Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

“Deacon Saryon,” Bishop Vanya was continuing imperturbably, “is aware of what is transpiring, and I will now explain it to you, Brother Dulchase. As you know, the law of Thimhallan demands that a jury of catalysts be convened to sit in judgment upon any case which involves either a catalyst or a threat to the realm. All other cases are handled by the Duuk-tsarith.”

  Dulchase was only half listening to Vanya. He knew the law and he had already guessed that this must be a case involving a threat to the realm — though how this one young man threatened the realm was beyond him. Instead, Dulchase was studying the prisoner. As he did so, he began to believe this young man could be a threat.

  The dark black eyes — those eyes looked familiar, where had he seen them? — staring at Saryon actually burned with an inner intensity. The brows, thick and black and drawn in a line across the bridge of the nose, bespoke a passionate inner nature; the firm jaw; the handsome, brooding face; the luxuriant black hair falling in rampant curls over the shoulders; the proud stance, the unfearing gaze…. This was truly a formidable personality, one who could conceivably shift the stars if he chose.

  And where have I seen him? Dulchase asked himself again with that gnawing anger that comes from knowing something in the subconscious but without being able to drag it to the surface. I’ve seen that regal tilt of the head, that shining hair, that imperious gaze…. But where?

  “The young man’s name is Joram.”

  Catching the name, Dulchase’s attention turned immediately back to Vanya. No, he thought in disappointment, that name doesn’t mean anything. Yet I know —

  “He is brought here on several charges, not the least of which is threatening the safety of the realm. That is why we are sitting in judgment. Perhaps you are wondering why there are only three of us, Deacon Dulchase.” Bishop Vanya’s voice took on a grim note. “You will learn that, I imagine, as I go on to present the startling and frightening facts of the case against this young man.

  “Joram!” The Bishop spoke in a sharp, cold voice, apparently hoping to draw the prisoner’s gaze to himself. But he might have been a squawking parrot for all the young man cared. His gaze was on Saryon and it had never once shifted. The catalyst’s hands rested limply in his lap, his head bowed. Of the two, Dulchase fancied, the catalyst appeared more the prisoner….

  “Joram, son of Anja,” spoke Vanya again, angrily this time. The warlock, with a word, caused the rings to shrink, drawing in upon their captive. Feeling their heat, the young man reluctantly and defiantly shifted his dark eyes to the Bishop. “You are charged with the crime of concealing the fact that you are Dead. What do you plead to this charge?”

  Joram — that was the young man’s name apparently — refused to answer, lifting his chin in the air. The movement sent a thrill of recognition through Dulchase — a thrill, yet frustration, too. He knew this kid! Yet he didn’t. It was like an itching in the small of the back that one could never quite scratch.

  The warlock spoke another word. The rings flashed, there was that horrible sizzle and smell and a quick, agonized gasp from the young man.

  “I plead guilty,” Joram said, but he said it proudly in a rich, deep voice. “I was born Dead. It was the Almin’s will, as I was taught by one I respect and honor.” He glanced again at Saryon, who appeared so crushed by this that he might never rise again.

  “Joram, son of Anja, you are charged with the murder of the overseer of the village of Walren. You are charged with the murder of a warlock of the Duuk-tsarith,” Vanya continued severely. “How do you plead to these?”

  “Guilty,” Joram said again, though there was less pride. The dark face became unreadable. “They deserved death,” he muttered in low tones. “One killed my mother. The other was a man of evil.”

  “Your mother attacked the overseer. The man of evil — as you call him — was acting in the interests of the realm,” Bishop Vanya said coldly. The young man did not reply, but simply stared back at him defiantly, the dark eyes steady and unwavering.

  “These are serious charges, Joram. The taking of a life for any reason is most strongly forbidden by the Almin. For that alone you could be sentenced to Beyond….”

  At last, something touched Saryon, lifting the man from his stupor of despair. The catalyst raised his head, looking swiftly and meaningfully at Bishop Vanya. Dulchase saw a glint of spirit — fear and anger brought life to the haunted eyes. The Bishop, however, appeared oblivious to the catalyst’s stare.

  “But these charges pale before the crimes against the state that have brought you here to be sentenced….”

