Forging the Darksword Page 4

  “Twenty-five.”

  The Druid raised an eyebrow. Saryon nodded. “I was admitted to the Font at the age of twenty,” he said by way of explanation, most young men and women entering when they are twenty-one.

  “And what was the reason for this?” the Theldara asked.

  “I’m a mathematical genius,” Saryon answered in the same nonchalant tone he might have used in saying “I am tall,” or “I am male.”

  “Indeed?” The Druid stroked his long, gray beard. That would easily account for the young man’s early admittance to the Font. The transference of Life from the elements to the magi who will use it is a fine science, relying almost completely upon the principles of mathematics. Because the force of magic thus drawn from the surrounding world is concentrated within the catalyst, who will then focus that concentration of Life upon his chosen subject, the mathematical calculations for the amount of energy transferred must be precise indeed, since the transference of magic weakens the catalyst. Only in the most dire emergencies, or in times of war, is a catalyst permitted to suffuse a magus with Life.

  “Yes,” said Saryon, relaxing under the influence of the tea, his tall, awkward body sinking back into the cushion. “I learned all the routine calculations as a child. At the age of twelve, I could give you the figures that would lift a building from its foundations and send it flying through the air and, in the same breath, provide calculations that would conjure up a royal gown for the Empress.”

  “This is remarkable,” murmured the Druid, staring at Saryon intently through half-closed lids.

  The catalyst shrugged. “So my mother thought. To me, it wasn’t anything special. It was like a game, the only real enjoyment I ever had as a child,” he added, beginning to pick at the fabric of the cushion.

  “You studied with your mother? You didn’t go to the schools?”

  “No. She is a Priestess. In line for Cardinal, but then she married my father.”

  “Political arrangement?”

  Saryon shook his head with a wry smile. “No. Because of me.

  “Ah, yes. I see.” The Druid took another small sip of tea. Marriages are always arranged in Thimhallan and are, in general, controlled by the catalysts. This is due to the gift of the Vision. The only remnant left of the once flourishing art of divination, the Vision allows the catalysts to foresee if a union will produce issue and will therefore be a wise match. If no issue is foreseen as forthcoming, the marriage is forbidden.

  Since catalysts can only breed catalysts, their marriages are even more strictly governed than those of the magi and are arranged by the Church itself. Catalysts being so rare, having one in the household is considered a privilege. In addition, the expense of a catalyst’s education and training is borne by the Church. His place in the world is established, insuring both the catalyst and his family of a better-than-average livelihood.

  “Your mother is high in the Order. Your father must be a powerful noble—”

  “No.” Saryon shook his head. “The marriage was beneath my mother, a fact she never let my father forget. She is a cousin of the Empress of Merilon and he was only a duke.”

  “Your father? You speak of him in the past …”

  “He’s dead,” Saryon answered without emotion. “Died about ten years ago, when I was fifteen. A wasting illness. My mother did what she could. She called in the Healers, but she didn’t try very hard to save him and he didn’t try very hard to live.”

  “Did this upset you?”

  “Not that much,” Saryon muttered, poking his finger through a hole he had worked in the cushion. He shrugged. “I hadn’t seen him for a long time. When I was six, I began my studies with my mother and … my father began spending more and more time away from home. He enjoyed the court life of Merilon. Besides”—frowning, Saryon concentrated on widening the hole in the cushion, his fingers working busily—“I … had other things … to think about.”

  “At fifteen, one generally does,” the Theldara said gently. “Tell me these thoughts. They must be dark ones, they lie like a cloud over the sun of your being.”

  “I—I can’t,” Saryon mumbled, his face growing alternately flushed and pale.

  “Very well,” the Druid said complacently, “We will—”

  “I didn’t want to be a catalyst!” Saryon blurted. “I wanted the magic. It—it’s the first clear thought I remember having, even when I was little.”

  “That is nothing to be ashamed of,” the Theldara remarked. “Many of your Order experience the same jealousy of the magi.”

