Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The donkey brayed.

  “You’re not pleased? After all the trouble I’ve gone to! Egad, man!” He lifted one of the donkey’s gray floppy ears. “You’ve got marvelous hearing! I’ll wager you can hear a bundle of hay fall at fifty paces. To say nothing of the fact that now you can roll one eye forward and one backward at the same time. See where you’re going and where you’ve been simultaneously.”

  The donkey brayed again, showing its teeth.

  “And the children would love you so,” said Simkin coaxingly. “You could give the little darlings rides. Well, if you’re going to be such an old fuddy-duddy … There.”

  The donkey disappeared and Saryon returned, though in an awkward position, being down on all fours, kneeling on his hands and knees.

  “I’ll just have to think of something else,” Simkin said, sulking. “I have it!” He snapped his fingers. “A goat! We’d never want for milk….”

  At this moment, Cardinal Radisovik intervened. Mentioning something about discussing ecclesiastical matters with Saryon, he helped the catalyst to his feet and drew him into his tent. Unfortunately, Simkin followed.

  “Plus you’d never worry about finding food,” he was heard to say persuasively, his voice trailing off. “You could eat anything …”

  “You know something about Simkin, don’t you, Your Grace?” Mosiah said, turning to the Prince. “You know his game. What he’s up to?”

  “His game …” the Prince repeated thoughtfully, intrigued by the question. “Yes,” he said, after a moment, “I think I do know Simkin’s game.”

  “Then, tell us!” Mosiah said eagerly.

  “No, I don’t believe I will,” Garald said, his gaze fixed on Joram. “You wouldn’t understand, and it might lessen your watchfulness.”

  “But you must! I — I mean, you should … Your Grace,” Mosiah amended lamely, realizing he had just issued an order to a prince. “If Simkin’s dangerous —”

  “Bah!” Joram frowned in disgust.

  “Oh, he’s dangerous, all right,” Garald said smoothly. “Just remember that.” The Prince rose to his feet. “And now, if you will excuse me, I had better go rescue poor Saryon, before our friend has him sprouting horns and nibbling on the Cardinal’s tent.”

  The matter of the catalyst’s disguise was soon settled — and without turning him into a goat. At the Princes suggestion, Father Saryon became Father Dunstable, a minor house catalyst who, according to Simkin, had left Merilon over ten years ago.

  “A meek mouse of a man,” Simkin recalled. “A man no one remembered five seconds after having been introduced to him, much less ten years later.”

  “And if anyone does remember him after ten year’s absence, they would expect him to have changed some,” Garald added soothingly, seeing that Saryon was not at all pleased at this idea. “You won’t have to act any differently, Father. Your face and body will be different, that’s all. Inside, you will be the same.”

  “But I will have to present myself at the Cathedral, Your Grace,” Saryon argued stubbornly, his obvious reluctance at opposing the Prince outweighed by his fear — a fact the Prince noted, wondering, once again, what dread secret this man held locked in his heart. “The comings and goings of catalysts are well-documented —”

  “Not necessarily, Father,” Radisovik put in mildly. “There are more than a few who slip through the bureaucratic cracks, so to speak. A minor house catalyst of no importance — such as this Father Dunstable — who moves with his family to an outlying district might well lose contact with his church for a number of years.”

  “But why should I — I mean Father Dunstable — come back to Merilon? Begging your pardon, Eminence,” Saryon said humbly but persistently, “but the Prince has emphasized our danger …”

  “You have an excellent point, Father,” Garald said. “There are any number of reasons for your return. The wizard you served took it into his head to join the rebellious scum in Sharakan, for example, and left you to fend for yourself.”

  “This is serious, milord.” Radisovik ventured a mild reproach.

  “So am I,” Garald returned coolly. “But perhaps that would draw too much attention to you, Father. How’s this? The wizard dies. His widow returns to Zith-el to live with her parents. There is no room for you in her father’s establishment and therefore you, Father Dunstable, are dismissed from their service. With loving thanks and references, of course.”

