On his robe the red lines twisted and climbed, blazing brighter than they ever had before, and the iron ring banded the forefinger of his raised hand.
Sara looked at the ring when she said, “We want to go home.”
“Cold iron is master,” he answered her. “You have left behind that which is not of Avalon and it binds you within this gate.”
“The fork!” Greg cried out. “I lost it when we fought to reach King Arthur, back on the mountain road!”
“And the spoon,” Eric broke in. “I dropped that on the dune where the sea people were.”
“I threw the knife at the toad,” Sara added. “Does that mean we have to go all the way back and find them again?”
“Iron, cold iron, answer iron—and your master!” Merlin turned the ring on his finger.
There was a tiny clatter and at his feet lay fork, spoon, and knife, their ordinary size again. Merlin beckoned with his ringed finger to Greg and the boy picked up the fork.
“Iron of spirit, iron of courage, making you the master of the dark and what may lie within it—the dark within, the dark without.”
Then Merlin pointed to Eric, who took up the spoon.
“Iron of spirit, iron of courage, against fears within and fears without, waves and ripples of fear to be known no more.”
It was Sara’s turn, and as her fingers closed about the haft of the knife she heard Merlin’s warm voice promising:
“Iron of spirit, iron of courage, mistress of fears whether they come gliding, crawling, or running on many legs!”
“Sir,” Greg stood there, turning the fork about in his fingers, “what of the battle? Will King Arthur and Huon win?”
“Already they have driven back the enemy two leagues and ten. For this time Avalon still holds—and wins! Now”—he waved the ringed hand to the gate—“I conjure you, take your road and your cold iron with you. Also know this—Avalon give thanks and Avalon cherishes her own. For you are now a part of her, which in time to come may be more to you than you can now guess. The gate is open. Go!”
Sara found herself running with Greg and Eric on either side. There was the mist curling about them and they were in the courtyard of the miniature castle once again.
“The door’s gone!”
At Eric’s cry the other two turned. All the stones they had picked out to make the passage were set back in place. And again the creeper wove a green veil there. Had they really gone through at all?
But in Greg’s hand was a fork, Eric held a spoon, and Sara clutched the knife as well as the basket.
“Iron,” began Greg and then corrected himself. “Steel magic.”
A spider, very large and black, ran out of the vines, scuttled across the pavement by Sara’s foot. She watched it go without withdrawing and said, half aloud, “Against fears whether they come gliding, crawling, or running on many legs.” She looked again at the spider. Why, this creature was nothing at all compared to those she had fought in the webbed wood—nothing to be afraid of. It was just a bug! Iron of spirit, iron of courage. She wouldn’t be afraid of the biggest spider in the garden from now on. Maybe Greg and Eric had not had time to try out their iron of courage yet, but she was sure it would work for them, too, and that they wouldn’t need to carry spoon or fork to prove it.
“Hey!” Eric was already ahead of them, down the gravel bank leading to shore. “Hear that?” He kicked a stone into the lake defiantly—water was for drinking, washing—and for swimming. Water was only water.
A whistle—Uncle Mac’s imperative signal.
“We’re coming,” Sara replied, clutching the basket tightly as she raced after her brothers.
Andre Norton, Steel Magic
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