by Diane Duane
Herewiss opened his eyes. The hall was empty, except for the hralcins’ horrible smell and a faint brief echo of their last despairing cry. Slowly, Freelorn’s people began to come out of the corner. Segnbora slumped down into an exhausted heap on the floor, and wept with frustration and fear. Herewiss stood where he was, holding himself straight, and Freelorn came and put his arms around him. Freelorn was shaking terribly.
“Lorn,” Herewiss said.
Freelorn held him, just held him hard for a few moments, and then reached up a trembling hand to Herewiss’s face, brushing away the tears and sweat. Herewiss caught at that hand, bowed his head over it, pressed his lips to it. “Lorn,” he said again, his heart clenching like a fist in a last spasm of fear. “Are you all right, did it hurt you at all—”
“No, no, it just touched me.” Freelorn laughed, a weak, shaky chuckle. “You know how I am about gooey things—”
“You were justified, I think…” He held Freelorn’s hand tightly against him, and swayed slightly; his voice was soft and slurred with fatigue. “Lorn, it’s awfully bright in here for Moonset…is Segnbora—”
“Ohh—oh, Herewiss—”
There was such a strange tone to Freelorn’s voice that Herewiss glanced down to see what he was looking at. It took a while before it registered, before he really saw the bright blue Flame that licked around him like an aura, curling down his arm and flowing through and about the blade of the half-finished sword in runnels the color of summer sky. And even then, all he could find the strength to do was to slip his free arm around his friend, as much from the need for support as from love.
TEN
After even the fieriest sunset comes the Twilight; and in the Twilight, anything is rather more than less likely to happen.
Gnomics, 14
Herewiss woke up all at once, as if his mind had opened a door and stepped through. He sat up, and glanced at the shadows outside to tell the time. It was nearly noon. Beside him Freelorn lay curled up, having stolen all the blankets as usual, and snored like a whole pride of lions.
He leaned against the wall for a few minutes and just felt the Fire within him. It was freed now, it was him now, no longer bound into a tight controlled package at the bottom of his self. It ran all through him, warm as blood, no longer urgent, but calm and glad. There was time to do the things that had to be done…all the time in the world.
The sword lay beside him, among the cushions, and he looked at it and smiled. If he had shed blood on it—and he checked his hands, finding only Flame-healed scars there—then the blood had burnt off, for the metal was bright and unstained. The steel had acquired an odd blue sheen, as if even now it reflected the fire it was forged in.
He reached down, picked it up. At his touch it flared up brilliantly, a bar of blue-white light like the core of a star, hammered and forged. Thin bright tongues of the Flame strained away from it and curled back again.
Herewiss’s smile dimmed as the sight recalled to him another image, that of a bright torn veil of fire arching away from some star, daring the darkness—and then fallen, consumed, gone forever into the greater brilliance.
Spark, he thought, oh my dear loved. He leaned his head back against the wall and began to weep. The sword’s light blazed up with his pain. My sweet firechild, my hungry piece of the Sun. You always were good at doing the impossible, but this time you outdid yourself. You went and got killed. The sobbing began to rack him. And for my sake. The only man in history to have a fire elemental fall in love with him, and it loves me so well that it dies for me. Oh, damn, damn, damn—!
He cried and cried for what seemed forever, the sword clutched in his hands, its Flame trembling and wavering with his sobs. So now what? There’s nothing left to bury—and what kind of a tree do you plant for a fire elemental, anyhow? Maybe it would be more appropriate to start a brushfire—oh, dammit straight to Darkness! I make my peace with a guilt, and not an hour later I have a grief just as bad to replace it! One more empty place inside me—and I’ll never be able to so much as light a campfire again without being reminded of just how empty it is! I always knew that you have to accept the pain at the end of love to make the loving complete—but this, this is harder than I thought—Oh, Mother of Everything, why her—why him—why my sweet little Sunspark? Why, why?
