Doom Of The Darksword Part 9

"Yes, that makes sense," Garald said, speaking more to himself than to his companion. "Joram seeks his name and his fortune. This could work out quite nicely...."

"Your Grace?"

"Nothing, just talking to myself. I believe we will camp here for a week, if you do not object, Radisovik."

"And what do you intend to do here, milord?" asked the Cardinal.

"Turn fencing instructor. Good night, Eminence."

Bowing, Garald walked back toward the fire.

"Good night, Your Grace," murmured Radisovik, staring after the Prince in astonishment.

11.

Joram Garald returned to the fire, his head bent in thought. The Cardinal continued on across the glade, entering a silken tent that had appeared near the hot springs by the command of one of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith. The Prince noted, as he walked, that both he and Cardinal were under the catalysts careful scrutiny, and that Saryon's gaze went from them to Joram. The young man had finally fallen asleep, his hand still resting on his sword.

The catalyst loves him, that much is certain, the Prince thought, watching Saryon from beneath lowered lids as he drew near. And what a difficult love it must be. It is apparently not returned. Radisovik is right. There's some deep secret here. He won't give it up, that's obvious. But, in talking about the young man, he might say more than he realizes. And I will find out something about Joram.

"No, please don't rise, Father," the Prince said aloud, coming to stand beside the catalyst. "If you have no objection, I would like to sit with you for a while, unless you plan to retire, that is."

"Thank you, Your Grace," replied the catalyst, sinking back down into the soft, fragrant gra.s.s that had been magically transformed into a carpet as thick and luxurious as any in court. "I would be glad of your company. I - I find that I suffer from insomnia on occasion." The catalyst smiled wearily. "It seems that this is one of those nights."

"I, too, am often wakeful," the Prince said, seating himself gracefully beside the catalyst. "My Theldara Theldara prescribes a gla.s.s of wine before bed." A crystal goblet appeared in the Prince's hand, filled with a ruby-red liquid that gleamed warmly in the firelight. He handed it to the catalyst. prescribes a gla.s.s of wine before bed." A crystal goblet appeared in the Prince's hand, filled with a ruby-red liquid that gleamed warmly in the firelight. He handed it to the catalyst.

"I am obliged, Your Grace," Saryon said, flus.h.i.+ng at the attention. "To your health." He sipped at the wine. It was delicious, and brought memories of court life and Merilon back to him.

"I would like to speak to you of Joram, Father," Garald said, settling himself onto the gra.s.sy carpet. Leaning on one elbow, he looked directly into the catalyst's face while keeping his own turned from the firelight.

"You are direct and to the point, milord." said Saryon, smiling faintly.

"A failing of mine, sometimes," said Garald with a rueful grin, plucking at the gra.s.s beneath his hand. "Or at least so my father tells me. He says that I scare people, pouncing on them like a cat when I should creep up on them from behind."

"I will tell you gladly what I know of the young man, milord," Saryon said, his gaze going to the sleeping form that lay near the fire. "The story of his early life I heard from other people, but I have no reason to doubt the facts."

The catalyst continued to speak, telling of Joram's bleak, strange upbringing. The Prince listened, silent, absorbed, fascinated.

"There is no doubt Anja was mad, Your Grace," said Saryon with a soft sigh. "Her ordeal had been a terrible one. She had seen the man she loved -"

"Joram's father, the catalyst," clarified the Prince.

"Um ... yes, milord." Saryon coughed and was forced to clear his throat before he could resume. Garald noted that the man did not look at him as he talked. "The catalyst. She had seen him sentenced to the Turning. Have you ever watched that punishment, Highness?" Now the catalyst turned his gaze to the Prince.

"No," Garald replied, shaking his head. "As the Almin is my witness, may I be spared that."

"You do well to pray so, milord," Saryon replied, his gaze going once again to the dancing flames of the fire. "I saw it. In fact, I saw the edict carried out on Joram's father, though, of course, I didn't know it at the time. How strange is fate...." He was silent for so long that Prince Garald touched him on the arm.

