by Pati Nagle
He lifted it free of the sand. Though there was no light in the cave, the blade seemed to glow with a sheen of its own. He gazed at it, a little in awe, and tested its weight in his hand.
Heavy, but he would grow accustomed. He gripped the tang with both hands and raised it, then swept the blade downward. It made a sound like none he had heard before.
He raised it again, this time picturing a kobalen before him. With the weight of both his arms he struck through the imagined foe, and the blade sang its note again, louder. He tried to imitate the sound.
“Sword.”
It was fitting. He took his file and whetstone to the blade, laying an edge to its outward curve. Fire khi tingled in his arms and he let it flow through him, a bright spark to heighten the sharpness of the blade.
He fashioned a new guard and pommel from those left of the knives. Had he anything to carve with, he would have adorned them with vines in Jhirinan’s memory. He contemplated the vines as he worked, picturing how they would look. When he was back among the ælven, he would refashion the guard with such vines. His throat tightened as he thought of it, and he hammered the metal as a cure.
At last he was ready to mount the hilt. Remembering that he had left the yarn out by the river, he returned there for it.
“I need that yarn.”
“Here it is.”
She handed him the small skein he had wound. Beside her on the cave floor lay a braided strand of the same yarn. Her snare.
“That looks well.”
She smiled. “We shall see.”
She trusted she would have the chance to use it. He hoped she was right.
He thought of setting the hilt out here, where she could see him work, but the fire khi of the chamber called him back. He would need it in any case, to set the pommel. He paused to look at Velashi.
“Would you care to come and watch? It is nearly finished.”
She glanced toward the chamber and seemed to hesitate, then stood up. “All right.”
She followed him back into the warmth, and he showed her the sword. He slid the guard over the tang, then fitted the hilts together over it. Velashi offered to hold them while he wound the yarn about them. He twined it crisscross over the darkwood, binding all tightly together. At last he fixed the pommel to the end of the tang. He set the sword aside, turned to check the forge, and froze in fear.
A deep pressure had built, the flow that he had summoned and then narrowed had formed a mass of heat. Fighting panic, he closed his eyes and found its limits. It was khi, fire khi, not actual fire but if left to build it might melt the rock of the chamber where he stood.
He could not let that happen. He reached out with his own khi and surrounded the pocket of fire khi, seeking to redirect it. He could find no crack, no well into which he might send it.
“Ghaláran?”
Velashi’s voice sounded far away. His throat was dry, but he forced out an answer.
“Go. Run.” It was no more than a hoarse, cracked whisper.
He heard Velashi’s steps hasten away. To the river, which might protect her. If the fire escaped him, she might swim for safety. Better to drown than be burned alive.
Should he send the khi into the river? Too great a contrast, too much heat and cold together. It might shatter the mountain. In any case, Velashi had gone that way.
No, that was not the way.
He picked up the sword, unwilling to admit defeat after all his long labors. With both hands on the hilt, he raised the blade aloft.
Let the might of fire be the life of this blade.
He focused the khi, drawing it into the blade, feeling it pour through his arms. Fire that did not burn, fire on a spirit level. Fire in its essence. The blade drank it, absorbed it, and held true.
Ghaláran became aware of a dripping sound. Not the river; too near. His own sweat, pouring off him.
He opened his eyes, glancing around the fire chamber as if seeing it anew. No glow from the rocks. No mighty pressure of khi remaining. He had closed off the flow altogether, and it had fallen back to the river of fire below. Looking at the sword, he half expected it to be white hot, but the metal was perfectly cool.
His breath rasped in his throat. His muscles felt liquid, as if they might fail him at any moment. He slowly lowered the sword, then turned and carried it out of the chamber, to the river.
The cold air was a blessing, a caress. He laid the sword down and stepped into the river, kneeling, then submerging himself wholly in it, clinging to the rocks to keep from being carried away by the current. When he needed air he raised his head, and bethought him of Velashi.