  So that’s why there’s only three of us, Dulchase realized. Secrets of the realm and all that. And, of course, that’s why I’m being made a Cardinal — to keep my mouth shut.

  “Joram, son of Anja, you are charged with consorting with Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. You are charged with having read forbidden books …”

  Dulchase saw Joram’s dark eyes shift to gaze upon Saryon once more, this time in shock. He saw Saryon, his brief flicker of spirit quenched, curl in upon himself, writhing in guilt. Dulchase saw the young man’s splendid shoulders slump, he heard Joram sigh. It was a small sigh, but a sigh of such exquisite pain that it wrenched Dulchase’s cynical heart. The proud head turned away from the catalyst, the black hair falling over the face as though the young man would hide willingly within that darkness forever.

  “Joram! Forgive me!” Saryon burst out, stretching forth his hands beseechingly. “I had to tell them! If you only knew —”

  “Deacon!” Vanya said in a taut, almost shrill voice. “You forget yourself!”

  “I beg your pardon, Holiness,” Saryon murmured, shrinking back into his chair. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Joram, son of Anja,” the Bishop continued, breathing heavily, his hands crawling on the arms of the stone chair. He leaned forward. “You are charged with the heinous crime of bringing darkstone — the cursed product of the Prince of Demons — back into a world that had banished it long ago. You are charged with the forging of a weapon out of this demonic ore! Joram, son of Anja, how do you plead? How do you plead?”

  There was silence — a noisy silence, but silence nonetheless. Vanya’s labored breathing, Saryon’s ragged breaths, the hissing of the glowing rings, all beat at the silence but could not penetrate it. Dulchase knew that the young man would not answer. He saw the fiery rings draw nearer and nearer, and he quickly averted his gaze. Joram would suffer himself to be burned clear through before they would wring a word from him. Realizing this as well, Saryon leaped to his feet with a hollow cry. The Duuk-tsarith looked at Vanya questioningly, obviously wondering how far to go.

  The Bishop glared at Joram in cold fury. He opened his mouth, but another voice — a voice that slid across the tense surface like oil — broke the silence at last.

  “Your Eminence,” said the voice from the darkness, “I do not blame the young man for refusing to answer. You are not, after all, using his correct name. ‘Joram, son of Anja.’ Pah! Who is that? A peasant? You must call him by his real name, Bishop Vanya, then perhaps he will deign to answer your charges.”

  The voice might have been a thunderbolt hurled from the skies for the dread impact it had on the Bishop. Though Dulchase could not see Vanya’s face with the light behind it, he saw the head beneath the heavy miter bathed in sweat and heard the breath rattle in the man’s lungs. The pudgy hands went limp; twitching feebly, the fingers closed up in a ball like the legs of a frightened spider.

  “Call him by his real name,” continued the smooth, calm voice. “Joram, son of Evenue, Empress of Merilon. Or, shall we say, late Empress of Merilon….”

  10

  The Prince of Merilon

  “Nephew,” said Prince Xavier, bowing his red-hooded head slightly in ironic greeting to Joram as he glided past the prisoner and came to a halt before the Bishop’s throne. The Hall was well-lit now. At a command from the powerful warlock, globes of light appeared in the air, shedding a warm, yellow glow down upo
n those assembled in the Hall. No longer did Bishop Vanya have the ability to hide his face within shadows. His face was visible for all to see and everyone saw the truth.

  Dulchase pressed his hand over his heart. Another shock like this will kill me, he told himself. In fact, it might kill a number of us.

  Bishop Vanya had attempted a blustered denial, but his words dried up and blew away beneath The DKarn-Duuk’s withering gaze. Unlike poor Saryon, who had shrunk within himself to the point of shrinking from sight altogether, the Bishop became bloated. Blotches of red mottled his white skin, sweat rolled off his forehead. He lay back in his chair, gasping slightly for breath, his rotund stomach heaving up and down, his hands plucking nervelessly at the red robes. He said nothing, but stared intently at the warlock. Prince Xavier stared back at Vanya, hands folded before his robes, his demeanor calm and assured. But there was mental war being waged between the two; the air fairly crackled with unspoken moves and counter-moves, each trying to gauge how much the other knew and what use he could make of it.

