Korman and the children left the dangerous highway behind them and followed the folds of the hills up into the northern Badlands. Korman began to cast about for a place to make camp, as they were all tired from the early start that morning, and the climb over Rilke’s pass. The golden light of Aeden seemed to glow extra brightly over this deserted hill country, and Shelley felt they had left the immediate danger behind them on the other side of the pass.
They settled into a pleasant little grassy hollow high up in the valley they had been following for an hour or so, and began to make camp. Shelley and Rilke wanted to light a fire, and started gathering wood – there were plenty of dead branches, white and rust-red and chrome-yellow with lichens, on the trees that clung to the sides of the hollow – but Korman warned them not to be complacent.
‘We have escaped one danger, the Trackers of Hithrax, for now at least; but not far ahead the land narrows between the great northern lake of Avalon and the north-eastern Spur we have just left. That region, called Applegate, is under threat from the Aghmaath. We must not attract any attention, so we cannot light a fire.’
‘Why is it called Applegate?’ asked Shelley, to distract Rilke from his disappointment at not being allowed to light their firewood.
‘It is called the Vale of Applegate because of the great woven arches formed by ancient espaliered apple trees, at the borders of the Vale, and at the gates of the village. How well I remember the village of Applegate, and its golden cider! It is north of the way we will be taking. I wish we could go there. It was beautiful in the spring when I visited it many years ago, when the Heartstone still glowed in the Tree of Life. I wonder, do the people of Applegate still farm the groves there, and resist the deceits of the Travellers?’
While Shelley laid out the food and plates on a blanket by the tent, Rilke rolled some stones for seats into a semicircle around the blanket. Korman stood still at the lip of the hollow, staff in hand, looking west over the Vale of Applegate. Its gently rolling hills were fading into hazy purples as the golden sun sank towards the high Northern Spur beyond. Then he turned and went down into the hollow. He smiled a little to see the children’s handiwork: a little picnic all ready with a pile of twigs for a fire in case he relented. But Korman was solemn as he spoke to them.
‘Do not light the fire! I have been thinking about the road ahead, and I fear it may be guarded, although I see no sign. The Boy Raiders are the only active threat to the Aghmaath in this region, and it would make sense for the Aghmaath to fortify the narrowest approaches to the Tor Enyása against them. We are only a few miles from the narrowest point now, so we must be very cautious.’
He let Bootnip out, and Rilke got his first proper look at the grumpy pet. But it wouldn’t let him near, and backed away between Korman’s boots.
‘I wish I had a pet,’ said Rilke wistfully.
‘One may find you,’ replied Korman. ‘Mine did.’
The deep gold of the sunlight was fading from the rugged hills about them as they ate a frugal meal by the tent door, sitting on some flat-topped stones which reminded Shelley of giant bleached bones. Korman said the usual grace over the two apples they shared after the meal, cutting one apple so as to save the core with its seeds for planting, and the other cutting across the core to reveal the five-pointed star within.
O Vapastra Pagy’avalastra
Pagya’vala elrápaön!
O Vapastra, vapaäm éim
En Gha v’Ürpama!
O Star-key in the applestar
In the apple shining!
O Star-key, open us
To Life, and Love’s entwining!
Shelley now knew the grace off by heart, and sang along with Korman and Rilke, who stumbled a little, as he knew a more rustic version of the ancient prayer:
Applestar, Applestar,
Shine in me
Make me all that I can be!
‘What is the “Star-key,” Korman?’ asked Rilke.
‘The Star-key is the Tenth Seed which only some of the apples of Aeden have - most having nine seeds. And only some of the star-key seeds are fully formed. Their husk is of tough silver - or sometimes gold - which no knife can cut. That seed represents the Heartstone of the Tree of Life, and if planted in the right conditions and in the right place, it will grow into a great tree, not an apple tree - though it comes from the apple - but a throw-back to the ancient days in the Green World. It draws precious metals up into its sap through its deep roots, and when it is mature its silver-and-golden sap in the topmost twigs will attract the renewing lightning. For it is a ratharxé, a Lightning-tree. Or, as it is usually called, a Jeweltree. And its sap hardens into light-bearing agathra, which you have seen.
