Doom Of The Darksword Part 12

"I will try to do what I can to help, Your Grace," Saryon replied, wrapping his chilled hands in the sleeves of his robes.

"Excellent!" said Garald heartily. "And we will do what we can to keep the cold from you; something that never seems to be a problem for Joram and me."

He exchanged glances with the young man, and Saryon was astonished to see a slight smile on the stern lips and a flicker of warmth in Joram's dark eyes. Saryon's own heartache eased at that moment, and he felt warmer already.

The "arena" turned out to be a patch of cleared, frozen ground located in the woods some distance from the glade. Though Saryon knew the watchful Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith must be around, he could not see the warlocks, and the three had at least the impression of being alone. Or perhaps the must be around, he could not see the warlocks, and the three had at least the impression of being alone. Or perhaps the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith weren't there after all. The Prince might have meant what he said about keeping the Darksword's powers secret. weren't there after all. The Prince might have meant what he said about keeping the Darksword's powers secret.

Garald settled the catalyst comfortably in a veritable nest of luxurious cushions he conjured up. He would have added wine and any other delicacies the catalyst might have desired had not Saryon, embarra.s.sed, refused.

Saryon could not help liking the Prince. Garald treated the catalyst with the utmost respect and courtesy, always solicitous of his welfare and comfort, yet never demeaning or patronizing. Nor was the catalyst alone in this. Garald treated everyone this way - from Simkin and Mosiah to the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith and Joram. and Joram.

How his people must love their Prince, the catalyst thought, watching the graceful, elegant n.o.bleman talk to the awkward, diffident youth - listening to Joram respectfully, treating him as an equal, yet not hesitating to point out when he thought the young man was wrong.

Joram, too, appeared to be studying Garald. Perhaps this was what was causing the turmoil in his soul. Saryon knew that Joram would give anything to be accorded the same respect and love that this man received. Maybe the young man was beginning to realize that it had to be given before it could be gained back in return.

Joram and the Prince took their places in the center of the arena, but they did not immediately a.s.sume their fighting stances.

"Hand me your sword a moment," said Garald.

Joram's eyes flashed, the brows came together, and he hest.i.tated. Saryon shook his head. Well, he couldn't expect miracles, he told himself. Garald, his gaze on the sword, appeared not to notice but waited patiently.

Finally Joram handed over the weapon with an ungracious "Here."

Keeping his face carefully expressionless, pretending not to notice the rude comment, Gerald accepted the sword and proceeded to study it intently.

"The last few days, we've practiced with it just for the sake of swordsmanship alone," he said. "Yet, all the time, I can feel it tugging at me, draining my magic so that by the end of the day, I can feel the weakness in my body. But it doesn't have that effect on me when, for example, we are back in camp. I don't notice it at all."

"I think it has to be wielded in order to produce the Life-draining effect," Joram said, forgetting himself in his interest in the sword. "I noticed the same thing when I fought the warlock. When Blachloch first came into the forge, the sword did not react. But when he attacked me, and I raised the sword to defend myself, I could feel the weapon begin to fight on its own."

"I think I understand," Garald murmured thoughtfully. "The weapon must react from some sort of energy it feels from you - anger, fear, the strong emotions generated by battle. Here" - casually he unbuckled the scabbard of his own sword and handed the beautiful weapon to Joram - "take mine. Go ahead. You can use it. The fact that you're Dead won't matter. Its magical properties can be activated by command." The Prince took his fighting stance, raising the Darksword awkwardly. "I wish someone had taught you the art of swordmaking," he muttered. "This will always be a clumsy, unhandy weapon. But, never mind that now. Say the words 'hawk, strike,' and attack me."

His hands wrapping lovingly around the finely crafted hilt of the Prince's sword, Joram faced Garald, weapon raised. "Hawk, strike," he spoke, and pressed forward to the attack. Garald raised the Darksword in defense but, as quick as lightning, his own weapon penetrated his guard, wounding him in the shoulder.

