Doom of the Darksword Read online

“Yes, my lady,” the catalyst replied with a smile. There were two other children in the household — a boy to carry on the family name and a girl to delight her parents in their middle years. And though both were cute, they were young and neither had developed much personality yet. The catalyst, who, in this modest household, doubled as nanny and governess, made no secret of the fact that Gwen was her pet.

  “Just think, Mama,” Gwen continued, “how fine it would be if my cousins married into one of the families of our friends. Sophia told me that her brother told her that Guildmaster Reynald’s son, Alfred, said the next day after our party that Lilian was a ‘stunner.’ His very words, Mama. I can’t help but think that, after praise like that, their engagement cannot be far off.”

  “My dear child, how silly you are!” Lady Rosamund laughed, but it was fond laughter and she patted her daughter’s white hand. “Well, if such an event happens, your cousins will have you to thank for it. I hope they realize that. I suppose it will be all right, today, if you visit them. But after this, I don’t believe it proper that you should be seen in City Below more than once a week. You are a young woman now, not a child, and such things are important.”

  “Yes, Mama,” said Gwen, more subdued, for she saw the firm set of the mouth and the arch in the eyebrows that indicated to servants, children, catalyst, and husband that Lady Rosamund had issued a decree and was not to be disobeyed.

  But, at sixteen, Gwen could not be unhappy long. Next week was far away. Meanwhile, there was today. Lunch with her dear papa, who was to take her to a new inn near the Guild Halls; an inn famous for its chocolate. Then the rest of the day with her cousins — a day spent in Gwen’s newest, favorite pastime — flirtation.

  The Earth Gate of Merilon was a place of bustling activity. The great invisible dome that held within its fragile shell the glories of the city of Merilon soared skyward from the Gladewall. Seven Gates pierced the dome, providing entrance into Merilon from Outside. But six of the Gates were used little, if ever. Most of the time, they remained magically locked. Death Gate and Spirit Gate were never used now that the Necromancers were no longer around to treat with visitors from beyond the grave. Life Gate was reserved for victorious processionals following war, and it had not been used in over a century. The only thing that entered by Druid’s Gate was the river; the Druids now used the front gate like everyone else. Wind Gate and Earth Gate were the portals of major commerce between the outer and inner worlds. The kan-Hanar — the Gatekeepers — allowed only the Ariels to fly through Wind Gate. Earth Gate was, therefore, the only true access to the city.

  There was always a throng of people around Earth Gate, waiting to greet friends and relatives or seeing them off after a visit. It was currently fashionable among the young people of the city to spend at least part of each day there, socializing, flirting, and observing all who entered.

  The first to enter this day was a high-ranking Albanara from one of the outlying districts. She had traveled through the Corridors and therefore appeared to materialize out of nothing. The wizardess was greeted by her family from City Above, waiting to meet her in their tortoise-shell carriage drawn by a team of a hundred rabbits, their entire equipage floating two feet above the ground.

  The noble lady was followed by a party of catalysts from the Font, gliding in through Earth Gate in their winged carriages. The people bowed in respect for the Priests; the men doffing their hats, the women sinking into pretty curtsies, not sorry for the opportunity to show off white bosoms and smooth necks. Next came a humble tradesman, trudging on foot, half-frozen by the snow. He was met with joy by seven rowdy children, whose antics while waiting for their father had been driving the dignified Kan-Hanar on duty to distraction. Finally there came a partry of university students, returning after a few days spent frolicking in the winter weather, who kept dashing in and out of the Gate to grab handfuls of snow, tossing it at each other and into the crowd.

  The Kan-Hanar deal with all who enter in the same manner, be they highborn noble or lowborn tradesman. Everyone who arrives in Merilon is subjected to the same scrutiny, asked the same questions. The Kan-Hanar are born to the Mystery of Air, and are thus in charge of most of the transportation of Thimhallan (the exception being the Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters. They are catalysts, since the Corridors are controlled and regulated by the Church). The magi and archmagi of the Kan-Hanar serve the state; a division of the Emperor’s household guard. Among their many tasks are to care for and maintain the Ariels, those magically mutated humans with wings who are the messengers of Thimhallan. And though the catalysts guard and watch over the Corridors, it is the Kan-Hanar who expend their magical Life in keeping them operational. But guarding the city gates — not only of Merilon but the gates of all the city states in Thimhallan — is their most important task. It is a position of trust and honor, and only archmagi — those of noble birth who have attained their high rank through years of service and study — can become Gatekeepers.

