Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  Joram turned away abruptly and walked with rapid strides down the winding, twisting garden path. Embarrassed and ashamed over having bared his soul, he did not look back at Saryon as he left.

  It was well that Joram did not see the catalyst. Saryon’s head sank to his hands, tears crept from beneath his eyelids. “The truth shall make you free,” he whispered, weeping. “Oh, my god! You force me to eat my own words and they are poison to me!”

  7

  The Killing Frost

  Several more days passed after the meetings in the garden — days of idyllic bliss for the lovers, days of torture for the catalyst, slowly sinking beneath the burden of his secret. Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund smiled upon the “children” with delight. Nothing in the house was too good for the future Baron and his friends, and Lady Rosamund began to consider how many people could be fit into the dining room for the wedding breakfast and if it would be proper to invite the Emperor or not.

  Then one morning Lord Samuels went out to his garden as usual, only to return almost immediately to the house, using language that shocked the servants and caused his wife — seated at breakfast — to raise her eyebrows in reproof.

  “Damn the Sif-Hanar!” Lord Samuels thundered. “Where’s Marie?”

  “With the little ones. My dear, whatever is the matter?” Lady Rosamund asked, rising from the table in concern.

  “A frost! That’s what’s the matter! You should see the garden!”

  The family rushed outside. The garden was truly in a pitiable state. One look at her beloved roses, hanging black and withered on their stems, caused Gwendolyn to cover her eyes in despair. The trees were rimed with white; dead blossoms fell like snow; brown leaves littered the ground. With Marie to grant him Life, Lord Samuels did what he could to repair the worst of the damage, but he predicted it would be many days before their garden recovered.

  This damage was not confined to Lord Samuels’s garden alone. All of Merilon was in an uproar and, for a few quaking moments that morning, several of the Sif-Hanar envisioned themselves languishing in the dungeons of the Duuk-tsarith, It finally came out that the fault lay with two of them, each of whom had assumed the other was going to regulate the temperature of the dome in the night. Neither did. The wintry weather outside caused the weather inside to turn from spring to fail in an instant, and all of Merilon was drooping, wilting, brown and dying.

  Lord Samuels went to work in a foul temper. The day passed in gloom, and evening did nothing to improve anyone’s spirits, for Lord Samuels returned home in a darker mood than before. Saying little to anyone, he went out to the garden to survey the damage. On his return, he sat down to dinner with his guests and family as usual, but he was silent and thoughtful during the meal, his gaze resting on Joram, much to that young man’s consternation.

  Gwendolyn, noticing her father’s subdued spirits, immedately lost her appetite. To ask what was bothering him would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette — the only conversations considered suitable for the dinner table were lighthearted recounts of the day’s activities.

  Lady Rosamund, too, noticed her husband’s dark mood and wondered fearfully what had happened. It was obvious that this was more than worry over the garden. There Was nothing she could do, however, but try to cover for it as best she could and entertain their guests. Lady Rosamund chatted about this and that, therefore, with a semblance of cheerfulness that only made the meal more gloomy.

  Young Master Samuels had learned to fly up out of his crib that morning, she reported, but, scaring himself by this feat, he had apparently lost his sense of magic and tumbled down to the floor, frightening everyone for a few moments until the lump on his head was examined by Marie and pronounced not serious.

  No word had been received from Simkin, who had that morning — unaccountably and without saying anything to anyone — disappeared. But a high-placed friend of a high-placed friend of a lower-placed friend of milady’s informed her that he had been seen at court, in company with the Empress. This same friend of a friend of a friend reported that the Empress was in low spirits, but that this was only natural, considering the anniversary that was coming up.

  “What a dreadful time that was,” recalled Lady Rosamund, shuddering delicately, nibbling at an iced strawberry. “That day when the Prince was declared Dead. We had the most splendid party planned, to celebrate his birth, and we had to cancel it. Do you remember, Marie? All the food we conjured up …” She sighed. “I believe we sent it down to the cousins, so that it wouldn’t go to waste.”

