Merlin's Booke

by Jane Yolen

  “You will when I tell you.”

  “You are wonderful,” Elaine said, proclaiming fealty. “You have been the one to take me in, to talk to me, to listen. The others are all common mouths chattering, empty heads like wooden whistles blowing common tunes.” That was one of Nanny Bess’ favorite sayings. “Nothing would make me think you false. Not now, not ever.”

  Veree’s head turned back to the window again and the twin points of light were eclipsed. She spoke toward the river and the wind carried her soft words away. Elaine had to strain to hear them.

  “Our steel is forged of three of the four elements—fire and water and air.”

  “I know that.”

  “But the fourth thing that makes Evian steel, what makes it strike true, is a secret learned by Mother Morgan from a necromancer in the East where magic rides the winds and every breath is full of spirits.”

  “And what is the fourth thing?” whispered Elaine, though she feared she already knew.

  Veree hesitated, then spoke. “Blood. The blood of a virgin girl, an unblemished child, or a childless old maid. Blood drawn from her arm where the vein runs into the heart. The left arm. Here.” And the shadow held out its shadowy arm, thrusting it half out of the window.

  Elaine shivered with more than the cold.

  “And when the steel has been worked and pounded and beaten and shaped and heated, again and again, it is thrust into a silver vat that contains pure water from our well mixed through with the blood.”

  “Oh.” Elaine sighed.

  “And the words from the Book of Brightness are spoken over it by the mothers in the circle of nine. The sword is pulled from its bloody bath. Then the girl, holding up the sword, with the water flooding down her arm, marches into the Tamor, into the tidal pool that sits in the shadow of the high tor. She must go under the water with the sword, counting to nine times nine. Then thrusting the sword up and out of the water before her, she follows it into the light. Only then is the forging done.”

  “Perhaps taking the blood will not hurt, Veree. Or only a little. The mothers are gentle. I burned myself the third day here, and Mother Sonda soothed it with a honey balm and not a scar to show for it.”

  Veree turned back to the window. “It must be done by the girl all alone at the rising of the moon. Out in the glade. Into the silver cup. And how can I, little Pie, how can I prick my own arm with a knife, I who cannot bear to see myself bleed. Not since I was a small child, could I bear it without fainting. Oh, I can kill spiders, and stomp on serpents. I am not afraid of binding up another’s wounds. But my own blood … if I had known … if my father had known … I never would have come.”

  Into the silence that followed her anguished speech, came the ascending cry of another owl, which ended in a shriek as the bird found its prey. The cry seemed to agitate the two sleepers in their beds and they stirred noisily. Veree and Elaine stood frozen for the moment, and even after were tentative with their voices.

  “Could you …” Elaine began.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you use an animal’s blood instead?”

  “Then the magic would not work and everyone would know.”

  Elaine let out a long breath. “Then I shall go out in your place. We shall use my blood and you will not have to watch.” She spoke quite assuredly, though her heart beat wildly at her own suggestion.

  Veree hugged her fiercely. “What can you think of me that you would believe I would let you offer yourself in my place, little one. But I shall love you forever just for making the suggestion.”

  Elaine did not quite understand why she should feel so relieved, but she smiled into the darkness. Then she yawned loudly.

  “What am I thinking of?” Veree chastised herself. “You should be sleeping, little one, not staying up with me. But be relieved. You have comforted me. I think …” she hesitated for a little, then finished gaily, “I think I shall manage it all quite nicely now.”

  “Really?” asked Elaine.

  “Really,” said Veree. “Trust me.”

  “I do. Oh, I do,” said Elaine and let herself be led back to bed where she fell asleep at once and dreamed of an angel with long dark braids in a white shift who sang, “verily, verily,” to her and drew a blood-red crux on her forehead and breast and placed her, ever smiling, in a beautiful silk-lined barge.

  If there was further weeping that night, Elaine did not wake to it, nor did she speak of it in the morn.

