Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The last words were spoken in disgust. Turning his back on Joram, the Prince walked calmly from the clearing.

  Sword in hand, Joram lunged after him, determined to slay the arrogant man. But he was completely blind in his fury. Stumbling, Joram fell flat on his face. With a wild, ragged cry of anger, he struggled to stand, but his rage had drained him, left him weak and helpless as a baby. Desperate, he tried using the Darksword as a crutch to pull himself to his feet. But the blade sank deep in the churned-up dirt and Joram sagged to his knees.

  His hands clenching around the hilt of the sword that stood before him, buried in the mud, Joram slumped over it. Tears crept from beneath his eyelids. Anger and frustration welled up inside him until he thought his heart would burst. A racking sob tore open his chest, easing the pressure. His head bowed, Joram cried the tears that neither pain nor suffering had wrung from him since he was a small child.

  13

  Winter Night

  “Where is Joram?” asked Saryon as the Prince returned to the glade. The catalyst’s eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Garald’s pale face, his muddy clothes, and the spots of blood upon the white shirt where one of his cuts had come open in his struggles with Joram.

  “Rest easy, Father,” Garald said wearily. “He is back in the woods. We … had a little talk….” The Prince smiled ruefully, looking down at his torn clothing. “He needs time to think. At least, I hope he thinks.”

  “Should he be out there? By himself?” Saryon persisted, his eyes going to the forest. Above the trees, gray clouds skittered across the sky. To the northwest, darker, heavier masses of clouds could be seen forming. The wind had switched direction, blowing warmer. But the air itself was heavy, laden with moisture — rain almost assuredly, snow by nightfall.

  “He’ll be all right,” Garald said, running his hand through his damp hair. “We’ve seen no signs of centaurs in these woods. Besides, he isn’t by himself. Not really.” The Prince glanced around the camp.

  Following his gaze, Saryon understood at once. Only one of the Duuk-tsarith was present. Instead of being comforted, the catalyst only appeared more worried. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Saryon said hesitantly, “but Joram is … is a criminal. I know that they have heard us talking.” He gestured toward the black-robed, silent figure. “Nothing escapes their attention. What —”

  “What prevents them from disobeying me and taking Joram back to Merilon? Nothing.” Garald shrugged. “I certainly couldn’t stop them. But, you see, Father, as my personal guard, they are sworn to be loyal to me unto death. If they betrayed me, and took the boy against my command, they would not face a hero’s welcome. Far to the contrary. For breaking their sworn oath, they would receive the most severe form of punishment their Order metes out. And what that might be, among their strict kind” — the Prince shuddered — “I dare not venture to guess. No,” he said with a smile and shrug, “Joram is not worth that to them.”

  Joram isn’t — but the Prince of Merilon certainly would be, Saryon thought. He would have to guard his secret that much more closely.

  The Prince retired to his tent, and Saryon returned to sit by the warm pools of the spring, noticing that Radisovik, at a gesture from Garald, followed the Prince. The remaining Duuk-tsarith stood silently, staring at nothing and everything from beneath his black hood. Lounging on the grass beside the steaming waters, Simkin was teasing the raven, trying to make it talk in exchange for a piece of sausage.

  “Come on, you wretched bird,” Simkin said. “Repeat after me: ‘The Prince is a fool. The Prince is a fool.’ Say that for Simkin, and Simkin will give you this nice bit of meat.”

  The bird regarded Simkin gravely, its head cocked to one side, but refused to utter a croak.

  “Hush, you idiot!” Mosiah whispered, referring to Simkin, not the bird. He motioned toward the silken tent. “Aren’t warn enough trouble?”

  “What? Oh, Garald? Bah!” Simkin grinned, smoothing his beard. “He’ll think it loads of fun. Quite the joker himself. He once brought a live bear to a costume bail at court. Introduced him as Captain Noseblower, of the Royal Navy of Zith-el. You should have seen the King, keeping up polite conversation with the supposed captain and endeavoring to look perfectly unconscious of the fact that the bear was munching on his cravat. Bear lost the prize for best costume, though. Now, you red-eyed fiend from hell” — Simkin fixed the raven with a stern gaze — “say, ‘The Prince is a fool! The Prince is a fool!’” He spoke in a high-pitched, birdlike squawk.

