“Of course he watches you, my own proud beauty,” Anja said fondly when Joram mentioned his suspicions. “He is jealous, as are all who see you. He knows one of the nobility. Likely he fears your wrath when you come into your own.”
Joram had long ago ceased to listen to this kind of talk from his mother. “Whatever his reason,” he snapped impatiently, “he is watching me—and not with jealousy, mark my words.”
Though she made light of his fears, Anja was more frightened by Joram’s worry than she admitted. She, too, noticed the overseer taking an unusual and apparently hostile interest in her son and she began hovering near Joram, working in the fields beside him when she could, trying to cover for his slowness. In her overeager protectiveness, however, Anja more often than not drew the overseer’s attention rather than distracted it. Joram grew increasingly more nervous and upset, and the anger that always smoldered deep inside began to burn hotter, now that it had a target.
“You,” called the overseer, motioning to Joram, “over there. Start seeding.”
Sullenly, Joram moved off with the other young men and women, slinging the sack of seed over his shoulder. Though she hadn’t been told to do so, Anja followed after Joram quickly, fearful the overseer might send her to some other part of the field.
“Catalyst,” rang out the overseer’s voice, “we’re behind schedule. I want you to grant all these people Life. They’re to hover, not walk, today. I figure they can cover one third more ground that way.”
This was an unusual request, one that caused even Father Tolban to glance at the overseer questioningly. They weren’t behind schedule. There was no need for this. But, though Father Tolban didn’t like the overseer, he did not question him. The Field Catalyst had become immured in his life of tedious drudgery. He’d even, finally, given up his studies. Every day, he took his place in the fields with the magi, every day he trudged up and down the long rows of plowed earth. The winter winds froze him. The summer sun thawed him. He had turned as brown and dried and withered as a stalk of last year’s corn.
As the catalyst began chanting the ritual, Joram froze. No matter how much Life he was granted, he was bound to the earth. Deep inside him, the old pain stabbed. The Difference. He almost stopped walking, but Anja, behind him, shoved him on, digging her sharp fingernails into the flesh of his arm. “Keep moving!” she whispered. “He won’t notice.”
“He’ll notice,” Joram retorted, angrily snatching his arm out of his mother’s grasp.
Undeterred, Anja clutched at him. “Then we’ll tell him what you always told the other,” she hissed. “You are not well. You need to conserve your Life force.”
One by one, the Field Magi, suffused with Life from the catalyst, used their magic to lift gracefully into the air. Like small brown birds, they began to skim over the surface of the ground, rapidly sowing the seeds in the freshly plowed soil.
Joram and Anja kept walking.
“Here! Stop! Wait a minute, you two. Turn around.”
Joram halted, but he kept his back to the overseer. Anja stopped and half-turned, glancing through the matted mass of her filthy hair, her chin raised.
“Were you talking to us?” she asked coldly.
Ignoring them for a moment, the overseer stalked over to Father Tolban. “Catalyst,” said the overseer, pointing at Joram’s back, “open a conduit to this young man.”
“I have done so, Overseer,” replied Father Tolban, in injured tones. “I am quite capable of handling my duties—”
“You’ve done so?” interrupted the overseer, glaring at Joram. “And now he stands there, absorbing Life force, storing it up for his own personal use! Refusing to obey me!”
“I don’t think that’s true,” returned the catalyst, staring at Joram as though seeing him for the first time. “It’s very odd. I don’t get the feeling that the young man is drawing Life from me at all—”
But the overseer, with a growl, left the catalyst still expounding and walked across the new-plowed earth toward Joram.
Joram heard him coming, but he did not turn around to face him. Staring straight ahead, unseeing, he clenched his fists. Why didn’t the man just leave him alone?
Mosiah, watching nervously, felt the truth slip under his skin like a splinter. Quickly he motioned for Joram to turn and talk to the overseer. Joram could hide it! He had all these years. There were countless things he might offer as excuses.
But, if Joram even saw his friend, he ignored him. He didn’t know how to talk to this man, let alone how to reason with him. He could only stand there dumbly, acutely aware that all the other magi had come to a halt and were staring at him. Blood rushed to his head; anger and embarrassment throbbed in his temples. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone?
