Well of Darkness

by Margaret Weis

  “What does take you out on such a night?” Evaristo asked cheerfully.

  He had changed little in the intervening eight years, grown rounder and more comfortable perhaps. He was a happy man, a contented man, pleased with his wife and his children, pleased with his advancement in the ranks of the magi. He now ran a school for young boys, children of wealthy merchants, and was doing quite well for himself.

  Gareth had his lie to hand, recited it glibly enough, recalling with a sinking heart that in the days of his childhood Evaristo had been quick to tell when the whipping boy was prevaricating and when he was telling the truth.

  “Fulfilling the requirement for charitable works…I tend the sick…housebound…I fix their meals…”

  “The trials of the novice,” said Evaristo, smiling. “How well I remember. I won’t keep you from your soup-making.” He peered at Gareth searchingly to try to see through the shadows. “How have you been? You look pale, as if you had been ill.”

  “I am in excellent health, Master,” said Gareth, hugging the shadows close. “As you say, the trials of a novice…”

  “Late hours, too much study. You must get more exercise and eat more. You are far too thin.”

  “Master—” Gareth began with a hint of impatience.

  “I know. You have somewhere else to be. Gareth.” Evaristo grew very serious. Casting a glance about to see that they were alone, the tutor moved a step toward him. “Gareth, what is this I hear? That Dagnarus is going to be nominated for Dominion Lord?”

  Gareth wondered how best to respond to this. His first inclination was to deny knowing anything about it. This he abandoned. Evaristo knew the close relationship between the two young men. He would never believe that Dagnarus had not mentioned something this important to his friend.

  “I know that Dagnarus made the request of his father,” Gareth said, cautiously. “I had not heard that His Majesty agreed.”

  “His Majesty has agreed,” Evaristo said grimly. “His Highness, the crown prince, is violently opposed. The two quarreled…The first quarrel ever between the King and his son. This is very bad, Gareth.” Evaristo shook his head, looking somber. “Very bad.”

  “I am sorry to hear of this division,” said Gareth, and this much at least was the truth. “As you know, Master, I have great respect for His Majesty and great affection for his son—for both his sons,” he emphasized. “But I do not see—”

  “You must dissuade Dagnarus from this course of action,” Evaristo said, urgent and intense. Outside, the wind howled, and rain beat against the lead-glass windowpanes as if it, too, wanted to be indoors where it was warm. “Nothing good can come of it. He has already brought about a rift between the King and the crown prince. This rift will widen. The Dominion Lords themselves are dividing into factions, further complicated by the fact that now the elven and orken and dwarven Dominion Lords are involved. Dagarus must be made to see reason and abandon this!”

  “Master,” said Gareth, extremely uncomfortable, “I do not know why you are telling me—”

  “Because you are the only person who has influence over Dagnarus.”

  “Hardly, Master,” said Gareth with a rueful smile.

  “You do, Gareth, though you may not think so. You know the rituals, you have studied them. You know that he cannot pass them! That he must fail—”

  “Then there is no problem,” Gareth interrupted. “He will fail, and the Council of Dominion Lords will not recommend him for the Transfiguration.”

  “It may not be that simple,” said Evaristo, frowning. “We both know that a candidate may pass all the tests and still not be recommended. Therefore, it stands to reason that a candidate may do the reverse. Admittedly no candidate in the history of the Dominion Lords has failed the tests and been nominated, but Dagnarus has his supporters, notably the Shield of the Divine for the elves and Dunner of the dwarves.”

  “And are you so certain Dagnarus will fail, Master?” Gareth asked.

  “Aren’t you, Gareth?”

  Gareth could not lie in response to this, especially since he had said much the same to Dagnarus.

  “If he does undergo the Transfiguration, it may cost Dagnarus his life,” Evaristo continued. “We’ve had one Dominion Lord die already. That death caused people to question whether or not the Order of Dominion Lords should be maintained or abolished. If the prince were to die—he is immensely popular among the people—if he were to die, his death would create an outcry so strong that the Order of Dominion Lords might not survive it.”