"Father?"

"What?" Saryon started. "Oh, yes." s.h.i.+vering, he drew his robes close around him. "It is a dreadful punishment. In the ancient world, so we are told, men were sentenced to die for their crimes. We consider that barbarism, and I suppose it is. Yet sometimes I think death must be easy compared to our more civilized ways."

"I have seen a man sent Beyond," said the Prince in a low voice. "No, wait. It was a woman. Yes, a woman. I was only a boy. My father took me. It was the first time I had traveled the Corridors. I remember being so excited about the journey that I scarcely knew its intent, although I am certain my father must have tried to prepare me for it. If so, he did not succeed."

Restlessly, the Prince s.h.i.+fted. Sitting up from his comfortable lounging position he, too, stared into the flames. Memory shadowed his handsome face and clear brown eyes.

"What was her crime, milord?"

"I was trying to remember." Garald shook his head. "It must have been a heinous one; probably something to do with adultery, because I remember my father being rather confused and vague about the details. She was a wizardess, I remember that. Albanara - a Albanara - a high-ranking member of the court. There was something about casting spells of enchantment, enticing a man against his will." Garald shrugged. "At least I suppose that was high-ranking member of the court. There was something about casting spells of enchantment, enticing a man against his will." Garald shrugged. "At least I suppose that was his his story. story.

"Boy that I was," he continued, "I thought it was going to be a game. I was terribly excited. All the members of the royal courts were there, dressed in their lovely clothes, specially colored in varying shades of blood red for the occasion. I was quite proud of my outfit and wanted to keep it, but Father forbade me. We stood there, on the Border, at the feet of the great living guardians ..."

He paused. "I didn't know then that these men and women of stone were alive. My father never told me. I was in awe of them, towering thirty feet into the air, staring eternally with unblinking eyes into the shadowed mists of Beyond. A man came forward, dressed in gray robes. Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, I suppose, though I recall that there was something different about his manner of dress -"

"The Executioner, milord," Saryon said in a tight voice. "He resides in the Font and serves the catalysts. His robes are gray - the neutrality of justice - and they are marked with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries, to show that justice knows no distinction."

"I don't recall. He was impressive. That's all I remember. A tall man, he towered over the woman he held bound at his side as the stone statues towered over the rest of us. The Bishop - it must have been Vanya, he's been Bishop for as long as I can remember - made a speech) going over the woman's crimes. I didn't listen, I am afraid." The Prince smiled sadly. "I was bored. I wanted something to happen.

"Anyway, Vanya came to an end. He called upon the Almin to have mercy upon the poor woman's soul. She had been standing quite still the entire time, listening to the charges with a defiant air. She had fiery red hair and wore it loose, tumbling down her back past her waist. Her robes were blood red, and I remember thinking how alive her hair seemed, glistening in the sun, and how dead her clothes appeared in contrast. But when the Bishop called down the blessing of the Almin, she threw back her head and fell to her knees with a wail that shattered my boyish innocence.

"My father felt me trembling, and understood. He put his arm around me, holding me close against his body. The Executioner grabbed hold of the woman and dragged her to her feet. He motioned, with his robed arm, that she was to walk forward.... My G.o.d!" The Prince closed his eyes. "Walk forward into that dreadful fog! The woman took a step toward the swirling mists, then fell to her knees again. Her screams for mercy tore the air. She begged and pleaded. Groveling in the sand, she began to crawl back toward us! Crawling on her hands and knees!"

Garald fell silent, staring into the fire, his mouth a grim, straight line.

"In the end," he resumed, "the Executioner carried her, kicking and struggling, to the very edges of the Border. The mists curled up about his robes, obscuring both of them from our sight. We heard a last, terrible wail ... and then silence. The Executioner returned ... alone. And we went back to the palace at Merilon. And I was sick."

Saryon said nothing. Garald, glancing at him, was alarmed to see that the catalyst had gone deathly white.

