Forging the Darksword (17 page)

Joram’s hair was still the one true beauty left from his childhood. His mother had never allowed it to be cut. Those who sometimes dared to peep through the window of the shack at night, and watch as Anja combed his hair out, whispered in awe that it came down to the middle of his back, falling in long tendrils of black around his shoulders.

Though Joram did not admit it, his hair had become his one vanity. He wore it braided when he worked—a long,
thick coil that hung down his back. This in sharp contrast to the other young men, who wore their hair blunt-cut and chin-length. The image of Joram, seated in a chair while Anja combed his hair, caused a story to spring up among the other peasants, who told that a spider with a comb spun a black web of hair around the young man.

This image was in Mosiah’s mind, seeing the black web Joram was spinning around himself, when suddenly Joram lifted his head and turned to his friend.

“Come with me,” he said.

Mosiah started, a thrill tingling through his veins. Joram’s face was clear, the shadow lifted, the web broken.

“Sure,” Mosiah had sense enough to answer easily, falling into step beside the taller young man. “Where to?”

But Joram didn’t answer. Walking swiftly, he pushed ahead with a strange, eager expression of excitement and activity on his face that contrasted so vividly with the previous dark, brooding look that it seemed as if the sun had broken through a storm cloud.

On and on they walked, through the forested land the magi were gradually reclaiming from the wilderness, and soon left the ground where they had been working behind. The trees grew thicker as they moved deeper into the woods; the forest floor was choked with brush, almost impassable. Forced more than once to use his magic to clear a path, Mosiah felt his already low energy begin to drain. Having a good sense of direction, he knew fairly well where they were and this was confirmed by an ominous sound—the sound of rushing water.

Slowing his pace, Mosiah looked around uneasily.

“Joram,” he said, touching his friend on the shoulder, noticing as he did so that Joram, in his strange excitement, did not flinch away as usual. “Joram, we’re close to the river.”

Joram did not reply, he simply kept walking.

“Joram,” Mosiah said, feeling his throat tighten, “Joram, what are you doing? Where are you going?”

He managed to stop the young man, tightening his grip on his shoulder, expecting every second to be coldly rebuffed. But Joram only turned at his touch to look at him intently.

“Come with me,” he said, his dark eyes glowing. “Lets see the river. Lets see what’s across it.”

Mosiah licked his lips, dry with walking in the bright sunlight of late afternoon. Of all the wild schemes! Just when he had been able, so he thought, to see the beginnings of a crack in the stone fortress where some light might penetrate, he must now close it up with his very own hand.

“We can’t, Joram,” Mosiah said quietly and calmly, though he felt sick with despair inside. “That’s the border. The Outland lies beyond. No one goes there.”

“But
you’ve
talked to people there. I know you have,” Joram said with the wild eagerness that was so strange.

Mosiah flushed. “How did you know that? No, never mind,” he muttered. “I didn’t talk to them. They talked to me. And … I didn’t like … what they said.” Clutching Joram’s shoulder, he tugged on him gently. “Come back home, Joram. Why do you want to go there? …”

“I
have
to get away!” Joram answered in a voice suddenly fierce and passionate. “I have to get away!”

“Joram,” said Mosiah desperately, trying to think what might stop him, wondering what put this crazy notion into his head. “You
can’t
leave. Stop and think calmly a minute! Your mother—”

At the mention of the word, Joram’s face went blank. There was no shadow upon it, yet there was no light either. His face was as blank and cold as stone.

With a shrug, Joram jerked away from Mosiah’s grasp. Turning, he plunged back into the brush, seeming to care little if his friend followed or not.

Mosiah followed, with pain in his heart. The crack in the fortress was gone, the fortress made stronger and more durable than before. And he had no idea why.

