The Sage (34 page)

No.
Not a goddess—an Ulin, Culaehra amended. Only an Ulin. After all, Illbane had
said so—and what mortal man could know better than Ohaern?

“I
should still like to strike you down for the blasphemy of loving an Ulin woman,
Ohaern,” the smith rumbled. He drew forth another bar of metal and inspected
its surface.

“Strike,
then.” Ohaern smiled. “Strike, if you are willing to suffer Rahani's
displeasure; strike, if you are willing to risk the certainty of never seeing
or hearing her again.”

The
smith snarled and thrust the bar into the forge.

“Strike,”
Ohaern said, in a voice lower and, in some way, almost sympathetic. “Strike, if
you dare risk the displeasure of Lomallin's ghost.”

Agrapax
stared at the dull glow of the metal. “Ghost or not, Lomallin is still mighty.”

“Ghost
or not,” Ohaern replied, “you would still rather not risk losing the liking of
one of the few Ulins who befriended you.”

Agrapax
shrugged impatiently. “Lomallin befriended everyone.”

“Even
me,” Ohaern said.

Agrapax
stood staring into the fire. At last he turned to give the sage a curt nod. “He
did, so I shall speak to you with courtesy, for you are the friend of a friend.
Tell me, then, Ohaern—why have you come here? Why have you sought me out?”

Ohaern
nodded at the biggest of his companions. “This warrior is named Culaehra. He
has taken upon himself the fulfillment of a promise made to you by another.”

The
Ulin turned his gaze directly upon Culaehra. “Taken another's risk and burden
when you did not need to? What manner of fool are you, mortal?”

At
that moment Culaehra felt very much a fool indeed. “A human fool, great
Agrapax.”

A
gleam of approval showed in the smith's eye. “He has a civil tongue, at least,
and perhaps the beginnings of wisdom. Whose promise is this you have taken up?”

“A—A
king, some weeks' journey from here,” Culaehra said. “His name is Oramore.”

“Oramore
... Oramore ...” The smith looked away, frowning and rolling the name on his
tongue. “The name has no meaning for me. Still, there are not so many humans
who seek me out, that I should have forgotten him completely. What was his
promise?”

“To
give you the first fruits of his pastures and his fields, O Wondersmith.”

“Why
would he promise me that?”

“In
repayment for invulnerable armor and magical weapons, and the wisdom to use
them well, so that he might protect his people from barbarians and bandits.”

“Ah!
The breastplate, helm, and greaves of bright bronze, alloyed with traces of
antimonium and adamant!” Agrapax nodded. “Yes, I remember it well. But he is
somewhat late with his first fruits, is he not? That must have been several
years ago.”

“Twenty,
at least,” Culaehra said, his voice seeming very small.

“Twenty?
Yes, that is not so much. But first fruits of grain and meat do not last so
long as that, do they?”

“They
do not.” Culaehra's voice seemed still smaller to himself. “He sold them all
for gold.”

“For
gold!” The Wondersmith's voice rang harshly. “Then he broke his promise? Do you
tell me he broke a promise to an Ulin?”

“I
do.” Culaehra's heart raced with fear.

“The
more fool he, then! Had he no notion of the consequences that fall on the head
of a man who breaks faith with his god?”

Now
Ohaern spoke. “An emissary from Bolenkar came to him, great Agrapax, and so
bedazzled and befuddled him with spangling words and curling lies that he
forgot to think of consequence.”

“Bolenkar?
What thing is that?”

“The
eldest of Ulahane's half-human children.”

“Ah,
the Ulharl brat! Yes, I remember him now! Ever skulking about his father's
halls, sulky and brooding. Has he come to power, then?”

Culaehra
could only stare, amazed at the Ulin's lack of awareness.

“He
has,” Ohaern said. “He seeks to take up the mantle of his father and purge his
hatred of Ulahane by surpassing him.”

“Surpassing
him!” Agrapax snapped upright, staring. “The audacity of the creature! He seeks
to slay all the younger races, then?”

“That
is his intent, I am sure,” Ohaern said evenly.

All
the companions felt their stomachs shrink and churn within them. They had never
allowed themselves to feel the reality of the Ulharl's plan before.

