Mosiah opened his mouth, then checked himself, remembering that he was in the presence of his sovereign. To his amazement Cardinal Radisovik caught his eye and—with an urgent gesture—indicated to the young man that he should speak.
“But what about the storm, Your Grace?” Mosiah asked finally, after a second imperative gesture from Radisovik. “It’s … it’s awful!” he said helplessly, unable to find a word powerful enough to describe the terrible sights he had witnessed. “I was frightened, Your Grace! More frightened than I’ve been of anything, even when the Duuk-tsarith caught me in the Grove! It was a fear that came from deep inside”—he pressed his hand against his heart—“and went through me like ice.”
“One of Xavier’s spells, no doubt.”
“No, Your Grace!” Mosiah cried. Realizing from Garald’s reproachful glance that he had contradicted his sovereign, Mosiah flushed. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I know that the possibility of Emperor Xavier obtaining the Darksword is serious, but it is nothing to what might be truly happening. I didn’t believe Simkin at first, but now—” He stopped.
Simkin, lying back on the couch, was engaged in blowing the orange silk up into the air and letting it settle back down over his face. Seeing the triumphant smile upon the young man’s bearded lips, Mosiah paled in shame and anger. Staring down at the floor, he missed the swift exchange of glances between Garald and Radisovik.
“What do you know of this, Simkin?” Garald asked slowly.
“Oh, quite a number of things, actually,” Simkin said airily, blowing the orange silk high above his head, watching as it floated down, spiraling round and round like a dead leaf in the unmoving air. “Among which is the interesting and little known fact that our beloved and sadly missed Joram is destined to return from the dead and destroy the world.”
6
The Prince Frog
Prince Garald cast the Cardinal a reproachful glance. “I have serious matters to attend to,” he said coldly, turning on his heel. “Since Xavier now has the sword, our plans for war must be accelerated before he learns—”
“Your Grace,” said Radisovik, “I suggest you take the time to hear this out.”
Though he spoke quietly, the Cardinal’s tone was firm and not to be questioned. A man well into his middle years, Radisovik had watched his Prince grow from child to man, taught him his lessons, presided over his later schooling, guided him along life’s path. Mosiah saw, with a sudden flash of insight, that it was this priest—not the doting father—who had played a major role in shaping Garald’s nature. As a druid lovingly and carefully nurtures a growing tree, Radisovik had taken an undoubtedly spoiled and willful child and, through love and by example, shaped him into a forceful, disciplined prince. It was the voice of the teacher—the shaper—who spoke now, and it was the pupil who turned in reluctant, yet respectful, obedience to listen.
“Very well, Simkin,” Garald said coldly, “tell your story. It’s a pity there are no children present,” he added but only under his breath. If Cardinal Radisovik heard, he kept a straight face.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” said Radisovik, his voice once more mild, “but I should like to inquire first why Simkin or Mosiah never told us this before You must have known,” he said, turning to Mosiah—who flushed uncomfortably and looked down at his boots—“that we found it difficult to accept the official pronouncement that came out of Merilon.”
“What official pronouncement was that?” Simkin asked, sending the orange silk skyward with a puff.
His face grim, Garald reached over, snatched the orange silk out of the air, and stuffed it into the sash he wore around his waist. “Sit up and behave yourself,” he commanded in such grating tones that even Simkin apparently realized he had gone a bit too far. Changing the fainting-couch to a straight-backed, uncomfortable chair, Simkin flew it into a corner of the room. Garbing himself in a child’s sailor suit, he sulkingly pressed his forehead against the wall and began to suck his thumb.
Prince Garald took a step toward him, but Radisovik hurriedly intervened.
“There would have been no official pronouncement at all, I am certain,” the Cardinal said, “had it not been for the bizarre events that were so strange they could not be hushed up. Vanya and Xavier held the trial in secret and scheduled the Turning immediately afterward. It was obvious—the world was intended never to know this took place. Their plans might have worked, but the death of the Empress could not be denied. Neither could Bishop Vanya’s near fatal stroke or the deposed Emperor’s disappearance. Too many people had witnessed all this.
