“You are very much like your grandmother, my dear,” Saryon said to her. “The Empress of Merilon. She was said to be the most beautiful woman in Thimhallan. And she was, one of them.” He turned his mild gaze to Gwen. “The other, of course, was your mother.”
Gwendolyn and Eliza both flushed at the compliment and Eliza asked Saryon to tell her about the Empress, her grandmother.
“Papa never talks about the old days,” Eliza said. “He says that they are gone and it is useless to think about them. I’ve read about Merilon and the rest in the books, but that isn’t the same. Mother has told me some, but not much… .”
“Did she tell you about how she saved us from the Duuk-tsarith when we first came to Merilon?” Saryon asked.
“No! Did you, Mama? Will you tell the story?”
Gwen smiled, but she, too, had seen the look her husband cast on Saryon. She said something to the effect that she was a poor storyteller and would leave that to the good father. Saryon launched into his tale. Eliza listened with rapt attention. Gwen stared at her plate, made only the barest pretense of eating. Joram ate his food in silence, looked at nothing and everything.
“Simkin changed himself into a tulip,” Saryon was saying, bringing the story to its conclusion. “He planted himself in the bouquet your mother was carrying and urged her to tell the guards at the city gate that my young friends and I were all guests of her father’s! And so they admitted us—who were in reality fugitives from the law—safely into Merilon. She told a lie, of course, but I believe that the Almin forgave her, for she acted out of love.”
Saryon smiled benignly and gave a gentle nod toward Joram. Gwendolyn lifted her head, looked at her husband. He returned the look and again I saw the darkness, that seemed to hang over him perpetually, lift. The love that had been kindled that day still burned, its warmth surrounded us and blessed us.
“Mama! You were a heroine! How romantic. But tell me more about this Simkin,” Eliza said, laughing.
At this, Saryon looked extremely discomfited. My glance went involuntarily to the stuffed bear, which seemed to be quivering with either anticipation or suppressed laughter. Saryon opened his mouth. I’m not sure what he would have replied, but at that moment Joram, his face grim, shoved his plate back and rose to his feet.
“We’ve had enough stories for the night. You came here for a reason, or so I understand, Father. Come into the warming room and tell us. Leave the dishes, Gwen,” he added. “Father Saryon has important work to do back on Earth. We don’t want to prolong his visit unnecessarily. You and Reuven will be our guests tonight, of course.”
“Thank you,” said Saryon faintly.
“It will only take a moment to clear the table, Joram,” Gwendolyn said nervously. “You and Father Saryon go into the warming room. Eliza and Reuven and I will—”
Her chill, trembling hands dropped a plate. It struck the stone floor and shattered.
All of us stood and stared at it in unhappy silence. Everyone in that room read its dread portent.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The sword lay like a corpse at Saryon’s feet, the personification of the catalyst’s sin.
THE DARKSWORD
Eliza brought a broom and swept up the remnants of the plate.
“Reuven and I will do the dishes, Mama,” Eliza said in a low voice. “You stay with Papa.”
Gwendolyn did not reply, but she nodded, and going to Joram, she put her arm around him, rested her head on his chest. He held her fast, bowed his dark head over her blond hair, and kissed her gently.
I cleared the table, carried the plates into the kitchen. Eliza tossed the broken plate into a bin, then filled a tub with hot water from a kettle that had been steaming on the hearth. She didn’t look at me once, but kept her eyes on her work.
I guessed what she must be feeling: guilt, remorse. Prospero’s daughter wanted to see this brave new world. She was certain in her own mind that this was why we had come—to take her back with us. She wanted to go, to see the wonders about which she had only read. Yet she realized, perhaps for the first time, how her going would grieve her parents. She would never leave them.
She won’t have to. They will come with her. The knowledge cheered me.
Joram made certain that Saryon was settled comfortably near the fire, then sat down in what I must assume was his accustomed chair. Gwendolyn took her place in a chair beside Joram’s, near enough that they could reach out and touch hands.