  “I remember,” Marie said gravely, trying to keep the conversation going. “We — Why, Father Dunstable, are you all right?”

  “He’s swallowed something the wrong way,” said Lady Rosamund solicitously. “Bring him a glass of water.” She motioned to a servant.

  “Thank you,” murmured Saryon. Choking, he thankfully hid his face in the goblet of water one of the House Magi sent floating his direction. So shaken was the catalyst that he was forced to clasp it in his trembling hand and drink it in this awkward fashion instead of using his magic to keep the goblet suspended near his lips.

  Shortly after this, Lord Samuels rose abruptly from his chair.

  “Joram, Father Dunstable, will you take your brandy in my library?” he said.

  “But — dessert?” said Lady Rosamund.

  “None for me, thank you,” Lord Samuels replied coldly, and left the room after casting Joram a meaningful glance. No one else said a word. Gwen sat huddled in her chair, looking very much like one of her frost-blighted roses. Joram and Saryon excused themselves to Lady Rosamund, and Lord Samuels led his guests into his library, the servant following.

  A figure started up out of a chair.

  “Mosiah!” said Lord Samuels in astonishment.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mosiah stammered, flushing.

  “We missed you at dinner, young man,” Lord Samuels said coldly This was a polite fiction. In the prevailing gloom of the dining room, no one had noticed the young man’s absence at all.

  “I guess I forgot about the time. I was so involved in reading —” Mosiah held up a book.

  “Go ask the servants to get you something to eat,” Lord Samuels cut him off, opening the door wide in a gesture of dismissal.

  “Tha — thank you, my lord,” stuttered Mosiah, his eyes going from the lord’s grim face to Joram’s worried one. He looked to Saryon for an explanation, but the catalyst only shook his head. Bowing, Mosiah left the room and Lord Samuels motioned to the servant to pour the brandy.

  The library was a cozy chamber. Obviously designed by and for the man of the house, it was filled with numerous pieces of finely shaped wood — a large oaken desk, several comfortable chairs, and a great many lovingly shaped bookcases. The books and scrolls contained therein were suitable to Lord Samuels’s rank and position in society. He was an educated man, as was necessary to rise to the rank of Guildmaster, but he was not too educated. That would have been viewed as an attempt to rise above his station, and Lord Samuels — like his wife — was careful to keep a respectful distance between himself and his betters. For this, he was widely admired, particularly by his betters, who were frequently heard to observe that Lord Samuels “knew” his place.

  Joram glanced at the books as he entered. Drawn to knowledge as a starving man to food, he was already familiar with every title in the library. When he was forced — of necessity — to be parted from Gwen, he spent most of his time in here with Mosiah. True to his promise, Joram had taught his friend to read. Mosiah was an apt pupil, quick and intelligent. The lessons went well, and now, in his enforced confinement, Mosiah found the library a blessing.

  He had begun his studies in earnest, working his way painstakingly through the texts, often without help; Joram being somewhat preoccupied. In particular, Mosiah was entranced by the books on the theories and uses of magic, having never been exposed to anything like this before. Joram considered these books boring and useless, but Mosiah d
evoted most of his leisure hours — and there were many — to the study of his magic.

  Saryon, in his turn, did not notice the books at all. The catalyst barely noticed anything in the room, including the chair which milord drew up for him with a gesture and then had to reposition quickly as the catalyst — absorbed in his thoughts — started to sit down in midair.

  “I beg your pardon, Father Dunstable,” Lord Samuels apologized as the catalyst literally collapsed into the chair that scooted up beneath him.

  “My fault, my lord,” Saryon mumbled. “I wasn’t watching …” His voice died.

  “Perhaps you should get out more, Father,” Lord Samuels suggested as the servant was causing the brandy to flow from a crystal decanter into fragile goblets of glass. “You and that young man, Mosiah. I can understand why this young man prefers my garden to the fabulous gardens of City Below” — he gave Joram a meaningful look, a slight frown marring his forehead — “but I do think you and Mosiah should see the wonders of our beautiful city before you leave.” There was an unconscious emphasis on the words.

