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    DOOMOFTHEDARKSWORD

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD

    CATHEDRAL N-OF  MERILON Reprise,  here was  no dinner  party at  .
Bishop Vanya's this night.

    "His Holiness is indisposed," was  the message the Ariels  carried
to  those  who   had  been   invited.  This   included  the   Emperors
brother-in-law, Prince Xavier, whose number of invitations to dine  at
the Font were increasing proportionately with the declining health  of
his sister. Everyone  had been most  gracious and extremely  concerned
about the  Bishops  welfare. The  Emperor  had even  offered  his  own
personal Theidara to the Bishop, but this was respectfully declined.

    Vanya dined alone, and so preoccupied was the Bishop that he might
have been eating sausages  along with his  Field Catalysts instead  of
the delicacies of  peacocks tongue  and lizards tail  which he  barely
tasted and never noticed were underdone.

    Having finished and  sent away the  tray, he sipped  a brandy  and
composed himself tovwait until  the tiny moon  in the time-glass  upon
his desk  had risen  to its  zenith. The  waiting was  difficult,  but
Vanyas mind was so occupied that  he found the time sliding past  more
rapidly than he had expected.  The pudgy fingers crawled  increasingly
along the arms of  the chair, touching this  strand of mental web  and
that, seeing if any needed  strengthening or repair, throwing out  new
filaments where necessary.

    , V REPRISE The Empress - a fly that would soon be dead.

    Her brother - heir to throne. A different type of fly, he demanded
special consideration.

    The Emperor -  his sanity  at the  best of  times precarious,  the
death of his  beloved wife  and the loss  of his  position might  well
topple a mind weak to begin with.

    Sharakan -  the other  empires in  Thimhallan were  watching  this
rebellious state  with too  much  interest. It  must be  crushed,  the
people taught a lesson. And with them, the Sorcerers of the Ninth  Art
wiped out completely. That was shaping up nicely . . . or had been.

    Vanya fidgeted  uncomfortably and  glanced at  the timeglass.  The
tiny moon was just now appearing  over the horizon. With a growl,  the
Bishop poured himself another brandy.

    The boy. -  Damn the  boy. And  damn that  blasted catalyst,  too.
Darkstone. Vanya closed his eyes, shuddering. He was in peril,  deadly
peril. If anyone ever discovered the incredible blunder he had made  .
. .

    Vanya saw the greedy eyes watching him, waiting for his  downfall.
The eyes of the Lord  Cardinal of Merilon, who had  - so rumor told  -
already drawn up plans for  redecorating the Bishop's chambers in  the
Font. The eyes of his own  Cardinal, a slow-thinking man, to be  sure,
but one who had risen through  the ranks by plodding along slowly  and
surely, trampling over  anything or  anyone who  got in  his way.  And
there were others. Watching, waiting, hungry . . .

    If they got so much  as a sniff of his  failure, they'd be on  him
like griffins, rending his flesh with their talons.

    But no!  Vanya clenched  the pudgy  hand, then  forced himself  to
relax. All was well.  He had planned for  every contingency, even  the
unlikely ones.

    With this thought in mind and  noticing that the moon was  finally
nearing the top of  the timeglass, the Bishop  heaved his bulk out  of
the chair and made his way, walking  at a slow, measured pace, to  the
Chamber of Discretion.

    The darkness was empty and silent. No sign of mental  disturbance.
Perhaps that was a good sign, Vanya told himself as he sat down in the
center of the round  room. But a tremor  of fear shivered through  the
web as he sent forth his summons  to his minion. ", He waited,  spider
fingers twitching.

    REPRISE , vi The darkness was still, cold, unspeaking.

    Vanya called again, the fingers curling in upon themselves.

    / may or may not respond, the voice had told him. Yes, that  would
be like him, the arrogant - Vanya swore, his hands gripping the chair,
sweat pouring down his head. He had to know! It was too important!  He
would - Yes. ., .

    The hands relaxed. Vanya considered, turning the idea over in  his
mind. He had planned  for every contingency,  even the unlikely  ones.
And this one he had planned for without even knowing it. Such are  the
ways of genius.

    Sitting back  in the  chair. Bishop  Vanyas mind  touched  another
strand on the  web, sending  an urgent summons  to one  who would,  he
knew, be little prepared to receive it.

    N O o o The Summons "S karyon. . . .

    The  catalyst  floated  between  unconsciousness  and  the  waking
nightmare of his life.

    "Holiness, forgive me!" he muttered  feverishly. "Take me back  to
our sanctuary! Free  me of this  terrible burden. I  cannot bear  it!"
Tossing on his crude bed, Saryon put his hands over his closed eyes as
though he  could  blot  out  the  dreadful  visions  that  sleep  only
intensified and made  more frightening.  "Murder!" he  cried. "I  have
done murder! Not  once! Oh,  no, Holiness!  Twice. Two  men have  died
because of me!

    "Saryon!" The voice repeated the  catalysts name, and there was  a
hint of irritation in it.

    The catalyst  cringed, digging  the palms  of his  hands into  his
eyes. "Let me confess to you,  Holiness!" he cried. "Punish me as  you
will. I deserve it,  desire it! Then  I will be  free of their  faces,
their eyes . . . haunting me!"

    Saryon sat up on his bed,  half-asleep. He had not slept in  days;
exhaustion and excitement had temporarily overthrown his mind. He  had
no conscious thought of where he was or why this voice - that he  knew
to be hundreds of miles away -  should be speaking to him so  clearly.
"The first, a  young man  of our  <7 .  WEIS AND  HICKMAN Order,"  the
catalyst continued brokenly. "The warlock used my Life-giving force to
murder him. The  wretched catalyst never  had a. chance.  And now  the
warlock, too, is dead! He lay before me helpless, drained of his magic
by my art, t\ Joram -" The  catalysts voice sank to a hushed  whisper.
"Joram, . . ."

    "Saryon!" The  voice  was stern,  urgent  and commanding,  and  it
finally roused the catalyst Irom his confused exhaustion.

    "What?" Shivering in his wet  robes, Saryon looked around. He  was
not in the sanctuary of the Font. He was in a chill prison cell. Death
surrounded him-  Brick walls-  stone made  by the  hands of  man,  not
shaped by magic. The wood-beam ceiling above bore the gouges of tools.
Cold metal bars forged by the hand  of the Dark Arts seemed a  barrier
against Life  itself.  "Joram?"  Saryon called  softly  through  teeth
clenched against the cold.

    But a glance told him  the young man was  not in the prison  cell,
his bed had not been slept in.

    "Of course not," Saryon said to himself, shuddering. Joram was  in
the wilderness, disposing of the body. . . . But then, whose had  been
the voice he heard so clearly?

    The catalysts head  sank into  his shaking hands.  "Take my  life,
Almin!" he prayed fervently. "Ifyou truly  do exist, take my life  and
end this torment, this misery. For now I am going mad - "

    "Saryon! You cannot  avoid me, if  such is your  intent! You  will
listen to me! "You have no choice!"

    The catalyst raised his head, his eyes wide and staring, his  body
convulsing with  a  chill that  was  colder  than the  breath  of  the
bitterest winter wind. "Holiness?"  he called through trembling  lips.
Rising stiffly to his feet, the catalyst looked around the small cell.
"Holiness? Where  are  you? I  can't  see you,  yet  I hear-  I  don't
understand …"

    "I am present in your mind,  Saryon," the voice said. "I speak  to
you from the Font. How I am able to accomplish this need be of  little
importance to you, Father. My powers are very great. Are you alone?"

    "Y-yes, Holiness, for the moment. But [ -"

    "Organize your  thoughts,  Saryon!" The  voice  sounded  impatient
again. "They are such a jumble I cannot read them! You need not speak.
Think the words you say and I will hear them. I will give you a moment
to calm yourself with prayer, then I expect you to be ready to  attend
me."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  5 The voice fell  silent. Saryon was  still
conscious of its presence inside his  head, buzzing like an insect  in
his mind. Hurriedly he sought to compose himself, but it was not  with
prayer. Though he had begged only  moments before that the Almin  take
his life - and  though he had sincerely  meant that despairing plea  -
Saryon felt a primal  urge for self-survival well  up inside him.  The
very fact that  Bishop Vanya  was able to  invade his  mind like  this
appalled him and filled him with anger - though he knew that the anger
was wrong. As a humble catalyst, he should be proud, he supposed, that
the  great  Bishop  would  spare  time  to  investigate  his  unworthy
thoughts. But deep within, from that  same dark place whence had  come
his night-dreams, a  voice asked  coldly, How  much does  he know?  Is
there any way I can hide from him?

    "Holiness," said Saryon hesitantly,  turning around in the  center
of the dark  room, staring fearfully  about him as  though the  Bishop
might at any  moment step  out of the  brick wall,  "I . .  . find  it
difficult to compose my . . . thoughts. My inquisitive mind - "

    "The same inquisitive mind that has  led you to walk dark  paths?"
the Bishop asked in displeasure.

    "Yes, Holiness,"  Saryon  replied  humbly. "I  admit  this  is  my
weakness, but it prevents me  attending to your words without  knowing
how and by what means we are communicating. I - "

    "\bur thoughts are  in turmoil! We  can accomplish nothing  useful
this way. Very well."  Bishop Vanyas voice,  echoing in Saryons  mind,
sounded  angry,  if  resigned.  "It  is  necessary.  Father,  that  as
spiritual leader of our people, I  keep in contact with the  far-flung
reaches of this world. As you know, there are those out there who seek
to reduce our Order to  little more than what  we were in the  ancient
days -  familiars who  served  our masters  in  the form  of  animals.
Because of this threat, it is necessary that many of my communications
with others - both of our Order and those who are helping to  preserve
it -must be on a confidential basis."

    "Yes, Holiness," Saryon murmured nervously. The dark night  beyond
the cells barred window was thinning  into gray dawn. He could hear  a
few footsteps in the streets - those who began their workday the  same
time as the sun began his. But otherwise the village slept. Where  was
Joram? Had he been caught,  the body discovered? The catalyst  clasped
his hands together and attempted to concentrate on the Bishops voice.

    6 WEIS AND HICKMAN "Through  magical means, Saryon, a chamber  was
devised for the Bishop of the Realm whereby he can minister in private
to his  followers  in  need  of  support.  Known  as  the  Chamber  of
Discretion, it  is particularly  useful for  communicating with  those
performing certain delicate  tasks that  must be kept  secret for  the
good of the people - "

    A network of spies! Saryon  thought before he could stop  himself.
The Church, the Order to which he had devoted his life, was in reality
nothing more than a giant spider, sitting in the midst of a vast  web,
attuned to every movement of those caught within its sticky grasp!  It
was a dreadful thought, and Saryon tried instantly to banish it.

    He began to sweat again, even  as his body shivered. Cringing,  he
waited for the Bishop  to read his mind  and reprimand him. But  Vanya
continued on as though he had  not heard, expounding upon the  Chamber
of Discretion and how it worked, allowing one mind to speak to another
through magical means.

    So tense that his jaw muscles  ached from the strain of  clenching
his teeth,  Saryon pondered.  "The  Bishop did  not notice  my  random
thoughts!" he  said  to himself.  "Perhaps,  as  he said,  I  have  to
concentrate to make myself heard. If so - and if I can control my mind
- I might be able to cope with this mental invasion.

    As Saryon realized this,  it occurred to him  that he was  hearing
only those  thoughts Vanya  wanted  him to  hear.  He wasn't  able  to
penetrate beyond whatever barriers the Bishop himself had established.
Slowly, Saryon  began  to relax.  He  waited until  his  superior  had
reached an end.

    "I understand, Holiness," the catalyst thought, concentrating  all
his effort on his words.

    "Excellent, Father." Vanya  appeared pleased. There  was a  pause;
the Bishop was  carefully considering  and concentrating  on hi)  next
words. But when he  spoke -or when his  thoughts took form in  Saryons
mind - they were rapid and concise, as though being repeated by  rote.
"I sent  you on  a dangerous  task,  Saryon -  that of  attempting  to
apprehend the young man  called Joram. Because of  the danger, I  grew
concerned about your welfare when I did not hear from you.  Therefore,
I deemed it best to contact a trusted associate of mine concerning you
- "

    "Simkin!" Saryon thought before he could stop himself. So  intense
was the  image  of  the young  man  in  his mind  that  it  must  have
translated to the Bishop.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  7 "What?" Thrown off  in the middle of  his
speech, Vanya appeared confused.

    "Nothing," Saryon  muttered hastily.  "I apologize,  Holiness.  My
thoughts were disturbed by … by something occurring outside. . . ."

    "I suggest  you  remove yourself  from  the window,  Father,"  the
Bishop said ascerbically.

    "\es. Holiness," Saryon replied, digging his nails into the  flesh
of his palms, using the stimulus of pain to help him concentrate.

    There was a  seconds pause  again - Vanya  attempting to  remember
where he  was? Why  didn't  he just  write  it down?  Saryon  wondered
irritably, sensing  the Bishops  thoughts turned  from him.  Then  the
voice was back. This time, it was rilled with concern.

    "I have been, as I said,  worried about you. Father. And now  this
associate, who was assigned  to keep an  eye on you,  has not been  in
contact with me for the last forty-eight hours. My fears grew. I  hope
nothing is wrong, Saryon?"

    What could Saryon answer? That  his world had turned upside  down?
That he was  clinging to  sanity with  his fingertips?  That a  moment
before, he had been  praying for death?  rTlie catalyst hesitated.  He
could confess  everything, tell  the Bishop  he knew  the truth  about
Joram, beg His Worships mercy, and'  arrange to deliver the boy as  he
had been ordered. All would be over in moments. Saryons tormented soul
would be at peace.

    Outside the prison, the wind - a last remnant of last nights storm
- struck the walls, beating against  them in a futile effort to  break
in. Saryon heard words in the wind. He had heard them seventeen  years
ago - Bishop Vanya sentencing a child to death.

    "Father!" Vanya's voice, taut and cold, was an echo of the memory.
"You are wandering again!"

    "I -I assure  you I  am fine. Holiness,"  Saryon stammered.  '"You
have no need to be concerned about me."

    "I thank the Almin for that, Father," Vanya said in the same  tone
he used to thank  the Almin for  his morning egg  and bread. Again  he
paused. Saryon sensed some inner turmoil, a mental struggle. The  next
words were reluctant. "The time has come, Father, for you and your . .
. um . . . guardian - my associate - to make contact. I know about the
creation of the Dark-sword - "

    s WEIS AND HICKMAN Saryon gasped.

    " - and now we can delay no longer. Our danger from this young man
is too great." Vanyas  voice grew cold. "You  must bring Joram to  the
Font as soon as possible, and you will need my associates  assistance.
Go to Blachloch. Inform him that I - "

    "Blachloch!" Saryon sank down on the cot, his heart beating in his
ears with the din  of Joram s hammer.  "Your associate?" The  catalyst
put  his  shaking  hands  to  his  head.  "Holiness,  you  can't  mean
Blachloch! …"

    "I assure you, Father - "

    "He's a renegade, an outcast of the Duuk-foarith\ He - "

    "Outcast? He is no more an outcast warlock than you are an outcast
priest, Saryon! He t" one of the Duuk-baritb, a high-ranking member of
their organization, hand-picked for this delicate assignment, just  as
you were." l Saryon  pressed his hands against  his head as though  he
might actually keep  his scattered  thoughts from  tumbling about  his
brain. Blachloch, the cruel,  mudererous warlock, was Duuk-foaritb,  a
member of the secret society whose duty it was to enforce the laws  in
Thimhallan.  He  was  an  agent  for  the  Church!  And  he  was  also
responsible  for  cold-blooded  murder,  for  raiding  a  village  and
stealing its  provisions, for  leaving  its people  to starve  in  the
winter. . . .

    "Holiness" -Saryon licked his dry, cracked lips -"this warlock was
… an evil man! A wicked man! He - I saw him kill a young Deacon of our
Order in the village of- "

    The Bishop  interrupted.  "Have  you not  heard  the  old  saying,
'Night's shadows are deepest to those  who walk in the light'? Let  us
not be too hasty in our  judgment of ordinary mortals, Father. If  you
reflect back calmly upon the incident of which you speak, I am certain
you will find the  killing was motivated by  necessity, or perhaps  it
was accidental."

    Saryon saw the warlock call upon  the wind, he saw the  gale-force
blast pick up the defenseless Deacon as though he were a leaf and toss
him against the  side of  a dwelling. He  saw the  young body  crumple
lifelessly to the ground.

    "Holiness," ventured Saryon, shuddering.

    "Enough, Father!" the Bishop said sternly. "I do not have time for
your sanctimonious  whinings.  Biachloch  does what  is  necessary  to
maintain his disguise as a renegade warlock. He plays a dangerous game
among those Sorcerers of the Dark Arts who surround you, Saryon.  What
is one life, after all, compared DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD to the lives of
thousands or the souls of millions! And  that is what he holds in  his
hand."

    "I don't understand - "

    "Then give  me  a  chance to  explain!  I  tell you  this  in  the
strictest confidence.  Father.  I told  you  before you  left  of  the
trouble we are having in the northern kingdom of Sharakan. It  worsens
daily. The catalysts  who have  abandoned the  laws of  our Order  are
growing in popularity and in numbers. They are giving freely of  their
power of  Life  to anyone  who  asks. Because  of  this, the  king  of
Sharakan believes  he can  treat us  with impunity.  He has  impounded
Church funds and put them into his treasury. He has sent the  Cardinal
into exile, and replaced him with one of these renegade catalysts.  He
plans to invade  and conquer  Merilon, and he  is in  league with  the
Sorcerers of Technology among whom you live to provide him with  their
demonic weapons. …"

    "Yes, Holiness,"  Saryon  murmured, only  half  listening,  trying
desperately to think what to do.

    "The king of Sharakan plans to use the Sorcerers' weapons to  help
him in his conquest. Although  Blachloch appears to be furthering  the
ambitions of Sharakan and helping the Sorcerers, he is - in reality  -
preparing to lead them  into a deadly  trap. Thus we  will be able  to
defeat Sharakan  and crush  the Sorcerers  utterly, finally  banishing
them from this world.  Blachloch has everything  under control, or  at
least he had until the young man - this Joram - discovered darkstone."

    As Vanya grew angrier, his thoughts became gradually more rambling
and incoherent.  Saryon could  no longer  follow them.  Sensing  this,
there was a moment  of seething silence as  Vanya attempted to  regain
control, then his communication continued, somewhat calmer.

    "The discovery of  darkstone is catastrophic,  Father! Surely  you
see that? It can  give Sharakan the  power to win! That  is why it  is
imperative that you and Blachloch bring the young man and the dreadful
force he has brought back into this world to the Font at once,  before
Sharakan discovers it."

    Saryon's head began to ache with the strain. Fortunately, his  own
thoughts were  in such  turmoil  that he  must have  transmitted  only
confused and scattered fragments: Blachloch a  double agent . . .  the
darkstone a threat to  the world .  . . the  Sorcerers walking into  a
trap. . . .

    Joram . . . Joram . . . Joram. . . .

    10 WEIS AND HICKMAN Saryon grew  calmer. He knew now what he  must
do. None of the rest of  it was important. Wars between kingdoms.  The
lives of thousands. It was too enormous to comprehend. But the life of
one?

    How can I take him back, knowing the fate he faces? And I do  know
it now, Saryon admitted to himself. I was blind to it before, but only
because I deliberately shut my eyes.

    The catalyst lifted his head, staring intently into the  darkness.
"Holiness," he said out loud, interrupting the Bishops tirade. "I know
who Joram is."

    Vanya stopped cold. Saryon sensed doubt, caution, fear. But  these
were gone almost immediately. Nearly  eighty years old, the Bishop  of
the Realm of Thimhallan had held his position for over forty of  those
years. He was highly skilled at his job.

    "What do  you  mean"  -  the  Bishop's  thoughts  came  across  as
genuinely confused - "you know  who he is? He is  Joram, son of a  mad
woman named Anja. . . ."

    Saryon felt  himself gaining  strength- At  last, he  was able  to
confront the truth.

    "He is Joram," the catalyst said in low tones, "son of the Emperor
of Merilon."

    A State of Grace Ihei • ler here was silence within the si-. lence
of the cell. So deep was it that, for a moment, Saryon thought - hoped
- that Vanya had broken contact.

    Then the words reverberated  in his head once  more. "Hew did  you
come by this  supposed knowledge. Father  Saryon?" The catalyst  could
feel the Bishop treading carefully  on the soft, unknown ground.  "Did
Blachloch - "

    "By the  Almin, did  he know?"  Saryon spoke  aloud again  in  his
amazement. "No," he continued in some  confusion, "no one told me.  No
one had to. I just . . . knew. How?" He shrugged helplessly. "How do I
know how much magic  to draw from  th" world and give  to a shaper  of
wood so that he may  mold a chair? It is  a matter of calculation,  of
adding all factors together - the mans weight and height, his ability,
his age, the degree of difficulty jn his project. . . . Do I think  of
these things consciously?  No! I  have done  it so  often, the  answer
comes to me without thinking about how I have obtained it.

    "And so,  Holiness,  this was  how  I  came to  know  Jorams  true
identity." Saryon shook his  head, closing his eyes.  "My god, I  held
him in my arms! That  baby, born Dead, doomed to  die! I was the  last
person to hold him!" Tears crept beneath his eyelids.

    12 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD 13  "I took him to  the
nursery that terrible day and I sat beside his crib and rocked him  in
my arms for hours. I knew that  once I laid Him down, no other  person
would be permitted to touch him until you took him to … to the  Font."
Saryon's emotion  lifted him  from his  cot to  pace the  small  cell.
"Maybe it is my fancy, but I have come to believe this created a  bond
between us. The first time I saw  Joram, my soul recognized him if  my
eyes did not. It was when I began to listen to my soul that I knew the
truth."

    "You are so certain it is the truth?" The words were strained.

    "Do you deny it?" Saryon cried  grimly. Halting in his pacing,  he
stared up into  the rafters of  the prison cell  as though his  Bishop
hovered among them. "Do you deny  that you sent me here  purposefully,
hoping that I would find out?"

    There was a long moments hesitation; Saryon had a mental image  of
a man looking over a hand of tarok cards, wondering which to play.

    "Have you told Joram?"

    There was  very  real fear  in  this  question, a  fear  that  was
palpable to Saryon, a fear he thought he understood.

    "No, of course not," the catalyst  replied. "How could I tell  him
such a fantastic tale? He would not believe me, not without proof. And
I have none to give."

    "Yet you mentioned adding all factors?" Vanya persisted.

    Saryon shook his  head impatiently.  He began to  pace again,  but
stopped short at the cell window. Day had dawned completely now. Light
streamed into the cold prison house, and the village of the  Sorcerers
was beginning to  waken. Smoke  curled upward, blown  raggedly in  the
whipping wind.  A  few early  risers  were  up and  trudging  to  work
already, or were  . inspecting  their dwellings for  damage from  last
nights storm. Off in  the distance, he saw  one of Blachloch's  guards
hurrying between the buildings at a run.

    Where  was  Joram?  Why  hasn't  he  returned?  Saryon   wondered.
Immediately he  shoved the  thought  from his  mind and  began  pacing
again, hoping the activity would help him concentrate and warm him  at
the same time.

    "All factors?" he  repeated thoughtfully.  "Yes, there are  . .  .
other factors. The young man looks  like his mother, the Empress.  Oh,
not a striking resemblance. His face is Hardened by the difficult life
he has led. His brows are thick and brooding, he rarely smiles. But he
has her  hair,  beautiful  black  hair  that  curls  down  around  his
shoulders. I am told his mother - that is, the woman who raised him  -
refused to let  it be  cut. And  there is  an expression  in his  eyes
sometimes - regal, haughty. …" Saryon  sighed. His mouth was dry.  The
tears in his throat tasted like  blood. "Then, of course, he is  Dead,
Holiness - " - "There are many Dead who walk this world."

    The Bishop is trying to find out how much I know, Saryon  realized
suddenly. Or maybe looking for proof. His legs weak, the catalyst sank
down at the small, plain table standing near the firepit. Lifting  the
hand-fashioned clay pitcher, he started to pour himself a drink,  only
to discover that  the water inside  was covered with  a layer of  ice.
Casting a bitter glance at the  cold ashes of the firepit, Saryon  set
the pitcher back upon the table with a thud.

    "I know that  there are  many Dead, Holiness,"  the catalyst  said
heavily, still  speaking aloud.  "I  myself found  enough of  them  in
Merilon, if you remember. To be declared Dead, a baby had to fail  two
of the three tests for magic. But you and I both know. Holiness,  that
these Dead still possess  some magic, even if  it is very little."  He
swallowed painfully, his parched throat aching. "I never saw a baby  -
except one - who failed all three tests. Failed them utterly. And that
baby was the Prince  of Merilon. And  I have never  met a person,  not
even among the so-called Dead who  live in our settlement, who has  no
magic - except one. Joram. He  is Dead, Holiness. Truly Dead. No  Life
stirs within him at all."

    "Is this a matter of common knowledge among the Sorcerers  there?"
The interrogation continued relentlessly. Saryons head began to throb.
He longed for quiet, longed to  rid himself of the probing voice.  But
he couldn't think how to do it, short of dashing his head against  the
brick wall. Biting his lip, he answered the question.

    "No. Joram  has learned  to hide  his deficiency  superbly. He  is
skilled in illusion  and sleight  of hand. Apparently  that woman  who
passed herself off as his mother - Anja - taught him. Joram knows what
would happen to him if anyone found  out. Even among the Dead and  the
outcasts here, he would be banished  at the best, murdered at  worst."
The catalyst grew impatient. "But surely Bjachloch reported all this -
"

    "Blachloch knows  what it  is necessary  for him  to know,"  Vanya
answered. "I had my suspicions, I admit,  and he did what 14 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD  was necessary  to either  confirm  or
refute them. I did not see the need to discuss the matter with him."

    The catalyst shifted restlessly in his chair. "But there is a need
to discuss it with me," he muttered.

    "Yes, Father." The Bishops voice was  now cold and firm. "I  sense
in you an attachment to this  young man, a growing affection for  him.
It is acting as a deadly poison in your soul. Brother Saryon, and  you
must purge yourself of it.  Yes, perhaps I did  send you in hope  that
you would confirm what I had long suspected. Now you know the  secret,
Saryon, and it is a terrible  one! The knowledge that the true  Prince
lives would leave us  at the mercy  of our enemies.  The danger is  so
vast that it  is almost unthinkable!  What if it  were known,  Saryon,
that the true  Prince was Dead?  Rebellion would be  the least of  our
worries! The ruling family would  be cast out, reviled. Merilon  would
be in  chaos, fall  easy  victim to  Sharakan!  Surely you  see  this,
Saryon!"

    "Yes, Holiness." Once more Saryon attempted to moisten his  mouth,
but his tongue felt as if it were made of wool. "I see it."

    "And so you understand why it is imperative that Joram be  brought
to us - "

    "Why wasn't  it  imperative  before?" Saryon  demanded,  cold  and
exhaustion giving him unwonted courage.  "You had Joram here, you  had
Blachloch. The man was a warlock, Duuk-t<iaritb\ He could have  handed
Joram to you in  pieces if you'd  ordered it! Or  why bother to  bring
Joram to the Font at all? If he's that dangerous, just be rid of  him!
It would have been easy to kill him, especially for Blachloch!" Saryon
was bitter. "Why involve me - "

    "You  were  necessary  to  provide  the  truth,"  Vanya  answered,
severing Saryon's thoughts with one swift stroke. "Until now, I  could
only surmise  tbat  this Joram  was  the Prince.  Your  'factors'  add
together well, as I thought they might. As for assassinating him,  the
Church does not commit murder. Father."

    Saryon hung his head. The rebuke was well deserved. Though he  had
lost his faith in both his church and his god, he could not find it in
his heart to  believe that  the Bishop  of Thim-hallan  would order  a
man's death. Even the  babies -the ones judged  Dead -were not put  to
death but  were taken  to the  Chambers of  Waiting, where  they  were
allowed to slip quietly out of a world in which they had no place.  As
for the murder of the young  Deacon, that had been Blachloch's  doing.
Saryon could well believe that the warlock had been difficult for  the
Bishop to control. The Duuk-t. 'arith lived by their own laws.

    "I am going to confess something to you, Father." Vanya's thoughts
came to Saryon laden with pain. Tbe catalyst winced, feeling the  same
pain inside  himself.  "I  tell  you this,  in  order  that  you  will
understand more clearly. If it were not for this wretched young  man's
discovery of the darkstone, I would have been content to let him  live
out his life, hidden among the Sorcerers -at least until such time  as
we were ready to move against all  of them. Don't you see, Saryon?  It
would have been  so easy to  lose Joram among  them, to eliminate  all
these dangers to the world at one blow, without upsetting the  people.
Chastise Sharakan,  punish  the rebellious  catalysts,  eliminate  the
Sorcerers of the Dark Arts, rid ourselves of a Dead Prince. It was all
to have been so simple, Saryon."

    Once again,  that  silence  within  the  silence.  Saryon  sighed,
letting his head sink into his  hands. The voice resumed, speaking  so
softly it was a whispering in his mind.

    "It can still be simple. Father.  You hold the fate of Merilon  in
your hands, if not the fate of the world."

    Saryon, appalled, looked  up, protesting. "No,  Holiness! I  don't
want - "

    "You don't want the responsibility?" Vanya was grim. "I am  afraid
you have little choice. You made  a mistake. Father, and now you  must
pay for it. I know  something of darkstone, you  see. And I know  that
Joram could  not  have  learned  to  use it  without  the  help  of  a
catalyst."

    "Holiness, I didn't understand - " Saryon began in misery.

    "Didn't you, Saryon? Your head may have condoned your actions, but
your soul knew you sinned!  I sense your guilt,  my son, a guilt  that
has destroyed your faith. And you will not be absolved of it until you
do your duty. By bringing the young man to me, by turning him over  to
the Church, you will ease your tortured conscience and find the  peace
that you once knew."

    "What -what will happen to Joram?" Saryon asked hesitantly.

    "That should not be your  concern, Father." Vanya was stern.  "The
young man has twice broken our most sacred laws - he committed  murder
and he  has  brought back  into  the  world a  dread,  demonic  power.
Consider your own black soul, Saryon, and seeks its redemption!"

    16 WEIS AND  HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD  17 If  I only  could,
Saryon thought wearily.

    "Father Saryon"-Vanya was  clearly angry now  -"I sense doubt  and
turmoil where there should be only contrition and humility!"

    Forgive me, Holiness!"  Saryon pressed his  hands to his  temples.
"This has all been so sudden!  I can't understand-I must have time  to
think and .  . .  and consider what  is best  to be done  - "A  sudden
suspicion crossed his mind.  "Holiness, how is it  that Joram came  to
live? How did Anja - "

    "What is that, Father?  More questions?" Bishop Vanya  interrupted
severely. There was a pause, heavy, waiting.

    Saryon swallowed, though there  was nothing in  his mouth but  the
taste of blood.  He'tried to clear  his mind, but  the questions  were
there -persistent, nagging. The Bishop  may have sensed this, for  the
thoughts that came to Saryon next were as warm as a blanket.

    "Perhaps you  are right.  Father," Vanya  said gently.  "You  need
time. I am impatient, I  admit. The matter is  so critical to me,  our
danger so real, that I have been unfeeling. A day more cannot make any
difference. I  will  contact  you  this  evening  to  make  the  final
arrangements. The Chamber of Discretion  gives me the ability to  find
you any time, any  place. You are  always in my  thoughts, as the  old
saying goes."

    Saryon shivered. This was  not a comforting  idea. "I am  honored,
Holiness," he mumbled.

    "May the Almin walk with you and guide your stumbling steps."

    "Thank you. Holiness."

    The silence was back,  and this time Saryon  knew that the  Bishop
was gone. Creeping from his chair,  the catalyst crossed the cell  and
lay down once more upon his cot. He pulled the thin, meager blanket up
around his shoulders and  lay there, shaking with  cold and fear.  The
early morning sun  shown through  the barred window,  shedding such  a
pale, wan light that, if anything, it intensified the chill atmosphere
rather than warmed it. Saryon  stared bleakly at the shadows  wavering
in the mocking brightness and tried to understand what had happened to
him. *  But he  was consumed  with such  horror and  loathing that  he
could'barely concentrate. Angrily  he struggled  with such  rebellious
feelings.

    "I should  be filled  with humble  gratitude to  think the  Bishop
cares about his people so much that he devised this means of  watching
over them. If  my soul were  cleansed, as  he says, then  I would  not
resent this invasion,"  Saryon told  himself bitterly. "It  is my  own
sins that make me shudder in fear at the thought that he has the power
to finger through my mind like a thief! My life belongs to the Church,
after all. I should have nothing to hide."

    He rolled over on  his back, watching the  moving darkness in  the
rafters.

    "Oh, to find peace again! Perhaps  what the Bishop said was  true.
Perhaps I have lost my faith because of my own guilt, a guilt I refuse
to admit? By confessing my sins  and accepting my punishment, I  would
be free! Free of these tormenting doubts! Free of this inner turmoil!"

    The catalyst felt an instants peace wash over him as he considered
this. It was warm and soothing  and it filled up the terrible,  black,
cold emptiness inside  him. If  Vanya had been  present, Saryon  would
have flung himself at the Bishops feet then and there.

    But . . . Joram. . . .

    Yes, what about  Joram? The memory  of the young  man pricked  the
bubble of peace. The warmth began  to ooze away. No! Saryon fought  to
hang onto it.

    "Admit it," he argued with himself. "Joram frightens you! Vanya is
right. The young man is a very real danger. It would be a relief to be
rid of him and the responsibility  of that weapon of evil,  especially
now that  I am  certain  of the  truth. After  all,  what was  it  the
ancients said  -'The  truth  shall  make  you  free'?"  ,  Very  well,
countered Saryons  black, cynical  soul, but  what id  the truth?  Did
Vanya answer your questions? What truly happened seventeen years  ago?
If Joram is the Pnnce, how and why is he-still alive?

    The catalysts eyes  closed, trying  to block out  sun and  shadows
alike. Once again,  he held that  small baby in  his arms, rocking  it
gently, his tears falling  upon the unconscious  head. Once again,  he
felt Joram s touch - the young man's hand resting upon his shoulder as
it had done in those dreadful moments last night in the forge. He  saw
the look of starved longing in the black, cold eyes - the longing  for
love Joram s soul had  so long denied itself.  Joram saw that love  in
Saryon. The bond was there! Yes- If Saryon had believed in the  Almin,
he might almost  18 WEIS AND  HICKMAN have  said it was  there by  the
god's will. Could he break it, betray it?

    What will happen to Joram? His  words to the Bishop echoed in  his
mind. And he knew the answer. Bishop Vanya had taken the baby away  to
die. He could do no less with the man.

    Saryon opened his eyes, facing the gray dawn in which there was no
warmth but in which there was truth - cold though it might be.

    If I take Joram back, I take him back to death.

    The false peace  seeped out  of the catalyst,  leaving behind  the
same bleak, dark void. There  were too many unanswered questions,  too
many lies.  Bishop Vanya  had lied  to the  Emperor and  Empress,  who
believed their baby  dead. He'd lied  to Saryon when  he sent him  out
after Joram. And  he would  have continued to  lie if  Saryon had  not
caught him. Of  that, the catalyst  felt certain. He  could not  trust
Vanya. He could trust no one. The  only truth Saryon had to ciing  'to
was within himself. He sighed heavily. He would follow that truth, and
hoped it would guide him through the morass surrounding him.

    And where was  Joram, anyway?  He should  have been  back by  now.
Something must have gone wrong. . . .

    The sunlight  was blotted  out by  two dark  shapes  materializing
within the center of the room like the ghosts of Saryon s  conscience.
Fearfully, the catalyst stared-at them, his heart in his throat, until
one spoke.

    "I say," remarked a voice, as bright and mocking as the sun, "look
here, Joram. You and I are out there, braving the peril of the  wilds,
and here lies the Priest of Bald Pates, sleeping like the dead as  the
Baron of Dunstable  Manor was  wont to do  before they  buried him  by
mistake."

    Stain Removal "I loram?" Saryon said hesitantly.

    Sitting upright, the catalyst stared at the two young men standing
in the center of the cell. They had come so suddenly, appearing out of
nowhere,  that  Saryon  wondered   if  they  were   real  or  were   a
manifestation of his thoughts.

    But  the  voice  that  answered  was  real  enough,  as  was   the
irritation. "Who the hell  else would it  be?" snapped Joram,  further
proving his reality  by walking  over to  the table  and grabbing  the
water pitcher. Upon discovering  the ice inside, he  set it back  down
with a bitter curse.

    "Hush!" Saryon warned, but it was too late.

    At the noise, a guards face suddenly peered in the barred  window,
causing the other young man accompanying Joram to shout in alarm.

    "Egad! Run for your iives! A loathsome beast is upon us - Oh,  beg
your pardon" -as the  guard's face twisted into  a scowl- " 'tisn't  a
loathsome beast. Just  one of  Blachlochs men. My  mistake. Must  have
been the smell that confused me." The guard disappeared with a  snarl,
and Simkm, sniffing, covered his nose with his hand.

    Saryon hurried  across the  small room.  "Are you  ail right?"  he
asked Joram, looking at him in concern.

    20 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 21 The young man  raised
dark eyes that were shadowed with fatigue; his stern face was haggard.
His clothes were  torn and stained  with dirt and  a substance  Saryon
realized with sick horror was blood.  There were traces of blood  upon
his hands as well.

    "

    "I'm fine," Joram responded tiredly, sinking down in a chair.

    "But . .  ." Saryon laid  a hand upon  the slumped shoulder.  "You
look dreadful - "

    "I said  I'jn fine!"  Joram snarled,  jerking away  from  Saryon's
sympathetic touch.  He glanced  at the  catalyst through  a tangle  of
glossy, black hair. "We've all seen better days, if it comes to  that.
…"

    "I resent that remark!" Simkin said, drawing a bit of orange  silk
from the air with  a flourish and dabbing  at his nose. "Please  don't
lump me in amongst you rabble."

    Indeed, Simkin appeared to have just come from an evening with the
Emperor. The only change noticeable in  the foppish young man was  the
somewhat startling fact  that his  usually colorful  clothes were  now
completely black - even to the lace that covered his wrists.

    Sighing, Saryon drew away from  Joram. Rubbing his cold hands,  he
wrapped them in the sleeves of his shabby robe in a futile endeavor to
warm them.

    "Did you have  any trouble  getting back here  last night?"  Joram
asked the catalyst.

    "No. The guards knew I was with . . . Blachloch." Saryon  coughed,
choking over the name. "I told them he had finished with me and . .  .
sent me back. They shut me up in here without question. But you?"  The
catalyst stared at  Joram, then Simkin,  in wonder. "How  did you  get
here? And  where  have you  been?  Did  anyone see  you?"  He  glanced
involuntarily out  the window  at the  house across  the street  where
Blachlochs guards lived, keeping watch on the prisoners.

    "See us!  Gad, how  insulting!"  Simkin sniffed.  "As if  I  would
appear  in  public   in  this   garb!"  He  raised   a  black   sleeve
contemptuously. "I'm wearing this now only because it seems suited  to
the occasion."

    "But how did you get here?" Saryon persisted.

    "The Corridors, of course." Simkin shrugged.

    "But . . . that's impossible!" Saryon gasped, almost incoherent in
his amazement. "The Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters!

    They would  have  stopped -  You  had  no catalyst  to  grant  you
sufficient Life or … or open them-"

    "Technicalities." Simkin waved a black lace-covered hand. He  took
a turn about  the room,  admiring his  black shoes  and continuing  to
talk. "I was speaking  of something when we  came in, and between  you
and the appearance of that loutish  face in the window, which has,  by
the way, completely taken  away my appetite  for breakfast, it's  been
quite driven from my mind. What was it?"

    "Joram," Saryon began, trying to ignore Simkin. "Where were - "

    "Oh, yes. I recall."  Simkin frowned, hand  to his head.  "Burying
the baron by mistake. He took it all quite well. Thought it a  capital
joke, in fact. He did have  a small problem crawling out from  beneath
the marble  slab and  then there  were  a few  tense moments  when  we
mistook him for a vampire and  attempted to drive a stake through  his
heart. Discovered he was  flesh and blood, however,  and sent for  the
Tbeldara at once.  Patched up  the hole  in his  chest. Never  better.
Understandable mistake. But  the grieving widow,  a different  story."
Simkin heaved a sigh. "Never forgave him for ruining the funeral."

    "Joram!  Where  have  you  been?  What  happened?"  Saryon   asked
insistently when Simkin paused for breath.

    "Wheres the Darksword?" Joram demanded abruptly.

    "Where you keep it hidden. I brought it back, as I promised. It is
safe," Saryon added, seeing Joram's dark eyes rest on him with  sudden
suspicion. "As  you  said, I  could  not  destroy what  I  had  helped
create."

    Joram stood up. "Simkin, watch the window," he ordered.

    "Must I? If that lout looms up at me, I'll vomit. I swear - "

    "Just watch the window!" Joram said grimly.

    Placing the orange silk  firmly over his  mouth and nose,  Sim-kin
moved obligingly <o the window, peering outside. "The lout in question
has gone to speak to his fellow louts across the street," he reported.
"They all seem fearfully excited. I wonder what's going on?"

    "They've probably discovered that Blachlochs missing," Joram said,
walking over to the bed. Kneeling down beside it, he placed his  hands
beneath the filthy  mattress and  drew forth  a cloth-covered  bundle.
Hastily unwrapping it, he glanced at the sword inside and, nodding  in
satisfaction, looked  back at  22 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  Saryon. The  pale
sunlight cast a  gray glow upon  the face  of the older  man, who  was
regarding him with a solemn, grave expression.

    "Thank you," Joram said grudgingly.

    "Don't thank me. I would to the  Almin that it were at the  bottom
of the river!" Saryon said  fervently. "Especially after this  night's
business!" He raised his hands pleadingly. "Reconsider, Joram! Destroy
this weapon of evil before it destroys you!"

    "No!" Avoiding  the catalysts  sorrow-filled eyes,  Joram  angrily
shoved the bundle back beneath the bed. "You saw the power it gave  me
during tonight's business. Do you truly believe I'd give that up? It's
my concern, not yours, old man!"

    "It w my concern," Saryon said softly. "I was there! I helped  you
commit mur -" The catalyst bit off his words, glancing at Simkin.

    "It's all right," Joram said, standing up. "Simkin knows."

    Of  course,  Saryon  said   to  himself  bitterly.  Simkin   knows
everything, somehow. The  catalyst had  the feeling that  truth -  his
guide through the morass - had just left him floundering in a bog.

    "In fact," Jorani continued, sinking down on the bed, "you  should
thank him, Catalyst. I  would never have been  able to complete  'last
nights business, ' as you call it, without him."

    "Yes," said Simkin  cheerfully, turning from  the window. "He  was
going to  dump  the body  just  any old  place  and, of  course,  that
wouldn't do at all. I mean, you want this to look like centaurs killed
dear old Blachloch, don't  you? Ton my honor.  The warlocks -  pardon:
late, unlamented warlocks - henchmen are  stupid, but, I ask you,  are
they that stupid?

    "Suppose that they find their erstwhile master at the foot of some
tree with a great, bloody hole in his gut and not a track or weapon in
sight. Is it likely, I  wonder, that they'd remark casually,  'Zounds!
Looks like old Blachlochs got himself done in by a maple! 'Not on your
Aunt Minnie! They'd hurry back here,  line everyone up in the  square,
and ask nasty, insulting  questions like 'Where  were you between  the
hours often  and  twelve?  '  and  'What was  the  dog  doing  in  the
nighttime? '  So,  to  avoid  that,  we  arranged  the  body  -  quite
tastefully, I assure you - in a picturesque attitude in the center  of
a small glade, complete with embellishing touches."

    Saryon felt suddenly  sick. He  saw Joram leaving  the forge,  the
warlock's corpse slung over his shoulders, Blachlochs limp DOOM OF THE
DARKSWORD 2J arms dangling down behind. The catalysts knees gave  way.
Sinking down  into a  chair, he  couldn't help  staring in  horror  at
Joram, at the bloodstained shirt.

    Joram followed the catalysts gaze,  glancing down at himself.  His
mouth twisted. "This make you squeamish, old man?"

    "You should  get rid  of  it," said  Saryon quietly.  "Before  the
guards see it."

    Joram stared at him  a moment, then, shrugging,  he tugged at  the
shirt. "Simkin," he ordered, "start a fire - "

    "My dear fellow!"  Simkin protested.  "Waste of  a perfectly  good
shirt. Toss  it here.  Remove the  stain in  an instant.  The  Duchess
D'Longeville showed me- You remember hearing of her, the one with  all
the husbands who kept  dying mysteriously. An  expert on stains,  too.
'Nothing easier to take out than  dried blood, Simkin, my dear, '  she
said to me. 'Most people make such a fuss over it. ' All you do is - "
Catching the shirt as Joram threw it, Simkin shook it out, then rubbed
the stain vigorously with  the bit of orange  silk. At its touch,  the
blood vanished.  "There, what'd  I tell  you? Pure  and white  as  the
driven snow. Well, not counting that grime around the collar."  Simkin
regarded the shirt with a disdainful smile.

    "What  about  the  body?"   Saryon  interrupted  hoarsely.   "What
'touches'?"

    "Centaur tracks!" Simkin smiled proudly. "My idea."

    "Tracks? How?"

    "Why, turned myself  into a centaur,  of course," Simkin  replied,
leaning back against the wall. "Jolly fun. Do it on occasion to relax.
I stomped about, tore  up the turf, made  it appear as though  there'd
been the most  savage fight. Considered  seriously killing myself  and
leaving my body  beside Blachlochs.  Would have been  the ultimate  in
realism. But" - he sighed - "one can give only so much to one's art."

    "Don't worry,  Catalyst," Joram  snapped irritably.  "No one  will
suspect a thing." Taking his shirt back from Simkin, he started to put
it on,  hesitated, then  tossed it  on the  mattress. Yanking  a  worn
leather pack  from beneath  his  bed, Joram  took out  another  shirt.
"Where's Mosiah?" he asked, looking about with a frown.

    "I - I don't  know," Saryon answered,  realizing suddenly that  he
had not seen the young  man. "He was asleep  when we left. The  guards
must have taken him somewhere!" He half-rose in alarm, walking  toward
the window.

    24  WEIS   AND  HICKMAN   "He  probably   escaped,"  Simkin   said
nonchalantly. "Those louts couldn't keep a chick from breaking out  of
its shell, and  you know Mosiah  was talking of  heading out into  the
wilds on his own."  Simkin gave a jaw-cracking  yawn. "I say,  Saryon,
old boy, you don't  mind if I  use your cot,  do you? I'm  frightfully
sleepy. Witnessing murders, hiding bodies-  been a full day.  Thanks."
Without waiting for Saryon's reply, Simkin crossed the small room, and
stretched himself luxuriously on the cot. "Nightclothes," he said, and
was  immediately  garbed  in  a  long,  white,  linen,  lace-decorated
nightshirt. Winking  at  Saryon, the  young  man smoothed  his  beard,
brushed up his mustache; then, closing his eyes, he was fast asleep in
an instant, and within three was snoring blissfully.

    Joram's face darkened.  "You don't  think he  did, do  you?" he  ,
asked Saryon.

    "What? Leave, go off by himself? " The catalyst rubbed his  aching
eyes. "Why not? Mosiah  certainly thinks he has  no friends here."  He
glanced bitterly at Joram. "Would it matter to you?"

    "I hope he  did," Joram said  flatly, tucking his  shirt into  his
breeches. "The less he knows about this, the better. For him . . . and
for us."

    He started to lay back down, thought better of it, and walked over
to the table. Lifting the pitcher, he broke the ice inside and  poured
the water into a slop bowl. Then, grimacing, he plunged his face  into
the chill water. After  washing away the black  soot of the forge,  he
dried himself with his shirtsleeve  and brushed back his tangled,  wet
hair with his fingers. Then, shivering  in the dank cell, he began  to
resolutely scrub his hands,  using chunks of ice  to scrape the  dried
blood from  his fingers.  "You're going  out somewhere,  aren't  you?"
Saryon asked suddenly.

    "To the forge, to work," Joram answered. Wiping his hands upon his
breeches, he then began to separate his thick, tangled hair into three
parts, to  braid  it  as  he  did every  day,  wincing  as  he  tugged
impatiently at the glossy black mass in his hands.

    "But you're  falling  asleep  on  your  feet,"  Saryon  protested.
"Besides, they won't let you out. You're right, somethings going  on."
He motioned to the window. "Look there. The guards are nervous. . . ."

    Joram glanced  out  the window,  twisting  his hair  with  skilled
hands. "All the more reason for us to act as if nothing has hap-  DOOM
OF THE DARKSWORD *5 pened. While  I'm gone, see what you can  discover
about Mosiah." Slinging a cloak over his shoulders, Joram walked  over
to the window and began to bang  impatiently on the bars. The knot  of
guards in  the street  turned  suddenly, and  one  - after  a  moments
conference with the others - came over to the cell, unlocked the door,
and yanked it open.

    "What do you  want?" the  guard growled- "I  m supposed  to be  at
work," Joram said sullenly. "Blachlochs orders."

    "Blachlochs orders?" The guard frowned. "We haven't had any orders
from - " he began, then  stopped, biting off his words and  swallowing
them with a gulp. "Just get back in the cell!"

    "Sure." Joram shrugged. "Only you tell the warlock why I wasn't at
the forge  when  they're working  overtime  to turn  out  weapons  for
Sharakan."

    "Whats going on?" Another  guard came up.  All the guards,  Saryon
noticed,  appeared  nervous  and  ill  at  ease.  Their  eyes  shifted
constantly among  each other,  people in  the street,  and  Blachlochs
house upon the hill.

    "Says he's supposed to go to the forge. Orders." The guard  jerked
his thumb at the house.

    "Then take him," said the other guard.

    "But yesterday we was told to  keep 'em locked up. And  Blachlochs
not-"

    "I said take him," the guard growled with a meaningful look at his
fellow.

    "Come on,  then," the  man said  to Joram,  giving him  a  vicious
shove.

    Saryon watched as Joram and the gu, ard made their way through the
streets. The  guards'  nervousness had  spread  to the  populace.  The
catalyst saw men passing by on their way to work cast dark glances  at
Blachlochs henchmen, who glared at  them with equal enmity. Women  who
should have  been going  to market  or taking  laundry to  the  stream
stared out the windows of their houses. Children starting to go out to
play were yanked back indoors. Did the Sorcerers know about Blachlochs
disappearance or were they simply reacting to the nervous state of the
warlock's henchmen? Saryon couldn't guess and he dared not ask.

    His brain numb with exhaustion  and* fear, the catalyst sank  down
in a rickety chair and leaned his head in his hand. A loud voice  made
him start, but it  was only Simkin  muttering about cards,  apparently
playing a game of tarok in his sleep.

    "Last trick falls to the King of Swords. . . ."

    Waiting N; (ever had a morning passed more slowly for Saryon,  who
tracked it by the counts of his heartbeat, the drawing of his  breath,
the blinking of his gummed eyes.  There had been a (lurry of  activity
in the  house across  the street  shortly atter  Joram left,  and  the
catalyst guessed that a contingent of Blachloch's henchmen had decided
to go off in  search of their missing  leader. Now, every second  that
dragged past, Saryon expected  to hear the  commotion that would  tell
him the warlocks  body had been  discovered. , The  catalyst could  do
nothing but wait. He actually envied Joram Kis work at the iron forge,
where mind and body -tired though they might be - could find refuge in
numbing labor. The sight of  Simkin, sprawled luxuriously on his  cot,
made every muscle in the catalysts middle-aged body ache for rest, and
he tried to seek refuge in sleep. Saryon lay down on Jorams bed, tired
enough that he  hoped he  would sink  into oblivion  swiftly. But  the
moment he began to slip over the edge of consciousness, he imagined he
heard Vanya's voice calling  him, and he  started awake, sweating  and
trembling.

    "Vanya is going to  contact me again  tonight!" In his  excitement
over Jorams return,  Saryon had shoved  that threat from  DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 27 his  mind. Now he  remembered, and the  minutes that  had
been creeping past  on leaden  feet suddenly sprouted  wings and  took
off.

    Locked in  the prison  cell, light-headed  from lack  of food  and
sleep, Saryon's thoughts  centered on  this forthcoming  confrontation
with the  Bishop, going  round and  round, caught  like a  stick in  a
whirlpool.

    "I will not surrender Joram!" he said to himself feverishly.  That
much was certain. As the catalyst envisioned this meeting with  Vanya,
however, he  began to  realize helplessly  that he  might have  little
choice in the matter. Unless Vanya  had ways of talking with the  dead
as the ancient Necromancers were said to have possessed, the  Bishop's
attempt to contact Blachloch this day must fail. Vanya would demand of
Saryon where the warlock  was, and Saryon knew  he would not have  the
strength to hide the truth.

    "Joram killed the warlock, murdered  him with a weapon created  of
darkness, a  weapon  created  with  my  help!"  Saryon  heard  himself
confess.

    How is that possible? Bishop Vanya would question in disbelief.  A
seventeen-year-old youth and a middle-aged catalyst destroying one  of
the Duuk-tjarithl A powerful warlock who could drag the winds from the
skies to crush a man  like a dried, autumn  leaf? A warlock who  could
inject a fiery poison  into a mans body,  setting ablaze every  nerve,
reducing the victim to little more than a convulsing, writhing blob of
flesh? This was the man you destroyed?

    Sitting on  the edge  of the  Jorams cot,  the catalyst  nervously
clasped and  unclasped  his  hands.  "He  was  going  to  kill  Joram,
Holiness!" Saryon  murmured  to  himself, rehearsing.  "You  said  the
Church did not condone murder. Blachloch  called upon me to grant  him
Life, to draw the magic from the world and feed it into his body to do
this foul deed! But I could  not. Holiness! Blachloch was evil,  don't
you see that? I saw  it. I had seen him  kill before. 1 could not  let
him kill again! I began  to drain the Life from  him! I took away  his
magic. Was that  wrong? Was  it, Holiness?  To try  to save  another's
life? 1 never meant for the warlock himself to die!" Saryon shook  his
head, staring down at his worn shoes.  "I only wanted to … render  him
harmless. Please believe me, Holiness! I  never meant for any of  this
to happen. …"

    28 WEIS  AND  MICKMAN "Who  holds  the Fool  card?"  Simkin  asked
sternly, the unexpected voice causing the catalysts heart to leap into
his throat. Shaking, Saryon glared at the young man angrily.

    Simkin appeared to be sound  asleep. Rolling over on his  stomach,
he "clutched the hard pillow to his chest and rested his cheek against
the mattress.  "Do  you  hold  the  Fool  card,  Catalyst?"  he  asked
dreamily. "If not, your King must fall. . . ."

    The King must fall. Yes, there was no doubt about that. Once Vanya
knew his agent was  dead, nothing his catalyst  could do or say  would
prevent the Bishop from sending the Duuk-Ltarith immediately to  bring
JoranY to the Font.

    "What am  I  doing?" Saryon  gripped  the edge  of  the  mattress,
digging his  fingers through  the worn  fabric. "What  am I  thinking?
Joram is Dead! They will not be able to locate him! That is why  Vanya
must have me  or Blachloch. He  cannot find  the boy on  his own.  The
Duuk-foarith track us by the Life,  the magic within our bodies!  They
will find me, but they cannot track the Dead. Or maybe they won't find
me. Maybe they won't find Joram."

    An idea struck Saryon a blow  that was physical in its  intensity.
Trembling in excitement, he stood up and began to pace the small cell.
His mind went over the calculations swiftly in search of a flaw. There
were none. It would work. He was as certain of it as he was certain of
the very  first mathematical  formula he  had learned  at his  mothers
knee.

    For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. So  the
ancients taught. In a world that  exudes magic, there is a force  that
absorbs it as well - the darkstone. Known to the Sorcerers at the time
of the Iron  Wars, they  had used it  to forge  weapons of  tremendous
power. When the Sorcerers were defeated, their Technology was  labeled
a Dark  Art. Their  kind was  persecuted, banished  from the  land  or
forced into hiding, as  were those in this  small colony where  Saryon
now lived. The  knowledge of  darkstone had sunk  under the  turbulent
harshness of their  lives and their  fight for survival.  It had  sunk
beyond memory,  becoming only  meaningless words  in a  ritual  chant,
unreadable words in old, half-forgotten books.

    Unreadable except  to Joram.  He had  found the  ore, learned  its
secrets, forged a sword. . . .

    Slowly, Saryon reached  beneath Joram's mattress.  He touched  the
cold metal of the  sword, wrapped in torn  cloth, and he cringed  away
from its evil feel. His hands kept searching, DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 29
however, and found what they sought - a small leather bag. Pulling  it
out from its hiding place, Saryon  held it in his hand, pondering.  It
would work, but did he have the strength, the courage?

    Did he have a choice?

    Slowly, he tugged open the leather string that held the bag  shut.
Inside were three pieces of rock. Plain and unlovely, they looked very
much like iron ore.

    Saryon hesitated, holding the bag  in his hand, staring inside  in
rapt fascination.

    Darkstone - this would protect him  from Vanya! This was the  card
he could  play that  would  keep the  Bishop  from winning  the  game!
Reaching inside the bag, Saryon drew  forth one of the rocks. It  felt
heavy and strangely warm in his palm. Thoughtfully, he closed his hand
over it  and, with  an unconscious  movement, pressed  it against  his
heart. Bishop Vanya  contacted him  through the  magic. The  darkstone
would absorb that magic, act  as a shield. He  would be -to Vanya  -as
one of the Dead.

    "And I  might  as well  be  one  of the  Dead,"  Saryon  murmured,
clutching the  stone close  to his  body, "for  this act  will put  me
outside the laws, both of my faith  and of the land. By doing this,  I
repudiate everything I have been brought up to believe. I repudiate my
life. All I have  lived for up  until this time  will crumble and  shp
through my fingers as so much dust. I will have to learn the world all
over again. A new  world, a cold world,  a frightening world. A  world
without faith, a world without  comforting answers, a world of  Death.
." ."

    Drawing the leather thong tight,  Saryon shut the bag and  slipped
it back once more into its hiding place. He kept one rock fast in  his
hand, however, holding it tightly. His decision made, he moved rapidly
now, plans and thoughts falling into place in his mind with the  logic
and clarity of the skilled mathematician.

    "I must go to the forge. I must talk to Joram, convince him of our
clanger. We'll  escape,  travel into  the  Outland. By  the  time  the
Duuk-foaritk arrive, we will be far away."

    Still clutching the rock in his hand, Saryon splashed water on his
face and, grabbing up  his cloak, flung  it - all  tangled and awry  -
around his shoulders. With a backward glance at the slumbering Simkin,
he tapped on the barred window of the prison house and beckoned to one
of the guards.

    "What do you want. Catalyst?"

    30 WE1S  AND HICKMAN  DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD "Weren't  you  given
orders this morning regarding me?"  Saryon asked, assuming a smile  he
hoped would be taken for bland innocence but which felt more like  the
frozen grin of a dead possum.

    "No," the guard said with a frightful scowl.

    "I - um - am  needed at the forge  this day." Saryon gulped.  "The
smith is undertaking a difficult project  and has asked to be  infused
with Life."

    "I don't know." The guard hesitated. "Our orders were to keep  you
inside."

    "But surely  those  orders  were for  last  night,"  Saryon  said.
"Haven't you … er … received new orders today?"

    "Maybe we have and maybe we  haven't," the guard mumbled, with  an
uneasy glance at  the house on  the hill. Following  the guards  gaze,
Saryon saw a group of Blachloch's henchmen gathering in a small,  dark
knot outside the door.  He wished desperately he  knew what was  going
on.

    "I guess you can  go," the guard said  finally. "But I'll have  to
take you."

    "Of course." Saryon checked a relieved sigh.

    "Is the twit still in there?" The guard jerked his head toward the
prison house.

    "Who? Oh, Simkin." The catalyst nodded.

    Peering through the  barred window,  the guard saw  the young  man
stretched out on  the bed, his  mouth wide open.  His snores could  be
heard clearly in the street and, at that moment, he was seized with  a
particularly violent one that practically lifted him from the bed.

    "Pity he don't choke." The guard opened the door, let the catalyst
out, then shut it  with a vicious snap.  "Come on, Priest," the  guard
said, and the two began their walk..

    As they  passed through  the village  streets with  their rows  of
brick houses - houses that Saryon could still not look upon without  a
shudder, houses  that had  been made  by the  tools and  hands of  man
instead of molded from  the elements by magic  - the catalyst  noticed
the restlessness growing among the people.  Many men had given up  all
pretense of working and now stood  around in small groups, talking  in
low tones, glaring at the guard as he passed with grim defiance.

    "Aye, just wait," the guard muttered, glaring back at them. "We'll
take care  of  you  shortly."  But  Saryon  noticed  that  Blachloch's
henchman said this  beneath his  breath. Clearly, he  was nervous  and
worried.

    ' The catalyst did not blame  him. Five years ago, the man  called
Blachloch had appeared  in the  Sorcerers' village. Claiming  to be  a
renegade from the ranks of the powerful Duuk-tjarilb, the warlock  had
easily wrested control from  Andon - the gentle,  old man who was  the
leader of the Coven. Bringing in his henchmen - thieves and  murderers
sent expressly  by  the Duuk-Liaritb  for  this purpose  -the  warlock
tightened his grip upon  the Sorcerers, ruling  through both fear  and
the promise that it was now time for the Sorcerers to rise up and take
back their proper  place in the  world. But there  were those -  Andon
among them-who had openly defied the warlock and his guards. Now  that
the  powerful  wariock  was  missing,  his  men  were   understandably
concerned.

    "So, what project are they working on today. Priest?"

    Saryon started.  He had  the  vague awareness  that this  was  the
second time the guard had asked the question, but he had been so  lost
in his thoughts he had not noticed.

    "Uh, a special weapon . . . for the . . . the kingdom of Sharakan,
I believe," Saryon stammered, flushing uncomfortably. The guard nodded
and lapsed into  his uneasy silence  again, darting swift,  suspicious
glances from the corners  of his eyes at  the townspeople they met  as
they continued toward, the forge.

    Saryon knew he was  safe in mentioning  Sharakan. A large  kingdom
lying well to the north of the Outland, Sharakan was preparing for war
and had incurred the  wrath, and fear, of  the catalysts by daring  to
seek out the Sorcerers  of the Dark Art  and engage their help.  Thus,
for the  past year,  the Sorcerers  had been  working day  and  night,
forging iron arrow-points, spear-points  and daggers. Enhanced by  the
powerful magic of Sharakan  s own warlocks,  these weapons could  make
them an extremely formidable enemy. And, nght now, the iron dagger  of
Sharakan was pointed directly at  the ancient and beautiful throat  of
the kingdom of Merilon.

    No wonder Bishop  Vanya was  frightened. In this,  Saryon i£d  not
blame him, and, as he thought about it, his heart almost misgave  him.
The Order of catalysts had kept  the peace among the various  kingdoms
of Thimhallan for centuries. Now it was unraveling, the frail  fabric*
being ripped apart. Sharakan made no secret of its plans for  conquest
and, though the Church was 32 WEIS AND H1CKMAN doing its best to  keep
this from the rest  of the world  lest it start  a panic, rumors  were
spreading and fear was growing daily.

    But surely, Saryon thought, now that Blachloch is dead, that  will
all end! Andon, the wise, elderly leader, was opposed to this talk  of
war among the Sorcerers. With Blachloch no longer around to foment the
idea, the old man could bring his people back to their senses.

    I will warn him of their danger before we leave, Saryon thought. I
will tell him that Blachloch was leading  them into a trap. I -  "Here
we are," announced the guard, catching hold of the catalyst, who  had,
in his dark  musings, nearly  stumbled headlong into  the forge.  Once
again cognizant of his surroundings, Saryon heard the pounding of  the
hammers and the  harsh breathing of  the bellows, like  the heart  and
lungs of  some great  beast,  its eyes  gleaming  fiery red  from  the
darkness of the  lair in  which it  crouched. The  beasts master,  the
smith, stood within  the doorway. A  giant of a  man, skilled in  both
magic and  technology, the  smith  led the  faction of  Sorcerers  who
favored  war.  He  favored  it,  however,  without  interference  from
Blachloch. No one would be more pleased to hear of the warlock's death
than the smith. And there was no  doubt that the henchmen had much  to
fear from this big man and the large number of Sorcerers who supported
him.

    The smith  was talking  with  several young  men now.  Seeing  the
guard, they broke off their conversation. The young men drew back into
the shadows of  the cave  where the forge  was housed,  and the  smith
returned to his work, though not before he cast the guard a glance  of
cool defiance.

    "Father . . ." There came a touch on his arm.

    Saryon looked around behind him, startled.

    "Mosiab!"  he  cried,  reaching  out  to  clutch  the  young   man
thankfully. "How did you esca -" Glancing at the guard, he broke  off.
"That is, we were worried - "

    "Father," said Mosiah, interrupting gently, "I must speak to  you.
In private.  It is  a …  spiritual matter,"  he said,  looking at  the
guard. "It will not take long."

    "Ail right," the  guard said  grudgingly, conscious  of the  smith
watching him closely. "But do"'t get out of my sight, either of you."

    Mosiah drew Saryon into  tbe shadows of a  stable where they  kept
the horses for shoeing. "Father," the young man whispered, "where  are
you going?"

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 33 "To -to talk with Joram. I have something
… we need to discuss . . ." Saryon stammered.

    "Is it about this rumor?"

    "What rumor?" the catalyst asked  uneasily. Blachloch. . . .  He's
missing." Mosiah regarded Saryon intently. "Hadn't you heard?"

    No. Saryon  averted  his  eyes  and drew  further  back  into  the
shadows.

    "They've sent a search party into the wilderness."

    "How - how do you know?"

    "I was at Blachloch's house when Simkin came to tell the  warlocks
men the news."

    "Simkin?" Saryon stared at Mosiah. "When? What did he say?"

    "Early this morning. You see, Father," Mosiah continued hurriedly,
his eyes on  the guard,  "last night, after  you and  Joram left,  the
guards came and  took me  away. Blachloch  wanted to  question me,  or
something like  that, they  said. When  we arrived  at the  house,  he
wasn't there. Someone said he'd gone with you to the forge. We waited,
but he never came back. Some of his men went to the forge looking  for
him and couldn't find him. Then, near morning, Simkin turned up with a
story about how  Blachloch had gone  intotthe woods to  settle an  old
score with centaurs - " fc'

    Saryon groaned.

    Mosiah looked at the catalyst intently.

    "This isn't news to  you, Father, is it?  1 didn't think it  would
be. Whats going on?"

    "I can't te! l you now!" Saryon said in a low voice. "How did  you
get away?"

    Just walked off in the confusion. I came to warn Andon. Blachlochs
men are gathering up there, making plans to take over the village  and
crush any rebellion before it starts. They've got weapons - clubs  and
knives and bows - "

    "Hey, come  along!  I  ain't  got all  day,"  the  guard  shouted,
obviously eager to escape the smiths wrathful gaze.

    I ve got to go," Saryon said, starting for the forge.

    "I'm coming with you," Mosiah said firmly.

    "No! Go back to the cell!  Keep an eye on Simkin!" Saryon  ordered
desperately. "The Almin knows what he'll say or do next!"

    WEIS AND  HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE  DAR. KSWORI5  "Yes," Mosiah  said,
after an instant's consideration, "that's probably a good idea. You'll
be coming back?"

    "Yes, yes!" Saryon answered  hastily. He saw  the guard glance  at
the young man uncertainly, as though  thinking it odd that Mosiah  was
free to  walk the  streets. But  if the  guard had  any intentions  of
stopping Mosiah, another glance  at the frowning  smith caused him  to
reconsider.

    "The priest  here says  hes come  to help  you with  some  special
project," the guard said to the smith, each eyeing the other darkly.

    "You know . . . the special project, for Sharakan," Saryon  added,
licking his dry lips. The sound of hammering from the back ceased. The
catalyst saw Joram looking at him,  his black eyes gleaming as red  as
the coals in the pit. "The project  the young man Joran is working  on
…" Saryon's voice gave out, his well of lies run dry.

    A smile twitched  on the  smiths lips,  but he  only shrugged  and
said, "Aye, that project."  He made a gesture  with a blackened  hand.
"Go on back, Father. Not you!" he ordered in a stern voice, glaring at
the guard. The guards face flushed, but the smith lifted his  gigantic
hammer, holding it easily in one huge fist. With a muttered curse, the
guard backed off. Turning on his heel, he headed up the street  toward
the house on the hill.

    "Better hurry, Father," the smith said coolly. "Theres going to be
trouble and you don't want to be caught in the middle, 111 wager."

    The smith struck a horseshoe he was holding in his tongs a ringing
blow with his hammer. Saryon, glancing  at it, saw that the  horseshoe
was stone cold,  already shaped and  finished, in fact.  The crowd  of
young men had reappeared, converging in front of the cavern  entrance.
The in numbers appeared to be growing. '.

    "Yes, thank you," the catalyst said. "I -I'll be quick."

    Hardly able to bear himself think over the hammering, Saryon  made
his way  through the  clutter of  the forge.  Memories of  last  nigbt
assailed him. His gaze  went involuntarily to the  place on the  floor
where the warlock's bleeding  body had rested  - "Almin's blood!  What
are you doing here?"  Joram swore through  clenched teeth. A  red-hot,
glowing spear-point lay on the anvil before him. He started to lift it
with the  tongs, to  plunge it  into  a bucket  of water.  But  Saryon
stopped him with a hand on his arm.

    "I must  talk to  you, Joram!"  he yelled  over thg  sound of  the
smiths hammer blows. "We are in danger!"

    "What? Have they discovered the body?"

    "No. Another danger. A more  deadly one. I -  You know that I  was
sent by … Bishop Vanya  to … bring you back.  I told you that, when  I
first came."

    "Yes," returned Joram,  his heavy black  brows coming together  to
form a thick black line  across his face. "You  told me - after  Simkm
had told me, but you told me."

    Saryon flushed. "I  know you  don't trust me,  but .  . .  listen!
Bishop Vanya has  contacted me  again. Don't  ask how,  the means  are
magical." The catalysts hand  went to a pocket  in his robes where  he
had  secreted  the  darkstone.  Taking  hold  of  it,  he  clasped  it
reassuringly. "He demands that Blachloch and I bring you to the  Font,
you and the Darksword."

    "Vanya knows about the Darksword?" Joram hissed. "You told-"

    "Not I!" Saryon  gasped. "Blachloch!  The wizard  is -  was -  the
Bishops agent- DmJf-tjaritb. I don't  have time to explain  everything
now, Joram. The Bishop will soon  find out that Blachioch is dead  and
that you killed  him, using the  darkstone. He will  send the  Duuk-t.
tarith here  to apprehend  you. He  must, he  fears the  power of  the
Darksword - "

    "He n'<7"/,> the power of the Darksword," Joram amended grimly.

    Saryon  blinked;  that  was  something  he  had  not   considered.
"Perhaps," he said, swallowing, his throat raw from the need to  shout
to be heard. "But we must leave, Joram! Every moment that passes,  our
danger grows!"

    "Our danger!"  Joram  smiled  the half-smile  that  was  nearer  a
twisted, bitter grimace. "You  are in no  danger, Catalyst! Why  don't
you just hand me over  to your Bishop?" He  turned his head away  from
the catalysts intense  gaze, thrusting the  cooling spe*ar-point  back
into the coals. "You're afraid of me, after all. You're afraid of  the
darkstone. It was my  hand that killed  Blachloch. You're innocent  of
that." Bringing the spear-point back out with his tongs, Joram  rested
it upon the anvil. For long moments, he stared at it, unseeing. "We'll
be going into the  Out-land," he said, his  voice so soft that  Saryon
had to lean close to W E I S AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 37 hear
above the pounding behind him. "You  know the danger, the risks  we'll
face. Especially since neither of us is powerful in magic. Why? Why do
you want to go with me?"

    Joram returned to his work, keeping his face averted.

    Why indeed? Saryon asked  himself, staring at  the bent head;  the
strong shoulders, naked  in the heat  of the forge;  the crisp,  black
hair that  had fought  loose of  its braid  and hung  down in  shining
tendrils around the cold, stern young face. There was something in the
voice. . . . Thick with fatigue, it was thick with fear. And something
else -hope?

    Joram is afraid. Saryon  realized. He plans  to leave the  village
and hes been trying to  get up the courage  to go into those  strange,
savage lands by himself.

    Who do I want to go with you, Joram? A burning lump formed in  the
catalysts throat, as though he had  swallowed one of the hot coals-  I
could tell you that I held you once in my arms. I could tell you  that
you rested your  small head  upon my shoulder,  that I  rocked you  to
sleep. I could tell  you that you are'the  Prince of Merilon, heir  to
the throne, and that I can prove it!

    But no, I cannot tell you that now. I don't think I can ever  tell
you. With this dangerous knowledge and the bitter anger . inside  you,
Joram, you would bring tragedy down  upon all of us-your parents,  the
innocent people of Merilon . . .

    Saryon shuddered. No, he repeated. At  least I will not be  guilty
of that sin!  1 will  carry the  secret to  my death.  Yet what  other
reason can I give  to this young  man? I want to  go with you,  Joram,
because I care about yjtiu, what happens to you? How he would sneer at
this …

    "I am going with you," answered Saryon finally, "because I seek to
regain my own faith. The Church once  stood, for me, as strong as  the
mountain fastness of  the Font.  Now I  see it  crumbling, falling  in
deceit and greed. I told you that I  could not go back to it. I  meant
that."

    Joram turned from  his work to  face the catalyst.  The dark  eyes
were cool  and  dispassionate,  but  Saryon saw  a  brief  flicker  of
disappointment, a tiny flame  of longing to  hear something else  that
was quickly and coldly quenched.  The look startled the catalyst,  and
he wished he'd  said the words  that had  been in his  heart. But  the
moment passed.

    "Very well, Catalyst," Joram said coolly. "I think its a good idea
you come with me anyway. I don't trust you out of my sight.

    You know too much  about the darkstone. Now  go back to the  cell.
Leave me alone. I've got to get this finished."

    Saryon sighed. Yes, he'd  said the right thing.  But how empty  it
felt. Reaching  into  his pocket,  he  drew  out the  small  piece  of
darkstone. "One thing more.  Can you set this  in a mounting for  me?"
the catalyst asked Joram. "And fasten it to a chain so that f can wear
it?"

    Surprised, Joram took the  stone, looking from  it to Saryon.  The
dark eyes were suddenly suspicious. "Why?"

    "I believe it  will enable me  to escape the  Bishop's attempt  to
contact me. It will absorb the magic."

    Shrugging, Joram took it. "I'll bring it to you when I return this
afternoon."

    "It must be soon!" Saryon said nervously. "Before this evening-"

    Do not worry, Catalyst," Joram  interrupted. "By this evening,  we
will be long  gone from this  place. By the  way," he added  casually,
once again turning to his work, "did you find Mosiah?"

    "Yes, he is waiting at the prison, with Simkin."

    "So, he didn't leave. …" Joram murmured to himself.

    "What?"

    "We'll take him with us. And Simkin. Go tell them and start making
ready."

    "No! Not Simkin!" Saryon protested. "Mosiah, perhaps, but not - "

    "We'll need magic-users like  Simkin and Mosiah, Catalyst,"  Joram
interrupted coldly. "With you to give them Life, and my power with the
Darksword, we might live through this  yet." He glanced up, dark  eyes
cold. "I hope that doesn't disappoint you."

    Without a word, Saryon  turned from Joram and  walked back to  the
front of the forge, carefully avoiding as  he did so the place on  the
floor where the warlock had died. Was that blood there? He fancied  he
could see a pool of it beneath a bucket, and quickly looked away.

    He would not be sorry to leave  this place. Though he had come  to
like the  people and  understand their  way of  life, he  could  never
overcome in  his soul  the repugnance  he felt  for the  Dark Arts  of
Technology, the repugnance that had been bred in him over a  lifetime.
He knew of the perils of the  Outland -or 38 WEIS AND HICKMAN  assumed
he did -and thought naively that life among nature would be preferable
to a life where man engineered nature.

    Where will we  go? He  didn't know. Sharakan,  perhaps -  although
they might  be walking  into the  midst of  a war.  It didn't  matter.
Anywhere would do -as long as it wasn't Merilon.

    Yes, he would be  giad to go,  willing to face  the perils of  the
Outland. But blessed Almin, Saryon thought glumly as he walked back to
the prison house.

    Why Simkin?

    Lying in a Manger  44 I was  there. I saw the  whole , thing,  and
sink me," said Sim-kin in hushed, awful tones, "if our Dark and Gloomy
Friend didn't plunge  his shining  sword straight  into the  warlock's
writhing body."

    "Good for Joram," Mosiah said grimly.

    "Well, actually not 'shining  sword, '" Simkin amended,  producing
an ornate, silver-framed looking glass from the air with a gesture  of
his hand. Holding it up, he examined his face, meticulously  smoothing
his soft brown beard with his fingers and deftly twirling the ends  of
his mustache. "Actually, that swords the ugliest thing I've seen,  not
counting the Marchioness  of Black-boroughs fourth  child. Of  course,
the Marchioness herself is no prize. Everyone who knows her knows that
the nose she wears at night is  not the same nose that she starts  out
with in the morning."

    "What-"

    "It's never the same nose twice,  you see. She's not very  skilled
in magic. It's been  rumored that shes Dead,  but that could never  be
proved, and then her husband is such a. frightfully good friend of the
Emperor's. And if she would  just take a bit  of time, who knows?  She
might get the nose right.

    WEIS AND HICKMAN "Simkin, I - "

    "Still, I don't  understand why she  persists in having  children,
particularly ugly children.  'There ought to  be a law  against it/  I
suggested to the Empress, who quite agreed with me."

    "What does the  sword look like?  " Mosiah managed  to insert  the
sentence as Simkin paused for breath.

    "Sword?" Simkin looked  at him vaguely.  "Oh, yes. Joram's  sword,
the 'Darksword, ' as he calls it. Quite aptly, too, I might add.  What
does it look like?" The young man pondered, first sending the  looking
glass away with a snap of his  fingers. "Let me think. By the way,  do
you like my ensemble? I  prefer it to the black.  I call it Blood  and
Gore in honor of the dear departed."

    Mosiah glanced at the blood-red  breeches, purple coat, and •  red
satin vest in disgust and nodded.

    Adjusting the lace at his wrist - lace that was splotched with red
spots, for "that splatter effect" -Simkin sat down upon the cot in the
prison house, crossing  his well-shaped  legs to show  off his  purple
hose to their best advantage.

    "The sword," he continued, "looks like a man."

    "No!" Mosiah scoffed.

    "Yes* Almin's truth," Simkin averred, offended. "A man of iron.  A
skinny man of iron, mind  you, but a man nonetheless.  Like so . .  ."
Rising to his feet, Simkin stood stiffly upright, his ankles together,
his arms thrown straight out to either side. "My neck is the  handle,"
he said, stretching his scrawny throat  to its utmost. "It has a  knob
on top for a head."

    "You're the one with a knob for a head!" Mosiah snorted.

    "Take a  look  at it,  if  you  don't believe  me,"  Simkin  said,
collapsing suddenly upon the cot. He yawned. "Its under the  mattress,
wrapped like a babe in swaddling clothes."

    Mosiah s  gaze  went  to  the bed,  his  hands  twitched.  "No,  I
couldn't," he said after a moment.

    "Suit yourself." Simkin shrugged. "I wonder if they've  discovered
the body yet. And do you think this is too gaudy for the funeral?"

    "What powers did  you say  the Darksword had?"  Mosiah asked,  his
eyes fixed in fascination  upon the bed. Slowly  he rose to his  feet,
crossed the room, and came to stand beside the cot, though he did  not
venture to touch the mattress. "What did it do to Blachloch?"

    "Let me recall," Simkin said languidly, lying down on the cot  and
putting his arms underneath  his head. Staring at  his shoes, DOOM  OF
THE DARKSWORD 41  he frowned  and experimentally  changed their  color
from red to purple. "You must realize it was a bit difficult for me to
see, situated as I was, hanging from the wall by one wretched nail.  I
thought about becoming  a bucket,  they have such  better vision  than
tongs, you know.  When I'm tongs,  one eye generally  gets located  on
each side. It  gives a  wide range,  but 1 can't  see a  thing in  the
middle. Buckets, on the other hand -"

    "Oh, just get on with it!" Mosiah snapped impatiently.

    Simkin sniffed and changed his shoes back to red again. "Our Hated
and Ruthless Leader was casting a  Green Venom spell upon oUr  friend-
Ever see that  spell in action,  by the way?"  Simkin asked  casually.
"Does  nasty  things  to   your  nervous  system.  Paralyzes,   causes
excruciating pain - "

    "Poor Joram," said Mosiah softly.

    "Yes, poor Joram," Simkin repeated slowly. "He was about done for,
Mosiah." The bantering voice was  suddenly serious. "I really  thought
it was  all  over. Then  I  noticed  the strangest  thing.  The  green
venomous light that the spell casts over ones body glowed around Joram
everywhere except his hands, where he was holding the Darksword.  And,
slowly, the glow began to fade from his arms, and was fading from  the
rest of his body,  as well, when pur  jolly old friend, the  catalyst,
stepped in and sucked the Life from the warlock. Good thing, too. Most
timely. Even though the  Darksword was having  some sort of  reversing
effect on Blachloch  s spell, it  obviously wasn't going  to act  fast
enough to save Joram from being turned into a quivering mass of  green
pudding."

    "So it somehow nullifies the magic," Mosiah said won-deringly.  He
stared at  the bed  in longing,  irresolute. Glancing  out the  barred
window, he shivered in the chill  air. Though it was midafternoon,  it
had grown no warmer. The  weak sun had disappeared completely  beneath
sullen, gray clouds. It looked and  felt as if the clouds had  dropped
down and were  lying on top  of the town,  slowly smothering the  life
from it. The streets were empty. There were no guards, no townspeople.
Even the noise of the forge had ceased.

    Making up  his mind,  the young  man walked  swiftly to  the  cot.
Kneeling beside  it,  he  inserted his  hands  beneath  the  mattress.
Gently, almost reverently, he pulled out the bundle of rags.

    Leaning back upon his heels, Mosiah unwrapped the sword and stared
at it. The young mans face -the  open, honest face of a Field Magus  -
twisted in repugnance.

    42 WEIS AND HICKMAN, "What did  I tell you?" Simkin said,  rolling
over on the cot and propping himself up on one elbow so that he  could
see. "Beastly looking piece of  work, isn't it? I personally  wouldn't
be caught dead carrying it, though I don't suppose that bothers Joram.
Get it," he  persisted playfully  when Mosiah did  not laugh.  "Caught
Dead?"

    Mosiah ignored him. Both fascinated and repulsed, he stared at the
sword, unable to withdraw his gaze. It was, in truth, a crude and ugly
weapon. Once,  long ago,  the  Sorcerers had  made swords  of  shining
beauty and graceful design,  with flashing steel  blades and gold  and
silver hilts. Magical swords, they  were endowed as well with  various
properties laid on  them by rune  and spell. But  all swords had  been
banished in Thim-hallan following the Iron Wars. Weapons of evil, they
were called by  the catalysts, demonic  creations of the  Dark Art  of
Technology. The making of  steel swords passed  out of knowledge.  The
only swords Joram had  seen were pictured in  the books he found.  And
although the  young man  had some  skill  in metal  work, he  was  not
skilled enough, nor did he have the  time or the patience, to craft  a
weapon such as men of ancient days had carried with pride.

    The  Darksword  that  Mosiah  held  in  his  handfc  was  made  of
darkstone, an ore that is black and unlovely. Given life in the  fires
of the  forge, and  granted  magical Life  by the  reluctant  catalyst
Saryon, the Darksword was  nothing more than a  shaft of metal  beaten
and pounded and clumsily sharpened  by Jorams -inexperienced hand.  He
had no knowledge of how to craft hilt and blade and then join the  two
together. The sword was made out of one piece of metal and - as Simkin
said - it did resemble a human being. The hilt was separated from  the
blade by a crosspiece  that looked like  two arms outstretched.  Joram
had added the bulbous-shaped head at the hilt in an attempt to  weight
it, causing it to look very much like the body of man turned to stone.
Mosiah was about to slide the  ugly and unnerving object back  beneath
the mattress when the door slammed open.

    "Put that down!" came a harsh voice.

    Startled, Mosiah nearly dropped the weapon.

    "Joram!" he said guiltily, turning around. "I was just looking-"

    "I said put it  down," Joram said gruffly,  kicking the door  shut
behind him. Crossing the cell in a bound, he snatched the DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 43 sword from Mosiah's unresisting hands. "Don't ever  touch
it again," he said, glaring at his friend.

    "Don't worry," muttered Mosiah, standing  up and wiping his  hands
on his leather breeches as if to  wipe off the touch of the metal,  "I
won't. Ever!" he added feelingly.  Giving Joram a dark glance,  Mosiah
turned from him and went to stare moodily out the window.

    The silence of  the streets  flowed into the  cell, settling  over
them all like an  unseen fog. Joram thrust  the weapon into a  leather
sling he had fashioned  in a crude imitation  of the sword sheaths  he
had seen in  the books.  Casting a  sideways glance  at Mosiah,  Joram
started to  say something,  then  checked it.  He  pulled a  bag  from
beneath his bed and  began to fill  it with his  few clothes and  what
little food there was in the cell.  Mosiah heard him but did not  look
around. Even Simkin was quiet. Contemplating his shoes, he was in  the
act of changing one to red and  the other to purple when there came  a
soft knock and the door opened.

    Saryon stepped inside. No one spoke. The catalyst looked from  the
flushed, angry face of Joram to  the pale face of Mosiah, sighed,  and
carefully shut the door behind him.

    "They've found the body," he reported in low tones.

    "Smashing!" cried Simkin, sitting up and swinging his multicolored
feet over the side of the bed. "I must go-watch -"

    "No," said Joram abruptly. "Stay here. We've got plans to make. We
have to get out! Tonight!"

    "The devil  you  say!" Simkin  wailed  in dismay.  "And  miss  the
funeral? After I took such pains - "

    "I'm afraid so,"  Joram said  dryly. "Here,  Catalyst." He  handed
Saryon a crude chain  from which dangled a  piece of dark rock.  "Your
'good luck' charm."

    Saryon accepted the chain with a grave expression. He held it  for
a moment, staring down at it, his face growing increasingly pale.

    "Father?" asked Mosiah. "Whats wrong?"

    "Too much," the catalyst replied softly, and, with the same solemn
look upon  his face,  he hung  the darkstone  around his  neck,  being
careful to tuck the rock beneath the collar of his robes.  "Blachlochs
men have sealed off the town. No one is to go in or out."

    Joram swore a bitter oath.

    W E I S AND  H I C K  M A N DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD "Dash it  all!"
Simkin burst out. "The very devil! It'll be such a wonderful  funeral,
too. Highlight  of  the year  around  here.  And the  best  part,"  he
continued gloomily, "is that the townspeople will undoubtedly take the
opportunity to whack a few of Blachlochs henchmen. I was quite looking
forward to a nice round of lout-whacking."

    "We have to get out of  here!" Joram said grimly. Tying his  cloak
around his neck, he arranged the folds "so that the fabric covered the
sword, hiding it from sight.

    "But why should we leave?"  Mosiah protested. "From what  Simkin's
told me, everyone will believe Blachloch was killed by centaurs.  Even
his henchmen. And they won't be hanging around long to ask  questions.
Simkins right. I've seen how the townspeople are looking at that scum.
That's why Blachlochs men  have sealed off  the town. They're  scared!
And with good cause! We'll fight them! Drive them out, and then  there
won't be anything to fear from anyone - "

    "Yes, there will," Saryon said, his hand lingering on the  amulet.
"I have been contacted by Bishop Vanya."