“Why
then, no wonder this human king was bamboozled! I should have given him tin
ears, not bronze armor. And
you
have taken it upon yourself to right
what the agent of Bolenkar sent wrong?” The huge eyes burned into Culaehra's
again.

“I...
I have,” the warrior said, faltering.

“Great
folly was that, to take on such a burden when you did not need to! Why did you
do it?”

“Why
... I... I could not say,” Culaehra stammered.

“Could
not say? Of course you could! You have lips and tongue, and lungs to drive the
breath past them both! Speak, man! Why did you undertake to mend this broken
promise?”

Culaehra
could only stare up into those huge, bitter eyes and search his heart.

“Speak!”
the Ulin commanded again.

“It
... it was the right thing to do!” was all Culaehra could say.

“Right!
How? Why?”

“Because
... a promise must be kept.” Words began to come. “Because, in breaking his
promise to you, he broke faith also with his peasants, simple folk like those
who bred me, like I myself! He ground them into the dirt they ploughed, to
squeeze himself a few more pieces of gold! They lived in wretched hovels, while
he built his castle high and adorned it with every luxury his wife could find!
No, great Agrapax, that was wrong, pure wrong!” Culaehra realized he had
finished with a shout, and stood stiffly, trembling, as he stared up at the
Ulin defiantly.

But
Agrapax nodded, slowly and with approval. “So because you could see yourself in
his peasants, you made him keep his promise. Tell me, how did you manage that?”

“By
... by combat, great Agrapax. Personal combat.”

“Combat!
How could you win against him, who was armored and armed with my sword and
armor?”

“Ohaern
took them away,” Culaehra said simply.

“Took
them away!” The Wondersmith turned on the sage. “How did you manage that, O
Mortal Smith?”

“I
knew your work when I saw it,” Ohaern answered. “I touched it with my staff and
bade it fall away from any unworthy of it.”

The
Ulin's homely face split in a grin. Then he laughed, a rich booming, though
somewhat rusty. “Well done, well done, Ohaern! Then, if you had been wrong and
the man right, the armor would have stayed to shield him! Yes, wisely done!” He
turned back to Culaehra. “So you, a peasant, defeated a king, and made him
swear to keep his promise! But why did you not make him bring me the first
fruits himself?”

“I
did not trust him,” Culaehra said simply.

Agrapax
nodded. “Wise, especially with an agent of Bolenkar's beside him.”

“Oh,
Ohaern banished that one.”

“To
the grave, I hope.” The smith slapped his thighs. “Well, then! Bravely done!
You have undertaken to bring me the first fruits the king yielded to you—but
they rotted long ago! No, I forgot—you said he sold them for gold! Where is it,
then?”

“Here,
great Agrapax.” Culaehra swung the pack down and unbuckled the straps, then
pulled out the chest, unlocked it, and threw back the lid.

The
smith's breath rasped in as he gazed at the rich gold within. “Lovely, lovely!
True gold, pure gold! It is a wonder your back did not break, young human, for
pure gold is heavy, very heavy! Yes, when you said you had taken up the king's
burden, you meant it quite truly, did you not?” He beckoned. “Hold it up to me!”

Culaehra
bent, set himself, then straightened with a convulsive heave, managing to lift
the treasure as high as his breast, then shoved with all his might to lift it
high above his head. The Wondersmith reached down and took it from him; his
fingers grazed Culaehra's palms, and the man trembled from the Ulin's touch.

But
Agrapax did not notice. He held the chest up near his face, lifting a few bars
out between thumb and forefinger. “Beautiful, beautiful indeed! You may tell
the king his promise has been kept, far better than if he had brought me grain
or cattle! Yes, this will adorn my most precious work, it will be the
illumination of my art!”

His
glance caught Yocote's stare. “Yes, gnome, I could have found it myself,
purified it myself, far more easily than making arms and armor for that
unworthy king—but he amused me at the time, with his deep concern for his
people, and the gold is beautiful whatever its source!”

He
turned back to Culaehra. “You deserve reward for this service, mortal. What do
you want in return?”

Culaehra
could only stare.

“Come,
come, no human does service without reason!” the smith said impatiently. “What
would you ask?”

