Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  The warlock sat at the wooden table in the prison. Evening’s gray and dismal light—the same color as the damp walls—came through the small window, along with a chill wind that rattled the ill-fitting casement, blowing out the candle flame and rendering the meagre fire practically worthless. Standing beside the window, Joram cast a glance at the catalyst. Though bundled in his cloak and his robes. Saryon was gray himself with the cold. Joram smiled inwardly. Clad only in his rough woolen shirt and soft doeskin breeches, the young man leaned against the wall and stared out the cracked window, ignoring both the catalyst and the warlock.

  “Does this mean I can return to Andon’s?” Saryon asked, his teeth chattering.

  Blachloch smoothed the thin blonde mustache upon his upper lip. “No, I am afraid not.”

  “I am to be kept a prisoner, then.”

  “Prisoner?” Blachloch raised an eyebrow. “There are no magical spells laid upon this house. You are free to come and to go as you choose. You have visitors. Andon was here last night. The young man”—he gestured toward Joram—“continues to work in the forge daily. With the exception of the guard, who is here for your own protection, this in no way resembles a prison.”

  “You can’t expect us to live in this wretched place during the winter!” Saryon snapped. The cold must be giving the catalyst courage, Joram thought. “We’ll freeze.”

  Blachloch rose to his feet, his black robes falling in soft folds about his body. “By the time winter comes, I am certain you will have proven your loyalty to me, Father, and you can move to quarters more suitable for a man of your age. Not back with Andon.” Blachloch’s black hood stirred slightly as he moved to depart. “I have often wondered if it was the old man’s influence that caused you to defy me. I have, in fact, heard some rumor to the effect that he and his people refuse to eat the food I provided.” Joram had the impression the warlock was looking at him. “Starvation is a slow and uncomfortable way to die, as is freezing to death. I trust this rumor is untrue.”

  His black robes brushing the dirt floor, Blachloch came to stand beside Saryon and laid his hand upon the catalyst’s shoulder.

  “Grant me Life, Father,” he said.

  Glancing back, Joram saw the catalyst shudder at the touch of the thin Angers that seemed the embodiment of the biting wind. Involuntarily Saryon sought to free himself and the Angers closed over his shoulder. Bowing his head, the catalyst opened a conduit to the warlock and, suffused with magic, Blachloch vanished from sight.

  Clenching his hands into fists, Saryon wrapped his arms close to his body. “The man must be stopped. What help can I give you?” he asked Joram abruptly.

  Joram’s face showed no reaction to the catalyst’s question. But within himself, he was exultant. His plan was progressing. But he must proceed carefully. After all, he thought grimly, he had to lure the man into the ways of the Dark Arts. Giving Saryon one cool, appraising glance, Joram returned to looking out the window, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the brick wall. “Is he gone?”

  “Who?” Saryon glanced around, startled. “Blachloch?”

  “The Duuk-tsarith have the power to make themselves invisible. Still, I would suppose you have the power to sense his presence.”

  “Yes,” Saryon replied after a moment’s concentration.

  “He is gone.”

  Joram nodded and continued leading the unsuspecting catalyst toward darkness. “Simkin told me that you had once read some of the forbidden books about the Ninth Mystery.”

  “Only one,” Saryon admitted, flushing. “And I—I just had a glimpse of it ….”

  “How much do you know about the Iron Wars?”

  “I have read and studied the histories—”

  “Histories written by the catalysts!” Joram interrupted coldly. “I knew those histories, too, when I came here. I read the books. Oh, yes”—this in reply to a rustling sound he heard behind him—“I was raised as a child in a noble house. My mother was Albanara. But surely you knew that?”

  “Y’s, I knew …. Where did she get the books?” Saryon asked.

  “I’ve wondered,” Joram said softly, as if answering some often-asked, inner question. “She was disgraced and outcast. Did she come to her home in the night, traveling the Corridors of time and space? Did she float through the hallways she had known as a child, returning to the site of her lost youth and shattered life like a ghost doomed to haunt the place where it died?”