    "I bet he gets to go to the funeral," sulked Simkin.

    "Shut up, fool," Mosiah growled.  "What do you mean,  'contacted'.
Father? How could he?"

    Speaking hurriedly, with frequent  glances out the window,  Saryon
told the young men  of his conversation with  the Bishop, leaving  out
only what he knew about Joram's true identity.

    "We must be  gone by  nightfall," Saryon  concluded. "When  Bishop
Vanya cannot reach either me or Blachloch, he will know something dire
has happened. By nightfall, the Duuk-faarith could be here."

    "See? Everyone whos anyone will  be at that funeral," said  Simkin
moodily.

    "The Duuk-foaritb, here!" Mosiah paled. "We must warn An-don - "

    "I have just come from Andon," Saryon interrupted with a sigh.  "I
tried to  make  him  understand,  but I'm  not  certain  I  succeeded.
Frankly, he's not worried half as much about the-Duuk-ttarith as he is
over the people  getting into  a fight  with Blachlochs  men. 1  don't
think the Duuk-faaritb  will bother  the Sorcerers if  they do  come,"
Saryon added,  seeing Mosiahs  concern. "We  can assume  now that  the
Order was in constant touch with Blachloch. Had they wanted to destroy
the village, they could have done so at a moments notice. They will be
searching for Joram and the darkstone. When they discover he is  gone,
they will follow his trail. They will follow us. . . ."

    "But  these  people  are  my  friends,  like  my  family,"  Mosiah
persisted. "I can't leave them!" He stared worriedly out the window.

    "They're my Iriends,  too," Joram  said abruptly.  "It's not  like
we're running out. The best thing we can do for them is to leave."

    "Believe me,  theres nothing  we  could do  if we  stayed,  except
perhaps bring greater harm to  them," Saryon said gently, resting  his
hand on Mosiahs shoulder. "Bishop Vanya told me once that he wanted to
avoid attacking  the Sorcerers,  if  possible. It  would be  a  bitter
battle and, no matter how quiet the Church kept it, word would get out
and throw the people into a panic.  That was why Blachloch was here  -
to lead the Sorcerers  to their own  destruction along with  Sharakan.
Vanya still hopes to carry out his  plan. Theres not much else he  can
do."

    "But surely Andon won't let them now that he knows - "

    "It's not  our problem  anymore!" Joram  interrupted tersely.  "It
doesn't matter to  us. At  least, not to  me." He  cinched the  bundle
together tightly and slung it over his back. "You and Simkin can  stay
here if you want."

    "And let you and the bald-headed wonder go traipsing off into  the
wilds alone?"  said  Simkin  indignantly. "I  couldn't  sleep  nights,
thinking of it." With a wave of  his hand, he shifted his attire.  His
red clothes changed to an ugly  greenish brown. A long gray  traveling
cloak settled  over  his  shoulders, hip-high  leather  boots  crawled
slowly up  his legs.  A  cocked hat  with  a long,  drooping  pheasant
feather appeared  on  his  head.  "Back to  Muck  and  Mud,"  he  said
gloomily.

    "You're not going with us!" Mosiah said.

    "Us?" Joram repeated. "I didn't know uv were going anywhere?"

    "You know I'll go," Mosiah retorted.

    "I'm glad," Joram said quietly.

    Mosiah flushed  in  pleasure  at  the  unexpected  warmth  in  his
friend's voice, but his pleasure didn't last long.

    "Of course, I'm going," Simkin struck in loftily. "Who else do you
have to guide you? I've come  and gone safely through the Outland  for
years. How about you? Do you know the way?"

    "Perhaps not," Mosiah said, eyeing Simkin darkly. "But I'd a  damn
sight rather be lost in the Outla'nd  than guided to wher- •/ (J  WEIS
AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWOR. D 47 ever it v& you've got in  mind.
/ don't want to  end up the  husband of the  Faerie Queen!" he  added,
with a glance at the catalyst.

    Saryon appeared so alarmed at  this reminder of a near  disastrous
adventure he'd had with  Simkin as guide, that  Joram cut in.  "Simkin
goes," he said firmly. "Perhaps we  could make it through the  Outland
without him, but hes the only one who  can get us in to where we  want
to go."

    The catalyst regarded Joram with concern, having a sudden  chilled
feeling he knew the young man's destination. But before he could say a
word, Joram continued, "Besides,  Simkm's magic can  help us get  past
Blachlochs men."

    "That's nothing to  worry about!" Simkin  scoffed. "Theres  always
the Corridors, after all."

    "No!" Saryon cried,  his voice  hoarse with  fear. "Wouldyou  walk
into the arms of the Duuk-tjarithV "Well, then, I could change us  all
into rabbits," Simkin offered after  a moments profound thought.  "Get
away in a hop, skip, and - "

    "Father?" called a quavering voice from outside the prison window.
"Father Saryon? Are you in there?"

    "Andon!" cried the catalyst, flinging open the door. "Name of  the
Almin, what's the matter?"

    The old Sorcerer  appeared ready to  drop on the  spot. His  hands
trembled, the usually  mild eyes  were wild,  his clothes  disordered.
"Joram, bring a chair," Saryon ordered, but Andon shook his head.

    "No time!" He  was gasping for  breath, and they  realized he  had
been running. "You must come. Father." The old man clutched at Saryon.
"\bumusttalkthemoutofit! After all these years! They must not fight!"

    "Andon," said Saryon firmly, "please, be calm. "Vbu will only make
yourself ill. That's  it. Breathe  deeply. Now, tell  me what's  going
on!"

    "The smith!" Andon said,  his thin chest  rising and falling  more
slowly. "He's planning to  attack Blachlochs men!"  The old man  wrung
his hands. "He and his band of young hotheads may already be on  their
way to the warlocks house! I am thankful to see" - the old man  looked
at Joram and Mosiah bleakly - "that you are not among them."

    "I don't  think there's  anything  I can  do, my  friend,"  Saryon
started to reply sadly, but Joram caught hold of the catalyst's "We'll
come with you,  Andon," he  saidj giving Saryon  a meaningful  glance.
"\bu will think of something,  I am certain, Catalyst," he  continued,
nudging Saryon. "The  perfect time  for one of  your sermons."  Moving
closer, he whispered fiercely, "This is our chance!"

    Saryon shook his head. "I don't see -"

    "In the confusion,  we'll escape!" Joram  hissed, exasperated.  He
glanced quickly  at  Mosiah  and  Simkin, both  of  whom  appeared  to
comprehend his plan at once. At that moment, screams and shouts  could
be heard, coming from  the direction of the  forge. Somewhere a  child
wailed. Window shutters slammed shut, doors were being bolted.

    "It's started!" Andon cried in a panic. Hastening out the door, he
broke into a tottering run. Joram  and Mosiah dashed after him.  There
was nothing for the catalyst to do but gather up his robes and follow,
running as fast as he could to catch up.

    "Ah, ha," reflected Simkin, flitting along merrily behind.  "Maybe
I'll attend a funeral after all."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD Ambushed!

    "H Iere's the catalyst! I told you die old man would fetch him!"

    Saryon heard  the words  and caught  an indistinct  impression  of
movement out of the corner of his  eye. He heard Mosiah cry out,  then
Simkin shriek,  "Let  loose  of  me, you  great,  hairy  beast!"  Then
everything was a  confusion of  panic, futile  struggle, and  grunting
voices.

    "Do as you're told and you won't get hurt."

    A hand caught hold of Saryon's wrist, wrenching his arm behind his
back. Pain  seared like  flame from  his elbow  to his  shoulder,  and
Saryon gasped. But he was astonished  to find himself more angry  than
afraid. Perhaps it was because he  sensed the fear of his captors.  He
could hear it in the harsh,  heavy breathing and the husky voices.  He
could smell it, a rank  odor mingled with sweat  and the fumes of  the
false courage Blachlochs men had been gulping down from a wineskin.

    The attack was  swift and  sudden. The warlocks  henchmen may  not
have  been  smart  in  many  respects,  but  they  were  skilled   and
knowledgeable at their trade. Having been sent to fetch the  catalyst,
they had seen  Andon enter  the'prison and  guessed that  the old  man
would inadvertently deliver Saryon into their hands. Ducking back into
an alley, the former henchmen of  the late warlock had waited for  the
group to pass  by, and the  fight was over  practically before it  had
begun.

    Pinned in the grip of one  brawny thug, Joram could not reach  his
sword. Mosiah lay facedown in the  street, blood streaming from a  cut
on his head, a booted foot planted firmly on the back of his neck. The
guards flung Andon to one side; the old man lay like a discarded  doll
in the street, blinking  dazedly up at the  sky. One man held  Saryon,
twisting the catalysts arm painfully  behind his back. As for  Simkin,
he had completely disappeared. The guard who had jumped the gayly clad
figure now stood staring at his empty hands in disbelief.

    One of the thugs, obviously  the leader, glanced around the  field
of battle to make certain the quarry had been run to the ground. Then,
satisfied, he came to stand before Saryon. "Catalyst, grant me  Life!"
he demanded, making  some attempt  to imitate  the cool,  intimidating
manner of the late Blachloch.

    But these  were common  criminals, not  disciplined  Duuk-foaritb,
Saryon saw the  leaders eyes  shift nervously  from him  to the  empty
street, glancing in the direction of  the forge. Sounds of shouts  and
cries indicated something was  going on up  there. The Sorcerers  were
going to war. Saryon shook his head, and the thug lost control.

    "Damn it, Catalyst, now!" he  shouted, his voice cracking.  "Break
his arm!" he ordered the man who held Saryon.

    "Almin's blood, Catalyst, don't be a fool!" Joram said. "Do as  he
says. Grant him Life."

    The man holding Saryon gave  his arm another expert twist.  Biting
his lips to  keep from  crying out in  pain, the  catalyst glanced  at
Joram m  astonishment, only  to see  the young  mans dark  eyes  flick
quickly and meaningfully to Mosiah.

    "Yes, Father," Mosiah mumbled, his cheek pressed down into the mud
and filth  of the  street by  the foot  of the  guard. Though  it  was
impossible that he  could have  seen Joram, he  had picked  up on  the
subtle emphasis in the voice. "Do as they say. Grant Life!"

    "Very well,"  said  the  catalyst, bowing  his  head  in  apparent
defeat. The took of relief on the leaders face was almost pathetic.

    Trying desperately to concentrate  through the pain, Saryon  began
to repeat the prayer that drew the magic from the world and focused it
within his  body. Fortunately  it was  a prayer  he had  learned as  a
child, so he  did not have  to think about  it. There was  no time  to
determine the amount of Life he could 50 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 51 safely extend  to the young man,  even if his  disordered
faculties had  been able  to make  the mathematical  calculations.  He
would have to  open the  conduit completely, let  Life flow  unstinted
into Mosiah. This would drain the catalyst of energy, but they had  no
choice. They had one chance, and  one chance only. If this fails,  the
catalyst thought  with a  coolness that  amazed him,  it won't  matter
anyway. Blachloch's men will kill us out of rage and panic.

    In response to  his prayer,  the magic flowed  into the  catalyst.
There had been a time when this holy feeling of oneness with the world
gave Saryon an almost sublime feeling of pleasure. Blachloch had ended
that. In  granting  Life  to  the warlock-  Life  that  Blachloch  had
subverted to death -Saryon had come to hate the tingling of the blood,
the thrill that went  through every nerve. Now  he was too tense,  too
eager to strike back at these  murderers, to notice. But he was,  once
again, enjoying the  experience of  possessing the  magic within  him,
even though he must soon release it. Suffused with Life, Saryon opened
a conduit to Mosiah.

    The magic leaped from the catalyst to the young man in a flash  of
blue light, an occurrence that happens only when the catalyst gives of
himself completely to his wizard. The  magic crackled in the air.  The
thug holding Saryon started, slightly loosening his grip. But in  that
moment, the leader realized he'd been  betrayed. The blade of a  knife
flashed in the late afternoon sun.

    Involuntarily raising his arm in a feeble attempt to fend off  the
attack, Saryon  heard  a  ferocious growl.  The  thug  holding  Saryon
shouted a warning, and the  leader whirled around, his knife  raised,.
He faced Mosiah, but  the apparently harmless  young man had  changed.
Fur covered his body, his teeth were fangs, his hands paws, his  nails
claws. The leaping werewolf crashed into  the man, driving him to  the
ground. The knife flew from his nerveless hand as scream after  scream
rent the air, then ended suddenly in a horrible gurgling sound.

    Turning from  its  victim, the  werewolfs  fiery red  eyes  stared
straight at Saryon and the  catalyst could not help falling  backward,
feeling his soul shrivel  in primal terror.  Blood and saliva  dripped
from the creatures jaws; a rumbling growl shook its massive chest. But
the eyes were not on Saryon,  they were on the guard crouching  behind
the catalyst, pitifully  attempting to  use the catalyst's  body as  a
shield. Hands shoved Saryon from  behind, propelling him forward  into
the teeth of the animal. But  the werewolf leaped nimbly to one  side.
The catalyst fell heavily on his hands and knees. The werewolf  sprang
past him, and Saryon heard the thugs high-pitched wait of terror and a
savage growl of triumph.

    Dazed and  hurting,  drained of  all  energy, Saryon  watched  the
battle raging around him in a dreamlike state, unable to react. He saw
Joram kick a dagger from the hand of the man who had been holding him,
and round upon the thug with a clumsy swing. The flailing fist  missed
its mark and  the thug landed  a blow  to the young  man's jaw.  Joram
stumbled -backward,  fumbling for  his sword.  The guard  pressed  his
advantage, jumping on him,  when a broom appeared  out of nowhere  and
began to pummel the guard viciously.

    "Take that, you lout!"  the broom shrieked  grimly, coming at  the
astounded man from every conceivable  angle, striking him on the  head
and whacking him across the backside. Thrusting itself in between  the
thug's legs,  it tripped  him,  sending him  sprawling. Lying  in  the
street, the thug covered his head  with his hands, but the broom  kept
at him, crying "lout!" with every blow.

    • The catalyst had the vague impression that their attackers  were
fleeing. He tried to stand, but there  came a roaring in his ears;  he
felt sick and faint.  Hands that were  strong yet surprisingly  gentle
helped him to his feet. Though the words were cold as always, he  felt
more than heard an underlying warmth of concern that startled him.

    "Are you all right?"

    Weak and  dizzy, the  catalyst looked  into Jorams  face. What  he
expected to see - from the tone - he wasn't certain. Flesh and  blood,
perhaps. Instead he saw stone.

    "Are you all right, Catalyst?" the young man repeated coldly. "Can
you walk, or must we carry you?"

    Saryon sighed. "No,  I can  walk," he said,  pushing himself  away
from the young man with quiet dignity.

    "Good," Joram remarked. "Go see to the old man."

    He gestured at Andon,  who was on his  feet staring around him  in
sorrow. Three of the thugs lay in the street; the others had run  off,
leaving their fallen  comrades behind.  Two of the  guards were  dead,
their bodies mauled, their  necks broken by the  snapping jaws of  the
werewolf. Saryon was surprised that he  • felt no regret, only a  grim
kind of satisfaction that shocked him.

    52 WE IS AND HICKMAN A third man lay some distance away, alive and
groaning, his face and head covered with red welts. Broomstraws  stuck
out of his clothing like scrawny feathers. Simkin stood over him.

    "Lout," he muttered, administering a swift kick.

    The henchman moaned, and covered his head with his arms. Sniffing,
Simkin pulled  the orange  silk  from the  air  and mopped  his  brow.
"Dreadful melee," he remarked. "I'm perspiring."

    "You!" Mosiah - back to his own form - sat on a doorstop,  panting
in the manner of the  werewoll he had been. The  cut on his head  bled
freely, his  face was  covered  with dirt  and  grime and  sweat,  his
clothes were torn. Leaning back wearily against the door, he tried  to
catch his breath. "I've never . .  . experienced any magic . . .  like
that before!" he admitted, sucking in  air- Shutting his eyes, he  put
his hand to his head. "I'm so …

    "The feeling will pass soon," said  Saryon gently. "I had no  idea
you were such a  powerful magus, "  the catalyst added  as he went  to
offer what empty words of comfort he could to the distraught Andon.

    "Neither did I," Mosiah remarked  in a kind of  awe. "I … I  don't
remember even thinking  about it.  It's just -  Simkin said  something
about a great, hairy beast and the  image was in my mind and then  the
magic filled me!  It was  like the Life  of everything  around me  was
pouring into  me, surging  through me.  I felt  a hundred  times  more
alive! And I - '

    "Oh, who cares! " Joram broke in impatiently. "Just shut up  about
it! We've got to get out of this damned place!"

    Mosiah fell siient abruptly, swallowing his words. He rose to  his
feet without a word, his eyes flashing in anger. Andon stared at Joram
in wonder. Simkin  - embarrassed -  began to hum  a little tune.  Only
Saryon understood. He, too, felt the sharp tooth of envy gnaw at  him.
He, too, knew what it was to be jealous of those blessed with the gift
of Life.

    No one spoke, but stared at each other uneasily, nobody seeming to
quite know what to do. It was all unreal, dreamlike. The sun,  setting
in a fiery blaze, cast long fingers of red through the streets.  Flame
flared from the windowpanes  of the ugly  brick dwellings. It  flashed
off the glazed eyes of the  dead. At the forge, it glistened  brightly
on the metal of knife  and spear-point, arrow-tip and dagger.  Farther
off, in the center of the village, they could hear the shouts  growing
louder.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 53  "Joram's right,"  Saryon said  finally,
trying to shake off the disquieting  feeling of both standing in  this
place and being somewhere else at  the same time. "The sun is  setting
and we must be gone before evening."

    "Gone?" Andon came  back to  reality, staring at  the catalyst  in
bewilderment. "But you can't go, Father! Listen!" The wrinkled, gentle
face twisted in fear. "Our peaceful life is ended!

    Tl ' "

    1 hey re - At that moment, the sound of a gong rang out,  booming,
angry.

    "The Scianc!" Andon cried, grief contorting his face.

    Nine times the gong dinned, its vibrations jarring body and  mind.
Saryon felt the shock come up  from through his feet, and wondered  if
the earth itself shivered in rage.

    "Its war," Joram said grimly. "Which way, Simkin?"

    "This way, down  the alley,"  Simkin said,  pointing, his  usually
flighty manner disappearing into the air with the orange silk. He  was
off at a run.

    "C'mon! We  better keep  up!" Joram  urged. "We'll  lose sight  of
him."

    "Only if we're lucky," Mosiah  growled. Hurriedly, he shook  hands
with the old man. "Good-bye, Andon. Thank you for everything."

    "Yes, thank you,"  Joram said  briefly, his  dark-eyed gaze  going
toward the forge.  The sounds  of battle were  louder, coming  closer.
After a last look Joram started down the alley with Mosiah. The figure
of Simkin could bearly be seen in the twilight, the feather in his cap
fluttering in  the  air like  a  banner. He  half-turned.  "Hurry  up,
Saryon!"

    "Yes, go along. I'll  catch up," the  catalyst said, reluctant  to
leave, afraid to stay. Andon seemed  to know something of'what he  was
feeling.

    The old  man smiled  wanly. "I  know why  you are  leaving, and  I
suppose I should be  grateful that you are  taking the darkstone  away
from us. At least we will be spared that temptation." He sighed.  "But
I am sorry to see  you go. The Almin walk  with you, Father," he  said
softly.

    Saryon attempted to return the  blessing, but the words would  not
come to his lips. It was said that in the ancient world, those who had
sold their souls to the powers  of darkness were physically unable  to
speak the name of God.

    >/ WE1S AND HICKMAN "Catalyst!" came Jorams irritated shout.

    Saryon turned and left  the old man without  a word. Looking  back
from the shadows  of the alley  as twilight closed  over them, he  saw
Andon standing in the street beside  the bodies of the dead  henchmen,
his head bowed, shoulders slumped. The old Sorcerers hands covered his
eyes, and the catalyst knew that he wept.

    The Outland  L L*S,  caving the  Sorcerers village,  Mmkm led  his
charges north through a  ravine filled with  thick brush, canopied  by
broad-leafed trees. Twilight deepened to night swiftly among the trees
and it was "as dark as the inside of a demons eyelids," as Simkin  put
it. Walking through the dense  tangle of vegetation became  difficult,
and, on occasion, almost impossible.  Though Joram argued against  it,
the others insisted upon light.

    "Blachloch's men have other things to worry about, from the sounds
of it," Mosiah said  grimly, pulling thorns from  his legs where  he'd
crashed headlong into a gorse bush  in the darkness. "One of us  could
break an ankle or maybe even tumble into a hole and vanish  completely
in this godforsaken place! I'd rather take my chances on torchlight."

    "Torchlight!" Simkin snorted. "How primitive you think, dear boy!"

    Huge  moths  with  green-glowing   wings  appeared  in  the   air.
Fluttering above them, the gleaming moths shed a warm, soft light that
extended outward in a surprisingly wide radius.

    Unfortunately,   after    one   look    into   the    wild-    and
forbidding-looking forest  through  which they  traveled,  Saryon  was
considerably more frightened than  he had been  stumbling about it  in
the dark.

    56 WEIS AND HICKMAN  They continued walking  down the gully  until
its sharp-thorned bushes opened out suddenly into a swamp. Giant trees
rose from the mists of a thick fog; their roots - exposed by the water
-looked like claws in  the eerie light cast  by the glowing moths.  At
the sight of this, Simkin called a halt.

    "Keep to the high ground on your left," he said, from his position
in the lead. He waved  a hand vaguely. "Don't  fall in. Nasty sort  of
mud in that beastly pool. Grabs hold and won't let go."

    "We better not try that 'til daylight," Joram said wearily, and it
suddenly occurred to Saryon that the  young man must be near  dropping
over from exhaustion. The catalyst was  bone tired, but at least  he'd
been able to rest some during the day.

    "Certainly," said Simkin with a shrug. "I don't think  any-thing's
liable to munch on us during the night," he added ominously.

    "I'm too tired to care one way or the other, Joram muttered.

    They made  their  way  back  down  into  the  gully  and  found  a
relatively dry place  to spend  the night. Taking  off the  Darksword,
Joram laid it on the frozen ground, then made his bed beside it. Lying
down, sighing in  weariness, he  rested his  hand upon  his sword  and
closed his eyes.

    "Simkin, where are we headed, anyway?" Mosiah asked in a whisper.

    Rousing himself, Joram looked up at them. "Merilon," he said,  and
the next moment was fast asleep.

    Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who shook his head.

    "I feared as much.  He must be persuaded  from this course.  Joram
must not go to Merilon!" The catalyst repeated this several times, his
hands rubbing back and forth on the worn cloth of his robe.

    Mosiah shifted uneasily, but said nothing.

    Saryon sighed. He could  expect no help from  this ally, he  could
see that now - and this was his only ally.

    The catalyst knew that Mosiah agreed with him in his head, but  it
was the young man's heart that  kept his tongue silent in the  matter.
Mosiah, too,  longed  to  see  Merilon the  Beautiful  -  the  fabled,
enchanted city of dreams.

    Saryon sighed again,  and saw Mosiahs  face grow tense;  evidently
fearing that the catalyst  would take up the  matter once DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD Saryon  didn't  bring up  his  arguments, however.  He  kept
silent, glancing about  nervously, all  his fears and  terrors of  the
wilderness returning to him.

    "Goodnight, Father," Mosiah  said awkwardly, resting  his hand  on
Saryons shoulder.  "I'll help  you argue  with Joram  in the  morning,
though I don't think it will do much good."

    He went over to lie down upon the cold ground, huddling near Joram
for warmth. Within moments, he, too,  was asleep - sleeping the  sleep
of youthful innocence. The catalyst stared at him in gloomy  jealousy.
Then Simkin sent the moths away, and the night returned. The  darkness
seemed to crawl  out from  the clawed  trees, obliterating  everything
from sight. Saryon shivered in the chill air.

    "I'll keep watch," Simkin offered. "I slept all day, and  whacking
that lout  quite stirred  up my  blood.  Put your  bald head  to  bed,
Father."

    Saryon was tired,  so tired  that he hoped  sleep might  overwhelm
him, shutting down the  waterwheel of thoughts  that cranked over  and
over in his mind. But the terrors  of the wilderness and the sound  of
Joram's voice saying "Merilon" flowed through the catalysts brain  and
kept the wheels turning.

    The bitter-cold winds of approaching evening rustled the few  dead
leaves still clinging  stubbornly to  the trees.  Clutching his  robes
close about him,  Saryon tried to  shake off the  growing feelings  of
gloom and despair. He  told himself they were  due to his fatigue  and
the horror  over the  death of  the warlock  that was  only  gradually
beginning to fade from his mind.

    But he wasn't succeeding, and now this announced decision of Joram
s made matters worse.

    Saryon shifted  restlessly,  shivering  with cold  and  fear.  The
slightest noise made him cringe in terror. Were those eyes, staring at
him from the shadows?  He sat up in  alarm, looking wildly around  for
Simkin. The young man was sitting  peacefully on a tree stump.  Saryon
fancied he could  see Simkins  eyes shining  in the  darkness like  an
animal's, and they  appeared to  be watching him  with amusement.  The
catalyst huddled back down in his robes, shut his own eyes against the
night, and tried to take his mind off his fear and cold by going  over
and over what he intended to say to Joram tomorrow.

    Eventually, the wheel bogged down and ceased to turn. The catalyst
drifted  into  a   dream-haunted,  restless  sleep.   His  hand   went
reassuringly to the darkstone that hung  around his neck, 58 WEIS  AND
H1CKMAN and he realized, sleepily, that the ores power had  apparently
worked.

    Bishop Vanya had not contacted him.

    Saryon woke  next morning,  aching and  stiff. Though  he was  not
hungry, he  forced  himself  to eat.  "Joram,"  he  said  reluctantly,
mechanically chewing and swallowing stale bread, "we must talk."

    "Brace yourself,  my  friend,"  said  Simkin  cheerfully,  "Father
Spoilsport intends to talk you out of going to Merilon."

    Joram's face darkened, his expression grew stern, and Saryon  cast
an irritated  glance at  the mischievous  Simkin, who  simply  grinned
innocently and sat  back upon his  stump, legs crossed,  to enjoy  the
fun.

    "Bishop Vanya will  expect you  to go to  Merilon, Joram!"  Saryon
argued. "He knows about Anja and her promise that you would find  fame
and fortune there. He'll be waiting, and so will the Duuk-L>arith\"

    Joram listened in silence, then he shrugged. "The Duuk-foarith are
everywhere," he said coolly. "It seems  that I am in danger no  matter
where I go. Isn't that true?

    Saryon could not deny it.

    "Then, I will go to Merilon," Joram said calmly. "My birthright is
in that city, according to my mother, and I intend to claim it!"

    Oh, if  only  you  knew  what  you  truly  meant!  Saryon  thought
bitterly. You are not the illegitimate son of some poor, deluded  girl
and'her hapless lover. You do not need to go back a beggar,  returning
to lay claim  on a family  who spurned their  daughter and turned  her
from their door seventeen years before.

    No. You could go back  a prince. To be  wept over by your  Empress
mother, to be embraced in the arms of your Emperor father. . . .

    To be  condemned to  death, dragged  by the  Duttk-tsarith to  the
Borders of Thimhallan, to the magic-guarded, misten-shrouded edges  of
the world, and there cast out.

    "The soul of  this unfortunate  is Dead."  Saryon imagined  Bishop
Vanya's voice  echoing  through the  chill,  dank fog.  "Let  now  the
physical body join the soul and  provide this wretched being with  his
only chance for salvation."

    I must tell  Joram the truth,  Saryon thought desperately.  Surely
that will dissuade him from going!

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 59 "Joram,"  he said, his heart pounding  so
he could barely talk. "Joram, there is something I have to - "

    But the catalysts logical mind stepped in.

    Go ahead, his  brain told him.  Tell Joram  he is the  son of  the
Emperor. Tell  him  he can  walk  in and  claim  the title  Prince  of
Merilon. Is that going  to jtop him from  going there? Where would  be
the first place you'd go if you heard that news?

    "Well, what now, Catalyst?" Joram  said impatiently. "If you  have
anything to say, say  it and quit muttering  to yourself. Although,  I
warn you, you are wasting your breath. My mind is made up. I am  going
to Merilon, and no words of yours will change that!"

    Yes, he  is right,  Saryon  realized. Biting  back his  words,  he
swallowed them like bitter medicine.

    And they continued on toward Merilon.

    As far as Saryon  could recall, the next  five days were the  most
miserable of his  life. The  swamp took  three days  to traverse.  The
smell of the place made the stomach turn and left an oily taste in the
mouth that completely killed the appetite. Although there was no  lack
of pure water -even children can  work that simple magic - the  putrid
smell of the  swamp made  the water  taste bitter  and tainted.  Their
thirst never seemed quenched, no matter  how much they drank. And  not
even magic could start a fire that would burn the wet wood. They never
saw the sun, were never warm.  Tendrils of perpetual fog coiled  about
them, haunting the imagination. Nothing materialized out of that  fog,
but they had the feeling they were being watched. This was made  worse
by Simkins frightful hints.

    "What's all that  sniffing you're doing?"  Mosiah asked  grumpily,
plunging through the marshy grass behind Simkin. "Don't tell me you're
determining the direction we're heading by smell!"

    "Not the direction. The path," corrected Simkin.

    "Oh, come on! How can you tell the path by smell? And how can  you
smell anything  besides  rot  in this  awful  place,  anyhow?"  Mosiah
stopped to wait for the weary catalyst to catch up with them.

    "Its not the  path I smell  so much  as wbati making  the path  up
ahead of us," Simkin said. "You see,  I don't believe It is likely  to
misstep and lose Itself in the  swamp, having been brought up 60  WE1S
AND HICK MAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 61 around here. But then, I  always
say it is better to be safe than sorry."

    "It? What It? Why are we  following an It?" Mosiah started to  ask
in alarm, but Simkin clapped his hand over his friends mouth.

    "There, there. Mustn't worry. Generally, It sleeps through the day
quite soundly. Exhausts Itself during the night - all that ripping and
tearing with Its fangs and those  great, ugly claws. Don't mention  It
to the bald  party," he  murmured into Mosiahs  ear. "Nervous  enough.
Never get anywhere."

    And as if these  terrifying hints weren't  bad enough, there  were
occasional alarms from their "guide" as well.

    "Look! Ahead of us!" Simkin cried, grabbing Mosiah and clinging to
him, trembling in every limb of his body.

    "What?" Mosiahs  heart  leaped  into his  throat,  the  expression
"great, ugly claws" having left an indelible impression on his mind.

    "There! Don't you see It?"

    "No-"

    "Look! Those eyes! All six of 'em! Ah, gone now." Simkin heaved  a
sigh of relief. Dragging  forth the orange silk,  he mopped his  brow.
"Lucky thing, too.  We must  have been  upwind of  It. Fortunately  It
doesn't have a very keen sense of smell. Or was that hearing? I always
get those mixed up. . . ."

    Either It knew where  It was going or  their "guide" did,  because
they reached the end of  the swamp safely at  last, coming out at  the
bottom of a box canyon. So thankful were they to be out of the  horrid
place and away from the stench that  the prospect of a steep climb  up
into the rocky cliffs  towering above them  appeared an inviting  one.
The path  was clearly  marked -  Mosiah wisely  refrained from  asking
Simkin who  or what  had marked  it -and  in the  beginning it  wasn't
difficult to  follow.  Breathing  crisp,  cold  air  and  feeling  the
sunlight upon  their faces  again  gave them  added energy.  Even  the
catalyst cheered up and kept pace with them.

    But the trail grew more indistinct the farther they went, and  the
way grew steeper.

    After two days of clambering over rockfalls, backtracking to  find
the trail, and sleeping out  on windswept, exposed ledges, Saryon  was
so exhausted that  he walked  in a  somnambulic state  half the  time,
starting to wakefulness when he stumbled off the path or felt  Mosiahs
guiding hand upon his  arm. He managed to  keep going only by  setting
his mind to walking  - putting one  foot in front of  the other -  and
shutting it off to  the cold and  the pain of both  body and mind.  In
this state, he often staggered on when the others had stopped to rest,
and when they had caught him and brought him back, he slumped down  on
the ground, his head on his knees, and dreamed he was walking still.

    Eventually, however,  the  exercise and  the  fresh air  gave  the
catalyst what he had long been needing - nights of sleep so deep  that
not even the memory  of the dying  warlock or the  aching of his  sore
muscles could penetrate  it. One morning,  on the fifth  day of  their
journey, he woke to find his  head clear and, other than stiffness  in
his joints and sharp  pain in his  back from lying  on the ground,  he
felt unusually refreshed.

    It was  then he  noticed that  they were  traveling in  the  wrong
direction.

    8 DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD tfj The Glade I he M no hey were on top of
the cliffs now. looking down into thick, rolling woodland. The morning
sun, which should  have been shining  directly in their  eyes as  they
walked, was rising to its zenith from their right.

    We're heading almost due north, toward Sharakan, Saryon  realized.
Merilon, if that was still their  goal, lay much farther to the  east.
Should I say something? he  wondered uneasily. Perhaps Joram has  come
to his senses, changed his mind and decided not to go to Merilon after
all. Perhaps he's too proud to admit  to the rest of us he might  have
been wrong. Or  perhaps he made  the decision, discussed  it with  the
others, and I was just simply too exhausted to pay it any heed. Saryon
tried to remember if he had heard the young men talking about a change
in direction, but so thick had  been his fatigue that all memories  of
the last few days were hazy and distorted.

    Rather than appear  foolish, the catalyst  decided not*to  mention
the matter, hoping something  would happen to  explain it. Simkin  led
them down the  cliffs, into the  forest below. At  first, all of  them
were thankful to see that it  wasn't swamp but diick woods. They  felt
less cheerful about the  forest on entering  it, however. Although  it
was winter, the trees unaccountably re- tained their leaves. A  sickly
brown color,  the  foliage  smelled  of decay.  The  trail  they  were
following was overrun with a  broad-leafed vine that twined among  the
trunks of the tall trees, blocking their way.

    "There's something about  this plant  . . .  Can't remember  what,
though," Simkin mused, staring at it. "I think maybe its edible. …"

    Mosiah  stepped  gingerly  in  among  the  tangle  of  the  vines.
Instantly the  leaves  wrapped around  his  ankles, tripped  him,  and
pulled him headfirst into it.

    "Help me!" he  shouted wildly. Long  thorns emerged, digging  into
his flesh, and Mosiah began to scream in pain. Drawing the  Darksword,
Joram waded into  the plant,  slashing at it  with the  blade. At  the
sword's touch,  the vines  leaves blackened  and curled  up. The  vine
-with seeming reluctance - loosed its victim. They dragged Mosiah out,
bleeding, but otherwise unharmed.

    "It was sucking my blood!" he said, shuddering and staring at  the
plant in horror.

    "Ah, I  forgot," said  Simkin.  "A Kij  vine.  It considers  ".  •
edible. Well,  I knew  it had  something to  do with  food," he  added
defensively, as Mosiah glared at him.

    They trudged on.  Joram going  ahead to  clear the  path with  the
Darksword.

    Saryon watched the young men closely, hoping to catch some hint of
their plans. Joram and Mosiah  seemed content to follow Simkins  lead,
and, strolling unconcernedly  in his Dirt  a/u) Dung we  Mud and  Muck
attire, Simkin led them confidently  wherever it was they were  going.
He never hesitated, never appeared lost. The paths he found among  the
winding labyrinth of Kij vines were easy to follow - too easy.  Mosiah
pointed out  more  than  once  where  bones  had  been  stacked  in  a
deliberate manner to mark the trail.  Centaur tracks could be seen  in
the frozen mud. Once they came to a place where all the vines had been
smashed flat and several tall trees snapped <3ff like twigs.

    "A giant," said Simkin.  "Good thing we weren't  around - when  he
came through. They're not very bright, you know.

    •; and-while not dangerous - they are fond of playing with hu-£; •
mans. Unfortunately, they have a nasty habit of breaking their toys."

    Every time they  came to a  break in  the trees, and  the sun  was
visible, Saryon saw that they were still heading due north.

    And no one said a word.

    6-f WEIS AND HICK MAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD 65 Perhaps Joram  and
Mosiah have" no idea where Merilon is, the catalyst thought. Both were
raised in a Field Shaper village on the borders of the Outland.  Joram
can read, having been taught the skill by Anja. But has he ever seen a
map of the world? Does he trust Simkin implicitly?

    That was hard to believe -Joram didn't trust anyone. But the  more
Saryon listened and watched, the more the catalyst began to think this
was the case. Their talk almost always centered around Merilon.

    Mosiah told childhood stories about the crystal city floating upon
planes ol magic. Simkin regaled them with more incredible tales  about
life in court.  On rare occasions  when a talkative  mood was on  him,
Joram contributed stories of his own, tales he had heard from An) a.

    Having lived in  Merilon many  years, Saryon was  most touched  by
these stories ol Anja's. There was  a sadness and a poignancy in  them
-the memories of" an  exile -that brought visions  of the city to  the
catalysts eyes. In  them, he  saw a Merilon  he recognized,  certainly
different from Mosiah's faerie tale and Simkin's imagination.

    But if Joram hadn't changed his mind, why was Simkin guiding  them
the wrong way?

    Not for  the  first time,  the  catalyst studied  Simkin  as  they
trudged after him through the forest,  trying to guess his game.  And,
as before,  Saryon  had  to  admit  utter  defeat.  Not  only  was  it
impossible to figure from the young man's play what cards he held, the
catalyst had seen with his own  eyes that Simkin could literally  pull
tricks out of the air.

    Older than the other two,  probably in his early twenties  (though
he could  easily pass  for anything  from seventy  to fourteen  if  he
chose), Simkin was a mystery. A man who shifted stories of his past as
often as he shifted his clothes, a man in whom the magic of the  world
sparkled through  his  veins like  wine,  a man  of  disarming  charm,
outlandish lies, and an irreverent attitude toward everything in  life
including death, Simkin was liked by all and trusted by none.

    "No one takes him seriously," said Saryon to himself. "And I  have
a feeling that more than one person has lived to regret it - if he was
lucky, that is." The  disturbing thought helped  the catalyst make  up
his mind.

    "I am  thankful  you  have  reconsidered  journeying  to  Merilon,
Joram," Saryon said quietly one day when they had stopped to rest  for
lunch.

    "I haven't reconsidered,"  Joram said,  his gaze  focusing on  the
catalyst with immediate suspicion.

    "Then, we are traveling the wrong direction," Saryon said gravely.
"We're heading north, toward Sharakan.  Merilon lies almost due  east.
If we turned we would - "

    " -  run  smack  into  the realm  of  the  Faerie  Queen,"  Simkin
interrupted. "Perhaps our celibate friend  has dreams of returning  to
her perfumed bower - "

    "I do not!" Saryon  snapped, his face -and,  it must be  admitted,
his blood - burning at the memories of the wild, beautiful, half-naked
Elspeth.

    "We  can  turn  east,  if  you  like,  O  Frigid  Father,"  Simkin
continued, staring nonchalantly into the tops of the trees. "There  is
a path, not far from here, that will take you back into the swamp  you
enjoyed so  much.  It  will  lead you,  eventually,  to  the  ring  of
mushrooms and,  on the  way, takes  you  deep into  the heart  of  the
centaur country for  a fascinating  look at  these savage  creatures-a
very brief  look before  they rip  your  eyes out  of your  skull,  of
course. If you  survive that, there  are interesting and  entertaining
side trips  into dragons'  lairs,  chimeras' caves,  griffins'  nests,
wyverns lodgings, and giant's hovels, not to forget the fauns, satyrs,
and other beasties . . ."

    "You mean you  are taking  us this  way because  its safer,"  said
Mosiah impatiently.

    "Egad, of course," replied Simkin, looking hurt. "I'm not so  fond
of walking ar your company that I'd prolong this journey, dear boy. By
avoiding the river, where  most of the nasties  lurk, we save in  skin
what we expend in boot leather.  When we reach the northern border  of
the Outland, we'll veer east."

    It sounded plausible, even Mosiah  admitted that, and Saryon  made
no further  objection. But  still he  wondered. He  wondered, too,  if
Joram had  been aware  of this  or if  he had  been blindly  following
Simkin.

    . Characteristically,  the taciturn  young man  said nothing,  his
silence implying  that  he  had  planned this  out  with  Simkin  long
beforehand. But Saryon had  detected a brief flicker  of alarm in  the
dark eyes when the  catalyst first questioned  Simkin, and he  guessed
that Joram had been sleeping with  his eyes open, as the saying  went.
And a certain grim tightening of Joram's mouth when Simkin next  spoke
indicated to Saryon that this wouldn't happen again.

    66 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 67 They journeyed deeper
into the forest and, by the seventh day in the Outland, the spirits of
all of them  began to  darken. The sun  abandoned them,  as though  it
found this land too dark and  dismal to bother brightening. Day  after
day of traveling beneath slate-gray skies that darkened sullenly  into
pitch-black night cast a pall over the group.

    There seemed no end to the trees, and the murderous Kij vines were
everywhere. There  were no  animal sounds;  undoubtedly nothing  could
live long among the carnivorous plants. But each man had the  distinct
feeling he was being watched and continually looked over a shoulder or
whirled around to confront something that was never there.

    There were  no more  stories of  Merilon. No  one talked  at  all,
except  out  of  necessity.  Joram  was  sullen  and  morose,   Simkin
insufferable, Saryon  frightened  and  unhappy, and  Mosiah  angry  at
Simkin. Everyone was tired, footsore, and nervous. They kept watch  by
night in pairs, staring fearfully into the darkness that seemed to  be
staring right back.

    ~Day after weary day dragged past.  The woods went on and on;  the
Kij vines never lost an opportunity  to pierce flesh and drink  blood.
Saryon was trudging along the path,  head down, not bothering to  look
where he was going,  not caring since  it was bound  to look just  the
same as where he'd been, when suddenly Mosiah - ahead of him - came to
a stop.

    "Father!" he said in  a IQW voice, clutching  Saryon's arm as  the
catalyst drew near him.

    "What is it?" Saryon's head snapped up, fear tingled in his veins.

    "There!" Mosiah pointed. "Ahead of us. Doesn't that look like .  .
. sunshine?"

    Saryon stared. Joram, coming up beside him, looked ahead as well.

    Around them  stood the  tall  trees. Below  them crawled  the  Kij
vines. Above them, the sky was  dull, dreary gray. But ahead of  them,
not far off- perhaps half a mile - they could see what appeared to  be
warm, yellow light filtering through the trunks of the trees.

    "I think you're  right," Saryon  said softly,  as though  speaking
aioud might cause it to vanish. He hadn't realized, until this moment,
how much he longed to see sunshine, to feel its warmth ease the  chill
from his  bones. He  looked  for Simkin.  "What  is that?"  he  asked,
gesturing ahead. "Have we reached the end of this wretched forest?"

    "Uh," said Simkin, appearing ill at ease, -"I'm not quite certain.
Better let  me  check." And  before  anyone  could stop  him,  he  had
disappeared, cloak, boots, hat, feather, and all.

    "I knew it!" Mosiah said grimly. "Hes gotten us lost and he  won't
admit it! Well, it doesn't matter. I'm not going to wait here in  this
horrible forest one moment longer."

    He and Joram  plunged forward,  hacking grimly at  Kij vines  with
renewed effort. Saryon hurried after them.

    The light grew brighter the closer they came. It was about midday,
the sun would be at its zenith, and the catalyst thought longingly  of
warmth  and  light  and  an  end  to  the  oppressive  trees  and  the
blood-sucking plants. As they drew nearer, he heard a welcome sound  -
the sound of fresh water, splashing over rocks. Where there was  fresh
water, there might be fresh food:  fruits and nuts - no more  clumsily
conjured, tasteless bread, no more water that tasted like Kij vine.

    Throwing caution to the wind, the group hurried forward, no longer
caring if anything  or anyone  was watching them.  Saryon believed  he
might well give his life  for the warmth of  sunlight on his face  one
last time.

    Bursting through the  trees, the men  came to a  stop, staring  in
awe.

    Sunlight from a cloudless sky beamed  down through a break in  the
forest canopy. The sun sparkled upon  a cascade of blue water  falling
from a  high cliff,  danced in  the ripples  of a  shallow stream.  It
formed rainbows in steam that drifted above a bubbling pool. It  shone
down upon a glade filled with tall grass and sweet flowers.

    "Thank the Almin," breathed the catalyst.

    "No, wait!" Simkin  appeared suddenly, out  of nowhere. "Don't  go
in. This isn't supposed to be here."

    "So this is not supposed to be here!" Mosiah muttered lazily.

    Three of them, Mosiah, Joram, and  Saryon, lay in the tall  grass,
reveling in  its warm,  fragrant sweetness,  sated with  the  luscious
fruit they had found growing on bushes lining the hot springs.

    "If anything, this place is more real than he is!"

    68 WEIS AND  HICKMAN Although Simkin  protested even entering  the
glade- "I tell you, it  wasn't here the last time  I was" - the  other
three were determined to camp here for the night.

    "We'il keep low," Joram told  him impatiently when Simkin's  vague
hints became too ridiculous to  tolerate. "Its actually safer in  this
grass. We'll see and hear anything that enters this glade long  before
it gets to us!"

    Simkin fell into  a sulking  silence. Trailing after  the rest  as
they entered the  sunlit glade,  he moodily  ripped off  the heads  of
flowers. The others drank their fill of the cool water from the falls,
bathed in the warm spring, and hungrily devoured the fruit. Then  they
spread their  blankets  beneath a  giant  tree at  the  giade's  edge,
resting in the tall grass, a feeling of comradeship enveloping them in
its warmth.

    But Simkin spent the time  prowling about restlessly. He  fidgeted
in the grass, kept starting up to peer into the woods, and changed his
clothes from one garish color to another.

    "Ignore him," Mosiah  said, as  he saw Saryon  watching the  young
man, a worried expression on the catalysts face.

    "He's acting strangely," Saryon said.

    "Since when is that anything new!" Mosiah retorted. "Tell us about
Merilon, Father, ^ibu're  the one  whos lived there  and you've  never
said a word. I know you don't exactly approve of us going. …"

    "I know. I've  been sulking  as badly as  Simkin." Saryon  smiled.
Feeling comfortably  weary,  he began  to  talk at  length  about  the
Merilon he remembered - telling of the beauty of the crystal Cathedral
and the wonders of the city. He described the fanciful carnages  drawn
by huge squirrels or peacocks or swans  that flew in the air upon  the
wings of magic, carrying their noble passengers up into the clouds  to
make their daily appearances in the crystal palace of the Emperor.  He
told about the Grove where stood the Tomb of Merlyn, the great  wizard
who had  led his  people to  this  world. He  spoke of  the  enchanted
sunsets, the weather that was always  spring or summer, the days  when
it rained rose petals to sweeten the air.

    Mosiah listened open-mouthed,  propped up against  a tree.  Joram,
lying prone, turned  his face  toward the siin,  an unusually  relaxed
expression softening  the  sharp,  angular  lines.  He  listened  with
apparent enjoyment, a  dreamy look  in the dark  eyes, perhaps  seeing
himself riding in one of those carriages.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 69 Suddenly Simkin popped out from behind  a
tree, interrupting  the  catalyst,  staring into  the  glade  with  an
intense frown.

    "Lie down, you're driving us crazy," Mosiah said irritably.

    "If I did  lie down, I'd  never get up,"  Simkin responded in  ill
humor. "You'd find me bored stiff  by nightfall, just as we found  the
Duke d'Grundie after one of the Emperors speeches. Had to soak him  in
a vat of wine to limber him up."

    "Go ahead,  Father," Mosiah  said. "Tell  us more  about  Merilon.
Ignore this fool."

    "No need," said Simkin loftily. "I'm  leaving. I tell you again  I
don't like this place!"

    Witb a toss of his  head - which now  sported a green pointed  hat
with a long pheasant  feather dangling down  his green-cloaked back  -
Simkin left the campsite, disappearing into the wilderness.

    "He's  in  an  odd  mood,"  the  catalyst  remarked  thoughtfully.
Noticing that he had  spread his blanket down  over a protruding  tree
root that was poking  him uncomfortably in the  back, Saryon stood  up
and shifted his  blanket to  another location.  "Perhaps we  shouldn't
have let him go. . . ."

    "How do you propose to stop him?" Joram asked lazily, tossing bits
of bread from his pack  to a raven. The bird  had been perched in  the
branches of the tree under which  they lay, and now fluttered down  to
the ground to accept the food with a condescending air. So comfortable
were they that no one thought to  wonder why this bird was here,  when
they had seen no animal for days.

    "Oh,  Simkin's  all  right,"  said  Mosiah,  watching  the  bird's
dignified strutting with a smile. "Hes just mad because he's lost  and
won't admit it. Go on about  Merilon, Father. Tell about the  floating
platforms of stone and the Guild Houses -"

    "If hes lost, so  are we!" Saryons peaceful  mood was broken.  The
sunlight in the glade was suddenly too hot, too bright. It was  giving
him a headache.

    "Don't start on Simkin again, Catalyst!" said Joram, scowling  and
accidentally  hitting  the  bird  with  a  hunk  of  bread.  Squawking
indignantly, the  raven flew  up into  the tree  again, where  it  sat
moodily pruning its ruffled feathers. "I'm sick and tired of you two -
"

    "Hush!"

    70 WE1S AND  HICKMAN Seemingly coming  out of the  empty air,  the
voice startled all of them. Mosiah cast a wild glance at the bird, but
before he could react, Simkin materialized in the center of the glade,
his hat askew, his thin, sharp face pale beneath the soft beard.

    "What  is  it?"  Joram  was   on  his  feet,  his  hand   reaching
instinctively for the Darksword.

    "Down! Hide!" Simkin gasped, pulling him back into the tall grass.

    The rest followed,  flopping down flat  on their stomachs,  hardly
daring to breath.

    "Centaurs?" Mosiah asked in a choked whisper.

    "Worse!" Simkin hissed. "Duuk-tjarith!"

    9 Caught!

    "D fuuk-foarith!" Mosiah gasped.

    "But that's impossible!" Saryon whispered. "They could never  have
tracked us; the Darksword shields us! Are you certain?"

    "Almins blood, Hairless  One," sputtered Simkin,  staring at  them
wild-eyed from among the tall grass. "Of course, I'm certain! Granted,
its a bit hard to see in the dark woods, of course, especially if  the
parties you are observing  are all wearing black  robes. But if  you'd
like, I can return and ask them - "

    At that moment,  the raven gave  a loud caw  that sounded  exactly
like raucous laughter  and flew from  the trees. "Or  better yet,  ask
him," Simkin said with grim irony. "How long has that bird been here?"

    Shaking his  head, Saryon  sighed. Sprawled  flat, he  still  felt
little protection from the tall grass, and hugged the ground as though
he could crawl into it. The forest was more than a hundred feet  away.
They might make a run for it.

    "Name of the Almin, what do we do now?" Mosiah asked urgently.

    "Leave!" said the catalyst urgently. "Get out of here quickly*- "

    "That won't do any good!"  Simkin retorted."They know we're  here,
and they're not  far away  - in  the woods on  the other  72 WE1S  AND
HICKMAN side of the waterfall. There's two of them, at least.  They've
obviously been watching us through the eyes of their little  feathered
friend. Where can  we go  that he  can't spot  us -unless  we use  the
Corridors - "

    "No!" Saryon said hastily, his face pale. "That would be  throwing
ourselves into their hands."

    "This time I  agree with  the Priest," Joram  said abruptly.  "You
forget that  I am  Dead. Once  in the  Corridors, they  would have  me
trapped."- "Then, what do we do?" Mosiah asked, his voice too  shrill.
"We can't run, we can't hide. . . ."

    "Shush. We attack," Joram replied.

    The dark eyes were cool; a  half smile touched the full lips.  His
face, seen  from  its hiding  place  among the  grass,  looked  almost
bestial.

    "No!" Saryon said emphatically, shuddering.

    "Excellent idea, really," whispered Simkin in excitement.

    "The raven will tell them that we're alerted to their presence.

    They'll expect us to  run and pYobably have  their plans laid  for
that. What they  won't expect  us to do  is circle  around and  attack
them!"

    "It's Duuk-tearitb  we're  talking about!"  Saryon  reminded  them
bitterly.

    "We have surprise and we-have the Darksword!" returned Joram.

    "Bfachloch nearly destroyed you!"  Saryon cried softly,  clenching
his fist.

    "I've learned from that! Besides, what choice do we have?"

    "I don't know!" Saryon murmured  brokenly. "I just don't want  any
more killing. . . .

    "It's them or  us. Father."  Bringing his  hands together,  Mosiah
spoke a few words. There was a shimmer  of air as a bow and quiver  of
arrows materialized in  his grasp.  "Look at this,"  he said  proudly.
"I've been studying war spells. We all were, back in the village.  And
I know how to  use it. With you  to grant me Life,  and Joram and  the
Darksword - "

    "We better hurry," urged  Simkin, "before they  lay any spells  of
entrapment or enchantment on the glade itself."

    "If you don't want to come,  Father," said Mosiah, "just grant  me
Life here. You can stay - "

    "No, Joram's right," Saryon  said in low  tones. "Ifyou insist  on
this madness, I'm  coming. You might  need me  for … for  DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD /J other  things. I can  do more than  grant Life," he  said
with a meaningful glance at Joram. "I can take it away, as well."

    "Follow me, then!" whispered Simkin.  Rising to a half crouch,  he
began to creep slowly through the tall grass toward the waterfall.

    "Where will you be?  " Mosiah asked Simkin,  who was changing  his
attire as he moved.

    "In the thick of the battle, you may rest assured," Simkin replied
in a  deep,  grating voice.  He  was  now clad  in  snakeskin,  highly
suitable for crawling  through the grass.  Unfortunately, the  overall
effect was rather  marred by  a metal  helm complete  with visor  that
covered his  face, obscured  his vision,  and looked  vaguely like  an
overturned bucket.

    "They're Duuk-Ltarith, all right," whispered Saryon.

    It was late afternoon. The  sun was just beginning its  down-•ward
slide to night. Crouched in the grass at the border between meadow and
forest, the catalyst could see the two men and their long black  robes
clearly. Saryon sighed in  despair. He had been  hoping that this  was
another of Simkin s "monsters" which would unaccountably disappear the
moment anyone looked for it.

    But these were, indeed, warlocks - members of the deadly Order  of
Duuk-foarith. They  stood motionless,  as though  listening  intently.
Their hands were clasped in front  of them as was proper, their  faces
hidden in the shadows of their  black pointed hoods. If there was  any
further doubt, it was dispelled by the sight of the raven, sitting  on
a tree  limb near  the two,  its  eyes gleaming  red in  the  sunlight
filtering through the leaves. Saryon watched the black-robed men.  His
mind went back to  the Font, when the  two Duuk-barith had  discovered
him reading the forbidden books. . . .

    "That must be their  catalyst," he whispered, hurriedly  banishing
those fearful memories. Moving cautiously, afraid that they might hear
the sound  of his  hand raising,  he pointed  out a  third  individual
dressed in a long  traveling cloak. Although  the cloak concealed  his
robes, the man's tonsured  head marked him a  priest. He and a  fourth
man stood apart from the warlocks. Close together, they were obviously
involved in conversation and every so often the hand of the fourth man
moved as if to emphasize a point. It was this fourth man who drew  the
catalysts attention.  Taller than  the  rest, his  cloak was  made  of
costly 74 W E I  S AND H I  C K M A N  fabric. When the man  gestured,
Saryon caught the glint of jewels upon his fingers.

    The catalyst pointed him out.  "I'm not certain about that  fourth
man. He isn't Duuk'tsarith. He's not dressed in the black - "

    "Is he a warlock of any type?" Joram asked. Shifting the Darksword
restlessly, in his hand  in order to  get a better  grip on the  heavy
weapon, he nearly dropped it, and irritably wiped his sweaty palms  on
his shirt.

    "No," the catalyst answered, puzzled. "Its odd, but by his clothes
I'd take him for a - "

    "It doesn't matter, as long  as hes not Duuk-karitb,"  interrupted
Joram impatiently. "There's only  two of them we  have to worry  about
now. I'll  take  one. You  and  Mosiah  deal with  the  other.  Wheres
Simkin?"

    "Here," said a sepulchral voice  from beneath the helm. "Got  dark
awfully quick, didn't it."

    "Raise the visor, fool. You take care of the fourth man."

    "What visor?" came the pathetic  response, the helm turning  sthis
way and that. "What fourth man?"

    "The man standing by- Oh,  never mind!" Joram snarled. "Just  keep
out of the  way. Come on.  Mosiah, go  left. I'll go  right. You  stay
between us,  Catalyst." He  crept forward  through the  brush.  Mosiah
headed the  opposite  direction while  Saryon,  his face  haggard  and
drawn, followed behind.

    "'Tisn't my  fault," Simkin  muttered  gloomily from  beneath  the
helmet. "Wretched invention, this. I'm completely in the dark. Knights
of old and  all that. Bloody  nonsense. No wonder  Arthur had a  round
table. He couldn't see the damn  thing! Probably kept bumping into  it
and knocking off the corners.

    But Simkin was talking to himself.

    Mosiah fit an arrow to the bow, his hands shaking so with fear and
excitement that  he had  to  try several  times before  he  succeeded.
"Grant me Life, Father," he whispered.

    His throat dry from fear, the catalyst repeated in a cracked voice
the words that absorbed the magic of  the world into his body. He  had
not been  trained in  the art  of supporting  fighting warlocks;  that
required certain specialized skills that he did not possess. He  could
enhance Mosiahs already strong magical powers, enabling the young  man
to cast spells that otherwise DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 75 would have been
beyond his  strength,  such as  they  had done  in  the fight  in  the
village. But that had been using magic against unthinking brutes. This
was far different. They were fighting experienced warlocks. Neither of
them had ever been in a battle  like this, neither truly knew what  he
was doing.

    This is  insane!  Saryons  mind  repeated to  him  over  and  over
urgently. Insane! Stop it before it goes too far!

    "But it's already gone too far," Saryon told himself. "We have  no
choice now!"

    "Father!" Mosiah whispered urgently.

    Head bowed, Saryon laid his hand upon the boy's quivering arm  and
chanted the words  that opened the  conduit to him.  The magic  flowed
from the catalyst into Mosiah like sparkling wine.

    Watching Mosiahs face in the sunlight, the catalyst saw the  young
mans lips part,  the eyes  glow. He looked  like a  child tasting  his
first sweets.

    Saryons heart misgave him. "No, Mosiah, wait . . . You can't - "

    But he was too  late. Whispering words the  young man had  learned
from the Sorcerers, Mosiah let fly  his arrow in the direction of  the
man in black robes nearest  him. His aim was  hurried, but it was  not
important. As the arrow  flew, the young magus  cast a spell upon  it,
causing the  arrow  to seek  out  and kill  any  warm-blooded,  living
object. Used  by  the  Sorcerers  of old,  the  spell  permitted  even
untrained troops to be highly effective in battle.

    But not this battle.

    What drew the  warlocks attention?  Perhaps it was  the rustle  of
Mosiahs clothes brushing against the  grass. Perhaps it was the  twang
of the arrow leaving the string or the whisper of the feathers on  the
shaft as it flew through the air. Or"perhaps it was the warning caw of
the raven, although that came late.

    Swifter than the  arrow flying toward  his heart, the  man in  the
black robes spoke  and pointed.  There was a  flash of  flame and  the
arrow was nothing  more deadly than  a streak of  ashes that  vanished
upon the winds.

    The second Duuk-foaritb acted as  quickly as his partner.  Raising
his hands to heaven, he shouted a command and darkness fell upon  them
with a  swiftness  of  a thunderbolt.  Brilliant,  sunlit  day  became
blinding, stifling  night.  Saryon  could see  nothing,  and  crouched
helplessly in the brush, afraid to  move. Then, just as his eyes  were
beginning to adjust to the 76 WEIS AND HICK MAN -DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
77 darkness, strange silver moonlight filled the forest. Though it lit
up everything in the  woods, it caused human  flesh to glow  brightly,
with an eerie purplish-white radiance. The catalyst - blinking - could
see clearly the astonished faces of  the fourth man and the priest  as
they turned in their direction.

    More by accident than  by design, Saryon  was crouched down  among
the brush. Even though the moonlight made his flesh gleam, he knew  he
must be difficult to  see. But Mosiah  had risen out  of the grass  to
fire his  arrow.  Struggling  to  adjust  his  vision  to  the  sudden
darkness, he  was bathed  in  the silver  pool of  moonlight,  plainly
visible to the two black-robed men. With a cry, he raised his bow.

    The Duuk-tMirith spoke.

    Dropping the bow, Mosiah clutched his throat.

    "I - I - " He tried to speak, but the magical paralysis cast  upon
him by  the warlock  cut off  his words,  as it  was cutting  off  his
ability to breathe. His  eyes rolled upward  until the whites  showed,
the young man fought  desperately to draw air  into his lungs, but  it
was a futile struggle.

    Saryon half rose,  thinking to  plead for surrender,  when a  dark
shape hurtled past the  catalyst, nearly knocking  him to the  ground.
Mosiahs eyes were bulging, his  face was slowly darkening. Leaping  in
front of his friend, Joram raised the Darksword. The strange moonlight
did not touch the metal, the weapon was a streak of night in his hand.

    The moment the sword came between the Duuk-tjaritb and Mosiah, the
warlocks spell shattered. Gasping for breath, the young man collapsed.
Saryon caught hold  of Mosiah  and eased him  to the  ground as  Joram
stood above them protectively, holding  the crude sword in his  strong
hands.

    Saryon waited grimly for the blast of icy wind that would  -Jreeze
their blood in seconds  or the shattering crack  as the ground  opened
and swallowed them -  not even the power  of the Darksword would  stop
such spells as those, he imagined. But nothing happened.

    Peering out from the tall grass, Saryon saw the fourth man walking
toward them. Perhaps he had spoken;  the catalyst could not hear  over
the splashing of the waterfall some  distance behind him. But both  of
the Duuk-tearith had turned their hooded heads toward the tail man. He
made a  motion  with his  hand,  telling them  to  back off,  and  the
warlocks bowed in obedience.

    Saryon's wonder increased, as did his  fear. Who was this man  the
powerful Duuk-foartth obeyed without question?

    Whoever he was, he approached Joram coolly, without fear, his eyes
studying the young man intently as he drew near.

    "Be careful, Garald," called the  man in the long traveling  cloak
whom Saryon had  taken - and  rightly so  - for a  catalyst. "I  sense
something strange about the weapon!"

    "Strange?"  The  man  referred  to  as  Garald  laughed,   mellow,
cultivated laughter that seemed to be made of. the same rich  material
as the fabric of his cloak. "Thank you for the warning, Cardinal,"  he
continued, "but I see only one strange thing about this sword - it  is
the ugliest of its kind my eyes have ever beheld!"

    "It is that, Your Grace - "

    Cardinal! Saryon, staring in bewilderment, could see the color  of
the catalysts holy robes  beneath his cloak and  knew him for what  he
was -  a Cardinal  of the  Realm! And  this Garald;  that name  seemed
familiar, but Saryon was too nervous to be able to think clearly.  The
costly clothes, the man referred to as Your Grace. . . .

    The Cardinal continued speaking. "-but it is this ugly sword, Your
Grace, that has disrupted the spell of your guards."

    "The sword did that? Fascinating."

    The richly dressed man was close enough that Saryon could see  him
clearly in the magical moonlight. The beauty of the voice matched  the
features of the face, delicately crafted without being weak. The  eyes
were large and  intelligent. The mouth  was firm, the  lines about  it
indicative of  smiling  and  laughter. The  chin  was  strong  without
arrogance, the  cheekbones high  and pronounced.  Brown hair,  with  a
slight reddish  cast  in  the  bright moonlight,  was  worn  short  in
military fashion. One  lock dipped down  over the mans  forehead in  a
graceful, careless wave.

    Taking a step nearer Joram, the man called Garald held out a  hand
gloved in  fine lambskin.  "Surrenderyour sword,  boy," he  said in  a
voice that  was.  neither  threatening nor  demanding,  yet  obviously
accustomed to being obeyed.

    "Take it from me," Joram said defiantly.

    "'Take it from me, ' Your Grace," the Cardinal amended, shocked.

    "Thank you, Cardinal," Garald said,  and a smile played about  his
tips, "but I do not  think this is the time  for coaching 78 WE1S  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 79 thieves in court etiquette. Come now,
boy. Surrender your sword peacefully and nothing will happen to you."

    "No! Your Grace," Joram said with a sneer.

    "Joram, please!" whispered  Saryon in despair,  but the young  man
ignored him.

    "Who is this Garald guy?" Mosiah whispered. He started to sit  up,
but he  froze  almost immediately.  The  elegant man  had  warned  the
Duuk-Liarith away from  Joram, but  he had apparently  left Mosiah  in
their care. Mosiah saw  the glittering eyes of  the warlocks fixed  on
him, he saw  the hands clasped  before the black  robes make a  slight
movement, and he held quite still, hardly daring to breathe.

    Saryon shook his head, keeping his eyes on Joram and this  Garald,
who drew several steps closer. Joram shifted in his position,  raising
the sword.

    "Very well,"  the  elegant man  said,  shrugging, "I  accept  your
challenge."

    Tossing his cloak over one shoulder, Garald drew a sword from  its
scabbard and stepped expertly into a fighting stance. Saryon's  throat
tightened. The sword, of ancient design and make, was as delicate  and
beautiful and strong as the man  who wielded it. The moonlight  burned
in it  with  a cold,  silver  flame,  dancing qffthe  sharp  edge  and
flashing from the carved, hawk- i iA^ winged nut.

    The hawk.  Something stirred  in Saryons  mind, but  he could  not
relax his attention on Joram long enough to attend to it. The boy  was
a shabby, almost pathetic  figure compared to the  tall, noble man  in
his rich clothes. Yet there was  a pride in Joram, a fearlessness  and
courage in  his dark  eyes that  rivaled his  opponents and  spoke  to
Saryon of the noble blood that flowed in the boys veins as well as  in
the man's.

    Moving awkwardly,  Joram  imitated his  enemy's  fighting  stance,
knowing little about it except what he had been able to pick up  from-
the books he'd read. His clumsiness appeared to amuse Garald, although
the Cardinal - his eyes  still on the Darksword  - shook his head  and
murmured once more, "Your Grace, I think perhaps - "

    Garald motioned the Cardinal to  silence even as Joram,  confident
in the power of his  sword and angry at  the arrogant demeanor of  his
opponent, leaped forward.

    Heedless of the watching Duuk-toaritb, Saryon sprang to his  feet.
He could not allow Joram to harm this man!

    "Stop - " the catalyst cried, but the words died on his lips.

    There was  a clash  of steel,  a yelp  of pain,  and Joram  stood,
wringing an injured hand and staring  stupidly at the Darksword as  it
flew through the air to land at the feet of the Cardinal.

    "Seize him and the other one,"  Garald said coolly to the  waiting
Duitk-t. iarttb, who did not hesitate to use their magic now that they
were permitted.

    With a  word, they  cast the  Nullmagic spells  that robbed  their
victims of all the magical energy upon which every person in the world
depends. Mosiah fell  over with  a cry. But  Joram remained  standing,
staring at  the  Duuk. -tja.  rttb  with grim  defiance,  rubbing  the
swordhand that still tingled from the jarring blow.

    "I beg your  pardon, Your  Grace," said one  of the  Duuk-Liaritb,
"but the 003' there does not respond to our spell. He is Dead."

    "Is he, indeed?" Garald  regarded Joram with a  look of cool  pitv
more wounding to  Joram than any  sword thrust. The  young man's  face
flushed deeply,  his mouth  twisted in  fierce anger.  "Use  something
stronger," the elegant man  said, watching Joram.  "Be careful not  to
injure him, however. 1 want to learn more about this strange sword."

    "And what  about the  catalyst, Your  Grace?" asked  the  warlock,
bowing.

    Glancing about, Garald s gaze fixed on Saryon, and the man's  eyes
widened.

    "Almins blood, Cardinal,"  Garald said in  astonishment. "Here  is
one of your Order! Let me  assist you, Father," he added  courteously,
extending his hand to the confused catalyst.

    Though spoken  in  the  utmost  respect, the  words  were  not  an
invitation so much as a command, and Saryon had no choice but to obey.
Garald took hold of Saryons arm, gently assisting the catalyst to step
out of the tangle of thick brush.

    Seeing Garald preoccupied, Joram made a move toward retrieving his
sword. He came to an abrupt halt as three rings of pure fire descended
from the air and hovered  about him - one  level with his elbows,  one
dropping to his waist, the other  to his knees. The flaming rings  did
not touch Joram, but they were close enough to his skin that he  could
feel their flesh-searing heat and he dared not move.

    Satisfied that their prey was, for the moment, under control,  the
Duuk-tjarUh looked expectantly at their  lord, asking in their  silent
way for further instructions.

    SO WEiS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 81 "Search the  glade,"
Garald ordered. "There may be others  out there, hidden in the  grass.
Oh, first - get rid of this confounded darkness, will you?"

    The Duuk-L'arith complied. Night departed and day returned with  a
suddenness  that  left  everyone  blinking  in  the  bright  afternoon
sunlight. When Saryon  could see  again, he noted  that the  warlocks,
like darkness embodied, had vanished with it. He was staring around in
confusion when he became aware that Garald was speaking to him.

    "I trust you are not in league with these young bandits,  Father,"
he said steadily, but with a certain coldness in his voice.  "Although
I have heard that there are renegade catalysts abroad in the land."

    "I am not  a renegade  catalyst, Your .  . .  Your Grace,"  Saryon
began, then stopped, flushing, as he remembered. "Well, perhaps I am,"
he faltered. "But/pTease listen to my story," he said, turning to  the
Cardinal who had joined them. "I- We are not thieves, I assure you!"

    "Then, what is the meaning ol  the invasion of our glade and  this
attack upon us?" Garald asked with  increasing coldness and a hint  of
anger in his voice.

    "Please, let me explain, Your Grace," Saryon said desperately. "It
was a mistake - "

    The two Duuk-foarttb appeared  suddenly, materializing out of  the
air to stand in front of Garald.

    "Yes?" he said. "What have you found?

    "There was  nothing  in  the  glade,  Your  Grace,  except  this."
Extending his hand, one  of the black-robed figures  held out a  large
wooden bucket.

    "A curious  object in  these savage  lands, but  not  particularly
worthy of your attention, I  should think," remarked Garald,  glancing
at it without interest.

    "It  is  a  rather  remarkable  bucket,  Your  Grace,"  said   the
Duuk-hartib.

    "No, no," said the bucket hastily. "Just a plain, ordinary bucket.
Nothing remarkable about me, I assure you."

    "Name of the Almin!"  Garald breathed, while  the Cardinal took  a
hasty step backward, muttering a prayer.

    "A humble bucket. The old, oaken bucket," continued the bucket  in
. a husky voice. "Allow me, kind  sir, to carry your water. Soak  your
feet in me. Soak your head -"

    "I'll be damned!" Garald cried. Springing forward, he grabbed  the
bucket from the hands of the  warlock. "Simkin!" he said, shaking  the
bucket. "Simkin, you rattle-brained fool! Don't you recognize me?"

    Two eyes appeared  suddenly on  the buckets rim,  and studied  the
tall man intently. The  eyes widened, then, with  a laugh, the  bucket
transformed itself into the figure of  the bearded young man, clad  in
his favorite Muck and Mud outfit.

    "Garald!" he cried, flinging his arms around the elegant man.

    "Simkin!" Garald clapped him on the back.

    The Cardinal appeared to be less  pleased at the sight of  Sim-kin
himself than he had been  at the talking bucket. Glancing  heavenward,
the priest folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes and shook  his
head.

    "I didn't recognize you," said Simkin, standing back and regarding
the nobleman  with a  delighted gaze.  "What are  you doing  in  these
beastly parts? Oh, wait," he said, appearing to remember something. "I
must introduce you to my friends."

    "Joram, Mosiah" - Simkin turned  to the two, one lying  spellbound
on the ground, the other imprisoned by rings of flame - "may I present
His Royal Highness, Garald, Prince of Sharakan."

    10 His Grace "S o these  are friends of yours, are they,  Simkin?"
The Princes gaze flickered over Mosiah to rest more intently on Joram.
Imprisoned by the fiery  rings, the young man  dared not move or  risk
being severely burned. But there was  no fear on the stern face;  only
pride, anger, and humiliation at his ignominious defeat.

    "Closer to me than  brothers," averred Simkin.  "You recall how  I
lost my brother? Dear little Nat? It was in the year - "

    "Uh, yes,"  interrupted  the  Prince hastily.  He  turned  to  the
Duuk-karith. "You may release them."

    The warlocks bowed and, at a  gesture and a word, they lifted  the
NuIImagic from  Mosiah,  who  gasped  and rolled  over  on  his  back,
breathing heavily. The rings disappeared from around Joram, but  still
the young man did not move. Folding his strong arms across his  chest,
Joram stared  off into  the sunlit  forest. He  looked at  nothing  in
particular, but was simply making it clear that he had chosen to stand
in that spot of  his own free will  and would continue standing  there
until he dropped over dead.

    Garalds mouth twitched. Putting his hand  on his lips to hide  his
smile, he turned again to Simkin. "What about the catalyst?"

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD ffJ "The  bald party is  a friend of  mine,
too," remarked the young man, glancing about vaguely. "Where are  you,
Father? Oh, yes. Prince Garald,  Father Saryon. Father Saryon,  Prince
Garald."

    The Prince bowed gracefully, hand over his heart as was the custom
in the north. Saryon returned the bow more clumsily, his mind in  such
a state of confusion that he barely knew what he did.

    "Father Saryon," said  the Prince,  "may I  present His  Eminence,
Cardinal Radisovik, friend and adviser to my father."

    Walking forward, Saryon knelt  humbly to kiss  the fingers of  the
white-robed Cardinal. But the Priest took  him by the hand and  raised
him to his feet.

    "We have dispensed with those degrading obeisances in the  north,"
said the Cardinal. "It is a  pleasure to meet you, Father Saryon.  You
appear exhausted. Will you  return with me to  our glade? The  springs
warm the air most pleasantly there, don't you agree?"

    Suddenly aware that he was bitterly cold, Saryon realized that  it
was as if he had stepped from spring to winter again by entering these
woods. Simkms words came back to him. This glade i*n'l supposed to  be
here. Undoubtedly it  wasn't! The  Prince had conjured  up a  pleasant
place for his campsite and they had stumbled into it! What incredible,
naive fools. . . .

    "I sense a tale of  great adventure about you, Father,"  Radisovik
continued, walking toward the glade. "I would be interested in hearing
how a man of the  cloth comes to be in  such" - the Cardinal  appeared
momentarily at a loss-"um . . . interesting company."

    Nothing could have been more polite than the Cardinals words,  but
Saryon had seen the exchange of  swift glances between the Prince  and
Radisovik just prior to the Cardinals formal welcome of the  catalyst.
Now Radisovik was leading Saryon back to the glade, and the Prince and
Simkin were walking over to assist Mosiah.

    Saryon understood. We are to  be interviewed separately. Then  the
Prince and the Cardinal  will compare notes. It  had all been  settled
between them gracefully, without a  word spoken. Court manners,  court
intrigue. Remembering his dread secret, Saryon felt a pang of fear. He
had never been at all good at this sort of thing.

    84 WEIS AND H1CKMAN 3-  Following the Cardinal, half listening  to
his polite conversation, it suddenly occurred to Saryon that Radisovik
must be a  renegade as well;  the man  of whom Vanya  had spoken,  the
priest who had forced the Church's true minister into exile.

    How strange that they should meet! Was this encounter an answer to
prayers Saryon had not prayed?  Or merely another indication that  the
universe was a cold, empty, and unfeeling void?

    Only time would tell.  Saryon wondered how much  of that they  had
left.

    "How are you feeling, sir?" the Prince asked Mosiah.

    "Much . . . much better . , . Your . . . Grace," stammered Mosiah,
flushing in  embarrassment. Seeing  the Prince  prepared to  kneel  to
assist him, he hurriedly attempted to stand on his feet. "Please . . .
don't trouble yourself . . . mi-milord. I'm all right now, really."

    "You will forgive us for this treatment, I hope," Garald said with
concern in  his cool  voice. "You  can understand  that we  have  been
unusually wary in these uncivilized lands."

    "Yes, Your Grace." Mosiah,  helped to his feet  by Simkin, was  so
red in the face that  he appeared feverish. "We .  . . we mistook  you
for . . . someone else, too. …"

    "Indeed?" Garald lifted his soft eyebrows in surprise.

    "Pardon, Your  Grace,"  said the  Duuk-t.  iaritb. "But  night  is
falling. We should return to the safety of the glade."

    "Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me." The Prince made a  graceful
gesture with his hand. "Would one of you be so kind as to assist  this
young man to the glade where he may rest?"

    One of the  Duuk-faarttb glided  over to Mosiah,  the black  robes
barely skimming the ground. He did not touch the young man; he  merely
stood beside him, his hands folded in front of him. Mosiah recognized,
however-as had Saryon - that this was an order, not an invitation, and
he would disobey it at his peril.  He moved off toward the glade,  the
warlock drifting along behind him, dark  and silent as the young  mans
shadow.  Joram  remained  in  his  place  some  distance  from   them,
watchingyet not watching.  The second Duuk-foartih  had not taken  his
eyes from the stern young man.

    Looking at  Joram, Garald  turned  to Simkin,  speaking in  a  low
voice. "This other friend of yours, the one with the sword, fascinates
me. What do you know of him?"

    DOOM OF  THE  DARKSWORD as  "Claims  noble birth.  Wrong  side  of
sheets. Mother  disgraced.  Ran  away.  Son grew  up  a  Field  Magus.
Rebellious sort. Killed overseer. Fled Outland. Something odd, though.
Bald party  sent to  bring him  to Bishop  Vanya. Didn't  do it.  Deep
trouble. Dark  Arts now,  both of  them," Simkin  rattled off  glibly,
quite pleased with his summation.

    "Mmmm," Garald mused, his gaze fixed on Joram. "And the sword? "

    "Darkstone."

    Garald drew in a deep breath.

    "Darkstone? Are you certain?" he whispered, drawing Sim-kin close.

    Simkin nodded.

    The Prince let his breath out in a sigh. "Praise be to the Almin,"
he said reverently. "Come with  me. I want to  talk to this young  man
and I'll need your help. So, you are from the Sorcerers' village?"  he
remarked aloud to Simkin, as the two walked over to Joram.

    "Yes, O  High and  Mighty One,"  Simkin said  gaily. "And  I  must
admit, I am  quite relieved to  be away from  there." The orange  silk
fluttered from the sky to his  hand. Catching the sunlight, it  looked
like a bit of dancing flame. "The smell, milord" - Simkin put the siik
to his nose - "quite intolerable,  I assure you. Hot coals,  sulfurous
fumes. To say nothing of infernal hammering, day and night."

    The two came to stand before Joram, who stared past them, refusing
to acknowledge their existence.

    "Your name is Joram, sir?" Garald inquired politely.

    Lips compressed, Jorams  gaze shifted to  the Prince. "Re-turn  my
sword," he said, his voice thick and husky.

    "'Return my sword, '  YourGrace," Simkin corrected, mimicking  the
Cardinal.

    Joram cast  him  an angry  glance.  Garaid coughed,  covering  his
laughter, and made a  show of clearing  his throat. As  he did so,  he
took the opportunity to study Joram intently, having the advantage  of
seeing the young mans face in the afternoon sun-light.

    "Yes," he murmured to  himself, "I can believe  his claim to  high
birth- There is noble blood there,  if not noble manners. I know  that
face, in  fact!"  Garald frowned  in  thought. "And  the  hair .  .  .
magnificent! The  eyes  .  .  .  proud,  sensitive,  intelligent.  Too
intelligent. A dangerous young man. I can believe he dis- 86 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN covered darkstone. Now what does he intend to do with it? Does
he know, even, what dread power he has brought back to the world? Does
anyone know, for that matter?"

    "My sword!" Joram repeated stubbornly, his face growing dark under
the Prince's scrutiny.

    "Please forgive me. Slight tickle in my throat. The wind-flowers .
. ." Garald bowed slightly. "The sword is yours, sir." He glanced over
to it where it lay  on the ground. "And  please accept my apology  for
our actions. You took  us by surprise, and  we reacted in haste."  The
Prince straightened, regarding the young man with a grave smile.

    Completely taken aback, Joram looked from the Prince to the  sword
to the Prince again. His face flushed, the brows came together, But it
was no longer  in anger.  His rage was  deserting him  and taking  its
strength with it,  leaving behind nothing  but humiliation and  shame.
For the first  time in his  life, Joram was  acutely conscious of  his
shabby clothes,  his tangled  hair.  He looked  at the  Princes  hand,
smooth and supple,  and he saw  his own hand,  calloused and dirty  by
comparison. He tried to fan the coals of rage, but they only glimmered
to life then died, leaving his soul cold.

    Keeping his eyes  on Garald, suspecting  some trick, Joram  walked
slowly over to where  the sword lay  -an object of  darkness - in  the
sunlit grass.  The  Prince did  not  move. Neither  did  the  watching
Duuk-foarith, Bending down, Joram lifted his weapon. He thrust it into
the crude sheath hurriedly, flushing as the Princes eyes glanced at it
in - he thought - scorn.

    "Am I free to go?" Joram asked harshly.

    "You are  free  to  go,  though you  are,  I  suppose,  still  our
prisoners," the Prince answered smoothly. "But I would much prefer  it
if you would remain with us tonight as our guests. Let us make  amends
for attacking you - "

    "Stop mocking us!" Joram sneered. "Your Grace." He could taste the
bitterness in his voice. "You had every right to attack us - kill  us,
even. As  for the  sword,  its crude  enough. Worthless,  compared  to
yours" - Joram could not help himself, his eyes went longingly to  the
beautiful sword the Prince  wore at his side  in its magically  tooled
leather scabbard -  "but I  made it  myself." His  voice softened,  he
sounded like a wistful child. "And I had never seen a real sword  like
that before."

    "Not worthless, I think," Garald  said. "Not a sword of  darkstone
that absorbs magic. . . ."

    DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  87  Joram looked  sharply at  Simkin,  who
smiled innocently.

    "Come with me to the glade," Garald continued. "It is much  warmer
there and, as my guards remind me,  it is dangerous in the Outland  at
night." Walking over to the young man, Garald rested his hand  lightly
on Joram s shoulder.

    It was an affectionate gesture, as  a man might make to a  friend.
Or as a  man might calm  a restive animal.  Joram flinched at  Garalds
touch. He saw the  pity in the  mans eyes and  he barely resisted  the
temptation to strike  the hand aside.  Why did he  resist? Why did  he
bother? How Joram knew it, he  could not have told, but he  understood
that while Garald would respect a refusal to be pitied, he would never
forgive a blow. And it had suddenly become important to Joram to  gain
this mans respect.

    "Where are you from, Joram?" Garald asked.

    "What has that got to do with anything?" Joram demanded sullenly.

    "Where does your  family come from,  I meant to  say," the  Prince
amended.

    Once again, Joram glanced darkly at Simkin, flitting along  beside
them, and Garald  smiled. "Yes,  hes told  me something  about you.  I
confess to  being  quite  curious. I  understand  from  Simkins  brief
description that your life  has been . .  . difficult"- he phrased  it
delicately - "and you may  consider this an improper question  between
gentlemen. If  so,  I  hope  you  forgive  me.  But  I  have  traveled
extensively and have a knowledge of most of the noble families in this
part of the realm, and I  confess that you look extremely familiar  to
me. Do you know your family name?"

    The shame that  burned in Jorams  face was answer  enough for  the
Prince, but the young man tossed his head proudly. "No." It was all he
meant to say,  but the grave  interest on Garalds  face drew him  into
speaking more than  he had intended.  "All I know  is that my  mothers
name was Anja, and that she came from Merilon. My father was . . . was
a … catalyst." His iip twisted as he spoke; his eyes went to the glade
where Saryon could be seen, standing among the flowers and tall grass,
talking to the Cardinal.

    "Life's blood!" The Prince's gaze followed. "You don't mean - "

    "Of course not!"  Joram snapped, realizing  Garalds mistake.  "Not
himl" The bitterness  returned. "My creation  was my fa-  88 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN ther's crime.  He was  sentenced to  the Turning,  and now  he
stands, a living statue, upon the Border."

    "My god," the Prince murmured, and there was no longer pity in his
voice but sympathy. "So you come  from Merilon by birth." Once  again,
he studied Joram  m the  sunlight. "Yes, that  fits somehow.  Yet …  I
cannot place …"

    Irritably, he shook his head, trying to remember. But his thoughts
were interrupted by Simkin,  who gave a great,  gaping yawn. "Hate  to
break up this  frightfully fascinating little  party, don't you  know.
And I am most awfully tickled to see you again, Garald, old bean.  But
I should like a brief nap before dinner." Another yawn. "It isn't easy
being a bucket.  To say  nothing of  the fact  that those  black-robed
guards of yours are, in reality, two great oafs who tripped over me in
the grass. Gave me  a turn, so  to speak, from  which I may  doubtless
never recover."  Sniffing indignantly,  he dabbed  his nose  with  the
orange silk.

    "By all means, go  rest in the glade,  my friend." Garald  smiled.
"You do seem a bit pale."

    "Ouch!" Simkin winced. "A pun that  was quite unworthy of you,  my
prince. Sweet  dreams.  You,  too,  O Dark  and  Gloomy  One."  Waving
negligently at Joram, the bearded young man drifted forward, riding on
the warm currents of spring air that could be felt as they drew nearer
the magical campsite.

    "How do you know Simkin?"  Joram asked involuntarily, watching  as
the green cape and the green  hat with the pheasant feather  fluttered
away.

    "Know Simkin?" Glancing at Joram, the Prince raised one eyebrow in
amusement. "I wasn't aware anyone ever did."

    "Well, Radisovik, what have you found out?" Night -real night, not
magical -had come to the glade. A  campfire burned in the center of  a
cleared area.  It had  been used  for cooking  a brace  of rabbit  the
Prince had snared earlier in the day, and now it cast a pleasant, warm
light throughout the peaceful glade. With the magic of himself and his
guards at his  command, Prince  Garald could have  dispensed with  the
need for fire and  snares. The rabbits  could conceivably have  cooked
themselves. But Garald liked  to keep in training.  A man never  knew,
particularly in these unsettled times, when he might be forced to live
without the magic.

    Tonight the Prince and his Cardinal walked slowly among the trees,
keeping within sight of the camp, both under the DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
89 watchful, protective eyes of the black-hooded Duuk-t, <arith.  Some
distance from  where they  walked, the  catalyst sat,  nodding by  the
fire, drinking a cup of hot tea. Mosiah lay near him, asleep,  wrapped
in soft blankets that the Prince had conjured up for them with his own
hands. Joram lay  near his  friend, but he  was wide  awake. His  eyes
followed the  Prince and  the Cardinal;  his sword  lay by  his  side,
within easy reach. Garald wondered if the young man intended trying to
remain awake all night,  watching. Grinning to  himself, he shook  his
head. He had been seventeen once himself. Not that long ago either. He
was twenty-eight now. And he could remember.

    Their other guest, Simkin, had spread his blanket in a flower  bed
some  distance  from  his  companions.  Attired  in  a  frilled   lace
nightshirt, complete with tasseled hat, he snored loudly, but  whether
truly asleep or shamming  was anyones guess.  Certainly Garald had  no
idea. He knew enough  about Simkin, however, to  know that it nvz,>  a
guess.

    "Your Grace?"

    "Oh, I beg  your pardon,  Cardinal. My  thoughts wandered.  Please
continue."

    "This is most important. Your Grace." The Cardinal's voice held  a
hint of rebuke.

    "You have my complete attention," the Prince said gravely.

    "The catalyst,  Saryon, has  been in  direct contact  with  Bishop
Vanya."

