Saryon shut his eyes, a shudder convulsing his body. “What do you mean—have him?”
“What do you think I mean, Catalyst?” Impatiently, Joram withdrew his hand and leaned back in his chair, glancing again at the guards, whose shadows could be seen against the background of a blazing fire in the house opposite. “We have talked about this before. Once he is drained of his magic, he will be helpless. You can open a Corridor and call the Duuk-tsarith. No doubt they have been waiting eagerly many years to get their hands on one who is a disgrace to their Order.” He shrugged. “You will be a hero, Catalyst.”
Saryon sighed and clasped his hands together upon the tabletop, his fingers digging painfully into his flesh. “What about you?” he asked Joram, his gaze going to the young man. The stern face, reflected in the moonlight, looked almost skull-like.
“What about me?” Joram asked coolly, staring out the window, the half-smile playing about his lips.
“A Corridor will be open, the Duuk-tsarith will be there. I could turn you over to them, as I was instructed to do by my superior.”
“But you won’t, will you—Saryon?” Joram said without looking at him. In the corner, Mosiah moaned and turned fitfully, trying to wriggle out from beneath the moon’s gleeful stare. “You won’t. I give you Blachloch and you give me my freedom. You need not fear me, Catalyst. I have no such ambition as Blachloch. I do not intend to use my power to take over the world. I simply want back what is rightfully mine. I will go to Merilon and, with the help of this sword I have forged, I will find it!”
Watching him, Saryon saw the young man’s face soften for a moment, becoming as wistful and longing as a child’s gazing at some bright, jeweled bauble. Pity surged through the catalyst. He recalled the dark stories he had heard of Joram’s youth, of his insane mother. He thought of the hard life the young man had led, the constant struggle for survival, the need to hide the fact that he was truly Dead. Saryon, too, knew what it was like to be weak and helpless in this world of wizards. Memories came back to him—the longing to be able to ride the wings of the wind, to create beauty and wonder with a wave of the hand, to shape stone into towers of grace and usefulness …. Now Joram had this power, only it was reversed. He had the power to destroy, not create. And all he wanted to buy with it was a child’s dream.
“You will undoubtedly be a hero.” Joram’s voice came to Saryon as if out of this dream. “You can return to the Font, go back and crawl under your rock again. I trust your failure as far as bringing me to justice will be overlooked. They can always try to apprehend me in Merilon. If they dare ….”
Joram was silent a moment, then he returned to reality, the wistful, childlike face hardening, becoming the face of the Sorcerer who had murdered the overseer with a stone. “When the warlock is in the forge, I will attack him with the Darksword and absorb his magic—”
“You hope,” Saryon retorted, angry because he was suddenly discovering he was beginning to care for this young man. “You have only the vaguest idea of the sword’s power. You know nothing about wielding such a weapon.”
“I don’t need to be skilled in swordplay,” Joram said irritably. “We’re not going to kill him, after all. When I attack and the Darksword begins to draw off his magic, you must attack also, and drain him of his Life.”
Saryon shook his head. “That’s too dangerous. I’ve never been trained for this …”
“You have no choice, Catalyst!” Joram said, his teeth clenching, his hand gripping Saryon’s arm again. “Simkin says that Blachloch has found the crucible! If he doesn’t already know about the darkstone, he soon will. Do you want to make Darkswords for him?”
The catalyst put his head in his trembling hands. Slowly releasing his arm, Joram sat back in his chair again, nodding to himself in satisfaction.
“How can we get out of here?” Saryon asked, raising a haggard face and glancing around the prison.
“Run to the guards. Tell them you were asleep, and when you woke, you discovered I was gone. Demand that they take you to see Blachloch. In the confusion, I’ll slip out.”
“But how? They’ll be searching for you! It’s—”
“—my concern, Catalyst,” Joram said coldly. “You worry about your part. Stall Blachloch for as long as you can, to give me time to get there.”
“Stall! What should I—”
“Faint! Be sick on him! I don’t know! It shouldn’t be difficult. You look as though you could do both right now anyway.” With a scathing glance at the catalyst, Joram stood up and began pacing restlessly about the room.