“The official statement went out from the palace of Merilon, therefore, that Joram had been sentenced to the Turning because he was Dead. The catalyst, Saryon, through some misguided fanaticism, chose to martyr himself, and Joram took the opportunity to try to escape. Seeing that he was surrounded by Duuk-tsarith, Joram could not escape and cast himself into Beyond, rather than face his just punishment.”
“I think I did hear something along those lines.” Simkin’s voice was muffled, due to his having his head in the corner and his thumb in his mouth.
“That’s not how it happened?”
Simkin shook his head.
“How do you know?”
“I was there,” he replied, removing his thumb with a pop. “Third palm tree to the left.”
Prince Garald gave an impatient sigh, but was checked by Radisovik’s upraised hand. “Go on.”
“I’m not certain I will,” said Simkin, pouting. “After all, Garald won’t believe me…. Well, if you insist,” he added hastily, hearing an ominous growl behind him. Scooting his chair along the floor, he wriggled around to face his audience. “You see, our Joram was a prince in frog’s clothing.” Seeing a perplexed expression on the Cardinal’s face, he explained. “The Empress’s baby son. Reports of the child’s death, highly exaggerated.”
“Of course!” Garald muttered, startled. “I knew Joram reminded me of someone. That hair, the eyes—his mother’s!”
Simkin was warming up. “Stolen from his royal crib by migrant workers, the tadpole was spirited away to a small midwestern farming community. Raised up to be a wholesome young frog, he was led astray by unsavory companions”—Simkin cast a reproachful glance at Mosiah—“and traveled the dark path to murder and metallurgy.
“Sword in hand, unaware of princely blood, our frog journeyed to Merilon where he was saved by the love of a good woman, betrayed by the love of a wretched catalyst, and delivered into the chubby hands of Bishop Vanya. When kissed soundly upon the head by His Tubbiness, our warty youth turned to dangerous prince and was subsequently sentenced to life as sculpture—”
“That part doesn’t make sense,” Garald interrupted, turning to Radisovik.
And the rest of it does? Mosiah asked silently, glaring at Simkin.
“I’m not finished!” Simkin said loudly, but Garald wasn’t listening.
“If Joram were the real prince of Merilon, it would have been much safer for Xavier to have him put to death. Why the Turning?”
“Ah, you see,” explained Simkin, exasperated, “if you’d only been patient, I was coming to that. It’s all tied up with the Prophecy—”
At the sound of this word, the hooded heads of the two Duuk-tsarith turned silently toward each other, the gaze of the unseen eyes meeting, unspoken conversation flowing between them.
“If only I can remember…” Simkin frowned. Lost in thought, he apparently sought to find his way out again by thumping his head against the wall. “This is such a muddle Ah, I’ve got it! This is the Prophecy. A royal child will be born and then die and live and then die and then live and then die and keep on doing this interminably until everyone is sick and tired of the whole business when they will promptly throttle him and chuck him down a well.”
Turning on his heel, Prince Garald headed for the door. “Remove the seal,” he commanded.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” One of the Duuk-tsarith stepped forward. “But I ma
y be able to assist with this matter.”
The Prince turned to look at the warlock in astonishment. The silent, watchful guardians of the law in Thimhallan rarely spoke at all and when they did it was generally only in response to a question. Garald had never in his life known one to volunteer information.
“Do you warlocks know something about this?” the Prince demanded. “I questioned you once before following the incident, and you claimed you knew nothing!”
“At the time, all we knew about Joram was what you knew, what was given out in the official statement,” replied the Duuk-tsarith coolly, untouched by the Prince’s anger. “As you are aware, Your Grace, our Order takes strict oaths of loyalty and fealty to those we serve. The members of our Order who were in attendance at the execution serve Bishop Vanya and Emperor Xavier. They would no more betray them than we would betray the secrets of His Majesty and yourself.”
