Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The witch made a sudden movement with her hand that caused her companion to cringe involuntarily, uncertain what she might do. Though the Duuk-tsarith are trained from childhood in strict discipline, the witch — a high-ranking member of the Order — was known to have a volatile temper. Her companion would not have been overly surprised to see the crystal wall behind the Bishop begin to melt like so much ice on a summer day.

  The witch restrained herself, however. Bishop Vanya was not one to anger.

  “So, as you said before, the only way to catch him is for someone to bring him to us,” Vanya muttered, his fingers crawling over the desk.

  “Not the only way, Holiness. That would be easiest. There would be the sword to deal with, of course, but I doubt if he has had time to truly learn how to use it or to understand its full powers.”

  “It was reported to us, Eminence,” added the warlock, “that one of your own catalysts was with the young man. Could we not work through him?”

  “The man in question is a weak-minded fool! Had I been able to maintain contact with him, I could have kept him under my control,” Vanya said, the blood mounting in his puffy face until it was nearly as red as the fabric of his robes. “But he has discovered some way to avoid being mentally summoned through the Chamber of Discretion —”

  “The darkstone,” interrupted the witch coolly, her hands clasped before her once again. “It would shield him as effectively from your summons as it shields the boy from our sight.”

  The witch was silent a moment, then she glided nearer the Bishop, causing him a certain amount of uneasiness. “Holiness” — she spoke in gentle, persuasive tones — “if you would grant us permission to go to the Sorcerers Coven, we could learn what he looks like, who his companions are —”

  “No!” said Vanya emphatically. “We must not alert them to their danger! Even though Blachloch is dead, he has advanced matters sufficiently that the Sorcerers will continue to work with Sharakan and so become involved in the war.”

  “Undoubtedly the catalyst has warned them …”

  “Then, would you confirm his story by appearing in person, asking questions that sooner or later must start the dullest of them thinking?”

  “An army of the DKarn-duuk could move against them —” suggested the warlock deferentially.

  “— and start a panic.” Bishop Vanya bit the words. “News of their existence would spread like flame through dry grass. Our people believe the Sorcerers were destroyed in the Iron Wars. Let them hear that these practitioners of the Dark Arts not only exist but have discovered darkstone and there would be an uproar. No, we will not move until we are prepared to crush them completely.”

  “And His Eminence can save his skin at the same time!” The witch exchanged mental notes with her companion.

  “You must search for the catalyst,” continued Vanya, drawing in air through his nose and exhaling with a snort, scowling at the two before him all the while. “I will provide you with a description of the catalyst and Joram, plus another person with whom Joram once associated — a young Field Magus named Mosiah. Though, undoubtedly, they will be disguised,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Disguise — unless it is very clever — is generally easy to penetrate. Holiness,” said the witch coldly. “People think only of changing their outward appearance, not their chemical structure or thought patterns. It should be relatively easy to find a Field Magus among the nobility of Merilon.”

  “I trust so,” the Bishop said, regarding the Duuk-tsarith sternly.

  “How certain are you that the boy — this Joram — will come to Merilon, Holiness?” the warlock asked.

  “Merilon is an obsession with him,” said Vanya, waving a bejeweled hand. “According to the Field Catalyst who lived in the village where he grew up, the madwoman, Anja, told him more than once that he could find his birthright here. If you were seventeen, had come across a remarkable source of power such as the darkstone, and believed that you were heir to a fortune, where would you go?”

  The Duuk-tsarith bowed in silent response.

  “Now,” said the Bishop briskly, “if you find the catalyst, deliver him to me. If you find this Mosiah —”

  “You need not tell us our duties, Eminence,” the witch remarked, a dangerous edge in her voice. “If there is nothing further —”

  “There is. One thing.” Vanya held up a restraining hand as the two appeared ready to depart. “I emphasize! Nothing must happen to the young man! He must be taken alive! You both know why.”

  “Yes, Holiness,” they murmured. Bowing, hands folded before them, they stepped backward. The Corridors magical aperture gaped open, admitted them, and swallowed them up within seconds.