  Cardinal Radisovik nodded approvingly. “If they checked your story,” he said, seeing Saryon’s next argument in his face, “which I doubt they would since there are hundreds of catalysts coming and going from the Cathedral every day, it would take them months to track down Lord Whoever He Is and discover the truth.”

  “And by that time,” concluded the Prince in a tone that indicated the matter was settled, “you will be with us in Sharakan.”

  Hearing a note of irritation creeping into the noble voice, Saryon bowed in acquiescence, fearing that any more argument might appear suspicious. He had to admit that the Prince and the Cardinal were right. Having spent fifteen years in the Cathedral, Saryon had spent many evenings watching the line of newly arrived catalysts shuffle up the crystal stairs and enter the crystal doors. Under the bored eye of some poor Deacon, each catalyst signed his name in a register that was rarely, if ever, looked at again. After all, if one passed the scrutiny of the Kan-hanar — the Gatekeepers of Merilon — who was the Church to quibble? The very idea of a catalyst sneaking into the city in a disguise was so remote to their thinking that it must appear ludicrous.

  Still, there was one person who might have reason to expect Saryon to return Merilon, the catalyst thought uncomfortably, his hand going to the darkstone around his neck. He wondered fearfully what actions Bishop Vanya would take to find him, and he began to almost regret the donkey….

  The next morning, everyone rose early, before the sun. Now that it was time to part, they were all anxious to begin their various journeys. The young men and Saryon prepared to take their leave of the Prince and his entourage, who were also leaving that day to continue their journey to the Sorcerers’ village.

  “All’s well that ends well,” Simkin remarked as they finished breakfast, “as was said of the Lady Magda by the Count d’Orleans. He spoke of her posteriorly, of course.”

  “Simkin’s a fool!” croaked the raven, perching upon Simkin’s head.

  “It is not an end, but a beginning, I trust,” said Prince Garald, smiling at Joram.

  The young man almost, but not quite, returned the smile.

  “And now,” continued the Prince, “before the sadness of farewells, I have the pleasant task of giving the Journey Gifts….”

  “My lord, that is not necessary,” murmured Saryon, his guilt once more assailing him. “You have done enough for us as it is —”

  “Don’t take this pleasure away from me, Father,” Garald interrupted, laying his hand upon the catalysts. “Giving gifts is one of the best parts about being a King’s son.”

  Walking over to stand before Mosiah, the Prince clapped his hands once, and then held them out to catch a book that materialized in midair.

  “You are a powerful wizard, Mosiah. More powerful than many Albanara I know. And this is not unusual. In my travels, I have discovered that many of our truly strong magi are being born in the fields and the alleys, not in noble halls. But magic, like all other gifts of the Almin, requires disciplined study to perfect it or it will flow into you and out of you like wine through a drunkard.”

  The Prince cast a glance at Simkin who was, at that moment, tweaking the raven’s tail.

  “Study this well, my friend.” The Prince laid the book in the young man’s trembling hands.

  “T-thank you, Your Grace,” stammered Mosiah, flushing in what he hoped would appear as embarrassment.

  Garald understood it, however, and knew it was shame.

  “The journey to Merilon is long,” said the Prince softly. “And you have a friend who will
be more than happy to teach you to read.”

  Mosiah followed the Princes gaze to Joram.

  “Is that true? Will you?” he asked.

  “Of course! I never knew you wanted to learn!” Joram answered impatiently. “You should have said something.”

  Taking the book, Mosiah held it fast in his hands. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he repeated.

  The two exchanged looks and, for an instant, the field magus and the nobleman were in perfect understanding.

  Garald turned away. “Now, Simkin, my old friend —”

  “Nothing for me, Your Grass. Ha, ha. Your Grass. That’s how the Duke of Deere referred to his gardener. I know, it’s a stupid joke, but then so was the Duke. No, I mean it. I won’t accept a thing. Well …” Simkin heaved a sigh, as the Prince started to speak, “if you insist. Perhaps one or two of the more valuable jewels of the realm —”

  “For you,” said Garald, finally able to insert a word. He handed Simkin a deck of tarok cards.

  “How delightful!” said Simkin, attempting to stifle a yawn.

