Doom Of The Darksword Part 17

A Falling Star The next day was Seventh Day, or Almin's Day, though few in Merilon ever thought of it in those terms. It was a day of rest and meditation for a few, a day of pleasure and relaxation for many. The Guilds were closed, as were all other shops and services. Prayers were held twice in the morning at the Cathedral, with an early ma.s.s at sunrise for the ambitious, and what was laughingly known as the Drunkards Ma.s.s at noonday for those who found it difficult to rise after a night of revels.

The family of Lord Samuels, as might be expected, was up with the dawn - which the Sif-Hanar Sif-Hanar always made particularly ethereal in honor of the day - and off to the Cathedral. Lord Samuels stiffly and perfunctorily invited the young men to come with him. Joram might have been inclined to accept, but an alarmed look from Saryon caused him to decline. Mosiah refused summarily, and Simkin announced himself as being unwell and quite incapable of summoning the strength needed to attire himself properly. Besides, he added with a prodigious yawn, he had to wait for the Emperor's response. Saryon might have gone with the family, but he said, quite truthfully, that he had not yet had the opportunity of making his presence officially known to his brethren and added, also quite truthfully, that he preferred to spend this day alone. Lord Samuels, with a smile more chilled than the melon, left them to their breakfast. always made particularly ethereal in honor of the day - and off to the Cathedral. Lord Samuels stiffly and perfunctorily invited the young men to come with him. Joram might have been inclined to accept, but an alarmed look from Saryon caused him to decline. Mosiah refused summarily, and Simkin announced himself as being unwell and quite incapable of summoning the strength needed to attire himself properly. Besides, he added with a prodigious yawn, he had to wait for the Emperor's response. Saryon might have gone with the family, but he said, quite truthfully, that he had not yet had the opportunity of making his presence officially known to his brethren and added, also quite truthfully, that he preferred to spend this day alone. Lord Samuels, with a smile more chilled than the melon, left them to their breakfast.

It was a silent meal; the servants being present hampered conversation. Joram ate without tasting a thing. From the dreamy look in his eye, he was feasting on rosy lips and white skin. Mosiah ate hungrily, now that he was no longer under the laughing eyes of the cousins. Simkin went back to bed.

Saryon ate little and retired from the table quickly. A servant took him to the family chapel, and the catalyst knelt down before the altar. It was a beautiful chapel, small yet elegantly designed. The morning sun streamed in through brilliantly colored windows of shaped gla.s.s. The rosewood altar was an exact replica in miniature of the altar in the Cathedral - carved with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries. There were six pews, enough for the family and servants. Thick tapestries carpeted the floor, absorbing all sound - even the song of the birds outside.

It was a room conducive to worship. But Saryon's thoughts were not on the Almin nor was his mind on the ritual words he was mumblng for the benefit of any servants who might happen past.

How could I have been so blind! he asked himself over and over, clutching the darkstone pendant he wore around his neck, concealed beneath his robes. How could Prince Garald have been so blind? I saw the danger we faced, certainly. But what I saw as a dark crevice that might be leaped has widened into a gaping, bottomless pit! I saw the danger in the large things but not in the small! And it is the small that will entrap us in the end.

Yesterday, for example, when viewing the wonders of the town, Saryon had seen Gwendolyn on the verge of asking him to grant them all Life that they might float upon the wings of magic - something which, of course, was absolutely impossible for Joram to either do or fake. Fortunately she had said nothing, probably a.s.suming they were tired from their journey. Today they had been fortunate as well; catalysts were given the Almin's Day to meditate and study, and so were not expected to provide Life for the family except in great need.

Everyone walked to the Cathedral, therefore - a feat that was quite a novelty for the residents of Merilon, who wore special shoes - known sacrilegiously as Almin Shoes - for the day. These took varying forms - depending on the wearer's wealth and cla.s.s - from silken slippers to more elaborate shoes of crystal, shoes of gold encrusted with jewels, or shoes molded from jewels themselves. It was quite the fashion, currently, to train animals as shoes, and men and women both could be seen around the city wearing snakes or doves, tortoises or squirrels, wrapped around their feet. Of course, it was generally impossible to walk in such footwear, requiring the n.o.bility to be carried by their servants in chaises also designed for this day alone.