  Joram’s face darkened. He fell silent, staring out the window.

  “I’m sorry for distressing you—” Saryon began.

  “Since then,” Joram interrupted coldly, “I have read other books, their information is far different from what we were taught. Always remember, Andon says, it is the winners of the war who write the histories. Did you know, for example, that during the Iron Wars, the Sorcerers developed a weapon that could absorb magic?”

  “Absorb magic?” Saryon shook his head. “That’s ridiculous ….”

  “Is it?” Joram turned to look at him. “Think about it, Catalyst. Think about it logically as you are so fond of doing. For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction, isn’t that what you had said?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Therefore, it stands to reason that in a world that exudes magic there must be some force that absorbs it as well. So the Sorcerers of long ago reasoned, and they were right. They found it. It exists in nature in a physical form that can be shaped and formed into objects. You don’t believe me.”

  “I am sorry, young man,” said Saryon through clenched teeth. He sounded disappointed. “I gave up believing in the House Magi’s tales when I was nine.”

  “Yet you believe in faeries?” Joram said, regarding the catalyst with the strange half-smile that rarely touched his lips, only the brown eyes.

  “I was with Simkin,” Saryon muttered, flushing. Drawing as near the fire as possible, he hunched down over it. “When I’m around him, I’m not certain whether I believe in myself, much less anything else.”

  “Yet you saw them? You talked to them?”

  “Yes,” Saryon admitted grudgingly. “I saw them …”

  “Now you see this.”

  Joram plucked the object from the air—so it appeared—and laid it on the table before the catalyst. Picking it up, Saryon regarded the object suspiciously.

  “A rock?”

  “An ore. It is called darkstone.”

  “It seems similar to iron, but what a strange color,” Saryon said, studying it.

  “You’ve a good eye, Catalyst,” said Joram, pushing a chair over with his foot and seating himself at the table. Picking up the other small piece of rock, he studied it himself, frowning. “It has many of the same properties as iron. But it is different.” His voice grew bitter. “Vastly different, as I have reason to know. What knowledge do you have of iron, Catalyst? I wouldn’t have thought you had much to do with ores.”

  “If you do not want to call me by my proper title, which is ‘Father,’ I wish you would call me by my name,” said Saryon gently. “Perhaps that would remind you that I am a person like yourself. It is always easier to hate than it is to love, still more easy to hate a class or race of people because they are faceless and nameless. If you are going to hate me, I prefer that you do it because you hate me, not what I represent.”

  “Keep your sermons for Mosiah,” Joram answered. “What I think of you or you of me doesn’t matter in this, does it?”

  Seeing Joram’s lip curl in disdain, Saryon sighed and looked back at the small stone he held in his hand. “Yes, I studied ores,” he said. “We study all the elements of which our world is composed. It is knowledge valuable in and of itself, plus it is knowledge that is useful and necessary to those of our Order who work with the Pron-alban, the Stone Shapers, or the Mon-alban, the Alchemists.” Saryon’s brow creased in puzzlement. “But I don’t recall seeing or reading about any mineral that looked like this, particularly one with the same properties
as iron.”

  “That’s because all references to it were purged after the wars,” Joram said, regarding the catalyst hungrily, his hands twitching as though he would tear knowledge from the man’s heart. “Why? Because the Sorcerers used it to form weapons, weapons of tremendous power, weapons that could—”

  “—absorb magic,” Saryon murmured, staring at the stone. “I’m beginning to believe you. Inside the Chamber of the Ninth Mystery, there are books scattered about the floor and stacked in piles against the walls. Books of ancient and forbidden knowledge.”

  Watching the catalyst intently, Joram saw that Saryon had forgotten the chill wind that wailed mournfully through the window, that the catalyst had forgotten his own fear and discomfort and unhappiness. Joram looked into his eyes and saw there the same hunger he knew was in his own—the hunger for knowledge. The words came almost reluctantly from Saryon’s lips: “How did they do it?”

