Doom Of The Darksword Part 29

"Wait!" he cautioned Gwen, and held back in the shadows of the trees which - though they were not friendly shadows - covered them both with a mantle of darkness. The two waited, watching, barely breathing. The glade appeared empty. There was no one by the tomb. Or was there? Was that a figure moving near it? It was too far to distinguish....

Joram's hand itched to draw the Darksword, but he dared not. The sword would begin to suck up magic, draining both Gwen's strength and Mosiah's. They might need all the strength and all the magic these two possessed to get past the Gate; Joram bitterly counting Simkin as less than useless at this point.

"I think that's your friend!" whispered Gwen, squeezing Joram's hand.

"Yes." Joram stared into the darkness, seeing the figure walk around to the side of the tomb near them. "Yes, you're right! That's Mosiah. No, you wait here for us." He released her hand and started forward.

"Joram!" Gwen caught hold of the sleeve of his white robe.

"What, my dear?" His voice was gentle. He turned to face her, forcing his expression to one of patience. But he must not have fooled her, because her hand dropped from his sleeve limply.

"Nothing," she said with a fleeting smile barely seen in the tombs ghostly light. "Only my foolish fears again. Please hurry, though," she said through lips so stiff she could barely move them.

"I will," he promised, and with a rea.s.suring smile, he turned and walked out into the glade.

"Mosiah!" he risked calling softly into the night.

The figure turned, startled, peering into the darkness. Joram raised a hand. Then, as he saw the figure hest.i.tate, it occurred to him that Mosiah wouldn't be expecting him in white robes. He was near enough now to see his friend's features, and he threw back the hood so that Mosiah could see his face.

"It's me, Joram!" he said more loudly, his confidence growing at the sight of his friends familiar features.

At this, Mosiah grinned and let out a sigh of relief that echoed through the Glade. Arms outstretched, he hurried forward, and before Joram quite knew what was happening, his friend had clasped him in a thankful embrace.

"Name of the Almin, it's good to see you!" Mosiah said, hugging his friend close. "Where is everyone?"

"Gwen's waiting up by those trees," Joram began, awkwardly returning his friend's embrace, then instinctively endeavoring to free himself from Mosiah's arms. "Simkin's drunk as a lord. We have to leave Merilon," he added, wondering why Mosiah wouldn't let him loose. "Look," he said finally, irritably, trying to push his friend away, "we've got to get going! We're in danger. Now quit -"

He couldn't move his arms. Mosiah had him pinned tightly and was staring into his face with a cold smile, the tomb's light glittering in his blue eyes. "Mosiah!" Joram said angrily, fear rising in him, making him grow as cold as stone. "Let go!" He twisted suddenly, to break the young man's hold, but it was useless. The arms tightened around him, squeezing him with a clasp he knew now - the fear growing within him - was magic. He was caught in a spell! Joram squirmed, trying to reach the Darksword, but his body was fast losing all strength as the grip of the arms continued to tighten.

And then it became a struggle, not for the sword, but for life - a struggle to breathe. Joram gasped for air, staring into Mosiahs face, not understanding. Somewhere he heard a scream, a woman's scream that was cut off swiftly and skillfully. He tried to speak, but he had no breath. The darkness of the Grove was rapidly creeping over his eyes. Death was very near, and he ceased to fight, welcoming an end to the pain.

Skilled in such matters, the arms relaxed their hold. The face of Mosiah smiled and spoke a word, and then Mosiah's face was gone and Joram - in his last moments before consciousness fled - looked up and saw the white skin and expressionless face of a black-robed woman, who caught him in her arms as he fell.

Gently, she lowered him to the ground. As his senses slowly slipped from him, he heard her issue a warning to a dimly seen companion.

"Don't touch the sword."

9.

Adjudication Deacon Dulchase woke from a sound sleep with an irritated snort, rolling over in an effort to escape the hand that was shaking his shoulder.

"So I'm late for Morning Prayers," he grumbled, burrowing deeper into his mattress and burying his face in the pillow. "Tell the Almin to start without me."

