Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  She did not look at him or she might have seen the darkness inside him, crouching like a savage beast in a corner of his soul; a darkness he himself believed was chained and manageable. Had she seen it, girl that she was still, she would have run, for it was a darkness only a woman who has wrestled similar darkness within her own soul can face unafraid. But Gwendolyn kept her eyes hidden and only nodded, in answer.

  Joram smiled and — seeing Marie coming in the distance, the shawl in her hand — whispered a hasty warning to Gwen to compose herself, adding that he would talk to her father without delay. Then he was gone, leaving Gwen standing on the path, hurriedly blinking back her tears and trying as best she could to wipe the blood from the cuts on her feet, concealing the wounds from the loving eyes of her governess.

  The third evening following the momentous occasion of the Emperor’s visit, another couple walked in the garden, milord having brought milady here for the express purpose of having a private talk with her.

  “So the story of the wicked uncle is not true?” Lady Rosamund asked her husband in disappointment.

  “No, my dear,” said Lord Samuels indulgently. “Did you really think it would be? A child’s tale….” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  “I suppose not,” Lady Rosamund said with a sigh.

  “Do not be downcast,” said milord in a low voice as he drifted through the evening air at her side. “The truth, while not as romantic, is far more interesting.”

  “Truly?” Milady brightened, looking up fondly at her husband’s face in the moonlight, thinking how handsome he was. The conservative blue robes of the Guildmaster became Lord Samuels well. Just over forty years old, milord kept himself in good physical condition. Since he was not a nobleman, he was not tempted to indulge in the dissipations of the upper class. He had not grown fat from too much food or red-faced from too much wine. His hair, though graying, was thick and plentiful. Lady Rosamund felt a good deal of pride in him, as he felt in her.

  Their marriage, arranged by their families as were so many in Merilon, had not been one of love. Their children were conceived — as was right and proper — through the intercession of the catalysts, who transferred the man’s seed to the woman in a solemn religious rite. The physical joining of two people was considered a sin — being barbaric and animalistic. But Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund were more fortunate than most. Affection for each other had grown through the years, springing from mutual respect and suitability of minds and purpose.

  “Yes, truly,” Lord Samuels continued, glancing at the roses with a critical eye and reminding himself to check for aphids on the morrow. “Do you recall a scandal, some years ago —”

  “Scandal!” Milady looked alarmed.

  “Be easy, my dear,” Lord Samuels said soothingly. “It was seventeen — almost eighteen — years ago. A young woman of high birth …” milord paused, “I may say very high birth,” he added meaningfully, obviously enjoying keeping milady in suspense, “had the misfortune to fall in love with the family catalyst. The Church disallowed their marriage and the two ran away. They were later discovered in very shocking and dreadful circumstances.”

  “I recall something of the sort,” Lady Rosamund said. “But I don’t think I ever knew any details. We were not yet married, if you remember, and my mama was very protective.”

  Leaning down, Lord Samuels whispered something in milady’s ear.

  “How frightful!” Lady Rosamund drew back from him in disgust.

  “Yes.” Milord appeared grave. “A child was conceived in this unholy fashion. The father was sentenced to the Turning. The Church took the young woman in, gave her shelter and a place to stay while she was with child. There is every reason to believe that had she returned to her family, all would have been forgiven. She was, after all, an only child, and they were wealthy enough to hush matters up. But the terrible experience drove the young woman mad. She took her baby and fled the city, living as a Field Magus. Her family searched for her, but without success. Both parents of this unfortunate woman are now dead — as she is herself, according to the young man. The lands and property reverted to the Church with the stipulation that if the child lived, he should have his inheritance. If this young man can prove his claim …”

  Lady Rosamund turned to face her husband, her gaze fixed searchingly upon his face. “You know the name of this family, don’t you?”

  “I do, my dear,” he said gravely, taking her hand in his. “And so do you. At least, you will recognize it when you hear it. The young man says his mother’s name was Anja.”

  “Anja,” milady repeated, frowning. “Anja….” Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she placed her hand over her mouth. “Merciful Almin!” she murmured.

