Legacy of the Darksword by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Read Free Book Online Page A

plants and animals. Life thrives on death. Such is
the cycle.”
    Saryon was quite struck by this. “I
never looked at it that way.”
    “Nor have I,” I signed,
thoughtful.
    “The Dark Cultists have, for
generations,” Mosiah continued. “They carried their beliefs one step further.
If death was the basis for life—”
    “Then Death would be the basis
for Life!” Saryon said, suddenly understanding.
    It took me a moment longer to
understand, mainly because I did not, at the time, hear the capital letters in
his words.
    Of course, when he spoke of Life,
he was referring to magic, for the people of Thimhallan believe that magic is
Life and that those born without the ability to use magic are Dead . And that, one might say, was the beginning of the
story of Joram and the Darksword.
    The magic—or Life—is present in
all things living. The dandelion possesses its tiny share, as do the rabbit and
the hawk, the fish, and we humans ourselves. In very ancient times certain
people discovered how to take the Life from things around them and used it to
perform what others considered miracles. They termed such miracles “magic” and
those who could not use the magic feared and distrusted it immensely. Wizards
and witches were persecuted and slain.
    “But who are the Dark Cultists?”
Saryon asked.
    “Recall your history lessons,
Father,” Mosiah said. “Recall how the magi of ancient times came together and
determined to leave Earth and find another world—a world where magic could
flourish and grow, not wither and die as it was bound to do on this one.
    “Recall how Merlyn, the greatest
of us all, led his people into the stars and how he founded the new world,
Thimhallan, where magic was concentrated, trapped, so that it seemed to have
disappeared from Earth completely.”
    “ ‘Seemed to have’?” Saryon
repeated.
    “Excuse me,” I signed, “but if we
are going to stay up for the rest of the night, may I suggest that we move to
the kitchen? I’ll turn up the heat and make tea for everyone.”
    We had been standing,
shivering—at least Saryon and I were shivering—in Saryon’s bedroom. He looked
haggard and weary, but neither he nor I could sleep now, after so many
astounding and puzzling events.
    “That is,” I added, “unless you
think those terrible beings will return.”
    Saryon translated my gestures,
but I had the feeling that wasn’t necessary. Mosiah understood me—either my
thoughts or the sign language.
    “The D’karn-darah will not
come back this night,” Mosiah said with confidence. “They thought to ambush me,
to take me by surprise. They know now that I am aware of them. They will not
face me in direct battle. They would be forced to kill me and they do not want
my death. They want to capture me—they must capture me—alive.”
    “Why?” Saryon asked.
    “Because I infiltrated their
organization. I am the only disciple of the blood-doom knights to have ever escaped their
clutches alive. I know their secrets. The D’karn-darah want to find out how much I know and, most importantly, who
else knows. They hope, by capturing me, that I will
tell them. They are wrong,” he said simply, but with firm conviction. “I would
die first.”
    “Let us have some tea,” Saryon
said quietly.
    He put his hand on Mosiah’s arm,
and I knew now that my master trusted this man implicitly. I wanted to, but it
was all so strange. It was hard for me to trust my own senses, let alone trust
another person. Had what happened really happened? Had I truly left my body?
Had I hidden away in a fold of time?
    I filled the teakettle with
water, put it on the burner, brought out the teapot
and cups. Mosiah sat at the table. He declined to have tea. He held, in his
hand, the medallion. None of us spoke, the entire time we waited for the water
to boil, the tea to steep. When, at last, I poured my master’s tea, I had begun
to believe.
    “Start at the beginning,” said
Saryon.
    “Do you mind,” I