“Go ahead, your father is waiting,” Joram said somewhat gruffly. He escorted her to the opening in the ornamental balcony used by the magi entering and leaving the Hall of Majesty and handed her off it with a bow. His heart lurched as he watched her step gracefully into nothing, and it was all he could do to remain standing and keep from reaching wildly to save her from what — in his case — would have been a deadly plunge to the golden forest nine levels below. But, smiling up at him, Gwendolyn drifted downward as gracefully as a lily riding the water, the layers of her gown floating out about her like petals, the bottom layers clinging to her legs, keeping her body covered modestly.
“Water level,” Joram muttered, and, turning, ran to the stairs and hastened down them, nearly knocking over a puffing, irate catalyst — the same catalyst, he noticed in passing, that Simkin had taken such delight in tormenting.
Going down the stairs was certainly much easier than coming up. Joram might have been flying himself, he moved so rapidly, and it seemed no time at all before he was standing oh the Water level, trying to catch his breath — whether from the descent or his mounting excitement he couldn’t tell.
Gwendolyn was nowhere to be seen, and he was just about to go off searching for her impatiently when a voice called, “Joram, over here.”
Turning, he saw her gesture to him from an open door he had not noticed amidst the waterlike surroundings. Hurrying past illusions of mermaids swimming with vividly colored fish, Joram reached the door, devoutly hoping that the private meeting chamber wasn’t going to be a dark grotto filled with oyster shells.
It wasn’t. Apparently, the illusions were confined to the area around the balcony, for Gwendolyn introduced Joram into a room that — except for the extreme opulence and luxury of the furniture — might have come from Lord Samuels’s dwelling. It was a sitting room, designed to accommodate those magi who wished to relax and avoid the expenditure of magical energy. Several couches covered with silken brocade in fanciful designs were arranged in formal groupings around the cozy room, their tables standing attention at their sides.
On one of these stiff couches, looking extraordinarily like a small bird perched on the cushions, sat a tiny, dried-up woman. Joram recognized her, by the brown color and fine quality of her robes, as a Druidess of extremely high ranking. She was old — so old, Joram thought, she must have seemed elderly to his mother eighteen years ago. Despite the springtime weather and the closeness of the room, she crowded near a fire Lord Samuels had caused to burn in the fireplace. Her brown robes seemed to puff out from her frail body like the plumage of a shivering bird, and she further enhanced the image by constantly preening and plucking at the velvet fabric with a clawlike hand.
Lord Samuels stood on the floor — a mark of the solemnity of the occasion — to one side of the couch, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in the subdued colors worn by the rest of the magi on this sad anniversary; his robes, though fine, were not nearly so fine as those worn by his betters — a fact duly noted and applauded by his betters. He bowed stiffly as Joram entered, Joram bowing stiffly in return. The Druidess stared at Joram curiously with bright, beady eyes.
“Thank you, Daughter,” said Lord Samuels, his gaze turning to Gwendolyn with a fondness and pride even the seriousness of the forthcoming conversation could not diminish. “I think it would be best if you left us.”
“Oh, but, Father!” Gwendolyn cried, then, seeing the tiniest hint of a frown on his face, she sighed. With a final glance at Joram — a glance that carried with it her heart and soul — she made a pretty curtsy to the Druidess, who chirped and fluttered in return, then withdrew from the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Lord Samuels cast a spell upon the door, so that they would not be disturbed.
“Joram,” he said coolly, stepping forward and gesturing with his hand, “allow me to present Theldara Menni. The Theldara was, for many years, the Druidess presiding over the Birthing Rooms of the Font. She now has the honor,” he added in guarded tones, “of attending our beloved Empress, whose continued good health we pray for daily.”
Joram noted that Lord Samuels carefully did not look at him as he said this; he had noticed that everyone who spoke of the Empress did so in measured words and without meeting the eye.
