Fred Saberhagen - Lost Swords 07 - Wayfinders story

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An unknown visitor, with some unguessable purpose, who had come and gone before Valdemar had

caught more than a glimpse of him—or her—had just made the young grape-grower a present of one of

the Twelve Swords. The recipient felt overwhelmed by the discovery. And yet—even in this

tremendous moment when Valdemar first glimpsed the ebon hilt, he found himself thinking that he

ought to be more surprised at the gift than he really was.

He had a strange feeling that he had always known, had never doubted, that something like

this—something truly great—was fated to happen to him sooner or later.

Well, here it was. And whatever unconscious anticipation might be keeping him from being properly

astonished, he was certainly beginning to be afraid...

TOR BOOKS BY FRED SABERHAGEN

THE BERSERKER SERIES

The Berserker Wars

Berserker Base (with Poul Anderson, Ed Bryant, Stephen

Donaldson, Larry Niven, Connie Willis, and Roger

Zelazny)

Berserker: Blue Death The Berserker Throne Berserker's Planet Berserker Lies Berserker Man

THE DRACULA SERIES

The Dracula Tapes

The Holmes-Dracula Files

An Old Friend of the Family

Thorn

Dominion

A Matter of Taste

THE SWORDS SERIES

The First Book of Swords The Second Book of Swords The Third Book of Swords

The First Book of Lost Swords: Woundhealer's Story The Second Book of Lost Swords: Sightblinder's

Story The Third Book of Lost Swords: Stonecutter's Story The Fourth Book of Lost Swords:

Farslayer's Story The Fifth Book of Lost Swords: Coinspinner's Story The Sixth Book of Lost

Swords: Mindsword's Story The Seventh Book of Lost Swords: Wayfinder's Story

OTHER BOOKS

A Century of Progress Coils (with Roger Zelazny) Earth Descended The Mask of the Sun A Question of

Time Specimens The Veils ofAzlaroc The Water of Thought

WAYFINDERS

STORY

THE

SEVENTH BOOK

LOST SWORDS

FRED SABERHAGEN

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

Note: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen

property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor

the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious,

and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, N.Y. 10010

Tor* is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-50575-1

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-858

First edition: June 1992

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First mass market printing: December 1993

Printed in the United States of America 0987654321

ONE

HIS huge, work-roughened hands shaking with excitement, young Valdemar turned up the sleeves of

his farmer's shirt. Squatting on the earth floor of his solitary hut, peering intently by

firelight and fading daylight, he reached for the long, heavy bundle that lay near the fire and

began very gradually to undo its wrappings of gray cloth. The bundle was neatly made, tied with

strong cord. As Valdemar worked to undo the knots, he did his best to keep himself from thinking

of what he might expect to find within. He told himself he had no right to expect anything at all.

But it was as if he wished to shield himself from an enormous disappointment. . .

The wrappings loosened and began to fall away. As soon as an area of unrelieved blackness came

into view, unmistakably part of the hilt of an edged weapon, the young man's fingers ceased to

move. Like many other people, he had a sensitivity to the presence of powerful magic, and he was

already beginning to realize just what kind of weapon he had been given.

Valdemar thought that he could feel the blood drain from his face. Leaning his enormous weight

back on his heels, he did his unpracticed best to formulate a prayer to beneficent Ardneh.

Whatever prayer he at last managed to say went up in silence. Outside, spring wind howled

fiercely, shoving against the rough stone walls of his lonely hut, rattling the crude, ill-fitting

door, spattering rain through the hole in the roof that served as chimney, so that the small fire,

fueled mostly by last year's dried vines, hissed as if in pain.

He had a serious mystery to contemplate.

An unknown visitor, working alone in pursuit of some unguessable purpose, who had come and gone

before Valdemar had been able to catch more than a glimpse of him—or her—had just made the young

grape-grower a present of one of the Twelve Swords. The recipient felt overwhelmed by the

discovery. And yet—even in this tremendous moment when Valdemar first glimpsed the ebon hilt, he

found himself thinking that he ought to be more surprised at the nature of this gift than he

really was.

He had the strange feeling that he had always known, had never doubted, that something like

this—something truly great—was fated to happen to him sooner or later.

Well, here it was. And whatever unconscious anticipation might be keeping him from being properly

astonished, he was certainly beginning to be afraid.