On tables beside each chair were several books and, near Gwen’s chair, a basket holding balls of yarn, hand-carved knitting needles, and another basket of mending. She reached, by habit, for one of these. Only when the basket was in her lap did she look at Father Saryon, and with a sigh, she put her work away and folded her hands together tightly.
No one said a word. We might have been a party of mutes, except that then the silence would have been alive, with thoughts flying from one to another, faces animated, eyes bright and speaking. Each person in that room stood behind a wall—a wall of time and distance, fear and mistrust and, in my master’s case, deep sorrow.
Finishing the dishes, we joined the others. Eliza lit candles. I added another log to the fire. Eliza went to her own chair, near a table piled with books and another basket of handwork. There not being any more chairs, I retrieved one from the kitchen and placed it near my master.
Joram regarded Saryon with grim expectation, black brows drawn in a straight heavy line above his eyes, his expression stern and impregnable, a solid rock cliff, challenging Saryon to hurl himself against it.
Saryon had known this would not be easy. I don’t believe he imagined it would be this hard. He drew in a breath, but before he could speak, Joram forestalled him.
“I want you to take a message to Prince Garald, Father,” Joram said abruptly. “Tell him that his commands have been thwarted, the law broken. My family and I were to have been left alone and in peace on this world. That peace has been disturbed by a man named Smythe, who came seeking the Darksword. He dared to threaten my family. I threw him out with orders to never return. If he does come back, I take no responsibility for what might happen. That goes for anyone else seeking the Darksword as well.”
This statement obviously included us and made Saryon’s task no easier.
“I cannot think why they have come in the first place,” Joram continued. “The Darksword was destroyed when the world was shattered. They are wasting their time searching for something that doesn’t exist.”
He was not lying, not outright. True, the original Darksword had been destroyed. But what about the new one, the one he had most recently made? Or did it truly exist? Perhaps the Duuk-tsarith were mistaken. Saryon did not dare ask. To do so would be to admit that Joram was being spied upon and that would send him into a rage.
My master had the look of a man about to go swimming in an icy lake. He knows that entering the water little by little will only prolong the agony and so he plunged straight in.
“Joram, Gwendolyn”—Saryon’s compassionate gaze included them both—”my business here does not concern the Darksword. I am here to take you and your family back to Earth, where you will be safe.”
“We are safe here,” said Joram sternly, glowering, “or we would be if Garald would keep his word and enforce his law! Or does he want the Darksword, too? That’s it, isn’t it?” He bounded out of his chair, loomed over us threateningly. “That’s why you’ve come, Father!”
I knew then, of course, that the reports were true. Joram had made another Darksword. He had as good as admitted it.
Saryon stood to face him. His cheeks were flushed, his voice shook, not with weakness, but with anger. “I am not here for the sword, Joram. I have stated as much. You know—or at least you should know—that I would not lie to you.”
Gwendolyn was on her feet, her hands on Joram’s arm. “Joram, please!” she said softly. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This is Father Saryon!”
Joram’s fury sub
sided. He had the grace to look ashamed of himself and to apologize. But the apology was brief and it was cold. He returned to his chair. Gwen did not go back to hers, but remained standing behind Joram, her presence strong and supportive, defending him, though he had been in the wrong.
Eliza was troubled, confused, and a little frightened. This was not what she had expected.
Saryon sat back down, looked gently, grievingly, on Joram. ‘‘My son, do you think this is easy for me? I see the life you have made for yourself and your family. I see that it is peaceful and blessed. And I am the one telling you it must end. I wish I could add that it would be possible to regain such peace back on Earth, but that I cannot promise. Who knows whether any of us will find peace when we return, or if we will all be plunged into terrible war.
“Smythe spoke to you of the Hch’nyv, the aliens who have one avowed purpose and that is to destroy the human race. They have no interest in negotiating, they refuse all contact with us. They have slaughtered those we sent to them in hopes of obtaining a truce. They are closing in on us. Our military forces have pulled back, in order to make a final stand on Earth. This outpost is the last to be evacuated.