“Why
.. . nothing, great Agrapax.” Culaehra found his voice again. “I did it because
it was right, because I could not abide seeing the peasants so wronged; I
brought it here because I did not trust the king. I never thought of asking
recompense.”

Agrapax
frowned, then swung to Ohaern. “Is this true? Yes, I see it is, because you are
fairly swollen with pride and your face glows! You have made a man out of this
lump of flesh, have you not? You have made him a noble man, far more worthy to
be a king than the one he defeated, for this man at least has come to some
understanding of Tightness for its own sake!”

He
turned back to Culaehra. “But such Tightness deserves armor to defend it, arms
to enforce it! You are a warrior, you must desire steel! Speak, human! What
would you have the Wondersmith make for you? Ask!”

Culaehra
stared, so amazed that his mind went blank.

Come,
your kind is even more avaricious than the dragons!” Agrapax boomed. “I have
offered you reward, mortal! Do not fear to ask!”

“I...
I cannot,” Culaehra stammered.

Kitishane
stepped up close to him, muttering fiercely, “This is your chance, Culaehra!
Ask what you will, and none will be able to beat you!”

That
was the pebble that started the landslide. That Kitishane, whom he had wronged
and assaulted, who should be afraid of him even without arms and doubly afraid
to see him accoutered with an unbeatable sword, should urge him to ask! Her
goodness and forgiveness overwhelmed him, and the warrior fell to his knees,
head hanging, borne down by the majesty of the Ulin and the hidden greatness of
the old vagabond who had become his master, shamed by the unassuming nobility
of the woman who was his companion.

“What
is this?” the Ulin rumbled. “A hero, sunk in self-contempt? That must not be!”

Something
bumped into Culaehra's head; the pain stirred anger. His head snapped up, eyes
glaring, and he saw the smith's hand stretching down, forefinger touching his head.
He froze, staring up into the giant's eyes as light seemed to explode in his
head, and with it a vast understanding—how all things were ultimately bound
together into one single whole, how nothing existed without the Creator's
attention, how that attention was within and without everything that existed,
or it could not exist. He suddenly understood that the smith and his metal were
really akin, that the hammer that struck was truly a part of the anvil, that
enemies were really two outthrusts of the same life-force, but tried to deny
their kinship, that Evil was the denial of human nature as extension of the
life-force, and that the life-force was an aspect of the Creator itself. He
comprehended with astounding clarity that he had nothing to fear from Agrapax,
for the smith understood the secret of kinship and would never strike down any
but those who tried to deny it.

Then
he reached up to touch Kitishane's hand and heard her gasp, and knew that she,
of a sudden, understood as he did that the bonding of man and woman, the
continual struggle to join two souls, was only a very small manifestation of
that ultimate Union of All in the Creator, an attempt to realize anew the bond
that had been struck from their minds at birth. Love seemed trivial next to that
desire for union, somehow—but that very desire seemed also to be the true
meaning of Love, to be the sum and total of it, the greatest and most
all-embracing force that human beings could know.

“Culaehra
.. .” she murmured, shaken, and he turned a radiant face up to smile at her.

“I
was right,” he breathed, “all along—I was right to want to love you, even
though the manner of it was the crudest sort of denial of that rightness. Oh,
the assault was wrong, it was all denial, but beneath it lay a twisted and convoluted
craving for rightness.”

“Have
you found it now, then?” she quavered, her hand taut in his.

“Oh,
yes! Yes, I have—or have found where it is, and can now begin to seek it.”

“What
nonsense they talk, the young who are still enslaved to desire!” the smith said
to the sage.

But
Ohaern shook his head, eyes shining upon his pupils. “There is as much desire
in your crafting and your art, Agrapax, and it is ultimately desire for the
same thing.”

The
smith looked down at him for a minute, then gave a snort of derision. “We all
know what
you
desire, Ohaern! And at your age, too—you doddering rake!”
He turned away before the sage could answer and said to the warrior, “
Now
do you know what you want?”

“Oh,
yes,” Culaehra said, his gaze still on Kitishane, then turned back to the
Wondersmith. “I know now—and have gained it. Thank you, O Agrapax. I cannot
thank you enough.”

The
Ulin stared down at him, amazed, then turned to Ohaern in disgust. “Why, how is
this? Have you transformed him so well that he has not an ounce of greed left
in him?”