Doom of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Eighteen years ago, His Holiness, Bishop of the Realm, made a mistake. It was only a small mistake.” The warlock waved his hand deprecatingly. “He misplaced a child. But it would prove to be a disastrous mistake for him. The child he misplaced was no ordinary child. The child was the Dead Prince of Merilon. Three of you — my mistake” — Prince Xavier smiled unpleasantly at Joram — “four of you were present during the ceremony wherein the baby — you, young man — were declared officially Dead. Your father, the Emperor, turned his back upon you, but your mother, my sister, refused to give you up. She knelt beside your crib, weeping tears of crystal. These tears shattered when they struck you, cutting your flesh.”

  Joram, now very pale, placed his hand upon his bare chest. Dulchase saw the white scars there and closed his eyes, remembering.

  “Through the intervention of the Emperor, the Empress was finally convinced to release her child into the custody of Bishop Vanya, who was to take the baby back to the Font and perform the Death Watch. Word came to the Palace some days later that the child’s physical body had died. Everyone mourned, except myself, of course. Nothing personal.” He nodded to Joram, who — with a look of grim amusement — nodded back.

  “I like you, Nephew,” Prince Xavier said approvingly. “A pity. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Vanya’s mistake.”

  The Bishop made a hissing sound, much like overheated air escaping a magical bubble.

  Ignoring him, Xavier continued. “His Holiness took the baby to the Font. The Head of the Palace Guard accompanied him, so that there would be a witness. Vanya carried the child to the Chamber of the Dead and laid the baby upon a stone slab. That was before the time when more and more Dead were born among the families of Merilon. The Prince was the only baby present in the Chamber. It was then Vanya did a foolish thing, Nephew. He left the child there without placing a guard. Why? That will be explained in a moment. Patience. All things come to he who waits,’ as the old saying goes.”

  With a gesture, Prince Xavier brought forth a globe of water from the air and sipped at it as it hovered obligingly near his mouth. The silence lay so heavily over the room that every swallow could be plainly heard. “A drink, my sovereign?”

  Joram shook his head, never taking his eyes from the warlock’s face. The DKarn-Duuk did not offer the water to the catalysts, but sent the globe back into the air with a word of command. “The baby was left alone, unguarded. Oh, certainly it was understandable. There had never been a guard upon those Chambers, so deep within the confines of the sacred mountain. And what was there to guard, after all? A child left to die? Ah, no!” Prince Xavier’s cool voice changed subtly, growing warm and sinister, sending a thrill through his hearers.

  “A child left to live!”

  11

  The Truth Shall Make You Free

  A strangled sound came from Merlyn’s Thumb.

  “Yes, Vanya,” Prince Xavier continued, “I know about the Prophecy. The Duuk-tsarith are loyal — loyal to the state. When it became clear to the Head of their Order that I was now the state, the witch revealed everything to me. Yes, you are confused, Nephew. Up until now, all was easily understood. Listen carefully, for I will speak the Prophecy known previously only to Bishop Vanya and the Duuk-tsarith.”

  In a soft voice, The DKarn-Duuk spoke the words that would whisper in Dulchase’s ear every night from that moment on.

  “There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world —”

  Prince Xavier fell silent, his gaze intent upon Joram. The young man was pale, the full lips bloodless. But the expression on the dark face did not change, he did not speak.

  “That is why I betrayed you, my son!”

  The pent-up words burst from Saryon’s throat as blood spurting from a torn heart. “I had no choice! His Holiness made me see! The fate of the world was in my hands!” Wringing those hands, Saryon gazed pleadingly at Joram.

  What does Saryon hope for, Dulchase thought pityingly. Forgiveness? Understanding? Dulchase looked into Joram’s stern face. No, the old Deacon said to himself, he won’t find it in those dark depths.

  But, for a moment, it seemed he might. Joram’s eyelids flickered, the tight lips trembled; he turned his head ever so slightly toward the catalyst, who was watching with pathetic eagerness. But the pride bred in him by birth and fostered in him by madness froze the tears and checked the impulse. He averted his face even farther from Saryon, who sighed and slumped back into his chair. Joram’s attention remained on The DKarn-Duuk.

