Forging the Darksword Page 8

  “Repeat the first Test,” Vanya ordered.

  His hands shaking, Saryon placed the screaming child in the water, then released him. As soon as it was obvious the baby was sinking, Saryon—at a hurried gesture from the Bishop—grabbed him out.

  “The Almin help us!” breathed the Lord Catalyst in a trembling voice.

  “I think it’s too late for that,” Vanya replied coldly. “Bring the child here, Saryon,” he said, his nervousness apparent in that he forgot to include the formal title “Deacon” in his command. Clumsily attempting to soothe the baby, Saryon hurried to obey and came to stand before the Bishop.

  “Give me the torch,” Vanya ordered Deacon Dulchase, who, having reluctantly taken it up, was only too happy to release it to his superior.

  Grasping the flaming torch, Bishop Vanya thrust it directly into the baby’s face. The child shrieked in pain, and Saryon, forgetting himself, caught hold of the Bishop’s arm, pushing him away with an angry cry.

  No one said a word. Everyone in the chamber could smell singed hair. Everyone could see the red burn mark upon the baby’s temple.

  Trembling, clutching the injured child to his chest, Saryon turned away from the pale faces and the horror-filled, staring eyes. Patting the child, who was now screaming in a hysterical frenzy, Saryon’s first incoherent thought was that he had committed another sin. He had dared touch the body of his superior without permission—and, worse, he had actually shoved him in anger. The young Deacon cringed, expecting a sharp reprimand. But it did not come. Glancing over his shoulder at Bishop Vanya’s face, Saryon saw why.

  The Bishop probably never even knew Saryon had touched him. He was staring at the baby, his heavy face ashen, his eyes wide. The Lord Catalyst wrung his hands and trembled visibly while the Cardinals stood by, looking at each other helplessly.

  The Prince, meanwhile, was screaming with the pain of the burn so violently that he was near strangling. Not knowing what else to do and realizing that the baby’s crying was shredding the taut nerves of everyone in the room, Saryon tried desperately to hush the child. At length he succeeded, more because the baby cried himself into a state of exhaustion than because the young catalyst possessed any skill in nursing. Silence settled upon the room like a dank fog, broken only now and then by the baby’s hiccup.

  Then Bishop Vanya spoke. “Such a thing,” he whispered, “has never happened in all the years of history, even back before the Iron Wars.”

  The awe in his voice was plain, something Saryon could understand. It matched his own. But there was another note in Vanya’s voice that made Saryon shudder—a note he had never heard in the Bishop’s voice before—a note of fear.

  Sighing and removing the heavy miter, Vanya passed a trembling hand over his tonsured head. With the removal of the miter, he seemed to remove all the aura of mystique and majesty that surrounded him and Saryon, patting the baby’s back, saw a paunchy, middle-aged man who looked extremely fatigued and scared. This frightened Saryon more than anything and, from the looks on the faces of the others, he wasn’t the only one who received this impression.

  “What I am about to tell you to do, you must do without question,” Vanya said in a thick voice, his eyes on the miter that he held in his hands. Absently he stroked the gold trim with shaking fingers. “I could give you the reason—No.” Vanya looked up, his gaze stern and cold. “No, I vowed to keep silent. I cannot break my vow. You will obey me. You will not question. Understand that I take upon myself full responsibility for what I require you to do.”

  He paused a moment then, with a quavering breath, began to pray silently.

  Holding the hiccuping child in his arms, Saryon glanced at the others to see if they understood. He didn’t. He’d never heard of a child failing the Testing. What was coming? What terrible thing was the Bishop going to ask them to do? His gaze went back to Vanya. Everyone in the room was staring at the Bishop, waiting for him to use his magic to save them. It was as if each of them had opened a conduit to Vanya, not to give him Life, but to take Life from him.

  Perhaps this very dependence gave him strength, for the Bishop straightened and raised his head. His lips pursed. His eyes grew abstract and he frowned, still considering. Then, apparently reaching a decision, his brow cleared, his face resumed its normal cool composure. He replaced the miter, and the Bishop of the Realm stood before his people once again.

