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

happened were the Lord not here?
           The blind man for his part had accepted deferential treatment, and the regular satisfaction of his bodily wants, as no more than his due. Beyond that he had made few demands upon his hosts. Some of the demands he did make were quite incomprehensible and never met. Others were quite clear. From the first day the guest had insisted that his rescuers call him by what he said was his proper name. So long as the villagers did that, and fed him as well as they could, and kept him warm, and allowed him from time to time the company in bed of one or two of their more comely daughters—then he would deign to speak to them.
           Sometimes he even listened to them as well.        “Grandfather?” This was the younger visitor, trying out a theory of his own, that after all these years the eminent guest might be ready to answer to a simpler title.
           The experimenter might have saved his breath. The Lord Vilkata took no notice of him.
           The senior of the two visitors said nothing for a while, and remained impassive. He had been perfectly sure that the experiment would fail.
           After a while the senior tried again, sticking to his own kind of patient communication. “Lord Vilkata?”
           “Yes, what is it?” This time the snappish answer came at once, sooner than the elder had expected. Something out of the ordinary was perturbing the blind god-man today.
           The elder visitor asked gently, deferentially, what the honored one’s trouble was.
           The reply was quick and petulant: “My trouble stems from the Sword, of course. What else?”
           They were back to the incomprehensible. The two visitors, standing before the huddled figure in the chair, silently exchanged glances. It was nothing new for dear Grandfather—everyone called him that, outside his hut—to talk about the Sword, though none of his hearers knew what “the Sword” might be. For some time after his rescue, long years ago, the honored guest had talked of almost nothing else but this strange Sword of enormous importance, and the elders of the village in those days had expended much effort and time in a useless attempt to discover just what he meant. For hours on end, sometimes seemingly for days, their guest and prisoner and lucky charm had harangued the people who had saved his life in an effort to get them to organize search parties, go out into the mountains, and find this mysterious weapon that so obsessed him.
           During the first few years after their guest’s arrival the people had listened to these tirades patiently—taking shifts when necessary—and tried to understand. Of course the villagers knew in a general way what swords were like, but really they knew and cared nothing about them beyond that—they had their spears and slings and clubs for hunting, and for those rare other occasions when weapons were essential. They harkened tolerantly to the blind man’s urgent mumblings, and sometimes to soothe him they pretended to search, but really they made no effort. Only madmen would waste strength and time combing the mountains for objects that were not needed and perhaps did not exist.
           Before he had been three years among them, the villagers reached a consensus that their honored Grandfather was quite mad. They accepted the fact that he was mad, as holy men and old men sometimes were, but his madness did not diminish his holiness or his importance to the village. The value of a resident lord, or god—the distinction was not a profound one for the villagers—really did not depend on anything he said, or anything he did overtly. They soothed their guest and prisoner as best they could, and told him pleasant lies to keep him quiet. Yes, Great Elder, excuse us, Lord Vilkata, soon the weather will improve, and then we will climb back up into the high country and resume the search. Next time we will