“We should hurry, sir,” I signed.
Not only was I looking forward to getting out of the rain, I was eager to see the magic.
“Am I supposed to open the Corridor?” Saryon asked. “I’m not sure I remember …”
“No, Father,” Mosiah replied. “The days are gone when you catalysts controlled the Corridors. Now anyone who knows the magic may use them.”
He spoke a word and an oval void appeared in the midst of the rain and the wind. The void elongated, until it was tall enough for us to enter. Saryon looked back uncertainly at Mosiah.
“Are you coming with us? Joram would be glad to see you.”
Mosiah shook his head. “I do not think so. Step into the Corridor, before you catch your death.” He turned to me. “The sensation you will feel is very frightening at first, but it will soon pass. Remain calm.”
Saryon started to enter the void, then he halted. “Where will it take us?”
“To the Font, where Joram lives.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to end up in some shattered castle in Merilon—”
“I am certain, Father. I said the Corridors had shifted. Like spokes in a wheel, they now all lead either to the Font or away from it.”
“How strange,” said Saryon. “How very strange.”
He entered the void. Urged by Mosiah, I followed quickly after my master, almost tripping on his heels. I lost sight of him immediately, however. The Corridor closed around me, as if it would compress me into nothingness. I felt squeezed and smothered, unable to breathe.
Remain calm… .
All very well for Mosiah to say! He wasn’t suffocating! I struggled for air, struggled to free myself. I was drowning, dying, losing consciousness… .
Then suddenly the Corridor opened, like a window shade in a dark room springing up to let in bright sunlight. I could breathe. I was on a mountaintop. The air was crisp and cool. No rain fell. The storm clouds were in the valleys beneath us.
I looked into blue sky, saw white, scudding clouds that were so close I felt as if I might snag one.
Saryon stood next to me, gazing around with the eager, wistful, hungry look of one who has returned at long last to a site where memories, painful and pleasant, were forged. We stood on the ramparts of what had once been an immense city-fortress.
He shook his head, looking a little dazed. “So much has changed,” he murmured. He drew near, took me by the arm, and pointed. “Up there, on the mountain’s peak—made from the mountain’s peak—was the cathedral. It is gone. Entirely gone. It must have collapsed later on, after we left. I never knew.”
He stared at the ruins, which lay scattered over the mountainside, then he turned and looked in a different direction. His sadness brightened somewhat. “The University is still here. Look, Reuven. The building on the side of the mountain. Magi from all over Thimhallan came to study there, to perfect their art. I studied mathematics there. What happy hours!”
Tunnels and corridors burrowed into the mountain. The work of the Church had been done here, its catalysts living, working inside the mountain, worshiping at its peak. Deep within the mountain was the Well of Life, the source of the magic on Thimhallan, now empty and broken.
It occurred to me, suddenly, that—but for Joram and the Darksword—I might now be a catalyst, walking these very corridors, bustling about importantly on the business of the Church. I could picture myself here very clearly, as if that same shade that snapped open to reveal the sunshine had also afforded me a glimpse of another life. I looked out that window and saw myself looking back in.
Saryon saw his past. I saw my present. It was exhilarating and unnerving, yet eminently satisfying. This was the land of my birth. I was a part of this mountain, the sand, the trees, the sky. I took a deep breath of the crisp air, and felt uplifted. And though I had no idea how to go about it, I think—at that moment—I could have drawn Life from the world around me, focused it within my body, and given it away.
A sound touched my reverie. Concern for my master drew me back to reality.
Saryon stood with bowed head. He brushed his hand swiftly across his eyes.
“Never mind,” he said, when I would have offered comfort. “Never mind. It was for the best, I know. I weep for the beauty that was ruined, that is all. It could not have lasted long. The ugliness would have overwhelmed it, and like Camelot, it might have been destroyed and irretrievably lost. At least our people still live and their memories live and the magic lives, for those who seek it.”
I had not sought it, yet it had come to me anyway. I was not a stranger to this land. It remembered me, though I had no memory of it.
Like Saryon, I had come home.
CHAPTER NINE
“I will run to Joram and he will take me in his arms and we will be together forever and ever. …”
GWENDOLYN; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
“I say!” came a peeved voice from the vicinity of the knapsack. “Are you two going to stand around and slobber over each other all day? I’m dying of ennui—the same sad fate that befell the Duke of Uberville, who was such a boring old fart that he bored himself and died for lack of interest.”
I considered overturning the knapsack and searching for Simkin, but to do so would have wasted precious time. I had spent hours trying to see to it that everything fit inside and I dreaded the thought of having to do all that over again.
I signed to Saryon, “If we ignore him, perhaps he’ll go away.”
“I heard that,” Simkin said. “And I can assure you, it won’t work!”
I was astonished, for I had not spoken, and I don’t think that even Simkin could have learned sign language in the space of the few hours we had known each other.
Saryon shrugged and wryly smiled. “The magic lives,” he whispered, and there was a warmth in his eyes that was rapidly drying up the tears.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“I was just trying to figure that out myself,” said Saryon, peering down from our perch on the ramparts.
“I know,” said a muffled voice from inside the knapsack, adding huffily, “but I’m not telling.”