  “Yes?” Saryon glanced up, looking hopeful at first. Then his face darkened. He began to pluck pine needles from the cushion, pinching them between his fingers. “Well, that isn’t the worst.” He fell silent, scowling.

  “What type of magus would you be?” asked the Druid, knowing where this was leading but preferring that it unfold naturally. He beckoned to the sphere to fill the catalyst’s teacup again. “Albanara …”

  “Oh, no!” Saryon smiled bitterly. “Nothing that ambitious.” He looked up again, staring out the window. “I think I’d be Pron-alban—a shaper of wood. I love the feel of wood, its smoothness, its smell, the twists and whorls of the grain.” He sighed. “My mother said it is because I sense the Life within the wood and reverence it.”

  “Very proper and correct,” remarked the Druid.

  “Ah, but that’s not it, you see!” Saryon said, his gaze going to the Theldara, his smile twisting. “I wanted to change the wood, Healer! Change it with my bare hands! I wanted to join one piece of wood with another and make something new of it!” Sitting back, he regarded the Druid smugly, expecting a shocked, horrified reaction.

  In a world where the joining together of anything—lifeless or living—is considered to be the most unforgivable of sins, this admission of Saryon’s was a dreadful one, bordering on the Dark Arts. It is only the Sorcerers, those who practice the Ninth Mystery, who would think of such a thing. The Pron-alban, for example, does not build a chair, he shapes it. Taking the wood—a solid, living tree trunk—he uses his magic to lovingly shape that wood into the beautiful image he sees in his mind. Thus the chair is just another stage of Life for the wood. Were the magi to cut and mutilate the wood, bend it with his bare hands, and force those mutilated, misshapen pieces together into the semblance of a chair—the very wood itself would cry out in agony and it must certainly soon die. Yet Saryon had confessed he wanted to perform this heinous act. The young man expected the Druid to turn pale with horror, perhaps even order him out of his home.

  The Theldara, however, simply regarded the catalyst placidly, as if Saryon had stated he had a fondness for eating apples. “We all have a very natural curiosity about such things,” he said calmly. “What else did you dream about in your youth? Joining wood? Is that all?”

  Saryon swallowed. Looking down at the cushion, he jammed his finger through the fabric. “No.” Sweating, he put his hands over his face. “The Almin help me!” he cried brokenly.

  “My dear young man, the Almin is trying to help, but first you must help yourself,” the Druid said earnestly. “You dreamed of joining with women, did you not?”

  Saryon raised his head, his face feverish. “How—how did you know? Did you see my mind—”

  “No, no.” The Theldara raised his hands, smiling. “I do not have the mind-draining skills of the Enforcers. These dreams are quite natural, Brother. Left over from the dark days of our existence, they serve to remind us of our animal natures and how we are bound up in the world. Didn’t anyone ever discuss this with you?”

  The look on Saryon’s face was so comical, being one of mingled relief, shock, and naïveté, that the Druid was hard-pressed to keep a serious aspect, even as he inwardly cursed the cold, sterile, loveless environment that must have fostered such guilt within the young man. In a very few words, the Theldara set about explaining the matter.

  “It is speculated that in the dark, shadowy land of our past, we magi were forced to join
the flesh together to produce issue as do animals. This gave us no control over the reproduction of our kind, and caused our blood to mingle with that of the Dead. Even years after we came to this world, so it is believed, we still mated that way. But then we learned that we had the power to take the seed of the man and transfer it—using the Life force—to woman. Through this, we could control the numbers of our population as well as raising the people above the bestial desires of the flesh. But that is not as easy as it sounds, the flesh being weak. I take it you outgrew these dreams,” the Theldara continued, “or perhaps you are still bothered—”

  “No,” said Saryon hurriedly, in some confusion. “No, not bothered by them—I didn’t outgrow, I don’t think. That is … Mathematics,” he said finally. “I—I discovered that what had once been … a game was my … salvation!” Sitting up, he looked at the Druid, his face brightening. “When I am in the world of my studies, I forget all about everything! Don’t you see, Healer? That is why I miss Evening Prayers. I forget all about eating, the exercise period; it’s all a waste of time! Knowledge! To study and learn and create—new theories, new calculations. I’ve cut the magical force needed to form glass from rock in half! And this is nothing—nothing—to compare to some of the things I’ve been planning! Why, I’ve even discovered—” Saryon broke off abruptly.

