The sound first began at the hands of a young knight errant, who had just finished the tempering plunge of his First Sword, and was now at the wet wheel, putting on the virgin edge. The young knight apparent was full of joy, as well he should be, because unlike most of the blades which came out of this forge, his was much more than required to pass from the hall. In fact, it was a masterful work, worthy of any adept in office.

Perhaps the young man, who was not much younger than Clauis himself, was over-wrought with the joy of creating such a fine blade, or perhaps he was enthralled with the idea that Corean had blessed him, and his passage into knighthood — whatever the cause, the knight apparent, Barconius, was close to madness at the wet wheel.

Let us not misunderstand each other — that is to say — madness in the eyes of a forge master, is not describing Barconius laughing like a banshee, or wildly slashing his new blade in the air. That type of madness doesn’t survive long in a smithy where liquid steel and the weight of anvils stand ready to end life on a mis-step without pause or mercy. No, the wild waving yelping madness, in the eyes of a forge master, is called ‘dead’.

Yet, what young Barconius was doing at that spinning wet wheel with the edge of that finely crafted blade, was madness none the less, and the blade sang in his hands on the grind, with a tormented sound Clauis had never heard before.

If Clauis’ father was in the smithy at that moment, he would have recognized the look in the cleric’s eyes, although it would not have been the clear, pure awe of a four-year-old listening to the smooth transition of iron into steel, but the eyes of a young man on the verge of ecstasy for the first time; a look of wonder and fear, and need.

The sound itself was a sound that Clauis simply could not fathom. It was the cry of steel reaching from its seventh transformation of form, known as the arcane transformation, or master transformation, the state of purity and form require for a blade to hold magic — reaching for the eighth transition, by the act of its first wetting!

It simply could not be, and yet, there it was, in the hands of young Barconius and his mad glee, at the wheel — doing everything wrong.

Barconius had the wheel going too fast. The pressure he had on the blade, as he pushed the edge to the whirling stone was too hard, and yet, the angle of the blade on the stone, could only be described as … inspired. His movement of the blade across the stone, the rhythm he applied, moving it up and down, pushing it so hard it could over heat at any moment and loose its fresh temper, and yet, with a masterful, and inspired sense of timing, the blade would move, constantly holding its vibration and level of heat.

The young knight didn’t even appear to be paying attention, laughing and joking with his comrades near by on other wheels as they completed this final task of the forge. The dressing and polishing would be a three day endeavor of meditation and not, seen as part of the forging. The blade itself would be finished here, with its first edge.

The blade was dancing on the verge of transformation. Clauis, entranced by the sound which was close to moving from scream to song, briefly looked around to see if any of the other adepts could hear, or feel what was happening in the hands of the knight apparent, and saw only one, a new adept, apparently as caught up in the moment as he was, — and then it cracked.