He paid me not the slightest attention. Since he was involved with his work, I was able to study him, curious to see the man whose life story I had written.
Joram was in his late forties at this time. Of a serious, somber mien, he looked older than he was. The rugged life, spent mostly out-of-doors, in the wayward and harsh Thimhallan weather, had tanned his skin a deep brown, left his face weathered and seamed. His black hair was as thick and luxuriant as his daughter’s, though his was touched with gray at the temples and gray strands mingled with the black throughout.
He had always been strong and muscular and his well-knit, well-muscled body might have belonged to an Olympic athlete. The face had too many years etched on it, however; years of sorrow and tragedy which those happier years following could never smooth away.
No wonder he paid me scant attention and probably wished with all his heart that I would evaporate on the spot. And he did not even know the portent of our coming, though I am sure he must have suspected. I was Joram’s doom.
The sheep being safely penned and watered and bedded down for the night, Eliza took her father by his calloused, work-hard hand and would have brought him over to where I stood. He removed his hand from hers, however; not roughly, he could never be rough or harsh with his heart’s treasure. But he made it very clear that the two of us—he and I—would not be connected in any way, especially not through her.
I could not fault him or blame him. I felt such guilt within myself—as if this were all my doing—and such grief and compassion for him, whose idyllic life we were destined to destroy, that tears stung my eyelids.
Hurriedly, I blinked them back, for he would despise any weakness on my part.
“Papa,” said Eliza, “this is Reuven. He is Father Saryon’s almost son. He cannot speak, Papa. At least not with his mouth. He talks whole books with his eyes.”
She smiled, teasing me. That smile and her beauty—for she was flushed with her exertion, her hair tousled and windblown— did nothing to add to my composure. Charmed by Eliza, awed by Joram, consumed by guilt and unhappiness, I bowed my respects, glad for the chance to hide my face and try to regain my self-command.
This was not easy. Joram said no word of greeting. When I raised my head, I saw that he had folded his arms across his chest and was regarding me with dark displeasure, his heavy brows drawn into a frown.
His cold forbidding darkness dimmed his daughter’s sunshine. Eliza faltered, looked uncertainly from him to me.
“Papa,” she said, chiding gently, “where are your manners? Reuven is our guest. He has come all the way from Earth just to see us. You must make him welcome.”
She did not understand. She could not understand. I raised my hand, to ward off her words, and shook my head slightly, all the while keeping my gaze fixed on Joram. If, as Eliza had said, I could speak with my eyes, I hoped he would read in them understanding. Perhaps he did. He still did not speak to me. Turning away, he walked up the steps that crisscrossed the hillside. But before he turned, I saw that his frowning aspect had lightened a little, if only to be replaced by sorrow.
I think, all in all, I would have preferred his displeasure.
He strode up the steps very rapidly, taking them two or three at a time. I marveled at his endurance, for the steps went directly up the hill; there must have been seventy-five of them, and I was soon panting for breath. Eliza kept beside me, and she was troubled, for she was silent and her gaze was on her father’s back.
“He is eager to see Father Saryon,” she said abruptly, in apology for Joram’s rudeness.
I nodded yes, that I understood. Pausing to catch my breath and try to ease the cramps in my calves, I signed to her that I was not in the least offended and that she was not to worry about me.
This she didn’t understand. I took out the electronic notepad and typed it in, showing the words to her. She read them, looked at me. I nodded, smiled, reassuring. She smiled back, tentative, and then sighed.
“Things are going to change, aren’t they, Reuven? Our life is going to change. His life is going to change.” Her gaze went again to her father. “And it’s all my fault. I’ve longed for this day, prayed for it to come. I didn’t realize … Oh, Papa, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”
Gathering her long skirts, she left me, running up the stairs with the long stride that matched Joram’s. I could not have kept up with her if my life had depended on it. As it was, I was not disappointed to be left behind. I needed time to sort out my own thoughts. I trudged slowly and painfully after them.
