Many Paths

by Pati Nagle

  Velashi’s khi distracted him. Blinking, he brought his attention back to her, saw worry in her face.

  “I . . .”

  His gaze fell on his longknives. Two blades—no, three. Would it be enough? He hastened to where they lay and picked the knives up, then pulled the unfinished blade free of the club. Holding all three awkwardly in one hand, he tested their weight, thinking.

  He needed something more. He looked at the rocks in the chamber—all heavy, hard, basalt—yes, he could use the large one that had cleaved as an anvil, he thought. But no ore—and no time to smelt it even if he could find it.

  His glance fell upon the cup Jhirinan had made. He strode to it and caught it up.

  Plate metal, softer than knife metal. It would add flexibility, which would be needed in a longer blade if it were not to snap at pressure.

  He turned to Velashi. “I need this. May I have it?”

  “If you wish it, of course.” She looked confused, and worried yet.

  He glanced again at the fallen boulder. An anvil was little use without a forge. He had none, nor could he go out to gather fuel.

  The gap from which the boulder had cleaved yawned behind it. Breathing fire khi.

  Oh. I see.

  His heart seemed to turn within him. He was afraid at the thought of wrestling with the khi of a mountain. He had no choice, though. The vision of the new blade grew clearer in his mind moment by moment.

  He turned to Velashi. “I am going to try something. It may win us free.”

  She looked troubled, but nodded. “Can I help?”

  He started to shake his head, then thought of something. “Yes. Gather sand and bring it here. Do not try to leave the caves—kobalen are outside.”

  “There is sand in the passages, and in that first chamber.”

  He nodded. “Be careful. Here, take this with you. I will not need it for a little while yet.” He handed her one of the longknives.

  “Ghaláran—”

  He met her gaze, saw the deep concern in her eyes, and smiled. “Do not fear.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “To ply my craft.”

  Still smiling, he stepped back and retrieved the darkwood club. He would begin by making a hilt—usually the last step, but he needed a blade to shape the wood, and the longknives would go into the new blade. He sat down and began to cut away a long section from the narrow end of the club.

  Velashi left, taking along her cloak which she shook free of the jumbled clothing. Ghaláran worked at the darkwood, pausing now and then to sharpen his knife, for darkwood was notoriously hard and difficult to work, though it cleaved well.

  When Velashi had been gone some while he stopped working and sought for her khi. He found it far away, in the largest chamber. She would be safe enough there, he hoped, if he bungled and caused a disaster. If not safe there, then not anywhere. Setting down knife and wood, he stood and faced the gap in the cave wall.

  Father of Mountains, I ask your aid. If I am to do this, I will need it.

  The mountain made no answer, nor did he expect any. The fire khi that seemed now to burn in his very veins was steady, though it felt brighter when he turned his thought to it.

  He stepped toward the gap, standing at the wall and reaching his hand into it. Khi prickled along his arm. He withdrew it and closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts on the khi, on the river of fire below.

  Slowly, cautiously, he drew a tiny fraction of that khi upward, into the gap. He feared more would try to follow, that a violent burst would result, but after a few moments it felt stable enough. Keeping a thread of his awareness there to control it, he opened his eyes.

  The gap seemed no different, but he felt heat on his face. Cautiously extending a hand again, he felt it there as well. He retrieved the unfinished knife and laid it inside the gap, then carefully drew more khi into the makeshift forge. A few moments later he smelled the metal heating.

  Enough. He closed off the flow of khi, watching until he was certain it was stable, and used his tongs to move the knife to the flat boulder.

  A first success; he had managed to avoid waking the volcano. Pleased that he had not destroyed the mountain, and thereby himself and Velashi, he returned to making the hilt.

  It was larger than a knife hilt, long enough for both hands if need be, and quite plain. Straight darkwood, smoothed as best he could manage with only his knife. It need not be beautiful, it need only be comfortable. He heard Jhirinan’s chiding, and ignored it. He must work quickly; no time for embellishments.