  “I will go on,” said the warlock with a touch of impatience, “if there are no more interruptions. You understand now why the Prince could not be allowed to die. He had to live — or the Prophecy would be fulfilled. Yet everyone must think him dead, it being inconceivable that a Dead Emperor one day occupy the throne of Merilon.

  “You see Vanya’s quandary, Nephew?” Prince Xavier spread his hands, his sarcasm soft and lethal. “I don’t know what he intended to do with you, Joram. What did you plan, Bishop? Will you tell us?”

  There was no answer, other than the Bishops labored breathing.

  The DKarn-Duuk shrugged. “It is not important. Probably, he had plans for keeping you locked in some secret cell within the Font where you would have lived a prisoner until he could hit upon a solution. Ah, I see that I am not far wrong in my guessing.”

  Dulchase, glancing at Vanya, saw a nerve begin to twitch in the man’s jaw.

  “His plan, whatever it was, went awry. He had purposefully left no guard, intending to slip back down into the Chamber that night and remove the Prince to a safer area. Imagine his horror, Nephew, when he returned to the Chamber and found the baby gone!”

  Dulchase could imagine. The skin of his bald head crawled, his feet were icy.

  “Our Bishop — ever thinking — did not panic. He was able, after quiet investigation, to gain some clue as to what had occurred. A woman named Anja had given birth to a stillborn child. When the Theldara told the mother this and showed her the dead child, Anja went mad. She refused to give up the body. The Theldara sent for the Duuk-tsarith to take the baby away from her. Through their magical arts, they did so, and left Anja supposedly sedated. But she fooled them. I have heard, Nephew, that you are skilled in the art of sleight of hand and illusion and that these were taught you by this woman you knew as your mother. That does not surprise me. She was skilled in that art, as we know from her having fooled the Duuk-tsarith, people not easily deceived.

  “Bishop Vanya could discover nothing for certain, of course, but he deduced — and I agree with him — that the woman fled her room and wandered about the Font, searching for the way out. She happened upon the Chamber of the Dead. Here she found a baby, a living baby! Snatching up the child, Anja escaped the Font in the night. By the time Vanya discovered what had happened, the skilled wizardess had covered her tracks well.

  “Thus, Nephew, for years Bishop Vanya has lived with the knowledge that somewhere in this world, you, the Prince, were alive. Yet, try as he might, he could not find you. The only ones allowed in on this secret were the highest ranking of the Duuk-tsarith, who, of course, assisted in the search. Any reports of living Dead were checked out carefully, they tell me. The first to come close to matching was you, Joram, who revealed yourself to them when you killed the overseer. The description of your mother fit Anja; you were the right age.

  “But Vanya couldn’t be certain. Fortunately, you made matters easy for the Bishop by fleeing into the Outland. A warlock — one of the Duuk-tsarith’s best, known as Blachloch — was there already, performing a covert operation with the Sorcerers. This man was alerted to watch for you. His men found you easily and he kept you under his surveillance.

  “Once more, however, the Bishop was in a quandary. He did not now dare try to keep you in the Font, where, so the saying goes, ‘the walls have ears and tongues.’ He had too many enemies who we
re prepared to step into his place. Vanya decided that it would be just as safe, keeping you in the Outlands under the watchful eyes of not only the warlock but a catalyst as well.” The DKarn-Duuk gestured at the huddled figure of Saryon. “But Vanya had not counted upon you discovering darkstone. Slowly, inexorably, Nephew, it seemed that the Prophecy was being fulfilled. You were — or shall we say are — becoming too dangerous.”

  Prince Xavier fell silent, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. No one else spoke. Vanya sat in his chair, his fingers crawling up and down the arm, staring at The DKarn-Duuk as a losing card player stares at his opponent, trying to calculate his next move. Joram, the stern mask of pride beginning to slip, appeared almost stupid from weariness and shock. He looked at nothing with dull, glazed eyes. Saryon was drowning in his own misery. Dulchase felt sorry for the man, but there was little it seemed he could do.

  The old Deacons head ached; he was shivering from cold and nerves so that he had to keep his teeth firmly clamped together to stop them from rattling in his head. He was angry, too. Angry at having been dragged into this absurd, dangerous situation. He didn’t know who to believe. Didn’t, in fact, believe any of them. Oh, some of it he must concede was true. The kid was obviously the Empress’s son — that hair and those eyes couldn’t lie.

