Doom of the Darksword Read online

  But he was consumed with such horror and loathing that he could barely concentrate. Angrily he struggled with such rebellious feelings.

  “I should be filled with humble gratitude to think the Bishop cares about his people so much that he devised this means of watching over them. If my soul were cleansed, as he says, then I would not resent this invasion,” Saryon told himself bitterly. “It is my own sins that make me shudder in fear at the thought that he has the power to finger through my mind like a thief! My life belongs to the Church, after all. I should have nothing to hide.”

  He rolled over on his back, watching the moving darkness in the rafters.

  “Oh, to find peace again! Perhaps what the Bishop said was true. Perhaps I have lost my faith because of my own guilt, a guilt I refuse to admit? By confessing my sins and accepting my punishment, I would be free! Free of these tormenting doubts! Free of this inner turmoil!”

  The catalyst felt an instants peace wash over him as he considered this. It was warm and soothing and it filled up the terrible, black, cold emptiness inside him. If Vanya had been present, Saryon would have flung himself at the Bishop’s feet then and there.

  But … Joram….

  Yes, what about Joram? The memory of the young man pricked the bubble of peace. The warmth began to ooze away. No! Saryon fought to hang onto it.

  “Admit it,” he argued with himself. “Joram frightens you! Vanya is right. The young man is a very real danger. It would be a relief to be rid of him and the responsibility of that weapon of evil, especially now that I am certain of the truth. After all, what was it the ancients said — ‘The truth shall make you free’?”

  Very well, countered Saryon’s black, cynical soul, but what is the truth? Did Vanya answer your questions? What truly happened seventeen years ago? If Joram is the Prince, how and why is he still alive?

  The catalysts eyes closed, trying to block out sun and shadows alike. Once again, he held that small baby in his arms, rocking it gently, his tears falling upon the unconscious head. Once again, he felt Joram’s touch — the young man’s hand resting upon his shoulder as it had done in those dreadful moments last night in the forge. He saw the look of starved longing in the black, cold eyes — the longing for love Joram’s soul had so long denied itself. Joram saw that love in Saryon. The bond was there! Yes. If Saryon had believed in the Almin, he might almost have said it was there by the god’s will. Could he break it, betray it?

  What will happen to Joram? His words to the Bishop echoed in his mind. And he knew the answer. Bishop Vanya had taken the baby away to die. He could do no less with the man.

  Saryon opened his eyes, facing the gray dawn in which there was no warmth but in which there was truth — cold though it might be.

  If I take Joram back, I take him back to death.

  The false peace seeped out of the catalyst, leaving behind the same bleak, dark void. There were too many unanswered questions, too many lies. Bishop Vanya had lied to the Emperor and Empress, who believed their baby dead. He’d lied to Saryon when he sent him out after Joram. And he would have continued to lie if Saryon had not caught him. Of that, the catalyst felt certain. He could not trust Vanya. He could trust no one. The only truth Saryon had to cling to was within himself. He sighed heavily. He would follow that truth, and hoped it would guide him through the morass surrounding him.

  And where was Joram, anyway? He should have been back by now. Something must have gone wrong….

  The sunlight was blotted out by two dark shapes materializing within the center of the room like the ghosts of Saryon’s conscience. Fearfully, the catalyst stared at them, his heart in his throat, until one spoke.

  “I say,” remarked a voice, as bright and mocking as the sun, “look here, Joram. You and I are out there, braving the peril of the wilds, and here lies the Priest of Bald Pates, sleeping like the dead as the Baron of Dunstable Manor was wont to do before they buried him by mistake.”

  3

  Stain Removal

  “Joram?” Saryon said hesitantly.

  Sitting upright, the catalyst stared at the two young men standing in the center of the cell. They had come so suddenly, appearing out of nowhere, that Saryon wondered if they were real or were a manifestation of his thoughts.

  But the voice that answered was real enough, as was the irritation. “Who the hell else would it be?” snapped Joram, further proving his reality by walking over to the table and grabbing the water pitcher. Upon discovering the ice inside, he set it back down with a bitter curse.

  “Hush!” Saryon warned, but it was too late.

