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

      In excitement he seized her arm. His grip for some reason felt icy cold. “Tigris, my plans bear fruit!”

      “Master, we all expected nothing less.”

      Wood paused in thought, clasping his hands in front of him, smiling and nodding with satisfaction. “Woundhealer, my dear,” he remarked to his young associate, “is perhaps the only Sword that I would be willing to trust in the hands of a subordinate.

      “Therefore I am not rushing out into the field to take it away from those Blue Temple fools—I may decide to send you. When you have completed your present tasks.”

      The blond head bowed deeply. “I will of course be honored, Master.”

      “We shall see. As usual, I have other important tasks to perform. Though I must admit that, in a way, there is no other Sword that I am more anxious to possess.”

      Tigris allowed herself a display of mild surprise. “Master, the Sword of Mercy is certainly a tool of great value. We are, any and all of us, subject to injury sooner or later.”

      “Obviously. But I think you miss my point.”

      “Master?”

      “Certainly, when one is badly hurt, healing is priceless. But surely you cannot fail to see that Woundhealer will also be of exquisite value in the torture chamber.”

      “Ah.”

      “Yes, ‘Ah’ indeed. Just consider the possibilities, when the occupant of the rack or of the boot can be revived over and over, times without number. When one is entertaining one’s enemy under such favorable conditions, one always hates to say a permanent goodbye. Imagine the guest, just as final unconsciousness is about to overtake him—or her—being restored to perfect physical health and strength, every nerve and every blood vessel intact again. And restored quickly, almost instantly! No need even to remove him—or her—from the rack for a period of recuperation.”

      Wood sighed faintly. “I tell you, Tigris, I would give a great deal to be able to take the Sword of Love—and a few well-chosen guests, of course—and retire to one of my fortresses for a few years of well-earned rest and entertainment.”

      “My Master, I look forward to making such a retreat with you. What pleasures could we not devise?” The blond young woman giggled, a delicious sound.

      “Yes.” Wood stroked her hair, and his features softened momentarily. “You are a beautiful creature.”

      “Thank you.”

      “And loyal to me.”

      “Naturally, Master.”

      “Naturally.” The stroking hand moved on. “Really beautiful. And, of course, still really young. That is a rare quality among my close associates, and one I value. Yes my dear, you are precious to me.”

      The head of yellow curls bowed humbly.

      But Wood’s expression was hardening again. His fondling hand fell to his side. “Unfortunately, we can spare no time for any prolonged diversion now.”

      “No, Master.”

      Standing with hands braced on his workbench, issuing brisk commands, the Ancient One dictated the reply he wanted sent back to his people in the field.

      The necessary materials were readily at hand. Tigris wrote what she was ordered to write. The message was short and to the point; the written words glowed briefly, then disappeared from the thin parchment, not to regain their visibility until the proper spell should be recited over them.

      Now the wizard paced as he completed the dictation. “Tell my people that they are graciously granted permission to use Woundhealer to cure whatever wounds they may have suffered.”

      “Yes, Master.”

      “As for healing anyone else, if the question should come up … I think not.” The handsome man smiled his youthful smile.

* * *

      A few minutes later, standing on the battlements to make sure that the winged messenger was properly dispatched, she gazed upon the open sky, and heard bird-song again.

      This time, as she listened, the faint crease of a frown appeared above her eyes. There was something she did not understand. Something that bothered her.

      Something those cheerful voices not only symbolized, but actively conveyed. A plea, or a warning, that she ought to, but still did not, understand.

      The singers of course were only birds, nothing more than they seemed to be, she was very sure of that. And that point perhaps had meaning. Small and mindless and meaningless animals. Perhaps, though, simplicity, an absence of trickery, was not altogether meaningless.

      Tigris had the irrational feeling that, years ago, when she was only a child, she might have been able to comprehend the birds … though the child she had been of course had not begun to understand the world as it really was.

      Yet recently—today was not the first experience—she had been nagged by the notion that in childhood she must have known something of great importance, something essential, which she had since utterly forgotten. Recently there came moments when it seemed to her that the thing forgotten had once been, might still be, of overriding importance in her life.

      It was unsettling.

      Tigris closed her eyes, long enough to draw a breath and let it go. For no longer than that did she allow herself to waste the Master’s time. Here in the stronghold of the Ancient One, one had to guard one’s very thoughts with extreme care.

* * *

      At that same hour, the Sword of Wisdom gripped in the huge right hand of Ben of Sarykam was guiding four people across an extensive wasteland.

      They were making good time for travelers on foot, and Zoltan, the most impetuous of the four if not precisely the youngest, did a good job of restraining his impatience with the comparative slowness of his elders. But he kept wanting to hurry them along. As soon as Zoltan had heard of his Aunt Kristin’s horrible injury and desperate need, he had become wholeheartedly committed, perhaps even more than Ben, to the search for Woundhealer.

      Their march across what was basically an uninhabited plain had gone on for two days now. In the afternoons the spring sun grew uncomfortably warm. Shade was scarce in this wasteland, and the walkers were all thankful that summer was yet to come.

      Now and then Ben grumbled that if they kept on much longer in this direction, they were bound