"My G.o.d!" Seeing blood stream down the Princes arm, Joram dropped the sword. "I didn't mean to, I swear! Are you all right?"

Saryon jumped to his feet.

"My own fault," Garald said grimly, pressing his hand over the wound. "It's nothing. Just a scratch, as the actors in the play say right before they drop dead - I'm teasing, Father. It really is a scratch, look." He exhibited the wound and Saryon saw, with relief, that the sword had cut through only the surface layers of skin. He was able to stop the bleeding with a spell of minor healing, and the "lesson" continued.

At least, thought Saryon grimly, this proves the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith aren't around. Joram would be torn to a hundred pieces by now. It also pleased him beyond measure to have heard a note of true caring in Joram's voice, although - from the smooth, cold expression on the young man's face - the catalyst could almost believe he had imagined it. aren't around. Joram would be torn to a hundred pieces by now. It also pleased him beyond measure to have heard a note of true caring in Joram's voice, although - from the smooth, cold expression on the young man's face - the catalyst could almost believe he had imagined it.

"It was my own stupidity," Garald said ruefully. "I could have been killed by my own blade!" He glared at the Darksword. "Why didn't you work?" he asked, shaking it.

The answer came to Saryon's mind, but - mathematician that he was - he had to prove it first to his own satisfaction before he revealed it.

"Give the sword back to Joram, milord," Saryon instructed. "You take your sword and attack him, using the same spell."

Garald frowned. "It is a powerful spell, as you've seen. I could kill him."

"You won't," said Joram calmly.

"I agreed, milord," added Saryon. "Please. I think you will be interested in the result."

"Very well," Garald said, though with obvious reluctance. He obediently switched blades, and he and Joram took their positions.

"Hawk, strike," Garald commanded.

Instantly, his silver blade flashed in the sunlight, soaring like the bird it was named for toward its victim. Joram defended himself with the Darksword, his movements unskilled and clumsy compared to those of the Princes magically enhanced weapon. The silver blade skimmed toward the young man's heart, only to be deflected at the last moment and turned aside as though it had hit an iron shield.

"Aahh!" cried Garald. Lowering his weapon, he rubbed his arm that tingled from the jarring blow. He looked over at Saryon. "I take it that's what you wanted me to see. All right, why does it work for him? Does it know its owner?"

"Not at all, milord," answered the catalyst, pleased at the success of his experiment. "Now I understand a statement I read in one of the ancient texts. It said that the swords made of darkstone were wielded by legions of the dead. I discounted it, thinking this a fanciful legend of ghosts and spirits. But now I see the Sorcerers of old meant legions of men who - like Joram - are Dead. It has to be used by someone possessing little or no magic of his own that would work against the energy of the sword."

"Fascinating," said Garald, regarding the weapon with awe. "This allows those who might otherwise be worse than useless in a battle against wizards to become an effective fighting force."

"And it requires a minimum of training, milord," said Saryon, growing more interested in his subject. His thoughts raced like quicksilver. "Unlike warlocks - whose training begins practically from birth - warriors armed with darkstone weapons can be taught to use them in a matter of weeks. Then, too, they require no catalysts -" Saryon stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much.

But Garald was quick to catch his meaning.

"No, you're wrong!" he cried in excitement. "I mean yes, you are right - to an extent. Darkstone weapons don't require require catalysts to work. But you spoke of giving the sword Life when it was forged, Saryon. What if you gave it Life now? Wouldn't that enhance its powers?" catalysts to work. But you spoke of giving the sword Life when it was forged, Saryon. What if you gave it Life now? Wouldn't that enhance its powers?"

"It must!" Joram said eagerly. "Let's try."

"Yes!" agreed Garald, raising his sword again.

"No!" said Saryon.

The two turned, staring at him - Joram angry, Garald disappointed.

"Father, I know this is difficult for you -" he began to argue tactfully.

