Legacy of the Darksword by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Page A

woman said,” Saryon interposed. “She said that
the sword must be returned to Thimhal-lan’s maker.”
    General Boris had the look on his
face of a man indulging a child’s whim to hear a fairy tale. “Who is that
supposed to be— Merlyn? You find him, Father, and I’ll give him the Darksword.”
    Saryon appeared very stern,
considering this sacrilegious.
    “At the very least,” said King
Garald in mollifying tones, “we must keep the Darksword out of the hands of the
Techno-mancers.”
    Saryon now appeared troubled, as
if he were rethinking an already-thought-out determination. The other two would
have pressed him further, had not an enormous black limousine rolled up at that
moment.
    General Boris put his hand to his
ear.
    “I see it,” he said, speaking to
an aide through a communicator. The General looked around grimly at us, adding,
“Smythe is here.”

CHAPTER SIX
    “This is my magic,” said Joram,
his gaze going to the sword lying on the floor.
    FORGING
THE DARKSWORD
    ‘ aryon and I had watched a performance of Gounod’s Faust on the BBC recently
and Mephistopheles was much in my mind as I waited to meet the head of the
Technomancers. Smythe certainly did not look the part of Mephistopheles, being
of medium height with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles across his
nose. But in the light blue eyes, that were glittering
and changeable and cold as diamond, was the reputed charm which the devil
purportedly possesses and which he uses to tempt mankind to its downfall.
    Smythe was witty and effervescent
and brought light and air into our house, which seemed gloomy and suffocating
by contrast. He undoubtedly knew what terrible things the King and the General
had been saying about him and he didn’t care. Smythe spoke no word in his own defense, he said nothing against either of them. In fact, he
greeted them both with deference and pleasure. In their cold and stilted
greeting of him, they seemed, by contrast, ungracious, bitter, twisted.
    “Father Saryon.” Kevon Smythe
took my master’s hand and a radiance shone from him
that engulfed Saryon, who actually blinked, as if looking into a blinding
light. “I am honored to meet you at long last. I have heard much of you, all
good, and of Joram. It is a subject that fascinates me. Tell me, Father,” he
said as he accepted a proffered seat in a chair, not on the couch where sat the
other two, stiff and upright. “Tell me the story of Joram and of the Darksword.
I know bits of it, but I would like to hear it from your own lips.
    “I am sorry to say, Reuven,” he
added, looking at me, “that I have not read your account, of which I’ve had the
most favorable reports. My time is such that it does not give me leisure to
read as much as I would like. Your books are in a prominent place in my
library, and someday, when the pressures of leadership are removed, I look
forward to reading them.”
    It was very odd, but I felt a
glow of pleasure suffuse me, as if he had paid my books the best of
compliments, when—in bald truth—part of me knew perfectly well that he had
undoubtedly received distilled accounts of what was in the books from his
subordinates and that, though he might indeed own them, he had no intention of
ever looking at them.
    What was even stranger was that
he was aware of the dichotomy of feelings he produced in others and that he did
so on purpose. I was fascinated and repulsed at the same time. In his presence,
all other men, including the King and the General, appeared petty and ordinary.
And although I liked and trusted them and I did not like and did not trust him,
I had the uneasy impression that if he called me, I would follow.
    Saryon felt the same. I knew
because he was talking about Joram, something he was always very reluctant to
do with any stranger.
    “. . . Thimhallan was founded by
the wizard Merlyn as a land where those blessed with the art of magic could
live in peace, using that art to create beautiful things.