Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - The Darksword Trilogy 02 - Doom of the Darksword

Doom of the Darksword

Book 2 of the Darksword Trilogy

By Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

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Reprise

There was no dinner party at Bishop Vanya's this night.

"His Holiness is indisposed," was the message the Ariels car-ried to those who had been invited. This

included the Emperor's brother-in-law, Prince Xavier. whose number of invitations to dine at the Font

were increasing proportionately with the de-clining health of his sister. Everyone had been most gracious

and extremely concerned about the Bishop's welfare. The Emperor had even offered his own personal

Theldara to the Bishop, but this was respectfully declined.

Vanya dined alone, and so preoccupied was the Bishop that he might have been eating sausages along

with his Field Cata-lysts instead of the delicacies of peacocks tongue and lizards 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 time-glass 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 increasingly along the arms of the chair, touch-ing this strand of mental web and that, seeing if

any needed strengthening or repair, throwing out new filaments where nec-essary.

The Empress—a fly that would soon be dead.

Her brother—heir to throne. A different type of fly, he de-manded 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 timeglass. 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, mea-sured pace, to the

Chamber of Discretion.

The darkness was empty and silent. No sign of mental dis-turbance. 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 an-other strand on the web, sending an urgent

summons to one who would, he knew, be little prepared to receive it.

1

The Summons

"Saryon. ..."

The catalyst floated be-tween unconsciousness and the waking nightmare of his life.

"Holiness, forgive me!" he muttered feverishly. "Take me back to our sanctuary! Free me of this

terrible burden. I cannot bear it!" Tossing on his crude bed, Saryon put his hands over his closed eyes as

though he could blot out the dreadful visions that sleep only intensified and made more frightening.

"Murder!" he cried. "I have done murder! Not once! Oh, no, Holiness! Twice. Two men have died

because of me!"

"Saryon!" The voice repeated the catalyst's name, and there was a hint of irritation in it.

The catalyst cringed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. "Let me confess to you, Holiness!"

he cried. "Punish me as you will. I deserve it, desire it! Then I will be free of their faces, their eyes . . .

haunting me!"

Saryon sat up on his bed, half-asleep. He had not slept in days; exhaustion and excitement had

temporarily overthrown his mind. He had no conscious thought of where he was or why this voice—that

he knew to be hundreds of miles away—should be speaking to him so clearly. "The first, a young man of

our Order," the catalyst continued brokenly. "The warlock used my Life-giving force to murder him. The

wretched catalyst never had a chance. And now the warlock, too, is dead! He lay before me helpless,

drained of his magic by my arts! Joram—" The catalyst's voice sank to a hushed whisper. "Joram. . . ."

"Saryon!" The voice was stern, urgent and commanding, and it finally roused the catalyst from his

confused exhaustion.

"What?" Shivering in his wet robes, Saryon looked around. He was not in the sanctuary of the Font.

He was in a chill prison cell. Death surrounded him. Brick walls—stone made by the hands of man, not

shaped by magic. The wood-beam ceiling above bore the gouges of tools. Cold metal bars forged by the

hand of the Dark Arts seemed a barrier against Life itself. "Joram?" Saryon called softly through teeth

clenched against the cold.

But a glance told him the young man was not in the prison cell, his bed had not been slept in.

"Of course not," Saryon said to himself, shuddering. Joram was in the wilderness, disposing of the

body. . . . But then, whose had been the voice he heard so clearly?

The catalyst's head sank into his shaking hands. "Take my life, Almin!" he prayed fervently. "If you

truly do exist, take my life and end this torment, this misery. For now I am going mad—"

"Saryon! You cannot avoid me, if such is your intent! You will listen to me! You have no choice!"

The catalyst raised his head, his eyes wide and staring, his body convulsing with a chill that was colder

than the breath of the bitterest winter wind. "Holiness?" he called through trem-bling lips. Rising stiffly to

his feet, the catalyst looked around the small cell. "Holiness? Where are you? I can't see you, yet I

hear—I don't understand ..."

"I am present in your mind, Saryon," the voice said. "I speak to you from the Font. How I am able to

accomplish this need be of little importance to you, Father. My powers are very great. Are you alone?"

"Y-yes, Holiness, for the moment. But I—"

"Organize your thoughts, Saryon!" The voice sounded im-patient again. "They are such a jumble I

cannot read them! You need not speak. Think the words you say and I will hear them. I will give you a

moment to calm yourself with prayer, then I expect you to be ready to attend me."