Scant minutes ago, the unexpected shadow and the silent form of the mysterious caller had moved

almost simultaneously, and with a swiftness almost magical, past the door of Valdemar's isolated

dwelling, interrupting the young man in the midst of preparing his evening meal. The door had been

left slightly ajar for more light, and to let the smoke-hole draw.

Until that moment, Valdemar had had no suspicion that any other human being was anywhere within a

couple of kilometers. By the time he had jumped up and run outdoors, the figure of his anonymous

visitor was already almost out of sight in mist and rain. Valdemar had caught only a single

glimpse of a human shape, so muffled in gray garments that it might have been either man or woman.

The gigantic youth had started in pursuit, swiftly bounding up one, two, three of the narrow

cultivated terraces that rose above his hut. But by the time he had reached the third terrace, his

caller had already disappeared into the wet twilight shrouding the domesticated vines, the scant

wild bushes, and the granite outcrop-pings of the lonely mountainside.

Shouting for his vanished visitor to stop, Valdemar had continued the chase a little farther,

almost to the boundary of his cultivated land, but without success. Returning to his hut a couple

of minutes later, the young man had picked up the bundle which had been so mysteriously deposited

at his door. He had paused to reassure himself that at least it was not alive (he had heard

stories of babies being left at the doors of lonely huts) and carried it in by the fire. After

closing the ill-fitting door again, and shaking his garments dry as best he could, Valdemar had

hesitantly begun to unwrap his present—a process which came, moments later, to a shocked halt.

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Though he was scarcely past the age of twenty, and for most of the past year had dwelt in this

lonely place, Valdemar could not claim complete innocence or ignorance regarding the affairs of

the great world.

Like every other thinking person, he knew something of the history of the Twelve Swords, magical

weapons created almost forty years ago by the gods themselves. Valdemar knew also that two of the

Swords had been destroyed not long after they were made. This black hilt partially visible before

him, if it were genuine, might belong to any of the remaining Ten. And though like most people he

had never seen, much less handled, any of the Twelve, Valdemar could not doubt the authenticity of

this one. A heavy elegance of magic flowed into his fingertips the instant they brushed against

it; and to magic he was not a total stranger.

It was common knowledge in the world that four Swords—Shieldbreaker, Dragonslicer, Stonecutter,

and Sightblinder—had for some years been gathered in the royal armory of Tasavalta, under control

of that realm's powerful and unfortunate Prince Mark. Among the six others now lost to public

knowledge were the two Valdemar considered the most abominable of the god-forged weapons,

Soulcutter and the Mindsword.

No one, as he understood the case, could ever be sure of the whereabouts of Coinspinner, a tricky

blade given to randomly moving itself about. Nor was there any way to guess the whereabouts of

Farslayer, Wayfinder, or Woundhealer. That last was the only one of the surviving ten that

Valdemar would have rejoiced to find in his own possession.

Crouching near the fire, alone with his mysterious gift, the youth hesitated for a long time

before continuing the process of unwrapping. His irresolution was grounded in the fact that he

feared certain of the gods' Swords more than others, and at this point it was still at least

theoretically possible for him to refuse the knowledge of which one he had been given. At this

point he would still be able, if he chose, to tie up the gray cloth again, carry the whole still-

mysterious bundle back out into the rain, and drop it, lose it, deep in some rocky crevice among

the nearby crags, hoping that no one else would ever discover the presence of the thing of power,

or be able to come near it.

For what seemed to Valdemar a long time he sat there on his heels. The wind battering at his door

seemed to mock his fearful hesitancy, while outside the clouded daylight slowly faded. Still,

enough light remained inside the hut, around his dying fire, for him to see whatever white mark

might be emblazoned on the Sword's hilt, when his next tug at the gray cloth should reveal it.

Of course, one Sword had no white symbol at all. If that was what he found, it would mean fate had

put into his hands Soulcutter, the Tyrant's Blade.

The young giant's eyes closed briefly. His strong, almost-handsome face was troubled. Awkwardly he

uttered words aloud: "Ardneh, let it not be that one. I do not want the responsibility of trying

to hide that demon's Blade. Or of trying to destroy it." He understood full well that breaking any

Sword, or otherwise rendering it ineffective, would be far beyond his powers.

"Therefore let it be any of them, except Soulcutter, or ..."

