Among the women sat Jasmine, working intently upon a length of woven light, carrying in her needle a lacework of silver to embroider the signs of rain and cloud and sea. Thewson stood before her for a long moment before she saw him, but her look when she gave it to him was glorious and utterly unsurprised, i am almost finished,’ she whispered in a tongue no other then alive could have known but he. ‘See if I have done it aright.’
On her lap, new-made, lay die fringed girdle of Rhees, the Girdle of Chu-Namu – not yet born for a few thousand years – the belt which would bind the circles of the world together once more, the Girdle of Binding, the Girdle of Our Lady.
‘It is like,’ Thewson said.
‘It is not like. It is! She took the last stitch, a spider’s stitch. ‘And, since I am priestess here, it will not be questioned.’ Taking Thewson by the hand, she led him within the Temple where the filtered light fell across the marble features of the Lady, shining among her jewels and the embroideries of her gown. Jasmine drew the Girdle around the image, fastened it, stood back to look on it once more. ‘I woke here, on the floor, with Hu’ao. They found me at the Lady’s feet when the Temple opened in the morning. When I had learned a few words, I told them the Lady had sent for me to weave her a new Girdle. They called me blessed – which is what they call pregnant women hereabouts – and priestess, and cared for me and Hu’ao and for your son when he was born. He is growing big, Thewson, with skin like brown silk.’
‘We can go now?’ he asked, full of joy.
‘Yes. I am finished. We can go now. But where?’
‘To the great forest of the south were a cave is, my flower. In that cave is the stone which lives, ready for my carving. It shall be an image of Auwe, Lord of Air, set high within the clouds in that place. On his head will be the Crown of Wisdom. I have it, made for this. We will go there, you and Hu’ao, and the boy, our son.’
‘Is it far? Very far?’
‘It is far. Very far. But we have long to do it in. We shall live long, Jasmine. Very long and joyously.’
MEDLO
They called themselves the people of the sunset, remembering a trek many generations in length toward the setting sun. They called themselves the sunset people, and they spoke with the gods. Often a man would wake startled from sleep to come to his fellows in hushed solemnity to say that the god had commanded him to do a thing or proclaim a thing. Often a woman would start from reverie and exclaim, ‘The goddess has spoken.’ They set up images in high places and went there when troubled to listen. It was not usual for them to see the god, but it happened sufficiendy often for legend to arise.
So it was that a god came to the Master Forger of Shan. The god brought a leather bag containing lumps of metal. He brought a pattern for a blade, also, drawn on parchment. These things he set before the Master Forger, the holder of mystery of the earth, the man who knows the invocations. The man looked at the god sidewise and doubtfully.
‘To a god,’ murmured the Master Forger, ‘the making of this thing would be easy. It is your metal and your pattern, after all.’ The Master Forger was looking politely at the ground, and his voice was quiet, for so was the usual conversation between men and gods properly conducted. ‘It does not seem that this matter should be brought to me.’
‘The invocations are needed. Firelord must be told of this and invited to participate in the making. It is customary. Necessary.’
The Master sighed. ‘We work best those things we know. Metal of this kind I do not understand. It is green.’
‘It is green, true. It is also necessary.’
The Master Forger sighed again. Sometimes it was useless to talk with gods because they did not explain themselves. ‘As you will,’ he said, picking up the metal and the pattern. Rather than explain the matter to his people, he went to the forge himself and the god plied the bellows, which was not the least surprising thing about him. He worked through the night, and when the sun rose, the metal was shaped. It lay on the anvil, green, like a blade of grass, with a curled guard and a long tang. At each step there had been invocation of Firelord and incantation of the names of the Powers and the blade had been quenched in blood and wiped on raw hides.
The god nodded, satisfied, and the Master Forger risked a question. ‘What is it for?’
The god smiled. Tor me to sharpen, to make a grip for, Smith, and to take from this place to another.’
The god went away then, as they usually did, and in time the Master almost forgot about it.
And in time, far to the north, in the land of fire mountains, Medlo stood behind a stony pillar watching the place where he had laid the Sword, now sharpened to a glittering green and hiked in gold. He had not been there long. From the east a horseman was approaching, a tall man, in dented armour,
