He opened his eyes again when he heard squeals of delight and the rapid flapping of many small wings. All around the room, psionoci had taken flight. Some crashed in midair, others swooped and soared with graceful ease.
Corlan’s sat in his hand, immobile.
He knew what the problem was. Not the breeze, or the other students, or the fight with his father.
He couldn’t concentrate, and he knew full well the reason why.
“I’m sorry.” He rose, psionocus in hand, and made for the door, ducking beneath the swoop of someone else’s small, animated beast. “I have to go.”
“I knew you would,” Tenavry said. “Remember, Corlan, wherever your path takes you, to deserve every gift you receive.”
Good advice, Corlan supposed as he hurried out the door. He had no idea what it meant, but it sounded smart. Maybe if he had time someday, he would try to figure it out.
XVIII
Magic
Three days later, the sword was done.
Aric had polished it with stones of ever-decreasing grit, and finally with a stiff cloth. He had cut fuller grooves most of the way down the blade, decreasing its weight and making it stiffer, and making it easier to withdraw after stabbing someone. The blade was two inches wide, with edges as keen as any he’d ever honed, and it tapered to a sharp point. The cross-guard was straight across the blade, then curled down at the inner end. At the outer, it curled up and joined the hand guard, forming a protective basket around Aric’s hand. The hilt was wrapped in soft leather, with fine wire twisted around it.
By this time, the steel had lost any traces of those who had handled it before. When Aric held it, his only psionic connection was to himself, a mental loop that allowed him to “communicate” with the sword. He knew where every inch of it was at every moment; however fast it sliced through the air, he was in absolute control. He had never before known a weapon so thoroughly, or had one so responsive to his will.
Myrana had bargained with a leather worker in the village and had a custom scabbard made, according to specifications Ruhm provided her, and when the sword was done so was its new home.
They had celebrated that night in the tavern—a celebration tempered with anxiety, because they knew they had to hurry back to Nibenay. Scouts had not reported any raider activity nearby for the last day, so they planned to leave in the morning.
In the morning, they packed up what little they owned. Aric hung the new scabbard from his belt and shoved the sword into it. Did wearing it truly make him taller, stronger, more handsome? Probably not. But harsh reality didn’t change the way it made him feel.
At the livery, they ran into Mazzax. He was dressed for travel, with a knapsack over his shoulders, and he stood among seven agitated kanks. “I’ve sold your erdlus,” he said.
“You did what?” Sellis asked.
“Sold ’em.”
“Why? They weren’t yours to sell.”
“Kank’s more comfortable for long trip. Plus they hold more.” He indicated one of the kanks, with bundles strapped to its back. “Plenty food on that one, more than a bird’ll tote.”
“But Mazzax,” Aric said, “Sellis is right, they were not yours in the first place. And we don’t own kanks.”
“Sure you do. Wasn’t my money bought these.”
The dwarf was a hard worker, and Aric appreciated his contributions to the sword he wore. But the dwarf was also as maddening as ever. Nothing he said made sense, or it did but only after you figured out all the parts he wasn’t saying. He already knew those parts, so he assumed everyone else did too. “You bought these kanks with our money? Without asking us? We don’t even need seven of them. What were you thinking?”
Mazzax pointed at each traveler, while he spoke their names. “Aric. Ruhm. Amoni. Myrana. Sellis. Mazzax.”
“That’s the five of us, and I suppose one to bear supplies, if we had any, but—”
“He’s going with us,” Myrana explained. “Or did you miss that part?”
“You’re coming?” Aric asked.
“Course I’m coming.”
“But …”
“Nothing here for me. Hotak’s gone. I’m apprentice, not master, not even journeyman, so can’t run smithy. What else keeps me here?”
“Friends?” Sellis asked. “Family?”
Aric already knew, from handling lots of iron that Mazzax had touched before, that he had no real friends in the village other than Hotak, and no family. “He’s alone here.”
“Aric is right. All alone.”
“Then you might as well come,” Myrana said.
The meaning of the supplies on the kank’s back sank in. “You bought all that?” Aric asked.
“Aye, food and water and shelter for long journey.”
“With our money?”
“Your money bought five kanks, no more.”
“So you purchased two kanks and all those supplies?”
“Aye.”
“Well then, I guess you’d better come with us.”
Aric thought Mazzax would be happy, but the dwarf simply shrugged. “I have been saying that.” As if that had been clear all along.
“Right,” Aric said. “It appears we’re ready, then. Let’s get out of here. On to Nibenay!”
“On to Nibenay!” Mazzax repeated.
“Oh, and Mazzax?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For all this, and everything else.”
The dwarf shrugged again, clambered onto a kank’s back, and started to ride.
The village was barely out of sight behind them when they saw a smudge of dust in the distance ahead. When they got closer, they could see riders, a small group of them. They didn’t look numerous enough to be a problem, so while they readied their weapons, they didn’t hide or change course.
Aric didn’t recognize the riders until they were almost right on top of them. Then familiar faces swam into view.
“Rieve!” he shouted as soon as he caught a glimpse of her coppery hair gleaming in the sun.
“Aric, is it really you?”
He jumped from the kank’s back and sprinted toward her. “It’s really me!” he cried. “You’re not a desert mirage?”
Rieve pinched her own cheek, leaving a red mark there, like a kiss. “I don’t think I’m a mirage.”
The rest of the family rode with her. Aric recognized her mother, her grandparents, her brother Pietrus. Another man Aric hadn’t seen before, but guessed he was Rieve’s father. Half a dozen soldiers accompanied them, armed and tense—two of them had started forward when Aric ran to Rieve, but relaxed their guard when it was obvious she knew him.
Rieve climbed down from her mount and met Aric, embracing him in a hug that took his breath away. Not just because it was firm, though it was, but because he had forgotten her scent and the way her orange ringlets tickled his nose, and the way her body swelled under her clothing. The depths of her light brown eyes, the warmth of her smile.
His sword bumped her hip as he held her. “Is that new?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ve just made it for myself.” They parted, took a step back, and he saw that she wore the sword he’d crafted for her. He drew his own—again, attracting the nervous interest of the soldiers—and showed it off. “How’s yours?”
“I’ve been practicing with it. It’s wonderful.”
“What are you doing so far from Nibenay?”
Rieve took his hand. Her grip pleasantly warm, the skin so soft he could hardly believe it. “Pietrus has been accused of a terrible crime,” she said. “He is innocent, of course. I know he’s not like other people, but he isn’t bad or vicious. He’s the most innocent person I know. Anyway, we had to flee Nibenay before the authorities arrested us all—him for the crime, and us for harboring him. Grandfather was convinced we would all be enslaved.”