Valdemar's prayer stumbled to a halt, as he realized that for him the second most fearful of the

Blades would probably not, after all, be that called the Mindsword. Given that one, he could

simply refrain from drawing it; for him, he thought, the power to bend others to his will would

pose no great temptation. Farslayer would be far more likely to be his downfall. There were

certain people in the world, oppressors of humanity, for whom— though he had never met them—the

youth felt a dislike that threatened always to spill over into personal hatred; and if the life of

one of those persons, wherever they might be, should be so helplessly delivered into his hands,

Valdemar feared his own latent capacity for violence.

Yes, it would be better if he got rid of this unknown Sword at once, not tempting himself by

looking for the symbol, which it must bear upon the hilt . . .

Valdemar's hands quivered. Because he might, for all he knew, be holding Woundhealer, the Sword of

Mercy. That glorious possibility was enough to eliminate any thought of plunging the mysterious

gift into a crevasse before he had identified it.

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After minutes of immobility, the youth with a sudden jerk stripped back the gray cloth completely

from the black hilt.

A small white arrow-symbol, pointing upward to the pommel, leapt into view. Neither the best nor

the worst of possibilities had been realized. The weapon in Valdemar's hands was Wayfinder. The

Sword of Wisdom, it was also called—Ardneh grant it bring him that!

Valdemar breathed somewhat more easily. Toward Wayfinder he felt timidity and awe, but no

overwhelming fear. Gently he peeled away the remaining wrappings, exposing a plain leather sheath.

Without pausing for further thought, he clasped the hilt and drew forth a full meter of

incomparable double-edged Blade. The faint light of fading day and dying fire gleamed softly on

steel smoother and sharper than any human armorer had ever crafted, at least since the lost

civilization of the Old World. Beneath the surface of the metal a lovely mottled pattern was

perceptible.

Valdemar ran a tremulous finger along the flat side of the tremendous Blade. No, despite his

youth, he was no stranger to the touch of magic. But he had never in his life felt anything the

like of this.

A happy thought struck suddenly. Some of the new strain and worry vanished from his youthful face.

"Powers who rule this Sword," he said, self-consciously—then paused for a deep breath, and started

over. "Powers of this Sword, whoever or whatever you may be—I understand that giving guidance is

your function. Guide me, therefore—guide me to the person—to her— to the woman I have—I have

almost despaired of ever finding. The one who is most fit, most suitable, to share my life."

Though he was utterly alone, the young man could feel his cheeks warming. Frowning suddenly, he

quickly amended: "Let all be done in accordance with the will of Ardneh."

Having concluded this awkward speech, Valdemar arose, gripping the black hilt firmly in both of

his great hands, fingers overlapping. Tentatively he moved the great Blade in a horizontal circle.

One direction alone, almost straight east, set the Sword's tip quivering. At the surge of magic he

cried out, wordlessly. For just a moment the movement had become so violent that the weapon had

almost leaped free of his grip.

On a warm spring afternoon, seven days after the day when Valdemar had unwrapped the Sword, and

more than a hundred kilometers distant from his hut, two pilgrims were making their way across a

heavily wooded hillside that formed one flank of a deep ravine.

The first of these gray-clad travelers was a woman, apparently about sixty years of age, but still

vigorous and hearty. There was nothing feeble in the way she moved across the steep slope, among

the thickly-spaced, narrow trunks. Her silver hair was long, but bound up closely. The strains of

a long life showed in the woman's face, but no burden that seemed too much for her present

determination. Like many other female pilgrims or travelers, she wore boots, trousers and a loose

jacket, and was armed for self-defense with a short sword.

The crowded tree trunks made it all but impossible for two to travel side by side. The woman's

companion, who walked three or four paces behind her and carried a similarly serviceable but

somewhat more impressive weapon at his belt, was a man in his early twenties, sturdily built, of

average size. The young man's appearance, like the woman's suggested both the weariness of long

travel and a remaining capacity to deal with formidable difficulties.

The woman halted suddenly. She frowned and squinted at the sun, which shone brightly from beyond

the canopy of the tall trees' small spring leaves. Then she inspected the terrain, as well as she

could in the midst of a forest.

"This hill curves round," she announced to her fellow traveler at last. "And I see no end to the

curve ahead. It carries us farther and farther to the east."

"And that, my lady, is not the direction in which we want to go," the young man responded. "Well,

then. Shall we try climbing to the top of the ridge again? Or going down into the ravine?"

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The lady sighed. "Zoltan, we are well and truly lost. No reason to think the bottom of this ravine

will be more hospitable than any of the others we've struggled through during the past two days."

