Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [54]
This year it was particularly difficult, for they had a new overseer, the old one having passed away during the winter. This new overseer had been brought from the northern part of Thimhallan, where rebellion among the Field Magi and the lower classes had been brewing and bubbling for years. He was alert to the danger signs of rebellion therefore; in fact, he was actively watching for it. And he found it immediately—in Joram. Early on, he determined to stomp out those smoldering coals of sullen anger he could see in the young man’s eyes.
The magi were out in the fields early one morning, practically before sunrise. Gathering together in a group, they stood before the overseer, patiently awaiting their assigned duties.
Joram did not stand patiently, however. He shifted nervously from one foot to another, flexing his shapely hands to ease the morning stiffness. He knew the overseer was watching him. The man had singled him out for special attention, though for what reason he could not guess. More than once, he had looked up from his work to find the man’s sharp-eyed gaze on him.
“Of course he watches you, my own proud beauty,” Anja said fondly when Joram mentioned his suspicions. “He is jealous, as are all who see you. He knows one of the nobility. Likely he fears your wrath when you come into your own.”
Joram had long ago ceased to listen to this kind of talk from his mother. “Whatever his reason,” he snapped impatiently, “he is watching me—and not with jealousy, mark my words.”
Though she made light of his fears, Anja was more frightened by Joram’s worry than she admitted. She, too, noticed the overseer taking an unusual and apparently hostile interest in her son and she began hovering near Joram, working in the fields beside him when she could, trying to cover for his slowness. In her overeager protectiveness, however, Anja more often than not drew the overseer’s attention rather than distracted it. Joram grew increasingly more nervous and upset, and the anger that always smoldered deep inside began to burn hotter, now that it had a target.
“You,” called the overseer, motioning to Joram, “over there. Start seeding.”
Sullenly, Joram moved off with the other young men and women, slinging the sack of seed over his shoulder. Though she hadn’t been told to do so, Anja followed after Joram quickly, fearful the overseer might send her to some other part of the field.
“Catalyst,” rang out the overseer’s voice, “we’re behind schedule. I want you to grant all these people Life. They’re to hover, not walk, today. I figure they can cover one third more ground that way.”
This was an unusual request, one that caused even Father Tolban to glance at the overseer questioningly. They weren’t behind schedule. There was no need for this. But, though Father Tolban didn’t like the overseer, he did not question him. The Field Catalyst had become immured in his life of tedious drudgery. He’d even, finally, given up his studies. Every day, he took his place in the fields with the magi, every day he trudged up and down the long rows of plowed earth. The winter winds froze him. The summer sun thawed him. He had turned as brown and dried and withered as a stalk of last year’s corn.
As the catalyst began chanting the ritual, Joram froze. No matter how much Life he was granted, he was bound to the earth. Deep inside him, the old pain stabbed. The Difference. He almost stopped walking, but Anja, behind him, shoved him on, digging her sharp fingernails into the flesh of his arm. “Keep moving!” she whispered. “He won’t notice.”
“He’ll notice,” Joram retorted, angrily snatching his arm out of his mother’s grasp.
Undeterred, Anja clutched at him. “Then we’ll tell him what you always told the other,” she hissed. “You are not well. You need to conserve your Life force.”
One by one, the Field Magi, suffused with Life from the catalyst, used their magic to lift gracefully into the air. Like small brown birds, they began to skim over the surface of the ground, rapidly sowing the seeds in the freshly plowed