Forging the Darksword (10 page)

Dulchase’s lip curled in a sneer, a habitual expression for the older Deacon who, because of his sharp tongue and irreverent attitude, would probably be a Deacon the rest of his life. He had been brought along in Vanya’s retinue only because he knew everyone and everything that lived or occurred in Merilon. “Dawn? Bosh! Dawn comes to Merilon whenever you open your eyes. You’d have the house in an uproar if you rose with the sun. Come to think of it, the sun itself isn’t even permitted to rise at dawn. The
Sif-Hanar
see to that. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Your first order of business is to grant the housemagi their gifts of Life for the day. Then, after resting from that fatiguing chore, which takes you all of five minutes, you are occasionally requested to do the same for the Master or Mistress, should they have any important work to do, such as feeding the peacocks or changing the color of milady’s eyes to match her gown. Then, if they have children, you have to educate the little buggers in their catechism and give them sufficient Life so that they may tumble about the house, delighting their parents by wrecking the furniture. After that you may rest until evening when you will escort milord and milady to the Royal Palace, standing by in order to assist milord in creating his usual phantasms that leave the Emperor yawning or to grant Life to milady so that she may win at Swan’s Doom or tarok.”

“Are you serious?” asked Saryon, rather anxiously.

Looking at him, Dulchase burst out laughing and received a reproving glance from the serious-minded novitiate.

“My dear Saryon, how naive you are! Perhaps old Vanya is right. You do need to get out in the world. I’m exaggerating, but only slightly. Still, it’s an ideal life, especially as far as you’re concerned.”

“It is?”

“Of course. You have all the resources of magic at your fingertips. You can spend the afternoon in the Library at the University here in Merilon, which, by the way, has one of the finest collections in the world on the lost magic, containing some volumes not even available at the Font. Step onto the silver bridge and you’re there. Want to pursue some studies with the Guilds or show them your newest equation to cut the time in conjuring up a fainting couch? Step into milord’s carriage and have it take you to the Three Sisters. Perhaps
you want to see for yourself how milord’s crops are doing. The Corridor whisks you to the fields where you can watch the little seeds sprout or whatever those poor wretches of Field Catalysts do. You’ll be set for life. Why, you could even marry.”

This was so obviously aimed at the novitiate that the girl tossed her head disapprovingly, but she could not refrain from casting another glance at the young Deacon.

“I think I might like it at that,” said Saryon after a moment’s reflection, “from an academic standpoint, of course,” he added hastily.

“Of course,” Dulchase replied dryly. “I say, my dear”—this to the novitiate—“you haven’t gotten us lost, have you? Or are you leading us into some remote part of the Cathedral to rob us?”

“Deacon!” murmured the novitiate, blushing up to the roots of her curly hair. “It—it’s down this corridor, the first room to your right.”

Turning, with a last, doe-eyed glance at Saryon, the girl almost ran down the hallway.

“Was that necessary?” muttered Saryon irritably, his eyes following the novitiate.

“Oh, lighten up, boy,” returned Dulchase crisply, rubbing his hands. “Lighten up. You’ll see what kind of life Merilon offers tonight. At last! We can escape this moldy old tomb! We’ll get this little twerp through his Tests, declare to the world that it has a Living Prince, and it’s time for us to mingle with the rich and the beautiful. You do know what you’re supposed to do, don’t you?”

“With the Tests?” Saryon asked, thinking for a moment Dulchase might have been referring to the rich and beautiful. “I hope so,” he answered with a sigh. “I’ve read the ritual until I can say it backwards. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?

“Hundreds of times, my boy, hundreds. You’re responsible for holding the kid, aren’t you? Most important thing to remember is to hold him with his little—mmmm … you know—pointing toward you, away from the Bishop. That way, if the little bastard urinates, it’s on you and not His Holiness.”

Fortunately for the shocked Saryon they had arrived outside the room now. Dulchase was forced to silence his cynical tongue and Saryon was spared responding to this last bit of advice that he had found just a bit too irreverent, even for Dulchase.

Entering on the heels of the others of Vanya’s staff, the two performed the oblations of cleaning and purifying themselves, then were led by a Deacon of the Cathedral to the chamber where all children born in Merilon are brought for the Tests. Generally, only two catalysts are present. This day, however, there was an illustrious group gathered. So many, in fact, that there was barely enough room left for the two Deacons to squeeze inside the small chamber. In addition to Bishop Vanya, dressed in his finest robes, there were the two Cardinals—Cardinal of the Realm and Cardinal of the Region—and six members of Vanya’s staff: four Priests, who would act as witnesses, and Saryon and Dulchase, the two Deacons, who would do the work. In addition, there was the Royal House Catalyst, a Lord, who held the baby in his arms, and the baby himself, who—having just been nursed—was sound asleep.

“Let us pray to the Almin,” said Bishop Vanya, bowing his head.

Saryon bowed his head in prayer, but the words fell from his lips unthinkingly. In his mind he was reviewing, once more, the ceremony of the Tests for Life.

