Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [4]
“Where am I?” the woman asked calmly, as if they had walked down a street and taken a wrong turn.
“Thimhallan,” the man replied in an even tone of voice that spread like salve over some deep wound.
“Do I know this place?” the woman questioned. And though the man replied and she accepted his answers, she did not look at him or appear to be talking to him but continually sought out and spoke to an unseen companion.
The woman was younger than the man, about twenty-seven. The golden hair, parted in the center of her head, was tied loosely in two thick braids that hung down to her waist. The braids gave her a childish look, making her seem younger than her years. Her pretty blue eyes enhanced this childish appearance as well—until one looked into them closely. Then it could be seen that their eerie brilliance and wide-open stare were not expressive of the innocent wonder of childhood. This woman’s eyes saw things that could not be seen by others.
“You were born here,” the man said quietly. “You were raised in this world, as was I.”
“That’s odd,” said the woman. “I would think I’d remember.” Like the man’s, her cloak was splattered with mud and wet through. Her hair, too, was wet, as was his, and clung damply to her cheeks. Both were weary and appeared to have traveled a long distance through a soaking rainstorm.
“Where are my friends?” she asked, half-turning and staring behind them into the mists. “Aren’t they coming?”
“No,” the man said in the same calm tones. “They cannot cross the Border. But you will find new friends here. Give them time. They are probably not accustomed to you yet. No one in this land has talked with them in a long, long while.”
“Oh, really?” The woman brightened. Then her face grew shadowed. “How lonely they must be.” Lifting her hand to her forehead to block out the beaming rays of the sun, she peered up and down the sandy shore. “Hello?” she called, holding out her other hand as she might to a wary cat. “Please, its all right. Don’t be frightened. You can come to me.”
Leaving the woman talking to the empty air, the man—with a profound sigh—walked up to the stone statue of the catalyst; the statue that held the sword in its rock hands.
As he stared at the statue in silence, a tear crept from one of his clear, brown eyes, disappearing into the deep lines that cut into the stern, clean-shaven face. Its mate slid down the other cheek, falling in the thick, black hair that curled upon the man’s shoulders. Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, the man reached out his hand and gently caught hold of the orange silk banner—now tattered and torn—that fluttered bravely in the winds. Taking it from the statue, he smoothed the silk in his hands, then folded it and placed it carefully in a pocket of the long, white robes he wore. His slender fingers reached out to stroke the statues careworn face.
“My friend,” he whispered, “do you know me? I have changed from the boy you knew, the boy whose wretched soul you saved.” His hand pressed against the cool rock. “Yes, Saryon,” he murmured, “you know me. I feel it between us.”
He smiled, a half-smile. This smile was not bitter, as his smiles once had been. This smile was sad and filled with regret. “Our situations are reversed, Father. Once I was cold as stone, warmed by your love and compassion. Now it is you whose flesh is icy to my touch. If only my love—learned too late—could warm you?”
He bowed his head, overcome by grief, and his teardimmed gaze fell upon the statues hands that held the sword in their stone grip.
“What is this?” he muttered.
Examining the statue’s hands more closely, the man saw that the stone flesh of the palms on which the sword rested was cracked and gouged as though it had been struck by hammer and chisel. Several of the stone fingers were broken and twisted.
“They tried to take the sword!” he realized “And you would not give it up!”
Stroking the statues injured hands with his own, he felt the anger that he thought was dead flickering to life within him once more. “What suffering you must have endured!