"Deacon!" said a commanding voice urgently, continuing to harra.s.s the priest. "Wake up. Bishop Vanya summons you."

"Vanya!" Dulchase repeated incredulously. The elderly, perennial Deacon struggled up from the depths of his comfortable repose, blinking in the globe of light that hovered near a black-robed figure standing above him "Duuk-tsarith!" "Duuk-tsarith!" he muttered beneath his breath, trying to nudge his sleep-soaked brain into functioning. he muttered beneath his breath, trying to nudge his sleep-soaked brain into functioning.

The sudden surge of fear at the sight of the warlock helped admirably, although by the time Dulchase had drawn his legs out from under the bedclothes and had his feet on the floor, the fear had been replaced by a cynical amus.e.m.e.nt. "They have me this time," he reflected, groping about with one hand to find the robe he had tossed at the end of the bed. "Wonder what it was? Undoubtedly that remark about the Empress at the party last night. Ah, Dulchase. You'd think at your age you would learn!"

With a sigh, he began to struggle into the robe, only to be stopped by the cold hand of the warlock who stood above him, faceless in his black hood.

"What's the matter now?" Dulchase snapped, figuring he had nothing to lose. "It isn't enough His Holiness decides to exact punishment in the middle of the night? Am I to go before him naked as well?"

"You are to dress in formal robes of ceremony," intoned the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith. "I have them here."

Sure enough, now that Dulchase looked, he could see the warlock holding his best ceremonial robes folded over his arms in the manner of the most efficient of House Magi. Dulchase stared, first at the robes, then at the warlock.

"There has been no mention of punishment," the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith continued in his cool voice. "The Bishop requests you hurry. The matter is urgent." The warlock shook out the robes carefully. "I will a.s.sist if I may." continued in his cool voice. "The Bishop requests you hurry. The matter is urgent." The warlock shook out the robes carefully. "I will a.s.sist if I may."

Numbly, Dulchase stood up and - within the speaking of a word of magic - was attired in the formal robes of ceremony he had not worn since ... when? The ceremony marking the Death of the young Prince? "What ... what color?" the befuddled Deacon asked, running his hand over his head that had once been tonsured but was now as bald as the rocks of the Font in which he lived.

"What color, Father?" the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith repeated. "I fail to understand -" repeated. "I fail to understand -"

"What color shall I make the robes?" Dulchase asked irascibly, gesturing. "They're Weeping Blue Weeping Blue, as you can see? Is it official mourning? I'll leave them the same. A wedding, perhaps? If so, I'll have to change them to -"

"Judgment," said the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith succinctly. succinctly.

"Judgment," repeated Dulchase, pondering. Taking his time, he made use of the chamber pot in the corner of his small room, noting - as he did so - that even the disciplined warlock was growing edgy over the delay. The fingers of the hands, supposed to be folded quietly in front of the man, were twisting round each other. "Mmpf," the Deacon snorted, making a great show of rearranging his robes around him again and turning them to the proper shade of neutral gray required for a trial. All the while, his brain - now wide awake - was trying to guess at what was happening.

A summons to Bishop Vanyas's in the dead of night. A Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith sent to escort him - not a novitiate as was customary. He was not being punished but told he was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had not worn in eighteen years - eighteen years almost to the very day, he realized - the anniversary of the Prince's death having been held last night. Deacon Dulchase could make nothing of it, however. Immensely curious, he turned back to the waiting sent to escort him - not a novitiate as was customary. He was not being punished but told he was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had not worn in eighteen years - eighteen years almost to the very day, he realized - the anniversary of the Prince's death having been held last night. Deacon Dulchase could make nothing of it, however. Immensely curious, he turned back to the waiting Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, who actually started to breathe a sigh of relief before he caught himself in time.

A young one, that, Dulchase noted, grinning inwardly.

"Well, let's get on with it," the Deacon muttered, taking a step toward the door. To his astonishment, he felt the cold hand on his arm again.

