Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Seeing that Saryon’s thoughts were turned inward and that he was not paying the slightest bit of attention to The Plan, I devoted myself to listening and understanding what it was we were to do. All the while I wondered what decision he had made.

  “His Majesty King Garald and General Boris and their aides and entourage will arrive in the same vehicle at precisely thirteen hundred hours. The Right Honorable Kevon Smythe and his aides and entourage will travel in a second vehicle and will arrive at precisely thirteen-thirty. They will all depart at fourteen hundred.”

  Pardon me, ma’am. I started to write my words on a tablet, which I usually kept with me, but she indicated that she understood sign language, for which I was grateful. “How many aides and entourage will there be?”

  I was thinking of our small living room and wondering where on earth we would put them all. Also if we would be expected to serve tea. If so, I was going to have to make a run to the store!

  She reassured me. We were not to worry about a thing. She and her staff would handle all the arrangements. I could tell, by the sounds of furniture scraping over the floor, that the living room was being adjusted.

  At this point Saryon, with a blink and a sigh, rose from the table, and with a slight bow and a vague smile for the woman— I’m convinced he had no idea who she was or why she was there—he left, saying something to the effect that he would be in his study and to call him when it was time.

  The woman frowned, displeased. “He appears completely insensible to the fact that he is being paid a great honor. For such eminent and important figures to completely rearrange their schedules, and travel—some of them—halfway around the world, all to honor this gentleman on his birthday! … Well! It seems to me that he should be exhibiting far more gratitude.”

  His birthday! I had forgotten, in all the turmoil, that this date corresponded approximately to the date he had been born in Thimhallan. I was the one who had figured it all out (Saryon would have never bothered) and I had, in fact, planned a small celebration for us that evening. His gift, a new chessboard, with figures formed of dragons and griffins and other supposedly mythic animals, was neatly wrapped upstairs in my room. I wondered how anyone else knew it was his birthday, for we had shared this with no one. Then I remembered the green-glowing eavesdropping devices.

  So this was to be the excuse—visiting the old catalyst on his birthday. How fortunate for them that it fell on this date. I wondered what other excuse they would have cooked up, had this one not been conveniently provided. I was extremely angry, more angered at this than at the invasion of our house by the silver-robed Technomancers.

  It is, sometimes, a blessing to be mute. Had I the gift of speech, I would have used it to lash out at this woman and probably would have spoiled everything. As it was, being forced to sign my words, I had time to consider them. I could see, on reflection, that it was wisdom on the part of the King and the General to keep the true nature of this meeting secret.

  “You must forgive Saryon,” I signed to the woman. “My master is a very humble man, and completely overwhelmed by such a great honor, to the point where he is dazed by all the attention. He feels himself very unworthy and he deplores all the fuss and bother.”

  She was somewhat mollified by this, and we went over the rest of the details. The guests would be staying one hour, no more, and fortunately, there would be no need to serve them tea. She hinted that Saryon might want to change out of the brown robes he was wearing—the robes of a catalyst, such as he had worn all his life—and into a suit, and that it would be well if I also changed out of my blue jeans into something more appropriate to the occasion. I replied that neither of us owned a suit, at which point she gave up on us both and left to go check on how things were proceeding.

  I went to my master’s study, to inform him that it was his birthday, which I was sure he had forgotten. I made more hot toast and took a plate of it and the tea with me.

  I explained everything—rather heatedly, I’m afraid. Saryon regarded my flashing hands with a weary, indulgent smile and shook his head.

  “Intrigue. Politics. All of them were born into the game. They live in the game. They have no idea how to leave the game and so they will play the game until they die.” He sighed again and absentmindedly ate the toast. “Even Prince Garald. King Garald, I should say. He held himself above it, when he was young. But I suppose it’s like quicksand. It sucks even good men down.”

  “Father,” I asked him, “what decision have you made?”

  He did not speak aloud, but signed back to me, “The men were just in this room, Reuven. For all we know, they may have planted their electronic ears and eyes in this room. And there may be others watching, listening, as well.”

  I remembered the two Duuk-tsarith who had appeared out of the air of our kitchen, and I understood. It seemed strange to me to think that there might be a dozen people crowded into that small study and my master and I the only two visible. I felt nervous when I walked out, returning the plate to the kitchen. I kept fearing I would bump into one of them.

  The dignitaries arrived precisely on time. First came the black limousine with flags of Thimhallan flying and the royal coat of arms upon the door. Mrs. Mumford and Mrs. Billingsgate had, by this time, abandoned all pretense. They were standing on their front doorstoops, openmouthed and jabbering. I couldn’t help but feel a swelling of pride as His Majesty, dressed quite conservatively in a dark suit, but wearing his medallions and ceremonial sash, accompanied by the General in his uniform with all his medals and ribbons, stepped out of the limo. Aides trailed after them. Soldiers came to stiff attention and saluted. Mrs. Mumford and Mrs. Billingsgate stared until I thought it likely they might strain something.

