Doom Of The Darksword Part 31

Prince Xavier turned immediately from the seemingly mollified Bishop to the young man seated at his side. "Yes, Nephew, I thought that might stir your blood."

"Gwendolyn!" Joram said, his voice cracking. "Where is she. What have you done to her! By the Almin!" His fist clenched. "If you've hurt her -"

"Hurt her?" The DKarn-Duuk was cool, his tone rebuking. "Give us some credit for common sense, Joram. What would it benefit us to harm this girl whose only crime has been the misfortune of falling deeply in love with you?"

Prince Xavier turned back to the Bishop.

"Lord Samuels came to me in the Palace last night at my request. I was aware, of course, that the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith were searching for the young man with what I thought unusual zeal. I was naturally curious to know why, and Lord Samuels was eager to answer my questions. He told me all he knew of Joram and of the strange testimony of the were searching for the young man with what I thought unusual zeal. I was naturally curious to know why, and Lord Samuels was eager to answer my questions. He told me all he knew of Joram and of the strange testimony of the Theldara Theldara. There were many unaswered questions that piqued my curiosity. Why had the records on Anja disappeared? Why insist that a child had been stolen from among the waifs and orphans when it was obvious that one had not?

"I immediately sent for the Head of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith. At first, she was reluctant to talk. Upon my exhibiting how much I already knew, and upon emphasizing the advantages of speaking versus the disadvantages of remaining silent and loyal to one who did not deserve her loyalty" - who did not deserve her loyalty" - Prince Xavier emphasized this, to the renewed fury of the Bishop - "she decided to cooperate, and told me all I wanted to know. You need not worry, Nephew. Your young lover is back in the bosom of her family, no doubt shedding copious tears over your capture. She has one more trial to undergo, which - though painful - is necessary. They tell that, in the ancient world, it was customary to cut off a diseased limb to save the life of the body as a whole. She is young. She will recover From the wound, especially when she discovers that the man she loved is a Dead man being convicted for the murder of two citizens of the realm and for dabbling in the Dark Arts." Prince Xavier emphasized this, to the renewed fury of the Bishop - "she decided to cooperate, and told me all I wanted to know. You need not worry, Nephew. Your young lover is back in the bosom of her family, no doubt shedding copious tears over your capture. She has one more trial to undergo, which - though painful - is necessary. They tell that, in the ancient world, it was customary to cut off a diseased limb to save the life of the body as a whole. She is young. She will recover From the wound, especially when she discovers that the man she loved is a Dead man being convicted for the murder of two citizens of the realm and for dabbling in the Dark Arts."

Color was returning to Bishop Vanya's bloated face. He cleared his throat, coughing.

"Yes, Eminence," Prince Xavier continued, a sneer curling the thin lip, "I will keep your secret. It is in the best interests of the people to do so. There is, of course, a condition."

"The Empress," Vanya said.

"Precisely."

"Her death will be made known tomorrow," the Bishop said, swallowing. "We have long counseled this course of action" - Vanya's eyes went to the two catalysts present - "as being only fitting to give the poor soil the eternal rests it seeks. But the Emperor opposed our will. There is no doubt" - the Bishop glanced at Prince Xavier nervously - "that the Emperor is insane?"

"None," responded the warlock dryly.

The Bishop nodded in relief, licking his lips.

"There is just one other small matter," Prince Xavier said.

Vanya's face darkened. "What is that?" he asked suspiciously.

"The Darksword -" began the warlock.

"None shall touch that weapon of abomination!" Vanya roared, his face flus.h.i.+ng red. Veins popped out in his forehead; his eyes were nearly engulfed by swelling flesh. "Not even you, DKarn-Duuk! It will be present at the Judgment as evidence of this young man's guilt. Then it will return to the Font, where it will be locked away forever!"

There was no doubting, from the Bishop's tone, that Prince Xavier, in cultivating the soil of a newly plowed field, had suddenly struck a gigantic boulder. He might move it, but that would take time and patience. Much better, for the moment, to go around. Shrugging, he bowed in acquiescence.

