Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Kevon Smythe spoke. “The Hch’nyv will not permit Joram to live in peace.”

  “They will slay him,” General Boris said, “as they have already slain tens of thousands of our people. All the outposts that remain in our system are being evacuated, their people brought back to Earth for protection. Our fleet is too decimated to be divided. Here, on Earth, we will make our final stand against the invaders.”

  Saryon regarded them gravely, troubled. “I had not heard the situation was that critical.”

  Garald sighed. “We have made a mistake with you, Father. We have put our worst argument first and we have done it badly. Now you don’t trust us, and I can’t say that I blame you. But very few people on Earth know just how desperate the situation is. We want to keep it that way, for as long as possible.”

  “The panic that would follow, the damage it would do our cause, is incalculable,” said the General. “We need troops prepared to fight the enemy, not used to quell riots in the streets.”

  “What you have heard here, Father,” said Kevon Smythe, “you must not repeat, except to one person, and that is Joram. You may tell him the truth, if only to make him understand the danger. Then it is my hope and my prayer, Father, that he will relinquish the Darksword willingly—to whomever he chooses. We are fighting for the same cause, after all.”

  He looked like a saint, in his self-sacrificing humility, and the King and General came off shabbily by contrast. Yet the charm, once dispelled, could not be recast.

  Saryon sank down in his chair. He looked ill from worry and anxiety. It wasn’t proper etiquette or protocol, but I was past caring. Ignoring the three, I went to Saryon and, leaning over his chair, asked him with a sign if I should bring him some tea.

  He smiled at me and thanked me, shook his head no. He kept his hand on mine, however, indicating that I was to remain at his side. He sat and thought a long time, in distraught, unhappy silence.

  The King and General returned to their seats. Smythe had not left his. All three tried to look sympathetic, but they could none of them hide an air of smugness. They were certain they had won.

  At length, Saryon raised his head. “I will go to Joram,” he said quietly. “I will tell him what you have told me. I will warn him that he and his family are in danger and that they should evacuate to Earth. I will say nothing to him of the Darksword. If he brings it with him, you may each go to him and present your own need. If he does not, then you may each go to Thimhallan—once Joram and his family have departed—and search for it.”

  It was a victory for them—of sorts. They were wise enough not to continue to argue or cajole.

  “And now, gentlemen,” said Saryon, “you have been kept here past your time. I don’t mean to seem rude, but I have travel arrangements to make—”

  “All that has been taken care of for you, Father,” said General Boris, adding lamely, “on the … er … off chance that you would decide to make this trip.”

  “How convenient,” said Saryon, and one corner of his mouth twitched.

  We were to leave that night. One of the General’s aides would remain with us and assist us with packing, drive us to the spaceport, escort us on board ship.

  Kevon Smythe left with gracious words and seemed to take the sunlight with him. General Boris hurried out, relieved to have it all over with, and was immediately surrounded by his staff, who had been impatiently awaiting his release. King Garald remained a moment behind.

  Saryon and I had gone to the door to see our guests out. King Garald looked almost as ill as my master, and he, at least, had the grace to apologize.

  “I am sorry to put this burden on you, Father,” he said. “But what could I do? You’ve met the man.” We knew who he meant. There was no need to name him. “What could I do?” he repeated.

  “You could have faith, Your Majesty,” said Saryon gently.

  King Garald smiled, then. Turning to Saryon, there on the doorstoop, the King reached out his hand and clasped my master’s. “I do, Father. I have faith in you.”

  Saryon was so extremely startled by this response that it was difficult for me to hide my smile. Garald left, walking tall, with his shoulders back; a kingly air. General Boris was waiting in the limousine. Kevon Smythe had already departed.

  Saryon and I ducked hastily back inside, narrowly avoiding a mob of reporters, who clamored for interviews. The General’s aide was skilled in handling the press, and all in all, they did not give us too much trouble. After breaking only one window and trampling the flower beds, they eventually left us in peace. I saw several interviewing Mrs. Mumford.

  I suppose that a birthday celebration for one elderly cleric was not considered worth the expenditure of time and money. Had they known the true story, they would have stormed the house.

  Another of the General’s aides was in the study, on the phone, confirming and updating arrangements for our transport to Thimhallan.

  Saryon paused a moment in the hallway. Noting the expression on his face, I touched his arm, drew his attention.

  “You did the right thing,” I signed, and added, a little teasingly, I’m afraid, hoping to cheer his mood. “You must have faith.”

  He smiled, but it was a wan, pale smile. “Yes, Reuven. So I must.”

  Sighing, his head bowed, he went to his room to prepare for our journey.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Watchers had guarded the Border of Thimhallan for centuries. It was their enforced task, through sleepless night and dreary day, to keep watch along the boundary that separated the magical realm from whatever lay Beyond.

  What did lie Beyond?

  TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

  I will spare you the details of our journey, which was, I suppose, the same as any other interplanetary flight, with the exception that we were in a military ship with a military escort. For me, the trip into space was awe-inspiring and exciting. This was only my second flight and the first I remembered clearly. I had only the vaguest recollection of leaving Thimhallan, traveling on the evacuation ships.

