Doom Of The Darksword Part 13

"Don't take this pleasure away from me, Father," Garald interrupted, laying his hand upon the catalysts. "Giving gifts is one of the best parts about being a King's son."

Walking over to stand before Mosiah, the Prince clapped his hands once, and then held them out to catch a book that materialized in midair.

"You are a powerful wizard, Mosiah. More powerful than many Albanara Albanara I know. And this is not unusual. In my travels, I have discovered that many of our truly strong magi are being born in the fields and the alleys, not in n.o.ble halls. But magic, like all other gifts of the Almin, requires disciplined study to perfect it or it will flow into you and out of you like wine through a drunkard." I know. And this is not unusual. In my travels, I have discovered that many of our truly strong magi are being born in the fields and the alleys, not in n.o.ble halls. But magic, like all other gifts of the Almin, requires disciplined study to perfect it or it will flow into you and out of you like wine through a drunkard."

The Prince cast a glance at Simkin who was, at that moment, tweaking the raven's tail.

"Study this well, my friend." The Prince laid the book in the young man's trembling hands.

"T-thank you, Your Grace," stammered Mosiah, flushing in what he hoped would appear as embarra.s.sment.

Garald understood it, however, and knew it was shame.

"The journey to Merilon is long," said the Prince softly. "And you have a friend who will be more than happy to teach you to read."

Mosiah followed the Princes gaze to Joram.

"Is that true? Will you?" he asked.

"Of course! I never knew you wanted to learn!" Joram answered impatiently. "You "You should have said something." should have said something."

Taking the book, Mosiah held it fast in his hands. "Thank you, Your Grace," he repeated.

The two exchanged looks and, for an instant, the field magus and the n.o.bleman were in perfect understanding.

Garald turned away. "Now, Simkin, my old friend -"

"Nothing for me, Your Gra.s.s. Ha, ha. Your Gra.s.s. That's how the Duke of Deere referred to his gardener. I know, it's a stupid joke, but then so was the Duke. No, I mean it. I won't accept a thing. Well ..." Simkin heaved a sigh, as the Prince started to speak, "if you insist. Perhaps one or two of the more valuable jewels of the realm -"

"For you," said Garald, finally able to insert a word. He handed Simkin a deck of tarok cards.

"How delightful!" said Simkin, attempting to stifle a yawn.

"Each card is hand painted by my own artisans," remarked Garald. "They are done in the ancient style, not by magic. The deck is, therefore, quite valuable."

"Thanks awfully, old chap," said Simkin languidly.

Garald raised his hand. "You note I hold something in my palm. Something that's missing from your deck."

"The Fool card," Simkin said, peering at it intently. "How amusing."

"The Fool card," repeated Garald, toying with it. "Guide them well, Simkin."

"I a.s.sure you, Your Highness," said Simkin earnestly. "They couldn't be in better hands."

"Neither could you," replied Garald. He closed his fingers over the card and it disappeared. No one spoke, each staring at the other uncomfortably. Then the Prince laughed. "Just my my joke," he said, clapping Simkin on the back. joke," he said, clapping Simkin on the back.

"Ha, ha," Simkin echoed, but his laughter was hollow.

"And now, Father Saryon," said Garald, moving on to stand before the catalyst, who was staring down at his shoes. "I have nothing of material value to give you." Saryon looked up in relief. "I sense that would be unwelcome to you anyway. But I do have a gift of sorts, although the present is more to myself than to you. When you return to Sharakan with Joram" - Saryon noted that the Prince always spoke of this as a settled fact - "I want you to join my household."

A catalyst in a royal household! Saryon glanced involuntarily at Cardinal Radisovik, who smiled at him encouragingly.

"This -" stammered Saryon, clearing his throat, "this is an unexpected honor, Your Grace. Too great an honor for one who has broken the laws of his faith."

"But not too great an honor for one who is loyal, one who is compa.s.sionate," Prince Garald finished gently. "As I said, the gift is to myself. I look forward to the day, Father Saryon, when I can once again ask you to grant me Life."

Turning from the catalyst, Garald came, at last, to Joram.

"I know, you don't want anything from me either," the Prince remarked, smiling.

"As the catalyst said, you've given us enough," Joram said evenly.

"'Given us enough, Your Grace," Your Grace," repeated the Cardinal sternly. repeated the Cardinal sternly.

Joram's face darkened.

"Yes, well" - Garald struggled to keep his countenance - "it seems to be your lot in life, Joram, to have to keep accepting things from me."

Once again, the Prince held out his hands. The air above the outspread palms shimmered, then coalesced, taking the shape of a hand-tooled leather scabbard. Runes of power were etched upon it in gold, but, other than that, there was no other symbol. The center of the scabbard was blank.

