Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “What color, Father?” the Duuk-tsarith repeated. “I fail to understand —”

  “What color shall I make the robes?” Dulchase asked irascibly, gesturing. “They’re Weeping Blue, as you can see? Is it official mourning? I’ll leave them the same. A wedding, perhaps? If so, I’ll have to change them to —”

  “Judgment,” said the Duuk-tsarith succinctly.

  “Judgment,” repeated Dulchase, pondering. Taking his time, he made use of the chamber pot in the corner of his small room, noting — as he did so — that even the disciplined warlock was growing edgy over the delay. The fingers of the hands, supposed to be folded quietly in front of the man, were twisting round each other. “Mmpf,” the Deacon snorted, making a great show of rearranging his robes around him again and turning them to the proper shade of neutral gray required for a trial. All the while, his brain — now wide awake — was trying to guess at what was happening.

  A summons to Bishop Vanyas’s in the dead of night. A Duuk-tsarith sent to escort him — not a novitiate as was customary. He was not being punished but told he was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had not worn in eighteen years — eighteen years almost to the very day, he realized — the anniversary of the Prince’s death having been held last night. Deacon Dulchase could make nothing of it, however. Immensely curious, he turned back to the waiting Duuk-tsarith, who actually started to breathe a sigh of relief before he caught himself in time.

  A young one, that, Dulchase noted, grinning inwardly.

  “Well, let’s get on with it,” the Deacon muttered, taking a step toward the door. To his astonishment, he felt the cold hand on his arm again.

  “The Corridors, Father,” said the Duuk-tsarith.

  “To His Holiness’s chambers?” Dulchase glowered at the warlock. “You may be new around here, young man, but surely you know that this is forbidden —”

  “Follow me, if you please, Father.” The Duuk-tsarith, perhaps nettled by the Deacon’s remark about his age, was obviously out of patience. A Corridor gaped in Dulchase’s room; the cold hand propelled the old Deacon into it. An instants sensation of being squeezed and compressed, then Dulchase stood in a huge, cavernous hall carved from the heart of the mountain fastness by — legend had it — the hand of the powerful wizard who had led them here.

  This was the Hall of Life. (Its name from ancient times had been originally the Hall of Life and Death, in order to represent both sides of the world. This had become frowned upon in modern times and — with the banishment of the Sorcerers — it had been officially renamed.) Legend being true or not, the Hall did look very much as though it had been scooped out of the granite like the fruit from the rind of a melon. Located in the very center of the Font, built around the Well of Life from which the magic in the world gushed forth like unseen water, it was dome-shaped, extending hundreds of feet into the air, its rock ceiling ornamented by carved arches of polished stone. Four gigantic grooves gashed out of the rock wall at the front of the Hall were known as the Fingers of Merlyn and formed four alcoves where sat the four Cardinals of the Realm during occasions of state. Another large gouge in the rock wall, on the opposite side of the vast Hall, was known somewhat irreverently and unofficially as Merlyn’s Thumb. Here sat the Bishop of the Realm, across from his ministers. Spanning the length of the stone floor between them were row after row of stone pews. Cold and uncomfortable to sit upon, these stone pews had an even more irreverent name that was whispered and sniggered over by new novitiates.

  The Hall’s vast expanse was usually illuminated by the magical lights sent dancing upward by the magi who served the catalysts. Yet on this occasion the lights had not been brought to Life. Dulchase stared around in the cold darkness.

  “Name of the Almin!” breathed the Deacon, nearly staggering in complete and total amazement as he realized where he was. “The Hall of Life! I haven’t been here since … since …”

  The memory of eighteen years ago came quickly, though Dulchase often found he had trouble recalling incidents that occurred only yesterday. That was a hallmark of growing old, so he’d been told. One tended to live in the past. Well, and why not? It was a hell of a lot more interesting than the present. Although that seemed likely to change, he thought, glancing about the dark Hall with a frown.

  “Where is everyone?” he snapped at the young Duuk-tsarith, who — hand on his arm — was guiding him through the maze of pews toward Merlyn’s Thumb.