"The Corridors, Father," said the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith.

"To His Holiness's chambers?" Dulchase glowered at the warlock. "You may be new around here, young man, but surely you know that this is forbidden -"

"Follow me, if you please, Father." The Duuk-tsarith The Duuk-tsarith, perhaps nettled by the Deacon's remark about his age, was obviously out of patience. A Corridor gaped in Dulchase's room; the cold hand propelled the old Deacon into it. An instants sensation of being squeezed and compressed, then Dulchase stood in a huge, cavernous hall carved from the heart of the mountain fastness by - legend had it - the hand of the powerful wizard who had led them here.

This was the Hall of Life. (Its name from ancient times had been originally the Hall of Life and Death, in order to represent both sides of the world. This had become frowned upon in modern times and - with the banishment of the Sorcerers - it had been officially renamed.) Legend being true or not, the Hall did look very much as though it had been scooped out of the granite like the fruit from the rind of a melon. Located in the very center of the Font, built around the Well of Life from which the magic in the world gushed forth like unseen water, it was dome-shaped, extending hundreds of feet into the air, its rock ceiling ornamented by carved arches of polished stone. Four gigantic grooves gashed out of the rock wall at the front of the Hall were known as the Fingers of Merlyn and formed four alcoves where sat the four Cardinals of the Realm during occasions of state. Another large gouge in the rock wall, on the opposite side of the vast Hall, was known somewhat irreverently and unofficially as Merlyn's Thumb. Here sat the Bishop of the Realm, across from his ministers. Spanning the length of the stone floor between them were row after row of stone pews. Cold and uncomfortable to sit upon, these stone pews had an even more irreverent name that was whispered and sn.i.g.g.e.red over by new novitiates.

The Hall's vast expanse was usually illuminated by the magical lights sent dancing upward by the magi who served the catalysts. Yet on this occasion the lights had not been brought to Life. Dulchase stared around in the cold darkness.

"Name of the Almin!" breathed the Deacon, nearly staggering in complete and total amazement as he realized where he was. "The Hall of Life! I haven't been here since ... since ..."

The memory of eighteen years ago came quickly, though Dulchase often found he had trouble recalling incidents that occurred only yesterday. That was a hallmark of growing old, so he'd been told. One tended to live in the past. Well, and why not? It was a h.e.l.l of a lot more interesting than the present. Although that seemed likely to change, he thought, glancing about the dark Hall with a frown.

"Where is everyone?" he snapped at the young Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, who - hand on his arm - was guiding him through the maze of pews toward Merlyn's Thumb.

At least that was where the old Deacon guessed they were headed, judging from what he could remember of the lay of the room. The warlock walked in a path of light cast by his hand held before him, Dulchase stumbling along in his wake. He could see practically nothing. The Well of Life was in the exact center of the Hall, he recalled, searching around for it. Yes, there it was, glowing with a faint, phosph.o.r.escent radiance, but, beyond that, the Hall was almost pitch-dark. Then, suddenly, a single light flared ahead of them. Squinting into it, Dulchase tried to see its source, but it was so bright that all he could see were several figures pa.s.sing before it, eclipsing it momentarily.

The last time Dulchase had been here was to witness the trial of a male catalyst accused of joining with a young n.o.ble woman - Tanja or Anja or some such name. Ah! Dulchase shook his head in fond remembrance. The Hall had been crowded with members of his Order. All catalysts residing in the Font and in the home city of the accused - Merilon - had been required to attend. The details of the couple's crime had been described graphically by the Bishop in order to impress upon his flock the enormity of such a sin. Whether or not any were deterred from temptation because of it was never established. It was known that not one catalyst fell asleep during the three-day trial, and there had been such a state of fevered excitement among the novitiates at night that Evening Prayers had been lengthened from one hour to two for a month following.