  For it is up to the Kan-Hanar to make certain that only those belonging in Merilon enter Merilon. Further, it is their duty to separate those who are permitted to enter City Below from those who can, literally, rise higher into City Above. Those so designated are provided with a charm that allows them to penetrate the magical, unseen barrier separating the two cities.

  Those travelers who cannot prove that they have reason to be in Merilon are turned from the Gate without regard to their rank or station. The Kan-Hanar are adept at this, but, in case of undue trouble, they have support in the form of several black-robed Duuk-tsarith, who stand in the shadows; silent, unobtrusive, observant.

  This day, the Gates were unusually busy, due in part to the nobility in the outlying areas fleeing the inclement winter weather which the Sif-Hanar — those magi who control the winds and clouds — had decreed was necessary for the growth of crops in the spring. Gwendolyn and her cousins, ages seventeen and fifteen, spent a merry afternoon strolling among the many shops and outdoor cafes that surrounded the Gate, watching those who entered, studying their dress and hairstyles with the critical eyes of youth, and breaking the hearts of nearly a dozen young men.

  This was a particularly entertaining afternoon for Gwen, since she was not hampered in her flirtations by the presence of Marie, the catalyst. Ordinarily Marie would have accompanied her when she went out in public, as was proper for an unwed young girl. But today either the little brother or the little sister was “fractious,” due undoubtedly to teeth, and so Marie was needed at home.

  At first there had been a dreadful moment when it seemed Lady Rosamund might have insisted her daughter remain at home as well. But a flood of tears with the cry that “poor Papa will be so distressed, he has planned this for so long” won the day. Lady Rosamund was much attached to her husband. The life of a Guildmaster is a demanding one, and she knew — no one better — how hard he labored to maintain their life-style. He was, in truth, looking forward to this luncheon with his daughter — a rare break in his busy life — and milady had not the heart to deprive either him or Gwen of this time together. There was also the thought that certain members of the aristocracy were permitting their daughters to go about unchaperoned — a mark of a new spirit of freedom much in vogue currently. Lady Rosamund therefore allowed herself to be persuaded — an easy task for her bewitching daughter — and Gwen went off happily, having been given Life enough by Marie to sustain her.

  The day had been perfect. The clerks in her father’s office had admired her immensely. The chocolate had been worthy of all praise and her papa had teased her agreeably about certain young noblemen, one of whom actually left a party of other young men to come over and pay his respects. Now she and her cousins were at the Gate, reveling in the throngs of people, and playing the latest gambit in the game of sex.

  The rules of the game were as follows: Each young woman carried a small bouquet of flowers, gathered from the magnificent tropical gardens located in the heart of City Below. Drifting upon the airy walkways, her s
mall, rouged feet bare — the mark of the gentry, who are rarely obliged to walk and thus need no shoes — the young woman will often, quite by accident, drop her bouquet. The blossoms scattering on the pavement, the bouquet will be rescued by a young man, who will return it after first conjuring up a lovely flower of his own to add to it.

  “My lady,” said a gallant young nobleman, retrieving Gwen’s flowers as they fell through the sweet spring air, “this charming nosegay can only be yours, for I see here the blue of your eyes reflected — though not so brilliantly — in the forget-me-nots, the gold of your hair in the cornblume. But there is something missing which you will please allow me the liberty of adding.” A red rose appeared in the young man’s hand. “The heart of the bouquet, as warm as the one which beats for you in my breast.”

  “How kind you are, my lord,” murmured Gwen with downcast eyes that showed to perfection the length and thickness of her lashes. Blushing prettily, she accepted the bouquet, and giggled over it with her cousins while the young noble continued on his way, conjuring roses by the dozen this day and giving his heart with every one.

