Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “The people need a hero right now—a handsome king to lead them into battle with his bright and shining sword! Even Bishop Vanya doesn’t dare denounce you. What would you give them?” Garald asked scornfully. “A Dead man with a weapon of the Dark Arts who is going to bring about the end of the world? Win this battle. Drive the enemy from the land. Prove the Prophecy wrong? Then go before the people and tell them the truth, if you must.”

  Joram agreed reluctantly. Surely Garald knew what was right. I can afford honor, the Prince had once told him. You cannot.

  No, I suppose I can’t, Joram thought. Not with the lives of thousands in my hands.

  “The truth shall make you free?” he repeated to himself bitterly. “I am destined, it seems, to spend my life in shackles!”

  It was nearly midnight. Joram walked by himself in the garden of Lord Samuels’s home. Leaving the city, he had come back—at Father Saryon’s insistence—to get what rest he could before the morrow.

  He could have moved into the Crystal Palace. Glancing up above him, through the leaves of a myrtle tree, Joram could see the Palace hanging over him like a dark star. Its lights extinguished, it was barely visible, shining in the pale light of a new moon.

  Shaking his head, Joram looked hastily away. He would never go back there. The Palace held too many bitter memories. There he had first seen his dead mother. There he had heard the story of the death of Anja’s child. There he had believed himself nameless, abandoned, unwanted.

  Nameless….

  “I wish to the Almin that fate had been mine!” Pausing beneath the snow-laden boughs of a drooping lilac bush, Joram leaned against it for support, ignoring the chill water that dripped from the leaves, soaking his white robes. “Better to be nameless than to have one name too many!”

  Gamaliel. Reward of God. The name haunted him. The memory of his father haunted him. He could still see the old man’s eyes…. Realizing, he was shivering violently, Joram began to walk the dark paths again, trying to warm himself.

  At least the rain had stopped. Several Sif-Hanar, arriving through the Corridors this evening from other city-states, brought an end to the deluge. A few of the nobility demanded that the magi change the weather to spring again immediately, but Prince Garald refused. The Sif-Hanar would be needed for the upcoming battle. They could end the rain and keep the temperature moderate in Merilon this night, but that was all. The nobles grumbled, but Joram—their new Emperor—agreed with Garald, and there was nothing the nobles could do.

  But Joram supposed he could look forward to future arguments like that. He stumbled as he walked. He was tired almost to the point of exhaustion, having slept fitfully last night after the battle, troubled by dreams of two worlds, neither of which wanted him—the real him.

  Nor do I want either of them, he realized wearily. Both have betrayed me. Both hold nothing for me but lies, deceit, treachery.

  “I won’t be Emperor,” he said to himself in sudden resolve. “When this is ended, I’ll turn Merilon over to Prince Garald to rule. He is a good man; he will help change it to a better place.”

  But would he? Could he? Good and honorable and noble as he was, the Prince was Albanara, those born with the magical gifts needed to rule. He was accustomed to diplomacy and compromise; he reveled in the intrigues of court. Change, if it came at all, might be long in the coming.

  “I don’t care,” Joram said tiredly. “I’ll leave I’ll take Gwendolyn and Father Saryon and we’ll live quietly by ourselves someplace where it won’t matter to anyone what my name is.”

  Moodily pacing the garden, hoping to wear himself out so that sleep—deep and dreamless—would claim him at last, Joram found himself walking near the house. Hearing voices, he glanced up at a window.

  He stood outside a downstairs room that had been made into a bedchamber for Gwendolyn. Clad in a rose-colored nightgown with long, flowing sleeves, his wife sat in a chair at her dressing table, allowing Marie to brush out her lovely, golden hair. All the while, she talked animatedly to the dead Count and a few other deceased who had apparently joined the party.

  Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were in their daughter’s room as well. It was the sound of their voices that had attracted Joram’s attention. They stood close to the window, talking to a person Joram recognized as the Theldara who had treated Father Saryon during his illness in the Samuels’s house.

  Taking care that he didn’t allow any of the light shining from inside the house to fall upon him, Joram crept softly through the wet foliage and, hidden by the shadows of the dark garden, drew near the window to hear their conversation.

