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.
Chapter 19
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?”
“No—but you have turned that greed toward its true end, Agrapax. I must thank you for that.”
The giant stared down at the sage, affronted. “You brought him here deliberately, Ohaern! You used me to forge him!”
“What greater accomplishment for the Wondersmith?” Ohaern challenged. “And who more fit to have wrought it?”
“Yes ... perhaps.” The Ulin stared down at the kneeling man in speculation. “Still, he is now so fired for Right and so filled with zeal that he is apt to charge out to seek and smite Bolenkar, unarmored and unready. We cannot waste our work in that fashion, can we, Ohaern?”
“We cannot,” the sage agreed, “but he shall have no need of your swords, Agrapax, for I shall forge his blade.”
“Forge!” Agrapax looked up, suddenly alert. “The Star Stone, you mean? It shall be the death of you, Ohaern!”
“Of my body, at least.” Ohaern nodded, accepting. “That is the price I must pay, and well worth it, if the Starsword slays Bolenkar.”
“You must not risk yourself!” Culaehra cried, before he realized the words were out of him.
Ohaern fixed him with a gaze at once proud and sad, but Agrapax ignored them both and turned to his forge. “Well, if he will supply your sword, mortal man, than I shall furnish your armor and shield. Retire out of my forge, all of you! Oh, you may stay, Ohaern—you still have something to learn about smithing, and you shall need to quite soon. Away, small ones!” He pointed at a small archway. “In there! Dine, drink, rest! Refresh yourselves and renew your strength, for this doddering sage shall lead you a weary chase yet! Come back when I call, but for now, get you gone!”
Then he frowned down at the metal, and they all felt the sudden lifting of the pressure of the Ulin's attention and knew he had forgotten them as surely as if they had never come to his smithy in the first place.
Yocote stepped forward, beckoning, and Culaehra finally rose to follow him, scowling to hide a vast feeling of relief— and an equally vast sense of exaltation. He followed Yocote— but did not let go of Kitishane's hand.
The gnome led the way through the archway, which narrowed into a tunnel that turned through a double bend to open out again into a fairly roomy cave. Torchlight cast their shadows on the wall behind the gnome; glancing back, Culaehra saw that Lua had brought the flaming brands with them.
Yocote turned about, hands on hips, to glare up at Culaehra. “How now, wolf's head! I think you have become even more a shaman than I!”
Culaehra stared at him in astonishment, then frowned, seeking within himself, and discovered that he had an understanding of arms and of enemies that was virtually instinctive now. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “but only as regards warfare and feats of arms.” He smiled down at the gnome with genuine affection. “Fear not, Yocote—I can never be a rival to you.”
The gnome stared, then stood stiff and belligerent, taken off guard—but Lua slipped her hand into his, and he glanced sideways at her, then back at Culaehra, still glaring, but with something more of understanding and acceptance now.
For a time, Culaehra merely sat staring into the torch flames and relishing the quiet glow, the sense of complete well-being that filled him so thoroughly that he felt it must be radiating from him; and Kitishane's hand in his only made the wholeness more perfect. Finally, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes—wide, still amazed, a little frightened, but altogether delighted, so that he could tell she shared at least something of his joy.
Finally, though, he realized that the clanging had begun again, had been going on for some time, brief bursts of it punctuated by the roaring he had heard in Agrapax's smithy. He realized that the Wondersmith was at his work again. The clanging was the hammer on the iron; the roaring was the blast of air through the forge. Culaehra wondered what a supersmith used for a bellows.
Turning, he saw Yocote pacing the chamber, hands behind his back, muttering to himself. At the fire, Lua was cooking something in a pot—stewed jerky, by the smell of it.
“The smith will be done soon enough,” Culaehra said. “Be at peace, little brother.”
Yocote's head snapped around, staring at the warrior. “I have not given you leave to call me that!”
His anger and distress struck Culaehra like a body blow; he was amazed to discover that he could feel the little man's emotions. “Your pardon, Yocote. I stated only what I now see to be true— that all men of all races are brothers, and any enmity between us is denial brought about by deception.”
“That the differences are only on the surface, and the things we have in common are far more important?” Yocote frowned. “Well, I can accept that. But what begins this illusion that we are enemies, then?”
“The agents of Bolenkar,” Culaehra said simply, “and our own vices, our selfishness and greed and need for someone to look down upon. Heaven knows we give him enough to work with!”
Yocote's gaze strayed; he frowned. “There is some sense in that,” he said, and sat on his heels by the fire, staring into the flames and musing.
Kitishane squeezed Culaehra's hand; he turned to smile at her, not sure what he had done right, but not about to argue with the consequences.