  At least that was where the old Deacon guessed they were headed, judging from what he could remember of the lay of the room. The warlock walked in a path of light cast by his hand held before him, Dulchase stumbling along in his wake. He could see practically nothing. The Well of Life was in the exact center of the Hall, he recalled, searching around for it. Yes, there it was, glowing with a faint, phosphorescent radiance, but, beyond that, the Hall was almost pitch-dark. Then, suddenly, a single light flared ahead of them. Squinting into it, Dulchase tried to see its source, but it was so bright that all he could see were several figures passing before it, eclipsing it momentarily.

  The last time Dulchase had been here was to witness the trial of a male catalyst accused of joining with a young noble woman — Tanja or Anja or some such name. Ah! Dulchase shook his head in fond remembrance. The Hall had been crowded with members of his Order. All catalysts residing in the Font and in the home city of the accused — Merilon — had been required to attend. The details of the couple’s crime had been described graphically by the Bishop in order to impress upon his flock the enormity of such a sin. Whether or not any were deterred from temptation because of it was never established. It was known that not one catalyst fell asleep during the three-day trial, and there had been such a state of fevered excitement among the novitiates at night that Evening Prayers had been lengthened from one hour to two for a month following.

  Undoubtedly the punishment of the Turning — which all were called upon to witness — had a more profound effect. Dulchase still had nightdreams over that tragic scene. He kept seeing, over and over, the one hand of the man — as the stone slowly crept over his living body — clenching in a final gesture of hatred and defiance.

  Angry at having dredged up these disturbing memories, Dulchase came to a halt. “Look here,” he said stubbornly, “I insist on knowing what’s going on. Where are you taking me?” He glanced around the darkened Hall. “Where is everyone else? What’s happened to the lights?”

  “Please come forward, Deacon Dulchase.” A pleasant, if stern, voice echoed in the vastness. Dulchase saw now that the light and the voice came from the same place — Merlyn’s Thumb. “All will be explained.”

  “Vanya,” Dulchase muttered. He shivered, and thought with longing of his warm bed.

  Years unopened, the Hall was chill and smelled of wet rock and mildewed tapestries. Sneezing, the Deacon wiped his nose on the sleeve of his robe and allowed himself to be led forward again until he came to stand, blinking like an owl in the light, before His Holiness, Bishop of the Realm.

  “My dear Deacon, we apologize for disturbing your rest.”

  Bishop Vanya stood up — an unheard-of phenomenon in the presence of a lowly Deacon; moreover, a Deacon who had been a Deacon for forty years and would probably die a Deacon due to his sharp tongue and unfortunate habit of speaking his mind. There were those who said Dulchase himself would have long ago been slated for a place among the Stone Guardians had it not been for the protection of a certain powerful family in court. This show of respect from his Bishop was unprecedented, yet was followed by still more. Dulchase was bowing and endeavoring to recover from the shock when Vanya actually extended his hand, not for Dulchase to kiss the ring, but to give the Deacon the pleasure of touching the pudgy fingers.

  I suppose if I died now, I’d ascend directly to the Almin, the old Deacon said to himself sarcastically. But he brought the Bishop’s hand to press against his forehead with as much show of reverent ecstasy as he could muster at his age, and thou
ght he must look very much as though he were suffering from gas. The touch of the fingers was unpleasant, as cold as a fresh-caught fish, and they trembled slightly in his grasp. Perhaps realizing this, Vanya snatched them away with unseemly haste and moved to sit back down, lowering his great red-robed bulk into the plainly shaped stone throne that sat in the alcove. The light shone from behind Vanya, Dulchase noted shrewdly, coming from some magical source in the wall. It left the Bishop’s face in shadow, while illuminating all those who faced him.

  Glancing around, his own eyes now accustomed to the bright light and wondering what he was supposed to do next, Dulchase noted that the Duuk-tsarith who had led him here was gone; either disappeared or had become one with the shadows. But he had the feeling that there were other members of that dark Order around, watching and listening, though he could not see them. There was only one other person present in the Hall that Dulchase could see. This was an aging catalyst clad in shabby red robes who huddled in a stone chair that appeared to have been hastily conjured up next to the Bishops throne. The man’s head was bowed. All Dulchase could see of him was thinning gray hair unkempt and tousled over an unhealthy-looking gray scalp. This man had not moved during Dulchase’s welcome by the Bishop, but sat, staring down at his shoes, in a manner that was somehow familiar to the Deacon.

