When they did open, he saw that the small, hexagonal piece of crystal was glowing with a pure, white light which could not have been a reflection of any external illumination.
Feeling a thrill of excitement, he closed his eyes and tried to repeat the scene in his mind. At first his mind was utterly blank, with a seemingly bottomless void of silent darkness permeating his consciousness…but then he found it. He was once again floating in the ocean, and in that moment it seemed as though his heart was warm and tingly.
He slowly opened his eyes and saw the crystal was glowing, albeit more faintly than it had moments earlier but there was an unmistakable glow in the core of the finger-sized piece of crystal.
Randall tried to empty his mind as he kept his eyes open, and he tried to imagine floating through the ocean again. The crystal glowed brighter and brighter, until it was easily outshining the nearby campfire.
Smiling with a giddiness he had never expected to feel in his entire life, he shook his head and banished his newfound sense of serenity. When he did so the crystal’s light died down until it vanished entirely.
Drawing a long, deep breath, Randall stared into the heart of the crystal and once again imagined that feeling of serenity he had achieved by floating on the imaginary ocean. At first nothing happened…but then time seemed to stand still and the sounds of the camp died as quickly as the light disappears when one closes their eyes.
He looked deep into the crystal and once again found the light, which grew brighter and brighter until it again outshone the campfire. Stuffing the crystal into his pocket, he quickly went about the work of erecting Ser Cavulus’ tent—which, in his excitement, turned out to be anything but quick.
When he was finished, he turned and saw the White Knight approaching just as rain began to fall. “Shall we continue?” Cavulus asked.
Randall nodded and even though the eagerness he had felt an hour earlier was significantly diminished, he knew he wanted to know the next step in what was becoming more and more like training—a thought that actually stopped him in his tracks as Cavulus sat down in his customary position inside the pavilion.
Randall took his place as well. When the White Knight drew Rimidalv across his lap, Randall did the same with Dan’Moread.
“Now, show me the fruits of thy labor,” the White Knight instructed, gesturing to Randall’s hand which still held the finger-length bit of crystal.
Randall closed his eyes and tried to reproduce the sense of serenity he had felt under the wagon, but for several minutes he was unable to do so.
He opened his eyes and rubbed them irritably before once again attempting to focus on the crystal’s inner light. For several minutes nothing happened.
“Do not tax thyself,” Cavulus warned, “it will come to thee of its own accord.”
Randall nodded as he tried to recreate the image of the ocean in his mind’s eye, and when he did he caught a brief moment of silence before it was interrupted. Scrunching his eyes tight he once again filled his mind with thoughts of the placid, Rydian Sea…and then it happened.
Almost like catching a feather floating on a turbulent wind, he managed to wrap his mind around the peaceful feeling which he had only found while floating in the warm water of the ocean. When he opened his eyes he saw the crystal was shining brightly in his hands.
“Now, try to do likewise—only this time focus on the inner light of the sword,” the White Knight instructed. “It shall be different, but no more difficult since the sword’s consciousness will seek thine out.”
Randall closed his eyes and did as he was instructed, and almost immediately he found the same measure of tranquility he had attained moments earlier with the crystal. Opening his eyes, he saw Dan’Moread glowing softly in his lap and his heartbeat quickened.
“Very good,” Ser Cavulus said approvingly, “it is as Rimidalv suspected.”
The light died almost instantly as Randall asked, “What do you mean?”
“Rimidalv doth not know the true origin of the blade thou carries,” Cavulus explained, “but he doth share certain…attributes with it. More, he will not say.”
Marveling at the breakthrough, Randall wondered if he could communicate with Dan’Moread more frequently now. There were so many questions he needed to ask, and he hardly knew where to begin.
“Thou should speak with the blade,” Ser Cavulus said, standing abruptly. “When thou hast finished doing so for the night, replace the tent and we shall speak again when next we make camp. Now that I have done for thee what I can, I would ask for thine assistance in a…personal matter. But we shall only speak of it in this tent, and only after we next make camp.”
