Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Listen to me,” she said in a low voice, so as not to disturb the catalyst lying within the room near them. “If you are his friend, you will draw this secret out of him. As a thorn in the flesh poisons the blood, so this secret is poisoning his soul and has very nearly led to his death. That and the fact that he hasn’t been eating well, nor sleeping regularly. I don’t suppose you noticed that, did you?”

  Joram could do nothing but stare at the woman grimly.

  “I thought not!” The Druidess sniffed. “You young people, wrapped up in your own concerns!”

  “What happened to him?” Joram asked, his gaze going to the darkened room. Soothing music, prescribed by the Theldara, was emanating from a harp she had placed in the corner, unseen hands plucking the strings in a rhythm calculated to restore harmony to the discordant vibrations she could sense within her patient.

  “It is known among laymen as Almin’s Hand. The peasants believe that the hand of god strikes the victims down. We know, of course,” the Theldara answered crisply, “that it is a drastic upset of the body’s natural flow of fluids, causing the brain to starve. In some cases, this brings on paralysis, an inability to talk, blindness …”

  Joram turned to look at the Druidess in alarm. “This hasn’t happened to —” He couldn’t go on.

  “To him? “Your friend?” The Theldara was noted for her biting tongue. “No. You can thank the Almin and myself for that. He is a strong man, your friend, or he would have succumbed long ago to the strain of this terrible burden beneath which he labors. His healing energies are good and I was able, with the help of the House Catalyst” — Joram caught a glimpse of Marie, standing in the room near the bed — “to restore him to health. He will be weak for a few days, but he will be fine. As fine as he can be,” the Theldara said, letting loose her hold on Joram, “until that secret is purged from his body, its poisons drained. See to it that he eats and sleeps —”

  “Will it happen again?”

  “Undoubtedly, if he doesn’t take care of himself. And next time … Well, if there is a next time, there probably won’t be any more times after that. Bring me my cloak,” the Theldara instructed one of the servants, who vanished instantly in search of it.

  “I know this secret,” said Joram, his dark brows coming together.

  “You do?” The Theldara looked at him in some astonishment.

  “Yes,” said Joram. “Why does that surprise you?”

  She pondered a moment, considering, then shook her head. “No,” she said firmly, “you may think you know his secret, but you do not. I felt its presence with these hands” — she held them up — “and it is buried deep inside him, so far down that my probing of his thoughts could not touch it.”

  Looking at Joram shrewdly, the Theldara’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the secret he keeps that is yours, don’t you? The fact that you are Dead. He may keep that knowledge hidden to the world, but it floats at the top of his thoughts and is easily read to those of us who know how. Oh, don’t be alarmed! We Theldara take an ancient oath to respect our patients’ confidences. It comes from the old world, one of the greatest of our kind named Hippocrates. We must take an oath this binding, who can see so far into the heart and the soul.”

  Holding out her arms, she allowed the House Magi to slip the cloak over her shoulders. “Now, go to your friend. Talk to him. He has shared your secret for a long time. Let him know you are prepared to share his.”

  “I will,” said Joram gravely. “But I —” He shrugged helplessly. “I can’t imagine what it could be. I know this man very well, or at least I thought I did. Isn’t there a clue?”

  The Theldara prepared to leave.

  “Just one,” she said, checking to see that her herbal potions and concoctions were each in their respective places in the large wooden tray that accompanied her. Finding all in order, she raised her head to look once more at Joram. “Often, this type of attack is brought about by a shock to the system. Think back to what you were discussing at the time the attack came on him. That might give you some clue. Again” — she shrugged — “it might not. The Almin alone knows the answer to this one, I am afraid.”

  “Thank you for helping him,” Joram said.

  “Humph! I wish I could say the same for you!” The Theldara gave a final, bitter nod, then, bidding her tray follow, she floated down the corridor to take her farewell of Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund.