Coming up behind Joram, the overseer reached out to grasp hold of the young man’s shoulder, intending, to physically impose his will on the sullen boy. But before he could touch him, Anja slipped between the overseer and her son.
“He is not well,” she said quickly. “He must conserve his Life force …”
“Not well!” The overseer snorted, his gaze flicking over Joram’s strong, young body. “He’s well enough to be a damned rebel.” Shoving Anja aside, the overseer put his hand on Joram’s shoulder. At the man’s touch, Joram spun around to face him, even as he involuntarily moved several steps backward, out of the man’s reach.
Drifting in the air nearby, Mosiah started to float forward with some idea of intervening, but his father stopped him with a look.
“I’m not a rebel,” said Joram, breathing heavily. He seemed to be suffocating. “Just let me get on with my work. And let me do it the way I do best …”
“You’ll do it the way y’er told, you young dog!” the overseer snarled and started to take another step forward when Father Tolban, who had been staring at Joram with a pale face and wide eyes, suddenly gave a shrill cry. Stumbling forward, falling over his plain green robes, he grabbed hold of the overseer’s arm.
“He’s Dead!” the catalyst gasped. “By the Nine Mysteries, overseer, the boy’s Dead!”
“What?” Startled, the overseer turned to the catalyst, who was shaking him frantically.
“Dead!” Father Tolban babbled. “I wondered … But I never tried giving Life to him! His mother always—He’s Dead! There’s no Life in him! I can’t get any response—”
Dead! Joram stared at the catalyst. At last the words had been spoken. At last the truth he had known in his own heart entered his brain and his soul. Memories of Anja’s story came to him. The Vision. No living issue. Memories of Mosiah’s words. Dead children smuggled out of the cities. Dead children smuggled out of Merilon.
Alarmed and terrified, Joram looked at Anja …
… and he saw the truth.
“No,” he said, letting the sack of seeds fall unheeded to the ground and backing up another step. “No.” He shook his head.
Anja held out her arms to him. Her face was deathly pale beneath the dirt, her eyes were wide and fearful.
“Joram! My sweet! My own! Please, listen—”
“Joram,” broke in Mosiah. Moving closer, ignoring his father’s disapproving gaze, the young man had no idea what he might do, only that he could offer comfort.
But Joram did not see or even hear his friend. Staring at his mother in horror, the young man shrank back before her, shaking his head violently. His black hair sprang loose from its bonds. Dark curls fell down across his pale face, a mockery of the tears she had taught him not to cry.
“Dead!” repeated the overseer, having apparently just absorbed this information. His eyes glittered. “There’s a reward for the living Dead. Grant me Life, Catalyst,” he commanded. “Then open a Corridor! I’ll keep him prisoner until the Enforcers arrive—”
It happened and was over in the beat of a heart, the blink of an eye, the drawing of a breath.
With the image of Joram’s pale face before her eyes, Anja turned away from him to face the overseer. Her son
, her beautiful son, knew the truth now. He would hate her forever, she could see the hatred in his eyes. It cut through her like the cold, conjured blades of an enemy. And sounding amid this bitter pain, tormenting her like the notes of shrill, discordant music, came the word “Enforcer.”
Long ago, the Enforcers, the Duuk-tsarith, had come to take away her lover. It was a Duuk-tsarith who had turned him to stone. Now they were going to take away her child. As they had come once that other time ….
“No … Don’t take my baby!” Anja cried wildly. “You mustn’t. He’ll be warm, soon. I’ll warm him. Stillborn? No! You’re wrong! Here, I’ll hold him thus, next to my body. He’ll be warm soon. Breathe, baby. Breathe, little one. You’re lying, you bastards! My baby will breathe! My baby will live. The Vision was a lie …”
“Shut her up and call an Enforcer!” the overseer cried, turning away.
Father Tolban felt the conduit surge, energy was sucked from him with such force that he fell to his knees. With his last strength, he closed off the Life-giving force, but it was too late. Looking up, he watched helplessly as Anja’s nails curled into strong, slashing talons, her teeth lengthened into fangs. The tattered dress changed to silken fur, her body rippled with muscles. Moving swiftly and silently in her giant catlike form, she leaped at the overseer.