  “I am sorry, Master,” Gareth replied reluctantly. “But I do not agree with you in this. I believe”—the gods help me! he thought—“that Dagnarus would make an excellent choice for Dominion Lord.”

  “You do not mean that, Gareth,” said Evaristo, regarding him sadly. “I can tell. You never could lie to me.”

  But I am lying, Master, said Gareth silently. I am living a lie. I have been ever since that day Dagnarus bid me look into the Void.

  Gareth had nothing to say in reply and, seeing no point in continuing such an unsatisfactory interview, he made his excuses and left. Evaristo remained standing in the alcove, glaring after him, disappointed and angry.

  It was with relief that Gareth went back out into the storm, braving the porter’s baleful look as he once more forced open the door. Nature’s wild tumult accorded well with that of his soul. He left the Temple and its environs, exiting the Magi Gate, sliding on the stone bridge, clutching at the barriers that protected pedestrians from tumbling into the chasm below.

  He entered the Ambassadorial District, where the ambassadors from the various races kept stately mansions. The only people abroad this night were the city guards, making their rounds. They marched past, hunched and miserable, the rain streaming down their faces, their lips blue and pinched with the cold. They cast him curious glances, wondering what he was doing out, but seeing that he was a magus and judging that his errand, whatever it was, must be urgent, they did not stop him.

  Gareth left the Ambassadorial District, descended the long staircase cut into the rock, which took him down the face of Castle Cliff to the Brewery District. The staircase was wet and slippery with sleet, the descent perilous. Gareth halted, shoved up against the cliff face by the howling wind, and considered going back, returning to the warm sanctuary of the Temple. Shivering on the cliff face, his woolen coat sodden and rimed with ice, he realized that he had come too far to give up. It had taken him months of work and sacrifice to obtain his goal. If it could be said of him that wind and rain kept him locked safe and warm in the Temple, he must forfeit all hope of success. The symbolism of his actions did not escape him. He proceeded on, treading with the utmost care.

  He had one more level to go, but the stairs leading from Brewery District to the Slaughtering District, known as the Pit, were not so steep, since they were not intended to be used for defensive purposes, to slow advancing armies, but were meant to promote traffic. The Royal Brewhouse, located at the bottom of the street, was ablaze with light; it would take more than a gale to keep its regulars away. Gareth turned his shoulder to the warmth and life, and passed into darkness, both literally and figuratively.

  The acrid scent of blood, mixed with the smell of animals and dung, tinged the air. Not even the torrential downpour could wash it away. He had entered the Slaughtering District, an apt place to live for a follower of Death magic. Gareth could hear the lowing of the cattle awaiting the butcher’s ax, the bleating of the sheep. He turned onto the South Highway.

  Butchers’ stalls, shuttered and closed for the night, lined the street. In the morning, fresh slabs of meat would be laid out on long wooden tables balanced on trestles, chickens would be hanging from their trussed feet on hooks, dogs roaming everywhere, flies thick. He left the main thoroughfare, turned into a back alley, popularly known among the locals as Blood Alley, for when rain fell, the blood from the butchers’ shops washed down the alley and into a culvert at the end.

  Gareth
kept a wary watch as he slipped and slithered on the icy, wet cobblestones. This part of Vinnengael was notorious for thugs, robbers, and pickpockets. Gareth was known there by sight; the person he had come to visit was well-known and thus he was safe from molestation to a certain extent. There might always be some newcomer, however, someone who didn’t know the way of things.

  The alley was dark in the daytime. At night and in this storm, it was so dark that Gareth kept his shoulder close to the sides of the buildings, feeling his way. Fortunately, he knew the area. Finding the doorway, located almost at the alley’s end, he halted, knocked gently on the door three times and then three times more. A voice bid him enter. The door was not locked. There was nothing inside to steal, at least nothing that would have attracted the ordinary sort of thief. Treasures there were within, but only for those who had the understanding of them.

  Gareth shoved open the door, swiftly shut it behind him. Even at that, a flurry of sleet gusted inside, and he had to lean against the door to close it.

