Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “I am not a renegade catalyst, Your … Your Grace,” Saryon began, then stopped, flushing, as he remembered. “Well, perhaps I am,” he faltered. “But, please listen to my story,” he said, turning to the Cardinal who had joined them. “I — We are not thieves, I assure you!”

  “Then, what is the meaning of the invasion of our glade and this attack upon us?” Garald asked with increasing coldness and a hint of anger in his voice.

  “Please, let me explain, Your Grace,” Saryon said desperately. “It was a mistake —”

  The two Duuk-tsarith appeared suddenly, materializing out of the air to stand in front of Garald.

  “Yes?” he said. “What have you found?

  “There was nothing in the glade, Your Grace, except this.” Extending his hand, one of the black-robed figures held out a large wooden bucket.

  “A curious object in these savage lands, but not particularly worthy of your attention, I should think,” remarked Garald, glancing at it without interest.

  “It is a rather remarkable bucket, Your Grace,” said the Duuk-tsarith.

  “No, ho,” said the bucket hastily. “Just a plain, ordinary bucket. Nothing remarkable about me, I assure you.”

  “Name of the Almin!” Garald breathed, while the Cardinal took a hasty step backward, muttering a prayer.

  “A humble bucket. The old, oaken bucket,” continued the bucket in a husky voice. “Allow me, kind sir, to carry your water. Soak your feet in me. Soak your head —”

  “I’ll be damned!” Garald cried. Springing forward, he grabbed the bucket from the hands of the warlock. “Simkin!” he said, shaking the bucket. “Simkin, you rattle-brained fool! Don’t you recognize me?”

  Two eyes appeared suddenly on the buckets rim, and studied the tall man intently. The eyes widened, then, with a laugh, the bucket transformed itself into the figure of the bearded young man, clad in his favorite Muck and Mud outfit.

  “Garald!” he cried, flinging his arms around the elegant man.

  “Simkin!” Garald clapped him on the back.

  The Cardinal appeared to be less pleased at the sight of Simkin himself than he had been at the talking bucket. Glancing heavenward, the priest folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes and shook his head.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” said Simkin, standing back and regarding the nobleman with a delighted gaze. “What are you doing in these beastly parts? Oh, wait,” he said, appearing to remember something. “I must introduce you to my friends.”

  “Joram, Mosiah” — Simkin turned to the two, one lying spellbound on the ground, the other imprisoned by rings of flame — “may I present His Royal Highness, Garald, Prince of Sharakan.”

  10

  His Grace

  “So these are friends of yours, are they, Simkin?” The Prince’s gaze flickered over Mosiah to rest more intently on Joram. Imprisoned by the fiery rings, the young man dared not move or risk being severely burned. But there was no fear on the stern face; only pride, anger, and humiliation at his ignominious defeat.

  “Closer to me than brothers,” averred Simkin. “You recall how I lost my brother? Dear little Nat? It was in the year —”

  “Uh, yes,” interrupted the Prince hastily. He turned to the Duuk-tsarith. “You may release them.”

  The warlocks bowed and, at a gesture and a word, they lifted the Nullmagic from Mosiah, who gasped and rolled over on his back, breathing heavily. The rings disappeared from around Joram, but still the young man did not move. Folding his strong arms across his chest, Joram stared off into the sunlit forest. He looked at nothing in particular, but was simply making it clear that he had chosen to stand in that spot of his own free will and would continue standing there until he dropped over dead.

  Garald’s mouth twitched. Putting his hand on his lips to hide his smile, he turned again to Simkin. “What about the catalyst?”

  “The bald party is a friend of mine, too,” remarked the young man, glancing about vaguely. “Where are you, Father? Oh, yes. Prince Garald, Father Saryon. Father Saryon, Prince Garald.”

  The Prince bowed gracefully, hand over his heart as was the custom in the north. Saryon returned the bow more clumsily, his mind in such a state of confusion that he barely knew what he did.

  “Father Saryon,” said the Prince, “may I present His Eminence, Cardinal Radisovik, friend and adviser to my father.”

  Walking forward, Saryon knelt humbly to kiss the fingers of the white-robed Cardinal. But the Priest took him by the hand and raised him to his feet.