He sat up. She was not here, though her satchel lay beside the passage to the fire chamber.
“Velashi?”
He sought her khi, but could not sense past the water that surrounded him. He got out of the river, stood dripping beside it and sought again for Velashi. Across the water, back to the largest chamber, he traced her khi, then found it crossed with a darker, heavier khi.
He drew a hissing breath. Kobalen.
He caught up the sword and crossed the river. Carrying the blade at his hip, he hastened through the passages, not daring to call out lest he alert the kobalen to his presence.
When he neared the large chamber he slowed to a walk, and searched for Velashi’s khi. He located her partway down one of the other side passages, her khi rippling with fear. Between them, the khi and the smell of Kobalen filled the large chamber.
Ghaláran paused just behind a bend in the passage, to take account of the kobalen. He numbered them at ten, clustered together, slowly moving along the chamber’s wall.
A flickering glow lit the wall of the passage ahead of Ghaláran. They had brought fire into the caves, torches to help them see. They were hunting. If they sought down the side passages, they would find Velashi.
Ghaláran shifted his grip on the sword’s hilt. With a hope that spirits would watch over him, he stepped forward.
The kobalen did not see him at first. Their stench was strong in the closed space of the caves, even in this large chamber.
He stood blinking at the brightness of their torches, waiting precious moments for his eyes to adjust after days in darkness. It amazed him that the kobalen did not notice him. He glanced down at the sword and drew an involuntary breath.
The blade was golden in hue, gleaming with khi, glinting sharp although he had not had opportunity to polish it. Perhaps his intentions had been carried out by the fire khi he had channeled into it. He looked closer and caught his breath as he saw vines running the length of the blade, twining the guard and the pommel.
The green yarn had fused into the darkwood hilt, becoming one with it. The hilt was as solid as a single piece of wood.
He looked up at the kobalen. They were nearing the passage where Velashi hid. Heart pounding, he raised the sword and advanced.
Three of them held torches. He went for the foremost, breaking into a run before they could notice him. He swung the sword and took off the torch-bearer’s arm.
Immediate chaos followed. In the hubbub of outraged kobalen voices, Ghaláran moved forward, felling those who stood in his way, knocking aside spears and clubs, cleaving flesh with fearsome blows. A wild thrill filled him as he realized the power of this new weapon.
A kobalen thrust a spear toward him, but his reach was longer. He knocked the spear from its hands and took off its head.
The last four kobalen fell back, then turned and fled down the passage to the cave’s entrance. Two torches guttered on the cave floor. Ghaláran gave the mercy stroke to those that were not yet dead, then stepped to where Velashi hid.
“Are you all right?”
She came out, frowning in fear though she nodded. She gazed in horror at the sword, the bodies.
“Fetch your things. I must go after them.”
She nodded again and hastened away toward the river. Ghaláran drew a deep breath, then started after the kobalen.
He could hear them s
houting as he neared the cave’s entrance. Bright light made him squint; it was daylight outside. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust, then stepped to the cave’s mouth.
Kobalen were camped around the pool, which they had fouled with their filth, though they had taken the bodies from the previous fight away. Those who had just left the cave were giving excited account to the rest. Ghaláran took advantage of their distraction and strode into the pool. He was halfway across before they noticed.
The kobalen scrambled for weapons. Ghaláran slogged out of the pool and struck at the nearest. He spared no thought to how many opposed him. He attended to each danger as it came. The sword rose and fell, swept and stabbed, dealing death. It felt a part of him.
Darts began flying, but wildly. One struck a kobalen raising a club, making it cry out. Ghaláran cut off the hand that held the club, and the kobalen fell backward down the bluff.
Suddenly there were no more enemies before him. He blinked, realizing that the few remaining kobalen had fled, scrambling down the steep bluff. Once again to bring others, no doubt, but this time it did not matter. He and Velashi would leave, and if they were pursued, he was ready.