Below us was a courtyard, its paving stones cracked and overgrown with a wide variety of plant life, including several varieties of wildflower. Across the courtyard was a long, low building with a great many windows, to let in the sunlight. Some of the windows had been broken, but the holes had been neatly covered over with pieces of wood. Here and there, in the courtyard, some attempt had been made to cut back the weeds, sweep away the dead leaves, and make the area more attractive.
“Ah, yes! In that building”—Saryon pointed to the building past the courtyard—”the Theldara, the healers, had their infirmary. Now I know where I am.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time the Theldara came to treat my little sister for ringworm? Or was it tapeworm? I’m sure there’s a difference. One eats you and you eat one. Not that it mattered to poor little Nan, for she was eaten by bears. Where was I? Ah, yes, the Theldara. He—”
Simkin prattled on. Saryon turned and began to walk along the ramparts, making his way toward a flight of stairs which led down into the courtyard. “There was a garden here, on the other side, where they grew herbs and other plants which they used in healing. A quiet, restful, soothing place. I came here once. A very fine man, that Theldara. He tried to help me, but that proved impossible. I was quite unable to help myself, which is always the first step.”
“It looks as though someone lives here,” I signed, pointing to the boarded-up windows.
“Yes,” Saryon agreed eagerly. “Yes, this would be an excellent place for Joram and his family to reside, with access to the interior portions of the Font.”
“Oh, jolly,” was the opinion of the knapsack.
Rounding a corner of the retaining wall, we found further evidence of habitation. One part of the courtyard, where the great Bishop Vanya had once walked in ceremony and state, was now apparently a laundry. Several large washtubs o
ccupied the paving stones and lengths of rope had been strung between two ornamental trees. Fluttering from the ropes were shirts and petticoats, sheets and undergarments, drying in the sun.
“They are here!” Saryon said to himself, and he had to pause a moment, to gather his strength.
Up to this point he had refused to let himself believe that at last, after all these years, he would see the man he loved as well or better than he could have ever loved a son.
Courage regained, Saryon hurried ahead, not thinking consciously of where he was going, but allowing his memory to show the way. We circled around the laundry tubs, ducked beneath the clothes.
“Joram’s flag—a nightshirt. Well, it figures,” said Simkin.
A door led into the dwelling. Looking through a window, we could see a sunlit room, with comfortable couches and chairs, and tables decorated with bowls of blooming flowers. Saryon hesitated a moment, his hand trembling, then he knocked at the door. We waited.
No answer.
He knocked again, staring intently, hopefully, through the glass windowpane.
I took the opportunity to search the area. Walking the length of the building, I looked around the corner and into a large garden. Hastening back to my master, I tugged on his sleeve and motioned him to follow me.
“You’ve found them?” he said.
I nodded and held up two fingers. I had found two of them.
I stayed behind as he entered that garden. The women would be startled, frightened, perhaps. It was best that they saw him, at first and alone.
The two were working in the garden, their long, cream-colored skirts kilted up around their waists, their heads protected from the sun by wide, broad-brimmed straw hats. Their sleeves were rolled up past the elbow, their arms were tanned brown from the sun. Both were hoeing, their arms and the tools they held rising and falling with swift, strong chopping strokes.
Wind chimes, hanging on a porch behind them, made music for them, to lighten their work. The air was filled with the rich smell of freshly turned loam.
Saryon walked forward on unsteady legs. He opened the gate that led into the garden, and that was as far as his strength and courage would bear him. He put out a hand to support himself on the garden wall. He tried, I think several times, to call a name, but his voice was mute as my own.
“Gwendolyn!” he said at last, and spoke that name with so much love and longing that no one who heard it could have been the least bit frightened.
She wasn’t fearful. Startled, perhaps, to hear a strange voice where no strange voice had spoken in twenty years. But she wasn’t afraid. She stopped her hoeing, lifted her head, and turned toward the sound.
She recognized my master in an instant. Dropping her hoe, she ran to him straight across the garden, heedless of the plants she crushed, the flowers she trampled. Her hat flew off, in her haste, and a mass of hair, long and golden, tumbled down behind. “Father Saryon!” she cried, and flung her arms about him.
He clasped her tightly, and they both held on to each other, weeping and laughing simultaneously.
Their reunion was sacred, a private special moment for only the two of them. It seemed to me that even watching must intrude, and so, deferentially and with some considerable curiosity, I turned my gaze on the daughter.
She had ceased her work. Standing straight, she regarded us from beneath the broad brim of her hat. In figure and stature, she was the twin of her mother, of medium build, graceful in her movements. That she was accustomed to physical labor showed in the well-defined muscles of her bare arms and legs, her upright stance and posture. I could not see her face, which was hidden by the shadow of the hat. She came no closer, but stood where she was.
She is afraid, I thought, and who can blame her? Having grown up apart, isolated, alone.
Gwendolyn had taken a step back, out of Saryon’s arms, though not out of his hold, to gaze fondly at him and he at her.
“Father, it is good to see you again! How well you look!”
“For an old man,” said Saryon, smiling down on her. “And you are lovely as ever, Gwen. Or lovelier, if that is possible. For now you are happy.”
