Doom of the Darksword Read online

  SPELLBOUND!

  Joram couldn’t move his arms. Mosiah had him pinned tightly and was staring into his face with a cold smile, the tomb’s light glittering in his blue eyes. “Mosiah!” Joram said angrily, fear rising in him, making him grow cold as stone. The arms tightened around him, squeezing him with a clasp he knew was magic. Joram squirmed, trying to reach the Darksword, but his body was fast losing all strength. He was caught in a spell!

  And then it became a struggle not for the sword, but for life—a struggle to breathe. He gasped for air, staring into Mosiah’s face, not understanding. Somewhere he heard a scream, a woman’s scream that was cut off swiftly and skillfully. The darkness of the Grove was rapidly creeping over his eyes. Death was very near, and he ceased to fight, welcoming an end to the pain.

  The face of Mosiah smiled and spoke a word, and then Mosiah’s face was gone. Joram looked up and saw the white skin and expressionless face of a black-robed woman, who caught him in her arms as he fell.

  Gently she lowered him to the ground. As his senses slowly slipped from him, he heard her issue a warning to a dimly seen companion.

  “Don’t touch the sword.”

  Bantam Spectra Books

  by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

  THE DARKSWORD SERIES

  Forging the Darksword

  Doom of the Darksword

  Triumph of the Darksword

  Legacy of the Darksword

  THE DEATH GATE CYCLE

  Dragon Wing

  Elven Star

  Fire Sea

  Serpent Mage

  The Hand of Chaos

  Into the Labyrinth

  The Seventh Gate

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Map

  Reprise

  Book One

  Chapter 1 - The Summons

  Chapter 2 - A State of Grace

  Chapter 3 - Stain Removal

  Chapter 4 - Waiting

  Chapter 5 - Lying in a Manger

  Chapter 6 - Ambushed!

  Chapter 7 - The Outland

  Chapter 8 - The Glade

  Chapter 9 - Caught!

  Chapter 10 - His Grace

  Chapter 11 - Joram

  Chapter 12 - The Fencing Master

  Chapter 13 - Winter Night

  Chapter 14 - The Parting

  Interlude

  Book Two

  Chapter 1 - Gwendolyn

  Chapter 2 - Welcome Home, Simkin

  Chapter 3 - The Guildmaster’s Home

  Chapter 4 - A Falling Star

  Chapter 5 - Threads of the Web

  Chapter 6 - The Garden

  Chapter 7 - The Killing Frost

  Chapter 8 - In the Night

  Chapter 9 - In the Morning

  Chapter 10 - The Grove of Merlyn

  Chapter 11 - On the Run

  Postlude

  Book Three

  Chapter 1 - Among the Clouds

  Chapter 2 - The Nine Levels of Life

  Chapter 3 - The Hall of Majesty

  Chapter 4 - The Champagne Fountain

  Chapter 5 - Child of Stone

  Chapter 6 - Here’s to Folly

  Chapter 7 - The Latest in Fashion Trends

  Chapter 8 - The Illusion of a Thousand Mosiahs

  Chapter 9 - Adjudication

  Chapter 10 - The Prince of Merilon

  Chapter 11 - The Truth Shall Make You Free

  Chapter 12 - Obedire Est Vivere

  Chapter 13 - The Borderland

  Chapter 14 - The Doom of the Darksword

  Coda

  About the Authors

  Copyright

  Reprise

  There was no dinner party at Bishop Vanya’s this night.

  “His Holiness is indisposed,” was the message the Ariels carried to those who had been invited. This included the Emperor’s brother-in-law, Prince Xavier, whose number of invitations to dine at the Font were increasing proportionately with the declining health of his sister. Everyone had been most gracious and extremely concerned about the Bishop’s welfare. The Emperor had even offered his own personal Theldara to the Bishop, but this was respectfully declined.

  Vanya dined alone, and so preoccupied was the Bishop that he might have been eating sausages along with his Field Catalysts instead of the delicacies of peacocks tongue and lizard’s tail which he barely tasted and never noticed were underdone.

