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

      There was no pain, and of course she had not thought there would be any. But the shock was unexpected, and tremendous, far greater than she had anticipated. In the instant when Woundhealer entered Yambu’s body the world changed, subtly but powerfully. Her chronically sore knee was healed, but the nagging pain and its relief were alike forgotten, in the simultaneous curing of a greater, deeper anguish, so long endured that the Silver Queen had ceased to be consciously aware of it at all.

      So long endured … ever since that day of evil memory, almost a score of years ago, when she had overcome the Dark King’s army with Soulcutter in her hands.

      “Ah …” said she who had once been the Silver Queen, and let the black hilt of this far different blade slide from her grip. The Sword of Love fell to the earth. She stood for a moment with head thrown back, a woman overtaken by some sudden fundamental pain, or ecstasy—no human, watching, could have said, in that first moment, which …

      The paroxysm shook her for no more than a handful of heartbeats. Then Yambu could move again.

      There were no mirrors at hand, and for long moments she could only marvel silently at the way her companions, open-mouthed, were staring at her now.

      And even more strongly did the Silver Queen wonder at her own internal sensations, when she paused to savor them. This, this, she could remember now, was what it felt like to be fully alive.

      At last she demanded: “What is it? Why do you all stare at me?” But in her heart she thought that she already knew the important part of the answer.

      “My lady…” This was Zoltan, her traveling companion for several years, now suddenly hushed and reverent. “My lady, you have grown young again.”

      Ben, his ugly countenance a study in awe, was nodding soberly. Valdemar stood gaping.

      “Young again? Nonsense!” And to confirm that it was nonsense the Silver Queen could see strands of her own long hair, still gray, drifting before her eyes. She could clearly see her own hands, weathered and worn, not at all the hands of a young girl.

      Yet even as Yambu contradicted Zoltan, she felt that he must be speaking some fundamental truth.

      “You are all looking at me so … has anyone a mirror?”

* * *

      What had seemed almost a spell was broken. Zoltan’s thought was that there might possibly be a mirror in one of the Blue Temple or bandit packs that now lay scattered about. He went to look.

      Ben agreed, and joined the search. But he failed to prosecute this effort vigorously, stopping every few seconds to turn and look back at the Silver Queen.

      Valdemar was in this case the most practical of the four. He said nothing, but went a little apart to squat on the very shoreline of the river, where he scooped up sand with his huge hands, and splashed and puddled water into a concave excavation, muttering the while. When his efforts at magic had born fruit, he lifted from the bank a kind of reflective glass, as broad as a human countenance, formed by the solidification of warm river water.

      The object he handed to Yambu was as heavy as liquid water but no heavier or colder, flat and mirror-smooth on one face, rough as stone on its round edge and convex back. “My lady, be assured that the glass as I give it to you is completely honest.”

      Accepting the gift, Lady Yambu stared into the brilliant surface. There was no denying it, she now looked forty again, or even slightly younger, instead of the sixty she had appeared to be before Woundhealer touched her—or her true age of fifty-one.

      Her hair was still white, or nearly so; but this alteration in color now appeared premature. Lines of tension and weariness, so long-engraved she had forgotten they were there, had been expunged from the face which now looked back at her, in which a long-vanished light and beauty had now been re-established. This was the countenance of no mere girl, but neither was it any longer old.

      Zoltan, who had been her fellow pilgrim for several years, continued to stare at Yambu in timid awe, as if she were a stranger.

      It was time now for the others to enjoy their turns at gaining what benefit they might from the Sword of Mercy’s power. None of the three underwent any visible transformation. Ben stretched and groaned with the enjoyment of having several minor aches and pains removed, as a tired man might luxuriate in a massage. Valdemar was silent and thoughtful as Woundhealer’s blade searched his flesh for damage; the youth had evidently not accumulated much.

      When Zoltan had had his turn, it was time to make camp for the night. Even freshly healed, they were tired enough to camp where they were, right by the ford, with water readily available. But the dozen dead still held that field, and none of the four were minded to spend their own time and energy as a burial or cremation detail.

      Another problem with this location lay in the fact that Brod would be able to find them easily should he return with some mischief in mind. But these were minor considerations beside the counsel of the Sword of Wisdom.

      It was Yambu who at last put the question directly to Wayfinder: “Where is our safest place to camp tonight?” And the Sword promptly pointed them across the ford, away from the field of death.

      Before leaving the battlefield, Valdemar did as Brod had been forbidden to do. He armed himself with two of the many weapons, now ownerless, that lay about for the taking.

      From one fallen soldier Valdemar chose a battle-hatchet, and from another one a dagger, with its sheath. He had to unbuckle this last tool from its owner’s stiffened corpse. The business was unpleasant, but still he did it without hesitating.

      He muttered to himself: “If I am to be a warrior, I am going to need a