Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story (7 page)

      
The soldier was relieved at not having to spell it out. “That’s about it, sir.
We’d
be glad to put in a word for you, you’ve sure treated us handsomely. Only…”

      
“Only you will be regarded, at best, as deluded victims; at worst as deserters. Nothing you say will be believed. I understand.” Murat paused. “But you are wrong.”

      
“Sir?”

      
“Not about the kind of reception you may expect when you report back for duty; I’m afraid you’re right about that. But you are mistaken about your Princess.” The Crown Prince nodded for emphasis. “She’ll listen to me. She’ll be angry at me at first, over what happened last year, but she will still listen.”

      
“Yes sir. If you say so, sir.” And perhaps, Murat thought, the soldier was convinced.

      
Shortly afterward that man and the three other Tasavaltans who had chosen to return to their original loyalties rode away. Murat made no further effort to delay them; according to the best information his loyal people could give him, the Princess in her summer retreat was now no more than a few hours’ ride away.

      
And scarcely were they out of sight than another small delegation came to report to Murat that the bandit-magician Gauranga seemed to have been overtaken by an accident during the night. He had died of a plunge down a small cliff.

      
“Walked away in the darkness to relieve himself, it looks like, sir, and just walked a step too far.”

      
The Crown Prince went to take a cursory look at the body. An odd incident indeed, but there was no evidence of foul play, and certainly nothing to connect Gauranga’s death with the beggar. If any faint shadow of suspicion of the blind man crossed Murat’s mind, he dismissed it in the next instant as preposterous.

* * *

      
That day Carlo reported to his father that one of the troopers who had chosen to remain with them was a veteran of that famous battle of fourteen years ago, when the armies of the Silver Queen and the Dark King had clashed in battle, each ruler armed with a different Sword.

      
That night, with most of the group sitting around a campfire some kilometers closer to where they might expect to find the Princess, Murat encouraged this soldier to speak to them of those days.

      
This veteran had served in the Silver Queen’s victorious army, and told now how he had seen the great Lord Vilkata’s soldiers overwhelmed by the Sword of Despair, many of them slaughtered on the field, but most taken prisoner while in a state of helplessness. There was no humor in the story, and no joy; it seemed that even the victors in that battle still bore the psychic scars of it.

* * *

      
At the beginning of the tale Vilkata had been crouched at the far end of the camp, alone and distant from the fire. But as the story progressed, the Dark King, seeing more than any of the others dreamed, gradually edged his way closer to the storyteller’s fire, and listened unnoticed to this tale of events in which he had played one of the principal roles. The veteran, noticing at last the presence of the Eyeless One, remarked that he’d had an aversion to blind men ever since that day of battle, when he had glimpsed the Dark King from afar.

      
The blind man on hearing this smiled under his bandage, a sickly, unhealthy kind of smile. Several of the former bandits tittered. Murat smiled faintly, with the air of one whose thoughts are far away, but wished to share the general merriment.

      
A brief silence fell. When Carlo remarked that the Mindsword was the only one of the Twelve to be known under only a single name, Murat commented that he had also heard it called the Sword of Glory. Others in the fireside circle nodded to confirm this.

      
And the old veteran of that battle between Swords assured his new master and his comrades that the Sword now carried by Murat had indeed been given several other names by the common people in both armies.

      
Murat raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

      
“Perhaps you won’t hear these other titles spoken in the palaces, sir, among the lords. But we used ’em in the ranks.”

      
“We’ll hear them now, then.”

      
“Well, sir, there’s Sword of Madness, Skulltwister, Brainchopper, and Mindmasher, that I can remember.” The veteran frowned, not looking at Murat, seemingly unconscious that such terms applied to his master’s source of power might be taken as offensive. “And there were others—let me see—”

      
Murat was not too pleased to hear his present source of salvation, his future gift to the Princess, called by such derogatory titles. “I think we’ve heard enough,” he snapped.

      
“Aye, sir.” The old soldier accepted the rebuke stoically and without question, as an old soldier should.

      
On the morning following that fireside discussion, Carlo had a second meaningful talk with Vilkata.

      
In the course of this conversation the Dark King worked again at planting the idea that it is sometimes necessary to disobey, even to deceive a lord—even a father—in order to serve him properly. He hardly knew himself what profit he might expect to gain from this intrigue; but he knew that time was passing, and he seemed to be getting no closer to his goal.

* * *

      
On that same morning, Murat was pleased to be able to estimate that even now, several days after he’d drawn the Sword for the last time, some four or five of his converts, from the ranks of both bandits and soldiers, and including the officer who commanded the patrol, still remained firmly devoted to him, if their behavior was not quite as fanatical as it had been immediately following their conversion. And the remainder of the men were still Murat’s followers, perhaps as trustworthy as most soldiers in most armies.