  At the noise, a guard’s face suddenly peered in the barred window, causing the other young man accompanying Joram to shout in alarm.

  “Egad! Run for your lives! A loathsome beast is upon us — Oh, beg your pardon” — as the guards face twisted into a scowl — “’tisn’t a loathsome beast. Just one of Blachloch’s men. My mistake. Must have been the smell that confused me.” The guard disappeared with a snarl, and Simkin, sniffing, covered his nose with his hand.

  Saryon hurried across the small room. “Are you all right?” he asked Joram, looking at him in concern.

  The young man raised dark eyes that were shadowed with fatigue; his stern face was haggard. His clothes were torn and stained with dirt and a substance Saryon realized with sick horror was blood. There were traces of blood upon his hands as well.

  “I’m fine,” Joram responded tiredly, sinking down in a chair.

  “But …” Saryon laid a hand upon the slumped shoulder. “You look dreadful —”

  “I said I’m fine!” Joram snarled, jerking away from Saryon’s sympathetic touch. He glanced at the catalyst through a tangle of glossy, black hair. “We’ve all seen better days, if it comes to that….”

  “I resent that remark!” Simkin said, drawing a bit of orange silk from the air with a flourish and dabbing at his nose. “Please don’t lump me in amongst you rabble.”

  Indeed, Simkin appeared to have just come from an evening with the Emperor. The only change noticeable in the foppish young man was the somewhat startling fact that his usually colorful clothes were now completely black — even to the lace that covered his wrists.

  Sighing, Saryon drew away from Joram. Rubbing his cold hands, he wrapped them in the sleeves of his shabby robe in a futile endeavor to warm them.

  “Did you have any trouble getting back here last night?” Joram asked the catalyst.

  “No. The guards knew I was with … Blachloch.” Saryon coughed, choking over the name. “I told them he had finished with me and … sent me back. They shut me up in here without question. But you?” The catalyst stared at Joram, then Simkin, in wonder. “How did you get here? And where have you been? Did anyone see you?” He glanced involuntarily out the window at the house across the street where Blachloch’s guards lived, keeping watch on the prisoners.

  “See us! Gad, how insulting!” Simkin sniffed. “As if I would appear in public in this garb!” He raised a black sleeve contemptuously. “I’m wearing this now only because it seems suited to the occasion.”

  “But how did you get here?” Saryon persisted.

  “The Corridors, of course.” Simkin shrugged.

  “But … that’s impossible!” Saryon gasped, almost incoherent in his amazement. “The Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters! They would have stopped — You had no catalyst to grant you sufficient Life or … or open them —”

  “Technicalities.” Simkin waved a black lace-covered hand. He took a turn about the room, admiring his black shoes and continuing to talk. “I was speaking of something when we came in, and between you and the appearance of that loutish face in the window, which has, by the way, completely taken away my appetite for breakfast, it’s been quite driven from my mind. What was it?”

  “Joram,” Saryon began, trying to ignore Simkin. “Where were —”

  “Oh, yes. I recall.” Simkin frowned, hand to his head. “Burying the baron by mistake. He took it all quite well.
Thought it a capital joke, in fact. He did have a small problem crawling out from beneath the marble slab and then there were a few tense moments when we mistook him for a vampire and attempted to drive a stake through his heart. Discovered he was flesh and blood, however, and sent for the Theldara at once. Patched up the hole in his chest. Never better. Understandable mistake. But the grieving widow, a different story.” Simkin heaved a sigh. “Never forgave him for ruining the funeral.”

  “Joram! Where have you been? What happened?” Saryon asked insistently when Simkin paused for breath.

  “Where’s the Darksword?” Joram demanded abruptly.

  “Where you keep it hidden. I brought it back, as I promised. It is safe,” Saryon added, seeing Joram’s dark eyes rest on him with sudden suspicion. “As you said, I could not destroy what I had helped create.”

  Joram stood up. “Simkin, watch the window,” he ordered.

  “Must I? If that lout looms up at me, I’ll vomit. I swear —”

  “Just watch the window!” Joram said grimly.

