Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [8]
“My son, you are not strong enough in Life—”
“I am, too, Father,” Saryon insisted, interrupting. “Look! Look at this!” With a wave of his small hand, he caused his own knee-length robe to change from green to a vivid orange. He was about to add blotches of blue in order to create a costume of which he was quite fond, but one that his mother never allowed him to wear at home. His father didn’t mind, however, and so he was generally permitted to wear it when they were alone together, traveling about the estate. But today the child saw his father’s usually kind face grow stern, so, with a sigh, he held his tongue and checked his impulse.
“Saryon,” said the wizard, “you are five years old. Within a year, you will begin your studies as a catalyst. It is time you listened and tried to understand what I am about to tell you. You have the Gift of Life. Thank the Almin! Some are born without it. Therefore, be grateful for this gift and use it wisely, never wishing for more than you have been blessedly allotted. That is a path of dark and bitter despair, my son. To walk that path leads to madness or worse.”
“But if I have the gift, why can’t I do with it what I want?” Saryon asked, his lower lip trembling at both his father’s unaccustomed seriousness and the knowledge deep within the child that he knew the answer already but refused to accept it.
“My son,” his father replied with a sigh, “I am Albanara, learned in the arts of ruling those under my care, of running and maintaining my house, of seeing to it that my land brings forth its fruit and that my animals give their gifts as they were born to do. That is my talent, given to me by the Almin, and I use it to find favor in his eyes.”
Dropping down from the sky, the wizard came to rest in a wooded glade at the edge of the plowed land, shivering slightly as his bare feet touched the dew-damp grass.
“Why are we stopping?” the child asked. “We’re not there yet.”
“Because I want to walk,” the wizard answered. “There is a stiffness in my muscles this morning that I need to work out.” Setting his son down, he started off, his robes trailing in the grass.
Head bowed, Saryon trudged through the grass after his father, one shoe off and one shoe on, forced to walk with an awkward, waddling gait. Glancing back, the wizard saw his son lagging behind and, with a wave of his hand, caused the child’s remaining shoe to disappear.
Looking down at his bare foot in momentary astonishment, Saryon laughed, enjoying the tickling sensation of the new grass.
“Race me, Father!” he called and dashed ahead.
Mindful of his dignity, the wizard hesitated, then shrugged and grinned. The wizard, was, after all, only a young man himself, being in his late twenties. Gathering up his long robes in his hand, he ran after his son. Across the glade they raced, the child screeching in excitement as his father pretended to be always on the verge of (but never quite) catching up with him. Unaccustomed to such strenuous exercise, the wizard was soon out of breath, however, and was forced to bring the race to a halt.
A jagged-edged boulder jutted up out of the earth near them. Panting slightly, the wizard walked over to the boulder and, touching it gently with his hand, caused it to grow smooth and polished. Then, sinking down upon the newly shaped rock in relief, he motioned his son to come to him. After catching his breath, he opened up the subject of their previous conversation.
“Do you see what I have done, Saryon?” the wizard asked, patting the rock with his hand. “Do you see how I have shaped the stone that, before, was useless to us but is