  “Each card is hand painted by my own artisans,” remarked Garald. “They are done in the ancient style, not by magic. The deck is, therefore, quite valuable.”

  “Thanks awfully, old chap,” said Simkin languidly.

  Garald raised his hand. “You note I hold something in my palm. Something that’s missing from your deck.”

  “The Fool card,” Simkin said, peering at it intently. “How amusing.”

  “The Fool card,” repeated Garald, toying with it. “Guide them well, Simkin.”

  “I assure you, Your Highness,” said Simkin earnestly. “They couldn’t be in better hands.”

  “Neither could you,” replied Garald. He closed his fingers over the card and it disappeared. No one spoke, each staring at the other uncomfortably. Then the Prince laughed. “Just my joke,” he said, clapping Simkin on the back.

  “Ha, ha,” Simkin echoed, but his laughter was hollow.

  “And now, Father Saryon,” said Garald, moving on to stand before the catalyst, who was staring down at his shoes. “I have nothing of material value to give you.” Saryon looked up in relief. “I sense that would be unwelcome to you anyway. But I do have a gift of sorts, although the present is more to myself than to you. When you return to Sharakan with Joram” — Saryon noted that the Prince always spoke of this as a settled fact — “I want you to join my household.”

  A catalyst in a royal household! Saryon glanced involuntarily at Cardinal Radisovik, who smiled at him encouragingly.

  “This —” stammered Saryon, clearing his throat, “this is an unexpected honor, Your Grace. Too great an honor for one who has broken the laws of his faith.”

  “But not too great an honor for one who is loyal, one who is compassionate,” Prince Garald finished gently. “As I said, the gift is to myself. I look forward to the day, Father Saryon, when I can once again ask you to grant me Life.”

  Turning from the catalyst, Garald came, at last, to Joram.

  “I know, you don’t want anything from me either,” the Prince remarked, smiling.

  “As the catalyst said, you’ve given us enough,” Joram said evenly.

  “’Given us enough, Your Grace,” repeated the Cardinal sternly.

  Joram’s face darkened.

  “Yes, well” — Garald struggled to keep his countenance — “it seems to be your lot in life, Joram, to have to keep accepting things from me.”

  Once again, the Prince held out his hands. The air above the outspread palms shimmered, then coalesced, taking the shape of a hand-tooled leather scabbard. Runes of power were etched upon it in gold, but, other than that, there was no other symbol. The center of the scabbard was blank.

  “I left it this way purposefully, Joram,” the Prince said, “so that you could have your family crest drawn upon it at some later date. Now, let me show you how this works.

  “I had it designed especially for you,” Garald continued proudly, exhibiting the scabbards features. “These straps attach around your chest like this, so that you can wear your sword on your back, concealed beneath your clothes. The runes carved upon the leather will cause the sword to shrink in size and weight when it is in the scabbard, thus enabling you to wear it at all times.

  “That is of the utmost importance, Joram,” the Prince said, looking at the young man earnestly. “The Darksword is both your greatest protection and your greatest danger. Wear it always. Mention it to no one. Reveal its existence to no one. Use it only if you are in peril of your life.”

  He glanced at Mosiah. “Or to protect the lives of others.”

  The Prince’s clear brown eyes came back to Joram and Garald saw, for the first time, the stone facade shatter.

  Joram stared at the scabbard, his eyes warm with longing and desire and gratitude. “I … I don’t know what … to say,” he faltered.

  “How about, ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’” said Garald softly, and he placed the scabbard in Joram’s hands.

  The rich smell of the leather filled Joram’s nostrils. His hands ran over the smooth finish, touching the intricate runes, examining the complex leatherwork. Looking up, he saw the man’s eyes on him, amused, yet expectant, certain of victory.

  Joram smiled.

  “Thank you, my friend. Thank you — Garald,” he said firmly.

