Triumph of the Darksword

by Margaret Weis

  “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.” Releasing the Priest from his grasp, Joram walked away, moving across the sand, heading inland toward the mountains.

  Saryon remained standing beside Gwendolyn, who was calling on the night to talk to her.

  “The destruction is not in my hand,” Joram said bitterly. The darkness closed around him, the rising wind obliterating all trace of his footsteps in the sand. “It is not in my hand but in theirs!”

  Half-turning, he glanced behind him. “Coming?” he asked impatiently.

  3

  The Anniversary

  Cardinal Radisovik?”

  The Cardinal raised his head from the book he was reading and turned to see who called him. Blinking in the bright sunlight of early morning that beamed through the intricate patterns of the shaped glass window, he saw only a dark figure silhouetted in the doorway of his study.

  “It’s me, Mosiah, Holiness,” the young man said, realizing the catalyst did not recognize him. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. If I am, I can come back another—”

  “No, not at all, my son.” The Cardinal closed his book, beckoning with his hand. “Please, come in. I haven’t seen you around the palace lately.”

  “Thank you, Holiness. I’m living with the Sorcerers now,” Mosiah replied, entering the room. “It was easier to move in with them, since my work keeps me at the forge most of the time.”

  “Yes.” Cardinal Radisovik nodded, and if there was a slight darkening of his face at the mention of the forge, its shadow quickly passed. “Just yesterday I was in the new part of the city the Sorcerers have built. I am impressed with the work they have accomplished in such a short length of time. Their homes are snug and comfortable. They can be shaped quickly and at a reduced cost of Life expenditure. What is the name of the stone of which they are built?”

  “Brick, Holiness,” Mosiah said, smiling inwardly “And it isn’t stone. It’s made of mud and straw, formed in a mold, then baked hard in the sun.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Cardinal replied. “I saw them forming these bricks, when I was in their village last year with Prince Garald. For some reason, the term brick refuses to stick in my head.” His gaze went from Mosiah to the palace garden outside his window. “You will be interested to know,” Cardinal Radisovik continued, “that I have advised the nobility to utilize this method to build homes for their Field Magi. Several of the Albanara were with me yesterday, inspecting the dwellings, and at least two have agreed with me that they are far superior to existing structures.”

  “What about the others, Holiness?” Mosiah asked. As a former Field Magus himself, who had lived with father, mother, and numerous brothers and sisters in the magically enlarged trunk of a dead tree, he knew what a blessing warm, dry brick buildings would be for those forced to endure the vagaries of natural weather patterns.

  “They will agree, I believe,” Radisovik said slowly Rubbing his eyes, which were overstrained from reading, he shook his head, smiling wryly. “I will be honest, Mosiah. They were shocked at the sight of the so-called Dark Arts of Technology and found it difficult to accustom themselves to thinking of it rationally. But with the Sorcerers dwelling now within the city walls of Sharakan, their skills on display for all to see, the people will become more accustomed to technology in time, I believe, and will accept it as a part of man’s nature.”

  Mosiah saw the Cardinal frown again as he said these words, and they were followed with a sigh.

  “A part of man’s nature that leads to war. Is that what you are thinking, Holiness?” Mosiah said softly. His hand absently opened the covers of another book that lay near him on a table magically and lovingly shaped of walnut.

  “Yes, I was,” Radisovik said, glancing sharply at Mosiah. “You are a perceptive young man.”

  Mosiah flushed, pleased but embarrassed. He closed the book, smoothing the leather binding with his hand. “Thank you, Holiness, though I don’t deserve the compliment. I’ve thought the same thing myself …” He faltered, unaccustomed to speaking his feelings. “Especially when I’m working. I forge the tip of a spear and I think, as I’m making it, that it will … will kill someone.

  “Oh, I know Prince Garald says not,” Mosiah added hurriedly, fearing that his words might imply criticism of his ruler. “The spears are intended to intimidate or—at most—to be used against centaur. Still, I can’t help but wonder.”