‘Long ago, the Makers added the life-pattern of the Jeweltree into the apple trees of the Green World, so that there would never fail to be a replacement for the Jeweltree groves and the Tree of Life wherever folk planted the apple trees.
‘The Jeweltrees grow taller than almost any other tree, having five strong trunks joined in a ring at the crown. Some, if they are given a jewel-crystal from the Crystal World as saplings, will turn into trees that open a path across the void, across the stars, using the power of the lightning. Hence the seed is called a Star-key, and the mature tree a Stardoor, or Lightning-gate. But the Jeweltrees do not bear apples. They bear smaller fruits of great virtue, but not apples, and they do not have the Star-key seeds within them. So the apple trees remain essential to the future of Aeden. For they keep us healthy and ward off old age. And they are the Mothers of the Jeweltrees.’
‘Oh,’ said Rilke, but it sounded like a very long process to him, growing apples. He was already distracted, teasing Bootnip with some moss, tickling his nose where he crouched between Korman’s boots. ‘Careful, he bites!’ said Korman, as Bootnip snapped at the moss, chewed it once and spat it out in disgust.
One or two of the brightest stars came out as the light faded and strange birds called to one another through the silent air as they hurried overhead, wings whistling, black against the twilight.
‘I’m so relieved there weren’t any gongs at sunset,’ said Shelley, yawning. As they sat and quietly talked, even Rilke became subdued and sleepy. Shelley stretched and yawned again. She noticed a bluish glow over the tent behind her, and turned to look.
‘It is the Blue Moon rising in the east,’ said Korman. ‘Listen for the moonbirds, which sing most beautifully on the nights of the Blue Moon. And look! The star-flowers, called by the old ones hopeflowers, which open on the nights of the Blue Moon and (they say), also when the Lady or the Kortana walk upon them.’
As he spoke his white teeth flashed pale blue beneath his moustache, also bluish in that eerie light. They saw the little white flowers like stars slowly unfold in the grass at their feet, glowing in the blue light, and they breathed in the perfume wafting through the cool night air. They listened for the moonbirds, and Rilke talked into the silence as young children do, but after a while he became quiet also.
Then through the silence came a musical call like liquid silver, and it was answered by one, then two, then many more as the bluish light grew stronger, each song different in detail but weaving together in harmony with the others.
‘The Blue Moon is a lovers’ moon, and those are the love-birds of Aeden, brought from a far planet by the Makers, they say, when this land was first formed,’ whispered Korman sadly. Shelley thought of the leader of the Boy Raiders, Quickblade, remembering the conversations she heard way back then before she learned the language of Aeden through the Mindstone. She wished Quickblade was here to share this sight and to tell her more about his strange but beautiful world, and to talk of life and love with her. A peaceful sadness came over her. It seemed as if the Blue Moon brought out hidden feelings, yearnings normally buried deep, turning them to dream-like musing.
But Rilke was too young for that. ‘Tell me about your sword again, Lord Korman,’ he asked. ‘Is it really true that you’ll never even draw it?’
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Korman returned, it seemed to Shelley, from some bittersweet memory. ‘What’s that? No, Rilke, I can draw Arcratíne, only not for fighting. The blade is made of living fire crystal, of the same nature as the sacred Jewel of the Tree of Life. When that jewel was close, it had a great power, which is now diminished. But it is still of some use. I was going to do this when you were asleep, but…’
Using his stronger left arm, he drew the sword from its scabbard, glittering in the blue light, reflections running up and down the sharp facets of its blade. Then he lifted it vertically skyward, blade down, and let it fall into the earth, where it stuck, vibrating slightly.
‘It is energised by the moonlight, and amplifies the vibrations in the earth,’ said Korman, ‘so that many things which are happening in Aeden come into my mind, as in a dream. And those who are of the Order, or honour that on which the Order is based, may sometimes communicate with me in the Dreamweb. And sometimes I think that the Paths between the worlds are reopened for a while by means of the sword, and the Ürxura (unicorns, as they call them in Shelley’s world) walk the Paths of Beauty to bring those young ones, unhappy and unwanted in their own worlds, who are called across the void to this land.’