“I am not as weak as you consider me, young man,” Saryon said softly. “I should never have agreed to assist you in bringing this weapon of darkness into the world. I did, however, and now I must accept responsibility for my actions. I will do what you ask of me this night. I will help bring this evil warlock to justice. But not because I will be a hero, not to enable me to go back.” Saryon was silent a moment, then, drawing a deep breath, he continued. “I can never go back. I know that now. There is nothing for me there anymore.”
Joram had stopped walking and was regarding Saryon silently, intently. “And you will let me go …”
“Yes, but not because I fear you or your sword.”
“Then why?” Joram asked, with a slight sneer.
“Exactly,” Saryon murmured. “Why? I’ve asked myself often enough. I could tell you … many reasons. That our lives are bound up together in some strange way, that I knew this the first time I saw you, that this goes back to a time in my life before you were even born. I could tell you this.” He shook his head. “I could tell you about a druid who counseled me. I could tell you about a baby I held …. It all seems tied together somehow, and it doesn’t make sense. I can see already you don’t believe it.”
“Whether I believe you or not doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I really don’t care what your reasons are, Catalyst, so long as you do what I ask of you.”
“I will, but on one condition.”
“Ah, now we come to it,” Joram said, scowling. “What is it? That I turn myself in? Or maybe remain buried in this godforsaken wilderness—”
“That you take me with you,” Saryon said in a low voice.
“What?” Joram stared at the catalyst in astonishment. Then, nodding to himself, he gave a short, ugly laugh. “Of course, I see. Every Dead man needs his own catalyst.” Shrugging, he almost smiled. “By all means, come with me to Merilon. We’ll have a jolly time together, as our friend Simkin would say. Now, are we ready to get on with this?”
Moving carefully and silently to avoid waking Mosiah, Joram turned his back upon the startled catalyst and walked across the small room. He knelt beside his bed, put his hands beneath the mattress, and, slowly and reverently, drew forth the Darksword.
Saryon watched him in puzzled silence. He had expected rage, refusal. He had expected to have to stand firm on his position, to resist arguments, even threats. This casual, uncaring acceptance was, somehow, worse. Maybe the young man didn’t understand ….
Joram was carefully wrapping the sword in rags. Coming up behind him, Saryon put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m not going to turn you in. I only want to help you. You see, you can’t go back either. Not to Merilon—”
“Look, Catalyst,” Joram said, standing up, angrily jerking himself free of the man’s touch, “I’ve already said—I don’t care what you do or where you go so long as you help me in this. Understood? Fine.” He looked down at the sword he held cradled in his hands. The moonlight reflecting white off the rags made the skeletal-looking metal object lying within seem that much darker by stark contrast. The image of the Dead baby, wrapped in the white cloth of the Royal House, came to Saryon’s mind. Shutting his eyes, he turned away.
Seeing the catalyst’s reaction, Joram’s lip curled. “If the sermon is ended, Father”—the word was uttered with such venom Saryon flinched—“we must go. I want to get this over with.”
Thrustin
g the sword into a leather belt he had fashioned and now wore about his waist—a crude imitation of those he had seen pictured in the texts—Joram threw a long, dark cloak (provided by Simkin) over his shoulders. He walked the length of the prison cell, looking down at himself critically. The sword was hidden. Nodding to himself, he turned to Saryon and gestured peremptorily.
“Go on. I’m ready.”
Am I? Saryon asked himself in agony. He wanted to say something, but he could not talk and, coughing, tried to clear his throat. It was useless. He could never swallow fear. Joram’s face darkened, scowling at this delay. Saryon could see the muscles stand out rigid and stiff in the young man’s firm jawline, a nerve twitched in one eye, and his hands, hanging straight at his sides, clench and unclench nervously. But in the eyes burned a light brighter than the moon’s, brighter—and colder.
No, there was nothing to say. Nothing at all.