Undoubtedly the punishment of the Turning - which all were called upon to witness - had a more profound effect. Dulchase still had nightdreams over that tragic scene. He kept seeing, over and over, the one hand of the man - as the stone slowly crept over his living body - clenching in a final gesture of hatred and defiance.

Angry at having dredged up these disturbing memories, Dulchase came to a halt. "Look here," he said stubbornly, "I insist on knowing what's going on. Where are you taking me?" He glanced around the darkened Hall. "Where is everyone else? What's happened to the lights?"

"Please come forward, Deacon Dulchase." A pleasant, if stern, voice echoed in the vastness. Dulchase saw now that the light and the voice came from the same place - Merlyn's Thumb. "All will be explained."

"Vanya," Dulchase muttered. He s.h.i.+vered, and thought with longing of his warm bed.

Years unopened, the Hall was chill and smelled of wet rock and mildewed tapestries. Sneezing, the Deacon wiped his nose on the sleeve of his robe and allowed himself to be led forward again until he came to stand, blinking like an owl in the light, before His Holiness, Bishop of the Realm.

"My dear Deacon, we apologize for disturbing your rest."

Bishop Vanya stood up - an unheard-of phenomenon in the presence of a lowly Deacon; moreover, a Deacon who had been a Deacon for forty years and would probably die a Deacon due to his sharp tongue and unfortunate habit of speaking his mind. There were those who said Dulchase himself would have long ago been slated for a place among the Stone Guardians had it not been for the protection of a certain powerful family in court. This show of respect from his Bishop was unprecedented, yet was followed by still more. Dulchase was bowing and endeavoring to recover from the shock when Vanya actually extended his hand, not for Dulchase to kiss the ring, but to give the Deacon the pleasure of touching the pudgy fingers.

I suppose if I died now, I'd ascend directly to the Almin, the old Deacon said to himself sarcastically. But he brought the Bishop's hand to press against his forehead with as much show of reverent ecstasy as he could muster at his age, and thought he must look very much as though he were suffering from gas. The touch of the fingers was unpleasant, as cold as a fresh-caught fish, and they trembled slightly in his grasp. Perhaps realizing this, Vanya s.n.a.t.c.hed them away with unseemly haste and moved to sit back down, lowering his great red-robed bulk into the plainly shaped stone throne that sat in the alcove. The light shone from behind Vanya, Dulchase noted shrewdly, coming from some magical source in the wall. It left the Bishop's face in shadow, while illuminating all those who faced him.

Glancing around, his own eyes now accustomed to the bright light and wondering what he was supposed to do next, Dulchase noted that the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith who had led him here was gone; either disappeared or had become one with the shadows. But he had the feeling that there were other members of that dark Order around, watching and listening, though he could not see them. There was only one other person present in the Hall that Dulchase could see. This was an aging catalyst clad in shabby red robes who huddled in a stone chair that appeared to have been hastily conjured up next to the Bishops throne. The man's head was bowed. All Dulchase could see of him was thinning gray hair unkempt and tousled over an unhealthy-looking gray scalp. This man had not moved during Dulchase's welcome by the Bishop, but sat, staring down at his shoes, in a manner that was somehow familiar to the Deacon. who had led him here was gone; either disappeared or had become one with the shadows. But he had the feeling that there were other members of that dark Order around, watching and listening, though he could not see them. There was only one other person present in the Hall that Dulchase could see. This was an aging catalyst clad in shabby red robes who huddled in a stone chair that appeared to have been hastily conjured up next to the Bishops throne. The man's head was bowed. All Dulchase could see of him was thinning gray hair unkempt and tousled over an unhealthy-looking gray scalp. This man had not moved during Dulchase's welcome by the Bishop, but sat, staring down at his shoes, in a manner that was somehow familiar to the Deacon.

Dulchase tried to get a glimpse of the man's face, but it was impossible from where he stood, and the Deacon dared do nothing to attract the man's attention until he had been dismissed from the Bishops presence. Glancing back at Vanya, the Deacon saw that His Holiness was no longer looking at him but was motioning - so it seemed - to the darkness.