  Left alone with the fading sunset and the darkening evening sky, Bishop Vanya was about to ring for the House Magi to lower the silken tapestries and light the lights of the Bishop’s sitting room. But Vanya’s hand upon the bell was stilled by the sight of the Corridor gaping open once again. A figure stepped out of the void and moved with confident stride to stand before the Bishops desk. mained seated long enough to give the delay meaning. Then he rose to his feet with elaborate slowness, making a great show of smoothing his own robes about him and adjusting the heavy miter upon his bald head.

  The visitor smiled to show he fully understood and appreciated the subtle insult. The man’s smile was not a pleasant one, under the best of circumstances. Thin-lipped, it never extended to any other part of the face — particularly the eyes that were dark and shadowed by heavy, black brows.

  Had Saryon been in the room, he would have seen instantly the family resemblance in the man’s thick black eyebrows and the stern expression of the cold and handsome face. But the catalyst would have missed an inner warmth in this man that he saw in the man’s nephew — a flicker in Joram’s dark eyes, like the reflection of the forge fires. There was no light in this man’s eyes, no light in his soul.

  “Bishop Vanya,” said the man, bowing.

  “Prince Xavier,” said Bishop Vanya bowing. “I am honored. This unexpected and unannounced” — the words were emphasized — “visit is a surprise to me.”

  “I have no doubt,” Xavier said smoothly and evenly. He invariably spoke smoothly and evenly. There was never a touch of emotion. He never allowed himself to become angry, bored, irritated, or happy.

  Born to the Mystery of Fire, he was a high-ranking warlock, a DKarn-duuk, one who is trained in the art of waging war. He was also the Empress’s younger brother — and most important — because the Empress was childless and the inheritance passed through the female side, Xavier was heir to the throne of Merilon. Thus the title, “Prince,” and thus Vanya’s grudging show of homage.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Bishop Vanya inquired. Standing up as tall and straight as his rotund figure would allow, he stared with undisguised dislike at the Prince, who was coolly returning the compliment.

  Xavier clasped his hands behind the skirts of his long, flowing crimson robes. Because he was in court, Xavier could have worn court dress, like everyone else. Unlike the Duuk-tsarith, the DKarn-duuk were not required to wear their crimson robes that were an indication of their order. But Xavier found this style of dress advantageous. It reminded people — particularly his brother-in-law, the Emperor — of the warlock’s power.

  “I desired to welcome you to Merilon, Holiness,” Xavier said.

  “Most kind of you, my lord, I am sure,” said the Bishop, “And now, though I am highly sensible of the honor you do me and completely unworthy of such attention, I beg that you depart. If there is nothing I can do for you, that is.”

  “Ah, there is something.” Prince Xavier drew forth one smooth, supple hand from behind his back and held it up before him. With that hand, he might call down lightning from the skies or raise demons from the ground. The Bishop found it difficult to take his eyes off that hand, and waited somewhat nervously.

  “My lord has only to name it,” he said, more subdue
d.

  “You can end the charade.”

  A ripple of consciousness passed across the Bishop’s face, making it appear as though someone had shaken a bowl of flabby pudding. The lips twitched, and he laid a pudgy hand on them. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I have no idea what you are talking about. A charade?” Vanya repeated politely, still not taking his eyes from the warlock’s hand.

  “You know quite well what I am talking about.” Xavier’s voice was even and pleasant and remarkably sinister. But he let the hand fall to his side, fingering an ornament of silver that hung from his waist. “You know that my sister is —”

  Prince Xavier stopped speaking abruptly. Vanya’s eyes, nearly hidden by the puffy folds in the face, had suddenly bulged out, staring at him with shrewd intensity.

  “Yes, your sister, the Empress,” the Bishop prodded blandly. “You were saying? She is … what?”