    "How?" Garald looked immediately concerned.

    "The Chamber of Discretion, undoubtedly, milord, although the poor
man has no idea  what that is. I  recognize the description,  however.
According  to  him.   Bishop  Vanya  is   actively  working  for   our
destruction. …"

    "Hardly news," Garald murmured, frowning.

    "No, milord. What it news is the fact that Blachloch was acting as
a double agent. Yes,  Highness"- in answer to  a look of  astonishment
from the Prince  - "the man  was Vanyas tool,  sent to the  Sorcerers'
village to lure us into war. Once we were dependent upon the Sorcerers
and their weapons of the Dark Arts, Blachloch was to turn upon us  and
upon them. We would have fallen, defeated at the hands of our enemies,
and the Sorcerers would have been destroyed."

    "Clever bastard, BlacMoch,"  Garald said grimly.  "But I note  you
speak of him in the past tense."

    90 W E I S AND H  I C K M A N  "He is dead, Your Grace. The  young
man"-Radisovik glanced at Joram - "killed him."

    "A Duuk-barithl" Garald appeared dubious.

    "With the sword, milord, and help from the catalyst."

    "Ah, the sword of the darkstone." Garald's brow cleared1. Then  he
frowned again, his eyes  on Joram. "Truly a  dangerous young man,"  he
remarked, then  fell  silent,  lost in  his  thoughts.  The  Cardinal,
walking beside him, kept quiet as well.

    "Do you trust this catalyst?" Garald asked suddenly.

    "Yes, milord, to an extent," Radisovik answered.

    "What do you mean, 'to an extent'?"

    "Saryon  is  a  scholar  at   heart,  Your  Grace,  a  genius   in
mathematics. Thus  was he  lured to  the  study of  the Dark  Arts  of
Technology. He is a simple man.  One who longs to be sheltered  within
the safe  walls of  the Font,  spending  his life  in his  books.  But
something has happened to him, something that casts a shadow over  his
life."

    "Something tied to the young man?"

    "Yes, Your Grace."

    "Simkm said  as much-talk  of Vanya  sending this  catalyst  after
Joram to bring him back to the Font." Garald shrugged. "But . . . that
is Simkin. I disbelieved most of it."

    "The catalyst  corroborates his  story, Your  Grace. According  to
him, he was sent by Bishop Vanya to bring Joram to justice."

    "And you think - "

    "He is telling us the truth, milord, but not all of the truth.  In
fact, Your Grace, that is why I  believe he is being so tree with  his
information. Saryon appeared pathetically eager to tell me as much  or
more  than  I  wanted  to  know  about  Blachloch.  The  poor  man  is
transparent. He is obviously  fluttering this broken  wing to keep  me
away from whatever it is he has hidden in his nest."

    "What reason does he give for Vanya wanting to apprehend the young
man?"

    "Only the  obvious  reason  that  Joram is  Dead,  milord,  and  a
murderer was well. The young man killed an overseer. According to  the
catalyst, Joram had  just provocation. The  overseer killed the  young
man's mother."

    "Bah!" Garald's frown  deepened. "Bishop Vanya  would not  concern
himself with  such a  petty crime.  He  would turn  that over  to  the
Duuk-foarith. The catalyst holds with this wild story? "

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  91 "And will hold  with it, Your Grace,  to
his death. I  note one  other thing  of interest  about the  catalyst,
milord."

    "And that is?"

    "He has  lost his  faith," said  Radisovik softly.  "He is  a  man
wandering alone in the darkness of  his soul, without the guidance  of
his god. Such a man - who has  a secret as does this one - will  cling
to that secret all the more tenaciously since it is the only thing  he
has left to  him." The  Cardinal shrugged, shivering  slightly in  the
chill of the forest. "I don't  know for certain, however. Perhaps  the
warlocks with their special means could get it from him-r"

    "No!" Garald  said firmly,  his gaze  going involuntarily  to  the
black-robed figures standing in disciplined silence near the fire. "We
will leave  that type  of thing  to Vanya  and his  puppet Emperor  of
Merilon. If it is the Almin's will that this mans secret become  known
to us, then we will discover it. If not, then we are not meant to know
it."

    "Amen," murmured the Cardinal, appearing relieved.

    "After all,  the Almin  willed it  that we  discovered  Blachlochs
treachery in time," Garald continued with a smile.

    "All praise to  our Creator,"  responded the  Cardinal. "And  now,
knowing  this,  milord,  do  we  proceed  with  our  journey  to   the
Sorcerers?"

    "Yes, of  course. If  you agree,  1 mean,"  Garald added  hastily.
Accustomed  to  acting  quickly  and  decisively,  the  young   Prince
occasionally forgot to seek the advice of the older, more  experienced
Cardinal. It was one reason his father, the King, had sent the two  of
them together on this mission.

    "I  think  it  would  be  wise,  Your  Grace.  Particularly  now,"
Radisovik said, it being his turn to conceal his smile. "The Sorcerers
will be in confusion following the death of their leader. The catalyst
tells me  that there  is one  faction who  wants peace,  but  another,
stronger factiwn that favors pursuing this  war. It should be easy  to
step in, take  control, and  work with them  in earnest  now that  the
warlock is gone."

    "Yes, that is how  I see it." Garald  smiled. "In the meantime,  I
suppose there is no hurry?"

    The Cardinal appeared surprised. "Well, no, I shouldn't think  so,
Your Grace. We must arrive in the village before the people have had a
chance to establish a firm leadership fig- 92 WE1S AND HICKMAN "A week
would make no difference more or less, do you think?"

    "N-no, milord,"  said the  Cardinal,  mystified. "I  should  think
not."

    "And what are the intentions of our guests? Where are they bound?"

    "To Merilon, Your Grace," said the Cardinal.

    "Yes, that makes  sense," Garald  said, speaking  more to  himself
than to his  companion. "Joram seeks  his name and  his fortune.  This
could work out quite nicely. …"

    "Your Grace?"

    "Nothing, just talking to myself. I believe we will camp here  for
a week, if you do not object, Radisovik."

    "And what do you intend to do here, milord?" asked the Cardinal.

    "Turn fencing instructor. Good night, Eminence."

    Bowing, Garald walked back toward the fire.

    "Good night, Your  Grace," murmured Radisovik,  staring after  the
Prince in astonishment.

    II Joram G Iarald returned to the fire, his head bent in  thought.
The Cardinal continued  on across  the glade, entering  a silken  tent
that had appeared near the  hot springs by the  command of one of  the
Duuk-foarUk. The Prince noted, as he walked, that both he and Cardinal
were under the catalysts careful scrutiny, and that Saryons gaze  went
from them to Joram. The young man had finally fallen asleep, his  hand
still resting on bis sword.

    The catalyst loves him, that much is certain, the Prince  thought,
watching Saryon from beneath lowered lids as he drew near. And what  a
difficult love it must be. It is apparently not returned. Radisovik is
right. There's some  deep secret  here. He  won't give  it up,  that's
obvious. But, in talking about tbe  young man, he might say more  than
he realizes. And I will find out something about Joram.

    "No, please don't rise, Father," the Prince said aloud, coming  to
stand beside the catalyst. "If you have no objection, I would like  to
sit with you for a while, unless you plan to retire, that is."

    "Thank you. Your Grace," replied  the catalyst, sinking back  down
into tbe soft, fragrant grass that had been magically transformed into
a carpet as thick and luxurious as  any in court. "I WEIS AND  HICKMAN
DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD would be glad of your company. I - I find that I
suffer from insomnia  on occasion." The  catalyst smiled wearily.  "It
seems that this_is one of those nights."

    "I, too,  am  often wakeful,"  the  Prince said,  seating  himself
gracefully beside the  catalyst. "My  Theldara prescribes  a glass  of
wine before  bed." A  crystal  goblet appeared  in the  Princes  hand,
filled with a ruby-red liquid that gleamed warmly in the firelight. He
handed it to the catalyst.

    "I  am  obliged,  Your  Grace,"  Saryon  said,  flushing  at   the
attention. "To your health." He sipped at the wine. It was  delicious,
and brought memories of court life and Merilon back to him.

    "I would like  to speak  to you  of Joram,  Father," Garald  said,
settling himself  onto the  grassy carpet.  Leaning on  one elbow,  he
looked directly into the catalysts  face while keeping his own  turned
from the firelight.

    "You are direct and  to the point,  milord." said Saryon,  smiling
faintly.

    "A failing of mine,  sometimes," said Garald  with a rueful  grin,
plucking at the  grass beneath  his hand. "Or  at least  so my  father
tells me. He says  that I scare  people, pouncing on  them like a  cat
when I should creep up on them from behind."

    "I will tell  you gladly what  I know of  the young man,  milord,"
Saryon said, his  gaze going to  the sleeping form  that lay near  the
fire. "The story of Kis  early life I heard  from other people, but  I
have no reason to doubt the facts."

    The catalyst continued to speak, telling of Jorams bleak,  strange
upbringing. The Prince listened, silent, absorbed, fascinated.

    "There is no doubt Anja was  mad. Your Grace," said Saryon with  a
soft sigh. "Her ordeal had been a  terrible one. She had seen the  man
she loved -"

    "Jorams father, the catalyst," clarified the Prince.

    "Um . . . yes, milord." Saryon coughed and was forced to clear his
throat before he could resume. Garald noted that the man did not  look
at him as he talked. "The catalyst. She had seen him sentenced to  the
Turning. Have you  ever watched  that punishment.  Highness?" Now  the
catalyst turned his gaze to the Prince.

    "No," Garald  replied,  shaking his  head.  "As the  Almin  is  my
witness, may I be spared that."

    "You do well to pray so,  milord," Saryon replied, his gaze  going
once again to the dancing  flames of the fire. "I  saw it. In fact,  I
saw the  edict carried  out on  Jorams father,  though, of  course,  I
didn't know it at the time. How strange is fate. . . ." He was  silent
for so long that Prince Garald touched him on the arm.

    "Father?"

    "What?" Saryon started.  "Oh, yes." Shivering,  he drew his  robes
close around him. "It is a dreadful punishment. In the ancient  world,
so we  are  told, men  were  sentenced to  die  for their  crimes.  We
consider that barbarism, and  I suppose it is.  Yet sometimes I  think
death must be easy compared to our more civilized ways."

    "I have seen a man sent Beyond,"  said the Prince in a low  voice.
"No, wait. It was a woman. Yes, a  woman. I was only a boy. My  father
took me.  It  was the  first  time I  had  traveled the  Corridors.  I
remember being so excited about the  journey that I scarcely knew  its
intent, although I am certain my father must have tried to prepare  me
for it. If so, he did not succeed. '

    Restlessly, the Prince  shifted. Sitting up  from his  comfortable
lounging position he, too, stared into the flames. Memory shadowed his
handsome face and clear brown eyes.

    "What was her crime, milord?"

    "I was trying to remember." Garald  shook his head. "It must  have
been a heinous one; probably something to do with adultery, because  I
remember my father being rather confused and vague about the  details.
She was  a wizardess,  I  remember that.  Ailanara -  a.  high-ranking
member of  the court.  There  was something  about casting  spells  of
enchantment, enticing a  man against his  will." Garald shrugged.  "At
least I suppose that was hit story.

    "Boy that I was," he  continued, "I thought it  was going to be  a
game. I was terribly excited. All the members of the royal courts were
there, dressed in their lovely  clothes, specially colored in  varying
shades of blood red for the occasion.  I was quite proud of my  outfit
and wanted to keep it, but Father  forbade me. We stood there, on  the
Border, at the feet of the great living guardians …"

    He paused. "1 didn't know then  that these men and women of  stone
were alive. My father never  told me. I was  in awe of them,  towering
thirty feet  into the  air, staring  eternally with  un- 96  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 97 blinking eyes into the shadowed mists
of Beyond. A man came forward, dressed in gray robes. Duuk-tjarilb,  I
suppose, though I recall that there was something different about  his
manner of dress - "

    "The Executioner,  milord,"  Saryon said  in  a tight  voice.  "He
resides in the Font and serves the catalysts. His robes are gray - the
neutrality of justice -  and they are marked  with the symbols of  the
Nine Mysteries, to show that justice knows no distinction."

    "I don't recall. He was impressive.  Thats all I remember. A  tall
man, he towered over the woman he held bound at his side as the  stone
statues towered over the rest  of us. The Bishop  - it must have  been
Vanya, he's been Bishop for as long as I can remember - made a speech,
going over  the womans  crimes. I  didn't listen,  I am  afraid."  The
Prince smiled sadly. "I was bored. I wanted something to happen.

    "Anyway, Vanya came to  an end. He called  upon the Almin to  have
mercy upon the poor  woman's soul. She had  been standing quite  still
the entire time, listening to the charges with a defiant air. She  had
fiery red hair  and wore  it loose, tumbling  down her  back past  her
waist. Her robes were blood red, and I remember thinking how alive her
hair seemed, glistening in the sun, and how dead her clothes  appeared
in contrast.  But when  the Bishop  called down  the blessing  of  the
Almin, she threw back her head and fell to her knees with a wail  that
shattered my boyish innocence.

    "My father  felt me  trembling,  and understood.  He put  his  arm
around me, holding me close against his body. The Executioner  grabbed
hold of the woman and dragged her  to her feet. He motioned, with  his
robed arm, that she  was to walk  forward. . . .  My god!" The  Prince
closed his eyes. "Walk forward into that dreadful fog! The woman  took
a step toward the  swirling mists, then fell  to her knees again.  Her
screams for mercy tore the air.  She begged and pleaded. Groveling  in
the sand, she began to crawl back toward us! Crawling on her hands and
knees!"

    - Garald fell silent,  staring into  the fire, his  mouth a  grim,
straight line.

    "In the end,"  he resumed, "the  Executioner carried her,  kicking
and struggling, to the very edges  of the Border. The mists curled  up
about his robes,  obscuring both of  them from our  sight. We heard  a
last, terrible wail . . . and then silence.

    The Executioner returned  . .  . alone. And  we went  back to  the
palace at Merilon. And I was sick."

    Saryon said nothing. Garald, glancing  at him, was alarmed to  see
that the catalyst had gone deathly white.

    "It is  nothing, Your  Grace,"  Saryon said,  in response  to  the
Prince's concerned query. "Only that … I have seen several Banishments
myself. The memories haunt me. And it is always the same, as you  say.
Some walk by themselves, of  course. Proud, defiant, heads held  high.
The Executioner accompanies them to the Border and they step into  the
mist as though merely  walking from one  room to another.  Yet"-Saryon
swallowed - "there is always that  last cry. coming from the  swirling
fog - a  cry of  horror and  despair that  is wrenched  from even  the
bravest. I wonder what it is they see - "

    "Enough of this!"  Garald said,  wiping the chill  sweat from  his
face. "We  will both  have night  terrors  if we  keep on.  Return  to
Joram."

    "Yes, milord. Gladly.  Although" -the  catalyst shook  his head  -
"his story itself, is not conducive to a nights restful sleep. I  will
not tell you the details  of the Turning to  Stoned Suffice it to  say
that the Executioner plays his part and  that - if 1 had my choice  of
punishments - I would choose that  last moment of terror in the  mists
over a life of living death."

    "Yes," murmured  GaraJd.  "You were  speaking  of the  young  mans
mother."

    "Thank you for reminding me, Your Grace. Anja was forced to  watch
her lover transformed from living man to living rock, and then she was
taken back to the Font, where she gave birth to … to their child."

    "Go on," the Prince prodded, seeing the catalysts face pale,  'his
eyes averted.

    "Their child . . ." Saryon repeated in some confusion. "She . .  .
took the .  . .  baby and  fled the  Font, traveling  to the  outlying
districts where she found work as a Field Shaper. In that village, she
raised her chil- she raised Joram."

    "This Anja, she came of a noble family? You know that for certain?
Joram w of noble blood?"

    "Noble blood? Oh, yes. Your Grace!  At least, that is what  Bishop
Vanya has told me," Saryon faltered.

    "Father, you  appear to  be growing  increasingly unwell,"  Garald
said in concern, noting the catalysts  ashen lips and the 98 WEIS  AND
HICK MAN  DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORI)  99 beads  of sweat  upon the  man's
tonsured head. "We will continue this some other time …"

    "No, no. Your Grace," Saryon  said hastily. "I am  . . . glad  you
are taking … an interest  in Joram. And … I  need to talk about  this!
Its been … a great burden on my mind. . ; ." '

    "Very well,  Father,"  said  the  Prince, his  cool  gaze  on  the
catalyst. "Please continue. The boy was raised as a Field Magus."

    "Yes. But  Anja told  him he  was of  noble birth,  and she  never
allowed him  to  forget it.  She  kept  him isolated  from  the  other
children. According  to  the catalyst  in  the village,  Joram  wasn't
allowed out of  the shack in  which they lived  except in his  mothers
company, and then  the boy  wasn't permitted  to speak  to anyone.  He
stayed in the house, alone, all  day, while she worked in the  fields.
Anja was  Albanara. Her  magic  was strong,  and  she cast  spells  of
protection around the shack to keep  the child in and others out.  Not
that anyone would have tried to get inside anyway," Saryon added.  "No
one liked Anja. She was cold and aloof, always telling the boy that he
was above the others."

    "She knew he was Dead?"

    "She never admitted it, not to him, not to herself. But I  imagine
that is  another reason  she  kept him  isolated.  When he  was  nine,
however, she knew he would have to go into the fields- all children do
-to earn his keep. That was when she taught him to cover for his  lack
of magic  by using  illusion and  sleight of  hand. She  learned  this
herself in court, no doubt, where  it is a game played for  amusement.
She also taught him to read an'd to write, using books she undoubtedly
stole from her home. And"-Saryon sighed again-"she took him to see his
father."

    Garald stared at the catalyst incredulously.

    "Yes. Joram never speaks of it, but the village catalyst told  me.
It was he who opened the Corridors to her. What happened there, we can
only guess, but the catalyst said  that when the boy returned, he  was
white as a corpse; his eyes were  the eyes of one who has looked  into
the mist of Beyond and seen the realm of death. From that day when  he
saw the stone  statue of his  father, Joram became  as stone  himself.
Cold, aloof, unfeeling. Few have seen him smile. No one has ever  seen
him cry."

    The Prince's eyes went  to the young man,  lying beside the  fire.
Even in slumber,  the stern  face did  not relax,  the brows  remained
drawn over it in a brooding, heavy line.

    "Continue," the Prince said quietly.

    "Joram was good at  illusion and he was  able to conceal the  fact
that he was Dead for many years. I  know, for he has told me, that  he
kept hoping the  magic would come  to him. He  believed Anja when  she
said he  was late  in developing,  as were  many of  the Albanara.  He
believed . because he wanted to  believe, of course. Just as he  still
believes all her stones about the beautiful city of Merilon. He worked
in the fields with the others and  no one questioned him. It was  easy
to fool the  Field Magi,"  the catalyst said.  "Boys his  age are  not
given Life, for obvious reasons."

    "Thus the overseer maintains control  over them," the Prince  said
grimly.

    "Yes, . Your Grace," Saryon said. Hushing slightly. "The young men
do mostly hard physical labor, such as clearing the land. This type of
labor does not require the use of magic. Joram was lucky for a  while.
When he was growing up, the village had a good overseer. He  tolerated
Jorams sullen ways and  black humors. He  understood. After all,  he'd
seen how the boy was raised. Anja's madness was, by this time, obvious
to everyone - even Joram, I am  certain. But he had shut himself  away
from the others. Except Mosiah, that is."

    "Ah, I wondered about that,"  the Prince remarked, his gaze  going
to the other young man, who lay sleeping near Joram.

    "An odd friendship, milord. It  was certainly never encouraged  by
Joram, from what I've heard. But he has grown close to Mosiah, as  you
can see by the fact  that he was willing to  fight you to protect  his
friend. And Mosiah is close to him, though I am sure he often  wonders
why he bothers. But, to go on …" Saryon rubbed his eyes. "The day came
- as it must have sooner or later - when Joram found out he was  Dead.
The old overseer  hao^ died.  The new one,  who took  his place,  took
personal of-fense at Jorams sullen withdrawal. He saw it as  rebellion
and he was determined to break the boys spirit.

    "One morning, the overseer ordered the catalyst to give Joram Life
so that he could fly over the fields and aid in the planting like  the
other Field Magi. The catalyst gave the boy Life, but he might as well
have given it to  a rock. Joram  could no more fly  than a corpse  can
breathe. The catalyst - not  a very bright member  of our Order, I  am
afraid," Saryon added, shaking his head, "cried out that the young man
was Dead. The 100 £ [ S AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 101 overseer
was well-pleased,  no doubt,  and  began talking  of sending  for  the
Duttk-foarith.

    "At this point, Anja completely lost whatever tenuous hold she had
on sanity. Changing her form into that of a were-tiger, she leaped for
the throat  of  the  overseer.  He  reacted  instinctively,  shielding
himself with his magic.  The shield was too  powerful. Fiery bolts  of
energy struck Anja, and  she fell dead at  his feet. Her son  watched,
helpless."

    "Name of the Almin," whispered the Prince reverently.

    "Joram picked  up  a  heavy  stone,"  Saryon  continued,  speaking
steadily, "and threw it at the overseer. The man never saw it  coming.
It smashed his skull. So now Joram was twice damned - first he was one
of the walking Dead, now he had committed murder.

    "He fled into  the Outlands. There  he was attacked  and left  for
dead by centaurs.  Biachlochs men, who  were always on  the watch  for
those who enter the Ouflands, and particularly for one they knew might
be persuaded to join  their foul cause, discovered  the young man  and
brought him back  to the  village. The  Sorcerers nursed  him back  to
health and set him to  work in the forge.  He did not join  Blachloch,
however. I  don't know  why,  except that  he  resents any  figure  of
authority, as you have seen."

    "The forge .  . .  Was that  where he  learned the  secret of  the
darkstone? "

    "No, "Your Grace." Saryon swallowed  again. "That is a secret  not
even the Sorcerers themselves know. It  has been lost to them  through
the centuries - "

    "So we had been led to believe."

    "But Joram found books  - ancient texts -  that the Sorcerers  had
brought with  them when  they  fled into  exile.  They have  lost  the
ability to  read  over the  years.  Poor  people. Theirs  is  a  daily
struggle just to survive. But Joram  could read the books, of  course,
and it was in  one that he discovered  the formula for extracting  the
metal from  the darkstone  ore.  With this  knowledge, he  forged  the
sword."

    The catalyst fell  silent. He  was aware of  Garalds intense  gaze
turned now upon him and, his head bowed, Saryon nervously smoothed the
folds of his shabby robe.

    "You are leaving  something unsaid, Father,"  the Prince  remarked
coolly.

    "I am leaving a great deal unsaid, Your Grace," said the  catalyst
simply, lifting his head and looking  directly at the Prince. "I am  a
poor liar, I know. Yet  the secret I carry in  my heart is not my  own
and would prove dangerous knowledge  to those involved. Better that  I
bear it alone."

    There was a quiet  dignity about the  middle-aged man, dressed  in
the humble, worn robes  of his calling,  that impressed Garald.  There
was a sorrow about him, too, as if this burden was almost too heavy to
bear, yet bear  it he would  until he  dropped. The man  ba,> hut  hi'
faith, the Cardinal had said. This secret is all he has ….

    That, and his pity and love for Joram.

    "Tell me about darkstone," said  the Prince, letting the  catalyst
know that he  would not  press him  further. Saryon  smiled in  gentle
thanks, relieved.

    "I know very little.  Your Grace," he answered.  "Just what I  was
able to read  in the texts,  which were very  incomplete. The  writers
assumed that rudimentary knowledge of  the ore was well-known, and  so
they spoke only of  advanced techniques for forging  it and so  forth.
Its existence is  based on  a physical law  in nature  that for  every
action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Thus, in a world  that
exudes magic, there must also be a force that absorbs magic."

    "Darkstone."

    "Yes, milord. It is an  ore, similar in appearance and  properties
to iron, and is ideal for use  as a weapon. The sword, in  particular,
was the favored weapon of the ancient Sorcerers. The wielder uses  the
sword to protect himself against any magical spells cast upon him.  He
then uses  it to  penetrate the  magical defenses  of his  enemy,  and
finally has the weapon itself to end his enemys life."

    "So, knowing this, Joram forged the Darksword,"

    "Yes, Your Grace. He forged it … with my help. A catalyst must  be
present, to give the ore Life."

    Garalds eyes widened.

    "I, too, am damned, you see," Saryon said quietly. "I have  broken
the holy laws of our Order and given Life to … a … thing of  darkness.
Yet what  could I  do?  Blachloch knew  about  the darkstone.  He  was
planning to use it  for his own terrible  purposes. At least, that  is
what we believed. Too late I found out he was working for the  Church.
. . ."

    "It would have made no difference," Garald said. "I have no  doubt
that when  he came  to realize  the darkstones  power, he  would  have
broken faith with the Church and used it himself."

    102 WEIS AND HICK MAN "Undoubtedly you are right." Saryon  lowered
his head. "Still, how  can I forgive myself?  Joram murdered him,  you
see. The warlock lay helpless at his feet. I had drained the Life from
him, the Darksword had absorbed his magic. We . . . were going to turn
the warlock over to … the Dttttk-t. iarith. Set him m the Corridor for
them to find. There was a yell - "

    Saryon could not continue^ his  voice broke. Garald laid his  hand
on the mans shoulder.

    "When I looked  around" -  the catalyst spoke  in a  horror-filled
whisper - "I saw Joram standing over the body, the Darksword wet  with
blood. He thought I  planned to betray  him, to turn  him over to  the
Duuk-foaritb as well. I told him I did not . . ," Saryon sighed.  "But
Joram trusts no one.

    "He hid  the body,  and that  morning I  was contacted  bv  Bishop
Vanya, who demanded  I bring  Joram and  the Darksword  to the  Font."
Saryon raised his  haunted eyes. "How  can I, Your  Grace?" he  cried,
wringing his hands.  "How can I  take him back  to be sent.  . .  into
Beyond! To hear that frightful yell and know that it is his! The  last
place he should go is to Merilon! Yet I cannot stop him! You can, Your
Grace," Saryon cried  suddenly, feverishly. "Persuade  him to come  to
Sharakan with you. He might listen . . ."

    "And what do I tell him?"  Garald demanded. "Come to Sharakan  and
be nobody? When he can go to Merilon and discover his name, his title,
his birthright? It is a nsk any man would take, and rightly so. I will
not dissuade him."

    "His birthright . . ." Saryon repeated softly, in agony.

    "What?"

    "Nothing, milord." The catalyst rubbed his eyes again. "I  suppose
you are right."

    But Saryon appeared  so, upset  and distraught  that Garald  added
more kindly, "I tell you  what, Father. I will do  what I can to  help
the young man at least have a chance of succeeding in his goal. I will
teach how to protect himself if he should get into trouble. That much,
at least,  I owe  him. He  saved us  from Blachlochs  double-dealings,
after all. We are in his debt."

    "Thank you, Your Grace." Saryon seemed somewhat eased in his mind.
"Now, if you will forgive me, milord, I believe that I can sleep  now.
…"

    "Certainly, Father."  The  Prince was  on  his feet,  helping  the
catalyst to rise. "I apologize for having kept you up, but the subject
is a fascinating one.  To make amends,  I have had a  bed DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 103 prepared.  The finest  silken sheets  and blankets.  But
perhaps you would prefer a tent? I can conjure - "

    "No, a  bed by  the  fire is  fine. Much  better  than what  I  am
accustomed to, in fact, Your Grace." Saryon bowed wearily. "Besides, I
am suddenly so  tired that  I will probably  never know  whether I  am
lying on swans down or pine needles."

    "Very well, Father. I  bid you good-night.  And, Father" -  Garald
rested his hand on  the older mans arm-"erase  your conscience of  the
guilt of Blachlochs death.  The man was evil.  Had you allowed him  to
live, he would have  killed Joram and taken  the darkstone. It was  by
the Almins will that Joram acted, the Almins justice that Joram  meted
out."

    "Perhaps." Saryon smiled wanly. "To my mind, it was still  murder.
Killing has become easy for Joram - too easy. He sees it as his way to
gain the power he lacks in magic. I bid you goodnight, Your Grace."

    "Good  night,  Father,"   said  Garald,   considering  his   words
thoughtfully, "May the Almin watch over you."

    "May He indeed,"  Saryon, murmured,  turning away.  The Prince  of
Sharakan did not  retire to his  own tent until  far into the  starlit
hours of early morning. Back and forth he walked over the grass in the
cold night  air, cloaked  in furs  that he  caused to  appear  without
thinking about it.  His thoughts  were occupied by  the strange,  dark
tale of  madness and  murder, of  Life  and Death,  of magic  and  its
destroyer. At last, when  he knew himself to  be tired enough that  he
could banish the tale into the  realm of sleep, he stood looking  down
at the slumbering group fate had cast into his path. Or was it fate?

    "This isn't the  way to  Merilon," he  said to  himself, the  fact
suddenly occurring to him. "Why  are they traveling this route?  There
are others to the east far shorter and safer. . . .

    "And who has been their guide? Let me guess. Three who have  never
traveled in the world. One who has been everywhere." His eyes went  to
the figure  in the  white  nightshirt. No  babe  in his  mothers  arms
slumbered more sweetly than Simkin, though the tassel of the  nightcap
had fallen down over his mouth and there was every likelihood that  he
would inhale it and swallow it before the night was ended.

    "What game  are you  playing now,  old friend?"  muttered  Garald.
"Certainly not tarok.  Of all the  shadows I see  falling across  this
young man, why is yours, somehow, the darkest?"

    104 WEIS AND  HICKMAN Musing on  this, the Prince  retired to  his
tent, leaving the unmoving, watchful Duuk-foaritb to rule the night.

    But Garald's sleep  was not unbroken  as he had  hoped. More  than
once, he found  himself waking  with a  start, thinking  he heard  the
gleeful laughter of a bucket.

    The Fencing Master "Q |et up!"

    The toe of a boot struck Joram in the ribs, not gently.  Startled,
half-asleep, his  heart  pounding,  the  young man  sat  up  from  his
blankets and. shoved the tangled black hair back from his eyes.  "What
- "

    "I said, get up," repeated a cool voice.

    Prince Garald stood  above Joram,  regarding him  with a  pleasant
smile.

    Joram rubbed his eyes and glanced about. It was just before  dawn,
he supposed, although the only  indication was 3 faint brightening  of
the sky above the treetops to the east. Otherwise, it was still  dark.
The fire had  burned low;  his companions  lay asleep  around it.  Two
silken tents, barely visible in the prelight, stood at the edge of the
clearing, flags fluttering from their pointed tops. These had not been
there the  day  before and  were,  presumably, where  the  Prince  and
Cardinal Radisovik spent the night.

    In the center of the clearing,  near the dying fire, stood one  of
the black-robed Duuk-ttarith in  what Joram could  swear was the  same
position he had seen him standing  in last night. The warlock's  hands
were fofded before him, his face  lost in shadow. But the hooded  head
was turned toward Joram. So, too, were the unseen eyes.

    106 WE IS AND HICKMAN "What is it? WKat do you want?" Joram asked.
His hand crept to the sword beneath his blanket.

    " 'What do you  want, Your Grace, '"  corrected the Prince with  a
grin. "That does stick in your craw, doesn't it, young man. Yes. bring
the weapon," he  added, though Joram  had supposed he  was making  his
move unobserved.

    Chagrined, Joram drew the Darksword from beneath the blanket,  but
he did not stand up.

    "I asked what you wanted  . . . Your  Grace," he said coldly,  his
lip curling.

    "Ifyou are going to use that  weapon" - the Prince glanced at  the
sword in amused distaste -  "then you had better  learn how to use  it
properly. I could have skewered  you like a chicken yesterday  instead
of merely disarming you. Whatever powers that sword  possesses"-Garald
regarded it more intently - "won't do you much good if it is lying  on
the ground ten  feet away from  you. Come on.  I know a  place in  the
woods where we can practice without disturbing the others."

    Joram hesitated, studying the Prince with his dark eyes, searching
for the man's motive behind this show of interest.

    Undoubtedly he wants to learn more about the sword, Joram thought.
Perhaps even take if from me. What a charmer he is - almost as good as
Simkin. I WAS duped by him last night. I won't be today. I'll go along
with this, if I can truly learn something. If not, I'll leave. And  if
he tries to take the sword, I'll kill him.

    Anticipating the chill air, Joram  reached For his cloak, but  the
Prince stepped on it with his foot. "No. no, my friend," Garald  said,
"you'll be warm enough soon. Very warm indeed."

    An hour later, laying flat on  his back on the frozen ground,  the
breath knocked from his  body and blood trickling  from the corner  of
his mouth, Joram thought no more of his cloak.

    The steel blade of the Prince's sword slammed into the ground near
him, so close that he flinched.

    "Right through the throat," Garald remarked. "And you never saw it
coming. …"

    "It wasn't a  fair fight," Joram  muttered. Accepting the  Princes
hand, he heaved himself to his feet, swallowing a groan. "You  tripped
me!"

    "My dear young man," said Garald impatiently, "when you draw  that
sword in earnest, it is - or should be - a matter of life DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 107 and death. Your life and your opponent's death. Honor is
a very fine thing, but the dead have little use for it."

    "A pretty speech, coming from  you," mumbled Joram, massaging  his
aching jaw and spitting out blood.

    "I can afford honor,"  Garald said with a  shrug. "I am a  skilled
swordsman. I have  trained in  the art for  years. You,  on the  other
hand, cannot. There  is no way,  in the short  time we have  together,
that I can teach you even a part of the intricate techniques of  sword
fighting. What I  can teach you  is how to  survive against a  skilled
opponent long enough to permit you to call upon the swords . , . um  .
. . powers to defeat him.

    "Now"-more  briskly-"you  try  '*•   Lx>°k.  your  attention   was
concentrated on the sword  in my hands.  Thus I was  able to bring  my
foot around, catch  you behind  the heel,  drag you  off balance,  and
clout you in the face with the hilt like this - " Garald demonstrated,
stopping just short of Joram's bruised  cheek. "Now you try it.  Good!
Good!" the Prince cried, tumbling down. "You're quick and strong.  Use
that to your advantage." He  rose to his feet,  taking no note of  the
mud on his fine clothes.

    Stepping into a fighting stance,  he raised his sword and  grinned
at Joram.

    "Shall we have a go at it again?"

    Hours passed. The sun rose in the sky and, though the day was  far
from warm,  both men  soon stripped  off their  shirts. Their  labored
breathing misted the air about them; the ground soon looked as  though
a small army had  fought over it.  The forest rang  with the sound  of
blade against blade. Finally, when  both were so exhausted they  could
do nothing but lean upon their weapons and gasp for breath, the Prince
called a halt.

    Sinking down on a boulder warmed by the sun, he motioned for Joram
to sit beside him. The young man did so, panting and wiping his  face.
Blood seeped from numerous  cuts and scratches on  his arms and  legs.
His jaw was swollen and aching, several teeth had been knocked  loose,
and he was so tired that even breathing seemed an effort. But it was a
good kind of tiredness. He'd held his own against the Prince in  their
last few passes  and had, once,  even knocked the  sword from  Garalds
hand.

    "Water," the Prince muttered, glancing about. A waterskin lay near
their shirts - far across the  clearing. With a weary gesture,  Garald
motioned for the waterskin  to come to them.  It 108 WE1S AND  HICKMAN
obeyed, but  the Prince  was so  tired that  he had  little energy  to
expend in magic. Consequently, the waterskm dragged itself across  the
ground, rather than flying swiftly through the air.

    "It looks like I feel!" Garald said, panting.

    Catching hold of^the skin as it came near, he lifted it and  drank
a few sips, then passed it to Joram. "Not much," he cautioned. "Cramps
the belly."

    Joram drank and passed it back. Garald poured some in his hand and
splashed it on his  face and chest, his  skin shivering in the  biting
air.

    "You're doing . . .  well, young man .  . ." Garald said,  drawing
deep breaths. "Very . . . well. If…  we're not both dead . . . at  the
end of the week . . . you should be … ready. …"

    "Week? . .  . Ready?" Joram  saw the trees  blur before his  eyes.
Talking coherently at the moment lay beyond his capacity. "I … leave .
. . Merilon. . . ."

    "Not for a week." Garald shook his head, and took another pull  at
the waterskin. "Don't forget . . ."  he said with a grin, resting  his
arms on his knees  and hanging his head  down to breathe more  easily,
"you are my prisoner. Or do you think .  . . you could fight me . .  .
and the Duuk-harithT'

    Joram closed his  eyes. His  throat ached, his  lungs burned,  his
muscles twitched, his cuts stung. He hurt all over. "I couldn't . .  .
fight . .  . the  catalyst . .  . right  now. . .  ."he admitted  with
almost a smile.

    The two sat upon the boulder, resting. Neither spoke, neither felt
the need for speech. As he grew more rested, Joram relaxed, a warm and
pleasant feeling  of  peace  stole  over him.  He  took  note  of  the
surroundings -  a  small clearing  in  the  center of  the  forest,  a
clearing that might have been formed magically, it was so perfect.  In
fact, Joram realized, it  probably had been carved  from the woods  by
magic -the Princes magic.

    Joram and the  Prince were  alone, something  else Joram  wondered
about. They had been making noise enough for a regiment, and the young
man expected at any moment to  see the snooping catalyst come to  find
out what was going on, or at least Mosiah and the ever-curious Simkin.
But Garald had spoken to the  Duuk-barith before they left, and  Joram
assumed now that he must have told them to keep everyone away.

    "I don't mind," Joram decided. He liked it here - peaceful, quiet,
the sun warm upon the rock where he was sitting. He couldn't remember,
in fact, ever having felt this content. His DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  109
restless mind slowed  its frenetic  pace and glided  easily among  the
treetops, listening  to the  steady breathing  of his  companion,  the
pumping of his own heart.

    "Joram," said Garald,  "what do  you plan to  do when  you get  to
Merilon?"

    Joram shrugged, wishing the man had not spoken, willing him to  be
quiet and not break the spell.

    "No, we need to discuss this," Garald said, seeing the  expressive
face grow shadowed. "Perhaps I'm wrong, but I have the feeling  'going
to Merilon' is like some childs tale with you. Once you get there, you
expect your life  to be  'all better' just  because you  stand in  the
shadows of  its floating  platforms. Believe  me, Joram"  -the  Prince
shook his head -"it won't happen. I've been to Merilon. Not  recently,
of course." He smiled sardonically. "But  in the days when we were  at
peace. And I can tell you that - right now-you won't get within  sight
of the city gates. You are a savage from the Outland. The Duuk-foarith
will have you" - he snapped his fingers - "like that!"

    The sun disappeared, shrouded by  clouds. A wind came up,  wmsthng
mournfully among the trees. Shivering,  Joram stood up and started  to
walk across the clearing to where his shirt lay on the grass.

    "No, stay. I'll get it,"  Garald said, putting a restraining  hand
on Joram's arm. With  a gesture, he caused  both shirts to take  wing,
flitting through the air toward them like fabric birds. "I'm sorry.  I
keep forgetting you are  Dead. We have so  few Dead in Sharakan,  I've
never met anyone like you."

    Joram scowled, feeling the swift, sharp pain he always experienced
whenever reminded of the difference between himself and everyone  else
in this world. He  glared at the Prince  angrily, certain the man  was
mocking him. But Garald wasn't watching, he had his head in his shirt.
"I have always envied  Simkin his ability to  change his ciothes at  a
whim. Not to mention,"  the Prince grunted,  pulling the fine  cambric
shirt down over his shoulders, "changing himself at a whim. Bucket!"

    His head  emerging  from the  collar,  Garald smoothed  his  hair,
grinning  over  the  remembrance.  Then,  growing  more  serious,   he
continued on his original topic of thought. "There are many Dead  born
in Merilon, or so we've heard," he said, his casual acceptance of  the
fact slowly  smothering Jorams  fiery anger.  "Particularly among  the
nobility. But they try to get rid of them, putting the babies to death
or smuggling them into the no  WEIS AND HICKMAN OOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD
Outland. They  are  rotting  mside"-i-his clear  eyes  grew  shadowed,
darkening with his own anger - "and they would spread their disease to
the entire world if they had  their way. Well"-he drew a deep  breath,
shaking it off-"they won't have it."

    "We were talking about Merilon," Joram said harshly. Sitting  back
down, he  grabbed a  handful  of gravel  from  the ground,  and  began
tossing rocks at a distant tree trunk.

    "Yes, I'm sorry," Garald said. "Now, as to getting inside the city
- "

    "Look," Joram  interrupted  impatiently, "don't  worry  about  it!
We'll have fancy clothes,  if that's all it  takes. The castoffs  from
Simkin's wardrobe alone could last us for years. . . ."

    "Then what?"

    "Then -then. …" Joram shrugged  impatiently. "What does it  matter
to you anyway . . . Your Grace?" he said, his lip curling in contempt.
Glancing around, he saw Garald regarding  him with a calm and  serious
expression, the  clear eyes  delving deep  into dark,  murky parts  of
Joram s soul that Joram himself had never dared explore. Instantly the
young man reinforced che stone wall around himself.

    "Why are you doing this?"  he demanded ang'rily, gesturing at  the
Darksword that lay on the ground near him. "What do you care whether I
live or die? Whats in it for you?"

    Garald regarded Joram silently, then he smiled slowly; a smile  of
sadness and regret. "That's all there is for you, isn't there, Joram?"
he said. "'Whats in it  for me? ' It doesn't  matter to you that  I've
heard your story from  the catalyst, that  I pity you .  . . Ah,  yes,
that makes you furious, but  its true. I pity you  . . . and I  admire
you."

    Joram turned away from  the Prince, turned  away from the  intense
gaze of those clear,  clear eyes, his own  dark eyes staring into  the
tangled boughs of the bare, dead trees.

    "I admire  you,"  the Prince  continued  steadily, "I  admire  the
intelligence and perseverance you showed in discovering what has  been
lost to the world for  centuries. I know the  courage it took to  face
Blachloch, and I admire you for standing up to him. If nothing else, I
owe  you  something  for  saving   us  -  if  inadvertently-from   the
double-dealings of the warlock. But,  I see that doesn't satisfy  you.
You want my 'ulterior motive. '"

    "Don't tell me you haven't got one," muttered Joram bitterly.

    "Very well, my friend, I'll  tell you 'whats in  it for me. '  You
take your sword, your Darksword as you call it, and you go to Merilon.
And  with  it  or  without  it"-Garald  shrugged-"you  win  back  your
inheritance. You conceal the fact that you are Dead - as you are  well
capable of doing so long  as you have the  catalyst to cover for  you.
Never thought about that,  did you? Good idea,  consider it. Up  until
now, it hasn't mattered whether or  not you called upon a catalyst  to
give you Life. There weren't  any catalysts in the Sorcerers'  village
to call. But it will be different in Merilon. You will be expected  to
use your catalyst, to have one with you. With Saryon at your side, you
can keep up your pretense of having Life.

    "But now, where was I? Oh, yes. You find your mother's people  and
you convince them that they should accept you into the bosom of  their
family. Who  knows, they  may  be grieving  still over  the  misguided
daughter who ran away before they  could show her how much they  cared
and were  willing to  forgive. Or  perhaps the  family has  died  out,
perhaps you can prove your claim and gain their lands and title.

    "No matter," Garald  continued archly.  "Let us  suppose that  all
this has a happy ending and you  are a nobleman, Joram; a nobleman  of
Merilon, complete with title and land and wealth. What do I want  from
you, noble gentleman? Look at me, Joram. '

    The young man could not help  but turn at the compelling sound  of
the voice. There was no lightness, no archness in it now. "I want  you
to come  to Sharakan,"  the Prince  said. "I  want you  to bring  your
Darksword and to fight with us."

    Joram stared at him incredulously.  "What makes you think I'll  do
that? Once 1 have gained my rightful holdings, I'll do nothing but - "

    " - watch the world go by?" Garald smiled. "No, I don't think  you
will, Joram.  You  couldn't do  that  among the  Sorcerers.  Fear  for
yourself didn't prompt you to fight the warlock. Oh, I don't know  the
details, but - if that had been the case - you could have always  fled
on your  own, leaving  someone else  to face  him- No,  . you  did  it
because there is  something deep  inside you  that feels  the need  to
protect  and  defend  those  weaker   than  yourself.  That  is   your
birthright; you were born Albanara. And because of that I believe  you
will see  Merilon with  eyes that  112 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD are not blinded by the pretty clouds among which its  people
dwell.

    "You have been a Field Magus. By the Almin!" Garald continued more
passionately as Joram, shaking his head, turned away again. "You  have
lived under the tyranny  of Merilon, Joram!  Its rigid traditions  and
beliefs caused your mother to be cast out, your father to be sentenced
to living death! YojU-will see a city of beauty, certainly, but it  is
beauty covering decay!  It is even  said that the  Empress - "  Garald
stopped abruptly. "Never mind." He spoke in a low voice, clasping  his
hands together. "I can't believe that is true, not even of them."

    The Prince paused, drawing a deep breath. "Don't you see,  Joram?"
he continued  more calmly.  "You -a  noble of  Merilon -  come to  us,
prepared to fight  to restore  your city  s ancient  honor. My  people
would be impressed.  And, most importantly,  you would help  influence
the Sorcerers, whom you have lived  among. We hope to ally with  them,
but I am  certain they  would follow  my father's  guidance much  more
readily if he could point to you and say, 'Look, here is one you  know
and trust, fighting on our side as  well! ' The Sorcerers do know  and
like you, I suppose?" the Prince asked offhandedly.

    Had Joram been knowledgeable about such things as verbal parry and
thrust, he would have recognized  that the Prince was maneuvering  him
into position.

    "They know  me, at  least,"  Joram said  briefly, not  giving  the
matter much thought. He  was considering the  Princes words. He  could
see himself riding  into Sharakan, resplendent  with the trappings  of
his rank, to be welcomed by the King and his son. That would be a fine
thing. But going to war with them? Bah! What did he care. . . .

    "Ah!" Garald said  casually. "'They  know me, at  least/ you  say.
Which means, I suppose, that they know you but don't particularly like
you. And, of course, you don't give a damn about that, do you?"

    Joram raised his dark eyes, on his guard at once. It was too late.

    "You will  fail in  Merilon,  Joram. You  will fail  anywhere  you
g°*"..

    "And why is that . . . Your Grace?" Sneering, Joram never felt the
point of the verbal blade pressed against his heart.

    "Because you want to be a noble,  and perhaps by rights you are  a
noble. But unfortunately,  Joram, there  isn't one  ounce of  nobility
within you," answered Garald coolly.

    The words  struck home.  Torn and  bleeding inside,  Joram made  a
clumsy attempt to return the blow. "Forgive me, Your Grace!" he whined
in mockery. "I  don't have fine  clothes, like you.  I don't bathe  in
rose petals, or perfume my hair! People don't call me 'milord' and beg
to kiss my ass! Not yet they don't! But they will!" His voice shook in
anger. He sprang to his feet,  facing Garald, his fists clenched.  "By
the Almin, they will! And so will you, damn you!"

    Garald rose to  face the enraged  young man. "Yes,  I should  have
guessed that is your idea of a nobleman, Joram. And this is  precisely
wby you will never be one. I'm beginning to think that I mistook  you,
that you belong in Merilon, because this is exactly what many of  them
think!" The Prince glanced eastward,  in the direction of the  faraway
city. "They will soon learn they  are wrong," he said earnestly,  "but
they will pay dearly  for their lesson. And  so will you." He  focused
his attention on the quivering,  angry young man standing before  him.
"The Almm teaches  us that a  man is  noble, not by  some accident  of
birth, but  by how  he treats  his  fellow man.  Strip away  the  fine
clothes and  the perfume  and the  gilt, Joram,  and your  body is  no
different from that of your friend, the Field Magus. Naked, we are all
the same - nothing more than food for the worms.

    "The dead have little use for  honor, as I said before. They  have
little use for anything else, either. What are title, wealth, breeding
to them? We  may walk different  paths through this  life, Joram,  but
they all lead the same place - to the grave. It is our duty -no, it is
our privilege, as  fellow travelers  who have been  blessed more  than
others - to make  the way as  smooth and pleasant for  as many as.  we
can."

    "Fine words!" Joram retorted  furiously. "But you're quick  enough
to lap up 'Your Grace' and 'Your Highness! I don't see you. dressed in
the coarse robes of the peasants. I  don't see you rising at dawn  and
spending your days grubbing in the fields until your very soul  starts
to shrivel  like the  weeds  you touch!"  He  pointed at  the  Prince.
"You're a  wonderful talker!  You and  your fancy  clothes and  bright
swords, silk tents and bodyguards! That's what I think of your wbrds!"
Joram made an obscene gesture, laughed, and began to walk away.

    Reaching out, Garald caught hold of  him by the shoulder and  spun
him around. Joram shook free. His  face distorted by rage, he  struck,
at the man, swinging  his fist wildly. The  Prince countered the  blow
easily, catching it on  his forearm. With prac-  114 WEIS AND  HICKMAN
DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 7/5 ticed skill, he grabbed Jorarns wrist,  gave
it a twist, and forced  the young man to  his knees. Gagging in  pain,
Joram struggled to stand up.

    "Stop it! Fighting me is useless.  With one word of magic I  could
tear your arm from its socket!" Garald said coldly, holding the  young
man fast.

    "Damn you, you -!" Joram swore  at him, spitting filth. '"You  and
your magic!  If I  had my  sword, I'd  -" He  looked 'around  for  it,
feverishly.

    "I'll give you your cursed  sword," the Prince said grimly.  "Then
you can do what you want. But  first, you will listen to me. In  order
to do my work in this life, I must dress and act in a manner befitting
my station. Yes, I wear fancy clothes and bathe and comb my hair,  and
I'm going to see to it that you do these things, too, before you go to
Merilon. Why? Because it shows you  care what people think of you.  As
for my title, people call  me 'milord' and 'Your  Grace' as a mark  of
respect for my station. But I hope it is a mark of respect for me as a
person as well. Why do you think  I don't force you to do it?  Because
the words are  empty for you.  You don't respect  anybody, Joram.  You
don't care for anybody. Least of all yourself!"

    "You're wrong! 1" Joram whispered huskily, looking for the  sword.
But it was hard to see, a green-tinged, blood-red pool of rage blinded
him. "You're wrong! I care - "

    "Then, show it!"  Garald cried.  Grabbing hold  of the-long  black
hair, the Prince jerked  Joram s head back,  forcing the young man  to
look up at him. Joram did so,  he had no choice. But the  pain-filled,
defiant eyes glared at the Prince in bitter hatred.

    "You were willing to give your life for Mosiah last night, weren't
you?" Garald continued relentlessly. "Yet, you treat him as if he were
some mongrel slouching at your heels. And the catalyst - a man learned
and gentle, who should be spending his middle years in peace, pursuing
the study that he loves.  He fought the warlock  with you, and now  he
follows you through the  wilderness, weary and  aching, when he  could
have turned you over to the  Church. For what reason, do you  suppose?
Ah yes, of course, I forgot. His 'ulterior motive. ' He wank something
from you! What? Insults, gibes, sneers?"

    "Bah!" Garald sent Joram sprawling facedown on the frozen  ground.
Lifting his head, Joram saw the Darksword lying right in front of him.
Lunging forward, he grasped the hilt.

    He scrambled  to his  feet,  twisting around  to face  his  enemy.
Garald stood staring at him coldly, a smile of amused contempt on  his
lips.

    "Fight! Damn you!" Joram shouted, leaping at the man.

    The Prince spoke a  word of command, and  his own sword rose  from
the grass  where it  lay and  flew into  his hand,  the blade  shining
silver in the gray light of sunless sky.

    "Use your magic  against me!"  Joram challenged.  He could  barely
speak; froth covered his lips. "I'm  Dead, after all! Only this  sword
makes me Alive! And I'm going to see you die!"

    Joram intended  tolcill. He  wanted  to kill.  He could  feel  the
satisfying impact of the sword striking flesh, see the blood flow, the
proud figure crumble at his feet, the dying eyes gazing up at him .  .
.

    Garald regarded  him calmly  a moment,  then slid  his own  bright
sword back in  its leather scabbard.  "You are Dead,  Joram," he  said
softly. "You stink of death! And you have made a sword of darkness,  a
thing as dead as you are. Go ahead, kill me. Death is your solution!"

    Joram willed himself forward. But  he couldn't see. A film  coated
his eyes and he blinked, trying to clear them.

    "Come to life,  Joram," Garald said  earnestly. The Princes  voice
sounded far away,  drifting to Joram  out of the  blood-red mist  that
surrounded him. "Come  to life and  wield your sword  in the cause  of
life, the cause of the living!  Otherwise you might as well turn  that
sword upon yourself, and  spill every drop of  that noble blood  right
here on the ground. At least it will give fife to the grass."

    The last words were spoken in disgust. Turning his back on  Joram,
the Prince walked calmly from the clearing.

    Sword in hand, Joram  lunged after him, determined  to slay ,  the
arrogant man.  But he  was completely  blind in  his fury.  Stumbling,
Joram fell flat  on his face.  With a  wild, ragged cry  of anger,  he
struggled to stand, but  his rage had drained  him, left him weak  and
helpless as  a baby.  Desperate, he  tried using  the Darksword  as  a
crutch to pull himself  to his feet.  But the blade  sank deep in  the
churned-up dirt and Joram sagged to his knees.

    His hands clenching around the hilt of the sword that stood before
him, buried  in the  mud,  Joram slumped  over  it. Tears  crept  from
beneath his  eyelids. Anger  and frustration  welled up  - inside  him
until he thought his  heart would burst. A  racking sob tore open  his
chest, easing the pressure. His head bowed, Joram cried the tears that
neither pain nor suffering had wrung from  ' him since he was a  small
child.

    13 Winter  Nfeht 'here  is Joram?  " asked  Saryon as  the  Prince
returned to the  glade. The catalyst's  eyes widened in  alarm at  the
sight of Garald s pale face, his muddy clothes, and the spots of blood
upon the  white shirt  where one  of his  cuts had  come open  in  his
struggles with Joram.

    "Rest easy.  Father," Garald  said  wearily. "He  is back  in  the
woods. We . . . had a little talk. . . ." The Prince smiled  ruefully,
looking down at his torn clothing. "He needs time to think. At  least,
I hope he thinks."

    "Should he be out there?  By himself?" Saryon persisted, his  eyes
going to the forest. Above the trees, gray clouds skittered across the
sky. To the northwest, darker, heavier masses of clouds could be  seen
forming. The wind had switched direction, blowing warmer. But the  air
itself was heavy, laden with moisture - rain almost assuredly, snow by
nightfall.

    "He'll be all right,"  Garald said, running  his hand through  his
damp hair. "We've seen no signs  of centaurs in these woods.  Besides,
he isn't by himself. Not really." The Prince glanced around the camp.

    Following his gaze,  Saryon understood  at once. Only  one of  the
Dmik-tjarith was present. Instead of being comforted, the DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD /// catalyst only appeared  more worried. "Forgive me,  Your
Grace," Saryon said hesitantly, "but Joram is … is a criminal. I  know
that they have heard us talking." He gestured toward the  black-robed,
silent figure. "Nothing escapes their attention. What -"

    "What prevents them from  disobeying me and  taking Joram back  to
Merilon? Nothing." Garald shrugged.  "I certainly couldn't stop  them.
But, you see, Father, as my personal guard, they are sworn to be loyal
to me unto death.  If they betrayed  me, and took  the boy against  my
command, they would not  face a hero's welcome.  Far to the  contrary.
For breaking their sworn oath, they would receive the most severe form
of punishment their  Order metes out.  And what that  might be,  among
their strict kind"  - the  Prince shuddered  -"I dare  not venture  to
guess. No," he said with a smile  and shrug, "Joram is not worth  that
to them."

    Joram isn't - but the Prince of Merilon certainly would be, Saryon
thought. He would have to guard his secret that much more closely.

    The Prince retired to his tent, and Saryon returned to sit by  the
warm pools of the spring, noticing  that Radisovik, at a gesture  from
Garald,  followed  the  Prince.  The  remaining  Dtutk-tJarith   stood
silently, staring at  nothing and  everything from  beneath his  black
hood. Lounging on  the grass  beside the steaming  waters, Simkin  was
teasing the raven, trying to make it  talk in exchange for a piece  of
sausage.

    "Come on, you wretched bird," Simkin said. "Repeat after me:  'The
Prince is a fool.  The Prince is  a fool. ' Say  that for Simkin,  and
Simkin will give you this nice bit of meat."

    The bird regarded Simkin gravely, its head cocked to one side, but
refused to utter a croak.

    "Hush, you idiot!" Mosiah whispered, referring to Simkin, not  the
bird. He  motioned  toward  the  silken tent.  "Aren't  we  in  enough
trouble?"

    "What? Oh,  Garald? Bah!"  Simkin  grinned, smoothing  his  beard.
"He'll think it loads of fun. Quite the joker himself. He once brought
a live bear  to a  costume ball at  court. Introduced  him as  Captain
Noseblower, of the  Royal Navy of  Zith-el. You should  have seen  the
King, keeping up  polite conversation  with the  supposed captain  and
endeavoring to look perfectly  unconscious of the  fact that the  bear
was munching on  his cravat.  Bear lost  the prize  for best  costume,
though. Now, you red-eyed fiend from hell"-Simkin fixed the raven with
a stern gaze-"say,  118 WEIS AND  HICKMAM 'The Prince  is a fool!  The
Prince is a fool! '" He spoke in a high-pitched, birdlike squawk.

    The bird raised a yellow foot and scratched its beak in what might
have been taken for a rude gesture.

    "Stupid bird!" Simkin remarked testily.

    "Simkins a fool! Simkin's a fool!" cried the raven. With a flutter
of wings, it bounced  up from the ground,  snatched the meat from  the
young mans hand, and carried off the prize to a nearby tree.

    Simkin laughed heartily, but Mosiah s worried expression only grew
deeper.  Moving  near  Saryon,   he  glanced  apprehensively  at   the
Duttk-Uarith, then  said  quietly, "What  do  you think  is  going  to
happen? What does the Prince intend to do with us?"

    "I don't know*" Saryon answered gravely. "A lot depends on Joram."

    "Gad!  We'll  all  hang  then,"  Simkin  interjected  -cheerfully,
scooting across the ground  to sit next to  the catalyst. "The two  of
them got into a  frightful row this morning.  The Prince stripped  the
flesh from our poor friends bones and  hung him out to dry, while  the
ever-tactful Joram called His Royal  Highness an -" Simkin didn't  say
the word, but pointed to the part of the body to which it referred.

    "Name of the Almin!" gasped Mosiah, turning pale.

    "Pray all  you  like, but  I  doubt  it will  help,"  said  Simkin
languidly. He dabbled his hand in the hot water. "We should just count
ourselves fortunate that he  merely called His Grace  an - you know  -
and didn't turn  him into one,  as happened to  the unfortunate  Count
cVChambray. It occurred during a quarrel with Baron Roethke. The Count
shouted, 'You're an -! ' The  Baron cried, 'You're another! '  Grabbed
his catalyst, cast a spell, and there the Count was, turned into  one,
right in front of the ladies and everything. Repulsive sight."

    "Do you suppose that's true?" Mosiah asked worriedly.

    "I swear it on my mothers grave!" vowed Simkin with a yawn.

    "No, I  don't  mean the  Count,"  Mosiah snapped.  "I  mean  about
Joram."

    The catalysts gaze went  to the woods. "I  wouldn't doubt it,"  he
said glumly.

    "Hanging isn't  a bad  way to  die," remarked  Simkin, lying  full
length upon  the grass,  his eyes  on the  massing clouds  above.  "Of
course, are there good ways? Thats the question."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 119 "They don't hang people anymore," Mosiah
said irritably.

    "Ah, but  they  might  make  an exception  in  our  case,"  Simkin
replied.

    "Simkins a  fool! Simkin's  a fool!"  croaked the  raven from  the
branches above, hopping nearer in hopes of more sausage.

    Is he  a fool?  Saryon  asked himself.  No, the  catalyst  decided
uneasily. If  what he  said was  correct and  Joram had  insulted  the
Prince, then - for  once in his life  and probably without knowing  it
-Simkin may have spoken the truth.

    The storm broke at midafternoon, rain pouring from clouds  hanging
so low in  the sky it  seemed they  might have been  punctured by  the
tall, prong-branched trees. With the  Cardinal granting him Life,  the
Prince used his magic  to create an invisible  shield over the  glade,
protecting them from  the deluge. In  order to have  energy enough  to
perform this magic, however, it was necessary for Garald to remove the
warm springs. Saryon saw the steaming pool go with regret. The  shield
kept them  dry, but  it was  not particularly  warm. And  it gave  the
catalyst an odd feeling to look up  and see the rain slashing down  at
them without touching them; watery spears that were suddenly deflected
and turned aside by the unseen shield.

    "I miss the warmth  of the springs, but  this is much better  than
being cooped up in a stuffy tent all day, wouldn't you agree, Father?"
Garald said conversationally. "Under the shield, we can at least  move
about in  the open  air. Come  nearer the  fire, if  you are  chilled,
Father."

    Saryon was in no mood to talk, however, although he did walk  over
to sit by the fire, and even managed to mumble a polite rejoinder. His
gaze continually strayed  through the curtain  of steaming water  into
the forest. Hours had passed and Joram had not returned.

    The Cardinal  also attempted  conversation with  Saryon, but  soon
gave it  up, seeing  the catalysts  worried preoccupation.  Radisovik,
with a meaningful glance at the  Prince, retired to his tent to  study
and meditate.

    Gathering near  the fire,  Garald, Mosiah,  and Simkin  played  at
tarok. The game got  off to a  slow start; Mosiah  was so overawed  at
playing cards with a Prince that he fumbled his cards - dropping  them
twice - misdealt  a hand, and  made such glaring  errors in play  that
Simkin suggested the bird take  his place. But Garald, without  losing
any of his dignity or the quiet,  regal air 120 WEIS AND HICKMAN  that
surrounded him, soon made Mosiah so relaxed and at ease that the young
man actually dared  laugh in  the Prince's  presence and  once made  a
feeble, blushing attempt at a joke.

    Saryon noted uneasily,  however, that Garald  managed to lead  the
conversation more than once to Joram, urging Mosiah - during breaks in
the game - to tell him stories of their childhood. Having never  truly
conquered his homesickness, Mosiah  was only too  happy to recall  his
early life in the farm village. Garald listened to all the tales  with
an air of grave interest very  flattering to the young man,  sometimes
allowing him to range far afield, yet always, with a seemingly offhand
question, subtly leading the talk specifically to Joram.

    Why this interest in him? Saryon wondered with growing fear.  Does
he suspect  the  truth?  The  catalyst thought  back  to  their  first
encounter. He recalled the strange, intense way the Prince had  looked
at Joram, as if trying to remember where he had seen the face  before.
Garald had been to the court of Mer-ilon often as a child. To  Saryon,
burdened with his  secret, it  seemed that Jorams  resemblance to  his
true mother,  the Empress,  grew daily.  There  was a  way he  had  of
throwing back his head in haughty dignity, a way of tossing the  rich,
luxuriant, wild black hair that made  Saryon want to scream at them  -
"Can't you see, you fools! Are you blind?"

    Perhaps Garald die) see.  Perhaps he wtum  't blind. Certainly  he
was intelligent, shrewd, and  - for all his  disarming charm - he  was
Albanara, born to  politics, born to  rule. The state  and its  people
came first in his heart.  What would he do if  he did know or  suspect
the truth? Saryon couldn't imagine. Perhaps nothing more or less  than
he was doing  now -until  time came  to leave.  The catalyst  pondered
until his head ached,  but got nowhere.  Meanwhile, the hours  passed.
The gray stormy afternoon  darkened to gray  stormy evening. The  rain
changed to snow.

    And still Joram did not return.

    The card  game  broke up  for  dinner.  The meal  consisted  of  a
woodland stew  that the  Prince  had proudly  concocted with  his  own
hands, -expounding at length upon the various herbs that went into its
preparation, boasting  that he  had gathered  these himself  upon  his
journey.

    Saryon made  a show  of eating  so as  not to  offend the  Prince,
though - in actuality -  he managed to smuggle  most of his dinner  to
the raven.  The  Duuk-foaritb who  had  -  presumably -  DOOM  OF  THE
DARKSWORD 121 been watching over Joram returned, and the other left to
take his place.  At least that  is what Saryon  assumed; he could  not
distinguish between the two guards, faceless in their black hoods. The
warlock conferred with Garald, and by  the glances the Prince cast  in
the direction  of  the  forest,  Saryon  knew  the  subject  of  their
conversation. This was confirmed when the Prince came over to talk  to
the catalyst immediately afterward.

    "Joram is safe and well, Father," Garald reported. "Please do  not
concern yourself. He has taken shelter  in a cleft in the cliff  face.
He needs time to be alone. The wound I inflicted is deep, I think, but
not mortal, and he will be better for the bloodletting. "

    Saryon was not convinced, and neither was Mosiah.

    "You remember  those  black moods  that  used to  come  upon  him.
Father?" the young man said  softly, sitting down beside the  catalyst
as he toyed with his uneaten food. The raven, perched at the catalysts
left hand, kept a hungry eye on them."He hasn't had any recently,  but
in the past I've  seen him lie  on his bed for  days, not eating,  not
talking. Just staring into nothing."

    "I know.  And if  hes not  back by  morning, well  go after  him,"
Saryon said resolutely.

    The snow continued to  fall, and the Prince  was forced to  remove
the shield, since keeping it in  place through the storm was  draining
both his energy and that of the Cardinal. Simkin and Mosiah moved into
the Princes large  tent for the  night; Saryon accepted  the offer  to
share Radisovik's.

    As for  the  Duuk-Uarith,  they  had  both  vanished,  though  the
catalyst knew the warlocks were around somewhere, guarding the Princes
rest. When they themselves found time to sleep, the catalyst  couldn't
imagine. He had heard rumors that tbe warlocks had the ability to  put
mind and body  to sleep  while maintaining  unceasing vigilance.  That
sounded improbable, however, and he disregarded it as legend.

    Grateful for any small problem to  keep his mind off his  worries,
Saryon considered  the  matter  as  he  lay  awake  in  the  darkness,
listening for the  crunch of  footsteps in the  snow. Eventually,  the
catalyst slept. But it was a  disturbed sleep. Awakening often in  the
night, he padded softly to-the opening  of the tent and gently, so  as
not to disturb the slumbering Cardinal, parted the flaps to look out.

    What he hoped to see, he had no idea, for the snow fell so thickly
he could bareiy make out the dark  shape of the Prince's 122 WE1S  AND
HICKMAN tent that stood next to  theirs. He did notice that he  wasn't
the only  one keeping  watch. Once  he caught  a gleam  of light  from
Garalds tent and thought he saw, through the snow, the tall figure  of
the Prince, peering out into the night.

    By morning, the snow ended. Lying on thick cushions, the  catalyst
watched the light  of dawn creep  slowly into his  tent, picturing  it
filtering through the tangled boughs of the snow-laden trees,  leaving
a glistening track across the smooth expanse of white outside.

    He started to close his eyes, force himself to try to sleep,  then
he heard, what he had been waiting for - footsteps.

    His heart constricting  in relief, Saryon  hastily rose and  threw
aside the tent flap. There, he stopped, drawing back out of sight.

    Joram stood  in  the center  of  the snow-covered  glade.  He  was
wrapped  in  a  heavy  cloak.  Where  had  that  come  from?  Had  the
Duuk-tjartth taken  it to  him?  Saryon found  time  to wonder  as  he
waited, breathlessly, to see what Joram would do now.

    Moving through snow that was halfway up his tall boots, Joram came
to a halt outside  the Prince's tent. Reaching  beneath the ctoak,  he
drew out the Darksword and held it in his hands.

    Saryon crouched  back into  the shadows  of the  tent, his  relief
changing to fea'r at the sight of the expression on Jorams face.

    Saryon wasn't certain what change -if any - he had expected to see
in the young man. A meek and contrite Joram, humbly begging  everyones
forgiveness and vowing  to live a  better life? No  - Saryon  couldn't
imagine that.

    An angry, defiant Joram. determined to go to the devil in his  own
way and quite willing to let everyone  else do the same? That was  far
more realistic. It was, in fact, what the catalyst expected. He  would
have welcomed it, he realized, in comparison to the Joram he saw.

    There was no expression on the  young man's face at all. Pale  and
wan, cheeks sunken,  eyes dark  and shadowed,  Joram waited  silently,
unmoving outside the Prince's tent,  his hands clasped about the  hilt
of the sword.

    Having undoubtedly heard the same footsteps that had caught Saryon
s ear, Garald  stepped outside, coming  to a halt  before the  strange
figure standing in front of the tent. The Prince was in no danger. The
Duuk-foaritk were  close-by; their  DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  123  magic
would dismember Joram before the boy had even raised the weapon.

    It was Joram himself who was in danger, and Garald, knowing  this,
moved slowly, keeping his hands visible.

    "Joram," he said gently, pleasantly.

    "Your Grace." The words were coldly spoken, deliberately empty and
without meaning.  Garalds  shoulders  slumped  in  defeat;  he  sighed
softly. Then his patience gave way, it seemed - anger at this arrogant
young man finally overtook him.

    "What do you want?" Pnnce Garald asked bitterly.

    Jorams lips pressed together. He drew a deep breath and let it out
slowly, fixing his dark  eyes on a point  somewhere above the  Princes
shoulder. "We haven't much time,"  he said, speaking to the  distance,
to the  bare trees,  the brightening  blue sky,  the thin  rim of  the
rising sun. "A week, you said."

    The words were  so cold,  Saryon was  somewhat amazed  to see  the
warmth of the breath  that spoke them  form a mist  in the chill  air.
Joram swallowed.  The  hands,  clasping the  hilt  of  the  Darksword,
tightened. "I have much to learn," he said.

    Garalds face brightened with a smile that seemed to warm the glade
more than the steaming spring.  He made a move as  if to take hold  of
the young man, clap him on the back, grasp him by the shoulders or  do
something to indicate his pleasure. But Saryon saw Jorams jaw  muscles
clench, the entire body stiffen. The Prince saw this, too, and checked
his implusive movement.

    "I'll get my sword," he said, and went back into his tent.

    Unaware that  anyone was  watching  - for  the catalyst  had  kept
carefully silent -Joram relaxed. His gaze shifted, he looked  directly
at the  spot where  the Prince  had been  standing, and  it seemed  to
Saryon that he saw the stern face softened by a look of regret. Jorams
! ips parted, as though he  would speak. But he turned away  abruptly,
his mouth snapping shut. When the  Prince came back out -dressed in  a
fur cloak, sword  in hand  - Joram  met him with  a face  as cold  and
trackless as the snow.

    How he reaches out for iove, Saryon saw, his heart aching. And yet
when a Hand starts to grasp his in return, he strikes it away.

    The two walked off in silence, the Prince glancing occasionally at
Joram, Joram walking  steadily, his  eyes on his  destination. In  the
distance, at the edge of  the trees, the catalyst  saw a 124 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN black shadow detach itself from the trunk of a tree and  glide
slowly and unobserved behind them.

    Realizing he was shivering with cold, Saryon returned to his  bed.
He knew,  as he  huddled into  his blankets,  that he  should offer  a
prayer to the Almin in thanks for the young mans safe return.

    But Saryon did not trouble his unhearing, perhaps nonexistent god.
Recalling Joram's changed attitude and  seeing behind it an even  more
fixed determination and  resolve to  achieve his  goal, Saryon  wasn't
certain if he wanted to offer up thanks.

    He felt more inclined to beg for mercy.

    14 The Partini W: ith the end  of the snow, the wind died and  the
sky cleared rapidly. A hush settled  over the forest, but there was  a
tension in the  air that  was far from  peaceful, almost  as though  a
giant had sucked up cloud  and wind and snow  and was now holding  its
breath in a fit of pique. The  tension did not lessen during the  days
that followed, although the sky remained clear - its color the brittle
blue seen only in winter-and there was no sign of returning storms.

    But everyone in the glade knew that a storm raged, if only in  the
soul of one young  man. The storm clouds  were never clearly  visible;
since the morning of  his return, Joram had  remained the same -  cool
and impassive, silent and reserved. He spoke only when spoken to,  and
then his answers were brief and careless? as though he had not  heard.
He was gone from camp much of the time, he and the Prince spending the
largest part  of each  day  together. When  he  came back  from  these
sessions, Joram was even more withdrawn. It seemed to those  observing
him that his  nerves were  stretched taut as  the strings  of a  badly
tuned instru-ment.

    Saryon could only hope (he* did  not pray) that. some master  hand
was slowly working to ease the pressure on those strings 126 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORI) 127 before they  snapped, to find  the
beautiful music that the catalyst was convinced must be locked  within
the young  man's dark  soul. Was  Garalds the  hand? Saryon  began  to
believe it was, and this hope lightened the burden he bore. He had  no
idea what they did or talked about when alone together. Joram  refused
to discuss the meetings  at all, and Garald  said only that they  were
practicing Jorams swordwork.

    Then, one early morning near the middle of the week, the  catalyst
was invited to accompany them to what the Prince jokingly referred  to
as "the arena."

    "We need you to  help us experiment  with the Darksword,  Father,"
Garald explained when he and Joram roused the catalyst from his fitful
slumbers. The three stood talking outside the Cardinals tent, speaking
in low tones so as not to wake anyone else.

    Seeing Saryons  solemn,  disapproving expression,  Joram  gave  an
impatient sigh that was checked by a slight movement of Garalds hand.

    "I understand  your  feelings,  Father Saryon,"  the  Prince  said
kindly, "but you would not  send Joram into Merilon without  knowledge
of the swords powers, would you?"

    I would not send Joram into  Merilon at all, the catalyst  thought
but did not say.

    Saryon agreed to go  along, however. He was  forced to admit  that
the Princes argument  had merit.  And the catalyst  was, in  addition,
secretly curious about  the Darksword himself.  Wrapping himself in  a
warm cloak provided  by the Prince,  he accompanied the  two into  the
forest.

    "I am sorry  to trouble  you, Father," Garald  apologized as  they
walked  through  the  frozen  woods.  "I  could  have  asked  Cardinal
Radisovik, of course, but  Joram and I believe  that the fewer  people
who know the true nature of the  Darksword, the better." * : -  Saryon
agreed wholeheartedly.

    "Then, too"- Garald  smiled -"despite the  fact that Radisovik  is
quite progressive and liberal in much of his thinking-far too liberal,
according to your Bishop -I fear that the Darksword might stretch  his
tenets just a bit too far."

    "I will try to do what I can to help, Your Grace," Saryon replied,
wrapping his chilled hands in the sleeves of his robes.

    "Excellent!" said Garald heartily. "And we will do what we can  to
keep the cold from you; something that never seems to be ^ problem for
Joram and me."

    He exchanged glances with the young man, and Saryon was astonished
to see a slight  smile on the  stern lips and a  flicker of warmth  in
Jorams dark eyes. Saryons own heartache  eased at that moment, and  he
felt warmer already.

    The "arena" turned  out to be  a patch of  cleared, frozen  ground
located in the woods some distance from the glade. Though Saryon  knew
the watchful  Duttk-l. tanlh  must be  around, he  could not  see  the
warlocks, and the three had at least the impression of being alone. Or
perhaps the Duuk-tsarith weren't there aftePall. The Prince might have
meant what he said about keeping the Darksword's powers secret.

    Garald settled the  catalyst comfortably  in a  veritable nest  of
luxurious cushions he conjured  up. He would have  added wine and  any
other delicacies  the  catalyst might  have  desired had  not  Saryon,
embarrassed, refused.

    Saryon could  not  help  liking the  Prince.  Garald  treated  the
catalyst with the  utmost respect and  courtesy, always solicitous  of
his welfare and comfort, yet  never demeaning or patronizing. Nor  was
the catalyst alone in  this. Garald treated everyone  this way -  from
SimKn and Mosiah to the Duttk-foarith and Joram.

    How his  people  must love  their  Prince, the  catalyst  thought,
watching the graceful, elegant nobleman talk to the awkward, diffident
youth - listening to Joram respectfully, treating him as an equal, yet
not hesitating to point out when he thought the young man was wrong.

    Joram, too, appeared to be studying Garald. Perhaps this was  what
was causing the turmoil in his soul. Saryon knew that Joram would give
anything to  be  accorded the-same  respect  and love  that  this  man
received. Maybe the young man was beginning to realize that it had  to
be given before it could be gained back in return.

    Joram and the Prince took their places in the center of the arena,
but they did not immediately assume their fighting stances.

    "Hand me your sword a moment," said Garald.

    Jorams eyes flashed, the brows came together, and he  hesti-tated.
Saryon shook  his head.  Well, he  couldn't expect  miracles, he  told
himself. Garald, his  gaze on the  sword, appeared not  to notice  but
waited patiently.

    Finally Joram handed over the weapon with an ungracious "Here."

    128 WE1S AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  129 Keeping his  face
carefully expressionless, pretending not  to notice the rude  comment,
Gerald accepted the sword and proceeded to study it intently.

    "The last few days, we've practiced  with it just for the sake  of
swordsmanship alone,"  he said.  "Yet, all  the time,  I can  feel  it
tugging at me, draining my magic so that by the end of the day, I  can
feel the weakness in my  body. But it doesn't  have that effect on  me
when, for. example, we are back in camp. I don't notice it at all."

    "I  think  it  has  to  be   wielded  in  order  to  produce   the
Life-draining effect," Joram said, forgetting himself in his  interest
in the sword.  "I noticed the  same thing when  I fought the  warlock.
When Blachloch first came into the forge, the swqrd did not react. But
when he attacked me, and I raised the sword to defend myself, I  could
(eel the weapon begin to fight on its own."

    "I think I understand," Garald murmured thoughtfully. "The  weapon
must react from some sort of energy  it feels from you - anger,  fear,
the strong emotions generated by battle. Here" - casually he unbuckled
the scabbard of his own sword and handed the beautiful weapon to Joram
- "take mine.  Go ahead. You  can use  it. The fact  that you're  Dead
won't matter. Its magical properties can be activated by command." The
Prince took his fighting stance,  raising the Darksword awkwardly.  "I
wish someone  had taught  you the  art of  swordmaking," he  muttered.
"This wiil always be  a clumsy, unhandy weapon.  But, never mind  that
now. Say the words 'hawk, strike, ' and attack me."

    His hands wrapping lovingly around the finely crafted hilt of  the
Princes sword, Joram faced Garald,  weapon raised. "Hawk, strike,"  he
spoke, and pressed forward to the attack. Garald raised the  Darksword
in defense but, as quick as  lightning, his own weapon penetrated  his
guard, wounding him in the shoulder.

    "My god!" Seeing blood stream down the Prince's arm, Joram dropped
the sword. "I didn't mean to, I swear! Are you all right?"

    Saryon jumped to his feet.

    "My own fault,"  Garald said  grimly, pressing his  hand over  the
wound. "Its nothing.  Just a scratch,  as the actors  in the play  say
right before they  drop dead  - I'm teasing,  Father. It  really is  a
scratch, look." He exhibited  the wound and  Saryon saw, with  relief,
that the sword had cut through only the surface layers of skin. He was
able to  stop the  bleeding with  a spell  of minor  healing, and  the
"lesson" continued.

    At least,  thought Saryon  grimly,  this proves  the  Duuk-foarith
aren't around. Joram would be torn to a hundred pieces by now. It also
pleased him beyond  measure to  have heard a  note of  true caring  in
Jorams voice, although - from the smooth, cold expression on the young
man's face - the catalyst could almost believe he had imagined it.

    "It was my  own stupidity,"  Garatd said ruefully.  "I could  have
been killed by my own blade!" He glared at the Darksword. "Why  didn't
you work?" he asked, shaking it.

    The answer came to Saryon's mind, but - mathematician that he  was
- he had to prove it first to his own satisfaction before he  revealed
it.

    "Give the sword  back to Joram,  milord," Saryon instructed.  "You
take your sword and attack him, using the same spell."

    Garald frowned. "It is a powerful  spell, as you've seen. I  could
kill him."

    "You won't," said Joram calmly.

    "J agreed, milord,"  added Saryon.  "Please. I think  you will  be
interested in the result."

    "Very well,"  Garald  said,  though with  obvious  reluctance.  He
obediently switched blades, and he and Joram took their positions.

    "Hawk, strike," Garald commanded.

    Instantly, his silver blade flashed in the sunlight, soaring  like
the bird it was  named for toward its  victim. Joram defended  himself
with the Darksword,  his movements  unskilled and  clumsy compared  to
those of  the  Princes magically  enhanced  weapon. The  silver  blade
skimmed toward the young mans heart, only to be deflected at the  last
moment and turned aside as though it had hit an iron shield.

    "Aahh!" cried Garald. Lowering his weapon, he rubbed his arm  that
tingled from the jarring  blow. He looked over  at Saryon. "I take  it
thats what you wanted me to see. All right, why does it work for  him?
Does it know its owner?"

    "Not at  all,  milord,"  answered the  catalyst,  pleased  at  the
success of his experiment. "Now I understand a statement I read in one
of the ancient texts. It said  that the swords made of darkstone  were
wielded by  legions of  the dead.  I discounted  it, thinking  this  a
fanciful legend of ghosts and spirits. But now 1 130 WE1S AND  HICKMAN
see the Sorcerers of old  meant legions of men  who -like Joram -  are
Dead. It has to be  used by someone possessing  little or no magic  of
his own that would work against the energy of the sword."

    "Fascinating," said Garald, regarding  the weapon with awe.  "This
allows those who  might otherwise be  worse than useless  in a  battle
against wizards to become an effective fighting force."

    "And it  requires a  minimum of  training, milord,"  said  Saryon,
growing more  interested  in  his subject.  His  thoughts  raced  like
quicksilver. /'Unlike  warlocks -  whose training  begins  practically
from birth -warriors armed with darkstone weapons can be taught to use
them in a matter of  weeks. Then, too, they  require no catalysts -  "
Saryon stopped abruptly, realizing he had said too much.

    But Garald was quick to catch his meaning.

    "No, you're wrong!" he cried in  excitement. "I mean yes, you  are
right -to  an extent.  Darkstone weapons  don't require  catalysts  to
work. But  you spoke  of giving  the sword  Life when  it was  forged,
Saryon. What  if you  gave  it Life  now?  Wouldn't that  enhance  its
powers?"

    "It must!" Joram said eagerly. "Lets try."

    "Yes!" agreed Garald, raising his sword again.

    "No!" said Saryon.

    The two turned, staring at him -Joram angry, Garald disappointed.

    "Father, I know this is  difficult for you -  " he began to  argue
tactfully.

    "No," Saryon repeated in subdued,  hollow tones. "No, Your  Grace.
Anything else you ask of me, I would grant you, if I could. But I will
not do that, ever again."

    "A vow to your god?" Joram could not help but ask bitterly.

    "A vow to myself," Saryon replied in a low voice.

    "Oh, for the love of-" Joram began, but Garald cut in smoothly.

    "It was a  matter of  curiosity, nothing more,"  the Prince  said,
shrugging. He turned to Joram.  "Certainly, it should not affect  your
use of the sword. You could not  count upon a catalyst being with  you
when you might be called upon to wield it. Come, let us try it against
more powerful magic. I  will cast a spell  of shielding around  myself
and we will see if you can penetrate it. Father, if you could grant me
Life …"

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 131 Saryon granted the prince Life,  feeling
a true pleasure in pouring  the magic of the  world into such a  noble
vessel. He even  had the  satisfaction of watching  Joram struggle  to
control his anger and eventually get the best of it. Sitting back down
among the  cushions, the  catalyst was  able to  watch and  enjoy  the
contest between the two, learning more  about the Darksword as he  did
so. But he knew in his heart  that he had dropped a notch in  Garald's
opinion. A warrior to his core,  the Prince could not understand  what
he must consider the catalysts  squeamish reluctance to grant Life  to
the sword.

    To Garald, it was a tool, nothing  more. He did not see it as  the
object of darkness, the destroyer of  life that Saryon beheld when  he
looked at the ugfy weapon.

    As for what Joram thought,  Saryon believed sadly that nothing  he
did could further lower him in the young mans opinion.

    After several  hours  of hard  practice,  Joram, the  Prince,  and
Saryon returned to camp.  During the remainder  of their stay,  Garald
was unfailingly kind to the catalyst, but he never asked Saryon to  go
back to the arena with him and Joram.

    The week passed uneventfully. Joram and Garald practiced with  the
swords.  Saryon   enjoyed  several   interesting  philosophical   and.
religious discussions with Cardinal Radisovik. Simkin teased the raven
(the exasperated bird finally bit a  chunk out of the young mans  ear,
much to everyones  delight). Mosiah spent  the days leafing  wistfully
through books  he found  in Garalds  tent, studying  the pictures  and
puzzling over the mysterious  symbols that said so  much to Joram  but
spoke meaningless gibberish to him. Evenings the Prince and his guests
came together, playing tarok or  discussing ways to enter Merilon  and
how to survive once they were inside the city.

    "Simkin can get you tnrough the  Gate," Garald said one night,  on
the eve of their  departure. Mosiah and Joram  sat inside the  Princes
luxurious tent, resting after a  delicious dinner. Their idyllic  time
was coming to an end. Each of the younger men was thinking with regret
that tomorrow  night they  would  be fighting  Kij vines  and  perhaps
other,  more  fearsome   monsters  in  the   strange  and   foreboding
wilderness. The splendors of Merilon suddenly seemed dreamlike and far
away, and it was hard  to take the thought  of danger in that  distant
place seriously.

    132 WE1S AND HICK MAN Seeing something of this reflected in  their
faces, Garald  s tone  grew  more serious.  "Simkm knows  everyone  in
Merilon and they know him -  which in some instances may make  matters
very interesting."

    "You mean those  - . .  those outlandish stones  of his are  true,
milord? Did you really  bring a live bear  to a costume ball?"  Mosiah
blurted out before he thought. "I  beg pardon, Your Grace," he  began,
flushing in embarrassment.

    But the Prince only shook his  head. "Ah, he told you about  that,
did he? Poor Father." Garald grinned. "To this day he refuses to  wear
a cravat  in the  presence  of a  naval officer  w  anyone in  a  bear
costume. But, to  return to  more serious subjects  . .  . "Saryon  is
quite  right  when  he  cautions  against  going  to  Merilon.  It  u>
dangerous," the Prince  said, "and  you must never  relax your  guard.
Danger is present not only  for Joram, who is  one of the living  Dead
and as such can  be sentenced to physical  death. There is danger  for
you, Mosiah. You are considered a rebel. You fled your home, you  have
lived among  the Sorcerers  of the  Dark Arts.  You will  be  entering
Merilon under false pretenses. Ifyou are caught, you will be sentenced
to the dungeons of the Duttk-tjarttk, and few come out of those places
unchanged. There  is great  danger for  Saryon himself,  who lived  in
Merilon for a number  of years and could  easily be recognized -  "No,
Joram, I'm  not trying  to keep  you from  going," Garald  interrupted
himself, seeing the young man scowl in anger. "I am telling you to  be
cautious. Be wary. Above  all, be on  your guard. Particularly  around
one person."

    "You mean  the catalyst?"  Joram returned.  "I already  know  that
Saryon was sent by Bishop Vanya. …"

    "I mean Simkin," Garald said gravely, with no trace of a smile.

    "There, I told  you!" Mosiah muttered  to Joram. Almost  as if  he
knew they were talking  of him, Simkin raised  his voice, and each  of
them sitting in  the tent turned  to look. He  and the catalyst  stood
near the fire. Simkin having volunteered to devise a disguise for  the
catalyst that would get him into Merilon without being recognized. Now
he was working magic with  Father Saryon, essentially making the  poor
mans life miserable. "I've got it!" Simkin cried shrilly. "Come and go
entirely unnoticed, plus you'll be useful in carrying our luggage." He
waved his hand and spoke a word. The air shivered around the catalyst.
Saryon's form changed. Standing  near the fire, in  place DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD  133  of  the  unfortunate  catalyst,  was  a  large,  gray,
despondent-looking donkey.

