The Sage (38 page)

Yocote
cast him a doubtful glance, but Illbane beckoned, and the gnome threw up his
hands, letting the boulder go. It rolled by itself, faster and faster down the
slope, and Illbane stood calmly watching it come. Finally Yocote cried a
warning, but even as he did, the boulder began to slow, its turns slackening
more and more until at last it came to a stop, well within the lichen patch
that surrounded the Star Stone.

“Bring
my anvil plate,” Illbane called. “Set it upon the boulder.”

Culaehra
caught up the bag of tools and lugged it down to Illbane, then took out the
anvil—a rectangle of iron a few inches thick and a few more wide, a little more
than a foot long, pointed at one end—and set it on the flattest place he could
find on the boulder. He did it almost by feel, his eyes drawn to the Star Stone,
and bright though it was, its radiance did not seem to hurt his eyes. It seemed
far smaller than it had from the hilltop, not even as large as the boulder they
had brought, and this close he could see threads of scarlet twining through its
green glow.

“Bring
me the burned wood,” Illbane directed. “Then get you gone, and wait till I
come.”

His
face was grim, so Culaehra stifled the urge to argue and set off back up the
slope, Yocote beside him, casting many anxious glances back at the sage.

When
they brought the sack of charcoal, they saw that Illbane had dug three long
trenches in the earth before the Star Stone, the ends square, the bottoms
beveled. He thanked them and stacked the wood around the base of the Star
Stone, then brought a live coal from the pottery box at his belt and set fire
to the charcoal. As the flames sprang up he turned and lit the cairn of
firewood he had built, too, then turned again and said, “Go now. My work is
begun.”

There
was a look of peace in his eyes. Mute, his students turned away. As they
reached the top of the ridge they heard him beginning to chant. Turning back,
they saw the flames leaping up all about the Star Stone, growing red, then
orange, then yellow, then even brighter than yellow. A roaring sprang up that
reminded them of Agrapax's Forge, and the flames whipped in the gusts of
air—but they could not see the source of those blasts. Shuddering, they crossed
the top of the ridge and went back to the camp.

They
could not resist looking now and then, of course. In fact, they could not
resist keeping an anxious watch on their friend and teacher, though they did it
in turns, and none watched for more than a few minutes at a time. Even then the
watcher raised his head only enough to see above the ridge and make sure
Illbane was well, then ducked down again and hurried back to bear word to the
companions.

They
really had little need to look to know he was well—his chanting sounded day and
night, carrying to them steadily, even over the top of the ridge. After the first
few hours, though, Yocote could not bear to stay away; he found a sheltered
cranny under a huge old pine and sat, wrapped in his furs and with a small fire
before him, watching through his goggles as the sage-smith chanted and hammered
and wrought magic in metal.

Yocote
was of no use to his friends, though, for he never came down to tell them what
occurred. Culaehra, Lua, and Kitishane took turns climbing up to the ridge top
for a quick look, then coming back to report, and similarly each took his or her
watch in the night. Lua took it upon herself to keep bringing Yocote wood and
food. Culaehra protested. “Yocote is my friend, too, Lua! Let me tend him now
and again!” And he took up an armload of sticks.

But
Lua stopped him with a hand on his arm and a gentle if cryptic smile. “No,
Culaehra. This is my privilege, and I will take it unkindly if you seek to
steal it from me.” Then she took the wood from his arm and set off up the
slope, leaving him to stare after her speechless, wondering how this woman whom
he had beaten and degraded had come to be able to stop him with a gesture.

Then
he wondered all over again how she could have forgiven him enough to become his
friend.

“Let
her go, Culaehra.” Kitishane slipped her arm through his with a smile that
mirrored Lua's. “It is her portion.”

“Her
portion?” Culaehra frowned down at her. “How so?”

“Do
you not see it?” Kitishane chided. “She has fallen in love with Yocote at last.”

“In
love?” Culaehra stared, and tried to ignore the surge of indignation that
followed the thought. “Why? What has changed? It cannot be proof of his
constancy—she had that before!”

“Oh,
but he has changed in so many ways, Culaehra!” Kitishane beamed up at him. “Even
as you have.” She leaned a little closer, tilting her chin up, her eyes shining,
and Culaehra would have been a fool indeed to miss seeing the chance of a kiss.