  Velashi returned with her cloak bulging with sand. Ghaláran stood up and walked to the center of the chamber, where a small amount of sand had already gathered in the lowest spot.

  “Put it here.”

  She dumped the sand in a heap at his feet, shaking the last of it from the cloak. “Do you need more than that?”

  He crouched to smooth the sand into a long, narrow bed. “Yes, three or four times as much, if you can find it.”

  “Very well.”

  She left with the cloak over her arm. Ghaláran returned to the hilt, and soon had it shaped to his satisfaction. Two halves, with a channel for the tang. He would bind them together with the leather thong. It was the best he could do with the tools at hand.

  He turned his thoughts to a guard, and decided to combine the two longknife guards into one. Likewise the pommels—small and utilitarian. That must wait until he had the other knife back from Velashi.

  He had finished the hilt by the time she returned with a second cloakful of sand. Smiling his approval, he waited for her to leave again, then took up his hammer and Jhirinan’s cup.

  “Forgive me, my friend. Your beautiful work must serve another end.”

  He flattened the cup with a blow, then hammered it out long and thin, using his tongs to heat it slightly in the forge. He caught a whisper of Jhirinan’s khi as the metal heated. All artisans imparted a little of themselves into their work.

  When Velashi returned he joined her by the growing bed of sand. He nodded approval as he smoothed it out long, longer than his arm. A tingle of excitement went through him at the thought of a blade so long.

  “Yes, this is good. More, if you can.”

  “I can.”

  He stood. “Do you need the knife?”

  Velashi shook her head. “I have seen no sign of kobalen, though you are right, they are waiting outside.”

  “I will take the blade, then, if you feel safe without it.”

  She handed him the longknife. “What are you making?”

  “Something new. I have no name for it.”

  “A knife?”

  “A blade. Longer than a longknife.”

  She looked at the knife in his hand, frowning, as if she could not picture a longer. He held up the knife and held his other hand beyond it, where he envisioned the point of the new blade would extend. Velashi’s eyes widened.

  “How will you wield it?”

  “If I balance it well, it will take little more strength than a longknife.”

  She shook her head slightly, marveling. “I wish you success.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced up and smiled to reassure her. “Spirits watch over you.”

  “And you.”

  She turned to go, catching up her cloak again. He watched her out, then collected the other two blades and carried all to the anvil rock. He struck off the pommels and removed the hilts and guards, setting all aside but the bare knife blades. He took up the unfinished knife, still stained with Milari’s blood, and turned it in his hand.

  He would not clean away the blood. Milari had a stake in this new work. This blade would include the memories of his closest friends. Though the Creed forbade vengeance, this blade would carry their khi. They would be remembered when he raised it.

  He closed his eyes briefly and swallowed the tightening in his throat. No time for grieving. He had work before him.

  He laid the three blades down together: his own longknife, Jhiri
nan’s, and the unfinished blade that he had come to think of as Milari’s. He readied his hammer and tongs, then turned to the khi-laden gap that was to be his forge and closed his eyes. Now was the true test, for to meld the blades together needed high heat.

  He reached down to the river of fire and drew khi upward from it, more khi this time, hotter. Opening his eyes, he saw the rock inside the gap glowing red. A moment’s fear gripped him, then he focused his attention to steady the heat.

  Not so hot that the rocks would melt. Just hot enough for the smithing. He remembered his own forge at home in Highglen, the heat on his face, the smell of fire in the air. From such signs he could tell if the heat in the forge was correct.

  Steady. Steady.

  Controlling the flow of fire khi with one part of his awareness, he picked up the three blades and moved them into the forge. A swirl of khi arose from them—Jhirinan’s, Milari’s, his own—and became a part of the fire khi glowing in the hollow.

  He heated the blades, then withdrew them to the anvil and took up his hammer. Working swiftly, he braided the three together. He had to reheat them twice, and by the time he had finished, his body was sheened with sweat.

