Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [38]
Nothing Saryon did or said could induce it to talk. I wondered if the scrip had ever talked at all. And if it hadn’t, what did that make me? Delusional? That would be a kind word. I glanced at my master to see if he was prey to the same uncomfortable feelings.
He was certainly regarding the scrip very grimly. “We better drive on, Reuven,” Saryon said, adding with a frown for the scrip. “We’ve wasted precious time as it is.”
We crossed the Borderland which had, for endless ages, separated Thimhallan from the rest of the universe and separated magic from the rest of the universe as well. A field of magical energy, created by the founders of Thimhallan, the Border permitted people to leave, but prevented them and all others from entering or reentering. It was Joram, the Dead child of a dying world, who not only crossed that Border, but was able to return. He had brought the two realms—one magical, one technological—together. They had met with the violence of a thunderclap. Keeping the speed of the air car slow, I was able to handle the vehicle with some proficiency, although our ride was still rough and we were jounced about considerably. Not having had much experience with air cars—or cars of any type, for that matter—Saryon attributed the roughness to the buffeting winds. I am ashamed to say that I did not disabuse him.
As for Simkin, we had barely started off again when the leather scrip slid to the floor. The knapsack tumbled down on top of it. We heard a muffled shriek, but Saryon couldn’t reach the scrip.
“Should I stop?” I mouthed. With the wind tossing around the air car, I was reluctant to do so.
“No. Serves him right,” Saryon said.
I had not thought my master could be so vindictive.
We drove past a red beacon light that was now no longer operational. Saryon stared at it, twisting around to gaze at it when it was behind us.
“That must be the alarm beacon,” he said, turning back around. He was holding fast to a hand strap above the door on his side. “The one that used to alert those in the outpost to anyone crossing the Border. Next, we should see the Stone Watchers. Or what is left of them.”
Along the Borderland had once stood enormous statues known as the Watchers, the guardians of the Border. They had been living men, before their flesh was changed to rock, frozen forever, while their minds remained active.
Such a dreadful fate had once been Saryon’s.
I recognized the site, when we reached it, though I had never seen it. During the last days of Thimhallan, when violent quakes and fierce storms swept the land, the Watchers fell; the spirits in them freed at last. Now the shattered remains littered the ground, some of them completely covered over by windblown sand. The mounds looked very much like graves.
Noticing the pain of memory contort Saryon’s face, I was about to increase our speed by giving more power to the rear thrusters, taking us quickly away from this tragic site. Saryon understood my attempt and forestalled it. I hoped he was not going to ask me to stop, for the wind, though lessened somewhat, was still strong. If I tried to halt the air car, we might be blown out of control. Stinging sand blasted our windshield, rattled against the doors.
“Slow down a moment, Reuven,” he said. He stared long at the mounds as we drove slowly past. “They cried their warning, but no one paid heed. The people were too intent on their own ambitions, their own plots and schemes to listen to the voices of the past. What voices call to us now, I wonder?” Saryon mused. “And are we listening to them?”
He fell silent, thoughtful. The only voice I heard was a faint one coming from the floor of the backseat of the air car. The language it was using was shocking. Fortunately Saryon could not hear Simkin over the rush of the jets and his sad reverie remained undisturbed.
We left the Border behind, crossing over the vast stretch of sand dunes, and entered the grasslands. Saryon gazed around blankly and I realized that he recognized