Forging the Darksword (12 page)

“Rest!” bellowed the overseer, and the magi dropped from the air like dead moths to lie among the shade of the bean plants or drifted prone upon the air currents, closing their eyes against the bright sun.

“Now, what have we here?” the overseer muttered, his attention being drawn away from the field to a figure that had appeared on the roadway leading through the woods to the flat farmland. The catalyst, noting with dismay that he had a blister, lifted his head wearily to follow the overseer’s gaze.

The figure approaching them was a woman. She was obviously a magus, by her clothing, yet she was walking, which meant that she had spent nearly all her magical Life force. Upon her back, she carried a burden—a bundle of some sort, probably clothing, the overseer judged, examining the woman attentively. This was another sign her Life force was weak, for magi rarely carried anything.

The overseer might have assumed the woman was a Field Magus, except that her clothes were a strange, vibrant color of green, not the brown, drab colors of those who tilled the soil.

“A noble lady,” murmured the catalyst, hastily dragging on his shoes again.

“Aye,”
grumbled the overseer, scowling. This was out of the ordinary and the overseer hated anything out of the ordinary. It almost certainly meant trouble.

The woman was closer to them now, so close she heard their voices. Raising her head, she looked straight at them and quite suddenly, stopped walking. The overseer saw her sunburned face twist in haughty pride, then—with what must have been a supreme effort—the woman slowly rose up off the ground and floated toward the men in genteel fashion. The overseer glanced at the catalyst, who raised his eyebrows as the woman drifted, rather unsteadily, over the fields until she came to rest before them. Then, with a negligent air, making it appear as if she did this through choice, not because she lacked strength to continue on, the woman settled gently to the ground and stood gazing at them proudly.

“Milady,” said the overseer, bobbing his head in a kind of bow, but not doffing his hat as was proper. Now that she was closer, he could see that the woman’s dress, though rich and made of fine quality fabric, was worn and tattered. The hem had been dragged through the mud and muck of the roadside, there was a torn place on the skirt. Her bare feet were cut and bleeding.

“Is Your Ladyship lost or in need of aid …?” faltered the catalyst, somewhat confused by the woman’s shabby appearance and the fierce, defiant expression on her dirt-streaked face.

“I am neither,” the woman answered in a low, tight voice. Her gaze darting from one to the other of them; she lifted her chin. “I am in need of work.”

The catalyst opened his mouth to refuse, but at that moment the overseer coughed and made a slight gesture with his hand, pointing to the bundle on the woman’s back. Looking where indicated, the catalyst swallowed his words. The bundle had moved. Two dark brown eyes stared out at him from above the woman’s shoulder.

A baby.

The catalyst and the overseer exchanged glances.

“Where do you come from, milady?” asked the overseer, feeling it was up to him to take charge.

But the catalyst struck in. “And where is the babe’s father?” This asked in a severe tone, as befitted a member of the clergy.

The woman appeared undaunted by either question. Her lip curled with a sneer, and, when she spoke, it was to the overseer, not to the catalyst. “I come from yonder.” She indicated the direction of Merilon by a nod of her head. “As for the babe’s father—my husband”—she said this with emphasis—“is dead. He defied the Emperor and was sent Beyond.”

Both men exchanged glances again. They knew she was lying—no one had been sent Beyond in a year—but there was such a strange, wild glint in the woman’s eyes that each man was wary of challenging her.

“Well?” she said abruptly, shifting the position of the baby that was swaddled in the bundle on her back. “Do I get work or not?”

“Have you sought aid of the Church, milady?” the catalyst asked. “I am certain—”

To his astonishment, the woman spit on the ground at his feet.

“My babe and I would starve,
will
starve, before I accept a crust from the hands of such as you.” With a scathing glance at the catalyst, she turned her back upon him and faced the overseer. “Do you need another field hand?” she asked in her low, husky voice. “I am strong. I will work hard.”

