“Yes, yes. I remember. A good, sensible man. So he is Bishop now. Excellent!” said Saryon.
“The Bishop was working alone in his study one day when he sensed someone in the room with him. He lifted his head and was astonished to find a woman seated in a chair in front of his desk. Now this was a very unusual occurrence, for the Bishop’s secretary has strict orders never to introduce anyone into the Bishop’s office without an appointment.
“Fearing that perhaps the woman was there to do him some type of harm, the Bishop talked to her pleasantly, all the while using a secret button, hidden beneath his desk, to alert the guards.
“The button apparently did not work. No guards appeared. The woman, however, assured the Bishop that he had no reason to be afraid.
“ ‘I have come to give you information,’ she said. ‘First, I suggest that you discontinue your war against the Hch’nyv. You have no chance—absolutely none—of defeating the aliens. They are far too strong and too powerful. You have seen only a smattering of their entire force, which numbers in the billions of billions. They will not negotiate with you. They have no need. They intend to destroy you and they will succeed.’
“The Bishop was astonished. The woman, he said, was very calm and imparted this terrible information in a tone which left no doubt in his mind but that she spoke the truth.
“ ‘Excuse me, madam,’ the Bishop said, ‘but who are you? Whom do you represent?’
“She smiled at him and said, ‘Someone very close to you, who takes a personal interest in you.’ Then she continued, telling him, ‘You and the people of Earth and Thimhallan have one chance for survival. The Darksword destroyed the world. It may now be used to save it.’
“ ‘But the Darksword no longer exists,’ Bishop Radisovik protested. ‘It was itself destroyed.’
“ ‘It has been forged anew. Offer it to Thimhallan’s maker and find salvation.’
“At that moment the Bishop’s intercom buzzed. He turned to answer it, and when he looked back, the woman was gone. He had not heard her leave, any more than he had heard her enter. He questioned his secretary and the building’s security people, who said that no one had either gone into or come out of the Bishop’s office. The button on the desk was discovered to be operational. No one could say why they hadn’t heard the alarm.
“What was truly remarkable,” Garald added, “is that the security cameras in the building show no evidence of this woman, not even the camera which is placed in the Bishop’s office. Even stranger—at that point in time we knew nothing of the fact that Smythe had been to visit Joram or that Joram had, as the woman said, forged a new Darksword.”
“To what does the Bishop attribute this visit, then?” Saryon asked.
Garald hesitated, then replied, “Judging from what the woman said, about representing someone very close to the Bishop, someone who takes a personal interest in him, the Bishop is convinced that he was visited by an agent of the Almin. An angel, if you will.”
I noted that General Boris shifted in his chair and looked extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable.
“An agent, maybe,” said the General. “CIA, Interpol, Her Majesty’s Secret Service, FBI. But not of God.”
“How very interesting,” said Saryon, and I could see him mulling over this in his mind.
“Whoever brought us this information, our own researchers now want that sword,” said General Boris. “To determine if there really is some way we can use it to stop the Hch’nyv.”
“But that wasn’t what the an—the woman said,” Saryon interposed. “She said that the sword must be returned to Thimhallan’s maker.”
General Boris had the look on his face of a man indulging a child’s whim to hear a fairy tale. “Who is that supposed to be— Merlyn? You find him, Father, and I’ll give him the Darksword.”
Saryon appeared very stern, considering this sacrilegious.
“At the very least,” said King Garald in mollifying tones, “we must keep the Darksword out of the hands of the Technomancers.”
Saryon now appeared troubled, as if he were rethinking an already-thought-out determination. The other two would have pressed him further, had not an enormous black limousine rolled up at that moment.
General Boris put his hand to his ear.
“I see it,” he said, speaking to an aide through a communicator. The General looked around grimly at us, adding, “Smythe is here.”
CHAPTER SIX
“This is my magic,” said Joram, his gaze going to the sword lying on the floor.