"You have my sword, but what is to become of me?" Joram demanded in low, proud tones. A bitter smile twisted his face. "It seems you have a true dilemma on your hands. You cannot kill me, without fulfilling the Prophecy. Yet you can't afford to let me live. There have been too many 'mistakes' made already. Lock me up in the deepest dungeon - there wouldn't be one night you slept easily without wondering if I haven't, somehow, managed to escape."

"I grow fonder of you by the minute, Nephew," Prince Xavier said with a sigh, rising to his feet. "Your fate is, I fear, in the hands of the catalysts, since you are a threat to the realm. And, I have no doubt, Bishop Vanya has - at last - found a solution to this th.o.r.n.y problem. My work here is concluded. Eminence." The DKarn-Duuk bowed slightly. "Revered Brethren." He nodded to Saryon, who was staring at Vanya with wide, terror-stricken eyes, and to Dulchase, who s.h.i.+fted uneasily in his chair and refused to meet the man's flat gaze.

Casting the red hood of his luxuriant robe over his head. The DKarn-Duuk turned last to Joram.

"Rise and bid me farewell, Nephew," said the warlock.

Reluctantly, with the defiant toss of his black hair, the young man obeyed. He stood up, but he made no movement beyond that. Clasping his hands behind him, he stared straight ahead, into the darkness of the empty Hall.

Stepping forward, Prince Xavier took hold of the young man by the shoulders with his thin hands. Flinching, Joram instinctively tried to free himself from the warlocks grasp, but he checked himself, too proud to struggle.

Smiling, The DKarn-Duuk leaned near the young man. Placing his hooded head next to Joram's cheek, he kissed him, first on the left side, then on the right. Now the young man faltered, cringing visibly, his flesh shrinking from the touch of the cold lips. Jerking spasmodically, he pulled himself from the man's grasp, rubbing the flesh of his bare arms as though to rid himself of the touch.

A corridor opened behind Prince Xavier. Stepping into it, he vanished. The light he had brought with him disappeared as well. Most of the Hall was plunged into darkness, except for the faint, ghastly radiance emanating from the Well of Life in the center and the harsh, bright light streaming out from behind the Bishops throne.

Though still obviously shaken, Vanya appeared to be regaining his composure. At a gesture from the Bishop, the young Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith came forward from the shadows. He spoke a word and, once more, Joram was surrounded by three fiery rings, their flaming light casting an eerie glow in the deep gloom of the Hall. The Bishop stared in silence at the young man, sucking air in loudly through his nose. came forward from the shadows. He spoke a word and, once more, Joram was surrounded by three fiery rings, their flaming light casting an eerie glow in the deep gloom of the Hall. The Bishop stared in silence at the young man, sucking air in loudly through his nose.

"Holiness," began Saryon, rising slowly and haltingly to his feet, "you promised he would not be killed." The catalyst clasped his trembling hands before him. "You swore to me by the blood of the Almin...."

"Get down on your knees, Brother Saryon," said Bishop Vanya sternly, "and beg Him for your own redemption!"

"No!" Saryon cried, throwing himself forward.

Struggling to his feet, Vanya heaved his great bulk from the throne and, thrusting the catalyst out of his way, walked over to stand before the young man. Joram watched him without speaking, the bitter half smile on his lips.

"Joram, son of -" Vanya began, then stopped, confused. The half smile on the young man's face widened into a proud smile of triumph. The Bishop's face grew livid with anger. "You "You are correct, young man!" he said, his voice quivering. "We dare not let you live. We dare not let you die. As you have been Dead among the Living, so now you will find a living Death." are correct, young man!" he said, his voice quivering. "We dare not let you live. We dare not let you die. As you have been Dead among the Living, so now you will find a living Death."

Dulchase sprang up, his throat constricting. No! he wanted to shout. I won't be a party to this! He tried to speak, but nothing came out. For once, his tongue failed him. They had trapped him neatly. He knew too much. He would go to Zith-el, where they had a remarkable zoo ...

Saryon gave an anguished cry, falling on his knees to the floor before Vanya's throne.

The Bishop paid no attention to either of his catalysts. Joram's gaze went once to the wretched Saryon, but it was cool and unforgiving and almost immediately returned to the Bishop.

