Dulchase sprang up, his throat constricting. No! he wanted to shout. I won’t be a party to this! He tried to speak, but nothing came out. For once, his tongue failed him. They had trapped him neatly. He knew too much. He would go to Zith-el, where they had a remarkable zoo …
Saryon gave an anguished cry, falling on his knees to the floor before Vanya’s throne.
The Bishop paid no attention to either of his catalysts. Joram’s gaze went once to the wretched Saryon, but it was cool and unforgiving and almost immediately returned to the Bishop.
“Joram. Having been found guilty as charged of all counts presented against you by three catalysts as prescribed by the laws of Thimhallan, I hereby sentence you to the Turning. This dawn, you will be taken to the Border where your flesh shall be turned to stone, your soul left to live within your body to contemplate your crimes. Forever more, you will stand Guard at the Border, dead but alive, staring eternally into Beyond.”
12
Obedire Est Vivere
There came a soft knock upon the closed door.
“Father Saryon?” called a gentle voice.
“Is it time?”
There were no windows in the small chapel. The harsh, bright dawn of a new day might come to the world outside, but it would never penetrate the cool darkness of this sanctuary.
“Yes, Father,” said the voice in hushed tones.
Slowly, Saryon raised his head. He had spent the remainder of the night kneeling on the stone floor of one of the private chapels in the Font, seeking solace in prayer. Now his body was stiff, his knees bruised. His legs had long ago lost any feeling.
How he wished the same might be said of his heart!
Reaching out a hand, Saryon grasped the prayer rail before him and struggled to stand. A stifled groan escaped his lips, returning circulation sending sharp needles of pain through his limbs. He tried to move his legs and discovered he was too weak. Leaning his weary head upon his hand, he blinked back the tears.
“You who have denied me everything else, grant me strength to walk,” he prayed bitterly. “I will not fail him in this, at least. I will be with him at the end.”
Placing both hands on the prayer rail, gritting his teeth, Saryon struggled to his feet. He stood still for several moments, breathing heavily, until he was certain he could move.
“Father Saryon?” came the voice again, a tinge of worry. There was a scratching on the chapel door.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Saryon snapped. “What is your hurry? Impatient to see the show?”
Shuffling forward, his shoes dragging the ground as he forced his hurting muscles to move, the catalyst crossed the small room in a few steps and fell against the door, his strength giving way.
Pausing to wipe the chill sweat from his brow with a shaking hand, Saryon at last found the energy to remove the magical seal he had placed last night upon the door. It was not a powerful spell; the catalyst had cast it himself using the small amount of Life within his body. But he wondered if he had the ability to break it. After a moment’s hesitation, the door opened, swinging inward silently.
The pale face of a novitiate looked in at him. The woman’s eyes were wide and frightened; she bit her lip at the sight of his ashen face, and lowered her gaze.
“I — I was concerned about you, Father,” she said in a quivering voice. “That is all.” Passing a slender hand over her eyes, she added brokenly, “I do not want to see this, but it is required —” Her words failed.
“I am sorry, Sister,” Saryon said wearily. “Forgive me. It has been … a long night.”
“Yes, Father,” she said more strongly, lifting her gaze to meet his. “I understand. I have asked the Almin for courage to undergo this trial. He will not fail me.”
“How fortunate for you,” Saryon sneered.
The priest’s tone of sudden, bitter anger startled the novitiate, who stared at him, half-frightened. Saryon sighed and started to ask her forgiveness again, then gave it up. What did her forgiveness matter? What did anyone’s matter except for one person’s…. And that he would never have, did not deserve.
“Is … is that … the sword?” The novitiates frightened eyes — as bright and soft as a rabbit’s, Saryon thought — went to a shapeless mass of darkness lying on the rosewood altar, barely visible in the light cast from the small globe she held in her hand.
“Yes, Sister,” Saryon said briefly.
That was the reason for the magical seal upon the door. Only one person had been considered fit to handle the weapon of darkness.
