Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  This is it, Saryon thought fearfully. Now he will send for the warlocks. And what will I tell them? Can I betray him, even now?

  But Vanya regained control of himself, though it was with an obvious effort. Sucking in several deep breaths through his nose, he forced his hand to relax and he even managed to look at the catalyst with a smile, though it was closer to the smile of a corpse than of living man.

  “Saryon,” he said in hollow tones, “I know why you are protecting this young man, and it is very commendable of you. To love and help one’s fellow man is why the Almin places us in this world. And I promise you, Saryon — by all that is holy, by all I believe in — that this young man will not be killed.” The Bishop’s red face became mottled, splotched with white. “Indeed,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe, “how can we kill him? ‘Die again.’ That’s what the Prophecy says. We must insure that he lives. That will be our care….”

  The tension on Saryon’s face eased. “Yes!” he whispered to himself. “Yes, that is true. Joram must not die! He must live —”

  “It was what I sought to do when he was a babe,” Vanya said softly, his eyes on Saryon. “He would have been nurtured, protected, sheltered. But that wretched, insane woman …” He stopped talking, holding his breath.

  Saryon’s face was bathed in radiance, his eyes turned upward to heaven. “Blessed Almin!” the catalyst whispered, tears coursing down his cheeks. “Forgive me! Forgive me!”

  Dropping his head into his hands, Saryon began to weep, feeling the darkness pour out of his soul, purging it as the Theldara purges a festering wound.

  Bishop Vanya smiled. Standing up, he walked over to the bed and sat down beside the sobbing catalyst. He put his arm around Saryon and drew him close.

  “You are forgiven, my son,” said the Bishop smoothly. “You are forgiven…. Now, tell me …”

  BOOK THREE

  1

  Among the Clouds

  Carriages for hire stood in line on Conveyance Lane, waiting for customers. Beautiful, bizarre, ofttimes both, the equipages were fantastic beyond imagining. Winged squirrels drawing gilded nutshells, diamond-encrusted pumpkins pulled by teams of mice (these were quite popular with teenage girls), and the more staid and conservative assortment of griffin- and unicorn-pulled conveyances, designed for Guildmasters and others who preferred less ostentatious means of travel. Impatient to be gone, Joram would have chosen the first carriage at the stand — a giant lizard magically altered to resemble a dragon. But Simkin, pronouncing this to be in shocking bad taste (much to the ire of the carriage’s owner), moved along the row of conveyances, examining each with a critical eye.

  A black swan, mutated by the Kan-Hanar to gigantic proportions, was finally — after much thoughtful scrutiny on Simkin’s part and much impatient fuming on Joram’s — pronounced suitable.

  “We’ll have it,” Simkin announced majestically to the driver.

  “Where are you going?” asked the driver, a young woman clothed in white swan’s down, her eyes magically touched to resemble the eyes of the bird.

  “To the Palace, of course,” said Simkin languidly, taking his place with calm aplomb on the swan’s back. Nestling down amidst the shining black feathers, he sighed in contentment and motioned for Joram to join him. As Joram climbed up beside his friend, the driver scrutinized both young men and her black-rimmed eyes narrowed.

  “I need to see the official invitation to get through the Border clouds,” she said crisply, her gaze of disfavor going in particular to Joram, who had refused to allow Simkin to dress him up for the occasion.

  “My dear boy,” Simkin had said to Joram mournfully, “you’d be a sensation if you’d only put yourself in my hands! What I could do with you! With that beautiful hair and those muscular arms! Women would be dropping at your feet like poisoned pigeons!”

  Joram had pointed out that this might be somewhat of an inconvenience, but Simkin was not to be so easily deterred.

  “I have just the color for you — I call it Coals of Fire! A burnt orange, don’t you know. I can make it hot to the touch, small flames licking about your ankles. Of course, you’d have to be careful who you danced with. The Emperor had a party once where a guest went up in flames. Heartburn got out of hand …”

  Joram had refused the Coals, choosing instead to wear an almost exact copy of the style of clothes Prince Garald wore — a long, flowing robe devoid of decoration with a simple collar (“No neck ruff?” Simkin had cried in agony).