Eliza caught up with her father. She twined her arm through his, rested her head on his shoulder. He folded her in a loving embrace, stroked and smoothed her black curls.
His arm around her, her arm around him, they continued up the stairs until they reached their living quarters, where they vanished from my sight.
I kept climbing, my strength sapped by the ache in my legs, the burning in my lungs and my heart. Below, I could hear the sheep, snug and safe in their barn, bleating contentedly as they settled down for the night. In the distance, the rumble of thunder-another storm ravaging the land below.
I wondered, then, what would happen to the sheep when we took Joram and hls family away from their home. Without their shepherd, they would die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rounded knob on the sword’s hilt, combined with the long neck of the hilt itself, the handle’s short, blunt arms, and the narrow body of the blade, turned the weapon into a grim parody of a human being.
FORGING THE DARKSWORD
It occurred to me that I would miss the reunion, the first meeting between my master and Joram, and that fear impelled me up the stairs at a much more rapid pace than I would have thought myself capable of. I was gasping for breath when I reached the top. Dusk was falling and the lights had been lit inside the dwelling place and so I was able to find their rooms, when most of the rest of the building was dark and deserted.
Entering a door nearest the lights, I made my way along a shadowy hall into what must have been, in the days of the Font’s grandeur, the dortoir, where lived the young catalysts in training. I say this, because of the innumerable small rooms opening off the central corridor. In each room was a bed and desk and a washstand. The stone walls were chill, the rooms dusty and darkened by the sadness which comes to a place when the life that once filled it is withdrawn.
In this corridor, I lost sight of the lights of Joram’s dwelling, but found them again when I entered a large, open room that had probably been a dining hall. I heard voices through a door to my left. I walked from darkness and chill to light and warmth. A kitchen, which had once fed several hundred, was now not only kitchen but the central living area for Joram and his family.
I could see easily why they chose it. An enormous stone fireplace provided heat and light. Twenty years before, when the Font had teemed with life, magi hired to work with the catalysts would have conjured up fire to cook the food and warm the body. Possessed of no magic whatsoever, Joram cut and hauled wood to the fireplace. The flames crackled and danced, smoke and sparks fled up the chimney. I reveled in the warmth. The air was growing cool outside, with the setting of the sun.
Saryon and Gwen sat near the fire. Gwen was pale and silent, staring into the flames. Occasionally she would shift her gaze to the back part of the room, in part expectation, part dread. Saryon, ill at ease, suddenly stood up and began roaming aimlessly about the room. Just as abruptly, he sat back down. Joram was not present and I feared he might refuse to see Saryon at all, which would have hurt my master terribly. Then Eliza entered at almost the same time I did, although from a door opposite.
“Papa bids you welcome, Father Saryon,” she said, coming to stand before the catalyst, who rose to meet her. “Please sit down and be comfortable. Papa has gone to wash and change his clothes. He will join us shortly.”
I was relieved and I think Saryon was, too, for he smiled and gave a deep sigh before resuming his chair. Gwen stirred, at this,
and said we must be hungry and she would fix the evening meal. Though Eliza had done a very good job of attempting to wash away the traces, I saw that she had been crying.
She said she was certain I would like to wash up, which was true, and offered to show me the way. I crossed the room to join her. We were both being watched by the teddy bear with the orange ribbon around his neck, who was seated in a small chair that must have been specially made for a child. Just at the moment we were walking past, the bear gave a lurch and tumbled out of the chair, landing on his nose on the floor.
“Poor Teddy,” Eliza said playfully. Picking up the bear, she dusted him off, kissed him on the top of his well-worn head, and settled him more comfortably in the chair. “Be a sweet Teddy,” she admonished, still in her playful tone, “and you shall have bread and honey for your supper.”
Glancing back at the bear, I saw Simkin smirk. Eliza led me into the sleeping quarters of the family, rooms which she told me had once belonged to the higher-ranking catalysts. These rooms were larger and much more comfortable than the narrow cells I had passed. She took me to one at the end of the hallway.