Deeply
worried about Illbane, Culaehra told himself he was being foolish—if anyone
could keep himself well, it was a shaman who had surpassed all others of his
profession so thoroughly that he was now a sage. How could Fate strike down the
consort of a goddess? Still he watched, and his brief glimpses became longer
and longer, though Illbane showed no sign of weakening. His voice was still
rich and strong as he chanted to the iron; stripped to the waist, his muscles
rolled beneath his skin like those of a man far younger as he lofted the hammer
and brought it down, then bounced it on the metal and raised it again.

The
first day, he only tended the fires around the Star Stone and the fire in the
cairn, singing to the flames throughout the day and all that night through.

“What
does he do?” Kitishane asked when Culaehra came back from his twilight trip.

“Still
sings, and brings blasts of wind to fan the flames,” Culaehra reported. “Only
the fire under the rock, though—the cairn he lets burn slowly of its own
accord.” He shook his head. “I cannot understand how his voice endures!”

The
next morning Lua came back to report, “The cairn burns no longer; in fact, it
no longer stands! He has taken the charcoal from it and added it to the fire
all around the rock. A green glow has sprung up about it, a green glow threaded
by strands of scarlet!”

They
ran to see—and sure enough, the Star Stone glowed green, though here and there
threads of red undulated in its haze.

Halfway
through the afternoon Yocote came back in great excitement. “The Star Stone is
melting! Drop by drop it trickles into the trenches he has cut beneath it!”
Then he was gone, back up the hill to watch, and the others came scrambling
after. It was true—the whole form of the Star Stone seemed to have softened,
and droplets came from it into the trenches as Illbane sang, his voice deep and
heavy.

When
Kitishane went to look the next morning, she saw no Star Stone at all—only a
heap of slag at the center of six trenches. Illbane had dug them all around,
and each now glinted with white metal. She came back and told what she had
seen, adding, “He is digging the cooled metal out of the earth now. It is
formed into bars!”

Then
began the clanging and the roaring. Looking down, Yocote saw that Illbane had
brought bellows and had thrust their long iron snout into the fire. When he
pumped, flames roared out of it to bathe in brightness the glowing metal bar he
held within. He sang a verse while he pumped, then laid the bar on the anvil
and struck it with the hammer, chanting a different song, one of driving
urgency. As he did, the green glow spread from the metal again, still with one
or two strands of scarlet.

One
verse, and he laid the bar in flame again, singing the forge song as he pumped
the bellows, then brought it back to the anvil.

Culaehra,
too, saw this, and reported, “He takes it back and forth between anvil and
flame, singing first the one song, then the other.”

“What
words does he chant?” Lua asked, but Culaehra could only shake his head. “It is
a language I do not know. The shaman's tongue, belike—though I confess it does
sound like the canticle Agrapax sang to his forge. And the metal—again and
again he beats it. It shall be flat ere long, I doubt not.”

That
evening Kitishane reported, “He hammered the bar flat indeed, twice its length
and breadth, then hammered another bar into it and folded them both with many
blows. Now he beats them flat again.”

In
the morning Lua told them, “He has flattened four of the bars now, and beats
them together, folding and flattening, then folding and flattening again.”

“What
of the other two bars?” Culaehra asked.

“He
has set them aside—why, I cannot guess. The others, though, he has beaten into
a single bar, though it seems little bigger than any one alone.”

On
the morning of the fourth day Yocote whistled shrilly, and the others came
running up to his pine. “What moves?” Culaehra panted as he came up.

“Look!”
Yocote pointed, his whole face taut, and somehow Culaehra knew his eyes were
wide behind the mask. Turning, he saw Illbane beating out a long, straight
length of green-glowing steel—surely it must be steel, to glitter so in the dim
light of the overcast North! And what could it be but a sword? A long sword, a
broadsword, a double-edged sword. As they watched, he laid it in the flames
again, pressed the bellows and sang to the roaring, then laid the sword on the
anvil once more and beat it with his hammer, bouncing on the steel in a rhythm
like that of horses galloping. At last he heated it one more time, then thrust
it deep into a bank of freshly fallen snow. It hissed; steam rose; the green
glow sank into the white mound and was gone. Illbane drew forth the sword and
laid it in the flame again, crying, “Culaehra, come forth!”