The overseer cleared his throat uncomfortably. He could see the baby peering out from the bundle, staring at him with wide, dark eyes. What should he do? Certainly nothing like this had ever come up before—a noblewoman seeking work as an ordinary field hand!

The overseer flicked a glance at the catalyst, though he knew he could expect no help from that quarter. Technically, the overseer, as Master Magus, was in charge of the settlement, and though the Church might question his decisions, it would never question his authority to make them. But now the overseer was in a tough spot. He had no liking for this woman. Indeed, he felt a certain revulsion as he looked at her and her baby. At best, it was probably an illegal mating—there were certain unscrupulous catalysts who would perform such a thing if paid enough. At worst, it was a rutting, the result of the abhorrent joining of male and female bodies. Or perhaps the child was Dead, he had heard rumors that such babies were being smuggled out of Merilon. His inclination was to send this woman and her child away.

But to do so, he knew, was to send them to certain death.

Seeing the overseer hesitate, the catalyst frowned and trudged over to stand beneath where the overseer floated in the air. Irritably motioning the overseer to come down to his level, the catalyst muttered, “I can’t believe you’re really considering this! She’s obviously a … well … you know ….” The catalyst flushed in embarrassment, seeing the overseer leer, and hurried on. “Tell her to be on her way. Or, better still, send for the Enforcers—”

The overseer scowled. “I don’t need the
Duuk-tsarith
to tell me how to manage my settlement. And what would you
have me do, send her and the babe into the Outland? This is the last settlement this side of the river. “You want to try to sleep nights, thinking about what’ll happen to ’em out there?” He glanced back at the woman. She was young, probably not more than twenty. Once she might have been pretty, but now her proud face was marked with lines of anger and hatred. Her body was far too thin—the dress hung on her spare frame.

The catalyst indicated, from his sour expression, that he would take his chances on missing a few nights’ sleep to be rid of this female. This helped make up the overseer’s mind.

“Very well, milady,” the overseer said grudgingly, affecting to ignore the catalyst’s look of shocked disapproval. “I can use another hand. You’ll be given a dwelling place—expense of His Lordship—a bit of ground to do with as you please, and a share in the crops. Be in the fields at dawn, leave at dark. Rest midday. Marm Huspeth’ll watch the babe—”

“The baby stays with me,” the woman informed him coldly, hitching up the straps of the bundle on her back. “I’ll carry him in this while I work, to leave my hands free.”

The overseer shook his head. “I expect a full day’s work from you—”

“You’ll get it,” the woman interrupted, drawing herself up to her full height. “Do I start now?

Looking at her wan, pale face, the overseer shifted uncomfortably. “Naw,” he said gruffly. “Get yourself and the babe settled. The cottage there at the end, near the trees, is vacant. At least go to Marm. She’ll fix you some food—”

“I don’t take handouts,” the woman said and started to leave.

“Hey, what’s yer name?” asked the overseer.

Stopping, the woman glanced back over her shoulder. “Anja.”

“And the babe?”

“Joram.”

“Has he been Tested and blessed in accordance with the laws of the Church?” asked the catalyst sternly, determined to try to salvage some of his lost dignity. But the attempt failed. Spinning around, the woman faced him directly for the first time, and the look in her glittering eyes was so
strange, so mocking, and so wild that the catalyst involuntarily fell back a step before her.

“Oh, yes,” Anja whispered. “He has been through the ceremony of the Testing and he has received the Church’s blessing, you may be sure!”

With that, she began to laugh such eerie, shrill laughter that the catalyst flashed the overseer a look of smug satisfaction. If it hadn’t been for that look, the overseer might have rescinded his decision and sent the woman on her way. He, too, heard the tinge of madness in that laughter. But he’d be damned before he’d back down in front of this weak-eyed, bald little man who’d been an irritant ever since he’d arrived a month ago.

“What are you all staring at,” he shouted to the Field Magi, who had been watching the proceedings with interest, eager for anything that relieved the daily boredom and drudgery of their lives. “Rest is over. Back to work. Father Tolban, grant them Life,” he said to the catalyst, who, with the self-conscious air of one who has been proven right, sniffed and began to chant the ritual.