Eventually Herewiss ran dry of tears, and even the great heaving sobs that shook him grew less—his chest ached too much to sustain them. He scrubbed at his face with one hand—he still could not bring himself to let go of the sword—and fell to running his fingertips up and down the water-cool metal of the blade, the rhythm of his stroking being occasionally broken by a leftover sob or choke. None of this has gone the way it should, and now is no exception. I thought it would be all joy, that it would feel good at the end—and look at me. …And I never dreamed that there would be such a price to pay. Or even that I wouldn’t be the only one paying it.
Herewiss shook his head slowly. She asked me what I would be willing to pay. If I’d known then what I know now, I wonder if I’d have been so sure of myself…
“Goddess, Herewiss,” came a grumble from within the pile of blankets, “how come you have this crazy preference for rooms with eastern exposures? Anyone who gets up this early has to have something wrong with his—” Freelorn’s head and shoulders and arms emerged from under the covers; he stretched and turned over, and saw.
“Oh,” he said. “Ohh—” and sat up, shedding blankets in all directions, reached over and took Herewiss in his arms, hugged him tightly enough to bruise ribs, kissed him hard, hugged him again. Herewiss hugged back, one-armed. His underhearing was alive as it had never been before, and the blaze of triumph and joy that his loved was radiating made him smile. It was a strange feeling; after all the crying, he felt as if his face might crack.
“You’ve got it,” Freelorn was saying. “You’ve got it—”
“It looks that way.”
“But, Goddess, it’s so long,” Freelorn said, propping himself up against the wall beside Herewiss. “You’re going to—hey, my face is—you’ve been crying—?!”
“I’ve been—I’ve—oh, Dark, I thought I was, was done—oh, Lorn—”
“No, no, it’s all right. Come here, then. Come on. There—let it out.” Freelorn took Herewiss in his arms, holding him tight, and Herewiss buried his face against Freelorn’s shoulder and wept anew. “You’ve had a hell of a night, go ahead and let it out—”
“It’s muh, muh, m—” (More than that. And why am I trying to talk? I can make anyone hear me now. Whether they have the talent or not.)
“Sweet Goddess above us,” Freelorn said in amazement. “So that’s how it feels.”
(Yes. But, Lorn, poor Sunspark—!)
Freelorn was shocked into silence as Herewiss gave him the image of Sunspark’s Name without words. (And it’s gone, it died, it wasn’t supposed to be able to die and it died—)
Herewiss said nothing more for a long time, but only sobbed, and Freelorn held him close and wondered. When after a while Herewiss’s sobs started to die down, and gulped and choked and started to control himself again, Freelorn sighed and made himself smile.
“I was saying,” he said conversationally, “that you’re going to have to put a bastard broadsword’s hilt on that thing if you expect to be able to handle it. It’s four feet long easily.”
“I—uh—no.” Herewiss sat up straight again, wiped at his eyes and got his breath back. “Not at all. See, look—” He stood up, and taking the sword one-handed, Herewiss cut and parried and thrust till the air whistled and the sword left trails of blue Fire behind it. “It’s like an arm, it’s almost weightless. Not quite; the balance is a little heavy toward the point.” He held the sword out at arm’s length, point up, eyeing it with a critical smile. “Possibly my error at the forge—or possibly the sword itself is impatient. But whatever, it’s no problem to handle.”
“Looks like it has a nice edge.”
“Nice! This sword could sha
ve the wind and not leave a whisker. In fact—” Herewiss looked around the room for something to try it on. “In fact—” He moved toward the grindstone, grinning with wicked merriment.
“Are you going to—Dusty, you’re, you’ve got to be—”
Herewiss took the sword two-handed, swung it up behind his head, feeling a wild joy as the Flame ran up through his arms and into the blade, poised, waiting. He brought it sweeping down hard, channeling the Fire down into the striking fulcrum of the sword, as he had been taught to channel the force of his arms. The blade struck the grindstone and clove it in two, kept on going and smote through the oak framework, kept on going and finally struck the floor, slitting it a foot deep like a knife cutting into a cheese. The grindstone smashed in pieces to the floor, leaving no mark on the shining gray surface.