  Placing the orange silk firmly over his mouth and nose, Simkin moved obligingly to the window, peering outside. “The lout in question has gone to speak to his fellow louts across the street,” he reported. “They all seem fearfully excited. I wonder what’s going on?”

  “They’ve probably discovered that Blachloch’s missing,” Joram said, walking over to the bed. Kneeling down beside it, he placed his hands beneath the filthy mattress and drew forth a cloth-covered bundle. Hastily unwrapping it, he glanced at the sword inside and, nodding in satisfaction, looked back at Saryon. The pale sunlight cast a gray glow upon the face of the older man, who was regarding him with a solemn, grave expression.

  “Thank you,” Joram said grudgingly.

  “Don’t thank me. I would to the Almin that it were at the bottom of the river!” Saryon said fervently. “Especially after this nights business!” He raised his hands pleadingly. “Reconsider, Joram! Destroy this weapon of evil before it destroys you!”

  “No!” Avoiding the catalysts sorrow-filled eyes, Joram angrily shoved the bundle back beneath the bed. “You saw the power it gave me during tonight’s business. Do you truly believe I’d give that up? It’s my concern, not yours, old man!”

  “It is my concern,” Saryon said softly. “I was there! I helped you commit mur —” The catalyst bit off his words, glancing at Simkin.

  “It’s all right,” Joram said, standing up. “Simkin knows.”

  Of course, Saryon said to himself bitterly. Simkin knows everything, somehow. The catalyst had the feeling that truth — his guide through the morass — had just left him floundering in a bog.

  “In fact,” Joram continued, sinking down on the bed, “you should thank him, Catalyst. I would never have been able to complete ‘last nights business,’ as you call it, without him.”

  “Yes,” said Simkin cheerfully, turning from the window. “He was going to dump the body just any old place and, of course, that wouldn’t do at all. I mean, you want this to look like centaurs killed dear old Blachloch, don’t you? ’Pon my honor. The warlock’s — pardon: late, unlamented warlocks — henchmen are stupid, but, I ask you, are they that stupid?

  “Suppose that they find their erstwhile master at the foot of some tree with a great, bloody hole in his gut and not a track or weapon in sight. Is it likely, I wonder, that they’d remark casually, ‘Zounds! Looks like old Blachloch’s got himself done in by a maple!’ Not on your Aunt Minnie! They’d hurry back here, line everyone up in the square, and ask nasty, insulting questions like ‘Where were you between the hours of ten and twelve?’ and ‘What was the dog doing in the nighttime?’ So, to avoid that, we arranged the body — quite tastefully, I assure you — in a picturesque attitude in the center of a small glade, complete with embellishing touches.”

  Saryon felt suddenly sick. He saw Joram leaving the forge, the warlock’s corpse slung over his shoulders, Blachloch’s limp arms dangling down behind. The catalysts knees gave way. Sinking down into a chair, he couldn’t help staring in horror at Joram, at the bloodstained shirt.

  Joram followed the catalyst’s gaze, glancing down at himself. His mouth twisted. “This make you squeamish, old man?”

  “You should get rid of it,” said Saryon quietly. “Before the guards see it.”

  Joram stared at him a moment, then, shrugging, he tugged at the shirt. “Simkin,” he ordered, “start a fire —”

  “My dear fellow!” Simkin protested. “Waste of a perfectly good shirt. Toss it here. Remove the stain in an instant. The Duchess D’Longeville showed me — You remember hearing of her, the one with all the husbands who kept dying mysteriously. An expert on stains, too. ‘Nothing easier to take out than dried blood, Simkin, my dear,’ she said to me. ‘Most people make such a fuss over it.’ All you do is —” Catching the shirt as Joram threw it, Simkin shook it out, then rubbed the stain vigorously with the bit of orange silk. At its touch, the blood vanished. “There, what’d I tell you? Pure and white as the driven snow. Well, not counting that grime around the collar.” Simkin regarded the shirt with a disdainful smile.

  “What about the body?” Saryon interrupted hoarsely. “What ‘touches’?”

  “Centaur tracks!” Simkin smiled proudly. “My idea.”

  “Tracks? How?”

