Forging the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  But perhaps it was not so odd that the castle was dark. Saryon recalled hearing his mother mention that the Empress was expected to have a difficult time with this birth, her health being delicate and fragile at the best of times. Undoubtedly the normal routine of gay, glittering palace life had been curtailed.

  Saryon’s gaze returned to the city that was more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined, and he was momentarily sorry he hadn’t gone out with Dulchase and the others to see the sights. On reflection, however, he felt content to stay where he was, surrounded by a comfortable darkness, listening to the sweet music of the novitiates practicing a celebratory Te Deum. He would go out tomorrow night, he decided, as he made his way to the guest quarters in the Abbey.

  Neither Saryon nor any of the others in the Cathedral went out the next night, however. They had just finished the evening meal when Bishop Vanya received an urgent summons to the Palace, along with several of the Sharak-Li, the catalysts who work with the Healers. The Bishop left immediately, his round face stern and cold.

  No one in the Cathedral slept that night. Everyone from the youngest novitiate to the Cardinal of the Realm remained awake to offer their prayers to the Almin. Above them, the Royal Palace was now ablaze with lights, their warmth a striking contrast to the cold stars. By dawn, no word had been received. As the starlight faded, dwindling with the rising of the sun, the catalysts were allowed to leave their prayers to attend to their duties, though the Cardinal exhorted them to be constantly praying to the Almin in their hearts.

  Saryon, who had no duties to perform since he was a visitor, spent most of his time wandering the great halls of the Cathedral, looking through the crystal walls with untiring curiosity at the wonders of the city around him. He watched the people float past, their thin robes rippling around their bodies as they went about their daily business. He watched the carriages and their wondrous steeds; he even smiled at the antics of the University students who, knowing a holiday was imminent, were in high spirits.

  Could I live here? he asked himself. Could I leave my quiet, studious life and enter into this world of splendor and gaiety? A month ago, I would have said no. I was content. But not now. I could never go into the Inner Library again, not without seeing that sealed chamber with the runes above the door. No, this is much better, he decided. The Bishop was right. I have let myself get too involved with my studies. I have forgotten the world. Now I must be a part of it again and let it be a part of me. I will attend the parties. I will put myself forward. I will do my best to be invited into one of the noble houses.

  Pleased with his change of circumstance, Saryon’s only misgivings came from being totally unaware of the duties of a House Catalyst in Merilon, and he resolved to discuss this with Deacon Dulchase at his earliest opportunity.

  The opportunity did not come soon, however. During the Highhour, ooth Cardinals were summoned to the Palace and left, looking grave. The rest of the catalysts were called once again to prayer. By now, rumors had reached the street, and soon everyone in Merilon knew that the Empress was in labor and having a difficult time of it. The sounds of music ceased. The atmosphere of merriment was smothered in gloom. People gathered together upon the glittering spans of silver or gold, talking in hushed voices and looking up at the Palace with serious faces. Even the Silken Dragon did not flaunt his colors that day but lurked about in shadows as the weather magi, the Sif-Hanar, hid the sun’s harsh brilliance beneath a blanket of pearl-gray clouds, more restful to the eye and conducive to prayer and meditation.

  Night fell. The lights in the Palace shone with an ominous intensity. The catalysts, once more called to prayer after the evening meal, gathered in the great Cathedral. Kneeling on the marble floor, Saryon nodded as sleep overcame him and, looking up through the crystal ceiling, endeavored to concentrate on those lights to stay awake.

  Then, near morning, the bells on the Royal Palace pealed out in triumph. The magical sphere surrounding the city exploded with dazzling flags of fire and of silk. The people of Merilon danced in the streets as word came from the Palace that the Empress had been safely delivered of a son and that both she and the baby were doing well. Saryon rose from the hard floor thankfully and joined the other catalysts in the courtyard of the Cathedral to watch the spectacle but not to join in the merriment. Not yet.

  Though the Tests for Life were only a formality, the catalysts would not celebrate the child’s birth until it was proven that the child was Alive.