  But — a Prophecy to destroy the world? Every generation of mankind had been told by one prophet or another that it was doomed. How this Prophecy came about, the Deacon didn’t know. But he could guess. Some old man living on bugs and honey for a year has a vision and sees the end of the world. Probably all due to constipation. But now, hundreds of years later, it was going to cost this kid his life.

  Forgetting himself, Dulchase snorted in disgust. The sound split the tense atmosphere like thunder. Everyone in the room started, and all eyes — even the cold, flat eyes of The DKarn-Duuk — turned on the old Deacon.

  “Head cold,” Dulchase muttered, making a show of wiping his nose on the sleeve of his robe.

  To his relief, Bishop Vanya took advantage of the break in the charged atmosphere to stir his great bulk. “How did you find out?” he asked Prince Xavier once more.

  The warlock smiled. “Still trying to save your skin, aren’t you, Eminence? I don’t blame you. It covers a large quantity of blubber that would undoubtedly be an extremely disgusting sight if it leaked out for all to see. Who else knows? you’re wondering. Are they in a position to take your place? Am I in a position to put them there?”

  Vanya’s complexion went sallow. He started to make some reply, but Prince Xavier raised a thin hand. “No more blustering. You may relax, in fact, Bishop. I could replace you, but I find it suits me not to — provided, of course, that you and I reach agreement on a final solution to our problems. But we will discuss those further. Now, to answer your question. A gentlemen of the upper middle class came to me last night, distraught over the disappearance of his daughter.”

  Joram raised his head, the dark eyes flashing.

  Prince Xavier turned immediately from the seemingly mollified Bishop to the young man seated at his side. “Yes, Nephew, I thought that might stir your blood.”

  “Gwendolyn!” Joram said, his voice cracking. “Where is she. What have you done to her! By the Almin!” His fist clenched. “If you’ve hurt her —”

  “Hurt her?” The DKarn-Duuk was cool, his tone rebuking. “Give us some credit for common sense, Joram. What would it benefit us to harm this girl whose only crime has been the misfortune of falling deeply in love with you?”

  Prince Xavier turned back to the Bishop.

  “Lord Samuels came to me in the Palace last night at my request. I was aware, of course, that the Duuk-tsarith were searching for the young man with what I thought unusual zeal. I was naturally curious to know why, and Lord Samuels was eager to answer my questions. He told me all he knew of Joram and of the strange testimony of the Theldara. There were many unaswered questions that piqued my curiosity. Why had the records on Anja disappeared? Why insist that a child had been stolen from among the waifs and orphans when it was obvious that one had not?

  “I immediately sent for the Head of the Duuk-tsarith. At first, she was reluctant to talk. Upon my exhibiting how much I already knew, and upon emphasizing the advantages of speaking versus the disadvantages of remaining silent and loyal to one who did not deserve her loyalty” — Prince Xavier emphasized this, to the renewed fury of the Bishop — “she decided to cooperate, and told me all I wanted to know. You need not worry, Nephew. Your young lover is back in the bosom of her family, no doubt shedding copious tears over your capture. She has one more trial to undergo, which — though painful — is necessary. They tell that, in the ancient world, it was customary to cut off a diseased limb to save the life of the body as a whole. She is young. She will recover From the wound, especially when she discovers that the man she loved is a Dead man being convicted for the murder of two citizens of the realm and for dabbling in the Dark Arts.”

  Color was returning to Bishop Vanya’s bloated face. He cleared his throat, coughing.

  “Yes, Eminence,” Prince Xavier continued, a sneer curling the thin lip, “I will keep your secret. It is in the best interests of the people to do so. There is, of course, a condition.”

  “The Empress,” Vanya said.

  “Precisely.”

  “Her death will be made known tomorrow,” the Bishop said, swallowing. “We have long counseled this course of action” — Vanya’s eyes went to the two catalysts present — “as being only fitting to give the poor soil the eternal rests it seeks. But the Emperor opposed our will. There is no doubt” — the Bishop glanced at Prince Xavier nervously — “that the Emperor is insane?”

  “None,” responded the warlock dryly.