  Having finished and sent away the tray, he sipped a brandy and composed himself to wait until the tiny moon in the timeglass upon his desk had risen to its zenith. The waiting was difficult, but Vanya’s mind was so occupied that he found the time sliding past more rapidly than he had expected. The pudgy fingers crawled increasingly along the arms of the chair, touching this strand of mental web and that, seeing if any needed strengthening or repair, throwing out new filaments where necessary.

  The Empress—a fly that would soon be dead.

  Her brother — heir to throne. A different type of fly, he demanded special consideration.

  The Emperor — his sanity at the best of times precarious, the death of his beloved wife and the loss of his position might well topple a mind weak to begin with.

  Sharakan — the other empires in Thimhallan were watching this rebellious state with too much interest. It must be crushed, the people taught a lesson. And with them, the Sorcerers of the Ninth Art wiped out completely. That was shaping up nicely … or had been.

  Vanya fidgeted uncomfortably and glanced at the timeglass. The tiny moon was just now appearing over the horizon. With a growl, the Bishop poured himself another brandy.

  The boy. — Damn the boy. And damn that blasted catalyst, too. Darkstone. Vanya closed his eyes, shuddering. He was in peril, deadly peril. If anyone ever discovered the incredible blunder he had made …

  Vanya saw the greedy eyes watching him, waiting for his downfall. The eyes of the Lord Cardinal of Merilon, who had — so rumor told — already drawn up plans for redecorating the Bishops chambers in the Font. The eyes of his own Cardinal, a slow-thinking man, to be sure, but one who had risen through the ranks by plodding along slowly and surely, trampling over anything or anyone who got in his way. And there were others. Watching, waiting, hungry …

  If they got so much as a sniff of his failure, they’d be on him like griffins, rending his flesh with their talons.

  But no! Vanya clenched the pudgy hand, then forced himself to relax. All was well. He had planned for every contingency, even the unlikely ones.

  With this thought in mind and noticing that the moon was finally nearing the top of the timeglass, the Bishop heaved his bulk out of the chair and made his way, walking at a slow, measured pace, to the Chamber of Discretion.

  The darkness was empty and silent. No sign of mental disturbance. Perhaps that was a good sign, Vanya told himself as he sat down in the center of the round room. But a tremor of fear shivered through the web as he sent forth his summons to his minion.

  He waited, spider fingers twitching.

  The darkness was still, cold, unspeaking.

  Vanya called again, the fingers curling in upon themselves.

  I may or may not respond, the voice had told him. Yes, that would be like him, the arrogant —

  Vanya swore, his hands gripping the chair, sweat pouring down his head. He had to know! It was too important! He would —

  Yes

  The hands relaxed. Vanya considered, turning the idea over in his mind. He had planned for every contingency, even the unlikely ones. And this one he had planned for without even knowing it. Such are the ways of genius.

  Sitting back in the chair, Bishop Vanya’s mind touched anoth
er strand on the web, sending an urgent summons to one who would, he knew, be little prepared to receive it.

  BOOK ONE

  1

  The Summons

  “Saryon….”

  The catalyst floated between unconsciousness and the waking nightmare of his life.

  “Holiness, forgive me!” he muttered feverishly. “Take me back to our sanctuary! Free me of this terrible burden. I cannot bear it!” Tossing on his crude bed, Saryon put his hands over his closed eyes as though he could blot out the dreadful visions that sleep only intensified and made more frightening. “Murder!” he cried. “I have done murder! Not once! Oh, no, Holiness! Twice. Two men have died because of me!”

  “Saryon!” The voice repeated the catalyst’s name, and there was a hint of irritation in it.

  The catalyst cringed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Let me confess to you, Holiness!” he cried. “Punish me as you will. I deserve it, desire it! Then I will be free of their faces, their eyes … haunting me!”