"Joram. Having been found guilty as charged of all counts presented against you by three catalysts as prescribed by the laws of Thimhallan, I hereby sentence you to the Turning. This dawn, you will be taken to the Border where your flesh shall be turned to stone, your soul left to live within your body to contemplate your crimes. Forever more, you will stand Guard at the Border, dead but alive, staring eternally into Beyond."

12.

Obedire Est Vivere There came a soft knock upon the closed door.

"Father Saryon?" called a gentle voice.

"Is it time?"

There were no windows in the small chapel. The harsh, bright dawn of a new day might come to the world outside, but it would never penetrate the cool darkness of this sanctuary.

"Yes, Father," said the voice in hushed tones.

Slowly, Saryon raised his head. He had spent the remainder of the night kneeling on the stone floor of one of the private chapels in the Font, seeking solace in prayer. Now his body was stiff, his knees bruised. His legs had long ago lost any feeling.

How he wished the same might be said of his heart!

Reaching out a hand, Saryon grasped the prayer rail before him and struggled to stand. A stifled groan escaped his lips, returning circulation sending sharp needles of pain through his limbs. He tried to move his legs and discovered he was too weak. Leaning his weary head upon his hand, he blinked back the tears.

"You who have denied me everything else, grant me strength to walk," he prayed bitterly. "I will not fail him in this, at least. I will be with him at the end."

Placing both hands on the prayer rail, gritting his teeth, Saryon struggled to his feet. He stood still for several moments, breathing heavily, until he was certain he could move.

"Father Saryon?" came the voice again, a tinge of worry. There was a scratching on the chapel door.

"Yes, I'm coming," Saryon snapped. "What is your hurry? Impatient to see the show?"

Shuffling forward, his shoes dragging the ground as he forced his hurting muscles to move, the catalyst crossed the small room in a few steps and fell against the door, his strength giving way.

Pausing to wipe the chill sweat from his brow with a shaking hand, Saryon at last found the energy to remove the magical seal he had placed last night upon the door. It was not a powerful spell; the catalyst had cast it himself using the small amount of Life within his body. But he wondered if he had the ability to break it. After a moment's hesitation, the door opened, swinging inward silently.

The pale face of a novitiate looked in at him. The woman's eyes were wide and frightened; she bit her lip at the sight of his ashen face, and lowered her gaze.

"I - I was concerned about you, Father," she said in a quivering voice. "That is all." Pa.s.sing a slender hand over her eyes, she added brokenly, "I do not want to see this, but it is required -" Her words failed.

"I am sorry, Sister," Saryon said wearily. "Forgive me. It has been ... a long night."

"Yes, Father," she said more strongly, lifting her gaze to meet his. "I understand. I have asked the Almin for courage to undergo this trial. He will not fail me."

"How fortunate for you," Saryon sneered.

The priest's tone of sudden, bitter anger startled the novitiate, who stared at him, half-frightened. Saryon sighed and started to ask her forgiveness again, then gave it up. What did her forgiveness matter? What did anyone's matter except for one person's.... And that he would never have, did not deserve.

"Is ... is that ... the sword?" The novitiates frightened eyes - as bright and soft as a rabbit's, Saryon thought - went to a shapeless ma.s.s of darkness lying on the rosewood altar, barely visible in the light cast from the small globe she held in her hand.

"Yes, Sister," Saryon said briefly.

That was the reason for the magical seal upon the door. Only one person had been considered fit to handle the weapon of darkness.

"This will be part of your penance, Father Saryon," Bishop Vanya had decreed. "Since you a.s.sisted in creating this foul tool of the Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery, you will spend the rest of your life guarding it. Of course," the Bishop had added in a softer, more pleasant voice, "there will be those of our Order required to study it that we may learn more about its evil nature. You will grant those elected to undertake this task all the benefit of your knowledge of the Dark Arts."

Humbly, Saryon had bowed his head, accepting his penance gratefully, firm in his belief that this would cleanse his soul and grant him the peace he sought so desperately. But the promised peace had not come. He thought it had - until last night, when he had looked into Joram's dark eyes. The young man's bitter words, "I trusted you!" seemed to the Priest to have been scribed in flame upon his soul. Forever they would burn within him; he would never be free of the agony.

It was that flame, he supposed dully, burning up his prayers of supplication to the Almin - prayers begging for mercy, for forgiveness of his sins. The words drifted like ashes from his mouth and scattered in the wind, leaving his heart a charred and blackened lump in his chest.