"It is nothing, Your Grace," Saryon said, in response to the Prince's concerned query. "Only that ... I have seen several Banishments myself. The memories haunt me. And it is always the same, as you say. Some walk by themselves, of course. Proud, defiant, heads held high. The Executioner accompanies them to the Border and they step into the mist as though merely walking from one room to another. Yet" - Saryon swallowed - "there is always that last cry, coming from the swirling fog - a cry of horror and despair that is wrenched from even the bravest. I wonder what it is they see -"

"Enough of this!" Garald said, wiping the chill sweat from his face. "We will both have night terrors if we keep on. Return to Joram."

"Yes, milord. Gladly. Although" - the catalyst shook his head - "his story itself is not conducive to a nights restful sleep. I will not tell you the details of the Turning to Stone. Suffice it to say that the Executioner plays his part and that - if I had my choice of punishments - I would choose that last moment of terror in the mists over a life of living death."

"Yes," murmured Garald. "You were speaking of the young man's mother."

"Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace. Anja was forced to watch her lover transformed from living man to living rock, and then she was taken back to the Font, where she gave birth to ... to their child."

"Go on," the Prince prodded, seeing the catalysts face pale, his eyes averted.

"Their child ..." Saryon repeated in some confusion. "She ... took the ... baby and fled the Font, traveling to the outlying districts where she found work as a Field Shaper. In that village, she raised her chil - she raised Joram."

"This Anja, she came of a n.o.ble family? You know that for certain? Joram is of n.o.ble blood?"

"n.o.ble blood? Oh, yes, Your Grace! At least, that is what Bishop Vanya has told me," Saryon faltered.

"Father, you appear to be growing increasingly unwell," Garald said in concern, noting the catalyst's ashen lips and the beads of sweat upon the mans tonsured head. "We will continue this some other time ..."

"No, no, Your Grace," Saryon said hastily. "I am ... glad you are taking ... an interest in Joram. And ... I need to talk about this! It's been ... a great burden on my mind...."

"Very well, Father," said the Prince, his cool gaze on the catalyst. "Please continue. The boy was raised as a Field Magus."

"Yes. But Anja told him he was of n.o.ble birth, and she never allowed him to forget it. She kept him isolated from the other children. According to the catalyst in the village, Joram wasn't allowed out of the shack in which they lived except in his mothers company, and then the boy wasn't permitted to speak to anyone. He stayed in the house, alone, all day, while she worked in the fields. Anja was Albanara Albanara. Her magic was strong, and she cast spells of protection around the shack to keep the child in and others out. Not that anyone would have tried to get inside anyway," Saryon added. "No one liked Anja. She was cold and aloof, always telling the boy that he was above the others."

"She knew he was Dead?"

"She never admitted it, not to him, not to herself. But I imagine that is another reason she kept him isolated. When he was nine, however, she knew he would have to go into the fields - all children do - to earn his keep. That was when she taught him to cover for his lack of magic by using illusion and sleight of hand. She learned this herself in court, no doubt, where it is a game played for amus.e.m.e.nt. She also taught him to read and to write, using books she undoubtedly stole from her home. And" - Saryon sighed again - "she took him to see his father."

Garald stared at the catalyst incredulously.

"Yes. Joram never speaks of it, but the village catalyst told me. It was he who opened the Corridors to her. What happened there, we can only guess, but the catalyst said that when the boy returned, he was white as a corpse; his eyes were the eyes of one who has looked into the mist of Beyond and seen the realm of death. From that day when he saw the stone statue of his father, Joram became as stone himself. Cold, aloof, unfeeling. Few have seen him smile. No one has ever seen him cry."

The Prince's eyes went to the young man, lying beside the fire. Even in slumber, the stern face did not relax, the brows remained drawn over it in a brooding, heavy line.

"Continue," the Prince said quietly.

"Joram was good at illusion and he was able to conceal the fact that he was Dead for many years. I know, for he has told me, that he kept hoping the magic would come to him. He believed Anja when she said he was late in developing, as were many of the Albanara Albanara. He believed because he wanted to believe, of course. Just as he still believes all her stories about the beautiful city of Merilon. He worked in the fields with the others and no one questioned him. It was easy to fool the Field Magi," the catalyst said. "Boys his age are not given Life, for obvious reasons."