  “You are not alone in your wondering, Mosiah,” Cardinal Radisovik said, rising to his feet and walking over to stare, unseeing, out the window. “Prince Garald is a fine young man. The finest I know, and I speak from the vantage point of one who has seen him grow from child to manhood. He is all that is best and noble in the Albanara. He has an immense amount of wisdom for one so young. Sometimes I forget he is only twenty-nine. I often think”—the Cardinals voice softened—“of the light he brought to the dark soul of that friend of yours. What was his name?”

  “Joram,” said Mosiah.

  Hearing the pain in the young man’s voice, the Cardinal turned from the window. “I am sorry,” he said gently. “I did not mean to reopen old wounds.”

  “No, its all right, Holiness,” Mosiah said. “I know what you mean. Joram could never have done … what he did if it hadn’t been for Garald showing him the true meaning of honor and nobility.”

  “Garald showed him that, yes. But it was the catalyst who opened his heart to love and sacrifice. A strange man, Father Saryon,” the Cardinal said, speaking more to himself than to Mosiah. “And a strange and tragic turn of events. I am not satisfied yet that I know the truth about Joram. Are you, Mosiah?”

  The question was asked quietly. It was unexpected and caught Mosiah unaware. He answered that yes, of course he was satisfied, but his voice was low and he kept his eyes averted from the Cardinal’s penetrating gaze. Nodding to himself, Radisovik looked back out into the beautiful garden.

  “But we have strayed off the original path,” he said, resuming the conversation and smiling to himself at the sound of nervous, restless shifting behind him. “We were talking of Garald and of this war. If my prince has one fault, it is that he glories in this upcoming battle—to the point even of forgetting the goals we are fighting to obtain. To marshal his troops, to place his warlocks at their correct stations, to train them and their catalysts, to pour over the Board of Contest—this is all that occupies his mind these days.

  “Yet wars, when they are ended, are either won or lost, and plans must be made for the eventuality of either victory or defeat. He refuses to discuss the subject with His Majesty, however.” Radisovik frowned, and Mosiah realized with a start that he was hearing things never intended for the ears of a lowly subject of Sharakan. “The king is blind when it comes to Garald. He is proud of him—deservedly so—but he cannot see the real man for the radiant halo. Garald plays happily with his shining toy soldiers, refusing to stop long enough to consider such mundane issues as what we will do with Merilon if we manage to conquer it. Who will rule the city? Will it be the now-deposed Emperor, although I’ve heard rumors that he is mad? Who is to take Bishop Vanya’s place as head of the Church? What will we do with those nobles who refuse to extend their allegiance to us? The other city-states have kept carefully clear of this war, but what if they—seeing us grow more powerful—decide to attack us?

  “You understand the problems?” Cardinal Radisovik demanded, turning around to face the discomfited Mosiah. “Yet whenever I try to talk to Garald about them, he waves his hand and says, ‘I don’t have time for this Discuss it with my father.’ And the king tells me brusquely, ‘I have worries enough with this realm. Refer all matters of war to my son!’”

  Mosiah shifted from one foot to another, wondering if he had Life enough to sink quietly through the floor. Seeing the young man’s discomfort and realizing what he had been saying, Radisovik checked himself. “I do not mean to burden you with my problems, young man,” he said.

  Leaving the window, he crossed the room to st
and near Mosiah, who watched him with a kind of awe. Everything about the minister spoke of court intrigue; even the skirts of his gold-trimmed robes appeared to whisper secrets as he walked. “With the help of the Almin, these things will work themselves out. Now, you came here for a reason and I have kept you talking of inconsequential matters. I apologize. What can I do for you?”

  It took Mosiah a moment to gather his thoughts, all the while noting and appreciating Radisovik’s skillful handling of what could have been an awkward situation. Very neatly the Cardinal reduced his criticism of his Prince to an “inconsequential matter” and dumped it in the lap of the Almin, subtly instructing Mosiah to forget what he had heard and put his trust in god.

  This Mosiah was only too willing to do. Sharakan was not a dangerous court, as was Merilon rumored to be these days. Still, no royal court was truly safe and Mosiah had learned early on that it did not pay to know either too much or too little.