    "That fool!" Mosiah  said, jumping  to his feet.  "Why doesn't  he
leave that poor man alone. I'll go - "

    Garald laid a hand on Mosiahs arm, shaking his head. "I'll  handle
it," he said.

    Reluctantly resuming his seat, Mosiah  saw the Prince make a  sign
with his hand to Cardinal Radisovik, who stood nearby, watching.

    "What was that you said, Father?" Simkin asked.

    The donkey brayed.

    "You're not pleased?  After all  the trouble I've  gone to!  Egad,
man!" He  lifted one  of the  donkeys gray  floppy ears.  "You've  got
marvelous hearing! I'll  wager you can  hear a bundle  of hay fall  at
fifty paces. To say nothing of the fact that now you can roll one  eye
forward and one backward at the same time. See where you're going  and
where you've been simultaneously."

    The donkey brayed again, showing its teeth.

    "And the children would love you so," said Simkin coax-ingly. "You
couid give the little darlings rides. Well, if you're going to be such
an old fuddy-duddy . . . There."

    The donkey disappeared and Saryon  returned, though in an  awkward
position, being down on all fours, kneeling on his hands and knees.

    "I'll just have to think of something else," Simkin said, sulking.
"I have it!"  He snapped  his fingers. "A  goat! We'd  never want  for
milk. …"

    At  this   moment,  Cardinal   Radisovik  intervened.   Mentioning
something about  discussing  ecclesiastical matters  with  Saryon,  he
helped  the  catalyst  to  his  feet  and  drew  him  into  his  tent.
Unfortunately, Simkin followed.

    "Plus you'd never worry about finding  food," he was heard to  say
persuasively, his voice trailing off. "You could eat anything …"

    "You know something about Simkin,  don't you, Your Grace?"  Mosiah
said, turning to the Prince. "You know his game. What ties up to?"

    "His game …"  the Prince repeated  thoughtfully, intrigued by  the
question. "Yes," he said, after a  moment. "I think I do know  Simkins
game."

    "Then, tell us!" Mosiah said eagerly.

    WEIS AND HICKMAN "No,  I don't believe E  will," Garald said,  his
gaze fixed on  Joram. "You  wouldn't understand, and  it might  lessen
your watchfulness.

    "But you must! I -  I mean, you should .  . . Your Grace,"  Mosiah
amended lamely, realizing he had just issued an order to a prince. "If
Simkins dangerous - "

    "Bah!" Joram frowned in disgust.

    "Oh, he's  dangerous,  all  right," Garald  said  smoothly.  "Just
remember that." The  Prince rose to  his feet. "And  now, if you  will
excuse me, I had better go  rescue poor Saryon, before our friend  has
him sprouting horns and nibbling on the Cardinal's tent."

    The matter  of  the catalysts  disguise  was soon  settled  -  and
without turning him  into a  goat. At the  Princes suggestion,  Father
Saryon became Father Dunstable, a minor house catalyst who,  according
to Simkin, had left Merilon over ten years ago.

    "A meek mouse of a man," Simkin recalled. "A man no one remembered
five seconds after having been introduced to him, much less ten  years
iater."

    "And if anyone does  remember him after  ten year's absence,  they
would expect  him  to have  changed  some," Garald  added  soothingly,
seeing that Saryon  was not at  all pleased at  this idea. "You  won't
have to  act any  differently,  Father. Your  face  and body  will  be
different, thats all. Inside, you •will be the same."

    "But I will have to present myself at the Cathedral, Your  Grace,"
Saryon argued  stubbornly,  his  obvious reluctance  at  opposing  the
Prince outweighed by his  fear - a fact  the Prince noted,  wondering,
once again, what dread secret this man held locked in his heart.  "The
comings and goings of catalysts are well-documented - "

    "Not necessarily,  Father," Radisovik  put in  mildly. "There  are
more than a few who slip through the bureaucratic cracks, so to speak.
A minor  house  catalyst  of  no importance  -  such  as  this  Father
Dunstable - who moves  with his family to  an outlying district  might
well lose contact with his church for a number of years."

    "But why  should  I -  I  mean Father  Dunstable  - come  back  to
Merilon? Begging  your  pardon.  Eminence,"  Saryon  said  humbly  but
persistently, "but the Prince has emphasized our danger …"

    "You have an excellent point. Father," Garald said. "There are any
number of  reasons  for  your  return. The  wizard  you  DOOM  OF  THE
DARKSWORD 135 served took it into his head to join the rebellious scum
in Sharakan, for example, and left you to fend for yourself."

    "This if serious, milord." Radisovik ventured a mild reproach.

    "So am I," Garald  returned coolly. "But  perhaps that would  draw
too much attention  to you. Father.  Hows this? The  wizard dies.  His
widow returns to Zith-el  to live with her  parents. There is no  room
for you  in  her  fathers  establishment  and  therefore  you.  Father
Dunstable, are dismissed  from their service.  With loving thanks  and
references, of course."

    Cardinal Radisovik  nodded  approvingly.  "If  they  checked  your
story," he said, seeing  Saryons next argument in  his face, "which  I
doubt they  would since  there are  hundreds of  catalysts coming  and
going from the Cathedral every day, it would take them months to track
down Lord Whoever He Is and discover the truth."

    "And by that time," concluded the Prince in a tone that  indicated
the matter was settled, "you will be with us in Sharakan."

    Hearing a note of irritation creeping into the noble voice, Saryon
bowed in acquiescence,  fearing that  any more  argument might  appear
suspicious. He had  to admit  that the  Prince and  the Cardinal  were
right. Having spent fifteen years  in the Cathedral, Saryon had  spent
many evenings watching the line of newly arrived catalysts shuffle  up
the crystal stairs and enter the crystal doors. Under the bored eye of
some poor Deacon, each  catalyst signed his name  in. a register  that
was rarely, if  ever, looked at  again. After all,  if one passed  the
scrutiny of the Kan-hanar-\. }\e  Gatekeepers of Merilon -who was  the
Church to" quibble? The very idea of a catalyst sneaking into the city
in a disguise  was so  remote to their  thinking that  it must  appear
ludicrous.

    Still, there was one person who might have reason to expect Saryon
to return Merilon, the catalyst thought uncomfortably, his hand  going
to the darkstone around his  neck. He wondered fearfully what  actions
Bishop Vanya would take to find him, and he began to almost regret the
donkey. . . .

    The next morning, everyone rose early, before the sun. Now that it
was time  to  part, they  were  all  anxious to  begin  their  various
journeys. The young men and Saryon prepared to take their leave of the
Prince and his entourage, who were  also leaving that day to  continue
their journey to the Sorcerers' village.

    136 WEIS AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  137 "All's well  that
ends well," Simkin remarked as  they finished breakfast, "as was  said
of  the  Lady  Magda  by  the  Count  d'Or-leans.  He  spoke  of   her
posteriorly, of course."

    "Simkin's a fool!" croaked the raven, perching upon Simkin s head.

    "It is not an end, but a beginning, I trust," said Prince  Garald,
smiling at Joram.

    The young  man almost,  but not  quite, returned  the smile.  "And
now," continued the Prince, "before  the sadness of farewells, I  have
the pleasant task of giving the Journey Gifts.

    "My lord, that is not necessary," murmured Saryon, his guilt  once
more assailing him. "You have done enough for us as it is - "

    "Don't  take  this   pleasure  away  from   me,  Father,"   Garald
interrupted, laying his hand upon the catalysts. "Giving gifts is  one
of the best parts about being a King's son."

    Walking over to stand before Mosiah, the Prince clapped his  hands
once, and then  held them  out to catch  a book  that materialized  in
midair.

    '"You are  a  powerful wizard,  Mosiah.  More powerful  than  many
Albanam I  know.  And this  is  not unusual.  In  my travels,  I  have
discovered that many of  our truly strong magi  are being born in  the
fields and the alleys, . not in noble halls. But magic, like all other
gifts of the  Almin, requires disciplined  study to perfect  it or  it
will flow into you and out of you like wine through a drunkard."

    The Prince  cast a  glance  at Simkin  who  was, at  that  moment,
tweaking the raven's tail.

    "Study this well,  my friend."  The Prince  laid the  book in  the
young mans trembling hands.

    "T-thank you, Your Grace," stammered  Mosiah, flushing in what  he
hoped would appear as embarrassment.

    Garald understood it, however, and knew it was shame.

    "The journey to Merilon is long," said the Prince softly. "And you
have a friend who will be more than happy to teach you to read."

    Mosiah followed the Princes gaze to Joram.

    "Is that true? Will you?" he asked.

    "Of course!  I never  knew you  wanted to  learn!" Joram  answered
impatiently. "You should have said something."

    Taking the book,  Mosiah held it  fast in his  hands. "Thank  you,
Your Grace," he repeated.

    The two exchanged looks and, for  an instant, the field magus  and
the nobleman were in perfect understanding.

    Garald turned away. "Now, Simkin, my old friend - "

    "Nothing for me, Your  Grass- Ha, ha. Your  Grass. That's how  the
Duke of Deere referred  to his gardener. I  know, it's a stupid  joke,
but then so was the Duke. No, I mean it. I won't accept a thing.  Well
. . ." Simkin heaved a sigh,  as the Prince started to speak, "if  you
insist. Perhaps one or two of the more valuable jewels of the realm  -
"

    "For you," said Garald, finally able  to insert a word. He  handed
Simkin a deck of tarok cards.

    "How delightful!" said Simkin, attempting to stifle a yawn.

    "Each card is hand painted  by my own artisans," remarked  Garald.
"They are  done in  the ancient  style,  not by  magic. The  deck  is,
therefore, quite valuable."

    "Thanks awfully, old chap," said Simkin languidly.

    Garald raised his  hand. "You note  I hold something  in my  palm.
Something thats missing from your deck."

    "The Fool  card,"  Simkin  said,  peering  at  it  intently.  "How
amusing."

    "The Fool  card," repeated  Garald, toying  with it.  "Guide  them
well, Simkin."

    "I assure  you,  Your  Highness,"  said  Simkin  earnestly.  "They
couldn't be in better hands."

    "Neither could you,"  replied Garald. He  closed his fingers  over
the card and it disappeared. No  one spoke, each staring at the  other
uncomfortably. Then  the  Prince laughed.  "Just  my joke,"  he  said,
clapping Simkin on the back.

    "Ha, ha," Simkin echoed, but his laughter was hollow.

    "And now, Father Saryon," said  Garald, moving on to stand  before
the catalyst, who was  staring down at his  shoes. "I have nothing  of
material value to give you." Saryon looked up in relief. "I sense that
would be unwelcome  to you  anyway. But  I do  have a  gift of  sorts,
although the present is more to myself than to you- When you return to
Sharakan with Joram"-Saryon noted that the Prince always spoke of this
as a settled fact -"I want you to join my household."

    A catalyst in a royal  household! Saryon glanced involuntarily  at
Cardinal Radisovik, who smiled at him encouragingly.

    138 WE1S  AND HICKMAN  "This -  " stammered  Saryon, clearing  his
throat, "this is an unexpected honor.  Your Grace. Too great an  honor
for one who has broken the laws of his faith."

    "But not too  great an  honor for  one who  is loyal,  one who  is
compassionate," Prince Garald finished gently. "As 1 said, the gift is
to myself. I look forward to the  day. Father Saryon, when I can  once
again ask you to grant me Life."

    Turning from the catalyst, Garald came, at last, to Joram.

    "I know,  you don't  want  anything from  me either,"  the  Prince
remarked, smiling.

    "As the catalyst said, you've given us enough," Joram said evenly.

    "'Given us enough, Your Grace," repeated the Cardinal sternly.

    Joram's face darkened.

    "Yes, well" - Garald struggled to keep his countenance - "it seems
to be your lot in life, Joram,  to have to keep accepting things  from
me."

    Once again,  the Prince  held out  his hands.  The air  above  the
outspread palms  shimmered,  then coalesced,  taking  the shape  of  a
hand-tooled leather scabbard. Runes  of power were  etched upon it  in
gold, but, other than that, there  was no other symbol. The center  of
the scabbard was blank.

    "I left it  this way  purposefully, Joram," the  Prince said,  "so
that you could  have your  family crest drawn  upon it  at some  later
date. Now, let me show you how this works.

    "I had it designed especially for you," Garald continued  proudly,
exhibiting the scabbards  features. "These straps  attach around  your
chest like  this,  so that  you  can wear  your  sword on  your  back,
concealed beneath your clothes. The runes carved upon the leather will
cause the  sword to  shrink  in size  and weight  when  it is  in  the
scabbard, thus enabling you to wear it at all times.

    "That is  of  the  utmost importance,  Joram,"  the  Prince  said,
looking at  the  young man  earnestly.  "The Darksword  is  both  your
greatest protection and your greatest danger. Wear it always.  Mention
it to no one. Reveal its existence to  no one. Use it only if you  are
in peril of your life."

    He glanced at Mosiah. "Or to protect the lives of others."

    The Prince's clear brown eyes came  back to Joram and Garald  saw,
for the first time, the stone facade shatter.

    \ DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 139 Joram stared at the scabbard, his eyes
warm with longing and desire and gratitude.  "I … I don't know what  …
to say," he faltered.

    "How about, 'Thank you, Your Grace, '" said Garald softly, and  he
placed the scabbard in Joram s hands.

    The rich smell of the leather filled Joram's nostrils. His - hands
ran over the smooth finish,  toftching the intricate runes,  examining
the complex leatherwork.  Looking up,  he saw  the mans  eyes on  him,
amused, yet expectant, certain of victory.

    Joram smiled.

    "Thank you, my friend. Thank you - Garald," he said firmly.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKS WORD Interlude  B "ishop Vanya  sat behind  his
"desk in his elegant quarters in the Cathedral of Merilon. Though  not
as sumptuous as his rooms in the Font, the Bishops chambers in Merilon
were large  and comfortable,  containing  a private  bedroom,  sitting
room, dining room, and  an office with an  antechamber for the  Deacon
who served  as his  secretary. The  view  from any  of his  rooms  was
magnificent, though it  was not  the broad  expanse of  plains or  the
jagged edges of mountains such as he was accustomed to enjoying at the
Font. From the Cathedral, with its  crystal walls, he could look  down
upon the city of Merilon. Gazing farther off, he could see beyond  the
dome, into the  countryside around  the city. Or,  glancing above,  he
could see -through the crystal spires  atop the Cathedral - the  Royal
Palace, which hovered above the city, its walls of shimmering  crystal
shining in the heavens like a sedate and civilized sun.

    This early evening, the Bishops gaze was lowered, his eyes on  the
city of Merilon, if  not his thoughts. The  citizens were providing  a
spectacular show in  the form of  an enhanced sunset-a  gift from  the
Prtm-alban of  the  Stone  Shapers  Guild,  intended  to  welcome  His
Holiness to the city. Though  winter raged outside the city's  magical
dome and  snow blanketed  the land,  it was  springtime in  Merilon  -
spring being the  Empress's current favorite  season. The sunset  was,
therefore, a sunset ap-_ propnate to spring, being magically  enhanced
by the Sif-Hanar  to glisten in  colors of muted  pinks with here  and
there a hint of deeper rose or perhaps (most daring) a slash of purple
at the heart.

    It was truly a beautiful sunset, and the inhabitants of Merilon  s
City Above -  the nobility and  members of the  upper mid-die class  -
floated about the streets in filmy silks, fluttering lace, and shining
satins, admiring the view.

    Not so Bishop Vanya. The sun might  not have set, for al! he  knew
or cared. The weather outside might have been a howling hurricane.  In
fact, such would have suited his mood. His pudgy fingers crawled  over
his desk, pushing this, shoving  that, rearranging something else.  It
was his  only outward  sign  of displeasure  or nervousness,  for  the
Bishops broad face was as cool, his regal manner as composed, as ever.
The two black-robed .. figures standing silently before him,  however,
noted this paper-shuffling as they noted everything else that went  on
around them from  the sunset to  the uneaten remnants  of the  Bishops
supper.

    The Bishop's crawling hand suddenly  slammed, palm down, upon  the
rosewood desk.  "I  do  not  understand" -  his  voice  was  even  and
controlled, a  control that  was costing  him -  "why it  is that  you
Duuk-foarith with  your highly  touted powers  cannot find  one  young
man!"

    The two  black hoods  turned  slightly toward  each other,  the  I
glittering eyes exchanged glances. Then the black hoods faced <  Vanya
and the wearer of one of them,  her hands folded before ; ner,  spoke.
Her tone was respectful without being conciliatory.

    Clearly, she knew herself to be mistress of the situation.

    "I repeat, Holiness,  that if  this young  man were  normal, we  /
would have no trouble locating him. The  fact that he is Dead °  makes
locating him difficult. The  fact that he  carries darkstone upon  his
person, however, makes it almost impossible."

    "I do not understand!" Vanya exploded.  "He exists! He is •  flesh
and blood - "

    "Not to  us.  Holiness,"  the witch  corrected  him,  her  warlock
-partner supporting her arguments  by a slight  nodding of his  hooded
head. "The darkstone shields him, protects him from us. Our senses are
attuned to magic.  Eminence. We  move among the  people, throwing  out
tiny filaments of magic as a spider 142 WEIS AND HICK MAN DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 145 throws  out silken  filaments of her  web. Whenever  any
normal being in  this world  comes within our  range, those  filaments
quiver with Life - with magic. This provides us with vital information
about the person: everything from his dreams, to where he was  raised,
to what he has lately eaten for dinner.

    "With the Dead, we must take extra measures. We must readjust  our
senses to react to the Death within them, the lack of magic. But  with
this young man, protected as he is by the darkstone, our senses -  our
filaments of magic, so  to speak - are  absorbed and swallowed up.  We
feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing. To us. Holiness, he literally
does not exist.  This was  the tremendous  power of  the darkstone  in
ancient days. An army of Dead carrying weapons made of darkstone could
come up upon a city and remain completely undetected."

    "Bah!" Vanya snorted. "You  talk as if he  were invisible. Do  you
mean to  say that  he could  walk into  this room  right now  and  you
wouldn't see him? That I wouldn't see him?"

    The black cloth  covering the witch's  head shivered slightly,  as
though the woman checked an irritated gesture or suppressed a sigh  of
impatience. When she spoke, her voice was extremely cool and carefully
modulated - a  bad sign to  those who  knew her, as  evidenced by  the
slight whitening of the knuckles on the hands of her companion. *"

    "Of course you would see him. Holiness. And so would we.  Isolated
and alone in this room,  our attention upon him,  we would be able  to
recognize him for  what he was  and so  deal with him.  But there  are
thousands of people out there!"

    The witch made  a sudden movement  with her hand  that caused  her
companion to cringe involuntarily, uncertain what she might do- Though
the Duuk-foarith are trained from childhood in strict discipline,  the
witch - a  high-ranking member  of the  Order -  was known  to have  a
volatile temper. Her companion would not have been overly surprised to
see the crystal wall behind the Bishop begin to melt like so much  ice
on a summer day.

    The witch restrained herself, however. Bishop Vanya was not one to
anger.

    "So, as you said before, the only way to catch him is for  someone
to bring him  to us," Vanya  muttered, his fingers  crawling over  the
desk.

    "Not the only way, Holiness. That would be easiest. There would be
the sword to deal with, of course, but  I doubt if he has had time  to
truly learn' how to use it or to understand its full powers."

    "It was reported to us, Eminence," added the warlock, "that one of
your own catalysts was with the  young man. Could we not work  through
him?"

    "The man in  question is a  weak-minded fool! Had  I been able  to
maintain contact with him,  I could have kept  him under my  control,"
Vanya said, the blood mounting in  his puffy face until it was  nearly
as red as the fabric of his robes. "But he has discovered some way  to
avoid being mentally summoned through the Chamber of Discretion - "

    "The darkstone," interrupted the  witch coolly, her hands  clasped
before her once again. "It would  shield him as effectively from  your
summons as it shields the boy from our sight."

    The witch was silent a moment, then she glided nearer the  Bishop,
causing him a  certain amount of  uneasiness. "Holiness"-she spoke  in
gentle, persuasive tones -"if you would  grant us permission to go  to
the Sorcerers'  Coven, we  could learn  what he  looks like,  wbo  his
companions are - "

    "No!" said Vanya emphatically.  "We must not  alert them to  their
danger! Even  though  Blachloch  is  dead,  he  has  advanced  matters
sufficiently that the  Sorcerers will continue  to work with  Sharakan
and so become involved in the war."

    "Undoubtedly the catalyst has warned them . . ."

    "Then, would you confirm his story by appearing in person,  asking
questions that  sooner  or  later  must  start  the  dullest  of  them
thinking?"

    "An army of the  DKarn-duuk could move  against them -"  suggested
the warlock deferentially.

    " - and start a panic." Bishop Vanya bit the words. "News of their
existence would  spread  like  flame through  dry  grass.  Our  people
believe the Sorcerers were destroyed in  the Iron Wars. Let them  hear
that these practitioners  of the  Dark Arts  not only  exist but  have
discovered darkstone and  there would be  an uproar. No,  we will  not
move until we are prepared to crush them completely."

    "And His Eminence can save his  skin at the same time!" The  witch
exchanged mental notes with her companion.

    "You must search  for the catalyst,"  continued Vanya, drawing  in
air through his nose  and exhaling with a  snort, scowling at the  two
before him all the  while. "I will provide  you with a description  of
the catalyst and Joram, plus another person with 144 WEIS AND  HICKMAN
whom Joram once associated - a young Field Magus named Mosiah. Though,
undoubtedly, they will be disguised," he added as an afterthought.

    "Disguise -  unless it  is  very clever  -  is generally  easy  to
penetrate, Holiness," said  the witch  coidly. "People  think only  of
changing their  outward appearance,  not their  chemical structure  or
thought patterns. It should be relatively  easy to find a Field  Magus
among the nobility of Menlon."

    "I trust so," the Bishop said, regarding the Duuk-foarith sternly.

    "How certain are  you that the  boy -  this Joram -  will come  to
Merilon, Holiness?" the warlock asked.

    "Merilon is an obsession with him," said Vanya, waving a bejeweled
hand. "According to the Field Catalyst who lived in the village  where
he grew up, the madwoman, Anja, told him more than once that he  could
find his birthright  here. If you  were seventeen, had  come across  a
remarkable source of power  such as the  darkstone, and believed  that
you were heir to a fortune, where would you go?"

    The Duuk-foarith bowed in silent response.

    "Now," said the Bishop briskly, "ifyou find the catalyst,  deliver
him to me. If you find this Mosiah - "

    "You need not tell us our duties, Eminence," the witch remarked, a
dangerous edge in her voice. "If there is nothing further - "

    "There is. One thing." Vanya held up a restraining hand as the two
appeared ready to  depart. "I  emphasize! Nothing must  happen to  the
young man! He must be taken alive! You both know why."

    "Yes, Holiness," they murmured. Bowing, hands folded before  them,
they stepped  backward. The  Corridors  magical aperture  gaped  open,
admitted them, and swallowed them up within seconds.

    Left alone with the fading  sunset and the darkening evening  sky,
Bishop Vanya was about to ring for the House Magi to lower the  silken
tapestries and  light the  lights  of the  Bishops sitting  room.  But
Vanya's hand upon the  bell was stilled by  the sight of the  Corridor
gaping open once  again. A figure  stepped out of  the void and  moved
with confident stride to stand before the Bishops desk.

    Recognizing the man in his  crimson robes, the Bishop should  have
risen in respect. He did, eventually, but he re- DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
145 mained seated long enough to give the delay meaning. Then he  rose
to his feet with elaborate slowness, making a great show of  smoothing
his own robes about  him and adjusting the  heavy miter upon his  bald
head.

    The visitor smiled to show he fully understood and appreciated the
subtle insult. The mans smile was  not a pleasant one, under the  best
of circumstances. Thin-lipped, it never extended to any other part  of
the face - particularly the eyes that were dark and shadowed by heavy,
black brows.

    Had Saryon been  in the  room, he  would have  seen instantly  the
family resemblance in  the man's  thick black eyebrows  and the  stern
expression of the cold and handsome face. But the catalyst would  have
missed an inner warmth in this man that he saw in the man's nephew - a
flicker in Joram's dark eyes, like the reflection of the forge  fires.
There was no light in this man's eyes, no light in his soul.

    "Bishop Vanya," said the man, bowing.

    "Prince Xavier," said  Bishop Vanya  bowing. "I  am honored.  This
unexpected and unannounced" - the  words were emphasized- "visit is  a
surprise to me."

    "I have no doubt," Xavier said smoothly and evenly. He  invariably
spoke smoothly and  evenly. There  was never  a touch  of emotion.  He
never allowed himself to become angry, bored, irritated, or happy.

    Born to the  Mystery of  Fire, he  was a  high-ranking warlock,  a
DKarn-duuk, *. one who  is trained in  the art of  waging war. He  was
also the Empress's younger brother - and most important - because  the
Empress was childless  and the inheritance  passed through the  female
side, Xavier  was heir  to  the throne  of  Merilon. Thus  the  title,
"Prince," and thus Vanya's grudging show of homage.

    "To what  do I  owe  the pleasure  of  this visit?"  Bishop  Vanya
inquired. Standing up as tall and straight as his rotund figure  would
allow, he  stared with  undisguised  dislike at  the Prince,  who  was
coolly returning the compliment.

    Xavier clasped his hands  behind the skirts  of his long,  flowing
crimson robes. Because he was in  court, Xavier could have worn  court
dress, like  everyone else.  Unlike the  Duuk-foartik, the  DKarn-duuk
were not required to wear their crimson robes that were an  indication
of their order. But Xavier found this style of dress advantageous.  It
reminded people -  particularly his brother-in-law,  the Emperor -  of
the warlocks power.

    146 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  J47 "I  desired  to
welcome you to Merilon, Holiness," Xavier said.

    "Most kind of you, my lord, I am sure," said the Bishop, "And now,
though I am  highly sensible  of the honor  you do  me and  completely
unworthy of such attention, I beg that you depart. If there is nothing
I can do for you, that is."

    "Ah, there i>  something." Prince  Xavier drew  forth one  smooth,
supple hand from behind his back and held it up before him. With  that
hand, he 'might  call down lightning  from the skies  or raise  demons
from the ground. The  Bishop found it difficult  to take his eyes  off
that hand, and waited somewhat nervously.

    "My lord has only to name it," he said, more subdued.

    "You can end the charade."

    A ripple of consciousness passed across the Bishop's face,  making
it appear as though someone had  shaken a bowl of flabby pudding.  The
lips twitched, and  he laid a  pudgy hand on  them. "Forgive me,  \bur
-Highness, but I have no idea what you are talking about. A  charade?"
Vanya repeated politely, still not  taking his eyes from the  warlocks
hand.

    "You know quite well what I am talking about." Xavier s voice  was
even and pleasant and remarkably sinister. But he let the hand fail to
his side, fingering an  ornament of silver that  hung from his  waist.
"You know that my sister is - "

    Prince Xavier  stopped speaking  abruptly.  Vanya s  eyes,  nearly
hidden by  the puffy  folds in  the face,  Jiad suddenly  bulged  out,
staring at him with shrewd intensity.

    "Yes, your sister, the Empress," the Bishop prodded blandly.  "You
were saying? She is … what?"

    "What you and everyone  else knows, yet what  you and my  imbecile
brother-in-law  have  made  treasonable   to  say,"  returned   Xavier
smoothly. "And  it  is  only  through your  power  and  that  of  your
catalysts that he can keep this up. Bring it to an end. Put me on  the
throne." Xavier smiled, and shrugged  slightly. "I am no trained  bear
as is my brother-in-law.  I will not  dance at the  end of your  rope.
Still, I can be  amenable, easy to  work with. You  will need me,"  he
continued in a softer tone, "when you go to war."

    "A tragic circumstance we pray  the Aimin to avoid," Bishop  Vanya
said piously,  raising his  eyes  to heaven.  "You are  aware.  Prince
Xavier, that the  Emperor is  opposed to war.  He wiH  turn the  other
cheek - "

    "•-and get kicked in the ass," Xavier concluded.

    Bishop Vanya  flushed,  his eyes  narrowed  in rebuke.  "With  due
regard to your  station, Prince  Xavier, I  cannot allow  even you  to
speak with disrespect  of my sovereign  lord. 1 do  not know what  you
want with  me.  I do  not  understand your  words  and I  resent  your
insinuations. I  must again  ask you  to  go. It  is nearly  time  for
Evening Prayers."

    "You are a fool," Xavier said pleasantly. "You would find it  much
to your advantage to work with me, much to your disadvantage to thwart
me. I am a deadly enemy.  Oh, you and my brother-in-law are  protected
now, I admit. The Duuk-foarith are in your pocket. But you can't  keep
this charade going forever."

    Xavier spoke a word and the Corridor opened behind him.

    "If you are returning to the  Palace, my lord," said Bishop  Vanya
humbly, "please give my regards to your sister and say that I hope  to
find her in good health …"

    The words lingered on the Bishops lips.

    For an instant, Xaviers studious,  calm demeanor cracked - a  flaw
in the ice. The face paled, the dark eyes glittered.

    "I will give her your regards, Bishop," Xavier said, stepping into
the Corridor.  "And I  will add  that your  health is  good, as  well,
Bishop. For the time being. . . ."

    The Corridor closed its jaws Over  him, and the last Vanya saw  of
Prince Xavier was a splash of crimson, flowing like a stream of  blood
through the air. The image was  an alarming one, and it remained  with
Bishop Vanya long  after the  Prince had disappeared.  With a  shaking
hand, Vanya rang the bell, demanding that the lights in his chamber be
lit immediately. And he ordered up a bottle of sherry as well.

    O A\  X M  O  O 9  Gwendolyn  "W 'here  are  you going  today,  my
treasure?"

    The young woman to  whom this question  was fondly addressed  bent
over her mother, entwining white  arms around the elderly lady's  neck
and laying  her naturally  rose-tinted cheek  against the  cheek  that
magic kept in full bloom.

    "I am going to visit Papa at the Three Sisters and dine with  him.
He said I might, you know. And then I am going to City Below to  spend
the afternoon with Lilian and Majorie.  Oh, don't be a frowning  mama.
There, you see, a wrinkle line  comes when you frown like that.  Look,
now watch. See, it's  gone." The girl  - for she was  a girl at  heart
still, though woman in figure and face - laid her delicate fingers  on
her mother's lips and turned them upward into a smile.

    Midmorning sunshine crept  into the  room like  a thief,  sneaking
between the folds of the  drawn tapestries, crawling across the  floor
and gleaming out suddenly from  unexpected places. It flashed off  the
shaped glass of crystal  vases and glistened in  the silken thread  of
gowns tossed carelessly over chairs. The sun did not touch the feather
bed that floated beneath the arched canopy in the corner. It  wouldn't
dare. Full sunshine was  never permitted into the  room until noon  at
least, by which time  Lady Rosa- 152 WEIS  AND HICKMAN mund had  risen
from her  bed  and  she  and her  catalyst  had  performed  the  magic
necessary for milady to face the day.

    Not  that  Lady  Rosamund  required  much  magic  to  enhance  her
appearance. She  prided herself  on that  and kept  her touches  to  a
minimum, most of these reflecting  whatever was currently in style  in
Merilon., Lady Rosamund made no attempt to disguise her age. That  was
undignified, particularly when she had a daughter who, at sixteen, had
recently left the nursery and entered into adult society.

    Milady was wise  and observant;  she had  heard the  women of  the
noble classes laugh behind their fans at those of her own station  who
looked younger than the daughters they chaperoned. The family of  Lord
Samuels and Lady Rosamund was not a member of these noble classes, but
so  close  were  they  that  the  only  thing  needed  was  one   hand
outstretched in  matrimony  to lift  them  into glittering  realms  of
court. Therefore Lady  Rosamund maintained her  dignity, dressed  well
but not above her station, and had the satisfaction of hearing herself
pronounced "elegant" and "a sweet thing" by her betters.

    Milady looked  intently into  the  ice mirror  that stood  on  the
dressing table before her  and she smiled at  what she saw. Her  proud
gaze was not  on her  own face, however,  but rested  on the  youthful
repetition of her own features that smiled from behind her.

    The family treasure -and treasure is an apt word -was their eldest
daughter, Gwendolyn. This child was their investment in the future. It
was she who would raise them  up from the middle class, carrying  them
skyward on the  wings of her  rosy cheeks and  her substantial  dowry.
Gwendolyn was  not  beautiful  in the  classic  sense  currently  much
admired in Merilon - that is, she did not appear to have been sculpted
of marble with  the same cold  and stony  charm to match.  She was  of
medium height with golden hair, large blue eyes that laughed their way
into a man's heart, and a gentle, giving nature that kept her there.

    Her father. Lord Samuels, was  Pron-aU>an, a craftsman, though  he
no  longer  performed  the  menial  magic  of  his  trade.  He  was  a
Guildmaster now, having risen to that high position among the ranks of
the  Stone  Shapers  through  intelligence,  hard  work,  and   shrewd
investments. It was Guildmaster Samuels who had developed the means to
repair a crack in one of the gigantic stone platforms upon which  City
Above was built, thus earning for him a knighthood from the Emperor.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 755 Now able to put "Lord" before his  name,
the Guildmaster and his  family had moved from  their old dwelling  on
the northwest side of City Below to the very edge of the Low Avenue of
City Above. Situated on the west side of Mannan Park, the house looked
out over  the  rolling green  expanse  of carefully  manicured  grass,
shaped and nurtured trees with -here and there - a flower.

    It was  a well-to-do  neighborhood without  being too  well-to-do.
Lady Rosamund knew the advantage  of having her noble visitors  admire
"what charming things you  have done to this  dear little cottage"  of
twenty rooms or  so. And it  pleased her  no end to  hear them  remark
sympathetically when they left, "So unworthy of you, my dear. When are
you moving to something better? "

    When indeed? Sometime soon, it was hoped-when her daughter  became
Countess Gwendolyn or Duchess Gwendolyn or Marchioness Gwendolyn. .  .
. Lady  Rosamund  sighed  with  pleasure as  she  admired  the  lovely
daughter in the icy face of the frozen reflecting pool.

    "Ah, Mama, the  mirror is weeping!"  Gwendolyn said, reaching  out
her hand to catch  a drop of  water before it  fell upon her  mother's
feathered hair adornments.

    "So it is," said Lady Rosamund with a sigh. "Marie, do come  here.
Grant me Life." Milady negligently held out her hand to the  catalyst.
Clasping it,  Marie murmured  the ritual  chant that  transferred  the
magic from her body to the wizardess. Like her husband, Lady  Rosamund
was born to the Earth Mystery,  and though her skills were more  those
of & Qain-atban - a conjurer -  she could perform the tasks needed  to
run a  household  with  admirable  skill.  Suffused  with  Life,  Lady
Rosamund laid her fingers on the  reflecting pool and spoke the  words
that would keep the  water - encased  in a golden  frame . that  stood
upon her dressing table - frozen solid.

    "Its this warm weather,"  Lady Rosamund said  to her daughter.  "I
would certainly  not  criticize Her  Highness  for the  world,  but  I
wouldn't mind a change of season. Spring does grow tiresome, don't you
think, my poppet?"

    "I think winter would be fun, Mama," said Gwendolyn, fussing  with
her mothers hair. A darker gold  than her own, but rich and  luxuriant
still, it needed no magic to make it_shine. "Lilian and Majorie and  I
have been down to the Gates, watching the people come in from Outside.
It is so funny to see them  covered />? WE1S AND HICKMAN head to  foot
with snow, their cheeks and noses  red with cold, stamping their  feet
to warm them. And then, when the Gate was open, we could look  Outside
and see  the countryside,  so  lovely and  white.  Ah, there  goes  my
beautiful mama, frowning again and making herself ugly."

    Lady Rosamund could not help but smile, so coaxing was  Gwendolyn,
though she tried to  appear firm. "I don't  like you spending so  much
time with your cousins . . ." she began.

    This was an old  argument and one Gwen  knew how to handle.  "But,
Mama," she pleaded persuasively, "I'm so good for them. You've said so
yourself. Look how much improved  they were, over the holidays.  Their
manners at  table and  their conversation,  so much  more refined  and
genteel. Weren't they, Marie?" calling upon the catalyst for support.

    "Yes, my lady," the catalyst replied with a smile. There were  two
other children in the household  - a boy to  carry on the family  name
and a girl to  delight her parents in  their middle years. And  though
both were  cute,  they  were  young and  neither  had  developed  much
personality yet. The catalyst, who, in this modest household,  doubled
as nanny and governess, made no secret  of the fact that Gwen was  her
pet.

    "Just think. Mama," Gwen  continued, "how fine it  would be if  my
cousins married into one of the  families of our friends. Sophia  told
me that her brother told  her that Guildmaster Rey-nalds son,  Alfred,
said the next day after  our party that Lilian  was a 'stunner. '  His
very words, Mama. I can't help but think that, after praise like that,
their engagement cannot be far off."

    "My dear child, how sitly you are!" Lady Rosamund laughed, but  it
was fond laughter and she patted  her daughters white hand. "Well,  if
such an event happens, your cousins will  have you to thank for it.  I
hope they realize that. I suppose  it will be all right, today,  ifyou
visit them. But after this, I don't believe it proper that you  should
be seen in City  Below more than  once a week. You  are a young  woman
now, not a child, and such things are important."

    "Yes, Mama," said Gwen, more subdued, for she saw the firm set  of
the mouth and  the arch in  the eyebrows that  indicated to  servants,
children, catalyst, and husband that Lady Rosamund had issued a decree
and was not to be disobeyed.

    But, at sixteen, Gwen could not be unhappy long. Next week was far
away. Meanwhile, there was today. Lunch with her dear papa, who was to
take her to a new inn near the Guild DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 755  Halls;
an inn famous for  its chocolate. Then  the rest of  the day with  her
cousins - a day spent in Gwen's newest, favorite pastime-flirtation.

    The Earth Gate of  Merilon was a place  of bustling activity.  The
great invisible dome that held within its fragile shell the glories of
the city of  Merilon soared  skyward from the  Gladewall. Seven  Gates
pierced the dome,  providing entrance into  Merilon from Outside.  But
six of the Gates  were used little,  if ever. Most  of the time,  they
remained magically locked. Death Gate and Spirit Gate were never  used
now that the Necromancers were no longer around to treat with visitors
from  beyond  the  grave.  Life  Gate  was  reserved  for   victorious
processionals following  war, and  it  had not  been  used in  over  a
century. The only thing  that entered by Druid's  Gate was the  river;
the Druids now used the front  gate like everyone else. Wind Gate  and
Earth Gate were the  portals of major commerce  between the outer  and
inner worlds. The Kan-Hanar-the Gatekeepers-allowed only the Ariels to
fly through Wind Gate. Earth Gate was, therefore, the only true access
to the city.

    There was always a throng of people around Earth Gate, waiting  to
greet friends and relatives or seeing  them off after a visit. It  was
currently fashionable among the young people  of the city to spend  at
least part of each day there, socializing, flirting, and observing all
who entered.

    The first to enter this day  was a high-ranking Albanara from  one
of the outlying districts. She had traveled through the Corridors  and
therefore appeared to  materialize out of  nothing. The wizardess  was
greeted by her family  from City Above, waiting  to meet her in  their
tortoise-shell carriage drawn by  a team of  a hundred rabbits,  their
entire equipage floating two feet above the ground.

    The noble lady was followed by a party of catalysts from the Font,
gliding in through Earth  Gate in their  winged carriages. The  people
bowed in respect  for the  Priests; the  men doffing  their hats,  the
women sinking into pretty curtsies,  not sorry for the opportunity  to
show off white bosoms and smooth necks. Next came a humble  tradesman,
trudging on foot,  half-frozen by  the snow. He  was met  with joy  by
seven rowdy children, whose antics while waiting for their father  had
been driving the dignified Kan-Hanar  on duty to distraction.  Finally
there came a parly of university students, returning after a few  days
spent frolicking in the 156 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 757
winter weather,  who kept  dashing in  and  out of  the Gate  to  grab
handfuls of snow, tossing it at each other and into the crowd.

    The Kan-Hanar deal with all who enter in the same manner, be  they
highborn noble or lowborn tradesman.  Everyone who arrives in  Merilon
is subjected  to the  same  scrutiny, asked  the same  questions.  The
Kan-Hanar are born to the  Mystery of Air, and  are thus in charge  of
most of the  transportation of  Thim-hallan (the  exception being  the
Thon-Li, the Corridor Masters. They are catalysts, since the Corridors
are controlled and regulated by the Church). The magi and archmagi  of
the Kan-Hanar serve the state;  a division of the Emperor's  household
guard. Among  their many  tasks  are to  care  for and  maintain  the.
Ariels,  those  magically  mutated  humans  with  wings  who  are  the
messengers of Thimhallan.  And though  the catalysts  guard and  watch
over the Corridors, it is the Kan-Hanar who expend their magical  Life
in keeping them operational. But guarding the city gates - not only of
Merilon but the gates of all the city states in Thimhallan - is  their
most important task.  It is a  position of trust  and honor, and  only
archmagi - those  of noble  birth who  have attained  their high  rank
through years of service and study - can become Gatekeepers.

    For it is  up to  the Kan-Hanar to  make certain  that only  those
belonging in  Merilon enter  Merifon.  Further, it  is their  duty  to
separate those who are  permitted to enter City  Below from those  who
can, literally, rise higher into  City Above. Those so designated  are
provided with  a charm  that  allows them  to penetrate  the  magical,
unseen barrier separating the two cities.

    Those travelers who cannot  prove that they have  reason to be  in
Merilon are  turned from  the Gate  without regard  to their  rank  or
station. The  Kan-Hanar are  adept  at this,  but,  in case  of  undue
trouble,  they  have  support  in  the  form  of  several  black-robed
Duuk-haritb, who stand in the shadows; silent, unobtrusive, observant.

    This day,  the Gates  were  unusually busy,  due  in part  to  the
nobility in the  outlying areas fleeing  the inclement winter  weather
which the Sif-Hanar -  those magi who control  the winds and clouds  -
had decreed  was necessary  for the  growth of  crops in  the  spring.
Gwendolyn and her cousins, ages  seventeen and fifteen, spent a  merry
afternoon strolling  among  the  many shops  and  outdoor  cafes  that
surrounded the Gate, watching those who entered, studying their  dress
and hairstyles  with the  critical  eyes of  youth, and  breaking  the
hearts of nearly a dozen young men.

    This was a particularly entertaining afternoon for Gwen, since she
was not hampered  in her  flirtations by  the presence  of Marie,  the
catalyst. Ordinarily Marie  would have accompanied  her when she  went
out in public, as was proper for an unwed young girl. But today either
the  little  brother  or  the  little  sister  was  "fractious,"   due
undoubtedly to teeth, and so Marie was needed at home.

    At first there  had been  a dreadful  moment when  it seemed  Lady
Rosamund might have insisted her daughter remain at home as well.  But
a flood of tears with the cry  that "poor Papa will be so  distressed,
he has planned this for so long"  won the day. Lady Rosamund was  much
attached to her husband. The life of a Guildmaster is a demanding one,
and she knew - no  one better -how hard  he labored to maintain  their
life-style. He was, in  truth, looking forward  to this luncheon  with
his daughter - a rare break in his busy life - and milady had not  the
heart to deprive either him or  Gwen of this time together. There  was
also  the  thought  that  certain  members  of  the  aristocracy  were
permitting their daughters to go about unchaperoned - a mark of a  new
spirit of freedom  much in  vogue currently.  Lady Rosamund  therefore
allowed herself to  be persuaded  - an  easy task  for her  bewitching
daughter - and Gwen went off happily, having been given Life enough by
Marie to sustain her.

    The day had been perfect. The  clerks in her fathers office.,  had
admired her immensely. The chocolate had been worthy of all praise and
her papa had teased her agreeably about certain young noblemen, one of
whom actually left a party of other young men to come over and pay his
respects. Now she and  her cousins were at  the Gate, reveling in  the
throngs of people, and playing the latest gambit in the game of sex.

    The rules of the game were as follows: Each young woman carried  a
small bouquet  of flower's,  gathered  from the  magnificent  tropical
gardens located in  the heart of  City Below. Drifting  upon the  airy
walkways, her small, rouged  feet bare - the  mark of the gentry,  who
are rarely obliged to  walk and thus need'no  shoes - the young  woman
will  often,  quite  by  accident,  drop  her  bouquet.  The  blossoms
scattering on the  pavement, the bouquet  will be rescued  by a  young
man, who will return  it after first conjuring  up a lovely flower  of
his own to add to it.

    158 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 159 "My lady," said  a
gallant young nobleman, retrieving Gwens flowers as they fell  through
the sweet spring air, "this charming nosegay can only be yours, for  I
see here the blue of your  eyes reflected -though not so  brilliantly-
in the forget-me-nots,  the gold of  your hair in  the cornblume.  But
there is something missing which you will please allow me the  liberty
of adding." A red rose appeared in the young man's hand. "The heart of
the bouquet, as warm as the one which beats for you in my breast,"

    "How kind you are, my lord," murmured Gwen with downcast eyes that
showed to perfection the length and thickness of her lashes.  Blushing
prettily, she  accepted the  bouquet,  and giggled  over it  with  her
cousins while the young noble continued on his way, conjuring roses by
the dozen this day and giving his heart with every one.

    By midafternoon, Gwens bouquet -  though not as large as  bouquets
carried by other young women - spoke well for itself and for her,  and
(all that really counts) was larger than those carried by her  plainer
cousins. The three were floating in the air near Earth Gate, wondering
whether or not to  stop in one  of the cafes for  a goblet of  sugared
ice, when the Gates opened to admit a group entering from Outside.

    The opening of the Gate  caused a blast of  cold air to sweep  in,
bringing a  sharp,  breath-catching  and thrilling  change  from  thfi
perfumed warmth of  the enchanted  city. The ladies  waiting near  the
Gate clutched  their gowns  around them  and gave  tiny .  shrieks  of
horrified delight  while the  gentlemen swore  round oaths  and  spoke
critically of the Sif-Hanar. All heads craned to see who was  entering
- a Princess of somewhere-or-other  was, expected momentarily. But  it
wasn't the Princess,  just a  party of  snow-covered young  men and  a
half-frozen old catalyst. Glancing at  them without interest, most  of
the  crowd  returned  to  its  strolling,  visiting  in  the   waiting
carriages, and drinking wine in the cafes.

    But there were a  few, "however, who did  take an interest in  the
new arrivals, particularly the young men,  who had cast off the  hoods
of their traveling  cloaks. Now  they stood inside  the Gate,  looking
around in  some  confusion, the  snow  on their  shoulders  and  boots
starting to melt in tbe warm, spring air.

    "Poor  things,"  murmured  Lilian.  "They're  soaked  through  and
shivering with cold."

    "How handsome they are," whispered Majorie, the  fifteen-year-old,
who never lost an opportunity to prove to the two older girls that she
was  just  as  grown-up  as  they.  "They  must  be  students  at  the
university."

    The three young men and the catalyst took their places in the line
at Earth Gate and the three  young women examined them with  interest.
There were several other arrivals ahead of them in line. One of  them,
an elderly dowager with three chins (her magical art had reduced  that
number from five) was arguing loudly with the Kan-Hanar about  whether
or not she should have access to City Above.

    "I tell you, my good sir, that  I am the mother of the Marquis  of
D'umtour! As  to why  his servants  aren't here  to greet  me upon  my
arrival, I'm certain I don't know,  except it is so difficult to  hire
quality help these days!  He always was a  young wastral anyway!"  she
snapped viciously, shaking her chins. "Wait until I see him …" '

    The Kan-Hanar  had, of  course,  heard this  all before  and  were
listening patiently, having dispatched a winged Ariel to ascertain  if
the Marquis had, in truth, "forgotten"  to send someone to escort  the
dowager to City Above.

    The other  new  arrivals  behind  the dowager  glared  at  her  in
impatience but there was nothing they could do. All had to wait his or
her turn. Some drifted about irritably in the air, others lounged back
comfortably in their carriages. The young men, standing on the ground,
took off their wet  cloaks and continued to  look around curiously  at
the city and its people.

    Affecting to be interested  in the fluttering,  silken wares of  a
ribbon seller, the girls  stopped to admire his  goods displayed in  a
gaudy cart near the Gate. In reality, they were watching and listening
to the young men.

    "Name of the Almin," breathed one  with blond hair and an  honest,
open face, "this  is beautiful,  Joram! I never  imagined anything  so
splendid! And, it's spring!" He spread his arms, awe and wonder in his
voice and his eyes.

    "Don't stare so, Mosiah," his  companion said reprovingly. He  had
long dark hair and dark eyes and, too, was looking around him. But  if
he were at  all impressed by  the wonders  of the city,  there was  no
indicatidn on the  stern, proud  face. The third  young man,  slightly
taller than the others, with a  short, soft beard, appeared amused  at
the reactions  of  his friends.  He  glanced about  in  bored  fashion
-yawning, smoothing  his mustache,  and lounging  back against  the  .
wall, his  eyes  closed. Their  160  WE1S  AND HICKMAN  DOOM  OF  'THE
DARKSWORD 161  catalyst,  wet and  shivering,  huddled in  his  robes,
keeping his hood pulled low over his head.

    Looking  at  them,  Gwen   scoffed.  "University  students!"   she
whispered to her cousins. "With an  uncouth accent like that? Look  at
the one gaping like a  yokel. Its obvious this  is the first time  hes
ever been  here.  Probably  the  first time  hes  ever  been  anywhere
civilized, from the way hes dressed."

    Lilian's eyes widened in alarm.  "Gwen! Suppose they are  bandits,
trying to sneak into  our city! They look  it, particularly that  dark
one."

    Gwen examined the dark one for  several moments out of the  corner
of her eye, her hands fingering one of the silken ribbons.

    "Pardon me, my lady," said  the vendor, "but you're crumpling  the
merchandise. Those  particular shades  are difficult  to conjure,  you
know. Are you planning to buy - "

    "No, thank  you."  Flushing,  Gwen dropped  the  ribbon.  "Lovely,
really, but my mama makes all mine. . . ."

    Scowling, the vendor moved off, leaving the girls hovering in  the
air, their heads together, their eyes on the new arrivals.

    "You're right, Lilian,"  Gwen said decisively.  "That's what  they
are - highwaymen, bold and daring."

    "Just like Sir Hugo, the one Marie told us the tale of?" whispered
Majorie in  excitement. "The  bandit  who stole  the maiden  from  her
fathers castle and carried her off on his winged steed to his tent  in
the desert.  Remember, he  carried her  inside and  threw her  on  the
silken pillows and then  he …" Majorie stopped.  "What did he do  with
her when she was lying on the pillows? "

    "I don't  know."  Gwen shrugged  her  shoulders, a  movement  that
showed them off to  their best advantage.  "I've wondered myself,  but
Marie always stops there and goes back to the girl's father, who calls
his warlocks to rescue her."

    "Did you ever ask her about the pillows?"

    "I did, once. But she got very angry and sent me off to bed," Gwen
replied. "Quick,  they're  starting to  turn  this way.  Don't  look!"
Shifting her  gaze  to  Earth  Gate,  Gwen  studied  the  huge  wooden
structure with such intense interest that  she might have been one  of
the Druids who formed it, melding  it together from the wood of  seven
dead oak trees.

    "If  they  are  bandits,   shouldn't  we  tel!  someone?"   Lilian
whispered, staring dutifully at the Gate.

    "Oh, Gwen!"  said Majorie,  squeezing her  hand. "The  dark  one's
staring at you!"

    "Hush! Take no notice!" Gwendolyn murmured, -flushing and  burying
her face in her bouquet of flowers. She had risked a quick glimpse  at
the dark young  man and  had, quite  inadvertently, met  his gaze.  It
wasn't like meeting  the eyes  of other  young men,  with their  arch,
teasing stares. This young man looked at her seriously, intently,  the
dark eyes  penetrating her  youthful gaiety  to touch  something  deep
within her,  something  that  hurt  with a  swift,  sharp  pain,  both
pleasurable and frightening- "No, we  mustn't tell anyone. We  mustn't
think about them anymore,"  Gwen said nervously,  her face burning  so
that she thought she might be feverish. "Let's go. . . ."

    "No, wait!" Lilian said, catching hold  of her cousin as Gwen  was
about to walk  away. "They're going  to talk to  the Kan-Hanar\  Let's
stay and find out who they are!"

    "I don't care who  they are!" Gwen  said loftily, firmly  resolved
not to look at the  dark young man. But  though there were a  thousand
objects of  wonder and  beauty and  enchantment around  her, they  all
blurred into  a swirling  mass of  confused colors.  She kept  finding
herself drawn back to  the dark eyes  of the dark  young man. When  he
finally  turned  away  -  his  attention  called  to  the  approaching
Kan-Hanar by the catalyst - Gwen felt as though she had been  released
from one of the  spells she had heard  the Dutik-foaritb used to  keep
prisoners in bondage.

    "State your  names  and your  business  in the  city  of  Merilon,
Father," said the archmagus formally, with a slight -very slight - bow
to the  sodden catalyst,  who  returned it  humbly. The  catalyst  was
dressed in the red robes of a House Catalyst, but they were untrimmed,
which meant he did not serve nobility.

    "I am Father Sar-  Dun . . .  dunstable," stammered the  catalyst,
the blood  rising up  from his  thin neck  until it  reached his  bald
crown. "And we - "

    "Sardunstable," interrupted the Kan-Hanar, frowning in puzzlement.
"That is a name with  which I am not  familiar, Father. Where are  you
from?" The Kan-Hanar, with their well-trained and phenomenal memories,
carry directories of those who live in and visit their cities in their
heads.

    162 WEIS AND  HICKMAN "I  beg your pardon."  The catalyst  flushed
even more deeply. "You misunderstand me. My fault, I am certain. I - I
speak with a stammer. The name is Dunstabfe. Father Dunstable."

    "Mmmm," the Kan-Hanar  said, eyeing the  catalyst closely.  "There
was a Dunstable lived here, but that  was ten years ago. He was  House
Catalyst to the  - the  Duke of Manchua,  I believe?"  He glanced  for
confirmation at his  companion, who nodded.  The Kan-Hanar turned  his
shrewd stare back to the catalyst. ' "But the family left, as I  said.
Moved abroad. Why have you - "

    "Egad! This grows boring!" With this statement, the tall young man
with the beard left the wall and strolled forward. He waved his  hand,
there was a  sudden flurry  of orange silk,  and the  brown cloak  and
travel-stained clothes he wore vanished.

    Gasps of astonishment from several bystanders caused many more  in
the crowd  to turn  and look.  The young  man was  now clad  in  long,
flowing purple silken pantaloons.  Gathered tightly about his  ankles,
they billowed out around his legs, fluttering in the spring breeze.  A
bright-red sash encircled his slender  waist, matched by a  bright-red
vest trimmed in gold. A purple silk blouse - with long flowing sleeves
that completely engulfed his hands when he lowered his arms -  matched
the pantaloons. All  this was  topped by  a most  remarkable hat  that
resembled a gigantic  purple puff  pastry, adorned by  a red,  curling
ostrich feather.

    Ripples of laughter and murmurs ran through the growing crowd.

    "Is it?"

    "Why, yes! I'd know him anywhere!"

    "That garb! My dear, I'd give  anything to wear those trousers  to
the Emperors ball next week. Where Jof. t he find those colors?"

    There was a scattering of applause.

    "Thank you," said the young man, waving a negligent hand to  those
who were  beginning to  gather around  him.  "Yes, it  is me.  I  have
returned." Raising his fingers to his lips, he blew kisses to  several
wealthy women, sitting in a carriage made of pomegranate, who  laughed
delightedly and  tossed  him flowers.  "I  call this,"  he  continued,
referring to  his  purple  clothes, "Welcome  Home,  Simkin.  \bu  may
dispense with the formalities,  my good man,"  he said, regarding  the
Kan-Hanar with a sniff, and dabbing  at his nose with the orange  silk
in his hand. "Simply  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  165 tell the  authorities
that Simkin  has  returned and  that  he  has brought  his  troupe  of
traveling players with him!"  He made a  flourishing gesture with  the
orange silk at the two young men and the catalyst (who appeared  ready
to drop from shame) standing behind him.

    The crowd applauded more loudly. Women laughed behind their hands,
men shook their heads over his attire, but they glanced down at  their
own elegant robes or brocade breeches, their faces thoughtful. By noon
tomorrow, the  flowing  silk pantaloons  would  be seen  on  half  the
nobility in Merilon.

    "Tell the  authorities?" repeated  the  Kan-Hanar, not  the  least
disconcerted by  the crowd  or the  antics  of the  young man  in  the
pantaloons. "Yes, I'll notify the proper people, you may be certain of
that."

    Making a gesture to the two black-robed figures who stood watching
from the shadows,  the Kan-Hanar laid  his hand upon  the young  man's
shoulder.

    "Simkin, in the name of the Emperor, I place you under arrest."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 165 Welcome  Home, Simkin C' ailing for  the
warlocks,  the   Kan-Hanar  held   Simkin  firmly.   The   black-robed
Duuk-foaritk floated toward the young man, the crowd parting at  their
coming like leaves driven by a  storm wind. Amid the rustling  murmurs
ot the people,  the gasps of  shock that were  equal parts horror  and
delight, Gwen's gaze was  drawn from Simkin -  who was staring at  the
Kan-Hanar in absolute  astoundment -  to his  fnendsv Standing  behind
Simkin, the catalyst had gone from  red to a deathly pallor, his  hand
reaching out and resting on  the shoulder of the  dark young man in  a
manner that was both protective and restraining. The other young  man,
the blond one, laid his hand on his friend's arm as well, and then  it
was that Gwen  noticed the  dark young  man reached  behind his  back,
beneath his cloak.

    Weapons ol  any  type are  not  used  in Menlon,  since  they  are
considered to be the evil machinations of those who practice the  Dark
Art, the Ninth Mystery - Technology. The young girl watching had never
seen a sword,  but she  knew of them  through the  nursery stones  her
governess told her o ( the ancient days. Gwen knew instinctively  that
this young man carried one, that  he and his Iriends were  undoubtedly
bandits, and that he intended to fight.

    "No!" she breathed, pressing one hand against her mouth, the other
crushing the forgotten flowers.

    The  dark  young   man  had   turned  to   face  the   approaching
Dutik-harith, his back was  to Gwen. The warm  spring wind blew '  his
cloak aside, and  she saw  his hand clenched  around the  hilt of  his
sword, slowly drawing it from a sheath that surrounded the object like
the skin of a snake. The weapon was dark and hideous, and Gwen  wanted
to shut her eyes in horror. But her eyelids were dry and burning.  She
couldn't close them, she could only stare at the weapon and the  young
man in a dread fascination, a smothering sensation in her chest.

    The Duttk-L'arith, now  clear of  the crowd,  stretched out  their
hands toward Simkin, spell chants on their lips. They did not seem  to
be paying any attention to the  dark young man, who was moving  slowly
up behind his friend.

    "'Pon my honor!" cried Simkin. "Must be some mistake. Call me when
you've cleared it up, there's a good fellow."

    The air shimmered and the Kan-Hanar was left standing in front  of
Earth Gate, his hand resting firmly on nothing.

    Simkin was gone.

    "Find  him!"  the   Kan-Hanar  ordered   unnecessarily,  for   the
Duuk-fcarith were already responding. "I'll watch his friends."

    Gwen's eyes  - opened  wide at  this astonishing  development-went
instantly to the dark young man. Simkin's disappearance had apparently
startled him as well. He hesitated drawing the sword, and Gwen saw the
catalyst remonstrating  with him,  speaking earnestly,  his hand  once
more on the young mans shoulder. Just as the Kan-Hanar came near,  the
young man slid the sword back  into its scabbard, hastily covering  it
with his cloak.

    Gwen drew a shivering breath  in relief, then realized, too  late,
that she was betraying  far more interest in  this young man than  was
maidenly proper. Hoping her cousins  hadn't noticed the burning  flush
in her cheeks, she buried her face in the bouquet.

    "I say,  loosen  up,"yelped  a voice.  "You're  pinching  me  most
awfully."

    Gwen gasped, dropping the flowers in her amazement. The voice  had
come from the heart of her bouquet!

    "Almin's blood,  child!" one  of the  flowers said  irritably.  "1
didn't mean for  you to  loosen up quite  that much!  I've crumpled  a
petal."

    166 WEIS AND H1CKMAN  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  167 The blossoms  lay
scattered in the  street. Slowly, cautiously,  Gwendolyn drifted  down
out  of  the  air  to  kneel   beside  the  bouquet,  staring  at   it
incredulously. One  flower stood  out amici  the dainty  selection  of
violets and roses. This  was a bright purple  tulip, adorned by a  red
streak around its middle and a dash of orange on the top.

    "Well, are you  just going to  leave me lying  in the filth?"  the
tulip asked in aggrieved tones.

    Gulping, Gwen glanced  up to see  if her cousins  were looking  at
her, but  they  appeared  to  be  totally  absorbed  in  watching  the
Duuk-foaritb. The warlocks had not moved from the spot. Hands  clasped
before them,  their black  hoods  pulled low  over their  faces,  they
appeared to  be  doing nothing.  But  Gwendolyn knew  that  they  were
mentally going  over everyone  in the  crowd, throwing  out the  long,
unseen filaments of their magical web, seeking their prey.

    Her eyes on the  warlocks, Gwen reached out  and gently picked  up
the purple tulip.

    "Simkin?" she asked hesitantly. "What - "

    "Shush! Shush!" hissed the tulip.  "There's been a most  frightful
mistake. I'm positive of  it. Why should they  arrest me? Well,  there
was that one incident with the Countess's jewelry . . . But surely  no
one remembers that! Stuff was all fake anyway. Well, most of it. …  If
I can  just  get  to the  Emperor,  you  see, I'm  certain  he'll  set
everything right! Then, there's my friends." The tulip took on an  air
of importance. "Can you keep a secret, child?"

    "Well, I - " Gwen regarded the tulip in bewilderment.

    "Shush! The dark young  man. Noble family.  Father died. Left  the
boy a fortune. Wicked uncle. Boy kidnapped. Held prisoner by giants. I
rescued him. Now he returns, expose uncle, claim inheritance."

    "Really?" Gwen raised her eyes to look at the dark young man  over
the tulips petals. "I just knew it," she said.

    "That's it!" the tulip cried. "Why  didn't it occur to me?  Wicked
uncle behind this! Heard we were  coming back. Should have known.  Had
me arrested  to get  me  out of  the way.  Too  bad," the  tulip  said
gloomily. "He won't  stop with  kidnapping now. It'll  be murder  this
time."

    "Oh, dear, no!" Gwen whispered in alarm. "There must be  something
you can do!"

    "I'm afraid not, unless you would- But no, I couldn't ask it." The
tulip gave a gusty sigh. "I'm destined for life in a bud vase. As  for
my friend? Bottom of the river. . ."

    "Oh, no! I'll help, if you really think I can," Gwen faltered.

    "Very  well,"  the  tulip   responded  with  seeming   reluctance.
"Although I hate  to involve  you. But, you  see, sweet  child, I  was
thinking that  if you  were to  drift over  there quite  casually  and
appear not to notice that anything  was amiss and quite casually  grab
hold of the dear old catalyst, you could say, quite casually,  'Father
Dungstable! I'm terribly sorry I'm  late. Papa and Mama are  expecting
you at home this moment! ' Then you, quite casually, lead him off."

    "Lead him where?" Gwen asked in confusion.

    "Why, home,  of  course,"  the  tulip  said  matter-of-factly.  "I
presume you have room enough for us all. I do prefer private quarters,
but if I have to, I'll share, though not with the catalyst. You  can't
imagine how he snores!"

    "You mean- Take you all … to my home!"

    "Of course!  And you  must  do it  quickly. Before  that  wretched
catalyst says somethig to ruin us all! Poor man is none too bright, if
you know what I mean."

    "But I can't! Not  without asking Mama and  Papa. What would  they
say - "

    "If you brought Simkin to your  house? Simkin, the darling of  the
court? My dear," the tulip continued in bored tones, "I could stay  at
the homes of  twenty Princes, just  like that! To  say nothing of  the
Dukes and Earls and Counts who have literally gone down on their knees
to beg me  to be their  houseguest. The Earl  of Essac was  devastated
when I  said  no.  Threatened  to  off  himself.  But  really,  twenty
Pekingese? They  yap, you  know,  to say  nothing  of nipping  at  the
ankles." The tulip flicked a leaf. "And of course I can introduce  you
into court, once this little matter is set right."

    "Court!" Gwen repeated softly. Visions of the Crystal Palace  came
to her mind. She  saw herself being presented  to His Royal  Highness,
curtsying, her hand on the strong arm of the dark young man.

    "I'll do it!" she said in sudden conviction.

    "Sweet child!" responded the tulip in heartfelt tones. "Now, carry
me with you. Don't mind the  Duuk-foarith. They'll never 168 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF  ~THE DARKSWORD  169 penetrate this  disguise. I  say,
though, it would certainly add to the overall effect if you would just
tuck me into your bosom - "

    "My . . . where? Oh .  . . no!" Gwen murmured, blushing. "I  don't
think so  . .  ." Placing  the  tulip among  the other  blossoms,  she
hastily gathered up the remainder of the bouquet from the ground.

    "Ah, well," the  tulip reflected philosophically,  "you can't  win
them all, as the Baron Baumgarten said when his wife ran off with  the
croquet master . . . and the Baron so fond of the game."

    "I am going to  ask you again,  what are your  names and what  are
your doing in Merilon? " The Kan-Hanar glared at them suspiciously.

    "And I am  going to tell  you again, sir,"  said Joram, his  voice
taut with the visible effort it was taking him to control his  temper,
"he is  Father  Dunstable,  he is  Mosiah,  and  I am  Joram.  We  are
illusionists -traveling actors -who met Simkin by chance. We agreed to
form a troupe and  we are here  at the invitation  of one of  Simkin's
patrons . . ."

    Saryon bowed his head, ceasing in his despair to listen. This  was
a story Prince Garald  had suggested and it  had sounded plausible  at
the time. Those born to the Mystery of Shadow, known as  illusionists,
are- by  and large  -a  classless society.  They  are the  artists  of
Thimhallan, traveling extensively  throughout the  world to  entertain
the populace  with  their  skills and  talents.  Illusionists  entered
Merilon constantly,  their  skills being  in  great demand  among  the
nobility.

    But this was the third time Joram had told the Kan-Hanar his story
and it was obvious to Saryon, at least, that the man wasn't having any
part of it.

    It's all over, Saryon said to himself bleakly.

    The guilty secret he  carried had burned such  a huge hole in  his
mind that he was convinced it must be visible to all who looked at him
-marked on his  forehead, perhaps, like  a Guild stamp  upon a  silver
butter  dish.  When  the  Kan-Hanar  arrested  Simkin,  the   catalyst
immediately jumped to the  conclusion that Vanya  had caught them.  He
prevented Joram from using the Darksword in their defense more out  of
fear for the young mans life  than from fear of discovery. To  Saryon,
the end had come, and he intended,  in just a few seconds, to  counsel
Joram to tell the  Kan-Hanar the truth. He  was just thinking, with  a
kind of wistful relief, that his bitter suffering would soon be  over,
when the catalyst felt a gentle hand upon his arm.

    Turning, he found himself confronted  by a young woman of  sixteen
or seventeen perhaps (Saryon was not much in the habit of guessing the
ages of young women) who was greeting him like a long-lost uncle.

    "Father  Dungstable!  How  good  to  see  you!  Please  accept  my
apologies for arriving late. I hope you are not angry, but it was such
a lovely day that my cousins and I lingered far too long in the Grove.
See the bouquet  I gathered?  Isn't it  lovely. There  is one  flower,
Father, that I picked especially for you."

    The girl held out a flower. It was a tulip, Saryon saw, staring at
it in bewilderment. Just as he was about to take it into his hand,  he
noticed that it was a purple tulip - a bright purple tulip . . .  with
a bright red sash and a dash of orange. . . .

    Closing his eyes, Saryon groaned.

    "And so you  are telling me,  Gwendolyn of the  House of  Samuels,
that these . . . gentlemen  are invited guests of your father's?"  The
Kan-Hanar glanced at Joram and Mosiah dubiously.

    After Gwendolyn told her story  to the Gate guards, the  Kan-Hanar
had taken them  all to one  of the guard  towers. Magically shaped  to
stand next to  the Earth  Gate, the  tower existed  primarily for  the
convenience of the Kan-Hanar, giving them a place to rest during times
when the Gate wasn't busy, and containing supplies for their  official
duties. It was rarely used for interrogating those seeking  admittance
to Merilon - that was generally handled at the Gate itself with  quick
dispatch. But -due to Simkin's dramatic arrival and even more dramatic
disappearance - the Kan-Hanar discovered the crowd growing just a  bit
too interested in the proceedings.  Therefore, he had herded  everyone
into the  tower and  now  they stood,  crowded  together, in  a  small
hexagonal room that had never been intended to accommodate six  people
and a tulip.

    "Yes, of course,"  the young woman  replied, toying prettily  with
the flowers she held in her hand.

    Putting a blossom near her soft cheek, Gwen regarded the archmagus
over its  petals in  a  coquettish manner  that  the man  found  quite
charming. He didn't take any particular notice of the fact that one of
these blossoms happened to  be an unusual-looking  tulip, or that  the
young woman's speech contained  many 170 WE1S  AND H1CKMAN pauses  and
hesitations. On the contrary, he attributed this to a maidenly reserve
he considered most proper and becoming in a young girl.

    Saryon knew the real  reason, however -the  young woman was  being
coached in what to say,  and she was being  coached by the tulip!  The
catalyst could  only wonder  bleakly whether  this was  going to  help
matters or simply add to their long list of crimes. There was  nothing
he could do about it now, except to play his part and trust Simkin and
the girl to play theirs.

    As for  Joram and  Mosiah, Saryon  had no  idea whether  they  had
figured out what was going on or not. The Kan-Hanar was watching  them
all closely, and the catalyst dared not give them any type of sign. He
did risk a glance at them, however, and was somewhat startled to  find
Jorams gaze fixed, on  the girl with such  burning intensity that  the
catalyst  hoped  she  didn't  notice.  Such  ardent  and   undisguised
admiration might frighten and confuse her.

    Seeing Jorams look, Saryon realized that he might have an entirely
new set of problems to contemplate. Although losing one's heart wasn't
exactly in  the same  category  with losing  ones life,  the  catalyst
remembered his  own  days  of  tortured, dreaming  youth  and  gave  a
despairing sigh. As if they didn't have trouble enough. . . .

    "You see,  sir,"  Gwendolyn  was  explaining,  the  tulips  petals
brushing thoughtfully against  her bejeweled earlobe,  "Simkin and  my
father. Lord Samuels, the Guildmaster - You know him? "

    Yes, the Kan-Hanar knew her honored father and indicated so with a
bow.

    Gwen smiled sweetly. "Simkin and my father have long been  friends
(this would have been news to Lord Samuels) and so when Simkin and his
… his" -a pause - "tr-troupe of-another pause-"young actors made known
their intention to … to …  -perform in Merilon, my father extended  an
invitation to stay at our home."

    The Kan-Hanar  still appeared  doubtful, but  it wasn't  over  the
young woman's story. Simkin was well-known and well-liked in  Merilon.
He often stayed at the very best homes. Indeed, the wonder of this was
that he should consent to reside at the relatively humble dwelling  of
a mere Guildmaster. Lord Samuels and  his family had a most  honorable
reputation, generations of  them having dwelt  in Merilon  practically
since its founding  with DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD  171 not  a breath  of
scandal attached to the name. No, the Kan-Hanar was in truth wondering
how to cope with this awkward situation without upsetting Lord Samuels
or his charming daughter.

    "The fact  of the  matter is,"  the Kan-Hanar  began  reluctantly,
aware of the gaze of innocent blue eyes, "that Simkin is under  arrest
- "

    "No!" Gwen cried  in horror  and shock. 'That  is," the  Kan-Hanar
amended, "he would be  under arrest if  he were here.  But he escap  -
That is, he left rather suddenly. …"

    "I am certain there  must be some mistake,"  the young woman  said
with an indignant toss  of her golden  curls. "Simkin can  undoubtedly
explain everything."

    "I'm sure he can," muttered the Kan-Hanar.

    "In the  meantime,"  Gwen  continued, moving  a  step  nearer  the
Kan-Hanar and  gently laying  her  hand upon  his  arm in  a  pleading
manner,  "Papa  is  expecting  these  gentlemen,  particularly  Father
Dungstable -"

    "Dunstable," corrected the catalyst faintly.

    - who is an old  friend of our  familys that we  have not seen  in
years. Indeed" -Gwendolyn  turned to  look at  the catalyst  - "I  was
quite a child when you  saw me last, wasn't  I, Father? Ill wager  you
didn't recognize me."

    "That -that's quite true," stammered Saryon. "I didn't."

    He saw that the young woman was enjoying the daring and danger  of
this enterprise, never dreaming how very real the danger was. The girl
turned back to the Kan-Hanar with a smile. Saryon, his heart  pounding
in fear,  glanced out  the  door and  saw the  Duuk-Uartth  conferring
together near the Gate, their black hoods nearly touching.

    "The catalyst and  these gentlemen," said  Gwen, with a  seemingly
uninterested glance at both  Mosiah and Joram, "are  cold and wet  and
tired from their journey.  Surely there can be  no harm in letting  me
take them to my home. You will know where to find them, after all,  if
need be."

    Apparently the  Kan-Hanar considered  this  a good  idea.  Looking
through the door, his gaze went to the Duuk-tearith as well, then went
past the warlocks to  the line of people  waiting admittance into  the
city. It was their busiest time  of day, the line was growing  longer,
people were getting impatient, and his partner looked harried.

    172 WEIS AND H1CKMAN  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  173 "Very well,"  the
Kan-Hanar said abruptly.  "I'll give  you passes for  City Above,  but
they are restricted. These gentlemen"- he looked grimly at Mosiah  and
Joram -  "are  to be  allowed  outside only  in  the company  of  your
father."

    - "Or another member of the family?" Gwen asked sweetly.

    "Or  another  member  of  the  family,"  the  Kan-Hanar  muttered,
hurriedly notatmg the restrictions on the scrolls of parchment that he
was filling out.

    The Kan-Hanar was busy with his work, the catalyst leaned  wearily
against a wall, and  Gwen's blue eyes turned  their gaze to Joram.  It
was the innocent, flirtatious glance of a young girl playing at  being
a woman. But it was caught in  the snare of serious dark eyes,  caught
by a man who knew nothing of such games.

    Gwen was accustomed to shedding her warmth and charm upon men  and
having them reflect it  back to her. She  was startled, therefore,  to
feel that warmth  suddenly sucked  into the dark  well of  a cold  and
hungry soul.

    It was unnerving, even frightening.  The dark eyes were  absorbing
her. She had to break their hold or lose something of herself-although
just what that  might be she  didn't know. She  couldn't make  herself
look away;  the feeling  was frightening,  but thrilling  at the  same
time.

    It was obvious that  the young man wasn't  going to quit  staring,
however! This was growing intolerable. The only thing Gwendolyn  could
think of to do was drop the  bouquet of flowers. It wasn't meant as  a
flirtatious advance. She didn't even think about that. Leaning down to
pick it up would give her  a chance to regain her self-possession  and
break the disturbing gaze of that bold young man. It was not  destined
to work out that way, however.

    Someone else bent down  to pick up the  flowers as well, and  Gwen
only found herself m  closer proximity to the  young man than  before.
Each reached  for  the  purple  tulip  -  which  was  exhibiting  most
untuliplike behavior,  its leaves  curling, its  petals fluttering  in
what may have been laughter - at the same time.

    "Allow me,  ray lady,"  Joram  said, his  hand brushing  hers  and
lingering there.

    "Thankyou, sir," Gwen  murmured. Snatching  her own  hand back  as
though it had been burned, she rose hurriedly back into the air.

    Gravely, Joram stood up and handed the flowers to her -all  except
the tulip.

    "With your permission, my lady," he  said in a voice that was,  to
Gwen's fluttered  mind, as  dark as  his eyes,  "I will  keep this,  a
memento of our meeting."

    Did he  know  who the  tulip  was?  Gwen could  say  nothing,  but
muttered something incoherent about  being "flattered" as she  watched
the young man take the tulip, smooth its petals with his hand (such an
extraordinary  hand,  Gwen   caught  herself   noticing,  strong   and
calloused, yet with long, delicate  fingers), and then slip the  tulip
into a pocket beneath his cloak.

    Half convinced that she  had heard a  strangled squeak of  outrage
before the tulip was extinguished by the smothering fabric, she  found
herself wondering what  it would  be like  to be  pressed against  the
breast of the young man. Gwen blushed feverishly and turned away.  She
remembered the passes to City  Above only when the Kan-Hanar  actually
laid them in her hand, and  forced herself to concentrate on what  the
man was saying.

    "You will not need a pass, of course, Father Dunstable, since  you
have dispensation  to visit  the Cathedral.  The restrictions  do  not
apply to you,  either. You  may go there  whenever you  like, and  you
will, I am certain, be desirous of making your presence known to  your
Order as soon as possible."

    A delicate hint  for the catalyst  to report to  the Cathedral  at
once.

    Saryon  bowed  humbly.  "May  the  Almin  give  you  a  good  day,
Archmagus," he said.

    "And you,  Father  Dunstable,"  the Kan-Hanar  replied.  His  gaze
flicked over Joram and Mosiah as if they did not exist and he  hurried
out of the hexagonal tower room to interview the next in line.

    v Fortunately for Gwen, she was captured by her cousins the moment
she left the guard tower. This helped her put disquieting thoughts  of
the dark young man firmly out of her mind -though her heart seemed  to
beat in time with his footsteps that she could hear so clearly  behind
her.

    "If-if you will excuse me,  Father Dunstable," Gwen said,  turning
to the catalyst and ignoring his  young companions, "I have to tell  -
explain … all  this …  to my  cousins. If  you would  like to  refresh
yourselves, the cafe over there is quite nice. Ill only be a moment."

    174 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 775 Without stopping to
wait for an answer,  Gwen hurried away,  dragging the excited  cousins
with her.

    "What will your mother say?" gasped  Lilian when she had heard  as
much of Gwen's story as Gwen felt capable of telling.

    "My heavens! What will Mama say?" Gwen had never considered  that.
To suddenly float in the door with houseguests! And of such an unusual
nature!

    Lilian and Majorie were hastily dispatched to City Above with news
that the renowned  Simkin was going  to honor the  Samuelses with  his
presence. Gwen hoped fervently that news of his arrest and  subsequent
disappearing act had not reached her parent's ears.

    Then, in order to give Lady Rosamund time to have the guest  rooms
opened and aired,  the cook informed,  and a servant  sent to  apprise
Lord Samuels of the honor in store for him, Gwen returned to the  cafe
and offered to show her guests the wonders of the city.

    Although the  catalyst appeared  reluctant, the  young men  agreed
with an eagerness Gwendolyn found  quite charming. Obviously this  was
their first  trip to  Merilon,  and Gwen  discovered she  was  looking
forward to  showing it  off. Floating  up into  the air,  she  waited,
expecting them to join her. They did not, however, and - glancing down
- she  was  astonished to  see  them looking  at  each other  in  some
confusion. It instantly  occurred to  her that they  had been  walking
everywhere and she wondered  why. Of course! They  must be tired  from
their journey, too tired to expend their energy in magic. . . .

    "I'll hire a carnage," she offered before any of them could say  a
word. Waving a  white hand,  she motioned  to a  gilded blue  eggshell
drawn by a team of robins. It flew over to them, and they each climbed
in, Gwen finding - to her embarrassment - that Joram managed to be  on
hand to assist her in entering.

    She ordered the driver  of the carriage to  take them through  the
shops and stalls that had sprung up  around Earth Gate like a ring  of
enchanted mushrooms. More than  a few people glanced  at them as  they
drove by, many pointing  them out as  Simkins companions and  laughing
heartily. Leaving  the area  around Earth  Gate, they  drove past  the
tropical gardens, admiring the flowers that grew here and nowhere else
in Thimhallan. Enchanted trees on the  Walk of Crafts were singing  in
chorus, and raised their  limbs as the carriage  flew beneath them.  A
unit of Imperial Guards mounted on seahorses bobbed through the air in
perfect unison.

    They could have spent  hours in the Grove,  but the afternoon  sun
was nearing the point designated by the Sif-Hanar as twilight. It  was
time to start  home and  - at Gwens  command -  their carriage  joined
others circling upward  to reach  the floating rock  pedestal of  City
Above.

    Sitting in  the  carnage  across from  the  young  men,  Gwendolyn
thought how time had flown by  all too rapidly. She could have  stayed
here forever. Seeing  Menlon's wonders  reflected in the  eyes of  her
guests - particularly the dark eyes of one of the guests - she  seemed
to see the city  for the first time  and she couldn't remember  having
noticed before how beautiful it was.

    And what did her  guests think? Mosiah was  wrapped in a spell  of
enchantment, pointing and gaping at the splendors with 'a naivete  and
childlike wonder that made him a figure of fun to all observers.

    Saryon didn't  see  the city  at  all. His  thoughts  were  turned
inward. The fabulous sights brought  back nothing but bitter  memories
to the  catalyst, and  only  made the  knowledge  of his  secret  more
burdensome.

    And Joram? At last he was seeing the city whose wonders his mother
had described in such vivid detail  every night of his childhood.  But
he wasn't seeing it through Anjas half-mad gaze. Joram's first glimpse
of Menlon was seen through eyes of blue innocence and a mist of  fine,
golden hair. Its beauty made his heart ache.

    The uuiklmasler's  "M ama,"  said Gwen,  "may I  introduce  Father
Dunsta-bie."

    "Father." Lady Rosamund  gave the  catalyst the very  tips of  her
fingers, curtsying slightly.  The catalyst bowed,  murmuring words  of
appreciation for miladys hospitality which milady returned  cordially,
if somewhat vaguely,  her gaze  fixed expectantly on  the gate  beyond
him. Lady Rosamund greeted her guests in the front court garden as was
customary in Merilon, the garden - of which milady was justly proud  -
providing a beautiful setting of ferns and rose trees.

    "And this is Mosiah and . . . and Joram," continued Gwen, blushing
prettily.  Hearing  a  smothered  giggle  from  her  cousins  in   the
background, the young girl tried  to appear completely unconscious  of
the fact that his name came to her lips like a song of joy. An  astute
and doting mother like Lady  Rosamund ordinarily would have noted  the
blush and guessed  the truth  the moment her  daughter introduced  the
young man. But Lady Rosamund was nervous and somewhat flustered.

    "Gentlemen," she  said,  giving them  each  her hand  and  looking
around them and above them at the gateway. "But where is Simian?"  she
asked after a moment passed and no one else entered.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 777  "Lady Rosamund," said Joram, "we  thank
you for your hospitality. And  we would like you  to accept this as  a
token of our gratitude."  So saying, Joram drew  the tulip -  somewhat
crushed and battered  - from  inside his tunic  and banded  it to  his
hostess.

    Her eyebrows raised and her lips  pursed, as if she suspected  she
was the brunt of some joke, Lady Rosamund coldly reached out her  hand
- - and touched Simkin's flowing, purple silk sleeve.

    "Merciful Almm!" she cried, backing up with a start. Then, "I  ask
forgiveness, Father, for the blasphemy," she murmured, blushing nearly
as pink as her daughter.

    "An  understandable  reaction,  my  lady,"  Saryon  said  gravely,
glancing at Simkm, who  was staggering about  the garden, gasping  for
air and fanning himself with the orange silk.

    "Almins Blood! My  dear boy" -  he turned  to Joram -  "a bath  is
requisite. Egad" - bringing his hand to his forehead, his eyes rolling
back in his head - "1 feel quite faint."

    "You poor thing!" said Lady Rosamund, marshalling servants  around
her with a look. In  a cool and calm  voice, milady issued orders  and
directed troop movements with the skill  of a warlock. All the  while,
she exhibited  the most  tender concern  for Simkin,  who looked  more
wilted in human form than he had in tulip. Calling upon the  strongest
of house magi,  milady ordered them  to assist Simkin  indoors to  the
best front parlor. A gesture of her own hand brought a fainting  couch
. hurrying to Simkin's  side. He collapsed on  it, affecting a  tragic
pose.

    "Marie," Lady Rosamund ordered, "conjure the herbal  restoratives.
…"

    "Thank you, my dear,"  said Simkin weakly,  his nose wrinkling  at
the smell of the tea, "but only brandy can bring me out of this shock.
Ah, madam!" - Gazing up piteously at Lady Rosamund - "if you only knew
what a terrible ordeal I've been through! Oh, I say!" he called  after
the servant. "Bring the  Year of the Frost  Grape, will you, my  dear?
Duke d'Montaignes  vineyard?  What,  nothing  but  domestic?  Well,  I
suppose it will have to do."

    The servant reappeared with the brandy decanter. Leaning his  head
back upon the silken cushions of  the couch, Simkin suffered Marie  to
hold a glass  to his lips,  and took  a sip. "Ah,  that helps."  Marie
removed the glass.

    "Just a touch more, my dear …"

    178 WEIS AND HICKMAN Taking the  glass, Simkin sat up, drained  it
at a gulp,  then fell back,  exhausted, among the  cushions. "Might  I
nave just one  more, my dear?"  he asked in  a voice that  - from  its
weakness - might have been instructing Marie to draw up his last  will
and testament.

    The catalyst brought another brandy as Lady Rosamund gestured  for
a chair. At her command, one  floated through the air, coming to  rest
near the couch where the young man lay. "Whatever do you mean, Simkin?
What terrible ordeal haw you been through?"

    Simkin grasped hold of her hand. "My dear madam," he said, "today"
- dramatic pause - "sink me, but  I was arrested!" He cast the  orange
silk scarf over his face.

    "Merciful AI- Heavens," Lady Rosamund stammered in astonishment.

    Simkin plucked  the silk  from his  face again.  "A most  dreadful
mistake! I have never been so humiliated.  And now I am on the run,  a
common criminal!" His head lolled back, weak with despair.

    "Common criminal?"  Lady Rosamund  repeated  in a  voice  suddenly
grown cool, her gaze going to the plainly dressed Mosiah and Joram and
even flicking,  for  an  instant,  over the  untrimmed  robes  of  the
catalyst. "Alfred," she  said to one  of the servants  in the  hurried
undertone, "go to the  Three Sisters and tell  Lord Samuels to  return
home at once. …"

    "Quite kind of  you, madam,  I assure you,"  Simkin said,  pushing
himself up  on unsteady  arms,  "but I  doubt  seriously if  there  is
anything His Lordship could do. He is, after all, a mere Guildmaster."

    Lady Rosamunds  face became  exceedingly  icehke. "My  lord,"  she
began, "is - "

    " - going  to be  of no  help to  me, I'm  afraid, 'm'dear,"  said
Simkin with a sigh.  Lying back once more,  he folded the orange  silk
and laid it  carefully across  his forehead. "No,  Lady Rosamund,"  he
continued before she could speak, "if Alfred is going out, please send
him to the Emperor. I'm certain this can all be cleared up."

    "To … to the Emperor!"

    '"Yes, of  course," Simkin  said, somewhat  irritably. "I  suppose
Alfred bad been granted entry into the Royal Palace?"

    Lady Rosamunds ice melted in  the. fever of embarrassment.  "Well,
to be frank -  It's just that we  have never - I  mean, there was  the
knighting ceremony, but that was - "

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 179 "What?  No access to  the Palace?  Sink
me!" Simkin murmured, his eyes closing in the most desperate despair.