"Thus the overseer maintains control over them," the Prince said grimly.

"Yes, Your Grace," Saryon said, flus.h.i.+ng slightly. "The young men do mostly hard physical labor, such as clearing the land. This type of labor does not require the use of magic. Joram was lucky for a while. When he was growing up, the village had a good overseer. He tolerated Joram's sullen ways and black humors. He understood. After all, he'd seen how the boy was raised. Anja's madness was, by this time, obvious to everyone - even Joram, I am certain. But he had shut himself away from the others. Except Mosiah, that is."

"Ah, I wondered about that," the Prince remarked, his gaze going to the other young man, who lay sleeping near Joram.

"An odd friends.h.i.+p, milord. It was certainly never encouraged by Joram, from what I've heard. But he has grown close to Mosiah, as you can see by the fact that he was willing to fight you to protect his friend. And Mosiah is close to him, though I am sure he often wonders why he bothers. But, to go on ..." Saryon rubbed his eyes. "The day came - as it must have sooner or later - when Joram found out he was Dead. The old overseer had died. The new one, who took his place, took personal offense at Joram's sullen withdrawal. He saw it as rebellion and he was determined to break the boy's spirit.

"One morning, the overseer ordered the catalyst to give Joram Life so that he could fly over the fields and aid in the planting like the other Field Magi. The catalyst gave the boy Life, but he might as well have given it to a rock. Joram could no more fly than a corpse can breathe. The catalyst - not a very bright member of our Order, I am afraid," Saryon added, shaking his head, "cried out that the young man was Dead. The overseer was well-pleased, no doubt, and began talking of sending for the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith.

"At this point, Anja completely lost whatever tenuous hold she had on sanity. Changing her form into that of a were-tiger, she leaped for the throat of the overseer. He reacted instinctively, s.h.i.+elding himself with his magic. The s.h.i.+eld was too powerful. Fiery bolts of energy struck Anja, and she fell dead at his feet. Her son watched, helpless."

"Name of the Almin," whispered the Prince reverently.

"Joram picked up a heavy stone," Saryon continued, speaking steadily, "and threw it at the overseer. The man never saw it coming. It smashed his skull. So now Joram was twice d.a.m.ned - first he was one of the walking Dead, now he had committed murder.

"He fled into the Outlands. There he was attacked and left for dead by centaurs. Blachloch's men, who were always on the watch for those who enter the Outlands, and particularly for one they knew might be persuaded to join their foul cause, discovered the young man and brought him back to the village. The Sorcerers nursed him back to health and set him to work in the forge. He did not join Blachloch, however. I don't know why, except that he resents any figure of authority, as you have seen."

"The forge ... Was that where he learned the secret of the darkstone?"

"No, Your Grace." Saryon swallowed again. "That is a secret not even the Sorcerers themselves know. It has been lost to them through the centuries -"

"So we had been led to believe."

"But Joram found books - ancient texts - that the Sorcerers had brought with them when they fled into exile. They have lost the ability to read over the years. Poor people. Theirs is a daily struggle just to survive. But Joram could read the books, of course, and it was in one that he discovered the formula for extracting the metal from the darkstone ore. With this knowledge, he forged the sword."

The catalyst fell silent. He was aware of Garald's intense gaze turned now upon him and, his head bowed, Saryon nervously smoothed the folds of his shabby robe.

"You are leaving something unsaid, Father," the Prince remarked coolly.

"I am leaving a great deal unsaid, Your Grace," said the catalyst simply, lifting his head and looking directly at the Prince. "I am a poor liar, I know. Yet the secret I carry in my heart is not my own and would prove dangerous knowledge to those involved. Better that I bear it alone."