Lord Samuels and family, being only of the upper middle cla.s.s, wore very fine, but very plain, slippers of silk. They did not fit particularly well - they didn't need to - and Gwen's slipper fell from her foot before leaving the house. Joram retrieved it and was granted the honor by Gwen - following a timid glance at her father - of putting the slipper once more upon her small white foot. This Joram did, under the severe and watchful gaze of Lord Samuels, and the family proceeded on its way. But Saryon saw the look Joram gave Gwendolyn; he saw the color come to Gwen's cheeks and the b.r.e.a.s.t.s beneath her filmy gown rise and fall faster. The two were obviously plunging headfirst into love with all the speed and direction of two boulders plummeting down the side of a cliff.

Saryon was considering this unforeseen occurrence, feeling its weight increase the burden he bore, when a shadow fell across the catalyst. His head jerking up in alarm, Saryon breathed a sign of relief when he saw it was Joram.

"Forgive me, Catalyst, if I am disturbing your prayers ..." the young man began in the cold tones he was accustomed to using when speaking to Saryon. Then he fell silent abruptly, staring moodily at the door, his dark eyes unreadable.

"You are not disturbing me," Saryon said, rising slowly to his feet, his hand on the back of the ornately shaped wooden pew. "I am glad you have come, in fact. I want very much to talk with you."

"The truth is, Ca -" Joram swallowed, his eyes shifted to the catalyst's face - "Saryon," he said haltingly, "is that I came here to ... to thank you."

Saryon sat down rather suddenly upon the velvet pew cushions.

Seeing the astonished expression on the catalyst's face, Joram smiled ruefully - a smile that twisted his lip and brought a deeply buried glimmer of light to the dark eyes. "I've been a thankless b.a.s.t.a.r.d, haven't I," he said, a statement, not a question. "Prince Garald told me, but I didn't believe him. It wasn't until last night - I didn't sleep much last night," he added, a slow flush spreading over his tan face, "as you might guess.

"Last night" - he spoke the words reverently, with a lingering softness, sounding like a young, dedicated novitiate praising the Almin - "I changed last night, Cata - Saryon. I thought about everything Garald said to me and - suddenly - it made sense! I saw what I had been, and I hated myself!" He spoke rapidly, without thinking, purging his soul. "I realized what you did for us yesterday, how your quick thinking saved us ... You have saved us - saved me me - - more than once and I've never -" more than once and I've never -"

"Hush," whispered Saryon, glancing fearfully at the chapel door that stood partially open.

Following his gaze and understanding, Joram lowered his voice. "- never said a word of thanks. For that ... and for everything else you've done for me." His hand motioned to the Darksword that he wore strapped in its sheath on his back, hidden beneath his clothes. "The Almin knows why you did it," he added bitterly. Sitting down on the pew beside Saryon, Joram looked up at the window, his dark eyes reflecting the beautiful colors of the gla.s.s.

"I used to tell myself that you were like me, only you wouldn't admit it," Joram continued, speaking softly. "I liked to believe that you were using me to help yourself. I used to think that about everyone, only most were too hypocritical to admit the truth.

"But that's changed." The reflected light gleamed brightly in Joram's black eyes, reminding the catalyst of a rainbow against a storm-darkened sky. "I know now what it is to care about someone," he said, raising his hand to prevent Saryon from interrupting him, "and I know that you did what went against your conscience because you cared for others, not because you were afraid for yourself. Oh, maybe not me!" Joram gave a brief, bitter laugh. "I'm not stupid enough to think that. I know how I've treated you. You helped me create the sword and you helped me kill Blachloch for the sake of Andon and the people in that village."

"Joram -" Saryon began brokenly, but he could not continue. Before Saryon could stop him, the young man moved out of the pew and knelt on the floor at the catalyst's feet. The dark eyes turned away from the sunlit window and Saryon saw them glowing with an intensity that recalled the forge fires, the coals burning brighter and brighter as the breath of the bellows gave them life; a life that would reduce them - in the end - to ashes.

"Father," Joram said earnestly, "I need your counsel, your help. I love her, Saryon! All night, I couldn't sleep - I didn't want to sleep, for that would have meant losing her image in my heart and I couldn't bear it, not even for an instant. Not even for the chance that I might dream of her. I love her and" - the young man's voice changed subtlely, becoming darker, cooller, "- and I want her, Father."