  The bird raised a yellow foot and scratched its beak in what might have been taken for a rude gesture.

  “Stupid bird!” Simkin remarked testily.

  “Simkin’s a fool! Simkin’s a fool!” cried the raven. With a flutter of wings, it bounced up from the ground, snatched the meat from the young man’s hand, and carried off the prize to a nearby tree.

  Simkin laughed heartily, but Mosiah’s worried expression only grew deeper. Moving near Saryon, he glanced apprehensively at the Duuk-tsarith, then said quietly, “What do you think is going to happen? What does the Prince intend to do with us?”

  “I don’t know,” Saryon answered gravely. “A lot depends on Joram.”

  “Gad! We’ll all hang then,” Simkin interjected cheerfully, scooting across the ground to sit next to the catalyst. “The two of them got into a frightful row this morning. The Prince stripped the flesh from our poor friends bones and hung him out to dry, while the ever-tactful Joram called His Royal Highness an —” Simkin didn’t say the word, but pointed to the part of the body to which it referred.

  “Name of the Almin!” gasped Mosiah, turning pale.

  “Pray all you like, but I doubt it will help,” said Simkin languidly. He dabbled his hand in the hot water. “We should just count ourselves fortunate that he merely called His Grace an — you know — and didn’t turn him into one, as happened to the unfortunate Count d’Chambray. It occurred during a quarrel with Baron Roethke. The Count shouted, ‘You’re an — !’ The Baron cried, ‘You’re another!’ Grabbed his catalyst, cast a spell, and there the Count was, turned into one, right in front of the ladies and everything. Repulsive sight.”

  “Do you suppose that’s true?” Mosiah asked worriedly.

  “I swear it on my mothers grave!” vowed Simkin with a yawn.

  “No, I don’t mean the Count,” Mosiah snapped. “I mean about Joram.”

  The catalyst’s gaze went to the woods. “I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said glumly.

  “Hanging isn’t a bad way to die,” remarked Simkin, lying full length upon the grass, his eyes on the massing clouds above. “Of course, are there good ways? That’s the question.”

  “They don’t hang people anymore,” Mosiah said irritably.

  “Ah, but they might make an exception in our case,” Simkin replied.

  “Simkin’s a fool! Simkin’s a fool!” croaked the raven from the branches above, hopping nearer in hopes of more sausage.

  Is he a fool? Saryon asked himself. No, the catalyst decided uneasily. If what he said was correct and Joram had insulted the Prince, then — for once in his life and probably without knowing it — Simkin may have spoken the truth.

  The storm broke at midafternoon, rain pouring from clouds hanging so low in the sky it seemed they might have been punctured by the tall, prong-branched trees. With the Cardinal granting him Life, the Prince used his magic to create an invisible shield over the glade, protecting them from the deluge. In order to have energy enough to perform this magic, however, it was necessary for Garald to remove the warm springs. Saryon saw the steaming pool go with regret. The shield kept them dry, but it was not particularly warm. And it gave the catalyst an odd feeling to look up and see the rain slashing down at them without touching them; watery spears that were suddenly deflected and turned aside by the unseen shield.

  “I miss the warmth of the springs, but this is much better than being cooped up in a stuffy tent all day, wouldn’t you agree, Father?” Garald said
conversationally. “Under the shield, we can at least move about in the open air. Come nearer the fire, if you are chilled, Father.”

  Saryon was in no mood to talk, however, although he did walk over to sit by the fire, and even managed to mumble a polite rejoinder. His gaze continually strayed through the curtain of steaming water into the forest. Hours had passed and Joram had not returned.

  The Cardinal also attempted conversation with Saryon, but soon gave it up, seeing the catalysts worried preoccupation. Radisovik, with a meaningful glance at the Prince, retired to his tent to study and meditate.

  Gathering near the fire, Garald, Mosiah, and Simkin played at tarok. The game got off to a slow start; Mosiah was so overawed at playing cards with a Prince that he fumbled his cards — dropping them twice — misdealt a hand, and made such glaring errors in play that Simkin suggested the bird take his place. But Garald, without losing any of his dignity or the quiet, regal air that surrounded him, soon made Mosiah so relaxed and at ease that the young man actually dared laugh in the Prince’s presence and once made a feeble, blushing attempt at a joke.