Centuries old, said to have been brought from the Dark World, the Tests are quite simple. When the child is ten days old and judged strong enough to withstand the Testing, his parents bring him to the Cathedral—or to whatever place of worship is near them—and give him to the catalysts. The baby is taken into a small chamber sealed off from any outside influences, and the Tests are performed.

First, the child is stripped of his clothes, then placed upon his back in water that has been warmed to his body temperature. The Deacon holding the child releases the babe. A Living child remains afloat upon his back, neither sinking nor rolling over in the water nor kicking—just floating peacefully, calmly—the magical Life within him reacting to preserve his tiny body.

Following this first test, a Deacon brings forward a shining bauble of shimmering, ever-changing colors. He holds it above the child, who is still floating in the water. Though the baby’s eyes cannot yet focus, he is aware of the bauble and stretches out his hands toward it. When the Deacon drops the bauble, it drifts gently to the baby as, once again, the magical Life force within the child reacts to the stimulus without and draws the bauble toward him.

Finally, the Deacon lifts the baby out of the water. Holding the babe in his arms, the catalyst cuddles and caresses the baby until the child feels safe and at ease. Then, the other Deacon brings forward a flaming torch. Nearer and nearer the flame comes to the child’s skin until—through no action of the catalyst—the torch is brought to a halt as the child’s Life force instinctively envelops him in a magical protective shell.

These are the Tests—easily done, quickly ended. It was, as Dulchase had assured Saryon, a mere matter of formality.

“I don’t know why they’re still performed,” Dulchase had grumbled only the night before, “except that it’s a convenient way for some poor Field Catalyst to earn a few chickens and a bushel of corn from the peasants. Plus it gives the nobility an excuse to throw another party. Other than that, it’s meaningless.”

So it was, up until that time.

“Deacon Dulchase, Deacon Saryon, begin the Tests,” said Bishop Vanya solemnly.

Stepping forward, Saryon took the baby from the Lord Catalyst of the Royal House. The child was wrapped tightly in a costly blanket made of lamb’s wool. Saryon, unaccustomed to handling anything this small and delicate, fumbled as he attempted to divest the baby of his cocoon without waking him. At length, feeling every eye in the chamber watching him impatiently, Saryon held the naked child in his arms and returned the blanket to the Lord Catalyst.

Turning to place the babe in the water, Saryon looked down at the little boy sleeping peacefully in his arms and immediately forgot the eyes watching him. The young catalyst had never held a baby before, and he was captivated by
this one. Even Saryon could see that the child was unusually beautiful. Strong and healthy with a mop of fuzzy dark hair, the Prince’s skin was alabaster, with a bluish tint around the closed eyes. The tiny fists were curled shut. Touching one gently, Saryon was charmed to notice the perfect little fingernails and toenails. How marvelous, he thought, that the Almin should have taken time to attend to such mundane details in creating this small person.

An impatient cough from Dulchase recalled Saryon to his duties. The older Deacon had removed the seal from the basin containing the warm water. A pleasant, fragrant scent filled the air. One of the novitiates had scattered rose petals on the surface.

Murmuring the ritual prayer that he had been up half the night memorizing, Saryon gently placed the baby in the water. The child’s eyes opened at the touch of the liquid upon his skin, but he did not cry.

“That’s a brave one,” murmured Saryon, smiling at the baby, who was looking around with the thoughtful, slightly puzzled expression of the newborn.

“Release the child,” instructed Bishop Vanya formally.

Gently, Saryon removed his hands from the baby’s body.

The Prince sank like a stone.

Starting slightly, Dulchase stepped forward, but Saryon was there ahead of him. Reaching into the water, he snatched up the baby and hauled him out. Awkwardly holding the dripping-wet child, who was coughing and sputtering and attempting to cry at this rude treatment, Saryon looked around uncertainly.

“Perhaps it was my fault, Holiness,” he said hurriedly just as the baby managed to draw a breath and let it out in a shrill scream. “I let go of him too soon …”

“Nonsense, Deacon,” Vanya said crisply. “Proceed.”

It wasn’t unusual for a child to fail one of the Tests, particularly if he were unusually strong in one of the Mysteries. A warlock strong in the Fire Mystery, for example, might easily fail the Test of Water.

Recalling this from his reading, Saryon relaxed and held the baby as Deacon Dulchase brought forward the bauble and held it above the child’s head. At the sight of the bright toy, the Prince ceased to cry and stretched out his tiny hands
in delight. Deacon Dulchase, at a word from Bishop Vanya, dropped the bauble.

The toy struck the Prince on the nose and bounced to the floor amidst a dreadful silence that was immediately shattered by the baby’s howl of pain and outrage. A spot of blood appeared on the child’s fair skin.

Saryon glanced up fearfully at Dulchase, hoping to see some sign of reassurance. But Dulchase’s normally sneering lips were now pressed tightly together, the cynical glint was gone from his eye, and he carefully avoided Saryon’s gaze. The young Deacon looked around frantically, only to see his fellows staring at each other in confusion and alarm.

Bishop Vanya whispered something to the Lord Catalyst, who, his face pale and strained, nodded emphatically.

“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.