In those dark gorges, the ubiquitous thin-trunked trees had grown more closely and ever more

closely together, until it became impossible for adult humans to force a passage anywhere between

them. An army of men with axes would have earned their pay clearing a road.

"And no reason either," replied Zoltan, "to suppose that the leather-wings are going to let us

alone this time if we come out of the trees up on the hilltop." He rubbed at his left arm, which

was still bandaged — though fortunately not disabled — from their last encounter with flying

reptiles, two days ago.

"I suppose we might risk trying the hilltop just before sunset," the woman said thoughtfully. "If

we were able to see far enough to get our bearings — " She broke off abruptly, holding herself

motionless. Above the high canopy of leaves a silent, broad-winged form drifted; a half-

intelligent enemy, cruel-clawed and implacably hostile.

When the wind-borne reptile had drifted out of sight and hearing, Zoltan spoke again, his voice

cautiously low. "Anyway, we're soon going to need water." Each was carrying a single small

canteen. "We'll have to go down into the ravines for that, of course. This one may be dry, but the

next—" He fell silent at the woman's imperious gesture. Her face had abruptly turned away from

him, and she was listening intently for the repetition of a small sound just detected from ahead.

In a moment Zoltan, looking over his companion's shoulder, could see a tall human shape, garbed in

dull colors, moving among the dun-colored trunks, still fifty meters off, approaching along the

hillside.

Both travelers watched in ready silence, hands on swordhilts. The single figure approaching seemed

to be making no effort at stealth. The towering, broad-shouldered man was clad in what appeared to

be a farmer's rough shirt and trousers and woolen vest. In both hands he gripped a long-bladed

sword with which he steadily swept the air before him. Zoltan, watching, felt the hair stir on the

back of his neck. This could be a Sword indeed!

The stranger continued moving along the slope directly toward the pilgrim pair, though as yet he

had given no indication that he was aware of their presence.

Zoltan, staring at the approaching figure with intense, frowning concentration, whispered: "Is

that—?"

"Shh. We'll see."

Amid the dun trunks the seeker so superbly armed had approached within ten meters of the two

motionless travelers in dull gray before he saw them. When he did, he stopped in his tracks,

startled, continuing to hold the Sword leveled in their direction. Then, looking somewhat

flustered, he grounded the bright point.

For a long moment all three remained silent.

At last the young farmer—for so his clothing made him appear to be—said: "Greetings." His voice

was soft, but the pair who heard him got the impression that only a conscious effort made it so.

"Greetings, in Ardneh's name." He was peering closely at the lady, and appeared to be trying to

conceal growing disappointment and confusion.

"And to you," replied the lady. "May you find peace and truth." Zoltan at her elbow murmured

similar sentiments.

"My object is entirely peaceful," the other assured them, gesturing with an enormous hand. He

seemed now to be recovering from his initial shock, whatever might have been its cause. He was a

head taller than most men, and of massive build, his body carrying a minimum of fat. His clothing,

particularly his boots, gave evidence of an extended journey. He carried pack and canteen, as any

traveler most likely would. A long, plain, leather sheath belted at his waist, of a size to hold

his Sword, looked vaguely as if it should belong to someone else.

He added: "I am called Valdemar."

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"I am Yambu," the woman told him simply. "This is Zoltan, who has chosen to travel with me. We are

both pilgrims, of a sort."

The young farmer nodded and smiled, acknowledging the information. His hair was dark and curly,

his blue eyes mild, flanking an interestingly bent nose. The more one looked at him, the bigger

and stronger he appeared.

"Yambu," he repeated. "Yes, ma'am." His eyes moved on. "And you are Zoltan." Then some memory

visibly caught at Valdemar, so that his gaze went back to the silver-haired woman. "An unusual

name, ma'am." he remarked.

"Mine? Oh yes. And an unusual weapon that you are carrying today, young sir."

Perhaps Valdemar flushed slightly; in his weathered face it was hard to be sure. "Lady, in my

hands I hope this Sword is something other than a weapon. It has guided me here—to you. Your

pardon, lady, if I aim the blade at you again; I promise you I mean no harm."

Taking care to remain at a distance well out of thrusting range, Valdemar lifted his Sword's point

again. All three could see distinctly how the fine blade quivered when it was leveled straight

toward Yambu.

The lady did not seem much surprised. "And what desire of yours," she asked, "does Wayfinder

expect me to satisfy?"

