“I thank the Almin for that, Father,” Vanya said in the same tone he used to thank the Almin for his morning egg and bread. Again he paused. Saryon sensed some inner turmoil, a mental struggle. The next words were reluctant. “The time has come, Father, for you and your … um … guardian — my associate — to make contact. I know about the creation of the Darksword —”
Saryon gasped.
“— and now we can delay no longer. Our danger from this young man is too great.” Vanya’s voice grew cold. “You must bring Joram to the Font as soon as possible, and you will need my associates assistance. Go to Blachloch. Inform him that I —”
“Blachloch!” Saryon sank down on the cot, his heart beating in his ears with the din of Joram’s hammer. “Your associate?” The catalyst put his shaking hands to his head. “Holiness, you can’t mean Blachloch! …”
“I assure you, Father —”
“He’s a renegade, an outcast of the Duuk-tsarith! He —”
“Outcast? He is no more an outcast warlock than you are an outcast priest, Saryon! He is one of the Duuk-tsarith, a high-ranking member of their organization, hand-picked for this delicate assignment, just as you were.”
Saryon pressed his hands against his head as though he might actually keep his scattered thoughts from tumbling about his brain. Blachloch, the cruel, mudererous warlock, was Duuk-tsarith, a member of the secret society whose duty it was to enforce the laws in Thimhallan. He was an agent for the Church! And he was also responsible for cold-blooded murder, for raiding a village and stealing its provisions, for leaving its people to starve in the winter….
“Holiness” — Saryon licked his dry, cracked lips — “this warlock was … an evil man! A wicked man! He — I saw him kill a young Deacon of our Order in the village of —”
The Bishop interrupted. “Have you not heard the old saying, ‘Night’s shadows are deepest to those who walk in the light’? Let us not be too hasty in our judgment of ordinary mortals, Father. If you reflect back calmly upon the incident of which you speak, I am certain you will find the killing was motivated by necessity, or perhaps it was accidental.”
Saryon saw the warlock call upon the wind, he saw the gale-force blast pick up the defenseless Deacon as though he were a leaf and toss him against the side of a dwelling. He saw the young body crumple lifelessly to the ground.
“Holiness,” ventured Saryon, shuddering.
“Enough, Father!” the Bishop said sternly. “I do not have time for your sanctimonious whinings. Blachloch does what is necessary to maintain his disguise as a renegade warlock. He plays a dangerous game among those Sorcerers of the Dark Arts who surround you, Saryon. What is one life, after all, compared to the lives of thousands or the souls of millions! And that is what he holds in his hand.”
“I don’t understand —”
“Then give me a chance to explain! I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Father. I told you before you left of the trouble we are having in the northern kingdom of Sharakan. It worsens daily. The catalysts who have abandoned the laws of our Order are growing in popularity and in numbers. They are giving freely of their power of Life to anyone who asks. Because of this, the king of Sharakan believes he can treat us with impunity. He has impounded Church funds and put them into his treasury. He has sent the Cardinal into exile, and replaced him with one of these renegade catalysts. He plans to invade and conquer Merilon, and he is in league with the Sorcerers of Technology among whom you live to provide him with their demonic weapons….”
“Yes, Holiness,” Saryon murmured, only half listening, trying desperately to think what to do.
“The king of Sharakan plans to use the Sorcerers weapons to help him in his conquest. Although Blachloch appears to be furthering the ambitions of Sharakan and helping the Sorcerers, he is — in reality — preparing to lead them into a deadly trap. Thus we will be able to defeat Sharakan and crush the Sorcerers utterly, finally banishing them from this world. Blachloch has everything under control, or at least he had until the young man — this Joram — discovered darkstone.”
As Vanya grew angrier, his thoughts became gradually more rambling and incoherent. Saryon could no longer follow them. Sensing this, there was a moment of seething silence as Vanya attempted to regain control, then his communication continued, somewhat calmer.
“The discovery of darkstone is catastrophic, Father! Surely you see that? It can give Sharakan the power to win! That is why it is imperative that you and Blachloch bring the young man and the dreadful force he has brought back into this world to the Font at once, before Sharakan discovers it.”
