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

I have accepted that for some reason you want me to make this grower of grapes my own. Whatever happens, I intend to keep him, until you deign to show me what his usefulness may be. And when are you going to get around to that?”

      Valdemar shook his head. He offered mildly: “Wayfinder will never answer a question of that type. But it occurs to me that, being a sorceress yourself—no offense intended—you may be making too much of the idea of sacrifice and magic.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I mean the Sword might simply be indicating that you are to take me with you somewhere.”

      Her blue eyes widened. “Is that it, Sword? Am I now to travel to another place, taking this peasant along?”

      At once, to the young woman’s immense relief, the Sword responded strongly. The tip moved away from Valdemar, and now pointed almost straight west.

      “You do know something, fellow, after all.” Her spirits rising abruptly, Tigris half-jokingly remarked: “Perhaps your function is going to be that of counselor, interpreter of Swords for me.”

      Valdemar shrugged his enormous shoulders. “It is only that I have had that Sword, and tried to use it, longer than you have. And you appear somewhat distracted at the moment. As if something were preventing you from thinking clearly.”

      But his companion was no longer listening. Once more addressing Wayfinder, Tigris demanded: “And where are we to go? How far? But no, never mind, of course you cannot tell me that. I have been given a direction. The real question is, should we walk, or run, or will we need a griffin?”

      Again Valdemar shrugged. Of course the Sword was not going to tell them how far away the goal, whatever it was, might be.

      The young man saw little future in trying to do anything but cooperate with this woman for the time being. She was evidently a practitioner of evil magic, but she had also rescued him from death and perhaps worse.

      Once shown a clear course of action, Tigris was decisive. Already she was giving a magical command, together with a shrill whistle, calling her own griffin from the camp a hundred meters distant.

      In another moment it was Valdemar’s turn to be distracted. He was awed, and frightened, watching the griffin approach and land beside them.

      Getting aboard the hideous winged beast required some courage of Valdemar. It was not, of course, that he really had any choice. His huge frame was cramped in the small space available in the left side pannier, but the extra weight seemed to make little difference to the griffin. The young man had heard that these creatures’ powers of flight depended far more on magic than on any physical strength of wing.

      His captor was already aboard, straddling the central saddle, glaring down at Valdemar in his lower seat with imperious impatience. In a moment they were breathtakingly airborne. Tigris steered the beast, sometimes by kicks, sometimes by silken reins, or murmured words, or all of these means in combination—steered so that the Sword always pointed straight past the creature’s leonine and frightful head.

      They were heading approximately west.

      Tigris soon resumed her conversation with Valdemar, demanding help from him, impatiently listening to his replies, revealing more than she intended about her desperate situation. She was trying every approach she could think of, in an attempt to fathom this youth’s mysterious importance, perhaps absolute necessity, to the success of her effort to escape Wood’s dominance.

      Suddenly she demanded: “What do you know about me, grape-grower?”

      “Not much, lady. Only the very little you have just told me. And … one thing more.”

      “What?”

      “It’s plain enough, isn’t it? When I had the chance to hold Wayfinder in my own hands, and demand guidance from it—that very Sword that you are now depending on—it guided me to you.”

      “What?”

      Patiently Valdemar explained what his question had been, and concluded, “The Sword must have directed me to you. I asked my question of Wayfinder, and followed its directions consistently—and here you are.”

      The enchantress almost laughed—but not quite. Though inexperienced with Wayfinder, her theoretical knowledge of the Swords was substantial. She realized that this one’s devious indications, like the powers of any Sword, had to be taken very seriously indeed.

      She said: “You mean you think I am somehow going to help you find your bride- to-be?”

      “I hardly think that you are meant to be my bride, so I suppose it must be that.” Valdemar added after a pause: “First I was led to another woman, who was not the one I wanted to marry, but I suppose somehow brought me closer to her. And now I have been brought to you.”

      Tigris allowed a sneering comment to die unsaid. She supposed that in a way the Swords were all quite democratic; to Wayfinder, the status of its wielder, or the gravity of the quest, would not matter in the least. Vine-grower or duke, king or swineherd, princess of magic or homeless beggar, all would be on an equal footing to the gods’ weapons. And so would the goals they sought.

* * *

      Wayfinder still pointed straight ahead; the griffin still bore on untiringly. A good thing, Tigris congratulated herself, that she had not decided to try walking.

      “It could be worse, grape-grower. Had this mount not been available, we might be riding Dactylartha’s back.” Even as Tigris spoke, she looked round warily once more.

      “Is that the name of another griffin?”

      “No creature so mild and friendly as that.”

      The youth looked back too, seeing nothing but the clouded sky. Was this mysterious Dactylartha the being that she feared? He inquired: “This creature, as you call it, follows us?”

      “It does, right closely—but at my own orders.”

      Then your fear, the young man thought, must be for someone or something else. Valdemar gritted his teeth and continued to endure the journey. At moments when, because of weather or an unexplained lurching of the beast beneath him, things got particularly bad, he tried closing his eyes. But being deprived of sight only made things worse.

      Once or twice he asked: “Where do