FORGING THE DARKSWORD
‘aryon and I had watched a performance of Gounod’s Faust on the BBC recently and Mephistopheles was much in my mind as I waited to meet the head of the Technomancers. Smythe certainly did not look the part of Mephistopheles, being of medium height with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose. But in the light blue eyes, that were glittering and changeable and cold as diamond, was the reputed charm which the devil purportedly possesses and which he uses to tempt mankind to its downfall.
Smythe was witty and effervescent and brought light and air into our house, which seemed gloomy and suffocating by contrast. He undoubtedly knew what terrible things the King and the General had been saying about him and he didn’t care. Smythe spoke no word in his own defense, he said nothing against either of them. In fact, he greeted them both with deference and pleasure. In their cold and stilted greeting of him, they seemed, by contrast, ungracious, bitter, twisted.
“Father Saryon.” Kevon Smythe took my master’s hand and a radiance shone from him that engulfed Saryon, who actually blinked, as if looking into a blinding light. “I am honored to meet you at long last. I have heard much of you, all good, and of Joram. It is a subject that fascinates me. Tell me, Father,” he said as he accepted a proffered seat in a chair, not on the couch where sat the other two, stiff and upright. “Tell me the story of Joram and of the Darksword. I know bits of it, but I would like to hear it from your own lips.
“I am sorry to say, Reuven,” he added, looking at me, “that I have not read your account, of which I’ve had the most favorable reports. My time is such that it does not give me leisure to read as much as I would like. Your books are in a prominent place in my library, and someday, when the pressures of leadership are removed, I look forward to reading them.”
It was very odd, but I felt a glow of pleasure suffuse me, as if he had paid my books the best of compliments, when—in bald truth—part of me knew perfectly well that he had undoubtedly received distilled accounts of what was in the books from his subordinates and that, though he might indeed own them, he had no intention of ever looking at them.
What was even stranger was that he was aware of the dichotomy of feelings he produced in others and that he did so on purpose. I was fascinated and repulsed at the same time. In his presence, all other men, including the King and the General, appeared petty and ordinary. And although I liked and trusted them and I did not like and did not trust him, I had the uneasy impression that if he called me, I would follow.
Saryon felt the same. I knew because he was talking about Joram, something he was always very reluctant to do with any stranger.
“… Thimhallan was founded by the wizard Merlyn as a land where those blessed with the art of magic could live in peace, using that art to create beautiful things. There were Nine Mysteries of Life present in the world, then. Each person born into that world was gifted with one of these mysteries.”
Kevon Smythe’s lips parted, he whispered beneath his breath the number “thirteen” and a chill went over me. The Four Dark Cults, who had remained behind, would have made the number thirteen.
Saryon, unconscious of the interruption, continued on. “There are Nine Mysteries, eight of them deal with Life or Magic, for, in the world of Thimhallan, Life is Magic. Everything that exists in this land exists either by the will of the Almin, who placed it here before even the ancients arrived, or has since been either ‘shaped, formed,
summoned, or conjured,’ these being the four Laws of Nature. These Laws are controlled through at least one of the eight of the Mysteries: Time, Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Life. Of these Mysteries, only the first five currently survived at the time of the Darksword’s creation. The Mysteries of Time and Spirit were lost during the Iron Wars. With them vanished the knowledge possessed by the ancients— the ability to divine the future and the ability to communicate with those who had passed from this life into Beyond.
“As for the last Mystery, it is practiced, but only by those who walk in darkness. Known as Death, its other name is Technology.”
“Quaint.” Kevon Smythe was amused. “I was told you people believed something along those lines. And the other two … um … Mysteries, you called them. Time and—what was it— Spirit? They are lost? Perhaps just as well. As Macbeth discovered, looking into the future is dangerous. Are we doing what was truly destined or is it a self-fulfilling prophecy? I think it is safer—and more honest—to be guided by one’s vision of the future. Don’t you agree, Father Saryon?”