When the stew was ready, they shared a meal. Afterward, they talked in low voices awhile, halting to listen when the clanging rang out, for beneath it they could hear the voice of the smith chanting in a language they did not know. Yocote in particular stared at the entrance to the tunnel with longing, straining his ears and trying to make sense of it, but failing. Culaehra felt a twinge of sympathy for him—so much to learn so short a distance away, and to have it denied! But there was nothing any of them could do to change that; the Wondersmith had banished them while he worked his magic.
Finally, they slept. After all, there was little else they could do.
They woke at Illbane's call, a gentle urging: “Come, it is time to rise! The Wondersmith is done with his forging, and we must go up into the world again!”
Culaehra was on his feet in an instant, and Yocote was almost as quick, but Illbane made them take time enough to break their fasts before they went. Yocote wolfed his food, chomping at the bit, and Culaehra was in little better mood, but both of the women seemed faintly amused by their impatience. Finally, they packed their leavings, and Illbane led them out through the tunnel.
The smithy was quiet now, only a seething murmur coming from the forge. Agrapax himself was nowhere to be seen.
“He has gone deeper into the bowels of the earth, to mine more of the rare minerals he used in this forging,” Illbane explained.
But Culaehra scarcely heard him, scarcely saw anything but the breastplate, helmet, gauntlets, hip plates, greaves, and sandals that lay against a slab of rock in the center of the smithy. He came over to them slowly, reached out to touch them with reverence and awe. “These are objects of beauty! How could I wear them in war, Ohaern?”
“Call me Illbane, as first I told you to,” the sage told him, “for I will always be Illbane to you. As to the armor, no blow will dent or mar it; you may wear it secure in the knowledge that its beauty will remain undimmed.” But his eyes were shining again. Kitishane saw, and understood: the old Culaehra would never have seen beauty in anything, not even a woman's face and form. He would have seen them as objects of desire, but not of beauty.
Still, the armor was indeed beautiful. It lay glowing in the light of the forge and the torches, golden with inlays of silver wreathing about and across it “What are those figures, Illbane?” Yocote asked, his voice hushed. “I would almost think them to be flowers and leaves, if they had not so many straight edges.”
“They are flora, even as you have said,” Illbane replied, “but the plants are herbs and simples of great power. The straight edges are runes, marks that stand for words, and that only the wisest of shamans yet know.”
“I must learn them, then!”
“You shall,” Illbane promised, “and when you do, you shall read in that breastplate and shield spells of protection that shall amaze you by their power.” Then, to Culaehra, “Come, put on the wondrous bronze! Agrapax is already impatient to begin his next work, and will be wroth to find us if we are still here upon his return.”
“Put it on?” Culaehra looked up, astounded.
“Of course, put it on! Agrapax did not forge it only that folk might stare at it and exclaim upon its beauty! Put it on, Culaehra—he made it to ward you when you battle Bolenkar!”
“But ... but ... should I not at least carry it until battle looms?” Culaehra found himself strangely hesitant to wear such wondrous armor. “Surely it will be too heavy!”
“If it is, then I have failed in driving you to strengthen your body to its fullest! Besides, be assured—this armor will seem almost weightless upon him for whom it was forged! Put it on, Culaehra—it will keep you warm in the cold, and you will
need that soon. It will cool you in the heat, too, and you will need that later. You will scarcely notice its weight, but it will lend you its strength.”
Slowly, almost shyly, the warrior buckled on the enchanted plates of bronze. Kitishane stepped forward to help; the gnomes stepped up to fasten his greaves. Illbane himself set the helm grandly atop his head, its crest waving proudly as it fell down to guard his neck. Kitishane gasped at the sight. “Oh, Culaehra! You look as grand as a hero from the fabled tales of Dariad's war!”
“Dariad never wore such armor as this,” Illbane assured her. “Come now, let us seek the surface again! A hero you look to be, Culaehra, and a hero you are within—but you cannot become one truly until you have faced and overcome your challenges, and they await you in the light of the sun!”
“Take me to them, then,” Culaehra said, his voice quivering with impatience, and Illbane turned away to lead them back into the tunnel from which they had first come into the smithy.
Their way branched often, but seemed short enough to Culaehra and Kitishane, for they talked in soft voices as they climbed the ever-ascending ramp of the twisting tunnels. They spoke of their childhoods and their maturity within their home clans, of their enemies and their few allies, of the experiences they had shared and those they might have, if they had grown in the same village. They spoke of the war Bolenkar sought to loose upon the younger races, they spoke of the old tales of the Ulin, they spoke of everything and nothing, and were amazed that they could speak of so much and never tire of it. Lua gazed up at them with misty delight, and Yocote cast them occasional spiteful glances of envy. His one consolation was that they did not talk about themselves as a couple, but even that was undermined by the feeling that they did not need to.
The way was far shorter than that by which they had entered the underground realm, for they came into a small sunlit cave just as they were growing weary with a full day's exertion. They all squinted in pain, their eyes no longer accustomed to the brightness of daylight, and the gnomes quickly tied on their goggles again.
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