He turned toward the cave’s mouth and saw Velashi standing there, her arms full of their extra clothing, her satchel over one shoulder, bulging with Ghaláran’s tools. She squinted against the bright daylight, peering doubtfully at the pool.
Ghaláran made his way to her and took the satchel, then offered a hand to help her step down. “Come. Pay no heed to these, they are all dead or dying. We must go before more arrive.”
She stepped into water with a visible shiver, then crossed the pool with him, ignoring the carnage they passed. Ghaláran lowered the sword into the water to rinse away the worst of the gore, though the blade was by no means clean thereafter. He pitied any creature that might feel its bite before he had the chance to cleanse it.
They descended the bluff, then struck south across the upper valley, leaving Midrange Peak behind. Ghaláran kept a thread of awareness behind him, alert for any sign of the kobalen’s return.
They stopped at the first stream they reached, to wash away the filth of the pool and to drink. Velashi brought out her waterskin and filled it.
“We should bathe and change our clothes. These are foul.”
“We cannot camp here. It is too close.”
“I know, but we can stop a little while. You look weary.”
“Do I?”
He did not feel weary. He felt glad to be out of the caves, glad to have won free.
They were yet farm from rejoining their people, but he knew now that they would succeed. With the sword, he could get them past any group of kobalen they were likely to encounter.
They bathed, and when Velashi handed him his clean clothes he saw that she had embroidered the cuffs and the neckline with vines. Vines in silver and gold thread. The precious tokens she had rescued from the ruin of her home.
He traced a fingertip along the vines, his throat tightening. “Why did you do this?”
She settled her own tunic on her shoulders and stepped near. “I was afraid, and it gave me something to distract me. I thought perhaps I would have no other chance to use the thread, and did not want it to go to waste.”
He gazed at her, seeing the fear that lingered yet in her eyes, behind determination. On impulse he drew her to him and kissed her.
“Thank you. I could not have succeeded without your help.”
She blushed, glancing away though she smiled. Ghaláran shook out his clothes and put them on.
He turned to where the sword lay, and took it up to clean it more thoroughly in the fresh stream. He carefully scrubbed the blade, guard and hilt, then used a cloth to dry it, admiring the vines that adorned it now that he had leisure. The blade gleamed golden in the sunshine, the vines seeming almost to tremble in the breeze.
Velashi bent closer to peer at it. “It is beautiful.”
“It is terrible.”
“But needful.”
He met her gaze, then looked past her to Midrange Peak, a cold white crest towering above the heart of fire. He would return there—to the fire chamber that had changed him, that had helped him make this weapon. Though terrible, he knew it would be a boon to his people, and he knew he would need to make more.
“What are you thinking?”
He looked at her again and smiled. “I am thinking I have much yet to do in this life. Thank you for helping me find my path.”
A Midsummer’s Song
Kimri left her house before sunrise, her lute beneath her arm as she walked to Seaknoll’s public circle. The sky beyond the ocean glowed with the coming dawn, hazed only by the lightest fog on this Midsummer morning.
She had always loved Midsummer best of all the year, but a twinge of sadness lay in her heart now, for Novhan was not here to share it with her. He had gone to Hollirued many days since to witness the Ælven Council, and had not yet returned.
Swallowing the tightness that rose in her throat, she lengthened her stride. She would not let his absence diminish her pleasure in the holiday.
The public circle was bedecked with flowers—lilies, lavender, and garlands of sweet-scented honeycup—trembling in a light breeze off the sea. Many of the townsfolk had already gathered for the dawn ceremony, and a hush of excitement ran through the waiting crowd. This year, Theyn Reshali had promised a prize to the winner of a challenge to be held between sunrise and sunset. She had not stated the requirements, but that had not stopped Kimri and everyone else in Seaknoll from trying to anticipate them.
