Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [1]
Saryon and I were pottering about his flat late that night, putting on the teakettle, an act which always reminded him—so he was telling me—of another time when he’d picked up a teakettle and it wasn’t a teakettle. It was Simkin.
We had just finished listening to the news on the radio. As I said, Saryon had not up until now been particularly interested in the news of what was happening on Earth, news which he always felt had little to do with him. But this news appeared, unfortunately, to have more to do with him than he or anyone else wanted and so he paid attention to it.
The war with Hch’nyv was not going well. The mysterious aliens, who had appeared so suddenly, with such deadly intent, had conquered yet another one of our colonies. Refugees, arriving back on Earth, told terrible tales of the destruction of their colony, reported innumerable casualties, and stated that the Hch’nyv had no desire to negotiate. They had, in fact, slain those sent to offer the colony’s surrender. The objective of the Hch’nyv appeared to be the annihilation and eradication of every human in the galaxy.
This was somber news. We were discussing it when I saw Saryon jump, as if he had been startled by some sudden noise, though I myself heard nothing.
“I must go to the front door,” he said. “Someone’s there.”
Saryon, who is reading the manuscript, stops me at this point to tell me, somewhat testily, that I should break here and elaborate on the story of J or am and Simkin and the Darksword or no one will understand what is to come.
I reply that if we backtrack and drag our readers along that old trail with us (a trail most have walked themselves already!) we would likely lose more than a few along the way. I assure him that the past will unfold as we go along. I hint gently that I am a skilled journalist, with some experience in this field. I remind him that he was fairly well satisfied with the work I’d done on the first three books, and I beg him to allow me to return to this story.
Being essentially a very humble man, who finds it overwhelming that his memoirs should be considered so important that Prince Garald had hired me to record them, Saryon readily acknowledges my skill in this field and permits me to continue.
“How odd,” Saryon remarked. “I wonder who is here at this time of night?”
I wondered why they did not ring the doorbell, as any normal visitor would do. I indicated as much.
“They have rung it,” Saryon said softly. “In my mind, if not my ears. Can’t you hear it?”
I could not, but this was not surprising. Having lived most of his life in Thimhallan, he was far more attuned to the mysteries of its magicks than I, who had been only five when Saryon rescued me, an orphan, from the abandoned Font.
Saryon had just lit the flame beneath the teakettle, preparatory to heating water for a bedtime tisane which we both enjoyed and which he insisted on making for me. He turned from the kettle tostare at the door and, like so many of us, instead of going immediately to answer it or to look through the window to see who was there, he stood in the kitchen in his nightshirt and slippers and wondered again aloud.
“Who could be wanting to see me at this time of night?”
Hope’s wings caused his heart to flutter. His face flushed with anticipation. I, who had served him so long, knew exactly what he was thinking.
Many years ago (twenty years ago, to be precise, although I doubt if he himself had any concept of the passage of so much time), Saryon had said good-bye to two people he loved. He had neither seen nor heard from those two in all this time. He had no reason to think that he should ever hear from them again, except that Joram had promised, when they parted, that when his son was of age, he should send that son to Saryon.
Now, whenever the doorbell rang or the