  Joram had chosen green velvet for the robe’s fabric, in memory of the green dress Anja had worn until the day she died. That tattered green dress was the only remnant of her happy life in Merilon, and it seemed most fitting that her son should wear this color the night he went to reclaim the place in his family. Joram felt very close to Anja tonight, running his hand over the smooth velvet. Perhaps this was because he had seen her standing before him last night in a dream, and he knew that her restless, wandering spirit would not find peace until her wrongs had been redressed. At least that is what he assumed the dream meant. She had been reaching out to him, her hands folded in supplication, begging …

  “Well, if you’re going to go to the Palace the walking personification of a wet blanket, then I’ll do likewise,” Simkin had announced gloomily, changing his flamboyant regalia that had included, among other things, a six-foot-high rooster’s tail. With a wave of his hand, he had then clothed himself in a long robe of pure white.

  “Name of the Almin!” Mosiah had said, staring at Simkin in disgust. “Change back! That last combination was ghastly but it was better than this! You look just like a pallbearer.”

  “Do I?” Simkin had appeared pleased, the notion taking his fancy. “Why, then, it’s suitable to the occasion, don’t you see? Anniversary of the Dead Prince and all that. I’m quite glad I thought it up.”

  Nothing they had said could talk him out of it after that, and it was only after long argument that Simkin had foregone adding a white hood to cover his head in the manner of those who escort the crystal coffins of the dead to their final resting place.

  “I want my fee in advance, too,” the driver continued. “It’s a strange thing, people hiring carriages to take them to the Palace. Most of those who are invited” — she laid emphasis on the word — “own their own carriages and have no need to hire mine.”

  “Egad, m’dear! But I’m Simkin,” the young man replied as if that quite settled the matter. Gathering his white robes comfortably about him, Simkin waved the orange silk at the driver. “Proceed,” he ordered.

  The young woman blinked her swanlike eyes in astonishment at this, staring at Simkin in either speechless wonder or speechless rage, neither of which made the slightest impression on the young man.

  “Go along!” he said impatiently. “We’ll be late.”

  After another moment’s hesitation, the driver took her place at the great bird’s neck and, grasping the reins, ordered the black swan to rise. “If we’re stopped at the Border,” she said ominously. “it’s on your head. I’m not going to lose my permit over the likes of you two.”

  Nervously, Joram followed her gesture, looking up into the clouds.

  “There are more eyes in those clouds than hailstones,” said Simkin casually as the swan spread its wings and propelled itself upward, leaping off the ground with its taloned black feet. “Watch it, there,” he added solicitously, catching hold of Joram who had nearly fallen overboard at the sudden jolt. “Forgot to warn you. Bit of a jarring takeoff, but — when you’re airborne — there’s nothing smoother than a good swan.”

  “Duuk-tsarith?” Joram asked, referring to clouds not birds. Despite their fluffy pink-and-white puffiness, the clouds appeared suddenly as threatening to Joram as the boiling black thunderheads that wreaked havoc yearly on the farming villages. “Will they stop us, do you think?”

  “My dear boy,” said Simkin, laughing and laying his slender hand upon Joram’s arm, “re
lax. After all, you’re with me.”

  Glancing at Simkin, Joram saw the young man’s bearded face was calm and nonchalant, his manner so much at ease that Joram quit worrying. As for relaxing, that was quite out of the question. He burned with a fire of excitement and anticipation that would have made Simkin’s proposed orange outfit seem pale by comparison. Joram knew that he would find his destiny tonight, knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Nothing would stop him, could stop him. His dreams and ambitions mounted with every beat of the swan’s wings; he even ceased to worry about the Duuk-tsarith and stared with grim defiance into the pink clouds as the bird’s black feathers cut through them, scattering them into wisps of trailing fog.

  The clouds parted and Joram saw the Crystal Palace of the Emperor of Merilon. Gleaming above them with a white radiance, it shone against the reds and purples of dying day; more brilliant than the evening star.

