valdemar from midstream, no more than an easy leap away. She called cheerfully for him to join her in her bath.

      “Val, come in, come in!”

      “I’m coming!” he heard himself reply. His voice was a mere croak. Already he was striding forward, as if hypnotized. Somehow it was as if he were watching his own behavior from outside. He was aware of stripping off his own garments, and stepping down into the current…

* * *

      Half an hour later, Delia, still unclothed, lying at ease amid the spring grass and early flowers a little inland from the water’s edge, was frowning prettily. She had hold of the huge hand of Valdemar, who, as naked as she was, lay almost inert beside her, and was turning it this way and that, as if interested in the articulation of the wrist.

      “And now your bandage has come off again,” she was complaining. “What are we to do for your poor fingers?”

      “Never mind my fingers.” Valdemar’s voice had a newly calm and thoughtful quality.

      Something crackled in the brush nearby, galvanizing him into action, first lunging, then crawling awkwardly, to reach the Sword. With his bandaged hand on the black hilt he turned—to find himself facing nothing worse than the griffin, driven by curiosity to see what its two masters were about.

      Delia, who had crawled after him, started tickling him playfully.

* * *

      Another half hour had passed before Delia asked Valdemar whether the magic Sword could heal his ringers.

      “No, there is