“Here’s where you will spend the night,” she said, opening the door.
A fire burned on the small hearth. The bed was covered with clean, sweet-smelling sheets, scented with lavender. The floor was newly swept. My knapsack rested near the bed. On the nightstand was a jug of steaming water and a washbasin. Eliza told me, where to find the outbuildings.
“No need to hurry,” she said. “Papa is bathing and taking his evening swim. He won’t be ready for at least another half hour.”
Like her mother, she was pale and preoccupied. The only time I’d seen her smile was when she was playing with Teddy and that smile had faded quickly. She was about to leave when I stopped her.
Since we had time, I typed on the notebook. Tell me more about Teddy.
Her smile returned. “I told you how I found him in the old nursery. I took him everywhere with me—he went with Papa to tend the sheep, with Mama to work in the garden or wash the clothes.
“You’re going to think this is silly.” Her cheeks flushed faintly. “But I seem to remember Teddy telling me stories—all about faeries and giants, dragons and unicorns.” She laughed self-consciously. “I suppose I must have made them up myself and told them to Teddy, though I Have the oddest impression that it was the other way around. What do you think?”
I don’t remember what I responded. Something about lonely children having vivid imaginations. What could I say? It was not up to me to tell her the truth about Simkin!
She said that this must be true and started to leave, but paused, just before she shut the door. “Now that I recall them, some of those stories were quite horrible. Tales about duchesses sneezing their heads off and the heads landing in the soup and earls being buried alive by mistake and faerie queens who took men captive and used them as slaves. What a morbid little imp I must have been!”
Laughing again, she left me, shutting the door behind her.
Chaotic, treacherous, Simkin was quite capable of leading grown people to ruin just for the entertainment value. It shocked me to think that Joram and Gwen—Joram in particular, who knew what Simkin was—had allowed him to be the playmate of their child. Yet Simkin obviously had not harmed her and had provided her with pleasant—albeit strange—childhood memories.
And what would happen when we took Joram and his family back to Earth? Eliza would undoubtedly want to take along her “Teddy.” The image of Simkin loosed upon Earth was appalling. I made a mental note to myself to discuss this with Saryon, who, worried and preoccupied himself, had probably not given this matter much thought.
I found the outbuildings—one for men and one for women— which must have dated back to the very early days of life in the Font. They were as clean as was possible, but being open-air, they made me consider that one of mankind’s most wonderful achievements had been indoor plumbing.
Back in my room, I washed myself from the basin—envying Joram his swim—combed my hair, and changed my clothes, which smelled strongly of sheep. Dressed in clean blue jeans and a blue cable-knit sweater I’d purchased in Ireland and which was one of my favorites, I returned to the living quarters.
Eliza and her mother were busy in the kitchen. I offered my services and was put in charge of slicing loaves of freshly baked bread, which had been cooling on a rack. Eliza set out bowls of dried fruit and honeycombs filled with honey that tasted of clover. Gwen was stirring a pot of beans, cooked with mutton. I understood then that the sheep meant not only wool for their clothes, but meat for their table.
Saryon looked at me rather anxiously, when Gwen talked about the mutton, for I had been known, when younger, to express my disapproval of meat-eaters at the dinner tables of our hosts, usually over the prime rib. I smiled at him and shook my head, and even accepted the responsibility of tasting the beans, when Eliza offered them, to see if they were seasoned properly. I think they were bland. I don’t remember. It was then, when she held the wooden spoon to my lips, that I realized I was falling in love with her.
At that moment Joram entered the room. I could not see him, from my angle in the kitchen, but I knew by the sight of Saryon’s face, which had become as white as polished bone. Gwendolyn and Eliza exchanged glances—conspiratorial glances. It had been by their design that we three were in the back part of the kitchen, leaving Saryon and Joram in the living area alone.
