Doom of the Darksword Read online

  The cousins, Lilian and Majorie, had retreated into a far corner, knowing that they, too, were not wanted and both wishing devoutly they were at home. Gwen stood near Marie, the catalyst, trying very hard not to look at Joram, though her gaze constantly strayed in his direction. The pretty flush had drained from her cheeks at the dreadful turn of events; however, her pallor made her more lovely than ever. The blue eyes were large and lustrous with tears; her lips trembled.

  But she’s our only hope, Saryon said to himself. Going over his idea once more in his mind, he decided to act on it. Things couldn’t get much worse. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Lady Rosamund was going to send for her husband and then, though a “mere” Guildmaster, Lord Samuels would undoubtedly turn them all over to the Duuk-tsarith. Saryon may have been dealt a losing hand, but he was suddenly determined to play it out to its final, bitter finish. Besides, he was startled to find within himself a perverse desire to call Simkin’s bluff.

  The catalyst moved forward silently and unobtrusively to stand beside Gwendolyn. “My child,” he said softly, “have you considered the Ariels?”

  Gwen blinked — the tears had been just on the verge of falling; she knew her mother’s intention as well as the catalyst — and then her face brightened, color came and went in her cheeks. “Of course,” she said. “Mama, Father Dunstable has an idea. We can send for the Ariels. They can carry a message to the Emperor!”

  “That’s true,” said Lady Rosamund hesitantly.

  Saryon stepped backward, fading into the background as Gwen surged forward to plead with her mother.

  “What have you done?” Mosiah asked, aghast, as Saryon returned to stand next to him.

  “I’m not really certain,” the catalyst admitted reluctantly, folding his hands in his robes.

  “You don’t think the fool actually meant any of that nonsense about the Emperor, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Saryon snapped, beginning to have misgivings himself. “He knew Prince Garald …”

  “A Prince close to his own age who admits he loves a bit of partying now and then is a lot different than the Emperor of Merilon,” said Mosiah grimly. “Look at him!” He gestured at Simkin.

  The young man was greeting the idea with his usual aplomb — “Ariels? Capital idea. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it first. Extend my sincere thanks to the bald party in the corner, will you?”

  Simkin appeared pleased but Saryon thought he detected a distinctly hollow ring in the dulcet tones.

  “Well, you’ve made one person happy, at least,” Mosiah said sourly.

  Joram was looking at the catalyst with undisguised admiration. He even went so far as to nod his head slightly, and there was a flicker of light in the dark eyes, a grudging thanks, that warmed Saryon’s heart even as it increased his misgivings.

  “What does this do for us, besides further the course of true love?” Mosiah asked bitterly, beneath his breath.

  “Buys us time, if nothing else,” Saryon returned. “It will be days before the Emperor can possibly be expected to answer.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Mosiah gloomily. “But Simkin’s certain to do something worse in the meantime.”

  “We have to leave Merilon before then,” Saryon said. “I have an idea, but in order to act upon it I must get to the Cathedral, and it’s too late now. They will be going to Evening Prayers.”

  “I’ll leave with you, and gladly, Father,” Mosiah said earnestly. “I was a fool to come. I don’t belong here. But what about him?” Nodding, he turned a serious, concerned gaze on his friend, Joram, who was watching Gwen. Mosiah’s voice softened. “How will we get him to leave? He’s just found what he has hungered for all his life.”

  Prince Garald, what have you done? the catalyst said to himself. You taught him to be polite, you taught him to act as a nobleman. But it is an act still — the silken glove concealing the tiger’s paw. His claws are sheathed now, but someday, when he is starving or threatened, they will tear apart the fragile fabric. And the silk will be stained with blood. I must get him out! I must!

  You will, he reminded himself, growing more calm. Your plan is a good one. You can have everything arranged by tomorrow or the next day. By then, we will probably have been turned out of this fine establishment. As for the Emperor….

  Simkin was dictating a letter to Marie.

  “‘Dear Bunkie — ’” Simkin began. “His nickname,” he added, seeing Lady Rosamund turn pale.

  Saryon smiled grimly. It didn’t appear as if the Emperor was going to be much of a problem.

  “You realize that if they had a barn, we’d be sleeping in it?” Mosiah said bitterly.

  “What can you expect for a man on the run!” Simkin replied tragically, hurling himself upon the bed.

