Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  FORGE OF EVIL

  Raising the hammer, Joram hit the clay box, shattering it at one blow. The firelight gleamed orange on his skin as he crouched over the dark object lying in the midst of broken clay and splintered wood.

  “It isn’t hot,” whispered Joram in awe, holding his hand above the object. “Come nearer, Saryon! See what we have created!”

  What had he expected? They had failed. Recoiling, Saryon jerked his arm from Joram’s grasp. This thing that lay upon the stone floor was not beautiful. It was ugly. A tool of darkness, an instrument of Death, not a bright shining blade of light. Joram was a beginner, untrained, without skill, without knowledge, with no one to teach him. The sword he had fashioned might have been wielded a thousand years before by some savage, barbaric ancestor.

  But there was something more horrifying about the sword, something devilish—the rounded knob on the hilt combined with the long neck of the hilt itself, the handles short, blunt arms, and the narrow body of the blade would turn the weapon into a grim parody of a human being.

  Lying like a corpse at his feet, the sword was the personification of Saryon’s sin.

  “Destroy it!” Saryon gasped hoarsely. “Destroy it, Joram, or it will destroy you!”

  Prologue

  The black, greasy column of smoke wafted away on the chill air as the ashes of the victim drifted down to fall upon those who complacently believed they had just saved a soul. Here and there, amid the smoldering ruins, tongues of flame licked out, greedy for more. Finding nothing but charred remains, the fire crackled and died. Smoke rolled into the sky, casting a shroud over the wretched village, drawing a pall over the sun.

  The crowd dispersed, many making the sign of the cross, combining this with gestures to ward off the evil eye or any other curses that might be lingering in the tainted air. Muttered remarks of “foul witch” were a dark accompaniment to the priests sanctimonious pleadings with someone—it may have been God, though the priest didn’t sound at all certain about it—to forgive the sins of this tortured being and provide it with eternal rest.

  Two figures huddled together in a rat-infested alleyway. Both were dressed exactly alike, in black robes with hoods pulled low over their heads. One leaned upon a carved wooden staff, highly polished and decorated with nine strange symbols. This was obviously the older of the two, for he was stooped and the hand upon the staff was gnarled and wrinkled, though its grip was firm.

  His companion was obviously much younger; he stood tall and straight, though his shoulders slumped and he seemed bowed down with grief. He held a cloth across his nose and mouth, ostensibly to keep away the sweet stench of burning flesh, but in reality to hide from the old man the fact that he wept.

  The two had remained unobserved by the crowd because they had chosen to remain unobserved. Silently they stood, silently they watched. Now, as the last ashes of one they had loved blew down the cracked stone streets, the old man let out a slow breath.

  “Is that all you can do?” cried the other, nearly choked with grief. “Sigh? You should have let me—” He made violent, intricate patterns with his hand in the air. “You should have let me—”

  The old man laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

  “No. That would have only made matters worse for us. She was strong. She could have saved herself but she kept our secret, though they broke and burned her body. Would you take that triumph away from her?”

  “Why have they done this? Why are they doing this to us?” the young man cried wretchedly, his long, fine-boned hands endeavoring to wipe away the tracks of his sorrow. “We have done no evil! We have only tried to help …”

  The old man’s face grew stern, his voice crackled like the flames as he spoke. “What they do not understand, they fear. What they fear, they destroy. So it has ever been with their kind.” Sighing again, he shook his hooded head. “But I see it growing worse. A new age is coming, an age in which there will be no place for us. One by one, they will seek us out and drag us from our homes and feed us to their envious fires. They will hunt down and destroy our creations, slaughter our familiars—”

  “So we stand here and sigh about it and go to our deaths in silence,” the young man interrupted bitterly.

  “No!”

  The old mans grip tightened on his arm. “No!” he repeated in a voice that sent a thrill of hope and a shiver of fear through the younger man, who turned to stare at him. “No, we do not! I have been thinking long on this, weighing the dangers, the alternatives. Now I am satisfied. Now I see that we have no choice. We must leave.”