  It was not the Tests, however, that were occupying Saryon’s mind when, ten days after the child’s birth, he and Deacon Dulchase descended the marble stairs leading down into one of the subterranean levels of the Cathedral. “So just what are the duties of a Father in one of the noble houses?” Saryon asked.

  Dulchase started to answer but, just at that moment, they arrived in an unfamiliar hallway that branched off in three directions. The two Deacons paused, staring about them uncertainly. Finally, Dulchase hailed a passing novitiate.

  “Pardon me, Sister,” he said, “but we are searching for the room where the Royal Child will be tested. Can you give us direction?”

  “I will be honored to escort you, Deacons of the Font,” murmured the novitiate, a charming young woman, who, when her eyes went to the tall figure of Saryon, smiled at him shyly and led the way, occasionally glancing behind her at the young Deacon out of the corner of her eye.

  Conscious of this, and conscious also of Dulchase’s amused grin, Saryon flushed and repeated his earlier question.

  “House Catalyst,” Dulchase reflected. “So that’s what old Vanya’s got in mind for you. Didn’t think you’d be interested in that sort of life,” he added with a sidelong glance of his own at the young Deacon. “I thought all you cared about was mathematics.”

  Saryon’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something confused about the Bishop having decided that he needed to broaden his horizons, realize his potential, that sort of thing.

  Dulchase raised an eyebrow as they descended still another staircase, but, though he obviously suspected deeper waters here than were visible on the surface, he did not question the young man further, much to Saryon’s relief.

  “Be warned, Brother,” he said in solemn tones. “The duties of a catalyst in one of the noble houses are strenuous in the extreme. Let’s see, how to break this to you gently. You will be awakened some time around midmorning by servants bearing your breakfast on a tray of gold—”

  “What about the Ritual of the Dawn?” Saryon interrupted, eyeing Dulchase uncertainly, as though suspecting he were being made the brunt of some joke.

  Dulchase’s lip curled in a sneer, a habitual expression for the older Deacon who, because of his sharp tongue and irreverent attitude, would probably be a Deacon the rest of his life. He had been brought along in Vanya’s retinue only because he knew everyone and everything that lived or occurred in Merilon. “Dawn? Bosh! Dawn comes to Merilon whenever you open your eyes. You’d have the house in an uproar if you rose with the sun. Come to think of it, the sun itself isn’t even permitted to rise at dawn. The Sif-Hanar see to that. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Your first order of business is to grant the housemagi their gifts of Life for the day. Then, after resting from that fatiguing chore, which takes you all of five minutes, you are occasionally requested to do the same for the Master or Mistress, should they have any important work to do, such as feeding the peacocks or changing the color of milady’s eyes to match her gown. Then, if they have children, you have to educate the little buggers in their catechism and give them sufficient Life so that they may tumble about the house, delighting their parents by wrecking the furniture. After that you may rest until evening when you will escort milord and milady to the Royal Palace, standing by in order to assist milord in creating his usual phantasms that leave the Emperor yawning or to grant Life to milady so that she may win at Swan’s Doom or tarok.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Saryon, rather anxiously.

  Looking at him, Dulchase
burst out laughing and received a reproving glance from the serious-minded novitiate.

  “My dear Saryon, how naive you are! Perhaps old Vanya is right. You do need to get out in the world. I’m exaggerating, but only slightly. Still, it’s an ideal life, especially as far as you’re concerned.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course. You have all the resources of magic at your fingertips. You can spend the afternoon in the Library at the University here in Merilon, which, by the way, has one of the finest collections in the world on the lost magic, containing some volumes not even available at the Font. Step onto the silver bridge and you’re there. Want to pursue some studies with the Guilds or show them your newest equation to cut the time in conjuring up a fainting couch? Step into milord’s carriage and have it take you to the Three Sisters. Perhaps you want to see for yourself how milord’s crops are doing. The Corridor whisks you to the fields where you can watch the little seeds sprout or whatever those poor wretches of Field Catalysts do. You’ll be set for life. Why, you could even marry.”