“I cannot even promise that you will be safe on Earth,” Saryon admitted, “I can’t promise that any of us will. But at least there you will have the protection of the combined Earth Forces. Here, you and Gwen and Eliza would be at the aliens’ mercy. And, from what we have seen, they have no concept of mercy.”
Joram’s mouth twisted. “And if you have the Darksword—”
Saryon was shaking his head.
Joram amended his statement, though the twist of his mouth deepened and his tone was bitter and ironic. “If someone has the Darksword, then someone could use it to stop these fiendish aliens and save the world. Still trying to redeem yourself, Father?”
Saryon gazed at him sadly. “You don’t believe me. You think I am lying to you. I am sorry, my son. Very sorry.”
“Joram,” Gwen whispered in gentle reproof, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
Joram sighed. Reaching up, he took hold of her hand and rested his cheek against it. He kept fast hold of her as he talked.
“I do not say you are lying, Father.” Joram spoke in a softened tone. “I am saying that you have been tricked. You were always gullible,” he added, and the bitter smile warmed into one of affection. “You are too good for this world, Father. Much too good. People take advantage of you.”
“I do not know that I am particularly good,” Saryon said, speaking slowly, earnestly, his words gathering force as he went, “but I have always tried to do what I believed was right. This does not mean that I am weak, Joram, nor that I am foolish, though you always equated goodness with weakness. You imply that these aliens do not exist. I’ve seen the news reports, Joram! I’ve seen the pictures of the ships attacking and destroying our colonies! I’ve read the accounts of the terrible slaughter, the senseless butchery.
“No, I have not seen these aliens with my own eyes. Few men have and lived to tell of it. But I have seen the anxiety, the concern, the fear in the eyes of General Boris and King Garald. They are afraid, Joram. Afraid for you, afraid for all of us. What do you think this is—an elaborate hoax? To what purpose? All to trick you out of the Darksword? How is that possible, when you have said yourself that it was destroyed?”
Joram made no response.
Saryon sighed again. “My son, I will be honest with you. I will leave nothing hidden, though what I have to tell will anger you and rightly so. They know you have forged a new Darksword. The Duuk-tsarith have been watching you—only to protect you, Joram! Only to protect you from Smythe and his associates! So the Duuk-tsarith claim, and I … I believe them.”
Joram was indeed furious, so furious that he was choked by his rage and could not speak. And so my master was able to continue.
“I know why you made the sword, Joram—to protect yourself and those you love from the magic. And that is why you cling to it. And, yes, I admit that they want the Darksword and its secrets, Joram. Bishop Radisovik—you remember him? You know him to be a good, wise man. Bishop Radisovik received a message which he believes came from the Almin concerning the Darksword and how it might be used to save our people. Whether you take the sword to Earth or not is your decision. I will not try to influence you. I care only for the safety of yourself and your family. Do you care about the Darksword so much, my son, that you would sacrifice your family for it?”
Joram rose to his feet. Releasing Gwen’s hand, he stepped away from her placating touch. His voice was deep with anger. “How can I trust them? What have I known from these people in the past, Father? Treachery, deceit, murder—”
“Honor, love, compassion,” Saryon countered. Joram’s face darkened. He was not accustomed to being contradicted. I don’t know what he might have said next, but Gwendolyn intervened.
“Father, tell us what King Garald plans for us,” she said.
Saryon did so. He related how a ship was waiting for them at the outpost. The ship would take them back to Earth, where housing had been arranged. He spoke with regret of things left behind, but there was not enough room on the ship to store many personal belongings.
“Just room enough for the Darksword,” Joram said, and sneered.
“The hell with the Darksword!” Saryon said angrily, losing patience. “Consign it to perdition! I do not want to see it! I do not want to hear of it! Leave it! Bury it! Destroy it! I do not care what you do with it. You, Joram! You and your wife and your child. These are all that matter to me.”
