Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Joram!” The pain in Saryon’s heart was like a physical obstruction. He wanted to say so much, but the only words that burst forth through the terrible ache were, “Joram, you are Dead!”

  “Damn that!” Joram cried in anger.

  Saryon glanced fearfully at the door again and Joram, springing to his feet, strode across the small room and slammed it shut. Turning, he pointed at the catalyst. “Don’t ever say that to me again. I know what I am! I’ve fooled people this long. I can go on fooling them!” He made a furious gesture, pointing upstairs. “Ask Mosiah! He’s known me all my life! Ask him, and he’ll tell you, he’ll swear by his mother’s eyes, that I have magic!”

  “But you don’t, Joram,” Saryon said in a low voice that was firm despite his obvious reluctance in saying the words. “You are Dead, completely Dead!” He rubbed his hand along the arm of the pew. “This wood has more Life than you, Joram! I can feel its magic! The magic that lives in everything in this world pulses beneath my fingers. Yet in you there is nothing! Nothing! Don’t you understand!”

  “And I’m saying it doesn’t matter!” The dark eyes flared, their heat intense and burning. Leaning down over the pew, Joram gripped Saryon’s arm. “Look at me! When I claim my rights, when I am a noble, it won’t matter! No one will care! All they’ll see is my title and my money —”

  “But what about her?” Saryon asked sorrowfully. “What will she see? A Dead man who will give her Dead children?”

  The flame from Joram’s eyes seared Saryon’s soul. The young man’s grip tightened on the catalyst’s arm until Saryon winced in pain, but he said nothing. He couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to, his heart was too full. He sat quite still, his compassionate gaze never leaving Joram.

  And slowly, the fire in the dark eyes died. Slowly the coals burned themselves out. The light glimmered and was gone, the color drained from the face, leaving the skin pale, the lips ashen. Cold darkness returned. Joram’s grip loosened and he straightened up. His face was, once more, severe, set rock-hard with purpose and resolve. “Thank you once again, Catalyst,” he said evenly, his voice as hard as his face.

  “Joram, I’m sorry,” Saryon said, his heart aching.

  “No!” Joram held up his hand. For an instant color came back to his skin, his breathing quickened. “You told me the truth, Saryon. And I needed to hear it. It’s something … I’ll have to think about … to deal with.” Drawing a deep breath, he shook his head. “I’m the one who is sorry. I lost control. It won’t happen again. You will help me, won’t you, Father?”

  “Joram,” Saryon said gently, rising to his feet to face the young man, “if you truly care about this young girl, you will walk out of her life right now. The only groom’s gift you can bring her is grief.”

  Joram stared at Saryon in silence. The catalyst saw his words had touched the young man. There was a struggle going on inside. Maybe what Joram had said was true, maybe he had changed in the long night, or maybe this change had just come about gradually, naturally, under the long influence of patient friendship, patient caring.

  How the struggle in Joram’s soul might have resolved itself, what better decision Joram might have made at that moment when he was hurt and vulnerable, Saryon was never to know. For at the moment, chaos erupted. The family had just returned home from the Cathedral when the Emperor’s carriage was seen approaching, falling from the heavens like a star.

  “So, Simkin,” said the Emperor languidly, “what have you gotten youself into this time?”

  The confusion into which the Samuelses household was thrown upon receiving this august personage into their midst was not to be described. The Emperor had actually descended from his carriage and floated into the front court garden before anyone could do anything other than stare. Fortunately Simkin had, at that moment, flung himself out the front door and into the Emperor’s arms, wailing about “shame” and “degrading” and “thumbscrews!”

  The Emperor took Simkin in hand; Lady Rosamund came to her senses and — like the excellent general that she was — assembled her troops and rode forth upon the domestic field. Graciously welcoming the Emperor into her home, she led him into the parlor, enthroned him in the best chair in the house, and deployed her family and guests around him.

  “Really, Bunkie, I couldn’t say,” Simkin replied in hurt tones. “It’s dashed humiliating, don’t you know, to have hands laid upon one at the Gate as though one were a murderer….”