  I have him, thought Joram. Once, the man came close to selling his soul for knowledge. This time I will see to it that he completes the bargain.

  “According to the texts,” Joram said, careful to speak calmly and suppress his rising excitement, “the ancients mixed darkstone with iron to form an alloy—”

  “What?” Saryon interrupted.

  “An alloy a mixture of two or more metals.”

  “Was this done by alchemy?” Saryon asked, a note of fear in his voice. “By changing the base form of the metal through magic?”

  “No.” Joram shook his head, noticing the catalysts increasing pallor with amusement. “No. It is done according to the rituals of the Dark Arts, Catalyst. The ores are ground, heated to their melting points, then physically joined together. They are then cast in molds, beaten and tempered, and formed into swords or daggers. Quite deadly”—Joram’s gaze went back to the stone he held in his hand—“as you can imagine. First the sword drains a wizard of his magic, then is able to penetrate his flesh.”

  Beside him, Joram felt the catalyst’s body shudder. Saryon set the stone down hastily. “You have tried this?” he asked in a low, trembling voice.

  “Yes,” Joram answered coldly. “It didn’t work. I formed the alloy and poured it into a mold. But the dagger I created shattered when I put it into water …”

  Closing his eyes, Saryon sighed. It may have been with relief, certainly that’s what he told himself. But the young man watching closely wondered if there was not an underlying tinge of disappointment.

  “Perhaps this rock is nothing more than some strange-looking stone,” Saryon said after a moment. “Perhaps it is not the ore you read about in the texts. Or perhaps the texts themselves lied. You would not be able to tell if it could absorb magic—” He hesitated.

  “—since I am Dead,” finished Joram. “No, you are right.” He pushed the ore across the table toward the catalyst. “Yet you should be able to tell. Try it, Catalyst. What do you sense about this ore?”

  Saryon lifted the stone in his hand. For long moments he looked at it, then, shutting his eyes, he sensed for the magic.

  Watching closely, Joram saw the catalyst’s face grow peaceful, the man’s concentration turning inward. His expression became one of awe and bliss, he was absorbing the magic. But then, slowly, the catalyst’s expression changed to one of horror. Quickly he opened his eyes, and set the stone down upon the table, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from it.

  “This is the darkstone!” Joram said softly.

  “I do not see why it should excite you,” Saryon said. He licked his lips as though he had a bitter taste in his mouth. “The secret to forming the ancient alloy is apparently one you cannot unlock.”

  “Not me,” said Joram softly. “You, Catalyst. You see”—he leaned near—“the formula for the alloy is given in the text, but I cannot read it. It is—”

  “—mathematics.” Saryon’s lips twisted.

  “Mathematics,” Joram repeated. “Something my mother never taught me, of course, since it is an art of the catalysts.” Shaking his head, the young man clenched his fist, forgetting himself in his earnestness. “The texts are filled with mathematical equations! You cannot know, Saryon, how frustrating this was to me! To be so close, to have found the ore they spoke of, and then to have my way blocked by what is so much gibberish dancing across the page. I did all I could. I thought maybe by experimenting I could come across the right answer by accident. But my time was short, and Blachloch began to suspect. He is having me watched.” Picking up the rock, Joram held it in his open palm, then slowly closed his fingers over it, as though he would crush it in his hand. “I don’t believe I would have ever gotten it right anyway,” he continued with growing bitterness. “There’s a lot about catalysts in there. Directions to them. I thought I could ignore that, but apparently not.”

  “You called me ‘Saryon,’” the catalyst said to Joram quietly.

  Looking up, Joram flushed. He hadn’t meant to do that, this wasn’t part of his plan. There was something about this man, something he hadn’t counted on finding, particularly not in a catalyst. Someone who understood.

  Angrily, Joram’s face hardened; the black brows drew together threateningly. No, he must stick to the plan. This man was a tool, nothing more.

  “If we’re going to be working together, I suppose I must call you by name,” he said sullenly. “I will not call you ‘Father’!” he added with a sneer.