My master was thoughtful, introspective. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “The tragedy that befell Joram and all of Thimhallan was, in a way, brought about by a vision of the future—a vision which terrified. Would we have caused our own destruction if we’d never heard the Prophecy concerning the Dead child?”
“Yes, we would have. So I believe,” said King Garald. “Our downfall began long before Joram was born, as early as the Iron Wars. Intolerance, prejudice, fear, blind faith, greed, ambition— these would have destroyed us eventually, with or without Joram and the Darksword.”
He looked pointedly at Kevon Smythe as he spoke, but if His Majesty meant those words for the edification of Smythe, His Majesty wasted his breath. Smythe’s attention—and perhaps his magic, if that was what he used to charm—was focused on Saryon, to the exclusion of all else.
“To me, Thimhallan was symbolized by Joram’s mother, the Empress,” said Saryon softly, sadly. “Her husband refused to admit that she was dead, though all in court knew it. He kept her corpse animated by magicks. The courtiers bowed, paid homage, gossiped with her … reveled with a lifeless and corrupt shell of something that had once been alive, vibrant, beautiful. Such a dreadful charade could not have gone on forever.
“Joram’s story is really very simple. A Prophecy was given immediately following the Iron Wars, which stated: ‘There will be born to the royal house one who is dead but will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world.’ Joram was a child of the royal house, born to the Empress and Emperor of Merilon. He was born Dead—that is, he had no magic in him at all. I know,” said Saryon, with a sigh. “I was present when they performed the tests on him.
“Bishop Vanya, knowing of and fearing the Prophecy, ordered that the baby be refused all sustenance. Vanya took the baby away to die. But the Almin is not so easily thwarted. A madwoman named Anja found the baby and stole him, took him to the farms near the Outlands, raised him as her own child.
“Anja knew Joram was deficient in magic. She knew that if this deficiency were discovered, the Duuk-tsarith would seize him and that would be the end of him. She taught him sleight-of-hand tricks so that he could keep up a pretense of possessing magic.
“Joram was raised as a field magus, a peasant. It was here he met Mosiah, who became Joram’s one true friend. It was also here that, when he was a teenager, Joram killed a man, a harsh overseer, who had discovered Joram’s secret. In an effort to protect her son, Anja attacked the overseer, who killed her in self-defense. Furious, Joram killed the overseer.
“Joram fled to the Outlands, where he was found by the Order of the Ninth Mystery, who were also living out there—the Technologists. They had broken the laws of Thimhallan, used Technology to supplement their magic. It was here, among them, that Joram learned the art of forging metal. It was here he discovered darkstone and its ability to nullify magic. Joram developed the idea of forging a weapon made of darkstone, a weapon that would compensate for his lack of magic, a weapon that would give him the power he craved.
“For reasons of my own, I assisted him in making the Darksword,” Saryon said, adding pointedly, for Smythe’s benefit, “Darkstone must be given magical Life through the intercession of a catalyst. Otherwise, its properties are those of any other metal.”
Smythe was gracious. “How interesting. Please continue, Father.”
Saryon shrugged. “There is not much more to tell. Rather, there is, but the story is a long one. Suffice to say, through a series of circumstances, Joram came to learn who he was. He came to learn of the Prophecy. He was sentenced to death. He could have destroyed his attackers, but he chose instead to leave the world. He crossed the Border into what we all thought was the realm of Death. Instead, he traveled to another part of the planet we know as Thimhallan. Here, he and the woman who loved him were found by a member of Earth’s Border Patrol. He was taken to Earth and dwelled there for ten years with his wife, Gwendolyn.
“Discovering that there were some on Earth who were plotting to travel to Thimhallan and conquer it, Joram returned, bringing the Darksword, to fight those who sought to destroy our people, our way of life. He was betrayed and would have been assassinated, but for another strange twist of fate. Realizing that Earth Forces”—Saryon glanced at General Boris, who was red-faced and extremely uncomfortable—”were winning and that our people were going to be either enslaved or slaughtered, Joram chose to end the war. He plunged the Darksword into the sacred altar, released the magic that was pent up in the Well. The magic flowed back into the universe. The war ended.