"No," Saryon repeated in subdued, hollow tones. "No, Your Grace. Anything else you ask of me, I would grant you, if I could. But I will not do that, ever again."

"A vow to your G.o.d?" Joram could not help but ask bitterly.

"A vow to myself," Saryon replied in a low voice.

"Oh, for the love of -" Joram began, but Garald cut in smoothly.

"It was a matter of curiosity, nothing more," the Prince said, shrugging. He turned to Joram. "Certainly, it should not affect your use of the sword. You You could not count upon a catalyst being with you when you might be called upon to wield it. Come, let us try it against more powerful magic. I will cast a spell of shielding around myself and we will see if you can penetrate it. Father, if you could grant could not count upon a catalyst being with you when you might be called upon to wield it. Come, let us try it against more powerful magic. I will cast a spell of shielding around myself and we will see if you can penetrate it. Father, if you could grant me me Life ..." Life ..."

Saryon granted the prince Life, feeling a true pleasure in pouring the magic of the world into such a n.o.ble vessel. He even had the satisfaction of watching Joram struggle to control his anger and eventually get the best of it. Sitting back down among the cushions, the catalyst was able to watch and enjoy the contest between the two, learning more about the Darksword as he did so. But he knew in his heart that he had dropped a notch in Garald's opinion. A warrior to his core, the Prince could not understand what he must consider the catalyst's squeamish reluctance to grant Life to the sword.

To Garald, it was a tool, nothing more. He did not see it as the object of darkness, the destroyer of life that Saryon beheld when he looked at the ugly weapon.

As for what Joram thought, Saryon believed sadly that nothing he did could further lower him in the young man's opinion.

After several hours of hard practice, Joram, the Prince, and Saryon returned to camp. During the remainder of their stay, Garald was unfailingly kind to the catalyst, but he never asked Saryon to go back to the arena with him and Joram.

The week pa.s.sed uneventfully. Joram and Garald practiced with the swords. Saryon enjoyed several interesting philosophical and religious discussions with Cardinal Radisovik. Simkin teased the raven (the exasperated bird finally bit a chunk out of the young man's ear, much to everyone's delight). Mosiah spent the days leafing wistfully through books he found in Garald's tent, studying the pictures and puzzling over the mysterious symbols that said so much to Joram but spoke meaningless gibberish to him. Evenings the Prince and his guests came together, playing tarok or discussing ways to enter Merilon and how to survive once they were inside the city.

"Simkin can get you through the Gate," Garald said one night, on the eve of their departure. Mosiah and Joram sat inside the Princes luxurious tent, resting after a delicious dinner. Their idyllic time was coming to an end. Each of the younger men was thinking with regret that tomorrow night they would be fighting Kij vines and perhaps other, more fearsome monsters in the strange and foreboding wilderness. The splendors of Merilon suddenly seemed dreamlike and far away, and it was hard to take the thought of danger in that distant place seriously.

Seeing something of this reflected in their faces, Garald's tone grew more serious. "Simkin knows everyone in Merilon and they know him - which in some instances may make matters very interesting."

"You mean those ... those outlandish stories of his are true, milord? Did you really bring a live bear to a costume ball?" Mosiah blurted out before he thought. "I beg pardon, Your Grace," he began, flushing in embarra.s.sment.

But the Prince only shook his head. "Ah, he told you about that, did he? Poor Father." Garald grinned. "To this day he refuses to wear a cravat in the presence of a naval officer or or anyone in a bear costume. But, to return to more serious subjects ... anyone in a bear costume. But, to return to more serious subjects ...

"Saryon is quite right when he cautions against going to Merilon. It is dangerous," the Prince said, "and you must never relax your guard. Danger is present not only for Joram, who is one of the living Dead and as such can be sentenced to physical death. There is danger for you, Mosiah. You are considered a rebel. You fled your home, you have lived among the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. You will be entering Merilon under false pretenses. If you are caught, you will be sentenced to the dungeons of the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, and few come out of those places unchanged. There is great danger for Saryon himself, who lived in Merilon for a number of years and could easily be recognized - "No, Joram, I'm not trying to keep you from going," Garald interrupted himself, seeing the young man scowl in anger. "I am telling you to be cautious. Be wary. Above all, be on your guard. Particularly around one person."