The voice fell silent. Saryon was still conscious of its pres-ence inside his head, buzzing like an insect

in his mind. Hur-riedly he sought to compose himself, but it was not with prayer. Though he had begged

only moments before that the Almin take his life—and though he had sincerely meant that despairing

plea—Saryon felt a primal urge for self-survival well up inside him. The very fact that Bishop Vanya was

able to invade his mind like this appalled him and filled him with anger—though he knew that the anger

was wrong. As a humble catalyst, he should be proud, he supposed, that the great Bishop would spare

time to investigate his unworthy thoughts. But deep within, from that same dark place whence had come

his night-dreams, a voice asked coldly, How much does he know? Is there any way I can hide from him?

"Holiness," said Saryon hesitantly, turning around in the center of the dark room, staring fearfully about

him as though the Bishop might at any moment step out of the brick wall, "I . . . find it difficult to

compose my . . . thoughts. My inquisitive mind—"

"The same inquisitive mind that has led you to walk dark paths?" the Bishop asked in displeasure.

"Yes, Holiness," Saryon replied humbly. "I admit this is my weakness, but it prevents me attending to

your words without knowing how and by what means we are communicating. I—"

"Your thoughts are in turmoil! We can accomplish nothing useful this way. Very well." Bishop Vanya's

voice, echoing in Saryon's mind, sounded angry, if resigned. "It is necessary, Fa-ther, that as spiritual

leader of our people, I keep in contact with the far-flung reaches of this world. As you know, there are

those out there who seek to reduce our Order to little more than what we were in the ancient

days—familiars who served our masters in the form of animals. Because of this threat, it is necessary that

many of my communications with others—both of our Order and those who are helping to preserve

it—must be on a confidential basis."

"Yes, Holiness," Saryon murmured nervously. The dark night beyond the cell's barred window was

thinning into gray dawn. He could hear a few footsteps in the streets—those who began their workday

the same time as the sun began his. But otherwise the village slept. Where was Joram? Had he been

caught, the body discovered? The catalyst clasped his hands to-gether and attempted to concentrate on

the Bishop’s voice.

"Through magical means, Saryon, a chamber was devised for the Bishop of the Realm whereby he

can minister in private to his followers in need of support. Known as the Chamber of Discretion, it is

particularly useful for communicating with those performing certain delicate tasks that must be kept secret

for the good of the people—"

A network of spies! Saryon thought before he could stop himself. The Church, the Order to which he

had devoted his life, was in reality nothing more than a giant spider, sitting in the midst of a vast web,

attuned to every movement of those caught within its sticky grasp! It was a dreadful thought, and Saryon

tried instantly to banish it.

He began to sweat again, even as his body shivered. Cring-ing, he waited for the Bishop to read his

mind and reprimand him. But Vanya continued on as though he had not heard, expounding upon the

Chamber of Discretion and how it worked, allowing one mind to speak to another through magical

means.

So tense that his jaw muscles ached from the strain of clenching his teeth, Saryon pondered. "The

Bishop did not notice my random thoughts!" he said to himself. "Perhaps, as he said, I have to

concentrate to make myself heard. If so—and if I can control my mind—I might be able to cope with this

mental invasion."

As Saryon realized this, it occurred to him that he was hear-ing only those thoughts Vanya wanted him

to hear. He wasn't able to penetrate beyond whatever barriers the Bishop himself had established.

Slowly, Saryon began to relax. He waited until his superior had reached an end.

"I understand, Holiness," the catalyst thought, concentrat-ing all his effort on his words.

"Excellent, Father." Vanya appeared pleased. There was a pause; the Bishop was carefully

considering and concentrating on his next words. But when he spoke—or when his thoughts took form in

Saryon's mind—they were rapid and concise, as though being repeated by rote. "I sent you on a

dangerous task, Saryon—that of attempting to apprehend the young man called Joram. Because of the

danger, I grew concerned about your wel-fare when I did not hear from you. Therefore, I deemed it best

to contact a trusted associate of mine concerning you—"

"Simkin!" Saryon thought before he could stop himself. So intense was the image of the young man in

his mind that it must have translated to the Bishop.

"What?" Thrown off in the middle of his speech, Vanya ap-peared confused.

"Nothing," Saryon muttered hastily. "I apologize, Holiness. My thoughts were disturbed by ... by

something occurring outside. ..."

"I suggest you remove yourself from the window, Father," the Bishop said ascerbically.

"Yes, Holiness," Saryon replied, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms, using the stimulus of pain

to help him concen-trate.

There was a seconds pause again—Vanya attempting to re-member where he was? Why didn't he

just write it down? Saryon wondered irritably, sensing the Bishop’s thoughts turned from him. Then the

voice was back. This time, it was filled with concern.

