Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (47 page)

He didn't let me finish. "Telek told you to come to me for a jivatma." He nodded. "That's what I do: make jivatmas. At least, I do the Shaping--you will

do the Making, the Binding, the Naming... all the rituals."

It all sounded very confusing. "All I need is a sword. A plain sword, nothing more; don't you make any of those?"

He shook his head. "I make new blades, unnamed blades, but full of raw potential. Once blooded, they are jivatmas."

My disbelief was rude, but I couldn't hide it. "Are you telling me every sword

in Staal-Ysta is a blooding-blade?"

Patiently, he explained. "No sword is 'normal' here, merely potential as yet untapped. My purpose is to find and shape the potential, matching it to the warrior. All come to me for that purpose; it's what I was born to do."

I sighed, too tired to argue. "I need a sword. Just give me a sword. I'll take

what I can get."

He dipped his head. "Then I will make you a sword."

Kem was, of course, a Northerner, and--like all of them--tall, broad, well-built, very blond and very strong. But he was not ishtoya or an-ishtoya, kaidin or an-kaidin. He was the swordsmith, the man who probably received greater respect than anyone in Staal-Ysta.

And now here I was in his smithy looking at lumps of iron.

His Borderer was curt. "Don't look: touch."

Twelve lumpy bundles, now bare of wrappings. I saw grayish, pitted metal, like

bread dough only half-kneaded. Kem had lined them up in double rows of six, waiting for me to touch them.

The smithy was small in comparison to the lodges, though mostly dwarfed by the

equipment stuffed into it. Anvils, bellows, tongs, tubs and hammers and grinding

stones, and countless other things, all jammed in corners and against the walls

as well as hanging from rafters.

Kem waited. His face was broad and pitted as the iron, seamed and pocked with scars. His blond hair was dulling to gray, pulled back in a single braid. He wore only a thin wool shirt, trews, boots and leather bracers.

Kem smiled, showing crooked teeth. Idly he crossed his big arms and waited, patience personified.

I knelt. Touched the lumps, one by one, humoring the man. Until I reached the eighth.

Kem saw my face. Smiled. Nodded. Then lifted the lump from the hardpacked floor.

"So," he said lightly, "now I am neither a fool nor a liar, but a man who knows

his trade." He set the eighth lump onto his largest anvil and left it there, then one by one wrapped up the other eleven and put them away in a trunk.

"It was warm," I said in surprise. "The others all were cold."

"Warm, cold; it makes no difference. The iron knew your touch."

"But I'm a Southroner!"

Kem shrugged big shoulders. "Do you think it cares where you were born? You touched it, and it knows. Just like the magic knows your name, your presence--your own essence."

"It's only a lump of iron."

"Much more than that, Southron... it's sky-born, from the gods, and full of wild

magic." Kem's tone was stolid. "Once we're done, it'll be far more than a lump,

and the magic will be harnessed. It'll be a blooding-blade."

I watched him kneel at the edge of a shallow pit. It was filled with glowing red

coals dusted by fine gray ash. Carefully he raked them, teasing them hotter yet.

Suspiciously, I asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Hold that lump of iron. Cherish it like a woman. Caress it with your breath."

"What?"

"You heard me, Southron. Do it."

I had some knowledge of how swords were made, and this wasn't part of it. But Kem didn't seem the type to tease for the hoolies of it, having no sense of humor, and so I picked up the lump of iron and cradled it against my abdomen.

"Is that how you fondle a woman?" Kem still knelt by his pit.

"You don't really--"

"I do. Breathe on it, like I said. Put your mark on it, like a cat."

I looked at him suspiciously, searching for a jibe at my expense, but saw nothing in his blue eyes except utter peace and endless patience. Scowling, I stared down at the pitted, knurled lump of metal in my hands. Then lifted it to

my mouth and fogged it with my breath, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

It

was warm in my hands, much more than cold metal, with a silky texture that belied its pitted appearance. I found myself searching for flaws, as if I really

could find them before the blade was made.

