Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story Read Online Free PDF Page B

discovery that he was being followed. Glancing back along the way he had come, he caught a glimpse of a single rider on his track, no more than two hundred meters behind him.
           Setting all daydreams aside for the moment, Murat began to concentrate intently on matters at hand. Guiding his riding-beast into a maze of tumbled, almost house- sized boulders, he circled back to intercept his own trail, and at a carefully selected point of vantage waited to surprise the man who followed him. Disdaining to draw in his own defense the weapon he was carrying as a gift for the Princess, Murat instead unholstered an ordinary battle-ax from its place beside his saddle. Then he waited, listening to the approaching sound of hooves, ready for whoever might be coming.
           Moments later a young man, armed, rode into sight, almost within arm’s length. Murat drew back his ax—
           “Father! Don’t strike!”
           The weapon was lowered, as the man who wielded it recoiled. Then the Crown Prince leaned forward in his saddle, staring with the stupidity of total astonishment into the eyes of his only son. Only in the last year or two had the youth grown into his full stature, and for a moment his father had failed to recognize him.
           “Carlo!”
           “Father!”
           The ax was quickly reholstered, by a fumbling hand. After a moment or two of awkwardness—father and son had not seen each other for many months—they dismounted and embraced.
           “You are looking well,” Murat commented at last, holding his son at arm’s length. Carlo, dark and round-faced, well dressed and well armed, was not as tall as his father, but in a year or two he would probably be physically stronger.
           “And you,” the lad responded, “are looking tired.”
           In the next moment explanations, and demands for news, poured out on both sides.
           Carlo had left Culm only a month ago, and could report on what was happening there. Unfortunately the conditions that had turned his father into a semivoluntary exile still obtained. The aged Queen, Murat’s stepmother, still ruled, with her sickly consort at her side. And the royal couple, like many others in the homeland, still blamed Murat for failing to bring home the healing Sword of Love.
           Without being asked, Carlo added to his report the information that his own mother and his sister were now living with his mother’s relatives. “I told Mother that I meant to find you, Father.”
           “And had my dear wife any message for me?”
           Carlo, suddenly downcast, had to admit that she had not.
           Murat, having expected no other answer, shrugged; years ago his wife’s feelings and opinions had largely ceased to interest him. Then, seeing his son’s sad face, he smiled and tried to cheer him up. “I am glad that you came looking for me.”
           Carlo brightened at that. He began to explain how, with considerable difficulty, he had managed to track down his father.
           Then he asked, in a puzzled voice, and in the manner of one who really wanted to know, what his father was doing.
           The older man gazed on his son with quiet satisfaction. “I have been on a quest of my own.”
           “A successful quest?”
           “Indeed! Very successful!” Murat, clutching the black hilt at his side, in his turn explained something—not all—about his search for, and recovery of, the Sword.
           “But that’s wonderful!” Carlo was suitably impressed. “And where are you going now, Father? Back to Culm?”
           “To Tasavalta.”
           The youth shook his head, uncomprehending. “Tasavalta again! But why?”
           “For a very good reason. On my last visit to that land, a year ago, I did someone a great wrong. Now at last I am able to do something to set the matter