Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [157]
“Joram. An inauspicious gameplayer, by the way,” Simkin said, yawning. “Too impatient. Quite often he can be inveigled into playing his trump cards early on, instead of holding them until later in the game, when they’ll do him more good.”
Preparing to deal, Simkin’s attention was on Blachloch’s face, not the cards.
“What about the catalyst?” Blachloch asked, gazing out the window at the red spot of flame in the cavern that winked on and off, obscured by the driving rain and sleet.
“A much more skilled player, though you might not think so to look at him,” Simkin replied softly, absently shuffling the cards again. “Saryon plays by the book, my friend.” A smile lingered upon Simkin’s lips. “I say, let’s not play anymore. I begin to find this game deadly dull.”
Drumlor cast Simkin a look of profound gratitude.
“I’ll tell your fortune instead, shall I?” the young man asked Blachloch nonchalantly.
“You know I don’t believe in that—” Turning from the window, Blachloch caught a glimpse of Simkin’s face. “Very well,” he said abruptly.
The wind rose again. Rain tried to enter by the chimney, hissed as it fell into the fire. Sitting back into his chair, Drumlor crossed his hands over his belly and drifted off to sleep. Simkin handed the cards to Blachloch.
“Cut them …”
“Skip that nonsense,” the warlock replied coldly. “Get on with it.”
Shrugging, Simkin took the cards back.
“The first card is your past,” he said, turning it over. A figure in a miter sat upon a throne between two pillars. “The High Priest.” Simkin raised an eyebrow. “Now, that’s a bit strange …”
“Continue.”
Shrugging, Simkin turned over the second card. “This is your present. The Magus Reversed. Someone who’s magic but isn’t …”
“I’ll interpret them for myself,” Blachloch said, his eyes on the cards.
“Future”—Simkin turned over the third card—“King of Swords.”
Blachloch smiled.
8
The Forging of the Darksword
“What a strange color it burns,” Saryon murmured. “Iron glows red. This is white. I wonder why? The difference in properties, undoubtedly. How I wish I could study it—Now, be careful. Measure it precisely. There.” He scarcely breathed, lest even that should cause Joram to slip and pour too much of the molten liquid.
“This doesn’t seem enough,” Joram remarked, frowning.
“No more!” Saryon said urgently, his hand darting forward to stop the young man. “Add no more!”
“I’m not,” Joram replied coldly, lifting the crucible and setting it aside.
The catalyst felt he could breathe again. “Now you must—”
“This part I know,” Joram interrupted. “This is my craft.” He poured the fiery liquid into a large mold made of clay, held in place by wooden boards.
Looking at it, Saryon swallowed nervously. His mouth was dry, tasting of iron, and he thirstily drank a cup of water. The heat in the forge was stifling. His robes were black with soot and wet with sweat. Joram’s body glistened in the firelight. Held back by a leather band around his forehead, his black hair curled tightly around his face. Watching the young man as he worked, Saryon felt that tug upon his memory, a sliver of pain as sharp as a thorn.
He had seen hair like that, admired it. It had been long ago in … in … The memory was almost there, then it was gone. He sought for it again but it would not return and remained lost in the leaves of musty books, buried beneath figures and equations.
“Why are you staring at me? How long is the cooling period?”
Saryon came back to the present with a start. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “My thoughts were … far away. What did you ask?”
“The cooling …”
“Oh, yes. Thirty minutes.” Rising stiffly to his feet, he suddenly realized he had not moved for an hour, and decided to see if it was still storming. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joram reach for a timekeeping device, and it was a mark of Saryon’s abstraction that he gave it no more than a glance, although, when he had first seen what Andon called an “hourglass,” he had been lost in fascination at its remarkable simplicity.
He felt the cold before he even neared the cavern