  This was so obviously aimed at the novitiate that the girl tossed her head disapprovingly, but she could not refrain from casting another glance at the young Deacon.

  “I think I might like it at that,” said Saryon after a moment’s reflection, “from an academic standpoint, of course,” he added hastily.

  “Of course,” Dulchase replied dryly. “I say, my dear”—this to the novitiate—“you haven’t gotten us lost, have you? Or are you leading us into some remote part of the Cathedral to rob us?”

  “Deacon!” murmured the novitiate, blushing up to the roots of her curly hair. “It—it’s down this corridor, the first room to your right.”

  Turning, with a last, doe-eyed glance at Saryon, the girl almost ran down the hallway.

  “Was that necessary?” muttered Saryon irritably, his eyes following the novitiate.

  “Oh, lighten up, boy,” returned Dulchase crisply, rubbing his hands. “Lighten up. You’ll see what kind of life Merilon offers tonight. At last! We can escape this moldy old tomb! We’ll get this little twerp through his Tests, declare to the world that it has a Living Prince, and it’s time for us to mingle with the rich and the beautiful. You do know what you’re supposed to do, don’t you?”

  “With the Tests?” Saryon asked, thinking for a moment Dulchase might have been referring to the rich and beautiful. “I hope so,” he answered with a sigh. “I’ve read the ritual until I can say it backwards. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?

  “Hundreds of times, my boy, hundreds. You’re responsible for holding the kid, aren’t you? Most important thing to remember is to hold him with his little—mmmm … you know—pointing toward you, away from the Bishop. That way, if the little bastard urinates, it’s on you and not His Holiness.”

  Fortunately for the shocked Saryon they had arrived outside the room now. Dulchase was forced to silence his cynical tongue and Saryon was spared responding to this last bit of advice that he had found just a bit too irreverent, even for Dulchase.

  Entering on the heels of the others of Vanya’s staff, the two performed the oblations of cleaning and purifying themselves, then were led by a Deacon of the Cathedral to the chamber where all children born in Merilon are brought for the Tests. Generally, only two catalysts are present. This day, however, there was an illustrious group gathered. So many, in fact, that there was barely enough room left for the two Deacons to squeeze inside the small chamber. In addition to Bishop Vanya, dressed in his finest robes, there were the two Cardinals—Cardinal of the Realm and Cardinal of the Region—and six members of Vanya’s staff: four Priests, who would act as witnesses, and Saryon and Dulchase, the two Deacons, who would do the work. In addition, there was the Royal House Catalyst, a Lord, who held the baby in his arms, and the baby himself, who—having just been nursed—was sound asleep.

  “Let us pray to the Almin,” said Bishop Vanya, bowing his head.

  Saryon bowed his head in prayer, but the words fell from his lips unthinkingly. In his mind he was reviewing, once more, the ceremony of the Tests for Life.

  Centuries old, said to have been brought from the Dark World, the Tests are quite simple. When the child is ten days old and judged strong enough to withstand the Testing, his parents bring him to the Cathedral—or to whatever place of worship is near them—and give him to the catalysts. The baby is taken into a small chamber sealed off from any outside influences, and the Tests are performed.

  First, the child is stripped of his clothes, then placed upon his back in water that has been warmed to his body temperature. The Deacon holding the child releases the babe. A Living child remains afloat upon his back, neither sinking nor rolling over in the water nor kicking—just floating peacefully, calmly—the magical Life within him reacting to preserve his tiny body.

  Following this first test, a Deacon brings forward a shining bauble of shimmering, ever-changing colors. He holds it above the child, who is still floating in the water. Though the baby’s eyes cannot yet focus, he is aware of the bauble and stretches out his hands toward it. When the Deacon drops the bauble, it drifts gently to the baby as, once again, the magical Life force within the child reacts to the stimulus without and draws the bauble toward him.

  Finally, the Deacon lifts the baby out of the water. Holding the babe in his arms, the catalyst cuddles and caresses the baby until the child feels safe and at ease. Then, the other Deacon brings forward a flaming torch. Nearer and nearer the flame comes to the child’s skin until—through no action of the catalyst—the torch is brought to a halt as the child’s Life force instinctively envelops him in a magical protective shell.