  “We have dispensed with those degrading obeisances in the north,” said the Cardinal. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Father Saryon. You appear exhausted. Will you return with me to our glade? The springs warm the air most pleasantly there, don’t you agree?”

  Suddenly aware that he was bitterly cold, Saryon realized that it was as if he had stepped from spring to winter again by entering these woods. Simkin’s words came back to him. This glade isn’t supposed to be here. Undoubtedly it wasn’t! The Prince had conjured up a pleasant place for his campsite and they had stumbled into it! What incredible, naive fools….

  “I sense a tale of great adventure about you, Father,” Radisovik continued, walking toward the glade. “I would be interested in hearing how a man of the cloth comes to be in such” — the Cardinal appeared momentarily at a loss — “um … interesting company.”

  Nothing could have been more polite than the Cardinal’s words, but Saryon had seen the exchange of swift glances between the Prince and Radisovik just prior to the Cardinal’s formal welcome of the catalyst. Now Radisovik was leading Saryon back to the glade, and the Prince and Simkin were walking over to assist Mosiah.

  Saryon understood. We are to be interviewed separately. Then the Prince and the Cardinal will compare notes. It had all been settled between them gracefully, without a word spoken. Court manners, court intrigue. Remembering his dread secret, Saryon felt a pang of fear. He had never been at all good at this sort of thing.

  Following the Cardinal, half listening to his polite conversation, it suddenly occurred to Saryon that Radisovik must be a renegade as well; the man of whom Vanya had spoken, the priest who had forced the Church’s true minister into exile.

  How strange that they should meet! Was this encounter an answer to prayers Saryon had not prayed? Or merely another indication that the universe was a cold, empty, and unfeeling void?

  Only time would tell. Saryon wondered how much of that they had left.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” the Prince asked Mosiah.

  “Much … much better … Your … Grace,” stammered Mosiah, flushing in embarrassment. Seeing the Prince prepared to kneel to assist him, he hurriedly attempted to stand on his feet. “Please … don’t trouble yourself … mi-milord. I’m all right now, really.”

  “You will forgive us for this treatment, I hope,” Garald said with concern in his cool voice. “You can understand that we have been unusually wary in these uncivilized lands.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Mosiah, helped to his feet by Simkin, was so red in the face that he appeared feverish. “We … we mistook you for … someone else, too….”

  “Indeed?” Garald lifted his soft eyebrows in surprise.

  “Pardon, Your Grace,” said the Duuk-tsarith. “But night is falling. We should return to the safety of the glade.”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me.” The Prince made a graceful gesture with his hand. “Would one of you be so kind as to assist this young man to the glade where he may rest?”

  One of the Duuk-tsarith glided over to Mosiah, the black robes barely skimming the ground. He did not touch the young man; he merely stood beside him, his hands folded in front of him. Mosiah recognized, however — as had Saryon — that this was an order, not an invitation, and he would disobey it at his peril. He moved off toward the glade, the warlock drifting along behind him, dark and silent as the young man’s shadow. Joram remained in his place some distance from them, watc
hing yet not watching. The second Duuk-tsarith had not taken his eyes from the stern young man.

  Looking at Joram, Garald turned to Simkin, speaking in a low voice. “This other friend of yours, the one with the sword, fascinates me. What do you know of him?”

  “Claims noble birth. Wrong side of sheets. Mother disgraced. Ran away. Son grew up a Field Magus. Rebellious sort. Killed overseer. Fled Outland. Something odd, though. Bald party sent to bring him to Bishop Vanya. Didn’t do it. Deep trouble. Dark Arts now, both of them,” Simkin rattled off glibly, quite pleased with his summation.

  “Mmmm,” Garald mused, his gaze fixed on Joram. “And the sword?”

  “Darkstone.”

  Garald drew in a deep breath.

  “Darkstone? Are you certain?” he whispered, drawing Simkin close.

  Simkin nodded.

  The Prince let his breath out in a sigh. “Praise be to the Almin,” he said reverently. “Come with me. I want to talk to this young man and I’ll need your help. So, you are from the Sorcerers’ village?” he remarked aloud to Simkin, as the two walked over to Joram.

