Legacy of the Darksword by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman Page A

him forever.
    When the hatch opened, Saryon
shot out the doorway and dashed down the ramp, his robes flapping wildly about
his ankles. I clattered down behind, struggling with the heavy knapsack, which
was throwing me off balance. We were met at the foot of the ramp by a
contingent of people from the research station. Saryon halted only because it
was either stop or run them over.
    He paid them very little
attention, however; his hungry gaze going above their heads to the land beyond,
a land that, as he had known it, would have been shrouded in magical,
protective mist. The mist was gone. The land was now laid bare for all to see.
    Saryon tried to see it, tried to
see everything he could of his homeland. Craning his neck and peering above the
heads of the group, he made only brief and generally incomprehensible
statements and, at length, gave up all attempts at politeness. He walked off,
leaving the commander and the urgent message he was trying to impart in
mid-sentence.
    Saryon walked across the
rock-strewn ground, walked toward the land of his birth.
    The base commander would have
gone after him, but I had seen the tears on my master’s face. I intervened,
indicating to the commander by emphatic signs that Saryon wanted to be left
alone. The General’s aide had arrived by now. She and the commander and I made
the plans necessary for our stay.
    “You must make him
understand,” said the base commander, frustrated. “As I was attempting to tell
the priest, we received our orders to pull out yesterday, evacuate the station.
So don’t linger. Remind the priest he’s not on holiday. The last ship leaves
seventy-two hours from now.”
    I was shocked. I stared at the
man, who understood my wordless question.
    “Yes. The Hch’nyv are that close,”
he said grimly. “We’ll be taking you and the prisoner and his family out of
here. I guess you and the priest there are responsible for making him see
reason, eh?”
    “Well, I don’t envy you.” The
commander turned his gaze toward the distant hills. “That Joram—he’s gone
insane, if you ask me. He was like a wild man when we went up there to rescue
Senator Smythe. Not but what he had cause, I grant you. Still, no harm was done
and there was Joram standing over the poor Senator, fists clenched, seeming
ready to bash the life out of him. And such a look Joram gave me, when I asked
him if his wife and daughter were well? He fair roasted me with those black
eyes of his and told me that the health of his family was none of my concern. No, sir. I don’t envy you and the priest. I recommend an
armed escort.”
    I knew that would be out of the
question, as far as Saryon was concerned, and so did the General’s aide.
    “They do not have far to travel
and the catalyst is familiar with this land,” she told the base commander. “The
priest is an old friend of Joram’s. They will not be in any danger. And they
will have communicators in the air car, which they can use should they run into
any unforeseen circumstances.”
    She gave me a sideways glance as
she said this, to see my reaction. I guessed then that we would have escorts—of
an unseen kind. The Duuk-tsarith, perhaps hidden in their folds of time,
would be guarding us.
    “What about a driver?” asked the commander.
    “I will drive—” the aide began.
    I shook my head emphatically and
tapped myself on the chest. On my handheld computer, I typed out, I will
drive.
    “Can you?” the aide asked me,
clearly dubious.
    Yes, I replied stoutly, which was
almost the truth.
    I had driven an air car once
before, at an amusement park, and had just about got the hang of it. It was the
other cars, coming every which way at me, which had confused me and caused my
driving to be slightly erratic. If mine was the only air car in this part of
the solar system, I figured I would be fairly safe.
    Besides —I held up the computer for the
aide to see what I had written— you know that he will not let anyone else
come with us.