More than happy to return the favor in whatever way he was able, Randall rose to his feet and nodded. “Thank you, Ser Cavulus,” he said respectfully as the White Knight exited the small pavilion.
When the tent flap fell behind the White Knight, Randall once again sat cross-legged on the canvas floor of the tent and attempted to do as he had done. It took some time, but after a few minutes he managed to once again clear his mind and he heard a voice clearly in his mind.
Well done, Randall of Three Rivers, Dan’Moread said with a note of approval in its voice. The sword’s voice was still more or less monotone in his ‘mind’s ear,’ but it was certainly clearer than it had been previously. And I thank you for your dedication to improving your physical condition. The drain of my wounds seems to have diminished significantly as a result of our time together, and while I am far from whole I am at least no longer in constant…discomfort.
“It’s no problem,” Randall said agreeably, followed by an awkward silence. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”
Yes, there is, Dan’Moread replied, but for now we must do as we have done. Our time with the White Blade, Rimidalv, is drawing to a close and we will soon be on our own for the remainder of our journey.
An imminent parting was news to Randall, but he assumed that Dan’Moread and Rimidalv must have been conversing with each other privately. The more Randall learned about the White Blade, the more it seemed that Rimidalv, not Cavulus, was directing the White Knight’s group. The thought was more than a little unsettling, especially as it pertained to whatever bond Dan’Moread and Randall may now be sharing, but he pushed it from his mind. “Ser Cavulus says you and Rimidalv know each other,” Randall said cautiously, “but that Rimidalv won’t speak of it. Should I…or, I guess I should say, ‘should we’ be concerned?”
No harm will come to you from the White Blade while we are under his protection, Dan’Moread said evenly. Although the sword’s voice was monotonous and inflectionless, Randall could tell it was being evasive, But I, too, have no wish to speak of our…prior acquaintance.
Randall was about to ask another question when he was distracted by the sound of roaring laughter by the campfire several dozen paces away. After the sound had died down, he could no longer hear Dan’Moread’s voice in his mind. He closed his eyes and attempted to regain contact with the sword, and after a few minutes of failure finally met with success.
You must practice discipline of your mind, the sword said matter-of-factly, for the connection we share now will form the basis of our interactions going forward.
“But what about before?” Randall asked in confusion. “You pretty much just took control and there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it.”
It is true that I possess that capability, the sword admitted. Not only do I abhor taking such control against a wielder’s will, but doing so exhausts me greatly. This is the primary reason we have had such…infrequent contact. The bonding period should be brimming with conversations and queries, and an open exchange of ideas and concerns. For that, I must apologize.
“No, no,” Randall hastened to reply, “it’s perfectly fine. What you’ve done for me and my friends…I honestly don’t know if there’s any way I can ever repay you for that. If you need me to complete this ritual, I’ll do it,” Randall assured the sword, even thoug
h he had a gnawing suspicion that the price might be something he would have no great desire to pay. But Dan’Moread had saved Ellie and Yordan in the alleyway, and it had protected Charles and his kin from the Fleshmongers—not to mention how it had jumped in to save Randall’s own skin from those same, savage marauders.
Regardless of whatever debt you may believe you owe me, I do not seek your subservience, Randall of Three Rivers, the sword said neutrally. The White Blades and the Grey Blades each believe they have the answer to every question, and seek to bend free souls to their various purposes. In that way, Rimidalv and I could not possibly be more different; I would never ask a thing of you which you are unwilling to give…do you understand?
“I think so,” he said guardedly, “but regardless of all that, the truth is that I do owe you a debt of gratitude and I’ve got absolutely no problem helping you become whole again. Just tell me what I need to do.”
There was a lengthy pause before Dan’Moread spoke again, and for a moment Randall thought he had lost contact with the sword. I believe you, Randall of Three Rivers, it said eventually. And I am grateful for whatever assistance you are willing to provide toward that end, but I must insist that you are in no way compelled to do so.