  The Bishop nodded in relief, licking his lips.

  “There is just one other small matter,” Prince Xavier said.

  Vanya’s face darkened. “What is that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “The Darksword —” began the warlock.

  “None shall touch that weapon of abomination!” Vanya roared, his face flushing red. Veins popped out in his forehead; his eyes were nearly engulfed by swelling flesh. “Not even you, DKarn-Duuk! It will be present at the Judgment as evidence of this young man’s guilt. Then it will return to the Font, where it will be locked away forever!”

  There was no doubting, from the Bishop’s tone, that Prince Xavier, in cultivating the soil of a newly plowed field, had suddenly struck a gigantic boulder. He might move it, but that would take time and patience. Much better, for the moment, to go around. Shrugging, he bowed in acquiescence.

  “You have my sword, but what is to become of me?” Joram demanded in low, proud tones. A bitter smile twisted his face. “It seems you have a true dilemma on your hands. You cannot kill me, without fulfilling the Prophecy. Yet you can’t afford to let me live. There have been too many ‘mistakes’ made already. Lock me up in the deepest dungeon — there wouldn’t be one night you slept easily without wondering if I haven’t, somehow, managed to escape.”

  “I grow fonder of you by the minute, Nephew,” Prince Xavier said with a sigh, rising to his feet. “Your fate is, I fear, in the hands of the catalysts, since you are a threat to the realm. And, I have no doubt, Bishop Vanya has — at last — found a solution to this thorny problem. My work here is concluded. Eminence.” The DKarn-Duuk bowed slightly. “Revered Brethren.” He nodded to Saryon, who was staring at Vanya with wide, terror-stricken eyes, and to Dulchase, who shifted uneasily in his chair and refused to meet the man’s flat gaze.

  Casting the red hood of his luxuriant robe over his head. The DKarn-Duuk turned last to Joram.

  “Rise and bid me farewell, Nephew,” said the warlock.

  Reluctantly, with the defiant toss of his black hair, the young man obeyed. He stood up, but he made no movement beyond that. Clasping his hands behind him, he stared straight ahead, into the darkness of the empty Hall.

  Stepping forward, Prince Xavier took hol
d of the young man by the shoulders with his thin hands. Flinching, Joram instinctively tried to free himself from the warlocks grasp, but he checked himself, too proud to struggle.

  Smiling, The DKarn-Duuk leaned near the young man. Placing his hooded head next to Joram’s cheek, he kissed him, first on the left side, then on the right. Now the young man faltered, cringing visibly, his flesh shrinking from the touch of the cold lips. Jerking spasmodically, he pulled himself from the man’s grasp, rubbing the flesh of his bare arms as though to rid himself of the touch.

  A corridor opened behind Prince Xavier. Stepping into it, he vanished. The light he had brought with him disappeared as well. Most of the Hall was plunged into darkness, except for the faint, ghastly radiance emanating from the Well of Life in the center and the harsh, bright light streaming out from behind the Bishops throne.

  Though still obviously shaken, Vanya appeared to be regaining his composure. At a gesture from the Bishop, the young Duuk-tsarith came forward from the shadows. He spoke a word and, once more, Joram was surrounded by three fiery rings, their flaming light casting an eerie glow in the deep gloom of the Hall. The Bishop stared in silence at the young man, sucking air in loudly through his nose.

  “Holiness,” began Saryon, rising slowly and haltingly to his feet, “you promised he would not be killed.” The catalyst clasped his trembling hands before him. “You swore to me by the blood of the Almin….”

  “Get down on your knees, Brother Saryon,” said Bishop Vanya sternly, “and beg Him for your own redemption!”

  “No!” Saryon cried, throwing himself forward.

  Struggling to his feet, Vanya heaved his great bulk from the throne and, thrusting the catalyst out of his way, walked over to stand before the young man. Joram watched him without speaking, the bitter half smile on his lips.

  “Joram, son of —” Vanya began, then stopped, confused. The half smile on the young man’s face widened into a proud smile of triumph. The Bishop’s face grew livid with anger. “You are correct, young man!” he said, his voice quivering. “We dare not let you live. We dare not let you die. As you have been Dead among the Living, so now you will find a living Death.”