  Saryon, standing humbly in a corner, stiffened at this comment and he saw Joram’s eyes flash in swift alarm. Simkin, noticing nothing, rattled on.

  “The deuce of it,” he continued gloomily, “is that now I’m forced to lurk about inside this … establishment … and while the house is very fine and Lady Rosamund has been hospitality itself” — he kissed his hand to her negligently, as she curtsied to the floor —“‘tisn’t what I’m accustomed to, of course.” He dabbed a corner of one eye with the orange silk.

  “Actually, Simkin, we think you should count yourself fortunate,” the Emperor replied, with a smile and a lazy wave of a hand. “A charming residence, my lord,” he said to Lord Samuels, who bowed low. “Your lady wife is a jewel and we see her counterpart in your lovely daughter. We will do what we can for you, Simkin” — the Emperor rose to take his leave, sending another ripple of confusion through the household — “but we think you should stay here, in the meantime, if Lord Samuels will put up with you, that is.”

  Milord bowed — several times. He was effusive, expansive. He would be only too proud, too pleased. The honor of entertaining a friend of His Majesty’s was overwhelming….

  “Yes,” said the Emperor in fatigued tones. “Quite. Thank you, Lord Samuels. Meanwhile, Simkin, we shall endeavor to find out what the charge is, who’s brought it, and do what we can about it. May take a day or two, so don’t go paradin’ about the streets. We can only do so much with the Duuk-tsarith, you know.”

  “Ah, yes. Dogs!” Simkin glowered, then sighed deeply. “Very good of you, I’m sure, Your Majesty. If I might have a word” — he drew the Emporer to one side, whispering in his ear. The words “Contessa,” “chafing dish,” and “unfortunately discovered naked” were audible, and once the Emperor laughed out loud in a truly light-hearted manner that Saryon, who had been at court many times, had never heard. His Majesty clapped Simkin on the back.

  “We understand — ’nd now, must be going. Affairs of state and all that. We never rest on the Almin’s Day,” remarked the Emperor to the assembled family, who were waiting in line to bid their august guest farewell. The Emperor proceeded to the front door. “Lord Samuels, Lady Rosamund” — the Emperor gave his hand to be kissed — “thank you once again for extending your hospitality to this young scalawag. We have a holiday coming upon us soon. A grand ball at the Palace. Come along, won’t you, Simkin, and bring Lord Samuels and his family with you. Eh?” The Emperor’s gaze touched on Gwendolyn. “Would you like that, young lady?” he said, dropping the affected tone and manner and regarding the young woman with a fatherly smile in which Saryon saw a hint of wistfulness and pain.

  “Oh, Your Majesty!” Gwen whispered, clasping her hands together, so overwhelmed with pleasure at the idea that she completely forgot to curtsy.

  “That’s all right, my lady,” the Emperor said kindly, when Lady Rosamund rebuked her daughter for her lack of manners. “We remember what it was to be young.” Again, the wistfulness, tinged with regret.

  The Emperor was standing inside the door and Saryon was congratulating himself on having survived this latest crisis without incident when he saw Simkin glance about mischievously. Saryon’s heart jolted. He knew what the young man had in mind and, catching Simkin’s eye, he shook his head emphatically, trying desperately to lose himself in the woodwork.

  But Simkin, with an ingenuous smile, said casually, “Egad, the shock of this frightful incident has unnerved me. I’ve neglected to present my friends to Your Highness. Your Majesty, this is Father Dungstab
le …”

  “Dunstable,” murmured the wretched catalyst, bowing low.

  “Father,” said the Emperor with a graceful gesture and a slight dip of the perfumed and powdered head.

  “And two friends of mine — actors,” said Simkin easily. “Stage names, Mosiah and Joram. We could present a charade at the ball …”

  Saryon didn’t hear what else Simkin said — and neither did the Emperor.

  The man, with an air of amused and patronizing tolerance, extended his hand to Mosiah, who kissed it, his face nearly as red as the rubies on the Emperor’s fingers. Joram came forward to do the same.