Herewiss stood up straight, turned and grinned at Freelorn.
“Showoff,” Freelorn said, grinning back.
“Have I ever denied it? Lorn, I’m ripe, serves me right for sleeping in my clothes. Come on, let’s take a bath.”
“There’s hardly enough water in your cistern for that—”
Herewiss drew himself up to his full height. “That,” he said smugly, “can be fixed…”
***
By afternoon it had rained four times, once with a mad magnificence of thunder, and lightning like fireworks; and the knobby barren sage around the hold was in bloom a month early. Freelorn’s people were walking around with grins almost wide enough to match Herewiss’s. Despite the terror, they had been present at a miracle, or something that could pass for one, and they were also relishing the prospect of seeing Freelorn back on his throne again, escorted there by Herewiss’s Flame.
For a while that afternoon Herewiss sat down in the great hall, one arm around Freelorn and the other hand holding the sword across his knees, answering all the questions about how it felt and where the hralcins had come from and what had happened to Sunspark and what Herewiss was going to do now. When Segnbora asked that one, Herewiss looked sidewise at Freelorn and smiled.
“How much did you say you got, Lorn?”
“Eight thousand.”
“Mmm. We could bribe a lot of people with that.”
“Or hire a lot of soldiers.”
“Lorn, I’d still rather sidestep that solution. When you’re king, your people will bless your name for taking Throne and Stave without bloodshed. And with this—” he rapped one knuckle against Freelorn’s skull—”and this—” he lifted the sword—”we should be able to work something out. But as soon as you people are ready, maybe in a few days, when we’re all rested, we’ll start heading west. The Arlenes have been without a child of the Lion’s line for six years now, and the effects are beginning to show. It’s time something was done about it.”
He got up, and they stood with him, nodding and murmuring agreement. “I have a few things to take care of,” he said to them all, “so I’ll see you around dinnertime. Is there enough of that deer left?”
“We’ll get another,” Dritt said, grinning. “This is too important an occasion for leftovers.”
They headed for the door, Segnbora walking slowly behind the rest of them. She looked very tired. Herewiss glanced at Freelorn, and Lorn nodded and went off to the back of the hall to be busy elsewhere for a moment.
“Segnbora—”
She turned as Herewiss came up behind her. “Yes?” she said. She held herself proudly erect, as usual, with her hand on her sword-hilt. The prideful stance wouldn’t have fooled anyone, with or without underhearing.
He reached out, took that terribly capable-looking hand in his and raised it to his lips. “It was a valiant gesture,” he said, “even though it didn’t work for long. You gave all you had to give, and you bought me the time I needed, one way or the other. Without you we would have all been someone’s dinner last night.”
She smiled at him, but her eyes were still very tired. “I see what you’re saying, Herewiss,” she said. “Thank you.” He started to let go of her hand, but she bespoke him suddenly. (I’m as sorry for you, though, as I am for myself. You may be fooling the rest of them, even Freelorn perhaps, but not me. Somehow or other, my perceptions tell me, you’ve paid more for your Power than you’d thought to. And worse than that, though you have the Fire indeed, you also still have all your problems. A new grief to replace your old one, a king to put on his throne without any sure idea of how to do it—and, worst of all, no real idea of what you yourself will do when you’re finished with that.)
He stared at her, too incredulous to really hear the compassion in her voice.
She was still smiling faintly, sadly. (They really pushed us at Nháiredi,) she said. (Too hard, I think. See you later.)
She turned, and went outside.
Herewiss walked slowly back to Freelorn, looking sober, and Freelorn nodded and slipped his arms around Herewiss again. “It does seem a shame about her,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You never did tell me if this ridiculous chunk of steel had a name.”
“Oh, it has,” Herewiss said, smiling again, holding the sword up before him. “I haven’t done the whole blood-and-four-elements number on it yet—well, actually, it’s had the blood—but whatever. Its name is Khávrinen.”
“Mmph. Trust you to go for something obscure.”
“No, it’s in the original Brightwood dialect of Darthene, a few hundred years removed from Nháired. You could render it as HarrowHeart.”