This time there was no doubt that Valdemar was blushing. "I see you know this Sword's name. So I

suppose you know what it is. That should—that ought to— make it easier for me to explain. As I

said, my goal is peaceful. I ..."

"Yes?"

"I am a farmer, lady. Actually I have a vineyard, which I have left untended. And I am looking for

a wife."

There was a pause.

"Ah," said Yambu at last. A thin smile curved her lips. "And you confided this wish to the Sword

of Wisdom?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And the Sword has brought you to me."

"Yes ma'am."

"And I am not quite the bride you have been imagining. Well, rest easy in your mind, young man.

Were you to make me a proposal of marriage, I would not accept it."

"Yes ma'am," repeated Valdemar. He looked partly relieved and partly chagrined.

"We must discuss this," said the lady, "but just now my companion and I face problems of greater

urgency. Have you experienced any particular difficulty along the way, in the last day or two of

your journey?"

Valdemar blinked at her. "Difficulty? No. What sort of difficulty? Oh, do you mean bandits?" The

young giant smiled faintly. "I never worry much about that sort of thing. And if there were any

who saw me, no doubt they kept clear when they saw how I was armed."

Zoltan cleared his throat. "No trouble in finding your way through this forest, perhaps? Or in

dealing with flying reptiles?"

Valdemar looked up, concerned; at the moment the sky was free of drifting shadows. "No trouble

finding my way; I simply walked the way Wayfinder told me to go. And no reptiles of any kind; I've

never seen one that could fly."

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"Any kind of trouble?"

"None. Well, several times, for no good cause that I could see, the Sword counseled me to change

direction. And once, when I saw no reason not to move on, it kept me walking in a tight circle for

an hour, so in effect I was held in one location. But nothing that I would call trouble. Why?"

"Then would you now ask your Sword," put in Yambu gently, "to put aside for the moment the matter

of your bride-to-be, and lead us all three safely out of this damned wildwood?"

Openmouthed, Valdemar gazed at her for a long moment. Then he nodded.

Less than an hour later all three travelers were resting comfortably at the bottom of another

ravine, where a spring of clear water bubbled gently out of a crevice between rocks, and the trees

grew just closely enough together to keep all sizable airborne creatures at a safe distance. Yambu

and Zoltan had already satisfied their thirst at the spring, and were now refilling their

canteens. Valdemar meanwhile had sheathed his elegant weapon and was bringing out generous

portions of dried meat and hard bread from his pack.

Far upslope, too far to be of immediate concern, an ominous, silent shadow drifted overhead, above

the canopy of leaves; drifted and came back and went away again, as if it were no longer certain

of where its prey might be.

"Those creatures hunt us, young man," said Yambu, almost in a whisper. "Leather-wings—and

sometimes worse than that. You say you have never seen them before?"

"I know them only by reputation." The youthful giant looked vaguely horrified, and at the same

time fascinated. But not particularly afraid. "Why do they hunt you?"

"I believe they are in the service of some much more formidable enemy. Serving as his scouts.

Then, too, it is my belief that any of the Twelve Swords tends to draw trouble to itself. And that

one you are carrying in particular."

"And yet I have asked this Sword only to help me find a bride. And now to guide all three of us to

safety." Valdemar seemed more disappointed, and gently puzzled, than alarmed by Yambu's reading of

their situation.

"You've heard the Song of Swords? You remember how the verse about this one goes?" Zoltan asked

him, and without waiting for an answer proceeded to recite in a low voice:

"Who holds Wayfinder finds good roads

Its master's step is brisk.

The Sword of Wisdom lightens loads—"

" '—but adds unto their risk,' " Valdemar concluded. "Yes, I've heard that song since I was a

child. Never thinking ..."

The gigantic youth let the matter drop. Then he looked at the silver-haired woman again. His gaze

was timid, but resolute. "I can remember hearing, long ago," he remarked, "of a lady named Yambu,

who was once known as the Silver Queen."

She who bore that name ignored the invitation to discuss her past. Having finished filling her

canteen, she sat at ease on the mossy bank beside the spring.

"Zoltan and I thank you for your help, young man," she said graciously. "Where will you ask your

Sword to point you next? And may I ask you just where and how Wayfinder came into your

possession?"

Valdemar looked up at the treetops. "I still seek a wife," he declared stubbornly. "Why this Sword

has led me to you, lady, I confess I do not understand."