  Dulchase tried to get a glimpse of the man’s face, but it was impossible from where he stood, and the Deacon dared do nothing to attract the man’s attention until he had been dismissed from the Bishops presence. Glancing back at Vanya, the Deacon saw that His Holiness was no longer looking at him but was motioning — so it seemed — to the darkness.

  Dulchase was not surprised to see the darkness respond, coalescing into the shape of the young warlock who had brought him here. The black-hooded head bowed to hear Vanya’s whispered words and Dulchase took advantage of the moment to take a step near his fellow catalyst.

  “Brother,” said Dulchase softly and kindly — his sharp tongue could be both when he chose — “I fear you are not well. Is there anything —”

  At these words, the catalyst raised his head. A haggard face regarded him, tears shimmering in the eyes at the sound of a kind voice.

  Dulchase’s voice died. He not only swallowed his words in his astonishment, he nearly swallowed his tongue as well.

  “Saryon!”

  Lost in wonder, his mind literally reeling beneath the load of shock, curiosity, and growing fear, Dulchase sank thankfully into another stone chair that appeared — at a command from another Duuk-tsarith lurking about in the shadows — at Bishop Vanya’s right hand, opposite Saryon, who sat at his left. The curiosity and shock Dulchase could account for — he had no idea what was transpiring. The fear was subtle, less easily defined, and it arose, he realized finally, from the anguished expression on Saryon’s face — an expression that had so marked the man that Dulchase wondered now, looking at him, how he had recognized him.

  Though only in his forties, Saryon appeared older to Dulchase than Dulchase himself. His face was a sallow color, ashen in the bright light illuminating them from Merlyn’s Thumb. The eyes that had been the kindly, slightly preoccupied eyes of the single-minded mathematician had now become the eyes of a man caught in a trap. He watched Saryon searching as if for escape, the eyes sometimes darting here and there frantically, but more often focused on Bishop Vanya with a look of despairing hopefulness that wrung the Deacon’s heart with pity.

  This was what engendered the Deacon’s fear. Older than Saryon and more worldly wise than the sheltered scholar, Dulchase saw no hope for the wretched catalyst in the Bishop’s smooth, composed face or His Holiness’s cold, glittering gaze. Worse still had been the touch of those fishlike fingers. Dulchase had the sudden terrible feeling that he had lived too long….

  He fidgeted in the cold stone chair that the heat from his body appeared incapable of warming. It had been a half-hour since his arrival and no one had spoken a word, other than the Duuk-tsarith with their whispered spell-casting and conjuring of furniture. Dulchase stared at Saryon, Saryon stared at Vanya, and the Bishop stared, scowling, into the darkness of the vast Hall.

  If this doesn’t end soon, I’ll say something I’ll regret, Dulchase remarked to himself. I know I will. What the devil is the matter with Saryon? The man looks like he’s been living with demons! I —

  “Deacon Dulchase,” said Bishop Vanya suddenly in a pleasant voice that immediately set Dulchase on his guard.

  “Your Eminence,” Dulchase responded with an attempt at equal urbanity.

  “There is a position open for a House Master in the Royal House of the city-state of Zith-el,” Vanya said. “Would this be of interest to you, my son?”

  My son, my ass. Dulchase snorted, eyeing Vanya. You may be old enough to have fathered me, but I doubt any issue ever came from those fat loins … His thought trailed off, the Bishop’s words having finally sunk into the Deacon’s head. He stared at Vanya, blinking again as the bright light — by some trick of magic — shone full upon his face.

  “A … a House Master,” Dulchase stammered. “But … that requires a Cardinal, Your Eminence. Surely you can’t —”

  “Ah, but I can!” Vanya assured him expansively, waving the pudgy hand. “The Almin has made his will known to me in this. You have served Him faithfully many years, my son, without reward. Now in the golden time of your life, it is fitting that you be given this assignment. The papers have been drawn up, and as soon as we conclude this trifling matter before us, we will sign them and you can be on your way to the palace.

