by P. D. Kalnay
“What’s the Great Library of Anukdun,” I asked the table.
Mr. Ryan and my grandmother shared a mid-mouthful glance. After swallowing his food, it was Mr. Ryan who answered.
“The Library is the oldest, and the largest, collection of knowledge in the First World. Most of it is a library in the conventional sense. It’s also partly a museum.” Mr. Ryan paused before adding. “And partly a prison.”
Gran nodded.
“A prison?”
Museum I understood, but how could a library be like a prison?
“Prison and or zoo.” Mr. Ryan shrugged. “A number of rare and dangerous creatures, and a few… people, are restrained beneath the Great Library of Anukdun. It’s one of the oldest functioning institutions of the First World. Much like Knight’s Haven, in the days the Order held it, the Library is… politically neutral. A lot of what’s been learned on the First World was discovered within its halls.”
“The finest minds from every land gather at Anukdun in the pursuit of knowledge,” Gran said. “When I was younger, I dreamt of joining their ranks.”
“Really?” Mr. Ryan asked. He sounded surprised.
“Really. I was young—and naive.”
I found both of those hard to picture.
“I find that hard to imagine,” Mr. Ryan said.
The look Gran gave him would have frozen boiling water.
“Which part?” she asked.
“The second part,” Mr. Ryan said. “Everyone starts out young.”
“I lost the naivety soon enough and gave up on the Library. I visited it once, many years later. My love of knowledge and books has endured.”
“You wrote enough of them,” I said. “How long have you been writing the books in the attic?”
“Since I came to this world. Although, they were kept elsewhere before the house was constructed.”
“Where’d the rest come from?”
Gran was doling out information. I tried not to sound too interested.
“Left here by those travelling down the Tree and unable to take them on the journey.” Gran took a sip of her tea. “Some were written in exchange for the right to travel. You’ll have noticed that not all are written in English?”
I nodded.
“Depending on the gate, and on other factors, not all who come to this world speak English. Some of those books are copies of texts that were written before the English language existed. For centuries, I kept my mind sharp by reproducing texts from the First World and translating them into English.”
I could only stare at my grandmother with my mouth hanging open. There were thousands of books upstairs. She’d reproduced them from memory? Holy Crap! I was a really good student, and I think I could claim ‘smart guy’ without being full of myself, but… Holy Crap!
“What is it, Jack?” Gran asked.
“Nothing.”
Chapter 11 – Seven Swords
During one of my random searches of the library’s collection, I discovered a book with seven identical swords running along its spine. The little silver swords looked an awful lot like the sword from the library. Upon opening the front cover, I discovered why. The book’s title was Marielain’s Seven: A History of the Silver Blades. I’d never been overly impressed with the sword in the library downstairs. It was nice enough, but Duzalain’s sword had definitely made more of an impression on me. Still, Sir Andriel thought they were a big deal, and I held a whole book written about them. I figured it would be worth a read, even if it only provided me with background information on Marielain Blackhammer. I settled into my regular reading nook and began.
A lot of the book was dry. Especially, the parts recounting the many owners the swords had had. There was nothing regarding Marielain at the start, except to mention that he’d forged the swords on Knight’s Haven. The swords were given to the ranking officers of the Knights of the Order. All of the swords had names, like Sir Andriel’s. I didn’t think much about that until I reached the last section in the book. That section concerned the sword downstairs. Marielain had named it Daxcalibyr, and he’d kept it for himself—I guessed, for the times when a giant hammer wasn’t the way to go. A chunk of handwriting, I recognised as Gran’s, finished the last section of the book. It was dated 1843.
Daxcalibyr has made its slow trek across time, and the Seventh World, to arrive here in the possession of Moridun Shadowmark—a man desperate for passage down the Tree. Given Moridun’s past, and the enemies he has accumulated over the centuries, my first instinct was to deny him passage, as the other guardians have done. Instead, I accepted the sword, and its story, in exchange for passage to the Fifth World. Many on that world may curse me for my choice, but I believe the sword, and the information, regarding the fate of the Blackhammer, are worth whatever damage he may do there.
Moridun claimed to have had ownership of the sword for over fourteen hundred years. The sword is the least interesting part of his tale. The gist of the story, told to me by Moridun Shadowmark, last lord of the Shadowmarches, is as follows:
In the year 511 A.D., five years after his departure from Knight’s Haven, and his disappearance from the First World, Marielain Blackhammer travelled up the Tree, arriving on the Seventh World via the Britongate. It appears he brought little with him beyond his sword. He spent years wandering the isle of Britain, growing in fame as a man of wisdom and arcane power. He befriended many petty kings and chieftains before settling in the court of Uther, who would later take the name Pendragon. A friendship grew between Marielain and Arthur, Uther’s heir. Marielain taught the young Arthur much of strategy, statecraft, and diplomacy. With Uther’s death, Arthur became king, and Marielain stayed beside him as his advisor, gifting him with the sword Daxcalibyr. A blade which became a legend of the Seventh World.