  My pride advanced a step further as I imagined having tea with the two women tomorrow, explaining, with suitable modesty, how the King was an old friend of my master’s; the General once a worthy adversary. It was a harmless, if vain, fantasy—one that unfortunately never came about. I was never to see either of our neighbors again.

  King and General entered our house, where Saryon and I both waited with extreme trepidation. My master knew these men were going to put enormous pressure on him and he feared this meeting. I was nervous, for Saryon’s sake, but I must admit that I was looking forward to seeing once again two people whom I had written about, especially the King, who had once had such a notable effect on Joram’s life.

  King Garald had been Prince Garald then. Of him I had written:

  The beauty of the voice matched the features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The eyes were large and intelligent. The mouth was firm, the lines about it indicative of smiling and laughter. The chin was strong without arrogance, the cheekbones high and pronounced.

  My description, taken from my early memories and Saryon’s account, was accurate, even now, when the King was in his middle years. The lines around the firm mouth had darkened, graven by sorrow and suffering and wearisome toil. But when the mouth smiled, the lines softened. The smile was warm and genuine, the source of its warmth coming from deep within. I saw at once how this man had won the respect and perhaps even the affection of the sullen, obdurate boy Joram.

  Saryon started to bow, but Garald took my master’s hand and clasped it in both his own.

  “Father Saryon,” he said, “let me be the one who does you reverence.”

  And the King bowed to my master.

  Between pleasure and confusion, Saryon was completely taken aback. His fears and trepidation melted in the warmth of the King’s smile. He stammered and blushed and could only protest incoherently that His Majesty did him far too much honor. Garald, seeing my master’s embarrassment, said something light and inconsequential, to put them both at ease.

  Saryon gazed at the King, now without restraint, and clasped his hand and said over and over with true pleasure, “How do you do, Your Highness? How do you do?”

  “I could be better, Father,” the King replied, and the lines on
his face deepened and darkened. “Times are very difficult, right now. You remember James Boris?”

  But the spell was broken. Garald had lifted, for one moment, the burden from my master’s shoulders, only to cast it back on the next. James Boris—short, square-shouldered, solid as one of his own tanks—was a good man, a good soldier. He had been merciful, in Thimhallan, when, by rights, he could have been vengeful. He was genuinely pleased to see Saryon and shook hands with my master quite cordially. So cordially that Saryon winced as he smiled. But James Boris and his army represented Thimhallan’s doom. He could not help but be a bleak omen.

  “General Boris, welcome to my home,” Saryon said gravely.

  He led the way into the living room, the move being an absolute necessity, for four of us were a tight fit in the small entryway and the aides and entourage were forced to camp out on the front lawn. In the living room, Saryon presented me. The King and the General both made polite comments on my work in writing the history of the Darksword. The King, with his innate charm, relaxed into another of those warm and disarming smiles and told me he thought my portrayal of him far too flattering.

  “Not half so flattering, Your Majesty,” I signed and Saryon translated, “as some would have had me make it.” I cast a fond glance at my master. “I had to dig very hard to discover some human flaws in you, to make you an interesting and believable character.”

  “I have flaws enough, the Almin knows,” Garald said with a slight smile, adding, “Several of my staff members have taken a great interest in your work, Reuven. Perhaps you would be so kind as to do them the favor of answering their questions while your master and the General and I talk over old times.”

  I admired and appreciated the smooth way he was getting rid of me. Rising to my feet, I was about to leave when Saryon reached out a hand and clasped me by the wrist.

  “Reuven is in my confidence.”

  Garald and General Boris exchanged looks. The General gave a slight nod, and the King responded with a nod in his turn.

  “Very well. General, if you please?”

  The General went to the entrance to the living room, spoke a few words to a member of his staff. The soldier gestured to several of his men and they departed, leaving the four of us in the room. I heard booted footsteps resound throughout the house, making one last check, then the booted footsteps departed and the front door closed. I saw, through the window, the soldiers deploying, securing the area.

  Though four of us remained in the house, it seemed empty and alone, the house of a stranger who has moved away. A chill raised my flesh. It was as if we had already left this house, never to return.

  Of the four of us, Saryon was the most at ease. His decision made, he was calm, gracious, and—oddly enough, with a King and General in attendance—it was my master who was in command of the situation.

  In fact, when Garald was about to speak, Saryon interrupted him.

  “Your Majesty, your emissary Mosiah explained matters quite clearly to me last night. The visit from the Technomancers was also quite instructive.”

  At this, King Garald shifted uncomfortably on the couch and would have again spoken, but Saryon continued on, placid and imperturbable.

  “I have reached a tentative decision,” Saryon said. “I need more information before I can make my decision final. I hope you two gentlemen, as well as the gentleman who is expected to arrive later, will be able to provide it.”

  “About the one expected later,” General Boris said. “There are a few things you should know, Father, in regard to Kevon Smythe.”

  “I know quite a bit about him, already,” Saryon said, with a half smile. “I spent the night researching him on the World Wide Weave.”

  “Web,” I signed, correcting him.

  “Web,” Saryon replied. “I always get that confused.”