  “There is nothing, then, you can do for her?” Lady Rosamund asked in pleading tones.

  “I’m afraid not, milady,” the Tbeldara said bluntly. “I’ve seen madness in many forms in my life, but nothing to equal this. If it is madness, about which I have my doubts.”

  Shaking her head, the druidess poked and picked at various packets of powders and bunches of seeds and herbs that she carried in a large wooden container that hovered obediently in the air beside her.

  “What do you mean? Not madness?” Lord Samuels demanded. “Talking to dead Counts, going on about mice in the attic—”

  “Madness is a state into which the subject falls whether he or she wills it or not,” said the Theldara, thrusting out her jaw and glaring at Lord Samuels. “Sometimes its brought on by upsets in the body’s harmonies, sometimes by upsets in the soul’s. And I tell you, milord and milady, that there is nothing wrong with your daughter. If she talks to the dead, it’s because she obviously prefers their company to that of the living. And from the way I gather some of the living have treated her, I don’t much blame her.”

  Having fussed over and arranged her medicines to her satisfaction, the Theldara called briskly for her cloak.

  “I’ve got to get back to the Houses of Healing and tend those who were wounded in that terrible battle,” she said as the servant assisted her with her wrap. “You were lucky I happened to be making another call out near here or I wouldn’t have had time to look in on this case. Too many others are dependent on me for life itself.”

  “We’re very grateful, I’m sure,” said Lady Rosamund, twisting the rings on her fingers, “but I don’t understand! Surely there must be something you can do!”

  They followed the Theldara to the door of Gwen’s bedchamber, and Joram, moving close to the window, was forced to press his face against the pane in order to hear the druidess’s reply. He might have spared himself the trouble, however, for the Theldara spoke in a loud, clear voice.

  “Madam,” she said, raising a finger in the air as though it were a flagpole and she was going to hoist her words on it, “your daughter chooses to be who she is and where she is. She may live her entire life in this manner. She may decide at breakfast tomorrow that she doesn’t want to anymore. I can’t say and I can’t force her to come out of that world into one that doesn’t appear to me to be much better. Now I must get back to those who truly need me. If you want my advice, you’ll do as your daughter says—hang up that painting of Count Whosit and buy a cat.”

  The Corridor opened wide, swallowing the druidess at a gulp. Lord Samuels and his lady stared bleakly after her. Turning listlessly, they looked back into the bedchamber where Marie was endeavoring to persuade Gwen to go to bed. But Gwendolyn, blithely ignoring the catalyst, continued to talk to her unseen companions.

  “My friends, you are all so agitated? I can’t understand why. You say dreadful things are going to happen tomorrow. But dreadful things are always happening tomorrow. I don’t see why this should make tonight any different. I will sit with you tonight, however, if you think it will help. Now, Count Devon, tell us more about the mice. Dead, you say, with no trace of blood.

  “Dead mice?” Lady Rosamund laid her head on her husband’s chest. “I wish she were dead herself, poor child!”

  “Hush, don’t say such a thing!” said Lord Samuels, holding his wife close.

&n
bsp; “It’s true!” Lady Rosamund cried “What kind of life is she leading?”

  His arm around his wife, Lord Samuels led her from her daughters room Marie remained with her charge, sitting in a chair near the bed. Gwen, relaxing, propped up among her pillows, chatted with the air.

  Though he was chilled to the bone, Joram remained standing in the dark garden, his head pressed against the glass.

  Your groom’s gift to her will be grief…

  The catalyst’s words echoed mournfully in his soul. Once long ago Joram had dreamed of being a Baron. Everything would be right with his life when he had wealth and power. Now he was Emperor of Merilon. now. He had wealth, but there was nothing he wanted to buy. He had squandered the only thing he’d ever had of value. now. He had power. And he was using it to fight a war—a war that would cost countless lives.

  Dead bodies lying in the scorched grass.

  Tiny, furry bodies littering the attic …

  My fault! My doing! The Prophecy is coming to fulfillment despite everything I do! Maybe there’s nothing I can do to stop it! Maybe I don’t have a choice. Maybe I’m being dragged inexorably to the edge of the cliff….