Arthur’s kingdom was short lived, and Moridun admits to playing a role in its downfall. I didn’t press him on this, as it may be the smallest of his crimes. With the death of Arthur, Marielain Blackhammer fell into despair, and being well-advanced in years, soon followed him to the grave. It was then that Moridun collected Daxcalibyr for himself. The sword was not what interested me about Moridun’s tale. I believe that Merielain Blackhammer came to the Seventh World seeking his friend, finding him reborn in Arthur Pendragon. What is most worrisome is that he was unsuccessful in ending the Dragon Lord’s banishment and restoring him to the First World. No other enchanter has made so a great a study of the secrets of the World Tree. Learning of Marielain Blackhammer’s failure has disheartened me. For now, I can only safeguard Daxcalibyr and continue to search.
It wasn’t a long passage, and I read it again to make sure I’d got it right. There was no mistake. The sword hanging on the wall—two floors beneath me—was Excalibur. The actual Excalibur. I returned the book to the shelf and went downstairs. The library sword looked no different than before. I took it down and unsheathed it, studying the blade carefully. If the sword had a secret to tell… it didn’t bother sharing it with me.
“What are you looking for?” Mr. Ryan asked from the library’s doorway.
“Checking out the sword,” I said.
“Something different about it?”
Mr. Ryan sounded only politely interested. I looked up from the sword in my hands.
“Did you know this is Excalibur?”
“Huh,” Mr. Ryan chuckled. “I never made the connection after my memories returned. Daxcalibyr, Excalibur… probably not a coincidence.”
“Not according to a book I just read.”
“I wonder how King Arthur ended up with Marielain’s sword?”
“According to the book, he gave it to him.”
“Ah, Marielain, Merlin. They’re pretty close, I guess.”
I hadn’t made that connection, but now it seemed obvious.
“Strange that he’d give his sword to anyone from the Seventh World though,” Mr. Ryan went on.
“The book said that Arthur was probably… Janik.”
It still fe
lt really weird talking about that stuff. Mr. Ryan pondered for a minute or so.
“Anything’s possible.” He shrugged. “I certainly don’t remember any of that.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope. Two lifetimes of memories is more than enough. I can do without a third.”
I slid the sword back into its scabbard. Then I remembered something from the Arthurian legend.
“Does this scabbard stop your wounds from bleeding?”
“Not that I know of.” Mr. Ryan moved to stand beside me. “I don’t recall Marielain doing anything special with the scabbards.”
I hung the sword back on the nails above the fireplace. It reminded me of a question I had.
“What exactly do the Knights of the Order do?”
“Many things,” Mr. Ryan said.
“That’s pretty vague.”
“Yes.” He sat in the overstuffed chair on one side of the cold hearth.
“You’re not going to tell me?” That didn’t seem fair, all things considered.
“One oath a Knight takes is not telling the secrets of the Order. It’s kind of a deal breaker.”
“But you’re not really a Knight still, are you? I mean, if you’ve lived and died a bunch of times since you took those oaths, are you still bound by them.” Another thought occurred to me. “And, if you keep your membership forever… shouldn’t I still be a Knight too?”
Mr. Ryan looked up at the sword for a while before answering.
“There’s no precedent for my situation. Normally, I’d say that membership ends with death, as most things do. In my case, I can still remember swearing the Oath’s and accepting the Mantle. Moreover, I led as High Commander. According to Andriel, no new Commander was ever chosen to replace me. Beyond that, it seems I still bear the Mantle. Ivy sensed my true nature right away, and others have done so since. All of that would imply that I am still a Knight.”
“What about me?”
Mr. Ryan smiled as though he’d remembered a funny joke.
“Marielain was never a Knight of the Order, Jack.”
“What?” That made no sense. Ivy had told me about some of the adventures of the White Sword and the Black Hammer. They were like a fairy-tale dynamic duo. “The stories Ivy told me made it sound like he was.”
“He was a close as you could get without joining,” Mr. Ryan said. “Marielain had no interest in joining the Order. Knights have many restrictions placed upon them by their Oaths and Duties. My old friend wasn’t one for accepting limitations or following rules… unless it suited him.”
“I guess I just assumed he was a Knight too,” I said.
“People lumped him in with us. He was a special advisor to the Council, and he lived a long time on Knight’s Haven. Marielain lived there long before I—Janik was born.”
“Really, I thought Janik and Marielain were the same age.”
“Not even close.”
“How did Marielain end up on Knight’s Haven? Where did he come from?” Ivy’s stories had included none of that information.
“Talanth,” Mr. Ryan said. “Marielain Blackhammer began his life as Marielain Fireborn Talantial. As a young man he forswore his place as First Prince of House Talantial and travelled to Knight’s Haven.”
“Why?”
“He told me that something called him there. An irresistible pull. No one remembered his arrival. As one of the oldest Knights once told me, he was simply there one day, living above them.”
“And they accepted him?”
“My old friend was extremely handy to have around. He crafted many useful things for the Order. They came to depend on his skills over time. The improvements he made to the island were substantial, and he asked for nothing more in return than the right to live there.”
“So they let him build his forge, and live there, in exchange for helping out?”
“Yes and no. Yes he was allowed to stay because he was useful, but that was the general rule for all residents, not directly connected to the Order.”
