Forging the Darksword (2 page)

And we knew that we were alone. The Almin had left us.

When will this Prophecy come about? What does it mean? We do not know, though our best minds are studying it word for word, even letter by letter. The new Bishop thinks to undertake another Vision, but that seems unlikely, as the theurgist lies at the point of death and he is surely the last of his kind left alive in this world.

It has been decreed, therefore, that I write these words to you who may perchance see a future many of us do not believe will come to pass. This parchment will be given into the
hands of the Duuk-tsarith to keep. It will be known only to them, who know everything, and to the Bishop of the Realm, revealed to him the day of his coronation.

Let it then be kept secret, lest the people rise up in panic to destroy the Royal Households and a reign of terror descend upon our land like that which drove us from our ancient home.

May the Almin be with you …and with us all.

The name penned below is illegible and not important.

Since that time, all Bishops of the Realm—and there have been many—have read the Prophecy. All have wondered fearfully if it would come to pass within their lifetime. All have prayed that it would not …

…and secretly planned what they would do if it did.

Catalyst of Merilon

T
he child was Dead. In regard to that, everyone was in agreement.

All of the wizards, magi, and archmagi who floated in a shimmering circle above the marble floor, the shade of which had been changed hastily the previous night from radiant white to a proper shade of mourning blue, were in agreement. All of the black-robed warlocks, who maintained their attitude of cool aloofness and strict attention to duty as they hovered at their assigned posts appeared, by the even more rigid posture of their stance, to be in agreement. All of the thaumaturgists—catalysts—who stood humbly upon the blue floor, were, by the somber hues of their robes, in agreement.

A gentle rain, whose tears slid down the vaulting glass of the crystal walls of the magnificent Cathedral of Merilon, wept in agreement. The very air that stirred in the cathedral, tinged with the soft aura of moonlight conjured up by the wizards to glow upon this solemn occasion, agreed. Even the golden and white trees of the Cathedrals park, whose graceful branches glistened in the pale, misty light, agreed—or
seemed to Saryon to agree. He fancied he could hear their leaves rustling in low, mournful whispers … the Prince is Dead … the Prince is Dead.

The Emperor agreed. (For which agreement, Saryon thought caustically, Bishop Vanya had undoubtedly spent most of last night upon his knees, exhorting the Almin to grant him the smoothness of tongue of the serpent.) Hovering in the air in the nave of the cathedral, the Emperor floated beside the ornate rosewood crib that stood in the center of a marble dais, staring at the baby, his arms folded across his chest to signify rejection. His face stern and set in rigid lines, the only outward sign of his grief was the gradual change of his
Golden Sun
robes to a shade of
Weeping Blue—
the same color as the marble floor. The Emperor himself maintained the stately dignity expected of him even at this time, when his last chance for an heir to the throne had died with this tiny baby; for Bishop Vanya had undertaken the Vision and had foreseen that there would be no more issue for the Empress, whose health was fragile and precarious.

Bishop Vanya stood upon the marble dais near the rosewood crib. He did not float above it, as did the Emperor. Standing himself, Saryon could not help but wonder if Vanya felt the envy that gnawed at the catalyst; envy of the magi, who, even on this solemn occasion, seemed to flaunt their power over the weak thaumaturgists, hovering over them in the air.

It is only the magi of Thimhallan who possess the gift of Life in such abundance that they are able to travel the world on the wings of the air. The catalyst’s Life force is so low that he must conserve every spark. Because he is forced to walk through this world and this life, the symbol of the catalyst’s order is the shoe.

The shoe: a symbol of our pious self-sacrifice, a symbol of our humility, reflected Saryon bitterly, wrenching his gaze from the magi and forcing his thoughts back to the ceremony. He saw Bishop Vanya bow his mitered head in prayer to the Almin, and he saw, too, the Emperor keeping close watch on Bishop Vanya, watching for his cues, awaiting instruction. At a subtle sign from Vanya, the Emperor bowed his head as well, as did everyone in the court.

Saryon glanced again at the magi hovering around and above him out of the corner of his eye as he absently murmured the prayer. But this time the glance was a thoughtful one. Yes, a humble symbol the shoe—

Bishop Vanya raised his head briskly. So did the Emperor. Saryon noticed that Vanya’s relief showed markedly in his face. The fact that the Emperor had agreed with him that the Prince was Dead made matters much easier. Saryon’s gaze strayed to the Empress. There would be trouble here. The Bishop knew it, all the catalysts knew it, everyone in court knew it. In a hastily convened meeting among the catalysts last night, they had all been warned how to react. Saryon saw Vanya tense. Ostensibly, he was going over the formalities with the Emperor in the ritual proscribed by law.

“… this Lifeless body will be taken to the Font where the Deathwatch will be performed …”

But, in reality, Vanya was keeping a sharp eye on the Empress, and Saryon saw the Bishop frown slightly. The color of the Empress’s robe, which should have been the most vivid, most beautiful shade of
Weeping Blue
among all present, was slightly off—a sort of dull Ash
Gray.
But Vanya refrained from tactfully reminding her, as he would have at any other time, to change it. He was thankful—everyone present was thankful—that the woman was apparently in control of herself once more. A powerful wizardess, one of the
Albanara
, her initial reaction of outrage and grief upon hearing the news that her child was Dead had caused all the catalysts to withdraw their conduits to her for fear she would use the Life force they granted to wreak terrible destruction upon the Palace.

But the Emperor had talked to his beloved wife, and now even she, too, appeared to be in agreement. Her baby was Dead.

In fact, the only one present who was
not
in agreement that the baby was Dead appeared to be the baby himself, who was screaming frenziedly. But his cries were lost, ascending as they did into the vast, vaulting crystal heaven above him.