“Please, just call me ‘Randall’,” he said, scratching his neck in awkward embarrassment. “I’d actually prefer not to think of that place any more than I absolutely have to. So just ‘Randall,’ or ‘Randy,’ or even ‘Doll’ would be ok since those are the names I grew up with. Just don’t call me ‘pointy,’ ‘bird-beak,’ ‘ghost boy’ or anything like that, ok?”
Very well, Randall, Dan’Moread replied, although…why one would not accept ‘pointy’ as a satisfactory term of endearment escapes me.
Randall sat there in confusion until he final got the dry joke and he let forth a short burst of laughter. “Well, yeah,” he said with a wry grin between chuckles, “but you’re a sword!”
Indeed, the sword said matter-of-factly, and I am quite proud of my heritage—as should you be.
“That’s…easier said than done,” Randall said after a moment’s consideration.
The world is only what we make of it, Randall, Dan’Moread replied. I intend to leave it a better place for my passage, not a worse one. Such conviction does not come without a price, and I will continue to pay that price until I am no more because to do otherwise would be a disservice to my maker.
“Who is your ‘maker’?” Randall asked almost unthinkingly.
There was a protracted pause, and this time Randall knew he had lost the connection. Trying to keep his mind clear, he attempted to make contact with the sword once again.
Almost immediately he was able to do so, and he heard the sword’s voice in his mind, I am weary, Randall. I will answer your questions in time, but for now I simply must rest. Please practice with me as much as you can during the coming day, and tomorrow I shall attempt to provide the answers you seek.
“Ok,” he said with a curt nod, “I’ll do what I can. But I really do need to know what this whole ‘bonding ritual’ is…”
Of course, Dan’Moread replied, I would not deceive you in that, of all things. Regardless of my prior…reluctance to do so, I vow that I will share with you that which you would know. I am simply too weak this night; but you should know that no harm will come to you by continuing to do as you have done.
“I understand,” Randall said graciously. He actually felt like he trusted this sword more than he should, which both assured and unnerved him, “I’ll do some more drills tonight if that helps?”
Thank you; I will attempt to regain my strength as you do so, Dan’Moread said evenly, and Randall knew the connection was severed.
Randall sat back and looked down at the sword in silent amazement, still unable to believe that he had been speaking with an intelligent, enchanted sword who—from what he could tell—was a fairly agreeable person…or sword…or whatever.
But the sword’s suggestion that Rimidalv was somehow manipulating people—or, in Dan’Moread’s words, ‘bending free souls to his will’—was more than a little disconcerting.
Still, Dan’Moread had been explicit in saying that the White Blade meant them no harm while they were under his protection. So Randall decided not to think on it too heavily as he broke the tent down and stuffed it back beneath the wagon. He stretched his tired, aching limbs for several minutes before going through another few rounds of exercise, just like he had promised the sword he would.
Chapter XXIII: A Troubling Proposition…
Evening, 20-13-5-659
The next evening, after they had ridden throughout the day, Randall did his exercises before taking his dinner and setting up the tent. When he was finished and went inside, he lit the small lantern after sitting down on the canvas floor.
With the pavilion illuminated he placed Dan’Moread across his lap and awaited the arrival of Ser Cavulus, who stepped inside just a few minutes after Randall had done so.
“Thou art becoming increasingly adept at the deployment of this pavilion,” the White Knight said, and Randall was certain he detected a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I’m just trying to help out however I can,” he retorted as smoothly as he could manage.
“Please, do not take offense,” Cavulus said, holding his hands up apologetically as he sat across from Randall. “I merely wished to convey my appreciation for thy ability to adapt and, as you say, help in rather…unusual ways.” They sat in awkward silence before the White Knight proffered a small pouch, which smelled strongly of unfamiliar herbs to Randall. “What I would ask of thee is yet another…unusual request. Embarrassing as it is to present it to thee in this fashion, I fear I have no other recourse but to be as blunt as this.”
