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A vague awareness that his left fist was still clenched reminded him of the object dropped into his hand. Looking down stupidly at his closed fingers, Chance for the first time became fully aware of a tingling in that palm, a sensation that was already fading.

It continued to do so as he turned over his hand and opened it, to reveal. It was as if whatever the owl had given him had dissolved into the air, or somehow melted into his skin. Of course, he must have let it fall somewhere. In a moment he realized that at least one bit of solid evidence of the visitation was still in sight.

It appeared that someone--or something-- might have been using a net to try to catch the owl. Because there was an abandoned net, of a size that might have snared a big bird. One end of it was caught somehow atop the wagon, from which modest height it hung down like coarse lace drapery along one curving bulge of canvas. Chance grabbed quickly at the net, his mind working on some half-formed impulse to prevent this second bit of evidence from disappearing.

The small mass of coarse mesh easily pulled free from the wagon and he began to look it over. He had barely started to do this, when he caught sight of Jervase, the Scholar, leader of the expedition, emerging from his private wagon. A few paces away, Horkos, commander of the cavalry escort, was stepping out of his own wagon, a luxury to which his military rank entitled him. In a moment the pair of them had reached Chance's side. Horkos had his sword in hand, but Jervase had not bothered to bring his along.

The Scholar was half a head taller than Chance, and approximately twice his age. His brown hair and beard had been kept neatly trimmed despite the inconveniences of camp life. Moving at his usual brisk pace, his lean, half-clad body blanket-wrapped in the frosty dawn, Jervase was first to reach the boy.

Then, more urgently: "What's happened to the owl? Chance was shaking his head, still trying to clear his mind. He wanted to stop and think before he got into a discussion of the vision of that ghastly face. All he said was: "Strange things are going on. I think the bird is hurt. Meanwhile, Mitra had disappeared into the familiar haven of her nest, from which invisible source there drifted out a fluttering, hooting uproar.

Jervase reacted with alarm to the news about the owl, and moved at once to follow Mitra into the wagon. Captain Horkos, about the same age as Jervase, stocky yet nimble, had already sheathed his sword and turned aside to begin questioning the sentry, who had moved closer.

In a moment Chance had joined the Scholar under the canvas top, where the boy immediately began to soothe the injured bird, while Jervase tried to inspect her wing. Mitra's hooked beak opened, her small tongue vibrated, and she garbled words at Chance, recognizable sounds mixed in with other noises that might or might not have been crafted to carry meaning.

Judging by his many past attempts to gain useful information from the owl, Chance thought it unlikely that Mitra would ever give anyone a coherent explanation of what had just happened. Certainly they weren't going to get one while she was still excited. Jervase had given up trying to inspect the wing, his efforts simply driving the owl deeper into a panic. Now he crouched under the low wagon top making awkward little motions with both hands, as if determined to do something useful but not sure just what it ought to be.

Chance was actually more experienced in caring for the bird; he had been acting as its chief caretaker for almost a month, not at all the way he had expected to spend his days when they were setting out from home. His official title on the expedition was the vague one of special assistant to Jervase. In practice this had turned out to mean spending a great deal of time keeping the bird company, whenever the scholar himself was absent--which was coming to be a greater and greater portion of every day and night.

Among other things, Jervase thought it important that someone should write down everything that Mitra said--or seemed to say. Captain Horkos had rejoined them, having concluded his brief talk with the sentry, and three humans were now inside the wagon, whose whole interior was not much bigger than a good-sized double bed. Though it had never contained more than the one bird, and was aired out every night while the owl was absent, its interior atmosphere assailed the nose with the spicy mustiness of a coop heavily populated with barnyard fowl.

All three of the current human occupants were long used to the stink, and none were paying it any attention to it. The Scholar was scowling up at the ripped canvas. Mitra did that? But the proper moment had not yet come--the Scholar was fussing with the owl again.

One of the bird's wings did seem to be hurt, and it appeared unlikely that the owl was going to be flying for a few days at least. The door flap of canvas moved again, and another human head intruded, this one's dark hair styled distinctively above a middle-aged woman's sweet, still pretty face.