Joram himself found it difficult to meet the eyes of the Druidess and he bowed, thankfully avoiding the necessity. He was overwhelmed with disgust at the thought of this woman attending a corpse. His skin crawled and he fancied he could smell death and decay in the stuffy, overheated room. Yet he found himself wondering, with a terrible, morbid fascination, what magic they performed to keep the body in its suspended state. Did elixirs run through the silent heart instead of blood? Did potions pulse in the veins, herbs keep the skin from rotting? What magic words made the stiff hand move with that awful grace, what alchemy caused the dull eyes to shine?
He was conscious of the Darksword strapped to his back, feeling its presence reassuring. I have given Life to that which is lifeless, and for that I am labeled a Sorcerer of the Dark Arts, he said to himself. And yet what greater sin is this, to keep that which belongs to the gods — if one believes in such things — from finding its true destiny among the stars, keeping it chained in its prison house of flesh?
Straightening, he feared he could not bring himself to look at this woman without openly betraying his loathing. Then he sternly reminded himself that none of this was his concern. What did this Empress matter to him? It was his life that was important, not another’s death.
Raising his gaze, shaking back the black hair that hung about his face, Joram stared at the Druidess with equanimity and even a slight smile. She made a kind of caw, as though aware of his thoughts and taking pleasure in them. Raising the clawlike hand, she held it out for Joram to kiss, and this he did, stepping forward and bowing low over it, though he could not — for the life of him — bring his lips to touch the withered flesh.
Lord Samuels indicated for Joram to be seated, and though he would have much preferred to continue standing, the young man forced himself to obey.
“I have not yet broached the matter with Theldara Menni, Joram, preferring as a point of honor to first enter into such a delicate subject in your presence.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Joram said, and meant it.
Lord Samuels bowed slightly and continued. “The Theldara has been kind enough to meet with us as a favor to my friend, Father Richar. I leave it to you, young man, to explain the situation.”
The Theldara stared at Joram with eager eyes, her thin lips pursed in a beak-like manner.
This was unexpected. Somehow, Joram had not expected to have to explain matters himself, although he was grateful to Lord Samuels for not prejudicing his case one way or the other by discussing it without him. He wished Saryon was here. The catalyst had a way of reducing things to simple terms that were easy to understand. Joram felt vague about where to begin. He was also frightened, realizing just how much was at stake here.
“My name is Joram,” he stated lamely, trying to think, trying to pull the pieces together. “My mother’s name was Anja. Does — does that mean anything to you?”
The Druidess pecked at the word like a bread crumb, bobbing her small head, but otherwise keeping silent.
Not knowing whether that was a positive or negative response, Joram floundered on. “I was raised in a Field Magi village and … spent all my life there. But … my mother always told me I was of” — he felt his skin burn — “noble blood and that my family came from Merilon. She … my mother … said that my father was a … a catalyst. They had committed a criminal act — joining together bodily — and so created me. They were caught” — Joram could not keep the bitterness from tinging his voice — “and my father was sentenced to the Turning. He stands today, on the Border….”
He fell silent, recalling the stone statue, feeling the warmth of the tear splashing on his body. Would he want me here? Joram wondered suddenly, then, angrily
shaking his head, continued talking.
“My mother gave birth to me at the Font, so she told me. Then, taking me with her, she ran away. I don’t know why she left. Maybe she was afraid. Or maybe, then, she was already a little mad….” The word was hard to say and made him choke. He hadn’t realized this would be so painful. He couldn’t look at Lord Samuels now or even at the Theldara, but sat staring grimly at his hands that clenched and unclenched before him.
“She told me that one day we would return to Merilon and claim what was rightfully ours, but” — he drew a deep breath — “she died before she saw that day. For one reason or another, I fled the village where I had been raised and have been living since in the Outland. But then, I found a way to return to Merilon and claim my birthright.”
“The problem, Theldara Menni,” struck in Lord Samuels, aware that Joram had apparently said all he could, “is that there exist no records of this young man’s birth. That is not unusual, I understand.” He made a deprecating gesture with his hands. “The number of indigent and … shall we say … fallen women who come to the Font to bear their children is large and, in the confusion, records are known to be misplaced. Or — as is probable in Joram’s circumstance — the mother left the Font in secret and, fearing she might be pursued, either destroyed the records or took them with her. What we are hoping is that you can identify him as —”
“There was a Birthing Moon that night, too,” cawed the Theldara suddenly and shrilly.