"Joram!" The pain in Saryon's heart was like a physical obstruction. He wanted to say so much, but the only words that burst forth through the terrible ache were, "Joram, you are Dead!"

"d.a.m.n that!" Joram cried in anger.

Saryon glanced fearfully at the door again and Joram, springing to his feet, strode across the small room and slammed it shut. Turning, he pointed at the catalyst. "Don't ever say that to me again. I know what I am! I've fooled people this long. I can go on fooling them!" He made a furious gesture, pointing upstairs. "Ask Mosiah! He's known me all my life! Ask him, and he'll tell you, he'll swear by his mother's eyes, that I have magic!"

"But you don't, Joram," Saryon said in a low voice that was firm despite his obvious reluctance in saying the words. "You are Dead, completely Dead!" He rubbed his hand along the arm of the pew. "This wood has more Life than you, Joram! I can feel its magic! The magic that lives in everything in this world pulses beneath my fingers. Yet in you there is nothing! Nothing! Don't you understand!"

"And I'm saying it doesn't matter!" The dark eyes flared, their heat intense and burning. Leaning down over the pew, Joram gripped Saryon's arm. "Look at me! When I claim my rights, when I am a n.o.ble, it won't matter! No one will care! All they'll see is my t.i.tle and my money -"

"But what about her?" Saryon asked sorrowfully. "What will she see? A Dead man who will give her Dead children?" see? A Dead man who will give her Dead children?"

The flame from Joram's eyes seared Saryon's soul. The young man's grip tightened on the catalyst's arm until Saryon winced in pain, but he said nothing. He couldn't have spoken had he wanted to, his heart was too full. He sat quite still, his compa.s.sionate gaze never leaving Joram.

And slowly, the fire in the dark eyes died. Slowly the coals burned themselves out. The light glimmered and was gone, the color drained from the face, leaving the skin pale, the lips ashen. Cold darkness returned. Joram's grip loosened and he straightened up. His face was, once more, severe, set rock-hard with purpose and resolve. "Thank you once again, Catalyst," he said evenly, his voice as hard as his face.

"Joram, I'm sorry," Saryon said, his heart aching.

"No!" Joram held up his hand. For an instant color came back to his skin, his breathing quickened. "You told me the truth, Saryon. And I needed to hear it. It's something ... I'll have to think about ... to deal with." Drawing a deep breath, he shook his head. "I'm the one who is sorry. I lost control. It won't happen again. You will help me, won't you, Father?"

"Joram," Saryon said gently, rising to his feet to face the young man, "if you truly care about this young girl, you will walk out of her life right now. The only groom's gift you can bring her is grief."

Joram stared at Saryon in silence. The catalyst saw his words had touched the young man. There was a struggle going on inside. Maybe what Joram had said was true, maybe he had had changed in the long night, or maybe this change had just come about gradually, naturally, under the long influence of patient friendship, patient caring. changed in the long night, or maybe this change had just come about gradually, naturally, under the long influence of patient friendship, patient caring.

How the struggle in Joram's soul might have resolved itself, what better decision Joram might have made at that moment when he was hurt and vulnerable, Saryon was never to know. For at the moment, chaos erupted. The family had just returned home from the Cathedral when the Emperor's carriage was seen approaching, falling from the heavens like a star.

"So, Simkin," said the Emperor languidly, "what have you gotten youself into this time?"

The confusion into which the Samuelses household was thrown upon receiving this august personage into their midst was not to be described. The Emperor had actually descended from his carriage and floated into the front court garden before anyone could do anything other than stare. Fortunately Simkin had, at that moment, flung himself out the front door and into the Emperor's arms, wailing about "shame" and "degrading" and "thumbscrews!"

The Emperor took Simkin in hand; Lady Rosamund came to her senses and - like the excellent general that she was - a.s.sembled her troops and rode forth upon the domestic field. Graciously welcoming the Emperor into her home, she led him into the parlor, enthroned him in the best chair in the house, and deployed her family and guests around him.

"Really, Bunkie, I couldn't say," Simkin replied in hurt tones. "It's dashed humiliating, don't you know, to have hands laid upon one at the Gate as though one were a murderer...."