"You mean the catalyst?" Joram returned. "I already know that Saryon was sent by Bishop Vanya...."

"I mean Simkin," Garald said gravely, with no trace of a smile.

"There, I told you!" Mosiah muttered to Joram.

Almost as if he knew they were talking of him, Simkin raised his voice, and each of them sitting in the tent turned to look. He and the catalyst stood near the fire, Simkin having volunteered to devise a disguise for the catalyst that would get him into Merilon without being recognized. Now he was working magic with Father Saryon, essentially making the poor man's life miserable.

"I've got it!" Simkin cried shrilly. "Come and go entirely unnoticed, plus you'll be useful in carrying our luggage." He waved his hand and spoke a word. The air shivered around the catalyst. Saryon's form changed. Standing near the fire, in place of the unfortunate catalyst, was a large, gray, despondent-looking donkey.

"That fool!" Mosiah said, jumping to his feet. "Why doesn't he leave that poor man alone. I'll go -"

Garald laid a hand on Mosiah's arm, shaking his head. "I'll handle it," he said.

Reluctantly resuming his seat, Mosiah saw the Prince make a sign with his hand to Cardinal Radisovik, who stood nearby, watching.

"What was that you said, Father?" Simkin asked.

The donkey brayed.

"You're not pleased? After all the trouble I've gone to! Egad, man!" He lifted one of the donkey's gray floppy ears. "You've got marvelous hearing! I'll wager you can hear a bundle of hay fall at fifty paces. To say nothing of the fact that now you can roll one eye forward and one backward at the same time. See where you're going going and where you've been simultaneously." and where you've been simultaneously."

The donkey brayed again, showing its teeth.

"And the children would love you so," said Simkin coaxingly. "You "You could give the little darlings rides. Well, if you're going to be such an old fuddy-duddy ... There." could give the little darlings rides. Well, if you're going to be such an old fuddy-duddy ... There."

The donkey disappeared and Saryon returned, though in an awkward position, being down on all fours, kneeling on his hands and knees.

"I'll just have to think of something else," Simkin said, sulking. "I have it!" He snapped his fingers. "A goat! We'd never want for milk...."

At this moment, Cardinal Radisovik intervened. Mentioning something about discussing ecclesiastical matters with Saryon, he helped the catalyst to his feet and drew him into his tent. Unfortunately, Simkin followed.

"Plus you'd never worry about finding food," he was heard to say persuasively, his voice trailing off. "You could eat anything ..."

"You know something about Simkin, don't you, Your Grace?" Mosiah said, turning to the Prince. "You know his game. What he's up to?"

"His game ..." the Prince repeated thoughtfully, intrigued by the question. "Yes," he said, after a moment, "I think I do know Simkin's game."

"Then, tell us!" Mosiah said eagerly.

"No, I don't believe I will," Garald said, his gaze fixed on Joram. "You wouldn't understand, and it might lessen your watchfulness."

"But you must! I - I mean, you should ... Your Grace," Mosiah amended lamely, realizing he had just issued an order to a prince. "If Simkin's dangerous -"

"Bah!" Joram frowned in disgust.

"Oh, he's dangerous, all right," Garald said smoothly. "Just remember that." The Prince rose to his feet. "And now, if you will excuse me, I had better go rescue poor Saryon, before our friend has him sprouting horns and nibbling on the Cardinal's tent."

The matter of the catalyst's disguise was soon settled - and without turning him into a goat. At the Princes suggestion, Father Saryon became Father Dunstable, a minor house catalyst who, according to Simkin, had left Merilon over ten years ago.

"A meek mouse of a man," Simkin recalled. "A man no one remembered five seconds after having been introduced to him, much less ten years later."