  The young men were spending the night in what was obviously meant to be a carriage house when Lord Samuels could afford such luxury. The servants had conjured up beds and clean linens, but the small house — located in back of the main dwelling — was devoid of decoration or any other sort of amenities.

  Lord Samuels, as it turned out, had heard the entire story of Simkin’s arrest and disappearance during a Guild meeting that afternoon, It was the talk of Merilon, in fact, whose people always enjoyed anything bizarre and out of the ordinary.

  Lord Samuels had enjoyed the story himself — until he arrived home and found it developing further in his own living room.

  Simkin expounded fully upon the very great honor of having himself as a houseguest.

  “My dear sir, a thousand Dukes, to say nothing of several hundred Barons and a Marquis or two, crawled — simply crawled — on their hands and knees and begged me to favor them with my presence whilst in town. I hadn’t made up my mind, of course. Then there was that unfortunate incident” — he looked pained and much injured — “from which your sweet child rescued me” — he kissed his hand to Gwen, who sat with lowered eyes — “and how could I refuse her kind offer of sanctuary?”

  But it did not appear to be an honor that Lord Samuels appreciated.

  Furthermore, the father’s guardian eye saw what the doting mother’s had not. He saw immediately the danger in Joram’s darkly handsome good looks. The smoldering black eyes were enhanced by the shining hair which Prince Garald had persuaded Joram to cut and comb. He wore it loose on his shoulders, the thick curls framing the stern, serious face. The young man’s fine physique, his cultured voice and graceful hands accorded oddly with his plain clothing, lending an air of romantic mystery about him that was further enhanced by the nonsensical story of wicked uncles and lost fortunes. As if this weren’t enough to turn the head of any girl, there was a sense of a raw animalistic passion about the man that was, to Lord Samuels, particularly disturbing.

  Lord Samuels saw his daughter’s flushed face and quickened breathing. He saw that she wore her best gown to dinner and that she talked to everyone but the young man — sure signs of her being “in love.” This in itself did not bother Lord Samuels a great deal. Gwen had, of late, been “in love” with some young man at the rate of about one a month.

  What concerned milord — and caused him to send his daughter to her chamber immediately following dinner — was that this young man was so different from the young noblemen Gwen regularly was in raptures over. They were boys, as young and flighty and puppyish as his sweet girl. This one was not. Though young in years, he had somehow acquired a man’s seriousness of purpose and depth of feeling that Lord Samuels feared must completely overwhelm his vulnerable daughter.

  Joram knew his enemy immediately. The two regarded each other coolly over dinner. Joram said little, concentrating, in fact, on maintaining his illusion of being Alive, using his sleight-of-hand techniques to eat the rich food and drink the fine wines with the appearance of magic. In this he succeeded well, due, in part, to the fact that Mosiah, though highly skilled in magic, was a peasant when it came to dining. The bowls that were supposed to float gracefully to his lips d
umped soup down his shirt. The meat on its sizzling skewer nearly skewered him. The crystal globes of wine bounced about him like so many balls.

  Lilian and Majorie — they had been invited to spend the night — giggled so much at these mishaps that they spent half the meal with their faces hidden behind their napkins. Ashamed and embarrassed, Mosiah could not eat and sat red-faced and silent and sullen.

  Lord Samuels retired early and bid his guests — in a glacial tone of voice — to do likewise, saying he was certain they wished to rest before their eminent departure. As for Simkin’s assurances that the Emperor would doubtless bestow a duchy upon Lord Samuels in return for his kindness toward “one whom the Emperor considered a wit and a bonhomme of the first order,” milord was not delighted at the prospect, and bid them good-night quite coldly.

  The guests went to their beds accordingly, the servants lighting the way to the carriage house. That night, while Saryon and Mosiah discussed plans for leaving Merilon and Simkin prattled away about the dire revenge he intended to ask the Emperor to inflict upon the Kan-Hanar at the Gate, Joram was thinking about his enemy, carefully plotting Lord Samuels’s overthrow and defeat.

  Joram had decided to make Gwendolyn his wife.

  4

  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 mass at sunrise for the ambitious, and what was laughingly known as the Drunkards Mass 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 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 glass. 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 assuming 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 class — 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 nobility to be carried by their servants in chaises also designed for this day alone.

  Lord Samuels and family, being only of the upper middle class, 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 breasts 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 bastard, 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 — 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 h
is 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 glass.

  “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.”