Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [41]
It occurred to me, suddenly, that—but for Joram and the Darksword—I might now be a catalyst, walking these very corridors, bustling about importantly on the business of the Church. I could picture myself here very clearly, as if that same shade that snapped open to reveal the sunshine had also afforded me a glimpse of another life. I looked out that window and saw myself looking back in.
Saryon saw his past. I saw my present. It was exhilarating and unnerving, yet eminently satisfying. This was the land of my birth. I was a part of this mountain, the sand, the trees, the sky. I took a deep breath of the crisp air, and felt uplifted. And though I had no idea how to go about it, I think—at that moment—I could have drawn Life from the world around me, focused it within my body, and given it away.
A sound touched my reverie. Concern for my master drew me back to reality.
Saryon stood with bowed head. He brushed his hand swiftly across his eyes.
“Never mind,” he said, when I would have offered comfort. “Never mind. It was for the best, I know. I weep for the beauty that was ruined, that is all. It could not have lasted long. The ugliness would have overwhelmed it, and like Camelot, it might have been destroyed and irretrievably lost. At least our people still live and their memories live and the magic lives, for those who seek it.”
I had not sought it, yet it had come to me anyway. I was not a stranger to this land. It remembered me, though I had no memory of it.
Like Saryon, I had come home.
CHAPTER NINE
“I will run to Joram and he will take me in his arms and we will be together forever and ever. ...”
GWENDOLYN; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
“I say!” came a peeved voice from the vicinity of the knapsack. “Are you two going to stand around and slobber over each other all day? I’m dying of ennui—the same sad fate that befell the Duke of Uberville, who was such a boring old fart that he bored himself and died for lack of interest.”
I considered overturning the knapsack and searching for Simkin, but to do so would have wasted precious time. I had spent hours trying to see to it that everything fit inside and I dreaded the thought of having to do all that over again.
I signed to Saryon, “If we ignore him, perhaps he’ll go away.”
“I heard that,” Simkin said. “And I can assure you, it won’t work!”
I was astonished, for I had not spoken, and I don’t think that even Simkin could have learned sign language in the space of the few hours we had known each other.
Saryon shrugged and wryly smiled. “The magic lives,” he whispered, and there was a warmth in his eyes that was rapidly drying up the tears.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“I was just trying to figure that out myself,” said Saryon, peering down from our perch on the ramparts.
“I know,” said a muffled voice from inside the knapsack, adding huffily, “but I’m not telling.”
Below us was a courtyard, its paving stones cracked and overgrown with a wide variety of plant life, including several varieties of wildflower. Across the courtyard was a long, low building with a great many windows, to let in the sunlight. Some of the windows had been broken, but the holes had been neatly covered over with pieces of wood. Here and there, in the courtyard, some attempt had been made to cut back the weeds, sweep away the dead leaves, and make the area more attractive.
“Ah, yes! In that building”—Saryon pointed to the building past the courtyard—”the Theldara, the healers, had their infirmary. Now I know where I am.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time the Theldara came to treat my little sister for ringworm? Or was it tapeworm? I’m sure there’s a difference. One eats you and you eat one. Not that it mattered to poor little Nan, for she was eaten by bears. Where was I? Ah, yes, the Theldara. He—”
Simkin prattled on. Saryon turned and began to walk