  “Leave?” repeated the younger man in soft, dazed tones. “But, where will we go? There is no place that is safe, for our brethren tell us that this persecution exists wherever the sun rises …”

  As if his words had conjured it up, the sun appeared from behind the gray clouds. But the charred remains of the corpse gave more warmth than did the shriveled orb that shone pale and bleak in the winter sky.

  Staring at it, the old man smiled grimly.

  “Wherever the sun rises? Yes, that is true.”

  “Then—”

  “There are other suns, my boy,” said the old man thoughtfully, staring into the heavens and caressing the carven symbols upon his staff. “Other suns ….”

  The Prophecy

  When a Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan receives in solemn ceremony the miter that marks his standing as spiritual head and heart of the world, his first official act as Bishop is one that is secret, private, unseen by the eyes even of those he calls Ruler.

  Acting upon orders from the Duuk-tsarith, the Bishop retires to his chambers and activates the enchantments that seal him off from the world. Then he admits one person—a warlock, Head of the dread Order of Duuk-tsarith, who brings His Holiness a box, of the purest gold, made by the alchemists. This box is surrounded by such spells of warding and protection that only the warlock himself may open it and remove that which the box contains. This is nothing more than a single sheet of old parchment covered with handwriting. Carefully, reverently, the warlock places this bit of paper before the mystified Bishop.

  Lifting the sheet of parchment, the Bishop examines the document carefully. It is old, dating back centuries. There are spots on the paper, as though tears have stained it, and the handwriting, though obviously that of a trained scribe, is practically unreadable.

  As the Bishop endeavors to decipher this missive, his expression changes from one of mystification to a look of shock and horror. Invariably, he looks up at the Head of the Order of Duuk-tsarith, as if asking the man whether he knows what the letter contains and if it is true. The Head of the Order simply nods, since these people rarely speak. Ascertaining that the Bishop has absorbed the document’s contents, the warlock makes a motion and the parchment leaves the Bishop’s hand and returns to the box. The Duuk-tsarith then withdraws from the Bishop’s presence, leaving behind a man shaken and distraught, the words on the parchment burning in his mind.

  Forgive me, those of you who are reading this at some future date. My hand is unsteady—the Almin help me! I wonder if I will ever cease to tremble! No, I know I will not, while I still picture so clearly that tragic event it is my duty to record and while I still hear those words ring in my ears.

  Be it known then that in the dark days following the Iron Wars, when the land is in chaos and many predict the end of our world, the Bishop of the Realm undertook to see into the future, that we might calm the people. For one year, he prepared himself to endure the casting of this spell. Our beloved Bishop prayed daily to the Almin. He listened to the proper music recommended by the Theldara, music that would attune the spiritual with the physical. He ate the proper foods, abstaining from all strong spirits. His eyes saw
only those colors soothing to the mind, he breathed the prescribed incense and perfumes. The month prior to the Prophecy, he lasted, drinking only water, purging his body of all unwelcome influences. During that time, he spent his days and nights in a small cell, never speaking to anyone, never spoken to.

  The day of the Prophecy came. Ah! How my hand shakes! I cannot contin- [A blot upon the paper, the writing trails off the edge.]

  There, forgive me. I am master of myself once more. Our beloved Bishop descended to the holy Well in the heart of the Font. He knelt upon the marble rim of the Well that is, so we are taught, the source of the magic within our world. The highest ranking catalysts in the land had returned to this holy ground, to assist the theurgist in the casting of this spell. They stood around the Well, their hands linked so that Life flowed through them.

  Standing beside our Bishop was the old theurgist—one of the last in this world, we fear, since their kind sacrificed themselves in their attempts to put an end to the terrible war. Drawing Life from the catalysts around him, the Spirit Shaper worked his powerful magic, calling upon the Almin to give our Bishop knowledge of the future. To this spell, our Bishop added his prayers, and though his body was weak from fasting, his voice was strong and earnest.

