Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [48]
In the silence that followed, Joram could hear the stone rolling around and around on the wooden floor. When it stopped, Joram glanced at his mother out of the corner of his eye. “Why can’t I make it vanish?” he demanded in a low voice. “Why am I different? Even a catalyst can do such a simple thing …”
“Bah! And it will be a simple thing for you, too, someday.” Anja fondled the crisp, black curls that twined around Joram’s face. “Do not fret. Those of the nobility are sometimes slow to develop the magic.”
But Joram was not satisfied. She did not look at him when she spoke, her gaze was on his hair. Angrily, he jerked his head back, away from her touch.
“When?” he demanded stubbornly.
The boy saw his mother’s lips tighten, and he braced himself to face her anger. But then Anja’s hand fell limply into her lap. Her gaze grew unfocused.
“Someday soon,” she replied, smiling vaguely. “No, don’t bother me with questions. Give me your hand.”
Joram hesitated, staring at his mother, as if determined to argue. Then, seeing it would do no good, he held out his hand. Anja took hold of it, studying it intently.
“The fingers are long and delicate,” she said, speaking to herself. “Their movement quick, supple. Yes, good. Very good.”
Causing the stone to rise up from the floor into the air, Anja deposited it in the child’s open palm.
“Joram,” she said softly, “I am going to teach you to make the stone disappear. This is magic that I am going to show you, but it is secret magic. You must never show anyone else or allow anyone else to see you use it or they will send both of us Beyond. Do you understand, my heart’s delight?”
“Yes,” Joram replied, wide-eyed and incredulous, his fear and suspicion replaced by a sudden, hungry desire to learn.
“The first time that I threw the stone into the air, I didn’t really make the air swallow it. I only seemed to, just as I only seemed to pull the stone back out. No, I mean it. Watch. Look, I’ve thrown it up into the air. It has vanished. Right? Wasn’t that what you saw? Ah, but look. The stone is still here! In my hand!”
“I don’t understand,” said Joram, once more suspicious.
“I fooled your eyes. Watch, I seem to throw the stone up in the air and your eyes follow the motion I make with my hand. But while your eyes are looking at that, my hands are doing this. And there goes the stone. This is what you must do from now on, Joram—learn to fool people’s eyes. No, sweet one. Do not frown. It is not difficult. People see what they want to see. Now, you try ….”
Thus, Joram began his lessons in sleight-of-hand.
Day after day he practiced, safe in the protective magical aura that surrounded the hovel. Joram enjoyed the lessons. It gave him something to do and it was also something he discovered he was quite good at doing. Child that he was, he never wondered how Anja came to know this secret art or, if he did, he passed it off as just another of the strange things about her, like her ragged dress. Only one thing bothered him. Once more, The Difference bobbed to the surface of his mind.
“Why must I do this, Anja?” Joram asked casually, about six months later. He was practicing moving a round, smooth pebble along his knuckles, making it skitter rapidly across the back of his hand.
“You will need this skill when you go out into the fields to earn your keep next year,” Anja replied absently.
Joram’s head jerked up, quick as a cat pouncing on a mouse. Catching the boy’s swift, dark-eyed glance, Anja hastily added, “If you haven’t developed the magic yourself yet, of course.”
Frowning, Joram opened his mouth, but Anja turned away. Looking down at her tattered, filthy dress, she smoothed the fabric with her brown, callused hands. “There is another reason, too. When we go to Merilon, my son, you will be able to impress the members of the Royal House with your talents.”
“Are we going to Merilon?” Joram cried, forgetting his lessons, forgetting The Difference. Jumping to his feet, he dropped the pebble and clasped hold of his mother’s hands. “When, Anja, when?”
“Soon,” Anja