  The young man had been standing somewhat behind Saryon, in the shadow of an alcove, when he was introduced. Moving forward, he touched the hand and bowed over it — though he did not kiss it — then straightened. As he did so, he stepped into a pool of sunlight, shining through a window directly opposite. The sun brought out the finely shaped lines of Joram’s face, the high cheekbones, the strong, proud chin. It glistened in Joram’s hair; his mother’s hair; hair renowned in story and song for its beauty; hair that, like the hair of a corpse, seemed possessed of its own life …

  The Emperor stopped in his empty, meaningless gesture and stared. The blood drained from the man’s face, the eyes widened, the lips moved soundlessly.

  Saryon caught his breath. He knows! The Almin help us! He knows.

  What will he do? the catalyst wondered, panic-stricken. Call the Duuk-tsarith Surely not! Surely he couldn’t betray his own son….

  Saryon looked around wildly. Surely everyone must notice! But no one was watching seemingly, no one but him.

  Hurriedly, he looked back and blinked in astonishment.

  The Emperor’s face was calm. The shock of recognition had been as a ripple on the surface of placid water, nothing more. He gave the young man a smile in exactly the same empty manner that he had given him his hand. Joram stepped back into the shadow — he had noticed nothing, his eyes dazzled from staring directly into the sun. The Emperor turned away negligently, resuming conversation with Simkin as though nothing had happened.

  “Consummate actors, my friends,” Simkin was saying, dabbing at his lips with the orange silk. “They’re included in the invitation to the Palace, of course, Highness.”

  “Friends?” The Emperor appeared to have forgotten them already. “Oh, yes, of course,” he said magnanimously.

  “Odd time of year for a holiday, isn’t it, Your High and Mightyship?” continued the irrepressible Simkin, accompanying the Emperor out the door amidst a flurry of bows and flutterings by the household of Lord Samuels. The Emperors carriage floated above the street. Made entirely of faceted crystal, it had been shaped to catch and reflect the sunlight, and it accomplished this so well that few could look at it without being blinded by the glare. “I can’t recall, offhand, what it is we’re celebrating?”

  The Emperors reply to this question was lost, the entire neighborhood having turned out to cheer and wave. Lord Samuels’s reputation and status were fixed in that instant. Certain of his neighbors who had entertained hopes of rising to the Guildmaster’s level were in that instant uprooted and cast aside as neatly and quickly as the Druids uprooted dead trees. Ascending into his carriage, the Emperor extended his blessing to one and all, and then the star lifted back into the heavens, leaving the earthbound mortals below to bask in the waning light of glory.

  Inside the house of the Samuels, joy was unbounded. Lady Rosamund glowed with pride, her gaze going with satisfaction to the aforementioned neighbors. Gwen was in raptures over the invitation to the ball, until she realized she had nothing to wear and burst into tears. Mosiah stood staring after the Emperor and the marvelous coach in a dazed state from which he was rescued by cousin Lilian’s bumping into him — quite by accident, the blushing girl assured him. Upon receiving his apology, she wondered if he would be interested in seeing the inner garden, and led him outdoors, cooing with delight at his “quaint” way of talking.

  And Joram discovered that he had routed his enemy — horse, foot, and artillery.

  Coming over to the young man, Lord Samuels laid a hand affectionately on Joram’s shoulder. “Simkin tells me you believe yourself to have some claim upon estates here in Merilon,” the lord said gravely.

  “My lord,” said Joram, eyeing him warily, “the story about the wicked uncle isn’t true …”

  Lord Samuels smiled. “No, I never believed that for a moment. Wormed the truth out of Simkin last night. It’s much more interesting, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I can be of help. I have access to certain records …” So saying, he drew the young man away into his private study and shut the door behind them.

  No one noticed the catalyst, for which Saryon was grateful. He returned to the family chapel, where he was certain of being alone, and sank down upon the cushions of the pews. The sun no longer shone through the stained-glass window, the room was left in cool shadows. Saryon began to shiver uncontrollably, not from cold, but from a vast, overwhelming fear.

