Legacy of the Darksword (17 page)

He had always been strong and
muscular and his well-knit, well-muscled body might have belonged to an Olympic
athlete. The face had too many years etched on it, however; years of sorrow and
tragedy which those happier years following could never smooth away.

No wonder he paid me scant
attention and probably wished with all his heart that I would evaporate on the
spot. And he did not even know the portent of our coming, though I am sure he
must have suspected. I was Joram’s doom.

The sheep being safely penned and
watered and bedded down for the night, Eliza took her father by his calloused,
work-hard hand and would have brought him over to where I stood. He removed his
hand from hers, however; not roughly, he could never be rough or harsh with his
heart’s treasure. But he made it very clear that the two of us—he and I—would
not be connected in any way, especially not through her.

I could not fault him or blame
him. I felt such guilt within myself—as if this were all my doing—and such
grief and compassion for him, whose idyllic life we were destined to destroy,
that tears stung my eyelids.

Hurriedly, I blinked them back,
for he would despise any weakness on my part.

“Papa,” said Eliza, “this is
Reuven. He is Father Saryon’s almost son. He cannot speak, Papa.
At least not with his mouth.
He talks whole books with his
eyes.”

She smiled, teasing me. That
smile and her beauty—for she was flushed with her exertion, her hair tousled
and windblown— did nothing to add to my composure. Charmed by Eliza, awed by
Joram, consumed by guilt and unhappiness, I bowed my respects, glad for the
chance to hide my face and try to regain my self-command.

This was not easy. Joram said no
word of greeting. When I raised my head, I saw that he had folded his arms
across his chest and was regarding me with dark displeasure, his heavy brows
drawn into a frown.

His cold forbidding darkness
dimmed his daughter’s sunshine. Eliza faltered, looked uncertainly from him to
me.

“Papa,” she said, chiding gently,
“where are your manners? Reuven is our guest. He has come all the way from
Earth just to see us. You must make him welcome.”

She did not understand. She could
not understand. I raised my hand, to ward off her words, and shook my head
slightly, all the while keeping my gaze fixed on Joram. If, as Eliza had said,
I could speak with my eyes, I hoped he would read in them understanding.
Perhaps he did. He still did not speak to me. Turning away, he walked up the
steps that crisscrossed the hillside. But before he turned, I saw that his
frowning aspect had lightened a little, if only to be replaced by sorrow.

I think, all in all, I would have
preferred his displeasure.

He strode up the steps very
rapidly, taking them two or three at a time. I marveled at his endurance, for
the steps went directly up the hill; there must have been seventy-five of them,
and I was soon panting for breath. Eliza kept beside me, and she was troubled,
for she was silent and her gaze was on her father’s back.

“He is eager to see Father
Saryon,” she said abruptly, in apology for Joram’s rudeness.

I nodded yes, that I understood.
Pausing to catch my breath and try to ease the cramps in my calves, I signed to
her that I was not in the least offended and that she was not to worry about
me.

This she didn’t understand. I
took out the electronic notepad and typed it in, showing the words to her. She
read them, looked at me. I nodded, smiled, reassuring. She smiled back,
tentative, and then sighed.

“Things are going to change, aren’t
they, Reuven? Our life is going to change.
His
life is going to change.”
Her gaze went again to her father. “And it’s
all my
fault. I’ve longed for this day, prayed for it to come. I didn’t realize . . .
Oh, Papa, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Gathering her long skirts, she
left me, running up the stairs with the long stride that matched Joram’s. I
could not have kept up with her if my life had depended on it. As it was, I was
not disappointed to be left behind. I needed time to sort out my own thoughts.
I trudged slowly and painfully after them.

Eliza caught up with her father.
She twined her arm through his, rested her head on his shoulder. He folded her
in a loving embrace, stroked and smoothed her black curls.

His arm around her, her arm
around him, they continued up the stairs until they reached their living quarters,
where they vanished from my sight.

I kept climbing, my strength
sapped by the ache in my legs, the burning in my lungs and my heart. Below, I
could hear the sheep, snug and safe in their barn, bleating contentedly as they
settled down for the night.
In the distance, the rumble of
thunder- another storm ravaging the land below.

I wondered, then, what would
happen to the sheep when we took Joram and h
_ls
family away from
their home. Without their shepherd, they would die.

The rounded knob on the sword’s
hilt, combined with the long neck of the hilt itself, the handle’s short, blunt
arms, and the narrow body of the blade, turned the weapon into a grim parody of
a human being.

FORGING
THE DARKSWORD

I
t occurred to me that I would
miss the reunion, the first meeting between my master and Joram, and that fear
impelled me up the stairs at a much more rapid pace than I would have thought
myself capable of. I was gasping for breath when I reached the top. Dusk was
falling and the lights had been lit inside the dwelling place and so I was able
to find their rooms, when most of the rest of the building was dark and
deserted.

Entering a door nearest the
lights, I made my way along a shadowy hall into what must have been, in the
days of the Font’s grandeur, the dortoir, where lived the young catalysts in
training. I say this, because of the innumerable small rooms opening off the
central corridor. In each room
was
a bed and desk and
a washstand. The stone walls were chill, the rooms dusty and darkened by the
sadness which comes to a place when the life that once filled it is withdrawn.

In this corridor, I lost sight of
the lights of Joram’s dwelling, but found them again when I entered a large,
open room that had probably been a dining hall. I heard voices through a door
to my left. I walked from darkness and chill to light and warmth. A kitchen,
which had once fed several hundred, was now not only kitchen but the central
living area for Joram and his family.