  The room was warm, overly warm. A fire burned brightly on the hearth. The room smelled of cooked porridge and air that has been breathed too many times. Added to that was the smell of wet sheep, for Gareth’s woolen cloak, which he took off and hung near the fire, began to steam in the heat. And underneath those smells, the fetid smell of withering old age, impending death.

  “You came,” said a voice, a mere croak, from a mass of blankets and bedding.

  “Of course,” said Gareth gently, bending over the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “How do I ever feel? Bored. Tired. In pain. These festering sores give me no peace! But I think my time will come tonight. I should like that. To know that my soul joins the darkness and the storm, to be borne away on the tearing winds. I would like that.”

  Gareth nodded. He made no protest, spoke no lying words of false comfort. The man in the bed wanted to die. He was waiting to die, had been waiting to die for weeks. Had he wanted to live, he could have done so. He had already extended his life beyond a human’s allotted years and could have extended it more, but, as he said, he was in pain, and he was bored. Those who knew him knew he was old, probably the oldest person they had ever known. But none knew how old. None knew the truth. Only Gareth knew. Only Gareth had been permitted to share the secret.

  Bright eyes looked out of a head that might have been made of polished marble, so tightly and smoothly was the skin stretched over the bones of the skull. No hair remained on the head, not even eyebrows. The head looked dead already, the animate eyes the only signs of life. The blankets were tucked to the chin, for the body could no longer supply its own heat; the old man was perpetually cold. And the blankets concealed the sores, the ulcerations that covered his body. Most were dry, for he had not cast a spell in a long time. But even the dried scars itched and burned, as Gareth had come to know.

  Having checked to see that the dying man was as comfortable as possible, Gareth removed a sharp sliver of wood from his cloak. Ordinarily he could not use Fire Magic, which was the province of the dwarves, but Void magic can mimic other magicks if it is used for destruction. The wood burst into flame. Gareth tossed the sliver on the hearth, strengthening the magic, causing the fire, which seemed to consume nothing but the hearthstones, to burn more brightly. This was one of his tasks—he came every three days to replenish the fire.

  He asked if the old man had eaten.

  “No. Why should I? Neither eaten nor drunk.”

  Gareth began to remonstrate, but the old man cut him off.

  “I don’t need it. I don’t suffer for the want of it. This night,” the old man said, looking up intently at Gareth. “This night will be my last. I know it. We have much to do. I am glad you have come. I was afraid you wouldn’t. If you hadn’t, I would have waited, but I am glad you came. I will go away with the storm winds.”

  “What is it you want me to do, Master?” Gareth asked.

  “The books of Void magic. You’ve taken them.” The old man peered vaguely into the room. “I can’t see.”

  “Yes, I have taken them. They are in a safe place. I have a room I rent, not far from here. The books are there.” Gareth was patient. He’d told the old man this before, but knew that it worried him.

  “Good,” said the old man, his hands plucking restlessly at the coverlet. “Good. There is one left. The one I told you to leave with me.”

  “Yes, Master,” replied Gareth quietly.

  “Tonight,” said the old man, “I will teach you the spell.”

  “Tonight?” Gareth repeated. His hands went cold, a tremor shook him. Outside the wind snuffled at the door and pawed at the windows, like a live thing, trying to break in.

  “Yes. Tonight. On your deathbed, you will teach the spell to your apprentice. Thus the knowledge is passed on. You have practiced?”

  “Yes, Master.” Gareth unbuttoned his doublet, lifted his shirt, revealed the ulcerations that blossomed like some noxious flower.

  “With what result?”

  “Success, Master,” Gareth replied. “The spells worked as required.”

  “Good. Good. All that, though, you can do with other magicks. Ordinary magicks. Not as fast, not as easily, but you can do it. This spell tonight, this is the one you can work with Void magic alone. We have spoken of it before. This is the one spell they envy. The one they fear. The one you want.”

  Gareth did not reply. He stood near the bed, hands folded, looking down at the bright eyes in the bone-smooth face.

