Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  A shadow darkened the wizard’s face as he glanced back in the direction of the house he had just left, the house where his wife was already up and busily attending to her ritual of morning prayer.

  “Why don’t you, Father?” his child asked eagerly.

  The wizard’s attention returned to his surroundings, and he smiled again, though there was a bitterness in the smile that Saryon saw but did not understand.

  “What was I saying?” the wizard murmured, frowning. “Oh, yes.” His face cleared. “I cannot shape a house from rock, my son. Only the Pron-alban, the craft magi, possess that gift of the Almin’s. Nor can I change lead to gold as can the Mon-alban. I must use what the Almin has given me …”

  “I don’t think much of the Almin, then,” said the child petulantly, poking at the grass with a toe, “if all he gave me was these old shoes!”

  Saryon glanced up at his father out of the corner of his eye after he spoke to see the effect of such a daring, blasphemous remark. It would have had his mother quivering in white-faced anger. But the wizard put his hand upon his lips as though to keep them from smiling against his will. Clasping his arm around his son, he drew the child close.

  “The Almin has given you the greatest gift of all,” said the wizard. “The gift of Life-transference. It is in your power, and yours alone, to absorb the Life, the magic, that is in the ground and the air and all around us into your body and focus it and give it to me or someone like me so that I may use its power to enhance my own. This is the gift of the Almin to the catalyst. It is his gift to you.”

  “I don’t think it’s a very good gift.” Saryon pouted, squirming in his father’s embrace.

  Lifting him up, the wizard set the little boy upon his lap. Better to explain things to the boy now and let him get the bitterness out of his system when they were alone together than to upset his pious mother.

  “It is a good enough gift that it has survived through the centuries,” the wizard answered severely, “and it has helped us survive the centuries, even the times in the old Dark World where the ancients lived, so we are told.”

  “I know,” said the little boy. Nestling his head against his father’s chest, he recited the lesson glibly, speaking unconsciously in the clipped, cold, precise voice of his mother. “Then we were called ‘familiars’ and the ancients used us as a repos—reposi—repository”—he stumbled over the hard word, but eventually brought it out, his face flushed with effort and triumph—“of their energy. This was done so that the fire of the magic did not destroy their bodies and so that their enemies would not discover them. To protect us, they shaped us into the likeness of small animals, and thus we worked together to keep magic in the world.”

  “Just so,” said the wizard, stroking the child approvingly on the head. “You recite the catechism well, but do you understand it?”

  “Yes,” said Saryon with a sigh. “I understand, I guess.” But he frowned as he said it.

  Putting his finger beneath the boy’s chin, the wizard turned the solemn little face up to look into his.

  “You understand and you will be thankful to the Almin and work to please him … and to please me?” the wizard asked softly. He hesitated, then continued. “For you will please me, if you try to be happy in your work, even though … even though I may not be around much to let you know that I am watching you and interested in you.”

  “Yes, Father,” said the child, sensing a deep sorrow in his father’s voice that he longed to ease. “I will be happy, I promise. But why won’t you be here? Where are you going?”

  “I am not going anywhere, at least not for a little while,” his father said, smiling again and ruffling the fair hair. “In fact, it will be you that leaves me. But, that will not be for a time yet, so do not worry. Look—” He pointed suddenly at four winged men, who could be seen flying over the treetops, bearing two large, golden disks between them. The wizard stood up, setting the little boy down again upon the boulder. “Now, stay here, Saryon. I must cast the enchantment upon the seeds—”

  “I know what you’re going to do!” Saryon cried, standing up upon the rock so that he see better. The winged men flew closer, their golden disks shining like youthful suns bringing another dawn to earth. “Let me help!” the boy pleaded eagerly, reaching out his hand to his father. “Let me transfer the magic to you as Mother does.”

  Again the shadow darkened the wizard’s face but it vanished almost instantly as he looked down upon his small catalyst. “Very well,” he said, though he knew the boy was too young to perform the complicated task of sensing for the magic and opening a conduit to him. It would take the child many years of study to attain the art. Years in which his father would no longer have a part of his own son’s life. Seeing the small face looking up at him eagerly, the wizard checked a sigh. Reaching out his hand, he took hold of his son’s hand in his and solemnly pretended to accept the Gift of Life.

  A person born in Thimhallan is born to his or her place and station in life, something not uncommon in a feudal society. A duke is generally born a duke, for example, just as a peasant is generally born a peasant.

  Thimhallan had its noble families, who had ruled for generations. It had its peasants. What made Thimhallan unique was that certain of its people had their place and station determined for them—not by society—but by the inborn knowledge of one of the Mysteries of Life.

  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 eight of the Mysteries: Time, Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Life. Of these Mysteries, only the first five currently survive in the land. Two—the Mysteries of Time and of Spirit—were lost during the Iron Wars. With them vanished forever the knowledge possessed by the ancients—the ability to divine the future, the ability to build the Corridors, and the ability to communicate with those who had passed from this life into the Beyond.