  Alarmed, Joram glanced at Saryon, but the catalyst could only return his look with a shrug of the shoulders. There was nothing either could do or say; Lord Samuels was obviously keeping the conversation carefully innocuous until the servant had been dismissed. Joram stiffened, his hands curled over the arms of his chair.

  “I understand that you once lived here, Father Dunstable?” continued Lord Samuels.

  Saryon could trust himself only to nod.

  “You are familiar with our city, then. But this is the young man — Mosiah’s — first visit. Yet my lady tells me he spends his hours in here, reading!”

  “He likes to read, my lord,” Joram said shortly.

  Saryon tensed. A week with Prince Garald had given Joram a thin coating of courtesy and court manners. The young man believed fondly that this had changed his life. But Saryon knew it was only temporary, like the cooled top crust of a lava flow. The fire and rage were there still, bubbling just below the surface. Let the crust crack, and they would spew forth.

  “Will there be anything more you require, my lord?” the servant asked.

  “No, thank you,” Lord Samuels replied. Bowing, the servant left the room, shutting the door behind him. With a spoken word, Lord Samuels cast a spell of sealing on it, and the three were alone in the library that smelled faintly of musty parchment and old leather.

  “We have a matter of some unpleasantness to discuss,” Lord Samuels said in a cool, grave tone. “I find it never helps to put these things off, and so I will get right to the point. A difficulty has arisen concerning the records of your birth, Joram.”

  Lord Samuels paused, apparently expecting some response — perhaps even a confused admission from the young man that he was, after all, an imposter. But Joram said nothing. His dark eyes maintained their fixed, steady gaze, staring so intently into Lord Samuels’s eyes that it was His Lordship who eventually lowered his head, clearing his throat in some embarrassment.

  “I am not saying that you have deliberately lied to me, young man,” Lord Samuels continued, his brandy hovering untasted in the air beside him. “And I admit that perhaps I compounded the problem by becoming too … enthusiastic. I believe I may have raised false hopes in you —”

  “What is the problem with the records?” asked Joram, his voice so brittle that Saryon shuddered, seeing the rock start to crack.

  “To put it simply — they do not exist,” replied Lord Samuels, spreading his hands out wide, the palms empty. “My friend has found the record of this woman’s, Anja’s, admittance to the Font’s lying-in chambers. But there is no record at all of her baby’s birth. Father Dunstable” — milord interrupted himself — “are you feeling quite well? Should I send for the servant?”

  “N-no, my lord. Please …” Saryon murmured in an inaudible voice. He took a gulp of brandy, gasping slightly as the fiery liquid bit into his throat. “A slight indisposition. It will pass.”

  Joram opened his mouth to speak again, but Lord Samuels raised his hand and, with an obvious effort of self-control, the young man remained silent.

  “Now, there are undoubtedly reasons why this could be. From what you have told me about your mother’s tragic past, it would be consistent with her distraught state of mind at this period of her life to think she might have taken the records of your birth with her. Particularly if she thought she could come back and use them to claim what was rightfully her inheritance. Did she ever mention to you that she had such records in her possession?”

  “No,” Joram answered. “My lord,” he added stiffly.

  “Joram” — Lord Samuels’s voice grew stern, annoyed at the young man’s tone — “I want very much to believe you. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to investigate your claims. I did this not only for you, but for my daughter, as well. My child’s happiness means everything to me. I can see quite clearly that she is … shall we say … infatuated with you. And you with her. Therefore, until this matter can be resolved, I think it is in both your best interests if you leave my house —”

  “Infatuated? I love her, my lord!” Joram interrupted.

  “If you do truly love my daughter as you claim,” Lord Samuels continued coolly, “then you will agree with me that it is in her best interests that you leave this house immediately. If this claim of yours can be proven, of course, I will give my consent to —”

  “It is true, I tell you!” Joram cried passionately, half rising from his chair.