  “Yes, O High and Mighty One,” Simkin said gaily. “And I must admit, I am quite relieved to be away from there.” The orange silk fluttered from the sky to his hand. Catching the sunlight, it looked like a bit of dancing flame. “The smell, milord” — Simkin put the silk to his nose — “quite intolerable, I assure you. Hot coals, sulfurous fumes. To say nothing of infernal hammering, day and night.”

  The two came to stand before Joram, who stared past them, refusing to acknowledge their existence.

  “Your name is Joram, sir?” Garald inquired politely.

  Lips compressed, Joram’s gaze shifted to the Prince. “Return my sword,” he said, his voice thick and husky.

  “‘Return my sword,’ Your Grace,” Simkin corrected, mimicking the Cardinal.

  Joram cast him an angry glance. Garald coughed, covering his laughter, and made a show of clearing his throat. As he did so, he took the opportunity to study Joram intently, having the advantage of seeing the young man’s face in the afternoon sunlight.

  “Yes,” he murmured to himself, “I can believe his claim to high birth. There is noble blood there, if not noble manners. I know that face, in fact!” Garald frowned in thought. “And the hair … magnificent! The eyes … proud, sensitive, intelligent. Too intelligent. A dangerous young man. I can believe he discovered darkstone. Now what does he intend to do with it? Does he know, even, what dread power he has brought back to the world? Does anyone know, for that matter?”

  “My sword!” Joram repeated stubbornly, his face growing dark under the Prince’s scrutiny.

  “Please forgive me. Slight tickle in my throat. The wind-flowers …” Garald bowed slightly. “The sword is yours, sir.” He glanced over to it where it lay on the ground. “And please accept my apology for our actions. You took us by surprise, and we reacted in haste.” The Prince straightened, regarding the young man with a grave smile.

  Completely taken aback, Joram looked from the Prince to the sword to the Prince again. His face flushed, the brows came together. But it was no longer in anger. His rage was deserting him and taking its strength with it, leaving behind nothing but humiliation and shame. For the first time in his life, Joram was acutely conscious of his shabby clothes, his tangled hair. He looked at the Princes hand, smooth and supple, and he saw his own hand, calloused and dirty by comparison. He tried to fan the coals of rage, but they only glimmered to life then died, leaving his soul cold.

  Keeping his eyes on Garald, suspecting some trick, Joram walked slowly over to where the sword lay — an object of darkness — in the sunlit grass. The Prince did not move. Neither did the watching Duuk-tsarith. Bending down, Joram lifted his weapon. He thrust it into the crude sheath hurriedly, flushing as the Prince’s eyes glanced at it in — he thought — scorn.

  “Am I free to go?” Joram asked harshly.

  “You are free to go, though you are, I suppose, still our prisoners,” the Prince answered smoothly. “But I would much prefer it if you would remain with us tonight as our guests. Let us make amends for attacking you —”

  “Stop mocking us!” Joram sneered. “Your Grace.” He could taste the bitterness in his voice. “You had every right to attack us — kill us, even. As for the sword, it’s crude enough. Worthless, compared to yours” — Joram could not help himself, his eyes went longingly to the beautiful sword the Prince wore at his side in its magically tooled leather scabbard — “but I made it myself.” His voice softened, he sounded like a wistful child. “And I had never seen a real sword like that before.”

  “Not worthless, I think,” Garald said. “Not a sword of darkstone that absorbs magic….”

  Joram looked sharply at Simkin, who smiled innocently.

  “Come with me to the glade,” Garald continued. “It is much warmer there and, as my guards remind me, it is dangerous in the Outland at night.” Walking over to the young man, Garald rested his hand lightly on Joram’s shoulder.

  It was an affectionate gesture, as a man might make to a friend. Or as a man might calm a restive animal. Joram flinched at Garald’s touch. He saw the pity in the man’s eyes and he barely resisted the temptation to strike the hand aside. Why did he resist? Why did he bother? How Joram knew it, he could not have told, but he understood that while Garald would respect a refusal to be pitied, he would never forgive a blow. And it had suddenly become important to Joram to gain this man’s respect.

  “Where are you from, Joram?” Garald asked.

  “What has that got to do with anything?” Joram demanded sullenly.