“This will be part of your penance, Father Saryon,” Bishop Vanya had decreed. “Since you assisted in creating this foul tool of the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery, you will spend the rest of your life guarding it. Of course,” the Bishop had added in a softer, more pleasant voice, “there will be those of our Order required to study it that we may learn more about its evil nature. You will grant those elected to undertake this task all the benefit of your knowledge of the Dark Arts.”
Humbly, Saryon had bowed his head, accepting his penance gratefully, firm in his belief that this would cleanse his soul and grant him the peace he sought so desperately. But the promised peace had not come. He thought it had — until last night, when he had looked into Joram’s dark eyes. The young man’s bitter words, “I trusted you!” seemed to the Priest to have been scribed in flame upon his soul. Forever they would burn within him; he would never be free of the agony.
It was that flame, he supposed dully, burning up his prayers of supplication to the Almin — prayers begging for mercy, for forgiveness of his sins. The words drifted like ashes from his mouth and scattered in the wind, leaving his heart a charred and blackened lump in his chest.
The novitiate glanced at a window in the corridor where the light of the night stars was slowly beginning to fade.
“Father, we must go.”
“Yes.” Saryon turned, and with slow and faltering steps walked over to the altar.
The Darksword lay like a dead thing. The light the novitiate held in her hand gleamed softly in the highly polished rosewood of the intricately shaped altar; it did not gleam in the black metal of the sword. His heart heavy with grief and sorrow, Saryon lifted the weapon awkwardly, his flesh shrinking from the touch. Clumsily, he slid it back into the scabbard — nearly dropping it. Bowing his head, he gripped the sword in clenched hands and raised it heavenward, crying out the most earnest prayer he had ever uttered in his life.
“Blessed Almin, I care no longer for myself. I am lost. Be with Joram! Somehow, help him to find the light he struggles to attain!”
The only sound in the chapel was a muffled, pitying “amen” from the young novitiate.
Cradling the heavy sword in his arms, Saryon walked from the chapel.
13
The Borderland
The Borderland.
The edge of the world. Snowcapped peaks and pine forests and sparkling rivers in the center of the land flow into rolling meadowlands and populated cities and vast forests that in turn give way to tall stands of waving prairie grass. The grass dies out, and then there is nothing but empty, windswept dunes of shifting sand. Beyond the sands hang the mists of Beyond. Staring eternally into the mist, with their unseeing stone eyes, are the Watchers.
Condemned humans, transformed magically into statues of stone that nevertheless retain life within their frozen bodies, the Watchers stand thirty feet tall. Male and female, each is spaced about twenty feet from its fellow. Almost all are catalysts. Magi are punished by being sent Beyond; it being considered too dangerous to allow the powerful magi to remain in the world, even in a frozen form. But the humble catalyst is a different matter, and when it was determined that Guards were needed upon the Borderlands, this seemed a fitting and suitable way to provide for them.
What do they watch for, these silent beings, some of whom have withstood the stinging of the blowing sand for centuries? What would they do if they saw something materialize within the drifting m
ists? None know, the answers having been long forgotten. There is nothing out there except Beyond — the Realm of Death. And from that Realm none have ever returned.
Located to the east of Thimhallan, the Borders are the first part of the land touched by the rays of the rising sun. Upon rising, the sun’s light is a pearly gray, shining through curtains of mist so thick that even heavens ball of fire cannot burn them away. Then, gleaming pale and cold — a ghost of itself — the sun can be seen shimmering faintly above the horizon where the mists give way to the blue, clear sky. When the sun is finally free of the Realm of Death, its light bursts forth, pouring down upon the land below in thankfulness, bringing the living of Thimhallan a new day.
It was at this time, when the sun’s first full rays struck the earth, that Joram’s flesh would be changed to stone.
