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

have tried everything, then we must find something else to try. My son—our son—must grow into a man who is able to guard others. Not one who will forever need guardians himself.”
           “And if he cannot?”
           “I am not convinced that he cannot.”
     
    * * *
     
           Word of the Prince’s intentions went out through the Palace within the hour, and within another hour was spreading throughout the city of Sarykam. Prince Consort Mark, determined on an all-out effort to find a cure for the blindness and the strange seizures that had afflicted his elder son since birth, was calling a council of his most trusted advisers. The council was to meet early on the following morning, which was the earliest feasible time for all of its members to come together.
     
     

 
    Chapter Three
     
           On the morning appointed for the council, Ben of Purkinje was up even earlier than usual.
           He was an enormous man, a pale beached whale rolling out from under the silken covers of his luxurious bed. The stout, carven frame supporting the mattress creaked with relief when his enormous weight was lifted from it. Comparatively little of that weight was fat.
           Once on his feet he cast a quick glance back at the slight figure of his dark-haired wife and noted with a certain relief that she was still asleep. Then he padded into the marble bath adjoining the bedroom. Presently the sounds of water, flowing and splashing in great quantities, came into the bedroom; but they were not heard by the woman in the bed, who slept on.
           The subtler sounds of her husband’s return awoke her, though. Her eyes opened as Ben came back into the room, cast aside a towel that might have served as a ship’s sail, and started to get dressed.
           “I was up late,” she greeted him, “with Beth. She was babbling about strange wizards and I don’t know what. What happened is catching up to her. You can’t expect it not to.”
           “How is she now?”
           “Sleeping. I was up with her most of the night, while you slept like a log.”
           He granted, pulling on a garment.
           “Why are you up so—? Oh, yes. That council meeting.”        “That’s right, I must be there.”
           Barbara rearranged herself in bed, grabbing pillows and stuffing them under her head so she could sit up and talk in greater comfort. “While you’re there, I think there are a couple of things you ought to remind the Prince about.”
           “Ah.”
           “Yes. It was you who gave him the most valuable Sword of all, before he had any thought that he was to be a Prince. See if he remembers now who his friends were in the old days. See if he remembers that.”
           “He remembers it, I’m sure.”
     
    I shatter Swords and splinter spears
    None stands to Shieldbreaker
    My point’s the fount of orphans’ tears
    My edge the widowmaker
     
           The verse had in fact been running through Ben’s head ever since he had awakened. The recent fighting had brought the Sword of Force to everyone’s mind, it seemed. Now Ben whistled a snatch of tune to which he’d once heard someone try to set the Song of Swords, or a couple of verses of it anyway. When Ben was very young he had decided that he was going to be a minstrel. The dream had stayed with him stubbornly for years. By all the gods, how long ago and far away that seemed! He’d be thirty-five this year, or maybe next; he’d never been able to find out for sure exactly when he’d been born. Anyway, there’d be gray showing up in his hair soon enough.
           “Yes, Shieldbreaker.” Barbara was musing aloud, energizing herself for the day by discovering extra things to fret about, as if she, like everyone else, didn’t have enough of them already. “I wonder if he does remember where he got it.”
           Ben grunted again.