Saryon, standing humbly in a corner, stiffened at this comment and he saw Joram's eyes flash in swift alarm. Simkin, noticing nothing, rattled on.

"The deuce of it," he continued gloomily, "is that now I'm forced to lurk about inside this ... establishment ... and while the house is very fine and Lady Rosamund has been hospitality itself" - he kissed his hand to her negligently, as she curtsied to the floor -"'tisn't what I'm accustomed to, of course." He dabbed a corner of one eye with the orange silk.

"Actually, Simkin, we think you should count yourself fortunate," the Emperor replied, with a smile and a lazy wave of a hand. "A charming residence, my lord," he said to Lord Samuels, who bowed low. "Your lady wife is a jewel and we see her counterpart in your lovely daughter. We will do what we can for you, Simkin" - the Emperor rose to take his leave, sending another ripple of confusion through the household - "but we think you should stay here, in the meantime, if Lord Samuels will put up with you, that is."

Milord bowed - several times. He was effusive, expansive. He would be only too proud, too pleased. The honor of entertaining a friend of His Majesty's was overwhelming....

"Yes," said the Emperor in fatigued tones. "Quite. Thank you, Lord Samuels. Meanwhile, Simkin, we shall endeavor to find out what the charge is, who's brought it, and do what we can about it. May take a day or two, so don't go paradin' about the streets. We can only do so much with the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, you know."

"Ah, yes. Dogs!" Simkin glowered, then sighed deeply. "Very good of you, I'm sure, Your Majesty. If I might have a word" - he drew the Emporer to one side, whispering in his ear. The words "Contessa," "chafing dish," and "unfortunately discovered naked" were audible, and once the Emperor laughed out loud in a truly light-hearted manner that Saryon, who had been at court many times, had never heard. His Majesty clapped Simkin on the back.

"We understand - 'nd now, must be going. Affairs of state and all that. We never rest on the Almin's Day," remarked the Emperor to the a.s.sembled family, who were waiting in line to bid their august guest farewell. The Emperor proceeded to the front door. "Lord Samuels, Lady Rosamund" - the Emperor gave his hand to be kissed - "thank you once again for extending your hospitality to this young scalawag. We have a holiday coming upon us soon. A grand ball at the Palace. Come along, won't you, Simkin, and bring Lord Samuels and his family with you. Eh?" The Emperor's gaze touched on Gwendolyn. "Would you like that, young lady?" he said, dropping the affected tone and manner and regarding the young woman with a fatherly smile in which Saryon saw a hint of wistfulness and pain.

"Oh, Your Majesty!" Gwen whispered, clasping her hands together, so overwhelmed with pleasure at the idea that she completely forgot to curtsy.

"That's all right, my lady," the Emperor said kindly, when Lady Rosamund rebuked her daughter for her lack of manners. "We remember what it was to be young." Again, the wistfulness, tinged with regret.

The Emperor was standing inside the door and Saryon was congratulating himself on having survived this latest crisis without incident when he saw Simkin glance about mischievously. Saryon's heart jolted. He knew what the young man had in mind and, catching Simkin's eye, he shook his head emphatically, trying desperately to lose himself in the woodwork.

But Simkin, with an ingenuous smile, said casually, "Egad, the shock of this frightful incident has unnerved me. I've neglected to present my friends to Your Highness. Your Majesty, this is Father Dungstable ..."

"Dunstable," murmured the wretched catalyst, bowing low.

"Father," said the Emperor with a graceful gesture and a slight dip of the perfumed and powdered head.

"And two friends of mine - actors," said Simkin easily. "Stage names, Mosiah and Joram. We could present a charade at the ball ..."

Saryon didn't hear what else Simkin said - and neither did the Emperor.

The man, with an air of amused and patronizing tolerance, extended his hand to Mosiah, who kissed it, his face nearly as red as the rubies on the Emperor's fingers. Joram came forward to do the same.

The young man had been standing somewhat behind Saryon, in the shadow of an alcove, when he was introduced. Moving forward, he touched the hand and bowed over it - though he did not kiss it - then straightened. As he did so, he stepped into a pool of sunlight, shining through a window directly opposite. The sun brought out the finely shaped lines of Joram's face, the high cheekbones, the strong, proud chin. It glistened in Joram's hair; his mother's hair; hair renowned in story and song for its beauty; hair that, like the hair of a corpse, seemed possessed of its own life ...