  Saryon noted uneasily, however, that Garald managed to lead the conversation more than once to Joram, urging Mosiah — during breaks in the game — to tell him stories of their childhood. Having never truly conquered his homesickness, Mosiah was only too happy to recall his early life in the farm village. Garald listened to all the tales with an air of grave interest very flattering to the young man, sometimes allowing him to range far afield, yet always, with a seemingly offhand question, subtly leading the talk specifically to Joram.

  Why this interest in him? Saryon wondered with growing fear. Does he suspect the truth? The catalyst thought back to their first encounter. He recalled the strange, intense way the Prince had looked at Joram, as if trying to remember where he had seen the face before. Garald had been to the court of Merilon often as a child. To Saryon, burdened with his secret, it seemed that Joram’s resemblance to his true mother, the Empress, grew daily. There was a way he had of throwing back his head in haughty dignity, a way of tossing the rich, luxuriant, wild black hair that made Saryon want to scream at them — “Can’t you see, you fools! Are you blind?”

  Perhaps Garald did see. Perhaps he wasn’t blind. Certainly he was intelligent, shrewd, and — for all his disarming charm — he was Albanara, born to politics, born to rule. The state and its people came first in his heart. What would he do if he did know or suspect the truth? Saryon couldn’t imagine. Perhaps nothing more or less than he was doing now — until time came to leave. The catalyst pondered until his head ached, but got nowhere. Meanwhile, the hours passed. The gray stormy afternoon darkened to gray stormy evening. The rain changed to snow.

  And still Joram did not return.

  The card game broke up for dinner. The meal consisted of a woodland stew that the Prince had proudly concocted with his own hands, expounding at length upon the various herbs that went into its preparation, boasting that he had gathered these himself upon his journey.

  Saryon made a show of eating so as not to offend the Prince, though — in actuality — he managed to smuggle most of his dinner to the raven. The Duuk-tsarith who had — presumably — been watching over Joram returned, and the other left to take his place. At least that is what Saryon assumed; he could not distinguish between the two guards, faceless in their black hoods. The warlock conferred with Garald, and by the glances the Prince cast in the direction of the forest, Saryon knew the subject of their conversation. This was confirmed when the Prince came over to talk to the catalyst immediately afterward.

  “Joram is safe and well, Father,” Garald reported. “Please do not concern yourself. He has taken shelter in a cleft in the cliff face. He needs time to be alone. The wound I inflicted is deep, I think, but not mortal, and he will be better for the bloodletting.”

  Saryon was not convinced, and neither was Mosiah.

  “You remember those black moods that used to come upon him, Father?” the young man said softly, sitting down beside the catalyst as he toyed with his uneaten food. The raven, perched at the catalyst’s left hand, kept a hungry eye on them. “He hasn’t had any recently, but in the past I’ve seen him lie on his bed for days, not eating, not talking. Just staring into nothing.”

  “I know. And if he’s not back by morning, we’ll go after him,” Saryon said resolutely.

  The snow continued to fall, and the Prince was forced to remove the shield, since keeping it in place through the storm was draining both his energy and that of the Cardinal. Simkin and Mosiah moved into the Prince’s large tent for the night; Saryon accepted the offer to share Radisovik’s.

  As for the Duuk-tsarith, they had both vanished, though the catalyst knew the warlocks were around somewhere, guarding the Princes rest. When they themselves found time to sleep, the catalyst couldn’t imagine. He had heard rumors that the warlocks had the ability to put mind and body to sleep while maintaining unceasing vigilance. That sounded improbable, however, and he disregarded it as legend.

  Grateful for any small problem to keep his mind off his worries, Saryon considered the matter as he lay awake in the darkness, listening for the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Eventually, the catalyst slept. But it was a disturbed sleep. Awakening often in the night, he padded softly to the opening of the tent and gently, so as not to disturb the slumbering Cardinal, parted the flaps to look out.