“And no?”
“No, he didn’t build the forge. This is a secret only I know.” Mr. Ryan looked at me hard. “Marielain spent centuries building the workshop, and to a lesser extent his home, but the forge… he discovered. As he put it, the forge called him deep under the earth, pulling him as irresistibly as iron to a lodestone. Nobody knew it was there—and if he figured out who built it originally—he never told me.”
“What’s Knight’s Haven like?”
“It’s been a long time since I lived there. From Andriel’s descriptions… much has changed or been destroyed.”
“Tell me what it used to be like.”
“OK.”
Mr. Ryan spent the next hour describing the island of Knight’s Haven, the city of Havensport, and the home of Marielain Blackhammer. He described a lush volcanic island and a bustling city. At the end, he reminded me again that the island had been largely destroyed. He also recommended not getting my hopes too high. I became so caught up in his descriptions that I didn’t realise until later that he hadn’t told me anything about the Order.
Chapter 12 – Insufficient Inquiry
Following weeks spent doing limited martial arts training, and reading old books, Gran informed me that a new phase of my education was about to begin. She told me to meet her in the sitting room before lunch. Gran was waiting in her chair, tea in hand, when I arrived.
“I will begin your practical instruction,” Gran said.
“Practical instruction in what?”
“Enchantment. You’ve already worked more powerful enchantments than most born, and educated, on the First World accomplish in a lifetime, but you’ve done so without understanding. Using power from a position of ignorance is unacceptable and dangerous.”
The books in the attic were light on practical instruction. I didn’t have to fake my enthusiasm for the proposed lesson.
“What do we do first?” I asked.
“We’ll start with the candle.” Gran pointed to an ordinary looking candle, wedged in an antique silver candlestick, sitting on the coffee table between us. “There are a few more basic exercises, but I think you’ve moved beyond those.”
“What do I do?”
“Watch with your eyes and with your mind.”
“How do you watch with your mind?”
“Clear your mind of all thoughts, and listen to the world around you. There are more than five senses. You must now focus on the sixth.”
“The sixth sense? What exactly is that?”
“It varies from person to person, depending on their… natural aptitudes. The sixth sense is often referred to as the mind’s eye or the inner eye. That’s inaccurate for most of our kind since that eye generally looks outward.”
“Outward at what?”
“It depends on the person. For myself, as is common with Winathen, it allows me to sense and control many things related to the air.”
“For example?”
“The currents and flow, the moisture, sensing the passage of others as they disturb the air—if they’re nearby, and the build-up of… electricity.”
“Like lightning?”
“Yes, although here in the Seventh World I can’t generate more than a tiny spark. Observe.”
Gran stared at the candle, so I did too. Tiny blue sparks crackled around the wick, igniting the candle. My grandmother was breathing heavily, and a bead of sweat stood out on her forehead.
“Cool,” I said. It was pretty cool.
“It’s only an impressive feat in this world. Did you sense anything?”
“No. I saw the sparks, and then the flame, but that was it.”
“Clear your mind. Concentrate on the candle’s flame and the air flowing around it.”
I did try, but I wasn’t sensing anything. Except hunger. I could’ve eaten.
After what must have been a full minute of nothing, the candle suddenly blew out. There was no breeze in the room, so I knew Gran had done it with
magic. That was also cool, but kids were accomplishing the same result at birthday parties all over the world. Gran was out of breath and a little sweaty.
“Did you sense the currents of air?”
“Nope. I didn’t sense anything. Should I have?”
“I don’t know,” Gran said, before taking a sip of her tea. “Only a powerful enchanter can work the most rudimentary of magics here. That you’re powerful is beyond question. What remain unknown are the nature and extent of your talents. You show abilities from your Petrathen side. Your skills at crafting, and at the forge, prove that. You said you called the wind at the end of your duel, in the First World, didn’t you?”
When I’d punched Prince Duzalain, he’d flown across the room. I hadn’t done it on purpose, but there’d definitely been a powerful gust of wind added to my punch.
“Not on purpose,” I said.
“A person has an aptitude, or they don’t. Possibly, your Winathen side is much weaker than the Petrathen. Focus on the candle. Imagine a flame around the wick.”
“Just imagine a flame?” I’d seen a lot of freaky stuff, but I was still sceptical about lighting a candle with my mind.
“Yes. I can’t do it, but I understand the theory. Feel the heat that remains in the wick and picture more building up inside of it. Will that heat into the candle.”
“OK, I’ll try.”
I focused my thoughts on the candle, trying to feel the heat from the wick, and trying to make it hotter with imagination. After several minutes, I looked back up at my grandmother and shrugged.
“Keep trying,” she said, “no one actually accomplishes this the first time. Most require years of study to light the candle. It becomes easier afterwards. Focus on your desire for the flame to appear.”
I took two deep breaths and focused on the candle again. I’m not sure how long I stared at it before I thought that maybe, just maybe, I felt some heat from the blackened wick. The more I focused, the surer I became that it wasn’t my imagination. Silently, I willed the candle to burn. Then my hands started to hurt. By which I mean they started to hurt more. They always hurt, but now my hands felt is if they were on fire.