  Joram stared after her unseeing, his mind’s eye going back to the scene in the library. He and Lord Samuels had been discussing how to prove Joram’s claim to the Barony. The young man couldn’t remember Saryon saying anything, but then, Joram admitted to himself unhappily, he hadn’t been paying any attention to the catalyst. His thoughts had been centered on his own concerns. What had been said right before the catalyst collapsed? Joram sought back in his mind.

  “Yes.” His hand went to his chest. “We had been talking about these scars….”

  Gwendolyn sat in her room, alone in the darkness. Her eyes burned from the tears she had cried and now, having no more tears left and fearful that her face would be red and swollen in the morning, she was bathing it in rose water.

  “Even if I cannot talk to Joram, he will see me,” she said to herself, sitting at her dressing table.

  The moon, its cold light enhanced by the magic of the Sif-Hanar, shed a pearlized glow over Merilon. The moon’s light touched Gwen, but she could not see its beauty and, in fact, it chilled her. The moon’s cold eye seemed to stare at her tears without caring or compassion; its white rays on her skin made the warm flesh appear corpselike in its pallor.

  Gwen preferred the company of the darkness and, rising to her feet, she drew the curtain shut with her hand — a task she ordinarily would have performed by a gesture and the use of magic. But she was physically drained, and there was no magic left in her.

  Lord Samuels, following the assurances of the Theldara that Father Dunstable would be quite well in the morning, had informed his daughter that she was not to speak to Joram or allow him to address her until this matter of the young man’s inheritance could be firmly established.

  “I do not accuse him of being an imposter,” Lord Samuels had said to his daughter, who was weeping bitterly in her mother’s arms. “I believe his story. But if it cannot be proven, then he is a nobody. A man without wealth, without family background. He is” — milord had shrugged helplessly — “a Field Magus! That is what he was and, until he can rightfully claim better, that is what he must remain! Worse than that, he must live in the shadow of disgrace —”

  “It wasn’t his fault!” Gwen had cried passionately. “Why should he pay for his father’s sin?”

  “I know that, my dear,” said Lord Samuels. “And I am certain that, if he achieves his Barony, everyone else will feel the same way. I am sorry this had to happen, Gwendolyn,” milord had said, stroking his daughter’s hair with a kind hand, for he truly doted on his girl and it broke his heart to see her in such grief. “It is my fault,” he had added, sighing, “for encouraging this connection before I knew the facts. But it seemed such … such a good investment in your future at the time….”

  “And things may come out right yet, my pet!” Lady Rosamund had brushed her daughter’s hair back from the tear-laden eyes. “Day after tomorrow is the Emperor’s ball. The midwife now attends Her Majesty. Your father will arrange to meet her and we will find out then if she recognizes Joram. If she does, why, what a wonderful time we will have! If not, think of the young noblemen who will be in attendance and who will be very happy to help you put this young man out of your life.”

  Put this young man out of your life. Alone in her room, Gwen clasped her hands over her aching heart and bowed her head in sorrow. Investment in your future.

  “Am I that heartless?” she asked herself. “Is there nothing more to me than a desire for wealth, for an easy, happy, fun-loving life?” Surely, she thought guiltily, looking around her in the moonlight that the filmy curtains could no
t shut out, surely that is how I must appear or my parents would not have said such things.

  Recalling her words and her dreams over the past few days, her guilt increased tenfold.

  “When I’ve dreamed of Joram,” she murmured, “I’ve dreamed of him in fine clothes, not the plain clothes he wears now. I’ve pictured him floating over his estate, his servants around him, or riding his horses at a gallop in a game of King’s Ransom, or taking me with him as he visits the farms once a year, all the peasants bowing to us in respect….” She closed her burning eyes. “But he was a Field Magus! A peasant — one of those who bowed! And if he fails to prove his claim, that’s likely what he’ll go back to being. Could I stand beside him, my feet in the dirt, bowing? …”

  For a moment, she doubted. Fear overcame her. She had never been to a Field Magi village before, but she had heard about them from Joram. She pictured her white skin burned and blistered by the sun, her fair hair tangled by wind, her body worn and weary and hurting by day’s end. She saw herself plodding back home through the fields, walking because she lacked the energy to fly. But there was Joram beside her, walking with her to their hut. He had his arm around her, supporting her tired footsteps. They would return home together. She would cook their simple meal (“I suppose I could learn to cook” she whispered.) while he watched their children playing….