  Bishop Vanya turned to Saryon. “Take the child to the nursery directly,” he ordered. “Do not take him to his mother. I will speak to the Empress myself and prepare her. It will be easier for her in the long run if we make this separation clean and swift.”

  The Lord Catalyst made a kind of sound here, a sort of choked wail. But Bishop Vanya, his paunchy face freezing as if the chill silence in the room had seeped into his blood, ignored him. Speaking in an emotionless voice, he continued, “From this hour on, the child is to be given no food, no water. He is not to be held. He is Dead.”

  The Bishop went on to say something else, but Saryon did not hear. The baby was hiccuping against his shoulder; his best ceremonial robes were wet with the child’s tears. Having managed to capture one fist, the Prince was sucking on it noisily, staring at Saryon with wide, unfocused eyes. The Deacon could feel the tiny body quiver as, now and then, a soft sob shook it.

  Saryon stared down at the child, his thoughts confused, his heart aching. He’d heard somewhere that all babies are born with blue eyes, but this child’s eyes were a dark, cloudy blue. Did he look like his mother, who was reputed to be extraordinarily beautiful? The Empress had brown eyes, Saryon recalled hearing. And she had long blue-black hair, so luxuriant that she needed no magic to make it glisten like a raven’s wing. Thinking of this and looking at the fuzzy head of dark hair, Saryon saw that the skin of the baby’s temple was beginning to blister. Reflexively he reached to touch it, his lips forming the words of the healing prayer that would enhance the healing Life of the baby’s own body. Then Saryon stopped, remembering. This child had no healing Life within his body. No Life stirred there at all.

  The young Deacon held a corpse in his arms.

  The Prince drew a deep, sudden, shaking breath. He seemed about to cry, but he continued sucking on his fist and this appeared to satisfy him. Snuggling against Saryon, he stared at him with those large, black-lashed eyes.

  From this moment on, Saryon thought, his heart constricting in pain, I will be the last person to hold him, to pat his back, to run fingers over the tiny, silky-haired head. Swift tears stung his eyes, and he looked around helplessly, silently pleading with one of the others to take this burden from him. No one did. No one even met his gaze except Bishop Vanya, who frowned, seeing his orders not being obeyed.

  Saryon opened his lips to speak, to question this cruel decision, but his voice caught in his throat. Vanya had said they must obey without knowing why. The Bishop would take upon himself the responsibility. Would the pleas of a Deacon move him? A Deacon already in disgrace? Not likely. There was nothing for Saryon to do but bow and leave the room, still awkwardly patting the Prince’s back in a manner that seemed to soothe him. Once in the corridor, however, the young Deacon had no idea where he was going in the immense Cathedral. All he knew was that, somehow, he had to get to the Royal Palace. At the end of the hall, Saryon caught a glimpse of a dark shadow, an Enforcer. Saryon hesitated. The warlock could direct him to the Palace. He could send him there, in fact, using his magic.

  Looking at the black-robed figure, Saryon shuddered and, turning, walked hurriedly in the opposite direction. I will find my own way to the Royal Palace, he thought with swift, frustrated anger. At least, if I walk, I can offer this poor child what comfort I can before … before …

  The last thing Saryon heard as he left the corridor was Bishop Vanya’s voice.

  “Tomorrow morning, the Emperor and the Empress will make public their agreement that the child is Dead. I will take the baby to the Font. There, tomorrow afternoon, the Deathwatch will begin. I hope, for the
sake of us all, that it passes swiftly.”

  For the sake of us all.

  The next day, Deacon Saryon stood in the lovely Cathedral of Merilon, listening to the wailing of the dead child and the whispering of his plans and hopes and visions and dreams as they bade him good-bye.

  There would be no celebrations in Merilon now, no introductions to noble houses. The people were in a daze. Gala parties ceased abruptly as the news spread. The Sif-Hanar shrouded the city in a gray fog. The players and artisans left town and the students were herded back into the University. The nobles flitted through the ghostly atmosphere, going from house to house, talking in hushed tones and endeavoring to find someone who remembered the proper form for observing the somber Hours of the Deathwatch. Few knew how such things should be conducted. It had been years since a Royal Child had even been born; no one could recall having heard of one dying.