The novitiate glanced at a window in the corridor where the light of the night stars was slowly beginning to fade.

"Father, we must go."

"Yes." Saryon turned, and with slow and faltering steps walked over to the altar.

The Darksword lay like a dead thing. The light the novitiate held in her hand gleamed softly in the highly polished rosewood of the intricately shaped altar; it did not gleam in the black metal of the sword. His heart heavy with grief and sorrow, Saryon lifted the weapon awkwardly, his flesh shrinking from the touch. Clumsily, he slid it back into the scabbard - nearly dropping it. Bowing his head, he gripped the sword in clenched hands and raised it heavenward, crying out the most earnest prayer he had ever uttered in his life.

"Blessed Almin, I care no longer for myself. I am lost. Be with Joram! Somehow, help him to find the light he struggles to attain!"

The only sound in the chapel was a m.u.f.fled, pitying "amen" from the young novitiate.

Cradling the heavy sword in his arms, Saryon walked from the chapel.

13.

The Borderland The Borderland.

The edge of the world. Snowcapped peaks and pine forests and sparkling rivers in the center of the land flow into rolling meadowlands and populated cities and vast forests that in turn give way to tall stands of waving prairie gra.s.s. The gra.s.s dies out, and then there is nothing but empty, windswept dunes of s.h.i.+fting sand. Beyond the sands hang the mists of Beyond. Staring eternally into the mist, with their unseeing stone eyes, are the Watchers.

Condemned humans, transformed magically into statues of stone that nevertheless retain life within their frozen bodies, the Watchers stand thirty feet tall. Male and female, each is s.p.a.ced about twenty feet from its fellow. Almost all are catalysts. Magi are punished by being sent Beyond; it being considered too dangerous to allow the powerful magi to remain in the world, even in a frozen form. But the humble catalyst is a different matter, and when it was determined that Guards were needed upon the Borderlands, this seemed a fitting and suitable way to provide for them.

What do they watch for, these silent beings, some of whom have withstood the stinging of the blowing sand for centuries? What would they do if they saw something materialize within the drifting mists? None know, the answers having been long forgotten. There is nothing out there except Beyond - the Realm of Death. And from that Realm none have ever returned.

Located to the east of Thimhallan, the Borders are the first part of the land touched by the rays of the rising sun. Upon rising, the sun's light is a pearly gray, s.h.i.+ning through curtains of mist so thick that even heavens ball of fire cannot burn them away. Then, gleaming pale and cold - a ghost of itself - the sun can be seen s.h.i.+mmering faintly above the horizon where the mists give way to the blue, clear sky. When the sun is finally free of the Realm of Death, its light bursts forth, pouring down upon the land below in thankfulness, bringing the living of Thimhallan a new day.

It was at this time, when the sun's first full rays struck the earth, that Joram's flesh would be changed to stone.

Thus it was in the gray of early dawn that the partic.i.p.ants and witnesses of the solemn rite began to gather on the sand dunes. Twenty-five catalysts are needed to grant Life to the Executioner for the Turning, and these men and women were the first to arrive. Although generally summoned from all parts of Thimhallan to represent the entire population, so hurried was this trial that these catalysts were taken entirely from the Font. Many of the younger had never seen the ceremony, most of the elder had forgotten it. Those catalysts chosen to take part in the ritual could be seen stumbling sleepily from the Corridors onto the sand, many with books in their hands, hastily studying the rite.

Next to arrive was the Executioner. A powerful magus - one of the top-ranking members of the Duuk-tsarith - Duuk-tsarith - this man was the catalysts' own warlock. He worked for them alone, and was in charge not only of security within the Font, but also attending to duties such as this. His black robes changed to the gray of judgment for this occasion, the Executioner stepped silently from the Corridor. He was alone, his face covered by his hood. The catalysts, glancing at him askance, shunned him, moving hastily from his path. He paid them no heed. Hands folded within the cavernous sleeves of his robes, he stood as still as stone himself in the sand, perhaps rehearsing the complicated spell in his mind, perhaps concentrating the ma.s.sive mental and physical energies that would be needed for its casting. this man was the catalysts' own warlock. He worked for them alone, and was in charge not only of security within the Font, but also attending to duties such as this. His black robes changed to the gray of judgment for this occasion, the Executioner stepped silently from the Corridor. He was alone, his face covered by his hood. The catalysts, glancing at him askance, shunned him, moving hastily from his path. He paid them no heed. Hands folded within the cavernous sleeves of his robes, he stood as still as stone himself in the sand, perhaps rehearsing the complicated spell in his mind, perhaps concentrating the ma.s.sive mental and physical energies that would be needed for its casting.