"I left it this way purposefully, Joram," the Prince said, "so that you could have your family crest drawn upon it at some later date. Now, let me show you how this works.

"I had it designed especially for you," Garald continued proudly, exhibiting the scabbards features. "These straps attach around your chest like this, so that you can wear your sword on your back, concealed beneath your clothes. The runes carved upon the leather will cause the sword to shrink in size and weight when it is in the scabbard, thus enabling you to wear it at all times.

"That is of the utmost importance, Joram," the Prince said, looking at the young man earnestly. "The Darksword is both your greatest protection and your greatest danger. Wear it always. Mention it to no one. Reveal its existence to no one. Use it only if you are in peril of your life."

He glanced at Mosiah. "Or to protect the lives of others."

The Prince's clear brown eyes came back to Joram and Garald saw, for the first time, the stone facade shatter.

Joram stared at the scabbard, his eyes warm with longing and desire and grat.i.tude. "I ... I don't know what ... to say," he faltered.

"How about, 'Thank you, Your Grace,'" said Garald softly, and he placed the scabbard in Joram's hands.

The rich smell of the leather filled Joram's nostrils. His hands ran over the smooth finish, touching the intricate runes, examining the complex leatherwork. Looking up, he saw the man's eyes on him, amused, yet expectant, certain of victory.

Joram smiled.

"Thank you, my friend. Thank you - Garald," he said firmly.

Interlude Bishop Vanya sat behind his desk in his elegant quarters in the Cathedral of Merilon. Though not as sumptuous as his rooms in the Font, the Bishop's chambers in Merilon were large and comfortable, containing a private bedroom, sitting room, dining room, and an office with an antechamber for the Deacon who served as his secretary. The view from any of his rooms was magnificent, though it was not the broad expanse of plains or the jagged edges of mountains such as he was accustomed to enjoying at the Font. From the Cathedral, with its crystal walls, he could look down upon the city of Merilon. Gazing farther off, he could see beyond the dome, into the countryside around the city. Or, glancing above, he could see - through the crystal spires atop the Cathedral - the Royal Palace, which hovered above the city, its walls of shimmering crystal shining in the heavens like a sedate and civilized sun.

This early evening, the Bishop's gaze was lowered, his eyes on the city of Merilon, if not his thoughts. The citizens were providing a spectacular show in the form of an enhanced sunset - a gift from the p.r.o.n-alban p.r.o.n-alban of the Stone Shaper's Guild, intended to welcome His Holiness to the city. Though winter land, it was springtime in Merilon - spring being the Empress's current favorite season. The sunset was, therefore, a sunset appropriate to spring, being magically enhanced by the of the Stone Shaper's Guild, intended to welcome His Holiness to the city. Though winter land, it was springtime in Merilon - spring being the Empress's current favorite season. The sunset was, therefore, a sunset appropriate to spring, being magically enhanced by the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar to glisten in colors of muted pinks with here and there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple at the heart. to glisten in colors of muted pinks with here and there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple at the heart.

It was truly a beautiful sunset, and the inhabitants of Merilon's City Above - the n.o.bility and members of the upper middle cla.s.s - floated about the streets in filmy silks, fluttering lace, and shining satins, admiring the view.

Not so Bishop Vanya. The sun might not have set, for all he knew or cared. The weather outside might have been a howling hurricane. In fact, such would have suited his mood. His pudgy fingers crawled over his desk, pushing this, shoving that, rearranging something else. It was his only outward sign of displeasure or nervousness, for the Bishop's broad face was as cool, his regal manner as composed, as ever. The two black-robed figures standing silently before him, however, noted this paper-shuffling as they noted everything else that went on around them from the sunset to the uneaten remnants of the Bishops supper.

The Bishops crawling hand suddenly slammed, palm down, upon the rosewood desk. "I do not understand" - his voice was even and controlled, a control that was costing him - "why it is that you Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith with your highly touted powers cannot find one young man!" with your highly touted powers cannot find one young man!"

The two black hoods turned slightly toward each other, the glittering eyes exchanged glances. Then the black hoods faced Vanya and the wearer of one of them, her hands folded before her, spoke. Her tone was respectful without being conciliatory. Clearly, she knew herself to be mistress of the situation.

"I repeat, Holiness, that if this young man were normal, we would have no trouble locating him. The fact that he is Dead makes locating him difficult. The fact that he carries darkstone upon his person, however, makes it almost impossible."

"I do not understand!" Vanya exploded. "He exists! He is flesh and blood -"

"Not to us, Holiness," the witch corrected him, her warlock partner supporting her arguments by a slight nodding of his hooded head. "The darkstone shields him, protects him from us. Our senses are attuned to magic, Eminence. We move among the people, throwing out tiny filaments of magic as a spider throws out silken filaments of her web. Whenever any normal being in this world comes within our range, those filaments quiver with Life - with magic. This provides us with vital information about the person: everything from his dreams, to where he was raised, to what he has lately eaten for dinner.