“To you!” Joram countered. “And that is why they sent you! To make exactly this plea in this tone! To scare us into running. And when we are gone, then they will be free to come and search and take what they know I would die before I give up!”
“You can’t mean this, Father!” Eliza spoke for the first time. Rising to her feet, she faced him. “What if they are right? What if the power of the Darksword could save lives? Millions of lives! You have no right to withhold it. You must give it to them!”
“Daughter,” said Gwendolyn sharply, “hold your tongue! You can’t possibly understand!”
“I understand that my father is being selfish and obstinate,” Eliza returned. “And that he doesn’t care about us! About any of us! He cares only for himself!”
Joram glared darkly at Saryon. “You have accomplished your task, Father. You have turned my child against me. No doubt that, too, was part of your plan. She can go with you to Earth, if she wants. I will not stop her. You may stay the night, you and your accomplice. But you will be gone in the morning.”
He turned and started to leave the room.
“Father!” Eliza pleaded, heartbroken. “I don’t want to leave! Father, I didn’t mean …” She stretched out her hands to him, but he walked past her without a glance and disappeared into the darkness. “Father!”
He did not return.
With a ragged cry, Eliza ran from the room, into another part of the dwelling. I heard her footsteps and then, in the distance, a door slam.
Gwendolyn stood alone, drooping and pale as a cut flower.
Saryon began to stammer out an apology, though the Almin knows he had nothing for which to apologize.
Gwendolyn lifted her gaze to meet his. “They are so alike,” she said. “Flint striking flint. The sparks fly. And yet they love each other… .” Her hand went to her mouth and then to her eyes. She drew in a shuddering breath. “He will reconsider. He will think about this through the night. His answer will be different by morning. He will do what is right. You know him, Father.”
“Yes,” said Saryon gently. “I know him.”
Perhaps, I thought. But in the meantime it will be a long night.
Gwendolyn gave Saryon a kiss on his cheek. She bid me good night. I bowed silently, and she left us.
The fire had died to embers. The room was dark and growing chill. I was afraid for Saryon, who looked very ill. I knew how exhausted he must b
e, for the day had been a tiring one. The evening’s stressful and unpleasant scene had left him empty and shaken.
“Master,” I signed, going to him, “come to bed. There is nothing more we can do this night.”
He did not move, nor did he seem to see my speaking hands. He stared into the glowing coals, and from his words, spoken to himself, I shared his vision. He was seeing the forge fire, the making of the sword.
“I gave the first Darksword life,” he said. “A thing of evil, it sucked the light from the world and changed it into darkness. He is right. I am still searching for redemption.”
He was shivering. I looked around the room, spotted a woolen throw tossed on a stool near the fireplace. As I went to retrieve it, my eye caught a tiny flash of orange light, in the corner between the fireplace and the wall. Thinking it might be a cinder that had caught the wood on fire, I started to brush it off, intending to stamp it out.
The moment my hand touched it, a shiver went through my body. Smooth, plastic, it was not of this world. It did not belong here. I saw again the green glowing listening devices Mosiah had discovered in our house. Except why should this one glow orange … ?
“No reason,” said a furry voice, near my elbow. “Except that I happen to like orange.”
Teddy sat upon the stool. The orange glow of the listening device was reflected in his button eyes.
I might have asked how Simkin knew what such a device was, or even if he did know what it was. I might have asked why he waited to show it to us now, now that it was too late. I might have asked, but I did not. I think I feared the answer. Perhaps that was a mistake.
And I did not tell Saryon that all we had said had been overheard by the Technomancers. Perhaps that, too, was a mistake, but I was afraid it would only add to his misery. Whereas, if Gwen was right—and she should surely know Joram—by morning he would have reconsidered. By morning, we would all be gone from this place and the Technomancers could listen to the silence.
Legacy of the Darksword Page 13
