Forging the Darksword (4 page)

“That much I can do with the power of my magic. But, wouldn’t it be wonderful, I ask myself sometimes, to be able to raise this boulder up out of the earth and shape it into … into …” he paused, then waved his hand, “into a house, for us to live in … just you and I …”

A shadow darkened the wizard’s face as he glanced back in the direction of the house he had just left, the house where his wife was already up and busily attending to her ritual of morning prayer.

“Why don’t you, Father?” his child asked eagerly.

The wizard’s attention returned to his surroundings, and he smiled again, though there was a bitterness in the smile that Saryon saw but did not understand.

“What was I saying?” the wizard murmured, frowning. “Oh, yes.” His face cleared. “I cannot shape a house from rock, my son. Only the
Pron-alban
, the craft magi, possess that gift of the Almin’s. Nor can I change lead to gold as can the
Mon-alban.
I must use what the Almin has given me …”

“I don’t think much of the Almin, then,” said the child petulantly, poking at the grass with a toe, “if all he gave me was these old shoes!”

Saryon glanced up at his father out of the corner of his eye after he spoke to see the effect of such a daring, blasphemous remark. It would have had his mother quivering in white-faced anger. But the wizard put his hand upon his lips
as though to keep them from smiling against his will. Clasping his arm around his son, he drew the child close.

“The Almin has given you the greatest gift of all,” said the wizard. “The gift of Life-transference. It is in your power, and yours alone, to absorb the Life, the magic, that is in the ground and the air and all around us into your body and focus it and give it to me or someone like me so that I may use its power to enhance my own. This is the gift of the Almin to the catalyst. It is his gift to you.”

“I don’t think it’s a very good gift.” Saryon pouted, squirming in his father’s embrace.

Lifting him up, the wizard set the little boy upon his lap. Better to explain things to the boy now and let him get the bitterness out of his system when they were alone together than to upset his pious mother.

“It is a good enough gift that it has survived through the centuries,” the wizard answered severely, “and it has helped
us
survive the centuries, even the times in the old Dark World where the ancients lived, so we are told.”

“I know,” said the little boy. Nestling his head against his father’s chest, he recited the lesson glibly, speaking unconsciously in the clipped, cold, precise voice of his mother. “Then we were called ‘familiars’ and the ancients used us as a repos—reposi—repository”—he stumbled over the hard word, but eventually brought it out, his face flushed with effort and triumph—“of their energy. This was done so that the fire of the magic did not destroy their bodies and so that their enemies would not discover them. To protect us, they shaped us into the likeness of small animals, and thus we worked together to keep magic in the world.”

“Just so,” said the wizard, stroking the child approvingly on the head. “You recite the catechism well, but do you understand it?”

“Yes,” said Saryon with a sigh. “I understand, I guess.” But he frowned as he said it.

Putting his finger beneath the boy’s chin, the wizard turned the solemn little face up to look into his.

“You understand and you will be thankful to the Almin and work to please him … and to please me?” the wizard asked softly. He hesitated, then continued. “For you will please me, if you try to be happy in your work, even though
… even though I may not be around much to let you know that I am watching you and interested in you.”

“Yes, Father,” said the child, sensing a deep sorrow in his father’s voice that he longed to ease. “I will be happy, I promise. But why won’t you be here? Where are you going?”

“I am not going anywhere, at least not for a little while,” his father said, smiling again and ruffling the fair hair. “In fact, it will be you that leaves me. But, that will not be for a time yet, so do not worry. Look—” He pointed suddenly at four winged men, who could be seen flying over the treetops, bearing two large, golden disks between them. The wizard stood up, setting the little boy down again upon the boulder. “Now, stay here, Saryon. I must cast the enchantment upon the seeds—”

“I know what you’re going to do!” Saryon cried, standing up upon the rock so that he see better. The winged men flew closer, their golden disks shining like youthful suns bringing another dawn to earth. “Let me help!” the boy pleaded eagerly, reaching out his hand to his father. “Let me transfer the magic to you as Mother does.”

Again the shadow darkened the wizard’s face but it vanished almost instantly as he looked down upon his small catalyst. “Very well,” he said, though he knew the boy was too young to perform the complicated task of sensing for the magic and opening a conduit to him. It would take the child many years of study to attain the art. Years in which his father would no longer have a part of his own son’s life. Seeing the small face looking up at him eagerly, the wizard checked a sigh. Reaching out his hand, he took hold of his son’s hand in his and solemnly pretended to accept the Gift of Life.

A person born in Thimhallan is born to his or her place and station in life, something not uncommon in a feudal society. A duke is generally born a duke, for example, just as a peasant is generally born a peasant.

Thimhallan had its noble families, who had ruled for generations. It had its peasants. What made Thimhallan unique was that certain of its people had their place and station determined for them—not by society—but by the inborn knowledge of one of the Mysteries of Life.

There are Nine Mysteries. Eight of them deal with Life or Magic, for, in the world of Thimhallan, Life
is
Magic. Everything that exists in this land exists either by the will of the Almin, who placed it here before even the ancients arrived, or has since been either “shaped, formed, summoned, or conjured,” these being the four Laws of Nature. These Laws are controlled through at least one of eight of the Mysteries: Time, Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Life. Of these Mysteries, only the first five currently survive in the land. Two—the Mysteries of Time and of Spirit—were lost during the Iron Wars. With them vanished forever the knowledge possessed by the ancients—the ability to divine the future, the ability to build the Corridors, and the ability to communicate with those who had passed from this life into the Beyond.