  Standing within the fiery rings, the gamepiece over which the two fought, Joram was in a state of bewilderment that came near causing Dulchase to break out into fits of laughter. Indeed, the old Deacon did actually emit a nervous chuckle before he could suppress it. Realizing he was becoming hysterical from the strain, he managed to convert the chuckle into an odd-sounding cough that caused the young Duuk-tsarith guarding the prisoner to glance at him sharply.

  Dulchase knew now where he had seen those eyes, that regal tilt to the head, that imperious look. The boy was his mother all over again. Joram saw the truth plainly on Vanya’s face, as did everyone else in the Hall, but — slowly — he shifted his gaze to Saryon as if for confirmation. The catalyst had been sitting huddled in his chair, his head in his hands ever since The DKarn-Duuk’s obviously unexpected and unwanted arrival. Sensing the young man’s thoughts turned toward him, Saryon raised his haggard face and looked directly into the dark, questioning eyes.

  “It is true, Joram,” the catalyst said in a soft voice, speaking as though he and the young man were the only two people in the room. “I’ve known it … so long! So long!” He broke down, shaking his head, his hands trembling.

  “I don’t understand!” Joram’s voice was thick, choked. “How? Why didn’t you tell me the truth? By the Almin!” He swore softly, bitterly. “I trusted you!”

  Saryon moaned, rocking back and forth in the cold stone chair. “I did it for the best, Joram! You must believe me! I … I was wrong,” he faltered, with a glance at Vanya. “But I did it for the best. You can’t understand,” he finished somewhat wildly. “There’s more to it —”

  “Indeed there is, Nephew,” said Prince Xavier suddenly, whipping around with such speed that his robes shimmered about him like living flame. Throwing back his red hood with his thin hands, the warlock faced Joram, studying the young man’s face with interest. “You favor our side of the family — your mothers and mine — which is why you have fallen into this predicament. Had the weak blood of that fool your father run in your veins, you would have dropped into obscurity and been happy tending carrots in that village where you were raised.”

  With a gesture, The DKarn-Duuk caused the flaming rings around the young man to vanish. Weak from the strain, exhaustion, and shock, Joram staggered and nearly fell. He caught himself, however, pulling himself upright. He’s existing on nothing but pride alone, Dulchase thought in admiration. The same admiration was reflected on the face of Prince Xavier, who glanced at Bishop Vanya.

  “The young man is weary. He has been, I assume, kept in prison since his capture last night?”

  Bishop Vanya nodded, but did not reply.

  “Have you eaten, drunk?” The DKarn-Duuk turned back to Joram.

  “I need nothing,” the young man said.

  Prince Xavier smiled. “Of course not, but you should sit down. We are going to be here some time.” Once more, his eyes glanced at the Bishop. “Explanations are, I believe, in order.”

  Bishop Vanya sat forward, his mottled face regaining some of its color. “I want to know how you found out!” he cried hoarsely, his pudgy hands grasping the arms of the chair. “I want to know what you know!”

  “Patience,” said The DKarn-Duuk. Making a motion with his hand, he caused two more stone chairs to spring up from the floor, and with a graceful gesture, he invited Joram to sit. The young man glanced at the chair suspiciously, transferring the same suspicious glance to his uncle. Prince Xavier absorbed the suspicion with his thin-lipped smile, neither denying it nor accepting it. Once again, he gestured, and Joram sat down suddenly, as though his weakened body had made the decision for him.

  The DKarn-Duuk took a seat beside the young man, his own body drifting gracefully into the chair. Assuming a seated position, he kept himself floating above the seat about an inch, however — whether for comfort’s sake or flaunting his magical power, Dulchase wasn’t certain. But the old Deacon knew he’d had enough.

  Rising, bones creaking, to his feet, Dulchase faced his Bishop, his hand placed humbly over his heart.

  “Eminence,” said the catalyst, and was secretly pleased to note Prince Xavier’s start at hearing him speak, “I am an old man. I have lived sixty years of my life in peace, finding consolation for what some might consider a boring life in the observation of the never-ending follies of my fellow humans. My tongue has been my curse. I admit that freely. I could not forebear on many occasions to comment on these follies. Thus I have remained a Deacon, and will be content to die a Deacon, I assure you. I just don’t want to die a Deacon too soon, if you understand.”

