Triumph of the Darksword Page 37

  Saryon had just lit the flame beneath the teakettle, preparatory to heating water for a bedtime tisane which we both enjoyed and which he insisted on making for me. He turned from the kettle to stare at the door and, like so many of us, instead of going immediately to answer it or to look through the window to see who was there, he stood in the kitchen in his nightshirt and slippers and wondered again aloud.

  “Who could be wanting to see me at this time of night?”

  Hope’s wings caused his heart to flutter. His face flushed with anticipation. I, who had served him so long, knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Long ago (twenty years ago, to be precise, although I doubt if he himself had any concept of the passage of so much time), Saryon had said goodbye to two people he loved. He had neither seen nor heard from those two in all this time. He had no reason to think that he should ever hear from them again, except that Joram had promised, when they parted, that when his son was of age, he should send that son to Saryon.

  Now, whenever the doorbell rang or the knocker knocked, Saryon envisioned Joram’s son standing on the doorstoop. Saryon pictured that child with his father’s long, curling black hair, but lacking, hopefully, his father’s red-black inner fire.

  The demand for Saryon to go to the front door came again, this time with such a forceful intensity and impatience that I myself was aware of it—a startling sensation for me. Had the doorbell in fact been sounding, I could envision the person leaning on the button. There were lights on in the kitchen, which could be seen from the street, and whoever was out there, mentally issuing us commands, knew that Saryon and I were home.

  Jolted out of his reverie by the second command, Saryon shouted, “I’m coming”, which statement had no hope of being heard through the thick door that led from the kitchen.

  Retiring to his bedroom, he grabbed his flannel robe, put it on over his nightshirt. I was still dressed, having never developed a liking for nightshirts. He walked hastily back through the kitchen, where I joined him We walked from there through the living room and out of the living room into the small entryway. He turned on the outside light, only to discover that it didn’t work.

  “The bulb must have burned out,” he said, irritated. “Turn on the hall light.”

  I flipped the switch. It did not work either.

  Strange, that both bulbs should have chosen this time to burn out.

  “I don’t like this, Master,” I signed, even as Saryon was unlocking the door, preparing to open it.

  I moved to stop him, but—having been stunned by the sudden trickle of magic into my being—I was slow to react.

  I had tried many times to convince Saryon that, in this dangerous world, there might be those who would do him harm, who would break into his house, rob and beat him, perhaps even murder him. Thimhallan may have had its faults, but such sordid crimes were unknown to its inhabitants, who feared centaur and giants, dragons and faeries and present revolts, not hoodlums and thugs and serial killers.

  “Look through the peephole,” I admonished.

  “Nonsense,” Saryon returned. “It must be Joram’s child. And how could I see him through the peephole in the dark?”

  Picturing a baby in a basket on our doorstoop (he had, as I said, only the vaguest notion of time), Saryon flung open the door.

  We did not find a baby. What we saw was a shadow darker than night standing on the doorstoop, blotting out the lights of our neighbors, blotting out the light of the stars.

  The shadow coalesced into a person dressed in black robes, who wore a black cowl pulled up over the head. All I could see of the person by the feeble light reflected from the kitchen far behind me were two white hands, folded correctly in front of the black robes, and two eyes, glittering.

  Saryon recoiled. He pressed his hand over his heart, which had stopped fluttering, very nearly stopped altogether. Fearful memories leapt out of the darkness brought on us by the black-clothed figure. The fearful memories jumped on the catalyst.

  “Duuk-tsarith!” he cried through trembling lips.

  Duuk-tsarith, the dreaded Enforcers of the world of Thimhallan. On our first coming—under duress—to this new world, where magic was diluted, the Duuk-tsarith had lost almost all of their magical power. We had heard vague rumors to the effect that, over the past twenty years, they had found the means to regain what had been lost. Whether or not this was true, the Duuk-tsarith had lost none of their ability to terrify.

  Saryon fell back into the entryway. He stumbled into me and, so I vaguely recollect, put his arm out as though he would protect me. Me! Who was supposed to protect him!

