Legacy of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

“It does,” said Mosiah. “They will use it to enslave a world.”

  “My father’s life is all that matters,” Eliza maintained stubbornly.

  She swayed where she stood. She was exhausted, her strength almost gone. There was nowhere to sit down; every piece of furniture in the room had been smashed. Scylla put her arm around the young woman, gave her a bracing hug.

  “I know it all looks very bleak now, Eliza, but things are not as bad as they seem. We’ll feel better for a cup of tea. Reuven, find something for us to sit on.”

  She did not speak the instruction aloud. She signed the words to me! Smiling, she quirked her pierced eyebrow as much as to say, See, I do know you!

  Of course. All that would be in my “file.” Once I was over my astonishment, I left the room in search of chairs. And I felt better, having a task to perform. I had to go to distant and long-unused parts of the building to find any furniture that was still intact. Surely the D’karn-darah could not imagine that they would find the Darksword hidden in a straight-backed wooden chair, but that’s how it appeared. The destruction was wanton and cruel and seemed, to my mind, to have been the result of fury and frustration over not finding what they sought rather than of any true hope of discovery.

  If this is what they do to objects, what will they do to people? I asked myself, and the thought was chilling.

  I found no chairs, but I did come across several short wooden stools from one of the lower level rooms which must have, I think, been used as a classroom for children. I do not know how the Technomancers missed this room, except that it stood at an odd angle off a corridor and would have been in pitch-darkness during the night.

  As I picked up one of the stools I noticed, even in my weariness, how it had been crafted out of a single piece of wood. Crafted by magic, held together by magic, which prohibited the use of nails or glue. The wood had not been cut, but lovingly shaped and coaxed into taking the form the creator wanted.

  I rubbed my hand over the smooth wood and suddenly, inexplicably, tears came to my eyes. I wept for the loss, for all the losses—the loss of my master, the loss of Joram and Gwendolyn, the loss of their daughter’s peaceful, serene way of life, the loss of Thimhallan, the loss of such simple beauty as I held in my hands, the loss of that other life of my own, the life of which I’d had such tantalizing glimpses.

  I startled myself, for I am not given to tears and sobbing. I don’t believe that I had cried since I was a child. I was half-ashamed of myself, when I finally forced myself to quit, but the outburst of emotion had done me good, acting like a release valve. I felt calmer and oddly rested, more capable of handling whatever might come.

  Picking up four stools, slinging the rungs over my arms, I returned to the main living quarters.

  I found I had not been the only one working. The smoldering furniture had been carried outdoors, either by Mosiah or his magic. The smoke was clearing from the room, blown away on a crisp morning breeze. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Water was heating in a kettle which, though dented, had survived the destruction. Scylla was scooping loose tea leaves into a cracked pot. Eliza was sorting through broken crockery, searching for any cups that might have escaped intact. She looked up at me with a wan smile when I entered. She, too, was better for having something to do.

  Lifting one half of a large broken platter, she found Teddy lying beneath it.

  The bear was in a sorry state. One arm was completely ripped off, one button eye missing. His right leg hung by a thread, his stuffing dribbled out of torn seams. His orange scarf was bedraggled and singed.

  “Poor Teddy!” Eliza said, and taking the maltreated bear in her arms, she began to sob.

  She had borne up bravely until that moment. That was her release valve.

  Mosiah, with a wry smile, seemed about to say something, but Scylla forestalled him with a look and a shake of her head. Mosiah certainly wasn’t taking orders from Scylla and would have gone on to have his say, except that even he could see this wasn’t the time.

  I longed to comfort Eliza, but I felt myself in an awkward position. I had only known her a day and a night—a traumatic day and night, to be sure, but that wasn’t really relevant. Her grief was hers alone, and there was really nothing I could say or do to ease it.

  I set down the stools near the fire. Mosiah walked over to gaze out the window, his black robes leaving a sinuous trail in the ash on the floor. Scylla poured water from the kettle into the teapot. By this time Eliza had dried her tears.

  “I’ll sew him back together,” she said, using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her eyes.

