Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Your Grace?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Cardinal. My thoughts wandered. Please continue.”

  “This is most important, Your Grace.” The Cardinal’s voice held a hint of rebuke.

  “You have my complete attention,” the Prince said gravely.

  “The catalyst, Saryon, has been in direct contact with Bishop Vanya.”

  “How?” Garald looked immediately concerned.

  “The Chamber of Discretion, undoubtedly, milord, although the poor man has no idea what that is. I recognize the description, however. According to him, Bishop Vanya is actively working for our destruction….”

  “Hardly news,” Garald murmured, frowning.

  “No, milord. What is news is the fact that Blachloch was acting as a double agent. Yes, Highness” — in answer to a look of astonishment from the Prince — “the man was Vanya’s tool, sent to the Sorcerers’ village to lure us into war. Once we were dependent upon the Sorcerers and their weapons of the Dark Arts, Blachloch was to turn upon us and upon them. We would have fallen, defeated at the hands of our enemies, and the Sorcerers would have been destroyed.”

  “Clever bastard, Blachloch,” Garald said grimly. “But I note you speak of him in the past tense.”

  “He is dead, Your Grace. The young man” — Radisovik glanced at Joram — “killed him.”

  “A Duuk-tsarith?” Garald appeared dubious.

  “With the sword, milord, and help from the catalyst.”

  “Ah, the sword of the darkstone.” Garald’s brow cleared. Then he frowned again, his eyes on Joram. “Truly a dangerous young man,” he remarked, then fell silent, lost in his thoughts. The Cardinal, walking beside him, kept quiet as well.

  “Do you trust this catalyst?” Garald asked suddenly.

  “Yes, milord, to an extent,” Radisovik answered.

  “What do you mean, ‘to an extent’?”

  “Saryon is a scholar at heart, Your Grace, a genius in mathematics. Thus was he lured to the study of the Dark Arts of Technology. He is a simple man. One who longs to be sheltered within the safe walls of the Font, spending his life in his books. But something has happened to him, something that casts a shadow over his life.”

  “Something tied to the young man?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Simkin said as much — talk of Vanya sending this catalyst after Joram to bring him back to the Font.” Garald shrugged. “But … that is Simkin. I disbelieved most of it.”

  “The catalyst corroborates his story, Your Grace. According to him, he was sent by Bishop Vanya to bring Joram to justice.”

  “And you think —”

  “He is telling us the truth, milord, but not all of the truth. In fact, Your Grace, that is why I believe he is being so free with his information. Saryon appeared pathetically eager to tell me as much or more than I wanted to know about Blachloch. The poor man is transparent. He is obviously fluttering this broken wing to keep me away from whatever it is he has hidden in his nest.”

  “What reason does he give for Vanya wanting to apprehend the young man?”

  “Only the obvious reason that Joram is Dead, milord, and a murderer was well. The young man killed an overseer. According to the catalyst, Joram had just provocation. The overseer killed the young man’s mother.”

  “Bah!” Garald’s frown deepened. “Bishop Vanya would not concern himself with such a petty crime. He would turn that over to the Duuk-tsarith. The catalyst holds with this wild story?”

  “And will hold with it, Your Grace, to his death. I note one other thing of interest about the catalyst, milord.”

  “And that is?”

  “He has lost his faith,” said Radisovik softly. “He is a man wandering alone in the darkness of his soul, without the guidance of his god. Such a man — who has a secret as does this one — will cling to that secret all the more tenaciously since it is the only thing he has left to him.” The Cardinal shrugged, shivering slightly in the chill of the forest. “I don’t know for certain, however. Perhaps the warlocks with their special means could get it from him —”

  “No!” Garald said firmly, his gaze going involuntarily to the black-robed figures standing in disciplined silence near the fire. “We will leave that type of thing to Vanya and his puppet Emperor of Merilon. If it is the Almin’s will that this man’s secret become known to us, then we will discover it. If not, then we are not meant to know it.”

  “Amen,” murmured the Cardinal, appearing relieved.