  Bishop Vanya, of course, had all the information at his fingertips, and eventually the word went forth. By the time Saryon was standing in the Cathedral, robed in his Weeping Blue, the entire city had undergone a change—the Pron-alban, the craftsmen, and the Quin-alban, the conjurers, having worked feverishly all night.

  The gray fog remained over the city and deepened until the sun’s rays could not penetrate the magical shroud that covered the deathly silent streets and drifted up among the rose-hued marble platforms. The gay colors that had decorated the glittering crystal walls of the dwellings vanished, replaced by tapestries of mournful gray, making it look as though the fog had been given shape and form and substance. Even the great Silken Dragon fled, creeping into his lair—so parents told their children—to mourn the Dead Prince.

  The streets were silent and empty. Those not in attendance upon the grieving Royal Family were confined to their homes, ostensibly adding their prayers to those of their neighbors that the Deathwatch be swiftly ended. But, in many of these homes, the prayers of the young mothers fell from pale, trembling lips as they held their own children close, while those expecting children placed their hands upon their swollen bodies and could not make their lips form the words of the prayers at all.

  When the ceremony had been completed, the baby was taken away. The Deathwatch began.

  Within five days, word came back that all was ended.

  After that time, more children of the noble houses of Merilon failed their Testing, though none so drastically as the Prince. Most of these babies were taken to the Font, where the Deathwatch was performed.

  Most, but not all.

  Saryon, at Vanya’s request, stayed in Merilon to work in the Cathedral there. Part of his responsibilities included the Testing of these children. At first he so hated it that he thought he might rebel and demand a new assignment. Anything seemed better—even becoming a Field Catalyst. But it was not in Saryon’s nature to openly rebel and, after a time, he grew resigned to his work, if not hardened.

  Saryon could see the reasoning behind the destruction of these children. It was expounded by the Bishop, in fact, when the Test failures began to occur more and more frequently. People were confused and frightened and starting to mutter darkly against the catalysts, who, meanwhile, were delving into every conceivable source—even ancient ones—searching for answers to their perplexing questions.

  Why was this happening? How could it be stopped? And why, in particular, was it happening only to the nobility? For, it was soon discovered, the common city dwellers as well as the peasants in the fields and villages were bearing healthy, living children. The people of Merilon demanded answers, forcing Bishop Vanya to deliver a sermon in the Cathedral, designed to calm the populace.

  “These unfortunate children are not children at all,” the Bishop cried earnestly, his hands clenched in his passionate intensity, his words echoing from the vaulting crystal ceiling. “They are weeds in the garden of our Life! We must uproot them and wither them, as the Field Magi wither the weeds in field, or they will soon choke out the magic within the world.”

  This dire prediction has its intended effect. After that, most parents accepted the will of the Almin and consigned their Dead into the hands of the catalysts. But some parents rebelled. In secret, they tested the children themselves and, if the baby failed, they hid the child until it could be smuggled out of the city. The catalysts knew of this, but there was nothing they could do except keep these occurrences quiet, so that they did not unduly alarm the populace.

  And so, in increasing numbers, the Dead walked the land, Saryon recorded one night in his journal. And our fears grew.

  7

  Anja

  The overseer hovered above the ground at the edge of the field, keeping his eyes upon the dozen or so magi flitting among the crops like drab butterflies. Up and down among the rows of beans they fluttered, their plain brown clothing standing out against the bright green of the bean plants. Dipping down, they withered weeds with a touch of their hands or gave a renewed burst of Life to a straggling plant or gently removed some predatory bug and sent it upon its way.

  Nodding in satisfaction, the overseer transferred his gaze to the next field, where other magi were trudging through freshly turned soil. A crop had been harvested from that field last week and these magi were gleaning the last vestiges of grain. Then the field would be allowed to rest before the magi returned and, using the magic force within them, parted the soil in neat rows with a gesture of their hands, preparing the soil for planting.