“The magical shell that had been cast protectively over Thimhallan was broken. The terrible storms that had once swept the land returned. The people had to be transported to a place of safety, and so they were brought here, to Earth, and placed in relocation camps. Only two remained behind: Joram and his wife, Gwendolyn. Now the most hated man in the universe, Joram knew that his life would be in danger if he ever returned to Earth. He chose to stay alone on Thimhallan, the world he had destroyed, as the Prophecy predicted.”
Saryon’s tale had gone on rather longer than the half hour Kevon Smythe had allowed for this business. He made no motion to interrupt, however, nor even glanced at his timepiece, but sat immovable, completely immersed in the catalyst’s story. King Garald and General Boris, who had lived parts of the story, glanced at their own watches and fidgeted, yet they would not leave Smythe alone with us and so they were forced to sit and wait. Looking outside, I saw their aides speaking into handheld phones, undoubtedly rearranging schedules.
I was just thinking that if they stayed much longer, we would be expected to offer them something to eat and drink, and wondering if there were enough biscuits to go around, when Saryon ended his tale.
“Truly,” said Kevon Smythe, and he appeared to be much affected by the story, “the Darksword is an interesting object. Its properties should be analyzed, to see of what benefit it may be to mankind. I know that several theories have been advanced concerning it. It seems to me important that these theories be tested.
“In one of my corporations, I have a team of scientists—top professionals in their fields—who are even now making preparations to study the weapon. They understand”—Smythe glanced smilingly at the irate King, who was on his feet—”that this artifact is extremely valuable. These scientists would treat it with the utmost respect, removing only small portions as necessary for study. Once the testing was completed, the weapon would be returned to the people formerly of Thimhallan—”
“Like hell you would!” General Boris stood up as well.
King Garald was livid. “Of course, we all know that the testing would never be completed, would it, Smythe? There would always be one more test to perform, one more theory to either support or deny. Meanwhile you would be using the Darksword’s power—”
“For good,” said Kev
on Smythe quietly, “as opposed to those, such as your black-robed Enforcers, who would use it for evil.”
King Garald’s face muscles contracted and stiffened, so that when he tried to speak, no words would come through his fury. Smythe was able to continue.
“Father, it is your duty as one of the brotherhood of men to persuade Joram of his duty in these troubled and dangerous times. He used the Darksword to destroy. Let him now redeem himself and use it to create. Create a better life for us all.”
At this, I saw King Garald pause in his attempt to speak. He was keeping close watch on Saryon. The King knew, as well as I, that Smythe had made a mistake. His vaunted charm—be it of magical origin or born in his blood—would not cover his error. He would have done much better to have read my books, not left his research to underlings. He would have then known the nature of the man with whom he dealt.
Saryon’s face grew shadowed.
But if King Garald thought that he had gained a victory by his enemy’s mistake, he, too, was mistaken. I knew my master’s decision, even before he spoke it. I, alone in that room, was not surprised.
Saryon rose to his feet. His gaze encompassed all three men. His voice was rebuking.
“Joram and his wife and child live alone on Thimhallan now. They are under the protection of Earth Forces. They are not to be hounded, or bothered, or mistreated in any way. That is the law.” He turned to Kevon Smythe. “You speak very glibly of redemption, sir. Redemption is the Almin’s province. He alone will judge Joram, not you, not me, not the King, nor any other mortal!”
Saryon took a step backward, raised his head, regarded them all with a gaze that was steady and unwavering. “I have made my decision. I made it last night. I will not go to Joram. I will not be part of any attempt to trick him into revealing the whereabouts of the Darksword. He has suffered enough. Let him live out the remainder of his days in peace.”
The three men were bitter enemies, yet they had the same desire. They glanced at each other.
Legacy of the Darksword Page 7