  “What you and everyone else knows, yet what you and my imbecile brother-in-law have made treasonable to say,” returned Xavier smoothly. “And it is only through your power and that of your catalysts that he can keep this up. Bring it to an end. Put me on the throne.” Xavier smiled, and shrugged slightly. “I am no trained bear as is my brother-in-law. I will not dance at the end of your rope. Still, I can be amenable, easy to work with. You will need me,” he continued in a softer tone, “when you go to war.”

  “A tragic circumstance we pray the Almin to avoid,” Bishop Vanya said piously, raising his eyes to heaven. “You are aware, Prince Xavier, that the Emperor is opposed to war. He will turn the other cheek —”

  “— and get kicked in the ass,” Xavier concluded.

  Bishop Vanya flushed, his eyes narrowed in rebuke. “With due regard to your station, Prince Xavier, I cannot allow even you to speak with disrespect of my sovereign lord. I do not know what you want with me. I do not understand your words and I resent your insinuations. I must again ask you to go. It is nearly time for Evening Prayers.”

  “You are a fool,” Xavier said pleasantry. “You would find it much to your advantage to work with me, much to your disadvantage to thwart me. I am a deadly enemy. Oh, you and my brother-in-law are protected now, I admit. The Duuk-tsarith are in your pocket. But you can’t keep this charade going forever.”

  Xavier spoke a word and the Corridor opened behind him.

  “If you are returning to the Palace, my lord,” said Bishop Vanya humbly, “please give my regards to your sister and say that I hope to find her in good health …”

  The words lingered on the Bishop’s lips.

  For an instant, Xavier’s studious, calm demeanor cracked — a flaw in the ice. The face paled, the dark eyes glittered.

  “I will give her your regards, Bishop,” Xavier said, stepping into the Corridor. “And I will add that your health is good, as well, Bishop. For the time being….”

  The Corridor closed its jaws over him, and the last Vanya saw of Prince Xavier was a splash of crimson, flowing like a stream of blood through the air. The image was an alarming one, and it remained with Bishop Vanya long after the Prince had disappeared. With a shaking hand, Vanya rang the bell, demanding that the lights in his chamber be lit immediately. And he ordered up a bottle of sherry as well.

  BOOK TWO

  1

  Gwendolyn

  “Where are you going today, my treasure?”

  The young woman to whom this question was fondly addressed bent over her mother, entwining white arms around the elderly lady’s neck and laying her naturally rose-tinted cheek against the cheek that magic kept in full bloom.

  “I am going to visit Papa at the Three Sisters and dine with him. He said I might, you know. And then I am going to City Below to spend the afternoon with Lilian and Majorie. Oh, don’t be a frowning mama. There, you see, a wrinkle line comes when you frown like that. Look, now watch. See, it’s gone.” The girl — for she was a girl at heart still, though woman in figure and face — laid her delicate fingers on her mother’s lips and turned them upward into a smile.

  Midmorning sunshine crept into the room like a thief, sneaking between the folds of the drawn tapestries, crawling across the floor and gleaming out suddenly from unexpected places. It flashed off the shaped glass of crystal vases and glistened in the silken thread of gowns tossed carelessly over chairs. The sun did not touch the feather bed that floated beneath the arched canopy in the corner. It wouldn’t dare. Full sunshine was never permitted into the room until noon at least, by which time Lady Rosamund had risen from her bed and she and her catalyst had performed the magic necessary for milady to face the day.

  Not that Lady Rosamund required much magic to enhance her appearance. She prided herself on that and kept her touches to a minimum, most of these reflecting whatever was currently in style in Merilon. Lady Rosamund made no attempt to disguise her age. That was undignified, particularly when she had a daughter who, at sixteen, had recently left the nursery and entered into adult society.

  Milady was wise and observant; she had heard the women of the noble classes laugh behind their fans at those of her own station who looked younger than the daughters they chaperoned. The family of Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund was not a member of these noble classes, but so close were they that the only thing needed was one hand outstretched in matrimony to lift them into glittering realms of court. Therefore Lady Rosamund maintained her dignity, dressed well but not above her station, and had the satisfaction of hearing herself pronounced “elegant” and “a sweet thing” by her betters.