Bishop Vanya, his gaze now fully on the Empress, launched into the next part of the ceremony rather more hurriedly
than was absolutely proper. Saryon knew why. The Bishop feared the Empress might pick up the baby whose body had been washed and purified. Only Bishop Vanya himself was now permitted to touch him.

But the Empress, exhausted by the difficult birth and by her recent outburst, apparently had no energy left to defy Vanya’s orders. She lacked even the energy to float above the crib, but sat on the floor beside it, shedding crystal tears that shattered upon the blue marble. These sparkling tears were her sign of agreement.

A muscle in Vanya’s face twitched when those tears began to fall with a musical sound upon the floor. Saryon even thought he saw the Bishop start to smile in relief, but the man recollected himself in time and carefully arranged his face to a more suitable expression of sorrow.

When the Bishop came smoothly to the end of the ritual, the Emperor nodded once with grave dignity, repeating the ancient, prescribed words, whose meaning no one remembered, with only the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice.

“The Prince is Dead.
Dies ireae, dies illa. Solvet saeclum in favilla. Toeste David cum Sibylla.

Then Vanya, who was growing more relaxed as every passing moment brought the ceremony nearer completion, turned to look around at the court to make certain that each was in his proper place, that each had his or her robes changed to the proper shade of blue to match his or her station.

His gaze went from the Cardinal to the two Priests present to the three Deacons. And there his gaze stopped. Bishop Vanya frowned.

Saryon trembled. The Bishops stern eye was on him! What had he done? He had no idea what was wrong. Frantically he looked around, hoping to catch some hint from those standing near him.

“Too damn much green!” muttered Deacon Dulchase out of the corner of his mouth. Hastily Saryon glanced down at his robes. Dulchase was right! Saryon was
Turbulent Water
in the midst of
Weeping Skies!

Feeling his face flush until it was a wonder he wasn’t dripping blood upon the floor as the Empress was dripping tears, the young Deacon endeavored to change the color of
his robe to match those of his brethren standing in the Illustrious Circle of the Court. Since changing the color of one’s raiment requires only the smallest use of the Life force, it is magic even the weak catalysts can perform. Saryon was thankful for that. It would have been embarrassing past endurance if he had been forced to ask one of the magi to assist him. As it was, he was so flustered that he barely had it in him to cast this simple spell. His robe went from
Turbulent Water
to
Still Pond
, hovered there an agonizing moment, then finally—with a wrench—the young Deacon achieved
Weeping Skies.

Vanya’s eye remained on him until he got it right. The eyes of everyone were on the poor young man by now, even the Emperor. It was probably just as well that I was
not
born a magus, Saryon thought in agony. I would have vanished on the spot. As it was, he could only stand there, wilting beneath the Bishop’s glare, until, still frowning, Vanya completed his inspection, his gaze continuing on around the semicircle to the nobles of the court.

Satisfied, Vanya turned back to face the Emperor and embarked upon the final portion of the ceremony for the Dead Prince. Saryon, absorbed in his own shame, did not attend to what was being said. He knew he would be reprimanded. What would he say in his own defense? That the baby’s wailing distressed him?

That, at least, was true enough. The child, only ten days old, was lying in his crib, crying lustily—he was a strong, well-formed child—for the love and attention and nourishment he had once received but would now receive no more. Saryon could offer this as his excuse, but he knew from past experience that Bishop Vanya’s face would simply attain a look of vast patience.

“We cannot hear the cries of the Dead, only their echoes,” Saryon heard him say, as he had said last night.

Perhaps that was true. But Saryon was well aware that those echoes would haunt his sleep for a long time to come.

He could tell the Bishop this, which was the truth but only part of the truth, or he could tell him the rest—I was distressed because the death of this child has ruined
my
life.

It may or may not be to the Bishop’s credit, Saryon thought gloomily, but he had a feeling that Vanya would be
more apt to sympathize with the second excuse for his failure in the matter of the robe better than the first.

Feeling a swift jab in the ribs—Dulchase’s elbow—Saryon quickly lowered his head again, forcing the ritual words out from between clenched teeth. Desperately he sought to pull himself together, but it was difficult. The child’s wailing pierced his heart. He longed to rush from the hall, and wished devoutly that the ceremony would come to an end.

Vanya’s chanting voice fell silent. Raising his head, Saryon saw the Bishop look questioningly at the Emperor, who had to give his permission to begin the Death watch. The men stared at each other for an eternity, as far as Saryon was concerned. Then, with a nod, the Emperor turned his back upon the child and stood, his head bowed, in the ritual mourning posture. Saryon heaved such an audible sigh of relief that Deacon Dulchase, looking shocked, jabbed him in the ribs again.

Saryon didn’t care. The ceremony was almost over.

His arms outstretched, Bishop Vanya took a step forward toward the cradle. Hearing his robes rustle, the Empress looked up for the first time since the court had assembled. Glancing around dazedly, she saw Vanya approaching the crib. Frantically her gaze went to her husband, and saw only the Emperors back.

“No!” With a heartbroken moan, she threw her arms over the cradle, clutching it to her breast. It was a pitiful gesture. Even in her grief, she dared not defy the catalysts enough to touch her baby.

“No! No!” she sobbed over and over.

Bishop Vanya glanced at the Emperor and cleared his throat significantly. The Emperor, who was watching Vanya out of the corner of his eye, did not have to turn. Slowly, he nodded his head again. Vanya stepped forward resolutely. Then, greatly daring, he opened a conduit to the Empress, trying to use the flow of Life to ease her unreasoning sorrow. It seemed to Saryon a foolish thing to do, giving additional power to this already powerful wizardess. But then perhaps Vanya knew what he was about. After all, he had known the Empress for thirty years, ever since she was a child.