  “Discovered what?” asked the Druid casually.

  “Nothing you’d be interested in,” the catalyst said shortly. Staring down at the cushion, he suddenly noticed the hole he had made in it. Flushing, he began trying, without much success, to repair the damage he had done.

  “I may not understand the mathematics,” the Theldara said, “but I’d be very interested to listen to you talk about it.”

  “No. It’s not anything, really.” Saryon stood up, somewhat unsteadily. “I’m sorry about the cushion …”

  “Easily repaired,” the Druid said, rising to his feet and smiling, though he was once more studying the young catalyst intently. “Perhaps you will come back and we can discuss this new discovery of yours?”

  “Possibly. I … I don’t know. Like I said, it isn’t really important. What is important in my life is the mathematics. It’s more important to me than anything else! Don’t you see? The gaining of knowledge … any type of knowledge! Even that which is—” Saryon broke off abruptly. “May I go now?” he asked. “Are you finished with me?”

  “I’m not ‘finished’ with you, because I never ‘started’ with you in the first place,” the Theldara reproved gently. “You were advised to come here because your Master was concerned for your health. So am I. You are obviously overworking yourself, Brother Saryon. That fine mind of yours depends upon its body. As I said before, if you neglect one, the other will suffer as well.”

  “Yes,” Saryon murmured, ashamed of his outburst. “I am sorry. Healer. Perhaps you are right.”

  “I will see you at meals … and out in the exercise yard?”

  “Yes,” the catalyst answered, checking an exasperated sigh; and turning, he started for the door.

  “And quit spending all your hours in the Library,” the Druid continued, following. “There are other—”

  “The Library?” Saryon whirled about, his face deathly pale. “What did you mean, the Library?”

  The Theldara blinked, startled. “Why, nothing, Brother Saryon. You mentioned studying. Naturally, I assumed you must spend much of your time in the Library …”

  “Well, you assumed wrong! I haven’t been there in a month!” Saryon snapped vehemently. “A month, do you hear me?”

  “Why, yes …”

  “May the Almin be with you,” the catalyst muttered. “No need to show me out. I know the way.” Bowing awkwardly, he hurried through the door of the Druid’s quarters, his too-short robes flapped about his bony ankles as he walked rapidly through the infirmary and out the far door.

  The Druid stared after the young man thoughtfully for long moments after he had gone, absently stroking the feathers of the raven, who had flown in the window and perched on his shoulder.

  “What was that?” he asked the bird. “Did you say something?”

  The bird croaked a response, cleaning its bill with its foot, as it, too, stared after the catalyst with its glittering black eyes.

  “Yes,” answered the Theldara, “you are right, my friend. That soul flies on very dark wings indeed.”

  4

  The Chamber of the Ninth Mystery

  The Master Librarian was not on duty when the incident occurred. It was late at night, long past the hour of Rest. The only person on duty was an elderly deacon known as the Undermaster.

  Actually, the term Undermaster was a misnomer, since he wasn’t really master of anything, either Under or Over. He was, in reality, nothing more than a caretaker, his main responsibility in the Inner Library being to discourage the rats who, not caring for scholarly pursuits, had taken to digesting the books rather than the knowledge imprinted therein.

  The Undermaster was one of the few in the Font permitted to stay up during the Resting Time. This mattered little to him since he had the habit of nodding off at no particular time whatsoever anyway. His yellow-skinned bald head was, in fact, just beginning to droop a bit closer to the pages of the tome he told himself he was perusing when he heard a rustling, shuffling noise at the far end of the Library.

  The sound made him start and gave his heart an uncomfortable jolt. Coughing nervously, he peered across the vast distance of the Library into the shadows in the hope (or fear) of seeing what caused the sound. At that point he remembered the rats, and it struck the Undermaster rather forcibly that a rat large enough to make a sound heard from that distance must be an uncommonly large specimen of the species. It also struck him that he would have to cross a very dark section of the Library in order to deal with the miscreant. Putting these two thoughts together in his head, he decided, after a moments profound consideration, that he had heard no sound at all, but had only imagined it.