"There may be an easy explanation. When the object sought is otherwise impossible, or very

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difficult, to obtain directly, Wayfinder leads its master first to the necessary means to bring

the goal within reach. You may be sure the Sword of Wisdom is not suggesting that you propose

marriage to me, who could be your grandmother. At least let us hope not. Sword or no, that would

be far from wise. Besides, I have no wish to spend my last years growing grapes."

"Why, then, has Wayfinder brought me to you?"

Yambu shook her head. "It would seem that, somehow—I do not know how—I can help you to achieve

your goal."

Valdemar sighed. More to himself than to the others he murmured: "I will now repeat my first

request. I want this Sword to lead me to the woman, of all the women on earth, who will be the

perfect, the ideal wife for me. Nothing more and nothing less."

And he drew Wayfinder from its sheath and held it out again in his great hands.

Once more the point reacted, quivering, only when it was aimed precisely at the lady.

Without comment the young giant re-sheathed the Sword of Wisdom at his waist. Giving up the puzzle

for the moment, he recounted to his new companions the story of his enigmatic visitor, seven days

past.

He concluded with a question. "Has either of you any idea who my strange caller might have been?

It was someone who wore gray, even as you do. That's all I could really see."

Zoltan and Yambu looked at each other. Zoltan shrugged. The lady said: "A number of ideas; but no

reason to take any of them seriously."

Her young companion nodded. "Certainly it was neither of us, if you are thinking that. A week ago

we were nowhere near the region where you say you live. As for wearing gray, uncountable thousands

of folk do that. Your own garments have acquired something of that tinge from travel."

The bigger young man nodded ruefully. "Then can either of you guess why this Sword should have led

me to you?"

Zoltan only shook his head.

"I think," Yambu told Valdemar, "you will have to be patient if you want an answer to that

question. It may be that the answer will never become clear, even if you do find your wife."

Valdemar took thought, running long fingers through his dark curly hair. A sparse beard was

beginning to sprout on his youthful cheeks. Then almost shyly he inquired: "Might it have anything

to do with the fact that... as I said before, a lady with your name was once the Silver Queen? But

I had thought ..."

Yambu nodded impatiently. "Very well, my history is no great secret. That was once my title. But I

don't know why my past, good or bad, should have anything much to do with a young man who raises

grapes and seeks a bride. You would have expected the Silver Queen to be a somewhat younger woman?

Hold Soulcutter in your hands, my friend, throughout a day of battle, and you will be fortunate

indeed if you do not look worse than I do."

Now young Valdemar indeed looked awed. "I apologize, my lady, for what must seem unwarranted

curiosity."

"No apology is necessary."

The peasant-looking youth frowned for a while at the weapon hanging from his belt. Then he said:

"Perhaps I must take the Sword's bringing me to you to mean that I should stay with you until it

tells me otherwise. Perhaps it even means that I should turn over Wayfinder and its powers to

you."

Yambu was frowning too.

Impulsively Valdemar said: "Let us try that!" In a moment he had unbelted his Sword, and was

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gallantly proffering the black hilt in her direction, the sheathed Blade balanced flat across his

forearm.

Quietly she responded: "I do not know that you have hit on the right interpretation, young man.

But... on the other hand, why should I fear this Sword?"

Her lips moved again, almost silently. Only Zoltan, who was close beside her, could hear her very

low whisper: "Yet I do."

A moment later, she was reaching out to firmly grasp Wayfinder's hilt.

Having accepted the weapon, and drawn it from its sheath, Yambu stood up straight, her voice

becoming a little louder. "It is a long time since I have felt the power of any Sword in my hands.

Well, Sword of Wisdom, here you are, and here am I. If you can read my heart, show me the way

which I must go to satisfy it."

The Silver Queen held out the blade in a strong two-handed grip, then swept it around the horizon,

in unconscious imitation of Valdemar's first gesticulation with the weapon, seven days ago.

In her hands, Wayfinder's keen point quivered at one point of the compass only—almost straight

east.

Yambu let the tip of the heavy blade sag to the earth.

She said to Valdemar: "I am favored with a definite reply. Now, do you want me to give you this

weapon back?"

To the surprise of both the others, the giant youth put both his hands behind him, as if to make

things difficult for anyone who meant to thrust the black hilt back into his possession. He said:

"My lady, I wonder ..."

"Yes?"

"Might the Sword's response to me mean that I am to stay with you, at least for a time? Travel

with you?"

Yambu thought about it. "It brought you all this way to me. I suppose it might mean something of

the sort," she conceded at length, as if reluctantly.

