Legacy of the Darksword (2 page)

The
Duuk-tsarith
glided
over the threshold. With a brief gesture of his hand, he caused the door to
swing silently shut behind him. He put back the cowl, revealed his face, and
stared intently at Saryon for several seconds, almost as if expecting some
response. Saryon was too flustered, too upset to do anything except stand on
the braided rug and shiver and tremble.

The Enforcer’s gaze shifted to
me, entered my soul, caught and held fast to my heart, so that I feared if I
disobeyed, my beating heart would stop.

The
Duuk-tsarith
spoke. “First,
I caution you both to remain silent. It is for your own protection. Do you
understand?”

The words were not spoken aloud.
They were fiery letters, traced across the back of my eyes.

Saryon nodded. He didn’t
understand what was going on, any more than I did, but neither of us was going
to argue.

“Good,” said the Enforcer. “Now I
am going to perform a magic spell. Do not be alarmed. It will not harm you.”

The
Duuk-tsarith
spoke
inaudible
words, that
came to me only in whispers.
Fearfully, not terribly reassured by the
Duuk-tsarith’s
promise, we
stared
around,
waiting for the Almin knew what to
happen.

Nothing
happened,
at least that I could see. The
Duuk-tsarith,
his finger on his lips,
again to enjoin silence, led the way into the living room. We shuffled along
behind him, keeping close to each other. Once we were in the living room, the
Enforcer pointed one long, white finger.

A painting hung on the wall, a
painting which had been acquired along with the flat and which depicted a
pastoral scene of cows in a field. From behind that painting now
glowed
an eerie green light.

The
Duuk-tsarith
pointed
again, this time to the phone. The same green light surrounded the phone.

The
Duuk-tsarith
nodded to
himself, as if he’d expected to find this phenomenon, whatever it was. He didn’t
bother to explain. Once again, and this time emphatically, he silently
cautioned us not to speak.

And then the
Duuk-tsarith
did
a most peculiar thing. He turned with the calm repose of a guest who has been
invited to remove his hat and coat and stay to tea. Moving with quiet grace
among the furniture, the Enforcer walked to the window, parted the curtain a
minuscule crack, and looked outside.

I was overwhelmed by a series of
fleeting impressions as my brain tried frantically to grapple with the strange
occurrence. At first, I thought that the
Duuk-tsarith
was signaling
reinforcements. Logic arrived to remark dryly that the apprehension of one
elderly catalyst and his scribe would hardly call for a SWAT team. That first
impression was replaced by another.

The
Duuk-tsarith
was
looking outside to see if he had been followed.

Not knowing what else to do and,
by now, more curious than fearful, both Saryon and I stayed with the
Duuk-tsarith
in the living room. Through force of habit, I fumbled for the light switch.

“You needn’t bother. It will not
work.”

The voice of the
Duuk-tsarith
inside
my head was vibrant and sent a mild shock through me, reminding me of the first
time I had encountered electricity on this strange world.

“Don’t move,” the inner voice
commanded.

We remained standing in the
darkened living room. I could sense Saryon shivering in his nightshirt, for he’d
turned the heat down in the flat and his thin robe was woefully inadequate. I
was wondering if I might be allowed to bring my master a sweater, when the
Duuk-tsarith
spoke silently again. And though the words were not addressed to me, I
understood them.

“You don’t remember me, do you,
Saryon?”

Having had many encounters with
the
Duuk-tsarith
—all of them extremely unpleasant—Saryon later told me
that he feared this must be one of the Enforcers who had caught him in the
forbidden library of the Font, or maybe even one who had performed the Turning
to Stone, that excruciatingly painful punishment inflicted on those catalysts
who rebelled against the Church’s authority. Why one of these people should
drop by Saryon’s house for a chat in the small hours of the night was beyond
him. He could only stare and stammer and whisper to me something to the effect
that, if the person would permit us to turn on the lights and let us see a
face, such an act would aid recognition considerably.