  “After all, the Almin willed it that we discovered Blachloch’s treachery in time,” Garald continued with a smile.

  “All praise to our Creator,” responded the Cardinal. “And now, knowing this, milord, do we proceed with our journey to the Sorcerers?”

  “Yes, of course. If you agree, I mean,” Garald added hastily. Accustomed to acting quickly and decisively, the young Prince occasionally forgot to seek the advice of the older, more experienced Cardinal. It was one reason his father, the King, had sent the two of them together on this mission.

  “I think it would be wise, Your Grace. Particularly now,” Radisovik said, it being his turn to conceal his smile. “The Sorcerers will be in confusion following the death of their leader. The catalyst tells me that there is one faction who wants peace, but another, stronger faction that favors pursuing this war. It should be easy to step in, take control, and work with them in earnest now that the warlock is gone.”

  “Yes, that is how I see it.” Garald smiled. “In the meantime, I suppose there is no hurry?”

  The Cardinal appeared surprised. “Well, no, I shouldn’t think so, Your Grace. We must arrive in the village before the people have had a chance to establish a firm leadership figure —”

  “A week would make no difference more or less, do you think?”

  “N-no, milord,” said the Cardinal, mystified. “I should think not.”

  “And what are the intentions of our guests? Where are they bound?”

  “To Merilon, Your Grace,” said the Cardinal.

  “Yes, that makes sense,” Garald said, speaking more to himself than to his companion. “Joram seeks his name and his fortune. This could work out quite nicely….”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Nothing, just talking to myself. I believe we will camp here for a week, if you do not object, Radisovik.”

  “And what do you intend to do here, milord?” asked the Cardinal.

  “Turn fencing instructor. Good night, Eminence.”

  Bowing, Garald walked back toward the fire.

  “Good night, Your Grace,” murmured Radisovik, staring after the Prince in astonishment.

  11

  Joram

  Garald returned to the fire, his head bent in thought. The Cardinal continued on across the glade, entering a silken tent that had appeared near the hot springs by the command of one of the Duuk-tsarith. The Prince noted, as he walked, that both he and Cardinal were under the catalysts careful scrutiny, and that Saryon’s gaze went from them to Joram. The young man had finally fallen asleep, his hand still resting on his sword.

  The catalyst loves him, that much is certain, the Prince thought, watching Saryon from beneath lowered lids as he drew near. And what a difficult love it must be. It is apparently not returned. Radisovik is right. There’s some deep secret here. He won’t give it up, that’s obvious. But, in talking about the young man, he might say more than he realizes. And I will find out something about Joram.

  “No, please don’t rise, Father,” the Prince said aloud, coming to stand beside the catalyst. “If you have no objection, I would like to sit with you for a while, unless you plan to retire, that is.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” replied the catalyst, sinking back down into the soft, fragrant grass that had been magically transformed into a carpet as thick and luxurious as any in court. “I would be glad of your company. I — I find that I suffer from insomnia on occasion.” The catalyst smiled wearily. “It seems that this is one
of those nights.”

  “I, too, am often wakeful,” the Prince said, seating himself gracefully beside the catalyst. “My Theldara prescribes a glass of wine before bed.” A crystal goblet appeared in the Prince’s hand, filled with a ruby-red liquid that gleamed warmly in the firelight. He handed it to the catalyst.

  “I am obliged, Your Grace,” Saryon said, flushing at the attention. “To your health.” He sipped at the wine. It was delicious, and brought memories of court life and Merilon back to him.

  “I would like to speak to you of Joram, Father,” Garald said, settling himself onto the grassy carpet. Leaning on one elbow, he looked directly into the catalyst’s face while keeping his own turned from the firelight.

  “You are direct and to the point, milord.” said Saryon, smiling faintly.

  “A failing of mine, sometimes,” said Garald with a rueful grin, plucking at the grass beneath his hand. “Or at least so my father tells me. He says that I scare people, pouncing on them like a cat when I should creep up on them from behind.”

  “I will tell you gladly what I know of the young man, milord,” Saryon said, his gaze going to the sleeping form that lay near the fire. “The story of his early life I heard from other people, but I have no reason to doubt the facts.”