"And if anyone does remember him after ten year's absence, they would expect him to have changed some," Garald added soothingly, seeing that Saryon was not at all pleased at this idea. "You won't have to act act any differently, Father. Your face and body will be different, that's all. Inside, you will be the same." any differently, Father. Your face and body will be different, that's all. Inside, you will be the same."

"But I will have to present myself at the Cathedral, Your Grace," Saryon argued stubbornly, his obvious reluctance at opposing the Prince outweighed by his fear - a fact the Prince noted, wondering, once again, what dread secret this man held locked in his heart. "The comings and goings of catalysts are well-doc.u.mented -"

"Not necessarily, Father," Radisovik put in mildly. "There are more than a few who slip through the bureaucratic cracks, so to speak. A minor house catalyst of no importance - such as this Father Dunstable - who moves with his family to an outlying district might well lose contact with his church for a number of years."

"But why should I - I mean Father Dunstable - come back to Merilon? Begging your pardon, Eminence," Saryon said humbly but persistently, "but the Prince has emphasized our danger ..."

"You have an excellent point, Father," Garald said. "There are any number of reasons for your return. The wizard you served took it into his head to join the rebellious sc.u.m in Sharakan, for example, and left you to fend for yourself."

"This is serious, milord." Radisovik ventured a mild reproach.

"So am I," Garald returned coolly. "But perhaps that would draw too much attention to you, Father. How's this? The wizard dies. His widow returns to Zith-el to live with her parents. There is no room for you in her father's establishment and therefore you, Father Dunstable, are dismissed from their service. With loving thanks and references, of course."

Cardinal Radisovik nodded approvingly. "If they checked your story," he said, seeing Saryon's next argument in his face, "which I doubt they would since there are hundreds of catalysts coming and going from the Cathedral every day, it would take them months to track down Lord Whoever He Is and discover the truth."

"And by that time," concluded the Prince in a tone that indicated the matter was settled, "you will be with us in Sharakan."

Hearing a note of irritation creeping into the n.o.ble voice, Saryon bowed in acquiescence, fearing that any more argument might appear suspicious. He had to admit that the Prince and the Cardinal were right. Having spent fifteen years in the Cathedral, Saryon had spent many evenings watching the line of newly arrived catalysts shuffle up the crystal stairs and enter the crystal doors. Under the bored eye of some poor Deacon, each catalyst signed his name in a register that was rarely, if ever, looked at again. After all, if one pa.s.sed the scrutiny of the Kan-hanar - Kan-hanar - the Gatekeepers of Merilon - who was the Church to quibble? The very idea of a catalyst sneaking into the city in a disguise was so remote to their thinking that it must appear ludicrous. the Gatekeepers of Merilon - who was the Church to quibble? The very idea of a catalyst sneaking into the city in a disguise was so remote to their thinking that it must appear ludicrous.

Still, there was one person who might have reason to expect Saryon to return Merilon, the catalyst thought uncomfortably, his hand going to the darkstone around his neck. He wondered fearfully what actions Bishop Vanya would take to find him, and he began to almost regret the donkey....

The next morning, everyone rose early, before the sun. Now that it was time to part, they were all anxious to begin their various journeys. The young men and Saryon prepared to take their leave of the Prince and his entourage, who were also leaving that day to continue their journey to the Sorcerers' village.

"All's well that ends well," Simkin remarked as they finished breakfast, "as was said of the Lady Magda by the Count d'Orleans. He spoke of her posteriorly, of course."

"Simkin's a fool!" croaked the raven, perching upon Simkin's head.

"It is not an end, but a beginning, I trust," said Prince Garald, smiling at Joram.

The young man almost, but not quite, returned the smile.

"And now," continued the Prince, "before the sadness of farewells, I have the pleasant task of giving the Journey Gifts...."

"My lord, that is not necessary," murmured Saryon, his guilt once more a.s.sailing him. "You have done enough for us as it is -"