  He pressed me back against the wall of the small entryway, leaving the door standing wide open, with no thought of slamming it in the visitor’s face, with no thought of denying this dread visitor entry. This was one who would not be denied. I knew that as well as Saryon, and though I did make an attempt to put my own body in front of that of the middle-aged catalyst, I had no thought of doing battle.

  The Duuk-tsarith glided over the threshold. With a brief gesture of his hand, he caused the door to swing silently shut behind him. He put back the cowl, revealed his face, and stared intently at Saryon for several seconds, almost as if expecting some response. Saryon was too flustered, too upset to do anything except stand on the braided rug and shiver and tremble.

  The Enforcer’s gaze shifted to me, entered my soul, caught and held fast to my heart, so that I feared if I disobeyed, my beating heart would stop.

  The Duuk-tsarith spoke. “First, I caution you both to remain silent. It is for your own protection. Do you understand?”

  The words were not spoken aloud. They were fiery letters, traced across the back of my eyes.

  Saryon nodded. He didn’t understand what was going on, any more than I did, but neither of us was going to argue.

  “Good,” said the Enforcer “Now I am going to perform a magic spell. Do not be alarmed. It will not harm you.”

  The Duuk-tsarith spoke inaudible words, that came to me only in whispers. Fearfully, not terribly reassured by the Duuk-tsarith’s promise, we stared around, waiting for the Almin knew what to happen.

  Nothing happened, at least that I could see. The Duuk-tsarith, his finger on his lips, again to enjoin silence, led the way into the living room. We shuffled along behind him, keeping close to each other. Once we were in the living room, the Enforcer pointed one long, white finger.

  A painting hung on the wall, a painting which had been acquired along with the flat and which depicted a pastoral scene of cows in a field. From behind that painting now glowed an eerie green light.

  The Duuk-tsarith pointed again, this time to the phone. The same green light surrounded the phone.

  The Duuk-tsarith nodded to himself, as if he’d expected to find this phenomenon, whatever it was. He didn’t bother to explain. Once again, and this time emphatically, he silently cautioned us not to speak.

  And then the Duuk-tsarith did a most peculiar thing. He turned left and entered the darkened living room, with the calm repose of a guest who has been invited to remove his hat and coat and stay to tea. Moving with quiet grace among the furniture, the Enforcer walked to the window, parted the curtain a minuscule crack, and looked outside.

  I was overwhelmed by a series of fleeting impressions as my brain tried frantically to grapple with the strange occurrence At first, I thought that the Duuk-tsarith was signaling reinforcements. Logic arrived to remark dryly that the apprehension of one elderly catalyst and his scribe would hardly call for a SWAT team. That first impression was replaced by another.

  The Duuk-tsarith was looking outside to see if he had been followed.

  Not knowing what else to do and, by now, more curious than fearful, both Saryon and I stayed with the Duuk-tsarith in the living room. Through force of habit, I fumbled for the light switch.

  “You needn’t bother. It will not work.”

  The voice of the Duuk-tsarith inside the my head was vibrant and sent a mild s
hock through me, reminding me of the first time I had encountered electricity on this strange world.

  “Don’t move,” the inner voice commanded.

  We remained standing in the darkened living room. I could sense Saryon shivering his nightshirt, for he’d turned the heat down in the flat and this thin robe was woefully inadequate. I was wondering if I might be allowed to bring my master a sweater, when the Duuk-tsarith spoke silently again. And though the words were not addressed to me, I understood them.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Saryon?”

  Having had many encounters with the Duuk-tsarith—all of them extremely unpleasant—Saryon later told me that he feared this must be one of the Enforcers who had caught him in the forbidden library of the Font, or maybe even one who had performed the Turning to Stone, that excruciatingly painful punishment inflicted on those catalysts who rebelled against the Church’s authority. Why one of these people should drop by Saryon’s house for a chat in the small hours of the night was beyond him. He could only stare and stammer and mumble something to the effect that, if the person would permit us to turn on the lights and let us see a face, such an act would aid recognition considerably.

  “All will be made clear soon enough,” said the Enforcer, and it seemed to me that there was a sad quality to his words, as if the man—it was a man, I had at last ascertained that much—was disappointed that Saryon had not recognized him. “Now, follow my instructions. Return to the kitchen and prepare your tea, as you normally do. Take the cup to your bedroom, as you normally do, and lie down to read to this young man, as you normally do. Don’t deviate from your nightly habits in even one instance, either of you. You can be seen from the bedroom window. I do not think that I was followed, but I can’t be certain.”