  Saryon sat up on his bed, half-asleep. He had not slept in days; exhaustion and excitement had temporarily overthrown his mind. He had no conscious thought of where he was or why this voice — that he knew to be hundreds of miles away — should be speaking to him so clearly. “The first, a young man of our Order,” the catalyst continued brokenly. “The warlock used my Life-giving force to murder him. The wretched catalyst never had a chance. And now the warlock, too, is dead! He lay before me helpless, drained of his magic by my arts! Joram —” The catalyst’s voice sank to a hushed whisper. “Joram….”

  “Saryon!” The voice was stern, urgent and commanding, and it finally roused the catalyst from his confused exhaustion.

  “What?” Shivering in his wet robes, Saryon looked around. He was not in the sanctuary of the Font. He was in a chill prison cell. Death surrounded him. Brick walls — stone made by the hands of man, not shaped by magic. The wood-beam ceiling above bore the gouges of tools. Cold metal bars forged by the hand of the Dark Arts seemed a barrier against Life itself. “Joram?” Saryon called softly through teeth clenched against the cold.

  But a glance told him the young man was not in the prison cell, his bed had not been slept in.

  “Of course not,” Saryon said to himself, shuddering. Joram was in the wilderness, disposing of the body…. But then, whose had been the voice he heard so clearly?

  The catalyst’s head sank into his shaking hands. “Take my life, Almin!” he prayed fervently. “If you truly do exist, take my life and end this torment, this misery. For now I am going mad —”

  “Saryon! You cannot avoid me, if such is your intent! You will listen to me! You have no choice!”

  The catalyst raised his head, his eyes wide and staring, his body convulsing with a chill that was colder than the breath of the bitterest winter wind. “Holiness?” he called through trembling lips. Rising stiffly to his feet, the catalyst looked around the small cell. “Holiness? Where are you? I can’t see you, yet I hear — I don’t understand …”

  “I am present in your mind, Saryon,” the voice said. “I speak to you from the Font. How I am able to accomplish this need be of little importance to you, Father. My powers are very great. Are you alone?”

  “Y-yes, Holiness, for the moment. But I —”

  “Organize your thoughts, Saryon!” The voice sounded impatient again. “They are such a jumble I cannot read them! You need not speak. Think the words you say and I will hear them. I will give you a moment to calm yourself with prayer, then I expect you to be ready to attend me.”

  The voice fell silent. Saryon was still conscious of its presence inside his head, buzzing like an insect in his mind. Hurriedly he sought to compose himself, but it was not with prayer. Though he had begged only moments before that the Almin take his life — and though he had sincerely meant that despairing plea — Saryon felt a primal urge for self-survival well up inside him. The very fact that Bishop Vanya was able to invade his mind like this appalled him and filled him with anger — though he knew that the anger was wrong. As a humble catalyst, he should be proud, he supposed, that the great Bishop would spare time to investigate his unworthy thoughts. But deep within, from that same dark place whence had come his nightdreams, a voice asked coldly, How much does he know? Is there any way I can hide from him?

  “Holiness,” said Saryon hesitantly, turning around in the center of the dark room, staring fearfully about him as though the Bishop might at any moment step out of the brick wall, “I … find it difficult to compose my … thoughts. My inquisitive mind —”

  “The same inquisitive mind that has led you to walk dark paths?” the Bishop asked in displeasure.

  “Yes, Holiness,” Saryon replied humbly. “I admit this is my weakness, but it prevents me attending to your words without knowing how and by what means we are communicating. I —”

  “Your thoughts are in turmoil! We can accomplish nothing useful this way. Very well.” Bishop Vanya’s voice, echoing in Saryon’s mind, sounded angry, if resigned. “It is necessary, Father, that as spiritual leader of our people, I keep in contact with the far-flung reaches of this world. As you know, there are those out there who seek to reduce our Order to little more than what we were in the ancient days — familiars who served our masters in the form of animals. Because of this threat, it is necessary that many of my communications with others — both of our Order and those who are helping to preserve it — must be on a confidential basis.”