The Emperor stopped in his empty, meaningless gesture and stared. The blood drained from the man's face, the eyes widened, the lips moved soundlessly.

Saryon caught his breath. He knows! The Almin help us! He knows.

What will he do? the catalyst wondered, panic-stricken. Call the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith Surely not! Surely he couldn't betray his own son.... Surely not! Surely he couldn't betray his own son....

Saryon looked around wildly. Surely everyone must notice! But no one was watching seemingly, no one but him.

Hurriedly, he looked back and blinked in astonishment.

The Emperor's face was calm. The shock of recognition had been as a ripple on the surface of placid water, nothing more. He gave the young man a smile in exactly the same empty manner that he had given him his hand. Joram stepped back into the shadow - he had noticed nothing, his eyes dazzled from staring directly into the sun. The Emperor turned away negligently, resuming conversation with Simkin as though nothing had happened.

"Consummate actors, my friends," Simkin was saying, dabbing at his lips with the orange silk. "They're included in the invitation to the Palace, of course, Highness."

"Friends?" The Emperor appeared to have forgotten them already. "Oh, yes, of course," he said magnanimously.

"Odd time of year for a holiday, isn't it, Your High and Mightyship?" continued the irrepressible Simkin, accompanying the Emperor out the door amidst a flurry of bows and flutterings by the household of Lord Samuels. The Emperors carriage floated above the street. Made entirely of faceted crystal, it had been shaped to catch and reflect the sunlight, and it accomplished this so well that few could look at it without being blinded by the glare. "I can't recall, offhand, what it is we're celebrating?"

The Emperors reply to this question was lost, the entire neighborhood having turned out to cheer and wave. Lord Samuels's reputation and status were fixed in that instant. Certain of his neighbors who had entertained hopes of rising to the Guildmaster's level were in that instant uprooted and cast aside as neatly and quickly as the Druids uprooted dead trees. Ascending into his carriage, the Emperor extended his blessing to one and all, and then the star lifted back into the heavens, leaving the earthbound mortals below to bask in the waning light of glory.

Inside the house of the Samuels, joy was unbounded. Lady Rosamund glowed with pride, her gaze going with satisfaction to the aforementioned neighbors. Gwen was in raptures over the invitation to the ball, until she realized she had nothing to wear and burst into tears. Mosiah stood staring after the Emperor and the marvelous coach in a dazed state from which he was rescued by cousin Lilian's b.u.mping into him - quite by accident, the blushing girl a.s.sured him. Upon receiving his apology, she wondered if he would be interested in seeing the inner garden, and led him outdoors, cooing with delight at his "quaint" way of talking.

And Joram discovered that he had routed his enemy - horse, foot, and artillery.

Coming over to the young man, Lord Samuels laid a hand affectionately on Joram's shoulder. "Simkin tells me you believe yourself to have some claim upon estates here in Merilon," the lord said gravely.

"My lord," said Joram, eyeing him warily, "the story about the wicked uncle isn't true ..."

Lord Samuels smiled. "No, I never believed that for a moment. Wormed the truth out of Simkin last night. It's much more interesting, as a matter of fact. Perhaps I can be of help. I have access to certain records ..." So saying, he drew the young man away into his private study and shut the door behind them.

No one noticed the catalyst, for which Saryon was grateful. He returned to the family chapel, where he was certain of being alone, and sank down upon the cushions of the pews. The sun no longer shone through the stained-gla.s.s window, the room was left in cool shadows. Saryon began to shiver uncontrollably, not from cold, but from a vast, overwhelming fear.

Having witnessed the treachery of man, he had lost his faith in his G.o.d. The universe was to him nothing more than one of those gigantic machines he had read about in the ancient texts of the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts: a machine that - once started - ran by itself, operating by physical laws. Man was a cog in the wheels, driven by his own physical laws, his life dependent upon the motion of the other lives around him. When a cog broke, it was replaced. The great machine kept going and would do so, on and on, perhaps forever.

