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

      “I have done as much before.”

      “Perhaps. But I warn you that your immunity is far from complete.”

      “I understand that, Uncle.”

      “Have you, since leaving home, tried either of the Swords you carry?”

      “Not yet.”

      “Then do so.”

      Now, in the relative privacy of his uncle’s tent, Prince Mark drew from its sheath the god-forged blade that rode on his right hip.

      Sightblinder, as always, produced some spectacular effects when it was drawn. Mark was aware of no change in himself. But he knew that in the eyes of his uncle he was somehow transformed into a figure evoking either terror or adoration. Even the great magician Karel, here in his own tent, surrounded and supported by all his powers, and knowing intellectually that the figure he saw was only a phantasm of magic, was powerless to see the truth behind the image.

      “What do you see, Uncle?”

      The old man passed a hand across his eyes. “The details of the deception do not matter. I no longer see you in your true nature, of course, but an alien image which frightens me, even though I know …” The old man, averting his eyes from Mark, made a gesture of dismissal.

      Prince Mark sheathed Sightblinder, which he had held in his left hand, and saw Karel relax somewhat. Next the Prince drew Shieldbreaker. The Sword of Force was silent, and inert, because no immediate danger threatened. Mark gripping the black hilt was aware of the vast power waiting there, but he felt no more than that.

      Then, still gripping Shieldbreaker, the Prince pulled the Sword of Stealth from its sheath once more, and stood holding both Swords at the same time.

      He saw by the change in his uncle’s face that his own appearance had once more altered, perhaps even more terribly than before. The nerves in Mark’s arms and shoulders tingled; the effect was strange, but well within his range of tolerance.

      Carefully Mark sheathed both Swords again, Sight-blinder first.

      He tried to reassure Karel, but the old man remained cautious, and perturbed. He warned the Prince, unnecessarily, not to be caught in combat with an unarmed foe whilst holding Shieldbreaker.

      “I know that,” Mark patiently reminded his counselor.

      Karel still looked worried.

      The Prince, putting a hand on the old wizard’s shoulder, reminded him that he, Mark, was no stranger to the Swords. And he assured the old man—though not without a certain mental reservation—that the effect of holding the two Swords at once had not been strong enough to cause him any real concern.

* * *

      At the same dawn hour when Mark set out alone from his camp, Ben was urged out of a light sleep, into instant alertness, by the tug of a rapier-pointed claw upon his garment.

      Crouching over him where he sat with his back against a tree was a winged messenger from Mark. This helpful, friendly bird, having been instructed by Karel, brought Ben the welcome news that Tasavaltan troops were not very many kilometers away, and the Prince himself was even closer.

      The birds’ sense of horizontal distance was notoriously inaccurate, so Ben did not derive as much comfort from this news as he otherwise might have.

* * *

      As the hours passed, Valdemar continued to observe the destruction of the personality, even the physical identity, of the sorceress who such a short time ago had come riding at the head of a force of demons and human thugs to slaughter her enemies and kidnap him.

      Not that Delia appeared to care in the least—she kept humming little snatches of simple, cheerful songs—but her clothing was now sodden with rain and getting dirty. Evidently it was now deprived of what Valdemar supposed must have been the magical protection afforded the garments worn by Tigris. Even the woman’s face was notably changed from that of the conqueror who had devastated the Blue Temple camp. Valdemar wondered if he could have recognized this as the same individual, had he not seen with his own eyes the several stages of the change. Rain and circumstances seemed to have washed and scoured away an aura of bad magic, and perhaps some subtle though mundane makeup as well, from her countenance.

      Only the physical parts of the transformation had taken any time at all. Never, since the thunderbolt fell, had Valdemar caught any hint that any part of her older, wasted and vicious personality might have survived.

      Valdemar had no doubt that the metamorphosis had resulted from a blow struck at Tigris by the great and mysterious magician she had feared so terribly, and from whom she had been so desperately trying to escape. One of the oddest things about the whole situation, as Valdemar saw it, was that the blow, the sudden transformation, had not really done her any harm. As far as he could tell, quite the opposite.

      And here was another turnaround to consider: He, who had been the prisoner of Tigris, was now Delia’s captor. Or more properly her keeper. Now he, the simple farmer, had become the worldly, experienced mentor. It was not a role he relished, but there was no one else to take responsibility for her, and the idea of simply abandoning her was unacceptable. Though in her previous persona she had treated him unjustly, still her new helplessness was disarming. And her new childlike personality was charming in its innocence.

      Delia was more talkative than Tigris had been. Almost every time Valdemar looked at her, he found her gazing back at him as if she sought his guidance. And she kept asking naive questions.

* * *

      Earlier, under relentless questioning from this young woman, Valdemar had tried to explain how he had been guided to her by the Sword of Wisdom. He thought that Tigris had never quite believed that story; she had been chronically suspicious, and perhaps incapable of understanding a simple truth. Now, when he told Delia the same tale, she somehow had no trouble at all believing if not comprehending what he had done.

      “This Sword has brought us together,