Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [57]
Saryon did so. He related how a ship was waiting for them at the outpost. The ship would take them back to Earth, where housing had been arranged. He spoke with regret of things left behind, but there was not enough room on the ship to store many personal belongings.
“Just room enough for the Darksword,” Joram said, and sneered.
“The hell with the Darksword!” Saryon said angrily, losing patience. “Consign it to perdition! I do not want to see it! I do not want to hear of it! Leave it! Bury it! Destroy it! I do not care what you do with it. You, Joram! You and your wife and your child. These are all that matter to me.”
“To you!” Joram countered. “And that is why they sent you! To make exactly this plea in this tone! To scare us into running. And when we are gone, then they will be free to come and search and take what they know I would die before I give up!”
“You can’t mean this, Father!” Eliza spoke for the first time. Rising to her feet, she faced him. “What if they are right? What if the power of the Darksword could save lives? Millions of lives! You have no right to withhold it. You must give it to them!”
“Daughter,” said Gwendolyn sharply, “hold your tongue! You can’t possibly understand!”
“I understand that my father is being selfish and obstinate,” Eliza returned. “And that he doesn’t care about us! About any of us! He cares only for himself!”
Joram glared darkly at Saryon. “You have accomplished your task, Father. You have turned my child against me. No doubt that, too, was part of your plan. She can go with you to Earth, if she wants. I will not stop her. You may stay the night, you and your accomplice. But you will be gone in the morning.”
He turned and started to leave the room.
“Father!” Eliza pleaded, heartbroken. “I don’t want to leave! Father, I didn’t mean . . .” She stretched out her hands to him, but he walked past her without a glance and disappeared into the darkness. “Father!”
He did not return.
With a ragged cry, Eliza ran from the room, into another part of the dwelling. I heard her footsteps and then, in the distance, a door slam.
Gwendolyn stood alone, drooping and pale as a cut flower.
Saryon began to stammer out an apology, though the Almin knows he had nothing for which to apologize.
Gwendolyn lifted her gaze to meet his. “They are so alike,” she said. “Flint striking flint. The sparks fly. And yet they love each other. . . .” Her hand went to her mouth and then to her eyes. She drew in a shuddering breath. “He will reconsider. He will think about this through the night. His answer will be different by morning. He will do what is right. You know him, Father.”
“Yes,” said Saryon gently. “I know him.”
Perhaps, I thought. But in the meantime it will be a long night.
Gwendolyn gave Saryon a kiss on his cheek. She bid me good night. I bowed silently, and she left us.
The fire had died to embers. The room was dark and growing chill. I was afraid for Saryon, who looked very ill. I knew how exhausted he must be, for the day had been a tiring one. The evening’s stressful and unpleasant scene had left him empty and shaken.
“Master,” I signed, going to him, “come to bed. There is nothing more we can do this night.”
He did not move, nor did he seem to see my speaking hands. He stared into the glowing coals, and from his words, spoken to himself, I shared his vision. He was seeing the forge fire, the making of the sword.
“I gave the first Darksword life,” he said. “A thing of evil, it sucked the light from the world and changed it into darkness. He is right. I am still searching for redemption.”
He was shivering. I looked around the room, spotted a woolen throw tossed on a stool near the fireplace. As I went to retrieve it, my eye caught a tiny flash of orange light, in the corner between the fireplace and the wall. Thinking it might be a cinder that had caught the wood on fire, I started to brush it off, intending to stamp it out.
The moment my hand touched it, a shiver went through my body. Smooth, plastic, it was not of this world.