  “Anja, only daughter of the late Baron Fitzgerald —”

  “— cousin to the Emperor —”

  “— related in one way or another to half the Noble Houses, my dear —”

  “— and one of the wealthiest men in Merilon,” both said together.

  “Are you certain?” Lady Rosamund asked. Her face was pale, she laid her hand upon her bosom to calm her beating heart. “This Joram could be an imposter.”

  “He could be,” Lord Samuels conceded, “but the matter is so easily checked, an imposter would know he couldn’t hope to succeed. The young man’s story has the ring of truth. He knows enough, but not too much. There are gaps, for example, that he doesn’t attempt to fill, whereas an imposter would, I believe, try to have all the answers. He was completely confounded when I told him who his mother really was and what the estate might be worth. He had no idea. The young man was genuinely dazed. What’s more, he said Father Dunstable could verify his story.”

  “You spoke to the catalyst?” Lady Rosamund asked eagerly.

  “Yes, my dear. Just this afternoon. The man was reluctant to talk of it — you know how these catalysts hang together. Ashamed, no doubt, to admit that one of his Order could fail so low. But he admitted to me that Bishop Vanya himself had sent him to search for the young man. What could be the reason except that they want someone to take over the estate?” Lord Samuels was triumphant.

  “Bishop Vanya! Himself!” Lady Rosamund breathed.

  “You see? And” — Lord Samuels leaned closer to speak to milady confidentially once more “— the young man has asked my permission to pay court to Gwendolyn!”

  “Ah!” Lady Rosamund gave a little gasp. “And what did you say?”

  “I said — sternly, mind you — that I would consider it,” Lord Samuels replied, clasping the collar of his robes in a highly dignified manner. “The young man’s identity will have to be verified, naturally. Joram is reluctant to go to the Church with what little evidence he has now, and I don’t blame him. Might weaken his case further down the road. I promised I would make a few more inquiries, see what additional proof we can uncover. He’ll need a record of his birth, for example. Shouldn’t be too difficult to obtain.”

  “What about Gwen?” Lady Rosamund persisted, brushing aside such masculine issues.

  Lord Samuels smiled indulgently. “Well, you should talk to her at once, my dear. Discover her feelings in the matter —”

  “I think those are obvious!” Lady Rosamund said, somewhat bitterly. It was a bitterness that soon passed, however, having its roots only in the very natural sorrow at the prospect of losing her beloved daughter.

  “But, in the meantime,” Lord Samuels continued more gently, “I think we might allow the two of them to go around together, provided we keep our eyes upon them.”

  “I don’t really see how we could do otherwise,” said Lady Rosamund with some spirit. At a gesture, she caused a lily to snap off its stem and glide into her hand. “I have never seen Gwen so infatuated with anyone as this Joram. As for them going around together, they’ve been nowhere else but with each other the past few days! Marie is always with them, but …” Milady shook her head. The lily slipped from her hand. She dropped down slightly in the air, nearly
touching the ground. Her husband caught hold of her.

  “You are tired, my dear,” said Lord Samuels solicitously, supporting his wife with his own magic. “I have kept you up too long. We will discuss this further tomorrow.”

  “It has been a wearing few days, you must admit,” Lady Rosamund replied, leaning on his arm for comfort. “First Simkin, then the Emperor. Now this.”

  “Indeed it has. Our little girl is growing up.”

  “Baroness Gwendolyn,” Lady Rosamund said to herself, with a sigh that was part maternal pride, part motherly regret.

  One evening three or four or maybe five days later, Joram entered the garden in search of the catalyst. He wasn’t certain himself how long it had been since he had asked Gwendolyn to marry him and she had agreed. Time meant nothing to Joram anymore. Nothing meant anything to him except her. Every breath he took was scented with her fragrance. His eyes saw no one but her. The only words he heard were spoken by her voice. He was jealous of anyone else who claimed her attention. He was jealous of the night that forced them to part. He was jealous of sleep itself.

