Legacy of the Darksword Read Free Page A

world. Beautiful
music—I recall that it was Mozart—filled the room. Saryon began to read aloud
from the book Right Ho, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse, one of our favorite
authors. We would have been quite content had not the shadowy figure been
perched, like Poe’s raven, in the hall.
    “It is now safe to talk,” said
the Duuk-tsarith, and this time he spoke the words aloud, albeit in a
low voice. He drew the cowl back from his face. “But keep your voice down. I
have deactivated the devices of the D’karn-kair, but there may be others
present of which I am not aware.”
    Now that we could talk, all the
questions which had been crowding my mind fled. Not that I could have spoken
them myself, but I could have let my master speak for me. I could see that
Saryon was in much the same state.
    He could only munch his biscuit,
sip his tea, and stare. The face of the Duuk-tsarith was in the direct
light and Saryon seemed to find something vaguely familiar about the man.
Saryon would later tell me that he did not experience the sensation of
overwhelming dread one usually feels in the presence of the Enforcers. Indeed,
he felt a small thrill of pleasure at the sight of the man and, if he could
only have remembered who he was, knew that he would be glad to see him.
    “I’m sorry, sir.” Saryon
faltered. “I know that I know you, but between age and failing eyesight ...”
    The man smiled.
    “I am Mosiah,” he said.

CHAPTER TWO
    One by one, after each had been
coldly rebuffed by the strange, dark-haired child, the other children let Joram
severely alone. But there was one among them who persisted in his attempts to
be friendly. This was Mosiah.
    THE DARKSWORD
    I believe that Saryon would have
exclaimed aloud in astonishment and pleasure, but he remembered in time the
injunction to keep our voices down. He started to rise from his bed to go
enfold his old friend in a fond embrace, but the Duuk-tsarith shook his
head and motioned with his hand that Saryon was to remain where he was.
Although the bedroom shades were drawn, the light was visible from outside and
so was the catalyst’s silhouette.
    Saryon could only stammer, “Mosiah
... I can’t . . . I’m so sorry, my dear boy . . . twenty years . . . I’m
getting old, you see, and my memory . . . not to mention my eyesight . . .”
    “Don’t apologize, Father,” Mosiah
said, falling back on the old form of address, though it was hardly applicable
now. “I have changed a lot, over the years. It is small wonder you did not
recognize me.”
    “Indeed you have changed,”
said Saryon gravely, with a sorrowful glance at the black clothing of the
Enforcer which Mosiah wore.
    Mosiah seemed surprised. “I
thought perhaps you might have heard that I had become one of the Duuk-tsarith. Prince Garald knew.”
    “We rarely speak, the Prince and
I,” said Saryon apologetically. “He felt it was best, for my own safety, or so
he was kind enough to say. Remaining in contact with me would have damaged him
politically. I could see that clearly. It was the main reason I left the
relocation camp.”
    And now it was Mosiah who looked
sadly upon Saryon, and the catalyst who was stricken with confusion and guilt.
    “I ... deemed it was best,”
Saryon said, flushing. “There were those who looked at me ... if they didn’t
blame me, I brought back memories. . . .” His voice died away to silence.
    “There are those who say you
abandoned them in return for favors,” Mosiah said.
    I could no longer contain myself.
I made a quick and violent gesture with my hand, to negate these cruel words,
for I could tell that they wounded my master.
    Mosiah looked wonderingly at me,
not so much in astonishment that I did not speak—for he, as an Enforcer, must
already know everything there was to know about me, including the fact that I
was a mute—but that I was so quick to defend Saryon.
    “This is Reuven,” said Saryon,
introducing me.
    Mosiah nodded. As I said, he must
have known all about