  Interlude

  Bishop Vanya sat behind his desk in his elegant quarters in the Cathedral of Merilon. Though not as sumptuous as his rooms in the Font, the Bishop’s chambers in Merilon were large and comfortable, containing a private bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and an office with an antechamber for the Deacon who served as his secretary. The view from any of his rooms was magnificent, though it was not the broad expanse of plains or the jagged edges of mountains such as he was accustomed to enjoying at the Font. From the Cathedral, with its crystal walls, he could look down upon the city of Merilon. Gazing farther off, he could see beyond the dome, into the countryside around the city. Or, glancing above, he could see — through the crystal spires atop the Cathedral — the Royal Palace, which hovered above the city, its walls of shimmering crystal shining in the heavens like a sedate and civilized sun.

  This early evening, the Bishop’s gaze was lowered, his eyes on the city of Merilon, if not his thoughts. The citizens were providing a spectacular show in the form of an enhanced sunset — a gift from the Pron-alban of the Stone Shaper’s Guild, intended to welcome His Holiness to the city. Though winter land, it was springtime in Merilon — spring being the Empress’s current favorite season. The sunset was, therefore, a sunset appropriate to spring, being magically enhanced by the Sif-Hanar to glisten in colors of muted pinks with here and there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple at the heart.

  It was truly a beautiful sunset, and the inhabitants of Merilon’s City Above — the nobility and members of the upper middle class — floated about the streets in filmy silks, fluttering lace, and shining satins, admiring the view.

  Not so Bishop Vanya. The sun might not have set, for all he knew or cared. The weather outside might have been a howling hurricane. In fact, such would have suited his mood. His pudgy fingers crawled over his desk, pushing this, shoving that, rearranging something else. It was his only outward sign of displeasure or nervousness, for the Bishop’s broad face was as cool, his regal manner as composed, as ever. The two black-robed figures standing silently before him, however, noted this paper-shuffling as they noted everything else that went on around them from the sunset to the uneaten remnants of the Bishops supper.

  The Bishops crawling hand suddenly slammed, palm down, upon the rosewood desk. “I do not understand” — his voice was even and controlled, a control that was costing him — “why it is that you Duuk-tsarith with your highly touted powers cannot find one young man!”

  The two black hoods turned slightly toward each other, the glittering eyes exchanged glances. Then the black hoods faced Vanya and the wearer of one of th
em, her hands folded before her, spoke. Her tone was respectful without being conciliatory. Clearly, she knew herself to be mistress of the situation.

  “I repeat, Holiness, that if this young man were normal, we would have no trouble locating him. The fact that he is Dead makes locating him difficult. The fact that he carries darkstone upon his person, however, makes it almost impossible.”

  “I do not understand!” Vanya exploded. “He exists! He is flesh and blood —”

  “Not to us, Holiness,” the witch corrected him, her warlock partner supporting her arguments by a slight nodding of his hooded head. “The darkstone shields him, protects him from us. Our senses are attuned to magic, Eminence. We move among the people, throwing out tiny filaments of magic as a spider throws out silken filaments of her web. Whenever any normal being in this world comes within our range, those filaments quiver with Life — with magic. This provides us with vital information about the person: everything from his dreams, to where he was raised, to what he has lately eaten for dinner.

  “With the Dead, we must take extra measures. We must readjust our senses to react to the Death within them, the lack of magic. But with this young man, protected as he is by the darkstone, our senses — our filaments of magic, so to speak — are absorbed and swallowed up. We feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing. To us, Holiness, he literally does not exist. This was the tremendous power of the darkstone in ancient days. An army of Dead carrying weapons made of darkstone could come up upon a city and remain completely undetected.”

  “Bah!” Vanya snorted. “You talk as if he were invisible. Do you mean to say that he could walk into this room right now and you wouldn’t see him? That I wouldn’t see him?”

  The black cloth covering the witch’s head shivered slightly, as though the woman checked an irritated gesture or suppressed a sigh of impatience. When she spoke, her voice was extremely cool and carefully modulated — a bad sign to those who knew her, as evidenced by the slight whitening of the knuckles on the hands of her companion.

  “Of course you would see him, Holiness. And so would we. Isolated and alone in this room, our attention upon him, we would be able to recognize him for what he was and so deal with him. But there are thousands of people out there!”