Triumph of the Darksword (3 page)

As if in answer to some unspoken question, the leather scabbard fell from the statues hands and landed in the sand at the man’s feet. He bent down to pick it up, then started as something warm dropped on his skin.

Blood.

Aghast, the man looked up. Blood oozed from the cracks in the statues hands, dripped out of the deep gouges in the stone flesh, ran down the broken stone fingers.

“Damn them!” the man cried in fury.

Standing up, he faced the statue of the catalyst, seeing now not only blood running from the hands but tears falling from the stone eyes.

“You gave me my life!” the man cried. “I can’t return that to you, Father, but at least I can give you the peace of death! By the Almin, they won’t torment you anymore!”

The man lifted the Darksword and the weapon began to glow with an eerie, white-blue light. “May your soul rest in peace at last, Saryon!” the man prayed, and, with all the strength of his body, he drove the sword into the statue’s stone breast.

The Darksword felt itself wielded. Blue light twined and twisted along the blade, surging up the man’s aims as the weapon thirstily drank the magic of the world that gave it life. Deep, deep into the rock it plunged, striking the statues stone heart.

A cry escaped the statue’s cold, unmoving lips—a cry heard not so much with the ears as with the soul. The stone around the sword began to shatter and crack. Jagged lines spread through the statue’s body with snapping, rending sounds that obliterated the catalyst’s pain-filled voice. An arm broke at the shoulder. The torso split into shards and toppled from the trunk. The head cracked at the neck and tumbled to the sand.

The man yanked the sword free. Blinded by his tears, he could not see, but he heard the shattering of the stone and he knew the man he had learned too late to love was dead.

Hurling the Darksword to the sand, he pressed his hands against his eyes, fighting to stop the tears of rage and pain. He drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“They will pay,” he vowed thickly. “By the Almin, they will—”

A hand touched his arm. A voice, deep and low, spoke hesitantly, “My son? Joram?”

Lifting his head, the man stared.

Saryon stood amidst the ruins of the stone body.

Reaching out a trembling hand, Joram grasped the catalyst’s arm and felt warm, living flesh beneath his fingers.

“Father?” he cried brokenly, and was clasped fast in Saryon’s embrace.

T
he two men held each other close, then separated. Each regarded the other intently. Joram’s eyes went to The catalyst’s hands, but Saryon hastily folded them one over the other, keeping them hidden in the sleeves of his robes.

“What has happened to you, my son?” The catalyst studied the stern face that was familiar, yet vastly different. “Where have you been?” His puzzled gaze went to the deep lines carved near the firm mouth, the fine lines around the eyes. “I have lost track of time, it seems. I could have sworn that only one year has passed—only once has the winter chilled my blood, only once the sun beaten down upon my head. Yet I see the marks of many years upon your face!”

Joram’s lips parted to speak, but a wail interrupted him. Turning, he saw the woman slump down in the sand, frustrated and disconsolate.

“Who is this?” Saryon asked, following Joram as he walked toward the woman.

Joram glanced at his friend.

“Do you remember what you told me, Father?” he asked harshly “About the grooms gift. ‘All I could ever give her,’ you said, ‘was grief.’”

“Blessed Almin,” Saryon breathed in sorrow, recognizing now the golden hair of the woman who sat, weeping, on the shore.

Walking over to her, Joram leaned down and placed his hands upon her shoulders. Despite his grim expression, his touch was gentle and loving and the woman yielded to him as he lifted her to her feet. Raising her head, she looked directly at the catalyst, but there was no recognition in her wide, too-bright eyes.

“Gwendolyn!” Saryon murmured.

“Now my wife,” said Joram.

“They are here.” Gwen spoke sadly, seeming to pay no attention to Joram. “They are all around me, yet they will not speak to me.”

“Who is she talking about?” Saryon asked. The beach was empty, except for themselves and, in the far distance, another stone Watcher. “Who is all around us?”

“The dead,” Joram answered, holding the woman to his breast and soothing her as she leaned her golden head upon his strong chest.

“The dead?”

“My wife no longer communicates with the living,” Joram explained, his voice expressionless as though he had long ago accustomed himself to this pain. “She talks only with the dead. If I were not here to watch her and care for her,” he added softly, stroking the golden hair with his hand, “I think she would join them I am her one link with life. She follows me, she seems to know me, yet she will not speak directly to me or call me by name. She has not spoken to me—except once—in these past ten years.”

“Ten years!” Saryon’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed as he studied Joram intently. “Yes, I might have guessed. So wherever you have been, ten years have passed for you to one of ours.”

“I did not know that would happen,” Joram said, his thick, black brows drawing together. “Yet I might have, if I had considered it.” He added, after a moment’s thought,
“Time slows here in the center, moving faster and faster as it expands outward.”

“I don’t understand,” Saryon said.

“No.” Joram shook his head. “And neither will many others….” His voice died. Absently, he smoothed Gwendolyn’s hair, his brown eyes staring far off into the land of Thimhallan. The sun had disappeared, leaving behind only a rapidly fading pale light in the sky. Shadows gathered on the beach, hiding those who stood there from the view of the Watchers, whose silent, frantic shouts were going unheard anyway.

No one spoke. Gazing intently into the distance, as if endeavoring to see beyond the sands, beyond the plains, the forests, and the rims of the mountains, Joram appeared to be mulling over some decision.

Saryon kept quiet, fearing to disturb him. Though many questions crowded into his mind, one question alone blazed with the bright light of a fiery forge, and he knew it would shed light upon all the others. But that question Saryon dared not ask, fearing as he did the answer.

He waited in silence, his eyes on Gwendolyn, who looked around the gathering gloom from the shelter of her husband’s strong arm, her face sad and wistful.