Thus it was in the gray of early dawn that the participants and witnesses of the solemn rite began to gather on the sand dunes. Twenty-five catalysts are needed to grant Life to the Executioner for the Turning, and these men and women were the first to arrive. Although generally summoned from all parts of Thimhallan to represent the entire population, so hurried was this trial that these catalysts were taken entirely from the Font. Many of the younger had never seen the ceremony, most of the elder had forgotten it. Those catalysts chosen to take part in the ritual could be seen stumbling sleepily from the Corridors onto the sand, many with books in their hands, hastily studying the rite.
Next to arrive was the Executioner. A powerful magus — one of the top-ranking members of the Duuk-tsarith — this man was the catalysts’ own warlock. He worked for them alone, and was in charge not only of security within the Font, but also attending to duties such as this. His black robes changed to the gray of judgment for this occasion, the Executioner stepped silently from the Corridor. He was alone, his face covered by his hood. The catalysts, glancing at him askance, shunned him, moving hastily from his path. He paid them no heed. Hands folded within the cavernous sleeves of his robes, he stood as still as stone himself in the sand, perhaps rehearsing the complicated spell in his mind, perhaps concentrating the massive mental and physical energies that would be needed for its casting.
Next came from the Corridor two Duuk-tsarith, escorting a man of lordly, if weary, bearing, and a young woman, who appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Cringing away from the touch of the warlocks, the girl clung to her father. At the sight of the stone Watchers, she gave a heartbroken cry. Her father supported her in his arms, or it seemed she would have fallen where she stood and never risen again.
Several of the catalysts shook their heads and a few of the older ones stepped forward to offer the Almin’s consolation and blessing. But the girl turned from them as she turned from the Duuk-tsarith, burying her head in her father’s breast and refusing to look at them.
The warlocks who accompanied the two led them near a place in the sand that was empty except for a mark that had been hastily drawn upon it. When she saw the mark — a wheel with nine spokes — the young woman collapsed and a Theldara was hastily summoned.
The Cardinal came next, remembering just as he stepped from the Corridor to change his silver-trimmed white robes of his office to the gray, silver-trimmed robes of judgment. Joining several of the older catalysts, who bowed reverently, the Cardinal glanced at the slowly brightening mists and frowned. He was overheard to mention irritably that they were running behind schedule. Gathering the twenty-five of his Order together, he arranged them in a circle around the mark of the spoked wheel. When the catalysts were placed to his satisfaction and each had turned his or her robe to gray, the Cardinal bowed to the Executioner, who slowly and solemnly took his place in the center of the circle.
All was in readiness. The Cardinal sent word via the Corridor back to the Font, and, after a moment’s breathless anticipation, the void gaped open. Expecting the Bishop’s entourage, everyone twisted his head and strained to see. But it was only the Theldara, coming to tend to the young woman. This provided a small amount of diversion. Restorative potions were administered, and within moments the girl was on her feet, some semblance of color coming and going in her pallid face.
There was a moment’s restless movement around the circle of catalysts — the Cardinal frowned terribly and made a mental note of the most flagrant transgressors. But their patience was rewarded. The Corridor gaped again, a hole of nothing.
The crowd gasped. A most unexpected phenomenon occurred.
Stepping out of the Corridor was the Emperor. As everyone watched in shock, another flurry of movement within the void brought forth the Empress as well, seated in a white-winged chair. Her eyes stared straight ahead into the Realm of Beyond; many would whisper afterward (when her death had been officially announced) that there was an expression of wistful longing in them, as though yearning for the rest being denied her. The two were alone, no attendants accompanied them, and the Emperor hovered above the sand, looking about him expectantly.
Stunned, the Cardinal stared, openmouthed; the catalysts glanced at each other in amazement and consternation. It even caught the attention of the girl; she raised her head and glanced at the royal couple — particularly the dead Empress — then hurriedly diverted her gaze with a shudder. Only the Executioner remained unmoved, his hooded head faced forward, the shadowed eyes fixed upon the circle.
Finally, the Cardinal left the circle of catalysts and took a hesitant step toward the Emperor, though he hadn’t any idea what to do with the man. Fortunately, at that moment, the Corridor gaped once more, producing Bishop Vanya and The DKarn-Duuk, the red and crimson of their robes like splashes of blood against the background of white sand.