"With the Dead, we must take extra measures. We must readjust our senses to react to the Death within them, the lack lack of magic. But with this young man, protected as he is by the darkstone, our senses - our filaments of magic, so to speak - are absorbed and swallowed up. We feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing. To us, Holiness, he literally does not exist. This was the tremendous power of the darkstone in ancient days. An army of Dead carrying weapons made of darkstone could come up upon a city and remain completely undetected." of magic. But with this young man, protected as he is by the darkstone, our senses - our filaments of magic, so to speak - are absorbed and swallowed up. We feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing. To us, Holiness, he literally does not exist. This was the tremendous power of the darkstone in ancient days. An army of Dead carrying weapons made of darkstone could come up upon a city and remain completely undetected."

"Bah!" Vanya snorted. "You talk as if he were invisible. Do you mean to say that he could walk into this room right now and you wouldn't see him? That I wouldn't see him?"

The black cloth covering the witch's head shivered slightly, as though the woman checked an irritated gesture or suppressed a sigh of impatience. When she spoke, her voice was extremely cool and carefully modulated - a bad sign to those who knew her, as evidenced by the slight whitening of the knuckles on the hands of her companion.

"Of course you would see him, Holiness. And so would we. Isolated and alone in this room, our attention upon him, we would be able to recognize him for what he was and so deal with him. But there are thousands of people out there!"

The witch made a sudden movement with her hand that caused her companion to cringe involuntarily, uncertain what she might do. Though the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith are trained from childhood in strict discipline, the witch - a high-ranking member of the Order - was known to have a volatile temper. Her companion would not have been overly surprised to see the crystal wall behind the Bishop begin to melt like so much ice on a summer day. are trained from childhood in strict discipline, the witch - a high-ranking member of the Order - was known to have a volatile temper. Her companion would not have been overly surprised to see the crystal wall behind the Bishop begin to melt like so much ice on a summer day.

The witch restrained herself, however. Bishop Vanya was not one to anger.

"So, as you said before, the only way to catch him is for someone to bring him to us," Vanya muttered, his fingers crawling over the desk.

"Not the only way, Holiness. That would be easiest. There would be the sword to deal with, of course, but I doubt if he has had time to truly learn how to use it or to understand its full powers."

"It was reported to us, Eminence," added the warlock, "that one of your own catalysts was with the young man. Could we not work through him?"

"The man in question is a weak-minded fool! Had I been able to maintain contact with him, I could have kept him under my control," Vanya said, the blood mounting in his puffy face until it was nearly as red as the fabric of his robes. "But he has discovered some way to avoid being mentally summoned through the Chamber of Discretion -"

"The darkstone," interrupted the witch coolly, her hands clasped before her once again. "It would shield him as effectively from your summons as it shields the boy from our sight."

The witch was silent a moment, then she glided nearer the Bishop, causing him a certain amount of uneasiness. "Holiness" - she spoke in gentle, persuasive tones - "if you would grant us permission to go to the Sorcerers Coven, we could learn what he looks like, who his companions are -"

"No!" said Vanya emphatically. "We must not alert them to their danger! Even though Blachloch is dead, he has advanced matters sufficiently that the Sorcerers will continue to work with Sharakan and so become involved in the war."

"Undoubtedly the catalyst has warned them ..."

"Then, would you confirm his story by appearing in person, asking questions that sooner or later must start the dullest of them thinking?"

"An army of the DKarn-duuk DKarn-duuk could move against them -" suggested the warlock deferentially. could move against them -" suggested the warlock deferentially.

"- and start a panic." Bishop Vanya bit the words. "News of their existence would spread like flame through dry gra.s.s. Our people believe the Sorcerers were destroyed in the Iron Wars. Let them hear that these pract.i.tioners of the Dark Arts not only exist but have discovered darkstone and there would be an uproar. No, we will not move until we are prepared to crush them completely."

"And His Eminence can save his skin at the same time!" The witch exchanged mental notes with her companion.

"You must search for the catalyst," continued Vanya, drawing in air through his nose and exhaling with a snort, scowling at the two before him all the while. "I will provide you with a description of the catalyst and Joram, plus another person with whom Joram once a.s.sociated - a young Field Magus named Mosiah. Though, undoubtedly, they will be disguised," he added as an afterthought.

"Disguise - unless it is very clever - is generally easy to penetrate. Holiness," said the witch coldly. "People think only of changing their outward appearance, not their chemical structure or thought patterns. It should be relatively easy to find a Field Magus among the n.o.bility of Merilon."

"I trust so," the Bishop said, regarding the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith sternly. sternly.