"I have been, as I said, worried about you, Father. And now this associate, who was assigned to

keep an eye on you, has not been in contact with me for the last forty-eight hours. My fears grew. I hope

nothing is wrong, Saryon?"

What could Saryon answer? That his world had turned up-side down? That he was clinging to sanity

with his fingertips? That a moment before, he had been praying for death? The catalyst hesitated. He

could confess everything, tell the Bishop he knew the truth about Joram, beg His Worship's mercy, and

ar-range to deliver the boy as he had been ordered. All would be over in moments. Saryon's tormented

soul would be at peace.

Outside the prison, the wind—a last remnant of last night’s storm—struck the walls, beating against

them in a futile effort to break in. Saryon heard words in the wind. He had heard them seventeen years

ago—Bishop Vanya sentencing a child to death.

"Father!" Vanya's voice, taut and cold, was an echo of the memory. "You are wandering again!"

"I—I assure you I am fine, Holiness," Saryon stammered. "You have no need to be concerned about

me."

"I thank the Almin for that, Father," Vanya said in the same tone he used to thank the Almin for his

morning egg and bread. Again he paused. Saryon sensed some inner turmoil, a mental struggle. The next

words were reluctant. "The time has come, Father, for you and your . . . um . . . guardian—my

associate—to make contact. I know about the creation of the Darksword—"

Saryon gasped.

"—and now we can delay no longer. Our danger from this young man is too great." Vanya's voice

grew cold. "You must bring Joram to the Font as soon as possible, and you will need my associates

assistance. Go to Blachloch. Inform him that I—"

"Blachloch!" Saryon sank down on the cot, his heart beating in his ears with the din of Joram's

hammer. "Your associate?" The catalyst put his shaking hands to his head. "Holiness, you can't mean

Blachloch! ..."

"I assure you, Father—"

"He's a renegade, an outcast of the Duuk-tsarith! He—"

"Outcast? He is no more an outcast warlock than you are an outcast priest, Saryon! He is one of the

Duuk-tsarith, a high-rank-ing member of their organization, hand-picked for this delicate assignment,

just as you were."

Saryon pressed his hands against his head as though he might actually keep his scattered thoughts

from tumbling about his brain. Blachloch, the cruel, murderous warlock, was Duuk-tsarith, a member of

the secret society whose duty it was to en-force the laws in Thimhallan. He was an agent for the Church!

And he was also responsible for cold-blooded murder, for raid-ing a village and stealing its provisions,

for leaving its people to starve in the winter. . . .

"Holiness"—Saryon licked his dry, cracked lips—"this war-lock was ... an evil man! A wicked man!

He—I saw him kill a young Deacon of our Order in the village of—"

The Bishop interrupted. "Have you not heard the old say-ing, 'Night's shadows are deepest to those

who walk in the light? Let us not be too hasty in our judgment of ordinary mor-tals, Father. If you reflect

back calmly upon the incident of which you speak, I am certain you will find the killing was moti-vated by

necessity, or perhaps it was accidental."

Saryon saw the warlock call upon the wind, he saw the gale-force blast pick up the defenseless

Deacon as though he were a leaf and toss him against the side of a dwelling. He saw the young body

crumple lifelessly to the ground.

"Holiness," ventured Saryon, shuddering.

"Enough, Father!" the Bishop said sternly. "I do not have time for your sanctimonious whinings.

Blachloch does what is necessary to maintain his disguise as a renegade warlock. He plays a dangerous

game among those Sorcerers of the Dark Arts who surround you, Saryon. What is one life, after all,

compared to the lives of thousands or the souls of millions! And that is what he holds in his hand."

"I don't understand—"

"Then give me a chance to explain! I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Father. I told you before

you left of the trouble we are having in the northern kingdom of Sharakan. It worsens daily. The catalysts

who have abandoned the laws of our Order are growing in popularity and in numbers. They are giving

freely of their power of Life to anyone who asks. Because of this, the king of Sharakan believes he can

treat us with im-punity. He has impounded Church funds and put them into his treasury. He has sent the

Cardinal into exile, and replaced him with one of these renegade catalysts. He plans to invade and

conquer Merilon, and he is in league with the Sorcerers of Tech-nology among whom you live to provide

him with their demonic weapons. ..."

"Yes, Holiness," Saryon murmured, only half listening, try-ing desperately to think what to do.

"The king of Sharakan plans to use the Sorcerers' weapons to help him in his conquest. Although

Blachloch appears to be furthering the ambitions of Sharakan and helping the Sorcerers, he is—in

reality—preparing to lead them into a deadly trap. Thus we will be able to defeat Sharakan and crush the

Sorcerers utterly, finally banishing them from this world. Blachloch has everything under control, or at

least he had until the young man—this Joram—discovered darkstone."