“Yes,” she said, glancing behind her at her daughter, “yes, I am happy, Father. We are happy.” She laid emphasis on the word.
A shadow crossed her face. Her grip on Saryon tightened. She looked back up at him, with earnest pleading. “And that is why you must leave, Father. Go quickly. I thank you for coming. Joram and I have often wondered what became of you. He was worried. You had suffered much for his sake and he feared it might have damaged your health. Now I can give him ease, tell him you are well and prospering. Thank you for coming, but go quickly, now.”
“Pulled the welcome mat right out from under him, didn’t she?” said Simkin.
I gave the knapsack a whack.
“Where is Joram?” Saryon asked.
“Out tending the sheep.”
A muffled, derisive snort came from the knapsack. Gwen heard it. Glancing at me, she frowned and said defiantly, “Yes, he is a shepherd now. And he is happy, Father. Happy and content. For the first time in his life! And though he loves and honors you, Father Saryon, you are from the past, you are from the dark and unhappy times. Like that dreadful man who came here before, you will bring those terrible times back to us!”
She meant that we would bring the memory to them. I saw, by the pain in Saryon’s face, that he gave her words another meaning, a truer meaning. It was not the memory we were bringing to them, but the reality.
He swallowed. His hands on her arms trembled. His eyes grew moist. He tried several times to speak, before the words finally came out. “Gwen, I stayed away from Joram all these years for this very reason. Much as I longed to see him, much as I longed to know he was well and happy, I feared I would only disturb his tranquillity. I would not have come now, Gwen, but that I have no choice. I must see Joram,” Saryon said gently, and now his voice was firm. “I must talk to him and to you together. There is no help for it. I am sorry.”
Gwen gazed long into his face. She saw the pain, the sadness, the understanding. She saw the resolution.
“Do you … have you come for the Darksword? He won’t give it up, not even to you, Father.”
Saryon was shaking his head. “I have not come for the Darksword. I have come for Joram, for you and your daughter.”
Gwen kept fast hold of him, for support. When she let go, it was only to lift her hand, to wipe her eyes.
I had been so intent on their conversation that I had forgotten the daughter. At the sight of her mother’s distress, she dropped the hoe and ran toward us, moving with long, free strides. She pushed back the hat, to see better, and I realized that I had misjudged her. She hadn’t been afraid of us. She had been pausing to consider us, to study us and to study herself, to determine how she felt about us.
I paused to consider her. My life paused, at that moment, to consider her. When life resumed, a second later, it would never be the same. If I never saw her again, from that moment on I would see her forever.
Thick, black, and unruly hair fell in disordered curls from a central part, glistened in luxuriant clusters about her shoulders. Her brows were also thick and black and straight, giving her a stern and introspective aspect that was dispelled by the sudden, dazzling light of large, crystalline blue eyes. That was her father’s legacy. Her mother bequeathed the oval face and pointed chin, the ease and grace of movement.
I did not love her. Love was impossible, at that first moment of our meeting, for love is between humans and she was something extraordinary, not truly human. It would have been like falling in love with the image in a painting or with a statue in a gallery. I was awed, admiring.
Prospero’s daughter, I said inwardly, recalling my Shakespeare. And then I smiled derisively at myself, remembering her words on seeing the strangers washed ashore by her father’s art: “How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!”
I could tell from
her glance that raked across me with curiosity and little more that I was not providing images of brave new worlds. And yet I interested her. Though she had her parents for company, youth yearns for its own, to share the newfound dreams and budding hopes that belong to youth alone.
But for now, her first care was for her mother. She put her arms protectively around her mother’s shoulders and faced us boldly, accusingly, her black brows a straight, heavy line.
“Who are you? What have you said to upset her? Why do you people keep intruding upon us?”
Gwen lifted her head, dashed away her tears, and managed a smile. “No, Eliza, don’t talk in that tone. This man is not like the others. He is one of us. This is Father Saryon. You’ve heard us speak of him. He is an old friend and very dear to both your father and to me.”
“Father Saryon!” Eliza repeated, and the heavy line lifted, the blue eyes were light and radiant, like the sun shining down after a thunderstorm. “Of course, I have heard of Father Saryon. You have come to teach me! Father said I was to go to you, but he kept putting it off and now I know why—you have come to me!”
Saryon reddened, swallowed again, and, embarrassed, looked to Gwen for guidance, to know what to say.
She was unable to assist him, but her assistance wasn’t necessary because Eliza’s quick gaze went from one to the other and she realized her mistake. The light dimmed. “That is not why you’ve come. Of course not. My mother would not be crying if that were the case. Why are you here, then? You and your”—she turned her brilliant gaze on me, made a guess— “your son?”
“Reuven!” said Saryon. He turned around and stretched out his hand, urging me forward. “My boy, forgive me! You’re so quiet … I forgot you were here. He is my son by affection, though not by birth. He was born in Thimhallan, born here in the Font, as a matter of fact, for his mother was a catalyst.”
Eliza regarded me with cool intensity and suddenly I had another of those strange flashes, such as I had experienced earlier, where I seemed to be looking through a window into another lifetime.
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