“Mmmm…“
“I mean, really, Lorn. Was ever heart harrowed as mine was last night?”
“If it was,” Freelorn said with a slow smile, “I’m sure that whoever wrote the ballad about it divorced the emotion from the reality somewhat.”
They stood smiling at one another, and Freelorn reached up, took Herewiss’s face between his hands, pulled it down, and kissed him long and passionately.
“We’ve been all over you all day,” he said. “I’m going out with them so you can have some time by yourself.”
“You know,” Herewiss said, “I think I love you.”
“And I, you,” Freelorn said, and reluctantly—with a longing backward look—hurried out after his people.
***
The first thing Herewiss did when he got back to the tower room was find the old spear he had carried with him on all his travels since Herelaf’s death. Khávrinen made short work of it, and Herewiss threw the splintered remains out the window, chuckling all the while.
The second thing he did was to send word to Hearn about what had happened, while he rooted around in the room for the materials necessary to finish the sword. The Wardress should be in the Wood this time of month, with the Full Moon just past, he thought. (Kerim!) he called, digging around in his chest for the sword-fittings he’d been saving.
(What? What? Who’s that?)
(It’s Herewiss, Lord Hearn’s son—)
(Impossible! I smell Flame!)
(Impossible?) Herewiss laughed. (I’ll show you impossible!) He bound sight into the linkage between them, and held Khávrinen before his eyes, pushing Flame into it. The sword blazed like a blue noon.
(Dear Mother of Everything—)
(She is that, every bit of it,) Herewiss agreed. (Kerim, will you give my father a message?)
(Why… why, surely, but Herewiss, how, how…)
(Say to Hearn that his son sends him greetings, and bids him know that the Phoenix is risen again, though the fire is blue this time. Say also to him that the name of my focus is Khávrinen. Will you do that?)
(Certainly, but Herewiss—)
(I’ll let you have a look at it when I get back to the Wood,) he said. (Be nice to your students, Kerim.)
(But—)
Herewiss cut the contact and found the sword-fittings. “Spark,” he said, “I’m going to need—”
He fell silent. A pillar of fire, torn, devoured, gone, and only a dark space where a bright lance of flame had defied the long night.
“Oh,” he said, very quietly. “Ohhh…”
He sighed, a sigh with tears in it, and straightened up, regarding the sword-fittings. Gold though they might be, they weren’t any good. Khávrinen’s metal was as alive as he was, but this stuff was dead. To fasten such onto the sword would be like hanging a corpse around someone’s neck. He thought also of Lorn’s remark about the length of the blade. “Khávrinen,” Herewiss said at last, “if you were a bit shorter in the blade, a foot or so, there’d be enough metal along with the extra in the tang to make a respectable hilt and crosspieces—”
He pushed power into the sword again, and beneath his hands he felt metal flow, though there was no heat. Khávrinen cloaked itself in Fire, possibly self-conscious about changing form in front of him. When the light died down, Herewiss examined it again. The sword had grown itself a severely plain crosspiece, hardly more than a slim bar of steel, as well as a textured grip and a disc-shaped pommel, and for good measure had carved a fuller down the length of its slightly-shortened blade. It had not, however, changed its balance. Herewiss held it in the air, hefting it with satisfaction—
—and felt something stir in the corner by the window. He whirled. Dammit to Darkness, he thought, some Power coming to test me already? I thought I was entitled to at least one day’s rest—
It was faint and weak-feeling, a troubling of the air in the corner, looking like the heat-shimmer above a pavement—
—brightening—
—a wobbling, wavering, exhausted column of fire— Herewiss froze, not even breathing.
(Hello, loved,) said the pale blaze in the corner.
“SUNSPARK!!!”
It smiled at him in slow tired patterns of fire. (Half a moment,) it said. (Let me enflesh—)
At the end of a few seconds it was standing there in the dear familiar blood-bay shape, and Herewiss had his arms around its neck and was hugging it hard. “Sunspark, Sunspark, where have you been?” he cried out, leaking tears.