    During this  interchange,  Mosiah  and  Saryon  stood  in  extreme
discomfort in a corner, feeling forgotten and very much out of  place.
Mosiah, in  particular,  was overawed  at  what  he had  seen  of  the
enchanted city  and  its  people,  who seemed  so  far  above  him  in
appearance, culture, and education that they might have been  heavenly
angels. He didn't  belong here. He  wasn't wanted here.  He could  see
Gwen and her  cousins smile  every time  he spoke.  Well-bred as  they
were, the  girls tried  to hide  their  mirth at  his uncouth  way  of
talking - they weren't particularly successful.

    "You were right,  Father," he whispered  bitterly to Saryon  under
the cover of  Simkins grand act.  "We were fools  to come to  Merilon.
Lets leave, right now!"

    "I'm afraid it isn't that easy, my boy," said Saryon with a  sigh,
shaking his head. "The Kan-Hanar must  approve all who leave the  city
through Earth Gate as well as all who enter. We would never be allowed
to go now. We must do what we can to survive this."

    "Survive?" Mosiah repeated,  thinking Saryon was  joking. Then  he
saw the catalysts face. "You're serious."

    "Prince Garald  said  it  would  be  dangerous,"  Saryon  answered
gravely. "Didn't you believe him?"

    "I guess  not," Mosiah  muttered, his  narrow-eyed gaze  going  to
Simkin. "I  thought he  was, well,  overreacting. I  never dreamed  it
would be … so … different! We're outsiders! Some of us, at least,"  he
added softly, with a glance at Joram. Mosiah shook his head. "How does
he do it. Father? He seems a  part of all this, as though he  belonged
here! Even more than Simkin! That  fool is just a plaything. He  knows
it,  and  laps   up  the  attention.   But  Joram-"  Mosiah   gestured
helplessly-"he has everything  these people  have-grace, beauty."  His
voice trailed off despondently.

    Yes, thought Saryon, his gaze going to Joram. He belongs. …

    The young  man stood  some distance  apart from  where Saryon  and
Mosiah huddled near the wall. The separation was not intentional,  but
as though he, too, sensed the difference between them. His head thrown
back proudly, he watched  Simkin with that half  smile on his lips  as
though the two were sharing a private joke on the rest of- the world.

    180 WEiS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 181 He belongs, and  he
knows it now, Saryon saw with a pang of sorrow. Beauty? I would  never
have said it of him,  not cold, bitter, and  withdrawn as he is.  Yet,
look at him now. Much of it is the young womans influence, of  course.
What man does not become beautiful under the spell of first love?  Yet
it is more than that.  He is a man  in darkness, stumbling toward  the
light. And, in  Merilon, that light  beats down upon  him, bringing  a
radiance and a warmth to his soul.

    What will he do, Saryon wondered sadly, if he ever discovers  that
the brightness of that  light covers only a  darkness deeper than  his
own? Shaking his head, he felt  Mosiahs warning touch on his arm,  and
returned to their present predicament.

    The household of Lady Rosamund that had been marching forward with
such dispatch and efficiency suddenly came to a halt in the middle  of
the road, so  to speak.  Simkin lay  languidly on  the couch,  moaning
bleakly about "docks and gibbets, stocks and thumbscrews" in a  manner
not at all  calculated to  endear him  to his  hostess. Lady  Rosamund
hovered in the center of the parlor, clearly at a loss for what to  do
next. The servants stood about, some with teacups balanced in the  air
before them,  others  holding  brandy decanters  or  bed  linens,  all
looking uncertainly  at  their mistress  for  orders. [  The  cousins,
Lilian and Majone, had retreated into a far corner, knowing that they,
too, were not wanted and both wishing devoutly they were at home. Gwen
stood near Marie, the catalyst, trying very hard not to look at Joram,
though her gaze constantly strayed in his direction. The pretty  flush
had drained from her cheeks at  the dreadful turn of events;  however,
her pallor made her  more lovely than ever.  The blue eyes were  large
and lustrous with tears; her lips trembled.

    But she's our only  hope, Saryon said to  himself. Going over  his
idea once more in his mind, he  decided to act on it. Things  couldn't
get much  worse.  It  was  becoming  increasingly  obvious  that  Lady
Rosamund was going to send for  her husband and then, though a  "mere"
Guildmaster, Lord Samuels would undoubtedly turn them all over to  the
Duuk-t<tarith. Saryon may have  been dealt a losing  hand, but he  was
suddenly determined  to  play it  out  to its  final,  bitter  finish.
Besides, he was startled to find  within himself a perverse desire  to
call Simkin s bluff.

    The catalyst  moved forward  silently and  unobtrusively to  stand
beside Gwendolyn. "My child," he said softly, "have you considered the
Ariels?"

    Gwen blinked - the  tears had been just  on the verge of  falling;
she knew her mother's intention as well as the catalyst - and then her
face brightened, color came and went  in her cheeks. "Of course,"  she
said. "Mama, Father Dunstable has an idea. We can send for the Ariels.
They can carry a message to the Emperor!"

    "That's true," said Lady Rosamund hesitantly.

    Saryon stepped backward, fading into the background as Gwen surged
forward to plead with her mother.

    "What have you done?" Mosiah asked, aghast, as Saryon returned  to
stand next to him.

    "I'm not  really  certain,"  the  catalyst  admitted  reluctantly,
folding his hands in his robes.

    "You don't  think the  fool actually  meant any  of that  nonsense
about the Emperor, do you?"

    "I don't  know,"  Saryon  snapped, beginning  to  have  misgivings
himself. "He knew Prince Garald …"

    "A Prince  close to  his own  age who  admits he  loves a  bit  of
parrying now and then is a lot different than the Emperor of Merilon,"
said Mosiah grimly. "Look at him!" He gestured at Simkin.

    The young  man was  greeting  the idea  with  his usual  aplomb  -
"Ariels? Capital idea. Can't imagine why  I didn't think of it  first.
Extend my sincere thanks to the bald party in the corner, will you?"

    Simkin  appeared  pleased  but   Saryon  thought  he  detected   a
distinctly hollow ring in the dulcet tones.

    "Well, you've  made  one  person happy,  at  least,"  Mosiah  said
sourly.

    Joram was looking at the catalyst with undisguised admiration.  He
even went so far as to nod his head slightly, and there was a  flicker
of light in  the dark eyes,  a grudging thanks,  that warmed  Saryon's
heart even as it increased his misgivings.

    "What does this  do for  us, besides  further the  course of  true
love?" Mosiah asked bitterly, beneath his breath.

    "Buys us time, if nothing else," Saryon returned. "It will be days
before the. Emperor can possibly be expected to answer."

    "I suppose  you're right,"  said  Mosiah gloomily.  "But  Sim-kins
certain to do something worse in the meantime."

    "We have to leave  Merilon before then," Saryon  said. "I have  an
idea, but in order to  act upon it I must  get to the Cathe- 182  WEIS
AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD  185 dral, and  it's too late  now.
They will be going to Evening Prayers."

    "I'll leave with you, and gladly. Father," Mosiah said  earnestly.
"I was a  fool to  come. I  don't belong  here. But  what about  him?"
Nodding, he turned a serious, concerned gaze on his friend, Joram, who
was watching Gwen. Mosiah's  voice softened. "How will  we get him  to
leave? Hes just found what he has hungered for all his life."

    Prince Garald, what have you  done? the catalyst said to  himself.
You taught him to be polite, you taught him to act as a nobleman.  But
it is an act still - the  silken glove concealing the tigers paw.  His
claws  are  sheathed  now,  but  someday,  when  he  is  starving   or
threatened, they will tear apart the fragile fabric. And the silk will
be stained with blood. I must get him out! I must!

    You will, he reminded himself, growing  more calm. Your plan is  a
good one. You  can have everything  arranged by tomorrow  or the  next
day. By  then, we  wili probably  have been  turned out  of this  fine
establishment. As for the Emperor. . . .

    Simkin was dictating a letter to Marie.

    "'Dear Bunkie -'" Simkin began.  "His nickname," he added,  seeing
Lady Rosamund turn pale.

    Saryon smiled grimly.  It didn  't appear  as if  the Emperor  was
going to be much of a problem.

    "You realize that  if they had  a barn, we'd  be sleeping in  it?"
Mosiah said bitterly.

    "What can  you  expect for  a  man  on the  run!"  Simkin  replied
tragically, hurling himself upon the bed.

    The young men were spending the night in what was obviously  meant
to be a carriage house when Lord Samuels could afford such luxury. The
servants had conjured up beds and clean linens, but the small house  -
located in back of the main dwelling- was devoid of decoration or  any
other sort ot amenities.

    Lord Samuels, as  it turned  out, had  heard the  entire story  of
Simkin  s  arrest  and  disappearance  during  a  Guild  meeting  that
afternoon, It was the  talk of Merilon, in  fact, whose people  always
enjoyed anything bizarre and out of the ordinary.

    Lord Samuels had enjoyed the story himself - until he arrived home
and found it  developing further  in his own  living Simkin  expounded
fully upon the very great honor of having himself as a houseguest.

    "My dear sir, a thousand Dukes, to say nothing of several  hundred
Barons and a Marquis or two, crawled - simply crawled - on their hands
and knees and begged me to favor them with my presence whilst in town.
I hadn't made up my mind,  of course. Then there was that  unfortunate
incident" -he looked pained and much injured - "from which your  sweet
child rescued me"-he  kissed bis hand  to Gwen, who  sat with  lowered
eyes - "and how could I refuse her kind offer of sanctuary?"

    But  it  did  not  appear  to  be  an  honor  that  Lord   Samuels
appreciated.

    Furthermore,  the  father's  guardian  eye  saw  what  the  doting
mother's had  not. He  saw immediately  the danger  in Joram's  darkly
handsome good looks. The  smoldering black eyes  were enhanced by  the
shining hair which Prince Garald had persuaded Joram to cut and  comb.
He wore it loose on his shoulders, the thick curls framing the  stern,
serious face. The young  man's fine physique,  his cultured voice  and
graceful hands accorded oddly with his plain clothing, lending an  air
of romantic  mystery  about  him  that was  further  enhanced  by  the
nonsensical story  of wicked  uncles  and lost  fortunes. As  if  this
weren't enough to turn the  head of any girl, there  was a sense of  a
raw animalistic  passion about  the  man that  was, to  Lord  Samuels,
particularly disturbing.

    Lord  Samuels  saw  his  daughters  flushed  face  and   quickened
breathing. He saw that she wore her  best gown to dinner and that  she
talked to everyone but  the young man  - sure signs  of her being  "in
love." This in itself did not  bother Lord Samuels a great deal.  Gwen
had, of late, been "in love" with some young man at the rate of  about
one a month.

    What concerned milord -and caused him to send his daughter to  her
chamber immediately following dinner - was that this young man was  so
different from the young noblemen Gwen regularly was in raptures over.
They were boys, as young and  flighty and'puppyish as his sweet  girl.
This one was  not. Though young  in years, he  had somehow acquired  a
mans seriousness of  purpose and  depth of feeling  that Lord  Samuels
feared must completely overwhelm his vulnerable daughter.

    Joram knew  his enemy  immediately. The  two regarded  each  other
coolly over dinner.  Joram said  little, concentrating,  in fact,  184
WEIS AND HICKMAN on maintaining his illusion of being Alive, using his
sleight-of-hand techniques  to eat  the rich  food and  drink the  (me
wines with the appearance of magic. In this he succeeded well, due, in
part, to the fact that Mosiah,  though highly skilled in magic, was  a
peasant when it came to dining. The bowls that were supposed to  float
gracefully to his  lips dumped soup  down his shirt.  The meat on  its
sizzling'skewer nearly  skewered  him.  The  crystal  globes  of  wine
bounced about him like so many balls.

    Lilian and Majorie -  they had been invited  to spend the night  -
giggled so much at  these mishaps that they  spent half the meal  witb
their faces  hidden behind  their  napkins. Ashamed  and  embarrassed,
Mosiah could not eat and sat red-laced and silent and sullen.

    Lord Samuels retired early and bid his guests - in a glacial  tone
of voice - to do likewise, saying  he was certain they wished to  rest
before their eminent  departure. As  for Simkins  assurances that  the
Emperor would doubtless bestow a duchy upon Lord Samuels in return for
his kindness  toward "one  whom the  Emperor considered  a wit  and  a
bonhomme of  the  first  order,"  milord  was  not  delighted  at  the
prospect, and bid them good-night quite coldly.

    The guests went to their  beds accordingly, the servants  lighting
the way to  the carriage house.  That night, while  Saryon and  Mosiah
discussed plans for leaving Menlon  and Simkm prattled away about  the
dire revenge  he intended  to  ask the  Emperor  to inflict  upon  the
Kan-Hanar at the Gate, Joram  was thinking about his enemy,  carefully
plotting Lord Samuels's overthrow and defeat.

    Joram had decided to make Gwendolyn his wife.

    A Falling Star T: '

    he next  day was  Seventh Day,  . or  Almin's Day,  though few  in
Menlon ever'thought of it  in those terms.  It was a  day of rest  and
meditation for a few, a day  of pleasure and relaxation for many.  The
Guilds were closed, as were all other shops and services. Prayers were
held twice in  the morning  at the Cathedral,  with an  early mass  at
sunrise for  the  ambitious, and  what  was laughingly  known  as  the
Drunkard's Mass at noonday  for those who found  it difficult to  rise
after a night of revels.

    Tbe family of Lord Samuels, as might be expected, was up with  the
dawn - which the Stf-Hanar always made particularly ethereal in  honor
of the  day -  and off  to  the Cathedral.  Lord Samuels  stiffly  and
perfunctorily invited the young men to come with him. Joram might have
been inclined to accept, but an alarmed look from Saryon caused him to
decline. Mosiah  refused summarily,  and Simkin  announced himself  as
being unwell and quite incapable  of summoning the strength needed  to
attire himself properly. Besides, he added with a prodigious yawn,  he
had to wait for the Emperors response. Saryon might have gone with the
family, tut he  said, quite truthfully,  that he had  not yet had  the
opportunity of making  his presence officially  known to his  brethren
and added,  also quite  truthfully,  that he  preferred 186  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN to  spend this  day alone.  Lord Samuels,  with a  smile  more
chilled than the melon, left them to their breakfast.

    It •was  a  silent  meal;  the  servants  being  present  hampered
conversation. Joram ate without tasting a thing. From the dreamy  look
in his eye, he was  feasting on rosy lips  and white skin. Mosiah  ate
hungrily, now that  he was no  longer under the  laughing eyes of  the
cousins. Simkin went back to bed.

    Saryon ate little and  retired from the  table quickly. A  servant
took him to the family chapel, and the catalyst knelt down before  the
altar. It was a  beautiful chapei, small  yet elegantly designed.  The
morning sun streamed in through brilliantly colored windows of  shaped
glass. The rosewood  altar was an  exact replica in  miniature of  the
altar in  the  Cathedral  -  carved  with  the  symbols  of  the  Nine
Mysteries. There were six  pews, enough for  the family and  servants.
Thick tapestries carpeted the  floor, absorbing all  sound - even  the
song of the birds outside.

    It was a room conducive to worship. But Saryons thoughts were  not
on the Almin nor was his mind  on the ritual words he was mumblng  for
the benefit of any servants who might happen past.

    How could I have  been so blind! he  asked himself over and  over,
clutching the darkstone  pendant he  wore around  his neck,  concealed
beneath his robes. How could Prince  Garald have been so blind? I  saw
the danger we faced, certainly. But what I saw as a dark crevice  that
might be leaped has widened into  a gaping, bottomless pit! I saw  the
danger in the large things but not  in the small! And it is the  small
that will entrap us in the end.

    Yesterday, for  example, when  viewing the  wonders of  the  town,
Saryon had seen Gwendolyn on the verge of asking him to grant them all
Life that they might float upon the wings of magic - something  which,
of course, was absolutely impossible for  Joram to either do or  fake.
Fortunately she had  said nothing, probably  assuming they were  tired
from their journey. Today they  had been fortunate as well;  catalysts
were given  the Almins  Day to  meditate and  study, and  so were  not
expected to provide Life for the family except in great need.

    Everyone walked  to the  Cathedra!, therefore  - a  feat that  was
quite a novelty for the residents of Merilon, who wore special shoes -
known sacrilegiously as Almin Shoes - for the day. These took  varying
forms -  depending on  the  wearers wealth  and  class -  from  silken
slippers to more elaborate  shoes of crys- DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD  187
tal, shoes of gold encrusted with jewels, or shoes molded from  jewels
themselves. It was quite the  fashion, currently, to train animals  as
shoes, and men and  women both could be  seen around the city  wearing
snakes or doves, tortoises or squirrels, wrapped around their feet. Of
course,  it  was  generally  impossible  to  walk  in  such  footwear,
requiring the nobility to be carried by their servants in chaises also
designed for this day alone.

    Lord Samuels and  family, being  only of the  upper middle  class,
wore very fine,  but very plain,  slippers of silk.  They did not  fit
particularly well -they didn't need to  - and Gwens slipper fell  from
her foot before leaving the house. Joram retrieved it and was  granted
the honor  by Gwen  - following  a timid  glance at  her father  -  of
putting the slipper once  more upon her small  white foot. This  Joram
did, under  the severe  and watchful  gaze of  Lord Samuels,  and  the
family proceeded  on its  way.  But Saryon  saw  the look  Joram  gave
Gwendolyn; he  saw the  color come  to Gwens  cheeks and  the  breasts
beneath her filmy gown  rise and fall faster.  The two were  obviously
plunging headfirst into love with all  the speed and direction of  two
boulders plummeting down the side of a cliff.

    Saryon was  considering this  unforeseen occurrence,  feeling  its
weight increase the  burden he  bore, when  a shadow  fell across  the
catalyst. His head  jerking up  in alarm,  Saryon breathed  a sign  of
relief when he saw it was Joram.

    "Forgive me, Catalyst, if I am disturbing your prayers . . ."  the
young man began  in the  cold tones he  was accustomed  to using  when
speaking to Saryon. Then he  fell silent abruptly, staring moodily  at
the door, his dark eyes unreadable.

    '"You are not disturbing  me," Saryon said,  rising slowly to  his
feet, his hand on the  back of the ornately  shaped wooden pew. "I  am
glad you have come, in fact. I want very much to talk with you."

    "The truth is,  Ca -"  Joram swallowed,  his eyes  shifted to  the
catalysts face - "Saryon," he said haltingly, "is that I came here  to
… to thank you."

    Saryon sat down rather suddenly upon the velvet pew cushions.

    Seeing the  astonished expression  on  the catalysts  face,  Joram
smiled ruefully - a  smile that twisted his  lip and brought a  deeply
buried glimmer  of light  to the  dark eyes.  "I've been  a  thankless
bastard, haven't I,"  he said,  a statement, not  a question.  "Prince
Garald told me, but I didn't believe him. It wasn't 188 WE1S AND II  I
C K M A N until last night- I didn't sleep much last night," he added,
a slow flush spreading over his tan face, "as you might guess.

    "Last night"  -he spoke  the words  reverently, with  a  lingering
softness, sounding  like a  young,  dedicated novitiate  praising  the
Almin  -"I  changed  last  night,  Cata  -  Saryon.  I  thought  about
everything Garald said to  me and -  suddenly - it  made sense! I  saw
what I  had been,  and  I hated  myself!"  He spoke  rapidly,  without
thinking, purging his soul. "I realized what you did for us yesterday,
how your quick thinking saved us … You have saved us - saved me - more
than once and I ve never - "

    "Hush,"  whispered  Saryon,  glancing  fearfully  at  the   chapel
doorHhat stood partially open.

    Following his gaze and understanding, Joram lowered his voice. " -
never said a word of  thanks. For that . .  . and for everything  else
you've done for me." His hand  motioned to the Darksword that he  wore
strapped in its sheath on his  back, hidden beneath his clothes.  "The
Almin knows why you  did it," he added  bitterly. Sitting down on  the
pew beside  Saryon, Joram  looked  up at  the  window, his  dark  eyes
reflecting the beautiful colors of the glass.

    "I used to tell  myself that you were  like me, only you  wouldn't
admit it," Joram continued, speaking softly. "I liked to believe  that
you were  using  me to  help  yourself. I  used  to think  that  about
everyone, only most were too hypocritical to admit the truth.

    "But that's  changed." The  reflected  light gleamed  brightly  in
Jorams black  eyes, reminding  the  catalyst of  a rainbow  against  a
storm-darkened sky. "I know now what it is to care about someone,"  he
said, raising his hand to prevent Saryon from interrupting him, "and I
know that you did what went against your conscience because you  cared
for others, not because  you were afraid for  yourself. Oh, maybe  not
me!" Joram gave a brief, bitter laugh. "I'm not stupid enough to think
that. I know how I've treated you. You helped me create the sword  and
you helped me kill Blachloch for the  sake of Andon and the people  in
that village."

    "Joram -" Saryon began brokenly, but he could not continue. Before
Saryon could stop him, the young man moved out of the pew and knelt on
the floor at the  catalysts feet. The dark  eyes turned away from  the
sunlit window  and Saryon  saw  them glowing  with an  intensity  that
recalled tbe forge fires, the coals DOOM OF THE DARKSWOR[> 189 burning
brighter and brighter as the breath  of the bellows gave them life;  a
life that would reduce them - in the end - to ashes.

    "Father," Joram said earnestly, "I need your counsel, your help. I
love her,  Saryon! All  night, I  couldn't sleep  - I  didn't want  to
sleep, for that would have  meant losing her image  in my heart and  I
couldn't bear it,  not even for  an instant. Not  even for the  chance
that I might  dream of her.  I love  her and" -the  young man's  voice
changed subtlely,  becoming  darker, cooller,  "  - and  I  want  her,
Father."

    "Joram!"  The  pain  in  Saryon's   heart  was  like  a   physical
obstruction. He wanted to say so  much, but the only words that  burst
forth through the terrible ache were, "Joram, you are Dead!"

    "Damn that!" Joram cried in anger.

    Saryon glanced fearfully at the door again and Joram, springing to
his feet, strode across the small room and slammed. it shut.  Turning,
he pointed at the catalyst. "Don't ever  say that to me again. 1  know
what I am! I've fooled people this long. I can go on fooling them!" He
made a furious gesture, pointing  upstairs. "Ask Mosiah! Hes known  me
all my life! Ask him,  and he'll tel! you,  hell swear by his  mothers
eyes, that I have magic!"

    "Butyou don't, Joram," Saryon  said in a low  voice that was  firm
despite his obvious  reluctance in  saying the words.  "You are  Dead,
completely Dead!" He rubbed his hand  along the arm of the pew.  "This
wood has more Life than  you, Joram! I can  feel its magic! The  magic
that lives in everything in this world pulses beneath my fingers.  Yet
in you there is nothing! Nothing! Don't you understand!"

    "And I'm saying it  doesn't matter!" The  dark eyes flared,  their
heat intense and  burning. Leaning  down over the  pew, Joram  gripped
Saryons arm. "Look at me! When I  claim my rights, when I am a  noble,
it won't matter! No one will care! All they'll see is my title and  my
money -"

    "But what about her?" Saryon  asked sorrowfully. "What will ,  'bf
see? A Dead man who will give her Dead children?"

    The flame from Joram's  eyes seared Saryons  soul. The young  mans
grip tightened on the catalysts arm  until Saryon winced in pain,  but
he said nothing. He couldn't have  spoken had he wanted to, his  heart
was too full. He sat quite still, his compassionate gaze never leaving
Joram.

    190 WE1S AND  HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 191  And slowly,  the
fire in the dark  eyes died. Slowly the  coals burned themselves  out.
The light glimmered  and was gone,  the color drained  from the  face,
leaving the skin pale, the lips ashen. Cold darkness returned.  Jorams
grip loosened and he straightened up. His face was, once more, severe,
set rock-hard  with  purpose  and  resolve.  "Thank  you  once  again,
Catalyst," he said evenly, his voice as hard as his face.

    "Joram, I'm sorry," Saryon said, his heart aching.

    "No!" Joram held up  his hand. For an  instant color came back  to
his skin, his breathing quickened. "You told me the truth, Saryon. And
I needed to hear it. It's something .  . . I'll have to think about  …
to deal with." Drawing a deep breath, he shook his head. "I'm the  one
who is sorry. I lost control. It won't happen again. You will help me,
won't you, Father?"

    "Joram," Saryon said gently, rising to his feet to face the  young
man, "if you truly care  about this young girl,  you will walk out  of
her life right now. The only groom's gift you can bring her is grief."

    • Joram stared at  Saryon in silence. The  catalyst saw his  words
had touched the young man. There was a struggle going on inside. Maybe
what Joram had said was true, maybe he bad changed in the long  night,
or maybe this change had  just come about gradually, naturally,  under
the long influence of patient friendship, patient caring.

    How the struggle in Jorams  soul might have resolved itself,  what
better decision Joram might have made at that moment when he was  hurt
and vulnerable, Saryon  was never to  know. For at  the moment,  chaos
erupted. The family had just returned home from the Cathedral when the
Emperors carriage was seen approaching, falling from the heavens  like
a star.

    "So, Simkin," said  the Emperor languidly,  "what have you  gotten
youself into this time?"

    The confusion into which the  Samuelses household was thrown  upon
receiving this  august  personage  into  their midst  was  not  to  be
described. The Emperor  had actually descended  from his carriage  and
floated into the front  court garden before  anyone could do  anything
other than  stare.  Fortunately  Simkin had,  at  that  moment,  flung
himself out the front door and  into the Emperors arms, wailing  about
"shame" and "degrading" and "thumbscrews!"

    The Emperor took Simkin in hand; Lady Rosamund came to her  senses
and - like the excellent general  that she was - assembled her  troops
and rode  forth  upon the  domestic  field. Graciously  welcoming  the
Emperor into her home, she led  him into the parlor, enthroned him  in
the best chair in the house, and deployed her family and guests around
him.

    "Really, Bunkie, I  couldn't say," Simkin  replied in hurt  tones.
"Its dashed humiliating, don't you know,  to have hands laid upon  one
at the Gate as though one were a murderer. …"

    Saryon, standing humbly in a corner, stiffened at this comment and
he saw Jorams  eyes flash  in swift alarm.  Simkin, noticing  nothing,
rattled on.

    "The deuce of it," he continued gloomily, "is that now I'm  forced
to lurk about  inside this .  . . establishment  . . .  and while  the
house is very fine and  Lady Rosamund has been hospitality  itself"-he
kissed his hand  to her negligently,  as she curtsied  to the floor  -
"'tisn't what I'm accustomed to, of course." He dabbed a corner of one
eye with the orange silk.

    1 "Actually, Simkin, we think you should count yourself fortunate,
the Emperor  replied, with  a smile  and a  lazy wave  of a  hand.  "A
charming residence, my lord," he said to Lord Samuels, who bowed  low.
"Your lady wife is a jewel and  we see her counterpart in your  lovely
daughter. We will do what we can  for you, Simkin" - the Emperor  rose
to take his  leave, sending  another ripple of  confusion through  the
household - "but we  think you should stay  here, in the meantime,  if
Lord Samuels will put up with you, that is."

    Milord bowed - several times. He was effusive, expansive. He would
be only too proud, too pleased. The honor of entertaining a friend  of
His Majestys was overwhelming. . . .

    "Yes," said the Emperor in fatigued tones. "Quite. Thank you, Lord
Samuels. Meanwhile, Simkin,  we shall  endeavor to find  out what  the
charge is, whos brought it,  and do what we can  about it. May take  a
day or two, so don't go paradin' about the streets. We can only do  so
much with the Duuk-foarith, you know."

    "Ah, yes. Dogs!" Simkin glowered,  then sighed deeply. "Very  good
of you, I'm sure. Your Majesty. If  I might have a word"- he drew  the
Emporer to one side, whispering in his ear. The words "Contessa,"

    "chafing dish," and "unfortunately discovered naked" were audible,
and once the Emperor laughed out loud in a truly light-hearted  manner
that Saryon, who had  192 WEIS AND H1CKMAN  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  193
been at court many times, had never heard. His Majesty clapped  Simkin
on the back.

    "We understand - 'nd now, must be going. Affairs of state and  all
that. We never rest  on the Almins Day,"  remarked the Emperor to  the
assembled family, who were waiting in  line to bid their august  guest
farewell. The Emperor proceeded to the front door. "Lord Samuels, Lady
Rosamund"-the Emperor  gave his  hand to  be kissed  -"thank you  once
again for extending your hospitality to this young scalawag. We have a
holiday coming upon us soon. A  grand ball at the Palace. Come  along,
won't you, Simkin,  and bring Lord  Samuels and his  family with  you.
Eh?" The Emperors  gaze touched  on Gwendolyn. "Would  you like  that,
young lady?"  he  said, dropping  the  affected tone  and  manner  and
regarding the young woman with a fatherly smile in which Saryon saw  a
hint of wistfulness and pain.

    "Oh, Your Majesty!" Gwen  whispered, clasping her hands  together,
so overwhelmed with pleasure at the idea that she completely forgot to
curtsy.

    "Thats all right,  my lady,"  the Emperor said  kindly, when  Lady
Rosamund rebuked her daughter  for her lack  of manners. "We  remember
what it was to be young." Again, the wistfulness, tinged with regret.

    The  Emperor  was  standing  inside   the  door  and  Saryon   was
congratulating himself on having  survived this latest crisis  without
incident when he saw Simkin glance about mischievously. Saryon's heart
jolted. He knew what the young man had in mind and, catching Simkin  s
eye, he  shook  his  head emphatically,  trying  desperately  to  lose
himself in the woodwork. - But  Simkin, with an ingenuous smile,  said
casually, "Egad, the shock of this frightful incident has unnerved me.
I've neglected to present my  friends to Your Highness. Your  Majesty,
this is Father Dungstable . . ."

    "Dunstable," murmured the wretched catalyst, bowing low.

    "Father," said the Emperor  with a graceful  gesture and a  slight
dip of the perfumed and powdered head.

    "And two  friends  of  mine-actors," said  Simkin  easily.  "Stage
names, Mosiah and Joram. We could present a charade at the ball …"

    Saryon didn't  hear what  else Simkin  said -and  neither did  the
Emperor.

    The man, with an air of amused and patronizing tolerance, extended
his hand to  Mosiah, who  kissed it,  his face  nearly as  red as  the
rubies on the Emperor's fingers. Joram came forward to do the same.

    The young man  had been  standing somewhat behind  Saryon, in  the
shadow of  an  alcove, when  he  was introduced.  Moving  forward,  he
touched the hand and bowed over it - though he did not kiss it -  then
straightened. As  he did  so,  he stepped  into  a pool  of  sunlight,
shining through a window  directly opposite. The  sun brought out  the
finely shaped lines of Joram's face, the high cheekbones, the  strong,
proud chin.  It glistened  in  Joram's hair;  his mothers  hair;  hair
renowned in story and song for its beauty; hair that, like the hair of
a corpse, seemed possessed of its own life . . .

    The Emperor stopped in his empty, meaningless gesture and  stared.
The blood drained  from the  man's face,  the eyes  widened, the  lips
moved soundlessly.

    Saryon caught his breath. He knows! The Almin help us! He knows.

    What will he do? the  catalyst wondered, panic-stricken. Call  the
Duuk-t-. 'artrtb'*. Surely not! Surely he couldn't betray his own son.
. . .

    Saryon looked around wildly. Surely  everyone must notice! But  no
one was watching seemingly, no one but him.

    Hurriedly, he looked back and blinked in astonishment.

    The Emperors face was calm. The shock of recognition had been as a
ripple on the surface of placid water, nothing more. He gave the young
man a smile in exactly the same empty manner that he had given him bis
hand. Joram stepped back into the shadow - he had noticed nothing, his
eyes dazzled from staring  directly into the  sun. The Emperor  turned
away negligently, resuming conversation with Simkin as though  nothing
had happened.

    "Consummate actors, my friends," Simkin was saying, dabbing at his
lips with the orange silk. "They're included in the invitation to  tbe
Palace, of course. Highness."

    "Friends?" The Emperor  appeared to have  forgotten them  already-
"Oh, yes, of course," he said magnanimously.

    "Odd time  of  year  for  a  holiday,  isn't  it,  Your  High  and
Mightyship?" continued  the  irrepressible  Simkin,  accompanying  the
Emperor out the door amidst a  flurry of bows and flut-terings by  the
household of Lord  Samuels. The Emperor's  carriage floated above  the
street. Made entirely ot faceted crystal, it had been shaped to  catch
and reflect the  sunlight, and  it 194 WE1S  AND HICKMAN  accomplished
this so well that few  could look at it  without being blinded by  the
glare. "I can't recall, offhand, what it is we're celebrating? "

    The  Emperors  reply  to  this  question  was  lost,  the   entire
neighborhood having  turned out  to cheer  and wave.  Lord  Sam-uels's
reputation and  status were  fixed  in that  instant. Certain  of  his
neighbors who had  entertained hopes  of rising  to the  Guildmaster's
level were  in that  instant uprooted  and cast  aside as  neatly  and
quickly  as  the  Druids  uprooted  dead  trees.  Ascending  into  his
carriage, the Emperor extended his blessing  to one and all, and  then
the star lifted back into the heavens, leaving the earthbound  mortals
below to bask in the waning light of glory.

    Inside the house of the Samuels, joy was unbounded. Lady  Rosamund
glowed  with  pride,   her  gaze  going   with  satisfaction  to   the
aforementioned neighbors. Gwen was in raptures over the invitation  to
the ball, until she  realized she had nothing  to wear and burst  into
tears. Mosiah stood staring after the Emperor and the marvelous  coach
in a dazed state from which  he was rescued by cousin Lilians  bumping
into him -  quite by  accident, the  blushing girl  assured him.  Upon
receiving his  apology, she  wondered  if he  would be  interested  in
seeing the inner garden, and led him outdoors, cooing with delight  at
his "quaint" way of talking.

    And Joram discovered that he had  routed his enemy - horse,  foot,
and artillery.

    Coming  over  to  the  young   man,  Lord  Samuels  laid  a   hand
affectionately on  Joram's  shoulder.  "Simkin tells  me  you  believe
yourself to have  some claim upon  estates here in  Menlon," the  lord
said gravely.

    "My lord," said  Joram, eyeing  him warily, "the  story about  the
wicked uncle isn't true . . ."

    Lord Samuels  smiled. "No,  I never  believed that  for a  moment.
Wormed the truth out of Simkin last night. It's much more interesting,
as a  matter of  fact. Perhaps  I can  be of  help. I  have access  to
certain records . . ." So saying, he drew the young man away into  his
private study and shut the door behind them.

    No one noticed  the catalyst,  for which Saryon  was grateful.  He
returned to the family  chapel, where he was  certain of being  alone,
and sank down upon the cushions of  the pews. The sun no longer  shone
through the stained-glass window, the  room DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD  195
was left in cool shadows.  Saryon began to shiver uncontrollably,  not
from cold, but from a vast, overwhelming fear.

    Having witnessed the treachery  of man, he had  lost his faith  in
his god.  The universe  was to  him  nothing more  than one  of  those
gigantic machines  he had  read  about in  the  ancient texts  of  the
Sorcerers of the Dark  Arts: a machine  that - once  started - ran  by
itself, operating  by physical  laws. Man  was a  cog in  the  wheels,
driven oy his own physical laws, his life dependent upon the motion of
the other lives  around him. When  a cog broke,  it was replaced.  The
great machine kept going and would do so, on and on, perhaps forever.

    It was  a bleak  glimpse  of the  universe,  and Saryon  found  no
comfort in it. Yet, it was better than the view that the universe  was
run by some petty god who doted on power and dabbled in politics,  who
allowed his  name to  be mouthed  sanctimoniously by  his Bishop,  who
herded his "flock" like so many sheep.

    But now,  for the  first time,  Saryon began  to consider  another
possibility, and his soul shrank from the thought in awe. Suppose  the
Almin u'a,> out there and He was vast and mighty in His power. Suppose
He knew the number of the grains  of sand that lay upon the shores  of
Beyond. Suppose He knew the hearts and minds of men. Suppose He had  a
plan as vast as dreams,  a plan no mere mortal  could begin to see  or
comprehend.

    "And  suppose,"  whispered  Saryon  to  himself,  staring  at  the
stained-glass window where the symbol of the Almin was represented  in
the nine-pointed star, "that we  are a part of  this plan and that  we
are being rushed  toward our  destiny, swept to  our doom  like a  man
caught in the river rapids. We  might cling to rocks, we might  strive
to reach the shore, but our strength is unequal to the task. Our  arms
are torn from their safe hold, our  feet touch the bank, and then  the
current catches us once more. And soon the dark waters will close over
our heads. …"

    Letting his head  sink into his  hand, Saryon closed  his eyes,  a
tight feeling in his chest as though he were truly drowning, his lungs
burning for air.

    Why had this terrifying  notion come to him?  Because he knew  the
holiday they would be celebrating within two weeks of this day.  Joram
would be entering the  palace of Merilon eighteen  years after he  had
left it - eighteen years to the day.

    Joram would be celebrating the anniversary of his own death.

    Threads of the Web F  • ilc ir below  the Palace of Mer-ilon,  far
below City Above and City Below, far below the Gardens and the tomb of
the great  wizard who  led his  people here  from a  world seeking  to
destroy them, there  is a  chamber whose  existence is  known only  to
members of that Order  which- in reality -  rules Thimhallan. In  that
secret chamber one night, eight people came together. Dressed in black
robes, their hands clasped before them, they stood in a circle  around
a nine-pointed star that  had been drawn upon  the floor. Each  hooded
head faced in the same direction, toward the ninth point of the  star,
despite the fact that the place on the floor was currently empty.  All
waited patiently; patience was  their watchword. Patience, they  knew,
was generally rewarded.

    The air shivered and  the ninth point of  the star upon the  floor
was covered by the hem of  black robes. Glancing around the circle  to
see that all  were present, the  ninth member nodded  her hooded  head
and, with a clap of her  hands, caused a huge leather-bound book  with
blank pages  of brittle  parchment  to appear  in  the center  of  the
circle, hovering, suspended in the air.

    "You may proceed," she  said to the member  standing on the  first
point of the star.

    The Duuk-foarith began  his report.  As he spoke,  his words  were
recorded, traced by  lines of  flame upon  the parchment  in the  huge
book.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 197 "A  child was lost  in the  marketplace
this day, madam," he said. "She  has since been found and returned  to
her parents."

    The witch nodded. The next spoke.

    "We have solved the  murder of Lucien  the alchemist, madam.  Only
one person could have possibly  known enough to substitute a  chemical
which, when combined with another, would produce a violent  explosion,
rather than the elixir of youth for which the alchemist was said to be
searching."

    "The alchemists apprentice," said the witch.

    "Precisely."

    "Motive?"

    "The apprentice and Luciens wife were lovers. Under  'questioning,
' the apprentice  confessed both to  his crime and  to hers. Both  are
being held for sentencing."

    "Satisfactory." The witch nodded once more, her eyes going to  yet
another point on the star.

    "The search for the Dead man, Joram, continues, madam. A record of
those who were or might have been Field Magi entering Merilon has been
compiled. Eleven have been reported thus  far and these have all  been
checked. All have legitimate reasons for  being in the city and  seven
have been  positively  eliminated.  In addition,  the  catalysts  have
supplied us with a list  of all new brethren  of their Order who  have
entered the city.  Comparing the two  lists, we have  come up with  an
interesting match."

    He paused, looking questioningly at his leader, mentally asking if
this was a matter for the entire conclave or for her alone. The  witch
considered and, after a  moment, dismissed the  others and closed  the
great book.

    "Proceed," she said when they were alone.

    "The catalysts name is Father Dunstable. A House Catalyst, he left
Menlon several years ago.  He has returned to  Merilon, he says,  upon
the death of his Master and the breaking up of the household."

    "A story that can be verified."

    "We are  doing  so,  of  course, madam.  He  does  not  match  the
description of  this Father  Saryon, but  a disguise  could have  been
easily effected. The interesting  point is that  he entered town  with
one of the young men we know to have been at one time a Field Magus."

    "Any other companions?"

    The warlock hesitated. "We know of one, madam, and there may  have
been others. The Gate  was crowded that day  and an incident  occurred
which involved considerable confusion."

    198 WEIS AND HICKMAN •c*T*| - ft n l his was. '

    "The attempted arrest of one  of the catalysts companions,  madam.
Simkin."

    The witch frowned. "This complicates matters. The Emperor  himself
has seen fit to  intervene on Simkin's behalf.  Not that Simkin is  of
any consequence." The witch made  a deprecating motion with her  hand.
"That matter was  trivial and easily  smoothed over. But  we must  not
make it appear that we are harassing the young man. The Emperor  would
be displeased, and matters are too delicate in that area to allow  him
any excuse  to strike  out against  us -or  Prince Xavier.  Therefore,
proceed with caution. Isolate the Field  Magus, if you can, and  bring
him in for  questioning. Or  perhaps . .  ." She  hesitated, her  lips
pursed in thought.

    "Madam?" queried the warlock respectfully. "You were saying?"

    "Simkin has worked for us before, has he not?"

    "Yes, madam, but . . ." It was now the warlock's turn to hesitate.

    "But?"

    "He is erratic, madam."

    "Nevertheless" - the  witch* made her  decision-"see what you  can
accomplish there. He  could be  of inestimable help.  Be discreet,  of
course. You know how to handle him, I presume?"

    The warlock bowed. "And the catalyst?"

    "The Church will  deal with their  own, as always.  I will  inform
Bishop Vanya,  but I  daresay he  won't want  to move  without  proof.
Continue your investigation."

    "Yes, madam."

    The witch fell silent, her white  teeth biting her lower lip.  The
warlock remained  standing unmoving  before her,  knowing he  was  not
dismissed either from  her thoughts  or from her  presence. Her  eyes,
gleaming in the shadows of her hood, sought him out at last.

    "There was no other companion? No other person present with  these
three?"

    The warlock had been waiting  for that question. "Madam," he  said
in a low voice, aware that  she did not tolerate excuses, yet  knowing
that she must accept her own limitations, "there was a large crowd  at
the Gate, and a great deal  of confusion. The young man, Joram,  after
all, ; 1" Dead. Not  only that, but if DOOM  OF THE DARKS WORD 199  he
truly does have the power of the darkstone, he could remain  invisible
to our eyes."

    "Yes,"  the  witch  muttered.   "You  have  the  household   under
surveillance?"

    "As best we can, considering the Emperor has taken them under  his
protection. I have hesitated to question the staff. . . ."

    "You do right.  Servants gossip,  and we  must be  careful not  to
alarm these young men. Remember that when you deal with Simkin. If  it
i, ' them, the least hint of trouble and they will flee. Our only hope
is to keep them in the city.  Once in the Outland, we have lost  them.
Give them  time, lull  them into  complacency, and  they will  make  a
mistake. When they do, we will be ready."

    "Yes, madam." The  warlock bowed and,  sensing himself  dismissed,
vanished.

    The single word "Patience," whispered  in the air, followed  after
him like a benediction.

    6 DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 201 The Garden T • ih he people of Merilon
know that the inner  garden, or House  Garden as it  is known, is  the
heart of every  home. Every dwelling  -no matter how  humble- has  its
garden, even if it is nothing but a bed of flowers IIT the center ol a
cobblestone walk. 'From its green serenity springs the joy and  solace
necessary for a households well-being. Legend holds that the amount of
Life with which a family is blessed grows in the House Garden.

    Of course,  the  wealthy  in  Merilon  own  gardens  of  rare  and
remarkable beauty. An inner garden  that was well tended and  properly
cultivated could bless  a house in  other ways, as  Lord Samuels  well
knew. Status took root and flourished in a House Garden. Thus, as with
so many other things in his life, Lord Samuels's gardens were not only
beautiful . . . they were good business as well.

    A House Garden is  not easy to maintain.  Lord Samuels could  have
afforded a gardener, but that would have appeared to be rising too far
above his station. He  kept the garden  himself, therefore, going  out
each morning before work  to make certain that  all was in order.  The
dragonlilies, for example, had a most disconcerting tendency to  flute
blue flame at  certain hours ol  the day. Decorative  and useful as  a
timepiece, the plants  could be harmful  unless carefully watched.  He
had to prune  the choral bamboo  daily; some stalks  grew faster  than
others, and it was forever falling out of tune. The wind palms had  to
be  adjusted  each  morning  to  the  weather.  Their  swaying  fronds
generated a  constant and  pleasant breeze  that was  welcome on  warm
days, but uncomfortable on cool ones. In that instance, the palms  had
to be magically subdued.

    These were minor problems, however. Lord Samuels's garden was,  in
general, well planned, well ordered,  and much admired. Admittedly  it
was small compared to the gardens of the upper class. But Lord Samuels
had cleverly compensated  for this deficiency.  The garden paths  that
wound among the thick, lush plantings, trees, and flowers were a  maze
of twists and  turns. Once in  the garden, the  visitor not only  lost
sight of the house but his  sense of direction as well. Walking  among
the hedges that Lord Samuels caused to shift about in their  positions
daily, a person could  "lose" himself quite  pleasantly in the  garden
for hours.

    This was, next to flirting, Gwendolyns favorite pastime.

    Gwen was relatively well-educated, it being currently in vogue for
the Atbanara  to  educate their  daughters.  Every morning  she  spent
studying her lessons with Marie, supposedly learning advanced theories
and philosophies of  magic and  religion. It pleased  Lord Samuels  to
look in daily  on his daughter  at her studies,  her golden head  bent
solemnly over  a book.  When he  left for  work, that  pleasant  sight
lingered in his memory. What he did not know was that the book  either
disappeared promptly after his departure or was replaced with one that
dealt with more  interesting matters  - such as  bold S;  r Hugo,  the
highwayman.

    Occasionally Lady Rosamund took over morning lessons,  instructing
her  daughter  on  the  management  of  the  household,  dealing  with
servants, and the raising of children. These lessons Gwendolyn enjoyed
almost as much as  Lady Rosamund, both spending  a great deal of  time
building and furnishing splendid  castles in the  air. But, no  matter
how much she delighted  in being with her  mother or in reading  about
Sir Hugo, Gwen looked forward each day to the end of lessons when  she
and Marie went for their daily stroll in the garden.

    Lady Rosamund always said, laughingly, that Gwen had the blood  of
a Druid  in her  veins,  for the  girl had  a  way with  plants  quite
remarkable for one not  born to that mystery.  She could 202 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 205 coax blossoms  from the most  sulky
rosebush by her voice alone. Saplings  that had lost the will to  live
lifted their spindly limbs  at her gentle  touch, while choking  weeds
cowered at her approach and attempted to hide from her sight.

    Gwen was never happier than  when wandering through the garden  in
the mornings. And it  was undoubtedly chance  that brought Joram  into
the garden this time of day as well. At least he "

    "<ul? it was chance - he had simply wanted a breath of fresh  air.
Certainly he appeared surprised to see her floating above him amid the
rose trees, her golden hair - elaborately coiled and braided about her
head - shining  in the  sunlight, her  pink gown  with its  fluttering
ribbons, making her seem not unlike a rose itself.

    "I bid you  sun arise,  sir," said  Gwendolyn, the  colors of  the
roses in her cheeks.

    "Sun arise, my lady," said Joram  gravely, looking up at her  from
where he stood upon the ground.

    "Won't you join me, please?" Gwen asked, motioning upward.

    To Gwen's  astonishment, Jorams  face  darkened, his  black  brows
coming together in a thick, hard line above his eyes. "No, thank  you,
my lady," he said in a measured voice. "I do not have sufficient  Life
- "

    "Oh," cried Gwen eagerly, "Marie will grant you Life, if your  own
catalyst is not about yet this morning. Marie? Where are you?"

    Looking around  for the  catalyst, Gwen  missed seeing  the  swift
spasm of pain  that briefly  contorted Jorams face.  Marie, coming  up
behind her mistress, was looking directly at the young man and saw  it
quite clearly.  Though she  could not  guess what  it meant,  she  was
sensitive enough to understand that -  for some reason - he could  not
or would not use  his magic. Like any  good servant, she provided  him
with an excuse - her own failing-  "If my lady and the gentleman  will
both forgive me," she  said, "I feel somewhat  too fatigued. I was  up
during the night with the little ones."

    "And I've been a selfish beast, draining your energy all  morning.
Forgive me," Gwen  said, instantly  contrite. "I'll  come down.  Don't
move." Her filmy gown swirling about her, enveloping her in a cloud of
pink, Gwen drifted down to the ground, hovering just above the path so
that she would not bruise her bare feet on the rocks.

    Mane glanced at Joram, and received a look of gratitude. But there
was another look in the dark eyes - a piercing scrutiny, as if he  was
trying  to  guess  how  much  she  knew  -  that  the  catalyst  found
unsettling.

    "I will show you through the garden, if you like, sir," Gwen  said
timidly.

    "Thank you, I would like that  very much." Joram replied, but  his
dark eyes remained on Mane, increasing her discomfort. "My father  was
a catalyst," he added, seeming to feel the need tor explanation. "I am
Albanara, but I have a very low level of Life."

    "Indeed, sir?" Marie returned politely, feeling confused and -  if
it hadn't seemed too absurd - threatened by the intensity of the young
man's gaze.

    "A catalyst?" Gwen  asked innocently. "And  you're not a  catalyst
yourself? Isn't that unusual?"

    "My life has been unusual," Joram said gravely, turning from Marie
to Gwen, politely  giving her  his hand to  support her  as she  moved
slowly through the air at his side.

    "I would  like to  hear about  your life  very much,"  Gwen  said.
"You've been  out in  the world,  haven't you?"  Sighing, she  glanced
about the  garden. "I've  spent  all my  life  here. I've  never  been
outside of Merilon. Tell me about the world. What is it like?"

    "Sometimes, very harsh," said  Joram in low  tones, the dark  eyes
now wistful and shadowed. Glancing down, he saw the white hand resting
in his calloused  palm - her  skin smooth and  soft, his skin  scarred
from the forge fires.

    "I will tell  you my  story, if  you want  to hear  it," he  said,
abruptly shifting  his  gaze to  a  magnificent stand  of  tigerstripe
lilies. "I told it  to your father, last  night. My mother, like  you,
was born and raised in Merilon. Her name was Anja. She was Albanara …"

    He continued talking, telling  Anja's tragic tale  (as much as  he
considered safe  for the  young woman  to know),  his voice  sometimes
faltering or dropping so low that  Gwen was forced to drift nearer  to
him to hear.

    Marie, following at  a discreet distance  behind, watched  without
seeming to look, listened without seeming to hear.

    W E I S  A N II I  C K M A  N "Your mother died,  and so you  came
here, to seek your fame and fortune?" Gwen said, her eyes shining with
tears when the story had come to an end.

    "Yes," answered Joram steadily.

    "I think it's a  splendid thing you're doing,"  said Gwen, "and  I
hope you  find  your mothers  family  and make  them  feel  absolutely
wretched about the  terrible way they  treated her. 1  can't think  of
anything more cruel! To be made to watch the man you love perish  like
that!" Gwen shook her head, a tear glistened on her cheek. "No  wonder
she went mad, poor thing. She must have loved your father very much."

    "And he loved her," Joram said,  turning on the path and  reaching
out to take hold of Gwendolyn's other hand. "He suffered living death,
for her sake."

    Gwen flushed up to the roots of her golden hair; the bodice of the
pink gown rose and fell very fast. She saw the unmistakable message in
Jorams eyes, she felt  it surge from his  hands to hers. A  delightful
pain shot through her heart, marred  by a stab of fear. Holding  hands
like this suddenly seemed very wrong. With a conscious glance at Mane,
Gwen drew her hands away from the young mans grasp; he did not try  to
stop her.

    Placing her hands behind her back - out of harms way - Gwen turned
from the disturbing look  in the dark  eyes and began  to talk of  the
first thing that  came to  her mind.  "One thing  I don't  understand,
though," she said, her brow creased in thought. "If the Church forbade
your mother and father to marry,  how was it that you were  conceived?
Did the catalysts - "

    At this  moment,  Marie  came hurrying  to  her  mistress's  side.
"Gwendolyn, my pet,  you are  shivering- I beheve  the Stf-Hanar  have
made a mistake this morning. Do you not find it cold for spring?"  she
asked Joram hastily.

    "No, Sister," he answered. "But then, I am accustomed to being out
in all types of weather."

    "I'm not at all cold, Marie," Gwen started to say irritably when a
sudden thought  struck her.  "You are  right, as  always, Marie,"  she
said, rubbing her arms. "I am a  bit chilled. Be a dear and go  inside
to letch my shawl."

    Too late, the catalyst  saw her mistake. "My  lady can summon  the
shawl to her." Marie said, somewhat sternly.

    "No, no." Gwendolyn shook her  head, smiling mischievously. "I  am
drained of Life, and you are too fatigued to DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 205
grant me more. Please bring it to  me, Marie. You know how upset  Mama
gets when I  catch cold. We  will wait  here for you  to return.  This
gentleman will have no objection, I suppose, to keeping me company?"

    The gentleman had no objection whatsoever, and Marie had no choice
but to return to the house in  search of the shawl, which Gwen  prayed
was well-hidden.

    Still keeping  her hands  safely behind  her back,  yet feeling  a
perverse longing to  experience that strange,  delightful pain  again.
Gwendolyn turned to face Joram. Raising her head, she looked into  the
dark eyes and the pain returned, although not quite as pleasant.  Once
again, she had the sensation that the  warmth and joy of her soul  was
being absorbed by this young man, that it was feeding some deep hunger
inside him, and that he was giving nothing back in return.

    The look in the dark  eyes was frightening, more frightening  than
his touch, and Gwen averted her gaze. "It … it is cold," she faltered,
drifting backward slightly. "Perhaps I should go inside. . . ."

    "Don t go,  Gwendolyn, '" he  said in  a tone that  sent a  thrill
through her being, as  though she had reached  into a storm cloud  and
touched lightning. "You know how I feel about you . . ."

    "I don't know how you feel,  not in the slightest," Gwen  returned
coolly, her fear  replaced by the  sudden enjoyment of  the game.  Now
they were playing  by rules  she understood. "What's  more," she  said
loftily, turning away  from him,  her hand  reaching out  to caress  a
lily, "I don't care to know."

    It was the same flirtatious speech she had used to the elegant son
of the Duke of  Manchua, and that ardent  youth had thrown himself  at
her feet - literally  - declaring his  undying devotion and  countless
other agreeable absurdities that she and her cousins had giggled  over
during the night. Her hand  on the lily, she  waited for Joram to  say
and do the same.

    There was only silence.

    Glancing at him from beneath her long eyelashes, Gwen was appalled
by what she saw.

    Joram looked like a  man sentenced to .  death. His face was  pale
beneath the tan,  his lips  ashen and  pressed together  to keep  from
trembling or perhaps from uttering the words that burned in his  eyes.
His jaw muscles clenched. When he  spoke, it was with visible  effort.
"Forgive me," he said.  "I have made  a fool of  206 WE1S AND  H1CKMAN
DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 207 myself. I was mistaken in your kindness,  it
appears. I will take my leave - "

    Gwen gasped.  What  was he  saying?  What  was he  doing?  He  was
leaving! Actually  turning  and  starting  to  walk  away,  his  boots
crunching on the marble pebbles of the path that sparkled in the  sun!
But this wasn't part of the game!

    And suddenly she realized that - to  him - this u'eu no game.  The
story of his life came back to her and she heard it, this time, with a
womans heart. She  felt the bleakness,  the harshness. She  remembered
the hunger in his eyes, and some  part of her saw the darkness  there,
too.

    For a moment Gwen hesitated, trembling. Part of her wanted to hang
back and let him go, remain a little girl, playing the game still. But
another part whispered that if she did, she would lose something dear,
something precious,  never to  find it  again her  entire life.  Joram
continued  walking  away.   The  pain  inside   Gwen  was  no   longer
pleasurable, it was cold and hollow and empty.

    Magic drained from  her body, she  sank to the  ground. Joram  was
moving farther and farther away. Ignoring the sting of the sharp rocks
cutting into the flesh  of her delicate feet,  Gwendolyn ran down  the
path.

    "Stop, oh, stop!" she cried in anguish.

    Startled, Joram turned at the sound of her voice.

    "Please, don't go!"  Gwen pleaded, reaching  out to him.  Tripping
over her long,  fluttering skirts,  she stumbled and  nearly fell.  He
caught her in his arms.

    "Don't leave me, Joram," she  whispered, looking into his eyes  as
he held her close, his hands gentle and tender, yet trembling even  as
she trembled. "I do care! I do! I don't know why I said those  things!
It was wrong and  cruel of me -  " Hiding her face  in her hands,  she
began to cry.

    Joram clasped the young  woman in his  arms, smoothing the  silken
hair beneath his fingers. Blood pounded in his ears. The fragrance  of
her  perfume,  the  softness  of  the  body  pressed  close  to   his,
intoxicated him. "Gwendolyn," he said in  a shaking voice, "may I  ask
your father for permission to marry you? "

    She did not look at him or she might have seen the darkness inside
him, crouching like a savage beast in a corner of his soul; a darkness
he himself believed was chained and manageable. Had she seen it,  girl
that she was still, she would have  run, for it was a darkness only  a
woman who has wrestled similar darkness  within her own soul can  face
unafraid. But  Gwendolyn kept  her  eyes hidden  and only  nodded,  in
answer.

    Joram smiled and - seeing Marie coming in the distance, the  shawl
m her hand  - whispered a  hasty warning to  Gwen to compose  herself,
adding that he  would talk to  her father without  delay. Then he  was
gone, leaving Gwen standing on  the path, hurriedly blinking back  her
tears and trying as best she could to wipe the blood from the cuts  on
her feet, concealing the wounds from the loving eyes of her governess.

    The third evening following the momentous occasion of the Emperors
visit, another  couple walked  in the  garden, milord  having  brought
milady here for the express purpose of having a private talk with her.

    "So the story  of the  wicked uncle  is not  true?" Lady  Rosamund
asked her husband in disappointment.

    "No, my  dear," said  Lord Samuels  indulgently. "Did  you  really
think it would be? A child's tale. . . ." He dismissed it with a  wave
of his hand.

    "I suppose not," Lady Rosamund said with a sigh.

    "Do not be  downcast," said milord  in a low  voice as he  drifted
through the  evening  air  at  her side.  "The  truth,  while  not  as
romantic, is far more interesting."

    "Truly?" Milady brightened, looking up fondly at her husbands face
in the moonlight, thinking how handsome he was. The conservative  blue
robes of the  Guildmaster became  Lord Samuels well.  Just over  forty
years old, milord kept  himself in good  physical condition. Since  he
was not a nobleman, he was not tempted to indulge in the  dissipations
of the  upper class.  He  had not  grown fat  from  too much  food  or
red-faced from too much wine. His hair, though graying, was thick  and
plentiful. Lady Rosamund felt a good deal of pride in him, as he  felt
in her.

    Their marriage,  arranged by  their families  as were  so many  in
Menion, had not been  one of love. Their  children were conceived-  as
was right and proper - through the intercession of the catalysts,  who
transferred the mans seed to the woman in a solemn religious rite. The
physical joining of two people was considered a sin-being barbaric and
animalistic. But Lord  Samuets and Lady  Rosamund were more  fortunate
than most.  Affection for  each  other had  grown through  the  years,
springing from mutual respect and suitability of minds and purpose.

    208 W E  [ S  AND HICKMAN  "Yes, truly,"  Lord Samuels  continued,
glancing at the  roses with a  critical eye and  reminding himself  to
check for aphids on the morrow.  "Do you recall a scandal, some  years
ago -"

    "Scandal!" Milady looked alarmed.

    "Be  easy,  my  dear,"  Lord  Samuels  said  soothingly.  "It  was
seventeen - almost eighteen-years ago. A young woman of high birth . .
." milord paused, "I may say very high birth," he added  meaningfully,
obviously enjoying keeping milady in suspense, "had the misfortune  to
fail in love  with the  family catalyst. The  Church disallowed  their
marriage and the  two ran  away. They  were later  discovered in  very
shocking and dreadful circumstances."

    "I recall something of the sort," Lady Rosamund said. "But I don't
think I  ever  knew any  details.  We were  not  yet married,  if  you
remember, and my mama was very protective."

    Leaning down, Lord Samuels whispered something in milady s ear.

    "How frightful!" Lady Rosamund drew back from him in disgust.

    "Yes." Milord  appeared  grave. "A  child  was conceived  in  this
unholy fashion. The father  was sentenced to  the Turning. The  Church
took the young woman in,  gave her shelter and  a place to stay  while
she was with  child. There  is every reason  to believe  that had  she
returned to her family, all would  have been forgiven. She was,  after
all, an only child, and they  were wealthy enough to hush matters  up.
But the terrible experience  drove the young woman  mad. She took  her
baby and fled the city, living  as a Field Magus. Her family  searched
for her, but without success.  Both parents of this unfortunate  woman
are now dead  - as she  is herself,  according to the  young man.  The
lands and property reverted to the Church with the stipulation that if
the child lived, he should have his inheritance. If this young man can
prove his claim …"

    Lady  Rosamund  turned  to  face  her  husband,  her  gaze   fixed
searchmgly upon his  face. "You know  the name of  this family,  don't
you?"

    "I do, my dear," he said gravely, taking her hand in his. "And  so
do you. At least, you  will recognize it when  you hear it. The  young
man says his mothers name was Anja."

    "Anja," milady repeated, frowning. "Anja. . . ." Her eyes widened,
her lips parted,  and she placed  her hand over  her mouth.  "Merciful
Almin!" she murmured.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 209 "Anja,  only daughter of the late  Baron
Fitzgerald - "

    " - cousin to the Emperor. - "

    " - related in  one way or  another to half  the Noble Houses,  my
dear - "

    " - and one of the wealthiest men in Merifon," both said together.

    "Are you certain?"  Lady Rosamund  asked. Her face  was pale,  she
laid her hand upon  her bosom to calm  her beating heart. "This  Joram
could be an imposter."

    "He could be," Lord Samuels conceded, "but the matter is so easily
checked, an imposter would know he couldn't hope to succeed. The young
mans story has the ring of truth.  He knows enough, but not too  much.
There are gaps, for example, that he doesn't attempt to fill,  whereas
an imposter would,  I believe,  try to have  all the  answers. He  was
completely confounded when I  told him who his  mother really was  and
what the estate  might be worth.  He had  no idea. The  young man  was
genuinely dazed. What's  more, he said  Father Dunstable could  verify
his story."

    "You spoke to the catalyst?" Lady Rosamund asked eagerfy.

    "Yes, my dear. Just this afternoon. The man was reluctant to  talk
of it -you know how these catalysts hang together. Ashamed, no  doubt,
to admit that one of his Order  could fall so low. But he admitted  to
me that Bishop Vanya himself had sent him to search for the young man.
What could be the  reason except that they  want someone to take  over
the estate?" Lord Samuels was triumphant.

    "Bishop Vanya! Himself!" Lady Rosamund breathed.

    "You see?  And"-Lord  Samuels leaned  closer  to speak  to  milady
confidentially once more" - the young  man has asked my permission  to
pay court to Gwendolyn!"

    "Ah!" Lady Rosamund gave a little gasp. "And what did you say?"

    "I said -  sternly, mind  you - that  I would  consider it,"  Lord
Samuels replied,  clasping  the  collar  of  his  robes  in  a  highly
dignified manner. "The young mans  identity will have to be  verified,
naturally. Joram is  reluctant to go  to the Church  with what  little
evidence he has  now, and  I don't blame  him. Might  weaken his  case
further down the road. I promised  I would make a few more  inquiries,
see what additional proof we can  uncover. He'll need a record of  his
birth, for example. Shouldn't be too difficult to obtain."

    210 W  E  [  S  AND  HICKMAN  "What  about  Gwen?"  Lady  Rosamund
persisted, brushing aside such masculine issues.

    Lord Samuels smiled indulgently. "Well, you should talk to her  at
once, my dear. Discover her feelings in the matter - "

    "1  think  those  are  obvious!"  Lady  Rosamund  said,   somewhat
bitterly. It was a  bitterness that soon  passed, however, having  its
roots only in the  very natural sorrow at  the prospect of losing  her
beloved daughter.

    "But, in the  meantime," Lord  Samuels continued  more gently,  "I
think we might allow the two  of them to go around together,  provided
we keep our eyes upon them."

    "I don't really see how we could do otherwise," said Lady Rosamund
with some spirit. At a gesture, she caused a lily to snap off its stem
and glide into her  hand. "I have never  seen Gwen so infatuated  with
anyone as this Joram. As for them going around together, they've  been
nowhere else but with  each other the past  few days! Marie is  always
with them, but . . ." Milady shook her head. The lily slipped from her
hand. She  dropped  down slightly  in  the air,  nearly  touching  the
ground. Her husband caught hold of her.

    "You  are  tired,  my  dear,"  said  Lord  Samuels   solicitously,
supporting his wife with his own magic. "1 have kept you up too  long.
We will discuss this further tomorrow."

    "It has been a  wearing few days, you  must admit," Lady  Rosamund
replied, leaning  on his  arm for  comfort. "First  Sim-kin, then  the
Emperor. Now this."

    "Indeed it has. Our little girl is growing up."

    "Baroness Gwendolyn," Lady Rosamund said  to herself, with a  sigh
that was part maternal pride, part motherly regret.

    One evening three or four or maybe five days later, Joram  entered
the garden in search  of the catalyst. He  wasn't certain himself  how
long it had been since he had asked Gwendolyn to marry him and she had
agreed. Time meant nothing to Joram anymore. Nothing meant anything to
him except her. Every breath he  took was scented with her  fragrance.
His eyes saw no one  but her. The only words  he heard were spoken  by
her voice. He was jealous of anyone else who claimed her attention. He
was jealous of the night that forced  them to part. He was jealous  of
sleep itself.

    But he  soon  discovered that  sleep  brought its  own  sweetness,
though it was a sweetness mingled with aching pain. In his DOOM OF THE
DARKSWORD 211 sleep, he could do what he dared not do during the day -
give  in  to  his  dreams  of  passion  and  desire,  fulfillment  and
possession. The  dreams took  their toll  - Joram  would wake  in  the
morning, his blood on fire, his heart burning. Yet the first sight  of
Gwendolyn walking in  the garden  fell like  a cooling  rain upon  his
tormented soul.  So  pure,  so  innocent,  so  childlike!  His  dreams
sickened him, he felt ashamed, monstrous; his passions seemed  bestial
and corrupt.

    And yet his hunger  was there. When he  looked at the tender  lips
speaking to him of  azaleas or dahlias  or honeysuckle, he  remembered
their warm,  soft touch  in his  dreams and  his body  ached. When  he
watched her walking beside  him, her lithe,  graceful body clothed  in
some pink cloud  of a gown,  he remembered clasping  that body in  his
dreams, holding her  close to  his breast  with no  flimsy barrier  of
cloth between them, remembered making her  his own. At such times,  he
would fall silent and avert his eyes from her gaze, fearful she  would
see the fire raging there, fearful this fair and fragile flower  would
wilt and die in its heat.

    It was  in  the throes  of  this bittersweet  torture  that  Joram
entered the garden late one night,  searching for the catalyst, who  -
so the servants said - often walked here when he could not sleep.

    The rest of the  household had gone to  their beds. The  Sif-Hanar
had decreed that there be no wind tonight, and the garden,  therefore,
was hushed  and  quiet.  Rounding  a  corner,  Joram  affected  to  be
surprised when he found Saryon sitting alone upon a bench.

    "I am sorry,  Father," Joram said,  standing in the  shadows of  a
eucalyptus. "I  did  not mean  to  interrupt you."  Half  turning,  he
started - very slowly - to withdraw.

    Saryon turned at  the sound of  the voice, raising  his head.  The
moonlight shone full upon his face. It was a strange face, this facade
of Father Dunstable, and Joram always found it startling and  somewhat
disquieting. But the eyes  were those of the  scholar he had known  in
the Sorcerers' village  -wise, mild,  gentle. Only  now, in  addition,
Joram saw a haunted expression in the eyes when the catalyst looked at
him, a shadow of pain that he could not understand.

    "No, Joram, don't go,"  Saryon said. "You do  not disturb me.  You
were in my thoughts, in fact."

    "In your prayers, too?" Joram asked as a joke.

    212 WEIS AND  HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE I)  ARKS WORD  213 The  Priests
sorrowful face grew  so pale  that the  words fell  flat. Joram  heard
Saryon sigh  heavily. The  catalyst  passed his  hand over  his  eyes.
"Come, sit by me, Joram," he said, making room on the bench.

    Joram did so.  Sitting down  beside the catalyst,  he relaxed  and
listened - for the first time - to the silence of the garden at night.
Its peace  and  tranquility  drifted  down  upon  him  like  a  gentle
snowfall, its cool shadows easing his burning mind.

    "Do you  know, Saryon,"  Joram  said hesitantly,  unaccustomed  to
speaking his  thoughts, yet  feeling  somehow that  he owed  this  man
something and longed to pay  the debt, "the other  day - when we  were
together in the chapel -was the first time I had ever been inside a  …
a holy place.  Oh" - he  shrugged - "there  was a church  of sorts  in
Walren, a crude building where the Field Magi went once a week to  get
their daily dose of guilt from Father Tolban. My mother never darkened
the door, as I suppose you can guess."

    "Yes,"  murmured  Saryon,   looking  at  Joram   with  a   puzzled
expression, astonished at this unusual outpouring of words.

    "Anja talked about  god, about  the Almin,"  Joram continued,  his
gaze fixed upon  the moonlit roses,  "but only to  give thanks to  him
that I  was better  than the  others. I  never bothered  to pray.  Why
should I? What did 1 have to be thankful for?" the young man said, the
old bitterness creeping into his voice. He grew quiet, his gaze  going
from the delicate white flowers on the vine to his hands - so  skilled
and supple, so deadly.  Clasping his hands  together, he continued  to
stare at them, unseeing, as he spoke.

    "My mother hated catalysts - for what they had done to my father -
and she fed  me on hatred.  You told me  once - Do  you remember?"  he
glanced at Saryon, "  - that it  is easier to hate  than to love?  You
were right! Oh,  how right  you were. Father!"  Joram's hands  parted,
clenched into fists. "All my life,  I have hated," the young man  said
in a low, passionate  voice. "I'm beginning to  wonder if I can  love!
Its so hard, it hurts … so much. . . ."

    "Joram," Saryon began, his heart full.

    "Wait, just let me finish,  Father," Joram said, the words  almost
exploding out  of  him  with pent-up  frustration.  "Coming  in  here,
tonight, I  suddenly  thought  of  my father."  The  dark  brows  came
together. "I've never thought of him,  much," he said, staring at  his
hands once more. "When I did, it was to see him standing there on  the
Borderland, his stone  tace frozen and  un-moving, the tears  dropping
from eyes that stare eternally into a death he'll never know. But now,
in here" - lifting his head. glancing around the garden, Joram's  face
softened - "1 think of him as he  must have been - a man like  myself.
With . . . pas-sionsMike mine, passions he could not control. I see my
mother as  she  must  have  been then,  a  young  girl,  graceful  and
beautiful and …" He hesitated, swallowing.

    "Innocent, trusting," Saryon said gently.

    "Yes," Joram answered inaudibly. Looking  at the catalyst, he  was
astounded at the sight of the anguish he saw in the mans face.

    Saryon caught hold of the young mans hands, gripping them with  an
intensity as painful as his words.

    "Leave! Now, Joram!" the catalyst said urgently. "There is nothing
for you here! Nothing for her but bitter unnappmess- as there was  tor
your poor mother!"

    Stubbornly, Joram shook his head,  the Curling black hair  falling
down over his face. He broke free of the catalysts grip.

    "My boy, my son!"  Saryon said, clasping  his own hands  together.
"It pleases me more than anything that you feel you can confide in me.
I would be but a poor recipient of your confidence if I did not advise
you to the best of my ability. If only you knew- It only I could - "

    "Knew what?" Joram asked, looking up swiftly at the catalyst.

    Saryon blinked and bit off his words, swallowing them hastily. "If
only I could make you  understand," he finished lamely, sweat  beading
on hs lips. "I know you plan to marry this girl," he said slowly,  his
brows knotted.

    "Yes," Joram answered coolly. "When my inheritance is settled,  of
course."

    "Of course," repeated Saryon in hollow tones. "Have you given  any
thought to what we discussed the other day?"

    "You mean about me being Dead?" Joram asked evenly.

    The catalyst could only nod.

    Joram was silent another  moment. His hand  going absently to  his
hair, he began to rake through it, combing it with his fingers as  had
Anja, so long ago. "Father," he said finally, in a tight voice, "don't
I have a right to love, to be loved?"

    "Joram -  " Saryon  began helplessly,  fumbling for  words.  "That
isn't the point. Of  course you have that  right! All humans have  it.
Love is the gift from the Almin - "

    214 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN  "Except  to those  who  are  Dead!"  Joram
sneered.

    "My son," Saryon said  compassionately, "what is  love if it  does
not speak the truth? Can love grow and flourish if it is planted in  a
garden of lies?"  His voice  broke before  he could  finish, the  word
"lies" seeming to shine in the darkness brighter than the moon itself.

    "You are right, Saryon,"  said Joram in a  firm voice. 'My  mother
was destroyed by lies - lies she  and my father told each other,  lies
she tola herself.  It was the  lies that drove  her mad. I've  thought
about what you  said to  me, and  I have decided  - "  He paused,  and
Saryon looked at him hopefully.

    " - to tell Gwendolyn the truth," Joram finished.

    The catalyst sighed, shivering in the cool night air. That  hadn't
been the answer he hoped to hear. Drawing his robes closer about  him,
he pondered his next words carefully. "I am glad, glad beyond measure,
that you realize you cannot deceive this girl," he said finally.  "But
I still think it would  be better to drop out  of her life - at  least
right now. Perhaps,  someday, you can  return. To tell  her the  truth
will put your own life at risk,  Joram! The girl is so young! She  may
not understand, and you will only endanger yourself."

    "My life means  nothing to  me without her,"  Joram responded.  "I
know she is  young, but  there is  a core  of strength  within her,  a
strength born of goodness and her love for me. There is an old  saying
of your Almins,  Catalyst." Looking  at Saryon, Joram  smiled, a  true
smile, one that  brought a soft  light to the  dark eyes. "'The  truth
shall make you free. '  I understand that now  and I believe it.  Good
night, Saryon," he added, rising to his feet.

    Hesitantly, he laid  his hand on  the catalyst's shoulder.  "Thank
you," he said awkwardly.  "I sometimes think …  if my father had  been
more like you - if he had been  wise and caring - then the tragedy  of
his life and mine might never have happened."

    Joram turned away abruptly and walked with rapid strides down  the
winding, twisting  garden path.  Embarrassed and  ashamed over  having
bared his soul, he did not look back at Saryon as he left.

    It was well  that Joram did  not see the  catalyst. Saryon's  head
sank to his hands,  tears crept from beneath  his eyelids. "The  truth
shall make you free," he whispered,  weeping. "Oh, my god! "You  force
me to eat my own words and they are poison to me!"

    The Killing Frost s (everal more days passed after the meetings in
the garden - days of idyllic bliss for the lovers, days of torture for
the catalyst, slowly sinking  beneath the burden  of his secret.  Lord
Samuels and Lady  Rosamund smiled  upon the  "children" with  delight.
Nothing m the house was too good for the future Baron and his friends,
and Lady Rosamund began to consider how many people could be fit  into
the dining room for the wedding breakfast and if it would be proper to
invite the Emperor or not.

    Then one morning  Lord Samuels went  out to his  garden as  usual,
only to return almost  immediately to the  house, using language  that
shocked the servants  and caused his  wife -seated at  breakfast -  to
raise her eyebrows in reproof.

    , "Damn the Sif-ffanarl" Lord Samuels thundered. "Wheres Marie?"

    "With the  little ones.  My dear,  whatever is  the matter?"  Lady
Rosamund asked, rising from the table in concern.

    "A frost! Thats what's the matter! You should see the garden!"

    The family  rushed outside.  The garden  was truly  in a  pitiable
state. One look at  her beloved roses, hanging  black and withered  on
their stems,  caused Gwendolyn  to  cover her  eyes  in 216  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 217  despair. The trees were rimed  with
white; dead blossoms fell like snow; brown leaves littered the ground.
With Marie to grant him Life, Lord Samuels did what he could to repair
the worst of the damage, but he predicted it would be many days before
their garden recovered.

    This damage was not confined  to Lord Samuels's garden alone.  All
of Merilon  was in  an uproar  and,  for a  few quaking  moments  that
morning, several of the Sif-Hanar envisioned themselves languishing in
the dungeons of the Duuk-foarith. It  finally came out that the  fault
lay with two of them, each of whom had assumed the other was going  to
regulate the temperature of  the dome in the  night. Neither did.  The
wintry weather outside caused the  weather inside to turn from  spring
to fall in an instant, and all of Merilon was drooping, wilting, brown
and dying.

    Lord Samuels went  to work  in a foul  temper. The  day passed  in
gloom, and evening did  nothing to improve  anyones spirits, for  Lord
Samuels returned home in a darker  mood than before. Saying little  to
anyone, he went out to the garden to survey the damage. On his return,
he sat down to dinner with his guests and family as usual, but he  was
silent and thoughtful during the meal, his gaze resting on Joram, much
to that young man's consternation.

    Gwendolyn, noticing her fathers subdued spirits, imme-dately  lost
her appetite. To ask what was  bothering him would be an  unpardonable
breach of etiquette - the  only conversations considered suitable  for
the dinner table were lighthearted recounts of the days activities.

    Lady Rosamund, too, noticed her  husband's dark mood and  wondered
fearfully what had happened.  It was obvious that  this was more  than
worry over the garden.  There was nothing she  could do, however,  but
try to cover for it as best she could and entertain their guests. Lady
Rosamund chatted about this and  that, therefore, with a semblance  of
cheerfulness that only made the meal more gloomy.

    Young Master Samuels had  learned to fly up  out of his crib  that
morning, she  reported, but,  scaring  himself by  this feat,  he  had
apparently lost his  sense of  magic and  tumbled down  to the  floor,
frightening everyone for a few moments until the lump on his head  was
examined by Marie and pronounced not serious.

    No word had  been received  from Simkin,  who had  that morning  -
unaccountably and without  saying anything to  any- one-  disappeared.
But a high-placed  friend of  a high-placed friend  of a  lower-placed
friend of milady s  informed her that  he had been  seen at court,  in
company with the  Empress. This same  friend of a  friend of a  friend
reported that the Empress was in  iow spirits, but that this was  only
natural, considering the anniversary that was coming up.

    "What  a  dreadful  time   that  was,"  recalled  Lady   Rosamund,
shuddering delicately, nibbling at an iced strawberry. "That day  when
the Prince was declared Dead. We had the most splendid parry  planned,
to celebrate his  birth, and  we had to  cancel it.  Do you  remember,
Marie? All the food we  conjured up . . ."  She sighed. "I believe  we
sent it down to the cousins, so that it wouldn't go to waste."

    "I remember," Marie said gravely, trying to keep the  conversation
going. "We - Why, Father Dunstable, are you all right?"

    "He's swallowed  something  the  wrong way,"  said  Lady  Rosamund
solicitously. "Bring him a glass of water." She motioned to a servant.

    "Thank you," murmured Saryon. Choking, he thankfully hid his  face
in the  goblet  of water  one  of the  House  Magi sent  floating  his
direction. So shaken was the catalyst  that he was forced to clasp  it
in his trembling hand and drink it in this awkward fashion instead  of
using his magic to keep the goblet suspended near his lips.

    Shortly after this. Lord Samuels rose abruptly from his chair.

    "Joram,  Father  Dunstable,  will  you  take  your  brandy  in  my
library?" he said.

    "But - dessert?" said Lady Rosamund.

    "None for me, thank  you," Lord Samuels  replied coldly, and  left
the room after casting Joram a  meaningful glance. No one else said  a
word. Gwen sat huddled in her chair, looking very much like one of her
frost-blighted roses.  Joram and  Saryon  excused themselves  to  Lady
Rosamund, and  Lord  Samuels led  nis  guests into  his  library,  the
servant following.

    A figure started up out of a chair.

    "Mosiah!" said Lord Samuels in astonishment.

    "I beg your pardon, my lord," Mosiah stammered, flushing.

    "We missed you at  dinner, young man,"  Lord Samuels said  coldly.
This was a polite fiction. In the prevailing gloom of the dining room,
no one had noticed the young mans absence at all.

    218 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 219 "\ guess I  forgot
about the time. I was so involved in reading-" Mosiah held up a book.

    "Go ask the servants  to get you something  to eat," Lord  Samuels
cut him off, opening the door wide in a gesture of dismissal.

    "Tha - thank you, my lord," stuttered Mosiah, his eyes going  from
the lord's grim face to Joram's  worried one. He looked to Saryon  for
an explanation, but the catalyst  only shook his head. Bowing,  Mosiah
left the room  and Lord Samuels  motioned to the  servant to pour  the
brandy.

    The library was a cozy chamber. Obviously designed by and for  the
man of the house, it was filled with numerous pieces of finely  shaped
wood - a  large oaken desk,  several comfortable chairs,  and a  great
many lovingly  shaped  bookcases.  The  books  and  scrolls  contained
therein were suitable to Lord Samuels's rank and position in  society.
He was  an educated  man, as  was necessary  to rise  to the  rank  of
Guildmaster, but he was not too educated. That would have been  viewed
as an attempt to rise above his  station, and Lord Samuels - like  his
wife - was careful to keep  a respectful distance between himself  and
his betters.  For this,  he was  widely admired,  particularly by  his
betters, who were frequently heard to observe that Lord Samuels "knew"
his place.

    Joram glanced at the books as he entered. Drawn to knowledge as  a
starving man to food, Ke was already familiar with every title in  the
library. When he was forced - of  necessity - to be parted from  Gwen,
he spent most of his  time in here with  Mosiah. True to his  promise,
Joram had taught his  friend to read. Mosiah  was an apt pupil,  quick
and intelligent.  The lessons  went  well, and  now, in  his  enforced
confinement, Mosiah found the library a blessing.

    He had begun his studies in earnest, working his way painstakingly
through  the  texts,   often  without  help;   Joram  being   somewhat
preoccupied. In particular, Mosiah was  entranced by the books on  the
theories and uses of magic, having never been exposed to anything like
this before.  Joram considered  these books  boring and  useless,  but
Mosiah devoted most of his  leisure hours - and  there were many -  to
the study of his magic.

    Saryon, in his turn, did not notice the books at all. The catalyst
barely noticed anything in the room, including the chair which  milord
drew up for him with a gesture  and then had to reposition quickly  as
the catalyst  - absorbed  in his  thoughts -  started to  sit down  in
midair.

    "I beg your pardon. Father Dunstable," Lord Samuels apologized  as
the catalyst  literally  collapsed  into the  chair  that  scooted  up
beneath him.

    "My fault, my lord," Saryon mumbled. "I wasn't watching . . ." His
voice died.

    "Perhaps you should get out more, Father," Lord Samuels  suggested
as the servant was causing the brandy to flow from a crystal  decanter
into fragile goblets of glass. "You and that young man, Mosiah. I  can
understand why  this  young man  prefers  my garden  to  the  fabulous
gardens of City  Below" - he  gave Joram a  meaningful look, a  slight
frown marring his forehead - "but I do think you and Mosiah should see
the wonders of  our beautiful  city before  you leave."  There was  an
unconscious emphasis on the words.

    Alarmed, Joram  glanced at  Saryon, but  the catalyst  could  only
return his  look with  a shrug  of the  shoulders. There  was  nothing
either could  do  or  say;  Lord Samuels  was  obviously  keeping  the
conversation carefully innocuous until the servant had been dismissed.
Joram stiffened, his hands curled-over the arms of his chair.

    "I understand  that  you once  lived  here, Father  Dunstable?"  '
continued Lord Samuels.

    Saryon could trust himself only to nod.

    "You are familiar with our city, then. But this is the young man -
Mosiah's - first visit, ^et  my lady tells me  he spends his hours  in
here, reading!"

    "He likes to read, my lord," Joram said shortly.

    Saryon tensed. A week  with Prince Garald had  given Joram a  thin
coating of courtesy and court manners.. The young man believed  fondly
that this had changed his life. But Saryon knew it was only temporary,
like the cooled top crust of a lava flow. The fire and rage were there
still, bubbling just below the surface. Let the crust crack, and  they
would spew forth.

    "Will there be anything  more you require,  my lord?" the  servant
asked.

    "No, thank you,"  Lord Samuels replied.  Bowing, the servant  left
the room,  shutting the  door behind  him. With  a spoken  word,  Lord
Samuels cast a spell of sealing on it, and the three were alone in the
library that smelled faintly of musty parchment and old leather.

    220 WEIS AND H1CKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 221 "We have a  matter
of some unpleasantness to discuss," Lord Samuels said in a cool, grave
tone. "I find it never  helps to put these things  off, and so I  will
get right to the point. A difficulty has arisen concerning the records
of your birth, Joram."

    Lord Samuels paused, apparently  expecting some response-  perhaps
even a confused admission from the  young man that he was, after  all,
an imposter. But Joram  said nothing. His  dark eyes maintained  their
fixed, steady gaze, staring so intently into Lord Samuels's eyes  that
it was  His Lordship  who eventually  lowered his  head, clearing  his
throat in some embarrassment.

    "I am not  saying that  you have  deliberately lied  to me,  young
man," Lord Samuels continued, his brandy hovering untasted in the  air
beside him. "And  I admit  that perhaps  I compounded  the problem  by
becoming too .  . . enthusiastic.  I believe I  may have raised  false
hopes in you - "

    "What is the problem with the records?" asked Joram, his voice  so
brittle that Saryon shuddered, seeing the rock start to crack.

    "To put  it simply  -they  do not  exist," replied  Lord  Samuels,
spreading his hands out  wide, the palms empty.  "My friend has  found
the record of this woman s,  Anjas, admittance to the Font's  lying-in
chambers. But there is  no record at all  of her baby's birth.  Father
Dunstable"-milord interrupted himself -  "are you feeling quite  well?
Should I send for the servant?"

    "N-no, my lord. Please …"  Saryon murmured in an inaudible  voice.
He took a  gulp of brandy,  gasping slightly as  the fiery liquid  bit
into his throat. "A slight indisposition. It will pass."

    Joram opened his mouth to speak again, but Lord Samuels raised his
hand and,  with  an obvious  effort  of self-control,  the  young  man
remained silent.

    "Now, there are undoubtedly reasons  why this could be. From  what
you have  told  me  about  your  mothers  tragic  past,  it  would  be
consistent with her  distraught state of  mind at this  period of  her
life to think she might have taken the records of your birth with her.
Particularly if she thought she could come back and use them to  claim
what was rightfully her inheritance. Did she ever mention to you  that
she had such records in her possession?"

    "No," Joram answered. "My lord," he added stiffly.

    "Joram"-Lord Samuels's voice grew stern, annoyed at the young mans
tone - "I want very much to believe  you. I have gone to a great  deal
of trouble to investigate  your claims. I did  this not only for  you,
but for my daughter, as well. My child's happiness means everything to
me. I  can  see quite  clearly  that she  is  … shall  we  say .  .  .
infatuated with you. And  you with her.  Therefore, until this  matter
can be resolved, I think it is m both your best interests if you leave
my house - "

    "Infatuated? I I0iv her, my lord!" Joram interrupted.

    "If you do  truly love  my daughter  as you  claim," Lord  Samuels
continued coolly, "then you will agree with me that it is in her  best
interests that you leave this house immediately. If this claim ofyours
can be proven, of course, I will give my consent to - "

    "It is true, I  tell you!" Joram  cried passionately, half  rising
from his chair.

    The young  man's dark  eyes  burned, his  face flushed  in  anger.
Frowning, Lord Samuels made a slight movement toward the small  silver
bell that would summon the servants.

    Seeing  this,   Saryon  reached   out  his   hand  and   laid   it
re-strainingly upon Jorams arm, causing  the young man to sink  slowly
back into his chair.

    "I'll  get  proof!  What  proof  do  you  want?"  Joram  demanded,
breathing heavily. His hands clutched the armrests of the chair in his
effort to control his temper.

