Legacy of the Darksword (8 page)

Every time I drifted off, I saw,
once again, my spirit rise from my body. And I was afraid that next time, it
would not know how to return.

“What you did was right, my son.
Always believe that! And always know that I love you and honor you.”

SARYON’S
FAREWELL TO JORAM;
TRIUMPH OF THE DARKS WORD

T
he next morning, quite early, an
army of police entered our neighborhood and took over our quiet row of flats.
Arriving shortly after the police was a cadre of reporters in huge vans with
various gadgets all pointing skyward.

I can only imagine what the
neighbors thought. Again it struck me as odd, how the human mind dwells on the
most inconsequential issues at times of crisis. While I was busily engaged in
preparing our dwelling to receive three such notable dignitaries— the three
most powerful men in the world—my biggest worry was how we were going to
explain this to Mrs. Mumford, who lived in the flat across the street.

She was (or thought she was) the
conductor of the orchestra of our lives here on our street and nothing was
supposed to happen—be it divorce or a case of breaking and entering—without the
wave of her baton.

So far she had left Saryon and me
in peace, our lives being, up until this juncture, extremely uninteresting. Now
I could see her pinched, inquisitive face pressed close against the glass of
her living-room window, avid with frustration and curiosity. She even made a tentative
foray out into the street, to accost a policeman. I don’t know what he told
her, but she dashed like a rabbit to the home of her assistant conductor, Mrs.
Billingsgate, and now two faces pressed against the latter’s living-room
window. They’d be pressed against our front door tomorrow.

I was arranging some
last-of-the-season roses in a vase, and trying to think what we would say to
our neighbors in the way of explanation, when Saryon entered the room. The idle
curiosity of two snoopy old ladies vanished from my mind.

My master had not risen for
breakfast, nor had I disturbed him. Knowing he had been up late, I left him to
sleep as long as he could. He didn’t look to have slept a moment. He had aged
twenty years during the night; his face was bleak and drawn, his stoop more
pronounced. He peered about the room vacantly and smiled and thanked me for
tidying up, but I knew well that he wasn’t seeing any of it.

He went to the kitchen. I brewed
tea and brought him buttered toast. He stared hopelessly at the toast, but he
drank his tea.

“Sit down, Reuven,” he said in
his quiet, gentle manner. “I have made a decision.”

I sat down, hoping to persuade
him to eat. At that moment the doorbell rang, and at the same time there was a
knock on the back door. I gave my master a helpless glance, and with a wry
smile and a shrug, he went to answer the front door while I took care of the
back.

The army of policemen, having
secured the street, now moved into our house. A woman in a business suit, who
said she was head of Earth Force security, took charge of Saryon and me,
telling us that her people would be searching and securing the premises. She
marched us back into the kitchen, sat us down, and laid out The Plan. A team of
cool-eyed, professional, and thorough people moved in behind her, bringing with
them cool-eyed, professional dogs.

I could soon hear
them
upstairs, down in the cellar, and in every room in the
house. Whether or not they found any more green-glowing devices I do not know.
I assume they did, they found everything else,
including
a half-eaten biscuit from beneath a couch cushion, which one of the men
politely handed over to me. I offered it to his dog,
who
was, however, far too professional to accept such treats while on the job.

Seeing that Saryon’s thoughts
were turned inward and that he was not paying the slightest bit of attention to
The Plan, I devoted myself to listening and understanding what it was we were
to do. All the while I wondered what decision he had made.

“His Majesty King Garald and
General Boris and their aides and entourage will arrive in the same vehicle at
precisely thirteen hundred hours. The Right Honorable Kevon Smythe and his
aides and entourage will travel in a second vehicle and will arrive at
precisely thirteen-thirty. They will all depart at fourteen hundred.”

Pardon me, ma’am.
I started to write my words on a
tablet, which I usually kept with me, but she indicated that she understood
sign language, for which I was grateful. “How many aides and entourage will
there be?”

I was thinking of our small
living room and wondering where on earth we would put them all.
Also if we would be expected to serve tea.
If so, I was
going to have to make a run to the store!

She reassured me. We were not to
worry about a thing. She and her staff would handle all the arrangements. I
could tell, by the sounds of furniture scraping over the floor, that the living
room was being adjusted.

At this point Saryon, with a
blink and a sigh, rose from the table, and with a slight bow and a vague smile
for the woman— I’m convinced he had no idea who she was or why she was there—he
left, saying something to the effect that he would be in his study and to call
him when it was time.

The woman frowned, displeased. “He
appears completely insensible to the fact that he is being paid a great honor.
For such eminent and important figures to completely rearrange their schedules,
and travel—some of them—halfway around the world, all to honor this gentleman
on his birthday! . . . Well! It seems to me that he should be exhibiting far
more gratitude.”

His birthday! I had forgotten, in
all the
turmoil, that
this date corresponded
approximately to the date he had been born in Thimhallan. I was the one who had
figured it all out (Saryon would have never bothered) and I had, in fact,
planned a small celebration for us that evening. His gift, a new chessboard,
with figures formed of dragons and griffins and other supposedly mythic
animals, was neatly wrapped upstairs in my room. I wondered how anyone else
knew it was his birthday, for we had shared this with no one. Then I remembered
the green-glowing eavesdropping devices.

So this was to be the
excuse—visiting the old catalyst on his birthday. How fortunate for them that
it fell on this date. I wondered what other excuse they would have cooked up,
had this one not been conveniently provided. I was extremely angry, more
angered at this than at the invasion of our house by the silver-robed
Technomancers.