There was a quiet dignity about the middle-aged man, dressed in the humble, worn robes of his calling, that impressed Garald. There was a sorrow about him, too, as if this burden was almost too heavy to bear, yet bear it he would until he dropped. The man has lost his faith The man has lost his faith, the Cardinal had said. This secret is all he has ....

That, and his pity and love for Joram.

"Tell me about darkstone," said the Prince, letting the catalyst know that he would not press him further. Saryon smiled in gentle thanks, relieved.

"I know very little, Your Grace," he answered. "Just what I was able to read in the texts, which were very incomplete. The writers a.s.sumed that rudimentary knowledge of the ore was well-known, and so they spoke only of advanced techniques for forging it and so forth. Its existence is based on a physical law in nature that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Thus, in a world that exudes magic, there must also be a force that absorbs magic."

"Darkstone."

"Yes, milord. It is an ore, similar in appearance and properties to iron, and is ideal for use as a weapon. The sword, in particular, was the favored weapon of the ancient Sorcerers. The wielder uses the sword to protect himself against any magical spells cast upon him. He then uses it to penetrate the magical defenses of his enemy, and finally has the weapon itself to end his enemy's life."

"So, knowing this, Joram forged the Darksword,"

"Yes, Your Grace. He forged it ... with my help. A catalyst must be present, to give the ore Life."

Garald's eyes widened.

"I, too, am d.a.m.ned, you see," Saryon said quietly. "I have broken the holy laws of our Order and given Life to ... a ... thing of darkness. Yet what could I do? Blachloch knew about the darkstone. He was planning to use it for his own terrible purposes. At least, that is what we believed. Too late I found out he was working for the Church...."

"It would have made no difference," Garald said. "I have no doubt that when he came to realize the darkstone's power, he would have broken faith with the Church and used it himself."

"Undoubtedly you are right." Saryon lowered his head. "Still, how can I forgive myself? Joram murdered him, you see. The warlock lay helpless at his feet. I had drained the Life from him, the Darksword had absorbed his magic. We ... were going to turn the warlock over to ... the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith. Set him in the Corridor for them to find. There was a yell -"

Saryon could not continue, his voice broke. Garald laid his hand on the man's shoulder.

"When I looked around" - the catalyst spoke in a horror-filled whisper - "I saw Joram standing over the body, the Darksword wet with blood. He thought I planned to betray him, to turn him him over to the over to the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith as well. I told him I did not ..." Saryon sighed. "But Joram trusts no one. as well. I told him I did not ..." Saryon sighed. "But Joram trusts no one.

"He hid the body, and that morning I was contacted by Bishop Vanya, who demanded I bring Joram and the Darksword to the Font." Saryon raised his haunted eyes. "How can I, Your Grace?" he cried, wringing his hands. "How can I take him back to be sent ... into Beyond! To hear that frightful yell and know that it is his! The last place he should go is to Merilon! Yet I cannot stop him! You can, Your Grace," Saryon cried suddenly, feverishly. "Persuade him to come to Sharakan with you. He might listen ..."

"And what do I tell him?" Garald demanded. "Come to Sharakan and be n.o.body? When he can go to Merilon and discover his name, his t.i.tle, his birthright? It is a risk any man would take, and rightly so. I will not dissuade him."

"His birthright ..." Saryon repeated softly, in agony.

"What?"

"Nothing, milord." The catalyst rubbed his eyes again. "I suppose you are right."

But Saryon appeared so upset and distraught that Garald added more kindly, "I tell you what, Father. I will do what I can to help the young man at least have a chance of succeeding in his goal. I will teach how to protect himself if he should get into trouble. That much, at least, I owe him. He saved us from Blachloch's double-dealings, after all. We are in his debt."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Saryon seemed somewhat eased in his mind. "Now, if you will forgive me, milord, I believe that I can sleep now...."

"Certainly, Father." The Prince was on his feet, helping the catalyst to rise. "I apologize for having kept you up, but the subject is a fascinating one. To make amends, I have had a bed prepared. The finest silken sheets and blankets. But perhaps you would prefer a tent? I can conjure -"