Next came from the Corridor two Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, escorting a man of lordly, if weary, bearing, and a young woman, who appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Cringing away from the touch of the warlocks, the girl clung to her father. At the sight of the stone Watchers, she gave a heartbroken cry. Her father supported her in his arms, or it seemed she would have fallen where she stood and never risen again.

Several of the catalysts shook their heads and a few of the older ones stepped forward to offer the Almin's consolation and blessing. But the girl turned from them as she turned from the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, burying her head in her father's breast and refusing to look at them.

The warlocks who accompanied the two led them near a place in the sand that was empty except for a mark that had been hastily drawn upon it. When she saw the mark - a wheel with nine spokes - the young woman collapsed and a Theldara Theldara was hastily summoned. was hastily summoned.

The Cardinal came next, remembering just as he stepped from the Corridor to change his silver-trimmed white robes of his office to the gray, silver-trimmed robes of judgment. Joining several of the older catalysts, who bowed reverently, the Cardinal glanced at the slowly brightening mists and frowned. He was overheard to mention irritably that they were running behind schedule. Gathering the twenty-five of his Order together, he arranged them in a circle around the mark of the spoked wheel. When the catalysts were placed to his satisfaction and each had turned his or her robe to gray, the Cardinal bowed to the Executioner, who slowly and solemnly took his place in the center of the circle.

All was in readiness. The Cardinal sent word via the Corridor back to the Font, and, after a moment's breathless antic.i.p.ation, the void gaped open. Expecting the Bishop's entourage, everyone twisted his head and strained to see. But it was only the Theldara Theldara, coming to tend to the young woman. This provided a small amount of diversion. Restorative potions were administered, and within moments the girl was on her feet, some semblance of color coming and going in her pallid face.

There was a moment's restless movement around the circle of catalysts - the Cardinal frowned terribly and made a mental note of the most flagrant transgressors. But their patience was rewarded. The Corridor gaped again, a hole of nothing.

The crowd gasped. A most unexpected phenomenon occurred.

Stepping out of the Corridor was the Emperor. As everyone watched in shock, another flurry of movement within the void brought forth the Empress as well, seated in a white-winged chair. Her eyes stared straight ahead into the Realm of Beyond; many would whisper afterward (when her death had been officially announced) that there was an expression of wistful longing in them, as though yearning for the rest being denied her. The two were alone, no attendants accompanied them, and the Emperor hovered above the sand, looking about him expectantly.

Stunned, the Cardinal stared, openmouthed; the catalysts glanced at each other in amazement and consternation. It even caught the attention of the girl; she raised her head and glanced at the royal couple - particularly the dead Empress - then hurriedly diverted her gaze with a shudder. Only the Executioner remained unmoved, his hooded head faced forward, the shadowed eyes fixed upon the circle.

Finally, the Cardinal left the circle of catalysts and took a hesitant step toward the Emperor, though he hadn't any idea what to do with the man. Fortunately, at that moment, the Corridor gaped once more, producing Bishop Vanya and The DKarn-Duuk, the red and crimson of their robes like splashes of blood against the background of white sand.

Both appeared considerably taken aback at the sight of the Emperor and his wife.

"What is he doing here?" Bishop Vanya said in an undertone, glancing at Prince Xavier with a scowl.

"I have no idea," the warlock replied coldly, glancing at Bishop Vanya in turn. "Perhaps he is in need of a little light entertainment."

"The walls of the Font have eyes and ears and mouths as well," the Bishop remarked testily, his face flus.h.i.+ng at the suspicion he saw clearly in the dark eyes of The DKarn-Duuk. "He has learned the truth."

It seemed for an instant that Xavier lost his famous composure, much to the Bishop's satisfaction.