  And the Almin appeared.

  We, all of us, felt His presence, and we fell to our knees in fear and awe, unable to look at His terrible beauty. Staring into the Well, his face rapt and spellbound and under powerful enchantment, our Bishop began to speak in a voice not his own. What he said was not what we had expected. These are his words. I pray that I have the strength to write them.

  “There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world—”

  More there might have been, but at that moment our beloved Bishop suddenly gave a great and terrible cry—a cry that will echo in my heart as his words sound in my ears—and, clasping his chest, he fell forward and lay on the lip of the Well, dead. The theurgist collapsed at his side as if struck by lightning, his limbs paralyzed, his mouth moving but making no sensible sound.

  And we knew that we were alone. The Almin had left us.

  When will this Prophecy come about? What does it mean? We do not know, though our best minds are studying it word for word, even letter by letter. The new Bishop thinks to undertake another Vision, but that seems unlikely, as the theurgist lies at the point of death and he is surely the last of his kind left alive in this world.

  It has been decreed, therefore, that I write these words to you who may perchance see a future many of us do not believe will come to pass. This parchment will be given into the hands of the Duuk-tsarith to keep. It will be known only to them, who know everything, and to the Bishop of the Realm, revealed to him the day of his coronation.

  Let it then be kept secret, lest the people rise up in panic to destroy the Royal Households and a reign of terror descend upon our land like that which drove us from our ancient home.

  May the Almin be with you …and with us all.

  The name penned below is illegible and not important.

  Since that time, all Bishops of the Realm—and there have been many—have read the Prophecy. All have wondered fearfully if it would come to pass within their lifetime. All have prayed that it would not …

  …and secretly planned what they would do if it did.

  1

  Catalyst of Merilon

  The child was Dead. In regard to that, everyone was in agreement.

  All of the wizards, magi, and archmagi who floated in a shimmering circle above the marble floor, the shade of which had been changed hastily the previous night from radiant white to a proper shade of mourning blue, were in agreement. All of the black-robed warlocks, who maintained their attitude of cool aloofness and strict attention to duty as they hovered at their assigned posts appeared, by the even more rigid posture of their stance, to be in agreement. All of the thaumaturgists—catalysts—who stood humbly upon the blue floor, were, by the somber hues of their robes, in agreement.

  A gentle rain, whose tears slid down the vaulting glass of the crystal walls of the magnificent Cathedral of Merilon, wept in agreement. The very air that stirred in the cathedral, tinged with the soft aura of moonlight conjured up by the wizards to glow upon this solemn occasion, agreed. Even the golden and white trees of the Cathedrals park, whose graceful branches glistened in the pale, misty light, agreed—or seemed to Saryon to agree. He fancied he could hear their leaves rustling in low, mournful whispers … the Prince is Dead … the Prince is Dead.

  The Emperor agreed. (For which agreement, Saryon thought caustically, Bishop Vanya had undoubtedly spent most of last night upon his knees, exhorting the Almin to grant him the smoothness of tongue of the serpent.) Hovering in the air in the nave of the cathedral, the Emperor floated beside the ornate rosewood crib that stood in the center of a marble dais, staring at the baby, his arms folded across his chest to signify rejection. His face stern and set in rigid lines, the only outward sign of his grief was the gradual change of his Golden Sun robes to a shade of Weeping Blue—the same color as the marble floor. The Emperor himself maintained the stately dignity expected of him even at this time, when his last chance for an heir to the throne had died with this tiny baby; for Bishop Vanya had undertaken the Vision and had foreseen that there would be no more issue for the Empress, whose health was fragile and precarious.

  Bishop Vanya stood upon the marble dais near the rosewood crib. He did not float above it, as did the Emperor. Standing himself, Saryon could not help but wonder if Vanya felt the envy that gnawed at the catalyst; envy of the magi, who, even on this solemn occasion, seemed to flaunt their power over the weak thaumaturgists, hovering over them in the air.