  The morn was the first day of Veree’s steel and the little isle buzzed with the news. The nine Mothers left the usual chores to the lesser women and the girls, marching in a solemn line to the forge where they made a great circle around the fire.

  In due time Veree, dressed in a white robe with the hood obscuring her face, was escorted by two guides, Mothers who had been chosen by lot. They walked along the Path of Steel, the winding walkway to the smithy that was lined with water-smoothed stones.

  As she walked, Veree was unaware of the cacophony of birds that greeted her from the budding apple boughs. She never noticed a flock of finches that rose up before her in a cloud of yellow wings. Instead her head was full of the chant of the sword.

  Water to cool it,

  Forge to heat it,

  Anvil to form it,

  Hammer to beat it.

  She thought carefully of the points of the sword: hilt and blade, forte and foible, pommel and edge, quillon and grip. She rehearsed her actions. She thought of everything but the blood.

  Then the door in front of her opened, and she disappeared inside. The girls who had watched like little birds behind the trees sighed as one.

  “It will be your turn next full moon,” whispered Marta to Gale. Gale smiled crookedly. The five girls from the other sleeping room added their silent opinions with fingers working small fantasies into the air. Long after the other girls slipped back to their housely duties, Elaine remained, rooted in place. She watched the forge and could only guess at the smoky signals that emerged from the chimney on the roof.

  Water to cool it,

  Forge to heat it,

  Anvil to form it,

  Hammer to beat it.

  The mothers chanted in perfect unity, their hands clasped precisely over the aprons of their robes. When the chant was done, Mother Argente stepped forward and gently pushed Veree’s hood back.

  Released from its binding, Veree’s hair sprang forward like tiny black arrows from many bowstrings, the dark points haloing her face.

  She really is a magnificent child, Argente thought to herself, but aloud spoke coldly. “My daughter,” she said, “the metal thanks us for its beating by becoming stronger. So by our own tempering we become women of steel. Will you become one of us?”

  “Mother,” came Veree’s soft answer, “I will.”

  “Then you must forge well. You must pour your sweat and your blood into this sword that all who see it and any who use it shall know it is of excellent caliber, that it is of Evian Steel.”

  “Mother, I will.”

  The Mothers stood back then and only Hesta came forward. She helped Veree remove her robe and the girl stood stiffly in her new forging suit of tunic and trews. Hesta bound her hair back into a single braid, tying it with a golden twine so tightly that it brought tears to the girl’s eyes. She blinked them back, making no sound.

  “Name your tools,” commanded Hesta.

  Veree began. Pointing out each where it hung on its hook on the wall, she droned: “Top swage, bottom swage, flatter, cross peen, top fuller, bottom fuller, hot chisel, mandrel …” The catalogue went on and only half her mind was occupied with the rota. This first day of the steel was child’s play, things she had memorized her first weeks on Ynis Evelonia and never forgot. They were testing the knowledge of her head. The second day they would test her hands. But the third day … she hesitated a moment, looked up, saw that Hesta’s eyes on her were glittering. For the first time she understood that the old forge mistress was hoping that she would fa
lter, fail. That startled her. It had never occurred to her that someone she had so little considered could wish her ill.

  She smiled a false smile at Hesta, took up the list, and finished it flawlessly.

  The circle of nine nodded.

  “Sing us now the color of the steel,” said Sonda.

  Veree took a breath and began. “When the steel is red as blood, the surface is at all points good; and when the steel is rosy red, the top will scale, the sword is dead; and when the steel is golden bright, the time for forging is just right; and when the steel is white as snow, the time for welding you will know.”

  The plainsong accompaniment had helped many young girls remember the colors, but Veree sang it only to please the mothers and pass their test. She had no trouble remembering when to forge and when to weld, and the rest was just for show.

  “The first day went splendidly,” remarked Sonda at the table.

  “No one ever questioned that one’s head knowledge,” groused Hesta, using her own head as a pointer toward the table where the girls sat.

  Mother Argente clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a sound she made when annoyed. The others responded to it immediately with silence, except for Mother Morgan who was so deep in conversation with a server she did not hear.