"How certain are you that the boy - this Joram - will come to Merilon, Holiness?" the warlock asked.

"Merilon is an obsession with him," said Vanya, waving a bejeweled hand. "According to the Field Catalyst who lived in the village where he grew up, the madwoman, Anja, told him more than once that he could find his birthright here. If you were seventeen, had come across a remarkable source of power such as the darkstone, and believed that you were heir to a fortune, where would you go?"

The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith bowed in silent response. bowed in silent response.

"Now," said the Bishop briskly, "if you find the catalyst, deliver him to me. If you find this Mosiah -"

"You need not tell us our duties, Eminence," the witch remarked, a dangerous edge in her voice. "If there is nothing further -"

"There is. One thing." Vanya held up a restraining hand as the two appeared ready to depart. "I emphasize! Nothing Nothing must happen to the young man! He must be taken alive! You both know why." must happen to the young man! He must be taken alive! You both know why."

"Yes, Holiness," they murmured. Bowing, hands folded before them, they stepped backward. The Corridors magical aperture gaped open, admitted them, and swallowed them up within seconds.

Left alone with the fading sunset and the darkening evening sky, Bishop Vanya was about to ring for the House Magi to lower the silken tapestries and light the lights of the Bishop's sitting room. But Vanya's hand upon the bell was stilled by the sight of the Corridor gaping open once again. A figure stepped out of the void and moved with confident stride to stand before the Bishops desk. mained seated long enough to give the delay meaning. Then he rose to his feet with elaborate slowness, making a great show of smoothing his own robes about him and adjusting the heavy miter upon his bald head.

The visitor smiled to show he fully understood and appreciated the subtle insult. The man's smile was not a pleasant one, under the best of circ.u.mstances. Thin-lipped, it never extended to any other part of the face - particularly the eyes that were dark and shadowed by heavy, black brows.

Had Saryon been in the room, he would have seen instantly the family resemblance in the man's thick black eyebrows and the stern expression of the cold and handsome face. But the catalyst would have missed an inner warmth in this man that he saw in the man's nephew - a flicker in Joram's dark eyes, like the reflection of the forge fires. There was no light in this man's eyes, no light in his soul.

"Bishop Vanya," said the man, bowing.

"Prince Xavier," said Bishop Vanya bowing. "I am honored. This unexpected and unannounced" - the words were emphasized - "visit is a surprise to me."

"I have no doubt," Xavier said smoothly and evenly. He invariably spoke smoothly and evenly. There was never a touch of emotion. He never allowed himself to become angry, bored, irritated, or happy.

Born to the Mystery of Fire, he was a high-ranking warlock, a DKarn-duuk DKarn-duuk, one who is trained in the art of waging war. He was also the Empress's younger brother - and most important - because the Empress was childless and the inheritance pa.s.sed through the female side, Xavier was heir to the throne of Merilon. Thus the t.i.tle, "Prince," and thus Vanya's grudging show of homage.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Bishop Vanya inquired. Standing up as tall and straight as his rotund figure would allow, he stared with undisguised dislike at the Prince, who was coolly returning the compliment.

Xavier clasped his hands behind the skirts of his long, flowing crimson robes. Because he was in court, Xavier could have worn court dress, like everyone else. Unlike the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, the DKarn-duuk DKarn-duuk were not required to wear their crimson robes that were an indication of their order. But Xavier found this style of dress advantageous. It reminded people - particularly his brother-in-law, the Emperor - of the warlock's power. were not required to wear their crimson robes that were an indication of their order. But Xavier found this style of dress advantageous. It reminded people - particularly his brother-in-law, the Emperor - of the warlock's power.

"I desired to welcome you to Merilon, Holiness," Xavier said.

"Most kind of you, my lord, I am sure," said the Bishop, "And now, though I am highly sensible of the honor you do me and completely unworthy of such attention, I beg that you depart. If there is nothing I can do for you, that is."

"Ah, there is something." Prince Xavier drew forth one smooth, supple hand from behind his back and held it up before him. With that hand, he might call down lightning from the skies or raise demons from the ground. The Bishop found it difficult to take his eyes off that hand, and waited somewhat nervously.

"My lord has only to name it," he said, more subdued.

"You can end the charade."

A ripple of consciousness pa.s.sed across the Bishop's face, making it appear as though someone had shaken a bowl of flabby pudding. The lips twitched, and he laid a pudgy hand on them. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I have no idea what you are talking about. A charade?" Vanya repeated politely, still not taking his eyes from the warlock's hand.

"You know quite well what I am talking about." Xavier's voice was even and pleasant and remarkably sinister. But he let the hand fall to his side, fingering an ornament of silver that hung from his waist. "You know that my sister is -" know that my sister is -"