  Saryon kept to his quarters, on the pretext that he had work to do. He was, as I believe I have neglected to mention, developing a mathematical theorem having to do with light-wave particles or something of the sort. Not being mathematically inclined, I knew little about it. The moment he and his tutor began to discuss it, I began to feel a throbbing in my temples and was glad to leave. He claimed to be working on this, but every time I entered his room, to see if he needed anything, I found him staring out the porthole at the stars gliding past us.

  He was reliving his life in Merilon, I guessed. Maybe he was once more in the court of the faerie queen or standing, a stone statue, on the border of Beyond. The past was for him both painful and blessed. At the expression on his face, I silently withdrew, my heart aching.

  We landed on the world he and I had known as Thimhallan, the first ship from Earth in twenty years, not counting those that arrived only to off-load supplies to the station then left again, and not counting those that arrived secretly, carrying the Duuk-tsarith and the Technomancers.

  Saryon remained alone in his quarters for so long after the ship settled to the ground that I began to think he had reconsidered his decision, that he was not going to talk to Joram after all. The General’s aide was exceedingly worried and panicked calls were made to both General Boris and King Garald. Their images were on-screen, prepared to badger and plead, when Saryon appeared.

  Motioning me to follow him, he walked past the aide without a word, did not even glance at the screens. He moved so swiftly through the ship that I barely had time to grab the knapsack in which I had packed a few necessaries for us both and hurry after him.

  By the beatific expression on his face, Saryon was lifted far above the remembrance of such things as clean socks, bottled water, and shaving kits. Blessing the forethought which had prompted me to pack for both of us, I slung the knapsack over my shoulders and was following at his heels when he reached the hatch.

 
; Whatever doubts he may have entertained were gone. The weight of his responsibility and even the weight of the intervening years had fallen from him. This was more than a dream come true, for my master. He had never dared dream the dream. He had never thought this reunion would take place. He had believed that Joram—in his self-imposed exile—was lost to him forever.

  When the hatch opened, Saryon shot out the doorway and dashed down the ramp, his robes flapping wildly about his ankles. I clattered down behind, struggling with the heavy knapsack, which was throwing me off balance. We were met at the foot of the ramp by a contingent of people from the research station. Saryon halted only because it was either stop or run them over.

  He paid them very little attention, however; his hungry gaze going above their heads to the land beyond, a land that, as he had known it, would have been shrouded in magical, protective mist. The mist was gone. The land was now laid bare for all to see.

  Saryon tried to see it, tried to see everything he could of his homeland. Craning his neck and peering above the heads of the group, he made only brief and generally incomprehensible statements and, at length, gave up all attempts at politeness. He walked off, leaving the commander and the urgent message he was trying to impart in mid-sentence.

  Saryon walked across the rock-strewn ground, walked toward the land of his birth.

  The base commander would have gone after him, but I had seen the tears on my master’s face. I intervened, indicating to the commander by emphatic signs that Saryon wanted to be left alone. The General’s aide had arrived by now. She and the commander and I made the plans necessary for our stay.

  “You must make him understand,” said the base commander, frustrated. “As I was attempting to tell the priest, we received our orders to pull out yesterday, evacuate the station. So don’t linger. Remind the priest he’s not on holiday. The last ship leaves seventy-two hours from now.”

  I was shocked. I stared at the man, who understood my wordless question.

  “Yes. The Hch’nyv are that close,” he said grimly. “We’ll be taking you and the prisoner and his family out of here. I guess you and the priest there are responsible for making him see reason, eh?”

  “Well, I don’t envy you.” The commander turned his gaze toward the distant hills. “That Joram—he’s gone insane, if you ask me. He was like a wild man when we went up there to rescue Senator Smythe. Not but what he had cause, I grant you. Still, no harm was done and there was Joram standing over the poor Senator, fists clenched, seeming ready to bash the life out of him. And such a look Joram gave me, when I asked him if his wife and daughter were well? He fair roasted me with those black eyes of his and told me that the health of his family was none of my concern. No, sir. I don’t envy you and the priest. I recommend an armed escort.”

  I knew that would be out of the question, as far as Saryon was concerned, and so did the General’s aide.

  “They do not have far to travel and the catalyst is familiar with this land,” she told the base commander. “The priest is an old friend of Joram’s. They will not be in any danger. And they will have communicators in the air car, which they can use should they run into any unforeseen circumstances.”

  She gave me a sideways glance as she said this, to see my reaction. I guessed then that we would have escorts—of an unseen kind. The Duuk-tsarith, perhaps hidden in their folds of time, would be guarding us.

  “What about a driver?” asked the commander.

  “I will drive—” the aide began.

  I shook my head emphatically and tapped myself on the chest. On my handheld computer, I typed out, I will drive.

  “Can you?” the aide asked me, clearly dubious.

  Yes, I replied stoutly, which was almost the truth.

  I had driven an air car once before, at an amusement park, and had just about got the hang of it. It was the other cars, coming every which way at me, which had confused me and caused my driving to be slightly erratic. If mine was the only air car in this part of the solar system, I figured I would be fairly safe.