  Leaving the metal to cool, he went out and plunged himself into the river, then sat on the bank until his heartbeat slowed to normal. Returning to the chamber he saw Velashi had been and gone at least once; the bed of sand was larger. He had not even noticed her presence.

  He went to the forge, heating the braided blades and hammering the piece out long. He returned it to the forge, worked it again and again, binding the three blades into one new piece. When he was satisfied, he hammered the metal wider, then set it aside while he took up the metal from Jhirinan’s cup. This would be the heart of the new blade; the softer metal would lend it flexibility, keep the harder exterior from shattering.

  His focus narrowed to his work. All else faded. Now and then he was dimly aware of movement in the cave; the khi was Velashi’s

  He folded the braided metal in half lengthwise, leaving a small space all along its length. The softer metal he hammered into a wedge, then fitted it inside the blade.

  He poured his own khi into the metal as he worked it. His thoughts were of sharpness, of strength, of potency.

  The fire khi flowed into the metal as well, for he could not entirely separate it from his own. The piece stayed hot longer on the anvil. He wondered if he need not move it into the forge at all, but he did so, because that was the way that he knew.

  The blade, when cool, began to take on an uncommon hue. The fire khi was bringing new qualities into it, not entirely in his control or understanding. He hoped they would be beneficial.

  When he judged the metal well blended, he set it on the anvil rock. Focusing his khi upon it, he passed his thought into the metal. Heat filled his awareness, and in that place he swept khi through the metal and smoothed the grain.

  This was how the mages laid in blessings, at the tiniest level of the grain of things. This was how extraordinary strength was built. He added his hopes for strength and sharpness, flexibility, durability. He prayed that this weapon would win through where others had failed.

  At length he opened his eyes. The metal no longer glowed.

  There was one more step. Glancing up, he saw Velashi sitting against the chamber wall, watching him.

  “Stay away from the door.”

  She nodded, and he picked up his tongs. Once more, he carried the blade to the forge.

  Summoning all his knowledge, he followed the blade into the fire with khi. He could feel as well as smell the metal heating. He turned it, turned it again. As it began to glow with a fire that echoed the mountain’s heart, he focused all his will on controlling the heat, on sensing the exact moment when the metals bound perfectly and the blade was complete.

  When that moment came, he tightened his grip on the tongs and lifted the blade. Khi raced up his arms, startling him. He moved, for he dared not wait, turning and hurrying out of the cave, holding the glowing blade before him.

  He knelt beside the river and plunged the blade into the water. Steam rose spitting; he leaned back to avoid being scalded, keeping control of the fire khi. Through clouds of steam he watched as the blade curved backward, the softer metal contracting, the whole becoming a graceful arc.

  Not too cold; he withdrew the blade from the water and returned to the cave, then realized he needed help.

  “Velashi, form the sand into a curve. Hurry!”

  The bed of sand he had so carefully shaped was long and straight. Velashi hastened to it and scooped one end with her arm, matching its curve to the blade.

  “Good. Step back now.”

  He lowered the blade onto the sand and released the tongs. His fingers cramped from clasping them so intently and he dropped them.

  Fingers curled and useless, he clumsily scooped sand over the blade. Velashi saw what he was doing and moved to help. She swiftly covered the metal with sand, then turned to Ghaláran and took his hands between hers.

  As she held them, moving gently back and forth, warmth poured into them; a softer, quieter warmth than the fire khi. He sighed as his cramped fingers relaxed.

  “Thank you.” Smiling wearily, he pulled his hands from hers and picked up his tongs.

  His throat was dry, and his stitched shoulder wound ached. So did every muscle in his arms. Velashi brought him her waterskin and he drank deep.

  “You look exhausted. Can you rest a while?”

  “Yes. A long rest.”

  “I have washed and mended your other clothes, if you wish to change.”

