Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [49]
That joy dimmed considerably and vanished altogether when those dark eyes turned their intense and unsettling gaze upon me.
The sheep flowed past me in a woolly wave, smelling strongly of damp wool—for it had rained upon the hillside—bleating and baaing so that it was impossible to hear. I stood to one side, keeping out of the way, trying not to hinder Joram’s work. I was very uncomfortable and wished devotedly I had not come.
Joram’s gaze raked me from head to toe as he came up the hillside. When he was level with me and I started to bow my greeting, he abruptly withdrew his gaze and did not once glance in my direction again. His face was so cold and set that it might have substituted for the granite cliff face opposite me and no one would have noticed the difference.
He paid me not the slightest attention. Since he was involved with his work, I was able to study him, curious to see the man whose life story I had written.
Joram was in his late forties at this time. Of a serious, somber mien, he looked older than he was. The rugged life, spent mostly out-of-doors, in the wayward and harsh Thimhallan weather, had tanned his skin a deep brown, left his face weathered and seamed. His black hair was as thick and luxuriant as his daughter’s, though his was touched with gray at the temples and gray strands mingled with the black throughout.
He had always been strong and muscular and his well-knit, well-muscled body might have belonged to an Olympic athlete. The face had too many years etched on it, however; years of sorrow and tragedy which those happier years following could never smooth away.
No wonder he paid me scant attention and probably wished with all his heart that I would evaporate on the spot. And he did not even know the portent of our coming, though I am sure he must have suspected. I was Joram’s doom.
The sheep being safely penned and watered and bedded down for the night, Eliza took her father by his calloused, work-hard hand and would have brought him over to where I stood. He removed his hand from hers, however; not roughly, he could never be rough or harsh with his heart’s treasure. But he made it very clear that the two of us—he and I—would not be connected in any way, especially not through her.
I could not fault him or blame him. I felt such guilt within myself—as if this were all my doing—and such grief and compassion for him, whose idyllic life we were destined to destroy, that tears stung my eyelids.
Hurriedly, I blinked them back, for he would despise any weakness on my part.
“Papa,” said Eliza, “this is Reuven. He is Father Saryon’s almost son. He cannot speak, Papa. At least not with his mouth. He talks whole books with his eyes.”
She smiled, teasing me. That smile and her beauty—for she was flushed with her exertion, her hair tousled and windblown— did nothing to add to my composure. Charmed by Eliza, awed by Joram, consumed by guilt and unhappiness, I bowed my respects, glad for the chance to hide my face and try to regain my self-command.
This was not easy. Joram said no word of greeting. When I raised my head, I saw that he had folded his arms across his chest and was regarding me with dark displeasure, his heavy brows drawn into a frown.
His cold forbidding darkness dimmed his daughter’s sunshine. Eliza faltered, looked uncertainly from him to me.
“Papa,” she said, chiding gently, “where are your manners? Reuven is our guest. He has come all the way from Earth just to see us. You must make him welcome.”
She did not understand. She could not understand. I raised my hand, to ward off her words, and shook my head slightly, all the while keeping my gaze fixed on Joram. If, as Eliza had said, I could speak with my eyes, I hoped he would read in them understanding. Perhaps he did. He still did not speak to me. Turning away, he walked up the steps that crisscrossed the hillside. But before he turned, I saw that his frowning aspect had lightened a little, if only to