Saryon’s head began to ache with the strain. Fortunately, his own thoughts were in such turmoil that he must have transmitted only confused and scattered fragments: Blachloch a double agent … the darkstone a threat to the world … the Sorcerers walking into a trap….
Joram … Joram … Joram.
Saryon grew calmer. He knew now what he must do. None of the rest of it was important. Wars between kingdoms. The lives of thousands. It was too enormous to comprehend. But the life of one?
How can I take him back, knowing the fate he faces? And I do know it now, Saryon admitted to himself. I was blind to it before, but only because I deliberately shut my eyes.
The catalyst lifted his head, staring intently into the darkness. “Holiness,” he said out loud, interrupting the Bishop’s tirade. “I know who Joram is.”
Vanya stopped cold. Saryon sensed doubt, caution, fear. But these were gone almost immediately. Nearly eighty years old, the Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan had held his position for over forty of those years. He was highly skilled at his job.
“What do you mean” — the Bishop’s thoughts came across as genuinely confused — “you know who he is? He is Joram, son of a mad woman named Anja….”
Saryon felt himself gaining strength. At last, he was able to confront the truth.
“He is Joram,” the catalyst said in low tones, “son of the Emperor of Merilon.”
2
A State of Grace
There was silence within the silence of the cell. So deep was it that, for a moment, Saryon thought — hoped — that Vanya had broken contact.
Then the words reverberated in his head once more. “How did you come by this supposed knowledge, Father Saryon?” The catalyst could feel the Bishop treading carefully on the soft, unknown ground. “Did Blachloch —”
“By the Almin, did he know?” Saryon spoke aloud again in his amazement. “No,” he continued in some confusion, “no one told me. No one had to. I just … knew. How?” He shrugged helplessly. “How do I know how much magic to draw from the world and give to a shaper of wood so that he may mold a chair? It is a matter of calculation, of adding all factors together — the man’s weight and height, his ability, his age, the degree of difficulty in his project…. Do I think of these things consciously? No! I have done it so often, the answer comes to me without thinking about how I have obtained it.
“And so, Holiness, this was how I came to know Joram’s true identity.” Saryon shook his head, closing his eyes. “My god, I held him in my arms! That baby, born Dead, doomed to die! I was the last person to hold him!” Tears crept beneath his eyelids. “I took him to the nursery that terrible day and I sat beside his crib and rocked him in my arms for hours. I knew that once I laid him down, no other person would be permitted to touch him until you took him to … to the Font.” Saryon’s emotion lifted him from his cot to pace the small cell. “Maybe it is my fancy, but I have come to believe this created a bond between us. The first time I saw Joram, my soul recognized him if my eyes did not. It was when I began to listen to my soul that I knew the truth.”
“You are so certain it is the truth?” The words were strained.
“Do you deny it?” Saryon cried grimly. Halting in his pacing, he stared up into the rafters of the prison cell as though his Bishop hovered among them. “Do you deny that you sent me here purposefully, hoping that I would
find out?”
There was a long moment’s hesitation; Saryon had a mental image of a man looking over a hand of tarok cards, wondering which to play.
“Have you told Joram?”
There was very real fear in this question, a fear that was palpable to Saryon, a fear he thought he understood.
“No, of course not,” the catalyst replied. “How could I tell him such a fantastic tale? He would not believe me, not without proof. And I have none to give.”
“Yet you mentioned adding all factors?” Vanya persisted.
Saryon shook his head impatiently. He began to pace again, but stopped short at the cell window. Day had dawned completely now. Light streamed into the cold prison house, and the village of the Sorcerers was beginning to waken. Smoke curled upward, blown raggedly in the whipping wind. A few early risers were up and trudging to work already, or were inspecting their dwellings for damage from last nights storm. Off in the distance, he saw one of Blachloch’s guards hurrying between the buildings at a run.
Where was Joram? Why hasn’t he returned? Saryon wondered. Immediately he shoved the thought from his mind and began pacing again, hoping the activity would help him concentrate and warm him at the same time.
