THE FIRST OF US who gathered here were not warriors, but artisans; we tempered not blades, but cutlery, raised not dungeons, but cathedrals. The greatest javelin-thrower prepares for defeat with every thrust, yet no glassblower, not even the novice, hones her delicate craft, believing it is for naught. And so, as our blades chip and shatter, yet these high walls stand testament in time, I wonder: have we lost our Way?
FROM “PATHS OF GLASS” BY SWORD SAINT HILDE.
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“She was only sixteen centuries old when elves immortalised her here,” said the cleric. “A little younger than you are now, Milady.”
Hjordis nibbled at her lip and wrestled with the urge to remind the cleric that he need not have added that final bit, but bated her angst when she remembered Golems bared no malice and that everyone paled when compared to Hilde.
She breathed a lot better knowing that as she gazed up at a glass sculpture raised on one of hundreds of podiums bearing similar constructs. The piece of particular interest to Hjordis depicted a young elvengirl donning the Crest of the Saints on her cloak; her delicate hand rested on the pommel of her blade.
Oh, the great Hilde—youngest of the Sword Saints, thought Hjordis, frowning. And the last of them.
Hjordis knew that beauty was not her lack. In fact, as a descendent of the Sword Saint, Hjordis and Hilde looked rather alike; yet, where Hilde’s eyes told of a tame wanderlust, Hjordis’s own betrayed spite and a deeper longing. But that was not what gnawed at her. It was when she peered at Hilde’s delicate hands on the pommel of her blade that Hjordis couldn’t help feeling slighted.
Not a broken nail or bloated blister, she thought. Yet you cut through it all—how?
“Milady?” asked the cleric. Neither living nor dead, elf nor man—but Golem; his obsidian flesh glinted in the ambient lighting of the Cathedral. The young elvenwoman was lost in the tale, her own calloused hands told for a few breaths and his unelven, yet soothing, voice whisked her from its painful clutches.
“Was this sculpture forged to scale and for realism?” Asked Hjordis, already knowing the answer.
She mouthed the Golem’s words as he said, “Why, yes, milady! Helga, Daughter of Von, herself forged this, and many other sculptures in the Cathedral of Saints.”
Hjordis peered over her shoulder out of habit; the wonder had long since become colourless. Glass sculptures as far as her eye could see—on floors high above and far below; rows upon rows of Potirian Saints—the finest of the very best of warriors. Walkers of Glass who had forged sacred armaments: bows, helmets, gauntlets, war hammers, shields, and, of course, blades—on the 167th floor of the Cathedral, where Hjordis stood then—hallowed each floor.
“Is it true the Daughter of Von was so enamoured by the young Hilde she wished to forge new sculptures of her every century, but the Sword Saint declined her offer?”
Hjordis mouthed the Golem’s words as he spoke again: “It is debatable whether the great glass sculptor made that offer, but the Sword Saint famously said of Helga, Daughter of Von: ‘She could forge in my image a thousand sculptures, yet in time, elves would forget my name, but remember hers—for where artisans live on forever in their work, warriors linger only in memory—that one sculpture of me is enough. Although, should we be reborn in a different time, and elves remember us both, I would not mind humouring her if she will have me still’.”
Once, Hjordis revelled in Hilde’s writings so—as to wane her desire for sleep, food, and drink. Adults expected her to quote many of the Sword Saint’s words by heart, especially when in assembly with the Council to discuss issues pertinent to the City’s future—wisdom beyond her age was a trivial matter at such gatherings, but her act needed credibility.
It was a time when the adults in a young elvengirl’s life had convinced her—and an entire city—she was the second coming of a saint. Even her mother tutored Hjordis’s swordplay herself to maintain the ruse—House Waldemar’s future had never seemed brighter.
As with all things, this wouldn’t last. Being Hilde’s splitting image was not enough—Hjordis needed the Sword Saint’s ability with the blade to truly have the Council eating at her slit, as Flogan elvenwomen say. And while her swordplay was hypnotic, she was no saint. Hjordis knew that better than anyone—her own mother had made it painfully obvious. Yet she kept on with the ruse even as it became increasingly suffocating. Out of spite.
Hjordis had long realised her woes were born in part of Hilde’s famous words to Helga, Daughter of Von; the Sword Saint was one of many words—too many—Hjordis thought. One of her lesser redeeming traits. She could ramble on and on about the most insipid things; what Hjordis could surmise in a sentence or two. And, more importantly, but less obvious to her as a child—out of a play by a Noble House of Walkers in recession to usurp power over the oligarchy; her own.