  “Where does your family come from, I meant to say,” the Prince amended.

  Once again, Joram glanced darkly at Simkin, flitting along beside them, and Garald smiled. “Yes, he’s told me something about you. I confess to being quite curious. I understand from Simkin’s brief description that your life has been … difficult” — he phrased it delicately — “and you may consider this an improper question between gentlemen. If so, I hope you forgive me. But I have traveled extensively and have a knowledge of most of the noble families in this part of the realm, and I confess that you look extremely familiar to me. Do you know your family name?”

  The shame that burned in Joram’s face was answer enough for the Prince, but the young man tossed his head proudly. “No.” It was all he meant to say, but the grave interest on Garald’s face drew him into speaking more than he had intended. “All I know is that my mother’s name was Anja, and that she came from Merilon. My father was … was a … catalyst.” His lip twisted as he spoke; his eyes went to the glade where Saryon could be seen, standing among the flowers and tall grass, talking to the Cardinal.

  “Life’s blood!” The Prince’s gaze followed. “You don’t mean —”

  “Of course not!” Joram snapped, realizing Garald’s mistake. “Not him!” The bitterness returned. “My creation was my father’s crime. He was sentenced to the Turning, and now he stands, a living statue, upon the Border.”

  “My god,” the Prince murmured, and there was no longer pity in his voice but sympathy. “So you come from Merilon by birth.” Once again, he studied Joram in the sunlight. “Yes, that fits somehow. Yet … I cannot place …”

  Irritably, he shook his head, trying to remember. But his thoughts were interrupted by Simkin, who gave a great, gaping yawn. “Hate to break up this frightfully fascinating little party, don’t you know. And I am most awfully tickled to see you again, Garald, old bean. But I should like a brief nap before dinner.” Another yawn. “It isn’t easy being a bucket. To say nothing of the fact that those black-robed guards of yours are, in reality, two great oafs who tripped over me in the grass. Gave me a turn, so to speak, from which I may doubtless never recover.” Sniffing indignantly, he dabbed his nose with the orange silk.

  “By all means, go rest in the glade, my friend.” Garald smiled. “You do seem a bit pale.”

  “Ouch!” Simkin winced.
“A pun that was quite unworthy of you, my prince. Sweet dreams. You, too, O Dark and Gloomy One.” Waving negligently at Joram, the bearded young man drifted forward, riding on the warm currents of spring air that could be felt as they drew nearer the magical campsite.

  “How do you know Simkin?” Joram asked involuntarily, watching as the green cape and the green hat with the pheasant feather fluttered away.

  “Know Simkin?” Glancing at Joram, the Prince raised one eyebrow in amusement. “I wasn’t aware anyone ever did.”

  “Well, Radisovik, what have you found out?”

  Night — real night, not magical — had come to the glade. A campfire burned in the center of a cleared area. It had been used for cooking a brace of rabbit the Prince had snared earlier in the day, and now it cast a pleasant, warm light throughout the peaceful glade. With the magic of himself and his guards at his command, Prince Garald could have dispensed with the need for fire and snares. The rabbits could conceivably have cooked themselves. But Garald liked to keep in training. A man never knew, particularly in these unsettled times, when he might be forced to live without the magic.

  Tonight the Prince and his Cardinal walked slowly among the trees, keeping within sight of the camp, both under the watchful, protective eyes of the black-hooded Duuk-tsarith. Some distance from where they walked, the catalyst sat, nodding by the fire, drinking a cup of hot tea. Mosiah lay near him, asleep, wrapped in soft blankets that the Prince had conjured up for them with his own hands. Joram lay near his friend, but he was wide awake. His eyes followed the Prince and the Cardinal; his sword lay by his side, within easy reach. Garald wondered if the young man intended trying to remain awake all night, watching. Grinning to himself, he shook his head. He had been seventeen once himself. Not that long ago either. He was twenty-eight now. And he could remember.

  Their other guest, Simkin, had spread his blanket in a flower bed some distance from his companions. Attired in a frilled lace nightshirt, complete with tasseled hat, he snored loudly, but whether truly asleep or shamming was anyone’s guess. Certainly Garald had no idea. He knew enough about Simkin, however, to know that it was a guess.