  The catalyst continued to speak, telling of Joram’s bleak, strange upbringing. The Prince listened, silent, absorbed, fascinated.

  “There is no doubt Anja was mad, Your Grace,” said Saryon with a soft sigh. “Her ordeal had been a terrible one. She had seen the man she loved —”

  “Joram’s father, the catalyst,” clarified the Prince.

  “Um … yes, milord.” Saryon coughed and was forced to clear his throat before he could resume. Garald noted that the man did not look at him as he talked. “The catalyst. She had seen him sentenced to the Turning. Have you ever watched that punishment, Highness?” Now the catalyst turned his gaze to the Prince.

  “No,” Garald replied, shaking his head. “As the Almin is my witness, may I be spared that.”

  “You do well to pray so, milord,” Saryon replied, his gaze going once again to the dancing flames of the fire. “I saw it. In fact, I saw the edict carried out on Joram’s father, though, of course, I didn’t know it at the time. How strange is fate….” He was silent for so long that Prince Garald touched him on the arm.

  “Father?”

  “What?” Saryon started. “Oh, yes.” Shivering, he drew his robes close around him. “It is a dreadful punishment. In the ancient world, so we are told, men were sentenced to die for their crimes. We consider that barbarism, and I suppose it is. Yet sometimes I think death must be easy compared to our more civilized ways.”

  “I have seen a man sent Beyond,” said the Prince in a low voice. “No, wait. It was a woman. Yes, a woman. I was only a boy. My father took me. It was the first time I had traveled the Corridors. I remember being so excited about the journey that I scarcely knew its intent, although I am certain my father must have tried to prepare me for it. If so, he did not succeed.”

  Restlessly, the Prince shifted. Sitting up from his comfortable lounging position he, too, stared into the flames. Memory shadowed his handsome face and clear brown eyes.

  “What was her crime, milord?”

  “I was trying to remember.” Garald shook his head. “It must have been a heinous one; probably something to do with adultery, because I remember my father being rather confused and vague about the details. She was a wizardess, I remember that. Albanara — a high-ranking member of the court. There was something about casting spells of enchantment, enticing a man against his will.” Garald shrugged. “At least I suppose that was his story.

  “Boy that I was,” he continued, “I thought it was going to be a game. I was terribly excited. All the members of the royal courts were there, dressed in their lovely clothes, specially colored in varying shades of blood red for the occasion. I was quite proud of my outfit and wanted to keep it, but Father forbade me. We stood there, on the Border, at the feet of the great living guardians …”

  He paused. “I didn’t know then that these men and women of stone were alive. My father never told me. I was in awe of them, towering thirty feet into the air, staring eternally with unblinking eyes into the shadowed mists of Beyond. A man came forward, dressed in gray robes. Duuk-tsarith, I suppose, though I recall that there was something different about his manner of dress —”

  “The Executioner, milord,” Saryon said in a tight voice. “He resides in the Font and serves the catalysts. His robes are gray — the neutrality of justice — and they are marked with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries, to show that justice knows no distinction.”

  “I don’t recall. He was impressive. That’s all I remember. A tall man, he towered over the woman he held bound at his side as the stone statues towered over the rest of us. The Bishop — it must have been Vanya, he’s been Bishop for as long as I can remember — made a speech) going over the woman’s crimes. I didn’t listen, I am afraid.” The Prince smiled sadly. “I was bored. I wanted something to happen.

  “Anyway, Vanya came to an end. He called upon the Almin to have mercy upon the poor woman’s soul. She had been standing quite still the entire time, listening to the charges with a defiant air. She had fiery red hair and wore it loose, tumbling down her back past her waist. Her robes were blood red, and I remember thinking how alive her hair seemed, glistening in the sun, and how dead her clothes appeared in contrast. But when the Bishop called down the blessing of the Almin, she threw back her head and fell to her knees with a wail that shattered my boyish innocence.