Both appeared considerably taken aback at the sight of the Emperor and his wife.
“What is he doing here?” Bishop Vanya said in an undertone, glancing at Prince Xavier with a scowl.
“I have no idea,” the warlock replied coldly, glancing at Bishop Vanya in turn. “Perhaps he is in need of a little light entertainment.”
“The walls of the Font have eyes and ears and mouths as well,” the Bishop remarked testily, his face flushing at the suspicion he saw clearly in the dark eyes of The DKarn-Duuk. “He has learned the truth.”
It seemed for an instant that Xavier lost his famous composure, much to the Bishop’s satisfaction.
Leaning close, he hissed. “If the young man talks, if he makes this public in the Emperor’s presence —”
“He won’t,” Vanya interrupted. Lips pursed in smug satisfaction, his squinting eyes went to Lord Samuels and his daughter, standing forlornly in the sand behind the circle of catalysts.
Understanding the Bishop’s meaning, Xavier relaxed. “Has the young man been told she will be here?”
“No. We hope the shock of the sight of her will keep him silent. If he tries to speak, the catalyst — Father Saryon — has instructions to warn him that the girl will suffer.”
“Mmmmm,” was all the warlock replied. But the sound had an ominous quality. The Bishop was reminded forcibly of the buzzing snake, which is said to emit a warning to its victims before it strikes. There was no time for further conversation, however, it being incumbent upon the two to attend their liege lord and his dead lady with a show of homage and respect.
A royal gallery was necessary now, of course, to provide seats for the Emperor and Empress. Bishop Vanya and the DKarn-Duuk would sit here as well, along with the Cardinal, these gentlemen having previously intended to simply stand on the outskirts of the circle in their haste to have this done quickly.
That was impossible now. Several Duuk-tsarith were summoned from the Corridor to conjure up the gallery with the assistance of the Cardinal himself, since none of the catalysts in the circle could spare the energy. The Cardinal granted the warlocks Life with an ill-humored air and was seen to fret over the delay, glancing continually into the mists that were growing brighter with every passing second.
But the warlocks did their job efficiently and the gallery too
k shape within the speaking of a word and the gesture of a hand. The air coalesced into hundreds of soft cushions, a silken canopy fell from the sky like a wayward cloud, and Their Majesties, the Bishop. The DKarn-Duuk, and the rest were soon settled. Sitting at the head of the circle of catalysts, they had an excellent view of the Executioner and the wheeled circle drawn in the sand. Beyond that, the mists of the Boundary of the World roiled and seethed in the morning light.
Heaving a sigh of relief, the Cardinal hastily signaled for the prisoner.
14
The Doom of the Darksword
The Corridor opened again, this time in the very center of the circle of catalysts.
Saryon stepped forth, bearing the Darksword in his arms, carrying it awkwardly and gingerly, as a father carries his newborn babe. The Cardinal appeared shocked at this — bringing a weapon of evil into the solemn rite — and he looked to his Bishop for instruction.
Rising from his seat, Bishop Vanya spoke sternly. “It has been decreed that Deacon Saryon is to stand at the side of the Executioner, the Darksword raised, so that the last sight this young man’s eyes see will be the thing of evil he has created.”
The Cardinal bowed. There were mutterings among the catalysts, a breach of discipline that was instantly hushed by a shocked hiss from the priest. All was silent once more, so silent that the whisper of the wind sliding along the sand spoke clearly to each present, though only Saryon understood its words, having heard the wind mourn long ago.
“The Prince is Dead….”
The Corridor opened, a final time. Flanked by two Duuk-tsarith, the prisoner stepped out onto the sand. Joram’s head was bowed, the black hair falling, disheveled, over his face. He was forced to move slowly and deliberately — the same fiery rings encircling his arms and upper body. Ugly, red, blistering weals were visible on his flesh, and rumor whispered quickly among the guests in the gallery that the young man had made a last foolish, furious struggle to avoid his fate.
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