“Excalibur lies far beneath the lake; Durendal is trapped in rock,” growled the smith. “But Cortana is free, and burns for battle. Will you take up your blade? For I believe you have within you the soul of a great warrior, Cordelia Herondale. It but demands an oath of fealty to be truly free.”

Distantly, Cordelia wondered how Wayland the Smith knew she had married—she was still not accustomed to hearing her new name. But then, he seemed to know everything. He was, as he had said, very nearly a god.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I will take up my blade.”

He smiled, and she realized each of his teeth was forged of bronze, glimmering in the dark light. “Raise your blade. Hold it before you.”

Cordelia raised the sword, the tip pointing toward the heavens. The hilt was a narrow streak of golden fire, burning before her eyes. Wayland the Smith moved so that he was standing in front of her. To her surprise, he caught the unsheathed sword in his enormous right fist, wrapping his hand around it. Blood dripped from his fingers, streaking the blade.

“Now swear,” he said. “Swear you will be loyal to me, that you shall not falter—and when you draw a blade, you will draw it in my name.”

“I swear my loyalty,” Cordelia said fervently. His blood continued to run down the blade, but as soon as the drops struck the hilt, they became sparks that lifted, gold and copper and bronze, into the air. “I swear my courage. I swear neither to falter nor to fail in battle. Whenever I draw my sword, whenever I lift up a weapon in battle, I shall do it in your name.”

Wayland released the sword. “Now rise,” he said, and Cordelia stood for the first time. She had not realized until this moment how very big the great smith was: he towered over her, his massive bulk a dark shadow against the stormy sky. “Go forth,” he said. “And be a warrior. I will find you again.”

He touched her, once, on the brow—and then he was gone. In a single blink, the world changed again: there was no more storm, no more embers, no more ringing sound of the forge. She stood on an ordinary hill under an ordinary blue sky, the sun bright as a golden coin. She took one last look at the barrow and was not surprised to see that the opening was dark again, half-hidden by moss.

Cordelia started back up the hill and saw Matthew, at the summit, raise his hand to greet her. Her heart rising in triumph, she ran toward him, Cortana held aloft, its blade shedding golden sparks in the sunlight.

15 WALK BY DAYTIME