  What he hoped to see, he had no idea, for the snow fell so thickly he could barely make out the dark shape of the Prince’s tent that stood next to theirs. He did notice that he wasn’t the only one keeping watch. Once he caught a gleam of light from Garald’s tent and thought he saw, through the snow, the tall figure of the Prince, peering out into the night.

  By morning, the snow ended. Lying on thick cushions, the catalyst watched the light of dawn creep slowly into his tent, picturing it filtering through the tangled boughs of the snow-laden trees, leaving a glistening track across the smooth expanse of white outside.

  He started to close his eyes, force himself to try to sleep, then he heard what he had been waiting for — footsteps.

  His heart constricting in relief, Saryon hastily rose and threw aside the tent flap. There, he stopped, drawing back out of sight.

  Joram stood in the center of the snow-covered glade. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak. Where had that come from? Had the Duuk-tsarith taken it to him? Saryon found time to wonder as he waited, breathlessly, to see what Joram would do now.

  Moving through snow that was halfway up his tall boots, Joram came to a halt outside the Princes tent. Reaching beneath the cloak, he drew out the Darksword and held it in his hands.

  Saryon crouched back into the shadows of the tent, his relief changing to fear at the sight of the expression on Joram’s face.

  Saryon wasn’t certain what change — if any — he had expected to see in the young man. A meek and contrite Joram, humbly begging everyone’s forgiveness and vowing to live a better life? No — Saryon couldn’t imagine that.

  An angry, defiant Joram, determined to go to the devil in his own way and quite willing to let everyone else do the same? That was far more realistic. It was, in fact, what the catalyst expected. He would have welcomed it, he realized, in comparison to the Joram he saw.

  There was no expression on the young man’s face at all. Pale and wan, cheeks sunken, eyes dark and shadowed, Joram waited silently, unmoving outside the Princes tent, his hands clasped about the hilt of the sword.

  Having undoubtedly heard the same footsteps that had caught Saryon’s ear, Garald stepped outside, coming to a halt before the strange figure standing in front of the tent. The Prince was in no danger. The Duuk-tsarith were close-by; their magic would dismember Joram before the boy had even raised the weapon.

  It was Joram himself who was in danger, and Garald, knowing this, moved slowly, keeping his hands visible.

  “Joram,” he said gently, pleasantly.

  “Your Grace.” The words were coldly spoken, d
eliberately empty and without meaning. Garald’s shoulders slumped in defeat; he sighed softly. Then his patience gave way, it seemed — anger at this arrogant young man finally overtook him.

  “What do you want?” Prince Garald asked bitterly.

  Joram’s lips pressed together. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, fixing his dark eyes on a point somewhere above the Prince’s shoulder. “We haven’t much time,” he said, speaking to the distance, to the bare trees, the brightening blue sky, the thin rim of the rising sun. “A week, you said.”

  The words were so cold, Saryon was somewhat amazed to see the warmth of the breath that spoke them form a mist in the chill air. Joram swallowed. The hands, clasping the hilt of the Darksword, tightened. “I have much to learn,” he said.

  Garald’s face brightened with a smile that seemed to warm the glade more than the steaming spring. He made a move as if to take hold of the young man, clap him on the back, grasp him by the shoulders or do something to indicate his pleasure. But Saryon saw Joram’s jaw muscles clench, the entire body stiffen. The Prince saw this, too, and checked his implusive movement.

  “I’ll get my sword,” he said, and went back into his tent.

  Unaware that anyone was watching — for the catalyst had kept carefully silent — Joram relaxed. His gaze shifted, he looked directly at the spot where the Prince had been standing, and it seemed to Saryon that he saw the stern face softened by a look of regret. Joram’s lips parted, as though he would speak. But he turned away abruptly, his mouth snapping shut. When the Prince came back out — dressed in a fur cloak, sword in hand — Joram met him with a face as cold and trackless as the snow.

  How he reaches out for love, Saryon saw, his heart aching. And yet when a hand starts to grasp his in return, he strikes it away.

  The two walked off in silence, the Prince glancing occasionally at Joram, Joram walking steadily, his eyes on his destination. In the distance, at the edge of the trees, the catalyst saw a black shadow detach itself from the trunk of a tree and glide slowly and unobserved behind them.