  The DKarn-Duuk appeared to enjoy this, glancing at Dulchase out of the corner of his eye, the smile playing about his thin lips. Bishop Vanya was glowering at him, but Dulchase was in the comfortable position of knowing that his superior was apparently in worse trouble than he could ever possibly be, and so continued.

  “I am subject to nightdreams, Eminence,” Dulchase said simply. “But my nature is such that I forget about them immediately come morning. I am experiencing one of these dreams now, Holiness. It is extremely bad and I foresee that it will only get worse.” He bowed most humbly, hand over his heart. “If you will excuse me, I will return to my bed and wake myself up before that happens. I have no doubt that no remembrance of any of this will linger in my old brain. You are illusions and, as such, I bid you good-night. Eminence.” He bowed to the Bishop. “Your Highness.” He bowed to The DKarn-Duuk. “Your Royal Highness.” He bowed more deeply to Joram, who was watching him with, Dulchase noted, a half smile of his own, a smile that did not touch the lips but warmed the dark eyes.

  Dulchase shivered. Yes, I must leave, he told himself heavily, and, turning, he took a step toward the stairs at the end of the Hall. Winding up into the mountain, they would take him, eventually, back to his cozy cell.

  But Prince Xavier’s voice stopped him. “I sympathize, Deacon. I really do,” said the warlock coolly. “But it is too late to end this dream, I fear. Besides, you are still sitting in judgment. Your verdict is needed. And” — though his back was turned, Dulchase knew The DKarn-Duuk was glancing at Vanya — “I need witnesses. You will please, therefore, wake up and attend.”

  Dulchase considered making one final attempt to escape. He opened his mouth and saw the eyes of the warlock narrow ever so slightly.

  “Yes, my lord.” Dulchase acquiesced without enthusiasm, relapsing gloomily back into his chair.

  “Now, where to start?” Prince Xavier placed the tips of his fingers together delicately, tapping them against the thin lips. “There are several questions on the floor. You, Holiness” — a fine irony — “demand to know how much I know and how I found out. You, Nephew” — again, the irony — “have asked very simply, ‘How?’ meaning, I assume, ‘how’ you are here when the world and most of those dwelling within fondly believe you to be dead. With all due respect, Holiness” — Bishop Vanya gnawed his lip, the sarcasm of The DKarn-Duuk making
him livid with rage that he dared not express — “I will answer my nephew’s question first. He is, after all, my sovereign.”

  Prince Xavier made a bow to Joram, lowering his eyes respectfully, then lifting them to see Joram scowl at him darkly. “No,” answered the warlock, “I am not making sport of you, young man. Far from it. I am in earnest, deadly earnest, I assure you.” The thin lips no longer smiled. “You see, Joram, the right of succession to the throne of Merilon passes through the Empress’s side of the family. Lamentably, your mother has left us to go Beyond, into the realm of death.” The DKarn-Duuk spoke the word with emphasis, watching those around him cringe involuntarily. “A grievous tragedy that will soon become a matter of public knowledge.” He glanced at Vanya, who was sucking in air through his nose, glaring at him in impotent fury. “You, Joram, are now Emperor of Merilon.” He sighed, smiling. “Enjoy your rule while you may. It will not last long. For, you see, as Her Late Majesty’s brother, I am next in line after you.”

  Joram’s expression smoothed, the dark eyes cleared.

  He understands, Dulchase thought, lowering his head to his hand and resting his elbow on the arm of the chair in despair. Name of the Almin, its murder, then….

  A muffled groan from Saryon indicated that he, too, understood. “No,” he began wretchedly, “you can’t! You don’t —”

  “Shut up!” Prince Xavier said coldly. “You are broken, old puppet. You have played your role foolishly, but that was, in many respects, not your fault. The one who pulled your strings bungled his script.

  “And now, Nephew, I will answer your questions both for your own benefit and for the benefit of those who sit in judgment and who will decide your fate.”

  Dulchase heaved a sigh and wished himself at the bottom of the Well.

  “What knowledge I reveal,” The DKarn-Duuk continued, “I have gained from questioning many people this night. The Bishop will, I trust, correct me in anything I say that is in error.