  These are the Tests—easily done, quickly ended. It was, as Dulchase had assured Saryon, a mere matter of formality.

  “I don’t know why they’re still performed,” Dulchase had grumbled only the night before, “except that it’s a convenient way for some poor Field Catalyst to earn a few chickens and a bushel of corn from the peasants. Plus it gives the nobility an excuse to throw another party. Other than that, it’s meaningless.”

  So it was, up until that time.

  “Deacon Dulchase, Deacon Saryon, begin the Tests,” said Bishop Vanya solemnly.

  Stepping forward, Saryon took the baby from the Lord Catalyst of the Royal House. The child was wrapped tightly in a costly blanket made of lamb’s wool. Saryon, unaccustomed to handling anything this small and delicate, fumbled as he attempted to divest the baby of his cocoon without waking him. At length, feeling every eye in the chamber watching him impatiently, Saryon held the naked child in his arms and returned the blanket to the Lord Catalyst.

  Turning to place the babe in the water, Saryon looked down at the little boy sleeping peacefully in his arms and immediately forgot the eyes watching him. The young catalyst had never held a baby before, and he was captivated by this one. Even Saryon could see that the child was unusually beautiful. Strong and healthy with a mop of fuzzy dark hair, the Prince’s skin was alabaster, with a bluish tint around the closed eyes. The tiny fists were curled shut. Touching one gently, Saryon was charmed to notice the perfect little fingernails and toenails. How marvelous, he thought, that the Almin should have taken time to attend to such mundane details in creating this small person.

  An impatient cough from Dulchase recalled Saryon to his duties. The older Deacon had removed the seal from the basin containing the warm water. A pleasant, fragrant scent filled the air. One of the novitiates had scattered rose petals on the surface.

  Murmuring the ritual prayer that he had been up half the night memorizing, Saryon gently placed the baby in the water. The child’s eyes opened at the touch of the liquid upon his skin, but he did not cry.

  “That’s a brave one,” murmured Saryon, smiling at the baby, who was looking around with the thoughtful, slightly puzzled expression of the newborn.

  “Release the child,” instructed Bishop Vanya formally.

  Gently, Saryon removed his hands from the baby’
s body.

  The Prince sank like a stone.

  Starting slightly, Dulchase stepped forward, but Saryon was there ahead of him. Reaching into the water, he snatched up the baby and hauled him out. Awkwardly holding the dripping-wet child, who was coughing and sputtering and attempting to cry at this rude treatment, Saryon looked around uncertainly.

  “Perhaps it was my fault, Holiness,” he said hurriedly just as the baby managed to draw a breath and let it out in a shrill scream. “I let go of him too soon …”

  “Nonsense, Deacon,” Vanya said crisply. “Proceed.”

  It wasn’t unusual for a child to fail one of the Tests, particularly if he were unusually strong in one of the Mysteries. A warlock strong in the Fire Mystery, for example, might easily fail the Test of Water.

  Recalling this from his reading, Saryon relaxed and held the baby as Deacon Dulchase brought forward the bauble and held it above the child’s head. At the sight of the bright toy, the Prince ceased to cry and stretched out his tiny hands in delight. Deacon Dulchase, at a word from Bishop Vanya, dropped the bauble.

  The toy struck the Prince on the nose and bounced to the floor amidst a dreadful silence that was immediately shattered by the baby’s howl of pain and outrage. A spot of blood appeared on the child’s fair skin.

  Saryon glanced up fearfully at Dulchase, hoping to see some sign of reassurance. But Dulchase’s normally sneering lips were now pressed tightly together, the cynical glint was gone from his eye, and he carefully avoided Saryon’s gaze. The young Deacon looked around frantically, only to see his fellows staring at each other in confusion and alarm.

  Bishop Vanya whispered something to the Lord Catalyst, who, his face pale and strained, nodded emphatically.