Dulchase was not surprised to see the darkness respond, coalescing into the shape of the young warlock who had brought him here. The black-hooded head bowed to hear Vanya's whispered words and Dulchase took advantage of the moment to take a step near his fellow catalyst.

"Brother," said Dulchase softly and kindly - his sharp tongue could be both when he chose - "I fear you are not well. Is there anything -"

At these words, the catalyst raised his head. A haggard face regarded him, tears s.h.i.+mmering in the eyes at the sound of a kind voice.

Dulchase's voice died. He not only swallowed his words in his astonishment, he nearly swallowed his tongue as well.

"Saryon!"

Lost in wonder, his mind literally reeling beneath the load of shock, curiosity, and growing fear, Dulchase sank thankfully into another stone chair that appeared - at a command from another Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith lurking about in the shadows - at Bishop Vanya's right hand, opposite Saryon, who sat at his left. The curiosity and shock Dulchase could account for - he had no idea what was transpiring. The fear was subtle, less easily defined, and it arose, he realized finally, from the anguished expression on Saryon's face - an expression that had so marked the man that Dulchase wondered now, looking at him, how he had recognized him. lurking about in the shadows - at Bishop Vanya's right hand, opposite Saryon, who sat at his left. The curiosity and shock Dulchase could account for - he had no idea what was transpiring. The fear was subtle, less easily defined, and it arose, he realized finally, from the anguished expression on Saryon's face - an expression that had so marked the man that Dulchase wondered now, looking at him, how he had recognized him.

Though only in his forties, Saryon appeared older to Dulchase than Dulchase himself. His face was a sallow color, ashen in the bright light illuminating them from Merlyn's Thumb. The eyes that had been the kindly, slightly preoccupied eyes of the single-minded mathematician had now become the eyes of a man caught in a trap. He watched Saryon searching as if for escape, the eyes sometimes darting here and there frantically, but more often focused on Bishop Vanya with a look of despairing hopefulness that wrung the Deacon's heart with pity.

This was what engendered the Deacon's fear. Older than Saryon and more worldly wise than the sheltered scholar, Dulchase saw no hope for the wretched catalyst in the Bishop's smooth, composed face or His Holiness's cold, glittering gaze. Worse still had been the touch of those fishlike fingers. Dulchase had the sudden terrible feeling that he had lived too long....

He fidgeted in the cold stone chair that the heat from his body appeared incapable of warming. It had been a half-hour since his arrival and no one had spoken a word, other than the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith with their whispered spell-casting and conjuring of furniture. Dulchase stared at Saryon, Saryon stared at Vanya, and the Bishop stared, scowling, into the darkness of the vast Hall. with their whispered spell-casting and conjuring of furniture. Dulchase stared at Saryon, Saryon stared at Vanya, and the Bishop stared, scowling, into the darkness of the vast Hall.

If this doesn't end soon, I'll say something I'll regret, Dulchase remarked to himself. I know I will. What the devil is the matter with Saryon? The man looks like he's been living with demons! I - "Deacon Dulchase," said Bishop Vanya suddenly in a pleasant voice that immediately set Dulchase on his guard.

"Your Eminence," Dulchase responded with an attempt at equal urbanity.

"There is a position open for a House Master in the Royal House of the city-state of Zith-el," Vanya said. "Would this be of interest to you, my son?"

My son, my a.s.s. Dulchase snorted, eyeing Vanya. You may be old enough to have fathered me, but I doubt any issue ever came from those fat loins ... His thought trailed off, the Bishop's words having finally sunk into the Deacon's head. He stared at Vanya, blinking again as the bright light - by some trick of magic - shone full upon his face.

"A ... a House Master," Dulchase stammered. "But ... that requires a Cardinal, Your Eminence. Surely you can't -"

"Ah, but I can!" Vanya a.s.sured him expansively, waving the pudgy hand. "The Almin has made his will known to me in this. You have served Him faithfully many years, my son, without reward. Now in the golden time of your life, it is fitting that you be given this a.s.signment. The papers have been drawn up, and as soon as we conclude this trifling matter before us, we will sign them and you can be on your way to the palace.