  Everything was proceeding well. The overseer would have been surprised if it hadn’t. Walren was a small Field Magi settlement, as most went. Part of the Duke of Nordshire’s holdings, it was a relatively new settlement, having been established about one hundred years ago when a terrible thunderstorm (caused by two warring groups of Sif-Hanar) started a fire that effectively cleared the land and left dead wood enough for homes. The Duke immediately took advantage of the situation, ordering a hundred or so of his peasants to remove to the settlement that was on the border of the Outlands, finish clearing, and then plant the land. They were far from the walls of the city, far from other settlements. Most of the magi working here had been born here and would undoubtedly die here. There was no grumbling or talk of rebellion, as there had been in some villages the overseer had heard about.

  Movement caught the overseer’s eye. He immediately quit lounging and assumed a stern, businesslike air when he saw the Field Catalyst slogging through the bean field, coming toward him.

  In Field Magi settlements, the catalyst works as hard or harder than the magi themselves. Field Magi are allowed only enough of the catalyst’s transference of magical Life force to work efficiently, the reason for this being that magi have the ability to store this Life force within them and use it whenever they need. Because of certain signs of discontent and restlessness among the Field Magi from time to time, it is considered best to leave them as weak as possible. Therefore, the Field Catalyst is forced to move among the magi and restore their magical energies almost hourly—one reason why the job is abhorred among the catalysts and generally assigned to those of low standing or to those who had committed some infraction of the rules of the Order.

  Even as the catalyst walked through the field, his shoes—the sign of his calling—covered with mud, a magus dipped down to the earth and did not rise up again. Seeing the woman’s hand lift into the air, the overseer caught the catalyst’s attention, jerking his thumb in the direction of the spent magus.

  “Call a rest,” groaned the catalyst, plopping himself down upon the ground. Yanking off his mud-caked shoes, he began to rub his feet, not without first casting a bitter, envious glance at the bare feet of the overseer. Although brown from the sun, the man’s feet were still smooth, the toes straight and widely separated—the sign of those who travel the world on the wings of magic.

  “Rest!” bellowed the overseer, and the magi dropped from the air like dead moths to lie among the shade of the bean plants or drifted prone upon the air currents, closing their eyes against the bright sun.


  “Now, what have we here?” the overseer muttered, his attention being drawn away from the field to a figure that had appeared on the roadway leading through the woods to the flat farmland. The catalyst, noting with dismay that he had a blister, lifted his head wearily to follow the overseer’s gaze.

  The figure approaching them was a woman. She was obviously a magus, by her clothing, yet she was walking, which meant that she had spent nearly all her magical Life force. Upon her back, she carried a burden—a bundle of some sort, probably clothing, the overseer judged, examining the woman attentively. This was another sign her Life force was weak, for magi rarely carried anything.

  The overseer might have assumed the woman was a Field Magus, except that her clothes were a strange, vibrant color of green, not the brown, drab colors of those who tilled the soil.

  “A noble lady,” murmured the catalyst, hastily dragging on his shoes again.

  “Aye,” grumbled the overseer, scowling. This was out of the ordinary and the overseer hated anything out of the ordinary. It almost certainly meant trouble.

  The woman was closer to them now, so close she heard their voices. Raising her head, she looked straight at them and quite suddenly, stopped walking. The overseer saw her sunburned face twist in haughty pride, then—with what must have been a supreme effort—the woman slowly rose up off the ground and floated toward the men in genteel fashion. The overseer glanced at the catalyst, who raised his eyebrows as the woman drifted, rather unsteadily, over the fields until she came to rest before them. Then, with a negligent air, making it appear as if she did this through choice, not because she lacked strength to continue on, the woman settled gently to the ground and stood gazing at them proudly.

  “Milady,” said the overseer, bobbing his head in a kind of bow, but not doffing his hat as was proper. Now that she was closer, he could see that the woman’s dress, though rich and made of fine quality fabric, was worn and tattered. The hem had been dragged through the mud and muck of the roadside, there was a torn place on the skirt. Her bare feet were cut and bleeding.