  “I apologize in advance for bothering you with something so trivial as what I’m about to ask, Cardinal Radisovik,” the young man said. “But … it’s important to me … and no other catalyst will perform it without obtaining your clearance, since we are in a state of war.”

  “What is it you want, my son?” Radisovik asked in a mild voice that had yet grown suddenly cool and cautious.

  “I … I came to ask if you would open a Corridor to me, Holiness.”

  “You want to leave Sharakan,” Radisovik said slowly.

  “Yes, Holiness.”

  “You are aware that travel outside the magical boundaries of this city is forbidden for the good of our citizens. All travel is perilous these days, especially for the citizens of our city. Our own Thon-li currently control our Corridors, with the help of the Duuk-tsarith, of course. But it is possible that the warlocks of Merilon may always attempt to gain entry.”

  “I know, Holiness,” Mosiah said respectfully but firmly. “This trip is important to me, however, and I am willing to take the risk. I’ve informed Prince Garald,” he continued, seeing Radisovik hesitate. “He gave me his permission to leave. I have a message from him.” Fumbling in his tunic, Mosiah produced a small crystal globe that, when activated by a spoken word of magic, would produce the image of the young and handsome prince of Sharakan.

  “That will not be necessary,” Radisovik said, smiling “If you have discussed this with Prince Garald and he has given his permission, then I will certainly open a Corridor and wish you godspeed. Now, where is it you want to go?”

  “The Borderlands,” Mosiah answered.

  Radisovik started, looking at the young man with a mystified expression “Why do you—” Then his brow cleared. “Ah,” he said softly. “Today is the anniversary.”

  “Yes, Holiness,” Mosiah replied in a low voice. “I’ve never been there. When the Sorcerers found me in the Outland, I was more dead than alive. I didn’t hear what had happened until … long after I wanted to go, but I couldn’t make myself.” He looked at the floor, ashamed. “I know I should have, but I couldn’t bear to see Saryon to see him changed.” Coughing, he cleared his throat.

  “I know, my son. I understand.” Radisovik laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “I heard about your ordeal and it must have been a terrible one. None can blame you for not wanting to travel to that awful place until you were stronger.”

  “I must go. I need to go,” Mosiah said stubbornly, as though arguing with himself. “I need to make myself realize that it was real. That it all truly happened. Then maybe I can accept it, or understand it.”

  “I doubt if we will ever understand,” said Radisovik, watching the young man intently, his eyes noting every nuance of expression in the open, guileless face. “But certainly we must come to accept what has passed, lest rage and bitterness gnaw at us and prevent us from living out our own lives.”

  He paused, waiting to see if Mosiah said anything more. The young man, struggling with his emotions, appeared incapable of speech, however. The Cardinal shrugged imperceptively and, speaking a word of prayer, caused a Corridor to open in the room, creating an oval void of nothingness in the air.

  “Go with the Almin’s blessing, Mosiah,” Radisovik said as the young man, with a flushed face, mumbled and coughed his thanks. “May you find the peace you seek.”

  The Corridor elongated. The young man stepped inside, and the pathway through space and time formed by the ancients long ago closed around him. Mosiah vanished from the room.

  Staring after him, his brow creased, Cardinal Radisovik shook his head. “What secret gnaws at your heart, young man?” he murmured. “I wonder….”

  The Corridor closed around Mosiah with its familiar squeezing effect, as though he were being dragged through a small, dark tunnel. The young man experienced a terrifying moment of panic, recalling with horrible vividness the last time he had traveled this route….

  Her face expressionless, the witch spoke a word and Mosiah caught his breath in fear as the thorns began to grow on the Kij vines again, this time merely pricking his flesh but not digging into it.

  “Not yet,” said the witch, reading his thoughts. “But they will grow and keep on growing until they pierce right through skin and muscle and organs, tearing out your life with them. Now, I ask you again. What is your name?”

  “Why? What can it matter?” Mosiah groaned. “You know it!”