  “Why, turned myself into a centaur, of course,” Simkin replied, leaning back against the wall. “Jolly fun. Do it on occasion to relax. I stomped about, tore up the turf, made it appear as though there’d been the most savage fight. Considered seriously killing myself and leaving my body beside Blachloch’s. Would have been the ultimate in realism. But” — he sighed — “one can give only so much to one’s art.”

  “Don’t worry, Catalyst,” Joram snapped irritably. “No one will suspect a thing.” Taking his shirt back from Simkin, he started to put it on, hesitated, then tossed it on the mattress. Yanking a worn leather pack from beneath his bed, Joram took out another shirt. “Where’s Mosiah?” he asked, looking about with a frown.

  “I — I don’t know,” Saryon answered, realizing suddenly that he had not seen the young man. “He was asleep when we left. The guards must have taken him somewhere!” He half-rose in alarm, walking toward the window.

  “He probably escaped,” Simkin said nonchalantly. “Those louts couldn’t keep a chick from breaking out of its shell, and you know Mosiah was talking of heading out into the wilds on his own.” Simkin gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “I say, Saryon, old boy, you don’t mind if I use your cot, do you? I’m frightfully sleepy. Witnessing murders, hiding bodies — been a full day. Thanks.” Without waiting for Saryon’s reply, Simkin crossed the small room, and stretched himself luxuriously on the cot. “Nightclothes,” he said, and was immediately garbed in a long, white, linen, lace-decorated nightshirt. Winking at Saryon, the young man smoothed his beard, brushed up his mustache; then, closing his eyes, he was fast asleep in an instant, and within three was snoring blissfully.

  Joram’s face darkened. “You don’t think he did, do you?” he asked Saryon.

  “What? Leave, go off by himself?” The catalyst rubbed his aching eyes. “Why not? Mosiah certainly thinks he has no friends here.” He glanced bitterly at Joram. “Would it matter to you?”

  “I hope he did,” Joram said flatly, tucking his shirt into his breeches. “The less he knows about this, the better. For him … and for us.”

  He started to lay back down, thought better of it, and walked over to the table. Lifting the pitcher, he broke the ice inside and poured the water into a slop bowl. Then, grimacing, he plunged his face into the chill water. After washing away the black soot of the forge, he dried himself with his shirtsleeve and brushed back his tangled, wet hair with his fingers. Then, shivering in the dank cell, he began to resolutely scrub his hands, using chunks of ice to scrape the dried blood from his fingers.

  “You’re going out somewhere, aren’t you?” Saryon asked suddenly.

  “To the forge, to work,”
Joram answered. Wiping his hands upon his breeches, he then began to separate his thick, tangled hair into three parts, to braid it as he did every day, wincing as he tugged impatiently at the glossy black mass in his hands.

  “But you’re falling asleep on your feet,” Saryon protested. “Besides, they won’t let you out. You’re right, something’s going on.” He motioned to the window. “Look there. The guards are nervous….”

  Joram glanced out the window, twisting his hair with skilled hands. “All the more reason for us to act as if nothing has happened. While I’m gone, see what you can discover about Mosiah.” Slinging a cloak over his shoulders, Joram walked over to the window and began to bang impatiently on the bars. The knot of guards in the street turned suddenly, and one — after a moment’s conference with the others — came over to the cell, unlocked the door, and yanked it open.

  “What do you want?” the guard growled.

  “I’m supposed to be at work,” Joram said sullenly. “Blachloch’s orders.”

  “Blachloch’s orders?” The guard frowned. “We haven’t had any orders from —” he began, then stopped, biting off his words and swallowing them with a gulp. “Just get back in the cell!”

  “Sure.” Joram shrugged. “Only you tell the warlock why I wasn’t at the forge when they’re working overtime to turn out weapons for Sharakan.”

  “What’s going on?” Another guard came up. All the guards, Saryon noticed, appeared nervous and ill at ease. Their eyes shifted constantly among each other, people in the street, and Blachloch’s house upon the hill.

  “Says he’s supposed to go to the forge. Orders.” The guard jerked his thumb at the house.

  “Then take him,” said the other guard.