      
The Crown Prince, philosophizing on these matters in conversation with his son, supposed that he and his Sword had happened to encounter these men at a time when they were ready to attach themselves fanatically to the first worthy cause that came along.

      
Carlo, still innocently fanatic himself, argued that on the contrary, these permanent-seeming conversions were a result of their master’s own innate leadership and charisma.

      
The conversation was broken off when Murat noticed the beggar Metaxas hovering near, as if he would have liked to take part in it also. Repelled by the fellow, and yet reluctant to take any notice at all of his presence, the Crown Prince moved away.

      
Vilkata had been perfectly correct in what he had told the demon. Such was the disregard in which the Culmians held him that it had never yet occurred to either Murat or Carlo to wonder if the old beggar had really been caught by the Mindsword at all.

* * *

      
Murat only shook his head each time he received yet another round of fulsome praise from his most devoted followers. But he had to agree that he had not been without loyal followers at home in Culm, even when he was out of favor with the Queen and her consort.

      
His faithful Tasavaltans assured him again that the summer residence of their Princess was now only an hour or two ahead.

      
Now in his own mind Murat began to rehearse in detail the explanations he meant to offer for his conduct on his last visit, the strong arguments that he was going to present—with great gentleness, of course—to Kristin as soon as he saw her.

      
He sighed, reminding himself that the Princess might well be angry with him at first sight. Yes, her anger was practically certain. Given how he’d offended her, nothing else could be expected. But at the same time, he had faith in Kristin’s fairness and justice. She would listen to him when he approached her, deferentially yet boldly, with his apology. With calm speech and concise reasoning the Crown Prince meant to convince that loveliest of women that he had not really invaded her territory with the intention of subverting her army. Despite what the old soldier had said—what did such men, worthy and loyal as they were, know of princesses?—Murat really had no doubt that he’d be able to persuade her when the time came.

      
He had another discussion with Carlo on this point. But Murat broke off the talk in irritation when Carlo still seemed doubtful—and when, once again, the old beggar hovered near.

      
And anyway, the Crown Prince was beginning to think it not all that surprising that a number of people, including some of the more worthy Tasavaltans, should really want to follow him from now on, even after their minds were cleared of magic. If that was what they wanted, it would be unjust of him to prevent their doing so.

      
His mind was running on such thoughts when his confrontation with the Princess came, at least an hour before he expected it. The meeting was sudden, and startling on both sides.

Chapter Seven

      
Along the east side of the mountains, on the long slopes facing the distant sea, it was a day of low clouds, mist, cool winds, and occasional sunlight. The scenery here tended toward the spectacularly beautiful, with meadows and scraps of forest alternating with stark mountain crags. Small streams tumbled and frothed, pausing for rest in green-fringed pools. This was the land of Kristin’s own childhood, to which she retreated whenever possible.

      
Early this morning she had ridden out from her summer residence for a long ride, accompanied by her younger son, eleven-year-old Stephen, and a small handful of attendants. The party was nominally engaged in hunting, but none of its members cared much if game were taken or not. For Kristin the joy of this kind of hunting consisted chiefly in being able to observe the grace and speed of the high- flying hybrid winged creatures, raptors bred to kill small game for their masters, or track larger prey for mounted humans to pursue.

      
Whatever degree of success the flying creatures might have today, the Princess knew an aftertaste of bitter envy as she watched them soar in freedom.

      
She was recalled from useless pondering upon her fate when her son rode close to speak to her. Stephen was a sturdy eleven year old, his once-blond hair now turning darker, becoming a good match for that of his absent father. These days, the boy was looking forward to his father’s imminent return from another in the long series of journeys and pilgrimages Mark had undertaken in an effort to serve the Emperor.

      
“Father will be home soon, won’t he? In a few more days?”

      
“I don’t know.” Then Stephen’s mother regretted the shortness of her reply and the sound of indifference in it. She was not indifferent. “Do you miss your father very much?”

      
“Of course. Don’t you miss him?”

      
Kristin hesitated, brought up short by the sudden look of wonder in her son’s eyes. “Naturally I do,” she said at last. “I wish he wouldn’t go away so much.”

      
“Why does he have to go away so much?”

      
It was not the first time Kristin had heard that question from one of her sons, and it grew no easier to answer.

      
“Because he feels he must,” was her reply this time.

      
“Because he wants to help the Emperor; I know that. But why does he do it so often?”

      
“Because that’s what your father feels he must do.”

      
The boy did not reply at once. Then he said: “Father wants to help Grandfather against his enemies.”