Spring’s Bitter Harvest

S
pring planting time came. Everyone worked together during spring planting. Each person, from the youngest to the eldest, toiled in the fields from before dawn to late evening—sowing the seed, or setting young seedlings which had been carefully nurtured through the winter, in the warm, freshly plowed ground. The work had to be done swiftly, for soon the
Sif-Hanar
would arrive to seed the clouds as the Field Magi seeded the earth, sending the gentle rains that would make the fields lush and green.

Of all the seasons of the year, Joram hated spring planting time most. Though now, at the age of sixteen, he was such a skilled sleight-of-hand artist that his tricks were almost impossible to detect, the seeds were so tiny that even with all his practiced dexterity, he appeared clumsy and slow in sowing them. His hands and shoulders ached at night from the hard work and the stress of maintaining the illusion that he possessed the magic.

This year it was particularly difficult, for they had a new overseer, the old one having passed away during the winter.
This new overseer had been brought from the northern part of Thimhallan, where rebellion among the Field Magi and the lower classes had been brewing and bubbling for years. He was alert to the danger signs of rebellion therefore; in fact, he was actively watching for it. And he found it immediately—in Joram. Early on, he determined to stomp out those smoldering coals of sullen anger he could see in the young man’s eyes.

The magi were out in the fields early one morning, practically before sunrise. Gathering together in a group, they stood before the overseer, patiently awaiting their assigned duties.

Joram did not stand patiently, however. He shifted nervously from one foot to another, flexing his shapely hands to ease the morning stiffness. He knew the overseer was watching him. The man had singled him out for special attention, though for what reason he could not guess. More than once, he had looked up from his work to find the man’s sharp-eyed gaze on him.

“Of course he watches you, my own proud beauty,” Anja said fondly when Joram mentioned his suspicions. “He is jealous, as are all who see you. He knows one of the nobility. Likely he fears your wrath when you come into your own.”

Joram had long ago ceased to listen to this kind of talk from his mother. “Whatever his reason,” he snapped impatiently, “he is watching me—and not with jealousy, mark my words.”

Though she made light of his fears, Anja was more frightened by Joram’s worry than she admitted. She, too, noticed the overseer taking an unusual and apparently hostile interest in her son and she began hovering near Joram, working in the fields beside him when she could, trying to cover for his slowness. In her overeager protectiveness, however, Anja more often than not drew the overseer’s attention rather than distracted it. Joram grew increasingly more nervous and upset, and the anger that always smoldered deep inside began to burn hotter, now that it had a target.

“You,” called the overseer, motioning to Joram, “over there. Start seeding.”

Sullenly, Joram moved off with the other young men and women, slinging the sack of seed over his shoulder. Though
she hadn’t been told to do so, Anja followed after Joram quickly, fearful the overseer might send her to some other part of the field.

“Catalyst,” rang out the overseer’s voice, “we’re behind schedule. I want you to grant all these people Life. They’re to hover, not walk, today. I figure they can cover one third more ground that way.”

This was an unusual request, one that caused even Father Tolban to glance at the overseer questioningly. They weren’t behind schedule. There was no need for this. But, though Father Tolban didn’t like the overseer, he did not question him. The Field Catalyst had become immured in his life of tedious drudgery. He’d even, finally, given up his studies. Every day, he took his place in the fields with the magi, every day he trudged up and down the long rows of plowed earth. The winter winds froze him. The summer sun thawed him. He had turned as brown and dried and withered as a stalk of last year’s corn.

As the catalyst began chanting the ritual, Joram froze. No matter how much Life he was granted, he was bound to the earth. Deep inside him, the old pain stabbed. The Difference. He almost stopped walking, but Anja, behind him, shoved him on, digging her sharp fingernails into the flesh of his arm. “Keep moving!” she whispered. “He won’t notice.”

“He’ll notice,” Joram retorted, angrily snatching his arm out of his mother’s grasp.

Undeterred, Anja clutched at him. “Then we’ll tell him what you always told the other,” she hissed. “You are not well. You need to conserve your Life force.”

