convenience. He was perfectly willing to stay awake until all hours talking, or to stay quiet, or even to go elsewhere for a time, if his tentmates so desired.
He was also a willing listener in his eagerness to catch up on everything he had missed, not just while lost in the north, but even before, as his unit had been an isolated one. For that matter, just the sound of human voices, regardless of what was being said, was comforting.
Everyone liked a good listener. After a few hours, his affability and open interest in what his new companions had to say had worn down the initial strain, and one of the three, a gangling young man of twenty-two, freshly arrived from a training camp near the port of Shan on the Sea, got talking.
The lieutenant’s name was Radler Dathet’s son, and, although he was only a year or so younger than Valder, he seemed to the scout little more than a boy.
Radler agreed, in general, with Sidor’s assessment of the strategic situation, but attributed the slow advance to the lack of roads and adequate means of supply, rather than to timidity on the part of the Ethsharitic commanders. General Gor’s Western Command and General Anaran’s Central Command were both advancing, chewing up the scattered enemy units they encountered. In the interior, Azrad was doing his best to provide the necessary logistical support, but supplies and men were both becoming scarce. General Terrek’s Eastern Command was still stalemated, as no foolhardy attack had been made on that front — and Terrek, suspecting a ruse, was not willing to send anything to his compatriots.
General Karannin was one of Gor’s subordinates, as Valder had thought — though the possibility that he was one of Anaran’s, somehow strayed west, had occurred to him. Gor himself was reportedly still in his coastal fortress, coordinating, rather than leading the advance personally.
Losses had been fairly heavy on both sides, Radler thought, despite the small numbers of the northerners, because a disproportionate number of the enemy were either sorcerers or shatra. Nonetheless, like Sidor, he thought the long war was finally nearing an end. Valder still didn’t believe that, but, not wanting to antagonize Radler, he said nothing of his doubts.
After that topic was exhausted, Valder picked up assorted camp gossip — none of it, unfortunately, mentioning anyone he had met. He asked about Darrend, but none of his tentmates knew anything about the wizard.
As the afternoon wore on, the three lieutenants, one by one, departed on various errands. Radler was on duty, commanding a supply detail; the others, Korl and Tesra, mentioned no destination. Valder thought they might be headed for the brothels of camptown. Having no money and therefore nothing better to do — it was far too late to find the paymaster — Valder settled back for a nap.
He was awakened by the sound of the tent flap opening.
“Excuse me, sir,” a soldier said, standing in the light so that Valder could not see his face, “but I believe this is yours.” He held out an unsheathed sword, hilt-first.
Valder took it without thinking, then started to protest. He stopped suddenly before the first word was finished, when he realized that the sword he held was indeed his own.
That made no sense. The wizards were supposed to be studying Wirikidor. Surely they weren’t done with it already? And if they were, would they hand it back so casually? And where was the scabbard? He turned back toward the flap, but the soldier had gone.
He sat up, and his foot struck something. He reached down. As he had half expected, he found Wirikidor’s sheath lying on the dirt floor. He picked it up and stared at it, sword in one hand and scabbard in the other.
Puzzled, he arose and peered out of the tent. Nobody was in the immediate area; nobody was looking at him. Still confused, he emerged into the late afternoon sun and gazed about.
The camp was going about its business; men were sharpening blades, talking, eating, hurrying back and forth.
He saw no sign of the soldier who had delivered the sword.
With a shrug, Valder turned toward the magician’s circle. He was not sure whether he was meant to have the sword back or not, and the wizards were obviously the people who would know.
As he approached the chalked line where the warding spells began, someone caught sight of him and called out. Figures emerged from the polychrome tents and faces turned toward him.
He stopped at the line until a wizard beckoned him on; a moment later he was in the circle, surrounded by magicians.
Darrend was among them. “So there you are,” he remarked.
“Here I am,” Valder replied. “Where should I be?”
“I really couldn’t say soldier, but that sword of yours is supposed to be right here. No one was authorized to move it, yet the first time we took a break — just for a moment — it vanished. Not magically vanished; someone walked off with it. And while we were looking for the sword, the same thing happened to the scabbard. Now here you are, with both of them. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps so, sir,” Valder replied. He had the impression that Darrend ranked as an officer. “It was none of my doing, though, or I wouldn’t be here bringing them back, would I? Someone just handed the sword to me, and I found the scabbard on the floor of the tent, as if someone had tossed it there while I was taking a nap.”
Various magicians exchanged glances. “The Spell of True Ownership, I’d say — or at any rate, a close variant,” one remarked.
Darrend frowned. “I tested for that and got ambiguous results. It isn’t the standard form, but it could be something close.”
“But,” the redhead said, “that’s why no one else could draw it, of course. And now it’s found its way back to Valder as if by chance — that’s the Spell of True Ownership, if I ever saw it!”
“It’s an odd form, though,” Darrend insisted. “There’s something unhealthy about it.” “There’s always something unhealthy about True Ownership to my mind,” someone new answered.
“No, it’s different. I tested for it, of course — when no one else could draw the sword, True Ownership was the first thing I thought of. But there’s no trace of a gold ring’s use, and how can you work the Spell of True Ownership without a gold ring?”
Valder had no idea what Darrend was talking about. Only recently awakened from his nap and still not entirely recovered from his adventures, he was not very much interested in anything but once more disposing of the sword. “True Owner or not, I’d prefer you take the sword and finish your tests, if you’re going to,” he said testily. “Sir,” he added belatedly.
“Yes, of course,” Darrend said, accepting the weapon’s hilt.
Valder relinquished the sword and scabbard and then paused. “How long will the tests take?” he asked.
Darrend shrugged. “I have no idea. It depends on just what was done to it. With luck, we’ll finish by midnight; without it, we may never figure it out completely.”
“Oh.” Valder looked at the sword. “Well, good luck, sir.” He turned and marched back toward his tent.
He was fairly certain that sooner or later either the sword would again find its way back to him or he would be drawn to the sword. He wondered how much of his future would be tied to Wirikidor and whether the enchantment might be broken, or perhaps just the Spell of True Ownership removed, so that anyone could use the sword.
Darrend watched him go, fighting down a sudden urge to follow. He found himself thinking of urgent errands to be run in the vicinity of Valder’s tent.
Annoyed, he recognized the action of the Spell of True Ownership, trying to return the sword to its master — or perhaps its slave. One could never be sure with magic swords. He worked a simple counterspell against compulsions and stalked back toward the laboratory tent.
CHAPTER 13
After four days of study, days during which more than half the camp had been packed up and sent north while Valder did nothing of any use other than finally obtaining his accumulated pay, the wizards had finished their