“Are there any living Children of Helga?” Asked Hjordis; again, knowing the answer already but eager—this was one of few conversations she often asked the Golem to forget having with her, that he may share her enthusiasm for it as he did the first time those words left her lips, when she was but an elvengirl.
“Perhaps in Kentrikos,” said the Golem, after a moment’s thought. “Her lover, Njal, who was a student of Bergen the Hedonist—considered the Father of Golems—moved from his native Gi to the Voreiosian City of Glass to be with her when they married; she would later move to his city and raise their children as Gians after Njal was assassinated by a Metallonian ambassador amid the anguish of the cold war for Sidero.”
“I believe theirs was a love story paled only by Kara’s in tragedy, but perhaps greater than any other in merit,” said Hjordis. “I have read tomes detailing many contraptions Njal invented, including the earliest known model of today’s Fosian Flash Counter—a contraption that could tell time across the Realms with unprecedented accuracy, though iffy by today’s standards. The Kentrikosian inventor was inspired by his lover—Helga loathed Njal’s poor timing in courting her; he would anchor weeks before a date or months later—terrible for a sculptor who maintained a hectic schedule I shudder at; I would loathe him no less,” she laughed. “But I am convinced the lovers’ greatest service to The Realms remains Njal’s meticulous design principles for what he termed, ‘A prototype for a shrewd, autonomous Golem—though lacking in common sense’,” added Hjordis, her eyes bright. “You, Lord Tyr—a design Helga proved viable when she brilliantly thought to forge the glass of your obsidian flesh not under the inferno of a dragon’s flame, but under the sweltering of its unchanging breath!”
“Yes, Milady! Had my creators not faced the trials of long-distance love, undeterred and with ingenuity, we might not today have had a standard for Universal Realm Time, and perhaps I would not be standing here either,” said Lord Tyr the Golem. “And, that is correct, before his untimely demise, Njal crafted theoretical Path Mechanics for a golem that not only completed tasks as instructed, but could conceive its own solutions, should the need arise—perhaps better than what any elf could imagine—a Golem-Automaton. And did you know Helga, Daughter of Von, insisted on forging all of me in his image, much to Njal’s dismay?”
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Hjordis looked up at the towering Golem—less than the giants of old, but more than any elf not of Gi. “All of you? Oh, Lord Tyr, is it your wish that this young maiden’s mind wanders to places uncouth? So eerily arcane with your boundless knowledge but lack of common sense—yet unelvenly pleasing to the eye—and such a wonderful orator,” said Hjordis, laughing, as she traced her fingers across the Golem’s chiselled, obsidian torso. “You, I would entertain eating at my slit—perhaps in a literal sense, if you will have me—over those crones on the Council any day!”
“That is inappropriate, milady,” said Tyr the Golem, stepping away from the noble Elven lady.
“My, Milord Tyr, are you not aware? Elves do many inappropriate things all the time,” she said. “Say, slaying the dragon that was crucial in inventing one of The Realms’ great arcane materials, and may have fostered far more had it lived—all for a marriage proposal to a scandalous Pirate Prince who would have taken to a certain tempered princess’s face gaunt face regardless, had she showed a bit more flesh. And all for what? That they sire a daughter as a Saint once was? Only for her vain mother to feed the young elvengirl ploys upon ploys—till her little tummy ached and she vomited the rot in public, on her mother’s favourite gown, no less—embarrassed, only then did the elvengirl’s mother discard her for more amusing playthings.”
Hjordis rolled her eyes as the Golem said, “I have not read that fairytale—could you state your reference, Milady? It has the makings of a fascinating tale—what became of the little elvengirl?”
The glass tiles clicked and clacked, and soon a voice called: “Lady Hjordis! There you are!” said a tall knight running toward her; he wore modest attire and carried not a sword, for his glass armament was the helmet that hid his face—his silver eyes peeped through slits. “You are late for your duel—surely, you have not forgotten your mother is watching today?”
How could she?
Hjordis drew closer to the Golem then whispered, “By Helga’s vow, recount all I have said this day to no one’s ear, Golem.”
The Golem’s obsidian eyes—pools of darkness—glimmered for a moment as he said in a less natural voice, “As you command, Daughter of Hilde.”
Hjordis then walked away from the Golem, grinning as she was before, only when his eyes darkened. “Well, Milord Tyr, my darling is here. And right on time—look at his slick neck—he must have run all this way, all for me!” She said aloud. “Oh, but what am I to do? I am such a jittery mess today! Do you think he will frown at that, or do Voreiosian elvenmen truly not care as long as she has an ample bosom and a shapely bum? No matter—I shan’t keep him waiting! Let us meet this evening and think about my offer!”
And she would return to tease Lord Tyr the Golem as she licked her wounds, and perhaps cried a little—she was, after all, to meet her mother.