  He followed her gesture and looked with surprise at the folded tunic and legs beside the wall. “You need not have done that!”

  “It gave me occupation.”

  He met her gaze and matched her small smile. “I take this to mean you believe I could stand to bathe.”

  She did not answer, but a merry smile danced in her eyes.

  Now aware of it, he realized he stank. Hauling himself wearily to his feet, he went out to the river and stepped in, clothes and all, not caring about the cold. He immersed himself, splashing icy water on his face, drinking more. When he could no longer stand the cold he emerged and stripped off his wet clothing.

  How many days had he been at work on the blade? No way of knowing, here in the heart of the mountain.

  Velashi met him with a clean cloth to dry his hair. He accepted it and smiled his thanks. She left his fresh clothing within reach, then returned to the fire chamber. He dressed and rejoined her.

  He felt satisfied, though the blade was not yet finished. Next he would sharpen it, and he had still to make the guard and pommel. Much yet to do.

  He looked at the sand-covered blade, then at Velashi.

  “You are very patient.”

  “I only wish I could be more help.”

  “Perhaps you can. I will need to bind the hilt to the blade, and I have only that one length of leather thong. You do not have any leather, I suppose?”

  “No, but I have this.”

  She reached into her satchel and withdrew the yarn she had saved from her burning house. A soft handful, a pale cloud. Pale green, he remembered, though the cave’s darkness robbed it of color. She held it out to him.

  “But that is yours, for your craft.”

  “I can get more if we reach our people again. If not—” She shrugged. “—I will not need it.”

  He took the yarn and pulled out a handspan, testing its strength. Wool, stronger than it looked. There was khi in it.

  “You spun this.”

  “I did.”

  “Your work is better than I realized.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “I thought of plaiting a length of it to use as a snare, assuming we get out of here.”

  “A good thought.”

  “How long should it be?”

  “Two armspans would be best, if there is enough.”

  “Take what you need, and I will work with the rest.”
<
br />   He wound the yarn around his palm until he was certain he had enough for the hilt, then realized he had nothing to cut it with. Velashi produced her shears and snipped the thread.

  He set it aside and leaned his head back to rest. His stomach growled, complaining of the cold water, or perhaps of being empty.

  Velashi brought out a small pouch of stonefruits and silently fed them to him, taking one for each he ate. His hunger woke to raging, and he knew without her saying so that this was the last of their food. She had waited, no doubt hungry herself, to share it with him.

  This must work.

  The blade must win them free, or they were lost. How many kobalen could he hope to slay with it? How many waited at the cave’s mouth?

  She offered him another fruit. He shook his head.

  “That one is yours.”

  “It is the last. Take it. You are working harder than I.”

  He accepted the gift, gravely nodding his thanks. Chewing slowly, he savored the fruit, grateful for its sustenance.

  Velashi cast a glance toward the forge. “You are right, that place is not restful.”

  He smiled. “It is a marvel. Thank you for finding it.”

  “It is changing you.”

  He blinked, surprised at the remark, then smiled. “You have not seen me at work before.”

  “True.”

  He leaned against the wall to rest. Velashi demanded no conversation, seeming lost in her own thoughts. He thought of Highglen and of the paths he knew on the mountain that had been home, wondering if he would ever walk there again.

  At length he judged the blade would be cool enough. His muscles had stiffened with inactivity, and protested as he rose to his feet. Velashi watched in silence as he returned to the fire chamber.

  Warmth closed around him, a familiar embrace. He welcomed it, sighing as he willed tired muscles to relax.

  The bed of sand no longer wavered with heat. He held a hand over it and felt a tingle, but of khi, not heat. He brushed sand away from the tang, again holding his hand near before cautiously touching it. It felt no warmer than the air.

  Taking hold of the tang with his bare hand for the first time, he felt a shimmer of khi that struck down to his gut. No knife he had ever held had felt like this, even the knife from Glenhallow. This was more than a knife.