Vanya dined alone, and so preoccupied was the Bishop that he might have been eating sausages along with his Field Catalysts instead of the delicacies of peacock’s tongue and lizard’s tail which he barely tasted and never noticed were underdone.
Having finished and sent away the tray, he sipped a brandy and composed himself to wait until the tiny moon in the timeglass upon his desk had risen to its zenith. The waiting was difficult, but Vanya’s mind was so occupied that he found the time sliding past more rapidly than he had expected. The pudgy fingers crawled ceaselessly along the arms of the chair, touching this strand of mental web and that, seeing if any needed strengthening or repaired, throwing out new filaments where necessary.
The Empress—a fly that would soon be dead.
Her brother—heir to throne. A different type of fly, he demanded special consideration.
The Emperor—his sanity at the best of times precarious, the death of his beloved wife and the loss of his position might well topple a mind weak to begin with.
Sharakan—the other empires in Thimhallan were watching this rebellious state with too much interest. It must be crushed, the people taught a lesson. And with them, the Sorcerers of the Ninth Art wiped out completely. That was shaping up nicely … or had been.
Vanya fidgeted uncomfortably and glanced at the time-glass. The tiny moon was just now appearing over the horizon. With a growl, the Bishop poured himself another brandy.
The boy. Damn the boy. And damn that blasted catalyst, too. Darkstone. Vanya closed his eyes, shuddering. He was in peril, deadly peril. If anyone ever discovered the incredible blunder he had made …
Vanya saw the greedy eyes watching him, waiting for his downfall. The eyes of the Lord Cardinal of Merilon, who had—so rumor told—already drawn up plans for redecorating the Bishop’s chambers in the Font. The eyes of his own Cardinal, a slow-thinking man, to be sure, but one who had risen through the ranks by plodding along slowly and surely, trampling over anything or anyone who got in his way. And there were others. Watching, waiting, hungry …
If they got so much as a sniff of his failure, they’d be on him like griffins, rending his flesh with their talons.
But no! Vanya clenched the pudgy hand, then forced himself to relax. All was well. He had planned for every contingency, even the unlikely ones.
With this thought in mind and noticing that the moon was finally nearing the top of the timeglass, the Bishop heaved his bulk out of the chair and made his way, walking at a slow, measured pace, to the Chamber of Discretion.
The darkness was empty and silent. No sign of mental disturbance. Perhaps that was a good sign, Vanya told himself as he sat down in the center of the round room. But a tremor of fear shivered through the web as he sent forth his summons to his minion.
He waited, spider fingers twitching.
The darkness was still, cold, unspeaking.
Vanya called again, the fingers curling in upon themselves.
I may or may not respond, the voice had told him. Yes, that would be like him, the arrogant—
Vanya swore, his hands gripping the chair, sweat pouring down his head. He had to know! It was too important! He would—
Yes ….
The hands relaxed. Vanya considered, turning the idea over in his mind. He had planned for every contingency, even the unlikely ones. And this one he had planned for without even knowing it. Such are the ways of genius.
Sitting back in the chair, Bishop Vanya’s mind touched another strand on the web, sending an urgent summons to one who would, he knew, be little prepared to receive it.
About the Authors
Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman are the New York Times bestselling authors of the Dragonlance® series, The Darksword Trilogy, the Rose of the Prophet trilogy, and The Death Gate Cycle.
FORGING THE DARKSWORD
A Bantam Spectra Book/January 1988
Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random Home, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1987 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.
Chapter art by Valerie A Volusek.
Front matter by Stephen D. Sullivan.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-43407-4
v3.0
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