  Besides—I held up the computer for the aide to see what I had written—you know that he will not let anyone else come with us. She did know, but she didn’t like it. My guess was that this had all been arranged—the air car, I mean—with the understanding that she would drive us, keep an eye on us, make her reports. Haven’t you got spies enough? I thought bitterly, but did not put into words. I had won this round and could afford to be magnanimous.

  “Keep in contact,” the base commander warned. “Circumstances with the enemy could change. And probably not for the better.”

  The aide returned to the ship, to complain to the General. The base commander accompanied me to the air car, gave me quick refresher lessons in operating the thing—lessons which served to confuse me thoroughly. I tossed the knapsack in the backseat and left the air car to fetch Saryon, who, in his eagerness, had started walking in the direction of the distant mountains.

  I hadn’t taken six steps when the commander called after me. I turned to see him picking something up off the ground.

  “Here.” The commander handed it to me. “The priest dropped this.”

  He held out Saryon’s leather scrip, one of the few objects he had brought with him from Thimhallan. I recalled it well, for it was given an honored place in his study, carefully arranged upon a small table near his desk. I always knew when Saryon was thinking about Joram or about the past, for he would rest his hand upon the scrip, his fingers stroking the worn leather.

  I thought it touching that he had brought the scrip with him, perhaps as a holy relic, to be rededicated. I couldn’t imagine, though—cherishing the scrip as he did—how he had come to carelessly drop it. Thanking the commander, I placed the scrip in the backseat along with the knapsack. Then I went to retrieve my master.

  “Air car,” he said, and gave me a sharp look. “And who’s to be the driver?”

  “I am, sir,” I signed. “It’s either that or the General’s aide will drive us, and I knew you wouldn’t like to have a stranger along.”

  “I would much prefer that alternative to being splattered against a tree,” said Saryon irritably.

  “I have driven an air car before, sir,” I returned.

  “In an amusement park!” Saryon snorted.

  I was hoping that in his excitement, he would have forgotten the circumstances. Apparently not.

  “I will go find the General’s aide, sir,” I signed, and started to head back toward the ship.

  “Wait, Reuven.”

  I turned around.

  “Can you … really drive one of those contraptions?” He cast a nervous glance at the air car.

  “Well, sir.” I relaxed, smiled, and shrugged. “I can try.”

  “All right, then,” he said.

  “Do you know the way?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

  He looked out again across the landscape, toward the mountains that rose, snowcapped, on the horizon.

  “There,” he said. “The Font. The only building left standing, after the terrible storms broke over the world with the destruction of the Well of Life. Joram and Gwendolyn took refuge there, and there, according to King Garald, is where they live still.”

  We started walking back to the air car. “We have seventy-two hours,” I told him, “before the last ship leaves.”

  He gave me the same shocked look I had given the commander. “So short a time?”

  “Yes, sir. But surely it won’t take nearly that long. Once you explain the danger to Joram …”

  Saryon was shaking his head. I wondered if I should tell him what the base commander had said about Joram’s being insane, decided that I would keep that to myself. I did not want to add to my master’s worries. My research on the book had seemed to indicate that Joram was a manic-depressive and I thought it quite possible that the isolation of his life, plus the tension created by the arrival of the Technomancers, might well have driven him to the breaking point.

  R
eaching the car, I opened the door for Saryon and saw the leather scrip draped over the backseat. I pointed at it.

  “You dropped it,” I signed. “The base commander found it for you.”

  Saryon stared at the scrip in perplexity. “I couldn’t have dropped it. I didn’t bring it. Why would I?”

  “Is it yours?” I asked, thinking that perhaps it might belong to someone on the base.

  Saryon peered closely at it. “It looks very much like mine. Somewhat newer, perhaps, not quite as worn. Odd. Such a thing could not come into the possession of anyone on base, because such a thing has not been made for twenty years! It must be mine, only … Mmmm. How strange.”

  I reminded him that he had been distracted and upset, that perhaps he had brought it and not remembered. I also hinted that his memory had failed him before—he was constantly forgetting where he put his reading spectacles.

  He cheerfully acknowledged that I was right and admitted that it had crossed his mind to take the scrip, but that he had been fearful of losing it. He thought that he had put it back in its accustomed place.

  The scrip remained lying on the backseat. We entered the car and my thoughts centered on trying to remember all that the commander had told me about the operation of the vehicle. The odd discovery of the leather scrip passed clean out of my mind. Saryon settled into the passenger’s seat. I assisted him with his seat belt and then fastened my own. He asked worriedly if there weren’t more safety restraints and I said, with more confidence than I felt, that these would be adequate.

  I pushed the ON button. The air car began to hum. I pushed the button marked JETS. The humming grew louder, followed by a whoosh of the jets. The air car rose off the ground. Saryon had fast hold of the door handle.

  All was going very smoothly. The car was drifting upward when Saryon spoke. “Aren’t we going too high?” he asked in a cracked voice.

  I shook my head, and taking the wheel, I pressed on it, intending to level us off.

  The wheel was far more sensitive than I had anticipated, certainly more sensitive than the wheel of the air car in the amusement park. The car lurched downward and headed at a high rate of speed straight for the ground.