Legacy of the Darksword Read Online Free Page B

your mind.”
    “Then of whom? Or
what?” Saryon asked.
    “They call themselves T’kon-Duuk. In the language of the mundanes—Technomancers. They give Life to that which is Dead . Most horribly”—Mosiah’s
voice lowered—”they draw Life from that which is dead. The power of
their magic does not come from living things, as was true in Thimhallan, but
from the death of the living. Do you remember the man who called himself Menju
the Sorcerer? The man who sought to murder Joram?”
    Saryon shuddered. “Yes,” he said
in a low voice.
    “He was one of them. I know them
well,” Mosiah added. “I used to be one of them myself.”
    Saryon stared aghast, unable to
speak. It was left to me—the mute—to communicate. I made a gesture, pointing
from Mosiah to Saryon and myself, asking in dumb show why Mosiah had come to us
with this information now, at this time, and what this all had to do with us.
And either he understood my gesture or he read the question in my mind.
    “I have come,” he said, “because they are coming. Their leader, a Khandic Sage known as Kevon Smythe, is coming
tomorrow to talk to you, Father. The Duuk-tsarith chose me to warn you,
knowing that I am the only one of that order you would trust.”
    “The Duuk-tsarith,” Saryon
murmured, perplexed. “I am to trust the Duuk-tsarith and so they send
Mosiah, who is now one of them and who used to be a Technomancer. Technomancy. Life from death.”
    Then Saryon looked up. “Why me?”
he asked. But he knew the answer, as well as I did.
    “Joram,” Mosiah replied. “They
want Joram. Or perhaps I should say, they want the Darksword .”
    Saryon’s mouth twitched. I
realized then the subtlety of my master, one might
almost say cunning, if a man as gentle and honest could be accused of such a
thing. Though he had not known the news Mosiah had imparted, Saryon had known
from the outset that this was why Mosiah had come, and yet my master had not
mentioned it. He had been stalling, gaining information. I regarded him in
admiration.
    “I am sorry, Mosiah,” said
Saryon, “but you and King Garald and this Kevon Smythe and apparently a great
many other people have wasted your time. I cannot take you to Joram and Joram
cannot give you the Darksword. The circumstances are all detailed in Reuven’s
book.”
    Saryon shrugged. “The Darksword no
longer exists. When Joram thrust the sword into the altar in the Temple , the
sword was destroyed. Joram could not give you the sword if he wanted to.”
    Mosiah did not appear astonished
or chagrined; nor did he rise to his feet and apologize for having disturbed us
over nothing.
    “A Darksword exists, Father. Not
the original. That, as you say, was destroyed. Joram has forged a new one. We
know the truth of this, because an attempt was made to steal it.”

CHAPTER THREE
    This is what the Duuk-tsarith are trained for — to
be aware of everything going on around them, to be in control of everything,
yet manage to keep themselves above and apart from it.
    FORGING
THE DARKSWORD
    S aryon was angry. His hand
clenched, his anger flickered in his eyes. “You had no right! If Joram did
forge a new sword, it must have been because he felt threatened. Was King
Garald behind this? His own law clearly forbids—”
    “What care do they have for the
law?” Mosiah interrupted impatiently. “They know no laws but their own.”
    “They?”
    “The Technomancers. Don’t you understand yet,
Father?” Slowly, Saryon’s hand unclenched. Fear replaced his anger. “Is Joram
safe? He was supposed to send the boy to me to be educated. I’ve heard nothing
and I feared—”
    “Joram is alive, Father,” Mosiah
said, smiling slightly. “And he is well and so is Gwendolyn. As for Joram not
sending his son to you, he did not do so because he and Gwen did not have a
son. They have a daughter. His only child, she is precious in his sight. He is
loath to send such a jewel to this world—and I can’t say that I blame