Triumph of the Darksword (37 page)

“Then don’t,” Joram said coolly.

“I’m afraid I have to,” Garald continued sternly. “I must remind you, Joram, that you have a responsibility to our
world. My god, man, we’re going to war tomorrow! I insist you reconsider!”

A slight sneer twisted Joram’s lip. “This world can go to the devil—” he began.

“—and fulfill the Prophecy!” Garald finished.

The thrust hit home There was a sharp intake of breath. Joram’s face went livid, the brown eyes blazed. Saryon was reminded again, chillingly, of the youth who had forged the Darksword. He hurried forward to intervene, fearing that Joram might strike the Prince, but it was Simkin who ended the matter.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, if you two are going to fight, please do it somewhere else.” His jaw cracked with another yawn. “It’s been an extremely fatiguing—not to mention gut-wrenching—day. I’m quite done in. I’ll extinguish the lights.” Every light in the room winked out, plunging them into semidarkness, lit only by the flickering coals of the dying fire. “Keep the noise of saber-rattling down to a minimum.”

An orange silk night cap appeared out of nowhere and floated through the air, settling upon Simkin’s head Curling up comfortably amid the sofa cushions, the young man fell instantly, to all appearances, fast asleep.

Turning abruptly, Joram walked toward the door.

Garald stood a moment, staring at Joram’s back, obviously wanting to say something, yet undecided. He glanced at Father Saryon, who made an urgent gesture with his hand. Garald hurried after Joram, interposing his body between his friend and the door.

“Forgive me for pursuing this matter, Joram I can only imagine what torture you undergo daily.”

Laying his hand on the Prince’s arm, Joram started to shove Garald aside.

“Joram, listen to me!” Garald demanded, and Joram stopped, caught and held by the caring and compassion he heard in the man’s voice more than by the restraining hand laid upon his.

“Think about this carefully!” the Prince continued “Why is Simkin suddenly so interested in Gwen’s welfare or in yours either, for that matter? He’s never given a damn about
anyone before. Why is he so insistent about you going and why tomorrow?”

“It’s just his way!” Joram said impatiently. “And he
had
helped me before this. Maybe even saved my life….”

“Joram,” interrupted Garald firmly, “it could be a trap. There could be more waiting for you there than ghosts. Think about this. I’ve been thinking about it all day. How
did
Simkin understand what the enemy said? That’s impossible, even for one of his ‘talents.’ How did he understand unless they
told
him what to say.”

It was dark in the hall. Before retiring for the night, the servants had dimmed the magical lights. The globes in the lofty cobwebby corners of the hallway gleamed with a white, cold light, making it appear as if stars, flying through the house like insects, had been captured in the webs of the house spiders. Far away—it sounded as if it came from the morning room—could be heard a thud and a crash. Father Saryon wondered briefly if poor Count Devon was roaming the halls.

Joram did not reply. Saryon—looking at his face, seeing it white and cold as the face of the moon—could tell by the brooding expression that this last argument had at least made an impression. Prince Garald, noting this as well, wisely took his leave.

Saryon said nothing either. He was, he admitted to himself, afraid to speak. Still unsettled by his recent unnerving experience, the catalyst dared not add anything. He could only trust that Garald’s seed of doubt, planted in Joram’s soul, would take root and grow.

It appeared to have fallen on fertile soil at least. Sighing heavily, Joram started to turn away when a voice—muffled and slightly fluff-filled—came out of the depths of the sofa.

“Trust your fool….”

T
here was a family chapel in the house of Lord Samuels, as in almost all the houses of the nobility and the upper middle class in Thimhallan. Although all the chapels were generally similar in appearance, some were vastly different, a difference that rose higher than vaulted ceilings and gleamed more brightly than polished rosewood. In some households, the chapel was obviously the heart of the dwelling. Here everyone—master and mistress, children and servants (all being considered one in the sight of the Almin, if nowhere else)—gathered daily for prayer, led by the House Catalyst. These chapels breathed with Life. The wood glowed from much use. The stained glass windows, with their symbols of the Almin and of the Nine Mysteries, glistened in the morning sun. At night, tiny, magical lights filled the chapel with a soft radiance, relaxing to the spirit, conducive to private prayer and meditation. It was easy to believe that the Almin dwelt in such peaceful, beautiful surroundings. It was easy to talk to Him in such a place. It was easy to hear His answers.

The late Count Devon, who had owned the house prior to Lord Samuels, had been a deeply religious man. In his day, the chapel was filled with light and Life. Upon the Count’s death, the chapel, like the rest of the house, was sealed shut; its lights put out, its furniture draped in black cloth, its beautiful stained glass windows shuttered. When Lord Samuels moved in, he opened the rest of the house to the outside world, but the chapel remained closed and locked. He did not do this out of anger or bitterness over the loss of his beloved daughter. Lord Samuels was not the type of man to shake his fist at the Almin and vow that he “would never speak to You again!” Rather, something within his soul had died. Asked by the servants if he wanted the chapel restored to service, he caught himself answering, “What’s the use?”

And so the chapel remained shut, its ornately carved rosewood doors closed, its windows dark and lifeless. The magical seal laid over the door was an unusually strong one, and it took Father Saryon a considerable amount of mental effort to remove it. Finally succeeding, he made his way inside and collapsed in the nearest pew, unaccustomed to the strain of using so much of his own Life force.

