Elthric awoke for what seemed the hundredth time. Each awakening was the same. A viscous sweet-smelling fog enveloped him—mind and body—until the lethargy encumbering his senses dragged him back into sleep. Dreams, some so real he experienced them with all his senses; some utterly fantastical filled him with agitation. Throughout, that same honeyed scent wafted over him, blanketing him in tranquility. If he had recognized its comforting effect, he would have welcomed the balm he sought for his restlessness, but its unusual fragrance was too strange to reconcile. Nothing could put a name on it.
Day and night, night and day, again and again, through half-open eyes he peered at the room around him, his mind a blank. Except for dreams, he had nothing to call upon to give meaning to his existence. Nothing helped him make sense of who, or what, or where he was. Upon each awakening, even the dreams evaporated into the fleeting ghost of a memory, a vision with no substance, no anchor, nothing connecting the thread that held him to another place.
Then there was the woman.
She appeared each time he awoke. A gossamer beauty. Her face, almost translucent pale yet glowing, was framed by an abundance of silvery hair cascading down her arms, her ice-blue eyes always fixed on him with an aspect of sadness and anticipation. An illusion, perhaps. For she was no more real than anything else. But her hand felt cool on his brow, her voice, soothing. She might have been a creature he’d encountered on the Plain of Dreams, so ethereal did she seem.
“You’re awake,” she said, her perfumed breath warm against his face.
“Where am I…?”
“You are home. You are safe.”
“Safe?” Something in her voice—or perhaps it was in her words—sent a quickening through his blood. He struggled to rise, but pain in his shoulder and her restraining hands stopped him. Sinking back into the furs and blankets, he gasped for breath, as if he’d been running over a long distance.
“You mustn’t exert yourself.” Her pleasant, intoxicating scent overcame him like an elixir and he breathed easily. She adjusted the covers over him. “You’ve been hurt,” she whispered, “badly, I’m afraid, but thanks be to Nirmanath, you are mending.”
“How long have I…?”
“It’s been five days since your injury.”
“Injury…?” He tried to move, but a spasm in the back of his shoulder frustrated him. He drew in a quick breath through clenched teeth. “My m-mother…my mo…. What of my…?” Images, wraithlike and without form or meaning, raced through his mind’s eye, of an older woman whose face and name he tried to recall. Even as he pressed himself hard to remember them, her features dissolved into mist, replaced by a pang in his chest that might have signified some pressing, unresolved matter had it not slipped entirely from his mind the moment the thought appeared.
“Hush….” Her lips found his, and he succumbed to the taste of her, the softness of her mouth. “Oh, my love!”
Confused beyond reason, he averted his face. “Who are you?”
She sat back on her heels and regarded him as if mortified. “I am your wife. Do you not know me?” Her pale cheeks blossoming with color, she lowered her eyes.
He blinked to clear his senses of the viscous web. “My…wife…?”
Tears filled her eyes. She groped for him with trembling hands, then ran the backs of her fingers over his stubbly cheeks. “Oh, my dearest! They told me this might happen, but I refused to believe. How could I believe when—?”
“Who…? Who told you what?”
“The Old Ones…Kaylwen and Falinn. They tended your wounds…and you’re healing well…and quickly.” A tear trickled down each of her cheeks. “But you hit your head when you fell. They said you might not remember.”
“You say you’re my wife?”
“We were married before the first snow fell. Don’t you remember? We had but a few months together…happy months…and then you and the others were attacked in the deep wood. We were hoping to have a child this year before the first winter moon.”
Nothing made sense. “Attacked…?”
“Skaddock rebels surprised you on the hunt. Foolishly, you tried to fight them off. No one else suffered injury, but you….” Tears fell unchecked over her face. “My brave Einar! You might have been killed!”
He had no memory of the event, and the effort to recollect brought on a new torpor and throbbing in his head. His eyes, heavy from exertion, slid closed even as he struggled to keep them open.
She caressed his chest through the blankets. “I thought I was going to lose you. And now with Tolmer gone, you are all I have left in the world.” She nestled her head on his chest, and continued to stroke him, hot tears falling freely, dampening the blankets.