It was a bleak glimpse of the universe, and Saryon found no comfort in it. Yet, it was better than the view that the universe was run by some petty G.o.d who doted on power and dabbled in politics, who allowed his name to be mouthed sanctimoniously by his Bishop, who herded his "flock" like so many sheep.

But now, for the first time, Saryon began to consider another possibility, and his soul shrank from the thought in awe. Suppose the Almin was was out there and He was vast and mighty in His power. Suppose He knew the number of the grains of sand that lay upon the sh.o.r.es of Beyond. Suppose He knew the hearts and minds of men. Suppose He had a plan as vast as dreams, a plan no mere mortal could begin to see or comprehend. out there and He was vast and mighty in His power. Suppose He knew the number of the grains of sand that lay upon the sh.o.r.es of Beyond. Suppose He knew the hearts and minds of men. Suppose He had a plan as vast as dreams, a plan no mere mortal could begin to see or comprehend.

"And suppose," whispered Saryon to himself, staring at the stained-gla.s.s window where the symbol of the Almin was represented in the nine-pointed star, "that we are a part of this plan and that we are being rushed toward our destiny, swept to our doom like a man caught in the river rapids. We might cling to rocks, we might strive to reach the sh.o.r.e, but our strength is unequal to the task. Our arms are torn from their safe hold, our feet touch the bank, and then the current catches us once more. And soon the dark waters will close over our heads...."

Letting his head sink into his hand, Saryon closed his eyes, a tight feeling in his chest as though he were truly drowning, his lungs burning for air.

Why had this terrifying notion come to him? Because he knew the holiday they would be celebrating within two weeks of this day. Joram would be entering the palace of Merilon eighteen years after he had left it - eighteen years to the day.

Joram would be celebrating the anniversary of his own death.

5.

Threads of the Web Far below the Palace of Merilon, far below City Above and City Below, far below the Gardens and the tomb of the great wizard who led his people here from a world seeking to destroy them, there is a chamber whose existence is known only to members of that Order which - in reality - rules Thimhallan. In that secret chamber one night, eight people came together. Dressed in black robes, their hands clasped before them, they stood in a circle around a nine-pointed star that had been drawn upon the floor. Each hooded head faced in the same direction, toward the ninth point of the star, despite the fact that the place on the floor was currently empty. All waited patiently; patience was their watchword. Patience, they knew, was generally rewarded.

The air shivered and the ninth point of the star upon the floor was covered by the hem of black robes. Glancing around the circle to see that all were present, the ninth member nodded her hooded head and, with a clap of her hands, caused a huge leather-bound book with blank pages of brittle parchment to appear in the center of the circle, hovering, suspended in the air.

"You may proceed," she said to the member standing on the first point of the star.

The Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith began his report. As he spoke, his words were recorded, traced by lines of flame upon the parchment in the huge book. began his report. As he spoke, his words were recorded, traced by lines of flame upon the parchment in the huge book.

"A child was lost in the marketplace this day, madam," he said. "She has since been found and returned to her parents."

The witch nodded. The next spoke.

"We have solved the murder of Lucien the alchemist, madam. Only one person could have possibly known enough to subst.i.tute a chemical which, when combined with another, would produce a violent explosion, rather than the elixir of youth for which the alchemist was said to be searching."

"The alchemist's apprentice," said the witch.

"Precisely."

"Motive?"

"The apprentice and Lucien's wife were lovers. Under 'questioning,' the apprentice confessed both to his crime and to hers. Both are being held for sentencing."

"Satisfactory." The witch nodded once more, her eyes going to yet another point on the star.

"The search for the Dead man, Joram, continues, madam. A record of those who were or might have been Field Magi entering Merilon has been compiled. Eleven have been reported thus far and these have all been checked. All have legitimate reasons for being in the city and seven have been positively eliminated. In addition, the catalysts have supplied us with a list of all new brethren of their Order who have entered the city. Comparing the two lists, we have come up with an interesting match."

He paused, looking questioningly at his leader, mentally asking if this was a matter for the entire conclave or for her alone. The witch considered and, after a moment, dismissed the others and closed the great book.

"Proceed," she said when they were alone.

"The catalyst's name is Father Dunstable. A House Catalyst, he left Merilon several years ago. He has returned to Merilon, he says, upon the death of his Master and the breaking up of the household."

"A story that can be verified."