Page 245 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Remind me how long ago your father took his fall,” Ead said.

“Three years.”

“Before that, did he ever go to the haithwood?”

“Aye, often. Since the haithwood is in our province, he would sometimes walk with his servants through it, to make sure all was well. Sometimes he would even go alone. I thought it made him the bravest man alive.”

By the light of her magefire, Ead read the inscription on the slab.

I AM THE LIGHT OF FIRE AND STAR

WHAT I DRINK WILL DROWN

“Meg,” she said, “Loth explained my magic to you, did he not?”

“If I have it right, yours is a magic of fire,” Margret said, “and is attracted, in some way, to the magic of starlight—but not as much as the magic of starlight attracts itself. Do I have it right?”

“Just so. Galian must have known the sword would be drawn to sterren, and that Kalyba had a supply of it. He did not want her to hear that call. Whoever buried Ascalon surrounded it with fire. I imagine that for the first few centuries, whoever was the Keeper of the Leas was charged with keeping the entrance open and the braziers lit.”

“You think Papa was doing that.” Margret nodded slowly. “But when he took his fall—”

“—the secret was almost lost.”

The two of them looked down at the slab. Too heavy to pry up with their hands.

“I’ll ride back to Serinhall and fetch a greathammer,” Margret said.

“Wait.”

Ead took the waning jewel from around her neck. It was cold as hoarfrost in her hand.

“It senses Ascalon,” she said, “but the pull is not enough to drag it from the stone.” She thought. “Ascalon is of starlight, but it was shaped with fire. A union of both.”

She held up her magefire.

“And it responds to what is most like itself,” Margret said, catching on.

The tongue of flame licked at the jewel. Ead feared her instinct was misplaced until a light glowed in it—white light, the kiss of the moon on water. It sang like a plucked string.

The slab of stone cracked down the middle with a sound like a thunderclap. Ead threw herself back and shielded her face as the blackstone ruptured into pieces. The jewel flew from her hand, and the broken slab vomited a streak of light across the chamber. Something clanged against the wall, loud enough to make her ears ring, and came to rest, steaming, beside the jewel, which quivered in response. Both were glowing silver-white.

When the light dimmed, Margret sank to her knees.

A magnificent sword lay before them. Every inch of it—hilt, crossguard, blade—was a clean, bright silver, with a mirror shine.

I was forged in fire, and from comet wrung.

Ascalon. Made of no earthly metal. Created by Kalyba, wielded by Cleolind Onjenyu, blooded on the Nameless One. A double-edged longsword. From pommel to tip, it was as tall as Loth.

“Ascalon,” Margret said hoarsely, her eyes wick with reverence. “The True Sword.”

Ead closed a hand around the hilt. Power thrummed within its blade. It shivered at her touch, silver drawn to her golden blood. As she stood, she lifted it with her, speechless with wonder. It was light as air, chill to the touch. A sliver of the Long-Haired Star.

Mother, make me worthy.She pressed her lips to the cold blade.I will finish all that you began.

They climbed out of the coney-hole and retraced their steps through the haithwood. By now, the sky was dredged with stars. Ascalon, scabbardless, seemed to drink their light. In the chamber, it had looked almost like steel, but now there was no mistaking its celestial origins.

No ships left during the night. They would have to rest at Serinhall and make for Caliburn-on-Sea at dawn. The thought of another journey weighed on Ead. Even with the sword in hand, the haithwood wound its creepers about her heart and squeezed the warmth from it.

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