He pressed a hand over one of hers, his eyes, little slits, searching her face. “You called me Einar. Is that my name?”
She tilted her face toward him, and smiled through the tears. “My Einar!”
Hard as he tried, he could make sense of nothing she said. “What is your name?”
She began to sob, her body wracked with weeping. “I am your Tiela!”
“Tiela….” He whispered, running his fingertips over her tear-dampened cheek. “Your name is almost as lovely as you are.”
* * *
Time passed. It might have been weeks or months. He had no way of knowing how long he lay on the soft pallet of furs and blankets, awakening to dark and light, dozing through hushed sounds of female voices, the smell of simmering food, and that singular sweetness which always seemed to hover over the room. Tiela’s airy fragrance so close he imagined it embracing him.
When at last he sat under his own power and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sunlight, springtime warm, filtered down through the thatched roof, along with the sound of birdsong and children’s laughter.
Days of agreeable idleness came and went. People stopped in to ask after him, and Tiela, always close and always happy to explain his relationship one to another, took his arm, laying her head on his shoulder, reintroducing him to Cousins Alion, Faldric, Gwylan, and Edemil. The men all jested with him, teasing, each in his own way, about his encounter with death. He drew pleasure from their praises and flattery. Until gradually, his dreams ceased haunting him and he embraced his position in the village as Tiela’s husband. Even though he blushed when the bard sang songs of his heroism, recently written, around the feasting fires of mid-spring.
Early one particularly fine spring morning, he sat just outside their cottage, his back propped against the wall, knees drawn up, while Tiela entertained The Grandmothers within. They came by often and spoke of “women’s things,” giving him more than a pretext to excuse himself from the bustling activity that always accompanied their presence. As he idly pared a stout bracklethorne shaft in the sun’s warmth, he smiled when he considered how fortunate he was to have such a life…and such an adoring and beautiful wife.
The two old women left abruptly, baskets brimming with sweet and savory scented herbs and flowers, offering their regards as they whisked past him on their way through the village on their errands. From what he could gather from their woman chatter, so-and-so’s child suffered from a cough and what’s-her-name, who after eight months of marital bliss had failed to conceive a child, was in need of a special “something.” Their business seemed never-ending. Tiela followed not long after, a basket on her arm, a blue scarf over her silvery hair. Four other young women had gathered before the cottage and stood, likewise furnished, eagerness beaming from their freshly scrubbed, pale faces.
“Come with us, Einar.” She stooped to plant a kiss on his forehead. “It will do you good to stretch your legs. You can watch over us while we gather simples…” She straightened up and, catching his eye, cast him a seductive smile, “…and bathe in the stream.”
Arm in arm, their heads together, they walked behind the others, also with arms interlinked, giggling and casting glances over their shoulders as they made their way from the village into the dense surrounding wood.
A comfortable heat surged within him. “Have I always been this happy with you?”
She tugged on his arm, forcing him to pause beside her on the sun-dappled path. “If my feelings for you are any indication, I would hope so.” Her cheeks colored and she modestly lowered her eyes.
“I wish I could remember….” He tipped her face up and savored the look of adoration in her eyes. “Tell me again, how did we meet?”
“You wandered into our village…about eight moons ago. You had goods to trade for our astil powder. You met with The Grandmothers and afterwards there was a celebration, for you had brought many things we had need of for the winter. The fire in the village center was high and bright that evening and well into the night. The moon was just past full, and you and my cousin Gwylan had imbibed a bit too heavily of old Caluoch’s mead. You were quite unsteady on your feet.” She laughed softly, covering her mouth with her hand, lest the other women hear.
He laughed at her reaction. “I thought I was entering Gwylan’s house….”
“…but instead…”
“…I fell into your bed.” He laughed heartily.
Her blush deepened. “Come along.” She turned to continue down the path, “Or the others will talk.”
“Let them talk.” He caught her hand and drew her close. Her scent enveloped his senses, completely exhilarating. “You are my wife. They can say what they will.” He lowered his face and covered her mouth with his own. Her lips, soft and plump, tasted of ripe sithleberries. He pressed closer, wanting more, but she giggled and gently pushed him away.