Kimri had practiced all her best songs the previous day. The most popular ballads, of course, but she had also dug through her vast collection of scrolls, bound ledgers, and odd scraps of parchment with lyrics jotted thereon, searching for lesser known songs that were appropriate to the day.
Midsummer was a time of celebrating the earth’s generosity, of giving thanks for life’s richness and asking for a bountiful harvest. It was a time to celebrate love, a day on which couples often chose to formally bond. Kimri and Novhan had sworn a cup-bond at Midsummer a year ago.
She swallowed. A cup-bond ended after a year and a day. She had assumed, since they had been happy together, that she and Novhan would renew their bond this Midsummer. He had said he would return before now.
Friends greeted Kimri as she reached the circle, a welcome distraction. She smiled and gave back their good wishes, holding her lute close so that she would not bump it against others. It was her best lute, one that had taken her nearly a season to make.
“Kimri, are you going to win the prize?”
Looking up, she saw the laughing smile of Mihali, keeper of Seaknoll’s public lodge, where she often played and sang of an evening. She grinned back.
“I intend to!”
“What if it is a test of strength? Then Barinan will surely win it!”
Barinan, easily the tallest male in the town, with arms and legs honed from hauling fishing nets, answered with a good-natured smile. “Mayhap, but not if it is a test of wits.”
“The theyn comes.”
Kimri and the others turned toward the theyn’s house, at the western edge of the circle. Reshali had emerged, dressed in robes of Clan Ælvanen’s white and gold, her black hair bound by a narrow circlet of bronze, her theyn’s staff in hand. Conversation fell away as she walked to the circle’s center.
Reshali swept the circle with her gaze, taking in all of Seaknoll’s folk. She smiled, and as the sun’s first rays edged over the horizon, she raised her staff.
“Welcome, gentles, to the celebration of Midsummer! This day is the longest of all the year. We rejoice in the bounty of the earth and the promise of a generous harvest. Join with me in greeting the ældar on this joyous day!”
Reshali walked to the eastern extreme of the circle. Kimri and the other townsfolk followed, gathering behind her and turning their faces to the rising sun.
“Greetings, ældar guardians of the
East, spirits of the air. Thank you for your presence here with us on this blessed day.”
Kimri felt the khi within the circle, the khi of all Seaknoll’s folk, intensify subtly with this invocation. In turn, Reshali greeted the guardians of the south, west, and north, walking the outer edge of the circle to each point. With each greeting, the circle’s khi rose higher. Reshali closed the circle, then returned to its center and smote her staff against the ground.
“Thus do we begin the celebration of Midsummer. According to custom, the time between sunrise and sunset is to be given fully to the celebration of this day. Here at the height of the year, we look back with thanks for all the blessings the year has brought us so far. We look forward, aware of the return of darkness, for from now til Midwinter the days will grow shorter. We humbly give thanks for the gifts of the season and the fruits of the harvest to come.”
She glanced at Kimri, who nodded and raised her voice, leading the Sun Song. The townsfolk joined in, and on the last stave Kimri leapt above them, weaving a harmony that shimmered in the morning air, then rejoined the melody at finish. The song’s final note hung on the gentle breeze. When it faded, Reshali spoke again.
“This Midsummer I have pledged a prize to the winner of a special challenge. Here are the terms: each of you who accepts the challenge must create a new work, one you have not previously contemplated, by sundown today. It may be a work of art, craft, or skill, but it must be appropriate to Midsummer’s Day. Those citizens of Seaknoll who do not compete shall choose the winner at sundown.”
Kimri blinked, her pulse quickening with alarm. She had not expected these terms. To compete, she must compose a new song by sunset. She could do so; of course she could. She was a bard. Writing songs was her life’s work. She had improvised songs time and again in front of a room full of people at the lodge, thrilling in the joy of spontaneous composition. Yet now her heart hesitated.
“The winner of this Midsummer challenge shall receive the length of darkwood that rests beside my door.”