“All will be made clear soon
enough,” said the Enforcer, and it seemed to me that there was a sad quality to
his words, as if the man—it was a man, I had at last ascertained that much—was
disappointed that Saryon had not recognized him. “Now, follow my instructions.
Return to the kitchen and prepare your tea, as you normally do. Take the cup to
your bedroom, as you normally do, and lie down to read to this young man, as
you normally do. Don’t deviate from your nightly habits in even one instance,
either of you. You can be seen from the bedroom window. I do not think that I
was followed, but I can’t be certain.”

This last sentence was not
conducive to relieving our apprehension. We did as we were commanded, however.
As a catalyst, Saryon was accustomed to obedience, as was I, having been raised
a servant in the royal household. In this case, it made no sense for my master
to stand around in his nightshirt, arguing. We went to the kitchen.

The
Duuk-tsarith
remained
in the darkened living room, but I could feel the man’s eyes on me. It was
extremely unnerving. Until now, neither Saryon nor I had realized that we had
developed “nightly habits.” Consequently, when this fact was brought to our
attention, and we were forced to think about what we did every night, we couldn’t
remember doing any of it.

“Don’t think,”
came
the voice of the
Duuk-tsarith.
“Let your body take over. When you are
settled in your bed, Father, then we will talk.”

This was not exactly the way we
would have chosen to spend our evening, but we didn’t have much choice. Saryon
took the Enforcer’s advice and tried not to think about what he was doing. He
turned off the kettle, which had been whistling loudly, though we’d been too
distraught to notice. He poured the water, stirred the tea. I added to it a
plate of digestible biscuits. We tottered—tea and biscuits in hand—off to his
bedroom.

The
Duuk-tsarith
glided
along silently behind.

Saryon, remembering the duties of
a host, paused, turned, and held up the teacup, asking in dumb show if his
visitor would like to share our repast.

“Keep moving!” The voice in my
head was urgent. Then it added, in softer tones, “No, thank you.”

Saryon went to his small bedroom,
where he placed the tea and the biscuits on the nightstand beside his bed. I
pulled up the chair. Picking up the book, I found the place where we had left
off reading last night.

Saryon climbed into bed and it
was only when he was safely tucked beneath the sheets that he remembered he
usually brushed his teeth at this point. He looked at me, made a motion of
using a toothbrush. I shrugged my shoulders, helpless to
advise
or assist.

Flustered, he was about to
mention it to the Enforcer, then changed his mind. Giving me another glance, he
settled himself. He opened the book, and drank a sip of tea. I usually ate a
biscuit, but at that moment, due to the dryness in my mouth, I couldn’t have
swallowed one and I feared I would choke.

The
Duuk-tsarith,
watching
us from the shadowed hallway, appeared satisfied. He left momentarily, returned
with a chair from the kitchen, and sat down in the hall. Again came the whispered
words of magic, and both Saryon and I looked about expectantly, wondering which
of the pictures on the wall was going to turn green.

None did.

“I believe,” said the silent
voice, “that you usually listen to music, do you not?”

Of course! Saryon had forgotten.
He switched on the CD player, which was, as far as he was concerned, one of the
most miraculous and wondrous devices of this technological world. Beautiful
music—I recall that it was Mozart—filled the room. Saryon began to read aloud
from the book
Right Ho, Jeeves
by P. G. Wodehouse, one of our favorite
authors. We would have been quite content had not the shadowy figure been
perched, like Poe’s raven, in the hall.

“It is now safe to talk,” said
the
Duuk-tsarith, and
this time he spoke the words aloud, albeit in a
low voice. He drew the cowl back from his face. “But keep your voice down. I
have deactivated the devices of the
D’karn-kair,
but there may be others
present of which I am not aware.”

Now that we could talk, all the
questions which had been crowding my mind fled. Not that I could have spoken
them myself, but I could have let my master speak for me. I could see that
Saryon was in much the same state.