"Zith-el is a charming city," the Bishop continued conversationally. He did not once glance at Saryon - who was continuing to watch him, his soul in his eyes - but talked to Dulchase as though they were the only two in the vast Hall. "A remarkable zoo. They even have several centaur on exhibit there - well-guarded, of course."

House Master! A Lord Cardinal! This to a man who had been constantly reminded that were it not for his patronage, he might be slogging through rows of beans, a lowly Field Catalyst. Dulchase could smell a rat; he believed now he had sniffed it upon entering. This trifling matter before us This trifling matter before us, Vanya had said. We will sign the papers... We will sign the papers....

Dulchase sought some clue from Saryon, but the man's gaze was once more intent upon his shoes, though his lowered face looked - if it were possible - more agonized than before. "I - I don't know, Holiness," Dulchase faltered, hoping to buy time until he found out what it was he was selling. "This is so sudden, and to come upon me like this, when I have just been asleep -"

"Yes, we are sorry, but this matter is one of urgency. You will be able to catch up on your rest in the Palace. But there is no need to make a decision now. In fact, it might be best to wait until this small matter is concluded." Vanya paused, his full, fat face turned toward the Deacon, who, however, could not see its expression for the light behind it. "- Concluded satisfactorily, we pray the Almin."

Dulchase smiled bitterly, Vanya having piously raised his eyes heavenward. So, the Bishop a.s.sumed this old Deacon could be bought and sold. Well, I could be, Dulchase admitted. Every man had his price. Dulchase's glance went to Saryon's stricken face. In this case, it just might be too high.

Apparently considering matters concluded, Vanya made a gesture with his hand. "Bring the prisoner." The darkness behind him moved. "And now we will explain the reason you have been dragged from your warm bed, Cardinal ... I mean ... Deacon Dulchase," said the Bishop, clasping his hands together across his rotund middle. This might have been a meaningless gesture, but Dulchase saw the fingers laced tightly, the knuckles turning white with the strain of appearing to remain perfectly calm.

Dulchase ceased watching Vanya, however, to look at Saryon in alarm. At the word "prisoner," the catalyst had shrunk into himself so that it seemed he would willingly become part of the stone chair upon which he sat. He appeared so ill that Dulchase nearly sprang up to demand that a Druid be summoned when he was halted by a burst of yellow light.

Three flaring, hissing rings of energy appeared before Bishop Vanya. The young Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith materialized beside them, and, seconds later, a young man took shape within the rings. They circled the young man's muscular arms and his legs, coming near but not touching the flesh. Dulchase could feel the rings' warmth from where he sat some distance away, and he cringed as he vividly imagined what would happen should the young man try to escape his magical bonds. materialized beside them, and, seconds later, a young man took shape within the rings. They circled the young man's muscular arms and his legs, coming near but not touching the flesh. Dulchase could feel the rings' warmth from where he sat some distance away, and he cringed as he vividly imagined what would happen should the young man try to escape his magical bonds.

The prisoner did not seem likely to try to escape, however. He appeared stupified, standing with his head bowed; long, lank black hair curled over his shoulders and hung down around his face. He must be about eighteen, Dulchase guessed, looking at the well-formed muscular body with envy and regret. We're here to sit in judgment on this young man, Dulchase reasoned. But why? Why not let the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith handle it? Unless he's a catalyst? ... No, impossible. No catalyst ever had muscles like that.... And why only the three of us? And why us three? handle it? Unless he's a catalyst? ... No, impossible. No catalyst ever had muscles like that.... And why only the three of us? And why us three?

"You are wondering, Deacon Dulchase, what is going on," Bishop Vanya said. "Again, we apologize. You, alone, I fear, are the only one in the dark. Deacon Saryon -" are wondering, Deacon Dulchase, what is going on," Bishop Vanya said. "Again, we apologize. You, alone, I fear, are the only one in the dark. Deacon Saryon -"

At the sound of this name, the young man's head snapped up. Tossing back the black hair, he squinted in the bright light and, as his eyes became accustomed to it, looked around.