“Not here, Einar!”
“Later, then?”
Her eyes sparkled with invitation before, breathless, she averted her face. “Later….”
They caught up to the other women in a small clearing by a wide stream. There they left him. Having given him instructions to search for a certain mushroom among the bracken at the outer perimeter of the glade, Tiela followed the others through the brake in search of a flower that only women were permitted to harvest. He did not question, setting off immediately on his task.
As he wandered through dense growths of ferns and spindly shoots of new trees, the women’s laughter played on the breeze with the sound of birds mimicking their voices. They splashed in the water just beyond the barrier of trees and briars, thick with spring growth. He smiled, visions of his wife’s soft, naked body in the running stream overpowering all other thought. Until something in the underbrush snagged his foot, and emitting an “Ooof!” he crumpled to his knees.
On all fours, he raked the lush scrub, determined to find the culprit that had tripped him, most likely a vine, root, or stump.
He pushed aside the undergrowth. A glimmer of sunlight on metal flickered like a woman’s smile, tempting him to search deeper.
He saw it then. Partially wrapped in a decayed and discolored cover of linen, the bundle had been buried between the wide roots of an old oak, but rain and wind or a hungry squirrel in search of its cache of nuts had disrupted its resting place. Save for the ground cover, it now lay partially exposed to the elements. With his hands, he dug out the rest of it from the soft forest soil. He laid it across his knees and gently brushed away the dirt and debris.
He peeled away the shroud, exposing the pointed edge of an old double-edged sword, blunt and dulled by time. As he unwound the wrapping, the cloth fell apart in his hands, and as it disintegrated the hilt was revealed. Light glimmered on the pommel—a magnificently wrought piece of metalwork, etched in gold with swirls and spirals of intricate design. But it appeared unfinished. Golden bezels, like gemstone settings, on either end of the cross guard and pommel, were empty.
Elthric turned it over in his hands, running his fingertips over the broad surface of the blade. Then he rose slowly, testing the heft of the sword. It had a well-balanced feel—not too heavy, not too light—even in the absence of its precious stones. Tentatively, he flicked and double-flicked the blade. He cut an arc through the air. Its sound, a pleasing hum, rose and fell with his actions, invigorating and encouraging him to explore. He slashed again, and the humming grew louder. Again and again, he turned and thrust, hewing and slashing, feinting and lunging, employing his wrist and arm, moving his feet and his body as if in a dance. As though his muscles remembered the act of swordplay.
“What are you doing?”
Tiela’s voice caught him off guard.
He wheeled around, dropping his arm to his side. Thankfully, she was alone. The others thrashed through the underbrush, their laughter again competing with the birdsong. “I found it buried among the bracken. May I keep it?”
Her pale gaze settled on the weapon in his hand and her eyes widened. “It’s a sword.”
“A very fine sword.” He smiled. “At least it will be with a bit of polishing and honing.”
She wrinkled her fair brow. “What would you know of such things?”
Elthric paused. Something inside him told him he knew a great deal, but he couldn’t find the words to answer.
“You shouldn’t play with that. You might hurt yourself.” She took a step forward, her hand extended as if to relieve him of the weapon.
“It’s mine. I found it.” He backed away.
“You don’t know that. It belongs to someone and he’ll probably return. When he finds it missing, he’s sure to be angry.”
“By the look of it, whoever claimed ownership is long passed over into Glothras.”
“Look!” Transfixed, Tiela gazed wide-eyed at the sword. “See how it glows!”
Heat generated from blade to hilt. He held it up in front of his face, his eyes wide with wonder. “It’s burning!”
“Drop it!” Tiela stepped away in fright.
“I can’t!”
Try as he could to release it, the sword was one with his hand. At the same time, he gaped at the flames as they engraved an inscription along the groove down the center of the blade.
She made a move to pull the sword from him, but the fire went out and she backed away, hands thrown up in alarm.