I could see easily why they chose
it. An enormous stone fireplace provided heat and light. Twenty years before,
when the Font had teemed with life, magi hired to work with the catalysts would
have conjured up fire to cook the food and warm the body. Possessed of no magic
whatsoever, Joram cut and hauled wood to the fireplace. The flames crackled and
danced, smoke and sparks fled up the chimney. I reveled in the warmth. The air
was growing cool outside, with the setting of the sun.

Saryon and Gwen sat near the
fire. Gwen was pale and silent, staring into the flames. Occasionally she would
shift her gaze to the back part of the room, in part expectation, part dread.
Saryon, ill at ease, suddenly stood up and began roaming aimlessly about the
room. Just as abruptly, he sat back down. Joram was not present and I feared he
might refuse to see Saryon at all, which would have hurt my master terribly.
Then Eliza entered at almost the same time I did, although from a door
opposite.

“Papa bids you welcome, Father
Saryon,” she said, coming to stand before the catalyst, who rose to meet her. “Please
sit down and be comfortable. Papa has gone to wash and change his clothes. He
will join us shortly.”

I was relieved and I think Saryon
was, too, for he smiled and gave a deep sigh before resuming his chair. Gwen
stirred, at this, and said we must be hungry and she would fix the evening
meal. Though Eliza had done a very good job of attempting to wash away the
traces, I saw that she had been crying.

She said she was certain I would
like to wash up, which was true, and offered to show me the way. I crossed the
room to join her. We were both being watched by the teddy bear with the orange
ribbon around his neck, who was seated in a small chair that must have been
specially made for a child. Just at the moment we were walking past, the bear
gave a lurch and tumbled out of the chair, landing on his nose on the floor.

“Poor Teddy,” Eliza said
playfully. Picking up the bear, she dusted him off, kissed him on the top of
his well-worn head, and settled him more comfortably in the chair. “Be a sweet
Teddy,” she admonished, still in her playful tone, “and you shall have bread
and honey for your supper.”

Glancing back at the bear, I saw
Simkin smirk. Eliza led me into the sleeping quarters of the
family,
rooms which she told me had once belonged to the higher-ranking catalysts.
These rooms were larger and much more comfortable than the narrow cells I had
passed. She took me to one at the end of the hallway.

“Here’s where you will spend the
night,” she said, opening the door.

A fire burned on the small
hearth. The bed was covered with clean, sweet-smelling sheets, scented with
lavender. The floor was newly swept. My knapsack rested near the bed. On the
night-stand was a jug of steaming water and a washbasin. Eliza told me, where
to find the outbuildings.

“No need to hurry,” she said. “Papa
is bathing and taking his evening swim. He won’t be ready for at least another
half hour.”

Like her mother, she was pale and
preoccupied. The only time I’d seen her smile was when she was playing with
Teddy and that smile had faded quickly. She was about to leave when I stopped
her.

Since we had time, I typed on the
notebook.
Tell me more about Teddy.

Her smile returned. “I told you
how I found him in the old nursery. I took him everywhere with me—he went with
Papa to tend the sheep, with Mama to work in the garden or wash the clothes.

“You’re going to think this is
silly.” Her cheeks flushed faintly. “But I seem to remember Teddy telling me
stories—all about faeries and giants, dragons and unicorns.” She laughed
self-consciously. “I suppose I must have made them up myself and told them to
Teddy, though I Have the oddest impression that it was the other way around.
What do you think?”

I don’t remember what I
responded.
Something about lonely children having vivid
imaginations.
What could I say? It was not up to me to tell her the
truth about Simkin!

She said that this must be true
and started to leave, but paused, just before she shut the door. “Now that I
recall them, some of those stories were quite horrible. Tales about duchesses
sneezing
their heads off and the heads landing in the soup
and earls being buried alive by mistake and faerie queens who took men captive
and used them as slaves. What a morbid little imp I must have been!”

Laughing again, she left me,
shutting the door behind her.

Chaotic, treacherous, Simkin was
quite capable of leading grown people to ruin just for the entertainment value.
It shocked me to think that Joram and Gwen—Joram in particular, who knew what
Simkin
was—had allowed him to be the playmate of their
child. Yet Simkin obviously had not harmed her and had provided her with
pleasant—albeit strange—childhood memories.

And what would happen when we
took Joram and his family back to Earth? Eliza would undoubtedly want to take along
her “Teddy.” The image of Simkin loosed upon Earth was appalling. I made a
mental note to myself to discuss this with Saryon, who, worried and preoccupied
himself, had probably not given this matter much thought.

I found the outbuildings—one for
men and one for women— which must have dated back to the very early days of
life in the Font. They were as clean as was possible, but being open-air, they
made me consider that one of mankind’s most wonderful achievements had been
indoor plumbing.

Back in my room, I washed myself
from the basin—envying Joram his swim—combed my hair, and changed my clothes,
which smelled strongly of sheep. Dressed in clean blue jeans and a blue
cable-knit sweater I’d purchased in Ireland and which was one of my favorites,
I returned to the living quarters.

Eliza and her mother were busy in
the kitchen. I offered my services and was put in charge of slicing loaves of
freshly baked bread, which had been cooling on a rack. Eliza set out bowls of
dried fruit and honeycombs filled with honey that tasted of clover. Gwen was
stirring a pot of beans, cooked with mutton. I understood then that the sheep
meant not only wool for their clothes, but meat for their table.

Saryon looked at me rather
anxiously, when Gwen talked about the mutton, for I had been known, when
younger, to express my disapproval of meat-eaters at the dinner tables of our
hosts, usually over the prime rib. I smiled at him and shook my head, and even
accepted the responsibility of tasting the beans, when Eliza offered them, to
see if they were seasoned properly. I think they were bland. I don’t remember.
It was then, when she held the wooden spoon to my
lips, that
I realized I was falling in love with her.