The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📗

in Sarykam than he did in the past two or three years put together. No more roaming the world, trying to look out for the Emperor’s business.”

      “And what of their sons?” Yambu wanted to know. “How old are the two princelings now?”

      Ben considered. “Stephen must be twelve. He has a temper. He’ll be a dangerous man in a few years.”

      “And Prince Adrian?”

      “Two years older. Secluded, somewhere well away from home, I don’t know where, perfecting his wizardry. I expect we’ll not see much of him for a year or two to come.” It was common for serious apprentices in the arts of magic to withdraw from the mundane world for a time of preparation.

      “And nothing can be done for Kristin?”

      “In the ordinary ways of healing and of magic, nothing. There is only one real hope, of course,” Ben concluded shortly.

      “The Sword Woundhealer.” Yambu nodded, and sighed.

      Ben nodded too. “Of course we had the keeping of it there in Sarykam for years, but … there’s no use worrying over that now. Mark nowadays thinks of little else but somehow getting Woundhealer back. He stays in Sarykam himself, but he sees to it that every clue, every hint we can obtain—whether reasonable or not, I sometimes think—is followed to the end.

       “That is why I am here now. There was one rumor, one hint, about Woundhealer, that we thought especially promising. It put the Sword somewhere in this area.”

      “And you came alone to track down this hint?” asked Valdemar, who until now had been largely silent.

      Thunder grumbled overhead, and more rain was starting to come down. Ben looked at his questioner. “I was not alone when I set out. Six other people and three of the great birds came with me. I can give you the unpleasant details later, but at this point only I, out of seven humans, am still alive; as for the birds, they no longer travel with me, but one of them finds me from time to time, as you have seen. Thus I am kept somewhat in touch with Sarykam.”

      Ben related to Yambu, Zoltan, and Valdemar additional details of his struggle with the band of river bandits, and his escape.

      Zoltan asked: “Are they seeking the Sword of Mercy too?”

      “Perhaps. They had something going with the Blue Temple, besides selling me to them—or they thought they did.”

      In turn, the Silver Queen and Zoltan told Ben the tale of their recent harassment by the leatherwings, of their fortunate encounter with Valdemar and the Sword he had been so strangely given, and how during the last few days the three of them, with Wayfinder’s help, had managed to avoid the flying reptiles.

      Ben gestured toward the Sword of Wisdom. “Speaking of your treasure there, I suppose you’ll have no objection to my borrowing its powers for a while?”

      Yambu smiled faintly. “I have been expecting you to ask. Let me see if I can guess for what purpose.”

      “No doubt a single guess will be all you’ll need. I want first to locate the Sword of Healing, and then to get my hands on it.”

      “Have you no more selfish wants than that, big man?”       “That will do for the time being.”

      In unconsciously queenly fashion, Yambu raised Wayfinder in her own hands and apostrophized the Sword: “I asked you, Sword, for peace, and you have led me to this man of blood.”

      Zoltan saw Ben frown slightly at that.

      Yambu continued: “I see my own quest must give way to one of greater urgency. But before I hand you over to him, Sword, what else do you have to tell me? Is it possible that by following him I will discover the peace that has eluded me for so long?”

      The other three, watching closely, could see plainly how the Sword tugged, slowly twisting in her hands until it bent her wrists, aiming itself at the huge man.

      Without further comment the Silver Queen reversed her grip on the black hilt, and handed Wayfinder over to Ben.

      Reaching for the weapon eagerly, he murmured thanks. Once Wayfinder was in his grasp he wasted no time, but at once demanded of it bluntly: “Sword, lead me where I want to go!”

      The Sword of Wisdom in his hands at once twisted around sharply; Zoltan, though no stranger to the Swords and their powers, felt his scalp prickle. The weapon reminded him of some intelligent animal, responding differently as soon as it came under the control of a different master, perhaps a warbeast roused from sleep and scenting blood. Zoltan thought that this time he saw the blade actually bend, until the tip pointed somewhere to the northeast. That direction, he thought, was close to, though it did not exactly coincide with, the bearing of Sarykam.

      Still holding the Sword leveled, Ben shuffled his feet, as if getting his weary legs ready to move again. He asked his companions: “Are all of you ready to move?” It did not appear to have entered his thoughts that any of the three might choose not to accompany him.

      Valdemar stood up, towering over everyone else. He said slowly: “I began my journey holding in my hands that Sword you now have, and with my own goal, not yours, in mind. And so now I have my doubts about going with you.”

      At that Zoltan turned on him sharply: “I suppose you think your quest is more important than this one?”

      Valdemar raised his eyebrows. He said mildly: “It is important to me.”

      The two young men were of the same age, or very nearly so; but Valdemar—only partially because of his size—generally gave the impression of being older.

      “Well, perhaps you can manage to locate a wife without the help of Wayfinder,” said Zoltan. “Or—who knows?—if you come with us you might discover one to your liking in Sarykam.”

      The other shrugged. “Perhaps, friend Zoltan. Anyway, you should remember that I am not ready to abandon my purpose. But I have already given the Sword to Lady Yambu, given it freely, and so I have no claim on it any longer.”

       “You are