“Of course,” Garald said, flushing, knowing he deserved the rebuke. “Forgive me.”
“But we do know something of this Prophecy of which the young man has spoken.”
“That child’s tale? Live and die and live and die—”
“No, Your Grace. The Prophecy is, I fear, no child’s tale. Given in the dark days following the Iron Wars by the Bishop of Thimhallan, the Prophecy actually runs thus: There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world—”
“I was close.” Simkin sniffed.
“May the Almin protect us!” Radisovik prayed, making a sign of blessing.
“May He indeed!” remarked Garald fervently. “How do you know this?” He turned upon Simkin.
“Egad, I was there!” Simkin said languidly.
“Where?”
“There, with the catalysts. Several hundred years ago it was. We were gathered around the Well of Life, waiting for the Almin, who is—by the by—a remarkably shabby dresser. Considers Himself above clothes, no doubt, but that doesn’t excuse—”
“Bah!” Garald interrupted angrily, turning back to the warlock. “Who else knows? I never heard it mentioned.”
“No, Your Grace. It is—or was—” the hooded head moved slightly in Simkin’s direction—“the most carefully guarded secret in all of Thimhallan. For obvious reasons, as Your Grace can readily understand.”
“Yes.” Garald shivered, then paled as the consequences occurred to him. “No royal child would be safe!”
“Precisely, Your Grace. Therefore the Prophecy was put into the keeping of the Duuk-tsarith, who reveal it to one person outside their Order and that is the current, reigning Bishop of Thimhallan. If this Joram was truly the son of the Empress and if he was Dead—”
The warlock paused. Prince Garald, after a moments profound consideration, acquiesced to both with a nod.
“—then you see why it would be impossible to have him put to death. The Turning would be the ideal solution, for it would keep him alive, yet rendered harmless. Apparently, that didn’t work. Knowing himself near to being captured, he chose to die by casting himself into Beyond—thus fulfilling the beginning of the Prophecy.”
“Captured? But he wasn’t! If you’d only listen!” Simkin struck in “I keep telling you I’m not finished—”
“But, surely, he is dead, then, isn’t he?” Garald interrupted in a low, shaking voice. “No one has ever returned from Beyond!”
The Duuk-tsarith did not reply. It was his duty to impart information, not speculate on its veracity.
“Your Grace,” Simkin tried again.
“Do you believe this, Radisovik?” Garald asked abruptly, ignoring Simkin who, with a sigh, folded his arms and sat languidly back in his chair.
“I’m not certain, Your Grace,” said the Cardinal, obviously shaken. “The matter needs further study.”
“Yes,” said Garald. He was silent, pacing back and forth Then he shook his head decisively “Well, I don’t believe it One man—with the power to destroy a world? Bah!”
“Your Grace—”
“And even if I did give credence to this faery story,” the Prince continued over Simkin’s interruption, “I can’t let it interfere with our plans for war. The fact that something like this could occur at all is simply further proof that Vanya and Xavier must be overthrown! And I must operate on the assumption that Xavier has the Darksword, not some ghost from Beyond. I am returning to the War Room.”
The Prince had spoken and, it was obvious, would not be gainsaid this time. Radisovik bowed in silence and Garald motioned to the Duuk-tsarith, who lifted the seal from the chamber and drifted silently after their Prince as he stalked out of the room. Radisovik remained standing, staring after him, shaking his head. Then, with a sigh and a rueful smile at Mosiah, the Cardinal left the room as well.
“As usual, you botched things nicely.” Mosiah turned on Simkin. “Lucky for you that warlock stepped in. I think Garald was ready to chuck you down a well—”
Simkin didn’t answer. He remained seated in his chair, his arm thrown negligently over the back. The ridiculous sailor suit he was wearing vanished, replaced by the conservative gray silk suit.
“You know, my dear Mosiah,” he said, staring into nothing with casual intensity, “there’s one thing that appears to me to be of the utmost importance and no one will listen to me.”
“What’s that?” Mosiah asked moodily, thinking about the storm on the Borderland.