Culaehra
stared, taken aback, then rose and ran down to the smith, hearing Kitishane's
cry of alarm behind him. But his trust in Illbane was absolute now; he came
panting up to the singing smith, crying, “What would you have of me, Illbane?”

“When
I lay the sword on the anvil, grasp the tang!” Illbane snapped, then swung the
sword over to the rock. He himself held it by the crosspiece, no longer with
tongs. Culaehra laid hold of the tang where the handle would be bound and
nearly cried out in pain. The tang was hot, very hot! How could the smith hold
the sword even nearer to the glowing blade? But if Illbane could stand the
pain, so could he! Culaehra grasped it hard while Illbane sang to it, not
beating now, then shouted “Come!” and ran with it to the finger of glacial ice
that strayed near. Culaehra ran with him, matching steps, and Illbane cried, “Thrust
it in!” He let go of the sword. Culaehra thrust as he had been told, and the
sword pierced the ice with a vast hissing. Boiling drops struck Culaehra; he
gritted his teeth against the pain and kept up the pressure as the sword slid
into its icy sheath and the smith stood by, singing. At last he stopped,
sighed, and said, “Draw it out now, Culaehra. Your sword is forged.”

Culaehra
drew the sword forth, staring at the blade in wonder. It seemed to shimmer as
the light glanced off it, a grain almost like that of wood running down its
length. The edges glittered with the sharpness of obsidian flakes, though it
was fresh from the forge and not yet whetted. The wind blew past, making it
vibrate. It almost seemed to sing with a deep note that Culaehra could feel
through his very bones, and it scarcely felt as if he held any weight in his
hand at all. “It is beautiful,” he whispered. “It is a marvel!”

“It
will cleave any armor, be it iron or bronze,” Illbane told him, exaltation in
his voice. “It will cut through any other sword save those few that were forged
by Agrapax himself, no matter the steel of which they are made—and because you
held it while it was tempered, it will accept only your grasp or that of one of
your blood; it will twist from any other's hands, so that no enemy can wield it
against you.”

At
last Culaehra turned to stare at the smith. “How can I ever thank you for this,
Illbane?”

“By
bearing it in the mission I have given you,” the sage answered. “Kneel,
Culaehra!”

The
warrior did not ask why; he only knelt before his teacher, bowing his head.

Illbane
took the sword from him and laid the blade on his shoulder, chanting a deep and
weighty song, then laid it on his other shoulder, and finally across his
breast, leaning down to fold the warrior's arms about it. “I name thee
Corotrovir the Starsword,” he intoned, “to be wielded only when the cause is just.
Do thou, O Prince of Swords, summon up in this man all virtues that lie within
him, magnifying and expanding all until he is a Prince of Men!”

A
glow sprang from the sword then, and Culaehra nearly cried out in alarm—but he
held the blade tightly to his chest as that green glow shimmered all about him,
then shrank in on itself and buried itself in his breast. He knelt staring down
at the sword, feeling numb—then began to tremble as forces he had never guessed
pounded through him, making his whole body vibrate with their shaking. Power
itself seemed to rise into his head, making him dizzy; it seemed to rise like a
heat haze between himself and the world. Then it subsided, sinking deep within
him; he saw the world clearly again and saw himself more clearly still, saw his
every fault and every virtue, knew himself as he truly was without boast or
regret, and felt the iron resolve growing within him never to yield to his
weaknesses or let his faults grow. He saw how to balance vice with virtue, to
heal every breach, to become all that he could be ...

But
he saw, too, that he would have to temper those qualities in battle, even as
the sword had been tempered in centuries-old ice.

Then
he felt hands upon his arms and looked up to see Illbane raising him to his feet,
taking the sword from him, and setting its tang in his hands. “You are a prince
among men now, Culaehra,” he said, “but you must still earn your crown and grow
into kingship.” Then his eyes glittered and his voice sank low, almost feverish
with exultation as he said, “Now go, and slay Bolenkar!”