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Samuels blinked. Joram, catching his breath, raised his head.
“A Birthing Moon,” the old woman repeated irritably. “Full moon. We knew when we saw it in the sky that the nursery would be full as well, and we weren’t wrong.”
“Then, you do remember?” Joram breathed, sitting forward in his seat, his body trembling.
“Remember?” The Druidess laughed raucously, then coughed and wiped at her beaky mouth with the claw of a hand. “I remember Anja. I was there at the Turning,” she said with some pride. “I went along to take care of her. She was poorly, and I knew it would be the death of the unborn babe — if not the death of the mother — to make her watch. But such was what they wanted. Such was the law.” The old woman huddled into her robes, fluffing them around her.
“Yes, go on!” Joram wanted to grab her up and cradle her in his hands, so precious did she seem to him.
The Druidess stared into the fire, clucking and chirping to herself, jabbing at her beak with her claw until — suddenly, raising her head — she looked straight at Joram.
“I was right,” she said shrilly, her voice ringing through the room. “I was right.”
“Right? What do you mean?”
“Born dead, of course!” The Druidess clucked. “The babe was born dead. Strange it was, too.” The old woman’s eyes took on an eerie glint; her shrill voice softened to a whisper of pleasurable horror. “The babe had turned to stone inside the mother! Turned to stone — just like the father! I never saw the like before,” she said, twisting her head up to peer at Lord Samuels and see the reaction she made. “Never saw the like! It was a judgment.”
Joram’s body stiffened. He might have been the babe — or the father.
“I don’t understand.” His voice cracked. Lord Samuels, in the background, made a motion, but Joram did not look up or take his eyes from the old Theldara’s face. He had ceased to tremble; nothing moved within him, not even his heart.
The Theldara made a gesture with the clawed hands as of pulling an object forth. “Most of ’em limp as cats, poor things, when they’re stillborn. Not this one, not Anja’s child.” The Druidess scratched at each word with her hand. “Eyes staring into nothing. Cold and hard as rock. It was a judgment on them both, I said.”
“That can’t be true!” Joram didn’t recognize the sound of his voice.
The Druidess stuck her head out, her beady eyes squinting, her claw shaking at him. “I don’t know whose mother’s son you are, young man, but you’re not Anja’s! Oh, she was mad. There was no doubt.” The birdish head bobbed. “And I see now that she did what we always suspected — stole some poor child from the nursery for the unwanted and pretended it was her own. That’s what the Duuk-tsarith told us when they questioned us, and I see now it was true.”
Joram could not respond. The woman’s words came to him as in a dream. He could neither speak nor react. From the same dream, he heard Lord Samuels ask in a stern voice.
“The Duuk-tsarith? This, then, was investigated?”
“Investigated?” The old woman crowed. “I should say so! It took them to force the dead babe from Anja’s arms. She had wrapped it in a blanket and was trying to make it nurse, warming its feet. When we tried to come near, she shrieked at us. Long talons grew from her fingers, her teeth turned to fangs. Albanara, she was,” the Druidess said, shivering. “Powerful. No, we wouldn’t get close. So we called the Duuk-tsarith. They came and took the dead babe and cast a spell over her to make her sleep. We left her, and it was that night she escaped.”
“But, then, why aren’t there any records of this?” Lord Samuels pursued, his face grave. Joram stared at the Druidess, but his eyes held no more life in them than the stone child’s.
“Ah, there were records!” The Druidess clucked indignantly. “There were records.” Her clawed hand made a fist the size of a teaspoon. “We kept very good records when I was there. Very good indeed. The Duuk-tsarith took them next morning, after we discovered that Anja was gone. Ask them for your precious records. Not that they’ll matter much to you, poor lad,” she added, looking at Joram pityingly, her head cocked to one side.
“And so you are certain that this young man” — Lord Samuels nodded at Joram, his gaze one now of sorrow and concern more than of anger — “was stolen from the nursery?”