  “Yes, Holiness,” Saryon murmured nervously. The dark night beyond the cell’s barred window was thinning into gray dawn. He could hear a few footsteps in the streets — those who began their workday the same time as the sun began his. But otherwise the village slept. Where was Joram? Had he been caught, the body discovered? The catalyst clasped his hands together and attempted to concentrate on the Bishops voice.

  “Through magical means, Saryon, a chamber was devised for the Bishop of the Realm whereby he can minister in private to his followers in need of support. Known as the Chamber of Discretion, it is particularly useful for communicating with those performing certain delicate tasks that must be kept secret for the good of the people —”

  A network of spies! Saryon thought before he could stop himself. The Church, the Order to which he had devoted his life, was in reality nothing more than a giant spider, sitting in the midst of a vast web, attuned to every movement of those caught within its sticky grasp! It was a dreadful thought, and Saryon tried instantly to banish it.

  He began to sweat again, even as his body shivered. Cringing, he waited for the Bishop to read his mind and reprimand him. But Vanya continued on as though he had not heard, expounding upon the Chamber of Discretion and how it worked, allowing one mind to speak to another through magical means.

  So tense that his jaw muscles ached from the strain of clenching his teeth, Saryon pondered. “The Bishop did not notice my random thoughts!” he said to himself. “Perhaps, as he said, I have to concentrate to make myself heard. If so — and if I can control my mind — I might be able to cope with this mental invasion.”

  As Saryon realized this, it occurred to him that he was hearing only those thoughts Vanya wanted him to hear. He wasn’t able to penetrate beyond whatever barriers the Bishop himself had established. Slowly, Saryon began to relax. He waited until his superior had reached an end.

  “I understand, Holiness,” the catalyst thought, concentrating all his effort on his words.

  “Excellent, Father.” Vanya appeared pleased. There was a pause; the Bishop was carefully considering and concentrating on his next words. But when he spoke — or when his thoughts took form in Saryon’s mind — they were rapid and concise, as though being repeated by rote. “I sent you on a dangerous task, Saryon — that of attempting to apprehend the young man called Joram. Because of the danger, I grew concerned about your welfare when I did not hear from you. Therefore, I deemed it best to contact a trusted associate of mine concerning you —”
>
  “Simkin!” Saryon thought before he could stop himself. So intense was the image of the young man in his mind that it must have translated to the Bishop.

  “What?” Thrown off in the middle of his speech, Vanya appeared confused.

  “Nothing,” Saryon muttered hastily. “I apologize, Holiness. My thoughts were disturbed by … by something occurring outside….”

  “I suggest you remove yourself from the window, Father,” the Bishop said ascerbically.

  “Yes, Holiness,” Saryon replied, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms, using the stimulus of pain to help him concentrate.

  There was a second’s pause again — Vanya attempting to remember where he was? Why didn’t he just write it down? Saryon wondered irritably, sensing the Bishop’s thoughts turned from him. Then the voice was back. This time, it was filled with concern.

  “I have been, as I said, worried about you, Father. And now this associate, who was assigned to keep an eye on you, has not been in contact with me for the last forty-eight hours. My fears grew. I hope nothing is wrong, Saryon?”

  What could Saryon answer? That his world had turned upside down? That he was clinging to sanity with his fingertips? That a moment before, he had been praying for death? The catalyst hesitated. He could confess everything, tell the Bishop he knew the truth about Joram, beg His Worships mercy, and arrange to deliver the boy as he had been ordered. All would be over in moments. Saryon’s tormented soul would be at peace.

  Outside the prison, the wind — a last remnant of last night’s storm — struck the walls, beating against them in a futile effort to break in. Saryon heard words in the wind. He had heard them seventeen years ago — Bishop Vanya sentencing a child to death.

  “Father!” Vanya’s voice, taut and cold, was an echo of the memory. “You are wandering again!”

  “I — I assure you I am fine, Holiness,” Saryon stammered. “You have no need to be concerned about me.”