  The two gentlemen seemed amazed. If they knew Saryon at all, they should not have been. Though the technology of the combustible engine left him baffled, he had adapted to the com—puter world like a duck to water.

  “I tapped into various sources,” he continued, and I suppressed a smile, for I knew now he was innocently showing off. “I read articles on Smythe written by political analysts. I read newspaper reports, and even scanned a biography, which is in the works. Not one of these mentioned that Kevon Smythe is a Technomancer.”

  “Of course not, Father,” said Garald. “He has taken care to keep that part of his life secret. And, after all, who would believe it? Only those of us who were born and raised on Thimhallan. And,” he added, including General Boris, “those who once visited there. Surely, you don’t doubt it! After last night …”

  “Indeed, Your Majesty.” Saryon was calm. “As I said, last night was most instructive. All the accounts of Kevon Smythe speak of his ambition, his meteoric rise to fortune and fame, his charismatic ability to sway people to his cause. They all marveled at his luck—what they term ‘lucky breaks’—that gained him wealth, or put him in the right place at the right time, or caused him to make exactly the right decision.”

  “What they call luck, some of us call magic,” said King Garald.

  “How is it possible that no one knows?” Saryon asked mildly.

  “Are you doubting His Majesty?” General Boris’s face flushed.

  Garald waved him to silence. “I can understand Father Saryon’s concern. It was difficult for me to believe, at first. But this is how the Technomancers have long worked in this world.

  “You’ve heard, undoubtedly, stories of those who practice so-called Black Magic; cults of Satan worshipers, who don black robes and mutilate animals and dance around graveyards at midnight. This is what most of the people on Earth equate with the dark arts. This is not the Technomancer. They laugh at such nonsense and even use it for their own purposes—it deflects attention away from them.

  “Who would believe that the businessman in the three-piece suit who is said to be a genius at playing the stock market uses his magical ability to make himself invisible, sits in on board meetings of various companies, and thus gains inside information? Who would believe that the embezzler who left her firm in financial ruin was able to mislead everyone because of the magical hold she had on their minds?”

  It sounded ludicrous, even to me, and I had seen with my own eyes the silver-robed Technomancers invade our house.

  King Garald grew bitter. “When I first discovered that the Four Cults of Dark Magic still existed, I tried to warn people in Earth government. Even my best friend did not believe me.” He looked at James Boris, who smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I will not waste time by relating what occurred that finally convinced him. It nearly cost us both our lives, but—in the end—he believed. The General suggested that I was wasting my time and energy attempting to fight the Technomancers in the open. I must adopt their own strategy.”

  “Mosiah told you he had been one of them,” said General Boris. “Did he tell you that he volunteered to become one of them? To go undercover? To risk his life ferreting out their dark secrets?”

  “No,” said Saryon, and he looked relieved. “No, he did not.”

  “Through him we found out much about their organization; we discovered the true nature of this ‘chemical factory’ which they operate and for which”—King Garald smiled wryly—”they even receive lucrative government grants!”

  “You work with Smythe,” Saryon said. “You do not denounce him.”

  “We have no choice,” said King Garald, and his voice was grim and harsh. “He holds our people and the people of Earth hostage.”

  “The Technomancers have infiltrated every part of the military,” said General Boris. “They do not commit sabotage. Oh, no. They are far too clever for that. They have made themselves indispensable to us. Because of their power and their skill, we are holding our own against the Hch’nyv. Should they withdraw their magical assistance—worse yet, should they turn their magic against us—we would be lost.”

  “How do they do this?�
�� Saryon was perplexed.

  “I’ll give a very simple example. We have a torpedo that has an electronic brain. We can program that brain to aim the torpedo to hit its target. The enemy detects the torpedo, sends out an electronic signal which scrambles its brain. But they can’t send out a signal to scramble magic. A Technomancer, magically guiding that torpedo, will send it unerringly to its target.

  “And if”—General Boris’s voice dropped—”they were to magically alter that torpedo’s programming, cause it to turn and strike a different target. Not an enemy target …” He shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “From what they have told us, they control nuclear armaments in the same way,” said King Garald. “From our investigations, we have reason to believe that they are telling the truth.”

  “To put it another way, we dare not call their bluff,” said the General bluntly.

  “I don’t see how the Darksword could possibly aid you in any way against these people,” said Saryon, and I was convinced then that I knew his decision.

  “Frankly, we don’t either,” said King Garald.

  “Then why—”

  “Because they fear it,” said the King. “We don’t know why. We don’t know what they’ve found out or how they found out, but they have received a warning from their researchers, those called the D’karn-kair, that the Darksword could be both an asset to them and a danger.”

  Saryon shook his head.

  Garald regarded him silently, then said, “There is another reason.”

  “I thought as much,” said Saryon, adding dryly, “You would not have gone to this much trouble to recruit me otherwise.”

  “No one knows about this except the Duuk-tsarith, and they, as always, are sworn by their oaths of loyalty to secrecy. Otherwise, Mosiah would have told you last night. Do you remember Bishop Radisovik, whom you used to know as Cardinal Radisovik?”