“If I am not mistaken, we are still in the entrance shaft. Soon, I think, we will reach the first level. How many levels there are I cannot say, nor on which one we shall find the lanthanil,” Durwin said. “We will search each level and every gallery until we find it. My own guess is that it lies very deep and that we must descend to the lowest level.”
At that Toli made a strange grimace, as if he were eating a most bitter fruit. Quentin would have laughed if it had been anyone else, but he knew how much this experience was torturing his friend. So he turned away and said to Durwin, “You mention the lanthanil. I would hear more about it, for all I know is what little you have said and what I remember from Dekra, which is so wrapped in legend as to be beyond belief.”
“Do not be so certain of that. Yes, often the stories men recite about such things do grow in the telling. But the Stone of Light-that is what the word means, roughly translated-is a most fantastic substance. It has many exotic and powerful properties.”
“If tales are to be believed,” said Inchkeith, staring into the darkness, “hear this one. Many years ago my father was traveling the world with his father-he was but a small boy at the time-and they were seeking the secrets of weaponry and armor, of forging and forming rare metals, of setting gems in their bezels-all the craft which an armorer must know.
“In Pelagia they met a merchant who sold arms, and they became friends when the merchant saw a sample of my grandfather’s work. When the merchant realized that he was talking to a great craftsman, he took them in the back of his shop-for in that country they had stalls outside covered with awnings, and inside-where the merchants and craftsmen lived and worked-they kept the very finest articles of their trade. To be invited inside was a considerable honor.
“This merchant, a very well-known and respectable man-I cannot recall if I ever heard his name-took them in and led them to a very small room in his large house. He unlocked the bolt across the door to this room and led them inside. My father said it was very dark. He remembered that the walls of the room were extremely thick and the door was very heavy, for it groaned on its iron hinges like a drawbridge.
“The merchant closed the door and brought out a casket from some hidden place and put it before them on the table. The case was bound with locks and chains, though it was but a small one. When he had unlocked it, he took out an object wrapped in cloth. My father said the object was not large, and appeared to not be of much weight, for the man handled it was ease and with great reverence. “The merchant did not speak, but unwrapped the cloth and revealed a chalice of surpassing beauty. But most remarkable of all-the thing that my father remembered most clearly until the day he died-was the way it shined in the darkness, as if lit with an inner flame. He said he cried to look at it, it was so beautiful; but then, he was a small boy.
“He reached out to touch the shining cup, and the merchant pulled it away saying that it was enchanted and that to touch it with bare hands diminished its power. He said it was very old and its power was only a fraction of what it had been, but that was still great. He said that cordials sipped from the goblet cured at once, that the very touch of it healed all infirmities.
“My father’s father then did a very unusual thing. As proud as he was of his work, he said he would give the merchant his finest dagger for one touch of the chalice for himself and his son. My father noticed the strange look which came over his father’s face as his voice pleaded. The dagger was finely wrought; it had a golden handle with rubies inset. It was worth a great deal, and yet the merchant hesitated.
“But in the end he relented and let them touch the chalice. My father remembered how the light which leapt from the exquisite cup lit his father’s face and seemed to infuse him with a new power of creating and a heightened understanding of his craft-though this was observed much later. When his father finally passed the chalice to him, he was afraid to touch it, but his father urged him to and he did. He said he never felt such strength and wholeness, and nothing in his life ever moved him with such emotion after that. Though he was but a small boy, he knew even then that he would never recover that feeling or see such beauty again; so he treasured it in his heart.
“My father spent the rest of his life trying to achieve in his craft the beauty that he saw in that cup. And you know he lived far beyond the natural span of a man’s years. He always said it was because of the chalice and that had his father given a hundred golden daggers, it would have been but a paltry sum for the gift of that one touch.”
Inchkeith’s voice had softened to a whisper. Quentin and Toli and Durwin, too, sat rapt and staring with amazement at the story the armorer told. For a long time no one spoke, but at last Quentin broke the silence. “What became of your grandfather? How did it affect him?”
Inchkeith was slow in answering, and when he at last opened his mouth to speak, he turned eyes filled with sadness toward them.
“His was not a happy fate. He, too, lived long and prospered. But he became obsessed with finding another chalice, or some other object made from the mysterious metal, and when he could not he tried to make one himself. But he was always disappointed. For though his works became the most highly prized in all the realm, he was yet unsatisfied. He died bitter and broken, consumed with despair. Some said it was the despair that killed him in the end.”
“Did your father not share his fate, then?”
“To some degree, yes. He, too, was never satisfied with the work of his hands after having held the chalice. But you must remember he was a small boy. I believe his heart was yet innocent and untutored in the ways of the world. The touch of the chalice, rather than leading to bitterness in the end, inflamed him with a burning desire to seek that beauty. He died at last unfulfilled, it is true, but not unhappy for that.”
“Your story is most moving,” said Durwin. “I begin to see now why the Most High has chosen you to accompany us on this journey. It seems your family has some part to play here.” He looked around at them all and said, “Well, we have rested and talked enough. Let us continue our quest. Onward!”
Slowly, almost painfully, they shouldered their burdens once more and lifted their torches to resume their long, slow descent into the mine.
If the outer wards were filled with the frenzy of frightened citizens, the inner wards were filled with soldiers feverishly preparing for the impending siege. A steady stream of soldiers marched from the base of the southern tower, emerging from the donjon with armloads of spears and bundles of arrows. Others, bent to the task in smaller groups, labored over objects of wood, rope and iron on the ground; they were assembling the machines of war. Still others tied piles of straw into bundles and sewed heavy pieces of cloth and skins together.
Horses were led to the stables around the ward yard where squires sat at whetstones sharpening sword, lance, spear and halberd. Provisions, brought up from the town by the wagonload, were stacked away in kitchens and pantries by cooks and their helpers. Dogs chased cackling chickens and honking flocks of geese while children, uninhibited by the danger and excited by the bustle of activity around them, ran and played, dodging the footsteps of their elders and staging pretend battles.
Eskevar roamed the battlements like a shade. He seemed to be everywhere at once. His commanders looked up to see him watching them as they drilled the troops; the donjon keeper found him inquiring about the level of water in the reservoir, dipping the measuring rod himself; the squires were instructed in better sharpening technique by one whose hand bore the royal signet. At the end of the day there did not seem to be anyone anywhere within the walls who had not seen him.