“It’s all right now, Tiela.” He turned the sword over, his eyes focused on the strange letters emitting tiny curls of black smoke. “I’m not hurt…not at all.”
Tiela closed the gap between them and clutched his forearm. “Einar, I’m frightened.”
“There’s no need be.” He studied the odd letters, only half-aware of her presence. “What can it mean?”
Trembling, she glanced at the runes, etched in black along the now shining and sharpened blade. “I can’t say. We should take it to The Grandmothers. They would know.”
The other women now stood, speechless and gawking, at the edge of the clearing, baskets brimming with wide-petaled yellow flowers on yellow striped stems.
Elthric considered Tiela’s suggestion, his wary gaze settling on the other women. “Go back with them. Alert The Old Ones. I’ll be along in a short while.”
* * *
Kaylwen, the older of the two Grandmothers, her chalky but still attractive face a net of fine wrinkles, examined the sword in the afternoon sunlight speckling the room, her pale blue eyes squinting as she stared at the runes. Falinn, nearly as aged, but gnarled and twisted as an old apple tree, sat hunched beside her on the bench. Bowls and woven baskets with an assortment of dried flowers, herbs, and seeds had been pushed to the far end of the planked table.
As the table rested against the wall under the only window, Elthric leaned lower between the two old women’s shoulders to view the sword in the light. He had found it impossible to stand upright. From low-hung beams, sprigs and bundles of plants and herbs, dried and drying, hung from the rafters. More than once he’d brushed his head on them, sending showers of fragrant—and not so fragrant—plant matter over the table, into his hair, and onto the floor. Behind him in the raised fire pit rimmed in stones, flames licked at simmering pots and kettles, their vapor settling warm and sticky-sweet on the still air. Aside from the bench and table, the only other furniture consisted of the pallet bed across room that the two women shared.
Their heads close together, The Old Ones considered the weapon before them with the reverential awe reserved for an ancient relic of mythical standing.
Falinn slid a bony finger under the blade and tilted it toward the light. “’Twould surprise me not if ’t’were Tachlanad.”
Straining on tip-toes to see over the Old Ones’ heads, Tiela gasped and clutched Elthric’s arm. “The Sword of Names…?”
“Aye…. I’ve little doubt about it.” Kaylwen inched the sword away from Falinn and slowly turned it in her hands, running her fingers over the runes. “Some that say they saw the sword described it to me once. I was naught but a child at the time, no bigger than young Rina’s babe…and each of them older than the earth. Or so it seemed to me at the time. Such things will stay with a child.” She moved the horn lamp closer and adjusted the distance from her eyes until they centered properly on the cryptic letters. “A time it’s been since we seen writing like this, eh, Falinn?”
Falinn looked closely at the runes. She opened her eyes wide and sat bolt upright. “’Tis Nirmanath’s writing!”
“The letters came of fire…?”
Falinn tapped Elthric in the side with a sharp elbow. “That’s what you said, eh, lad? The writing came of fire.”
The cloying sweet smell from the boiling kettles made him unsteady on his feet. “Out of fire, yes.” Elthric pressed lower between them, leaning on his hands splayed on the table. “What does it say?”
“Stand back.” Falinn shoved a talon-like hand against his chest. He stood upright, sending a shower of herbal matter over the table. “Give her room. Go on then, Kaylwen, what does it say?”
Kaylwen bent her head over the weapon, her fine-shaped nose nearly touching the blade. “It says….” She traced each of the runes with her fingertip. “I…Tach…Tachlan…ad…. Ah! It says, ‘Tachlanad…!’” She raised her head and nodded at Falinn. “I knew it!”
“I was thinking the same!”
“But you didn’t look at the writing!”
“I would have, had ye not snatched it from me.”
“Yer eyes are going, Falinn. Yer always missing things. Such as that stitch you overlooked—”
“Me eyes ain’t as bad as yours!” Falinn moiled her mouth and pointed her chin at Kaylwen.
Elthric cleared his throat, impatience causing him to shift from foot to foot, a steadying hand on Kaylwen’s shoulder. “What more does it say?”
