The Seventh Book of Lost Swords : Wayfinder's Story by Fred Saberhagen (motivational books for women txt) 📕

foliage of a grove of peculiar trees. Valdemar was unable to tell at first glance whether the beast was eating leaves, fruit, or perhaps something more meaty that dwelled in the high branches; he made no effort to find out.

      “Is it a very big magic, then?” The young blond woman was staring gravely, wide-eyed, alternately at Valdemar, and at the Sword he was consulting with regard to their next move.

      He was disconcerted by the way she put a thumb or knuckle in her mouth, her pink lips sucking at it.

      Also he wanted to tell her that her garments needed some adjustment. He was more certain than ever that in her previous persona her clothing must have been protected by some magical means. Now this enhancement was no more, and seams and fabric, not made to withstand rough usage without help, here and there starting to give way. Her blouse, or tunic, or whatever the right name was for the upper garment she was wearing, was tending to come open in front. Matters were tending toward the immodest. How could he think of her as a potential bride?

      Valdemar told himself that he was not really accustomed to dealing with children.

      He said: “Of course this Sword is magic, magic of tremendous power. Haven’t I just been telling you?”

      The griffin was showing signs of reasonable contentment as it continued feeding. Valdemar assumed that he and Delia would soon be riding on the monster’s back again. He wondered if some curse was on him too, that circumstances kept arising to delay his return home.

      Of course, once he had reached that goal, another problem would arise: What ought he to do then with the Sword? Any such treasure would inevitably draw trouble, as Valdemar saw the situation. He would have to hide it, get rid of it, trade it off somehow as soon as an opportunity arose.

      But that could wait until he was safely home. Once Wayfinder had seen him that far, Valdemar was sure he wanted nothing more to do with any magic of the gods.

      As for his wife … whoever she might be … He sat looking long and soberly at Delia.

      “What am I to do with you, girl, when we’ve got that far? I don’t know. Will you at least be safe from demons when we’ve reached that point?”

      She could no more answer that question than an infant. She looked back at her caretaker with mild concern, waiting for him to find some reassuring answer.

      “At least,” Valdemar growled, “I’ll know where I am then, and I’ll be able to do something…”

      He picked up the Sword and once more asked it to show him the way home.

Chapter Fourteen

      The Sword of Wisdom failed to respond at all to this important question, or to the others Valdemar asked. Valdemar took this to mean that he too should adopt a course of inactivity. That would be all right if it didn’t last too long; he could use the rest. Anyway, the griffin had not yet finished its protracted feeding.

      Also Val was still being bothered by his cut fingers. The skin around the little wounds was red and sore and even felt warmer than the adjacent flesh, as if he were getting a local fever. Healing was slow, not helped by the fact that he had to keep using his hand.

      Delia, despite her claim to have spent her childhood on a farm, protested that it bothered her to have to deal with blood and injury. But when Valdemar coaxed her, she agreed to do what she could to help him.

      First, wearing an absentminded look, she searched among the nearby bushes and eventually came up with what she said were useful herbs, varieties to help the small wounds heal.

      While engaged in this search, she took time out to complain, she had not been able to find the kind of berries she would really like to eat. “There should be little red berries, in the spring …”

      “I suppose your farm was a long way off from here.”

      “I suppose it was,” the young woman answered vaguely. Then she lifted her head sharply. “Listen!”

      “What?” Valdemar turned uneasily, hand groping for his Sword.

      “The birds. Hear them? Except they’re not the same kind that used to sing on the farm.”

      Eventually, with Delia’s assistance, Val succeeded in getting an effective bandage on his hand. The poultice of leaves that she bound on stung a little at first, but then felt vaguely comforting.

      As Delia finished tying the last knot in the little bandage, he continued to stare at her thoughtfully. Long ago Valdemar had abandoned the last suspicion that this shocking innocence was some kind of a trick, a pose on her part. And she showed no signs of snapping out of it. No, it seemed that she was his responsibility now.

      So far the pair of them had had enough to eat; fortunately the griffin had been carrying some field rations, mostly hard bread and cheese, in one of its panniers. But those supplies were quickly running out, and Valdemar realized that to keep himself and his supposed bride going he was going to have to somehow scrounge more nourishment from other sources.

      He would have to think seriously about that problem soon. At the moment he was very tired.

      The Sword of Wisdom would of course lead them to good things to eat, as soon as he wanted to make that his priority. But Valdemar had the feeling that they were under pursuit, if not direct attack, and he had learned that the Sword could only handle one question—or one main goal—at a time. He would not risk his life and Delia’s for food until actual starvation threatened.

      Sitting against a tree, he was pulled back from the brink of sleep by his companion leaning over him.

      “Is it a very big magic?” Delia now repeated, innocently. She was gazing thoughtfully at the Sword, which lay in Valdemar’s lap, his hand on the black hilt.

      Earlier, Valdemar remembered with a sense of irony, this woman—or rather