  “We will discuss this later. At the hearth,” Argente said.

  The conversation turned at once to safer topics: the price of corn, how to raise the milling fee, the prospect of another visitor from the East, the buyer of Veree’s sword.

  Morgan looked over. “It shall be the arch-mage,” she said. “He will come for the sword himself.”

  Hesta shook her head. “How do you know? How do you always know?”

  Morgan smiled, the corners of her thin upper lip curling. There was a gap between her two front teeth, carnal, inviting. “I know.”

  Sonda reached out and stroked the back of Hesta’s hand. “You know she would have you think it’s magic. But it is the calendar, Hesta. I have explained all that.”

  Hesta mumbled, pushing the lentils around in her bowl. Her own calendar was internal and had to do with forging, when the steel was ready for the next step. But if Morgan went by any calendar, it was too deep and devious for the forge mistress’ understanding. Or for any of them. Morgan always seemed to know things. Under the table, Hesta crossed her fingers, holding them against her belly as protection.

  “It shall be the arch-mage,” Morgan said, still smiling her gapped smile. “The stars have said it. The moon has said it. The winds have said it.”

  “And now you have said it, too.” Argente’s voice ended the conversation, though she wondered how many of her women were sitting with their fingers crossed surreptitiously under the table. She did not encourage them in their superstitions, but the ones who came from the outer tribes or the lower classes never really rid themselves of such beliefs. “Of course, it shall be a Druid. Someone comes once a year at this time to look over our handiwork. They rarely buy. Druids are as close with their gold as a dragon on its hoard.”

  “It shall be the arch-mage himself,” intoned Morgan. “I know.”

  Hesta shivered.

  “Yes,” Argente smiled, almost sighing. When Morgan became stubborn it was always safest to cozen her. Her pharmacopeia was not to be trusted entirely. “But gloating over such arcane knowledge does not become you, a daughter of a queen. I am sure you have more important matters to attend to. Come mothers, I have decided that tonight’s reading shall be about humility. And you, Mother Morgan, will do us all the honor of reading it.” Irony, Argente had found, was her only weapon against Morgan, who seemed entirely oblivious to it. Feeling relieved of her anger by such petty means always made Argente full of nervous energy. She stood. The others stood with her and followed her out the door.

  Elaine watched as Veree marched up to the smithy, this time with an escort of four guides. Veree was without the white robe, her forge suit unmarked by fire or smoke, her hair bound back with the golden string but not as tightly as when Hesta plaited it. Elaine had done the service for her soon after rising, gently braiding the hair and twine together so that they held but did not pull. Veree had rewarded her with a kiss on the brow.

  “This day I dedicate to thee,” Veree had whispered to her in the courtly language they had both grown up with.

  Elaine could still feel the glow of that kiss on her brow. She knew that she would love Veree forever, the sister of her heart. She was glad now, as she had never been before, that she had had only brothers and no sisters in Escalot. That way Veree could be the only one.

  The carved wooden door of the smithy closed behind Veree. The girls, giggling, went back to their chores. Only Elaine stayed, straining to hear something of the rites that would begin the second day of Veree’s Steel.

  Veree knew the way of the steel, bending the heated strips, hammering them together, recutting and rebending them repeatedly until the metal patterned. She knew the sound of the hammer on the hot blade, the smell of the glowing charcoal that made the soft metal hard. She enjoyed the hiss of the quenching, when the hot steel plunged into the water and emerged, somehow, harder still. The day’s work was always difficult but satisfying in a way that other work was not. Her hands now held a knowledge that she had not had two years before when, as a pampered young daughter of a baron, she had come to Ynis Evelonia to learn “to be a man as well as a woman” as her father had said. He believed that a woman who might some day have to rule a kingdom (oh, he had such high hopes for her), needed to know both principles, male and female. A rare man, her father. She did not love him. He was too cold and distant and cerebral for that. But she admired him. She wanted him to admire her. And—except for the blood—she was not unhappy that she had come.