  The young man’s dark eyes burned, his face flushed in anger. Frowning, Lord Samuels made a slight movement toward the small silver bell that would summon the servants.

  Seeing this, Saryon reached out his hand and laid it restrainingly upon Joram’s arm, causing the young man to sink slowly back into his chair.

  “I’ll get proof! What proof do you want?” Joram demanded, breathing heavily. His hands clutched the armrests of the chair in his effort to control his temper.

  Lord Samuels sighed. “According to my friend, the midwife he spoke to in the Font is of the opinion that the former midwife — the one who was there at the time of your birth — remembered that occasion, due to the … um … unusual circumstances surrounding it. If you had a birthmark” — milord shrugged — “anything that she might recall, the Church would undoubtedly accept her testimony. She is now a high-ranking Theldara attending the Empress,” Lord Samuels added by way of explanation to Saryon, who wasn’t listening.

  The catalyst’s head was bursting with intense pain; blood beat in his ears. He knew what Joram was going to say, he could see the light of hope dawning upon the young man’s face, he could see the lips moving, his hands going to the fabric of the shirt that covered his chest.

  I must stop him! the catalyst thought desperately, but a paralyzing fear gripped him. Saryon’s lips were rigid, he could not speak. He could not draw breath. He might have been turned to stone. He could hear Joram talking, but the words came to him with a muffled sound as if spoken out of a thick mist.

  “I do have a birthmark!” The young man’s hands tore his shirt open. “One she’s certain to remember! Look! These scars … on my chest! Anja said they were caused by the clumsy midwife who delivered me! Her nails dug into my flesh as she drew me from my mother’s womb! These will prove my true identity!”

  No! No! Saryon screamed silently. Not the nails of a clumsy midwife! He remembered it all with vivid, aching clarity. Those scars — the tears of your mother! Your real mother, the Empress, weeping over you in the magnificent Cathedral of Merilon; her crystal tears falling upon her Dead baby, shattering, cutting; the blood running red down the baby’s white skin; Bishop Vanya’s look of annoyance, for now the tiny baby would have to be purified all over again …

  The books were caving in on Saryon … The books … forbidden books … forbidden knowledge … The Duuk-tsarith surrounding him … Their black robes, smothering him … He was suffocating … He couldn’t breathe …


  These … will prove my true identity….

  Darkness.

  8

  In the Night

  “Will he live?”

  “Yes,” said the Theldara, coming out of the room to which they had carried the inert, and to all appearances lifeless, catalyst. She studied the young man standing before her intently. In the stern face and thick black hair, she saw little resemblance to the features of the sick man. Yet the pain and anguish and even fear visible in the dark eyes made the Druidess doubt.

  “Are you his son?” she asked.

  “No … no,” responded the young man, shaking his head. “I am a … friend.” He said this almost wistfully. “We have traveled far together.”

  The Theldara frowned. “Yes. I can tell from the body’s impulses that this man has long been separated from his home. He is a man accustomed to peace and quiet pursuits, his colors are grays and soft blues. Yet I see auras of fiery red emanating from his skin. If it were not impossible in these days of peace,” the Theldara continued, “I would say this catalyst had been involved in a battle! But there is no war …”

  Stopping, the Druidess eyed Joram questioningly.

  “No,” he replied.

  “Therefore,” the Theldara continued, “I must judge the turmoil to be internal. This is affecting his fluids; indeed, it is affecting the total harmony of his body! And there is something else, some dread secret he bears …”

  “We all bear secrets,” Joram said impatiently. Looking beyond the Theldara, he tried to see into the darkened room. “Can I visit him?”

  “Just a moment, young man,” said the Theldara sternly, catching hold of Joram’s arm in her hand.

  The Theldara was a large woman of middle age. Considered one of the best Healers in the city of Merilon, she had, in her time, wrestled with the insane until her healing powers brought order to their troubled minds. She cradled the living in her arms when they came into the world, she cradled the dying as they left it. Possessed of a strong grip and a stronger will, she was not the least bit intimidated by Joram’s scowl at her touch, and held onto him firmly.