  “Zith-el is a charming city,” the Bishop continued conversationally. He did not once glance at Saryon — who was continuing to watch him, his soul in his eyes — but talked to Dulchase as though they were the only two in the vast Hall. “A remarkable zoo. They even have several centaur on exhibit there — well-guarded, of course.”

  House Master! A Lord Cardinal! This to a man who had been constantly reminded that were it not for his patronage, he might be slogging through rows of beans, a lowly Field Catalyst. Dulchase could smell a rat; he believed now he had sniffed it upon entering. This trifling matter before us, Vanya had said. We will sign the papers….

  Dulchase sought some clue from Saryon, but the man’s gaze was once more intent upon his shoes, though his lowered face looked — if it were possible — more agonized than before. “I — I don’t know, Holiness,” Dulchase faltered, hoping to buy time until he found out what it was he was selling. “This is so sudden, and to come upon me like this, when I have just been asleep —”

  “Yes, we are sorry, but this matter is one of urgency. You will be able to catch up on your rest in the Palace. But there is no need to make a decision now. In fact, it might be best to wait until this small matter is concluded.” Vanya paused, his full, fat face turned toward the Deacon, who, however, could not see its expression for the light behind it. “— Concluded satisfactorily, we pray the Almin.”

  Dulchase smiled bitterly, Vanya having piously raised his eyes heavenward. So, the Bishop assumed this old Deacon could be bought and sold. Well, I could be, Dulchase admitted. Every man had his price. Dulchase’s glance went to Saryon’s stricken face. In this case, it just might be too high.

  Apparently considering matters concluded, Vanya made a gesture with his hand. “Bring the prisoner.” The darkness behind him moved. “And now we will explain the reason you have been dragged from your warm bed, Cardinal … I mean … Deacon Dulchase,” said the Bishop, clasping his hands together across his rotund middle. This might have been a meaningless gesture, but Dulchase saw the fingers laced tightly, the knuckles turning white with the strain of appearing to remain perfectly calm.

  Dulchase ceased watching Vanya, however, to look at Saryon in alarm. At the word “prisoner,” the catalyst had shrunk into himself so that it seemed he would willingly become part of the stone chair upon which he sat. He appeared so ill that Dulchase nearly sprang up to demand that a Druid be summoned when he was halted
by a burst of yellow light.

  Three flaring, hissing rings of energy appeared before Bishop Vanya. The young Duuk-tsarith materialized beside them, and, seconds later, a young man took shape within the rings. They circled the young man’s muscular arms and his legs, coming near but not touching the flesh. Dulchase could feel the rings’ warmth from where he sat some distance away, and he cringed as he vividly imagined what would happen should the young man try to escape his magical bonds.

  The prisoner did not seem likely to try to escape, however. He appeared stupified, standing with his head bowed; long, lank black hair curled over his shoulders and hung down around his face. He must be about eighteen, Dulchase guessed, looking at the well-formed muscular body with envy and regret. We’re here to sit in judgment on this young man, Dulchase reasoned. But why? Why not let the Duuk-tsarith handle it? Unless he’s a catalyst? … No, impossible. No catalyst ever had muscles like that…. And why only the three of us? And why us three?

  “You are wondering, Deacon Dulchase, what is going on,” Bishop Vanya said. “Again, we apologize. You, alone, I fear, are the only one in the dark. Deacon Saryon —”

  At the sound of this name, the young man’s head snapped up. Tossing back the black hair, he squinted in the bright light and, as his eyes became accustomed to it, looked around.

  “Father!” he cried thickly. Forgetting his bonds, the young man took a swift step forward. There was a sizzle and a smell of burning flesh. The young man sucked in his breath in pain, but beyond that made no outcry.

  Amazed that the prisoner should know Saryon, Dulchase was equally amazed at Saryon’s response. Averting his eyes, the catalyst held up a hand involuntarily — not as a man warding off an attack, but as one who feels himself unworthy of being touched.