  Except for the blood. If she thought about it, her hand faltered, the hammer slipped, the sparks flew about carelessly and Hesta boomed out in her forge-tending voice about the recklessness of girls. So Veree very carefully did not think about the blood. Instead she concentrated on fire and water, on earth and air. Her hands gripped her work. She became the steel.

  She did not stop until Hesta’s hand on her shoulder cautioned her.

  “It be done for the day, my daughter,” Hesta said, grudging admiration in her voice. “Now you rest. Tonight you must do the last of it alone.”

  And then the fear really hit her. Veree began to tremble.

  Hesta misread the shivering. “You be aweary with work. You be hungry. Take some watered wine for sleep’s sake. We mothers will wake you and lead you to the glade at moonrise. Come. The sword be well worked. You have reason to be proud.”

  Veree’s stomach began to ache, a terrible dull pain. She was certain that, for the first time in her life, she would fail and that her father would be hurt and the others would pity her. She expected she could stand the fear, and she would, as always, bear the dislike of her companions, but what could not be borne was their pity. When her mother had died in the bloody aftermath of an unnecessary birth, the entire court had wept and everyone had pitied her, poor little motherless six-year-old Gwyneth. But she had rejected their pity, turning it to white anger against her mother who had gone without a word. She had not accepted pity from any of those peasants then; she would not accept it now. Not even from little Pie, who fair worshiped her. Especially not from Pie.

  The moon’s cold fingers stroked Veree’s face but she did not wake. Elaine, in her silent vigil, watched from her bed. She strained to listen as well.

  The wind in the orchard rustled the blossoms with a soft soughing. Twice an owl had given its ascending hunting cry. The little popping hisses of breath from the sleeping girls punctuated the quiet in the room. And Elaine thought that she could also hear, as a dark counter to the other noises, the slapping of the Tamor against the shore, but perhaps it was only the beating of her own heart. She was not sure.

  Then she heard the footsteps coming down the hall, hauled the light covers up to her chin, and slotted her eyes.
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br />   The Nine Mothers entered the room, their white robes lending a ghostly air to the proceedings. They wore the hoods up, which obscured their faces. The robes were belted with knotted golden twine; nine knots on each cincture and the golden ornament shaped like a circle with one half filled in, the signet of Ynis Evelonia, hanging from the end.

  The Nine surrounded Veree’s bed, undid their cinctures, and lay the ropes over the girl’s body as if binding her to a bier.

  Mother Argente’s voice floated into the room. “We bind thee to the isle. We bind thee to the steel. We bind thee to thy task. Blood calls to blood, like to like. Give us thine own for the work.”

  The Nine picked up their belts and tied up their robes once again. Veree, who had awakened some time during Argente’s chant, was helped to her feet. The Mothers took off her shift and slipped a silken gown over her head. It was sleeveless and Elaine, watching, shivered for her.

  Then Mother Morgan handed her a silver cup, a little grail with the sign of the halved circle on the side. Mother Sonda handed her a silken bandage. Marie bound an illumined message to her brow with a golden headband. Mothers Bronwyn and Matilde washed her feet with lilac water, while Katwyn and Lisanor tied her hair atop her head into a plaited crown. Mother Hesta handed her a silver knife, its tip already consecrated with wine from the Goddess Arbor.

  Then Argente put her hands on Veree’s shoulders. “May She guide your hand. May She guard your blood. May the moon rise and fall on this night of your consecration. Be you steel tonight.”

  They led her to the door and pushed her out before them. She did not stumble as she left.

  Veree walked into the glade as if in a trance. She had drunk none of the wine but had spilled it below her bed knowing that the wine was drugged with one of Mother Morgan’s potions. Bram had warned her of it before leaving. Silly, whiny Bram who, nonetheless, had had an instinct for gossip and a passion for Veree. Such knowledge had been useful.

  The moon peeped in and out of the trees, casting shadows on the path, but Veree did not fear the dark. This night the dark was her friend.