  As for the last Mystery, the Ninth Mystery, it is practiced, but only by those who walk in darkness. Believed by most to have been the cause of the destructive Iron Wars, the Mystery was banished from the land. Its Sorcerers were sent Beyond, their tools and deadly engines destroyed. The Ninth Mystery is the forbidden mystery. Known as Death, its other name is Technology.

  When a child is born in Thimhallan, he or she is given a series of tests to discover the particular mystery in which that child is most skilled. This determines the child’s future role in Life.

  The tests might indicate, for example, that the child is skilled in the Mystery of Air. If he is from the lower castes, he will become one of the Kan-Hanar, whose duties include the maintenance of the Corridors that provide the swiftest means of travel within Thimhallan, and the supervision of all commerce within and among the cities of the land. The child of a noble family with this skill will almost certainly ascend to the rank of arch magus and will be made Sif-Hanar, whose vast responsibilities include controlling the weather. It is the Sif-Hanar who make the air in the cities balmy and sweet one day or whiten the rooftops with a decorative snow the next. In the farmlands, it is the duty of the Sif-Hanar to see that the rain falls and the sun shines when needed and that they neither fall nor shine when not needed.

  Those born with the Mystery of Fire are the warriors of Thimhallan. Witches and warlocks, they become DKarn-Duuk, with the power to call up the destructive forces of war. They are also the guardians of the people. The black-robed Duuk-tsarith, the Enforcers, are among this class.

  The Mystery of Earth is the most common of the Mysteries, accounting for the majority of people residing in Thimhallan. Among these are the lowest caste in the land—the Field Magi, those who tend the crops. Above these are the craftsmen, divided into Guilds depending on their varying skill
s—the Quin-alban, the conjurers; the Pron-alban, magicians; the Mon-alban, the alchemists. The highest of this class, wizards and wizardesses, or the Albanara, have a general knowledge of all these skills and are those responsible for governing the populace.

  A child born to the Mystery of Water is a Druid. Sensitive to nature, these magi use their talents to nurture and protect all living things. The Fihanish, or Field Druids, deal mainly with the growth and prospering of plant and animal life. The Druids most revered however are the Healers. The art of healing is a complex skill, utilizing the magus’s own magic combined with the magic of the patient to help the body heal itself. The Mannanish treat minor illnesses and injuries, as well as practice midwifery. The highest rank, that which takes most power and study, is attained by the Theldari, who treat serious illnesses. Though it is believed that anciently they had the power of resurrection, the Theldari can no longer restore life to the dead.

  Those who practice the Mystery of Shadow are the Illusionists, the artists of Thimhallan. These are the people who create charming phantasms and paint pictures in the air with palettes of rain and Stardust.

  Finally, a child may be born to the rarest of the Mysteries, the Mystery of Life. The thaumaturgist, or catalyst, is the dealer in magic, though he does not possess it in great measure himself. It is the catalyst, as his name implies, who takes the Life from the earth and the air, from fire and water, and, by assimilating it within his own body, is able to enhance it and transfer it to the magi who can use it.

  And, of course, a child is sometimes born Dead.

  3

  Saryon

  Saryon was born a catalyst. He had no choice in the matter. He came from a small province located outside the walls of the city of Merilon. His father was a wizard of third-rank nobility. His mother, a cousin of the Empress, was a catalyst of some consequence. She left the Church only when told that the Vision had been performed and that it was foreseen that marriage to this nobleman would produce issue. The catalyst trait would be passed on to an heir.

  Saryon’s mother obeyed without question, though the marriage was beneath her. His father obeyed without question as well. A nobleman of his standing might or might not obey an order from the Emperor. But no one, regardless of rank, refused a request of the catalysts.

  Saryon’s mother performed her marriage as she performed all her religious duties. When the proper time came, she and her husband traveled to the Groves of Healing where his seed was taken from him by the Mannanish, the minor healers, and given to his wife. In due time, their child was born as the Vision had foreseen.

  Saryon was typical in that he began his training at the age of six. He was not typical in that he was allowed to train under the tutelage of his mother, due to her high ranking within the Church. On the sixth anniversary of his birth, the boy was brought into his mother’s presence. From that moment on, for the next fourteen years, he spent every day with her in study and in prayer. When Saryon was twenty, he left his mother’s house forever, traveling through the Corridors to the most holy, most sacred place in Thimhallan—the Font.

  The history of the Font is the history of Thimhallan. Many, many centuries before, in a time whose memories were crushed and scattered amid the chaos of the Iron Wars, a persecuted people fled to this world, voluntary exiles from their own. The magical journey had been a terrible one. The great energies needed to perform such a feat drained the last vestige of life from many of their number, who gave up their lives willingly so that their kind might survive and prosper in a land they themselves would never see.

  They came to this place because the magic in this world was strong; so strong it drew them to it—a lodestone leading them safely through time and space. They stayed in this place because the world was empty and alone.

  There were drawbacks. Terrible storms raged over the new, raw land. Its mountains spewed fire, its waters ran savage, its vegetation was thick and untamed. But, as their feet touched the ground, the people felt the magic stirring and beating beneath them, like a living heart. They could feel it, sense it; and they searched for its source enduring countless hardship and untold suffering on the way.