      
“Yes. Something like that.” Kristin did not doubt that the Emperor’s enemies existed, and that they were evil; she could have named a goodly number of them offhand. But more and more it seemed to her that those scoundrels claimed a much larger portion of her husband’s thoughts and actions than she did, and more and more she questioned the need for that.

      
For a short time mother and son had been quite alone, but now a couple of attendants, one of them armed, appeared riding nearby. These days, the summer retreat and its environs were but lightly guarded by troops and magic. One squadron of cavalry had been detailed for protection, and at the moment was supposedly keeping just out of sight of the hunting party; there was no particular reason to expect any hostile incursion.

      
Meanwhile, young Stephen, as he did with increasing frequency these days, began questioning his mother about his mysterious grandfather the Emperor, and expressing his hopes of being able to meet him someday. The boy sounded keen on the idea, like someone looking forward to a challenge. Part of Stephen’s problem, his mother knew, was that his brother Adrian, only two years older, had already met the Emperor, and had even engaged—more or less on the Emperor’s behalf—in difficult and dangerous adventures far from home. There was of course some rivalry between the brothers, and Stephen was the one who seemed by temperament more fitted for high adventure.

      
“When is Adrian coming home?”

      
That was not a new question either. “Whenever he reaches a point in his studies when his teachers decide he should have a vacation. Magic is a difficult subject, if you’re going to do it properly. Even for someone as talented as Adrian.”

      
“Then it could be years.”

      
“Possibly. I know you miss your brother too.”

      
Stephen was silent, while their mounts carried them a hundred meters. Then he announced: “I’m going up on the hill, Mother. Maybe I can see the flyers better from there.”

      
“Bring me back some interesting news, if possible.”

      
Kristin’s son turned his mount, and dug in his heels. In moments he was almost out of hearing, and still riding swiftly.

      
The Princess watched him go. She was now left for the moment practically unaccompanied, the two attendants who were in sight riding at a distance of some forty or fifty meters.

      
Moments later, in the process of following a tenuous trail around the steep base of a house-sized boulder, Kristin came face to face with Murat, who was riding just ahead of a small advance guard of his followers.

* * *

      
For a long, long moment there was silence. It was Murat who recovered himself and spoke first. “Do not be afraid, my lady. You need never be afraid of me.”

      
“Treacherous villain!” Even as Kristin gasped those words, she took note of the young man riding a few paces behind Murat, who somewhat resembled him; and of the uniformed Tasavaltan troopers just a few meters farther back. These soldiers were not of the troop assigned to protect the summer residence; and the attitude of these men, looking expectantly toward Murat as if for orders, crushed any momentary hope that this hateful intruder was their prisoner.

      
Princess Kristin’s next thought was that the Tasavaltan uniforms must be a trick, and that these were the villain’s own men dressed for more Culmian treachery.

      
But the troopers, seeing their beloved Princess confronting their master, hastened to close in on the pair, showing her every sign of courtesy and respect, and trying to explain. The explanations at first made no sense at all to Kristin, but she could no longer doubt that these were Tasavaltans.

      
Murat silenced them with a gesture. Urging his riding-beast a little closer to the Princess, he assured her confidently: “You will have no cause to abuse me this time, my lady. I come in peace.”

      
But now a very different-looking crew, a stretched-out file of six or eight men who looked very much like bandits, were coming in sight behind Murat’s mysterious Tasavaltan escort. And far in the rear, one last rider, a man who appeared to have a bandage on his eyes, dawdled on a mount led on a long rope by the last bandit.

      
These matters were of small interest just now. Immediately on Kristin’s left, almost close enough for her to touch, was the huge boulder around which circled the path she had been following. The way was open to her right, where at a distance of some thirty meters a screen of lesser rocks and stunted trees blocked the view. In the middle distance there loomed slopes and crags, at the moment looking utterly unpopulated. Nowhere was there any sign of help.

      
But still the Princess had not yet begun to be afraid; her outrage had not left her time for fear.

      
Facing Murat, she declared: “This time, I see, you have come as a bandit leader—a more open and therefore less dishonorable appearance than last year, when you posed as a diplomat.”

      
But even as she spoke, fear was beginning to take its place beside her anger; she struggled to keep the change from showing. The most urgent of her silent worries was for her son: Had Stephen managed to get safely away? And where was Captain Marsaci and his troop? For the moment Kristin could do no more than hope that help might be at no very great distance.