“I kept trying to tell Garald, but he’s so hungry for war he refuses to eat anything else that’s set before him. Xavier knows, and he’s afraid. That’s why he kept trying to take the sword. Vanya knows, that’s why he had the stroke. The late and unlamented Emperor—Joram’s real father—knew, that’s why he vanished. Joram didn’t flee into Beyond because he was trying to escape the Duuk-tsarith. He didn’t need to.”
“Why? What do you mean?” Mosiah looked up apprehensively, the cold fear creeping over him again.
“Joram had. The Darksword…. Joram was winning …”
7
A Discourse
On The Rules Of War
Fearful that Prince Xavier had. The Darksword and hoping to strike before the warlock learned to use its full powers, Garald accelerated his country’s preparations for war. The catalysts and warlocks began their drills early in the morning and did not end until far late into the evening; many so exhausted that they slept where they collapsed on the floor of the War Room.
The forge of the Sorcerers glared into the night with bright eyes; the gnashing of its metal teeth and the breath of its bellows made it seem as though a monster had been captured and chained up in the center of the city. The Sorcerers as well as the warlocks were learning to work with catalysts; having had only one—Saryon—in the last dark years of their history. Combining magic and Technology, they were able to construct their weapons easier and faster—a fact that not all took as a blessing.
Finally, Garald deemed his city-state ready for war. In a formal, centuries-old ceremony that involved the donning of red robes and odd-looking hats (a source of considerable suppressed merriment and speculation among the nobility for no one remembered where the hats had come from or why), Prince Garald and the high ranking of the land came before their King, read the grievances against Merilon, and demanded war.
The King agreed, of course. There was a grand party that night in Sharakan and then everybody prepared for the next step—the Challenge.
There were strict rules of warfare in Thimhallan, dating back to the time when the people first came to this world. It was hoped by those early residents that a people driven from their birthworld by prejudice and violence could have lived in peace in this new one. Such was not human nature, however, as the wisest of the new inhabitants knew. Therefore they set down Rules of War that had been strictly followed and obeyed (for the most part) throughout the centuries, the exception being the destructive Iron Wars.
It was due to the brea
king of these very Rules that the Sorcerers had been driven from the land. According to the catalysts (who maintained the histories), the Sorcerers slipped the leash held by their masters—the War Masters—and attempted to take over the world by force. Refusing to accept the outcome on the Field of Glory—the outcome decided by War Masters utilizing the Gameboard—the Sorcerers brought real, deadly war to the land. Prince Garald’s use of Sorcerers in this war, therefore, was raising cries of outrage throughout Thimhallan, despite the fact that the Prince patiently reassured his allies (and his enemy) that he had them under complete control.
The Rules of War as drawn up by the ancients were rather like the rules of dueling—considered a civilized means of settling disputes between men. The affronted party aired his grievances publicly, then issued the Challenge—tantamount to tossing a glove in the face of ones enemy. There were two responses to the Challenge. It could be Taken Up—which meant war—or the party so challenged could issue an Apology, in which case the city-state then negotiated terms for surrender. There was no fear of an Apology in this instance; plans for war were being made in Merilon as well as Sharakan.
There are advantages and disadvantages to being the Challenger as opposed to the Defender. If the Challenge is impressive, the Challenger is considered to have gained the psychological upper hand. In return, the Defender is allowed to choose his position on the Field of Glory and is granted the opening move on the Gameboard.
The long-awaited day of the Challenge finally arrived. All Sharakan had been up throughout the night in preparation for the event, which was to begin at midday with the ceremonial battle between the Thon-li—the Corridor Masters—and the forces of the Prince.
In the ancient days, this battle had been a real one—fought between the War Masters and those who built the Corridors, the Diviners. But those magi gifted with divining the future had been wiped out during the Iron Wars, leaving only the catalysts that had assisted them—the Thon-li—to maintain the pathways by which the people of Thimhallan traveled through time and space.
Triumph of the Darksword Page 6