“Give me time, young man. I haven’t seen writing like this since before you were born….” Kaylwen glanced up at him and studied his face for a moment. “Most likely longer. Before your grandfather was born is doubtless more accurate.” She held the blade to the light. “‘I Tachlanad….’ ’Tis The Sword o’ Names, all right! The sword given to Relwenna, great-grandmother of Melthir in a time of great trouble long ago. It’s come again, just as it was prophesied. ‘I, Tachlanad…by the grace of…Nirmanath, serve….’” She straightened her head and thrust the sword at Falinn. “I can’t make it out.”
Falinn silently mouthed the letters as she ran an arthritic finger over them before reading aloud. “‘I, Tachlanad, by the grace of Nimanath, serve…El…Elth… res…’ Elthres? What sort of name is Elthres?” She traced the letters again. “No, no! It’s.…‘ric.’ See here, Kaylwen, how the end of the last rune turns at the end. ‛…Elthric.’ It says ‘Elthric,’ Kaylwen.”
Kaylwen studied the rune in question. “Elthric? Wolthar’s son Elthric?”
“’Tis an uncommon name. Most likely Wolthar’s…and Lysienthe’s…Elthric.”
A tingling thrill shot through Elthric’s stomach as he craned his neck to see over the women’s heads. “Why was it buried in the woods?”
“Ah…!” Kaylwen and Falinn exchanged glances. “’Tis told that after Melthir drove the Nortlunders from the land, after he established the three kingdoms of Lothria, he became very sad. He was a great and powerful king, yes, but the sword made unreasonable demands on him, even in a time of peace. As great a king as he was, he was unable to enjoy his position and wealth. He was alone, you see. The woman he loved had married another. She didn’t wait for him while he was driving the Nortlunders from our soil. After a time, another woman captured his heart, but she, too, grew impatient. And so, after all those he cherished grew old and died—”
“—he disposed of it.” Falinn interrupted.
“’Twas said he destroyed it, but only Nirmanath, who made the sword, can destroy it. A man can only….”
“…only dismantle it….”
“Aye. ’Tis said he removed the three corraths. They were set here and here and here….” Elthric followed Kaylwen’s finger with his gaze from the two bezels on either end of the cross guard to the one on the sword’s pommel. “…and sent them to the farthest reaches of the land. What happened to the sword itself…”
“…no one knew…”
“…until this day.”
“But the writing says the sword belongs to someone else.” Frustrated by his inability to see over the old women’s heads, Elthric stalked to the head of the table. Tiela followed, her hand on his arm. Oddly, his move from the boiling kettles diminished the dizzying effects of their scent. “How can this be Melthir’s sword if it says it belongs to someone named Elthric?” He leaned over the table on his hands and engaged the Old Ones with a challenging stare.
The two women gazed at him as if he’d gone mad.
“’Tis the Sword o’ Names, boy!” Kaylwen shrugged, and went on. “Long before Melthir, it belonged to a powerful chieftain from the west…name of…. What was his name, Falinn?”
“Athelwan was the one…”
“…the one what brought the western clans together…”
“…and stopped ’em fighting…”
“… and killing each other, but he proved unworthy…”
“…greedy and lascivious. He abused the power of Tachlanad.”
“So the sword sought out the girl who found it on the altar of Nirmanath’s shrine. Relwenna of Morolath, the first of the…”
“… first of the warrior priestesses…”
“…Melthir’s great-grandmother, who led the ghalthwena in a legendary charge across the bridge at Morolath.”
“Ah, yes! In golden armor, riding pure white horses…”
“…the sun at their backs…”
“…and the Nortlunde invaders ran in fear for their lives.”
“Relwenna kept Tachlanad for many a year, through a time of peace….”
“But the Nortlunders came again and again, and each time the sword spoke.”
“Across the broad blade …”
“…Nirmanath scribed their…”
“…names so there could…”
“…be no doubt…”
“…no doubt as to whom Tachlanad served.” Kaylwen laid the sword on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “And woe be unto him that tries to take what is not his.”
“Or hers!” Falinn rose in a huff.