    Lord Samuels sighed. "According to my friend, the midwife he spoke
to in the Font is of the opinion that the former midwife - the one who
was there at the time of your birth - remembered that occasion, due to
the . . . um . . . unusual circumstances surrounding it. If you had  a
birthmark' - milord shrugged  - "anything that  she might recall,  the
Church  would  undoubtedly  accept  her   testimony.  She  is  now   a
high-ranking Thetdara attending  the Empress," Lord  Samuels added  by
way of explanation to Saryon, who wasn't listening.

    The catalysts head was bursting  with intense pain; blood beat  in
his ears. He knew what Joram was going to say, he could see the  light
of hope  dawning upon  the young  mans  face, he  could see  the  lips
moving, his hands going  to the fabric of  the shirt that covered  his
chest.

    /  must  ttop  him!  the  catalyst  thought  desperately,  but   a
paralyzing fear gripped him.  Saryon's lips were  rigid, he could  not
speak. He could not draw breath.  He might have been turned to  stone.
He could hear Joram talking, but the words came to him with a  muffled
sound as if spoken out of a thick mist.

    222 WEIS AND  HICKMAN "I  do have  a birthmark!"  The young  man's
hands tore his shirt open. "One shes certain to remember! Look!  These
scars … on my chest! Anja said they were caused by the clumsy  midwife
who delivered me! Her nails dug into  my flesh as she drew me from  my
mother's womb! These wrll prove my true identity!"

    No! No!  Saryon  screamed silently.  Not  the nails  of  a  clumsy
midwife! He remembered it all with vivid, aching clarity. Those  scars
- the tears  of your mother!  \bur real mother,  the Empress,  weeping
over you in the  magnificent Cathedral of  Merilon; her crystal  tears
falling upon her Dead baby, shattering, cutting; the blood running red
down the babys white  skin; Bishop Vanyas look  of annoyance, for  now
the tiny baby would have to be purified all over again . . .

    The books were caving in on Saryon . . . The books . . . forbidden
books . . . forbidden knowledge . . . The Duuk-tjaritb surrounding him
. . . Their black robes, smothering him . . . He was suffocating . . .
He couldn't breathe . . .

    Tbe>>c . . . u'i// prove my true identity. . . .

    Darkness.

    8 In the Night he live?"

    "Yes," said the Tbc&ara, coming out of the room to which they  had
carried the  inert, and  to all  appearances lifeless,  catalyst.  She
studied the young man standing1 before her intently. In the stern face
and thick black hair,  she saw little resemblance  to the features  of
the sick man. Yet the  pain and anguish and  even fear visible in  the
dark eyes made the Druidess doubt.

    "Are you his son?" she asked.

    "No . . . no," responded the young man, shaking his head. "I am  a
… friend."  He  said this  almost  wistfully. "We  have  traveled  far
together."

    The Thtldara frowned. "Yes.  I can tell  from the body's  impulses
that this man  has long  been separated  from his  home. He  is a  man
accustomed to peace and quiet pursuits, his colors are grays and  soft
blues. Yet I see  auras of fiery  red emanating from  his skin. If  it
were not impossible in these  days of peace," the Theldara  continued,
"I would say this catalyst had been involved in a battle! But there is
no war . . ."

    Stopping, the Druidess eyed Joram questioningly.

    "No," he replied.

    "Therefore," the Theldara continued, "I must judge the turmoil  to
be internal. This is affecting his fluids; indeed, it is af- 224 W E I
S AND HICKMAN  feeling- the total  harmony of his  body! And there  is
something else, some dread secret he bears …"

    "We all bear secrets," Joram said impatiently. Looking beyond  the
Tbe&ara, he tried to see into the darkened room. "Can I visit him?"

    'Just a moment,  young man," said  the Tkeldara sternly,  catching
hold of Jorams arm in her hand.

    The Tbfldara was a  large woman of middle  age. Considered one  of
the best  Healers  in the  city  of Merilon,  she  had, in  her  time,
wrestled with the  insane until  her healing powers  brought order  to
their troubled minds.  She cradled the  living in her  arms when  they
came into the world, she cradled the dying as they left it.  Possessed
of a  strong grip  and a  stronger will,  she was  not the  least  bit
intimidated by Jorams scowl at her touch, and held onto him firmly.

    Listen to me," she said in a  low voice, so as not to disturb  the
catalyst lying within the room near them. "If you are his friend,  you
will draw this secret out of him. As a thorn in the flesh poisons  the
blood, so this secret is poisoning his soul and has very nearly led to
his death. That  and the  fact that he  hasn't been  eating well,  nor
sleeping cggularly. I don't suppose you noticed that, did you?"

    Joram could do nothing but stare at the woman grimly.

    "I thought not!" The Druidess sniffed. "You young people,  wrapped
up m your own concerns!"

    "What happened  to  him?"  Joram  asked, his  gaze  going  to  the
darkened  room.  Soothing  music,  prescribed  by  the  Tbeidara,  was
emanating from  a harp  she had  placed in  the corner,  unseen  hands
plucking the strings in a rhythm calculated to restore harmony to  the
discordant vibrations she could sense within her patient.

    "It is known  among laymen  as Almins Hand,  The peasants  believe
that the hand of  god strikes the victims  down. We know, of  course,"
the Thttdara answered  crisply, "that  it is  a drastic  upset of  the
body's natural flow of  fluids, causing the brain  to starve. In  some
cases, this brings on paralysis, an inability to talk, blindness …"

    Joram turned  to  look at  the  Druidess in  alarm.  "This  hasn't
happened to - " He couldn't go on.

    "To him?  Your  friend?" The  TbcQara  was noted  for  her  biting
tongue. "No. You  can thank the  Almin and  myself for that.  He is  a
strong man,  your friend,  or  he would  have  succumbed DOOM  OF  THE
DARKSWQRD 225 long ago to the  strain of this terrible burden  beneath
which he labors. His  healing energies are good  and I was able,  with
the help of  the House  Catalyst" -Joram  caught a  glimpse of  Marie,
standing in the room near the bed -"to restore him to health. He  will
be weak for a few days,  but he will be fine.  As fine as he can  be."
the Theldara said, letting loose her hold on Joram, "until that secret
is purged from his body, its poisons  drained. See to it that he  eats
and sleeps - "

    "Will it happen again?"

    "Undoubtedly, if he doesn't take care of himself. And next time  .
. . Well, if there  ii a next time, there  probably won't be any  more
times after-that. Bring me my  cloak," the Thetdara instructed one  of
the servants, who vanished instantly in search of it.

    "I know this secret," said Joram, his dark brows coming together.

    "You do?" The Theldara looked at him in some astonishment.

    "Yes," said Joram. "Why does that surprise you?"

    She pondered a moment, considering, then shook her head. "No," she
said firmly, "you may  think you know  his secret, but  you do not.  I
felt its presence with  these Hands" -  she held them  up -"and it  is
buried deep inside him,  so far down that  my probing of bis  thoughts
could not touch it."

    Looking at  Joram shrewdly,  the Theldara'?,  eyes narrowed.  "You
mean the secret he keeps that is  yours, don't you? The fact that  you
are Dead.  He may  keep that  knowledge hidden  to the  world, but  it
floats at the top of  his thoughts and is easily  read to those of  us
who know how. Oh, don't be  alarmed! We Thetdara take an ancient  oath
to respect our patients' confidences. It comes from the old world, one
of the greatest of  our kind named Hippocrates.  We must take an  oath
this binding, who can see so far into the heart and the soul."

    Holding out her arms, she allowed the House Magi to slip the cloak
over her  shoulders. "Now,  go to  your friend.  Talk to  him. He  has
shared your secret for a long time.  Let him know you are prepared  to
share his."

    "I will," said Joram gravely. "But I-" He shrugged helplessly.  "I
can't imagine what it could be. I know this man very well, or at least
I thought I did. Isn't there a clue?"

    The Tbfldara prepared to leave.

    "Just one," she said, checking to see that her herbal potions  and
concoctions were each in their respective places in the large 226 WE1S
AND H1CKMAN DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD 227 wooden  tray that  accompanied
her. Finding all in order,  she raised her head  to look once more  at
Joram. "Often, this type of attack is brought about by a sbock to  the
system. Think back to what you were discussing at the time the  attack
came. on him. That might  give you some clue. Again"-she  shrugged-"it
might not. The Almin alone knows the answer to this one, I am afraid."

    "Thank you for helping him," Joram said.

    "Humph! I wish I could say the same for you!" The Theldara gave  a
final, bitter nod, then, bidding her tray follow, she floated down the
corridor to take her farewell of Lord Samuels and Lady Rosamund.

    Joram stared after her unseeing, his  minds eye going back to  the
scene in the library. He and  Lord Samuels had been discussing how  to
prove Jorams  claim to  the Barony.  The young  man couldn't  remember
Saryon saying anything, but then, Joram admitted to himself unhappily,
he hadn't been paying any attention to the catalyst. His thoughts  had
been centered on his own concerns. What had been said right before the
catalyst collapsed? Joram sought back in his mind.

    "Yes." His hand  went to  his chest.  "We had  been talking  about
these scars. …"

    Gwendolyn sat in her room, alone in the darkness. Her eyes  burned
from the tears she had  cried and now, having  no more tears left  and
fearful that her face would be red and swollen in the morning, she was
bathing it in rose water.

    "Even if I  cannot talk to  Joram, he  will see me,"  she said  to
herself, sitting at her dressing table.

    The moon, its cold light enhanced  by the magic of the  Stf-Hanar,
shed a pearhzed glow over Merilon.  The moons light touched Gwen,  but
she could not see its beauty and,  in fact, it chilled her. The  moons
cold eye seemed to  stare at her tears  without caring or  compassion;
its white rays on her skin made the warm flesh appear corpsehke in its
pallor.

    Gwen preferred  the company  of the  darkness and,  rising to  her
feet, she drew the curtain shut  with her hand -a task she  ordinarily
would have performed by a  gesture and the use  of magic. But she  was
physically drained, and there was no magic left in her.

    Lord Samuels, following the assurances of the Theldara that Father
Dunstable would  be quite  well in  the morning,  had in-  formed  his
daughter that she was not  to speak to Joram  or allow him to  address
her until this matter  of the young mans  inheritance could be  firmly
established.

    "I do not accuse him of being an imposter," Lord Samuels had  said
to bis daughter,  who was weeping  bitterly in her  mother's arms.  "I
believe his story. But if it cannot be proven, then he is a nobody.  A
man without wealth,  without family  background. He is"  - milord  had
shrugged helplessly-"a Field Magus! That is what he was and, until  he
can rightfully claim better, that is  what he must remain! Worse  than
that, he must live in the shadow of disgrace -"

    "It wasn't his fault!" Gwen had cried passionately. "Why should he
pay for his fathers sin?"

    "I know that, my dear," said Lord Samuels. "And I am certain that,
if he achieves his Barony, everyone else will feel the same way. I  am
sorry this had to  happen, Gwendolyn," milord  had said, stroking  his
daughters hair with a kind hand, for he truly doted on his girl and it
broke his heart to  see her in  sucb grief. "It is  my fault," he  had
added, sighing, "for  encouraging this  connection before  I knew  the
facts. But it seemed such . . . such a good investment in your  future
at the time. . . ."

    "And" things may come  out right yet, my  pet!" Lady Rosamund  had
brushed her daughter's hair back from the tear-laden eyes. "Day  after
tomorrow is the Emperors  ball. The midwife  now attends Her  Majesty.
Your father will arrange to meet her and we will find out then if  she
recognizes Joram. If  she does,  why, what  a wonderful  time we  will
have! If not, think  of the young noblemen  who will be in  attendance
and who will be very happy to help you put this young man out of  your
life."

    Put tbuf  young man  out of  your life.  Alone in  her room,  Gwen
clasped her hands over her aching heart and bowed her head in  sorrow.
Investment in your future.

    "Am I that heartless?" she  asked herself. "Is there nothing  more
to me than a desire for wealth, for an easy, happy, fun-loving  life?"
Surely, she thought guiltily, looking around her in the moonlight that
the filmy  curtains could  not shut  out, surely  that is  how I  must
appear or my parents W9uid not Have said such things.

    Recalling her words  and her dreams  over the past  few days,  her
guilt increased tenfold.

    "When I've dreamed of Joram,"  she murmured, "I've dreamed of  him
in fine clothes, not the plain clothes he wears 228 W K I S AM 15 H  I
C K  M A  N  now. I've  pictured him  floating  over his  estate,  his
servants around him, or  riding his horses  at a gallop  in a game  of
Kings Ransom, or  taking me with  him as  he visits the  farms once  a
year, all the  peasants bowing  to us in  respect. …"  She closed  her
burning eyes. "But he was a Field  Magus! A peasant -one of those  who
bowed! And if he fails to prove his claim, thats likely what he'll  go
back to being. Could I stand beside him, my feet in the dirt,  bowing?
…"

    For a moment, she doubted. Fear  overcame her. She had never  been
to a Field  Magi village  before, but she  had heard  about them  Irom
Joram. She pictured her  white skin burned and  blistered by the  sun,
her fair hair tangled by wind, her body worn and weary and hurting  by
days end.  She saw  herself  plodding back  home through  the  fields,
walking because she  lacked the energy-  to fly. But  there was  Joram
beside her, walking with her to their hut. He had his arm around  her,
supporting her tired footsteps. They  would return home together.  She
would cook their simple  meal ("I suppose I'could  learn to cook"  she
whispered.) while he watched their children playing. . , .

    Gwendolyn flushed, a warmth  flowing 'through her body.  Children.
The catalysts would perform the ceremony, transferring his seed to her
body. She wondered how they did it,  for it was a subject about  which
her mother  never spoke.  No  well-bred woman  did, for  that  matter.
Still, Gwen couldn't help but feel  curious, and it was odd that  this
curiosity should  come over  her  now, when  she was  picturing  Joram
eating his  meal,  looking  at  her, his  dark  eyes  shining  in  the
firelight . . .

    The warmth of that fire spread  through Gwen, enveloping her in  a
sweet golden aura that seemed in  her mind to outshine the pale,  cold
light of the moon. Laying her head down on her arms, she began to  cry
again, but these tears  sprang from a different  well, one deeper  and
purer than she had ever imagined existed. They were tears of joy,  for
she knew  that she  loved  Joram unselfishly.  She  had loved  him  as
Baronet, she could  love him as  peasant. No matter  what happened  or
where he went, her place was with him, even if it was in a field. .  .
.

    If Gwendolyn  had  known  the  true  rigors  of  the  Kte  she  so
innocently planned sharing  with Joram, the  heart that was  beginning
for the first time to feel the strong pulsing of a woman's love  might
have faltered. The simple hut she conjured up in her mind was at least
five times the size of a real Field Magus's crude dwelling. The simple
meal she pictured cooking would O F T H K DARKS \V (> R 229 have ied a
real peasant  family lor  a month  and,  in her  fond dream,  all  her
children were born healthy, and  thrived m their environment. No  tiny
graves doited the landscape of her imagination.

    But, in her present  mood, that might  not have mattered.  Indeed,
the harder the lile,  the more she embraced  it. tor that would  prove
her love! She  raised her head,  tears glislening on  her cheeks.  She
hoped that Joram would nut be  able to claim the Barony! She  pictured
him crushed,  dejected.  She  pictured her  father  grabbing  her  and
starting to  drag her  awav- "But  I  will break  free!" she  said  to
herself in a fervor that was almost holy. "I will run to Joram and  he
will take me m his arms and we will be together forever and ever. …

    "Forever and  ever.  ' she  repeated,  falling to  her  knees  and
folding her hands.  "Please, Heavenly Almin,"  she whispered,  "please
let me find a way to tell him! Please.

    A feeling of peace and contentment stole over her and she  smiled.
Her prayer had been  answered. Somehow, she would  find a way to  meet
Joram in secret tomorrow  and tell him. Leaning  her head against  her
bed, she  closed  her  eyes.  The  moonlight,  penetrating  the  filmy
curtain, touched the lips and froze their sweet smile. The tears  upon
her cheeks dried in its cold  radiance, and Marie, coming in to  check
on her darling, shivered  as she put  the girl to  bed and muttered  a
prayer to the Almin herself.

    It was well  known that those  who slept too  long in lunar  light
were subject to its curse. . . .

    Joram spent the night at the catalysts bedside. No moonlight shone
upon his thoughts, for  the Thetdara had  made certain its  unsettling
influence did not disturb her patient.  The harp in the corner of  the
room continued to  play its soothing  airs - the  music of a  shepherd
playing  his  flute,   greeting  the  dawn   that  eases  his   nights
watchfulness and relaxes his cares.  A crystal globe hovered over  the
catalyst, shedding a soft light upon his face to keep away the terrors
that lurk  in darkness.  Near  it, liquid  bubbled in  another  globe,
sending forth aromatic fumes  that cleansed the  lungs and purged  the
blood of impurities.

    How much good this did for Saryon was open to question, since,  as
the Tbcldara said, the secret of Jorams true identity was more  deadly
to him than a cancerous growth. No herbs could draw out its poison, no
healing gifts of the Theldara could call 250 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF
THE DARKS WORD 251 upon  his body to use its  own magic and fight  the
destroyer. Saryon lay  sleeping under a  sedating enchantment cast  by
the Thetdara,  apparently  oblivious  to  all  around  him.  That  was
probably the only  treatment that could  benefit him now,  and it  was
only temporary, for the enchantment would  soon wear off and he  would
be left to struggle along beneath his burden once more.

    But if the soothing  music and the aromatic  herbs did little  for
the catalyst, they were a blessing to Joram. Sitting at the bedside of
the man who had done so much for  him - had done so much and  received
such small  thanks -  Joram  remembered vividly  the lost  and  lonely
feeling he had  experienced when  he thought the  catalyst might  have
died.

    "You understand me, Father," he said, holding onto the wasted hand
that lay upon the  coverlet. "None of the  others do. Not Mosiah,  not
Simkin. They have magic, they have Life. You know, Saryon, what it  is
to yearn for the magic! Do you recall? You told me that once. You told
me that as  a child  you were  bitter at the  Almin for  making you  a
catalyst, for denying you the magic.

    "Forgive me! I've been blind, so blind!" Joram laid his head  down
upon the catalysts hand. "Blessed  Almin!" he cried in stifled  agony.
"I look at  my soul and  I see  a dark and  loathsome monster!  Prince
Garald was right.  I was  beginning to  enjoy killing.  I enjoyed  the
feeling of power it gave me! Now I see it wasn't power at all. It  was
a weakness, a cowardice.  I couldn't face'myself,  I couldn't face  my
enemy. I had to catch him unaware, strike from behind, strike while he
was helpless! But for Garald and you, Father, I might have become that
dark and loathsome monster  within. But for you  - and for  Gwendolyn.
Her love brings light to my soul."

    Raising his head, Joram stared down at his hands in disgust.  "But
how can I  touch her  with these hands,  stained with  blood? You  are
right, Saryon!" He stood  up feverishly. "We must  leave! But no!"  He
stopped, half turning. "How can I? She is my light! Without her, I  am
plunged into darkness once more. The truth. I must tell her the truth.
Everything! That I'm Dead. That  I'm a murderer. .  . . After all,  it
doesn't really sound  that badly when  I explain. .  . . The  overseer
killed my mother.  I was in  danger. It was  self-defense." Joram  sat
down beside Saryon once more. "BlacKloch was an evil man who  deserved
death not  once  but  ten times  over  to  pay for  the  suffering  he
inflicted on  others.  I will  make  her see  that.  I will  make  her
understand. And she will forgive me, as you have forgiven me,  Father.
Between her love and forgiveness and your own, I will be cleansed. . .
."

    Joram fell silent, listening to the  playing of the harp that  was
now the soft singing  of a mothers lullaby  to the infant sleeping  in
her arms. It brought no soothing reminiscences to the young man. Anjas
lullabies had been of  an uglier tone, telling  him night after  night
the bitter story of his fathers terrible punishment.

    And though the  Theldara had  no way  of knowing  it, the  lullaby
brought dread  dreams  to  Saryon.  In his  enchanted  sleep,  he  saw
himself- a young Deacon - carrying a child wrapped in a royal  blanket
through a deserted,  silent corridor.  He heard  himself singing  that
lullaby -the last the baby would ever hear - in a voice that was thick
and choked by tears.

    On the  bed, the  catalyst twitched  and moaned,  his head  moving
feebly on the pillow in refusal … or denial. . . .

    Joram, not  understanding,  looked  at him  in  anguish.  "You  do
forgive  me,  don't   you,  Father?"  he   whispered.  "I  need   your
forgiveness. …"

    9 DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 233 In the Morning "K nock, knock.  Hullo?
I say, is  anybody home? I-  AI-min's teeth and  toenails, dear  boy!"
Simkin gasped, falling  backward into  the wall and  clutching at  his
heart. "Mosiah!"

    "Simkin!" cried the  other young  man, almost as  startled as  his
companion.

    Rounding a corner of a hallway, the two had nearly collided.

    "Ye gads!" Dressed trom head to toe in bright green satin,  Simkin
yanked the perennial orange silk from the air and began wiping at  his
brow with a  shaking hand.  "You've very nearly  scared me  out of  my
pants, dear boy, as happened to  the Duke of Cherburg. Dressing up  as
the Duuk-karith was just the Marquis's little joke. Anyone could  tell
those black robes  he was  wearing weren't real.  But the  Baron is  a
nervous man. Thought he'd been nabbed by the warlocks, lost his magic,
and there  he was  - his  breeches  down around  his ankles,  all  his
secrets exposed.  It  caused quite  a  sensation at  court,  though  I
thought it rather a large fuss  over something so little. I  expressed
my condolences to the Duchess. . . ."

    "I scared yc"?" Mosiah said when he could get a word in  sideways.
"What do you  think you're doing,  just popping out  of thin air  like
that? And where have you been?"

    "Oh, here and  there, hither  and yon, round  and about,"  Sim-kin
said cheerily, glancing vaguely into the living room of Lord Samuels's
house. "I say, where is everyone?  In particular, the Dark and  Gloomy
Lover. Still mooning about the girl, or  has he had his fun with-  her
and gotten over it?"

    Shut up!" snapped Mosiah furiously. Looking around, he caught hold
of Sirokins arm and dragged him into the library. "You idiot! How dare
you talk like that? We're in enough trouble as it is!" He slammed  the
door shut.

    "Are we?" asked Simkin, looking enthused. "How positively jolly. I
was getting frightfully bored. What have we done? Not got caught in  a
compromising position? Our hand up her skirt?"

    "Will you quit it!" Mosiah said, shocked, "Down her bodice?"

    Listen to  me! Lord  Samuels  claims that  Joram can't  prove  his
identity and nearly threw him out of the house last night, but  Saryon
had some kind of fit or something and they had to call the Tbeldara  -
"

    "The catalyst? A fit?  How is the old  boy?" asked Simkin  coolly,
helping  himself  to  some  of  Lord  Samuels's  brandy.  "Ah,   still
domestic," he muttered,  frowning. "He could  afford better. I  wonder
why he  doesn't?  However, I  suppose  we must  make  allowances-"  He
drained the glass. "Not dead, is he?"

    "No!" snarled Mosiah.  Catching hold of  Simkins arm, he  forcibly
removed the brandy  bottle. "No, hes  all right. But  he has to  rest.
Lord Samuels said  we could stay,  but only until  the Emperors  party
tomorrow night."

    "What happens then?"  Simkin asked,  yawning. "Joram  turn into  a
giant rat at the stroke of twelve?"

    "Hes supposed to  meet someone  there, some Theldara  who saw  him
when he was a baby  or something and can  identify him as being  Anjas
son."

    Simkin looked puzzled. "I say, this all sounds quite amusing,  but
has it occurred to anyone that Joram has changed slightly since  then?
I mean, what are we going to do to nudge the old girl's memory?  Strip
the dear boy and put him on a bearskin rug? I recall we did that  with
the- Oh, sorry. Swore on my mothers grave I'd never tell that  story."
He went extremely  red. "Where was  I? Oh, yes.  Babies. It's been  my
experience, you know, that all babies look alike. The Emperors  mother
and all that."

    234 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  235 "What?"  Pacing
worriedly around the room, Mosiah was only half listening.

    "All  babies  look  like  the  Emperors  mother."  Simkin   nodded
profoundly. "Large round head that  she can't hold up, puffy  "cheeks,
squinty eyes and this kind of befuddled expression - "Oh, will you get
serious?" Mosiah  said in  exasperation. "  Joram's got  some kind  of
scars on him from when he was born. "You know, you've seen them. Those
little white marks on his chest?"

    "I don't know that  I've ever taken much  interest in his  chest,"
remarked Simkin, "except to note a  distinct lack of hair. I  suppose,
though, it all went to his head. '

    "There used to  be talk in  our village about  those scars,"  said
Mosiah reflectively, ignoring Simkin. "I remembered Old Marm  Hudspeth
saying they were a curse; that Anja sank her teeth into him and sucked
his blood. I never heard him say  how he really got them. 'Course,  it
isn't the type  of question  one asks Joram,  after all.  Maybe I  was
afraid to ask." Mosiah gave a nervous laugh. "Maybe I was afraid  he'd
tell me. . . ."

    "So now the  curse becomes the  blessing, just like  in the  House
Magis tale," said Simkin, a smile playing about his lips. He  smoothed
his mustache with one finger. "Our frog becomes a Prince. . . ."

    "Not Prince," said Mosiah, exasperated. "Baron."

    "Sorry, dear  boy,"  said  Simkin.  "Forgot you  grew  up  in  the
wilderness, illiterate  and all  that. Say,"  he continued  hurriedly,
seeing Mosiah growing angry again, "I came back to get you all to come
with me.  Merriment and  jollification taking  place in  the Grove  of
Merlyn, down below. Artists practicing the performances they're  going
to present  for His  Boringness  tomorrow night.  Quite  entertaining,
really. Ones allowed to throw things if they botch the job. Starts any
minute, near noon.  Where's Joram?"  * "He won't  come," said  Mosiah.
"Lord Samuels told him  he couldn't see  Gwendolyn anymore, not  until
this all was settled. But then  Samuels left for the Guild, and  Joram
hopes to meet her anyhow. He's been out in the garden since breakfast.
Saryons too weak to go anywhere."

    "Then it's you and me, dear boy," said Simkin, clapping Mosiah  on
the back.  "I'll bet  you've been  entombed in  this place  for  days,
haven't you?"

    "Well …" Mosiah glanced outside longingly.

    "Relax! No need to worry about getting caught. You'll be with me,"
Simkin said easily. "I've the Emperors protection. No one dares  touch
me. Besides,  there'll  be  the  most  tremendous  crowd.  We'll  lose
ourselves amidst the throng."

    "Hah!" Mosiah  snorted,  giving  Simkins glaring  green  finery  a
scathing glance. "I'd like to see you lose yourself . . ."

    "What? Don't you like this?" the young man asked, wounded. "I call
it Shocking Green  Grape. Still, you  are right. It  does stand out  a
bit. I'll tell you what. Come with me and I'll tone it down. There"-he
waved his hand-"how's  this? I'll call  it …  lets see .  . .  Rotting
Plum. Now I'm  as drab as  you. I  say, old fellow,  do come."  Simkin
yawned again, dabbing gloomily at his nose with the orange silk. "I've
spent I don't  know how many  hours at court  simply bored to  pieces.
That happened to  the Earl of  Montbank, you know.  During one of  the
Emperors stories. Most of us simply  went to sleep, but when we  awoke
we found the Earl, scattered all about the parlor. . . . Anyway,  I've
had Dukes and Earls up to here! I thirst for the common touch."

    "I'd like to give  you a common  touch!" Mosiah muttered,  flexing
his hands  as  Simkin  wandered  over to  study  the  titles  on  Lord
Samuels's bookshelves.

    "What did you say, dear boy?" Simkin asked, half turning.

    "I'm thinking," said Mosiah.

    Secretly, the young man  was longing to see  the Grove of  Merlyn,
said to be one of the wonders of Thimhallan. Touring these  fabulously
beautiful gardens, plus the  chance to view  the artistic delights  of
the illusionists, seemed a dream come true to the Field Magus. But  he
knew that Saryon  wouldn't want him  to go outside;  the catalyst  had
emphasized over and over again how  important it was that they  remain
hidden indoors.

    We've been  here  almost  two  weeks,  Mosiah  told  himself,  and
nothings happened.  The  catalyst  is well-meaning,  but  hes  such  a
worrier! I'll be careful.  Besides, Simkins right.  Strange as it  may
seem, he doe* have the Emperor's protection. . . .

    "I say," said  Simkin suddenly, "wouldn't  it be fun  to change  •
this highly somnambulic volume on The Diversity of Household Magics to
something more interesting? Centaur Bondage, for ex-I ample …"

    "No, it would not!" said Mosiah, making up his mind.

    . "Come on, let's  get out of this  place before you destroy  what
little credibility we have left around here." Grasping hold of 236 AND
HICKMAN Simkin firmly by his drab, plum-colored sleeve, Mosiah dragged
him out the door.

    Meekly allowing himself to  be led along,  Simkin cast a  backward
glance at the bookshelf, muttered a word, and winked. The orange  silk
fluttered through  the air,  wrapped itself  around The  Diversity  of
Household Magics, and then disappeared,  leaving in its place  another
volume in a brown leather binding.

    "Complete with detailed, colorful  illuminations," said Simkin  to
himself, grinning in delight.

    Joram went  walking in  the garden  that morning,  hoping to  meet
Gwendolyn, just as she had gone walking, hoping to find him. But  when
he did  come upon  her,  sitting listlessly  among  the roses  in  the
company of Marie,  the young man  bowed coldly, turned,  and began  to
walk away.

    He couldn't bring himself to talk  to her. What if she refused  to
speak to him? What if  she could not love him  for the person he  was,
instead of the person he might become?

    "And what if  I don't become  a Baron?" Joram  asked himself.  The
sudden realization  that his  plans and  hopes and  dreams might  come
falling down around him nearly buried him in the rubble. "Why didn't I
think of this last night?  How could she love  a man who doesn't  know
who he is!"

    "Joram, please . , . Wait a moment . . ."

    He stopped, his  back turned, refusing  to look at  her. Gwen  had
called  out  to  him,   but,  behind  him,   he  heard  Maries   voice
remonstrating in low tones -  "Gwendolyn, go inside. "Your father  has
forbidden - " and he smiled in bitter satisfaction.

    "1 knovf  what Papa  said,  Marie," returned  Gwens voice  with  a
firmness born of  sorrow and pain  that sent a  thrill through  Jorams
heart, "and  I will  respect his  wishes.  I only  want" -  her  voice
faltered here - "to inquire after Father Dunstable. I should think you
would be concerned about the catalysts health, as well," she added  in
rebuke.

    Joram turned slightly as the voices drew nearer. He could see Gwen
now, out of the corner of his  eye. He saw the sleepless night in  the
shadows beneath the blue eyes. He saw the traces of the tears that not
all the magic and rose water of Thimhallan could completely erase from
the pale face. She  had cried over  losing him. His  heart beat so  he
would not have been much surprised to see it ieap out of his chest and
fail at her feet.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 257 "Please, Joram, stay for just a  moment.
How is Father Dun-stable this morning?"

    There was the touch of a soft hand upon his arm, and Joram  looked
into the blue eyes  - eyes filled with  such love, such  un-happiness,
that it was  all he could  do to  keep himself irom  taking the  young
woman in his arms and, holding her close, shield her with his own body
from the pain he was bound to inflict. For a moment his heart was  too
full for  him to  talk. He  could only  stare at  her, the  dark  eyes
burning with a fire warmer than any that ever melted iron.

    And yet what would they say to each other? Marie was watching them
sternly,  disapprovingly.  Once  I  answer  the  question  about   the
catalyst, Marie will order her  charge inside. If Gwen refuses,  there
will be a  scene .  . .  the House  Magi summoned,  perhaps even  Lord
Samuels. . . .

    Joram looked at Gwen, Gwen looked up at him.

    Does the Almin hear the prayers of lovers?

    Certainly it seemed so, for at that moment there came a wail  from
inside the house.

    "Marie!" one of the House Magi shrieked. "Come quickly!"

    Another House Magi hurried  out into the garden  in search of  the
catalyst. Master Samuels, playing at being a bird, had actually  flown
into the  aviary. He  was now  being  chased by  an angry  peahen  for
disturbing her nest and appeared to be in dire peril of his life.  The
catalyst must come!

    Marie hesitated. The little boy might  well be in danger of  being
pecked, but-wise woman  that she  was - she  knew her  darling in  the
garden was in worse danger still. Another wail, this one more frantic,
sounded from  Master  Samuels.  There  was no  help  for  it.  Bidding
Gwendolyn follow her immediately - a  command Marie knew had about  as
much chance of being obeyed as if  she had ordered the sun out of  the
sky - the catalyst  sped off with the  servant to rescue, soothe,  and
chastise Master Samuels.

    "I … can . . . only stay … a moment," said Gwen. Blushing  beneath
the intense  stare  of  the  dark eyes  and  conscious  that  she  was
disobeying her father, she started to remove her hand from Jorams  arm
when Joram caught hold of it.

    "Father Dunstable is resting comfortably this morning," he said.

    "Please, don't," Gwen  said, confused  by the  feelings his  touch
aroused in her. Gently  pulling her hand away  from him, 258 WE1S  AND
HICKMAN she put both hands behind her back. "Papa wouldn't . . .  That
is, Imustn't. .  . What  were you  saying about  the kind  Father?"she
asked finally, desperately.

    "The Taeldara  said it  was  a …  um .  .  . mild  attack,"  Joram
continued, a prey to sudden  longings and desires himself.  "Something
about the blood  vessels constricting  and preventing  the blood  from
reaching the brain. I don't understand it, but it could have been very
bad, paralyzing him permanently. As it is, she said Father  Dunstables
own magic forces were able  to completely heal the  damage. I - I  was
going to thank Marie for her help," Joram added gruffly, being  little
used to thanking anyone, "before she left. If you would do so when you
go into the house . . ." Once more, he bowed and started to leave, and
again, the soft hand on his arm stopped him.

    "I-I prayed  to the  Almin  that he  would  be well  again,"  Gwen
murmured in such a low voice that  Joram had to move closer to her  in
order to hear. Gwen accidentally left her hand upon his arm and  Joram
was quick to capture it.

    "Is that  all you  prayed  for?" he  asked  her softly,  his  lips
brushing the golden hair.

    Gwendolyn felt the  touch of his  lips, soft as  it had been.  Her
entire body was  sensitive to him  suddenly; her very  hair seemed  to
tingle at  his nearness.  Raising her  head, Gwen  found herself  much
closer to  Joram  than  she  had expected.  The  strange  feelings  of
pleasurable pain that  had stirred within  her when he  held her  hand
became stronger and more frightening. She was very much aware of  him,
of his physical body. The lips that had touched her hair were  parted,
as though they thirsted.  His arms were strong  and they crept  around
her, drawing her  into a darkness  and a mystery  that made her  heart
both stand still with fear and race with wild excitement.

    Alarmed, Gwen tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

    "Please, let me go," she  said faintly, averting her face,  afraid
to look up at him again, afraid of letting him see what she knew  must
be plain in her eyes.

    Instead, he pressed her close. The blood surged through her  body;
she was warm inside yet shaking with chills. She could feel his warmth
surround her;  his  strength comforted  her  and, at  the  same  time,
frightened her. She lifted her head to look into his eyes and tell him
to let her go …

    Somehow, the words were  never spoken. They were  on her lips  but
then his lips touched hers and  the words were swallowed up,  vanished
in a thrill of sweet pain.

    DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  239  Perhaps the  Almin doesn't  hear  the
prayers of lovers, after all.  If He did, He  would have left them  in
that fragrant garden  forever, clasped  in each others  arms. But  the
walling of Master Samuels  ceased, a door  banged, and Gwen,  blushing
deeply, hurriedly tore herself free of Jorams embrace.

    "I_I must  go," she  cried, backing  away, stumbling  in  panicked
confusion.

    "Wait, one word!" Joram said swiftly, taking a step after her. "If
… if … something  happens, and I don't  receive the inheritance,  will
that matter to you, Gwendolyn?"

    She looked up at him. Maidenly confusion, girlish vanities  melted
in the desperate longing and hunger  she saw within him. Her own  love
flowed out to fill  this blank emptiness as  the magic flows from  the
world through a catalyst to its user.

    "No! Oh, no!" she cried,  and now it was  she who reached out  and
clasped hold of him. "A week  ago, I might have answered  differently.
Yesterday morning, even. Yesterday  I was a  girl playing at  romance.
But last night,  when I  knew I  might lose  you, I  realized then  it
didn't matter. Papa says I'm young and that I will forget you as  I've
forgotten others. He's wrong. No matter what happens, Joram," she said
earnestly, moving nearer  to him, "you  are in my  heart and you  will
stay there, always."

    Joram bowed his head; he could say nothing. This was precious,  so
precious he dreaded to lose it. If he did lose it, he would die. Yet …
he had to tell her. He had promised Saryon, he had promised himself.

    "I need you, Gwendolyn," he said gruffly, gently withdrawing  from
her embrace but keeping hold of her hand. "Your love means  everything
to me! More than life . . ." He paused, clearing his throat. "But  you
don't know anything about me, about my past," he continued earnestly.

    "That doesn't matter!" Gwen began.

    "Wait!" Joram said,  gritting his  teeth. "Listen  to me,  please.
I've got to tell you. You must understand. You see, I'm D - "

    "Gwendolyn! Come inside this moment!"

    There was  a  rustling  among the  honeysuckle  plants  and  Marie
appeared. The catalysts usually cheerful,  pleasant face was pale  and
angry as she glanced from the  flushed, disheveled young woman to  the
pale, fervent young  man. At the  sight of her,  Joram dropped  Gwen's
hand, the words died  on his lips. Catching  hold of Gwendolyn,  Marie
led her away, scolding her angrily all the while.

    240 WEIS AND HICKMAN "But you  won't tell Papa, will you,  Marie?"
Joram heard  Gwen  say,  her  voice drifting  back  to  him  with  the
fragrance of the lilacs. "It  was you who ran  off and left me,  after
all. I wouldn't •want Papa to be mad at you . . ."

    Joram stood, staring after them, not knowing whether to curse  the
Almin or thank Him for His timely intervention.

    IO The  Grove of  Merlyn T  •  cu he  Grove of  Merlyn was  the  ,
cultural heart of Merilon. Built to  honor the wizard who had led  his
people from the Dark World of the Dead to this one of Life, it was now
a repository  for the  arts. The  wizards tomb  was the  heart of  the
Grove. A ring  of oak  trees surrounded the  tomb, patiently  standing
their guardian watch over the centuries. A carpet of lush, green grass
spread out from the feet of  the oaks, unrolling until it reached  the
tomb itself. The  grass was  soft and pleasant  to walk  on, the  area
around the tomb peaceful and quiet - which was probably the reason few
people ever visited there.

    Outside the oak  ring lay the  main part of  the Grove. Hedges  of
brilliant picket rose, whose blossoms were every color of the  rainbow
and then some,  formed a gigantic  maze around the  tomb. Within  this
maze were  small amphitheaters  where artists  painted, actors  acted,
clowns capered, and music played day  in and day out. The maze  itself
was simple to navigate - visitors could, if lost, simply fly over  the
hedge rows. But this  was considered "cheating."  Tall locust trees  -
standing higher than the hedges - were daily shaped by the Druids into
fantastical "guides"  through the  maze, which  itself shifted  daily.
Part of the 242 W E I S AND II  I C K M A N fun of entering the  Grove
was to figure out the maze; the trees often offered "clues." The  fact
that the maze always led to the tomb was considered its weakest point.
Many of the nobility had been to the Emperor protesting this - stating
that  the  tomb  was  outdated,  ugly,  and  depressing.  The  Emperor
discussed the  matter  with  the  Druids,  but  they  were  obstinate,
refusing  to   change.   Knowledgeable  visitors,   therefore,   never
penetrated the maze. It was only the uninitiated or uninformed tourist
-like Mosiah - who followed it to its heart.

    The Field Magus had seen the ring of oaks from a distance and felt
drawn to them; they  reminded him of  his home on  the borders of  the
forest- Upon reaching the trees,  he discovered the tomb, and  entered
the sacred  ring with  reverential  awe. Coming  to stand  beside  the
ancient tomb of the wizard, Mosiah  laid his hand upon the stone  that
had been shaped out of love and  grief. It was a simple tomb, made  of
white marble  magically enhanced  so that  no trace  of another  color
marred the stones  purity. It stood  four teet high  and was six  feet
long and - at first glimpse - appeared plain and unadorned.

    Solemnly, whispering a  prayer to  propitiate the  spirits of  the
dead, the young man ran his  hand along the tombs surface. The  marble
felt warm to the touch in the Groves humid air, and there was a  sense
of deep sadness lingering about the tonuS that made Mosiah understand,
suddenly, why the revelers avoided this place.

    It was the sadness of  homesickness, he realized, recognizing  and
identifying the feeling that was growing  on him. Even though the  old
wizard had left  his world willingly  to bring his  people to a  world
where they could  live and  thrive without persecution,  he Had  never
felt at home here.

    "His mortal remains are buried in this ground. I wonder where  his
spirit lives?" Mosiah murmured.

    Moving to stand at the tombs  head, still running his hand  across
the smooth marble, Mosiah felt  ridges beneath his finger. There  wa,>
something carved into the surface. Slowly he walked around the tomb to
where he could  see the shadows  cast by  the suns light,  and on  the
opposite side, he could  barely make out what  had been etched in  the
rock. The wizard's name in ancient letters and something beneath it he
could not read. Then . . . something else below that . . .

    Mosiah gasped.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 243 Hearing  a snicker, he looked around  to
find Simkm standing beside him, an amused smile upon his face. "I say,
dear boy, you  are a  delight to  take places.  You gape  and gawk  to
perfection, and over  the oddest  things, too. Can't  imagine why  you
enjoy hanging about this  moldy old ruin, though  . . ." Simkin  added
with a disparaging glance at the tomb.

    "I wasn't  gawking," Mosiah  muttered irritably.  "And don't  talk
about this place like that! It seems sacrilegious somehow. Do you know
anything about this?" He gestured at the tomb.

    Simkin shrugged. "I know so  much, one thing blends with  another.
Try me."

    "Why is there a sword on it?" Mosiah asked, pointing to the figure
carved below the wizards name.

    "Why not?" Simkin yawned.

    "A weapon  of the  Dark Arts,  on a  wizards tomb?"  Mosiah  said,
shocked. "He wasn't a Sorcerer, was he?"

    "Almin's blood, didn't they teach you anything except how to plant
potatoes?"  Simkin  snorted.   "Of  course  he   wasn't  a   Sorcerer.
DKarn-Duuk, a warlock of the highest ranking. According to legend,  he
asked that the sword  be carved there. Something  about a King and  an
encbanted realm where all  the tables were round  and they dressed  in
clothes made of iron to go on quests after cups and saucers."

    "Oh, for the love of- Just forget it!" Mosiah said, exasperated.

    "I'm telling  the  truth,"  Simkin said  loftiiy.  "The  cups  and
saucers were  of  religious significance.  They  kept tryingto  get  a
complete set. And now, are you going  to stand here all day moping  or
shall we  have some  fun?  The illusionists  and  shapers are  in  the
pavilion, practicing."

    "I'll  go,"  said  Mosiah,   glancing  in  the  direction   Simkin
indicated. Beautiful, multicolored silk streamers hung suspended  from
midair, fluttering magically over the crowd. He could hear tantalizing
sounds of laughter, gasps of wonder and awe, and applause coming  from
all directions,  and his  pulse  beat faster  at  the thought  of  the
marvels he was to soon  witness. Yet, as he  turned from the tomb,  he
felt a stab of pain and regret. It was so quiet here, so peaceful …

    "I wonder what happened to the enchanted realm?" Mosiah  murmured,
running his  hand for  the last  time  over the  warm marble  as  they
started to leave.

    W 1C I S A N  [1 i C K M A  N , "What always happens to  enchanted
realms. I suppose,"  Simkin said  languidly, pulling  the orange  silk
from the air and dabbing his nose  with, it. "Someone woke up and  the
dream ended."

    Throngs oi  people floated  and hovered  and drifted  beneath  the
gaily colored silks of the illusionist amphitheater. Mosiah had  never
imagined so many  people could be  in one  place at one  time, and  he
stopped at the  entrance, daunted  by the crowd.  But Simkin,  darting
here and  there like  a bright-plum  aged bird,  put his  hand on  his
friends arm and  guided him  into the pavilion  with surprising  ease.
Flitting into  this  person,  dancing around  that  one,  brushing  up
against another, Simkin kept up  a steady flow of lively  conversation
as he moved ever nearer the front of the crowd.

    "Beg pardon,  old chap.  Was  that your  foot?  Mistook it  for  a
cauliflower. You should  really have the  Theldara do something  about
those toes. , .  . Just passing  through, don't mind  us. Do you  like
this ensemble? I call it Rotting Plum.  Yes, I know it's not up to  my
usual standards,  but my  Inend and  I are  supposed to  be  traveling
incognito. Pray take no notice of  us. Duke Richlow! Sink me! In  town
for the  gala? Did  I do  that? Frightfully  sorry, old  boy.  Must've
jostled your  elbow.  Actually  that  wine  stain  rather  helps  yOur
somewhat drab robe, if you don't mind my saying- Well . . . if  you've
no imagination, allow me." Simkin snatched the orange silk out of  the
air. "I'll have you as spotless, old chap, as your wife's  reputation,
Ah, is it my fault you drink this cheap brand that won't wash out? Try
a lemon rinse, ft does wonders for the Duchess's hair, doesn't it? Ah,
Contessa! Charmed. And your privileged  escort? I don't believe  we've
met. Simkin, at your  service. Any relation  to the Contessa?  Cousin?
Yes, of course, I  should have known. You're  about the eighth  cousin
I've met. Kissing  cousin, too, I'll  wager. I envy  the Contessa  her
large family . . . and  you are unaccountably large, aren't you,  dear
boy? I was just  thinking, Contessa, its such  a coincidence that  all
your cousins are male, six feet tall, with such perfect teeth …"

    Heads turned. People laughed and pointed, some floating higher  or
lower to get a better view, many moving nearer to hear the  irreverent
young man's  barbed  comments.  Floundering along  in  Simkin's  wake,
Mosiah felt his skin  alternately burn with  embarrassment or go  cold
with fear. In  vain he  tugged on DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD 245  Simkins
sleeve - which once came off in  his hand to the delight of two  Earls
and a Marchioness - in vain he  reminded him in a low voice that  they
were supposed  to be  "mingling  with the  throng." This  only  goaded
Simkin to perpetrate  greater outrages- such  as changing his  clothes
five times in as many minutes "to throw off pursuit."

    Glancing about uneasily,  Mosiah expected  any moment  to see  the
black-robed figures of  the Duuk-ljarith  appear. But  no black  hoods
shot up from  among the flowered  and plumed and  bejeweled heads,  no
correctly folded hands cast  a pall over  the laughter and  merriment.
Gradually, Mosiah began to relax  and even to enjoy himself,  figuring
that the  dread watchers  must not  find  much to  watch in  this  gay
throng.

    Simkin could have told Mosiah - had the innocent Field Magus asked
- that the Duuk-t, iarith were here as they were everywhere,  watching
and listening, discreet and unobserved. Let the tiniest ripple mar the
glittering surface  of the'festivities  and they  were present  in  an
eyebhnk to smooth it out.  Three university students - having  imbibed
too much champagne  - began  singing songs  considered to  be in  poor
taste. A dark shadow appeared, like a cloud passing over the sun,  and
the students were gone, to sleep off their inebriation.

    A troupe of players, presenting  what they thought was a  harmless
little satire on the Emperor,  were whisked away at intermission  with
such skill  and dispatch  that the  audience never  noticed and  left,
thinking the play had ended. A cutpurse was apprehended, punished, and
released so  swiftly and  silently that  the wretched  fellow had  the
feeling it had all  been some sort of  horrible mghtdream except  that
his hands - now magically deformed so that they were five times larger
than normal - were a monstrous reality.

    Mosiah knew nothing of this, he  saw nothing. He was not  intended
to see or know. The pleasure of  the crowd must not be disturbed.  And
so he forgot himself, forgot his plain clothing (Simkin had offered to
change it but Mosiah  - after seeing  himself attired in  rosebud-pink
silk trousers - adamantly refused), and gave himself up to the  beauty
that surrounded him. He  even managed, more or  less, to forget  about
Simkin. No  one seemed  to  take offense  at  the bearded  young  mans
offhanded insults or scandalous remarks. He dragged so many  skeletons
out of closets that Mosiah expected  to see them dancing along  behind
him. But though here and there  a noble mustache quivered or a  rouged
246 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORU 247 cheek paled, the  Dukes
and Barons, Countesses and Princesses,  mopped up their own blood  and
watched in delight as Simkin neatly knifed his next victim.

    Knowing that he would soon get lost by himself, Mosiah stayed near
the witty fool. But  his attention left the  finely dressed lords  and
ladies who  obviously had  no use  for him  either. They  took in  his
simple  clothes   and  sunburned   skin,  his   calloused  hands   and
work-thickened arms, and appeared to  spit him out again  immediately,
their lips twisting as though he'd left behind a bad taste.

    "Why does Joram want to be a part of this? " Mosiah asked  himself
as Simkin stopped to stab yet another merry party with his rapier wit.
The feeling of  homesickness that  Mosiah had  experienced beside  the
tomb of the wizard  returned. He had never  felt more alone than  when
surrounded by these people who cared nothing for him. Memories of  his
father and mother came back to him and tears stung his eyes.  Blinking
rapidly, he swallowed them, hoping no one noticed. Then, to wrench his
mind free of its childish wallowings,  he began to concentrate on  the
floating stage in front of him.

    Mosiahs eyes widened, his breath left him in a sigh, and he was so
enthralled that he  slowly drifted down  to stand on  the soft"  green
grass. He had been so confused by the crowd, so intent on watching for
the Duuk-foarith, and  so flurried by  Sim-kin that he  had passed  by
several such stages without noticing what was going on. But this . . .
this was remarkable! He had never dreamed of anything so wonderful.

    Actually, it was nothing more than  a Water Dancer. She was  good,
but not  great, and  Mosiah. a  small group  of children,  an  elderly
catalyst who  was  half blind,  and  two moderately  drunk  university
students were her only  audience. The children  soon flew off,  bored.
The catalyst  took  a short  nap  standing  . up  and  the  university
students wavered  off  in search  of  more wine.  But  Mosiah  stayed,
enraptured.

    The stage - a platform of crystal - floated above one of the  many
sparkling streams  that  ran  through the  Grove;  the  Druids  having
altered the course  of the  great river that  flowed through  Merilon,
bringing it into the Grove so that it could provide nourishment to the
plants and trees and entertainment to the populace. Using her  magical
arts, the Water Dancer caused the waters of the stream below her stage
to leap up and join her in her ballet.

    The young girl was lovely, with  hair the color of the water.  She
seemed clothed in water, too; her thin wet gown clinging to her  lithe
body as the water  spiraled up and twisted  about her in an  intricate
dance. By her magical arts, the water came to life. It caught her  and
held her in its foaming  arms; the rippling of  her own body made  her
one with her element.

    Too soon the  dance ended.  Mosiah thought he  might have  watched
until the river itself dried up.  The girl on her crystal  stage-water
running from her body in sparkling rivulets - waited a moment, smiling
down on Mosiah expectantly. Then, seeing that he had no money to throw
to her, she tossed her wet blue  hair and caused the stage to rise  up
in the air, drifting further downstream.

    Mosiah followed her with his eyes  and was just about to take  the
rest of  his body  along when  he  suddenly became  aware of  a  crowd
gathering around him. Startled, he discovered that Sim-kin had floated
down out of  the air to  stand beside  him on the  grass. The  bearded
young man had changed  his dress, too. He  was now wearing the  motley
and cap and bells  of a fool,  and he was,  Mosiah slowly realized  in
growing alarm, gesturing at him.

    "Brought to you, lords and ladies, at great expense and tremendous
personal risk from  the darkest,  deepest wilderness  of the  Outland!
Here it is,  lords and ladies,  the genuine article,  the only one  in
Meriion. I present for your enjoyment - a peasant!"

    The crowd laughed  appreciatively. Mosiah, blood  pounding in  his
ears, caught  hold of  Simkin by  a multicolored  arm. "What  are  you
doing?" he snarled.

    "Go along with  me, theres  a good  chap!" Simkin  muttered in  an
undertone. "Look, over there! The  Kan-ffanar who nearly caught us  at
the Gate! Told him we  were actors, remember? Must appear  legitimate,
mustn't we?"

    Suddenly he shoved Mosiah backward.  "Ye gads! Its attacking!"  he
shouted. "Savage creatures, these peasants, lords and ladies. Back,  I
say! Back!" Taking off  his belled cap, Simkin  waved it furiously  at
Mosiah, to the enjoyment of the crowd.

    Staring at Simkin in confusion, Mosiah was wondering fleetingly if
he had enough Life within him  to turn himself invisible, or at  least
enough to  choke Simkin  to death,  when the  bearded young  man  came
dancing up to him and began stroking his nose!

    "See here?" Simkin called to  the audience. "Quite docile. At  the
close of the act, I'll put my head in his mouth. What are you 248 WEIS
AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 249 doing, Mosiah?" Simkin hissed in
his friend's ear.  "Strolling troupe of  players, what? Remember?  The
Kan-Hanar is  watching! You're  doing a  remarkable impression  -of  a
flounder, dear boy,  but I'm afraid  someones going to  find it a  bit
hshy after a  while. Come up  with something more  original. We  don't
want to draw attention to ourselves. …"

    "You've already taken care of that!  What the devil am I  supposed
to do?" Mosiah whispered back angrily.

    "Bow, bow," said Simkin between clenched teeth. Smiling and bowing
and waving  his hat  to the  crowd, he  put his  hand on  the back  of
Mosiah's neck. Digging his  fingers into his  skin, Simkin forced  his
"savage peasant" to duck his head awkwardly. "Lets see," he  muttered,
"are you lyrical? Can you sing, dance, tell the odd joke? Keep bowing.
No? Mmmmm. I've got it!  Swallowing fire! Perfectly simple. You  don't
suffer from gas, do you? Might be dangerous …"

    "Just leave me alone!" Mosiah  snapped, breaking away from  Simkin
with difficulty. Standing up, his face flushed and his palms sweating,
he faced the crowd, who were staring at him expectantly. Mosiahs limbs
were as cold as ice;  he was frozen, unable to  move or speak or  even
think- Looking out at  the people hovering over  him, staring down  at
him as he stood on the grass,  Mosiah saw the Kan-Hanar - or at  least
it was a man in the robes of the Kan-Hanar, He couldn't be certain  if
it had  been the  one at  the Gate  or not.  Still, he  supposed  they
couldn't take chances. Now, if there was only something he could do! .
. .

    "Hey, Simkin! Your peasant's boring. Take him back to the  Outland
- "

    "No, wait! Look! What's he doing?"

    "Ah, that's more like it. He's painting! How original!"

    "What is that?"

    "Its . . . yes, my  dear . . . it's a  house. Made out of a  tree!
How marvelous and primitive. I've heard  the Field Magi live in  these
quaint little hovels but I never thought I'd see one! Isn't this  fun?
This must  be his  village he's  painting for  us. …  Bravo,  peasant!
Bravo!"

    The comments continued, along with the applause. Simkin was saying
something,  but  Mosiah  couldn't  hear.  He  couldn't  hear  anything
anymore. He was listening to the voices from his past. He was painting
a picture,  a  living picture,  using  the  air for  his  canvas,  his
homesickness for his brush.

    The crowd around the young man  grew larger as the images  created
by Mosiahs magic shifted and changed in the air above his head. As the
images became clearer and more detailed - the young mans memory giving
them life -the laughter and the excited chatter of the crowd gave  way
to murmurs.  Then awed  silence. No  one stirred  or even  spoke.  All
watched as Mosiah portrayed to the glittering, gay audience the  lives
of the Field Magi.

    The people of  Merilon saw the  houses that had  once been  trees,
their trunks magically transformed by the Druids into crude dwellings,
the roofs made of branches  woven and thatched together. Fierce  winds
of winter drove  the snow through  the cracks in  the wood, while  the
magi expended  their precious  Life to  surround their  children  with
bubbles of warmth. They  saw the magi eating  their scant meals  while
outside, in the  snow, wolves and  other hunger-driven beasts  prowled
and nosed about, smelling warm blood. They saw a mother cradle a  dead
infant in her arms.

    Winter eased his cruel grip, allowing the warmth of spring to seep
through his  fingers. The  magi returned  to the  fields, breaking  up
ground that was still  half-frozen or plodding in  mud to their  knees
when the rains  came. Then they  took to the  air, seeds falling  from
their fingers to the plowed earth, or they set the seedlings, nurtured
through the  dying days  of  winter, into  the soil.  Children  worked
beside their parents, rising at dawn and returning to their homes when
the light of day failed.

    Summer brought  land  to  be  cleared,  homes  repaired,  and  the
never-ending weeding and  tending of  the young  plants, the  constant
fight with bugs and animals for a share in the crops, the burning  sun
by day and the  often violent thunderstorms by  night. But there  were
simple pleasures, too. The catalyst  and his young charges out  during
the noon hour, the children tumbling through the air, learning to  use
the Life that would eventually earn  them their bread. There were  the
few, peaceful moments between dusk  and nightfall when the Field  Magi
gathered together at day's end. There was Almin's Day. They spent  the
morning listening  to the  reedy voice  of the  catalyst describing  a
heaven of golden gates and  marble-halls that they did not  recognize.
In the afternoon, they worked twice as hard to make up for lost time.

    250 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 251 Fall brought  fiery
colors to the trees and hours of back-breaking labor to the Field Magi
as they harvested the fruits of their toil, only a part of which  they
would ever share in.  The Ariels came flying  to the village,  bearing
huge golden disks. The  magi loaded the corn  and potatoes, wheat  and
barley, vegetables  and fruits,  onto  the disks  and watched  as  the
Ariels bore thefp  away to  the granaries  and storage  houses of  the
nobleman who owned the lands. When this was done, they took their  own
small share  and planned  how  to make  it  last the  winter,  already
breathing on them with  his bitter breath.  Their children gleaned  in
the fields, picking up every vestige and scrap, each grain as precious
as a jewel.

    And then it was  winter again, the snow  swirling about the  small
dwellings, the magi fighting  boredom and cold  and hunger, the  Field
Catalyst huddled in his dwelling,  his hands wrapped in rags,  reading
to himself of the Almm's great love for his people. . . .

    Mosiah's shoulders  slumped, his  head bowed.  The images  he  had
painted above the crowd dissolved as the Life drained out of the young
man. The people regarded him in silence; and, fearfully, Mosiah raised
his eyes, expecting to see faces bored, scornful, derisive. Instead he
saw puzzlement,  wonder,  disbelief.  These  people  might  have  been
watching a portrayal of the lives of creatures living on a far distant
world instead of humans, like themselves, living on their own.

    Mosiah saw Merilon for the first time, truth illuminating the city
in his eyes  with far greater  brilliance than the  light of the  meek
spring sun. These  people were  locked in their  own enchanted  realm,
willing prisoners in a  crystal kingdom of  their own manufacture  and
design. What  would happen,  Mosiah wondered  - looking  at them  with
their costly robes and soft bare feet - if someone would wake up?

    Shaking his head, he glanced around in search of Simkin. He wanted
to leave, get  out of this  place. But suddenly  people were  crowding
around him, reaching for his hand, touching him.

    "Marvelous, my  dear,  absolutely marvelous!  Such  a  delightful,
primitive style. Colors so natural. How do you achieve it?"

    "I've been  crying like  a  child! Such  quaint ideas,  living  in
trees! Strikingly original. You must come to my next gala . . ."

    "The dead baby.  A bit  overstated. I prefer  more subtle  imagery
myself. Now when you present that again, I believe I'd change that  to
… mmmm … a lamb. That's it!  Woman holding dead lamb in her lap.  Much
more symbolic, don't you think? And if you altered the scene with  the
- "

    Mosiah stared around,  bewildered. Making  incoherent replies,  he
was backing away when a firm hand gripped his arm.

    "Simkin!"  cried  Mosiah  thankfully.  "I  never  thought  I'd  be
grateful to see you, but - "

    "Flattered, I'm sure, old chap, but you've put yourself. in rather
a bad situation and this is no time to share hugs and kisses,"  Simkin
said in an urgent whisper.

    Mosiah looked around in alarm.

    "Over there."  Simkin  nodded  his  head.  "No,  don't  turn!  Two
black-robed observers have decided they're art critics."

    "Name of the Almin!" Mosiah swallowed. "Duuk-toarith."

    "Yes, and I believe they got a great deal more out of your  little
exhibition than the tea-and-crumpet set  here. They know reality  when
they see it,  and you've  just proclaimed  yourself a  Field Magus  as
blatantly as ifyou'd sprouted corn out your ears. In fact, that  might
have been less damaging. I can't think  what put it into your head  to
do something so inane!" Simkin raised his voice. "I'll take that under
advisement, Countess Darymple. Dinner party a week from Tuesday?  I'll
have to look at his schedule. I'm his manager, you see. Now, if you'll
just excuse us  a moment  - No,  Baron, I  really can't  say where  he
conjures up these crude clothes. If you want some like them, try th, e
stables. …"

    'You were the one who got me into this!" Mosiah reminded him. "Not
that it matters now. What are we going to do?" He glanced fearfully at
the black hoods hovering on the outskirts of the crowd.

    "They're waiting for the excitement to die down," Simkin muttered,
pretending to fuss with Mosiahs shirt,  yet all the while keeping  his
gaze fixed on  the warlocks. "Then  they'll move in.  Do you have  any
magic left?"

    "None." Mosiah shook  his head.  "I'm exhausted.  I couldn't  melt
butter." '

    "We may be the ones  melting," Simkin predicted grimly. "What  was
that. Duke? The  dead baby? No,  I don't agree.  Shock value.  Audible
gasps. Women fainting. . . ."

    252 WEIS AND  H1CKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD  253 "Simkin,  look!"
Mosiah felt faint  himself with  relief. "They've  gone! Perhaps  they
weren't watching!"

    "Gone!" Simkin glanced about in increased agitation. "Dear boy,  I
hate to burst your bubble - it's so frightfully messy - but that means
that they are no doubt standing next to you, hands outstretched - "

    "My god!"  Mosiah clutched  at  Simkins multicolored  sleeve.  "Do
something!"

    "I am," said  Simkin coolly.  "I'm going  to give  them what  they
want." He pointed. "You."

    Mosiahs mouth dropped open. "You  bastard," he began angrily,  and
stopped in amazement. It was his own  sleeve he was hanging onto in  a
state of panic. It was  his own arm beneath  that sleeve, the arm  was
attached to  his body.  In fact,  his  own face  looked back  at  him,
grinning.

    A hubbub of voices started  all around him, laughing,  exclaiming,
crying out in  wonder. Dazed, Mosiah  turned and saw  himself. He  saw
himself drifting in the air  above himself. Everywhere Mosiah  looked,
in fact, he saw Mosiahs as far as the eye could see.

    "Oh, Simkin,  this  is  your  best  yet!"  cried  a  Mosiah  in  a
distinctly feminine voice. "Look, Geraldine  - that is you, isn't  it,
Geraldine? We're dressed in these simply wonderful primitive  clothes,
and look at these trousers!"

    "Play along!" said the Mosiah who Mosiah was holding, giving him a
swift poke in the ribs. "This spell won't last long and it won't  fool
them forever! We've got  to get out of  here! I say. Duke!  Absolutely
brilliant of old  Simkin this,  what?" said  Mosiah in  a loud  voice.
"Play along!" he ordered in an undertone.

    "Uh, right, B-baron,"  Mosiah stammered  in a  deep bass,  hanging
onto what used to be Simkin as his last link with reality.

    "Start moving!"  Simkin/Mosiah hissed  at him,  drawing him  along
toward the exit. "I must go and  show this to the Emperor!" he  called
out. "His Highness simply will  not believe what Simkin, that  genius,
that sheer master of magic, that king of comedy - "

    "Don't overdo it!"  Mosiah growled,  shoving his  way through  the
throngs of himself that surrounded him.

    But he couldn't make himself heard.

    "The Emperor! Let's go show the Emperor!"

    Everyone picked up the cry. Laughing and pushing, Mosiahs began to
call for the  carriages. Mosiahs conjured  up carriages. Some  Mosiahs
simply vanished. Corridors popped open in multitudes, large holes into
nothingness, until the air in  the Grove began to resemble  rat-gnawed
cheese. Mosiahs  by  the hundreds  stepped  into these,  throwing  the
Thon-Ll, the Corridor Masters, into vast confusion.

    "You know," said Simkin/Mosiah in  satisfaction, pulling a bit  of
orange silk from  the air and  dabbing at his  nose with it,  "I am  a
genius.

    Stepping into a Corridor, he dragged another Mosiah after him.  "I
say, old chap," one  of the befuddled Tbon-Lt  heard him ask, "that  u
really you, isn't it?"

    II On the Run "M Iosiah, that fool!" Joram fumed, packing back and
forth. "Why did he leave the house?"

    "I think Mosiahs  been remarkably  patient. After  all, you  can't
expect him to share your interests in gardening," Saryon said  acidly.
"He's been cooped up in this house  for well over a week with  nothing
to do but read books while you have - "

    "All right, all right!" Joram interrupted irritably. "Spare me the
sermon."

    Sighing, his brow furrowed in  concern, Saryon lay back among  his
pillows, his hands plucking nervously  at the sheets. It was  evening.
Mosiah had been gone all  day, no one knew  where. Not that anyone  in
their hosts  household  was  particularly worried.  It  was  perfectly
natural that  the young  man should  get  out and  see the  sights  of
Merilon.

    Joram ate dinner with the family, and though Lord Samuels and Lady
Rosamund were polite,  they were  cold and detached.  (Had they  known
about the  incident  in  the  family  garden,  they  might  have  been
decidedly warmer, but  Marie kept  her young  mistress's secret.)  The
talk*at dinner  centered around  Simkin.  He'd performed  a  marvelous
illusion in Merlyn's Grove  that afternoon. No  one knew the  details,
but it had created a sensation in the city.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD /?> "I  hope Simkin comes back tomorrow,  to
escort us to the ball, don't you, Joram?" Gwendolyn dared address this
remark to the young man. Before he could answer, however. Lord Samuels
intervened.

    "I think you should  go to your room  now, Gwen," he said  coolly.
"Tomorrow will be  a busy day.  You need your  sleep." , "Yes,  Papa,"
Gwen replied, obediently  rising from  the table and  retiring to  her
room; not, however, without a backward glance at her beloved.

    Joram took  the opportunity  to leave  the table  as well,  saying
abruptly that he must return to the catalyst.

    Weak but now conscious, Saryon was able to sit up in his bed,  and
even consume a small amount of broth. The Tbetdara had visited him  in
the morning and pronounced him recovered, though she had advised rest,
the continuation of the soothing music, aromatic herbs, and the -broth
of a chicken. She had also  hinted strongly that she would be  willing
to talk  about  anything the  catalyst  felt like  discussing.  Saryon
bad-accepted the music, '  the herbs, and broth,  but had said  humbly
that he had  nothing to discuss.  The Thtldara had  left, shaking  her
head.

    Over and over, Saryon considered his dilemma. In a fevered  dream,
he saw Joram as  the fool in the  tarok deck - walking  the edge of  a
cliff, his eyes  on the sun  above him,  while a chasm  yawned at  his
feet. More than once, Saryon started to tell him the truth, to stretch
out the hand  that would keep  him from tumbling  over the cliff.  But
just as he started to do so, he woke UP- "That would open his eyes  to
the chasm," the  catalyst muttered  to himself, "but  would he  meekly
draw back from the  edge? No! Prince  of Merilon. It  would be all  he
dreamed. And - he wouldn't understand that they would destroy him. . .
. No," the catalyst decided after endless reflection. "No. I'will  not
tell him. I cannot. What is the worst that will happen to him now?

    •He will meet this Theldara and  be revealed as an imposter.  Lord
Samuels wiil not want  to create a  scene at the  Palace. I will  take
Joram and we will leave the Palace quickly and quietly. We will go  to
Sharakan."

    Saryon had it all figured out, all  arranged. And then this . .  .
Mosiab disappearing. . . .

    "Somethings happened to him!" Joram muttered. "There was all  that
talk about Simkin at dinner. Some illusion he per-; formed. You  don't
suppose Mosiah was with him?"

    256 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 257 Saryon sighed. "Who
knows. No one in the house saw  Mosiah leave. No ones seen Simkin  for
days." He was silent a moment, then he said, "You should leave, Joram.
Leave now. If something did happen to him - "

    "No!" Joram  said sharply,  coming to  a halt  in his  pacing  and
glaring at the catalyst. "I'm too close! Tomorrow night - "

    "He's right, I'm afraid, Joram," said a voice.

    "Mosiah!" Joram  said in  grim relief,  watching as  the  Corridor
opened and his friend stepped out.  "Where have you -" his voice  died
in astonishment as another Mosiah materialized right behind him,  this
one wearing a bit of orange silk tied around his neck.

    "Helps me to tell us apact," the orange-silk Mosiah said by way of
explanation. "I  was  getting slightly  muddled.  'Pon my  honor,"  he
continued languidly, "I'm beginning  to find this  life of a  fugitive
from justice quite entertaining."

    "What is this?" Joram demanded, staring at the two in amazement.

    "Its a long story. I'm sorry. I've put us all in terrible danger,"
Mosiah - the real Mosiah - looked at his friend earnestly. Once in the
light, it was easy  to tell him from  Simkin, even without the  orange
silk around the neck. His face was pale and strained with fear;  there
were smudgy shadows beneath  his eyes. "They  haven't been here,  have
they?" he asked, glancing about. "Simkin said they wouldn't, not while
they thought I was in fashion."

    "Who hasn't been  here?" Joram asked,  exasperated. "What are  you
talking about -in fashion?"

    "The Duuk-foarith," Mosiah answered, barely above a whisper.

    "You better tell us what happened, my son," Saryon said, his voice
breaking, fear catching him in the throat.

    Hurriedly and somewhat incoherently,  his eyes darting around  the
room, Mosiah told them what had occurred in the Grove of Merlyn.  "And
there are copies of me  everywhere," he said in conclusion,  spreading
his Hands  as  though  to  encompass the  world.  "Even  when  Simkins
illusion began to fade, people started conjuring up the image on their
own! I don't know what the Duuk-baritb must be doing or thinking …"

    "They may be confused for a  while," Saryon said gravely, "but  it
won't take them long to recover.  Of course, they will have  connected
you with  Simkin. They  will go  to the  Palace first,  make  discreet
inquiries . . ." He shook his head. "It will be only a matter of  time
before they find out  where you've been staying.  He is right,  Joram,
you must leave!"

    Seeing Jorams rebellious face, the catalyst raised a feeble  hand.
"Hear me out. I'm not saying you should leave the city, though that is
what I would most strongly advise. If you are determined to attend the
Emperors party tomorrow - "

    "I am."

    "Then, stay in Merilon. But at least leave this house tonight.  It
would be a pity," Saryon added,  asking the god he no longer  believed
in to  forgive  him  his  lie,  "to come  so  close  to  gaining  your
inheritance, then to lose it through lack of caution. I think - "

    "Very well! Perhaps  you are right,"  Joram broke in  impatiently.
"But where could I hide? And what about you?"

    "You could hide  where we've been  hiding all day  - the Grove  of
Merlyn," said Simkin. "Bored to tears, too, I might add."

    "I'll be all right here," Saryon said. "As Father Dunstable, I  am
the safest of any  of you. My leaving,  in fact, would look  extremely
suspicious. As it is, perhaps I can throw them off the trail."

    "I don't know why you're all worried about our bald friend  here,"
Simkin remarked, his very  mustache drooping with  gloom. "Its me  who
should be depressed!  I've started  a new  fashion trend  that I  find
personally disgusting! Everyone in court is dressed like he planned to
go out wallowing with pigs or mucking about in the beans."

    "We should be  going," Mosiah said,  fidgeting nervously. "I  have
the feeling I'm being watched by eyes I can't see, touched by hands  I
can't feel! It's  getting on my  nerves. But I  don't think we  should
hide in the Grove. I think we should leave the city. Now. Tonight.  We
can travel  safely tonight.  There are  still hundreds  of me  running
around. Simkin can change us all  into Mosiahs. We could slip out  the
Gate in the confusion."

    "No!" Joram said impatiently, turning away.

    But Mosiah moved to  stand in front of  his friend, so that  Joram
was forced to confront him.

    "This place isn't for us," Mosiah said earnestly. "It's  beautiful
and it's wonderful but … it isn't any of it real! These peo- 258  WEIS
AND H1CKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 259 pie aren't real! I know I'm  not
explaining this very well  . . ."he hesitated,  thinking, "But when  I
created the  images of  our home,  the illusions  of our  friends  and
families seemed more alive to me than the living people watching!"

    "The people are like their  seasons here in Merilon," Saryon  said
softly, his eyes  staring at  the ceiling.  "It is  always spring  for
them. Their hearts are as green and hard as the buds of a young  tree.
They have never blossomed in the summer, nor given fruit in the  fall.
They have never  felt the touch  of winters chill  winds to give  them
strength. …"

    Joram glanced from Mosiah to Saryon, his gaze dark. "A Field Magus
whos a  catalyst and  a catalyst  who's a  poet," he  muttered-  '"You
always have me," said  Simkin cheerfully. Going over  to the harp,  he
proceeded to disrupt the spell surrounding it and began to play a  gay
dance tune that set the taut nerves of everyone in the room vibrating.
"I'm the fixed point  of insanity in any  sane situation. Many  people
find this comforting."

    "Stop  that!"   Angrily,  Mosiah   placed  his   hands  over   the
harpstrings. "You'll wake the whole house!"

    Joram shook his  head. "It doesn't  matter what you  say. I'm  not
going. And  neither are  you,"  he added,  his  dark gaze  turning  to
Mosiah. "Tomorrow  night,  my identity  will  be established.  I  will
become' Baron Fitzgerald, then no one can touch any of us!"

    Flinging his arms  wide in exasperation,  Mosiah looked at  Saryon
pleadingly. "Isn't there  anything you  can say.  Father, to  convince
him?"

    "No, my son," the  catalyst replied in  quiet sorrow. "I'm  afraid
not. I've tried  • . ."  , Mosiah  stood silently a  moment, his  head
bowed in thought. Then he held  out his hand to Joram. "Goody-bye,  my
friend. I'm leaving. I'm going back home. I miss it - "

    "No, you're not!"  snapped Joram tensely,  ignoring the hand  held
out to him. "You can't  go yet. It's too  dangerous. Lay low, for  one
more day. Ill  come with  you to  this Grove,  if that  will make  you
happy." He glanced at the catalyst. "And by tomorrow night, everything
will be fine! I know it!" His fist clenched.

    Mosiah drew a deep breath. "Joram," he said sadly, staring out the
window into the moonlit garden. "I really want to go home - "

    "And I  want you  to stay,"  Joram interrupted,  catching hold  of
Mosiah's shoulder.  "I'm not  much better  at saying  things than  you
are," he said in a low voice. "You've been my friend ever since I  can
remember. You were my friend when I didn't want one. I did . . .  I've
done everything I could to drive you away." His hands tightened  their
grip on Mosiah, as though now fearful to let go. "But, somewhere  deep
inside me, I - "

    A discordant  twang  came from  the  harp. "Beg  pardon,"  said  ,
-Simkin, shamefacedly grabbing the strings to silence them. "Must have
nodded off."

    Joram bit  his  hp,  his face  flushed.  "Anyway,"  he  continued,
speakng now with an effort, "I want  you to stay and see this  through
with me. Besides," he added with  an attempt at lightness that  failed
completely in the tense  atmosphere, "how can  I get married,  without
you at  my side?  Where you've  always been  . .  ." His  voice  died.
Abruptly, Joram withdrew his hands and  turned away. "But you do  what
you want," he said gruffly, staring out the window in his turn.

    Mosiah was silent, staring at his friend in wonder. He cleared his
throat. "I - I guess one more day  . . . wouldn't matter so much,"  he
said huskily.

    Saryon saw tears glimmering in the young man's eyes; the  catalyst
felt tears of his own. There was no doubting Joram's sincerity or  the
obvious pain it cost him to reveal his heart to another. \et a cynical
voice inside  Saryon  whispered,  "He  is  '  using  him,  using  you,
manipulating you all to  work his will  just as he  has done and  will
ever do. And what is sad is that he doesn't even know he is doing  it.
Perhaps he can't help it.  It was born with him.  He is, after all,  a
Prince of Merilon."

    "Simkin," said Joram, turning to the young man who had pulled  the
bit of orange silk from the air  and Was now blowing his nose  loudly,
"will the Grove be a safe place to hide?"

    Simkin gave a wrenching sob, weeping into the silk.

    "What's the  matter?"  Joram asked  with  a touch  of  impatience,
though a smile played around his lips.

    "This reminds me  of the  time my dear  brother, Little  Nat ~-  •
you've heard me mention Little Nat  -or was it Nate? Anyway, -  Little
Nat lay dying, having consumed  a quantity of stolen strawberry  pies.
He denied  it, of  course, but  he was  caught red-  ; _'  handed,  or
-lipped, as the case may be. Though we rather sus- . pected it  wasn't
the pies killed him so  much as the carriage that  ran over him as  he
was floating home. His last words  to me were, 'Simkin, the crust  was
underdone. ' There's a moral there.

    260 WEIS AND HICKMAN somewhere," he said, applying the silk to his
red-rimmed eyes. "But it eludes me."

    "Simkin - " Joram's voice tightened.

    "I've got it! Half-baked! This plan is half-baked. Still," he said
after reflection, "we jhoutt) be able to continue hiding in the Grove.
There won't be a  soul there tomorrow. Everyone  will be watching  the
festivities at the palace. The Duuk-L>arith will be kept busy handling
the crowd. Mosiah  can remain when  we leave for  the Palace  tomorrow
night. …"

    "Won't you be staying with me?" Mosiah asked in some anxiety.

    "And miss the party?" Simkin appeared shocked. He waved his  hand.
"Our Dark and  Uncouth Friend here  isn't noted for  his charm or  his
court manners. I must be at his side to guide him through the maze  of
civilities, the treacherous tangle of hand-kissing and ass-licking - "

    "/'// be with him, you know," the catalyst said acerbically.

    "And no  one is  more  pleased about  that  than I,"  said  Simkin
solemnly. "Between ourselves, it will  undoubtedly take both of us  to
carry this off,"  he predicted airily.  "Besides, in case  any of  you
have forgotten, it was because of me you received the invitation-"

    "\bu'll be all right while  we're gone. And tomorrow night,  after
the party, we'll meet you in the Grove," Joram said to Mosiah.  "We'll
bring you back here to help celebrate my Barony and my engagement," he
said firmly.

    Tomorrow night, we'll  meet Mosiah  in the Grove  and escape  from
there, said Saryon to himself. Perhaps this will work out after all.

    "I'll wait for you,"  Mosiah agreed, though there  was a trace  of
reluctance in his voice.

    Joram smiled, actually a full smile. The dark eyes brightened with
a rare warmth. "You'll  see," he promised.  "Everything will be  fine.
I'll - "

    "Well, best be off." Simkin interrupted, springing into the air so
suddenly that  his foot  caught  in the  harpstrings, causing  a  most
ungodly twanging. After  a violent  struggle, he managed  to free  it.
"Come, come." Bustling about Mosiah and Joram, he herded them along to
the door like  sheep. "Can't use  the Corridor with  our Dead  friend,
here. The streets should be safe enough, though I imagine Mosiahs  are
on the decrease."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 261 "Wait! What will you tell Gwen- I  mean,
Lord Samuels," Joram asked the catalyst.

    "He'll tell them that I've taken you to court to rehearse for  our
play  tomorrow  night,"  said   Simkin  easily,  tugging  at   Joram's
shirtsleeve. "I  say, do  come  along, dear  boy! Nights  shadows  are
creeping through the streets and some of them are flesh and blood!"

    "I'll talk to Gwen," Saryori said with a wan smile,  understanding
Joram's true concern.

    To Saryons astonishment, Joram came over to the bedside. •Reaching
down, he took the catalysts wasted hand in his.

    "I'll see you tomorrow night," he said firmly. We'll celebrate."

    "As the Duchess d'Longeville said  on the occasion of her  wedding
to her sixth husband," Simkin remarked, drawing Joram out the door.  t
Saryon heard them walking softly down the hallway, then Simkin's voice
came drifting  back through  the silence  in the  house. "Was  it  her
wedding? Or his funeral?"

    The night deepened around Menlon - as deep as night was allowed to
sink, that is. This was not  very far, the darkness merely  moistening
the populace, never drowning it. Though Saryon was weak and exhausted,
he drifted along on the top  of sleep, restless and troubled,  neither
falling into peaceful oblivion nor quite bobbing to the surface.

    The catalyst's room  was dark and  quiet; the harp  - refusing  to
play - sat in sullen silence in a corner. The tapestries were drawn to
blot out any harmful effects of either sun or moon. The aromatic herbs
had been removed; Saryon said they  choked him. The only sound in  the
room was the catalyst's rasping breathing.

    Rising out of nights flood tide,  silent as the night itself,  two
figures robed in black appeared  in the catalyst's room. They  floated
over to  the man's  bed.  Leaning down,  a  soft female  voice  called
quietly, "Father Dunstable."

    No response from the slumbering figure.

    "Father Dunstable," said the voice again, this time more urgently.

    262 WEIS AND HICKMAN The  catalyst shifted uneasily at the  sound,
turning his head upon the  pillow as though to  blot it out, his  hand
starting to draw the bedclothes up around his neck.

    Then, "Saryon!" called the black-robed woman.

    "What?" The catalyst sat upright, staring about him in  confusion.
At first he could see nothing - the shapes hovering over his bed  like
dark angels were one with  the night. When he  did see them, his  eyes
opened wide, a strangled sound came from his throat.

    "Act swiftly," ordered the woman. "He may suffer another attack."

    Her companion  was already  casting his  spell, however.  Saryon's
body went limp, his head sank back  onto the pillow, his eyes shut  in
an enthralled sleep.

    The witch and  the warlock regarded  each other with  satisfaction
over the inert body.

    "I told you the Church would  handle the matter," the witch  said.
She motioned to their  victim. "He is to  be taken immediately to  the
Font."

    The warlock, hands folded in front of him, nodded.

    "Have you searched the house?" she continued.

    "The young men are gone."

    "I expected they would be." The witch gave an almost-imperceptible
shrug. The  hood of  her black  robe turned  ever so  slightly in  the
direction of the catalyst. "It  doesn't matter," she said softly.  "It
doesn't matter all  all." She made  a gesture with  one slender  hand.
"Go."

    Her companion  bowed.  With  a  word of  command,  he  caused  the
catalysts body to rise up into the air. Filaments finer than silk shot
from the  fingers of  the warlock,  winding themselves  rapidly  about
Saryon until he  was firmly encased  in a cocoon  of enchantment.  The
warlock spoke another word and a  Corridor gaped open before him;  the
Thon-Li had been awaiting his signal. Another motion of the hand  sent
the bound  catalyst  floating  through  the night  air  and  into  the
Corridor. The warlock followed. The Corridor shut swiftly and silently
behind them.

    The witch remained  standing a  moment longer in  the quiet  room,
allowing herself a moment of well-earned congratulation. But there was
still much to  be done.  Putting her  hands together  in a  prayerlike
attitude, the witch raised them to  her forehead, then drew them  down
before her face, continuing downward.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 263 As her hands moved, she murmured  arcane
words. Her  appearance  changed.  Within moments,  the  image  of  the
Theldara who had been treating Saryon stood in the room.

    The witch spoke aloud now, testing her voices pitch and modulation
to make certain it  was correct. "Lord Samuels,  I regret to tell  you
that Father Dunstable was taken ill during the night. His young friend
sent for me. I have removed the catalyst to the Houses of Healing. . .
."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 265 Postlude  M lands of night gripped  him,
[winding their  enchantments  around  him. He  traveled  Corridors  of
darkness that took him to more  darkness. There he lay and waited  for
the horror that he  knew was coming.  A voice called  his name and  he
knew the  voice and  did not  want  to listen  to it.  Frantically  he
grabbed for the charm around his  neck, knowing it would protect  him,
but it wasn't there! It was gone,  and he knew then that the hands  of
night had taken ij  from him. Part of  him fought against waking,  but
part of him longed to end this  dark dream that seemed to have  lasted
his entire life.  The voice  was not angry  with him,  but gentle  and
filled with a quiet  sorrow. It was his  fathers voice, punishing  his
disobedient son. . . .

    "Saryon . . ."

    "Obcdire  e,  't  vivcrf.  Vivcre  &t  obedire,"  Saryon  muttered
feverishly.

    "To obey is to live. To live is to obey." The voice was very  sad.
"Our most holy precept. And you  have forgotten that, my son. Wake  up
now, Saryon. Let us help you through the darkness that surrounds you."

    "Yes! Yes, help  me!" Saryon reached  forth his hand  and felt  it
taken, gripped firmly. Opening his  eyes, expecting confusedly to  see
his father - the gentle wizard  barely remembered - the catalyst  saw,
instead, Bishop Vanya.

    Saryon  gasped,  and  struggled  to  sit  up.  He  had  some   dim
remembrance of being bound, and he thrashed against his bonds, only to
find that they  were nothing more  than sweetly scented  sheets. At  a
gesture from Bishop Vanya, a young Druid caught hold of the  wild-eyed
catalyst by the shoulders and pressed him gently back into the bed.

    "Relax, Father Saryon," the Druid said kindly. "You have  suffered
much. But you are home now, and all will be well … if you let us  help
you."

    "My -my name- Its not Saryon," said the shaken catalyst,  glancing
about him as the Druid arranged the cool pillows beneath his head.

    He was not, as he had dreamed,  being held prisoner in a dark  and
fearful dungeon surrounded by figures in black robes. He was lying  in
a sunlit room filled with blooming plants. He recognized this place  .
. . Home, the Druid said. Yes, thought Saryon, filled with a sense  of
peace and relief that brought tears to eyes. Yes, I am home! The Font.
. . .

    "My son," said Bishop  Vanya, and the voice  was tinged with  such
profound grief and disappointment that tears fell down Saryon's  face,
his strange  face, the  face that  belonged to  another man,  "do  not
blacken your soul  further with  this lie. Its  corruption has  spread
from your heart to your body. It  is poisoning you. Look here. I  want
you meet someone."

    Saryon turned his head as a figure stepped into his view.

    "Saryon," said Bishop Vanya, "I want you to meet Father Dunstabie,
the real Father Dunstable."

    Swallowing a bitter taste in his mouth, Saryon closed his eyes. It
was all  over. He  was doomed.  There  was nothing  he could  do  now,
nothing but protect Joram.  And he would do  that, though it cost  him
his life. After all,  what was that life  worth anyway, he thought  in
despair. Nothing much . . . Even his god had abandoned him. . . .

    He heard murmured  voices and  he had the  impression that  Bishop
Vanya was dismissing both the Druid and the catalyst.

    , Saryon didn't know and he didn't care. The Bishop will send  for
the Duuk-foaritb now, he thought. They have ways, they say, of  seeing
into a mans mind, of boring through the flesh and blood • and bone, of
penetrating the skull and dragging out the truth.

    The pain is excruciating, if you  fight it, so they say. Likely  I
266 WE! S AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWO. RD 267 won't live  through
it. He felt lighthearted  at the thought  and suddenly impatient  that
nothing was  happening. Get  on  with it,  he ordered  them  silently,
irritably.

    "Deacon  Saryon,"  began  Bishop  Vanya,  and  the  catalyst   was
surprised at hearing  his old  title. He  was surprised,  too, at  the
continued tone of sadness in the Bishops voice. "I want you to tell me
where we can find the young man, Joram."