He could only munch his biscuit,
sip his tea, and stare. The face of the
Duuk-tsarith
was in the direct
light and Saryon seemed to find something vaguely familiar about the man.
Saryon would later tell me that he did not experience the sensation of
overwhelming dread one usually feels in the presence of the Enforcers. Indeed,
he felt a small thrill of pleasure at the sight of the man and, if he could
only have remembered who he was, knew that he would be glad to see him.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Saryon
faltered. “I know that I know you, but between age and failing eyesight ...”

The man smiled.

“I am Mosiah,” he said.

One by one, after each had been
coldly rebuffed by the strange, dark-haired child, the other children let Joram
severely alone. But there was one among them who persisted in his attempts to
be friendly. This was Mosiah.

THE DARKSWORD

I
believe that Saryon would have
exclaimed aloud in astonishment and pleasure, but he remembered in time the
injunction to keep our voices down. He started to rise from his bed to go
enfold his old friend in a fond embrace, but the
Duuk-tsarith
shook his
head and motioned with his hand that Saryon was to remain where he was.
Although the bedroom shades were drawn, the light was visible from outside and
so was the catalyst’s silhouette.

Saryon could only stammer, “Mosiah
... I can’t . . . I’m so sorry, my dear boy . . . twenty years . . . I’m
getting old, you see, and my memory . . . not to mention my eyesight . . .”

“Don’t apologize, Father,” Mosiah
said, falling back on the old form of address, though it was hardly applicable
now. “I have changed a lot, over the years. It is small wonder you did not
recognize me.”

“Indeed you
have
changed,”
said Saryon gravely, with a sorrowful glance at the black clothing of the
Enforcer which Mosiah wore.

Mosiah seemed surprised. “I
thought perhaps you might have heard that I had become one of the
Duuk-tsarith.
Prince Garald knew.”

“We rarely speak, the Prince and
I,” said Saryon apologetically. “He felt it was best, for my own safety, or so
he was kind enough to say. Remaining in contact with me would have damaged him
politically. I could see that clearly. It was the main reason I left the
relocation camp.”

And now it was Mosiah who looked
sadly upon Saryon, and the catalyst who was stricken with confusion and guilt.

“I ... deemed it was best,”
Saryon said, flushing. “There were those who looked at me ... if they didn’t
blame me, I brought back memories. . . .” His voice died away to silence.

“There are those who say you
abandoned them in return for favors,” Mosiah said.

I could no longer contain myself.
I made a quick and violent gesture with my hand, to negate these cruel words,
for I could tell that they wounded my master.

Mosiah looked wonderingly at me,
not so much in astonishment that I did not speak—for he, as an Enforcer, must
already know everything there was to know about me, including the fact that I
was a mute—but that I was so quick to defend Saryon.

“This is Reuven,” said Saryon,
introducing me.

Mosiah nodded. As I said, he must
have known all about me.

“He is your secretary,” Mosiah
said.

“That is what he has me call him,”
Saryon said, glancing in my direction with a fond smile. “Though it has always
seemed to me that ‘son’ would be the more appropriate term.”

I felt my skin burn with
pleasure, but I only shook my head. He was dear as a father to me, the Almin
knows, but I would never take such a liberty.

“He is mute,” Saryon continued,
explaining my affliction without embarrassment.

Nor did I feel any embarrassment
myself. The handicap which one has had a lifetime seems more normal than not.
As I had foreseen, Mosiah had advance knowledge of this, as his next words
proved.

“Reuven was only a small child
when the Shattering”—the term the people of Thimhallan now use for the
destruction of their way of life—”occurred. He was left an orphan. Whatever
happened to him was so traumatizing that it bereft him of speech. You found
him, critically ill and alone in the abandoned Font. He was brought up in the
household of Prince Garald, educated in the relocation camp, and sent to you by
the Prince to record the story of the Darksword. I read it,” Mosiah added, with
a polite smile for me. “It was accurate, as far as it went.”