“Certain? Yes, we were certain.” The Druidess grinned, and she had no more teeth in her mouth than a bird has in its bill. “The Duuk-tsarith said that was what had happened, and that made us certain. Very certain indeed, my lord.”
“But did you count? Were there any babies missing?”
“The Duuk-tsarith said there was,” the old woman repeated, frowning. “The Duuk-tsarith said there was.”
“But did you check yourself to see!” Lord Samuels tried again.
“Poor lad,” was all the Theldara said. Looking at Joram, her beady eyes glittered. “Poor lad.”
“Shut up!” Joram rose unsteadily to his feet. His face was dark, blood glistened from a cut on his mouth where he had bitten through his lip. “Shut up,” he snarled again, glaring at the Theldara in such fury that she crumbled back into the couch and Lord Samuels hurriedly stepped between the two.
“Joram, please,” he began, “calm yourself! Think! There is much here that does not make sense …”
But Joram could neither see nor hear the man. His head throbbed, he thought it might burst. Reeling, half-blind, he clutched at his head, tearing at his hair in a frenzy.
Seeing the hair come out dripping blood from the roots, and seeing as well the madness in the young man’s wild gaze, Lord Samuels attempted to lay soothing hands on Joram. With a bitter cry, Joram shoved the man away from him, nearly knocking him down.
“Pity!” Joram gasped. He couldn’t breathe. “Yes, pity me! I am” — he struggled for breath — “nobody!” Again he clutched at his head, pulling his hair. “Lies! All lies! Dead … death …”
Turning, he stumbled from the room, groping blindly for the door.
“It will not open, young man. I have strengthend the spell. You must stay and listen to me! All is not lost! Why did the Duuk-tsarith take an interest in this? Let us look further …” Lord Samuels took a step forward with some thought, perhaps, of casting a spell upon Joram himself.
Joram ignored him. Reaching the door, he sought to open it, but — as Lord Samuels said — the spell stopped him. He couldn’t even get his hands past the invisible, impenetrable barrier, and he beat at it in impotent rage. Withou
t conscious thought, knowing only that he must escape this room in which he was slowly suffocating, Joram drew the Darksword from the scabbard on his back and slashed at the door with the weapon.
The Darksword felt itself wielded; the heat of its masters life pulsed in its metal body and it began to absorb the magic. The spell on the door shattered just as the wood shattered when the blade crashed into it. The Theldara began to scream — a high-pitched, shrill wail — and Lord Samuels stared in wonder and awe until he began to feel weak, Life draining from his body. The Darksword was nonselective, its forger not yet fully acquainted with its potential or how to use it. It sucked the magic from everything and everyone around it, enhancing its own power. The metal began to glow with a strange white-blue light that illuminated the room as the sword caused the fire to die and the magical globes of light on the mantelpiece to glimmer faintly and then vanish altogether.
Lord Samuels could not move. His body felt heavy and foreign to him, as though he had suddenly stepped inside the shell of another man and had no idea how to make anything operate. He stared in a dreamlike terror, unable to comprehend what was happening, unable to react.
The door fell in shards at Joram’s feet. On the other side, reflected in the blue-white radiance of the fiercely blazing sword, stood Gwendolyn.
She had been listening, ear pressed against the door, her heart dancing with sweet, airy fantasies, her mind racing with plans to feign surprise when Joram should burst out and tell her the good news. One by one those airy fantasies had sprouted the wings of demons; their dance turned macabre. Babies of stone; the poor, mad mother nursing the cold, rigid body; the dark specters of the Duuk-tsarith; Anja fleeing into the night with a stolen child …
Gwendolyn had shrunk backward, away from the closed and magically sealed door, her hand pressed over her mouth so that she might not cry out and give herself away. The horror of what she had heard crept up over her soul like the foul waters of a fast-rising flood. Sheltered and protected all her life, the girlish part of her only dimly understood — such things as child-birthing were never discussed. But the woman deep inside reacted. Instincts bred thousands of years before caused her to share the pain and the agony; to feel the loneliness, the grief, the sorrow; and to even understand that madness — like a tiny star shining in the vast darkness of the night sky — brought consolation.
Doom of the Darksword Page 35