Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

"Aye, it's a sharp one. " .

"Miraculously so, some men might say. " He was still peering closely at the weapon, now touching its broad cross guard with the fingers of his left hand. "I have never seen its match. Where did you find it? May I ask you that?"

"Aye, you may. Our master smith made it, in Camulod. "

"Ah, but whence came the iron? It seems... different, somehow. "

"It is. It's skystone metal. " I saw from his face that he had no notion what I meant, and it might have been the excellent wine that prompted me, but I suddenly found myself telling him the story of Publius Varrus and his skystone. I tried to keep it brief, and I omitted any mention of Excalibur, but it is not a tale that lends itself to brevity, and by the time I had finished, it was growing dark within the tent He sat silent, his eyes gleaming in the heavy shadows as he thought of what I had told him.

As I looked around the tent I saw the glimmer of a tiny, solitary votive candle in the farthest corner. "The light of learning," I murmured.

"What?"

"It's dark in here, quite suddenly, and I was recalling that you used to burn fine candles in profusion late at night."

"I still do, though not as profligately as I recall you did. Here, let's light some."

He pulled himself out of his chair and gave me back my sword, then crossed to where a makeshift curtain hung against one wall of the tent and pulled it back to reveal a long, low table ranked with candelabra. He then lit a taper from the single votive lamp and went about lighting the larger candles, almost a score of them, turning the tent's interior into a fantastical array of soft, yellow, dancing light. I sat and watched him, aware that the effects of his fine wine had worn off in the telling of my tale, and remembering that the mead I had poured for both of us hours earlier still sat upon the small table, virtually untouched. I rose and fetched the cups, handing his to him as he settled down again.

"So," he began immediately, "the statue that your uncle made sat unused for years before you thought of turning it into swords. What prompted you to try that?"

"Hmm?"

"What made you think, so suddenly and after such a long time, that this statue—this Lady of the Lake—might be induced to yield fine swords?" One corner of his mouth was twitching in a smile that his neatly trimmed beard did not quite conceal. "And bear in mind, if you please, that I am a bishop, consecrated to God's truth."

"I... Forgive me, Bishop, I don't follow you."

"Oh yes you do, you know exactly what I mean. There was another sword, wasn't there? Varrus made a sword from the statue. That is the only tiling that would explain the difference in weight you spoke of at one point, and the pattern of this sword, which is unique, while you, who supposedly designed it, are no armourer. There are holes in your tale, Master Merlyn, although you do conceal them very well. I suspect you have a secret of some kind, but if it is indeed a secret, then say so and I'll ask no more questions."

I raised my horn cup to him in a wry salute. "To perspicacity," I said. "You miss but little, Bishop Germanus, and I salute you. I appreciate now why it should be you who was selected and appointed to come here and debate theological imponderables. You're right, of course. There is another sword, Excalibur, and you are the first person ever to have guessed at its existence."

He leaned forward, his eyes alive with interest. "There is another? Still extant? I had thought there was, once, but supposed it had been lost or stolen."

"No, it has lain hidden now for years. I am its guardian. It is the King's Sword."

"What king?"

"The High King of Britain. The Riothamus—Arthur Pendragon, I believe."

"Arthur? The boy who is your charge? Tell me of this, Merlyn. I smell a story here. What is so wonderful about this sword, this... what did you call it?"

"Excalibur. Its hilt was poured and cast in a mould, as was this one I have here. A solid mould." I saw his blank expression and a thought occurred to me, bringing me to my feet. "I've something in my tent that will show you what I mean. I'll be right back."

When I returned, I handed him the small white cube of ; fired clay that I used as a weight to anchor the small pile of! documents and notes that my desk attracted daily. "Here. Break it apart," I told him. "It's made in two pieces." He did so, after only a moment of examination, and the brass apple ! it contained dropped into his hand. "It's solid brass. My Uncle Varrus made it, years ago, and I've carried it with me since his death, as a memento of his skills. Each half of the mould is a perfect replica of half the apple, as you can see now that it's open. He packed the mould with wax, then bound the halves together with strong wire, so that no air could enter. Then he poured molten metal, slowly, through that small hole at the top. The metal melted the wax, which escaped slowly through a series of tiny holes in the mould— slowly enough to ensure that the metal settled evenly and perfectly within the mould, leaving no air bubbles, since no air was present when the metal was poured. The result is a perfect, solid brass apple.

"The hilts of these swords were made the same way, but with the mould for the hilt constructed around the tang of the blade and the skeletal side bars of the guard. When the pour was complete, the molten metal had bonded perfectly to the sword's tang and guard and the entire hilt was flawless, one solid piece. That's where the name Excalibur came from: it means 'out of the mould.'"

Germanus sat silent for long moments, rubbing the surface of the apple with his thumb, then reached out again to take the sword and gaze at its hilt, fingering it in the same way. Finally he looked up at me. "I've never seen a finer sword, Merlyn, nor one so large and long. How much finer is Excalibur, that you must keep it hidden?"

I grimaced and shrugged my shoulders. "Excalibur makes this sword here look worthless, dull and lustreless.

Excalibur's blade is so pure, it seems made of shining, burnished silver, dazzling to behold, and its very fabric contains lines of layered metal so fine that they form a pattern that shimmers like water, when held up to light. Its edge will cut a hair, yet is so strong that it will slice through other, lesser swords. This one will, too, but this lacks the spectacle Excalibur imparts to every swing. And where this guard is plain, Excalibur's is intricately wrought with Celtic scrollwork, and its hilt is bound in the rough belly skin of a great shark, then tightly woven with both gold and silver wires, never to shift in the wielder's grip. Its pommel is a golden cockleshell, perfectly wrought in every detail to the size and shape of a real cockleshell found by Publius himself. The artist who created it, a priest called Andros, had a heavenly gift for artifice. Where this sword here is plainly fine, Excalibur is ornately dressed perfection. "

"Hmm. And what does young Arthur think of this sword he will some day wield?"

"He doesn't know of its existence. I have not shown it to him. "

I knew I had surprised him again, but he concealed it well, merely resting his right elbow on his left wrist while he raised his hand to twirl the hairs of his moustache reflectively. At length he sniffed and reached again for his cup, sipping a tiny amount of mead and rolling it around in his mouth, all the while deeply immersed in his thoughts.

'Tell me about the boy, " he said, at length.

"What would you like to know?"

"Everything, but first about his right to be a king. Excalibur is the King's Sword, you said, Arthur's sword. Not a king's sword. Explain your thinking to me, and believe me when I say I do not ask this lightly. "

I launched myself again into talk, explaining Arthur's lineage in full and relating every aspect of it to my own grandfather's vision of the future, the great dream he had shared with Publius Varrus and the other founders of our Colony. And once again Germanus listened intently, making no attempt to interrupt me.