He could scarcely bear to touch it again. It made everything around him insubstantial and inadequate. Even the mountains became dreamlike. Only Hawklan still seemed solid. More solid indeed than the sword itself.
It was the same too for Isloman when he first held the sword. Loman took it to his workshop to seek his opinion on the strange black stone hilt. He handed it to him with a brief warning.
‘Take care, brother,’ he said, looking into Isloman’s eyes. Isloman returned the gaze, and felt the word "brother" reaching through the encrusted layers of affectionate chafing that separated them in their daily lives like a shield protecting a vulnerable breast.
He took the sword gingerly and, holding the scab-bard in his left hand, gently laid the hilt in the open palm of his right. As soon as the black stone touched his hand, his eyes widened and he drew a breath that seemed to last forever.
Concerned, Loman took his arm and whispered his name urgently.
Eventually, Isloman lifted the hilt from his hand and stared at it intently. Then he looked at Loman, his eyes almost closed as if he were having difficulty in seeing him. Laying the sword on a table, he put both his hands to his temples.
‘Where did this come from?’ he asked.
Loman told him.
Isloman sat down on his favourite stool and stared out into the spring sunshine.
‘What did you… learn, from the hilt?’ Loman asked after a long silence.
Isloman opened his mouth but made no sound, then he shook his head.
‘So it is with the blade,’ said Loman hoarsely. ‘Where has it come from, Isloman? Who could have made such a thing? How could it have lain so close to us for so many years and we not feel it?’
Isloman shook his head again. ‘And it sought out Hawklan?’ he said.
Loman nodded. ‘Rattled and clattered down that mound like any old piece of tin, to fall right at his feet. And he felt something when he took hold of it I’m sure, but he wouldn’t… or couldn’t say what.’
Isloman nodded. ‘This sword is beyond our words, Loman, and he sees deeper than you or I ever will.’
‘He just said, "my sword". Very quietly.’
The two brothers sat for a long time in silence, with the black sword lying on the table between them. Slowly a sense of normality returned as the sound of children playing outside wafted into the room.
‘What’s the device embedded in the hilt?’ Loman asked eventually. Isloman picked up the sword again, and lifted the hilt into the dust-laden sunlight streaming through the window. Twinkling in the inner depths of the black stone were two intertwined strands which seemed to stretch into an eternal void filled with countless stars. Briefly he felt the urge of float forward into that great harmony, but a sense of unfulfilled need came over him and kept him earthbound.
He laid the sword down and stared at it. Then some-thing occurred to him and he raised his hand as if to halt the memory before it moved on.
‘Just a moment,’ he said, and he walked over to the end of the workshop where he kept his collection of books; all manner of dissertations and commentaries and lore about carving. Strictly speaking the collection was not his, it was the Guild’s, he being its trustee as First Carver until one more worthy came along.
His craggy block of a head nodded up and down slightly as his finger tapped its way along the old spines, and he put out his tongue like a ‘do not disturb’ sign.
‘Aha.’
He reached down an ancient tome and, after blow-ing the dust from it, began gently turning the pages. Without looking up from the book he motioned to Loman.
‘I thought I remembered,’ he said. ‘Look.’ Loman gazed at the book blankly.
‘This is a very old book, Loman,’ Isloman explained needlessly. ‘And it’s written in a tongue and a style which I can barely understand. But look… ’ His heavy finger tapped a diagram lightly. Loman squinted at it and frowned.
‘It means nothing to me, Isloman,’ he said. ‘It’s one of your carvers’ drawings.’
‘Uh-uh,’ muttered Isloman to himself, engrossed in the page and not hearing his brother. ‘As far as I can make out, it says that following the Rise of Six… someone or other, before the Age of the Great Alliance, I think, and long before the Golden Age, certain weapons were forged… or re-forged by Theowart… Sph… Sphaeera, and… Enartion, with earth, water and air taken from the Places of Great… that might be, or Old, Power. And they were blessed by Ethriss… and consecrated to life.’
He nodded his head in satisfaction.
‘So?’ queried Loman.
‘So,’ said Isloman. ‘This diagram… ’ He prodded the picture in the book. ‘This diagram shows a sword like that.’ He pointed to the sword on the table.
Loman looked intently and disbelievingly at the diagram. ‘Does it say anything else?’ he asked.
Isloman scanned the page again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But, as I said, it’s a very old book, and it talks about times that were ancient when it was written.’
Neither spoke for a long time and the sound of chil-dren playing in the distance filled the room again. Very softly, Loman began to speak about things they had not discussed for many years. There were no records of Anderras Darion ever having been open, other than in children’s tales. In the past, the skills of generations had failed so totally to open its Great Gate or gain access in any way, that all attempts had long since been aban-doned, and public wonder at the castle had been confined solely to the Gate. Then Hawklan had come out of the mountains one bleak winter when all paths were impassable, and opened it with a key and a word. A man with no memory, who knew the castle as if he had lived there all his life. A man who was a healer, not a prince or a warrior as might be expected. And now this mysterious sword had sought him out.
‘Who is he, Isloman? And what does all this mean? Your book doesn’t tell us much. We know that this sword is far beyond our understanding. But it seems to presage danger. Danger for Hawklan, danger perhaps for us all. What shall we do?’
Isloman answered without hesitation. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We can’t do anything but wait. If Hawklan needs help and we can give it then we will, won’t we? Some-thing’s happening which we can’t begin to judge. But I know this, and so do you-there’s no evil in that sword, and no evil in Hawklan. And I trust Hawklan’s sight without question.’
Returning to the castle, the two brothers found that Hawklan had taken Isloman’s advice to find clothes more appropriate for the long journey to the Gretmearc than his long loose habit and soft shoes.
As they entered his room with the sword, Tirilen was eyeing him critically and making small, pecking adjustments to his unfamiliar garments.
‘Isn’t he lovely?’ she said, a cryptic expression on her face. She took him by the elbow and turned him round to face them. Hawklan looked faintly embarrassed. Loman and Isloman exchanged brief glances although neither spoke, nor made any other outward sign of what they had seen. Each knew the other had noted Hawk-lan’s remarkably changed appearance.
Loman covered their awkwardness by stepping forward and looping the sword belt around Hawklan’s waist. For a moment he looked like a faithful squire attending on his lord.
‘What did you find out about it?’ Hawklan asked.
‘Nothing definite,’ said Loman. ‘Isloman thinks as I do. It’s very old and it’s done some rare deeds in its time. It was made by craftsmen of… ’ He paused, at a loss. ‘I doubt a finer weapon exists in the whole Armoury… or anywhere for that matter.’
Hawklan turned directly to Isloman, trying to ignore Tirilen still moving around him making final adjust-ments to his clothes. ‘And the hilt?’ he asked.
‘It has the qualities that Loman tells me are in the metal. They’re quite… overwhelming. I certainly don’t understand them fully and I doubt I could explain them to you even if you weren’t rock-blind,’ said Isloman.