“Hey, Moril!” said Mitt.
Moril was still over by the door, looking across his shoulder at Wend, full of awe and amazement. Mitt could hardly blame him. This was the man Moril had been named after, twice over, the hero of half the stories the Singers learned to tell, and Moril’s own ancestor into the bargain. Wend was shifting about self-consciously, as if—just like a normal person—he had no idea what to say. He was obviously relieved when Moril switched his attention to Mitt.
While Moril was making his way through the bobbins, grinning and going like a sleepwalker, Wend said awkwardly, “These things happen—if you live long enough. You should think nothing of it—or not too much.”
“Think nothing of it!” Moril said, looking up at the sword and its thongs. “That’s asking a bit much! Those pieces of leather are knots and crosses. There has to be a catch.”
“Quite right.” Cennoreth stood by the hearth with her arms folded. “You’re an observant boy. You must understand that none of it is my doing. My daughter nailed it up there. Remember she was mad with grief—though I suppose you’re all too young to know how that feels—and try to forgive her. She was disappointed in her children, too. She expected too much of them, but there you go, I’m only her mother, and it didn’t matter what I said. So she set this sword up, knots and crosses, like redhead said, for the children of her blood and the Adon’s. That’s rather a lot of people these days, but that’s another thing she wouldn’t listen to, when I told her how it would be if enough time passed.”
“So what’s the catch?” Mitt asked.
Cennoreth shrugged. “The knots must be undone without touching sword or scabbard, and the sword must be drawn before it touches wood, stone, or earth. My daughter,” she said, “expected too much of her children’s children, too, if you ask me, but I wasn’t consulted.”
They all stared up at the sword in its cat’s cradle of leather. The thongs were black with age, and there was dust all over them. Maewen could see that each knot, beside being pulled fiercely tight to start with, had shrunk and hardened over the years—how many? two hundred?—and must by now be nearly impossible to undo. Just to think of the lasting fierceness of the misery that did this was appalling. Could one wet the leather and loosen the knots that way? “What happens if you break the rules?” she asked.
“She didn’t say,” said Cennoreth.
“Though you may take it that you won’t get the sword, lady,” Wend added from the other side of the room.
They stared up at the sword again. It was high above Maewen’s reach. I suppose if I knelt on the mantelpiece—the leather could just be old enough to crumble away when I touch it. Anyway, I don’t really need this sword—though it seems a shame, when I’ve got the ring and the cup.
Moril thought awhile. Then he sat down on the nearest pile of bobbins and started taking the case off his cwidder.
“What are you doing?” Mitt asked him.
“The leather was straight to start with,” Moril said. “The cwidder could tell the truth and make it straight again.”
It could, too! Mitt realized. Things unfolded with a crisp snap inside his head, and he saw that he and Moril had been so taken by surprise that they had not thought this through. Why don’t I think? he asked himself angrily. If Kankredin was talking to Noreth, and Noreth had listened to him all her life, then even if he and Moril could do for Kankredin—which was a stupid thing to plan when even the One could not do it—then the last thing either of them should do was to help Noreth become Queen. That meant the whole country under Kankredin. So—break the rules, quick.
Mitt was the only one tall enough to reach the sword. “No. That’s going at it the slow way,” he told Moril.
Moril’s fingers went slow and fumbling on the cwidder. As Mitt turned away and pulled out his knife, he knew Moril had seen the danger, too. Mitt pushed between Maewen and Cennoreth, reached up, and, quick as he could, slashed along the length of the sword, between the multitude of knots.
“Get ready to catch it!” he cried out merrily.
He had meant to call out too late. But to his annoyance, not all the age-hard thongs parted. He was forced to slash again, and again after that. Even then only the pointed end of the scabbard came loose. Mitt watched it with satisfaction, descending slowly to the mantel-shelf, tearing the other thongs as it came.
Maewen yelled out, “Careful!” and flung herself forward with both arms up at full stretch. She was just in time to catch the tip of it. The cwidder resounded as Moril set it hastily down and jumped forward to pretend to help her. He grabbed hold of the scabbard above Maewen’s hands and blundered artfully around her. But Maewen hung on grimly. All Moril managed to do was dislodge a long iron-handled hearth brush from beside the grate. It fell among their legs with a clatter.
Bother! Mitt thought. Hadd’s pants! He took hold of the sword’s hilt, thongs and all, and pulled. That ought to bring it down and make sure it touched the wall or the fireplace on the way.
The hearth brush seemed to set off an avalanche. Fire irons went on falling, with mighty clangs: ladles, toasting forks, a slotted spoon, shovels, two pokers, a mighty black roasting spit, a set of hooks for cauldrons. Cennoreth seemed to have a whole blacksmith’s worth of
implements in her hearth. Maewen and Moril stumbled on a firedog. Mitt found long tongs between his legs and reeled aside. This burst the last of the thongs. Maewen and Moril crashed backward onto Cennoreth’s feet, both trying to save themselves by hanging on to the scabbard. Mitt was left holding aloft a naked sword.
It was indeed a very plain blade, he saw. “I reckon we broke all the rules there,” he said in mock regret.
“You touched at least half a dozen knots,” Moril gasped hopefully.
There was a strange look on Cennoreth’s face. Possibly she was trying not to laugh. “No, he didn’t,” she said. “I was watching quite carefully. Which of you is supposed to be having the sword?”
“She is,” said Moril.
“Then please give it to her and then clear up my hearth,” Cennoreth said. “I think I’d better look at my weaving.”
Maewen got to her knees and held the scabbard out. Mitt slithered the sword inside it with an angry flourish. It looked ceremonial, done that way. Mitt had not the slightest doubt that Manaliabrid would consider that Noreth had won the sword. He turned away disgustedly to help Moril collect fire irons and prop them in noisy bundles by the grate. Clatter. It was not that simple to defeat Kankredin’s plans. Clang. Boing. Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? Kankredin was of the Undying, and that meant strong. After all, Old Ammet was so strong that just saying one of his na—Oh flaming pants! Mitt stopped with pokers bundled to his chest and looked up at the dangling, broken thongs and torn-out nails. This was why the Earth Shaker had reminded him of those names! And he had never even thought of using one. Clatter—flaming—CRASH. There.
Dejectedly Mitt followed Moril and Maewen over to the window. Wend was standing, leaning on the loom, watching Cennoreth smooth and smooth at the most recently woven end of her cloth. You could see the likeness between them now, Maewen thought, although Wend looked so smooth and young. But she also saw another likeness. That dreamy, devoted way Cennoreth was smoothing at her weaving was like Mum’s, when Mum was on a new statue. They were rather the same shape, though Mum’s hair was straighter and darker. Cennoreth clicked her tongue and shook her head as she stroked the cloth, again like Mum. A comb fell out of her hair, and she rammed it back impatiently. That was even more like Mum. “This is a pretty snarl!” she said.