“All factors?” he repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, there are … other factors. The young man looks like his mother, the Empress. Oh, not a striking resemblance. His face is hardened by the difficult life he has led. His brows are thick and brooding, he rarely smiles. But he has her hair, beautiful black hair that curls down around his shoulders. I am told his mother — that is, the woman who raised him — refused to let it be cut. And there is an expression in his eyes sometimes — regal, haughty….” Saryon sighed. His mouth was dry. The tears in his throat tasted like blood. “Then, of course, he is Dead, Holiness —”
“There are many Dead who walk this world.”
The Bishop is trying to find out how much I know, Saryon realized suddenly. Or maybe looking for proof. His legs weak, the catalyst sank down at the small, plain table standing near the firepit. Lifting the hand-fashioned clay pitcher, he started to pour himself a drink, only to discover that the water inside was covered with a layer of ice. Casting a bitter glance at the cold ashes of the firepit, Saryon set the pitcher back upon the table with a thud.
“I know that there are many Dead, Holiness,” the catalyst said heavily, still speaking aloud. “I myself found enough of them in Merilon, if you remember. To be declared Dead, a baby had to fail two of the three tests for magic. But you and I both know, Holiness, that these Dead still possess some magic, even if it is very little.” He swallowed painfully, his parched throat aching. “I never saw a baby — except one — who failed all three tests. Failed them utterly. And that baby was the Prince of Merilon. And I have never met a person, not even among the so-called Dead who live in our settlement, who has no magic — except one. Joram. He is Dead, Holiness. Truly Dead. No Life stirs within him at all.”
“Is this a matter of common knowledge among the Sorcerers there?” The interrogation continued relentlessly. Saryon’s head began to throb. He longed for quiet, longed to rid himself of the probing voice. But he couldn’t think how to do it, short of dashing his head against the brick wall. Biting his lip, he answered the question.
“No. Joram has learned to hide his deficiency superbly. He is skilled in illusion and sleight of hand. Apparently that woman who passed herself off as his mother — Anja — taught him. Joram knows what would happen to him if anyone found out. Even among the Dead and the outcasts here, he would be banished at the best, murdered at worst.” The catalyst grew impatient. “But surely Blachloch reported all this —”
“Blachloch knows what it is necessary for him to know,” Vanya answered. “I had my suspicions, I admit, and he did what was necessary to either confirm or refute them. I did not see the need to discuss the matter with him.”
The catalyst shifted restlessly in his chair. “But there is a need to discuss it with me,” he muttered.
“Yes, Father.” The Bishop’s voice was now cold and firm. “I sense in you an attachment to this young man, a growing affection for him. It is acting as a deadly poison in your soul, Brother Saryon, and you must purge yourself of it. Yes, perhaps I did send you in hope that you would confirm what I had long suspected. Now you know the secret, Saryon, and it is a terrible one! The knowledge that the true Prince lives would leave us at the mercy of our enemies. The danger is so vast that it is almost unthinkable! What if it were known, Saryon, that the true Prince was Dead? Rebellion would be the least of our worries! The ruling family would be cast out, reviled. Merilon would be in chaos, fall easy victim to Sharakan! Surely you see this, Saryon!”
“Yes, Holiness.” Once more Saryon attempted to moisten his mouth, but his tongue felt as if it were made of wool. “I see it.”
“And so you understand why it is imperative that Joram be brought to us —”
“Why wasn’t it imperative before?” Saryon demanded, cold and exhaustion giving him unwonted courage. “You had Joram here, you had Blachloch. The man was a warlock, Duuk-tsarith! He could have handed Joram to you in pieces if you’d ordered it! Or why bother to bring Joram to the Font at all? If he’s that dangerous, just be rid of him! It would have been easy to kill him, especially for Blachloch!” Saryon was bitter. “Why involve me —”
“You were necessary to provide the truth,” Vanya answered, severing Saryon’s thoughts with one swift stroke. “Until now, I could only surmise that this Joram was the Prince. Your ‘factors’ add together well, as I thought they might. As for assassinating him, the Church does not commit murder, Father.”