  The beauty of the sight caused Joram’s heart to swell until it seemed too big for his chest and came near choking him. Tears stung his eyes, and he bowed his head, blinking rapidly. He did not hide his tears so much from shame. He bowed his head in humility. For the first time in his life, Joram felt the proud spirit that burned in his heart stamped out, trampled underfoot, as he himself had stamped out sparks from his forge.

  Brushing his hand across his eyes, he closely examined his fingers. Long and slender and supple, they were the fingers of a nobleman, not a Field Magi. That was from his practice of sleight of hand. And, like the sleight of hand itself, those delicate fingers were a trick to fool the viewer’s eyes. Seen closely, the palms of his hands were calloused from the use of hammer and tools, the skin scarred with burns. Black soot had been ground so deeply into his pores that he thought he might have to resort to Simkin’s magic to disguise it.

  “My soul is like that,” he said to himself in sudden, bitter despair, “as the catalyst tried to tell me — calloused, scarred, and burned. And I aspire to those heights.”

  He lifted his gaze to the Palace and saw not only the beauties of Merilon glistening serenely in the sky but Gwendolyn, too, shining far above him. And the old black depression, the destructive melancholia that he had not known for so long and had thought was gone from his newfound life, returned, threatening to engulf him in darkness.

  He stirred, some bleak idea of rising from his feathered seat and hurling himself into the perfumed evening air seething in his brain. At that moment, Simkin’s hand closed over Joram’s arm, its grip painfully strong. Startled, angry that he had revealed himself, Joram turned a smoldering glower upon Simkin, only to find the young man regarding him with mild annoyance.

  “I say, old bean, do you mind not wiggling? I fear it is irritating our birdish transport. I’ve seen him looking back at me with a distinct glint of anger in the beady black eye. I don’t know about you, of course, but being pecked to death by one’s hired carriage is not my idea of an impressive — or even interesting — and entertaining end.”

  Nonchalantly, Simkin turned his head, gazing out at other carriages that were spiraling upward toward the Palace. “Nor is tumbling into the clouds,” he said, keeping a firm grasp upon Joram’s arm. “It might almost be worth it, to see the expression on the faces of the Duuk-tsarith as you went sailing gracefully by them, but that fleeting bit of pleasure wouldn’t last long, I fancy.”

  Joram drew a deep breath and Simkin released him, the two happening almost simultaneously, so that Joram wasn’t certain, even then, if Simkin had been aware of his intention or was just indulging in nonsense. Whatever the case, Simkin’s words — as usual — brought a half smile to Joram’s tight lips and allowed him to wrench control of himself back from the monster that lurked within his soul, ready to claim him in a moments weakness.

  Settling himself more comfortably among the feathers — risking another irritated glance from the swan — Joram viewed the Palace with growing equanimity. He could see it in more detail now and, as he beheld the walls and towers, turrets and minarets, he lost his awe of it. Seen from a distance, it was beautiful, mysterious, beyond the reach of his thought or hand. But now, close up, he saw it was a structure, shaped by the skills of men different from himself only in that they had Life, whereas he had none.

  With that thought, his hand reached behind him to touch the Darksword, reassuring himself of its reality, as the carriage swept up with a flurry of black wings and deposited the young men on the crystal steps of the Palace of the Emperor of Merilon.

  2

  The Nine Levels of Life

  “You said you were going to walk!” Joram said. Reaching up, he caught hold of Simkin by the sleeve of the long white robes just as the young man was sailing off into the air like a tall, thin feather.

  “Oh, beg pardon. Forgot in the excitement of the moment,” Simkin said, drifting back down on the crystal stairs of the Palace to walk beside his friend. Turning, he regarded Joram with an aggrieved expression. “Look, dear boy, I could give you enough magic to enable you to ride the wings of magic, as the poets put it —”

  “No,” said Joram. “No magic. I mean to be myself. They’ll have to get used to seeing me walking around here,” he added in grim tones.

  “I suppose.” Simkin appeared dubious, then he cheered up. “Undoubtedly they’ll think it a new fad of mine. Speaking of which” — he grasped Joram’s green-robed arm as they entered the golden front doors — “look there.”