  By midafternoon, Gwen’s bouquet — though not as large as bouquets carried by other young women — spoke well for itself and for her, and (all that really counts) was larger than those carried by her plainer cousins. The three were floating in the air near Earth Gate, wondering whether or not to stop in one of the cafes for a goblet of sugared ice, when the Gates opened to admit a group entering from Outside.

  The opening of the Gate caused a blast of cold air to sweep in, bringing a sharp, breath-catching and thrilling change from the perfumed warmth of the enchanted city. The ladies waiting near the Gate clutched their gowns around them and gave tiny shrieks of horrified delight while the gentlemen swore round oaths and spoke critically of the Sif-Hanar. All heads craned to see who was entering — a Princess of somewhere-or-other was expected momentarily. But it wasn’t the Princess, just a party of snow-covered young men and a half-frozen old catalyst. Glancing at them without interest, most of the crowd returned to its strolling, visiting in the waiting carriages, and drinking wine in the cafes.

  But there were a few, however, who did take an interest in the new arrivals, particularly the young men, who had cast off the hoods of their traveling cloaks. Now they stood inside the Gate, looking around in some confusion, the snow on their shoulders and boots starting to melt in the warm, spring air.

  “Poor things,” murmured Lilian. “They’re soaked through and shivering with cold.”

  “How handsome they are,” whispered Majorie, the fifteen-year-old, who never lost an opportunity to prove to the two older girls that she was just as grown-up as they. “They must be students at the university.”

  The three young men and the catalyst took their places in the line at Earth Gate and the three young women examined them with interest. There were several other arrivals ahead of them in line. One of them, an elderly dowager with three chins (her magical art had reduced that number from five) was arguing loudly with the Kan-Hanar about whether or not she should have access to City Above.

  “I tell you, my good sir, that I am the mother of the Marquis of D’umtour! As to why his servants aren’t here to greet me upon my arrival, I’m certain I don’t know, except it is so difficult to hire quality help these days! He always was a young wastral anyway!” she snapped viciously, shaking her chins. “Wait until I see him …”

  The Kan-Hanar had, of course, heard this all before and were listening patiently, having dispatched a winged Ariel to ascertain if the Marquis had, in truth, “forgotten” to send someone to escort the dowager to City Above.

  The other new arrivals behind the dowager glared at her in impatience but there was nothing they could do. All had to wait his or her turn. Some drifted about irritably in the air, others lounged back comfortably in their carriages. The young men, standing on the ground, took off their wet cloaks and continued to look around curiously at the city and its people.

  Affecting to be interested in the fluttering, silken wares of a ribbon seller, the girls stopped to admire his goods displayed in a gaudy cart near the Gate. In reality, they were watching and listening to the young men.

  “Name of the Almin,” breathed one with blond hair and an honest, open face, “this is beautiful, Joram! I never imagined anything so splendid! And, it’s spring!” He spread his arms, awe and wonder in his voice and his eyes.

  “Don’t stare so, Mosiah,” his companion said reprovingly. He had long dark hair and dark eyes and, too, was looking around him. But if he were at all impressed by the wonders of the city, there was no indication on the stern, proud face. The third young man, slightly taller than the others, with a short, soft beard, appeared amused at the reactions of his friends. He glanced about in bored fashion — yawning, smoothing his mustache, and lounging back against the wall, his eyes closed. Their catalyst, wet and shivering, huddled in his robes, keeping his hood pulled low over his head.

  Looking at them, Gwen scoffed. “University students!” she whispered to her cousins. “With an uncouth accent like that? Look at the one gaping like a yokel. It’s obvious this is the first time he’s ever been here. Probably the first time he’s ever been anywhere civilized, from the way he’s dressed.”

  Lilian’s eyes widened in alarm. “Gwen! Suppose they are bandits, trying to sneak into our city! They look it, particularly that dark one.”

  Gwen examined the dark one for several moments out of the corner of her eye, her hands fingering one of the silken ribbons.

  “Pardon me, my lady,” said the vendor, “but you’re crumpling the merchandise. Those particular shades are difficult to conjure, you know. Are you planning to buy —”

  “No, thank you.” Flushing, Gwen dropped the ribbon. “Lovely, really, but my mama makes all mine….”