  “Damn You!” He swore at the dark and cheerless heavens. “Why have You done this to me?”

  In despairing, bitter anger, he slammed his fist against the trunk of a young spruce tree.

  “Oooof!” gasped the spruce. With a painful cry, it toppled over. Branches writhing, leaves rustling, the tree lay moaning at Joram’s feet.

  2

  Simkin’s Bark

  I say!” gasped the spruce “You’ve killed me!”

  The air shimmered around the tree, eventually coalescing, somewhat weakly, into the prostrate form of Simkin. Clutching his stomach, he rolled on the ground, his clothes every which way, leaves stuck in his hair and beard, the orange silk wrapped around his neck.

  “Simkin! I’m sorry!” Fighting a wild desire to laugh, Joram helped the young man stagger to his feet. “Forgive me I—I didn’t know that tree … was you.”

  A chuckle escaped him. Recognizing in it a note of hysteria, Joram firmly forced himself to swallow it. His lips twitched, however, as he assisted the weak-kneed, doubled-over Simkin inside the house.

  “Blessed Almin!” Lady Rosamund cried, meeting them in the hallway “What has happened? Simkin? Are you all right? Oh, dear! The Theldara’s just left!”

  Wheezing pathetically Simkin gazed at Lady Rosamund with pain-filled eyes, mouthed the word brandy, and fainted dead away, collapsing in a pitiful heap on the floor.

  Between Joram, Mosiah, and Prince Garald, they carried the comatose Simkin—red brocade dressing gown, fur-trimmed collar, curly shoes, and all—into the sitting room. Lady Rosamund, her hands fluttering helplessly, hurried along behind, calling distractedly for Marie and generally alarming the entire household.

  “What happened to him?” Garald asked, dumping Simkin rather unceremoniously on a sofa.

  “I hit him,” Joram said grimly.

  “About time!” Mosiah muttered.

  “I didn’t mean to. He was standing in the garden, disguised—”

  “Ohhhhhh!” groaned Simkin, lolling back on the sofa and flinging an arm over his head. “I’m dying, Egypt, dying!”

  “You’re not dying!” said Garald disgustedly, leaning down to examine the patient. “You’ve just had the breath knocked out of you. Sit up. You’ll feel better.”

  Thrusting the Prince aside with a feeble gesture, Simkin motioned weakly for Joram to come nearer.

  “I forgive you!” Simkin murmured pitifully, gasping for breath like a freshly caught trout. “After all, what’s murder between friends?” He gazed dimly around the room. “Dear lady! Lady Rosamund. Where are you? My vision’s fading. I can’t see you! I’m going fast!”

  He held out a groping hand to Lady Rosamund, who was standing next to him. Glancing uncertainly from Prince Garald to her husband, Lady Rosamund took Simkin’s hand in hers.

  “Ah!” he breathed, placing her hand on his forehead. “To be speeded heavenward by a woman’s gentle touch! Bless you, Lady Rosamund. My last apologies … for littering your sitting room … with my corpse. Farewell.”

  His eyes closed, his arm sagged, his head fell back upon the sofa cushions.

  “Dear me!” Lady Rosamund became extremely pale, dropping the hand she held.

  Opening his eyes, Simkin lifted his head.

  “Don’t bother about … last rites.” He grabbed hold of Lady Rosamund’s hand again. “Not necessary. I’ve led … life of a saint… Most likely … I’ll be canonized Farewell.”

  The eyes rolled up. The head fell back The hand went limp.

  “I have the brandy, milady,” said Mane gently, entering the room.

  An eye opened. The hand fluttered. A voice whispered faintly from the depths of the sofa cushions.

  “Domestic or imported?”

  “Quite a shock, I assure you?” Simkin said feelingly an hour later. “There I was standing in the garden, taking a deep whiff of the fine evening air when—wham! I am struck painfully and unexpectedly in the midriff.”

  Covered with Lady Rosamund’s own silk shawl, his fourth glass of brandy—imported—hovering within reach, Simkin sat propped up among innumerable pillows, apparently fully recovered from his “brush with death.”