  It is only the magi of Thimhallan who possess the gift of Life in such abundance that they are able to travel the world on the wings of the air. The catalyst’s Life force is so low that he must conserve every spark. Because he is forced to walk through this world and this life, the symbol of the catalyst’s order is the shoe.

  The shoe: a symbol of our pious self-sacrifice, a symbol of our humility, reflected Saryon bitterly, wrenching his gaze from the magi and forcing his thoughts back to the ceremony. He saw Bishop Vanya bow his mitered head in prayer to the Almin, and he saw, too, the Emperor keeping close watch on Bishop Vanya, watching for his cues, awaiting instruction. At a subtle sign from Vanya, the Emperor bowed his head as well, as did everyone in the court.

  Saryon glanced again at the magi hovering around and above him out of the corner of his eye as he absently murmured the prayer. But this time the glance was a thoughtful one. Yes, a humble symbol the shoe—

  Bishop Vanya raised his head briskly. So did the Emperor. Saryon noticed that Vanya’s relief showed markedly in his face. The fact that the Emperor had agreed with him that the Prince was Dead made matters much easier. Saryon’s gaze strayed to the Empress. There would be trouble here. The Bishop knew it, all the catalysts knew it, everyone in court knew it. In a hastily convened meeting among the catalysts last night, they had all been warned how to react. Saryon saw Vanya tense. Ostensibly, he was going over the formalities with the Emperor in the ritual proscribed by law.

  “… this Lifeless body will be taken to the Font where the Deathwatch will be performed …”

  But, in reality, Vanya was keeping a sharp eye on the Empress, and Saryon saw the Bishop frown slightly. The color of the Empress’s robe, which should have been the most vivid, most beautiful shade of Weeping Blue among all present, was slightly off—a sort of dull Ash Gray. But Vanya refrained from tactfully reminding her, as he would have at any other time, to change it. He was thankful—everyone present was thankful—that the woman was apparently in control of herself once more. A powerful wizardess, one of the Albanara, her initial reaction of outrage and grief upon hearing the news that her child was Dead had caused all the catalysts to withdraw their conduits to
her for fear she would use the Life force they granted to wreak terrible destruction upon the Palace.

  But the Emperor had talked to his beloved wife, and now even she, too, appeared to be in agreement. Her baby was Dead.

  In fact, the only one present who was not in agreement that the baby was Dead appeared to be the baby himself, who was screaming frenziedly. But his cries were lost, ascending as they did into the vast, vaulting crystal heaven above him.

  Bishop Vanya, his gaze now fully on the Empress, launched into the next part of the ceremony rather more hurriedly than was absolutely proper. Saryon knew why. The Bishop feared the Empress might pick up the baby whose body had been washed and purified. Only Bishop Vanya himself was now permitted to touch him.

  But the Empress, exhausted by the difficult birth and by her recent outburst, apparently had no energy left to defy Vanya’s orders. She lacked even the energy to float above the crib, but sat on the floor beside it, shedding crystal tears that shattered upon the blue marble. These sparkling tears were her sign of agreement.

  A muscle in Vanya’s face twitched when those tears began to fall with a musical sound upon the floor. Saryon even thought he saw the Bishop start to smile in relief, but the man recollected himself in time and carefully arranged his face to a more suitable expression of sorrow.

  When the Bishop came smoothly to the end of the ritual, the Emperor nodded once with grave dignity, repeating the ancient, prescribed words, whose meaning no one remembered, with only the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice.

  “The Prince is Dead. Dies ireae, dies illa. Solvet saeclum in favilla. Toeste David cum Sibylla.

  Then Vanya, who was growing more relaxed as every passing moment brought the ceremony nearer completion, turned to look around at the court to make certain that each was in his proper place, that each had his or her robes changed to the proper shade of blue to match his or her station.