As Vanya grew angrier, his thoughts became gradually more rambling and incoherent. Saryon could

no longer follow them. Sensing this, there was a moment of seething silence as Vanya attempted to regain

control, then his communication continued, somewhat calmer.

"The discovery of darkstone is catastrophic, Father! Surely you see that? It can give Sharakan the

power to win! That is why it is imperative that you and Blachloch bring the young man and the dreadful

force he has brought back into this world to the Font at once, before Sharakan discovers it."

Saryon's head began to ache with the strain. Fortunately, his own thoughts were in such turmoil that he

must have transmit-ted only confused and scattered fragments: Blachloch a double agent . . . the

darkstone a threat to the world . . . the Sorcerers walking into a trap. . . .

Joram . . . Joram . . . Joram. .

Saryon grew calmer. He knew now what he must do. None of the rest of it was important. Wars

between kingdoms. The lives of thousands. It was too enormous to comprehend. But the life of one?

How can I take him back, knowing the fate he faces? And I do know it now, Saryon admitted to

himself. I was blind to it before, but only because I deliberately shut my eyes.

The catalyst lifted his head, staring intently into the darkness. "Holiness," he said out loud, interrupting

the Bishop's tirade. "I know who Joram is."

Vanya stopped cold. Saryon sensed doubt, caution, fear. But these were gone almost immediately.

Nearly eighty years old, the Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan had held his position for over forty of

those years. He was highly skilled at his job.

"What do you mean"—the Bishop's thoughts came across as genuinely confused—"you know who he

is? He is Joram, son of a mad woman named Anja. ..."

Saryon felt himself gaining strength. At last, he was able to confront the truth.

"He is Joram," the catalyst said in low tones, "son of the Emperor of Merilon."

2

A State of Grace

There was silence within the si-lence of the cell. So deep was it that, for a moment, Saryon

thought—hoped—that Vanya had broken contact.

Then the words reverberated in his head once more. "How did you come by this supposed

knowledge, Father Saryon?" The catalyst could feel the Bishop treading carefully on the soft, un-known

ground. "Did Blachloch—"

"By the Almin, did he know?" Saryon spoke aloud again in his amazement. "No," he continued in

some confusion, "no one told me. No one had to. I just . . . knew. How?" He shrugged helplessly. "How

do I know how much magic to draw from the world and give to a shaper of wood so that he may mold a

chair? It is a matter of calculation, of adding all factors together—the man's weight and height, his ability,

his age, the degree of diffi-culty in his project. . . . Do I think of these things consciously? No! I have

done it so often, the answer comes to me without thinking about how I have obtained it.

"And so, Holiness, this was how I came to know Joram's true identity." Saryon shook his head,

closing his eyes. "My god, 1 held him in my arms! That baby, born Dead, doomed to die! I was the last

person to hold him!" Tears crept beneath his eyelids.

"I took him to the nursery that terrible day and I sat beside his crib and rocked him in my arms for

hours. I knew that once I laid him down, no other person would be permitted to touch him until you took

him to ... to the Font." Saryon's emotion lifted him from his cot to pace the small cell. "Maybe it is my

fancy, but I have come to believe this created a bond between us. The first time I saw Joram, my soul

recognized him if my eyes did not. It was when I began to listen to my soul that I knew the truth."

"You are so certain it is the truth?" The words were strained.

"Do you deny it?" Saryon cried grimly. Halting in his pac-ing, he stared up into the rafters of the prison

cell as though his Bishop hovered among them. "Do you deny that you sent me here purposefully, hoping

that I would find out?"

There was a long moment's hesitation; Saryon had a mental image of a man looking over a hand of

tarok cards, wondering which to play.

"Have you told Joram?"

There was very real fear in this question, a fear that was palpable to Saryon, a fear he thought he

understood.

"No, of course not," the catalyst replied. "How could I tell him such a fantastic tale? He would not

believe me, not without proof. And I have none to give."

"Yet you mentioned adding all factors?" Vanya persisted.

Saryon shook his head impatiently. He began to pace again, but stopped short at the cell window.

Day had dawned com-pletely now. Light streamed into the cold prison house, and the village of the

Sorcerers was beginning to waken. Smoke curled upward, blown raggedly in the whipping wind. A few

early risers were up and trudging to work already, or were inspecting their dwellings for damage from last

night's storm. Off in the distance, he saw one of Blachloch's guards hurrying between the buildings at a

run.

Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - The Darksword Trilogy 02 - Doom of the Darksword

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