Her usual air was one of purposeful competence. The enchantress Ayaba spent the nights sleeping or working in her own private wagon. Most of her daylight hours were also spent under its painted canvas, from which she emerged at intervals to pass on to the Scholar or the captain information or suggestions she had received from her unseen powers.

Now she, the scholar, and the military commander were all demanding to know what was going on. In odd corners of the wagon, and under the nest of old blankets, were a few small bones. Mitra had now and then brought home a small mammal or reptile of modest size for her own dinner.

Big owls were a rare, exotic species, and of their number only a few possessed the power of speech. Mitra was one of these, but rarely spoke, and never when excited. When a moment came in which no one else had anything to say, he offered: "I think I know what scared her. People gave him their attention. Once more Chance ran through his story of events, this time including a couple of additional details. The tale was very short, but he was sure that he would have to go over it several more times.

As he spoke he flexed the fingers yet again; by this time all trace of the tingling sensation had also disappeared. The young lord spread his eight fingers and two thumbs. It felt like--like a small chain. With some object f-fastened to it. The bird's eyes were shielded with a soft hood and the enchantress furnished a light--it appeared in the form of a small, half-animate, darting thing, minor servant of the Lady Ayaba, coming and going at her bidding.

The people in the wagon searched the floor minutely; but they found nothing remotely resembling Chance's description among the odd bits and fragments that might be expected in any living space used by a large bird and several people. Lady Ayaba produced from somewhere a short wand, with which she conducted a brief magical survey, of the young lord's person, and the wagon's whole interior.

The curious stone set in her thumb ring flashed. Soon she put her wand away, signing that she had discovered nothing. Her voice was calm and reassuring, and she spoke to Chance as if to a child. But I wasn't dreaming it. While his audience was still making a desultory attempt to scan the wagon's floor, Chance tried to explain what had happened. For just a moment, when it landed. I saw an odd. For a moment all three of Chance's listeners stared at him in silence.

He could plainly hear the chorus of unspoken comment: Having nightmares again, are we? It was the captain who offered the first spoken observation. Not the way you're telling it. Bird's not going to be able to pick up a human being, even a small child, and carry him home like a rabbit.

Chance didn't know the precise nature of the catastrophe, and had no particular desire to find out. Horkos still tended to slide into an easy informality with people who were nominally well above his current rank, as for example young Chance Rolfson, who was not only a member of an ancient and illustrious family, but the lineal descendant of Rolf himself. That was quite all right with Chance, who did not care much for formality under any conditions; and ceremony of any kind seemed definitely out of place while camping in the wilderness.

He was shaking his head before the captain was halfway through with his objection. At the same time, Chance was insisting stubbornly, in his own mind: Someone, or something as heavy as a man, was really up there. There would be no use in trying to argue the point. And I don't suppose the. But something besides the owl was up there. Judging from the expressions on the faces of his audience, he was perfectly sure that none of them believed him. The enchantress, Ayaba, remaining properly formal, rejoined them inside the wagon carrying the net, which she had just picked up outside.

But in the passing years only a few remain that actually believe these legends as truths. Chance Rolfson comes from a long line of Ardneh's followers, descendants from Rolf, the illustrious warrior who fought in Ardneh's name for humanity many years ago. A young man plagued with vivid nightmares, Chance hopes to clear his head by joining a forest expedition that seeks physical proof of Ardneh's existence.

Their goal is to discover the great vault prophesized to hold the savior of humanity's secrets to his own power and wisdom. But the dangers are high in the uncharted forests, rife with bandits and demons that no magic can stop.

And as Chance's dreams become more clear, he soon realizes these are not merely dreams but visions, and he alone holds the key to unlocking Ardneh's greatest gift, known to the followers as Ardneh's Sword. As a transition sequel between a great series and a mostly dull one, this is very much on the dull side. Characters who seem thrown together, no sense of connection, nope, not even a Drafut cameo can bring this one up to average.

As the cover blurb indicates, this is a sequel to Empire of the East, not a 'swords' book, as the title would indicate. To me this was very much a bridge book between the two series, explaining some One of the last things Saberhagen wrote, this book answers some of the questions overhanging from Empire of the East and the Swords universe: 1 Where did the gods come from in the intervening Smartphones and tablets.

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