Reaching out, his own hand trembling, Saryon gently and silently opened the door. Every nerve, every fiber, of his being warned him to turn around, to refuse, to stay within this house. But the momentum of his past life was rising around him like a great wave. Caught in the tide, he could do nothing but ride the foaming waters hurling him forward, even though he could see clearly the jagged stones looming dark before him.
12
King of Swords
Blachloch placed his folded hands upon the desk in front of him. “And so, Father, feeling wretched over committing one immoral act, and terrified that you might be forced to commit another, you saw as your only alternative the commission of a deed so heinous, so black, it was banned by your own Order centuries ago?”
“I have admitted that I was not thinking clearly,” Saryon murmured, the warlock’s bald statement of the facts unnerving him. “I—I am a scholar …. This type of life frightens and … and confuses me.”
“But you are confused no longer,” Blachloch said wryly. “Appalled and horrified, but not confused. You will surrender the Darksword and Joram to me.”
“The sword must be destroyed,” Saryon interrupted. “Or I will not go through with this.”
“Of course,” Blachloch replied with a slight shrug of his shoulders, as though this were nothing more than a cracked ale mug they were discussing, not a sword that could conceivably give him power to rule the world. What a fool he must take me for, Saryon thought bitterly. Blachloch clasped his hands before him. “Now, as for the boy …”
“He must be turned over to Bishop Vanya,” Saryon said, his voice rasping.
“So, Simkin was right,” Blachloch remarked. “That is the real reason you were sent to this coven.”
“Yes.” Saryon swallowed.
“I wish you would have confided in me,” the warlock said, his two index fingers coming together to form a small sword, pointed at the catalyst. “Life would have been much simpler for you, Father. Your Bishop Vanya must be an imbecile,” he muttered, a tiny line appearing in his forehead, his eyes staring into a shadowy corner, “to think a scholar like you could deal with a murderer like this Joram….”
“You will see that he is taken to the Font?” Saryon pursued, flushing. “I cannot do so myself for … for obvious reasons. I presume your contacts in the Duuk-tsarith—”
“Yes. That can be arranged,” Blachloch cut in. “You say ‘for obvious reasons.’ I presume you mean that you dare not return to the fold. What of yourself in all this, Father?”
“I should surrender myself to Bishop Vanya,” Saryon answered, knowing what was expected of him. He lowered his head, his gaze on his shoes. “I have committed a grievous sin. I deserve my fate.”
“The Turning to Stone, Father. A terrible way to … live. I know. As I told you, I’ve seen it done. That would be your punishment for helping to create the Darksword, as of course you yourself know. Such a waste,” Blachloch said, running his finger over his blond mustache, “such a waste.”
Saryon shuddered. Yes, that would be his punishment. Could he face it? To live forever with the knowledge of what he had done? No, if it came to that, there were ways of ending things. Henbane, for example.
“Still, you might be forgiven, considered something of a hero …”
Saryon shook his head.
“Ah, this is your second infraction. I had forgotten. So your options are immortality of a most horrible sort or staying here with the coven and reconciling yourself to committing further immoral acts.” Blachloch’s fingers raised slightly, pointing at Saryon’s heart. “There is, of course, another alternative.”
Glancing up quickly, Saryon saw Blachloch’s meaning plainly expressed on the cold face and in the unblinking eyes. The catalyst swallowed again, a bitter taste filling his mouth. It was uncanny the way the man could see into his head, uncanny and frightening.
“The … the last is not an alternative,” Saryon said, shifting uncomfortably. “Suicide is an unpardonable sin.”
“Whereas assisting me to rape and plunder or assisting Joram to create a weapon that could destroy the world is not,” Blachloch said with a sneer. His hands unclasped, spreading out, palms down, upon the desk. “I admire the neat and tidy way you catalysts think. Still, it works out usefully for me, so why should I complain?”
Sweating beneath his robes, Saryon found it safer not to reply. Matters were going well, almost too well. Probably, as Joram had said, because he was not having to lie. Well, not that much. Suicide was an unpardonable sin only if one believed in a god.
“Where is the young man?” Blachloch rose to his feet.
Saryon, too, stood up, thankful for the flowing robes that covered his trembling legs. “In … in the forge,” he said faintly.
