Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [109]
It is written that the Almin knows the hearts of men but does not rule them. Thus man is free to choose his own destiny, but thus also can the Almin foresee how each man will act to fulfill that destiny. By making themselves one with the mind of the Almin, the Diviners were able to predict the future. It is also said that two souls destined to touch each other for good or for evil will know this in the instant of their meeting.
At that moment, two souls met. Two souls knew.
As the hammer’s ringing blows cracked the black slag covering the smoldering red iron, Joram’s dark-eyed stare sent a shivering blow through Saryon. Shaken to the very core of his being, the catalyst turned away from the forge and its fire-lit shadows.
Andon was hovering near him. “Father, you’re not well. I’m sorry. I should have realized how shocking …”
But the old man’s voice was lost in the pounding of the hammer blows and in the steady, intense gaze of those brown eyes. For Saryon knew those eyes, he knew that face.
Stumbling through the streets of the settlement, having the dim impression that Andon was with him but unable to see or hear the old man, Saryon saw only the clear cold eyes that not even the reflected fire of molten iron could heat. He saw the heavy black brows tracing a line of bitterness across the sweat-covered forehead. He saw the grim, unsmiling mouth, the high planed cheekbones, the shining black hair tinged a burning red.
I know that face! he said to himself. But how? Not in that aspect. Sorrow, not bitterness, came to his mind. A sorrow that never quite left the face, not even in gaiety. Perhaps he had seen the face seventeen years ago, in the Font. Perhaps he had known this boy’s accursed father. Only the vaguest recollection of hearing about the renegade catalyst’s trial came to Saryon. The scandal had been talked of for weeks, but he had been too involved in his own torment to be interested in another man’s. Perhaps he had taken note of him unconsciously, without realizing it. That must be the explanation. It had to be and yet, yet ….
Visions of the face drifted into his mind. He could see it smiling, laughing yet always tainted, always haunted by a shadow of sorrow ….
He recognized it! He knew it! He could almost put a name to it ….
But it vanished before he could grasp it, drifting from his mind like smoke upon the wind.
8
The Warlock
Picking his way through the mud street of the Technologists’ village, Simkin looked very much like a bright-plumaged bird wandering through a dreary brick jungle. Many of the people working about the area regarded him with looks of wary wonder, much as they might have regarded a rare bird appearing suddenly in their midst. Several scowled and shook their heads, muttering unflattering comments, while here and there a few called out cheerful greetings to the gaudily dressed young man as he walked through the streets, careful to keep his cape out of the mud. Simkin responded to both imprecations and greetings the same—with a casual wave of his lace-covered hand or the doff of a pink feathered cap that he had just added, as an afterthought, to top off his wardrobe.
The village children, however, were delighted to see him again. To them, he was a welcome distraction, easy prey. Dancing about him, they tried to touch his strange clothes, made fun of his silk-covered legs, or dared each other to sling mud at him. The boldest among them—a hefty child of eleven who had the reputation as the town tough—was urged to go for a solid hit between the shoulder blades. Creeping up behind the young man, the child was prepared to throw when Simkin turned around. He did not speak to the child, he simply stared at him. Shrinking away, the child hurriedly withdrew, and promptly beat up the next smaller child he encountered.
Sniffing in disdain, Simkin drew his cape protectively around him and was continuing on his way when a group of women accosted him. Coarsely dressed, uneducated, their hands reddened and callused from hard labor, they were, nevertheless, the leading