The catalyst shouted an incoherent warning. The overseer, whirling, caught a glimpse of the raging wizardess. Flinging his arm up to protect himself, he reflexively activated a magical defense shield.
There was a crackling sound, a terrible, agonized scream, and Anja sank down to lie in a burned, crumpled heap on the newly plowed ground. The spell she had cast over herself ended. Relaxing into human shape, she looked up at Joram, tried to speak, then, shaking her head, she lay quite still, unmoving, her eyes staring up into the blue spring sky.
Weak and horror-stricken, Father Tolban crawled over and knelt beside her.
“She’s dead!” murmured the catalyst in shock. “You’ve killed her.”
“I didn’t mean to,” protested the overseer, staring at the lifeless body of the woman on the ground at his feet. “I swear! It was an accident! She … You saw her!” The overseer turned to face Joram. “She was crazy! You know that, don’t you? She jumped at me! I—”
Joram didn’t answer. The confusion was gone from his mind. Fear no longer blinded him. He saw everything with a startling, vivid clarity.
In my mother’s body, the warmth of Life is gone. In me, it has never been. Now that the truth was spoken within him, he could accept it. The pain became a part of him, no different from any other.
Looking around, Joram saw the tool he needed, and reaching down, he picked up the heavy stone. He even paused a moment to notice the texture and feel of the stone as it lay in his palm. Rough and jagged, the stone’s sharp edges bit into his skin. It was cold and lifeless, as Dead as he himself. He thought incongruously of the stone Anja had given him as a child, telling him “to make the air swallow it.”
Balancing the stone for an instant, getting the feel of the weight, Joram straightened and, with all his strength, hurled it at the overseer.
The stone struck the man on the side of his face, caving in his head with a soggy sound, like the squashing of an overripe melon.
Father Tolban, still kneeling beside Anja’s body, froze, as if turned to stone himself. The Field Magi slowly dropped to the ground, feeling the Life force ebb from them as shocked realization of what had occurred penetrated their minds.
Joram stood silently, unmoving, staring at the bodies on the ground.
Anja was a pitiable sight to her son. Thin and gaunt, clad in the rags of her former happiness, she died as she had lived, Joram thought bitterly. She died denying the truth. He spared a glance—and a glance only—for the overseer, who lay on his back, blood from the terrible wound forming a pool in the freshly turned dirt. The man had not seen the attack coming, he had not even imagined it possible.
Looking at his hands, then looking at the stone lying next to the mans crushed head, Joram’s only thought was—how easy …. How very easy it had been to kill with that simple tool ….
He felt a touch on his arm. Whirling in fear, he grabbed Mosiah, who shrank back before the madness he saw in the dark, brown eyes.
“It’s me, Joram! I’m not going to hurt you!” Mosiah raised his hands.
At the sound of the voice, Joram loosened his grip slightly, dim recognition dawning in his eyes, driving away the darkness.
“You’ve got to get out of here!” Mosiah said urgently. His face was pale, his eyes so wide that they seemed almost all white with only a tiny dot of color. “Hurry! Before Father Tolban opens the Corridor and brings the Duuk-tsarith!”
Joram stared at Mosiah blankly, then he looked back at the bodies on the ground.
“I don’t know where,” he muttered, “I can’t—”
“The Outland!”—Mosiah shook him—“The border, where you wanted to go before. There are people who live there. Outlaws, rebels, Sorcerers. You were right. I’ve talked to them. They’ll help, but you’ve got to hurry, Joram!”
“No! Don’t let him escape!” Father Tolban cried. Pointing at Joram, the catalyst opened conduits full-force to the magi, sending Life flowing into them. “Stop him!”
Mosiah turned. “Father?” he cried urgently.
“Mosiah’s right. Run, Joram,” said the magus. “Take yourself to the Outlands. If you survive, those who live there’ll watch over you.”
“Don’t worry about your mother, Joram,” came a woman’s voice. “We’ll tend to the ceremony. You better run, young man, before the Duuk-tsarith get here.”