Randall carefully picked up the pouch and gave it a sniff, recoiling at its pungent, foul odor. “What is it?” he asked as his face scrunched up in disdain.
“Thou art not familiar with it?” Ser Cavulus asked with obvious incredulity. Even through his heavily distorted voice, it was clear he was surprised by Randall’s query.
“Never smelled it before in my life,” Randall said, schooling his features and breathing only through his mouth as he respectfully placed the pouch on the floor before himself.
Ser Cavulus merely looked at Randall in silence, and Randall realized the White Knight was without Rimidalv for the first time since he had met him.
“Where’s Rimidalv?” he asked, hoping to change the subject from one that was clearly awkward for both of them—awkward for Ser Cavulus for some unknown reason, and awkward to Randall because he had no idea what was going on. There was clearly some great significance to the contents of the pouch, but Randall was completely out to sea on the subject.
“The White Blade need not attend these, the last of our private meetings,” Ser Cavulus replied stiffly. “What I would ask of thee, I would ask for myself and no one else; the White Blade does not approve but neither shall he intervene.”
“Why wouldn’t he approve?” Randall asked warily, his heart skipping a beat as his mind raced at the increasingly dire possibilities.
The White Knight shook his head and stood uncomfortably, and Randall saw him actually begin to fidget nervously with his gauntleted fingers before clasping his hands before himself. “Thou art not compelled to…assist me in my request, but I would be eternally grateful to thee if thou would oblige. However,” he added hesitantly, “Rimidalv believes thy bond with the sword thou carries to be too weak to allow for absolute privacy…which is why I would ask thee to discuss the matter with it before arriving at a decision.”
Randall had absolutely no idea what was going on, but he tried to roll with it anyway. “…Ok,” he said after a moment’s pause, “I’ll talk with the sword.”
“If thou doth not know the contents of that pouch,” Ser Cavulus said stiffly, “then perhaps the sword will. It is extract of what the Federation calls ‘Geigerroot,’ and in the old tongue is called ‘Hlyriuvli’ whi
ch is found only in the deepest forests nestled against the Binding Chain mountains. If thou agrees to my request then I would ask thee to imbibe one thimbleful tonight—preferably with tea, as it is easier on the stomach when consumed in that fashion.”
With that, the White Knight strode out of the tent and left Randall to boggle at what just happened. He picked up the pouch once again and gave it a short sniff, turning his nose up once again at the foul odor of its contents.
“What was that all about?” he muttered as he decided the best thing to do was speak with Dan’Moread on the subject. Randall had never even heard of Geigerroot or Hlyriuvli, so he hoped the sword could shed some light on the subject.
After concentrating for a few minutes, he made contact with Dan’Moread. Hello, Randall. Thank you for the exercise; I feel markedly better for it.
“No problem, Dan’Moread,” he replied a bit nervously. “Umm…did you just hear my conversation with Ser Cavulus?”
No, I did not, the sword replied. Maintaining awareness is draining, so I enter a state you might consider to be ‘sleep’ while I attempt to conserve my strength.
“Makes sense,” Randall agreed before returning to the matter at hand. “I know I had some questions for you from before, but Ser Cavulus just made a strange request that makes absolutely no sense to me. I was hoping you could help clarify things?”
I will do what I can, the sword replied.
“Well,” he began, “the White Knight wants me to help with something, but won’t say what it is. It’s all very cryptic, but somehow this pouch of horrid-smelling stuff is involved.”
I cannot smell, Randall, the sword reminded him. Without the name of the material I fear I can be of little assistance.
“Right, of course,” Randall acknowledged. “It’s supposed to be from a plant called ‘Geigerroot,’ or ‘Hlyriuvli.’ Does that help?”
There was a long silence before the sword replied. What do you wish to know of the Hlyriuvli plant? it asked eventually.
Elated that the sword might be able to actually shed some light on the subject, Randall leaned forward in anticipation. “Well…what does it do?”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 27
