The sword itself was as ornate as the scabbard was plain. The quillons were designed to resemble rolling waves; the metal looked blue, but it was difficult to judge colors here in Belepheriel’s pavilion. For a moment Kellen thought that the hilt was encrusted with pearls, but then he realized that it was mother-of-pearl made to look like pearls.
But it was the pommel-weight that drew the eye.
The Elves rarely used faceted stones, preferring the play of light and color to be found in the smooth cabochon cut. But the pommel-weight of this sword was a faceted transparent sphere the size of a large apricot. It glittered brightly, casting rainbows across the walls of the pavilion.
“Her name is The Light at the Heart of the Mountain,” Belepheriel said. “She has always been victorious. It is said that she fought at Vel-al-Amion, but as to that, no one can say in truth. She is a thousand-year sword, forged when we knew to craft weapons of war, forged to teach the Enemy the taste of defeat and dissolution.”
Kellen regarded the sword uncertainly. He knew perfectly well that Belepheriel was doing him an incredible honor, and that many of the other Elven Knights had swords just as elaborate, but he couldn’t imagine riding into battle carrying a piece of… jewelry. The grip looked slippery, just to begin with.
“Try her,” Belepheriel said.
He had no choice. Kellen stepped forward, and took the scabbard in his hand, lifting the sword from the table. He gripped the hilt.
It wasn’t slippery at all.
He pulled. Light at the Heart of the Mountain slipped free of the scabbard with a hiss.
He felt himself automatically settle into guard position, as if the sword were alive. His last weapon had been a good one—nothing that came from the Elven forges was flawed—but this was better than that. A great weapon. Ancient. Perfect. She answered to him exactly as if he and she were one being; he knew precisely where every atom of her was, even with his eyes closed.
After a long moment, he realized he was just staring at the play of light along the surface of the blade, and reluctantly sheathed it again.
Gently, Belepheriel took the scabbard from Kellen’s hands, and hooked it to his belt. “Use her well,” he said. “And know that you will always be honored in my house and at my hearth.”
“And you. In mine,” Kellen said. “I, uh, don’t actually know if I
“But I shall take the desire for the deed, Kellen Knight-Mage,” Belepheriel said, bowing. “And now, I believe you will need to surprise Redhelwar.”
—«♦»—
IT didn’t take long for Kellen to discover what Belepheriel had meant.
He presented himself at Dionan’s pavilion as soon as he left Belepheriel. As usual, Redhelwar’s adjutant was busy, even with two-thirds of the army elsewhere—if an Elven army didn’t run on paperwork, then endless meetings and consultations seemed to take their place. If Kellen didn’t receive any looks of open curiosity, he was at least thoroughly inspected by everyone he passed, and by everyone who found a reason to pass by Dionan’s tent while he waited. He had no doubt that the information about the spurs and the sword would be all over the camp by the time he was finished here.
At last he was able to enter.
“As we await Adaerion,” Dionan said, pouring tea, “it would please me to hear anything you wished to tell.”
This was briskness indeed from the Elves! Well, he could certainly match it. “You will have seen that I bear gifts given by Belepheriel’s hand,” Kellen said. “He wished it known that the gifts would have been given no matter what I said to him today.”
Dionan looked… puzzled. “We will drink tea,” he said, after a long pause.
Adaerion arrived a few moments later.
“Belepheriel has given Kellen gifts,” Dionan said, without preamble, as brusquely as any human. “He has given him The Light at the Heart of the Mountain. He has given him the spurs of Knighthood.”