  “Don’t bother,” came a weak voice. “I’m done for. Finished. Kaput. The sands of my hourglass are running low. My goose is cooked. My stuffing left to be nibbled by mice. What happened? Did we win? Is your dear father safe, child? That’s all that matters. If so, my life has not been spent in vain. Tell me, before I slip away to meet my Maker—”

  “He’d only throw you back,” Mosiah said shortly. Leaving the window, he came to stare grimly down at Teddy. “Don’t fret over this fool, Eliza. Simkin is immortal. And a very bad actor.”

  “So this is Simkin,” said Scylla, joining them. She stood over him, her hands on her hips. “You were my favorite character in Reuven’s books, you know.”

  Teddy gazed up at her with his one remaining button eye.

  “Pardon me, madam,” he said stiffly, “but I don’t believe we have been introduced.”

  “I’m Scylla,” she answered, and handed me a cup of tea.

  Perhaps it was my fatigued imagination, but at the sound of that name, Teddy’s black button eye glittered in the firelight and stared very hard at Scylla.

  “Put me together again, will you? There’s a dear child.” Teddy spoke to Eliza, but he continued staring at Scylla.

  “Put yourself together, fool!” Mosiah said irritably. “Let Eliza alone.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” Eliza said.

  She found her mother’s workbasket, tossed into a corner, and though her lips tightened a moment when she picked up the basket and its scattered contents, she retained control over herself. Sitting down on the stool, she took the amputee bear into her lap and restuffed him, then began to stitch his arm on.

  Teddy smirked insufferably, when Eliza was not looking, and made such suggestive noises—particularly when she was poking the stuffing back into him—that I could have cheerfully torn him apart again. But his foolery ceased whenever his black-button gaze fell on Scylla.

  We sat down on the short-legged stools, drew them near the fire. Eliza sipped her tea and sewed up Teddy.

  “How long will we have to wait?” she asked, trying to sound calm.

  “Not long,” Mosiah replied.

  “According to General Boris’s scouting reports, the Hch’nyv will be within attacking range of Earth and Thimhallan within forty-eight hours,” Scylla said.

  “The Technomancers must have the Darksword away from here and back on Earth before then,” Mosiah added.

  Eliza glanced at me and a faint flush stained her cheek. “So these … aliens really are a threat? It’s not a trick? They would really kill us all?”

  “Without hesitation. Without compunction. Without pity or mercy,” Scylla replied, grave and somber. “We have found no level on which we can communicate with them, although it is rumored that others have.”

  “The Technomancers have made contact,” said Mosiah. “That much we know. We fear that Smythe has made some sort of deal with them.”

  Forty-eight hours. Not very much time. No one spoke, but each sat silent, absorbed in his or her own thoughts. Mine were very black and despairing. And, as if conjured up from the darkness of the mind, the smoke, and the fire, an image took shape and form upon the hearth.

  Kevon Smythe stood before us.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Mosiah said swiftly. “It is a hologram.”

  It was well he said this, for the image appeared very real, not watery, as do many holograms. I would h
ave sworn that the man himself stood before us. It must be the magic of the Technomancers, which so enhanced the electronically created image.

  “I have read of such things!” Eliza gasped. “But I have never seen one. Can he … can he hear us?”

  She asked this because Scylla had her ringer to her lips and she, along with Mosiah, was hunting for the source of the hologram. Finding it—a small boxlike object tucked into a recess in the fireplace—they both examined it, both careful not to touch it. They exchanged glances—the first time, I believe, they had looked at each other directly—and Mosiah, nodding his head, drew his hood over his face and clasped his hands together.

  Eliza stood up. Teddy slid, forgotten, from her lap. When he looked as if he was about to protest, I set my foot upon him and kicked him backward, none too gently, underneath my stool.

  If I had not admired Eliza before now, I would have done so then. She was exhausted, frightened, grieving, anxious. She was well aware that this was the man who was responsible for the abduction of her parents and Father Saryon. Yet she faced him with the dignified reserve of a Queen who knows that any overt show of anger will only demean herself and never faze her enemy.