  But he soon discovered that sleep brought its own sweetness, though it was a sweetness mingled with aching pain. In his sleep, he could do what he dared not do during the day — give in to his dreams of passion and desire, fulfillment and possession. The dreams took their toll — Joram would wake in the morning, his blood on fire, his heart burning. Yet the first sight of Gwendolyn walking in the garden fell like a cooling rain upon his tormented soul. So pure, so innocent, so childlike! His dreams sickened him, he felt ashamed, monstrous; his passions seemed bestial and corrupt.

  And yet his hunger was there. When he looked at the tender lips speaking to him of azaleas or dahlias or honeysuckle, he remembered their warm, soft touch in his dreams and his body ached. When he watched her walking beside him, her lithe, graceful body clothed in some pink cloud of a gown, he remembered clasping that body in his dreams, holding her close to his breast with no flimsy barrier of cloth between them, remembered making her his own. At such times, he would fall silent and avert his eyes from her gaze, fearful she would see the fire raging there, fearful this fair and fragile flower would wilt and die in its heat.

  It was in the throes of this bittersweet torture that Joram entered the garden late one night, searching for the catalyst, who — so the servants said — often walked here when he could not sleep.

  The rest of the household had gone to their beds. The Sif-Hanar had decreed that there be no wind tonight, and the garden, therefore, was hushed and quiet. Rounding a corner, Joram affected to be surprised when he found Saryon sitting alone upon a bench.

  “I am sorry, Father,” Joram said, standing in the shadows of a eucalyptus. “I did not mean to interrupt you.” Half turning, he started — very slowly — to withdraw.

  Saryon turned at the sound of the voice, raising his head. The moonlight shone full upon his face. It was a strange face, this facade of Father Dunstable, and Joram always found it startling and somewhat disquieting. But the eyes were those of the scholar he had known in the Sorcerers’ village — wise, mild, gentle. Only now, in addition, Joram saw a haunted expression in the eyes when the catalyst looked at him, a shadow of pain that he could not understand.

  “No, Joram, don’t go,” Saryon said. “You do not disturb me. You were in my thoughts, in fact.”

  “In your prayers, too?” Joram asked as a joke.

  The Priest’s sorrowful face grew so pale that the words fell flat. Joram heard Saryon sigh heavily. The catalyst passed his hand over his eyes. “Come, sit by me, Joram,” he said, making room on the bench.

  Joram did so. Sitting down beside the catalyst, he relaxed and listened — for the first time — to the silence of the garden at night. Its peace and tranquility drifted down upon him like a gentle snowfall, its cool shadows easing his burning mind.

  “Do you know, Saryon,” Joram said hesitantly, unaccustomed to speaking his thoughts, yet feeling somehow that he owed this man something and longed to pay the debt, “the other day — when we were together in the chapel — was the first time I had ever been inside a … a holy place. Oh” — he shrugged — “there was a church of sorts in Walren, a crude building where the Field Magi went once a week to get their daily dose of guilt from Father Tolban. My mother never darkened the door, as I suppose you can guess.”

  “Yes,” murmured Saryon, looking at Joram with a puzzled expression, astonished at this unusual outpouring of words.

  “Anja talked about god, about the Almin,” Joram continued, his gaze fixed upon the moonlit roses, “but only to give thanks to him that I was better than the others. I never bothered to pray. Why should I? What did I have to be thankful for?” the young man said, the old bitterness creeping into his voice. He grew quiet, his gaze going from the delicate white flowers on the vine to his hands — so skilled and supple, so deadly. Clasping his hands together, he continued to stare at them, unseeing, as he spoke.

  “My mother hated catalysts — for what they had done to my father — and she fed me on hatred. You told me once — Do you remember?” he glanced at Saryon, “— that it is easier to hate than to love? You were right! Oh, how right you were, Father!” Joram’s hands parted, clenched into fists. “All my life, I have hated,” the young man said in a low, passionate voice. “I’m beginning to wonder if I can love! It’s so hard, it hurts … so much….”