  Vastly comforted, he returned to his reading, beginning with the same paragraph he had been beginning to read for a week and which never failed to put him to sleep about halfway through.

  This time was no exception. His nose was actually touching the page when there came the rustling, shuffling sound again.

  This Deacon had seen marvelous things in his youth, having witnessed a skirmish between the kingdoms of Merilon and Zith-el. He had seen the skies rain fire, the trees sprout spears. He had seen the Masters of War transform men into centaurs, cats into lions, lizards into dragons, rats into slavering monsters. The rat having now grown in his mind proportionate with his memories, the Deacon rose, trembling, from his chair and hastened for the door.

  Leaning his head out of the library, but not venturing out himself (let it never be said that he abandoned his post!) the Deacon started to call to the Duuk-tsarith for help. But the sight of the tall black-robed and black-hooded figure standing still and motionless, its hands clasped before it, gave him pause, filling him with a fear almost equal to that of the mysterious noise. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps only a small rat …

  There it was again! And this time, a sound of a door shutting!

  “Enforcer!” hissed the Deacon, gesturing with a palsied hand. “Enforcer!”

  The hooded head turned his direction. The Deacon was aware of two glittering eyes and then, within the drawing of a breath and without seeming to move at all, the black-robed figure stood silently before him.

  Though the warlock did not speak, the Deacon heard, quite clearly, a question in his mind. “I—I’m not cer-certain,” stammered the Deacon in answer. “I—I heard a noise.”

  The Duuk-tsarith inclined his head, as the Deacon could see by the tip of the black, pointed hood shivering slightly. “It—it sounded rather large, not the noise, that is. I mean, as if it were made by something rather large and—and I thought I heard a door shut.”

  A breath of warm, moist air whispered from the black hood.

&
nbsp; “Of course not!” The Deacon appeared shocked. “It is Resting Time. No one is allowed in here. I have dispen—dispensation,” he added, fumbling over the word in his nervousness.

  The hooded head turned to look into the shadowy corridors formed by the crystalline shelves and their valuable contents.

  “Th-there,” quavered the Deacon, pointing toward the very back of the Library. “I didn’t see anything. I only heard a sound, sort of a rustle, and then—then the door—”

  He paused, at another whisper of breath. “What’s back there? Just a moment. Let me think.” His entire bald head wrinkled as he laboriously traversed the Inner Library in his mind. Eventually his halting mental footsteps evidently led him to a startling realization, for his eyes grew wide, and he stared at the Duuk-tsarith in alarm. “The Ninth Mystery!”

  The Enforcer’s black hood snapped around.

  “The Chamber of the Ninth Mystery!” The Deacon wrung his hands. “The forbidden books! But the door is always sealed. How—What—”

  But he was talking to empty air. The warlock had vanished from his sight.

  It took a moment for the Deacon, in his rattled state, to assimilate this occurrence. Thinking at first that the Duuk-tsarith might have fled in terror, the Deacon was about to join him when more rational thought took over. Of course. The Enforcer had gone to investigate.

  Visions of the giant rat loomed into the Deacon’s view. Perhaps he should stay here and keep watch on the doorway. Then a vision of the Master Librarian replaced the giant rat. With a sigh, the Deacon grasped the skirts of his white flowing robes in his hands, to keep them out of the dust, and hastened through the Library toward the forbidden room.

  Momentarily losing himself in a maze of crystal shelving, he heard the sound of voices to his right and somewhat ahead. This showed him the way, and he scurried on, arriving at the door to the forbidden chamber just as another silent, black-robed, black-hooded Duuk-tsarith materialized out of the air. The first Enforcer having removed the seal from the door, the second entered immediately. The Deacon started to follow, but the Enforcer’s unexpected appearance had so unnerved him that he was forced to lean against the doorway for a few moments, his hand pressed over his palpitating heart.