  This last sentence was not conducive to relieving our apprehension. We did as we were commanded, however. Saryon was, as a catalyst, accustomed to obedience, as was I, having been raised a servant in the royal household. In this case, it made no sense for my master to stand around in his nightshirt, arguing. We went to the kitchen.

  The Duuk-tsarith remained in the darkened living room, but I could feel the man’s eyes on me. It was extremely unnerving. Until now, neither Saryon nor I had realized that we had developed “nightly habits.” Consequently, when this fact was brought to our attention, and we were forced to think about what we did every night, we couldn’t remember doing any of it.

  “Don’t think,” came the voice of the Duuk-tsarith. “Let your body take over. When you are settled in your bed, Father, then we will talk.”

  This was not exactly the way we would have chosen to spend our evening, but we didn’t have much choice. Saryon took the Enforcer’s advice and tried not to think about what he was doing. He turned off the kettle, which had been whistling loudly, though we’d been too distraught to notice. He poured the water, stirred the tea. I added to it a plate of digestible biscuits. We tottered—tea and biscuits in hand—off to his bedroom.

  The Duuk-tsarith, remaining in the shadows, glided along silently behind.

  Saryon, remembering the duties of a host, paused, turned, and held up the teacup, asking in dumb show if his visitor would like to share our repast.

  “Keep moving!” The voice in my head was urgent. Then it added, in softer tones, “No, thank you.”

  Saryon went to his small bedroom, where he placed the tea and the biscuits on the nightstand beside his bed. I pulled up the chair. Picking up the book, I found the place where we had left off reading last night.

  Saryon climbed into bed and it was only when he was safely tucked beneath the sheets that he remembered he usually brushed his teeth at this point. He looked at me, made a motion of using a toothbrush. I shrugged my shoulders, helpless to advise or assist.

  Flustered, he was about to mention it to the Enforcer, then changed his mind. Giving me another glance, he settled himself. I opened the book, and drank a sip of tea. I usually ate a biscuit, but at that moment, due to the dryness in my mouth, I couldn’t have swallowed one and I feared I would choke.

  The Duuk-tsarith, watching us from the shadowed hallway, appeared satisfied. He left momentarily, returned with a chair from the kitchen, and sat down in the hall. Again came the whispered words, and both Saryon and I looked about expectantly, wondering which of the pictures on the wall was going to turn green.

  None did.

  “I believe,” said the silent voice, “that you usually listen to music, do you not?”

  Of course! Saryon had forgotten. He switched on the CD player, which was, as far as he was concerned, one of the most miraculous and wondrous devices of this technological world. Beautiful music—I recall that it was Mozart—filled the room. Saryon began to read aloud from the book Right Ho, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse, one of our favorite authors. We would have been quite content had not the shadowy figure been perched, like Poe’s raven, in the hall.

  “It is now safe to talk,” said the Duuk-tsarith, and this time he spoke the words aloud, albeit in a low voice. He drew the cowl back from his face. “But keep your voice down. I have deactivated the devices of the D’karn-kair, but there may be others present of which I am not aware.”

  Now that we could talk, all the questions which had been crowding my mind fled. Not that I could have spoken them myself, but I could have let my master speak for me. I could see that Saryon was in much the same state.

  He could only munch his biscuit, sip his tea, and stare. Now that the face of the Duuk-tsarith was in the direct light, Saryon seemed to find something vaguely familiar about the man. Saryon would later tell me that he did not experience the sensation of overwhelming dread one usually feels in the presence of the Enforcers. Indeed, he felt a small thrill of pleasure at the sight of the man and, if he could only have remembered who he was, I knew that he would be glad to see him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Saryon faltered. “I know that I know you, but between age and failing eyesight…”

  The man smiled.

  “I am Mosiah,” he said.

  TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

  A Bantam Spectra Book/September 1988

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1988 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.

  Map by Steve Sullivan.

  Interior art by Valerie Valusek.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-43468-5

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