  Having witnessed the treachery of man, he had lost his faith in his god. The universe was to him nothing more than one of those gigantic machines he had read about in the ancient texts of the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts: a machine that — once started — ran by itself, operating by physical laws. Man was a cog in the wheels, driven by his own physical laws, his life dependent upon the motion of the other lives around him. When a cog broke, it was replaced. The great machine kept going and would do so, on and on, perhaps forever.

  It was a bleak glimpse of the universe, and Saryon found no comfort in it. Yet, it was better than the view that the universe was run by some petty god who doted on power and dabbled in politics, who allowed his name to be mouthed sanctimoniously by his Bishop, who herded his “flock” like so many sheep.

  But now, for the first time, Saryon began to consider another possibility, and his soul shrank from the thought in awe. Suppose the Almin was out there and He was vast and mighty in His power. Suppose He knew the number of the grains of sand that lay upon the shores of Beyond. Suppose He knew the hearts and minds of men. Suppose He had a plan as vast as dreams, a plan no mere mortal could begin to see or comprehend.

  “And suppose,” whispered Saryon to himself, staring at the stained-glass window where the symbol of the Almin was represented in the nine-pointed star, “that we are a part of this plan and that we are being rushed toward our destiny, swept to our doom like a man caught in the river rapids. We might cling to rocks, we might strive to reach the shore, but our strength is unequal to the task. Our arms are torn from their safe hold, our feet touch the bank, and then the current catches us once more. And soon the dark waters will close over our heads….”

  Letting his head sink into his hand, Saryon closed his eyes, a tight feeling in his chest as though he were truly drowning, his lungs burning for air.

  Why had this terrifying notion come to him? Because he knew the holiday they would be celebrating within two weeks of this day. Joram would be entering the palace of Merilon eighteen years after he had left it — eighteen years to the day.

  Joram would be celebrating the anniversary of his own death.

  5

  Threads of the Web

  Far below the Palace of Merilon, far below City Above and City Below, far below the Gardens and the tomb of the great wizard who led his people here from a world seeking to destroy them, there is a chamber whose existence is known only to members of that Order which — in reality — rules Thimhallan. In that secret chamber one night, eight people came together. Dressed in black robes, their hands clasped before them, they stood in a circle around a nine-pointed star that had been drawn upon the floor. Each hooded head faced in the same direction, toward the ninth point of the star, despite the fact that the place on the floor was currently empty. All waited patiently; patience was their watchword. Patience, they knew, was generally rewarded.

  The air shivered and the ninth point of the star upon the floor was covered by th
e hem of black robes. Glancing around the circle to see that all were present, the ninth member nodded her hooded head and, with a clap of her hands, caused a huge leather-bound book with blank pages of brittle parchment to appear in the center of the circle, hovering, suspended in the air.

  “You may proceed,” she said to the member standing on the first point of the star.

  The Duuk-tsarith began his report. As he spoke, his words were recorded, traced by lines of flame upon the parchment in the huge book.

  “A child was lost in the marketplace this day, madam,” he said. “She has since been found and returned to her parents.”

  The witch nodded. The next spoke.

  “We have solved the murder of Lucien the alchemist, madam. Only one person could have possibly known enough to substitute a chemical which, when combined with another, would produce a violent explosion, rather than the elixir of youth for which the alchemist was said to be searching.”

  “The alchemist’s apprentice,” said the witch.

  “Precisely.”

  “Motive?”

  “The apprentice and Lucien’s wife were lovers. Under ‘questioning,’ the apprentice confessed both to his crime and to hers. Both are being held for sentencing.”

  “Satisfactory.” The witch nodded once more, her eyes going to yet another point on the star.

  “The search for the Dead man, Joram, continues, madam. A record of those who were or might have been Field Magi entering Merilon has been compiled. Eleven have been reported thus far and these have all been checked. All have legitimate reasons for being in the city and seven have been positively eliminated. In addition, the catalysts have supplied us with a list of all new brethren of their Order who have entered the city. Comparing the two lists, we have come up with an interesting match.”