Finally, Joram shook his head, the black hair falling about his face, his thoughts returning from whatever world in which he had been wandering to the beach where they stood.

Feeling Gwendolyn shivering in the chill night air, Joram drew her wet cloak more closely around her. “Another thing I might have known, had I thought about it,” he said, speaking to Saryon, “was that the Darksword would break the spell holding you prisoner. I didn’t, however. I wanted only to give you rest….”

“I know, my son. And I welcomed it. You cannot imagine the horror—” Saryon shut his eyes.

“No, I cannot!” said Joram, anger burning his voice. At the sight of his dark face scowling in the gloom, Gwen shrank away from him. Seeing her fear, he made an obvious effort to master himself. “I am thankful that you are here with me, Saryon,” he added in cold, measured tones. “You will stay with me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Saryon said firmly. His fate was bound up in Joram’s. No matter what he intended.

Joram smiled suddenly; the brown eyes warmed, his shoulders relaxing as though a burden had been lifted from them. “Thank you, Father,” he said. Looking down at Gwen, he put his arm around her and, hesitantly, she huddled against his side. “I ask this favor of you, then, my old friend. Watch over my wife. Take her in your care. There is much I must do and I may not always be able to stay close by her. Will you do this for me?”

“Yes, my son,” Saryon said, though inwardly he asked fearfully,
What must you do?

“Will you stay with this Priest, my dear?” Joram said gently to his wife. “You knew him once, long ago.”

Gwendolyn’s blue eyes went to Saryon, a mystified expression clouding them. “Why won’t they talk to me?” she asked.

“My lady,” the catalyst said helplessly, not knowing quite how to reply, “the dead of Thimhallan are not accustomed to talking to the living. No one has been able to hear them in many hundreds of years. Perhaps they have lost their voices. Be patient.”

He smiled at her reassuringly, but it was a sad smile. He could not help thinking of the merry, laughing girl of sixteen who stood before him at the gates of Merilon, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. Looking into the blue eyes, he remembered the dawn of first love that had made them radiant. Now the only light in Gwen’s eyes was the eerie light of madness. Saryon shuddered, wondering what terrible thing had happened to her to cause her to retreat from the world of the living into the shadowy realm of the dead.

“I think they’re frightened of something,” she said, and Saryon realized she was not talking to him or to her husband but to the empty air, “and they want desperately to tell someone, to warn them. They want to speak, but they can’t remember how.”

Saryon glanced at Joram, somewhat taken back by the earnestness of her discussion.

“Does she really—”

“See them? Talk to them? Or is she insane?” Joram shrugged “I was told by”—he paused, the dark brows coming
together—“by someone experienced in these matters that she might be a Necromancer, one of the ancient wizardesses who had the power to communicate with the dead. If that is true, it’s fitting”—Joram’s lips twisted in a bitter half-smile—“since she married a Dead man.”

“Joram,” said Saryon, at last able to give utterance to the terrible question burning in his mind, “why have you come back? Have you returned to … to …” He faltered, seeing by the expression in Joram’s brown eyes that the question was anticipated.

But Joram did not answer. Leaning down, he lifted the Darksword from the sand and carefully slipped it into the leather scabbard. His hands lingered on the soft leather, caressing it, thinking undoubtedly of the man whose gift it had been.

“Your Grace,” Saryon thought he heard Joram murmur, shaking his head.

“Joram?” Saryon persisted.

Still Joram did not answer the unspoken question that echoed all around them like the silent cries of the Watchers. Stripping off his robes and his wet cloak, he strapped the leather scabbard around his bare chest, positioning the sword on his back where it would remain hidden beneath his clothes. When it was comfortably in position—the magic of the scabbard causing the sword to shrink in size—Joram drew his white robes back on, secured them tightly with a belt at his waist, and flung his cloak over his shoulders.

“How do you feel, Father?” he asked abruptly. “Are you well enough to travel? We have to find shelter, build a fire. Gwendolyn is chilled through.”

“I am well enough,” answered Saryon, “but—”

“Fine. Let’s be off.” Joram took a step forward, then stopped as he felt Saryon’s hand on his arm. He did not turn around, and the catalyst was forced to draw near to see his averted face.

“Why have you returned, Joram? To fulfill the Prophecy? Have you come to destroy the world?”

Joram did not look at the catalyst. His eyes were on the mountains before him.

Night had fallen. The first bright evening stars sparkled in the sky and the jagged peaks were visible against them
only by their darkness. Joram stood in silence so long that the moon rose from behind the black rim of the world—its single, white, uncaring eye glaring down at the three figures standing on the shores of Beyond.

At the sight of the moon, Saryon saw the twisting half-smile darken Joram’s lips.

“Ten years have passed for me, my friend, my father, if I may call you such?”

The catalyst nodded, unable to speak. Reaching out, Joram grasped Saryon’s hands in his own, though it seemed the catalyst would have stopped him if he could. But Joram gripped them firmly. Looking down at the hands held fast in his, he continued “For ten years I have lived in another world I have lived another life I never forgot this world, but when I looked back on it, I seemed to see it as through a mist. I remembered its beauty, its wonder and I came back to to—” He stopped abruptly.

“To what?” Saryon urged, trying unobtrusively to withdraw his hands.

“No matter,” Joram answered “Someday I’ll tell you. Not now.”

His eyes were on Saryon’s hands.

“How does that Prophecy read, Father?” he asked softly. “Doesn’t it say something like this—‘And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world’?”

Suddenly, without warning, Joram roughly shoved Saryon’s sleeves back. Fushing, Saryon attempted to cover his hands, but too late. The moonlight shone on long white scars on his wrists and his palms, on the broken fingers that had healed crooked and misshapen. Joram’s lips pressed together grimly.

“Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.” Releasing the Priest from his grasp, Joram walked away, moving across the sand, heading inland toward the mountains.