The First Book of Lost Swords - Woundhealer's Story by Fred Saberhagen Read Free Book Online Page B

him in his dreams, and that the flowers grew downstream, not really very far from here. He turned his riding-beast in that direction, following along the bank.
           Zoltan had a good idea of the lay of the land for perhaps a kilometer or two downstream from the point where he was now. Beyond that point, if he should have to go that far, everything would be strange and new.
           He looked ahead eagerly, feeling ready for some undefined adventure.
           There were no soldiers in sight now. The last patrol he had seen had ridden off in a different direction.
           The high plain ahead of Zoltan as he rode was dotted with a thin, scrubby forest, and there were very low hills on the horizon, between which, somehow, the Sanzu must find its way.
     
    * * *
     
           Half an hour after Zoltan had seen the last soldier, he was still following the Sanzu downstream, without any clear idea of exactly what he expected to find in that direction besides the flowers. He was now entering the region where the land started to turn rough again after the strip of plain, and the stream started trying to get away from the high country in one little rushing descent after another. There were still signs everywhere of the recent passage of Tasavaltan patrols, but he ignored them.
     
    * * *
     
           Half an hour after that, and now far out of sight of home, the boy was stretched out on a flat rock beside the tiny river, reaching down to where a patch of tall white flowers grew at the water’s edge. The flowers were delicate things with long stems and almost frothy petals, and there was a golden center in each blossom. The perfume was here, all right, but it was still not as strong as Zoltan had expected it would be—he would get only a tantalizing hint, and then another one, long moments later.
           A few meters behind Zoltan, his riding-beast was placidly cropping grass.
           Somehow, once Zoltan had found the flowers, his craving for adventure was temporarily forgotten. He lay there looking long and long into the pool.
           He gazed into the murmuring water until he saw the reflection of white shoulders and black hair.
     
     

 
    Chapter Five
     
           On that same morning, in the city of Sarykam, there were trumpets and drums at parting: a demonstration by the people of the city for the Prince they had come to love and respect over the last eight years of peace, and during the war that had gone before.
           Prince Adrian, his small body clad in plain garments of rich fabric, a scaled-down version of his father’s clothing, perched in the saddle of a sturdy riding-beast beside his father’s mount. Jord, in the role of grandfather, held one of the Princeling’s tiny hands in his huge ones and said goodbye. Mark’s mother, Mala, a plain woman in her late forties, was there too, to wish the travelers well.
           Adrian had ridden before, briefly, in parades and on the practice ground. Perhaps he thought that this was to be another parade. His parents had told him repeatedly what the purpose of this journey was. But there was no indication that their explanations had penetrated very far into the darkness that sealed his eyes, and more often than not closed off his mind. He held his head now in a characteristic pose, tilted on one side as if he were listening to something that only he could hear. His sightless eyes were busy. And one small hand, when Jord released it, rose and questioned the air ahead of him. His other hand continued to clutch the reins.
           Now Karel, on a balcony overlooking the Palace courtyard in which the expedition had assembled, was giving the travelers such blessings as he could, chiefly by invoking the name of Ardneh.
           One notable absence from the scene was that of General Rostov. There were plenty of likely reasons for his not being present—the near-success of the apparent kidnapping attempt