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Woltan made everything seem so simple. Hadn’t I killed the keiler with magic, in a way? And why had they called me Herr?
Woltan smiled at me. “You have doubts. Doubts are normal at this stage, but they’re also a weakness, that can be exploited by your enemies. At times you must be sure of what you do, to do it well. Self-doubt will destroy your own magic and make your defenses worthless.”
“What if I am attacked? Is it wrong to use a spell to defend myself? And if I kill something, using magic, to defend myself, does that make me evil?”
Woltan suddenly looked much older. At first I had thought he was young like me, then I had figured he was much older, just very short, and now I didn’t know what to think.
Woltan sighed. “Killing in self-defense is acceptable, with magic or without. But you must be very careful. When magic is employed to kill, it warps your mind and your spirit, and you risk succumbing to the quest for power that leads those to follow the Dark Lord. You would do better to trust in your sword, whose blade, though magical, will keep your mind clear with its bladesong.”
“How can the sword sing to me? I mean, it’s sung to me already, even when it was just a magical wooden blade. But why? And how?”
“The magic in the sword you hold comes from a pixie, housed in the pommel. Three thousand years ago, great wizards made pacts with the pixies, promising them riches in Faerie if they would house themselves inside the pommel of our swords, and sing their songs of battle through our blades. It might seem boring to be imprisoned for several thousand years, but many of the pixies have grown fond of their quarters. It helps that they still maintain a foot among the Fair folk. They can be two places at once, you see.”
“Can we communicate with him? My pixie, I mean.”
“First, of all, Anders, it’s not your pixie. And second of all, it’s a she. Most of the pixies are female, and most of the sword wielders are male. There were only seven original blade pommels and seven original blades three thousand years ago. Seven pixies who came into the service of humankind. Later, lesser blades were made with younger fair folk. But as to how many remain, no one knows. Perhaps the pixie in your sword knows, but you’d have to ask her. No one except the sword wielder can communicate with the pixie in his sword.”
“I just talk to my sword?”
“It’s simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Just like the words of magic are simple, but using them is difficult, it’s also simple but difficult to talk to the pixie in your sword. It will become easier with time, or perhaps it will be easy for you from the beginning...”
Suddenly I burned with desire to speak, not sing to the pixie in the sword. “How do I begin?”
“Do you really think this is the time, or the place?”
I looked around. I was thousands of leagues from my parents, from my tutor, from everything I had known in my whole childhood. I’d become a man, in some ways, and remained a boy in others. I’d met a girl, who stirred up feelings I never knew existed. And now, Woltan was telling me I could talk to the sword that lay at my side. For some reason this filled me with a feeling of well-being.
I smiled, then shrugged.
“I doubt I will ever find a better teacher or more peaceful place. I’ve lived by my instincts the last few days, and my instincts tell me that this is right.”
Woltan smiled. “But your instincts didn’t tell you how to talk to the pixie? If you follow your instincts, perhaps you should follow them further.”
I looked at Woltan. Was this all some trick? Did Woltan really believe that I could do this, without his help?
“I don’t have any idea how to begin.”
“I will give you two starting points. Close your eyes. And put your hand upon your sword’s pommel.”
I did as told.
“Now open your inner eye, and your inner ear, if you can.”
I closed my eyes and tried to do what I’d done when the sword had been forged, without covering my ears this time. The room was very quiet. Maybe that helped. Because I felt quiet and attuned, right away.
I reached down and grabbed my sword.
Were there explosions of light and color?
Was there earsplitting song that blasted me to my very nerve-endings?
Nothing of the sort.
There was only a voice, feminine and small, but somehow strong, reassuring and vibrant at the same time. A small, strong voice, stating my name, and a title:
Anders Tomason, the three-blooded prince.
I felt kind of encouraged.