  Scowling, the vendor moved off, leaving the girls hovering in the air, their heads together, their eyes on the new arrivals.

  “You’re right, Lilian,” Gwen said decisively. “That’s what they are — highwaymen, bold and daring.”

  “Just like Sir Hugo, the one Marie told us the tale of?” whispered Majorie in excitement. “The bandit who stole the maiden from her father’s castle and carried her off on his winged steed to his tent in the desert. Remember, he carried her inside and threw her on the silken pillows and then he …” Majorie stopped. “What did he do with her when she was lying on the pillows?”

  “I don’t know.” Gwen shrugged her shoulders, a movement that showed them off to their best advantage. “I’ve wondered myself, but Marie always stops there and goes back to the girl’s father, who calls his warlocks to rescue her.”

  “Did you ever ask her about the pillows?”

  “I did, once. But she got very angry and sent me off to bed,” Gwen replied. “Quick, they’re starting to turn this way. Don’t look!” Shifting her gaze to Earth Gate, Gwen studied the huge wooden structure with such intense interest that she might have been one of the Druids who formed it, melding it together from the wood of seven dead oak trees.

  “If they are bandits, shouldn’t we tell someone?” Lilian whispered, staring dutifully at the Gate.

  “Oh, Gwen!” said Majorie, squeezing her hand. “The dark one’s staring at you!”

  “Hush! Take no notice!” Gwendolyn murmured, flushing and burying her face in her bouquet of flowers. She had risked a quick glimpse at the dark young man and had, quite inadvertently, met his gaze. It wasn’t like meeting the eyes of other young men, with their arch, teasing stares. This young man looked at her seriously, intently, the dark eyes penetrating her youthful gaiety to touch something deep within her, something that hurt with a swift, sharp pain, both pleasurable and frightening.

  “No, we mustn’t tell anyone. We mustn’t think about them anymore,” Gwen said nervously, her face burning so that she thought she might be feverish. “Let’s go….”

  “No, wait!” Lilian said, catching hold of her cousin as Gwen was about to walk awa
y. “They’re going to talk to the Kan-Hanar! Let’s stay and find out who they are!”

  “I don’t care who they are!” Gwen said loftily, firmly resolved not to look at the dark young man. But though there were a thousand objects of wonder and beauty and enchantment around her, they all blurred into a swirling mass of confused colors. She kept finding herself drawn back to the dark eyes of the dark young man. When he finally turned away — his attention called to the approaching Kan-Hanar by the catalyst — Gwen felt as though she had been released from one of the spells she had heard the Duuk-tsarith used to keep prisoners in bondage.

  “State your names and your business in the city of Merilon, Father,” said the archmagus formally, with a slight — very slight — bow to the sodden catalyst, who returned it humbly. The catalyst was dressed in the red robes of a House Catalyst, but they were untrimmed, which meant he did not serve nobility.

  “I am Father Sar — Dun … dunstable,” stammered the catalyst, the blood rising up from his thin neck until it reached his bald crown. “And we —”

  “Sardunstable,” interrupted the Kan-Hanar, frowning in puzzlement. “That is a name with which I am not familiar, Father. Where are you from?” The Kan-Hanar, with their well-trained and phenomenal memories, carry directories of those who live in and visit their cities in their heads.

  “I beg your pardon.” The catalyst flushed even more deeply. “You misunderstand me. My fault, I am certain. I — I speak with a stammer. The name is Dunstable. Father Dunstable.”

  “Mmmm,” the Kan-Hanar said, eyeing the catalyst closely. “There was a Dunstable lived here, but that was ten years ago. He was House Catalyst to the — the Duke of Manchua, I believe?” He glanced for confirmation at his companion, who nodded. The Kan-Hanar turned his shrewd stare back to the catalyst. “But the family left, as I said. Moved abroad. Why have you —”

  “Egad! This grows boring!” With this statement, the tall young man with the beard left the wall and strolled forward. He waved his hand, there was a sudden flurry of orange silk, and the brown cloak and travel-stained clothes he wore vanished.