  “You have plans for it?” the old man asked.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “So did I once,” the old man muttered. “They never came to anything. But then I never had a prince to sponsor me. I would almost be tempted to stay around to see how you manage. Almost. But not quite. See there? I am no longer curious. And when you are no longer curious, why go on? You will do well. You are talented. My most talented pupil. And if you don’t.” He shrugged, the coverlets moved. “Then it won’t matter to me.”

  He gestured feebly. “Slide your hand beneath my pillow.”

  Gareth did as he was told. Sliding his hand beneath the feather pillow—the weight of the dying man’s head was nothing against it—he touched cold steel.

  “Careful,” said the old man. “It is sharp. We don’t want any unwitting sacrifices, eh?”

  Gareth felt gingerly for the hilt, discovered it, clasped it, and drew out the dagger. He gazed at it by the firelight, turning it over carefully in his hand. He had heard the cagey and cunning old man speak of it, but had never seen it. He had not even supposed it to be in the old man’s possession, had imagined that he must search for it. He had hoped for direction to the prize. He had not dared to hope for the prize itself.

  The dagger was fashioned in the shape of a dragon—the scaled and sharply pointed tail formed the blade, the outstretched wings the handle. The hilt was the dragon’s body and the head, with its gaping mouth and sharp teeth, was the pommel. A dagger for ceremony only, it was not meant to be used for everyday butchery. A good thing, because the blade with its fanciful design was awkward and unwieldy and uncomfortable to hold. The serrated edges of the wings poked into the flesh of Gareth’s hand, the scales on the hilt were rough to the touch. The dagger had been well cared for, obviously cherished; the steel gleamed brightly in the firelight.

  “My gift to you,” said the old man. Even now, now that he was leaving this world, he looked at the blade with a certain covetous longing.

  “Thank you, Master,” said Gareth humbly. He regarded the dagger with an odd mixture of repugnance, revulsion, and anticipation. The metal bit his hand, but warmed to his touch.

  “Bring the book. Sit near me, and I will tell you what I know of it. You have heard that King Tamaros was given the power to create Dominion Lords by the gods. I was in the Temple at the time, one of the Revered Magi, as are you. Except that I was not a novice. I was old then, though younger than you see me now. They thought I was in my nineties. In fact, with the he
lp of the Void, I was in my second lifetime, closer to one hundred and ninety. They thought me simple, daft. And so I play-acted my role. Stricken with the infirmities of great age, I was pitied and patronized, and I was completely free. I was able to go anywhere, do anything, say anything. They would all shake their heads and smile, and say, ‘It’s only Zober. A harmless old man. Pay him no mind.’ ”

  “They make the same mistakes with children,” said Gareth, thinking back to his own childhood, the ease with which he’d roamed the forbidden areas of the Palace, the light punishment he’d received when caught.

  “Don’t interrupt,” the old man said snappishly. His breathing was rapid and shallow. “We don’t have much time. Tamaros came to the Temple, I knew the King was there to commune with the gods. I knew what he was planning to ask of them—the ability to create Dominion Lords, knights of good who would serve him and Vinnengael. He had discussed the matter beforehand with the Most Revered High Magus, a private, secret discussion I took care to overhear, using the power of the Void to listen through the walls.

  “There was a risk to the creation of the Dominion Lords. The Most Revered High Magus knew it, and so did I. What the gods grant with one hand they take away with the other. To have something you must have nothing. There must be dark for there to be light. Tit for tat. The gods would give Tamaros the power to create Dominion Lords, yes. But at the same time the gods would put into the world the power to destroy them.

  “Ten Lords of Good.” The old man pointed at the dagger. “Ten Lords of Evil.”

  “By heavens!” said Gareth, awed, staring at the dagger. “I had no idea it was that…that powerful!”

  “The High Magus tried to warn Tamaros of this, but the King decided the risk was worth it. The good the Dominion Lords would do would surely outweigh the possibility of evil. He went on to commune with the gods. As he did that, I communed with the Void. The ability to bring about the destruction of the Dominion Lords would be created in the same moment that Tamaros was granted the power to create them. It was up to me to figure out how.