  When I look back on that moment in memory, I see her clothed in gold, shining more brightly than the paltry light of the hologram of the Technomancer. She did not beg or plead, knowing both those to be fruitless. She asked of him what she might have asked of any base intruder.

  “What do you want, sir?”

  He was not wearing his suit, but was clad in white robes that I later learned were the ceremonial robes of the Khandic Sages. Around the sleeves and hem and neck were laid out in a grid pattern tiny filaments of metal, which glinted and winked as they caught the light. I thought at the time they were merely fanciful decoration.

  Kevon Smythe smiled his ingratiating smile. “Since you come so swiftly to the point, mistress, I will myself be brief. Your father is with us. He is our guest. He has come with us voluntarily, because he knows our need is great. He left home in haste and unfortunately neglected to bring with him an object of which he is quite fond. That object is the Darksword. Its absence distresses him greatly. He fears it could fall into the wrong hands and cause inestimable harm. He would like to have it safely back in his possession. If you tell us where to find the Darksword, Mistress Eliza, we will secure it and deliver it to your father.”

  Half of me believed him. I knew the truth. I had seen the wreckage, the destruction, I had seen the blood on the floor. He was so persuasive that I saw, in my mind, exactly what he wanted me to see—Joram, concerned, willingly going with them. I was certain Eliza must believe him. Mosiah thought so, too, apparently, for he glided forward, prepared to confront the Technomancer. Scylla did not move, but watched Eliza.

  “I want to see my father and mother,” Eliza said.

  “I am sorry, mistress, that is not possible,” said Smythe. “Your father had a long journey and he is fatigued, plus being most anxious over the fate of the Darksword. He fears for your safety, my dear. The blade is sharp, the sword unwieldy. You might cut yourself. Tell us where to find it and perhaps, by that time, your father will have recovered sufficiently to be able to talk to you.”

  His smooth voice and benign manner slid over his threats like a silken scarf.

  “Sir,” Eliza stated calmly, “you lie. Your minions took my father and mother and Father Saryon by force. Then they destroyed our home, searching for the object which my father would never give to you, so long as he lived. And the same may be said of his daughter. If that is all you came for, you have my leave to go.”

  Kevon Smythe’s expression softened. He seemed truly grieved. “It is not my place to chastise you, mistress, but your father will not like to hear of your refusal. He will be angry with you and will punish you for your disobedience. He has warned me that you are sometimes a willful, stubborn child. We have his authorization to take the sword from you by force, if that becomes necessary.”

  Eliza’s lashes were wet with tears, but she maintained her control. “You do not know my father if you think he would say such a thing. You do not know me if you think I would believe it. Get out.”

  Kevon Smythe shook his head resignedly, then shifted his head to gaze at me. “Reuven, it is good to see you again, though, I regret to say, under sad circumstances. It seems that Father Saryon has been afflicted with a terrible disease, which will cause his death unless he receives prompt treatment back on Earth. Our physicians give him thirty-six hours to live. You know the good father, Reuven. He will not leave without Joram and Joram will not leave without the Darksword. If I were you, I would do my best to find it, wherever it may be hidden.”

  His gaze shifted back to Eliza. “Bring the Darksword to the city of Zith-el. Come to the Eastroad Gate. Someone will be waiting for you.”

  The image went out. Mosiah removed the holographic projector, which had been stashed inside the fireplace. A stone had been pried loose, the projection machine placed inside. He tossed it on the floor.

  “You knew that was there,” Scylla said.

  “Yes. They had to have some means to communicate with us. I found it before you arrived.”

  Scylla stomped on it with her heavy boot, crushed it. “Are there any listening devices?”

  “I removed them. I decided to leave this. We needed to hear what they had to say. Zith-el.” He mused. “So they have taken Joram to Zith-el.”

  “Yes.” Scylla slapped her hands on her thighs. “Now we can make plans.”

  “We!” Mosiah looked at her very balefully. “What do you have to do with this? With any of this?”

  “I’m here,” said Scylla, with a sly smile. “And the Darksword is in my air car. I’d say I have a lot to do with this.”

  “I was right. General Boris did send you,” Mosiah said, his tone harsh. “You’re one of his people. Damn it, he promised he would leave this to us!”

