Stuart glanced around at the ardent, fanatical faces, and something in him took a slow fire from the fire in theirs. A deep and vital purpose, as old as humanity—how many times before in Earth's history had men of Earth gathered in hidden rooms and sworn vows against tyranny and oppression? How many times before had Earthmen dedicated themselves and their son's sons, if need be, to the old, old dream that though men may die, mankind must in the end be free?
Here in this crowded room the torch of freedom still burned, despite the hell of slavery under which the worlds toiled now.
He hesitated.
"It won't be easy, Stuart," the man warned. "A sword—blade must be hammered on the anvil, heated in flame, before it's tempered. The Protectors will test you—so that your mind may be toughened to resist the attacks of the Aesir later. You will suffer...."
He had suffered. Those agonizing, nightmare dreams in the forest, the phantoms that had tortured him—other trials he did not want to remember. But there had been no flaw in the blade. In the end—the Protectors had been satisfied, and had entered his mind—maintaining the contact that still held, though thinly now.
And the voices he heard still whispering within him were the voices of his mentors....
"We took your memories from you. So that the Aesir could not read too much in your mind, and be forewarned. Now that does not matter, and you will be stronger with your memory restored. But when you let the girl clasp the cloak about you—that was failure."
"If I could move," Stuart thought. "If I could rip it off—"
"It is part of you. We do not know how it can be removed. And while you wear it, we cannot give you our power."
Stuart said bitterly. "If you'd given me that power in the first place—"