  Gwendolyn flushed, a warmth flowing through her body. Children. The catalysts would perform the ceremony, transferring his seed to her body. She wondered how they did it, for it was a subject about which her mother never spoke. No well-bred woman did, for that matter. Still, Gwen couldn’t help but feel curious, and it was odd that this curiosity should come over her now, when she was picturing Joram eating his meal, looking at her, his dark eyes shining in the firelight …

  The warmth of that fire spread through Gwen, enveloping her in a sweet golden aura that seemed in her mind to outshine the pale, cold light of the moon. Laying her head down on her arms, she began to cry again, but these tears sprang from a different well, one deeper and purer than she had ever imagined existed. They were tears of joy, for she knew that she loved Joram unselfishly. She had loved him as Baronet, she could love him as peasant. No matter what happened or where he went, her place was with him, even if it was in a field….

  If Gwendolyn had known the true rigors of the life she so innocently planned sharing with Joram, the heart that was beginning for the first time to feel the strong pulsing of a woman’s love might have faltered. The simple hut she conjured up in her mind was at least five times the size of a real Field Magus’s crude dwelling. The simple meal she pictured cooking would have fed a real peasant family for a month and, in her fond dream, all her children were born healthy, and thrived in their environment. No tiny graves dotted the landscape of her imagination.

  But, in her present mood, that might not have mattered. Indeed, the harder the life, the more she embraced it, for that would prove her love! She raised her head, tears glistening on her cheeks. She hoped that Joram would not be able to claim the Barony! She pictured him crushed, dejected. She pictured her father grabbing her and starting to drag her away.

  “But I will break free!” she said to herself in a fervor that was almost holy. “I will run to Joram and he will take me in his arms and we will be together forever and ever….”

  “Forever and ever,” she repeated, falling to her knees and folding her hands. “Please, Heavenly Almin,” she whispered, “please let me find a way to tell him! Please.”

  A feeling of peace and contentment stole over her and she smiled. Her prayer had been answered. Somehow, she would find a way to meet Joram in secret tomorrow and tell him. Leaning her head against her bed, she closed her eyes. The moonlight, penetrating the filmy curtain, touched the lips and froze their sweet smile. The tears upon her cheeks dried in its cold radiance, and Marie, coming in to check on her darling, shivered as she put the girl to bed and muttered a prayer to the Almin herself.

  It was well known that those who slept too long in lunar light were subject to its curse….

  Joram spent the night at the catalyst’s bedside. No moonlight shone upon his thoughts, for the Theldara had made certain its unsettling influence did not disturb her patient. The harp in the corner of the room continued to play its soothing airs — the music of a shepherd playing his flute, greeting the dawn that eases his night’s watchfulness and relaxes his cares. A crystal globe hovered over the catalyst, shedding a soft light upon his face to keep away the terrors that lurk in darkness. Near it, liquid bubbled in another globe, sending forth aromatic fumes that cleansed the lungs and purged the blood of impurities.

  How much good this did for Saryon was open to question, since, as the Theldara said, the secret of Joram’s true identity was more deadly to him than a cancerous growth. No herbs could draw out its poison, no healing gifts of the Theldara could call upon his body to use its own magic and fight the destroyer. Saryon lay sleeping under a sedating enchantment cast by the Theldara, apparently oblivious to all around him. That was probably the only treatment that could benefit him now, and it was only temporary, for the enchantment would soon wear off and he would be left to struggle along beneath his burden once more.

  But if the soothing music and the aromatic herbs did little for the catalyst, they were a blessing to Joram. Sitting at the bedside of the man who had done so much for him — had done so much and received such small thanks — Joram remembered vividly the lost and lonely feeling he had experienced when he thought the catalyst might have died.

