Swords: 09 - The Sixth Book Of Lost Swords - Mindsword's Story by Fred Saberhagen Page B
Authors: Fred Saberhagen
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fighting.”
“I share your feelings,” said Murat fervently. Then he nodded to Carlo. “Go!”
* * *
At midday, Murat was still sitting in almost the same spot, for he had to avoid putting weight on his leg as much as possible. He was now saying to the Princess, for what seemed to him the hundredth time since he had found her: “But I want to help you. I have come here to help you.”
Kristin was sitting on the grass a little apart from the Crown Prince now, and gazing at him adoringly. “Help me? But you have already transformed my life. From now on, my lord, I live only to help you.”
Perhaps, Murat thought to himself, it was hopeless to try to explain his position to his beloved now. No doubt he would do better to wait until the effects of the Mindsword wore off, or at least moderated to some extent, as he thought they were bound to do. But with Kristin before him, hanging on his every word, her every expression one of perfect trust and contentment to be with him, he was compelled to keep trying to explain.
“Kristin, what I wanted to do was … ever since we met for the first time, I have hoped someday to win your love.”
The Princess glowed. “Do you mean it?” she whispered softly.
“Yes, of course I mean it. Now I can—I must—openly acknowledge that was my secret purpose in coming here. But—I never wanted it to happen like this! I do not want you as a slave.”
The lovely woman drew back. To Murat’s astonishment it was almost as if he had slapped her face. She said in a much different voice: “You may call it slavery or not, as you choose. I only know that all the love I have to give is yours. I am sorry if there is something in the situation that does not please you.”
He leaned forward, forgetting his injured leg, provoking a sharp twinge of pain. “Don’t weep! I beg of you do not weep!”
Moved by the sincerity in her lover’s tone and manner, the beautiful young woman ceased to cry. Tentatively she essayed a smile.
But Murat, shaking his head, could not force a smile in return. He could only mutter once again: “I did not want it to be like this.”
Kristin’s smile lingered. “But this is the way I am, my lord, and this is how things are. I rejoice to hear that you have wanted me for a long time, and I am overjoyed that you want me still; only the thought that one day you might cease to want me brings utter desolation.”
Murat opened his mouth and closed it again, remembering how some of his first converts had been ready to kill themselves at the mere suggestion that he was leaving them. He was not going to suggest anything of the kind to this beloved woman. Nor was he going to take advantage of her in her present enchanted condition.
Presently a call from a lookout informed the camp that Carlo and his scouting party were returning. Getting to his feet with an effort, his weight on his left leg, Murat waited for his son’s report.
It was brief and to the point. The reconnaissance patrol had discovered no signs of fresh Tasavaltan activity.
As if the sight of Carlo had reminded her of something, Kristin began to look around, her gaze sweeping the distant hills and meadows.
“What is it, Kristin?”
“My son Stephen was somewhere around…”
“Was he—within a hundred meters, when we met?”
“A hundred meters?” Kristin did not appear to grasp the significance of the distance. “No, I don’t think so. He may have ridden back to our summer house, before—before you and I met.”
The Crown Prince sat down again, with a grunt of relief. “I remember Stephen. He’ll be a year older since I saw him—a likely lad, well able to take care of himself, I’d say.” But Murat called his
“I share your feelings,” said Murat fervently. Then he nodded to Carlo. “Go!”
* * *
At midday, Murat was still sitting in almost the same spot, for he had to avoid putting weight on his leg as much as possible. He was now saying to the Princess, for what seemed to him the hundredth time since he had found her: “But I want to help you. I have come here to help you.”
Kristin was sitting on the grass a little apart from the Crown Prince now, and gazing at him adoringly. “Help me? But you have already transformed my life. From now on, my lord, I live only to help you.”
Perhaps, Murat thought to himself, it was hopeless to try to explain his position to his beloved now. No doubt he would do better to wait until the effects of the Mindsword wore off, or at least moderated to some extent, as he thought they were bound to do. But with Kristin before him, hanging on his every word, her every expression one of perfect trust and contentment to be with him, he was compelled to keep trying to explain.
“Kristin, what I wanted to do was … ever since we met for the first time, I have hoped someday to win your love.”
The Princess glowed. “Do you mean it?” she whispered softly.
“Yes, of course I mean it. Now I can—I must—openly acknowledge that was my secret purpose in coming here. But—I never wanted it to happen like this! I do not want you as a slave.”
The lovely woman drew back. To Murat’s astonishment it was almost as if he had slapped her face. She said in a much different voice: “You may call it slavery or not, as you choose. I only know that all the love I have to give is yours. I am sorry if there is something in the situation that does not please you.”
He leaned forward, forgetting his injured leg, provoking a sharp twinge of pain. “Don’t weep! I beg of you do not weep!”
Moved by the sincerity in her lover’s tone and manner, the beautiful young woman ceased to cry. Tentatively she essayed a smile.
But Murat, shaking his head, could not force a smile in return. He could only mutter once again: “I did not want it to be like this.”
Kristin’s smile lingered. “But this is the way I am, my lord, and this is how things are. I rejoice to hear that you have wanted me for a long time, and I am overjoyed that you want me still; only the thought that one day you might cease to want me brings utter desolation.”
Murat opened his mouth and closed it again, remembering how some of his first converts had been ready to kill themselves at the mere suggestion that he was leaving them. He was not going to suggest anything of the kind to this beloved woman. Nor was he going to take advantage of her in her present enchanted condition.
Presently a call from a lookout informed the camp that Carlo and his scouting party were returning. Getting to his feet with an effort, his weight on his left leg, Murat waited for his son’s report.
It was brief and to the point. The reconnaissance patrol had discovered no signs of fresh Tasavaltan activity.
As if the sight of Carlo had reminded her of something, Kristin began to look around, her gaze sweeping the distant hills and meadows.
“What is it, Kristin?”
“My son Stephen was somewhere around…”
“Was he—within a hundred meters, when we met?”
“A hundred meters?” Kristin did not appear to grasp the significance of the distance. “No, I don’t think so. He may have ridden back to our summer house, before—before you and I met.”
The Crown Prince sat down again, with a grunt of relief. “I remember Stephen. He’ll be a year older since I saw him—a likely lad, well able to take care of himself, I’d say.” But Murat called his
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