    Ah! Saryon had been waiting for  this. Firmly, he shook his  head.
Now they'll come, he thought.

    Instead, however, there was only  silence. He heard the rustle  of
Vanyas rich, silken  robes as  he shifted his  bulk in  the chair.  He
heard the Bishop's slow, labored breathing. It was the breathing of an
elderly man,  Saryon  realized suddenly.  He'd  never thought  of  the
Bishop as old. Yet he himself  was in his mid-forties. Vanya had  been
middle-aged when  Saryon  was  a  youth. The  Bishop  must  be,  what,
seventy, eighty?  Still there  was only  silence, interrupted  by  the
breathing. . . .

    Cautiously, Saryon opened his eyes. The Bishop was staring at him,
regarding him with a thoughtful air,  as though undecided on a  course
of action. Now that  the catalyst looked at  his superior closely,  he
could see other signs of aging on  the face. Odd, he'd only seen  him,
what, a year ago? Less than a  year. Had it been just that long  since
Vanya had come to him in that wretched hovel in Walren? It seemed like
centuries. . .  . And it  seemed that those  centuries had marked  his
Bishop as well.

    Saryon sat up, leaning against the beds headrest, staring intently
at Vanya. He had seen the Bishop shaken only once before in his  life,
and that had been at the Testing ceremony of the tiny Prince.  Joram's
Testing, when  they had  discovered that  he was  Dead. And  now  that
Saryon looked at his superior closely,  he saw the same expression  on
the man's face -  one of worry, concern.  . . . No,  it was more  than
that. It was fear. . . .

    "What is it? Why  do you look at  me like that?" Saryon  demanded.
"You have lied to me! I know that now, I've known it for months.  Tell
me the truth! I have a right  to knowl'ln the name of the Almin,"  the
catalyst cried suddenly, sitting  forward, stretching out a  trembling
hand, "I deserve the truth! This has come near costing me my  sanity!"
* "Calm yourself, Brother," said Bishop Vanya sternly. "I lied to you,
yes. But it was not of my choice. I lied because I am forbidden by the
strongest and  most binding  vow to  the Almin  to reveal  this  dread
secret to anyone. But I am gong to  tell it to you, in order that  you
will understand the  gravity of the  situation and help  us to  remedy
it."

    Puzzled, Saryon lay back  on the pillows,  his gaze never  leaving
Vanyas face. He did not trust the  man. How could he? "Yet, search  as
he might, he saw no sign of dissembling, no sign of slyness. There was
only an old man, overweight, his face pale and flabby, one pudgy  hand
crawling nervously along the arm of the wooden chair.

    Bishop Vanya drew a deep, shivering breath. "Long ago, at the  end
of the terrible Iron  Wars, the land of  Thimhallan was in chaos.  You
know, Saryon. You have read the histories. I need not go into  detail.
It was  then  that we  catalysts  realized  that we  had  the  chance,
finally, to gain control of the fragmented world and use our power  to
bind the shattered pieces together. Each city-state would continue  to
govern itself  ostensibly, but  they would  do so  under our  watchful
guidance. The Duuk-foarith would be our  eyes and ears, our hands  and
feet.

    "In this, we  were successful.  There has been  lasting peace  for
hundreds of years. Peace  until now." He heaved  a sigh, shifting  his
great bulk uneasily  in his  chair. "Sharakan!  Those fools!  Renegade
catalysts preaching freedom from the  tryanny of their own Order!  The
King consorting with Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. …"

    Saryon felt his skin burn with shame. Now it was he who shifted in
his bed, but he kept his gaze fixed upon his Bishop.

    "Ordinarily" - Vanya  waved a pudgy  hand - "this  would not  have
been anything we could not handle. There have been disturbances in the
past, not  quite this  serious,  but we  dealt  with them,  using  the
Duuk-foarith, the DKarn-Duuk,  the Field of  Contest, But this  . .  .
This is different.  There is another  factor involved. .  . .  Another
factor."

    Vanya fell silent again, the struggle in his mind clearly  visible
on his face, on his entire body  in fact. He frowned; the hand  curled
over the arm of the chair; the knuckles turned white. "What I am about
to tell you, Saryon, is not in the histories."

    Saryon tensed.

    "In order that they might rule  better, the catalysts of the  time
of the Iron Wars sought to look into the future. There is neither  the
need nor the time to describe to you  how that is done. It is a  skill
we have lost. Perhaps" - Vanya sighed again - "it is just as well.  At
any rate,  the Bishop  of that  era along  with one  of the  f">  sole
surviving Diviners undertook to use  this powerful magic 268 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 269 that  involves direct contact  with
the Almin Himself. It  worked, Saryon." Vanyas  voice was hushed  with
awe. "The Bishop was allowed to look  into the Future. But it was  not
as he had foreseen,  as anyone had foreseen.  These were the words  he
spoke to the astounded members of  the Order who were gathered  around
him.

    " 'There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet  will
live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he  will
hold in his hand the destruction of the world - '"

    The words were meaningless to Saryon. It was as if he were hearing
a tale told by one of the House Magi before bedtime. He stared at  the
Bishop, who  said  nothing more.  He  was regarding  Saryon  intently,
letting the impact of the words  come from within the man rather  than
without, knowing that this way it would have the most profound effect.

    It did.  Understanding hit  Saryon  like the  thrust of  a  sword,
sliding into his body, cutting through to his very soul.

    "Born to the Royal House .  . . one who is dead  . . . live . .  .
die again . . . destruction of the world. . . ."

    "Name of the Almin!" Saryon  choked. The sword of his  realization
might have been  made of  steel, draining him  of life.  "What have  I
done? What have I done?" he cried in despair. A wild hope throbbed  in
his heart. Hes lying! Hes lied to me before. . . .

    But there was no lie on Vanyas  face. There was only fear -  stark
and real.

    Saryon moaned. "What have I done?" he repeated in misery.

    "Nothing that  can't  be  undone!" Vanya  said  urgently,  leaning
forward to grasp the catalysts hand.  "Give us Joram! You must!  Never
mind how it happened, but the  Prophecy is slowly being fulfilled!  He
was born Dead, he lived. Now he has darkstone - the weapon of the Dark
Arts that came near destroying our world the last time!"

    Saryon shook his head. "I don't know," he cried brokenly. "I can't
think. . . ."

    Bishop Vanyas face flushed an ugly red, the pudgy hand clenched in
frustration and  anger.  "You fool!"  he  began furiously,  his  voice
breaking.

    This is it,  Saryon thought fearfully.  Now he will  send for  the
warlocks. And what will I tell them? Can I betray him, even But  Vanya
regained control of  himself, though  it was with  an obvious  effort.
Sucking in several deep breaths through  his nose, he forced his  hand
to relax and he  even managed to  look at the  catalyst with a  smile,
though it was closer to the smile of a corpse than of living man.

    "Saryon," he said in hollow tones, "I know why you are  protecting
this young man, and it  is very commendable of  you. To love and  help
one's fellow man  is why  the Almin  places us  in this  world. And  I
promise you, Saryon - by all that is holy, by all I believe in -  that
this young  man will  not  be killed."  The  Bishops red  face  became
mottled, splotched  with white.  "Indeed," he  muttered, wiping  sweat
from his forehead with the sleeve of  his robe, "how can we kill  him?
'Die again. ' That's  what the Prophecy says.  We must insure that  he
lives. That will be our care.

    The tension  on  Saryon's  face  eased.  "\es!"  he  whispered  to
himself. "Yes, that is true. Joram must not die! He must live -"

    "It was  what I  sought to  do when  he was  a babe,"  Vanya  said
softly, his eyes on Saryon.  "He would have been nurtured,  protected,
sheltered. But that wretched, insane woman . . ." He stopped  talking,
holding his breath.

    Saryon's face was bathed  in radiance, his  eyes turned upward  to
heaven. "Blessed Almin!" the  catalyst whispered, tears coursing  down
his cheeks. "Forgive me! Forgive me!"

    Dropping his head into  his hands, Saryon  began to weep,  feeling
the darkness pour out of his soul, purging it as the TheUara purges  a
festering wound.

    Bishop Vanya smiled. Standing  up, he walked over  to the bed  and
sat down beside the sobbing catalyst. He put his arm around Saryon and
drew him close.

    "You are forgiven,  my son,"  said the Bishop  smoothly. "You  are
forgiven. . . . Now, tell me …"

    BOOK THREE Among the Clouds c  karnages for hire stood in line  on
Conveyance Lane, waiting for  customers. Beautiful, bizarre,  ofttimes
both, the equipages were fantastic beyond imagining. Winged  squirrels
drawing gilded nutshells, diamond-encrusted  pumpkins pulled by  teams
of mice (these were  quite popular with teenage  girls), and the  more
staid and  conservative  assortment  of  griffin-  and  unicorn-pulled
conveyances, designed for Guildmasters  and others who preferred  less
ostentatious means of travel. Impatient  to be gone, Joram would  have
chosen the first  carriage at  the stand  - a  giant lizard  magically
altered to resemble a  dragon. But Simkin, pronouncing  this to be  in
shocking bad taste  (much to  the ire  of the  carnages owner),  moved
along the row of conveyances, examining each with a critical eye.

    A black swan,  mutated by the  Kan-Hanar to gigantic  proportions,
was finally - after much thoughtful scrutiny on Simkin s part and much
impatient fuming on Joram's - pronounced suit-able.

    "We'll have it," Simkin announced majestically to the driver.

    "Where are you going?" asked the driver, a young woman clothed  in
white swans down, her eyes magically  touched to resemble the eyes  of
the bird.

    27-1 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  "To the  Palace, of  course," said  Simkin
languidly, taking  his place  with  calm aplomb  on the  swan's  back.
Nestling  down  amidst  the  shining  black  feathers,  he  sighed  in
contentment and motioned for  Joram to join him.  As Joram climbed  up
beside his  friend, the  driver  scrutinized both  young men  and  her
black-rimmed eyes narrowed.

    "I need to see the official  invitation to get through the  Border
clouds," she said crisply, her gaze of disfavor going in particular to
Joram, who  had  refused to  allow  Simkin to  dress  him up  for  the
occasion.

    "My dear boy," Simkin  had said to Joram  mournfully, "you'd be  a
sensation if you'd only put yourself in my hands! What I could do with
you! With that beautiful hair and those muscular arms! Women would  be
dropping at your feet like poisoned pigeons!"

    Joram  had  pointed  out  that  this  might  be  somewhat  of   an
inconvenience, but Simkin was not to be so easily deterred.

    "I have just the color for you - I call it CoaL< of Fire! A  burnt
orange, don't you know. I can make  it hot to the touch, small  flames
licking about your ankles. Of course, you'd have to be careful who you
danced with. The Emperor  had a party  once where a  guest went up  in
flames. Heartburn got out of hand …"

    Joram had refused  the Coab,  choosing instead to  wear an  almost
exact copy  of the  style of  clothes  Prince Garald  wore -  a  long,
flowing robe  devoid of  decoration  with a  simple collar  ("No  neck
ruff?" Simkin had cried in agony).

    Joram had chosen green velvet for  the robes fabric, in memory  of
the green dress Anja  had worn until the  day she died. That  tattered
green dress was the only remnant of her happy life in Merilon, and  it
seemed most fitting that her son  should wear this color the night  he
went to reclaim the place in his family. Joram felt very close to Anja
tonight, running his  hand over  the smooth velvet.  Perhaps this  was
because he had seen her standing before him last night in a dream, and
he knew  that her  restless, wandering  spirit would  -not find  peace
until her wrongs had been redressed. At least that is what he  assumed
the dream meant. She had been reaching out to him, her hands folded in
supplication, begging . . .

    "Well,  if  you're  going  to   go  to  the  Palace  the   walking
personification of a wet blanket,  then I'll do likewise," Simkin  had
announced gloomily, changing his flamboyant  regalia that had DOOM  OF
THE DARKSWORD  275  included,  among other  things,  a.  six-foot-high
roosters tail. With a wave of his hand, he had then clothed himself in
a long robe of pure white.

    "Name of  the  Almin!"  Mosiah  had said,  staring  at  Simkin  in
disgust. "Change back! That  last combination was  ghastly but it  was
better than this! You look just like a pallbearer."

    "Do I?" Simkin had appeared pleased, the notion taking his  fancy.
"Why, then, it's suitable to the occasion, don't you see?  Anniversary
of the Dead Prince and all that. I'm quite glad I thought it up."

    Nothing they had said could talk him out of it after that, and  it
was only after long argument that  Simkin had foregone adding a  white
hood to cover his head in the  manner of those who escort the  crystal
coffins of the dead to their final resting place.

    "I want my  fee in advance,  too," the driver  continued. "It's  a
strange thing, people hiring carnages to take them to the Palace. Most
of those who are invited" - she laid emphasis on the word - "own their
own carriages and have no need to hire mine."

    "Egad, m'dear! But I'm Simkin," the  young man replied as if  that
quite settled the matter. Gathenng  his white robes comfortably  about
him, Simkin  waved  the  orange  silk at  the  driver.  "Proceed,"  he
ordered.

    The young woman blinked her swanlike eyes in astonishment at this,
staring at  Simkin in  either speechless  wonder or  speechless  rage,
neither of which made the slightest impression on the young man.

    "Go along!" he said impatiently. "We'll be late."

    After another moments hesitation, the driver took her place at the
great bird's neck and, grasping the  reins, ordered the black swan  to
rise. "If we're stopped at the  Border," she said ominously, "it's  on
your head. I'm not going to lose my permit over the likes of you two."

    Nervously, Joram followed her gesture, looking up into the clouds.

    "There are more eyes in those clouds than hailstones," said Simkin
casualty as the  swan spread  its wings and  propelled itself  upward,
leaping off the ground with its taloned black feet. "Watch it, there,"
he added solicitously, catching  hold of Joram  who had nearly  fallen
overboard at the sudden jolt. "Forgot to 276 WE1S AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF
THE DARKSWORD 277 warn you. Bit of a jarring takeoff, but -when you're
airborne - theres nothing smoother than a good swan."

    "Duuk-foarith?"  Joram  asked,  referring  to  clouds  not  birds.
Despite their  fluffy pink-and-white  puffiness, the  clouds  appeared
suddenly as threatening  to Joram  as the  boiling black  thunderheads
that wreaked havoc yearly on the farming villages. "Will they stop us,
do you think?"

    "My dear boy," said Simkin,  laughing and laying his slender  hand
upon Joram's arm, "relax. After all, you're with me."

    Glancing at Simkin, Joram saw the young mans bearded face was calm
and nonchalant, his manner so much  at ease that Joram quit  worrying.
As for relaxing, that was quite out of the question. He burned with  a
fire ot  excitement and  anticipation that  would have  made  Simkin's
proposed orange outfit  seem pale  by comparison. Joram  knew that  he
would find his destiny tonight, knew it  as surely as he knew his  own
name. Nothing would stop him, coutd stop him. His dreams and ambitions
mounted with every beat  of the swans wings;  he even ceased to  worry
about the Duuk-t<>arith and  stared with grim  defiance into the  pink
clouds as the birds black  feathers cut through them, scattering  them
into wisps of trailing fog.

    The clouds parted and Joram saw the Crystal Palace of the  Emperor
of Merilon.  Gleaming above  them  with a.  white radiance,  it  shone
against the reds  and purples of  dying day; more  brilliant than  the
evening star.

    The beauty of  the sight caused  Joram's heart to  swell until  it
seemed too big for  his chest and came  near choking him. Tears  stung
his eyes, and he bowed his head, blinking rapidly. He did not hide his
tears so much from shame. He bowed his head in humility. For the first
time in his life, Joram felt the proud spirit that burned in his heart
stamped out, trampled underfoot, as he himself had stamped out  sparks
from his forge.

    Brushing his  hand  across  his  eyes,  he  closely  examined  his
fingers. Long  and slender  and supple,  they were  the fingers  of  a
nobleman, not a Field Magi. That  was from his practice of sleight  of
hand. And, like  the sleight  of hand itself,  those delicate  fingers
were a trick to fool the viewers eyes. Seen closely, the palms of  his
hands were  calloused from  the  use of  hammer  and tools,  the  skin
scarred with burns.  Black soot  had been  ground so  deeply into  his
pores that he thought  he might have  to resort to  Simkin s magic  to
disguise it.

    "My soul  is like  that," he  said to  himself in  sudden,  bitter
despair, "as the catalyst tried to  tell me - calloused, scarred,  and
burned. And I aspire to those heights."

    He lifted his gaze to the Palace and saw not only the beauties  ot
Merilon glistening serenely in the sky but Gwendolyn, too, shining far
above him. And the old  black depression, the destructive  melancholia
that he had not known  for so long and had  thought was gone from  his
newfound life, returned, threatening to engulf him in darkness.

    He stirred, some bleak idea of rising from his feathered seat  and
hurling himself into the perfumed  evening air seething in his  brain.
At that  moment,  Simkins  hand  closed over  Joram's  arm,  its  grip
painfully strong. Startled, angry that he had revealed himself,  Joram
turned a smoldering  glower upon Simkin,  only to find  the young  man
regarding him with mild annoyance.

    "I say,  old  bean,  do  you  mind not  wiggling?  I  fear  it  is
irritating our birdish  transport. I've  seen him looking  back at  me
with a distinct glint of  anger in the beady  black eye. I don't  know
about you, of course, but being pecked to death by ones hired carriage
is not  my  idea  of  an  impressive  -  or  even  interesting  -  and
entertaining end."

    Nonchalantly,  Simkin  turned  his  head,  gazing  out  at   other
carriages that  were  spiraling  upward toward  the  Palace.  "Nor  is
tumbling into the clouds," he said, keeping a firm grasp upon Joram  s
arm. "It might almost be worth it, to see the expression on the  faces
of the Duuk-foarith as you went  sailing gracefully by them, but  that
fleeting bit of pleasure wouldn't last long, I fancy."

    Joram drew  a  deep  breath  and  Simkin  released  him,  the  two
happening almost simultaneously,  so that Joram  wasn't certain,  even
then, if Simkin had been aware of his intention or was just  indulging
in nonsense. Whatever the  case, Simkins words -as  usual - brought  a
half smile to Joram's tight lips and allowed him to wrench control  of
himself back from the  monster that lurked within  his soul, ready  to
claim him in a moment's weakness.

    Settling himself  more comfortably  among the  feathers -  risking
another irritated glance from the swan - Joram viewed the Palace  with
growing equanimity. He  could see  it in more  detail now  and, as  he
beheld the walls and towers, turrets and minarets, he lost his awe  of
it. Seen  from a  distance, it  was 278  WEIS AND  HICKMAN  beautiful,
mysterious, beyond the reach  of his thought or  hand. But now,  close
up, he saw it was a structure,  shaped by the skills of men  different
from himself only in that they had Life, whereas he had none.

    With that  thought,  his hand  reached  behind him  to  touch  the
Darksword, reassuring himself of its reality, as the carriage swept up
with a  flurry of  black wings  and  deposited the  young men  on  the
crystal steps of the Palace of the Emperor of Mer-ilon.

    The Nine Levels of Life ou said  you were going to - walk!"  Joram
said. Reaching up, he caught hold of Simkin by the sleeve of the  long
white robes just as the young man was sailing off into the air like  a
tall, thin feather.

    "Oh, beg pardon. Forgot in  the excitement of the moment,"  Simkin
said, drifting back down on the  crystal stairs of the Palace to  walk
beside his  friend.  Turning,  he regarded  Joram  with  an  aggrieved
expression. "Look, dear boy, I could  give you enough magic to  enable
you to ride the wings of magic, as the poets put it - "

    "No," said Joram. "No magic. I mean to be myself. They'll have  to
get used to seeing me walking around here," he added in grim tones.

    "I  suppose."  Simkin  appeared  dubious,  then  he  cheered   up.
"Undoubtedly they'll think it  a new fad of  mine. Speaking of  which"
-He grasped Joram's green-robed arm  as they entered the golden  front
doors-"look there."

    "Mosiah!" Joram  gasped,  stopping  in alarm  and  scowling.  "The
idiot! I thought he agreed to stay behind in the Grove. .

    "He did! Don't  have an  apoplectic fit!"  Simkin said,  laughing.
"That's one of the ones I created yesterday -a leftover.

    280 WEIS AND  HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD 281  Chap must  have
extraordinary abilities, to hold onto my illusion for so long. Perhaps
he copied it! The cad! How dare he? I've a good notion to go over  and
turn him into a cow. Then we'd see how he likes it down on the farm -"

    "Forget it," Joram  caught hold  of his friend  once more.  "We're
here for more important things."

    Together, they strolled past several powdered and  jewel-encrusted
footmen, who  glared  at Joram  suspiciously  until they  saw  Simkin.
Laughing, one of  the footmen winked,  and waved them  through with  a
gesture of a gloved  hand. Entering the doors,  Joram came to a  halt,
trying to look as if he belonged, trying to keep from staring.

    "Where are we, and where do we  go from here?" he asked Simkin  in
an undertone.

    With a visible effort, Simkin wrenched an indignant glare from the
fake Mosiah  to examine  his surroundings.  "We're in  the main  entry
hall. Up there"- he tilted his head back as far as it could go, nearly
upsetting himself in the process-"is the Hall of Majesty."

    Joram followed Simkins gaze. The entryway in which he stood was  a
large cylindrical chamber.  Rising hundreds  of feet in  the air,  the
chamber passed through nine separate levels of the Palace to culminate
in a great dome at  the top. Each level  had its own balcony,  looking
down on the mam entryway  below and up into  the dome above. And  each
level, Joram noticed, was a different color; the lowest being green.

    "The levels represent the  Nine Mysteries," said Simkin,  pointing
upward. "The level we stand on is Earth, therefore the flora-and-fauna
motif. Above us  is Fire, then  Water, then Air.  Above that is  Life,
since it takes  those three elements  to sustain life.  Then there  is
Shadow, to represent our  dreams. Finally there  is Time, which  rules
all things. Then Death - Technology, then Spirit - the afterlife.  And
above  all  that,"  Simkin  added,  looking  back  at  Joram  with   a
mischievous grin, "is the Emperor. "

    Joram's lips twisted into a slight smile.

    "Sink me," muttered Simkin, twisting his head, "I've given  myself
the most frightful crick in my  neck. Anyway, dear boy," he  continued
on a more  solemn note,  leaning closer to  Joram and  speaking in  an
undertone, "you see why it is imperative that I give you magic! People
are expected  to ascend  through  the nine  levels into  the  Emperors
presence."

    He gestured to the glittering throng  of magi around them. As  the
fanciful carriages  pulled up  in  front of  the shining  crystal  and
golden-banded doors,  they opened  and released  their occupants,  who
floated gracefully into the palace  like milkweed seeds. The air  rang
with their voices, greeting friends, exchanging kisses and gossip  and
news. They  were not  loud or  boisterous, and  their clothes,  though
beautiful and varied as  the colors of the  sunset, were, in  general,
conservative. Even though this was a  gala affair, it was, after  all,
the celebration of a tragic  event. The revelry and merrymaking  would
be kept to a minimum,  and all of the guests  - when ushered into  the
presence of the royal  couple - would be  expected to murmur words  of
condolence on this, the eighteenth anniversary of the Prince's birth .
. . Death . . . and death.

    Watching in fascination - and also searching for Gwendolyn-  Joram
saw that all the magi upon  entering the Palace continued to float  up
into the air, ascending upward through  the nine levels into the  dome
where the  Emperor  and  Empress received  their  guests.  Joram  also
realized that Simkin was right - there appeared no other way to  reach
the upper levels except by magic.

    "Where will the party be held?" he asked, glancing about the green
level where they stood, which was decorated -as Simkin had said - with
trees and flowers. "What level. This one?"

    Made of gold and  silver and crystal,  encrusted with jewels,  the
trees and flowers resembled  no trees or flowers  that Joram had  ever
seen in his life.  Light created by  artificial suns gleamed  brightly
from the Fire  level above, sparkling  off the golden  leaves and  the
jeweled fruit,  dazzling  the  eyes. The  unnatural  forest,  standing
stiffly and silently, began to  make Joram feel closed-m and  trapped.
The constantly shifting points of light, glancing off gilded  branches
and gleaming jewels, was dizzying.

    "The party  will  be  on  all levels,  of  course,"  said  Simkin,
shrugging. "Why do you ask?"

    A shadow crossed Joram's face. "How will I ever find Lord  Samuels
or Saryon or anyone in  this . . .  this crowd!" He gestured  angrily,
the darkness returning.

    "If you'd  only listen  to Simkin!"  said the  bearded young  man,
heaving a  sigh.  "I've told  you  half  a dozen  times!  Everyone  is
presented to  the Emperor  and Empress.  Right now,  everyone -who  is
anyone is  up there  in the  Hall of  Majesty, standing  282 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 285 around watching to see who has  been
invited and-what is more fun - who hasn't. They'll be there until  the
Emperor himself decrees it is time for the merriment to begin!  Either
you'll find Lord Samuels up there or he'll find you. Now, give me your
arm. I'll use my magic and, voila, up, up and away!"

    "It won't work!" Joram whispered  grimly. "Have you forgotten  the
Darksword?" He  gestured  behind him.  "//will  absorb your  magic!  /
won't!"

    "'Pon my  honor, I  did  forget about  that beastly  sword,"  said
Simkin. He glanced about him gloomily. "I say, this is incredibly dull
and boring. No  one even knows  I'm here. I  don't suppose you-  Wait!
"His face brightened. "The Stairs of the Catalysts!"

    "What?" Joram asked  impatiently, watching  closely everyone  that
entered, especially young women with golden hair.

    "The Stairs of the Catalysts, dear boy!" Simkin said, all joy  and
light once more.  "They can't ride  the wings of  magic any more  than
you, old chap.  They have  to climb stairs  to get  into the  Emperors
presence. Ob, not Bishop  Vanya, of course. He  has his own  specially
designed conveyance  - a  dove, it  used to  be, until  His  Tubbiness
became too heavy for  the poor bird. Squashed  flat, I heard.  Nothing
but dove served at the Palace for days -roasted, broiled, stewed . . .
Where was I?"  Simkin asked,  seeing Joram glower.  "Oh, yes.  Stairs.
They begin  right over  here, t'other  side of  that solid  gold  oak.
There" - he pointed - "you can see some of the holy brethren beginning
the long trek now."

    Their shoes  slapping against  the marble  on which  they  walked,
several catalysts were climbing  the stairs that  began on the  bottom
level and spiraled upward, round and round, finally ending in the Hall
of Majesty at the  top. Expressions of  resignation and humility  were
visible on the faces of the holy brothers and sisters as they made the
wearing climb, although here and  there -particularly on the faces  of
the younger catalysts - Joram thought he saw darted glances of envy at
tbe magi who floated by them with careless ease.

    Joram's spirits began to rise. He felt almost as if he were buoyed
up with magic. Hurriedly making his way through the forest of precious
metal and jewels,. he reached the  staircase. Halting a moment at  the
lowest step to allow a catalyst to  go in front of him, Joram  glanced
up at the  hundreds of  marble stairs  that spiraled  above him,  each
flight a different color to match its level, and he nodded to  himself
in satisfaction.

    It is fitting that I climb these stairs, he said to himself.  Jus.
t as  it was  fitting that  I wear  the green  robes in  memory of  my
mother. Joram thought with pain of the stone statue staring  eternally
into the realms of  Beyond. My father must  have climbed these  stairs
often. Saryon has  climbed these  stairs, maybe hes  climbing them  at
this very moment!

    Joram had a mental image of the catalyst, his face haggard and wan
from his recent  illness, struggling up  the stairs, and  he began  to
climb hastily, shoving past the slower catalysts. He'll need my  help,
Joram thought, bounding up the first flight with all the strength arid
energy of his youth and nearly  bowling over an elderly Deacon in  the
process.

    • "What the devil are you doing on our stairs, Magus?" the  Deacon
growled, already  huffing  and puffing  though  he had  '••eight  more
flights to go.

    "It's a bet!" said Simkin hastily, rising up into the air next  to
Joram, who had-truth be tola -momentarily forgotten his friend in  his
excitement. "Two skins of wine says he  can't make it : - ail the  way
to the top."

    "Damn fool  kids," muttered  the  Deacon, stopping  to rest  on  a
landing and glaring at  Joram. "All I  can say, young  fop, is that  -
you're going to win if your friend keeps going at that rate."

    "Better slow down," Simkin suggested,  hovering close to .  Joram.
"Don't attract attention . . . I'll  meet you at the top. Don't  enter
the Hall of  Majesty without me!"  he added in  an uncommonly  serious
tone. "Promise?"

    "I promise," said Joram. It made sense, certainly, but he wondered
why Simkin was - so  intense about it. There was  no time to ask;  the
bearded young .  'man had drifted  into the arms  of several  laughing
women. Con- tinuing his climb, Joram  took the stairs at a  reasonable
pace and, by the fifth level, was extremely glad he had done so. He  -
paused a  moment, leaning  on the  stair rail  and breathing  heavily,
wondering if his legs were going to hold out. He still kept watch, out
had seen no sign of Saryon or any of Lord Samuels's family, and  began
to realize that it would  be the wildest fluke to  find ; them in  the
crowd. Somewhere in the air above  him, he could near Simkin s  voice,
and then he caught a  glimpse of the young  :: man, whose white  robes
showed up remarkably well against the brightly colored* clothes of the
other magi.

    r "I  call it  Death  Warmed Over,"  said Simkin,  prattling  away
^•merrily to  an  admiring  group. "Suitable  for  this  jolly  little
ithering, what?"

    284'

    WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE  DARKSWOR1) 285 Joram noticed, as  he
began climbing the stairs again, that Simkin didn't receive the  usual
laugh that generally accompanied bis  words. Indeed, some of the  magi
appeared rather shocked, and drifted  away from him hurriedly.  Simkin
didn't appear to notice, but fluttered on to the next group to  regale
them with his tale of triumph in what he was now calling the  Illusion
of a Thousand Mosiahs.  This time, he got  his laugh and Joram  forgot
about him, concentrating on keeping his legs moving-He had not been so
intent on  his  climb as  to  fail  to notice  his  surroundings.  His
pleasure in the  beauty of  the Palace  increased as  he reached  each
successive level.  He  could  even  look down  now  upon  the  gilded,
bejeweled forest and wonder  how he could have  ever thought it  stiff
and unnatural. Seen from above, it was a realm of enchantment, as  was
each level he entered after that.

    Flames licked the  stairs of  the Fire level.  Heat radiated  from
walls made  of molten  lava,  making Joram  stop  in alarm  before  he
realized that it was  illusion - all except  for the heat, which  left
him sweating by the time he  climbed through it and made him  thankful
to reach the Water level above.

    Done entirely in blue crystal and  made to look like the floor  of
the ocean, the  Water level was  populated with the  illusions of  sea
creatures. Light  from some  unseen source  seeping through  the  blue
crystal walls gave one the impression of being beneath the water -  an
impression that was so real Joram actually caught himself holding  his
breath.

    Gasping for air, he found an abundance of that element on the next
level. Four giant heads, their cheeks puffed out, glared at each other
from the  four compass  points,  each seeming  intent on  blowing  his
neighbors into  the  next realm.  Opposing  winds gusted  and  whirled
about, flattening Joram against the wall and making the stair-climbing
even more difficult.

    The Life  level  was  peaceful  and restful  after  this.  It  was
dedicated to the catalysts  - the giving of  Life being their  special
province - and he joined many of  them in sitting on the wooden  pews,
resting in the  cathedral-like, holy  silence. He  studied his  fellow
stair-climbers intently,  hoping to  see Saryon  - or  rather,  Father
Dunstable - among them, but the catalyst wasn't there.

    He's still weak, Joram remembered, wondering if they made  special
arrangements for sick brethren. Well,  he wouldn't find him or  anyone
sitting around here. Rising to his  feet, the young man continued  his
climb.

    The Shadow  level next  was  a disturbing  place that  Joram,  the
catalysts, and even the floating  magi hurried through without  pause.
Representing dreams, it gave no impression of size or shape, being  at
once vast and tiny, round and square, dark and light. Objects  hideous
and lovely  loomed  out of  the  flitting shadows,  bearing  startling
resemblances to people Joram knew but couldn't place, places he'd been
but couldn't remember.

    Hastening through it,  ignoring the weariness  in his legs,  Joram
arrived on the Time  level. Overawed, he came  to a complete stop  and
stared, forgetting why  he had come  or what he  was doing here.  This
level presented -  in the  most stunningly realistic  illusions -  the
vast sweep of the history of Thimhallan. But it moved so rapidly  that
it was nearly impossible to understand what was occurring until it was
past. The Iron Wars came  and went in the  drawing of a breath.  Joram
saw swords flash  in the air  and he  longed to study  them, but  they
appeared and disappeared almost before he realized he had seen them.

    He began to feel frantic,  desperate, and it suddenly occurred  to
him that his own life  was whisking away at  the same, rapid pace.  He
could do nothing to halt it. Shaken,  he continued on and came to  the
level of Death.

    Joram stared around, puzzled. There was nothing on this level.  It
was a vast void - neither dark nor light. Just empty. The magi floated
through it unseeing, uninterested. The catalysts climbed, heads bowed,
their shoes slapping  against the  marble, their faces  a little  more
cheerful since they realized they were nearing the top.

    "This doesn't make sense," Joram muttered to himself. "Why is this
empty? Death, the  Ninth Mystery .  .,." And then  he understood.  "Of
course!" he murmured. "Technology!  And that is  why there is  nothing
here since it  has - supposedly  - been banished  from the world.  But
there must have been  something here, once,"  he said, looking  around
intently, peering into the void. "Perhaps the ancient inventions  that
I read about  - the war  machines that spewed  forth fire, the  powder
that blew trees  from the earth,  the machines that  printed words  on
paper, "Now lost, perhaps forever. Unless I can bring it back!"

    Gritting his teeth, Joram continued  the climb. One more level  to
go.

    This was the level  of Spirit, the afterlife.  Once, it must  have
been incredibly beautiful,  impressing the viewer  with the peace  and
tranquility experienced by those  who have passed  from this 286  WE1S
AND HICKMAN world to the  next. But now it  had a faded quality  about
it, as if the  illusion were dwindling away-  In truth, this was  what
was happening. The art of  Necromancy -communicating with the  spirits
of the dead - had been lost  in the Iron Wars, never to be  recovered.
No one quite remembered,  therefore, what this  level was supposed  to
look like.

    Instead of feeling awed, Joram just  felt tired and very glad  the
long climb was nearly at an end. He thought, briefly, of being  forced
to make this climb every time he came to visit the Emperor - after  he
was made a Baron, of course -  and decided that he would find  another
means of conveyance. Perhaps a black swan. …

    Emerging from the spirit world, he walked right into the sunset  -
or so  it seemed  to  him -  and he  realized  that he  was,  finally,
standing in the Hall of Majesty.

    The Hall of Majesty H  I is mind still  dazzled by the visions  of
the wonders through which he  had already passed, Joram stared  around
the Hall of Majesty, awestruck.

    Floating above the top of the Palace like a bubble upon water, the
hall was perfectly  round and made  entirely of crystal-  as pure  and
clear as the air that surrounded it. Although now it was at rest  over
what was known as the Ascent of the Nine Mysteries, the crystal-bubble
hall could be moved at a whim - a whim that took thirty-nine catalysts
and an equivalent number of Pron-aU>an twelve hours to perform-to  any
other location beside, above,  or below the Palace.  Not only was  the
round bubble of a hall  made of crystal - the  walls so thin that  one
could tap on  them with  a fingernail  and hear  a tinkling,  resonant
chime - but so was  the floor that cut through  it about a quarter  of
the way up  the side  of the  bubble. Joram,  stepping hesitantly  and
dazedly off  the  Stairs  of  the  Catalysts,  had  the  distinct  and
unnerving feeling that if he walked forward he would be stepping  into
and onto nothing.

    It was just past sunset. The Almm had spread his black cloak  over
most of the sky;  the Sif-Hanar assisting that  great Magician in  the
performance ot his duty so that the revelers 288 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM
OF THE DARKSWORD  289 might enjoy  the mysteries and  beauties of  the
night. But, in the west, the Almin  lifted the hem slightly to give  a
last glimpse of the dying day, its red and purple seeping beneath  the
blackness like a trickle of blood.

    It was dark enough, however,  that globes of light were  beginning
to wink  on in  the  hall. Amidst  them  moved the  Emperor's  guests,
walking the  air of  the crystal  bubble -  meeting, mingling,  coming
together, drifting apart. The lights, dimmed  so as not to deter  from
the beauty of the falling night, gleamed on jewels and silk,  sparkled
in laughing eyes, glinted on soft waves of rippling hair.

    Never had Joram felt  the leaden weight of  his own Lifeless  body
more so than at this time. He knew that if he stepped forward,  walked
out into this enchanted  realm, the crystal  floor must crack  beneath
his feet, the  crystal walls shatter  at his clumsy  touch. And so  he
stood, irresolute, toying with the  idea of descending, of  retreating
into his own  darkness that had,  at least, the  advantage of being  a
familiar and comfortable refuge.

    But another catalyst - a silent partner in his climb, toiling up a
few steps behind Joram - pushed his way past with a muttered  apology,
moving around the young  man to walk, seemingly,  upon the night.  The
slap slap  of the  catalysts  sandals upon  the  solid crystal  had  a
reassuring sound and  gave Joram impetus  to follow. Moving  gingerly,
the young man took several steps out onto the floor, then paused  once
again, overcome this time by the magnificence of the view.

    Above him and around him,  the stars took their accustomed  places
in the night sky like minor courtiers coming to pay their respects  to
the Emperor, keeping their distance as befitted their humble  station.
Below hiS feet,  the city of  Merilon outshone the  poor stars.  Their
sparkle was cold and white and dead, while the city burned with  color
and life.  The Guild  Halls were  ablaze with  brilliance, the  houses
twinkled; here  and  there bright  spirals  of light  left  the  city,
snaking  upward  toward  the  Palace  -  more  carriages  joining  the
glittering throng of approaching guests.

    And Joram stood above it all.

    His heart  swelling  with the  beauty  of everything  around  him,
Joram's soul  swelled  with the  feeling  of power.  Tiny  bubbles  of
excitement tingled through his blood; wine itself had never been  more
intoxicating. Though his body must remain earthbound, his spirit  flew
upward. He was Albanara, born to walk here, born to rule, and  -within
hours perhaps - these be-jeweled and glittering people who were so far
above him now would crowd to prostrate themselves at his feet.

    Well, perhaps that was a bit  exaggerated, he told himself with  a
wry inner grin that did not relieve  the gravity of his dark face  but
gave only a  warm luster  to the brown  eyes. I  suppose people  don't
prostrate themselves  before  a  Baron.  Still,  I  will  decree  that
underlings walk  when  in my  presence.  I  can't think  it  would  be
considered proper form to  do otherwise. I shall  have to ask  Simkin,
wherever the devil he is - Thinking of Simkin caused Joram to remember
that he had promised not to present himself to the Emperor without his
friend, and he  glanced about  somewhat impatiently. Now  that he  was
over his initial  awe, he  could hear names  being called  out at  the
farthest end of the crystal hall. The light shone most brightly  there
and, like leaves  caught in  a whirlpool,  groups of  magi were  being
swept in that direction. Trying to hear and see, looking for Gwen  and
Lord Samuels  and  Saryon, Joram  moved  closer, peering  through  the
throng. Yet he could  not move too far  from the stairs. Simkin  would
undoubtedly look  for him  here.  Where waj  that fool  anyway!  Never
around - "My dear boy, don't  stand there gawping!" came an  irritated
voice. "Thank the Almin we left Mosiah behind. The sound of your  chin
hitting the floor must have been loud enough. Do try to look as  bored
by all this as everyone else is, there's a good chap."

    Orange silk fluttering in the air, Simkin drifted slowly down from
on high, his robes fluttering about his ankles.

    "Where have you been?" Joram demanded.

    Simkin shrugged. "The champagne fountains." He raised an  eyebrow,
seeing Joram frown. "Tut, tut! I know I have mentioned to you  before,
O Dark and  Gloomy One,  that your face  will freeze  m that  alarming
expression someday. I simply had to " have something to do whilst  you
were toiling up  through the  nine levels of  hell. Now  you know  why
there are no fat  catalysts in Merilon. Well,  almost none." A  rotund
catalyst, sweat rolling off his tonsured head, glared at Simkin as  he
stumbled, panting, up the last of the stairs.

    "Cheer up. Father," Simkin  said, pulling the  orange silk out  of
the air and offering it with a solicitous gesture. "Think of the  lard
you've lost! And you've contributed  a remarkable shine to the  floor.
Mop your head?"

    290 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN  DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD  291  The  priest,
flushing even redder, shoved the young  mans hand out of his way  and,
muttering something most unpriestlike,  staggered across the floor  to
collapse in a nearby chair.

    Placing bis hands together in a prayerful attitude, Simkin  bowed.
"My blessing on  you as well,  Father." There was  a flurry of  orange
silk and, suddenly, the catalyst disappeared.

    Joram was  staring at  the  empty chair  where  the man  had  been
sitting when he felt a tug on the sleeve of his robe.

    "And now, dear boy," Simkin said, "attend to me, please."

    The voice  was  playful  as  usuaf  but,  turning,  Joram  saw  an
unusually hard glint in the pale blue eyes, a certain grimness in  the
negligent smile that caught his attention.

    Simkin nodded slightly. "Yes, now the fun begins. You remember the
cards said that  you would be  King, and  I offered to  be your  fool?
Well, up until now, you have been King, dear boy. We've followed  your
lead without question and without  complaint though it has nearly  got
me arrested, the poor catalyst struck down by a curse from the  Almin,
and Mosiah on the run for his life." Simkin's voice was soft; it  died
away almost  to  a whisper  at  this  point; his  eyes  studied  Joram
intently.

    "Go on,"  Joram  said.  His  tone  was  cool  and  even,  but  the
expression on his face grew darker, and a faint flush beneath the skin
seemed to indicate that  somewhere, deep within,  the arrows barb  had
lodged.

    Simkins smile twisted sardonically. "And  now, my king," he  said,
moving closer and speaking  very softly, his eyes  going to the  crowd
around them, "you must follow the  lead of your fool. Because, in  the
hands of your fool rests your life  and the lives of those who  follow
you. You must obey  my instructions without  question. Is that  agreed
iipon. Your Majesty?"

    "What do I have to do?" Jorams voice grated.

    Moving closer still, Simkin  placed his lips  next to Jorams  ear.
His beard  tickled  against  Jorams  flesh;  the  heady  fragrance  of
gardenia from Simkin's  hair and  the fumes  of the  champagne on  his
breath made Joram queasy.  Involuntarily, he tried  to pull back,  but
Simkin held him fast, whispering insistently, "When you are  presented
to their Majesties, do not-I repeat-do not stare at the Empress."

    Standing back, Simkin smoothed his beard and glanced around at the
crowd. Jorams frown relaxed to a half smile.

    "You are a fool!" he muttered, twitching his green robes back into
place. "You had me really scared there for a moment."

    "Dear boy!" Simkin looked  at him with  such stern intensity  that
Joram was taken  aback."! meant  every word."  He placed  his hand  on
Jorams chest, over his  heart. "Bow to her,  speak to her -  something
flattering, inane. But keep your eyes  down. Avert your gaze. Look  at
His  Royal  Boringness.  Anything.   Remember,  you  cannot  see   the
Duuk-tjarith, but they are  here, they are watching.  . . . And  now,"
Simkin said with a  languid wave of the  orange silk, "we really  must
take our places in line."

    Drawing Jorams arm through his,  he led him forward.  "Fortunately
for you, my earthbound  friend, everyone is required  to walk on  foot
when  formally  introduced  into  their  Majesties'  presence.  Proper
humility, show of respect and all that, plus it is devilishly hard  to
bow in  midair. The  Duchess  of Blatherskill  bowed from  the  waist,
couldn't stop. Kept  going. Head over  heels. No undergarments.  Quite
shocking. Empress took  to her bed  for three weeks.  Since then -  we
walk. . . ."

    Moving across  the  crystal floor,  joining  other magi  who  were
falling down around them like sparkling rain, Simkin and Joram  walked
toward the front  of the hall.  Joram glanced at  Simkin, puzzled  and
disturbed at  his  words  and  his instructions.  But  the  young  man
appeared not to  notice his friends  discomfiture, prattling on  about
the unfortunate  Duchess. Shaking  his head,  Joram passed  the  empty
chair where  the  fat catalyst  had  been sitting.  Joram  saw  Simkin
looking at it witb a most wicked grin.

    "By the  way," said  Joram, glancing  back at  the chair  as  they
passed it, "what did you do to him, anyhow?"

    "Sent him back  down to the  bottom of the  stairs," said  Sim-kin
languidly, dabbing at his nose with the orange silk.

    Joram and Simkin joined the line of the wealthy and the  beautiful
of Merilon, al!  waiting to  pay their  respects to  the royal  couple
before dispersing  to the  more interesting  business of  revelry  and
making merry. Some might think revelry would be difficult, considering
the sorrowful nature of the anniversary they celebrated. And,  indeed,
those standing in  the line  that stretched across  the crystal  floor
like a silk-clad  bejeweled snake, were  considerably more solemn  and
serious than they had  been when first entering  the Palace. Gone  was
the gay laughter, the light-hearted banter between friends, the gossip
and the gushing  over clothes or  hair or daughters.  Their eyes  were
downcast, their gown  and robe  colors subdued  to a  proper shade  of
Sorrowful Mien, as Simkin said in an undertone.

    292 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 293 Conversations  were
carried on  in low  voices  between couples  now, instead  of  groups.
Consequently, a hush settled over this  part of the hall, broken  only
by the melodious voice of the  heralds, announcing the names of  those
ushered into the Royal Presence.

    So long  was the  line that  Joram could  not see  the Emperor  or
Empress yet, but only the crystal  alcove in which they sat.  Gathered
in a semicircle around  that alcove stood those  of the court who  had
already  been  presented  and  who  were  now  watching  to  see  what
illustrious or amusing personages stood in line. The murmur of  voices
from the watching crowd was low, since they were in the Presence,  but
there was an almost continual flow of movement - heads turning, people
pointing discreetly  or not  as the  subject warranted.  Joram,  still
searching for Lord Samuels and his family, saw many nods and smiles at
Simkin. Arrayed in his  white robes, the young  man stood out  against
the myriad  colors around  him like  an iceberg  in a  jungle,  coolly
affecting to take no notice of the attention.

    Jorams eyes scanned the brilliant  throng, stopping always at  the
glimpse of a blond head or even a tonsured one, hoping to find  Saryon
here as well. But  there were so  many people, and  most of them  were
dressed so nearly alike  (except for those  few trend-setters who  had
come dressed as Field Magi, much to Simkins amusement), that he deemed
it nearly impossible to find those he sought.

    "She is watching for me," he told himself, fondly picturing in his
mind Gwendolyn standing on tiptoe, peeping up over the broad shoulders
of her father, waiting with fast-beating heart for the announcement of
each name and drooping in disappointment when it was not the name  she
longed to  hear. The  thought  made him  impatient and  even  fearful.
Suppose they feft! Suppose Lord Samuels grew tired of waiting. Suppose
. . . Joram looked at the long line ahead of him impatiently, bitterly
resenting each elderly Duke whose faltering  steps had to be aided  by
his catalyst or the two gossiping dowagers who kept forgetting to move
forward and had to  be prodded by their  neighbors. The line  actually
moved quite rapidly, all things considered,  but it would have had  to
flash through the room like a thunderbolt to satisfy Joram.

    "Quit fidgeting," muttered Simkin, treading on Jorams foot.

    "I can't help it. Talk about something."

    "Willingly. What?"

    "I don't give  a damn!  Anything!" Joram snapped.  '"You said  I'm
supposed to  say  a  few  words to  the  Emperor.  What?  Nice  night.
Wonderful weather. I  understand its  been spring for  two years,  any
chance of summer showing up?"

    "Shhh,"  hissed  Simkin  behind  the  orange  silk.  "Egads!   I'm
beginning to wish I'd brought Mosiah after all. This is an anniversary
commemorating the Dead Prince. You offer your condolences, of course."

    "That's right. I  keep forgetting," Joram  said moodily, his  gaze
flicking about  the hall  for  the hundredth  time. "All  right.  I'll
'offer my condolences. What did the kid die from, anyway?"

    "My dear boy!" said Simkin in a scandalized whisper. "Even if  you
were raised in a pumpkin, you don't have to exhibit it to this extent!
I was under the impression that  your mother regaled you with  stories
of Merilon. This has to be the  stellar story of all time. Didn't  she
tell you?"

    "No," said Joram shortly, his dark brows coming together.

    "Ah," remarked Simkin  suddenly, glancing at  Joram. "Mmmm,  well,
perhaps I understand . . . Yes, undoubtedly. You see" -he drew closer,
keeping the orange silk in  front of their faces  as he talked -  "the
child didn't die. It was quite  alive, very much alive, as I've  heard
the story  told.  Screamed  its  little head  off  during  the  formal
ceremony and puked on the Bishop  at the end." Simkin paused,  looking
at Joram expectantly.

    Jorams face darkened, an almost perceptible shadow falling  across
it.

    "Understand?" Simkin a. sked softly.

    "The child was born Dead, like  me." Joram said harshly. His  gaze
was on the floor now, his hands clasped firmly behind his back,  their
knuckles white. He noticed he could see his reflection on the  crystal
floor. The lights of  Merilon far below  shone through his  ghostlike,
transparent body; the image of himself stared darkly back at him.

    "Shhh!" Simkin remonstrated. "Dead, yes. But like you, dear  boy?"
He shook his  head. "He wasn't  like anyone born  in this world.  From
what rumors I've  heard, Dead  was an understatement.  The kid  didn't
just fail one of the  Tests. He failed all three!  He had no magic  in
him whatsoever!"

    Joram kept his gaze down. "Perhaps he wasn't as unlike some others
as you might think," he muttered as the line inched its way nearer and
nearer the front. His eyes  still on the reflec-  ; tion at his  feet,
Joram did not see Simkins swift, penetrating 294 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM
OF THE DARKSWORD 295 glance, nor did he remark the thoughtful way  the
young man stroked his smooth brown beard.

    "What did you say?" Simkin asked carelessly, raising his head  and
affecting to blow his nose in the bit of orange silk.

    "Nothing," Joram said, shaking himself  as though seeking to  wake
from a nightdream. "Aren't we ever going to get there!"

    "Patience," Simkin counseled.  Floating off the  floor an inch  or
so, he peered  over the heads  of the crowd,  then settled back  down.
"Look, you can see  the Royal Throne  now and catch  a glimpse of  the
Royal Head if you are lucky."

    Craning his  neck, Joram  saw  that they  had really  walked  much
nearer during their conversation. He could see the crystal throne  and
several times caught glimpses of  the Emperor moving to converse  with
those in front of him and around him. He could barely see the Empress,
seated to the Emperor's right since the royal line came down from  her
side of the family. But the Emperor was clearly within Jorams view and
- glad to be able to fix his mind on something - the young man watched
the scene before him with interest.

    Seated in a crystal throne that stood on a crystal floor within  a
crystal alcove, it appeared very much as if His Majesty lounged  among
the stars. Dressed in the pure white satin of mourning, white light of
the most remarkable brilliance beaming  down, on him, the Emperor  was
not only one with the stars but actually outshone the brightest  among
them. Having seen the opulence of the furnishings and trappings of the
rest of the Palace, Joram was  startled to note that both the  crystal
throne and  the  alcove itself  were  done in  simpFe,  elegant  lines
without decoration of any  kind. The crystal  flowed around the  royal
bodies like clear  water, a flash  of reflected light  here and  there
giving the only evidence that there  was anything real or solid  about
them.

    Then Joram smiled. Glancing about the room, he realized that  this
was done intentionally! Even the chair in which the poor catalyst  had
collapsed - now several hundred feet behind them - was' made of fabric
magically spun so as to be transparent. Nothing, certainly no material
object, should distract ones attention  from the one reality as^ar  as
the Emperors subjects were concerned - the reality of the Emperor  and
his Empress.

    Close enough now to hear snatches of conversation when voices were
lifted above  the murmur  of the  crowd, Joram  lis- tened  curiously.
Accustomed to  forming  quick  and often  disparaging  opinions  about
people, Joram had thought the Emperor - on first meeting - to be a man
of colossal self-conceit  and self-importance  who could  not see  the
world for his own nose, as the  saying went. But, in listening to  the
Emperors conversation, Joram  was forced  grudgingly to  admit he  had
been wrong.

    The man was shrewd and intelligent and - if cold and reserved,  it
was only  to keep  himself  above the  masses.  He hardly  needed  the
herald, it seemed, to tell him the names of those who came before  him
and, indeed, addressed many by familiar nicknames rather than by their
more formal titles. Not  only that; but he  had something personal  to
say to  each  -inquiring  of  fond  parents  about  a  beloved  child,
questioning a  catalyst  concerning  the priests  particular  area  of
study, discussing the past with the old, the future with the young.

    Intrigued by  this phenomenal  feat, considering  the hundreds  of
people with  whom the  Emperor  must come  into contact  daily,  Joram
watched in  growing  fascination. He  recalled  his meeting  with  the
Emperor and the way the mans eyes had seemed to completely absorb him,
had focused his complete  and undivided attention  on him for  several
seconds.  Joram  remembered  feeling   flattered,  but  also   vaguely
uncomfortable, and now he knew why. He had been committed to memory as
Saryon committed a mathematical equation  to memory and with about  as
much regard. Skilled to a certain extent in manipulating others, Joram
could recognize and concede the touch of a master.

    Yet, Joram knew  - first  from his  mother and  confirmed by  Lord
Samuels - that there  was one person in  this world the Emperor  cared
for very deeply. That was the Empress. The line moved nearer and Joram
turned his gaze Irom the Emperor to his consort. All his life, he  had
heard of the womans  loveliness - a beauty  remarkable even among  the
noted beauties  of  court;  a  beauty that  was  inborn,  that  needed
no-magical enhancement. Increasing his curiosity was the warning-  for
it could be called nothing else - given by Simkin: Do not stare al the
Empress.

    The words echoing in Jorams mind, he took an unobtrusive step  out
of line in order to catch a glimpse of the woman seated on the crystal
throne beside her husband. And then the line moved and she was clearly
in his view.

    296 WEIS AND 'HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 297 Joram caught  his
breath. Simkins words flew right out  of his head, replaced by  Anja's
distantly remembered description. "Hair as black and as shining as the
wing of a raven,  skin smooth and  white as a  doves breast. The  eyes
dark and lustrous, the face shaped to classic perfection, as though by
the enchantments of a master. She  moves with the grace of the  willow
in the wind - "

    An elbow dug into Jorams midsection. "Stop it!" Simkm shot out  of
the corner of his mouth. "Look away."

    Irritated, half-suspicious  that  he  was the  target  of  one  of
Simkins elaborate jokes, Joram  started to make  a quick retort.  But,
once again,  there  was that  strange  expression on  Simkins  usually
devil-may-care face -serious,  even fearlul. Drawing"  closer -  there
were only ten or  so people ahead  of them now -  Joram looked at  the
rest of those  standing near  him and saw  that they,  too, were  each
doing his or her best not to look directly or too long at the Empress.
He saw  them dart  glances in  her  direction, even  as he  was  doing
himself, and then  quickly look aside.  And though each  spoke to  the
Emperor in a  loud, clear voice  and seemed perfectly  relaxed and  at
ease, the voice dropped when speaking to Her Majesty, the words spoken
almost unintelligible.

    Moving nearer, his eyes aching from the strain of darting  glances
at the Empress then looking quickly  away again, Joram began to  admit
that there did seem to be something unusual about the woman. Certainly
her celebrated beauty did not diminish as he drew closer, but he found
himself oddly repulsed by it rather than attracted. The skin was  pure
and smooth,  but faintly  blue  and translucent.  The dark  eyes  were
certainly lovely, but  their luster was  not the gleam  of light  from
within. It was the reflection of light upon glass. Her lips moved when
she spoke. Her hand and body moved, but it wasn't the willows grace so
much as the toyshapers.

    The toyshapers …

    Joram turned  to  Simkin,  puzzled, but  the  bearded  young  man,
playing with the orange silk in  his hand, regarded his friend with  a
slight smile.

    "Patience rewarded," he said. "We're next."

    And then Joram did not have time to think about anything.

    He heard, as if from a great distance, the herald strike the floor
with his  staff  and call  out  in his  melodious  voice,  "Presenting
Simkin, guest of Lord Samuels …"

    The rest of the introduction was lost in a ripple of laughter from
the crowd. Simkin was performing some nonsense or other; Joram was too
dazed and confused to be consciously aware of what. He saw Simkm  move
forward, white robes shining  in the same bright  light that spread  a
halo around the Em-' peror and the Empress.

    The Empress. Joram  felt his  gaze drawn  to her  again, then  the
herald was saying, "Joram, guest of Lord Samuels and family."

    Hearing his  name, Joram  knew he  must take  a step,  but he  was
suddenly assailed  -with  the consciousness  of  being the  object  of
hundreds of pairs of  eyes. Vividly, the memory  of his mothers  death
rose to the surface of his mind. He could see the people, all  staring
at him. He wanted only to be alone. Why, why were they looking at him?

    The Emperor and Simkin were talking, Joram saw, but he had no idea
what was being said. He couldn't hear. There was a roaring in his ears
like the rush of a storm wind. He wanted most desperately to flee, yet
he couldn't move. He  might have stood there  forever except that  the
herald - always conscious of the necessity of keeping the line  moving
and accustomed  to  those who  experienced  this sublime  awe  in  the
presence of  His Majesty-  gave Joram  a gentle  prod. Stumbling,  the
young man lurched forward to stand before the Emperor.

    Joram had  just enough  presence of  mind to  bow deeply,  copying
Simkin, and started to mumble something  without any idea what he  was
saying. The Emperor cut in smoothly, recalling having met him at  Lord
Samuels's. Hoped his visit to-Merilon was a pleasant one, and then the
royal hand waved  and Joram moved  across the crystal  floor to  stand
before the Empress. He was dimly aware of Simkin watching him and - if
it would  not be  too  unbelievable -  Joram  thought the  young  mans
bearded lips were parted in a grin.

    Joram  bowed  before   the  Empress  self-consciously,   wondering
desperately what to say,  longing to raise his  gaze and look at  this
woman and yet  feeling in another  part of him  the strongest urge  to
hurry away, his eyes averted as he had seen so many do before him.

    Standing before  her,  he became  conscious  of a  faint,  cloying
"odor.

    The most beautiful woman in the world  - so it was told. He  would
see for himself.

    Joram lifted his head . . .

    . . . and stared into the lifeless eyes of a corpse.

    I1OOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  299 The  Champagne Fountain  Name of  the
Almin!" Joram  murmured, shivering,  cold sweat  drying on  his  body.
"Dead!"

    "My dear boy, if you value your life and mine, do keep your  voice
low!" Simkin said in soft tones, a  disarming smile on his face as  he
nodded to several acquaintances  across the room.  The two stood  near
the champagne  fountain, this  being  the place  Simkin said  Gwen  or
Saryon would certainly come  to meet them. This  area - opposite  from
the  alcove  where  the  Emperor  still  held  court  -  was  becoming
increasingly crowded as people drifted  here in search of friends  and
merriment. The  champagne  fountain was,  as  Simkin said,  a  natural
meeting place;  shouts  of  greeting  and  boisterous  laughter  burst
constantly around them.

    Magically operated by a team  of Pron-aiban disguised as  footmen,
the champagne  fountain  stood over  twenty  feet tall.  It  was  made
entirely of ice - to keep the wine cool - and was done in fish  motif.
Champagne flowed from the mouths of icy seahorses percbed upon  frozen
waves. Wine  shot  from  the  pursed  lips  of  glassy-eyed  blowfish;
frost-rimed sea nymphs offered  guests sips of  wine cupped in  frigid
fingers. Crystal goblets stood in rank upon rank in the air around the
fountain, filling themselves at the beck and call of the. revelers and
hurrying to quench the thirst derived from standing in attendance upon
the Emperor and his dead wife for two hours.

    "It's treason to even  think such a thing,  let alone speak it  in
public," Simkin continued.

    "How .  .  .  how  long?"  Joram  asked  with  a  kind  of  morbid
fascination, the same fascination  that kept drawing  his eyes in  the
direction of the crystal throne.

    "Oh, a year,  perhaps. No one  knows for certain.  She was in  ill
health for a long time and, I must admit, looks rather better now than
she used to."

    "But . . . why keep . . . ?  I mean, I knew he loved her, but .  .
." Joram lifted a  glass of champagne  to his lips,  then set it  down
quickly, his hand  shaking. "The  Emperor must be  mad!" he  concluded
hollowly.

    "Far from it,"  Simkin said coolly.  "You see the  man in the  red
robes coming up to stand near the Emperor now?"

    "A DKarn-duukt \es," Joram said, wrenching his gaze from the  body
of the  woman in  the throne  to look  at a  man leaning  down to  say
something to the Emperor. Though  they were some distance away,  Joram
had the impression of a tall man, well-built, dressed in the red robes
of the warlocks who were the War Masters of Thimhallan.

    "Not a  DKarn-duuk. The  DKarn-duuk  - Prince  Xavier. He  is  her
brother, which makes him the next Emperor of Merilon if her death were
officially recognized." Simkin raised a glass of champagne to his lips
in a mocking toast. "Farewell to His Boringness, Back to his estate in
the rolling meadows of Dren-gassi or wherever he came from. If nothing
worse happened to him. People who cross The DKarn-Duuk have a  strange
way of  stepping  into  Corridors  and  never  stepping  out."  Simkin
swallowed the champagne in a gulp.

    "If the man's so powerful, why  doesn't he just take over?"  Joram
asked, eyeing him speculatively  and thinking that  this new world  he
was entering might be extremely interesting.

    "The Emperor  has  a  powerful  counterforce -  or  should  I  say
counterweight - on his side. Bishop Vanya. Which reminds me, I find it
rather strange that His Fatness  isn't in attendance, especially  when
theres free food.  Oh, I forgot.  He never comes  to this  anniversary
party. Says it goes  against Church policy or  some such thing.  Where
was I?"

    "The Emperor?"

    300 WEIS  AND  HICKMAN "Yes,  quite.  Anyway, rumor  has  it  that
Vanya's sun rises and sets with  the Emperors. The DKarn-Duuk has  his
own man he would hke to see  fill Vanya's shoes - probably take  three
of them, come to think of it. The catalysts and the illusionists  make
certain the Empress is the life  of. the party, if you'11 forgive  the
expression. And, it u< a  treasonable act to refer  in any way to  her
health or lack of it. She holds court as usual, and the bright and the
beautiful of  Merilon and  other  city-states come  to pay  homage  as
usual, and no  one looks directly  at her  or makes any  but the  most
innocent reference to her. Sometimes even that doesn't work."

    Simkin motioned for another glass  of champagne to fill itself  at
the crystal fountain and come bobbing  into his hand. An orchestra  of
enchanted instruments  began  playing  waltzes in  a  corner,  forcing
Simkin to lean closer  to Joram to continue  his story. "I will  never
forget the night  the old  Marquis of  Dunsworthy was  talking to  the
Emperor over a game  of tarok and the  Emperor said, 'Don't you  think
Her Highness looks  particularly well tonight,  Dunsworthy? ' And  old
Dunsworthy looks over at the corpse seated in a chair and stammers, 'I
- I don't know. I find Her Highness  seems a bit grave to me. '  Well,
of course, the Duuk-ttarith  were on the wretched  chap in an  instant
and that was the last we saw of him." Simkin sipped the champagne  and
wiped his lips with the orange silk. "I finished playing out his  hand
and won a silver off His Majesty."

    Joram was about to reply, when he heard his name called.  Turning,
he looked into blue eyes alight  with love and instantly forgot  there
was such a thing as death or politics in the world.

    "Joram!" said Gwendolyn shyly. Holding out her white hand, she was
conscious of the  admiring stares of  several other young  men in  the
crowd, but she truly had eyes only for the man she loved.

    Gwendolyn had spent hours - almost  the entire day - working  with
Marie and Lady Rosamund  on her gown. She  changed the color so  often
that the  room  might  have  passed for  the  dwelling  place  of  the
Sif-Hanar who conjure rainbows. Flowers sprouted on the sleeves to  be
replaced by  the  feathers  of  small  birds,  then  the  small  birds
themselves made  an appearance  but were  instantly banished  by  Lady
Rosamund. At  last,  after  many  tears and  miles  of  ribbon  and  a
last-moment panic in the  carriage that she "wasn't  fit to be  seen!"
Gwendolyn was carried off DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 301 to the ball, every
dream of her young heart seeming to come true at this moment.

    And what was the result of the effort and tears spent on the gown,
tears spent with only  Joram in mind?  It was, unfortunately,  largely
wasted. Joram had only  a confused impression  of golden hair  crowned
with tiny white  flowers known  as babys  breath, and  white neck  and
white shoulders, and  only the  most tantalizing hint  of soft,  white
breast curving into  something as  blue and  frothy as  sea foam.  Her
beauty tonight enchanted him,  but it was her  beauty, not the  gowns.
Gwendolyn could have been wearing sackcloth and her enraptured admirer
would never have noticed.

    "My lady." Joram took the small, white hand in his own, holding it
for just a moment longer than  was considered proper before he  kissed
it hngenngly and then reluctantly released it.

    "I- That is we - " Gwendolyn amended, blushing, "were afraid  that
you might not be able to come.  How is Father Dun-stable? We have  all
been terribly concerned."

    "Father Dunstable?" Joram stared at Gwen, mystified. "What do  you
mean? Isn't he - "

    "Forgive  him,   sweet   child,"  Simkin   interrupted   smoothly,
interposing himself  between,  Joram and  Gwen.  Turning his  back  on
Joram, he captured Gwens hand in his own. He seemed about to kiss  it,
then apparently decided  the effort  was too  great and  lethargically
held onto it instead. "Your beauty has completely overthrown his mind.
I've seen more intelligent expressions  on a catalyst. Not often,  but
occasionally. Speaking of catalysts, it would appear from your inquiry
that our bald friend is none too well. Zou/ids, this astounds me."

    "But, didn't  Joram  tell you?"  Gwendolyn  attempted to  look  at
Joram, who had been cut off by Simkin on one side and the fountain  on
the other.

    "Egad, m'dear," said Simkin loudly,  blocking the couples view  of
each other once more. "Champagne? No? Well, I'll drink yours then,  if
you don't mind." Two glasses floated over. "What were we discussing? I
can't recall- Ah, Father Dunstable. Yes, you see, I've been cooped  up
in this stifling palace all day, listening to The DKarn-Duuk yammering
about the war with Somebody-or-Other  and the Emperor yammering  about
taxes and I've been quite bored out of my skull. Then I found 302 WE1S
AND HICK MAN Joram here and. well, my pet, you can hardly blame me  if
the last thing I wanted to discuss was the health of a priest?"

    "No, I  suppose  not  .  .  ." began  Gwen,  her  face  rosy  with
embarrassment and confusion.  Simkin's conversation  was attracting  a
crowd; people gathered near to hear what scandalous thing he might say
next, and  the young  girl  was acutely  conscious  of the  many  eyes
focused on herself and her companion.

    Endeavoring to get near Gwen,  Joram found himself elbowed out  of
the way and, remembering just in time that he must not call  attention
to himself,  was  forced to  take  a  step or  two  backward.  Simkin,
meanwhile, was the center of attention.

    "Well, what did happen  to our Bald  Friend?" he asked  languidly.
"Egad!" A look of horror caused the young mans eyebrows to ascend into
his hair. "Bishop Vanya didn't mistake him for a pew cushion, did he?"
Smothered laughter from the audience and much nudging. "That  happened
once to a catalyst known before the accident as Sister Suzzane.  Quite
flattened the poor thing. Now known as Brother Fred …"

    The laughter grew louder.

    "No, really!" Gwendolyn tried to  withdraw her hand from  Simkin's
grasp.

    But he smoothly held her fast, though without appearing to do  so,
regarding her  with a  bored expectancy  that sent  the audience  into
muffled giggles.

    Gwendolyn had to say something. "I - We were awakened in the night
by the  . .  . the  Theldara, who  had been  in attendance  on  Father
Dunstable. She said he had taken a turn for the worse and that she was
transferring him to the Houses of Healing in the Druids' Grove."

    "Turn for  the worse,  eh? I'm  quite devastated.  Prostrate  with
grief, truly.  More  champagne  here!"  Simkin  called.  The  audience
roared.

    "Simkin, let me - " began Joram, pushing his way around once more.
But Simkin cut Joram off casually, reached out a hand, and caught hold
of another young man - one of the general crowd standing nearby.

    "Marquis d'Ettue. Charmed."

    The young Marquis was charmed as well.

    "Here's this  young woman,  pining to  dance with  you. It's  that
shrimp-color jacket you're wearing. Quite  bowls women over. My  dear,
the Marquis." And, before she could utter a protest.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 303  Gwendolyn found her  hand passed  from
Simkin into the hand of an equally astonished Marquis.

    "But I  -"  Gwen  protested  weakly, looking  at  Joram  over  her
shoulder.

    "Simkin, damn you - " Joram again attempted to intercede, his face
dark with impatience and frustration and the glimmerings of anger.

    "Pleasure of this dance - " the Marquis stammered.

    "Charming couple.  Off  you  go!"  said  Simkin  gaily,  literally
propelling the startled  Gwendolyn into  the Marquis's  shrimp-colored
arms. "Oh, there you are," he  said, glancing around at the  glowering
Joram in affected surprise.  "Where have you  been, dear boy?  There's
your sweetheart, gone off to dance with another man. '

    More laughter.

    Joram glared at him furiously. "Will you -"

    " - comfort you in your afflicted state? Certainly. Give us a  few
moments alone, will  you?" Simkin asked  the assembled multitude,  who
obligingly - and with  many smiles at  Jorams expense-wandered off  in
search of new amusement. "Champagne, follow me!" Gesturing to  several
glasses perched on the rim of the flowing fountain, Simkin put his arm
through Jorams and drew him over near the crystal wall, three bubbling
champagne glasses dutifully bobbing along in his wake.

    "What have you done?" Joram demanded angrily. "I've been searching
for Gwendolyn for hours and now you - "

    "Dear fellow, keep  your voice down,"  Simkin said, the  merriment
and gaiety snuffed out of his face. "It was necessary to speak to  you
privately and immediately about the catalyst.

    "Poor Saryon," Joram  said, his  face darkening,  the black  brows
coming together.  "I  shouldn't have  left  him last  night,  but  the
TheQara assured me he was healing - "

    "And so he is, dear boy," Simkin interrupted.

    Joram tensed. "What do you mean?"

    "I mean They have got him, old chap." Simkin smiled, but it was  a
smile for  the crowd  alone. Moistening  his lips  with champagne,  he
glanced nervously about the hall, "And we could be next."

    Joram suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The air in this room
had been in the  lungs of too many  others already. His heart  pounded
painfully, as  though trying  to squeeze  the last  bit 304  WE1S  AND
HICKMAN or oxygen from his chest. There was a buzzing in his ears and,
once again, he couldn't hear anything.

    "I say, steady. Have  a sip. People  watching. Fun and  merriment,
remember?"

    Joram saw Simkins lips move and felt a glass thrust into his hand.
His mouth was dry, he  lifted it to his lips,  and the bubbles of  the
wine burst  on his  tongue, cooling  his throat.  "Are you  sure?"  he
managed  to  ask,  taking  a  breath  and  struggling  to  regain  his
composure. "What if he really were taken ill …"

    "Bah! The catalyst  was perfectly  well when we  left. Apart  from
that, I've never known  a Thc&ara to  get a sudden  urge to examine  a
patient in  the middle  of the  night. But  the Duuk-toaritbl  . .  ."
Simkins voice trailed off ominously.

    "He won't betray me," Joram said in a low tone.

    Simkin shrugged. "He may not have any choice."

    Joram's lips tightened, his hands clenched. "I'm not leaving!"  he
said flatly.  "Not until  I've talked  to this  Druidess Lord  Samuels
promised to bring! And besides" -his brow cleared, he raised his  head
- "it won't matter. Soon I'll be a Baron. Then everything will be  all
right."

    "Of course.  Very  well, if  you're  satisfied. Just  thought  I'd
explain matters," Simkin said lightly, suddenly complacent once  more.
"As you say, what  is it? A  few bad hours  for the catalyst.  Nothing
more. They welcome this sort of thing, so I've heard. Martyrdom. Makes
them righteous. Ah, the fair one  returns- I presume, to take you  off
to see Daddy from  the look in  her eye, which is,  I note, now  fixed
on-me with a decidedly unfriendly gaze. Say no more, I'm gone. Let  me
know when to start the celebration, kill the fatted calf and all that.
We might use Bishop Vanya for the occasion. Remember, my dear boy, you
have spent a most exhausting evening sitting up with a sick  catalyst.
Ta-ta!"

    Leaving Joram  alone -  for which  the young  man was  grateful  -
Simkin rose into the air and was immediately absorbed into the  crowd.
"Do you like it?" His  voice floated back to  Joram. "I call it  Death
Warmed Over . . ."

    The hall was growing increasingly hot, the noise level rising. The
presentations to the Emperor having ended, the people standing  around
the throne began to disperse, changing their raiment from mourning  to
more suitable  colors of  revelry. Joram  leaned against  the  crystal
wali, staring out into  the night, wishing desperately  he was out  in
the cool  darkness that  looked so  inviting compared  to the  glaring
light and heat within. He felt  DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 305 a  momentary
stab of  conscience over  the  catalyst. Simkins  use  . of  the  word
"martyrdom" chilled  him. The  thought of  what Saryon  might well  be
suffering because of him  made him close his  eyes, guilt sliding  its
thin blade into his soul.

    But, after a moment, Joram was  able to ignore the pain,  covering
the wound with bitter  salve as he  had covered so  many in his  life,
never noticing the ugly scars they left behind. He would make it right
for Saryon someday. He would take care of the catalyst for the rest of
his life. . . .

    "Joram?"

    And here was Gwendolyn, looking up at him with the blue eyes  that
saw the wounds and longed to  heal them. Reaching out, he caught  hold
of both her hands in his  and pressed them against his feverish  skin,
finding another balm in her cool touch.

    "Joram, whats  wrong?" she  asked, alarmed  by the  grim,  haunted
expression on his face.

    "Nothing," he said gently, kissing  the hands. "Nothing, now  that
you are  with me."  /  Gwendolyn blushed  prettily and  retrieved  her
hands, conscious  of Lady  Rosamund hovering  somewhere near.  "Joram,
Father sent  me with  a message  which I  was going  to deliver,  only
Simkin - "

    "Yes, yes!" Joram said  fiercely. A dark  flush stained his  face,
his eyes devoured her. "What message?"

    "He … he  wants you  to meet  him in  one of  the private  rooms,"
Gwendolyn faltered, taken aback  at the change in  the young man.  But
the next moment, the  excitement of her news  swept all caution  away.
"Oh, Joram!" she cried,  catching hold of his  hands in he? own.  "The
Druidess is with him! The Tbeldara  who attended your mother when  you
were born!"

    Child of Stone  I walked  majestically through the  crowd. In  his
mind, he was  a Baron already;  the beautiful woman  at his side,  his
wife. Few people paid him any attention, except to wonder perhaps  why
he and the dainty young girl were walking on the floor like catalysts.
But that would change, change soon! Maybe even in an hour or so,  Lord
Samuels would be  walking-yes, walking- at  Joram's side,  introducing
him as Baron  Fitzgerald, hinting to  his friends that  the Baron  was
about to become a  permanent member of the  Samuels family. Then  they
will take notice of me, Joram thought with grim amusement. There won't
be enough they can do for me.

    I'll find Saryon, he  planned, and I'll make  that fat Priest  who
has used. the catalyst to hound me apologize to both of us. Maybe I'll
even see what I can do to  have him removed from his office. And  then
I'll  -  "Joram,"  said  Gwendolyn,  speaking  somewhat  timidly.  The
expression on his face was so strange - elated, eager, yet with a grim
darkness she could not understand. "We cannot possibly go any  farther
walking."

    "Why, where  are  your  father and  the  Druidess?"  Joram  asked,
suddenly realizing he'd lost track of his surroundings.

    DOOM OF  THE  DARKSWORD  307  "On the  Water  level,"  said  Gwen,
pointing below.

    The two stood on the balcony, looking down through the nine levels
to the golden forest  on the floor. It  was a breathtaking view,  each
level glowing with its own color - with the exception of the level  of
Death, which remained nothing but a gray void. Magi were floating both
up and down  now, the  revelries having  extended to  all the  levels.
Glancing at the stairs, Joram saw the catalysts toiling up them, their
shoes making shuffling sounds, their breathing labored.

    And that, gave him the excuse he needed.

    "You go on down, my lady," he told Gwendolyn, releasing her slowly
and reluctantly. Preoccupied as he, was,  he had still been very  much
aware of the warmth and fragrance  and the occasional touch of  smooth
skin and soft flesh moving so near him. "Tell your father I am coming.
I will walk."

    Gwendolyn looked so astonished at this and regarded the  catalysts
making their way up and down the stairs with such a pitying gaze  that
Joram could not help smiling. Taking her  hand in his, he said to  her
inwardly, Soon, my dear, you will  be proud to walk these stairs  with
your husband. Aloud he said, "Surely, you can understand that I  could
not ask  Father  Dunstable to  grant  me  Life today,  no  matter  how
important the occasion. …"

    Gwendolyn's face  flushed. "Oh,  no!" she  murmured, ashamed.  She
had, in truth,  forgotten about  the poor catalyst.  Of course,  Joram
might have gained Life through  another catalyst, but there were  many
magi who were  so fond of  and loyal  to their catalysts  that to  use
another-a stranger at  that-would have been  tantamount to  committing
adultery. "Of  course not.  How foolish  of me  to forget  and" -  she
raised her lovely eyes to Joram s- "how very noble of you to make this
sacrifice for him."

    Now it was Jorams turn to flush, seeing the love and admiration in
the blue eyes  and thinking how  he had  earned it with  a lie.  Never
mind, he to!  d himself swiftly.  Soon she will  know the truth,  soon
they will all know the truth. . . .

    "Go ahead, your father is  waiting," Joram said somewhat  gruffly.
He escorted her to the opening  in the ornamental balcony used by  the
magi entering and leaving  the Hall of Majesty  and handed her off  it
with a bow. His heart lurched  as he watched her step gracefully  into
nothing, and it was all he could  do to remain standing and keep  from
reaching wildly to save her from what - in his case-would have been  a
deadly plunge to 308  WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD 309  the
golden forest nine levels  below. But, smiling  up at. him.  Gwendolyn
drifted downward as gracefully as a lily riding the water, the  layers
of her gown  floating out  about her  like petals,  the bottom  layers
clinging to her legs, keeping her body covered modestly.

    "Water level," Joram muttered, and, turning, ran to the stairs and
hastened down them, nearly knocking  over a puffing, irate catalyst  -
the same catalyst, he noticed in  passing, that Simkin had taken  such
delight in tormenting.

    Going down the stairs  was certainly much  easier than coming  up.
Joram might have  been flying  himself, he  moved so  rapidly, and  it
seemed no  time at  all before  he was  standing on  the Water  level,
trying to catch his breath - whether from the descent or his  mounting
excitement he couldn't tell.

    Gwendolyn was nowhere to be seen, and he was just about to go  off
searching for her impatiently when a voice called, "Joram, over here."

    Turning, he saw her gesture  to him from an  open door he had  not
noticed amidst the waterlike surroundings. Hurrying past illusions  of
mermaids swimming with vividly colored  fish, Joram reached the  door,
devoutly hopirig that the private meeting chamber wasn't going to be a
dark grotto filled with oyster shells.

    It wasn't. Apparently,  the illusions  were confined  to the  area
around the balcony, for Gwendolyn introduced Joram into a room that  -
except for the extreme  opulence and luxury of  the furniture -  might
have come  from  Lord  Samuels's  dwelling. It  was  a  sitting  room,
designed to accommodate those magi who  wished to relax and avoid  the
expenditure of  magical energy.  Several couches  covered with  silken
brocade in fanciful designs were  arranged in formal groupings  around
the cozy room, their tables standing attention at their sides.

    On one  of these  stiff couches,  looking extraordinarily  like  a
small bird perched on the cushions, sat a tiny, dried-up woman.  Joram
recognized her, by the brown color and fine quality of her robes, as a
Druidess of  extremely  high  ranking.  She was  old  -so  old,  Joram
thought, she must have seemed elderly  to his mother eighteen years  .
ago. Despite the springtime weather and the closeness of the room, she
crowded near a fire Lord Samuels had caused to burn in the  fireplace.
Her brown  robes seemed  to puff  out  from her  frail body  like  the
plumage of a  shivering bird, and  she further enhanced  the image  by
con- stantly  preening  and  plucking  at the  velvet  fabric  with  a
clawlike hand.

    Lord Samuels stood on the floor -  a mark of the solemnity of  the
occasion - to  one side  of the couch,  his hands  clasped behind  his
back. He was dressed in the subdued  colors worn by " the rest of  the
magi on this sad anniversary; his robes, though fine, were not  nearly
so fine as those worn by his betters - a fact duly noted and applauded
by his  betters.  He bowed  stiffly  as Joram  entered,  Joram  bowing
stiffly in return. The Druidess stared at Joram curiously with bright,
beady eyes.

    "Thankyou. Daughter,"  said  Lord  Samuels, his  gaze  turning  to
Gwendolyn with  a  fondness and  pride  even the  seriousness  of  the
forthcoming conversation could not diminish. "I think it would be best
if you left us."

    "Oh, but, Father!" Gwendolyn cried, then, seeing the tiniest  hint
. of a frown on his face, she sighed. With a final glance at Joram - a
glance that carried  with it  her heart  and soul -  she ..  - made  a
pretty curtsy to the  Druidess, who chirped  and fluttered in  return,
then withdrew from the room, shutting the door softly ' behind her.

    Lord Samuels cast a spell upon the door, so that they would not be
disturbed.

    "Joram," he said coolly, stepping  forward and gesturing with  his
hand, "allow me to present Tke$ara  Menni. The Thetdara was, for  many
years, the Druidess presiding over the Birthing Rooms of the Font. She
now has  the honor,"  he added  in guarded  tones, "of  attending  our
beloved Empress, whose continued good health we pray for daily."

    Joram noted that Lord Samuels carefully  did not look at him .  as
he said  this; he  had noticed  that everyone  who spoke  of the  :  •
Empress did so in measured words and without meeting the eye.

    Joram himself found it difficult to meet the eyes of the  Druidess
and he bowed,  thankfully avoiding the  necessity. He was  overwhelmed
with disgust at the thought of this woman attending a corpse. His skin
crawled and he fancied he could  smell death and decay in the  stuffy,
overheated room.  Vet he  found himself  wondering, with  a  terrible,
morbid fascination, what magic they performed to keep the body in  its
suspended state. Did elixirs run  through the silent heart instead  of
blood? Did  potions pulse  in  the veins,  herbs  keep the  skin  from
rotting? What magic  words made the  stiff hand move  with that  awful
grace, what alchemy caused the dull eyes to shine?

    510 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 311 He was conscious of
the Darksword strapped to his back, feeling its presence reassuring. I
have given Life to that which is lifeiess, and for that I am labeled a
Sorcerer of the Dark  Arts, he said to  himself. And yet what  greater
sin is this, to keep that which belongs to the gods - if one  believes
in such  things -  from  finding its  true  destiny among  the  stars,
keeping it chained in its prison house of flesh?

    Straightening, he feared  he could  not bring himself  to fook  at
this woman  without openly  betraying his  loathing. Then  he  sternly
reminded himself that  none of  this was  his concern.  What did  this
Empress matter  to  him? It  was  his  life that  was  important,  not
anothers death.

    Raising his gaze, shaking back the black hair that hung about  his
face, Joram stared at the Druidess  with equanimity and even a  slight
smile. She made a  kind of caw,  as though aware  of his thoughts  and
taking pleasure in them.  Raising the ciawlike hand,  she held it  out
for Joram to kiss,  and this he did,  stepping forward and bowing  low
over it, though he could not - for the life of him - bring his lips to
touch the withered flesh.

    Lord Samuels indicated for Joram to be seated, and though he would
have much preferred to continue standing, the young man forced himself
to obey.

    "I have not yet  broached the matter  with Theldara Menni,  Joram,
preferring as a  point of honor  to first enter  into such a  delicate
subject in your presence."

    "Thank you, my lord," Joram said, and meant it.

    Lord Samuels bowed slightly and  continued. "The TbcQara has  been
kind enough to meet with us as a favor to my friend, Father Richar.  I
leave it to you, young man, to explain the situation."

    The TbeQara stared at Joram with eager eyes, her thin lips  pursed
in a beak-like manner.

    This was unexpected. Somehow,  Joram had not  expected to have  to
explain matters himself, although he was grateful to Lord Samuels  for
not prejudicing his case one way or the other by discussing it without
him. He wished  Saryon was here.  The catalyst had  a way of  reducing
things to simple terms that were easy to understand. Joram felt  vague
about where to begin. He was also frightened, realizing just how  much
was at stake here.

    "My name is Joram," he stated  lamely, trying to think, trying  to
pull the pieces together. "My mother's name was Anja. Does - does that
mean anything to you?"

    The Druidess pecked at  the word like a  bread crumb, bobbing  her
small head, but otherwise keeping silent.

    Not knowing  whether that  was a  positive or  negative  response,
'Joram floundered on. "I was raised in a Field Magi village and . .  .
spent all my life there. But . . . my mother always told me I was of"-
he felt  his skin  burn -"noble  blood and  that my  family came  from
Merilon. She -  . . my  mother . .  . said that  my father was  a …  a
catalyst. They had committed a criminal act - joining together  bodily
- and  so created  me. They  were caught"  -Joram could  not keep  the
bitterness from tinging his  voice- "and my  father was sentenced  to.
the Turning. He stands today, on the Border. …"

    He fell silent, recalling the stone statue, feeling the warmth  of
the tear splashing on his body. Would he want me here? Joram  wondered
suddenly, then, angrily shaking his head, continued talking.

    "My mother gave birth  to me at  the Font, so  she told me.  Then,
taking me with her, she ran away. I don't know why she left. Maybe she
was afraid. Or maybe, then, she was  already a little mad. . . ."  The
word was hard to say and made him choke. He hadn't realized this would
be so painful. He  couldn't look at  Lord Samuels now  or even at  the
Tbelx) ara, but  sat staring  grimly at  his hands  that clenched  and
unclenched before him.

    "She told me  that one day  we would return  to Merilon and  claim
what was  rightfully ours,  but"-he drew  a deep  breath -  "she  died
before she saw that day. For one reason or another, I fled the village
where I had been raised and have been living since in the Outland. But
then, I found a way to return to Merilon and claim my birthright."

    "The problem, Theldara Menni," struck in Lord Samuels, aware  that
Joram had  apparently said  all  he could,  "is  that there  exist  no
records of this young mans birth. That is not unusual, I  understand."
He made a deprecating gesture with his hands. ."The number of indigent
and . . . shall we say . . . fallen women who come to the Font to bear
their children is large and, in the confusion, records are known to be
misplaced. Or - as  is probable in Joram's  circumstance - the  mother
left the Font  in secret  and, fearing  she might  be pursued,  either
destroyed the records  or took them  with her. What  we are hoping  is
that you can identify him as - " .

    "There was a  Birthing Moon  that night, too,"  cawed the  TheUara
suddenly and shrilly.

    312 WEIS AND H1CKMATM DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD "I beg your  pardon?"
Lord Samuels blinked. Joram, catching his breath, raised his head.

    "A Birthing Moon," the old  woman repeated irritably. "Full  moon.
We knew when we saw  it in the sky that  the nursery would be full  as
well, and we weren't wrong."

