"In holding the hilt of a sword in combat, you usually grasp it with the ends of the fingers toward you, as in a parry in tierce. Now suppose I turn the hand away, like this, so that the fingertips are away from me, and the back of my hand is toward me. By the grip that plunges home the blade, by the hand that is turned away—"
With the back of his hand toward him, Flane slammed in the sword.
The five tiny stars imbedded in the star-guard began to glow weirdly in their blue transparent envelope. Dully they shone at first, then grew more brilliant until they blazed. Like tiny suns they twinkled, fitted over the star-shaped frieze in the wall of the Machine. Flane stared at them.
He knew, suddenly, and laughed aloud.
"It isn't the blade that does it," he cried in his delight. "There is no key—not a key such as we know. The Machine operates via those lights in the star-shaped guard of the sword, Aevlyn. They must be bits of that white powder stored in the prism. They are solar energy! Look how they shine in the Machine!"
They shimmered magically inside the blue stuff, glowing and pulsating with white fire.
Aevlyn cried out, a hand lifted, pointing. The lights were going on, all over Klarn.
One by one they came into being, glimmering fitfully as long-unused filaments surged with flooded power. Whitely they shone, then grew bright and still brighter. A pale halo of reflection lifted from street and house and rooftop, bathing the city in its dim aura.
From the houses came the cries and screams of men and women. The screams deepened, grew into a roar, a bellow of sheer, unbelievable joy, of incredulous happiness. Flane and Aevlyn heard the triumphal peal of it, the hope become reality in its tones. They shivered in delight, laughing.
Flane drew her, an arm about her lissome waist, out with him onto the balcony. Beneath them the city was aflame with brilliance.