Still Joram stood there, staring at the bodies.
“Take him partway, Mosiah,” said his father. “He’s addled. We’ll see that he gets the time to make a fair start.”
The Field Magi moved toward Father Tolban, who shrank backward, staring at them.
“You don’t dare!” the catalyst whimpered. “I’ll report you! An uprising …”
“No you won’t report us,” said Mosiah’s father calmly still advancing. “We tried to stop the boy, didn’t we?”
The other Field Magi nodded.
“Your life has been easy enough here, Father. You wouldn’t want that to change now, would you? Mosiah, get him going …”
But Joram had come to himself now, returning as if from a great distance. “Which way?” he asked Mosiah in a firm voice. “I don’t remember …”
“I’ll come with you!”
Joram shook his head. “No, you have a life here.” He caught himself, adding bitterly. “You have a life. Now, which way?” he repeated.
“Northeast,” Mosiah answered. “Cross the river. Once you’re in the woods, be wary.”
“How will I find those people?”
“You won’t. They’ll find you, hopefully before something nastier does.” He held out his hand. “Good-bye, Joram.”
Joram stared at the young man’s hand for a moment, the only time he could remember seeing a hand held out to him in either help or friendship. Looking into Mosiah’s face, he saw the pity in his eyes, pity and revulsion he could not hide.
Pity for a Dead man.
Turning, without a look behind, Joram ran across the plowed fields.
Mosiah’s hand dropped to his side. For long moments, he stared after Joram, then, with a sigh, he went back to stand beside his father.
“Very well, Catalyst,” said the magus, after Joram’s figure had disappeared into the nearby woods. “Open the corridor and send for the Enforcers. And, Father,” he added as the catalyst turned, cringing, to start back to his cabin, “remember the way of things, will you? The Duuk-tsarith will be here for only a few minutes. You’ll be here a long, long time ….”
His head bowed in understanding, Father Tolban cast the magi a last, fearful glance, then hurried off.
Kneeling down beside Anja, one of the women moved her hands over the burned body, creating a coffin of crysta
l around the corpse while the other magi levitated the body of the overseer and sent it drifting toward the settlement.
“If the boy’s truly Dead, you’ve done him no kindness, sendin’ him out there,” remarked a woman, staring into the dark regions of the forest. “He’ll stand no chance at all against the likes of what roams the Outland.”
“At least he’ll have a chance to fight for his life,” Mosiah answered hotly. Catching his father’s eye, he choked and fell silent.
Into each mind came the unspoken question.
What life?
12
Escape
Joram ran, though nothing chased him.
Nothing that he could see, that is. Nothing real. Nothing tangible. The Enforcers could not arrive this fast. The others would protect him, buy him time. He was in no danger.
Still, he ran.
It was only when spasms cramped his aching legs that he finally collapsed onto the ground and knew that he could never outrun the dark and tormented being who pursued him. He could never outrun himself.
How long Joram lay on the forest floor, he never afterward knew. He had no idea where he was. He had an indistinct impression of trees and tangled plant life. Somewhere, he thought he heard the low murmuring of water. The only thing real to him was the earth beneath his cheek, the pain in his legs, and the horror in his soul.
As he lay in the dirt, waiting for the pain to ease, the cold, rational part of his mind told him that he should get up and continue on. But beneath that cold and rational surface of Joram’s mind lurked a being, a dark creature that he managed, most of the time, to keep fettered and guarded. But on occasion it slipped its leash and took him over, mastering him completely.
Night blanketed the young man lying exhausted and frightened in the wilderness, and the coming of night loosed the blackness within Joram. Free again, it leaped out of its corner, sank its teeth into him, and dragged his soul away, to gnaw and ravage.
Joram did not get up. A numb, paralyzed sensation stole over his body, such as one feels upon first awakening from a deep sleep. The sensation was pleasant. The pain left his legs and soon all feeling left his body. He could no longer taste the dirt of the ground in his mouth, where his cheek pressed against the muddy trail. He no longer had any conscious thought of lying on the ground, or of the chill of the evening air, or that he was hungry or thirsty. His body slept, but his mind remained dreamily awake.
Forging the Darksword Page 13