As for the last Mystery, the Ninth Mystery, it is practiced, but only by those who walk in darkness. Believed by most to have been the cause of the destructive Iron Wars, the Mystery was banished from the land. Its Sorcerers were sent Beyond, their tools and deadly engines destroyed. The Ninth Mystery is the forbidden mystery. Known as Death, its other name is Technology.

When a child is born in Thimhallan, he or she is given a series of tests to discover the particular mystery in which that child is most skilled. This determines the child’s future role in Life.

The tests might indicate, for example, that the child is skilled in the Mystery of Air. If he is from the lower castes, he will become one of the
Kan-Hanar
, whose duties include the maintenance of the Corridors that provide the swiftest means of travel within Thimhallan, and the supervision of all commerce within and among the cities of the land. The child of a noble family with this skill will almost certainly ascend to the rank of arch magus and will be made
Sif-Hanar
, whose vast responsibilities include controlling the weather. It is the
Sif-Hanar
who make the air in the cities balmy and sweet one day or whiten the rooftops with a decorative snow the next. In the farmlands, it is the duty of the
Sif-Hanar
to see that the rain falls and the sun shines when needed and that they neither fall nor shine when not needed.

Those born with the Mystery of Fire are the warriors of Thimhallan. Witches and warlocks, they become
DKarn-Duuk
, with the power to call up the destructive forces of war. They are also the guardians of the people. The black-robed
Duuk-tsarith
, the Enforcers, are among this class.

The Mystery of Earth is the most common of the Mysteries, accounting for the majority of people residing in Thimhallan. Among these are the lowest caste in the land—the Field Magi, those who tend the crops. Above these are the craftsmen, divided into Guilds depending on their varying skills—the
Quin-alban
, the conjurers; the
Pron-alban
, magicians; the
Mon-alban
, the alchemists. The highest of this class, wizards and wizardesses, or the
Albanara
, have a general knowledge of all these skills and are those responsible for governing the populace.

A child born to the Mystery of Water is a Druid. Sensitive to nature, these magi use their talents to nurture and protect all living things. The
Fihanish
, or Field Druids, deal mainly with the growth and prospering of plant and animal life. The Druids most revered however are the Healers. The art of healing is a complex skill, utilizing the magus’s own magic combined with the magic of the patient to help the body heal itself. The
Mannanish
treat minor illnesses and injuries, as well as practice midwifery. The highest rank, that which takes most power and study, is attained by the
Theldari
, who treat serious illnesses. Though it is believed that anciently they had the power of resurrection, the
Theldari
can no longer restore life to the dead.

Those who practice the Mystery of Shadow are the Illusionists, the artists of Thimhallan. These are the people who create charming phantasms and paint pictures in the air with palettes of rain and Stardust.

Finally, a child may be born to the rarest of the Mysteries, the Mystery of Life. The thaumaturgist, or catalyst, is the dealer in magic, though he does not possess it in great measure himself. It is the catalyst, as his name implies, who takes the Life from the earth and the air, from fire and water, and, by assimilating it within his own body, is able to enhance it and transfer it to the magi who can use it.

And, of course, a child is sometimes born Dead.

Saryon

S
aryon was born a catalyst. He had no choice in the matter. He came from a small province located outside the walls of the city of Merilon. His father was a wizard of third-rank nobility. His mother, a cousin of the Empress, was a catalyst of some consequence. She left the Church only when told that the Vision had been performed and that it was foreseen that marriage to this nobleman would produce issue. The catalyst trait would be passed on to an heir.

Saryon’s mother obeyed without question, though the marriage was beneath her. His father obeyed without question as well. A nobleman of his standing might or might not obey an order from the Emperor. But no one, regardless of rank, refused a request of the catalysts.

Saryon’s mother performed her marriage as she performed all her religious duties. When the proper time came, she and her husband traveled to the Groves of Healing where his seed was taken from him by the
Mannanish
, the minor healers, and given to his wife. In due time, their child was born as the Vision had foreseen.

Saryon was typical in that he began his training at the age of six. He was not typical in that he was allowed to train under the tutelage of his mother, due to her high ranking within the Church. On the sixth anniversary of his birth, the boy was brought into his mother’s presence. From that moment on, for the next fourteen years, he spent every day with her in study and in prayer. When Saryon was twenty, he left his mother’s house forever, traveling through the Corridors to the most holy, most sacred place in Thimhallan—the Font.

The history of the Font is the history of Thimhallan. Many, many centuries before, in a time whose memories were crushed and scattered amid the chaos of the Iron Wars, a persecuted people fled to this world, voluntary exiles from their own. The magical journey had been a terrible one. The great energies needed to perform such a feat drained the last vestige of life from many of their number, who gave up their lives willingly so that their kind might survive and prosper in a land they themselves would never see.

They came to this place because the magic in this world was strong; so strong it drew them to it—a lodestone leading them safely through time and space. They stayed in this place because the world was empty and alone.

There were drawbacks. Terrible storms raged over the new, raw land. Its mountains spewed fire, its waters ran savage, its vegetation was thick and untamed. But, as their feet touched the ground, the people felt the magic stirring and beating beneath them, like a living heart. They could feel it, sense it; and they searched for its source enduring countless hardship and untold suffering on the way.

At last they found it, the source of the magic—a mountain whose fire had burned out, leaving the magic behind to glow like a diamond beneath the bright, unfamiliar sun.