  “You understand me, Father,” he said, holding onto the wasted hand that lay upon the coverlet. “None of the others do. Not Mosiah, not Simkin. They have magic, they have Life. You know, Saryon, what it is to yearn for the magic! Do you recall? You told me that once. You told me that as a child you were bitter at the Almin for making you a catalyst, for denying you the magic.

  “Forgive me! I’ve been blind, so blind!” Joram laid his head down upon the catalysts hand. “Blessed Almin!” he cried in stifled agony. “I look at my soul and I see a dark and loathsome monster! Prince Garald was right. I was beginning to enjoy killing. I enjoyed the feeling of power it gave me! Now I see it wasn’t power at all. It was a weakness, a cowardice. I couldn’t face myself, I couldn’t face my enemy. I had to catch him unaware, strike from behind, strike while he was helpless! But for Garald and you, Father, I might have become that dark and loathsome monster within. But for you — and for Gwendolyn. Her love brings light to my soul.”

  Raising his head, Joram stared down at his hands in disgust. “But how can I touch her with these hands, stained with blood? You are right, Saryon!” He stood up feverishly. “We must leave! But no!” He stopped, half turning. “How can I? She is my light! Without her, I am plunged into darkness once more. The truth. I must tell her the truth. Everything! That I’m Dead. That I’m a murderer…. After all, it doesn’t really sound that badly when I explain…. The overseer killed my mother. I was in danger. It was self-defense.” Joram sat down beside Saryon once more. “Blachloch was an evil man who deserved death not once but ten times over to pay for the suffering he inflicted on others. I will make her see that. I will make her understand. And she will forgive me, as you have forgiven me, Father. Between her love and forgiveness and your own, I will be cleansed….”

  Joram fell silent, listening to the playing of the harp that was now the soft singing of a mother’s lullaby to the infant sleeping in her arms. It brought no soothing reminiscences to the young man. Anja’s lullabies had been of an uglier tone, telling him night after night the bitter story of his father’s terrible punishment.

  And though the Theldara had no way of knowing it, the lullaby brought dread dreams to Saryon. In his enchanted sleep, he saw himself — a young Deacon — carrying a child wrapped in a royal blanket through a deserted, silent corridor. He heard himself singing that lullaby — the last the baby would ever hear — in a voice that was thick and choked by tears.

  On t
he bed, the catalyst twitched and moaned, his head moving feebly on the pillow in refusal … or denial….

  Joram, not understanding, looked at him in anguish. “You do forgive me, don’t you, Father?” he whispered. “I need your forgiveness….”

  9

  In the Morning

  “Knock, knock. Hullo? I say, is anybody home? I — Almin’s teeth and toenails, dear boy!” Simkin gasped, falling backward into the wall and clutching at his heart. “Mosiah!”

  “Simkin!” cried the other young man, almost as startled as his companion.

  Rounding a corner of a hallway, the two had nearly collided.

  “Ye gads!” Dressed from head to toe in bright green satin, Simkin yanked the perennial orange silk from the air and began wiping at his brow with a shaking hand. “You’ve very nearly scared me out of my pants, dear boy, as happened to the Duke of Cherburg. Dressing up as the Duuk-tsarith was just the Marquis’s little joke. Anyone could tell those black robes he was wearing weren’t real. But the Baron is a nervous man. Thought he’d been nabbed by the warlocks, lost his magic, and there he was — his breeches down around his ankles, all his secrets exposed. It caused quite a sensation at court, though I thought it rather a large fuss over something so little. I expressed my condolences to the Duchess….”

  “I scared you?” Mosiah said when he could get a word in sideways. “What do you think you’re doing, just popping out of thin air like that? And where have you been?”

  “Oh, here and there, hither and yon, round and about,” Simkin said cheerily, glancing vaguely into the living room of Lord Samuels’s house. “I say, where is everyone? In particular, the Dark and Gloomy Lover. Still mooning about the girl, or has he had his fun with her and gotten over it?”