Saryon hung his head. The rebuke was well deserved. Though he had lost his faith in both his church and his god, he could not find it in his heart to believe that the Bishop of Thimhallan would order a man’s death. Even the babies — the ones judged Dead — were not put to death but were taken to the Chambers of Waiting, where they were allowed to slip quietly out of a world in which they had no place. As for the murder of the young Deacon, that had been Blachloch’s doing. Saryon could well believe that the warlock had been difficult for the Bishop to control. The Duuk-tsarith lived by their own laws.
“I am going to confess something to you, Father.” Vanya’s thoughts came to Saryon laden with pain. The catalyst winced, feeling the same pain inside himself. “I tell you this, in order that you will understand more clearly. If it were not for this wretched young man’s discovery of the darkstone, I would have been content to let him live out his life, hidden among the Sorcerers — at least until such time as we were ready to move against all of them. Don’t you see, Saryon? It would have been so easy to lose Joram among them, to eliminate all these dangers to the world at one blow, without upsetting the people. Chastise Sharakan, punish the rebellious catalysts, eliminate the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts, rid ourselves of a Dead Prince. It was all to have been so simple, Saryon.”
Once again, that silence within the silence. Saryon sighed, letting his head sink into his hands. The voice resumed, speaking so softly it was a whispering in his mind.
“It can still be simple, Father. You hold the fate of Merilon in your hands, if not the fate of the world.”
Saryon, appalled, looked up, protesting. “No, Holiness! I don’t want —”
“You don’t want the responsibility?” Vanya was grim. “I am afraid you have little choice. You made a mistake, Father, and now you must pay for it. I know something of darkstone, you see. And I know that Joram could not have learned to use it without the help of a catalyst.”
“Holiness, I didn’t understand —” Saryon began in misery.
“Didn’t you, Saryon? Your head may have condoned your actions, but your soul knew you sinned! I sense your guilt, my son, a guilt that has destroyed your faith. And you will not be absolved of it until you do your duty. By bringing the young man to me, by turning him over to the Church, you will ease your tortured conscience and find the peace that you once knew.”
“What — what will happen to Joram?” Saryon asked hesitantly.
“That should not be your concern, Father.” Vanya was stern. “The young man has twice broken our most sacred laws — he committed murder and he has brought back into the world a dread, demonic power. Consider your own black soul, Saryon, and seeks its redemption!”
If I only could, Saryon thought wearily.
“Father Saryon” — Vanya was clearly angry now — “I sense doubt and turmoil where there should be only contrition and humility!”
“Forgive me, Holiness!” Saryon pressed his hands to his temples. “This has all been so sudden! I can’t understand — I must have time to think and … and consider what is best to be done —” A sudden suspicion crossed his mind. “Holiness, how is it that Joram came to live? How did Anja —”
“What is that, Father? More questions?” Bishop Vanya interrupted severely. There was a pause, heavy, waiting.
Saryon swallowed, though there was nothing in his mouth but the taste of blood. He tried to clear his mind, but the questions were there — persistent, nagging. The Bishop may have sensed this, for the thoughts that came to Saryon next were as warm as a blanket.
“Perhaps you are right, Father,” Vanya said gently. “You need time. I am impatient, I admit. The matter is so critical to me, our danger so real, that I have been unfeeling. A day more cannot make any difference. I will contact you this evening to make the final arrangements. The Chamber of Discretion gives me the ability to find you any time, any place. You are always in my thoughts, as the old saying goes.”
Saryon shivered. This was not a comforting idea. “I am honored, Holiness,” he mumbled.
“May the Almin walk with you and guide your stumbling steps.”
“Thank you, Holiness.”
The silence was back, and this time Saryon knew that the Bishop was gone. Creeping from his chair, the catalyst crossed the cell and lay down once more upon his cot. He pulled the thin, meager blanket up around his shoulders and lay there, shaking with cold and fear. The early morning sun shown through the barred window, shedding such a pale, wan light that, if anything, it intensified the chill atmosphere rather than warmed it. Saryon stared bleakly at the shadows wavering in the mocking brightness and tried to understand what had happened to him.
Doom of the Darksword Page 2