"And just now, in your hands, Wayfinder pointed east. Do you know what lies in that direction?"

Yambu smiled. "Half of the world," she said.

Zoltan, with his head tipped back, was leaning alternately to right and left, trying to peer

upward through the canopy of leaves. He said: "Some days ago, we two were discussing the question

of our destination, the true object of our pilgrimage, in philosophical terms. Then we began to be

hunted. Being hunted limits one's time for philosophical discussion. In the process of trying to

escape from the reptiles we became lost. Valdemar, you've helped us now to temporary safety. But

as a practical matter, I must say that our next goal, whether east or west, ought to be some place

of greater security. Somewhere completely out of the ken of those whose creatures stalk and harry

us."

Valdemar looked from one to the other of his new companions, trying to assess the situation. There

was no doubting the reality of those drifting shadows that kept reappearing no very great distance

up the hill.

"And who might your enemies be?" he asked with concern.

"There are a number of possibilities," said Yambu drily. Again she took up the Sword in both

hands. "But let us not become obsessed with safety. We are going east."

TWO

“HURLED to the ends of the earth, you say” Astride a demon?" The speaker, a startlingly handsome

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and apparently very youthful man, gave every indication that he found the prospect hugely amusing.

"Yes, to the ends of the earth, or farther for all I know. That was months ago, of course, and

neither the Dark King nor his demonic steed have been heard from since." The youthful-looking

man's informant, a short, blond woman or girl who appeared even younger than he, flashed a bright

grin of her own. "Is it not entertaining, Master Wood?"

The two who spoke with such apparent carelessness of sorcerer's and demon's fate were standing

casually just outside the massive outer wall of the world headquarters of the Blue Temple. The man

was actually leaning against the building's stones. Squat granite columns, each thicker than the

length of a man's body, and broad stone steps leading up to doors worthy of a fortress made the

establishment an archetype of the substantial, or perhaps even a parody of such. The two appeared

to be waiting for something; but what that might be, or why they had chosen this spot to hold

their talk, was not immediately obvious.

The handsome young man nodded. His large, athletic- looking body was well dressed in tunic and

cloak of rich fabric, though of no outstanding elegance. He might have been a prosperous merchant,

or perhaps a physician. Surely not a warrior, for no trace of any material weapon was visible

about his person.

He said: "Entertaining, yes. The demon was hurled away, I suppose, by the Emperor's name in the

mouth of the Emperor's bastard, and that poor pretender of a magician, who likes to ride on

demons, was whisked away helplessly with his mount—"

The young man laughed again, louder than before, and this time his companion laughed with him. She

was garbed in a tight-fitting outfit of silver and blue that showed off her fine figure to

advantage; the clothing suggested an expensive courtesan. The heads of passers-by turned in their

direction; such merriment was uncommon here in the Blue Temple precincts.

Both parties to the conversation ignored the passers-by, even as they appeared to be ignoring the

Blue Temple itself. But he who had been addressed as Master Wood soon sobered from his laughter.

He stroked his chin in thought.

Almost wistfully he said: "And yet, Tigris—an alliance with Vilkata might well have been to our

benefit."

Tigris had already assumed a more thoughtful expression too. She responded: "He may be able to

return, Master, sooner or later. Or, if he cannot come back unaided, we might help him. That may

still be possible. Yet, I fear that the Dark King was—or is—something of a bungler. Considerable

skill in handling demons, one must admit that."

"Considerable. But finally insufficient," amended the other.

"Yes, Master, as I say—finally insufficient." The shapely young woman nodded soberly. "And one

of the Swords went with Vilkata."

"Yes, Master. The Mindsword, as you well know."

Wood allowed his displeasure at that accident to show. He had particularly coveted that weapon for

his own. Then he brightened slightly. "Well, none of that can be helped now. Today we face other

problems, quite sufficient to claim our full attention for a tune."

"As you so accurately say, my lord."

In the bustle of the populous city, even a pair of such striking appearance did not draw a great

deal of attention. Once or twice a beggar started to approach them, then, as if warned by some

instinct, veered away.

Once a sedan chair, guarded on both sides by a file of mounted men, passed very close to them,

entering the Blue Temple headquarters through a nearby gate.

The man called Wood appeared equally indifferent to potentate and mendicants. "So," he mused, "our

erstwhile rival Vilkata, the Dark King, is probably not going to be available in the foreseeable

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