In disgust, I made myself stop. But my skin was somehow attuned to it, wanting

to touch it more. Uneasily, I wondered if it had anything to do with Kem's mutterings about essence.

"Bring it here," he said. I carried it over, then put it into the coals as he indicated. He raked it covered, then sat back. "What do you want in a sword?"

I shrugged, thinking it obvious. "True temper. Proper balance. A keen, sharp edge that holds."

Kem's eyes didn't waver. "What do you want in a sword?"

His tone stopped me cold. He wasn't being facetious. He really wanted to know.

I

thought it was some sort of test, maybe, and I wanted badly to pass.

"All the things a good sword should have," I told him. "I want a sword I can trust, of course--one with a strong but flexible blade, cutting cleanly every time without snagging or turning on bone. One that knows its master, unceasingly

seeking to please." I shrugged, not knowing how to explain it. "One that is mine

in my hand, unlike any other, with a personality much like my own." I smiled wryly. "I've handled many swords; they all have certain tricks. I want one that

understands mine."

After a moment, Kem smiled. "Maybe you are a sword-dancer."

"Just give me a sword," I suggested cheerfully. "A sword, a circle, an opponent...that is my world, smith. And now you're a part of it."

Kem nodded thoughtfully. "This may work after all."

When the lump was hot enough, he lifted it from the pit with tongs and placed it

on the anvil. Then he took up his hammer. "You may hold it," he said. "It's your

job as much as mine."

I held the tongs while Kem worked the iron. We fell into a ringing rhythmn: hold, hammer, reheat; hold, hammer again. It was important, Kem explained, that

the temperature remain fairly constant, not too hot and not too cool, or the soul of the metal would be ruined.

The noise was deafening. And then, slowly, I became accustomed, beginning to like the sound, which had a song all its own. I thought of the Canteada.

Heard

the echo of their music. Knew it was in Kem. Knew it was in the sword.

Maybe, even, in me?

I thought abruptly of Del's singing, to key her blooding-blade.

A shiver ran down my spine. "Can you leave out the magic?" I asked.

Kem nearly missed his stroke. The rhythm returned again, but I saw the furrow in

his brow as he stared at me over the hot lump of iron, sweat-faced, flushed red

from reflected heat. "When we are done with this, it will be much more than a sword. And you will be much more than a sword-dancer."

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. "A kaidin, yes, I know... but only if I

quench it."

Kem waved me away and returned the lump to the coals. "You are a fool," he said.

"And I am a fool as well, for wasting my time on a man who doesn't appreciate what Northern sword-magic is... or what he himself can be."

It was the end of whatever rapport we might have built. Over the next two days I

watched Kem hammer the lump into a bar, then begin to fold it. He took thin iron

rods and twisted them around the bar, then hammered them all together, then twisted and hammered again. I lost track of how many times, though I'm sure Kem

knew. He was a man who knew his art.

The hammering continued. But now the lump was more than a bar, and the bar was

more than itself. There was a shape in the iron, though it lacked its final form.

"Do you see it?" Kem asked.

"Point, tang--yes."

He grunted, still hammering. The rods were no longer visible, having been worked

into the bar. The blade was a solid thing, showing no signs of its lumpy, gnarled origins or its slender, twisted cousins.

He let it cool, stopped hammering. Then picked it up and gave it to me. "Take it

to bed with you. Every night until it's done."

"Do what?"

"To bed," he said, "each night. It's part of the Binding ritual; the sword must

know its master."

The unfinished blade was warm in my hands. "Am I supposed to couple with it, too?"

Kem didn't crack a smile. "Just bring it back each morning."

I took it to bed with me. I brought it back each morning. The ritual was carried

out, even though I felt like a fool.

The balance was magnificent, even without hilt, grip, pommel. Unwhetted, it still lacked edges, but the promise was inherent. The thing was alive in my hands, smooth and warm and alive. I stared at the blade in amazement. "So,"

Kem

remarked, "the skeptic begins to believe." I shivered, wanting to wipe hands on

woolen trews. But not daring to before him. "In your skill, absolutely. In other

things, I'm not sure." He took the blade away. "It's time we made it steel."

