Forging the Darksword (5 page)

They called this mountain the Font and here it was, at the Well of Life, that the catalysts established their home and the center of their world. At first there had been only a few catacombs, hurriedly shaped and hewn by those eager to escape the perils of the world outside. During the centuries, these few, crude tunnels had grown into a maze of corridors and halls, of chambers and rooms, of kitchens and courtyards and terraced parks. A university, built on the side of the
mountain, taught the young
Albanara
the skills they would need to rule their lands and their people. Young
Theldari
came to advance their healing arts, the young
Sif-Hanar
to study the ways of controlling wind and clouds, all assisted by young novitiates among the catalysts. The craft guilds had their centers of learning here as well. In order to provide for the students and their teachers, a small city sprang up at the foot of the mountain.

At the very top of the mountain was a grand cathedral, the summit of the mountain peak itself forming the vaulting ceiling, the view from the windows so magnificent many wept for the sheer awe and beauty of the sight.

Few there were on Thimhallan who saw the view from the summit, however. Once, the Font had been open to all, from Emperor to housemagus. Following the Iron Wars, that policy had changed. Now only the catalysts themselves, plus those privileged few who worked for them, were permitted within its holy walls, and only the highest officials of the Church allowed to enter the sacred chamber of the Well. There was a city within the mountain as well as without, the catalysts having everything they needed to live and continue their work within the Font. Many novitiates walked through its doors as young men and women and, if they left at all, it was only in whatever form the dead take as they journey Beyond.

Saryon was one of these novitiates, and he might have lived his life out peacefully here as had countless others before him.

But Saryon was different. In fact, he came to think of himself as cursed ….

The
Theldara
, one of those few outsiders chosen to live in the Font, was working outdoors in his herb garden when a venerable old raven hopped gravely down the pathway between the neat rows of young seedlings and, with a croak, informed his master that the patient had arrived. With a word of gracious thanks to the bird—who, being so old that he was losing the feathers on top of his head, looked not unlike a catalyst himself—the Druid left his sunny garden, returning to the cool, darkened, peaceful confines of the infirmary.

“Sun arise, Brother,” the
Theldara
said, entering the Waiting Chamber quietly, his brown robes brushing the stone floor with a soft, whispering sound.

“S-sun arise, Healer,” stammered the young man, starting. He had been staring moodily out a window and had not heard the entry of the druid.

“If you will walk this way with me,” continued the
Theldara
, his sharp, penetrating gaze taking in every aspect of the young catalyst from the unnatural pallor of his complexion to the chewed fingernails to the nervous preoccupation, “we will go to my private quarters, which are more comfortable, for our little talk.”

The young man nodded and answered politely, but it was obvious to the Druid that he might have invited the catalyst to walk off a cliff and received the same vague response. They passed through the infirmary with its long rows of beds, the wood lovingly shaped into the image of cupped hands holding mattresses of sweet-smelling leaves and herbs, whose fragrant combination promoted sleep and relaxation. Here and there, a few patients rested, listening to prescribed music and concentrating their bodies’ energies on the healing process. The
Theldara
had a word for each as he passed, but he did not stop, leading his charge out of this area into another chamber, more closed off and private. In a sunny room whose walls were made of glass, a room filled with growing, living things, the Druid sat down upon a cushion of soft pine needles and invited his patient to do the same.

The catalyst did so, plopping down upon it awkwardly. He was a tall young man, stoop-shouldered, with hands and feet that seemed too big for his body. He was carelessly dressed, his robes too short for his height. There were gray smudges of fatigue beneath the dull eyes. The Druid noticed all this without seeming to take any unusual interest in his patient, chatting all the time about the weather and inquiring if the catalyst would partake of a soothing tea.

Having received a muttered acquiescence, the
Theldara
gestured and a sphere of steaming liquid obediently floated from the fire, filled two cups, and returned to its proper place. The Druid took one cautious sip of his tea, then casually caused the cup to float down to the table. The herbal concoction was intended to relax inhibitions and encourage
free talking. He watched carefully as the young man gulped his down thirstily, seemingly unmindful of the liquid’s heat and probably never even tasting it. Putting his cup down, the young man stared out one of the large glass windows.

“I am very pleased we have this chance to visit, Brother Saryon,” said the Druid, motioning to the sphere to fill the young man’s cup again. “So often I see you young people only when you are sick. You are feeling well, are you not, Brother?”

“I am fine, Healer,” said the young man, still staring out the window. “I came here only at the request of my Master.”

“Yes, you seem well enough in body,” the
Theldara
said mildly, “but our bodies are merely shells for our minds. If the mind suffers, it harms the body.”

“I am fine,” Saryon repeated somewhat impatiently. “A touch of insomnia …”

“But I’m told you have been missing Evening Prayer, that you do not take your daily exercise, and you have been skipping meals.” The Druid was silent a moment, watching with expert eyes the tea begin to take effect. The stooped shoulders slumped, the eyelids drooped, the nervous hands slowly settled into the catalyst’s lap. “How old are you, Brother? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

“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—”