  “I’ve said I was sorry,” Joram remarked, not bothering to hide the smile whose warm glow actually touched the brooding eyes. Grinning ruefully, he held up his hand, exhibiting knuckles that were scratched and bruised from having slammed into the tree trunk. “I hurt myself as much as I hurt you.”

  “One might say my bark is worse than my bite!” Simkin replied, sipping brandy.

  Joram laughed, such an unexpected sound that Father Saryon, entering the room from having visited Gwen, stared at his friend in amazement. Seated in a chair near the sofa on which Simkin lay in luxury, Joram appeared—for the first time since his return—to forget his troubles and relax.

  “Forgive the fool his sins,” muttered the catalyst, who could never quite break himself of the habit of communicating with a deity in which he didn’t believe.

  “And I accept your apology, dear boy,” said Simkin, reaching out to pat Joram on the knee. “But it was rather a shock,” he added, wincing and consoling himself with another brandy. “Especially considering that I’d come here with the express purpose of bringing you good news!”

  “What’s that?” Joram asked lazily, winking at Prince Garald, who shook his head in amused forbearance and shrugged.

  It was now either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on one’s viewpoint. Lady Rosamund, exhausted from the day’s events, had been assisted to her bed by Marie. Lord Samuels suggested that the gentlemen gather in the sitting room with Simkin (so as not to be forced to move the invalid) and partake of a brandy themselves before going to bed, each putting off, for a few moments, the thoughts of what tomorrow might bring.

  “What news?” Joram repeated, feeling the brandy warm his blood as the fire warmed his body. Sleep was stealing up on him, putting soft hands over his eyes, whispering soothing words.

  “I’ve discovered a way to cure Gwendolyn,” Simkin announced.

  Starting, Joram sat up straight, spilling his brandy.

  “That isn’t funny, Simkin!” he said quietly.

  “I had no intention of being funny—”

  “I think you had best drop the subject, Simkin,” Prince Garald interposed sternly, his gaze going from Joram to Lord Samuels, who had pushed his brandy glass aside with a trembling hand. “I was about to suggest we retire for the night anyway. Some of us, it seems, already have.” He glanced at Mosiah, asleep in his chair.

  “I am perfectly serious!” Simkin retorted, injured.

  Garald lost patience. “We have put up with your nonsense long enough. Father, would you—”

  “It isn’t nonsense.”

  Tossing the blanket aside, Simkin sat up on the sofa. Th
ough he answered Garald, he wasn’t looking at the Prince. His gaze rested on Joram with a strange, half-serious, half-mocking expression, as though daring Joram to refuse to believe in him.

  “Explain yourself then,” Joram said briefly, toying with the brandy glass in his hand.

  “Gwendolyn talks to the dead. She’s obviously a throwback to the old Necromancers.” Simkin squirmed into a more comfortable position. “Now, by purest coincidence, this was an affliction suffered by my little brother, Nate. Or was it Nat? At any rate, he used to entertain assorted ghosties and ghoulies nightly, causing my mother no end of worry, not to mention the tedium of being constantly wakened by clanking chains, snapping whips, and unearthly shrieks and howls. Or was that the time Aunt Betsy and Uncle Ernest came to spend then honeymoon with us?

  “Anyway, to continue,” Simkin hurried on, seeing Joram’s face grow darker, “one of the neighbors suggested that we take poor little Nat … Nate? Nat,” he muttered, “I’m positive that’s it…. Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, whatever his name, we took the tyke to the Temple of the Necromancers.”

  Joram, who had been staring into his brandy glass impatiently, only half-listening, turned his gaze full upon Simkin.

  “What did you say?”

  “See there, no one ever pays attention to me,” Simkin complained in aggrieved tones. “I was mentioning the fact that we took little Nate to the Temple of the Necromancers. It’s located above the Font, on the very top of the mountain. It’s not used anymore, of course. But it was once the center of the Order of Necromancy in the ancient days. The dead used to come from miles around, so I’ve heard, to catch up on all the gossip.”

  Ignoring Simkin, Joram turned to look at Father Saryon, hope burning in the dark eyes so brightly that the catalyst hated himself for being forced to quench the flame.