It is, sometimes, a blessing to
be mute. Had I the gift of speech, I would have used it to lash out at this
woman and probably would have spoiled everything. As it was, being forced to
sign my words, I had time to consider them. I could see, on
reflection,
that
it was wisdom on the part of the King and the General to keep the
true nature of this meeting secret.

“You must forgive Saryon,” I
signed to the woman. “My master is a very humble man, and completely
overwhelmed by such a great honor, to the point where he is dazed by all the
attention. He feels himself very unworthy and he deplores all the fuss and
bother.”

She was somewhat mollified by
this, and we went over the rest of the details. The guests would be staying one
hour, no more, and fortunately, there would be no need to serve them tea. She
hinted that Saryon might want to change out of the brown robes he was
wearing—the robes of a catalyst, such as he had worn all his life—and into a
suit, and that it would be well if I also changed out of my blue jeans into
something more appropriate to the occasion. I replied that neither of us owned
a suit, at which point she gave up on us both and left to go check on how
things were proceeding.

I went to my master’s study, to
inform him that it was his birthday, which I was sure he had forgotten. I made
more hot toast and took a plate of it and the tea with me.

I explained everything—rather
heatedly, I’m afraid. Saryon regarded my flashing hands with a weary, indulgent
smile and shook his head.

“Intrigue.
Politics.
All of them were born into the game. They live in the game. They have no idea
how to leave the game and so they will play the game until they die.” He sighed
again and absentmindedly ate the toast.
“Even Prince Garald.
King Garald, I should say. He held himself above it, when he was young. But I
suppose it’s like quicksand. It sucks even good men down.”

“Father,” I asked him, “what
decision have you made?”

He did not speak aloud, but
signed back to me, “The men were just in this room, Reuven. For all we know,
they may have planted their electronic ears and eyes in this room. And there may
be others watching, listening, as well.”

I remembered
the
two
Duuk-tsarith
who had appeared out of the air of our kitchen,
and I understood. It seemed strange to me to think that there might be a dozen
people crowded into that small study and my master and I the only two visible.
I felt nervous when I walked out, returning the plate to the kitchen. I
kept fearing
I would bump into one of them.

The dignitaries arrived precisely
on time. First
came
the black limousine with flags of
Thimhallan flying and the royal coat of arms upon the door. Mrs. Mumford and
Mrs. Billingsgate had, by this time, abandoned all
pretense
.
They were standing on their front doorstoops, openmouthed and jabbering. I
couldn’t help but feel a swelling of pride as His Majesty, dressed quite
conservatively in a dark suit, but wearing his medallions and ceremonial sash,
accompanied by the General in his uniform with all his medals and ribbons,
stepped out of the limo. Aides trailed after them. Soldiers came to stiff
attention and saluted. Mrs. Mumford and Mrs. Billingsgate stared until I
thought it likely they might strain something.

My pride advanced a step further
as I imagined having tea with the two women tomorrow, explaining, with suitable
modesty, how the King was an old friend of my master’s; the General once a
worthy adversary. It was a harmless, if vain, fantasy—one that unfortunately
never came about. I was never to see either of our neighbors again.

King and General entered our
house, where Saryon and I both waited with extreme trepidation. My master knew
these men were going to put enormous pressure on him and he feared this
meeting. I was nervous, for Saryon’s sake, but I must admit that I was looking
forward to seeing once again two people whom I had written about, especially
the King, who had once had such a notable effect on Joram’s life.

King Garald had been Prince
Garald then. Of him I had written:

The beauty of the voice matched
the features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The eyes were
large and intelligent. The mouth was firm, the lines about it indicative of
smiling and laughter. The chin was strong without arrogance, the cheekbones
high and pronounced.

My description, taken from my
early memories and Saryon’s account, was accurate, even now, when the King was
in his middle years. The lines around the firm mouth had
darkened,
graven by sorrow and suffering and wearisome toil. But when the mouth smiled,
the lines softened. The smile was warm and genuine, the source of its warmth
coming from deep within. I saw at once how this man had won the respect and
perhaps even the affection of the sullen, obdurate boy Joram.

Saryon started to bow, but Garald
took my master’s hand and clasped it
in both his own
.

“Father Saryon,” he said, “let me
be the one who does you reverence.”

And the King bowed to my master.

Between pleasure and confusion,
Saryon was completely taken aback. His fears and trepidation melted in the
warmth of the King’s smile. He stammered and blushed and could only protest
incoherently that His Majesty did him far too much honor. Garald, seeing my
master’s embarrassment, said something light and inconsequential, to put them
both at ease.

Saryon gazed at the King, now
without restraint, and clasped his hand and said over and over with true
pleasure, “How do you do, Your Highness?
How do you do?”

“
I could be better, Father,” the
King replied, and the lines on his face deepened and darkened. “Times are very
difficult, right now. You remember James Boris?”

But the spell was broken. Garald
had lifted, for one moment, the burden from my master’s shoulders, only to cast
it back on the next. James Boris—short, square-shouldered, solid as one of his
own tanks—was a good man, a good soldier. He had been merciful, in Thimhallan,
when, by rights, he could have been vengeful. He was genuinely pleased to see
Saryon and shook hands with my master quite cordially. So cordially that Saryon
winced as he smiled. But James Boris and his army represented Thimhallan’s
doom. He could not help but be a bleak omen.

“General Boris, welcome to my
home,” Saryon said gravely.

He led the way into the living
room, the move being an absolute necessity, for four of us were a tight fit in
the small entryway and the aides and entourage were forced to camp out on the
front lawn. In the living room, Saryon presented me. The King and the General
both made polite comments on my work in writing the history of the Darksword.
The King, with his innate charm, relaxed into another of those warm and
disarming smiles and told me he thought my portrayal of him far too flattering.