  “My father felt me trembling, and understood. He put his arm around me, holding me close against his body. The Executioner grabbed hold of the woman and dragged her to her feet. He motioned, with his robed arm, that she was to walk forward…. My god!” The Prince closed his eyes. “Walk forward into that dreadful fog! The woman took a step toward the swirling mists, then fell to her knees again. Her screams for mercy tore the air. She begged and pleaded. Groveling in the sand, she began to crawl back toward us! Crawling on her hands and knees!”

  Garald fell silent, staring into the fire, his mouth a grim, straight line.

  “In the end,” he resumed, “the Executioner carried her, kicking and struggling, to the very edges of the Border. The mists curled up about his robes, obscuring both of them from our sight. We heard a last, terrible wail … and then silence. The Executioner returned … alone. And we went back to the palace at Merilon. And I was sick.”

  Saryon said nothing. Garald, glancing at him, was alarmed to see that the catalyst had gone deathly white.

  “It is nothing, Your Grace,” Saryon said, in response to the Prince’s concerned query. “Only that … I have seen several Banishments myself. The memories haunt me. And it is always the same, as you say. Some walk by themselves, of course. Proud, defiant, heads held high. The Executioner accompanies them to the Border and they step into the mist as though merely walking from one room to another. Yet” — Saryon swallowed — “there is always that last cry, coming from the swirling fog — a cry of horror and despair that is wrenched from even the bravest. I wonder what it is they see —”

  “Enough of this!” Garald said, wiping the chill sweat from his face. “We will both have night terrors if we keep on. Return to Joram.”

  “Yes, milord. Gladly. Although” — the catalyst shook his head — “his story itself is not conducive to a nights restful sleep. I will not tell you the details of the Turning to Stone. Suffice it to say that the Executioner plays his part and that — if I had my choice of punishments — I would choose that last moment of terror in the mists over a life of living death.”

  “Yes,” murmured Garald. “You were speaking of the young man’s mother.”

  “Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace. Anja was forced to watch her lover transformed from living man to living rock, and then she was taken back to the Font, where she gave birth to … to their child.”

/>   “Go on,” the Prince prodded, seeing the catalysts face pale, his eyes averted.

  “Their child …” Saryon repeated in some confusion. “She … took the … baby and fled the Font, traveling to the outlying districts where she found work as a Field Shaper. In that village, she raised her chil — she raised Joram.”

  “This Anja, she came of a noble family? You know that for certain? Joram is of noble blood?”

  “Noble blood? Oh, yes, Your Grace! At least, that is what Bishop Vanya has told me,” Saryon faltered.

  “Father, you appear to be growing increasingly unwell,” Garald said in concern, noting the catalyst’s ashen lips and the beads of sweat upon the mans tonsured head. “We will continue this some other time …”

  “No, no, Your Grace,” Saryon said hastily. “I am … glad you are taking … an interest in Joram. And … I need to talk about this! It’s been … a great burden on my mind….”

  “Very well, Father,” said the Prince, his cool gaze on the catalyst. “Please continue. The boy was raised as a Field Magus.”

  “Yes. But Anja told him he was of noble birth, and she never allowed him to forget it. She kept him isolated from the other children. According to the catalyst in the village, Joram wasn’t allowed out of the shack in which they lived except in his mothers company, and then the boy wasn’t permitted to speak to anyone. He stayed in the house, alone, all day, while she worked in the fields. Anja was Albanara. Her magic was strong, and she cast spells of protection around the shack to keep the child in and others out. Not that anyone would have tried to get inside anyway,” Saryon added. “No one liked Anja. She was cold and aloof, always telling the boy that he was above the others.”

  “She knew he was Dead?”

  “She never admitted it, not to him, not to herself. But I imagine that is another reason she kept him isolated. When he was nine, however, she knew he would have to go into the fields — all children do — to earn his keep. That was when she taught him to cover for his lack of magic by using illusion and sleight of hand. She learned this herself in court, no doubt, where it is a game played for amusement. She also taught him to read and to write, using books she undoubtedly stole from her home. And” — Saryon sighed again — “she took him to see his father.”