Read Online The Anvil of Ice by Michael Scott Rohan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Scott Rohan
Tags: Fantasy
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Whatever the reason, this way it would have to be.
At dawn Roc found him asleep over his slates. On them the symbols were merged into a single fluid tangle of lines, and his song had found words. He sat by himself all that day, singing softly and carving the stylized pattern deep into the wax, burnishing away trimmings and rough edges, highlighting the design here and there with stippling. Late that evening he grafted on two short wax rods to act as sprue, and rousted out a yawning Roc to fetch a bronze molding flask and a pail of fine white clay; sand would be too coarse for this. By dawn the clay was dry and the flask set to heat at the firepit. Roc handed him tongs wrapped in wet rags; carefully he lifted the heavy flask, tilted it gently over an empty bowl and spilled out the steaming wax that had once shaped those delicate curves. Only their ghosts were left now, invisible in the shell of clay. He set the flask back to heat for a moment, reached deeper into the fire and seized a black crucible. The air shimmered violently about it as it rose, and he held it unmoving at arm's length above the flask, which Roc was steadying with tongs. Slowly, carefully, Alv tilted the crucible, and liquid spilled over and out, glowing like the sun. Alv had drawn the gold from the Mastersmith's deep vaults, along with tiny portions of rare metals and other substances to make it subtly stronger and easier to cast. Little by little, humming his tune, he poured the fine stream into one of the sprue holes, while Roc gently rasped a fine file over the lip of the flask, to vibrate the molten metal into all the fine detail and free any air bubbles. Steam whistled out of the other sprue hole, and every second Alv's throat tightened as he feared the mold would crack. Then a little dome of gold stood out above both sprue holes, and would sink no farther, and they could breathe freely once more. Now there was only the gradual cooling, moving the flask closer and closer to the lip of the fire till it rested on the rim, and at last he could seize it and plunge it into the quenching bath. The icy water boiled up and splashed his hands, but after the stinging and scarring of forgework he hardly noticed. A tap on the loose bottom of the flask freed the mold, another cracked it. As he pulled it out it fell apart in two halves like an eggshell, and the pattern gleamed warmly up at him from the clay.
He reached out to it, but another hand forestalled him. The Mastersmith swept up the mold, and the clay crumbled to dust under his long hard fingers as he looked it over. Alv watched him breathlessly, wondering how he had known to appear just at the right moment. The dark eyes gleamed as they read the pattern, reflecting the gleams of gold and firelight with a strange added luster. He gazed at it long and silently, as if seeking to unravel some puzzle.
At last he nodded, and handed the armring to Alv, still dull and encrusted with powdery clay. "I was not mistaken in you, boy. The piece is fine, it has a true power in it—more than a virtue, a power. Do you clean and burnish it now. Bring it to me tonight, and we shall consider what may be your next piece."
But it was that night, as dusk was falling, that the riders arrived. It was Alv who saw them first, cantering down the steep valley floor from the north; he was sitting on the high outer windowsill of his small bedroom, as he often did, gazing on the last of the sunset and seeing it strike fire from the new-polished ring. At first he was mildly intrigued, no more; such cloaked and hooded visitors were not uncommon. Seldom, though, on such a beautiful white mare as the first one rode; the other was a nondescript black, but both picked their way among the uneven stones with amazing sureness and grace. Then the leader reined in sharply at sight of the tower, and Alv sat up so suddenly he almost tumbled off the ledge. The dark hood was swept back, and a swath of long hair spilled out, tinged white-gold by the
At dawn Roc found him asleep over his slates. On them the symbols were merged into a single fluid tangle of lines, and his song had found words. He sat by himself all that day, singing softly and carving the stylized pattern deep into the wax, burnishing away trimmings and rough edges, highlighting the design here and there with stippling. Late that evening he grafted on two short wax rods to act as sprue, and rousted out a yawning Roc to fetch a bronze molding flask and a pail of fine white clay; sand would be too coarse for this. By dawn the clay was dry and the flask set to heat at the firepit. Roc handed him tongs wrapped in wet rags; carefully he lifted the heavy flask, tilted it gently over an empty bowl and spilled out the steaming wax that had once shaped those delicate curves. Only their ghosts were left now, invisible in the shell of clay. He set the flask back to heat for a moment, reached deeper into the fire and seized a black crucible. The air shimmered violently about it as it rose, and he held it unmoving at arm's length above the flask, which Roc was steadying with tongs. Slowly, carefully, Alv tilted the crucible, and liquid spilled over and out, glowing like the sun. Alv had drawn the gold from the Mastersmith's deep vaults, along with tiny portions of rare metals and other substances to make it subtly stronger and easier to cast. Little by little, humming his tune, he poured the fine stream into one of the sprue holes, while Roc gently rasped a fine file over the lip of the flask, to vibrate the molten metal into all the fine detail and free any air bubbles. Steam whistled out of the other sprue hole, and every second Alv's throat tightened as he feared the mold would crack. Then a little dome of gold stood out above both sprue holes, and would sink no farther, and they could breathe freely once more. Now there was only the gradual cooling, moving the flask closer and closer to the lip of the fire till it rested on the rim, and at last he could seize it and plunge it into the quenching bath. The icy water boiled up and splashed his hands, but after the stinging and scarring of forgework he hardly noticed. A tap on the loose bottom of the flask freed the mold, another cracked it. As he pulled it out it fell apart in two halves like an eggshell, and the pattern gleamed warmly up at him from the clay.
He reached out to it, but another hand forestalled him. The Mastersmith swept up the mold, and the clay crumbled to dust under his long hard fingers as he looked it over. Alv watched him breathlessly, wondering how he had known to appear just at the right moment. The dark eyes gleamed as they read the pattern, reflecting the gleams of gold and firelight with a strange added luster. He gazed at it long and silently, as if seeking to unravel some puzzle.
At last he nodded, and handed the armring to Alv, still dull and encrusted with powdery clay. "I was not mistaken in you, boy. The piece is fine, it has a true power in it—more than a virtue, a power. Do you clean and burnish it now. Bring it to me tonight, and we shall consider what may be your next piece."
But it was that night, as dusk was falling, that the riders arrived. It was Alv who saw them first, cantering down the steep valley floor from the north; he was sitting on the high outer windowsill of his small bedroom, as he often did, gazing on the last of the sunset and seeing it strike fire from the new-polished ring. At first he was mildly intrigued, no more; such cloaked and hooded visitors were not uncommon. Seldom, though, on such a beautiful white mare as the first one rode; the other was a nondescript black, but both picked their way among the uneven stones with amazing sureness and grace. Then the leader reined in sharply at sight of the tower, and Alv sat up so suddenly he almost tumbled off the ledge. The dark hood was swept back, and a swath of long hair spilled out, tinged white-gold by the
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