  “You’ve done such a wonderful job so far,” Scylla commented wryly.

  Mosiah flushed, stiffened. “I didn’t see you around when the D’karn-darah attacked.”

  “Stop it!” Eliza said sharply. “You both want the Darksword.

  That’s all you care about. Well, you can’t have it. I’m going to do what he says. I’m going to take it to Zith-el.”

  Eliza’s defiance might have seemed childish and silly, but her grief and her own self-recrimination loaned her the strength she lacked. She spoke with dignity and resolve, and those two people, older and stronger and more powerful, both regarded her with respect.

  “You know that you can’t trust Smythe,” Mosiah told her. “He will try to take the sword and make us all prisoners. Or worse.”

  “I know that I don’t seem to be able to trust anybody,” Eliza said with a quaver in her voice. She glanced at me, gave me a sweet, sad smile, and added softly, “Except Reuven.”

  The pain in my heart was blessed, but it was also too great to bear and overflowed my eyes. I turned away, ashamed of my lack of self-control, when she was so strong.

  “I do not see what other choice I have,” Eliza continued, now speaking quite calmly. “I will take the Darksword to Smythe and hope that he will keep his promise to free my father and Father Saryon. I will go alone—”

  I made an emphatic gesture, which caught her eye. She amended her statement. “Reuven and I will go together. The two of you will remain here.”

  “I have told you the truth, Eliza,” said Scylla. “I do not want the Darksword. There is only one man who can wield it and that is the one who forged it.”

  Suddenly, Scylla knelt down on one knee in front of Eliza. Pressing the palms of her hands together, in an attitude of prayer, Scylla raised them. “I promise you, Eliza, I swear by the Almin, that I will do whatever lies in my power to rescue Joram and to restore to him the Darksword.”

  The sight of Scylla—her army fatigues and cropped hair— kneeling there, seemed ludicrous at first. Then I was reminded forcibly of a drawing I had onc
e seen of Joan of Arc, pledging her duty to her king. There burned the same holy fervor in Scylla, so bright and clear that her military fatigues disappeared and I saw her clad in shining armor, offering her pledge to her queen.

  The vision lasted only an instant, but it was detailed perfectly in my mind. I saw the throne room, the crystal throne room of the kingdom of Merilon. Crystal throne, crystal dais, crystal chairs, crystal pillars—everything in the room was transparent, the only reality was the queen in her gown of gold who stood on that translucent platform, uplifted, exalted. Before her, kneeling, gazing upward, shining in silver armor, her knight.

  And I was not alone. Mosiah saw the vision, too, or so I believe. Certainly he saw something, for he stared at Scylla in awe, though I heard him mutter, “What trick is this?”

  Eliza clasped her hands over Scylla’s. “I accept your pledge. You will accompany us.”

  Scylla bowed her head. “My life is yours, Your Majesty.”

  The title seemed so right, that none of us caught it, until Eliza blinked.

  “What did you call me?”

  Scylla stood and the vision vanished. She was once again wearing the combat fatigues and boots, her ear lined with the tiny earrings.

  “Just my little joke.” Scylla grinned and went to refill the teapot. She glanced back at Mosiah. “You are much more handsome in person. Say, why don’t you take the same oath? Pledge yourself to rescue Joram and restore the Darksword to its owner. You must, you know. Otherwise we won’t take you with us to Zith-el.”

  Mosiah was angry. “You are fools if you think that Smythe will give up any of the hostages once he has the Darksword! The Technomancers need Joram to teach them how to forge more.” He turned to Eliza. “Come with me back to Earth. Give the sword into the safekeeping of King Garald. We will return with an army to rescue your father and mother.”

  “The army is mobilizing to make a last stand against the Hch’nyv,” countered Scylla. “You will get no help from them. And I doubt if they could do much against the Technomaricers anyway. They have long been building up their strength in Zith-el, surrounding it with their defenses. An army could not take it. It’s all in our files,” she added in answer to Mosiah’s flashing look of suspicion. “You’re not the only people keeping tabs on Smythe.”