Flashing a triumphant grin at the overseer, as if they shared some joke known only to the two of them, the woman turned and trudged off toward the wretched little shack that stood far apart from the others of the settlement, her fine green gown dragging in the dirt, catching on brambles, snagging in bushes.

The overseer was to come to know that dress well. Six years later, Anja still wore its tattered remnants.

The Borderlands

J
oram knew he was different from the others in the settlement. It was something it seemed he had always known, just as he knew his name or his mother’s name or her touch. But the reason for this difference puzzled the six-year-old.

“Why won’t you let me play with the children?” Joram would ask during the evenings when he was allowed outside their dwelling to exercise by himself under Anja’s strict supervision.

“Because you are different,” Anja would reply coldly.

Or, “Why must I learn to read?” Joram would ask. “The other children don’t have to.”

“Because you are different from the other children,” Anja would answer him.

Different. Different. Different. The word loomed large in Joram’s mind, like the words Anja made him copy laboriously on his slate. It was because of The Difference that he was kept sealed inside the shack where they lived whenever Anja went to the fields. It was because of The Difference that
he and Anja kept apart from the other Field Magi, never joining in their small holidays or the brief eventide talks before the early bedtime.

“Why am I different?” Joram asked petulantly one day, watching the other children playing in the dirt street. “I don’t want to be different.”

“May the Almin forgive you your foolish tongue,” Anja snapped, casting the children outside a look of scorn. “You are as far above those as the moon is above this wretched ground we trod.”

Joram glanced up above into the evening sky where the pale moon hung in the darkness, aloof from the world and the dim, twilight stars around it.

“But the moon is cold and alone, Anja,” Joram observed.

“All the better for it, child. There is nothing that can hurt it!” Anja responded. Kneeling down beside her son, she took him in her arms and hugged him fiercely. “Be alone like the moon and there is nothing that can hurt you!”

Well, that was a reason, certainly, but it wasn’t a very good reason, Joram thought. He had a great deal of time to think, being by himself all day. So he kept his eyes and ears open, spying on his mother, searching for The Difference. Once, he thought he might have found it.

“What do
you
want, Catalyst?” Anja demanded ungraciously, flinging open the door at the sound of a knock one morning before work began.

Father Tolban attempted to keep a smile upon his lips, but it was a strained, tight-lipped smile. “Sun arise, Anja. May the Almin’s blessing be with you this day.”

“If it is, it will be without your help,” Anja retorted. “I ask again, Catalyst, what do you want? Be quick. I must get to the fields.”

“I came to discuss—” the catalyst began formally but, starting to wilt beneath Anja’s icy gaze, he lost his carefully planned statement and stammered in a rush. “How old is your—is Joram?”

Still asleep in the half-light of dawn, the boy lay huddled in patched blankets on a cot in the corner. “He is six,” Anja answered defiantly, as though daring Father Tolban to challenge her.

The catalyst nodded and tried to regain his composure. “Just so,” he said with an attempt at pleasantry. “That is the age he should begin his education. I meet with the children during Highhour, you know. Let me … That is …”

His voice trailed off, his smile and his words both slowly withering in the chill of Anja’s sardonic sneer.

“I’ll see to his education, not you, Catalyst! He is of noble blood, after all,” she added angrily, as Father Tolban seemed about to protest. “He will be educated as befits one of noble blood, not as one of your ham-fisted peasants!”

With that, she brushed past him, sealing shut the door to the shack. Made of tree branches, the door, like all the doors in the village, was originally designed in the shape of welcoming hands. But the unkempt, untrimmed branches of Anja’s door made it look more like grasping, skeletal claws. Giving the catalyst a final, suspicious glance, Anja surrounded the shack with the magical aura of protection that left her so drained of energy each morning she was forced to walk to the fields instead of float, as did the other magi.