Free Legacy of the Darksword by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

vain, fantasy—one that unfortunately
never came about. I was never to see either of our neighbors again.
    King and General entered our
house, where Saryon and I both waited with extreme trepidation. My master knew
these men were going to put enormous pressure on him and he feared this
meeting. I was nervous, for Saryon’s sake, but I must admit that I was looking
forward to seeing once again two people whom I had written about, especially
the King, who had once had such a notable effect on Joram’s life.
    King Garald had been Prince
Garald then. Of him I had written:
    The beauty of the voice matched
the features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The eyes were
large and intelligent. The mouth was firm, the lines about it indicative of
smiling and laughter. The chin was strong without arrogance, the cheekbones
high and pronounced.
    My description, taken from my
early memories and Saryon’s account, was accurate, even now, when the King was
in his middle years. The lines around the firm mouth had darkened, graven by sorrow and suffering and wearisome toil. But when the mouth smiled,
the lines softened. The smile was warm and genuine, the source of its warmth
coming from deep within. I saw at once how this man had won the respect and
perhaps even the affection of the sullen, obdurate boy Joram.
    Saryon started to bow, but Garald
took my master’s hand and clasped it in both his own .
    “Father Saryon,” he said, “let me
be the one who does you reverence.”
    And the King bowed to my master.
    Between pleasure and confusion,
Saryon was completely taken aback. His fears and trepidation melted in the
warmth of the King’s smile. He stammered and blushed and could only protest
incoherently that His Majesty did him far too much honor. Garald, seeing my
master’s embarrassment, said something light and inconsequential, to put them
both at ease.
    Saryon gazed at the King, now
without restraint, and clasped his hand and said over and over with true
pleasure, “How do you do, Your Highness? How do you do?”
    “ I could be better, Father,” the
King replied, and the lines on his face deepened and darkened. “Times are very
difficult, right now. You remember James Boris?”
    But the spell was broken. Garald
had lifted, for one moment, the burden from my master’s shoulders, only to cast
it back on the next. James Boris—short, square-shouldered, solid as one of his
own tanks—was a good man, a good soldier. He had been merciful, in Thimhallan,
when, by rights, he could have been vengeful. He was genuinely pleased to see
Saryon and shook hands with my master quite cordially. So cordially that Saryon
winced as he smiled. But James Boris and his army represented Thimhallan’s
doom. He could not help but be a bleak omen.
    “General Boris, welcome to my
home,” Saryon said gravely.
    He led the way into the living
room, the move being an absolute necessity, for four of us were a tight fit in
the small entryway and the aides and entourage were forced to camp out on the
front lawn. In the living room, Saryon presented me. The King and the General
both made polite comments on my work in writing the history of the Darksword.
The King, with his innate charm, relaxed into another of those warm and
disarming smiles and told me he thought my portrayal of him far too flattering.
    “Not half so flattering, Your
Majesty,” I signed and Saryon translated, “as some would have had me
make it.” I cast a fond glance at my master. “I had to dig very hard to
discover some human flaws in you, to make you an interesting and believable
character.”
    “I have flaws enough, the Almin
knows,” Garald said with a slight smile, adding, “Several of my staff members
have taken a great interest in your work, Reuven. Perhaps you would be so kind
as to do them the favor of answering their questions while your master and the
General and I talk over old times.”
    I admired and appreciated the
smooth way he was getting rid of