He looked at Shelley. Rilke stared at the glittering blade, and at the amber gem at the hilt end, mesmerised, hardly hearing Korman’s words.
Shelley remembered the night when the white unicorn came to her in a dream, and sleepily wondered if she would ever see it again, and if it would lead her back, across the void, home to Earth. She no longer felt she would be unhappy, or unwanted, if she was back home. There was Anna, for a start… She got up and stretched full length, bathed in the pale blue moon-glow. She was growing taller, and her slim figure (if she had known it) was becoming shapely.
‘I think I’ll turn in now,’ she said dreamily, and lifting the dark silken flap of the tent, crawled in and found the corner where she had put her pack. She took off her rough outer clothes and snuggled into the downy cocoon of her sleeping bag, being careful to pull the dreamcatcher net over her head to guard against the Aghmaath mindprobes. She put her silver helmet by her pillow, and went to sleep listening to the song of a pair of moonbirds that alighted in the trees above the hollow.
Rilke, growing tired of waiting for something to happen to the sword, followed soon after. He burrowed into his little sleeping bag, yawning, tossing and turning until he got comfortable.
Korman remained a while outside, sitting cross-legged opposite the blue-glowing sword planted upright in the soil of Aeden, soundlessly vibrating to the subtle energies all around. He took out the little box with the tiny flower in it, now dead and dry, and tenderly put it on the ground, and picked another flower, one of the star-flowers at his feet. It glowed blue in the moonlight. He sighed, smelled it lovingly and placed it in the box. Then he put the box away again, and lingered a while longer, pacing the hollow, looking up at the stars and moon. But eventually he too retired, sheathing his sword and lying at the doorway of the tent to guard it even in sleep.
In the dead of night, Rilke awoke. He was restless. He had been dreaming, something about kind men in bright armour, who invited him to eat their shiny red apples and join their army of light. But first he had to have a sword… He had woken, heart beating, thinking of the Sword of Korman, filled with a yearning to hold it again. The sight of its diamond-like blade had aroused a greedy passion in him, to have and to wield it. He was sure if he swung it something amazing would happen. ‘Maybe fire will come out of it, like in the old tales… Arxphare Orbalax, the Flame Unquenchable,’ he thought. ‘Just a little try, it would be so awesome. Lord Korman swore not to use it; and his sword arm is withered anyway, so maybe I could wield it and save Aeden! Then I’d be Sir Rilke! Just one try can’t hurt! I could put it back before he wakes up.’
He crept out of his sleeping bag, not bothering to dress – the night was not cold – edged towards the sleeping bulk of Korman, slid the sword slowly out of its scabbard. Then he sidled out of the tent, holding his breath. The sword felt cold and heavy.
Outside it was cooler, and dewy, and the Blue Moon glowed overhead in a cloudless sky. Rilke swung the glittering sword fiercely three times round his head, and it swished through the night air and began to glow with a red fire from within.
‘I knew it!’ he thought in triumph. He raised the sword aggressively, and looked for something to point it at. Blue static arced around its diamond-sharp facets and pronged hilt.
A moonbird broke into song, on a branch high overhead. Without thinking Rilke turned and pointed the sword directly at the bird, jabbing it upwards with savage intent. A razor-thin beam shot out and sliced through the branch, piercing the bird’s breast in mid-song. It plummeted to the ground along with the branch and landed almost at his feet with a feathery thud, dead.
Bootnip woke from deep anklebiter dreams. He sensed the activation of a great crystal – his crystal, which Korman merely carried for him. Growling, he bit Korman on the toe.
Far away on one of the five watchtowers of the Tor Enyása, high above the impenetrable thorn hedge about the Wall of Guard, sleepless eyes saw the stab of light go up into the sky. ‘The Sword of Korman!’ they whispered, and were answered by the watchful Dreamcasters in the Vale of Applegate.