  Milady looked intently into the ice mirror that stood on the dressing table before her and she smiled at what she saw. Her proud gaze was not on her own face, however, but rested on the youthful repetition of her own features that smiled from behind her.

  The family treasure — and treasure is an apt word — was their eldest daughter, Gwendolyn. This child was their investment in the future. It was she who would raise them up from the middle class, carrying them skyward on the wings of her rosy cheeks and her substantial dowry. Gwendolyn was not beautiful in the classic sense currently much admired in Merilon — that is, she did not appear to have been sculpted of marble with the same cold and stony charm to match. She was of medium height with golden hair, large blue eyes that laughed their way into a man’s heart, and a gentle, giving nature that kept her there.

  Her father, Lord Samuels, was Pron-alban, a craftsman, though he no longer performed the menial magic of his trade. He was a Guildmaster now, having risen to that high position among the ranks of the Stone Shapers through intelligence, hard work, and shrewd investments. It was Guildmaster Samuels who had developed the means to repair a crack in one of the gigantic stone platforms upon which City Above was built, thus earning for him a knighthood from the Emperor.

  Now able to put “Lord” before his name, the Guildmaster and his family had moved from their old dwelling on the northwest side of City Below to the very edge of the Low Avenue of City Above. Situated on the west side of Mannan Park, the house looked out over the rolling green expanse of carefully manicured grass, shaped and nurtured trees with — here and there — a flower.

  It was a well-to-do neighborhood without being too well-to-do. Lady Rosamund knew the advantage of having her noble visitors admire “what charming things you have done to this dear little cottage” of twenty rooms or so. And it pleased her no end to hear them remark sympathetically when they left, “So unworthy of you, my dear. When are you moving to something better?”

  When indeed? Sometime soon, it was hoped — when her daughter became Countess Gwendolyn or Duchess Gwendolyn or Marchioness Gwendolyn…. Lady Rosamund sighed with pleasure as she admired the lovely daughter in the icy face of the frozen reflecting pool.

  “Ah, Mama, the mirror is weeping!” Gwendolyn said, reaching out her hand to catch a drop of water before it fell upon her mother’s feathered hair adornments.

  “So it is,” said Lady Rosamund with a sigh. “Marie, do come here. Grant me Life.” Milady negligently held out h
er hand to the catalyst. Clasping it, Marie murmured the ritual chant that transferred the magic from her body to the wizardess. Like her husband, Lady Rosamund was born to the Earth Mystery, and though her skills were more those of a Quin-alban — a conjurer — she could perform the tasks needed to run a household with admirable skill. Suffused with Life, Lady Rosamund laid her fingers on the reflecting pool and spoke the words that would keep the water — encased in a golden frame that stood upon her dressing table — frozen solid.

  “It’s this warm weather,” Lady Rosamund said to her daughter. “I would certainly not criticize Her Highness for the world, but I wouldn’t mind a change of season. Spring does grow tiresome, don’t you think, my poppet?”

  “I think winter would be fun, Mama,” said Gwendolyn, fussing with her mother’s hair. A darker gold than her own, but rich and luxuriant still, it needed no magic to make it shine. “Lilian and Majorie and I have been down to the Gates, watching the people come in from Outside. It is so funny to see them covered head to foot with snow, their cheeks and noses red with cold, stamping their feet to warm them. And then, when the Gate was open, we could look Outside and see the countryside, so lovely and white. Ah, there goes my beautiful mama, frowning again and making herself ugly.”

  Lady Rosamund could not help but smile, so coaxing was Gwendolyn, though she tried to appear firm. “I don’t like you spending so much time with your cousins …” she began.

  This was an old argument and one Gwen knew how to handle. “But, Mama,” she pleaded persuasively, “I’m so good for them. “You’ve said so yourself. Look how much improved they were, over the holidays. Their manners at table and their conversation, so much more refined and genteel. Weren’t they, Marie?” calling upon the catalyst for support.