"Father!" he cried thickly. Forgetting his bonds, the young man took a swift step forward. There was a sizzle and a smell of burning flesh. The young man sucked in his breath in pain, but beyond that made no outcry.

Amazed that the prisoner should know Saryon, Dulchase was equally amazed at Saryon's response. Averting his eyes, the catalyst held up a hand involuntarily - not as a man warding off an attack, but as one who feels himself unworthy of being touched.

"Deacon Saryon," Bishop Vanya was continuing imperturbably, "is aware of what is transpiring, and I will now explain it to you, Brother Dulchase. As you know, the law of Thimhallan demands that a jury of catalysts be convened to sit in judgment upon any case which involves either a catalyst or a threat to the realm. All other cases are handled by the Duuk-tsarith." Duuk-tsarith."

Dulchase was only half listening to Vanya. He knew the law and he had already guessed that this must be a case involving a threat to the realm - though how this one young man threatened the realm was beyond him. Instead, Dulchase was studying the prisoner. As he did so, he began to believe this young man could could be a threat. be a threat.

The dark black eyes - those eyes looked familiar, where had he seen them? - staring at Saryon actually burned with an inner intensity. The brows, thick and black and drawn in a line across the bridge of the nose, bespoke a pa.s.sionate inner nature; the firm jaw; the handsome, brooding face; the luxuriant black hair falling in rampant curls over the shoulders; the proud stance, the unfearing gaze.... This was truly a formidable personality, one who could conceivably s.h.i.+ft the stars if he chose.

And where have I seen him? Dulchase asked himself again with that gnawing anger that comes from knowing something in the subconscious but without being able to drag it to the surface. I've seen that regal tilt of the head, that s.h.i.+ning hair, that imperious gaze.... But where? Dulchase asked himself again with that gnawing anger that comes from knowing something in the subconscious but without being able to drag it to the surface. I've seen that regal tilt of the head, that s.h.i.+ning hair, that imperious gaze.... But where?

"The young man's name is Joram."

Catching the name, Dulchase's attention turned immediately back to Vanya. No, he thought in disappointment, that name doesn't mean anything. Yet I know - "He is brought here on several charges, not the least of which is threatening the safety of the realm. That is why we are sitting in judgment. Perhaps you are wondering why there are only three of us, Deacon Dulchase." Bishop Vanya's voice took on a grim note. "You will learn that, I imagine, as I go on to present the startling and frightening facts of the case against this young man.

"Joram!" The Bishop spoke in a sharp, cold voice, apparently hoping to draw the prisoner's gaze to himself. But he might have been a squawking parrot for all the young man cared. His gaze was on Saryon and it had never once s.h.i.+fted. The catalyst's hands rested limply in his lap, his head bowed. Of the two, Dulchase fancied, the catalyst appeared more the prisoner....

"Joram, son of Anja," spoke Vanya again, angrily this time. The warlock, with a word, caused the rings to shrink, drawing in upon their captive. Feeling their heat, the young man reluctantly and defiantly s.h.i.+fted his dark eyes to the Bishop. "You are charged with the crime of concealing the fact that you are Dead. What do you plead to this charge?"

Joram - that was the young man's name apparently - refused to answer, lifting his chin in the air. The movement sent a thrill of recognition through Dulchase - a thrill, yet frustration, too. He knew this kid! Yet he didn't. It was like an itching in the small of the back that one could never quite scratch.

The warlock spoke another word. The rings flashed, there was that horrible sizzle and smell and a quick, agonized gasp from the young man.

"I plead guilty," Joram said, but he said it proudly in a rich, deep voice. "I was born Dead. It was the Almin's will, as I was taught by one I respect and honor." He glanced again at Saryon, who appeared so crushed by this that he might never rise again.