  “Humor me,” the witch said and spoke another word. The thorns grew another fraction of an inch.

  “Mosiah!” He tossed his head in agony. “Mosiah! Damn it! Mosiah, Mosiah, Mosiah.

  Then their plan penetrated the haze of pain. Mosiah choked, trying to swallow his words. Watching in horror, he saw the witch become Mosiah. Her face—his face. Her clothes—his clothes. Her voice—his voice.

  “What do we do with him?” the warlock asked in subdued tones.

  “Throw him in the Corridor and send him to the Outland,” the witch—now Mosiah—said, rising to her feet.

  “No!”

  Mosiah tried to fight the warlocks strong hands that dragged him to his feet, but the tiniest movement drove the thorns into his body and he slumped over with an anguished cry. “Joram!” he yelled desperately as he saw the dark void of the Corridor open within the foliage. “Joram!” he shouted, hoping his friend would hear, yet knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. “Run! It’s a trap! Run!”

  The warlock thrust him into the Corridor. It began to squeeze shut, pressing in on him. The thorns stabbed his flesh, his blood flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of the witch—now himself—watching him, her face—his face—expressionless.

  Then, she spread her hands.

  “It’s all the rage,” he saw himself say.

  What happened after that, Mosiah couldn’t be certain. Mercifully, he lost consciousness in the Corridor. When he came to, days later, he was in the Sorcerer’s crude town in the Outland. Andon, their elderly, gentle leader, was with him as was a Theldara—a healer—and a catalyst who had been sent to the Sorcerers’s village by Prince Garald himself. Mosiah begged to know the fate of his friends, but none in the secluded village could—or would—tell him.

  The following weeks were ones of pain when he was awake and terrible dreams when he sank into the magically induced sleep. Then he heard, in a whispered conversation not intended for his ears, what had happened to Joram and Father Saryon. He heard about the catalyst’s tragic sacrifice, about Joram’s voluntary walk into Beyond.

  Mosiah himself drew near death. The Theldara tried everything but told Andon that the young man’s magical Life was not working to save him. Mosiah didn’t care. Dying was easier than living with the pain.

  One day Andon told him he had visitors, two people who had been brought to the village by orders of Prince Garald.

  Mosiah couldn’t imagine who they could be and he didn’t much care. And then his mother’s arms were around him, her tears bathing his wounds. His father’s voice was in his ears. Gently, tenderly, his
parents’ rough, work-worn hands led their son back to life.

  The memories of his pain and his despair overwhelmed Mosiah and he felt as though the Corridor were smothering him. Fortunately, the journey was short. The feeling of panic subsided as the Corridor gaped open. But the terror was replaced by feelings more profound yet no less painful—feelings of sorrow and of grief. Stepping from the Corridor, Mosiah gritted his teeth, nerving himself. Although he had never visited the Borderlands, he had familiarized himself with them and he knew what to expect.

  A shoreline of fine white sand, dotted here and there with patches of tall grass that eventually, near the shifting mists of gray leading to Beyond, died out completely, leaving a beachline as stark and bare as a picked bone. Upon this beach would stand the Watchers and here, as well, would be Saryon—his flesh transformed to stone.

  “The sight is not dreadful as you might expect,” Mosiah had heard Prince Garald tell a group gathered around him during a party one evening not long ago. “There is a look of peace on the man’s stone face that makes one almost envious of him, for it is a peace that no living man can know.”

  Mosiah was skeptical. He hoped it was true, he hoped Saryon had found the faith the priest had lost, but he didn’t believe it. Radisovik had said Garald had one fault—he gloried in warfare. That was true, and if he had another it was that he tended to see in people and events what he wanted to see, not necessarily what was there.

  Saryon’s stone form would be staring perpetually into Beyond, the shifting, ever-changing mists of the magical Border that turned in upon themselves in endless swirls and whorls.

  “It is a calm and peaceful place, the Borderland,” Garald told the crowd in a grim voice. “To look at it, no one would ever suspect the tragedies that take place upon that Shore of Death.”