The pews were slick with a fine film of dust. So were the floors. Everything in the chapel was covered with dust, Saryon noted, wondering where it came from. It felt soft to the touch. Holding his small globe of flame close, he saw that it was reddish-colored and sweet smelling. Saryon’s analytical mind instantly began to work, delighted in this bit of irrelevancy to banish the tension. Holding the small globe high, Saryon could barely make out wood beams in the ceiling far above him. These, he deduced, must be magically shaped of cedar. Unlike the rest of the wood in the chapel, the beams remained rough and unpolished, probably to enhance their smell. Hence, the wood dust.

That problem solved, Saryon sighed and reflexively rubbed his tired eyes, instantly regretting that he had done so when he realized from the sudden gritty feeling that he had rubbed wood dust into them. Blinking, he wiped his tearing eyes on his sleeve.

You should be in bed, he told himself. He was exhausted and he knew—recalling past warnings from the
Theldara—
that he should not tax his strength. But he also knew he
could not sleep. He was
afraid
to sleep. Fear was slowly creeping over him, chilling and immobilizing as the dreadful spell that had been cast upon him, the spell that had changed his flesh to stone. It had all started tonight, with that awful sensation of the Hand laying hold of him, preventing him from telling Joram not to go to the Temple.

It was foolish, dangerous. There was no hope for Gwen. The Necromancers were gone Saryon doubted if they could have helped her anyway. He would have been able to convince Joram of this. His arguments added to Garald’s would have undoubtedly persuaded Joram not to go, not to risk his wife’s life as well as his own in this foolhardy endeavor.

Surely he won’t go! Surely!

Laying his head upon the hand that rested upon the back of the pew in front of him, Saryon shivered in a paroxysm of fear. As he had analyzed the wood dust, he attempted to analyze his fear, seeking its source in order to deal with it on a rational basis. But he could not find it. It was a faceless, nameless terror and the more he concentrated on dragging it to light, the darker it grew. Saryon had lived through many frightening experiences. He could still remember—horribly—the fear he’d experienced when he first felt the numbing blast of the spell hit him and he knew his living body was slowly turning to stone.

But that was nothing—
nothing—
compared to the fear that gripped him now. He had not experienced this overwhelming sense of loss and despair. No, he recalled, staring into the sweet-smelling, softly lit darkness of the chapel. When the first wave of terror had begun to recede, he had felt imbued with peace and joy. He had done what was right. He had seen his sacrifice touch Joram deeply, the light of his love drive away the darkness of the boys soul. That knowledge sustained the catalyst in the days and nights of his endless vigil. Though he had not made peace with his god, he had found it within himself.

Or thought he had. The Darksword that shattered his stone flesh shattered his peace as well.

Saryon’s hands hurt him and, looking down, he realized that he was hanging onto the edge of the pew for dear life. He tried to relax. The feeling of fear did not leave, however.

“It’s the battle tomorrow night,” he muttered to himself. “So much depends on the outcome. Our lives! The existence of our world! How dreadful it will be if we lose!”

“How dreadful it will be if you win.”

Who spoke? Saryon heard the words as clearly as he’d ever heard anything in his entire life, yet he could swear he was alone. Shuddering, he looked around. “Who’s there?” he called out tremulously.

There was no answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard anything. There was certainly no one in the room, probably no one awake in the house.

“I am exhausted,” Saryon said to himself, mopping chill drops of perspiration from his head with the sleeve of his robe. “My mind is playing tricks.”

He tried to stand, he instructed his body to rise, but the body remained seated, the Hand holding him down. Then, beckoning to him, it pointed.

Before his horrified eyes, Saryon saw clearly the aftermath of the fighting: All—
all
of the strange humans lying dead. The
Pron-Alban
using their magic to dig a huge grave. The bodies—those that could be found and had not been devoured by centaurs—tumbled into it, the earth shoveled over them. All traces of their existence as humans—as husbands, fathers, brothers, friends wiped out. After a hundred years, no one in their world remembered them.

But Thimhallan did. No tree, no flower, no grass grew on that mass grave. Weeds, noxious and poisonous, sprang up. It was a diseased blemish upon the land. And the sickness from it spread slowly and surely through the world until everything died.

“But what is the alternative?” Saryon cried aloud. “Death? That’s it, isn’t it? We have no choice! The Prophecy! The Prophecy is fulfilled! You have given us no choice!”

The Hand that gripped him suddenly opened wide, and Saryon became conscious of a Presence. Vast and powerful, it filled the chapel so that the walls must surely burst from the strain. Yet it was tiny and minute, existing within each small grain of dust that drifted down from the ceiling. It was fire and water, burning and cooling him. It was awful and he cowered from its sight. It was loving and he longed to rest his weary head in its palm, begging for forgiveness.

Forgiveness for what?

For being a card in a great cosmic game played for the amusement of one player?

For being tormented and persecuted, for being shoved over the edge of a cliff.

The voice spoke again, sternly “You do not understand. You cannot understand the mind of God.”

“No!” Saryon gasped. “I don’t understand! And I will not amuse You further. I renounce You! I deny You!”

Rising unsteadily to his feet, Saryon stumbled from the chapel. Once outside, he slammed the door shut and stood leaning against it, his breath coming in shuddering sobs. But as he stood there, holding the door shut with his body, he knew he could never keep the Presence locked up within that room. He could no more deny it than he could deny his own existence. It was everywhere. Around him …

Within him.

Saryon pressed his hand over his heart, digging his fingers into his flesh.