  “Joram,” Saryon began, his heart full.

  “Wait, just let me finish, Father,” Joram said, the words almost exploding out of him with pent-up frustration. “Coming in here, tonight, I suddenly thought of my father.” The dark brows came together. “I’ve never thought of him, much,” he said, staring at his hands once more. “When I did, it was to see him standing there on the Borderland, his stone face frozen and unmoving, the tears dropping from eyes that stare eternally into a death he’ll never know. But now, in here” — lifting his head, glancing around the garden, Joram’s face softened — “I think of him as he must have been — a man like myself. With … passions like mine, passions he could not control. I see my mother as she must have been then, a young girl, graceful and beautiful and …” He hesitated, swallowing.

  “Innocent, trusting,” Saryon said gently.

  “Yes,” Joram answered inaudibly. Looking at the catalyst, he was astounded at the sight of the anguish he saw in the man’s face.

  Saryon caught hold of the young man’s hands, gripping them with an intensity as painful as his words.

  “Leave! Now, Joram!” the catalyst said urgently. “There is nothing for you here! Nothing for her but bitter unhappiness — as there was for your poor mother!”

  Stubbornly, Joram shook his head, the curling black hair falling down over his face. He broke free of the catalyst’s grip.

  “My boy, my son!” Saryon said, clasping his own hands together. “It pleases me more than anything that you feel you can confide in me. I would be but a poor recipient of your confidence if I did not advise you to the best of my ability. If only you knew — If only I could —”

  “Knew what?” Joram asked, looking up swiftly at the catalyst.

  Saryon blinked and bit off his words, swallowing them hastily. “If only I could make you understand,” he finished lamely, sweat beading on hs lips. “I know you plan to marry this girl,” he said slowly, his brows knotted.

  “Yes,” Joram answered coolly. “When my inheritance is settled, of course.”

  “Of course,” repeated Saryon in hollow tones. “Have you given any thought to what we discussed the other day?”

  “You mean about me being Dead?” Joram asked evenly.

  The catalyst could only nod.

  Joram was silent another moment. His hand going absently to his hair, he began to rake through it, combing it with his fingers as had Anja, so long ago. “Father,” he said finally, in a tight voice, “don’t I have a right to love, to be loved?”

  “Joram —” Saryon began helplessly, fumbling for words.
“That isn’t the point. Of course you have that right! All humans have it. Love is the gift from the Almin —”

  “Except to those who are Dead!” Joram sneered.

  “My son,” Saryon said compassionately, “what is love if it does not speak the truth? Can love grow and flourish if it is planted in a garden of lies?” His voice broke before he could finish, the word “lies” seeming to shine in the darkness brighter than the moon itself.

  “You are right, Saryon,” said Joram in a firm voice. “My mother was destroyed by lies — lies she and my father told each other, lies she told herself. It was the lies that drove her mad. I’ve thought about what you said to me, and I have decided —” He paused, and Saryon looked at him hopefully.

  “— to tell Gwendolyn the truth,” Joram finished.

  The catalyst sighed, shivering in the cool night air. That hadn’t been the answer he hoped to hear. Drawing his robes closer about him, he pondered his next words carefully. “I am glad, glad beyond measure, that you realize you cannot deceive this girl,” he said finally. “But I still think it would be better to drop out of her life — at least right now. Perhaps, someday, you can return. To tell her the truth will put your own life at risk, Joram! The girl is so young! She may not understand, and you will only endanger yourself.”

  “My life means nothing to me without her,” Joram responded. “I know she is young, but there is a core of strength within her, a strength born of goodness and her love for me. There is an old saying of your Almin’s, Catalyst.” Looking at Saryon, Joram smiled, a true smile, one that brought a soft light to the dark eyes. “‘The truth shall make you free.’ I understand that now and I believe it. Good night, Saryon,” he added, rising to his feet.

  Hesitantly, he laid his hand on the catalyst’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “I sometimes think … if my father had been more like you — if he had been wise and caring — then the tragedy of his life and mine might never have happened.”