  At last they found it, the source of the magic—a mountain whose fire had burned out, leaving the magic behind to glow like a diamond beneath the bright, unfamiliar sun.

  They called this mountain the Font and here it was, at the Well of Life, that the catalysts established their home and the center of their world. At first there had been only a few catacombs, hurriedly shaped and hewn by those eager to escape the perils of the world outside. During the centuries, these few, crude tunnels had grown into a maze of corridors and halls, of chambers and rooms, of kitchens and courtyards and terraced parks. A university, built on the side of the mountain, taught the young Albanara the skills they would need to rule their lands and their people. Young Theldari came to advance their healing arts, the young Sif-Hanar to study the ways of controlling wind and clouds, all assisted by young novitiates among the catalysts. The craft guilds had their centers of learning here as well. In order to provide for the students and their teachers, a small city sprang up at the foot of the mountain.

  At the very top of the mountain was a grand cathedral, the summit of the mountain peak itself forming the vaulting ceiling, the view from the windows so magnificent many wept for the sheer awe and beauty of the sight.

  Few there were on Thimhallan who saw the view from the summit, however. Once, the Font had been open to all, from Emperor to housemagus. Following the Iron Wars, that policy had changed. Now only the catalysts themselves, plus those privileged few who worked for them, were permitted within its holy walls, and only the highest officials of the Church allowed to enter the sacred chamber of the Well. There was a city within the mountain as well as without, the catalysts having everything they needed to live and continue their work within the Font. Many novitiates walked through its doors as young men and women and, if they left at all, it was only in whatever form the dead take as they journey Beyond.

  Saryon was one of these novitiates, and he might have lived his life out peacefully here as had countless others before him.

  But Saryon was different. In fact, he came to think of himself as cursed ….

  The Theldara, one of those few outsiders chosen to live in the Font, was working outdoors in his herb garden when a venerable old raven hopped gravely down the pathway between the neat rows of young seedlings and, with a croak, informed his master that the patient had arrived. With a word of gracious thanks to the bird—who, being so old that he was losing the feathers on top of his head, looked not unlike a catalyst himself—the Druid left his sunny garden, returning to the cool, darkened, peaceful confines of the infirmary.

  “Sun arise, Brother,” the Theldara said, entering the Waiting Chamber quietly, his brown robes brushing the stone floor with a soft, whispering sound.

  “S-sun arise, Healer,” stammered the young man, starting. He had been staring moodily out a window and had not heard the entry of the druid.

  “If you will walk this way with me,” continued the Theldara, his sharp, penetrating gaze taking in every aspect of the young catalyst from the unnatural pallor of his complexion to the chewed fingernails to the nervous preoccupation, “we will go to my private quarters, which are more comfortable, for our little talk.”

  The young man nodded and answered politely, but it was obvious to the Druid that he might have invited the catalyst to walk off a cliff and received the same vague response. They passed through the infirmary with its long rows of beds, the wood lovingly shaped into the image of cupped hands holding mattresses of sweet-smelling leaves and herbs, whose fragrant combination promoted sleep and relaxation. Here and there, a few patients rested, listening to prescribed music and concentrating their bodies’ energies on the healing process. The Theldara had a word for each as he passed, but he did not stop, leading his charge out of this area into another chamber, more closed off and private. In a sunny room whose walls were made o
f glass, a room filled with growing, living things, the Druid sat down upon a cushion of soft pine needles and invited his patient to do the same.

  The catalyst did so, plopping down upon it awkwardly. He was a tall young man, stoop-shouldered, with hands and feet that seemed too big for his body. He was carelessly dressed, his robes too short for his height. There were gray smudges of fatigue beneath the dull eyes. The Druid noticed all this without seeming to take any unusual interest in his patient, chatting all the time about the weather and inquiring if the catalyst would partake of a soothing tea.

  Having received a muttered acquiescence, the Theldara gestured and a sphere of steaming liquid obediently floated from the fire, filled two cups, and returned to its proper place. The Druid took one cautious sip of his tea, then casually caused the cup to float down to the table. The herbal concoction was intended to relax inhibitions and encourage free talking. He watched carefully as the young man gulped his down thirstily, seemingly unmindful of the liquid’s heat and probably never even tasting it. Putting his cup down, the young man stared out one of the large glass windows.

  “I am very pleased we have this chance to visit, Brother Saryon,” said the Druid, motioning to the sphere to fill the young man’s cup again. “So often I see you young people only when you are sick. You are feeling well, are you not, Brother?”

  “I am fine, Healer,” said the young man, still staring out the window. “I came here only at the request of my Master.”

  “Yes, you seem well enough in body,” the Theldara said mildly, “but our bodies are merely shells for our minds. If the mind suffers, it harms the body.”

  “I am fine,” Saryon repeated somewhat impatiently. “A touch of insomnia …”

  “But I’m told you have been missing Evening Prayer, that you do not take your daily exercise, and you have been skipping meals.” The Druid was silent a moment, watching with expert eyes the tea begin to take effect. The stooped shoulders slumped, the eyelids drooped, the nervous hands slowly settled into the catalyst’s lap. “How old are you, Brother? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”