“That is inappropriate, milady,” cried the Golem as Hjordis ran off.
She snorted over her shoulder at Tyr as she stood before the knight, met his sharp gaze, smiled, then took his arm and brought it to her soft chest.
“Well then, Darling. Where in the City of Glass are you taking me today?” she asked.
“Lady Hjordis, I would remind you my wife is heavy with child. Your father may not be in Voreios, but his spies lurk,” said the knight; his voice distorted and unelven under the helmet. “Unhand your knight, lest the vermin misplace your unbridled humour and think I your suitor.”
Hjordis rolled her eyes but let go of the knight’s arm. “You are still no fun, Lars,” she said. “Where is Leif? He knows how to have a good laugh—and an even better time.”
The knight sighed as he led her down the opulent hallway of hallowed sculptures. “Your father commandeered my brother on his expedition Notos after, um, the incident, I fear him drowned.”
“Incident?” Asked Hjordis, running up ahead of the knight and walking backward as she scrunched her brow. “Oh!” her eyes lit up as her voice took a deeper, nobler tone. “Do you mean how he fucked I, and I fucked he?”
Hjordis laughed as Lars said, “Yes, Milady—the one.”
“Why is everyone so afraid to say it? These high walls surely cannot hide what we all do—some more prolific than others,” said Hjordis, winking at Lars. “You, noble knight, must be sensational! Did you not, after all, leave an elvenwoman heavy with child? Leif cannot hold a glass lantern to you in that regard. By the way, did he ever tell you what I saw in him?”
“His face, no different from mine, and though married too, not afraid to dally,” said Lars.
“He is braver than I took him for, to admit that to another elvenman, if only his brother,” Hjordis laughed.
“All Sons of Hjalmar are, milady,” replied the knight—his voice eerie under his helmet.
“Some more than others,” said Hjordis, scurrying back to the knight’s side as they descended a grand staircase of glass. “You have never touched me even when you could have—but not because you are not brave—do not for a moment think I have not felt your enigmatic gaze behind that helmet on my flesh in the arena, oh noble knight of House Waldemar! It is your love for Inga that staves your desire. Any elvenman can love his wife—it takes a brave one to love her alone. I long for that.”
“An elvenman brave enough to love you alone?”
Hjordis laughed. “No! I have enough of those chanting my name in the arena; I mean love—to revel in it.”
“Hmm, I have heard the Sword Saint Hilde loved deeply—the Council believes that sharpened her blade. Are you of the same mind?” asked Lars.
“By Fos, Lars, no!” replied Hjordis, insulted. “The hedonists misinterpret her to warrant their orgies; no sane elf cares what they think any longer.”
“It is ironic, then, how love might have dulled the Sword Saint’s blade in the end,” said Lars. “Take great care in that regard, Milady.”
“Lars, did someone break your heart? Will you give up the helmet as Hilde did the blade? I must confess, I would not cry foul if you did,” Hjordis said, laughing. “And I know better than anyone that I am not her—Hilde’s failings will not be mine—I simply wish to drown in love for I never have.”
“Speaking of drowning,” she continued. “My father is no brave elvenman—he will return your brother unharmed—so long as he wishes Syrin, Daughter of Hilde, to remain his wife. Slight her knight and you slight her—he knows so.”
Lars balled his fists and his voice under the helmet grew more sinister as he said, “Yet to slight her own daughter is—”
“Not here, Lars,” said Hjordis, her smile absent—it was a rare and jarring sight. It didn’t last. “Tell me—who am I duelling?”
“Apologies, Milady,” said the knight. “You are to duel Lady Idony of House Odinson.”
“The prim and proper lass with the perky bosom?” Laughed Hjordis. “I do not believe she and I have ever shared a word, but I always wondered whether she shaved bald down there or was, in fact, a hairy mess behind that hefty shield she hauls—one can never tell with the coy ones.”
“A Daughter of Malin—you will want to avoid close quarters, Milady, that is where she wants you.”
“Ah, but I want her there, Lars,” said Hjordis. “Who would have thought a day so insipid might lead to a night wrought with delightfully unexpected muses?”
Lars cleared his throat, shuddering as he remembered the night he was her muse.
“Another thing is Lady Syrin: she brought with her an elvenman whose face I… do not know; not in any records,” said Lars, the light in the slits of his helmet flickering. “Dark hair on cadaverous skin, with golden-flaked eyes of a darker shade—likely Dytikan.”
Hjordis stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Dytikan? That could be trouble,” she said. “Silence, Shadow, Metal, or Darkness—which is his Way? It will not be easy to deal with any. Oh, Mother—what have you planned for me this time?”
Hjordis smiled.