      
Several of Murat’s Tasavaltan converts, still innocently wearing their uniforms of blue and green, were unable to keep silent despite their new master’s order. Now some of these men burst out with fresh importunings of their Princess, telling her what a great man the Crown Prince was, and how it would be a grave mistake, even a great sin, for her to delay in placing her whole realm at his disposal. Murat saw her turn pale under her tan on hearing this lunatic advice offered in such a reasonable tone. But a moment later Kristin felt something like relief as the most logical explanation for these defections crossed her mind. And from the first thought of magic it was only a step to the strong suspicion that the Mindsword must be involved.

      
Now one of the young Tasavaltan soldiers, on seeing the Princess’s expression change again, thought with relief that she was on the point of being converted to Murat’s cause. At once the youth began explaining earnestly that all the fuss last year about Woundhealer being stolen must have been only a misunderstanding.

      
One of the trooper’s comrades interrupted to remind him, rather hotly, that, after all, if Crown Prince Murat wanted that Sword, or anything else, he had a perfect right to take it. Didn’t he?

      
A word from Murat was needed to put down the incipient quarrel; but that word was instantly effective.

      
“And do you believe that you have such rights?” Princess Kristin demanded of him. Her only real hope, she had decided, was to stall for time; but nevertheless, she found that she could not contain her bitterness. She was surprised by the depth of hatred the sight of Murat evoked within her. “What have you come to steal from us this time?”

      
When the Crown Prince, obviously stung by her words and attitude, started to reply, she interrupted him: “You robber, I never thought to see you cross our borders again of your own free will! You must be as mad as these underlings, these traitors, who follow you.”

      
Murat, though he glared at her momentarily, chose his words carefully and kept his voice soft. “I am not insane, Princess, believe me. True, for a long time I despaired of ever being able to enter your lands again. But here I am, and I bring good news.”

      
“The only good news I can imagine hearing from you is that you are departing more swiftly than you came. And this time going empty-handed.”
Where is my son? And where my loyal cavalry?

      
The man confronting the Princess mastered his own anger and pressed on. “Last year, in the casino where I helped to rescue your older son—”

      
Kristin knew it was important for her to be clever, to play for time. She knew that she ought to hear out his absurd argument, whatever it might be, with an appearance of patience. But her emotions kept her from doing that.

      
“You speak of my son Adrian? You, of all people, claim to have
rescued
him? Your thieving treachery only contributed to the danger that he faced!”

      
Despite the many times the Crown Prince had rehearsed this encounter in his own mind, nothing about it was going as he had planned and hoped. Instead, matters were taking a sharper turn for the worse than he had ever feared. He had expected anger from the Princess, but somehow he had never envisioned such a depth of enduring bitterness. And her last accusation, thought Murat, was completely unfair. He could feel righteous anger at this injustice reddening his face, but still he did not argue. His own real responsibility for this lady’s unhappiness was too shamefully clear in his mind to allow him to do that.

      
Feeling proud of his ability to continue speaking calmly and fairly under these conditions, he replied, “Nevertheless, dear lady, there was a point in Sha’s casino when I was trying to help the lad, and I was fortunate enough to have some measure of success. But the point I am trying to explain now is that during that scene of great confusion at the gambling house, the Sword Coinspinner fell into my hands. With such help I was able to get away, bringing Coinspinner with me.”

      
“And I suppose it is the Sword of Chance you wear at your belt now?” Coinspinner’s overwhelming good luck, thought Kristin, might account for this villain’s having encountered a patrol of cavalry who for some reason were ready to defect.

      
“Not so, my lady.” The Crown Prince paused for a moment, his own resentment ebbing away helplessly as he gazed at the angry face before him. Kristin’s blue eyes were even lovelier than he had remembered. To him, this woman at this moment looked no older than eighteen, though he knew that she must be over thirty. And her beauty was not the deceptive glamour some women were able to achieve by means of magic. Murat felt confident of always being able to sense that particular deception, and he detected no trace of it now.

      
She asked him crisply: “Then are you bringing back the Sword you stole from us?”

      
“My lady, if ever again I have Woundhealer in my possession I’ll bring it back at once. But unfortunately I do not have it now.”

      
“Then what is your business here?” Kristin demanded icily.

      
“I have come to bring you a gift,” the Crown Prince said, and felt profoundly unhappy when his words seemed to make no impression whatsoever upon his hearer.

      
He continued doggedly, speaking into the strained silence: “Coinspinner eventually took itself away from me, as the Sword of Chance is wont to take itself from anyone who holds it. But before vanishing, it showed me clues by which I might be able to possess a certain other Sword. That is the Sword I am wearing now. It is the Sword I wish to give to you, to make amends in some small measure for my behavior of a year ago.” Murat bowed in his saddle, at the same time frowning lightly to himself. Somehow his speech had not come out as abjectly apologetic as he had earlier imagined it would be.