No (fire burned in the forge this night. A faint red glow glimmered from the banked coals, but it was the white, cold glimmer of the sinking moon that touched the blade of the sword, it surface pockmarked with hammer blows, its edge sharp, though irregular and uneven.
The sword was the first object Saryon saw as he and Blachloch materialized within the moonlit darkness of the forge. The weapon lay upon the anvil, basking in the moonlight like a perverse snake.
Blachloch saw it too, Saryon knew. Though he could not see the warlock’s face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his black hood, he could tell by the sharp intake of breath that even the discipline of the Duuk-tsarith could not suppress. The clasped hands quivered, their fingers twitching, longing to touch. But the Enforcer was in command of himself. Every sense alert, his mind reached into the shadows, seeking his prey.
Saryon himself looked about almost casually for Joram. The catalyst had expected to be paralyzed with fear; his hands had been shaking so when he left Blachloch’s dwelling that he had barely been able to open a conduit to the warlock. But now that he was here, his fear had left him, leaving a cold, clear feeling of emptiness inside.
Standing in the forge, looking around for what might be the last minutes of his life, Saryon felt the world rush in to fill the void. It was as if he were living each second separately, moving from one to another with the steady regularity of a heartbeat. Each second absorbed his complete attention; he literally saw everything, heard everything, was aware of everything around him in that one second. Then he moved on to the next. The oddest thing was that none of it had any meaning for him. He was detached, an observer, looking on while his body performed its role in this deadly play. Blachloch could have cut off his hands right now, severed them at the wrist, and Saryon would not have cried out, would not have felt a thing. He could almost envision himself, standing there in the moonlit darkness, staring calmly at the dripping blood.
So this is courage, he thought, watching as a hand, glowing white in the moonlight, reached out from the shadows and silently grasped the hilt of the sword.
There was no sound and only the barest hint of movement. Indeed, if Saryon had not been staring straight at the sword, he would never have noticed; Joram had acted with the skill and deftness of the art his mother had taught him as a child. But the Duuk-tsarith
are trained to hear night itself creep up behind them.
Blachloch reacted with such speed that Saryon saw only a black wind whirling through the forge, scattering sparks from the coals. With a motion and a word, the warlock cast the spell that would leave his opponent powerless to move or act or even think, the spell that drained magic, drained Life.
Except Joram had no Life.
Saryon almost laughed, so tense was he, as he felt the magic spell hit the young man a blow that should have been shattering. It fluttered down around him like so many rose petals. The white hand continued to lift the sword. The metal did not gleam. It was a streak of darkness slashing through the moonlight, as though Joram held the embodiment of night.
Stepping into the light, Joram lifted the sword before him, his face tense and strained, his eyes darker than the metal. Saryon could sense the young man’s fear and uncertainty; despite all his study, Joram had only the vaguest idea of the metal’s powers. But the catalyst, every sense alive and attuned for the first time—he might have been newborn in this instant—could also sense Blachloch’s uncertainty, astonishment, growing fear.
What did the Duuk-tsarith know of the darkstone? Probably not much more than Joram. What thoughts must be rushing through the warlock’s mind. Was the sword responsible for blocking his Nullmagic spell? Would it block others? Blachloch must make his decision on his next move instantaneously, split-second. For all he knew, his life might well depend upon it.
Coolly, calmly, the Duuk-tsarith chose his spell and cast it. His eyes lit with a green glow and instantly a greenish liquid condensed from the air onto Joram’s skin, where it began to bubble and hiss. Green Venom, the spell was called. Recognizing it, Saryon winced, his stomach clenching. The pain was excruciating, so he had heard, as if every nerve ending were on fire. Any magus strong enough to shield himself against the Nullmagic must fall victim to the venom’s magical paralysis. He would not be able to protect against both.
And it apparently affected the Dead as well as the Living. Joram’s face twisted in agony. He gasped, his body beginning to double over as the liquid spread and the fiery pain burned through his flesh. But it was a spell whose casting drained a magus rapidly.
Forging the Darksword Page 39