Joram advanced in my view, and my heart sank, for he was every bit as grim and stoic and cold as I had seen him on the hillside. Saryon stood tall and straight, his hands at his sides. The two gazed at each other long minutes without moving or speaking. I don’t know what I feared—that Joram would denounce his mentor and order him out of the house. I could envision this stern, proud man doing anything.
Eliza and Gwen clasped hands. My own hands grew chill and I was worried for Saryon, who had begun to sag and was looking very ill. I was going to go to him. I had already taken a step in that direction.
Joram reached out, clasped his arms around Saryon, and held him in a fast embrace.
“My boy,” Saryon murmured brokenly, stroking the grown man on the back as perhaps the catalyst had once lovingly stroked the baby. “My dear boy! How good it is … You and Gwen …” Saryon broke down completely.
Gwen was sobbing into her apron. Eliza stood watching, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, on her lips a sweet, sad smile. I had tears in my own eyes, and quickly dried them on the sleeve of my sweater.
Joram straightened. He was taller than my master now; Saryon having become stooped with the years. Joram placed his hands—brown and rough—on Saryon’s shoulders and smiled briefly, darkly. “Welcome to our home, Father,” he said, and his tone belied his affectionate gesture, for his voice was cool and shadowed. “Gwen and I are pleased that you have come to visit us.”
He turned to her and his dark countenance lightened somewhat when his eyes fell upon her, as if the sun had broken through the clouds and was shining on his face. His tone to her softened.
“Our guests must be hungry. Is supper ready?”
Gwen hurriedly wiped her eyes on the tail end of her apron and replied, in a faint voice, that the table was laid and invited us to sit down. I was going to help serve, but Eliza said no, I was to sit with the other men.
Joram took his place at the head of the long plank table. He placed Saryon at his right hand. I sat down next to Saryon, on my master’s right.
“I believe you have met Reuven,” Saryon said mildly. “My assistant and scribe. Reuven wrote your story, Joram. At King Garald’s behest, so that the people of Earth could understand our people. The books were very well received. You would like them, I think.”
“I would like to read them!” said Eliza, placing the bowl of steaming beans on the table. She clasped her hands and stared at me in awe. “You write books! You didn’t tell me. How splendid!”
My face was hot enough that we could have toast
ed the bread by holding it to my cheek. Joram said nothing. Gwen murmured something polite; I’m not sure what, I couldn’t hear for the pounding of blood in my head and the confusion of my thoughts. Eliza was so beautiful. She was regarding me with respect and admiration.
Shipboard romance, I expostulated with myself sternly. You are in a strange and exotic location, meeting under unusual circumstances. Not only that, but I am the first man near her own age she has ever met. It would be completely wrong of me to take advantage of this situation. She would need a friend, in that brave new world to which she was going. I would be that friend and if, after she had met the hundreds of thousands of other young men who would be clamoring for her attention, she happened to still think well of me, I would be there for her. One more catalyst in the throng …
Saryon nudged me with his bony knee beneath the stone table. I came back to reality with a jolt, to find that Gwen and Eliza were taking their seats; Eliza sitting directly across from Saryon and Gwen across from her husband. As the women sat down Joram rose to his feet in respect. Saryon and I did the same. We all returned to our seats.
“Father,” said Joram, “would you offer a prayer?” Saryon looked astonished, as well he might, for in the past Joram had never been at all religious. Indeed, he had once held a grudge against the Almin, blaming Him for the tragic circumstances of his life, when by rights the blame should have fallen on the greed and evil ambition of men.
We bowed our heads. I thought I heard a snigger, coming from the vicinity of Teddy, but no one else seemed to hear anything.
“Almin,” Saryon prayed, “bless and keep us in these dark and dangerous times. Help us to work together to defeat this dread enemy, who seeks to destroy and defile the glory of Your creation. Amen.”
Eliza and Gwen murmured “Amen” in response. I said it myself, silently. Joram said nothing. Lifting his head, he sent a black look at Saryon that, if he had seen it, must have struck him to the heart. Fortunately, he did not. My master was studying Eliza, who sat across the table from him.
Legacy of the Darksword Page 12