  “Mosiah!” Joram gasped, stopping in alarm and scowling. “The idiot! I thought he agreed to stay behind in the Grove….”

  “He did! Don’t have an apoplectic fit!” Simkin said, laughing. “That’s one of the ones I created yesterday — a leftover. Chap must have extraordinary abilities, to hold onto my illusion for so long. Perhaps he copied it! The cad! How dare he? I’ve a good notion to go over and turn him into a cow. Then we’d see how he likes it down on the farm —”

  “Forget it,” Joram caught hold of his friend once more. “We’re here for more important things.”

  Together, they strolled past several powdered and jewel-encrusted footmen, who glared at Joram suspiciously until they saw Simkin. Laughing, one of the footmen winked, and waved them through with a gesture of a gloved hand. Entering the doors, Joram came to a halt, trying to look as if he belonged, trying to keep from staring.

  “Where are we, and where do we go from here?” he asked Simkin in an undertone.

  With a visible effort, Simkin wrenched an indignant glare from the fake Mosiah to examine his surroundings. “We’re in the main entry hall. Up there” — he tilted his head back as far as it could go, nearly upsetting himself in the process — “is the Hall of Majesty.”

  Joram followed Simkin’s gaze. The entryway in which he stood was a large cylindrical chamber. Rising hundreds of feet in the air, the chamber passed through nine separate levels of the Palace to culminate in a great dome at the top. Each level had its own balcony, looking down on the main entryway below and up into the dome above. And each level, Joram noticed, was a different color; the lowest being green.

  “The levels represent the Nine Mysteries,” said Simkin, pointing upward. “The level we stand on is Earth, therefore the flora-and-fauna motif. Above us is Fire, then Water, then Air. Above that is Life, since it takes those three elements to sustain life. Then there is Shadow, to represent our dreams. Finally there is Time, which rules all things. Then Death — Technology, then Spirit — the afterlife. And above all that,” Simkin added, looking back at Joram with a mischievous grin, “is the Emperor.”

  Joram’s lips twisted into a slight smile.

  “Sink me,” muttered Simkin, twisting his head, “I’ve given myself the most frightful crick in my neck. Anyway, dear boy,” he continued on a more solemn note, leaning closer to Joram and speaking in an undertone, “you see why it is imperative that I give you magic! People are expected to ascend through the nine levels into the Emperors presence.”

  He gestured to the glittering throng of magi around them. As t
he fanciful carriages pulled up in front of the shining crystal and golden-banded doors, they opened and released their occupants, who floated gracefully into the palace like milkweed seeds. The air rang with their voices, greeting friends, exchanging kisses and gossip and news. They were not loud or boisterous, and their clothes, though beautiful and varied as the colors of the sunset, were, in general, conservative. Even though this was a gala affair, it was, after all, the celebration of a tragic event. The revelry and merrymaking would be kept to a minimum, and all of the guests — when ushered into the presence of the royal couple — would be expected to murmur words of condolence on this, the eighteenth anniversary of the Prince’s birth … Death … and death.

  Watching in fascination — and also searching for Gwendolyn — Joram saw that all the magi upon entering the Palace continued to float up into the air, ascending upward through the nine levels into the dome where the Emperor and Empress received their guests. Joram also realized that Simkin was right — there appeared no other way to reach the upper levels except by magic.

  “Where will the party be held?” he asked, glancing about the green level where they stood, which was decorated — as Simkin had said — with trees and flowers. “What level. This one?”

  Made of gold and silver and crystal, encrusted with jewels, the trees and flowers resembled no trees or flowers that Joram had ever seen in his life. Light created by artificial suns gleamed brightly from the Fire level above, sparkling off the golden leaves and the jeweled fruit, dazzling the eyes. The unnatural forest, standing stiffly and silently, began to make Joram feel closed-in and trapped. The constantly shifting points of light, glancing off gilded branches and gleaming jewels, was dizzying.

  “The party will be on all levels, of course,” said Simkin, shrugging. “Why do you ask?”

  A shadow crossed Joram’s face. “How will I ever find Lord Samuels or Saryon or anyone in this … this crowd!” He gestured angrily, the darkness returning.