Once again he heated the blade, this time until it blazed white-hot. Kem covered

it with coals, left it alone, manned the bellows when I didn't. "Almost a sword," he crooned. "Not so long, now."

It was night, and very late. I heard the whir and wheeze of the bellows, Kem's

droning uplander mumble. Dragged myself out of sleep and stood up from my place

by the door. "How long now?"

"Not so long, now." He took it out of the coals, set it on the anvil, began to

hammer the edges, packing them to hold. And then he put it back in the coals and

covered it one last time. "When it comes out, it'll be done. And then I will give the blade to you, and you will take it to the lake, and you will quench it

in the water."

Flesh prickled. "How quenched, Kem?"

He laughed silently, showing crooked teeth. "Not that kind, Southroner. This is

the gentle quenching. A baby's first bath. Not the true quenching, or blooding

yet; there will be time for that later."

I was immensely relieved, but too embarrassed to show it. "Easy enough just to

dip it in the lake."

Kem's gaze didn't so much as waver. "And while it is being quenched, you will ask the Blessing."

That I knew something of; even my Southron sword, Singlestroke, had been blessed

during its making. But it hadn't been asked by me. The shodo had simply done it.

"I don't understand."

"The Blessing," he repeated. "You will ask it of the gods while the blade is in

the water. It must be quickly done; if you leave it in too long, the blade will

cool too much."

I sighed, humoring him. "What happens if the gods don't bless it, Kem?"

He shrugged. "Then the steel will be flawed. The sword will fail you...

probably

when you most need it."

I scratched through beard to chin. "I don't believe in gods."

The Northerner just nodded. "Tell them that," he suggested. "I'm sure it will amuse them."

In the end, I took the hot blade to the lake, dipped it into the water, squinted

against the steam as I held onto the tongs. Black water roiled and bubbled, sucking the heat away.

Ask the Blessing, Kem had said.

Well, I owed the man that much.

"Gods," I said aloud, "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to ask, other

than this Blessing. So why not give it to me, if only to please Kem?"

It was, I thought, enough; I lifted the blade from the water. The steel glowed

wine-red. It smoked in cold air.

I took it back to Kem.

He nodded, pleased. "Now," he said, "into that trough; the water isn't so cold."

I saw the trough he indicated, a long iron pan filled with water. I set the bar

into it, let it rest, handed the tongs to Kem. "What now?"

"We wait," he said succinctly.

We waited. And then at last Kem stirred and used the tongs, plucking the blade

from the trough. "Done," he said, "for now. All that's left is the Shaping...

the Whetting... First Keying when you blood it."

"First Keying," I echoed. "What is that?"

He looked down at the blade. "You quench your jivatma in flesh and blood...

that

is the true quenching, the first blooding, when the magic is first roused, first

acknowledged and harnessed. But it's in the sword, not in you--you need a way to

tap it... a way to focus yourself. That's what the singing is for--to focus you

as you tap the power. You key the sword to tap it, or else the magic goes wild."

I wanted to scratch the back of my prickling neck. "But if you don't sing, it's

just a sword... right?"

He sighed. "They have taught you nothing."

"I'm a Southroner, remember?"

Kem picked his teeth. "You can't key it until it's truly blooded in living flesh. Quenching rouses the power, keying it controls it. But if you want only a

whisper of power, not much more than simple sword skill, you don't bother to sing."

I thought back to all the times Del and I had sparred in practice circles.

Never

had she keyed the sword, not even a little; I couldn't remember her singing.

Only against the enemy. Only when she needed the power.

I remembered the question he hadn't answered. "What is First Keying?"

Kem bit off a nail. "You can't key until it's blooded; it doesn't know you till

then, not as it needs to know you. So the magic is wild. But the first song you

sing thereafter becomes the focus for First Keying; after that the power is yours."

My interest rose considerably. "So, if I don't sing--even if I kill someone in