One by one, the Field Magi, suffused with Life from the catalyst, used their magic to lift gracefully into the air. Like small brown birds, they began to skim over the surface of the ground, rapidly sowing the seeds in the freshly plowed soil.

Joram and Anja kept walking.

“Here! Stop! Wait a minute, you two. Turn around.”

Joram halted, but he kept his back to the overseer. Anja stopped and half-turned, glancing through the matted mass of her filthy hair, her chin raised.

“Were you talking to us?” she asked coldly.

Ignoring them for a moment, the overseer stalked over to Father Tolban. “Catalyst,” said the overseer, pointing at Joram’s back, “open a conduit to this young man.”

“I have done so, Overseer,” replied Father Tolban, in injured tones. “I am quite capable of handling my duties—”

“You’ve done so?” interrupted the overseer, glaring at Joram. “And now he stands there, absorbing Life force, storing it up for his own personal use! Refusing to obey me!”

“I don’t think that’s true,” returned the catalyst, staring at Joram as though seeing him for the first time. “It’s very odd. I don’t get the feeling that the young man is drawing Life from me at all—”

But the overseer, with a growl, left the catalyst still expounding and walked across the new-plowed earth toward Joram.

Joram heard him coming, but he did not turn around to face him. Staring straight ahead, unseeing, he clenched his fists. Why didn’t the man just leave him alone?

Mosiah, watching nervously, felt the truth slip under his skin like a splinter. Quickly he motioned for Joram to turn and talk to the overseer. Joram could hide it! He had all these years. There were countless things he might offer as excuses.

But, if Joram even saw his friend, he ignored him. He didn’t know how to talk to this man, let alone how to reason with him. He could only stand there dumbly, acutely aware that all the other magi had come to a halt and were staring at him. Blood rushed to his head; anger and embarrassment throbbed in his temples. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone?

Coming up behind Joram, the overseer reached out to grasp hold of the young man’s shoulder, intending, to physically impose his will on the sullen boy. But before he could touch him, Anja slipped between the overseer and her son.

“He is not well,” she said quickly. “He must conserve his Life force …”

“Not well!” The overseer snorted, his gaze flicking over Joram’s strong, young body. “He’s well enough to be a damned rebel.” Shoving Anja aside, the overseer put his hand on Joram’s shoulder. At the man’s touch, Joram spun around to face him, even as he involuntarily moved several steps backward, out of the man’s reach.

Drifting in the air nearby, Mosiah started to float forward with some idea of intervening, but his father stopped him with a look.

“I’m not a rebel,” said Joram, breathing heavily. He seemed to be suffocating. “Just let me get on with my work. And let me do it the way I do best …”

“You’ll do it the way y’er told, you young dog!” the overseer snarled and started to take another step forward when Father Tolban, who had been staring at Joram with a pale face and wide eyes, suddenly gave a shrill cry. Stumbling forward, falling over his plain green robes, he grabbed hold of the overseer’s arm.

“He’s Dead!” the catalyst gasped. “By the Nine Mysteries, overseer, the boy’s Dead!”

“What?” Startled, the overseer turned to the catalyst, who was shaking him frantically.

“Dead!” Father Tolban babbled. “I wondered … But I never tried giving Life to him! His mother always—He’s Dead! There’s no Life in him! I can’t get any response—”

Dead! Joram stared at the catalyst. At last the words had been spoken. At last the truth he had known in his own heart entered his brain and his soul. Memories of Anja’s story came to him. The Vision. No living issue. Memories of Mosiah’s words. Dead children smuggled out of the cities. Dead children smuggled out of Merilon.

Alarmed and terrified, Joram looked at Anja …

… and he saw the truth.

“No,” he said, letting the sack of seeds fall unheeded to the ground and backing up another step. “No.” He shook his head.

Anja held out her arms to him. Her face was deathly pale beneath the dirt, her eyes were wide and fearful.