  “I haven’t agreed to work with you,” Saryon replied steadily. “Tell me, if you create this … this weapon, what will you do with it?”

  “Stop Blachloch,” Joram answered with a shrug. “Believe me, Cata—Saryon—it is only a matter of time before he destroys me. He has so much as told me so already. As for you—Well, do you want to be part of another raiding party?”

  “No,” Saryon said in a low voice. “Will you take over leadership of the coven then?”

  “Me?” Joram shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “Are you mad? Why should I want such responsibility? No, I will give the leadership of the coven back to Andon. He and these people can live in peace once more. As for me, I want only one thing. To return to Merilon and claim what is mine. With this weapon,” he said grimly, “I can do it.”

  “You forget one thing,” Saryon said. “I was sent to bring you back to … to stand trial.”

  “You are right,” Joram said after a pause, “I had forgotten. Very well”—he shrugged—“open a Corridor. Call the Duuk-tsarith.”

  “I cannot open a Corridor without the assistance of a magic-user,” Saryon replied. “If you had sufficient Life, I could use yours …”

  “That was the plan?”

  “Yes,” Saryon murmured inaudibly.

  “A pity it didn’t work out, Catalyst,” Joram answered coolly. “Weak though you may be, I am weaker yet. Now, that is. Once I have the weapon, however … Well, you will do what you have to do when the time comes. Perhaps your Bishop might consider Blachloch an acceptable trade for me. As for now—Saryon—are you with me? Will you help free us both, and help free Andon and his people? You know they will keep their vow, and you know what Blachloch will do to them.”

  “Yes,” Saryon said. Clasping his hands, he looked down at them, noticing the blueness in his fingernails. “I’m losing the feeling in my fingers,” he murmured. Rising to his feet, he walked from the table to the feeble fire. “I wonder what the Almin is doing now,” he said to himself, holding his hands to the warmth. “Getting ready to attend Evening Prayers in the Font? Preparing Himself to listen to Bishop Vanya praying for guidance that he probably doesn’t need? No wonder the Almin stays there, safe and secure, within the walls of the Font.

  “What an easy job.”

  6

  Fallen

  “It cannot be done,” said Saryon, looking up from the text he was reading, his face pale and strained.

  “What do you mean, it can’t be done?” Joram demanded, ceasing his restless pacing and coming to stand next to the catalyst. “Don’t you understand it? Can’t you r
ead the math? Is there something we lack? Something we’re missing? If so—”

  “I mean it cannot be done because I will not do it,” Saryon said wearily, leaning his head upon his hand. He gestured at the text. “I understand it,” he continued in a hollow voice. “I understand it all too well. And I will not do it!” He closed his eyes. “I will not do it.”

  Joram’s face twisted in fury, his fist clenched, and for an instant it seemed as though he might strike the catalyst. With a visible effort, the young man controlled himself and, taking another turn about the small, underground chamber, forced himself to calm down.

  As he heard Joram walk away, Saryon opened his eyes, his wistful gaze falling on the volumes and volumes of leather, hand-bound texts that stood neatly arranged on wooden bookshelves, so crudely fashioned that it appeared they might have been the work of children. An early example of woodworking without the use of magic, the catalyst guessed. He felt Joram’s anger—it radiated from him like a wave of heat from the forge—and Saryon sat tense and expectant, waiting for the attack, either verbal or physical. But none came. Only a seething silence and the steady, measured pacing of the young man walking out his frustration. Saryon sighed. He would almost have preferred an outburst. This coolness in one so young, this control over a nature so obviously in turmoil, was frightening.

  Where did it come from? Saryon wondered. Surely not from his parents, who—if reports were true—gave way to passions that encompassed their downfall. Perhaps this was some sort of attempt at reparation, Joram’s father reaching out to him with his stone hands. Or then there was that other possibility, the one that had come to Saryon out of the darkness, out of the pain of his injury. The one he had shut out, the one he would never think of again ….

  Saryon shook his head angrily. What nonsense. It was the influence of this room, it had to be.

  Joram sat down in a chair beside him.