    "Then, you do  remember?" Joram breathed,  sitting forward in  his
seat, his body trembling.

    "Remember?" The Druidess laughed raucously, then coughed and wiped
at her beaky mouth with  the claw of a hand.  "I remember Anja. I  was
there at the Turning," she said with some pride. "I went along to take
care of her. She was poorly, and I  knew it would be the death of  the
unborn babe - if not the death  of the mother -to make her watch.  But
such was what they  wanted. Such was the  law." The old woman  huddled
into her robes, fluffing them around her.

    "Yes, go on!" Joram wanted  to grab her up  and cradle her in  bis
hands, so precious did she seem to him.

    The Druidess  stared  into  the fire,  clucking  and  chirping  to
herself, jabbing at her beak with  her claw until - suddenly,  raising
her head -she looked straight at Joram.

    "I was right,"  she said  shrilly, her voice  ringing through  the
room. "I was right."

    "Right? What do you mean?"

    "Born dead, of course!" The  Druidess clucked. "The babe was  born
dead. Strange it  was, too."  The old woman's  eyes took  on an  eerie
glint; her shrill voice softened  to a whisper of pleasurable  horror.
"The babe had turned to stone inside the mother! Turned to stone- just
like the father! I never saw the like before," she said, twisting  her
head up to peer at Lord Samuels and see the reaction she made.  "Never
saw the like! It was a judgment."

    Joram's body  stiffened. He  might have  been the  babe -  or  the
father.

    "I don't  understand." His  voice cracked.  Lord Samuels,  in  the
background, made a motion, but Joram did not look up or take his  eyes
from the old ThtUaraJ  face. He had ceased  to tremble; nothing  moved
within him, not even his heart.

    The Thetdara made a gesture with the clawed hands as of pulling an
object forth. "Most  of 'em limp  as cats, poor  things, when  they're
stillborn. Not this one, not  Anjas child." The Druidess scratched  at
each word with her hand. "Eyes staring into nothing. Cold and hard  as
rock. It was a judgment on them both, I said."

    "That can't be true!"  Joram didn't recognize the  sound of his  ,
voice.

    The Druidess stuck  her head  out, her beady  eyes squinting,  her
claw shaking at him.  "I don't know whose  mothers son you are,  young
man, but you're not Anja's! Oh, she was mad. There was no doubt."  The
birdish head  bobbed. "And  I see  now  that she  did what  we  always
suspected - stole some poor child from ' the nursery for the  unwanted
and pretended it was her own.

    , Thats what the Duuk-foaritb told us when they questioned us, and
I see now it was true."

    Joram could not respond. The  womans words came to  him , as in  a
dream. 'He could  neither speak  nor react.  From the  same dream,  he
heard Lord Samuels ask in a stern voice.

    "The   Duuk-tjaritbl   This,    then,   was   investigated?"    ';
"Investigated?" The old woman crowed. "I  should say so! It took  them
to force the  dead babe  from Anja's  arms. She  had wrapped  it in  a
blanket and was  trying to make  it nurse, warming  its feet. When  we
tried to come  near, she  shrieked at us.  Long talons  grew from  her
fingers, her teeth turned to fangs. ; Albanara, she was," the Druidess
said, shivering. "Powerful. No,  we wouldn't get  close. So we  called
the Duuk-Liarith. They came  and took the dead  babe and cast a  spell
over her to make  her sleep. We  left her, and it  was that night  she
escaped."

    "But, then, why aren't  there any records_of  this?" Lord Sam-  (.
uels pursued, his face  grave. Joram stared at  the Druidess, but  his
eyes held no more life in them than the stone childs.

    "Ah, there  were records!"  The Druidess  clucked indig-.  hantly.
"There were records."  Her clawed hand  made a  fist the ,  size of  a
teaspoon. "We  kept very  good records  when I  was there.  Very  good
indeed. The Duuk-L<aritb took them  next morning, after we  discovered
that Anja  was gone.  Ask them  for your  precious records.  Not  that
they'll matter much  to you, poor  lad," she added,  looking at  Joram
pityingly, her head cocked to one side.

    "And so you are certain  that this young man"-Lord Samuels  nodded
at Joram, his gaze one now of sorrow and concern Otore than of anger -
"was stolen from the nursery?"

    "Certain? Yes, we were certain."  The Druidess grinned, and  -^•he
had no more teeth in her mouth than a bird has in its bill.

    314 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD J/5 "The  Duuk-tjarith
said that  was what  had  happened, and  that  made us  certain.  Very
certain indeed, my lord."

    "But did you count? Were there any babies missing?"

    "The  Duuk-foartth  said  there  was,"  the  old  woman  repeated,
frowning. "The Duuk-bartth said there was."

    "But did you check yourself to see!" Lord Samuels tried again.

    "Poor lad," was all the TheOara said. Looking at Joram, her  beady
eyes glittered. "Poor lad."

    "Shut up!" Joram rose unsteadily to  his feet. His face was  dark,
blood glistened from a  cut on his mouth  where he had bitten  through
his lip. "Shut up," he snarled  again, glaring at the ThcQara in  such
fury that she crumbled back into the couch and Lord Samuels  hurriedly
stepped between the two.

    "Joram, please," he began, "cairn  yourself! Think! There is  much
here that does not make sense …"

    But Joram could neither see nor  hear the man. His head  throbbed,
he thought it  might burst.  Reeling, half-blind, he  clutched at  his
head, tearing at his hair in a frenzy.

    Seeing the hair come out dripping blood from the roots, and seeing
as well  the  madness in  the  young  man's wild  gaze,  Lord  Samuels
attempted to lay  soothing hands on  Joram. With a  bitter cry,  Joram
shoved the man away from him, nearly knocking him down.

    "Pity!" Joram  gasped.  He couldn't  breathe.  '"Yes, pity  me!  I
am"-he struggled for breath - "nobody!" Again he clutched at his head,
pulling his hair. "Lies! All lies! Dead . . . death . . ."

    Turning, he stumbled from the room, groping blindly for the door.

    "It will not open,  young man. I have  strengthend the spell.  You
must stay and listen to me! All is not lost! Why did the  Duuk-tearith
take an interest in this? Let us look further . . ." Lord Samuels took
a step forward  with some thought,  perhaps, of casting  a spell  upon
Joram himself.

    Joram ignored him. Reaching the door, he sought to open it, but  -
as Lord Samuels said - the spell stopped him. He couldn't even get his
hands past the invisible, impenetrable barrier,  and he beat at it  in
impotent rage. Without  conscious thought, knowing  only that he  must
escape this room in which he was slowly . suffocating, Joram drew  the
Darksword from the scabbard on his  back and slashed at the door  with
the weapon.

    The Darksword felt itself  wielded; the heat  of its masters  life
pulsed in its metal body and it  began to absorb the magic. The  spell
on the  door shattered  just  as the  wood  shattered when  the  blade
crashed into it. The Theldara  began to scream-a high-pitched,  shrill
wail - and Lord  Samuels stared in  wonder and awe  until he began  to
feel  weak,  Life   draining  from   his  body.   The  Darksword   was
nonselective. its forger not yet  fully acquainted with its  potential
or how to  use it. It  sucked the magic  from everything and  everyone
around it, enhancing  its own power.  The metal began  to glow with  a
strange white-blue light that illuminated the room as the sword caused
the fire to die and the magical globes of light on the mantelpiece  to
glimmer faintly and then vanish altogether.

    Lord Samuels could not  move. His body felt  heavy and foreign  to
him, as though he had suddenly stepped inside the shell of another man
and had no idea how to make anything operate. He stared in a dreamlike
terror, unable to comprehend what was happening, unable to react.

    The door  fell  in shards  at  Jorams  feet. On  the  other  side,
reflected in the  blue-white radiance of  the fiercely blazing  sword,
stood Gwendolyn.

    She had been listening,  ear pressed against  the door, her  heart
dancing with  sweet, airy  fantasies, her  mind racing  with plans  to
feign surprise when Joram should burst out and tell her the good news.
One by one those  airy fantasies had sprouted  the • wings of  demons;
their dance  turned macabre.  Babies of  stone; the  poor, mad  mother
nursing the cold, rigid  body; the dark  specters of the  Duuk-tMrith;
Anj'a fleeing into the night with a Stolen child . . .

    Gwendolyn had shrunk backward, away from the closed and  magically
sealed door, her hand  pressed over her mouth  so 'that she might  not
cry out and give herself away. The horror of what she had heard  crept
up over  her  soul  like  the foul  waters  of  a  fast-rising  flood.
Sheltered and protected  all her life,  the girlish part  of her  only
dimly understood - such things as child-birthing were never discussed.
But the woman deep inside  reacted. Instincts bred thousands of  years
before caused  her  to share  the  pain and  the  agony; to  feel  the
loneliness, the grief, the sorrow; and to even understand that madness
- like a tiny  star shining in  the vast darkness of  the night sky  -
brought consola-, tion.

    WEIS AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD J/7  Gwendolyn had  heard
Jorams anguished cry, she  had heard his rage  and his anger, and  the
girl longed to run away.  But the woman stayed,  and it was the  woman
Joram faced when he slashed through the door. He stared at her grimly,
sword in hand. Blazing fiercely  and brightly, its glow was  reflected
in the blue eyes that looked at him from the ashen face.

    He knew she  had heard  it all  and he  felt suddenly  a vast  and
overwhelming sense of  relief. He could  see the horror  in her  eyes.
Next would come the pity and then the loathing. He wouldn't avoid  it.
He would hurry it, in fact. It would be so much easier to leave hating
her. He could sink thankfully into the darkness, knowing that he would
never rise again.

    "So, lady" - he spoke in low tones, as fierce as the swords bright
light-"y°u know. You know  that I am no  one, nobody." His face  grim,
Joram raised the Darksword, watching its white-blue blaze burn in  the
wide, staring  eyes of  the woman  in the  hall. "You  once said  that
whatever I was would not matter to you, Gwendolyn. That you would love
me and come  with me."  Slowly, switching  the Darksword  to his  left
hand, Joram held out his right. "Come with me, then." He sneered.  "Or
were your words lies like the words of all the rest?"

    What could she do?  He spoke arrogantly,  goading her to  refusal.
Yet Gwen saw behind that;  she saw the pain  and anguish in his  eyes.
She knew that if she  rebuffed him, if she  turned from him, he  would
walk into the arid desert of his despair and sink beneath the sand. He
needed her. As his sword drank up  the magic of the world, so did  his
thirst for love drink up all she had to offer.

    "No, not a lie," she said in a calm, steady voice.

    Reaching out her hand, she caught hold of his. Joram stared at her
in astonishment, struggling with himself. It seemed for a moment  that
he might hurl her away from him. But she held onto him tightly, gazing
at him with steadfast love and resolve.

    Joram lowered the  Darksword. Still holding  Gwen's hand, he  hung
his head and began to  cry - bitter, anguished  sobs that tore at  his
body so that it seemed they might  rend him in half. Gently, Gwen  put
her arms around him and gathered him close, soothing him as she  would
a child.

    "Come, t we must go," she whispered. "This place is dangerous  for
you now."

    Joram clung to her. Lost and  wandering in his inner darkness,  he
had no thought of where he was,  no care for his own safety. He  would
have sunk to the floor were it not for her arms around him.

    "Come!" she whispered urgently.

    Dully, he nodded. His stumbling feet followed her lead.

    "Gwendolyn! No!  My  child!"  Lord  Samuels  called  out  to  her,
pleading. He tried desperately to move, but the Darksword had  drained
his Life. He could only stand, helplessly, watching.

    Without a backward glance at her father, Gwendolyn led the man she
had chosen to love away.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 319 Here's  to Folly fncertam what to do  or
where to go, Gwen led Joram to the Fire level. Here, in a dark  alcove
made even darker and more shadowy by the fiery illusions around  them,
the couple hid, starting  at every sound, scarcely  willing to draw  a
breath.

    "We must get away, before the Duuk-Liarilh start searching for us,
if they haven't already," Gwen whispered. "How long will my father  be
under that spell?"

    Joram had regained a measure of control, though he held onto  Gwen
as a dying  man clings to  life. His  arm around her,  he pressed  her
close, his dark head  resting on her golden  one, his tears drying  in
her soft hair.

    "I don't know," Joram admitted bitterly, glancing at the Darksword
in his left hand. "But not long, I should imagine. I don't really know
how this sword functions yet."

    Looking at the ugly, misshapen weapon, Gwen shuddered. Joram  drew
her closer, protectively, ignoring the realization that it was himself
from which he sought to protect her.

    She did  not understand,  but she  nodded anyway.  Frightened  and
confused, already half  regretting her  decision, her  own heart  torn
with sorrow  for what  she knew  would be  a devastating  blow to  her
family, Gwendolyn was further confused  by the stirrings of a  painful
pleasure she felt at being held fast in Joram's embrace. She longed to
stay here, held close to his fast-beating heart. She wanted, in  fact,
to get  closer, somehow,  to feel  the pleasure  and the  pain  expand
within her. But the thought  of that made her  quail with a fear  that
was cold in the pit of her stomach. And all-encompassing was the  more
real and pressing fear of capture.

    "If we can get  away from the Palace,"  she asked, "where will  we
go?"

    "To the Grove of Merlyn," Joram said immediately, suddenly  seeing
everything clearly in his mind. "Mosiah is waiting for us there. We'll
slip out of  the Gate .  . -"  He paused, frowning.  "Simkin. We  need
Simkin! He can  get us  out. Then, once  we're away  from this  cursed
city, we'll travel to Sharakan."

    "Sharakan!" Gwen gasped, her eyes widening in alarm.

    Joram smiled  at ber  briefly, reassuringly.  "I know  the  Prince
there," he said. "Hes a friend  of mine." He fell silent, staring  off
into the distance. Perhaps Garald wasn't his friend. Not anymore,  now
that be was  nobody. No.  He shook  his head.  After all.  he had  the
Darksword. He knew  of darkstone and  how to forge  it. That made  him
someone. His expression grew grim, fierce. "And I'll forge darkstone,"
he muttered. "We'll raise  an army. I'll return  to Merilon," he  said
softly, his grip tightening on the sword. "And whatever I want I  will
take! That, too, will make me somebody!"

    Feeling Gwendolyn shiver in his grasp, Joram looked down into  the
blue eyes. "Don't be frightened," he murmured, relaxing. "It will  all
be all right. You will see. I  love you. I would never do anything  to
hurt you." Bending  down, he kissed  her gently on  the forehead.  "We
will be married in Sharakan," he added, feeling her trembling  lessen.
"Perhaps tbe Prince himself will come to our wedding. …"

    "Egad!" came a voice  from out of  the fiery, illusionary  inferno
that surrounded them. "Heres the  Black Deatb searching high and  low,
nook and cranny, hither and yon for you two and I find you playing  at
slap and tickle in a corner!"

    Joram whirled about, sword raised.  "Simkin!", he gasped, when  he
could breathe  normally  again. "Don't  creep  up on  me  like  that!"
Lowering the sword, Joram wiped sweat  from his face with the back  of
his swordband. Gwen  crept out  from behind  him, half-smothered  from
being pressed back against the wail.

    320  W  E  AND  HICKMAN  DOOM  OF  THE  DARKSWORD  321  "My   dear
turtledoves," said Simkin casually, "I  can assure you that  something
much nastier and uglier than myself is likely to be creeping up on you
at any moment. The alarm has been sounded."

    Joram listened. "I don't hear anything."

    "You won't, old bean."  Simkin smoothed his  beard with his  hand.
"This is the Palace, remember? Wouldn't do to upset His Majesty or  to
startle the Empress in her fragile  state of health. But rest  assured
that there are eyes seeking and ears pricking and noses twitching. The
Corridors are alive."

    "It's hopeless,"  whispered  Gwen, slumping  back  against  Joram,
tears sliding down her cheeks.

    "No, no. Quite the contrary," Simkin remarked. "Your fool is  here
to save  you from  your folly.  Rather a  nice ring  to that.  I  must
remember it." Tilting his head back affectedfy, Simkin peered at  Gwen
down his long nose. "You will make a charming Mosiah, my dear. One  of
my better ones." Wafting the orange silk that appeared Suddenly in his
hand, Simkin  laid  it  solemnly  over Gwens  head  before  she  could
protest, spoke a word or two, then, "Abracadabra!" he cried,  whipping
the silk away.

    Mosiah leaned against  Joram now,  brushing tears  from his  face.
Looking down at  himself, he gave  a cry of  dismay and stared  wildly
back at Simkin.

    "Charming," said Simkin, eyeing him complacently and with a  glint
of mischievous fun. "It's all the rage, you know."

    Flushing, Joram started to  remove his arm  from the shoulders  of
what was now a  virile, handsome young man.  But the virile,  handsome
young man was in truth  a frightened young girl.  It was Gwen who  had
been strong at the outset, guiding the despairing Joram away from  the
room where her father  stood, a helpless statue  of flesh. It was  she
who had found this  hiding place, she who  had laid Joram's head  upon
ber breast, comforting and holding him  until he could fight back  the
darkness that was always there, ready to enslave him.

    But now her strength  was ebbing. The  image of the  Duuk-foaritb,
those nightdream  figures  who laid  chill,  unseen hands  upon  their
victims, dragging them to  unknown piaces, had  unnerved her. Now  she
found herself in a  strange body. The virile  young man began to  weep
uncontrollably,, shoulders heaving, his face hidden in his hands.

    "Damn it,  Simkin!" Joram  muttered,  putting his  arms  awkwardly
around Mosiahs broad shoulders, having  the strangest feeling that  he
was comforting his friend.

    "I say, this won't  do," Simkin said  sternly, glaring at  Mosiah.
"Pull yourself together, old chap!" he ordered, clapping the young man
on the back soundly.

    "Simkin!" Joram began angrily, then stopped.

    "He's right," said Mosiah with  a gulp, pulling himself away  from
Joram. There was  even a hint  of laughter in  the blue eyes,  shining
through the tears. "I'm fine. Really I am."

    "Thatta boy!" said  Simkin approvingly. "Now,  my Dark and  Gloomy
Friend, we must do the same for you- Oops, can't." The silk  fluttered
in the air in momentary  confusion. "That confounded sword, you  know.
Put it away."

    Reluctantly, frowning, Joram did as he was told, placing the sword
in the sheath on his back, then drawing his robes around it. "What are
you going to do?"  he asked Simkin grimly.  "You can't change me  into
Mosiah, not while I'm wearing the sword. And I won't take it off,"  he
added, seeing Simkin's eyes brighten.

    "Oh, well."  Simkin appeared  crestfallen for  a moment,  then  he
shrugged. "We'll do the best we can then, I suppose, dear boy.  Change
of clothing will have to suffice. No, don't argue."

    With a flutter of orange silk, Joram was dressed in a pallbearer's
costume identical to Simkin's -white robes and white hood.

    "Keep the  hood  drawn  over  your  face,"  said  Simkin  crisply,
following his own  instructions. "And  do relax, both  of you.  You're
attending a party at the Royal  Palace of Merilon. You're supposed  to
look bored out of  your skulls, not tightened  out of your wits.  Yes,
thats better," he  remarked, watching critically  as Mosiah patted  at
his face with the orange silk, removing all traces of tears, and Joram
unclenched his fists.

    "If all goes well," Simkin continued coolly, "there'll be only one
really bad moment -thats going out the front door - "

    "The front!" Joram scowled. "But surely there are back ways …"

    "My poor naive  boy." Simkin  sighed. "What would  you do  without
your fool? Everyone will be expecting you to go sneaking out the back,
don't you see? Duuk-foartib will be sprouting up around the back exits
like fungus after a rain. On the other hand, there'll probably only be
a couple dozen or so at the  front. And we're not going to sneak!  No,
we are going to stagger out proudly! Three drunks, heading for a night
on the town."

    Seeing Mosiah's pale face, Simkin added cheerfully, "Don't  worry.
We'll make it! They'll never suspect a thing. After all, 322 WEIS  AND
H1CKMAN they're looking for  a lovely young woman  and a gloomy  young
man -not two pallbearers and a peasant."

    Mosiah managed a wan smile; Joram  shook his head. He didn't  like
this, any of it, but he supposed there was no help for it. He couldn't
think of anything better, his brain  was moving sluggishly; he had  to
goad it to take a step. Reality  was rapidly slipping from him and  he
was suddenly quite content to let it go.

    "I say," said  Simkin after a  moment, looking over  at Joram.  "I
suppose this means the Barony fell through?"

    "Yes," answered Joram briefly. The sharp pain of his discovery had
subsided into a dull, throbbing ache  that would be with him  forever.
"Anja's child died at birth," he said, his voice expressionless.  "She
stole a baby from the nursery for unwanted, abandoned wretches. . . ."

    "Ah," said Simkin  lightly. "Call me  Nemo, what? And  so, are  we
ready?" He reviewed his troops.  "Set? Ah, almost forgot!  Champagne!"
he called.

    A musical  tinkling of  glass sounded  in response  and an  entire
battalion of glasses filled with  bubbling wine came floating  through
the air to fall in behind their leader.

    "One each," said Simkin, thrusting a full glass into Mosiah s limp
hand and another  into Jorams. "Remember,  gaiety, merriment, time  of
your lives!"

    Raising his glass to his lips, he drained it at a swallow.  "Drink
up, drink up!" he ordered.  "Now! For'ard! March!" Tossing the  orange
silk in the air, he sent it forth as a banner to wave proudly in front
of them. Then,  taking hold  of Mosiahs arm  in his,  he motioned  for
Joram to do the same on the opposite side.

    "Here's to folly!"  Simkin announced, and  together they  tottered
forward into  the  fiery  illusions, the  champagne  glasses  clinking
merrily along behind.

    The Latest in Fashion Trends M: osiah - the real one - ,  crouched
in the shadows of die trees in die Grove of Merlyn, staring  nervously
into the darkness. He was alone in the Grove, he knew - a fact he  had
been repeating  reassuringly  to  himself at  least  once  every  five
minutes since  night had  fallen. Unfortunately,  it had  done  little
good. He was far from reassured. Simkin had been right when he said no
one came here after dark. Mosiah understood why. The Grove took on  an
entirely different aspect at night. It returned to itself.

    With the dawning of the sun, the Grove put on all the flowers  and
garlands and jewels that it owned. Flinging its arms wide, it welcomed
its admirers, entertaining  them in lavish  style. Letting them  pluck
the fragile blossoms and toss them  carelessly away to wither and  die
under foot. Watching  with a  smile as  they tossed  garbage into  the
crystal pools and trampled the  grass. Listening to their empty  words
of praise and gushes of rapture that sprang from their mouths in puffs
of dust. But at night - the fee collected - the Grove drew the blanket
of darkness over  its head,  curled around  its tomb,  and lay  awake,
nursing its wounds.

    A Field Magus, as sensitive to the thoughts and feelings of plants
as a  Druid -  perhaps even  more  sensitive then  some 324  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN Druids, whose lives had never depended on the crops they  grew
- Mosiah could hear the anger whispering around him, the anger and the
sorrow.

    The anger  emanated  from the  living  things in  the  Grove.  The
sorrow, so it  seemed to  Mosiah, came from  the dead.  The young  man
found the tomb of Merlyn strangely comforting, therefore, and lingered
near it, resting his hand  upon the marble that  was warm even in  the
coolness of the night. From this vantage point, he warily watched  and
listened and repeatedly told himself that he was alone.

    But Mosiah s uneasiness  grew. Ordinary noises  of a wilderness  -
even a tamed wilderness such as this - caused his skin to prickle  and
sweat to chill in  the night air.  Trees creaking, leaves  whispering,
branches rubbing - all  had an ominous sound,  a malicious intent.  He
was an intruder here,  disturbing the Groves fitful  rest, and he  was
not welcome. So  he paced back  and forth beside  the tomb, keeping  a
wary eye upon  the forest, and  wondering irritably just  how long  it
took t<J become a Baron, anyway.

    To keep his  mind off his  fear, Mosiah imagined  Joram living  in
wealth, master of an  estate with his  pretty wife at  his side and  a
bevy of servants to act upon his slightest wish. Mosiah smiled, but it
was a smile that faded to a sigh.

    Living a lie.  All his life,  Joram had  lived a lie,  and now  he
would continue to do  so forever -  must continue to  do so, in  fact.
Though Joram might talk grandly of  how wealth would free him,  Mosiah
had common  sense enough  to know  that it  would simply  add its  own
chains to the  ones already binding  Joram. That the  chains would  be
made of gold instead of iron would make little difference. Joram would
never admit to being Dead, Mosiah knew. He would never admit to having
murdered the overseer. (Unlike Saryon,  Mosiah did not view the  death
of Blachloch  as  murder and  never  would.)  And then  -  what  about
children? Mosiah  shook his  head,  running his  hand over  the  tombs
shaped marble,  absently  tracing the  lines  of the  sword  with  his
fingers. Would they  be born Dead,  like their father?  Would he  hide
them, as  so  many  of  the  Dead were  hidden?  Was  the  lie  to  be
perpetuated through generation after generation?

    Mosiah could see a darkness spreading over the family, casting its
shadow first over Gwendolyn,  who would bear  Dead children and  never
know why. Then the children,. living a lie - DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 325
Joram s lie. Perhaps  he would teach them  the Dark Arts. Perhaps,  by
then, there would  be war  with Sharakan. Technology  would come  back
into the  world  and  bring  with it  death  and  destruction.  Mosiah
shuddered. He didn't like  Merilon, he didn't like  the people or  the
way they lived. The beauty and wonder that had first enchanted him now
glittered too brightly  in his eyes.  But he supposed  this to be  his
fault, not the fault of the people of Merilon. They didn't deserve - A
hand touched his shoulder from behind.

    He turned instantly but it was too late.

    A voice spoke, the spell was cast.

    Life flowed from Mosiah and was greedily absorbed by the Grove  as
the young man tumbled,  helpless, to the ground,  his magic nulled  by
the hand of the black-robed figures that stood around him. But  Mosiah
had lived among the Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. He had been forced  to
live without the magic for months during that time and, whats more, he
had been a victim of this  spell before. Its shock value was  lessened
and therefore  the  Nullmagic spell  -  though its  first  effect  was
devastating - did not paralyze him completely.

    Mosiah was  shrewd  enough  not  to let  his  enemies  know  that,
however. Lying on the  ground, his cheek pressed  into the damp,  cold
grass, he tried to calm his terror and regain his strength, drawing on
it from within himself rather than from the magic in the world  around
him. As he  felt his muscles  respond to his  commands, his body  come
under his control, he had  to fight a panicked  desire to leap up  and
run. It would  serve no  purpose. He  would never  escape. They  would
simply cast a more powerful spell on him, one that he could not fight.

    And so he lay on the  ground, watching his attackers, letting  his
strength build  up  within,  holding  his  fear  at  bay,  and  trying
desperately to think what to do.

    It was  the  Duuk-foarith,  of course.  Almost  invisible  in  the
darkness of the Grove, the  black-robed figures stood out against  the
white marble of the tomb near where Mosiah lay. There were two of them
and they were talking together, so close to Mosiah that he might  have
reached out and plucked at the hems of the black robes. Both  casually
ignored the young man, having no reason to doubt the effectiveness  of
their spell.

    "So they have left the Palace?" It was the voice of a woman,  cool
and throaty, and it sent a shudder of fear through Mosiah.

    326 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD 327  "Yes,  madam,"
replied a warlock. "They were allowed to leave, as you commanded."

    "And there was no disturbance?" The witch appeared anxious.

    "No, madam."

    "Lord Samuels, the father of the giri?"

    "He has  been  taken  in  hand,  madam.  He  persisted  in  asking
questions, but  was eventually  made to  see that  this would  not  be
conducive to his daughters welfare."

    "Questions silenced on the tongue fly to the heart and there  take
root and  grow,"  muttered the  witch,  speaking an  ancient  proverb.
"Well, we will deal  with that when  the time comes.  It seems to  me,
however, that we must uproot these questions and replant them with the
truth which, in time, will conveniently  wither and die. That will  be
up to Bishop Vanya, of  course, but until I have  a chance to talk  to
His Holiness, take the girl into custody as well."

    There was no answer,  merely a shivering of  the robe near  Mosiah
which indicated that the warlock had bowed in response.

    Mosiah listened closely, his  fear lost in  his desperate need  to
know what  had happened.  How could  they have  discovered Joram?  The
Darksword protected him. And how could they have discovered me? Mosiah
asked himself  suddenly. Not  only that,  but connect  the two  of  us
apparently. No one  knew we were  meeting here except  - "They are  on
their way to the Grove?" the witch asked with a touch of impatience.

    "So the betrayer  said," the  warlock responded, "and  we have  no
reason to doubt him."

    Betrayer!  Sickness  swept  over  Mosiah,  wrenching  his  bowels,
bringing a hot,  bitter bile to  his throat. So  that was the  answer.
They had been  betrayed, and now  Joram was walking  into a  carefully
laid trap. But who had turned them in? A vision of a bearded young man
in white robes, wafting a bit of orange silk in the air, came  vividly
to Mosiah.

    Simkin! He choked. Tears of rage stung his eyes. If it's the  last
thing I do, I'll kill you!

    Calm, calm, his mind  commanded. There's a  chance. You must  find
Joram, warn him . . .

    Mosiah forced  himself  to forget,  to  concentrate on  one  thing
-escape. Cautiously, he moved a hand, holding his breath for fear  the
Duuk-tearith  would   notice.  But   they  were   absorbed  in   their
conversation, confident that their spell  held the young man  captive.
Mosiah let  his hand  crawl silently  over the  ground and  his  heart
leaped when his fingers  touched the rough surface  of a stick.  Never
mind that it was a  tool, that he would be  giving Life to that  which
was Lifeless.

    His hand  closed  over  the  weapon.  Raising  his  head  ever  so
slightly, he  peered upward.  Elation flooded  his body.  The  warlock
stood with his back to  him. A swift blow to  the head, keep the  limp
body between himself and the witch, use it to block her spell. Mosiahs
grip tightened on  the stick. His  muscles bunched. He  sprang to  his
feet - Cords of KSj vine sprouting sharp thorns leaped from the ground
and wrapped themselves around  the young mans  upper arms and  thighs.
With an agonized cry, Mosiah dropped  the stick as the thorns  pierced
his flesh  and  the vines  bound  him  tight. Toppling  over,  he  lay
writhing in the grass at the feet  of the warlock, who turned to  look
at him in some astonishment, then glanced apprehensively at the witch.

    "Yes, you erred,"  she said to  the warlock, who  bowed his  head,
chagrined. "I will deal with your  punishment later. Now, our time  is
short. I know his face. I must now hear his voice."

    Kneeling beside the  struggling Mosiah,  the witch  laid her  hand
upon him  and the  thorns  suddenly vanished.  With a  gurgling  sigh,
Mosiah rolled over on the grass,  moaning. Blood oozed from a  hundred
small puncture wounds, sliding down his arms, staining his clothes.

    "What is your  name?" the  witch asked coolly,  turning the  young
mans sweaty, pain-twisted face toward her, studying it intently.

    Mosiah shook his  head, or at  least tried  to; it was  more of  a
spasmodic jerk.

    Her face expressionless, the witch spoke a word and Mosiah  caught
his breath in fear  as the thorns  began to grow  on the vines  again,
this time merely pricking his flesh but not digging into it.

    "Not yet," said the witch, reading his thoughts on his pale  face,
seeing the eyes widen. "But they  will grow and keep on growing  until
they pierce right through skin and muscle and organs, tearing out your
life with- them. Now, I ask you again. What is your name?"

    328 WEIS AND HICKMAN  "Why? What can  it matter?" Mosiah  groaned.
"You know it!"

    "Humor me," the  witch said,  and spoke another  word. The  thorns
grew another fraction of an inch.

    "Mosiah!" He tossed his head  in agony. "Mosiah! Damn it!  Mosiah,
Mosiah, Mosiah. . . ."

    Then their plan penetrated the haze of pain. Mosiah choked, trying
to swallow his  words. Watching  in horror,  he saw  the witch  become
Mosiah. Her face - his face. Her clothes -his clothes. Her voice - his
voice.

    "What do we do with him?" the warlock asked in subdued tones,  his
mistake obviously rankling him.

    "Throw him in the Corridor and send him to the Outland," the witch
-now Mosiah -said, rising to her feet.

    "No!"

    Mosiah tried to fight the  warlocks strong hands that dragged  him
to his feet, but the tiniest  movement drove the thorns into his  body
and he  slumped  over  with  an  anguished  cry.  "Joram!"  he  yelled
desperately as he saw  the dark void of  the Corridor open within  the
foliage. "Joram!"  he  shouted,  hoping his  friend  would  hear,  yet
knowing in his heart that it was hopeless. "Run! It's a trap! Run!"

    The warlock  thrust him  into the  Corridor. It  began to  squeeze
shut, pressing in  on him.  The thorns  stabbed his  flesh; his  blood
flowed warm over his skin. Staring out, he had a final glimpse of  the
witch  -   now  himself-watching   him,  her   face  -   his  face   -
expressionless.

    Then, she spread her hands.

    "Its all the rage," he saw himself say.

    8 The  Illusion of  a Thousand  Mosiahs 441  Idont want  to go  in
there," ' MGwendolyn faltered, gazing into the whispering blackness of
the Grove.

    "You . . . you and me . . . both," slurred Simkin, staggering into
Joram and nearly knocking him over.

    Irritably, Joram caught  hold of  the young man  as Simkins  knees
gave way and he sagged to the ground. Throwing his arms around Joram's
neck, Simkin  whispered confidentially.  "B-bor-ing as  hell in  there
thish time of night."

    "1 don't want  you to  go in  there, either,"  Gwendolyn added,  .
shivering in the  night air. Though  the Sif-Hanar may  have kept  the
balmy breezes of spring  blowing in the city  above, the thickness  of
the foliage  in the  Garden kept  it  much cooler  than the  city.  Or
perhaps there was a chill within the Grove at night that not even  the
magic of the Sif-Hanar could warm.

    "Why couldn't your friend have met  us outside?" He's on the  run;
remember," Joram answered, supporting  Simkin, who was peering  around
with drunken solemnity, "like We are. Life will be different from  now
on, my lady."

    He didn't mean  to be harsh,  but his anger  and disappointment  -
submerged in the  fear-laced excitement  of escaping  the Palace  -had
returned with the  ride through Merilon  on the 330  WEIS AND  HICKMAN
DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD wings of the black swan. It was further enhanced
by the gloomy, forbidding atmosphere  of the Grove and his  irritation
with Sim-kin, who had thoughtfully drunk all the glasses of champagne.

    "Duck-thrith won't be able . . . track ush … by trail of bubbles,"
he declared.

    Gwendolyn hung her head. She was back to her own form now, and  to
see the golden head  drooping, the delicate body  slump - hurt by  his
words - made Joram realize he would have to watch more carefully  than
ever to keep the dark beast chained up inside him.

    "Stand up!"  he  snapped at  Simkin,  shoving him  to  an  upright
position.

    "Aye, aye, cap'n." Simkin saluted,  did a graceful pirouette,  and
sat down flat on the grass.

    Ignoring him, Joram took  Gwendolyn in his  arms. "I'm sorry,"  he
murmured. "Forgive me."

    "No, I'm the one who should apologize," Gwen said, making a  small
attempt at a smile.  "You are right. I  must begin to consider  things
like that." Thrusting Joram from her,  she stood tall, her lips  firm,
her head thrown back. "I'll go in there with you," she said.

    "No, theres no need," Joram said, smiling the half smile that  was
lost in the darkness of the night. "You stay here with Sim-kin - "

    "'Stay with me and  be my love, '"  recited Simkin drunkenly  from
where he sat in the grass, " 'And we will cauliflowers grow'

    "On second thought." said Joram, "perhaps you had better come with
me."

    "I will. I'd rather! I won't  be frightened. Not any more. I  want
vou to be proud ol me," Gwen added wistfully.

    "I am. And I love you!" Joram said, leaning down to brush his lips
against hers,  spreading balm  over the  wound testenng  in his  soul-
"Come with me, then. It isn't far.  Mosiah will be by the tomb.  We'll
fetch him, and pick up this drunken sot on the way back. Then its  out
the Gate as easily as  we escaped the Palace and  we're on our way  to
Shafakan!"

    "What drunken sot?" asked Simkin, glaring around indignantly. "One
thing, can't abide. Man . . . doesn't know . . . when to quit . . ."

    Holding fast to each others hands, a prey to the same feelings and
unreasoning fears Mosiah had experienced in the angry Grove, Joram and
Gwendolyn walked at a rapid pace, eager to meet their friend and leave
this place. They did not talk. There was a hush over the Grove. Not  a
hush of peaceful repose, but a hush of in-held breath, the hush of the
waiting hunter. A whis-<per  would seem like a  shout in the  silence.
Their heartbeats thudded  loudly and, though  Joram crept through  the
grass and Gwendolyn did not walk at all but drifted in the air by  his
side, the noise they made in  passing sounded louder than the  thunder
of armies in their ears.

    Following the stream that babbled  merrily during the day but  now
ran through its banks as silently and malevolently as a snake slipping
through the grass, Gwen  and Joram made their  way easily through  the
maze and came at last ito the heart of the Grove.

    The tomb"of Merlyn stood alone in the center of the ring of  oaks,
its white marble glowing more cold and pale than the moon. The lovers'
clasp tightened,  they  moved  closer  together.  Joram  was  suddenly
conscious of his white  robes, gleaming in  the eerie light  reflected
from the tomb. Once he stepped out into the open, he would be an  easy
target.

    Not that  there was  anything to  fear, he  reminded himself.  How
could there be? They had escaped the Palace. . . .

    "Wait!" he cautioned  Gwen, and held  back in the  shadows of  the
trees which -  though they were  not friendly shadows  - covered  them
both with  a mantle  of  darkness. The  two waited,  watching,  barely
breathing. The glade appeared empty. There was no one by the tomb.  Or
was there?  Was that  a  figure moving  near it?  It  was too  far  to
distinguish. . . .

    Joram's hand itched to draw the  Darksword, but he dared not.  The
sword would begin to suck up magic, draining both ' Gwens strength and
Mosiahs. They might need all the strength and all the magic these  two
possessed to get past the Gate; Joram bitterly counting Simkin as less
than useless at this point.

    "I think that's  your friend!" whispered  Gwen, squeezing Joram  s
hand.

    "Yes." Joram  stared into  the darkness,  seeing the  figure  walk
around to the side of the tomb near them. "Yes, you're right!  'That's
Mosiah. No, you wait  here for us." He  released her hand and  started
forward.

    552 WEIS AMI) HICKMAN "Joram!" Gwen  caught hold of the sleeve  of
his white robe.

    "What, my dear?"  His voice  was gentle.  He turned  to face  her,
forcing his expression to one of patience. But he must not have fooled
her, because her hand  dropped from his  sleeve limply "Nothing,"  she
said with a. lleeting  smile barely seen in  the tombs ghostly  light.
"Only my foolish fears again. Please hurry, though," she said  through
lips so stiff she could barely move them.

    "I will," he promised, and with a reassuring smile, he turned  and
walked out into the glade.

    "Mosiah!" he risked calling softly into the night.

    The figure  turned, startled,  peering  into the  darkness.  Joram
raised a hand. Then,  as he saw the  figure hestitate. it occurred  to
him that Mosiah wouldn't be expecting him in white robes. He was  near
enough now to see his friends features, and he threw back the hood  so
that Mosiah could see his face.

    "Its me, Joram!" he  said more loudly,  his confidence growing  at
the sight of his friends familiar features.

    At this, Mosiah grinned and let  out a sigh of relief that  echoed
through the Glade. Arms outstretched,  he hurried forward, and  before
Joram quite knew what was happening,  his friend had clasped him in  a
thankful embrace.

    ' "Name of the AJmin, its  good to see you!" Mosiah said,  hugging
his friend close. "Where is everyone?"

    "Gwens  waiting  up  by  those  trees,"  Joram  began,   awkwardly
returning his friends embrace, then instinctively endeavoring to  free
himself from Mosiah s arms. "Simkins drunk as a lord. We have to leave
Merilon," he  added,  wondering why  Mosiah  wouldn't let  him  loose.
"Look," he said finally,  irritably, trying to  push his friend  away,
"we've got to get going! We're in danger. Now quit - "

    He couldn't move his arms. Mosiah  had him pinned tightly and  was
staring into his tace with a cofd smile, the tombs light glittering in
his blue  eyes. "Mosiah!"  Joram  said angrily,  fear rising  in  him,
making him grow as  cold as stone. "Let  go!" He twisted suddenly,  to
break the young  man's hold, but  it was useless.  The arms  tightened
around him, squeezing him with a  clasp he knew now -the fear  growing
within him-was magic. He was caught in a spell! Joram squirmed, trying
to reach the Darksword, but his  body was fast losing all strength  as
the grip of the arms continued to tighten.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 333 And  then it became a struggle, not  for
the sword, but for life -a struggle to breathe. Joram gasped for  air,
staring into Mosiah's  face, not understanding.  Somewhere he heard  a
scream, a womans scream  that was cut off  swiftly and skillfully.  He
tried to speak, but he  had no breath. The  darkness of the Grove  was
rapidly creeping over his eyes. Death was very near, and he ceased  to
fight, welcoming an end to the pain.

    Skilled in such matters, the arms relaxed their hold. The face  of
Mosiah smiled and spoke  a word, and then  Mosiah's face was gone  and
Joram - in his last moments before consciousness fled - looked up  and
saw the white skin and expressionless face of a black-robed woman, who
caught him in her arms as he fell.

    Gently, she  lowered  him to  the  ground. As  his  senses  slowly
slipped from  him,  he heard  her  issue a  warning  to a  dimly  seen
companion.

    "Don't touch the sword."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD Adjudication  D "eacon Dulchase woke from  a
sound sleep with  an irritated  snort, rolling  over in  an effort  to
escape the hand that was shaking his shoulder.

    "So I'm late for Morning  Prayers," he grumbled, burrowing  deeper
into his mattress and burying his face in the pillow. "Tell the  Almin
to start without me."

    "Deacon!" said a commanding voice urgently, continuing to  harrass
the priest. "Wake up. Bishop Vanya summons you."

    "Vanya!" Dulchase repeated  incredulously. The elderly,  perennial
Deacon struggled  up  from  the  depths  of  his  comfortable  repose,
blinking in the globe of light that hovered near a black-robed  figure
standing above him "Duuk-t.  <arith!"\\e muttered beneath his  breath,
trying to nudge his sleep-soaked brain into functioning.

    The sudden  surge of  fear  at the  sight  of the  warlock  helped
admirably, although by the time Dutchase  had drawn his legs out  from
under the bedclothes and had his feet on the floor, the fear had  been
replaced by  a  cynical  amusement.  "They  have  me  this  time,"  he
reflected, groping about with one hand to find the robe he had  tossed
at the end of  the bed. "Wonder what  it was? Undoubtedly that  remark
about the Empress at the party fast night. Ah, Dulchase. You 'd  think
at your age you would learn!"

    With a  sigh, he  began to  struggle  into the  robe, only  to  be
stopped by the cold hand of the warlock who stood above him,  faceless
in his black hood.

    "What's the matter now?" Dulchase snapped, figuring he had nothing
to lose. "It isn't enough His Holiness decides to exact punishment  in
the middle of the night? Am I to go before him naked as well?"

    '"You are  to dress  in  formal robes  of ceremony,"  intoned  the
Duuk-tjardh. "I have them here."

    Sure enough, now that  Dulchase looked, he  could see the  warlock
holding his best ceremonial robes folded  over his arms in the  manner
of the most  efficient of House  Magi. Dulchase stared,  first at  the
robes, then at the warlock.

    "There has  been  no  mention  of  punishment,"  the  Duuk-foartih
continued in  his cool  voice.  "The Bishop  requests you  hurry.  The
matter is urgent." The warlock shook out the robes carefully. "I  will
assist if I may."

    Numbly, Dulchase stood up and -  within the speaking of a word  of
magic - was attired in  the formal robes of  ceremony he had not  worn
since . . . when? The ceremony marking the Death of the young  Prince?
"What . . . what color?" the befuddled Deacon asked, running his  hand
over his head that had once been  tonsured but was now as bald as  the
rocks of the Font in which he lived.

    "What color.  Father?"  the  Duuk-foarilh  repeated.  "I  fail  to
understand - "

    "What color shall  I make  the robes?"  Dulchase asked  irascibly,
gesturing. "They're  Weeping Blue,  as  you can  see? Is  it  official
mourning? I'll leave them  the same. A wedding,  perhaps? If so,  I'll
have to change them to - "

    '"Judgment," said the Duuk-faartth succinctly.

    "Judgment," repeated Dulchase, pondering. Taking his time, he made
use of the chamber pot in the corner of his small room, noting - as he
did so - that even the  disciplined warlock was growing edgy over  the
delay. The fingers  of the  hands, supposed  to be  folded quietly  in
front of the man, were twisting  round each other. "Mmpf," the  Deacon
snorted, making a great show of rearranging his robes around him again
and turning them to  the proper shade of  neutral gray required for  a
trial. All the while, his brain - now wide awake - was trying to guess
at what was happening.

    336 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 337 A summons to Bishop
Vanyas's in the dead of night. A Duuk-foaritb sent to escort him - not
a novitiate as was  customary. He was not  being punished but told  he
was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had  not
worn in eighteen  years - eighteen  years almost to  the very day,  he
realized- the anniversary of the  Princes death having been held  last
night. Deacon Dulchase  could make nothing  of it, however.  Immensely
curious, he turned  back to  the waiting  Dttuk-foaritb, who  actually
started to breathe a sigh of relief before he caught himself in time.

    A young one, that, Dulchase noted, grinning inwardly.

    "Well, lets get on  with it," the Deacon  muttered, taking a  step
toward the door. To his astonishment, he felt the cold hand on his arm
again.

    "The Corridors, Father," said the Dttuk-foaritb.

    "To His Holiness's  chambers?" Dulchase glowered  at the  warlock.
"You may be new around here, young man, but surely you know that  this
is forbidden - "

    "Follow me,  if you  please,  Father." The  Duuk-foarith,  perhaps
nettled by the  Deacons remark  about his  age, was  obviously out  of
patience. A Corridor gaped in Dulchase's room; the cold hand propelled
the old Deacon into  it. An instants sensation  of being squeezed  and
compressed, then Dulchase stood in a huge, cavernous hall carved  from
the heart of the mountain  fastness by - legend had  it - the hand  of
the powerful wizard who had led them here.

    This was the Hal! of Life.  (Its name from ancient times had  been
originally the Hal]  of Life  and Death,  in order  to represent  both
sides of the world. This had become frowned upon in modern times and -
with the  banishment  of  the  Sorcerers  -  it  had  been  officially
renamed.) Legend being  true or not,  the Hall did  look very much  as
though it had been scooped out of the granite like the fruit from  the
rind of a melon. Located in the very center of the Font, built  around
the Well of Life from which the  magic in the world gushed forth  like
unseen water, it was dome-shaped, extending hundreds of feet into  the
air, its rock ceiling ornamented  by carved arches of polished  stone.
Four gigantic grooves gashed out of the rock wall at the front of  the
Hall were known as the Fingers of Merlyn and formed four alcoves where
sat the four Cardinals of the Realm during occasions of state. Another
large gouge in the rock wall, on  the opposite side of the vast  Hall,
was known somewhat  irreverently and unofficially  as Merlyn's  Thumb.
Here sat the Bishop of the Realm, across from his ministers.  Spanning
the length of the stone floor between them were row after row of stone
pews. Cold and uncomfortable to sit upon, these stone pews had an even
more irreverent  name that  was whispered  and sniggered  over by  new
novitiates.

    The Hall's vast  expanse was  usually illuminated  by the  magical
lights sent dancing upward by the  magi who served the catalysts.  Yet
on this occasion  the lights had  not been brought  to Life.  Dulchase
stared around in the cold darkness.

    "Name of the  Almin!" breathed  the Deacon,  nearly staggering  in
complete and total amazement as he realized where he was. "The Hall of
Life! I haven't been here since . . . since …"

    The memory of  eighteen years  ago came  quickly, though  Dulchase
often found  he had  trouble recalling  incidents that  occurred  only
yesterday. That was a hallmark of growing old, so he'd been told.  One
tended to live in the past. Well, and why not? It was a hell of a  lot
more interesting  than the  present. Although  that seemed  likely  to
change, he thought, glancing about the dark Hall with a frown.

    "Where is everyone?" he snapped  at the young Duak-Uiartlb, who  -
hand on his  arm - was  guiding him  through the maze  of pews  toward
Merlyns Thumb.

    At least that was where the  old Deacon guessed they were  headed,
judging from  what he  could remember  of  the lay  of the  room.  The
warlock walked in a path  of light cast by  his hand held before  him,
Dulchase stumbling  along  in  his  wake.  He  could  see  practically
nothing. The Well  of Life was  in the  exact center of  the Hall,  he
recalled, searching around for it. Yes,  there it was, glowing with  a
faint, phosphorescent radiance, but, beyond that, the Hall was  almost
pitch-dark. Then,  suddenly,  a single  light  flared ahead  of  them.
Squinting into it,  Dulchase tried to  see its source,  but it was  so
bright that all he could see  were several figures passing before  it,
eclipsing it momentarily.

    The last time Dulchase had been here was to witness the trial of a
male catalyst accused of joining with  a young noble woman - Tanja  or
Anja  or  some  such  name.  Ah!  Dulchase  shook  his  head  in  fond
remembrance. The Hall had been crowded with members of his Order.  All
catalysts residing in the Font and in  the home city of the accused  -
Merilon - had  been required  to attend.  The details  of the  couples
crime had been described graphically by the Bishop in order to impress
upon his  558 WEIS  AND H1CKMAN  flock  the enormity  of such  a  sin.
Whether or not  any were deterred  from temptation because  of it  was
never established.  It was  known that  not one  catalyst fell  asleep
during the three-day trial, and there had been such a state of fevered
excitement among the novitiates at night that Evening Prayers had been
lengthened from one hour to two for a month following.

    Undoubtedly the punishment of the  Turning -which all were  called
upon to witness  - had  a more  profound effect.  Dul-chase still  had
nightdreams over that tragic scene. He kept seeing, over and over, the
one hand of the man -as the stone slowly crept over his living body  -
clenching in a final gesture of hatred and defiance.

    Angry at  having dredged  up these  disturbing memories,  Dulchase
came to a halt. "Look here," he said stubbornly, "1 insist on  knowing
whats going  on. Where  are  you taking  me?"  He glanced  around  the
darkened Hall. "Where is everyone else? Whats happened to the lights?"

    "Please come  forward. Deacon  Dulchase."  A pleasant,  if  stern,
voice echoed in the vastness. Dulchase saw now that the light and  the
voice came  from  the  same  place  -  Merlyns  Thumb.  "All  will  be
explained."

    "Vanya," Dulchase muttered. He shivered, and thought with  longing
of his warm bed.

    Years unopened, the  Hall was chill  and smelled of  wet rock  and
mildewed tapestries. Sneezing, the Deacon wiped his nose on the sleeve
of his robe and allowed himself to be led forward again until he  came
to stand, blinking  like an  owl in  the light,  before His  Holiness,
Bishop of the Realm.

    "My dear Deacon, we apologize for disturbing your rest."

    Bishop Vanya stood up -  an unheard-of phenomenon in the  presence
of a lowly Deacon; moreover, a Deacon who had been a Deacon for  forty
years and would  probably die  a Deacon due  to his  sharp tongue  and
unfortunate habit  of speaking  his mind.  There were  those who  said
Dulchase himself would have long ago been slated for a place among the
Stone Guardians  had it  not  been for  the  protection of  a  certain
powerful family in  court. This show  of respect from  his Bishop  was
unprecedented, yet was followed by still more. Dulchase was bowing and
endeavoring to recover from the shock when Vanya actually extended his
hand, not for Dulchase to  kiss the ring, but  to give the Deacon  the
pleasure of touching the pudgy fingers.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 339  I suppose if  I died  now, I'd  ascend
directly to the Almin, the  old Deacon said to himself  sarcastically.
But he brought the Bishops hand to press against his forehead with  as
much show  of reverent  ecstasy as  he could  muster at  his age,  and
thought he must look very much  as though he were suffering from  gas.
The touch of  the fingers was  unpleasant, as cold  as a  fresh-caught
fish, and they trembled slightly in his grasp. Perhaps realizing this,
Vanya snatched them  away with unseemly  haste and moved  to sit  back
down, lowering his great red-robed bulk into the plainly shaped  stone
throne that sat  in the  alcove. The  light shone  from Behind  Vanya,
Dulchase noted shrewdly, coming from some magical source in the  wall.
It left the Bishops face in  shadow, while illuminating all those  who
faced him.

    Glancing around, his own eyes now accustomed to the bright  -light
and wondering what he was supposed to do next, Dulchase noted that the
Duuk-faaritk who had led him here was gone; either disappeared or  had
become one with the  shadows. But he had  the feeling that there  were
other members  of  that dark  Order  around, watching  and  listening,
though he could not see them. There was only one other person  present
in the Hall that Dulchase could  see. This was an aging catalyst  clad
in shabby red robes who huddled in a stone chair that appeared to have
been hastily conjured up  next to the Bishops  throne. The man's  head
was bowed.  All Dulchase  could  see of  him  was thinning  gray  hair
unkempt and tousled over an unhealthy-looking gray scalp. This man had
not moved during Dulchase  s welcome by the  Bishop, but sat,  staring
down at  his shoes,  in a  manner  that was  somehow familiar  to  the
Deacon.

    Dulchase tried to  get a  glimpse of the  man's face,  but it  was
impossible from where  he stood, and  the Deacon dared  do nothing  to
attract the  man's attention  until  he had  been dismissed  from  the
Bishops presence.  Glancing back  at Vanya,  the Deacon  saw that  His
Holiness was no longer looking at him but was motioning - so it seemed
- to the darkness.

    Dulchase was not surprised to see the darkness respond, coalescing
into the shape  of the  young warlock who  had brought  him here.  The
black-hooded head bowed to hear Vanya's whispered words and=  Dulchase
took advantage of the moment to take a step near his fellow catalyst.

    "Brother," said Dulchase softly and kindly-his sharp tongue  could
be both when he chose -"I fear you are not well. Is there anything - "

    340 WE1S AND HICKMAN At these words, the catalyst raised his head.
A haggard face regarded him, tears shimmering in the eyes at the sound
of a kind voice.

    Dulchase's voice  died. He  not only  swallowed his  words in  his
astonishment, he nearly swallowed his tongue as weil.

    "Saryon!"

    Lost in wonder,  his mind  literally reeling beneath  the load  of
shock, curiosity,  and growing  fear,  Dulchase sank  thankfully  into
another stone  chair  that  appeared  -  at  a  command  from  another
Duuk-foarith lurking about  in the shadows  -at Bishop Vanya's  right-
hand, opposite Saryon, who  sat at his left.  The curiosity and  shock
Duichase could  account  for-he  had no  idea  what  was  transpiring.
The'fear was subtle, less  easily defined, and  it arose, he  realized
finally,  from  the  anguished  expression  on  Saryon  s  face  -  an
expression that  had so  marked the  man that  Dulchase wondered  now,
looking at him, how he had recognized him.

    Though only in his forties, Saryon appeared older to Dulchase than
Dulchase himself. His  face was a  sallow color, ashen  in the  bright
light illuminating them from Merlyns Thumb. The eyes that had been the
kindly, slightly preoccupied eyes  of the single-minded  mathematician
had now become the eyes of a  man caught in a trap. He watched  Saryon
searching as if for escape, the eyes sometimes darting here and  there
frantically, but more  often focused on  Bishop Vanya with  a look  of
despairing hopefulness that wrung the Deacons heart with pity.

    This was what engendered the  Deacons fear. Older than Saryon  and
more worldly wise than the sheltered scholar, Dulchase saw no hope for
the wretched  catalyst in  the Bishops  smooth, composed  face or  His
Holiness's cold, glittering gaze.  Worse still had  been the touch  of
those fishlike fingers. Dulchase had the sudden terrible feeling  that
he had lived too long. . . .

    He fidgeted in the  cold stone chair that  the heat from his  body
appeared incapable  of warming.  It  had been  a half-hour  since  his
arrival and no one had spoken  a word, other than the Duuk-barUb  with
their whispered  spell-casting and  conjuring of  furniture.  Dulchase
stared at  Saryon, Saryon  stared  at Vanya,  and the  Bishop  stared,
scowling, into the darkness of the vast Hall.

    If this doesn't end soon, I'll say something I'll regret, Dulchase
remarked to himself. I know I will. What the devil is the DQOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 341 matter with Saryon? The  man looks like hes been  living
with demons! I -  "Deacon Dulchase," said Bishop  Vanya suddenly in  a
pleasant voice that immediately set Dulchase on his guard.

    "Your Eminence,"  Dulchase  responded  with an  attempt  at  equal
urbanity.

    "There is a position open for a House Master in the Royal House of
the city-state of Zith-el," Vanya said. "Would this be of interest  to
you, my son?"

    My son, my  ass. Dulchase snorted,  eyeing Vanya. You  may be  old
enough to have fathered me, but I doubt any issue ever came from those
fat loins .  . .  His thought trailed  off, the  Bishops words  having
finally sunk into the Deacons head. He stared at Vanya, blinking again
as the bright light  - by some  trick of magic -  shone full upon  his
face.

    "A … a House Master," Dulchase stammered. "But . . . that requires
a Cardinal, Your Eminence. Surely you can't - "

    "Ah, but I can!" Vanya  assured him expansively, waving the  pudgy
hand. "The Almin  has made  his will  known to  me in  this. \bu  have
served Him faithfully many years, my  son, without reward. Now in  the
golden time  of  your life,  it  is fitting  that  you be  given  this
assignment. The papers have been drawn up, and as soon as we  conclude
this trifling matter before us,  we will sign them  and you can be  on
your way to the palace.

    "Zith-el   is   a   charming    city,"   the   Bishop    continued
conversationally.  He  did  not  once  glance  at  Saryon  -  who  was
continuing to watch him, his soul in his eyes - but talked to Dulchase
as though they were the only two in the vast Hall. "A remarkable  zoo.
They even have  several centaur  on exhibit there  - well-guarded,  of
course."

    House Master!  A  Lord  Cardinal!  This to  a  man  who  had  been
constantly reminded that were  it not for his  patronage, he might  be
slogging through rows of beans, a lowly Field Catalyst. Dulchase could
smell a rat;  he believed now  he had sniffed  it upon entering.  Thit
trifling matter before tut, Vanya had said. We wilt jlgn the paper, '.
. . .

    Dulchase sought some clue from Saryon, but the man's gaze was once
more intent upon  his shoes, though  his lowered face  looked - if  it
were possible  -  more  agonized  than before.  "I  -  I  don't  know,
Holiness," Dulchase faltered, hoping  to buy time  until he found  out
what it was he was  selling. "This is so sudden,  and to come upon  me
like this, when I have just been asleep - "

    342 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD "

    "Yes, we are sorry, but this matter is one of urgency. You will be
able to catch up on your rest in  the Palace. But there is no need  to
make a decision  now. In fact,  it might  be best to  wait until  this
small matter is concluded."  Vanya paused, his  full, fat face  turned
toward the Deacon, who, however, could not see its expression for  the
light behind it. " - Concluded satisfactorily, we pray the Almin."

    Dulchase smiled  bitterly, Vanya  having piously  raised his  eyes
heavenward. So, the Bishop assumed this old Deacon could be bought and
sold. Well, I could  be, Dulchase admitted. Every  man had his  price.
Dulcbase's glance went  to Saryon's  stricken face. In  this case,  it
just might be too high.

    Apparently considering  matters concluded,  Vanya made  a  gesture
with his hand. "Bring  the prisoner." The  darkness behind him  moved.
'"And now we will explain the  reason you have been dragged from  your
warm bed, Cardinal … I mean .  . . Deacon Dulchase," said the  Bishop,
clasping his hands together across his rotund middle. This might  have
been a  meaningless  gesture,  but  Dulchase  saw  the  fingers  laced
tightly, the knuckles turning  white with the  strain of appearing  to
remain perfectly calm.

    Dulchase ceased  watching Vanya,  however, to  look at  Saryon  in
alarm. At the word "prisoner," the catalyst had shrunk into himself so
that it seemed he would willingly become part of the stone chair  upon
which he sat.  He appeared so  ill that Dulchase  nearly sprang up  to
demand that a  Druid be  summoned when  he was  halted by  a burst  of
yellow light.

    Three flaring,  hissing rings  of  energy appeared  before  Bishop
Vanya. The young Duuk-foarith  materialized beside them, and,  seconds
later, a young man took shape within the rings. They circled the young
man's muscular arms and  his ! egs, coming  near but not touching  the
flesh. Dulchase could feel  the rings' warmth from  where he sat  some
distance away, and he cringed as he vividly imagined what would happen
should the young man try to escape his magical bonds.

    The prisoner did  not seem likely  to try to  escape, however.  He
appeared stupified, standing  with his head  bowed; long, 'lank  black
hair curled over his shoulders and hung down around his face. He  must
be about  eighteen,  Dulchase  guessed,  looking  at  the  well-formed
muscular body with envy and regret.  We're here to sit in judgment  on
this  young  man,  Dulchase  reasoned.  But  why?  Why  not  let   the
Duuk-foaritk handle it? Unless he's a catalyst? . . . No,  impossible.
No catalyst ever had muscles like that.  . . . And why only the  three
of us? And why us three?

    '"You are wondering,  Deacon Dulchase, what  is going on,"  Bishop
Vanya said. "Again, we apologize. You, alone, I fear, are the only one
in the dark. Deacon Saryon - "

    At the sound of this name, the young mans head snapped up. Tossing
back the black hair, he squinted in the bright light and, as his  eyes
became accustomed to it, looked around.

    "Father!" he cried  thickly. Forgetting his  bonds, the young  man
took a swift step forward. There was  a sizzle and a smell of  burning
flesh. The young  man sucked in  his breath in  pain, but beyond  that
made no outcry.

    Amazed that the prisoner should know Saryon, Dulchase was  equally
amazed at Saryon's response. Averting his eyes, the catalyst held up a
hand involuntarily - not as  a man warding off  an attack, but as  one
who feels himself unworthy of being touched.

    "Deacon Saryon," Bishop Vanya  was continuing imperturb-ably,  "is
aware of  what is  transpiring, and  I  will now  explain it  to  you,
Brother Dulchase. As you  know, the law of  Thimhallan demands that  a
jury of catalysts be convened to  sit in judgment upon any case  which
involves either a catalyst or a  threat to the realm. All other  cases
are bandied by the Duuk-Liarith."

    Dulchase was only half listening to Vanya. He knew the law and  he
had already guessed that this must be a case involving a threat to the
realm - though how this one young man threatened the realm was  beyond
him. Instead, Dulchase  was studying the  prisoner. As he  did so,  he
began to believe this young man could be a threat.

    The dark black  eyes - those  eyes looked familiar,  where had  he
seen  them?  -  staring  at  Saryon  actually  burned  with  an  inner
intensity. The brows, thick and black  and drawn in a line across  the
bridge of the nose, bespoke a  passionate inner nature; the firm  jaw;
the handsome,  brooding  face; the  luxuriant  black hair  falling  in
rampant curls  over the  shoulders; the  proud stance,  the  unfearing
gaze. . .  . This was  truly a formidable  personality, one who  could
conceivably shift the stars if he chose.

    And where have I jeen him? Dulchase asked himself again with  that
gnawing anger that  comes from knowing  something in the  subconscious
but without being able to drag it to the surface. I've seen that regal
tilt of the head, tbat  shining hair, that imperious  gaze. , . .  But
where?

    WEIS AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD "The young  mans name  is
Joram."

    Catching the name, Dulchases attention turned immediately back  to
Vanya. No,  he  thought  in disappointment,  that  name  doesn't  mean
anything. Yet I know - "He is brought here on several charges, not the
least of which is threatening the safety of the realm. That is why  we
are sitting in judgment. Perhaps you are wondering why there are  only
three of us,  Deacon Dulchase."  Bishop Vanyas  voice took  on a  grim
note. "You will  learn that,  I imagine,  as I  go on  to present  the
startling and frightening facts of the case against this young man.

    "Joram!" The  Bishop  spoke in  a  sharp, cold  voice,  apparently
hoping to draw the prisoners gaze to himself. But he might have been a
squawking parrot for all the young  man cared. His gaze was on  Saryon
and it had never  once shifted. The catalysts  hands rested limply  in
his lap, his head  bowed. Of the two,  Dulchase fancied, the  catalyst
appeared more the prisoner. . . .

    "Joram, son of Anja,"  spoke Vanya again,  angrily this time.  The
warlock, with a  word, caused  the rings  to shrink,  drawing in  upon
their captive.  Feeling  their heat,  the  young man  reluctantly  and
defiantly shifted his dark eye§ to  the Bishop. "You are charged  with
the crime of concealing the fact that you are Dead. What do you  plead
to this charge?"

    Joram - that  was the  young man's  name apparently  - refused  to
answer, lifting his  chin in the  air. The movement  sent a thrill  of
recognition through Dulchase - a thrill, yet frustration, too. He knew
this kid! Yet he didn't.  It was like an itching  in the small of  the
back that  one could  never quite  scratch-The warlock  spoke  another
word. The rings flashed, there was that horrible sizzle and smell  and
a quick, agonized gasp from the young man.

    "I plead guilty," Joram  said, but he said  it proudly in a  rich,
deep voice. "I was born Dead. It was the Aimin's will, as I was taught
by one I respect and honor." He glanced again at Saryon, who  appeared
so crushed by this that he might never rise again.

    "Joram, son  of Anja,  you  are charged  with  the murder  of  the
overseer of the village of Walren. You are charged with the murder  of
a warlock of the Duuk-ttarith," Vanya continued severely. "How do  you
plead to these?"

    "Guilty," Joram said again, though there was less pride. The  dark
face became unreadable. "They  deserved death," he  mut- tered in  low
tones. "One killed my mother. The other was a man of evil."

    "Your mother attacked the overseer. The  man of evil -as you  call
him -was acting  in the  interests of  the realm,"  Bishop Vanya  said
coldly. The young  man did not  reply, but simply  stared back at  him
defiantly, the dark eyes steady and unwavering.

    "These are serious charges,  Joram. The taking of  a life for  any
reason is most  strongly forbidden by  the Almin. For  that alone  you
could be sentenced to Beyond. . . ."

    At last, something touched Saryon, lifting the man from his stupor
of  despair.  The  catalyst  raised  his  head,  looking  swiftly  and
meaningfully at Bishop Vanya.  Dulchase saw a glint  of spirit -  fear
and anger  brought life  to  the haunted  eyes. The  Bishop,  however,
appeared oblivious to the catalysts stare.

    "But these charges pale before  the crimes against the state  that
have brought you here to be sentenced. . . ."

    So thats why there's only three of us, Dulchase realized.  Secrets
of the realm and all that. And, of course, thats why I'm being made  a
Cardinal - to keep my mouth shut.

    "Joram,  son  of  Anja,  you  are  charged  with  consorting  with
Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. You are charged with having read forbidden
books . . ."

    Dulchase saw  Joram's dark  eyes shift  to gaze  upon Saryon  once
more, this time in shock. He  saw Saryon, his brief flicker of  spirit
quenched, curl in upon  himself, writhing in  guilt. Dulchase saw  the
young mans splendid  shoulders slump, he  heard Joram sigh.  It was  a
small sigh,  but  a sigh  of  such  exquisite pain  that  it  wrenched
Dulchases cynical heart. The prpud head turned away from the catalyst,
the black hair falling over the -. face as though the young man  would
hide willingly within that . darkness forever.

    : "Joram!  Forgive me!"  Saryon burst  out, stretching  forth  his
hands beseechingly. "I had to tell them! If you only knew -"

    "Deacon!" Vanya said in a  taut, almost shrill voice. "You  forget
yourself!"

    "I beg  your pardon,  Holiness," Saryon  murmured, shrinking  back
into his chair. "It won't happen again."

    "Joram, son of Anja," the Bishop continued, breathing heavily, his
hands crawling on the  arms of the stone  chair. He leaned ;  forward.
"You are  charged with  the heinous  crime of  bringing 346  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN darkstone - the cursed product of the Prince of Demons -  back
into a world that had banished it  long ago. You are charged with  the
forging of a weapon out of this  demonic ore! Joram, son of Anja,  how
do you plead? How do you plead?"

    There was  silence -  a noisy  silence, but  silence  nonetheless.
Vanya's labored breathing, Saryons ragged breaths, the hissing of  the
glowing rings, all  beat at the  silence but could  not penetrate  it.
Dulchase knew that the  young man would not  answer. He saw the  fiery
rings draw nearer and nearer, and  he quickly averted his gaze.  Joram
would suffer  himself to  be burned  clear through  before they  would
wring a word from  him. Realizing this as  well, Saryon leaped to  his
feet with a hollow cry. The Duuk-bartth looked at Vanya questioningly,
obviously wondering how far to go.

    The Bishop glared at Joram in cold fury. He opened his mouth,  but
another voice - a voice that slid across the tense surface like oil  -
broke the silence at last.

    "Your Eminence," said the voice from the darkness, "I do not blame
the young man for  refusing to answer. You  are not, after all,  using
his correct name. 'Joram, son of Anja. ' Pah! Who is that? A  peasant?
You must call him by his real name. Bishop Vanya, then perhaps he will
deign to answer your charges."

    The voice might have been a thunderbolt hurled from the skies  for
the dread impact it had on  the Bishop. Though Dulchase could not  see
Vanya's face with  the light behind  it, he saw  the head beneath  the
heavy miter batbed in  sweat and heard the  breath rattle in the  mans
lungs. Tbe pudgy hands went limp; twitching feebly, the fingers closed
up in a ball like the legs of a frightened spider.

    "Call him by  his real  name," continued the  smooth, calm  voice.
"Joram, son of  Evenue, Empress  of Merilon.  Or, shall  we say,  late
Empress of Merilon. . . ."

    10 The Prince of Merilon ephew," said Prince i Xavier, bowing  his
red-hooded head slightly in ironic greeting to Joram as he glided past
the prisoner and came  to a halt before  the Bishops throne. The  Hall
was well-lit now. At  a command from the  powerful warlock, globes  of
light appeared in  the air,  shedding a  warm, yellow  glow down  upon
those assembled  in the  Hall. No  longer did  Bishop Vanya  have  the
ability to hide his face within shadows. His face was visible for  all
to see and everyone saw the truth.

    Dulchase pressed his hand over his heart. Another shock like  this
will kill me, he told himself. In fact, it might kill a number of us.

    Bishop Vanya had attempted a blustered denial, but his words dried
up and blew away beneath The DKarn-Duuk's withering gaze. Unlike  poor
Saryon, who had shrunk within himself  to the point of shrinking  from
sight altogether, the Bishop became  bloated. Blotches of red  mottled
his white skin,  sweat roiled  off his forehead.  He lay  back in  his
chair, gasping slightly for breath, his rotund stomach heaving up  and
down, his  hands  plucking  nervelessly  at the  red  robes.  He  said
nothing, but stared intently at the warlock. Prince Xavier stared back
at Vanya, hands  folded before his  robes, his demeanor  calm and  348
WEIS AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  349 assured.  But there  was
mental war being waged between the  two; the air fairly crackled  with
unspoken moves and counter-moves,  each trying to  gauge how much  the
other knew and what use he could make of it.

    Standing within the fiery rings, the gamepiece over which the  two
fought, Joram was in  a state of bewilderment  that came near  causing
Dulchase to break out  into fits of laughter.  Indeed, the old  Deacon
did actually  emit a  nervous  chuckle before  he could  suppress  it.
Realizing he was becoming  hysterical from the  strain, he managed  to
convert the chuckle into an  odd-sounding cough that caused the  young
Duuk-barith guarding the prisoner to glance at him sharply.

    Dulchase knew now where he had seen those eyes, that regal tilt to
the head, that imperious look. The boy was his mother all over  again.
Joram saw the truth plainly on  Vanya's face, as did everyone else  in
the Hall,  but -slowly  - he  shifted his  gaze to  Saryon as  if  for
confirmation. The catalyst had been sitting huddled in his chair,  his
head in his hands ever since The DKarn-Duuk's obviously unexpected and
unwanted arrival. Sensing the young  mans thoughts turned toward  him,
Saryon raised  his haggard  face and  looked directly  into the  dark,
questioning eyes.

    "It is true, Joram," the catalyst  said in a soft voice,  speaking
as though he and the young man  were the only two people in the  room.
"I've known it … so long! So  long!" He broke down, shaking his  head,
his hands trembling.

    "I don't understand!" Joram's voice  was thick, choked. "How?  Why
didn't you  tell  me  the  truth? By  the  Almin!"  He  swore  softly,
bitterly. "I trusted you!"

    Saryon moaned, rocking back and forth in the cold stone chair.  "I
did it for the best, Joram! You must believe me! I … I was wrong,"  he
faltered, with a  glance at Vanya.  "But I  did it for  the best.  You
can't understand," he finished somewhat wildly. "There s more to it  -
"

    "Indeed there is. Nephew,"  said Prince Xavier suddenly,  whipping
around with such speed that his robes shimmered about him like  living
flame. Throwing back  his red hood  with his thin  hands, the  warlock
faced Joram, studying the  young mans face  with interest. "You  favor
our side of  the family-your mothers  and mine-which is  why you  have
fallen into this  predicament. Had the  weak blood of  that fool  your
father run in your  veins, you would have  dropped into obscurity  and
been happy tending . carrots in that village where you were raised."

    With a gesture. The DKarn-Duuk caused the flaming rings around the
young man to  vanish. 'Weak  irom the strain,  exhaustion, and  shock,
Joram staggered and nearly fell.  He caught himself, however,  pulling
himself upright. He's  existing on nothing  but pride alone,  Dulchase
thought in admiration. The same  admiration was reflected on the  face
of Prince Xavier; who glanced at Bishop Vanya.

    "The young man  is weary. He  has been, I  assume, kept in  prison
since his capture last night?"

    Bishop Vanya nodded, but did not reply.

    "Haveyou eaten, drunk?" The DKarn-Duuk turned back to Joram.

    "I need nothing," the young man said.

    Prince Xavier smiled. "Of course not, but you should sit down.  We
are going to be here  some time." Once more,  his eyes glanced at  the
Bishop. "Explanations are, \ believe, in order."

    Bishop Vanya sat forward, his  mottled face regaining some of  its
color. "I want  to know  how you found  out!" he  cried hoarsely,  his
pudgy hands grasping the arms of the  chair. "I want to know what  you
know!"

    "Patience," said The DKarn-Duuk. Making a motion with his hand, he
caused two more stone chairs to spring  up from the floor, and with  a
graceful gesture, he invited  Joram to sit. The  young man glanced  at
the chair suspiciously, transferring the same suspicious glance to his
uncle. Prince  Xavier  absorbed  the suspicion  with  his  thin-lipped
smile, neither denying it nor  accepting it. Once again, he  gestured,
and Joram sat down suddenly, as though his weakened body had made  the
decision for him.

    The DKarn-Duuk took  a seat  beside the  young man,  his own  body
drifting gracefully into  the chair.  Assuming a  seated position,  he
kept himself floating above the seat about an inch, however -  whether
for comfort's sake  or flaunting  his magical  power, Dulchase  wasn't
certain. But the old Deacon knew he'd had enough.

    Rising, bones creaking,  to his feet,  Dulchase faced his  Bishop,
his hand placed Humbly over his heart.

    "Eminence," said the  catalyst, and was  secretly pleased to  note
Prince  Xaviers  start  at  hearing  him  speak,  "I  am  an  old   >W
WEISANDH1CKMAN man. I  have lived  sixty years  of my  life in  peace,
finding consolation for what some might consider a boring life in  the
observation of the never-ending follies of my fellow humans. My tongue
has been my curse. I admit that  freely. I could not forebear on  many
occasions to comment on these follies. Thus 1 have remained a  Deacon,
and will be content to die a  Deacon, I assure you. I just don't  want
to die a Deacon too soon, if you understand. "

    The DKarn-Duuk appeared to enjoy this, glancing at Dulchase out of
the corner of his eye, the  smile playing about his thin lips.  Bishop
Vanya was  glowering  at him,  but  Dulchase was  in  the  comfortable
position of knowing that his superior was apparently in worse  trouble
than he could ever possibly be, and so continued.

    "I am  subject to  nightdreams, Eminence,"  Dulchase said  simply.
"But my  nature is  such that  I forget  about them  immediately  come
morning. I am experiencing  one of these dreams  now, Holiness. It  is
extremely bad and  I foresee that  it will only  get worse." He  bowed
most humbly,  hand over  his heart.  "If you  will excuse  me, I  will
return to my bed  and wake myself  up before that  happens. I have  no
doubt that no remembrance of any of this will linger in my old  brain.
You are illusions and,  as such, I bid  you good-night. Eminence."  He
bowed to  the Bishop.  "Your Highness."  He bowed  to The  DKarn-Duuk.
"Your Royal Highness." He bowed more deeply to Joram, who was watching
him with, Dulchase noted, a  half smile of his  own, a smile that  did
not touch the lips but warmed the dark eyes.

    Dulchase shivered. Yes,  I must  leave, he  told himself  heavily,
and, turning, he took a step toward the stairs at the end of the Hall.
Winding up into the mountain, they would take him, eventually, back to
his cozy cell.

    But Prince Xaviers  voice stopped  him. "I  sympathize, Deacon.  I
really do," said the warlock coolly. "But  it is too late to end  this
dream, I  fear.  Besides, you  are  still sitting  in  judgment.  Your
verdict is needed. And" -though his back was turned, Dulchase knew The
DKarn-Duuk was glancing at Vanya - "I need witnesses. You will please,
therefore, wake up and attend."

    Dulehase considered making one final attempt to escape. He  opened
his mouth and saw the eyes of the warlock narrow ever so slightly.

    "Yes, my lord." Dulchase acquiesced without enthusiasm,  relapsing
gloomily back into his chair.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 351  "Now, where to  start?" Prince  Xavier
placed the  tips  of his  fingers  together delicately,  tapping  them
against the thin tips. "There are several questions on the floor. You,
Holiness" - a fine irony - "demand to  know how much I know and how  I
found out. You, Nephew"  -again, the irony  -"have asked very  simply,
'How? ' meaning, I assume, 'how' you  are here when the world and  mwt
of those dwelling within fondly believe  you to be dead. With all  due
respect, Holiness"-Bishop Vanya  gnawed his  lip, the  sarcasm of  The
DKarn-Duuk making him livid  with rage that he  dared not express  -"I
will  answer  my  nephews  question  first.  He  is,  after  all,   my
sovereign."

    Prince Xavier made a bow to Joram, lowering his eyes respectfully,
then lifting them to see Joram scowl at him darkly. "No," answered the
warlock, "I am not making sport of  you, young man. Far from it. I  am
in earnest, deadly  earnest, I assure  you." The thin  lips no  longer
smiled. "You see,  Joram, the  right of  succession to  the throne  of
Merilon passes through the Empress's  side of the family.  Lamentably,
your mother has left us  to go Beyond, into  the realm of death."  The
DKarn-Duuk spoke the  word with  emphasis, watching  those around  him
cringe involuntarily. "A grievous  tragedy that will  , ioon become  a
matter of public knowledge." He glanced  at Vanya, who was sucking  in
air through his nose,  glaring at him in  impotent fury. "You,  Joram,
are now  Emperor of  Merilon." He  sighed, smiling.  "Enjoy your  rule
while you  may. It  will not  last long.  For, you  see, as  Her  Late
Majestys brother, /  am next  in line after  you." Joram's  expression
smoothed, the  dark eyes  cleared. He  understands, Dulchase  thought,
lowering his head to his hand and resting his elbow on the arm of  the
chair in despair. Name of the Almin, its murder, then. . . .

    A muffled groan  from Saryon indicated  that he, too,  understood.
"No," he began wretchedly, "you can't! You don't - "

    "Shut up!" Prince Xavier said coldly. "You are broken, old puppet.
You have played your role foolishly,  but that was, in many  respects,
not your fault. The one who pulled your strings bungled his script.

    "And now, Nephew, I will answer  your questions both for your  own
benefit and for the benefit of those who sit in judgment and who  will
decide your fate."

    Dulchase heaved a  sigh and wished  himself at the  bottom of  the
Well.

    352 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 353 "What knowledge  I
reveal," The  DKarn-Duuk continued,  "I have  gained from  questioning
many people  this night.  The  Bishop will,  I  trust, correct  me  in
anything I say that is in error.

    "Eighteen years ago,  His Holiness,  Bishop of the  Realm, made  a
mistake. It was  only a  small mistake."  The warlock  waved his  hand
deprecatingly. "He  misplaced a  child. But  it would  prove to  be  a
disastrous mistake for  him. The  child he misplaced  was no  ordinary
child. The child  was the  Dead Prince of  Merilon. Three  of you-  my
mistake"-Prince Xavier smiled  unpleasantly at  Joram -  "four of  you
were present during the ceremony wherein the baby-you, young  man-were
declared officially Dead.  Your father, the  Emperor, turned his  back
upon you, but  your mother,  my sister, refused  to give  you up.  She
knelt  beside  your  crib,  weeping  tears  of  crystal.  These  tears
shattered when they struck you, cutting your flesh."

    Joram, now  very  pale,  placed  his hand  upon  his  bare  chest.
Dulchase saw the white scars there and closed his eyes, remembering.

    "Through the intervention of the Emperor, the Empress was  finally
convinced to release her child into  the custody of Bishop Vanya,  who
was to take the  baby back to  the Font and  perform the Death  Watch.
Word came to the Palace some days later that the child's physical body
had  died.  Everyone  mourned,  except  myself,  of  course.   Nothing
personal." He nodded  to Joram, who-with  a look of  grim amusement  -
nodded back.

    "I like you.  Nephew," Prince  Xavier said  approvingly. "A  pity.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Vanya's mistake."

    The Bishop made a hissing sound, much iike overheated air escaping
a magical bubble.

    Ignoring him, Xavier continued. "His Holiness took the baby to the
Font. The Head  of the  Palace Guard  accompanied him,  so that  there
would be a witness. Vanya carried the child to the Chamber of the Dead
and laid the baby  upon a stone  slab. That was  before the time  when
more and more Dead were born among the families of Merilon. The Prince
was the only  baby present in  the Chamber.  It was then  Vanya did  a
foolish thing,  Nephew. He  left  the child  there without  placing  a
guard. Why? That will be explained in a moment. Patience. 'All  things
come to he who waits, ' as the old saying goes."

    With a gesture. Prince Xavier brought forth a globe of water  from
the air and sipped at it as it-hovered obligingly near his mouth.  TKe
silence lay  so heavily  over the  room that  every swallow  could  be
plainly heard. "A drink, my sovereign?"

    Joram shook  his head,  never taking  his eyes  from the  warlocks
face. The DKarn-Duuk  did not offer  the water to  the catalysts,  but
sent the globe back into the air with a word of command. "The baby was
left alone, unguarded. Oh, certainly it was understandable. There  bad
never been a guard upon those Cbambers, so deep within the confines of
the sacred mountain. And what was  there to guard, after all? A  child
left to  die?  Ah, no!"  Prince  Xaviers cool  voice  changed  subtly,
growing warm and sinister, sending a thrill tbrougb his hearers.

    "A child left to live!" , DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORP 355 II The  Truth
Shall Make\6u Free A strangled sound came from Merlyns Thumb.

    "Yes, Vanya," Prince Xavier continued, "I know about the Prophecy.
The Duuk-foarith are loyal -loyal to  the state. When it became  clear
to the  Head of  their  Order that  / was  now  the state,  the  witch
revealed everything to  me. Yes,  you are confused,  Nephew. Up  until
now, all was easily understood. Listen carefully, for I will speak the
Prophecy known previously only to Bishop Vanya and the Duuk-tsarith."

    In a soft voice, The DKarn-Duuk spoke the words that would whisper
in Dulchases ear every night from that moment on.

    "There will be born to  the Royal House one  who is dead yet  will
live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he  will
hold in his hand the destruction of the world - "

    Prince Xavier fell silent, his  gaze intent upon Joram. The  young
man was pale, the full lips bloodless. But the expression on the  dark
face did not change, he did not speak.

    "That is why I betrayed you, my son!"

    The pent-up words  burst from  Saryon's throat  as blood  spurting
from a torn heart.  "I had no  choice! His Holiness  made me see!  The
fate of the world was in my hands!" Wringing those hands, Saryon gazed
pleadingly at Joram.

    What  does   Saryon   hope  for,   Dulchase   thought   pityingly.
Forgiveness? Understanding? Dulchase looked  into Joram's stern  face.
No, the old Deacon  said to himself,  he won't find  it in those  dark
depths.

    But, for a moment, it seemed he might. Joram's eyelids  flickered,
the tight lips trembled;  he turned his head  ever so slightly  toward
the catalyst, who was watching with pathetic eagerness. But the  pride
bred in him by birth  and fostered in him  by madness froze the  tears
and checked the impulse. He averted his face even farther from Saryon,
who sighed and slumped back into his chair. Joram's attention remained
on The DKarn-Duuk.

    "I will go on," said the  warlock with a touch of impatience,  "if
there are no  more interruptions.  You understand now  why the  Prince
could not be allowed to die. He had to live - or the Prophecy would be
fulfilled. Yet everyone  must think him  dead, it being  inconceivable
that a Dead Emperor one day occupy the throne of Merilon.

    "You see  Vanya's  quandary,  Nephew?" Prince  Xavier  spread  his
hands, his sarcasm soft and lethal. "I don't know what he intended  to
do with you, Joram. What did you plan. Bishop? Will you tell us?"

    There was no answer, other than the Bishop's labored breathing.

    The DKarn-Duuk shrugged.  "It is not  important. Probably, he  bad
plans for keeping you locked in some secret cell within the Font where
you would have lived a prisoner  until he could hit upon- a  solution.
Ah, I see that I am not far wrong in my guessing."

    Dulchase, giancing at Vanya,  saw a nerve begin  to twitch in  the
mans jaw.

    "His plan, whatever it was, went awry. He had purposefully left no
guard, intending to  slip back down  into the Chamber  that night  and
remove the Prince to a safer area. Imagine his horror, Nephew, when he
returned to the Chamber and found tbe baby gone!"

    Dulchase could imagine.  The skin  of his bald  head crawled,  his
feet were icy.

    "Our Bishop - ever  thinking - did not  panic. He was able,  after
quiet investigation, to  gain some  clue as  to what  had occurred.  A
woman named  Anja had  given  birth to  a  stillborn child.  When  the
Tbttdara told the mother this and showed her 356 WEIS AND H1CKMAN DOOM
OF THE DARKSWORD  557 the dead  child, Anja went  mad. She refused  to
give up the body. The Tkeldara sent for the Dtiuk-t<faritb to take the
baby away from her. Through their magical arts, they did so, and  left
Anja supposedly sedated. But  she fooled them.  I have heard.  Nephew,
that you are skilled in  the art of sleight  of hand and illusion  and
that these were taught you by this woman you knew as your mother. That
does not surprise me. She was skilled in that art, as we know from her
having fooled the Duuk-foarith, people not easily deceived.

    "Bishop Vanya could discover nothing  for certain, of course,  but
he deduced - and 1 agree with him  - that the woman fled her room  and
wandered about the Font, searching for the way out. She happened  upon
the Chamber  of  the Dead.  Here  she found  a  baby, a  living  baby!
Snatching up the  child, Anja escaped  the Font in  the night. By  the
time Vanya discovered  what had  happened, the  skilled wizardess  had
covered her tracks well.

    "Thus, Nephew, for years Bishop Vanya has lived with the knowledge
that somewhere in this world, you, the Prince, were alive. Yet, try as
he might, he  could not find  you. The  only ones allowed  in on  this
secret were the highest ranking  of the Duuk-faaritb, who, of  course,
assisted in the search.  Any reports of living  Dead were checked  out
carefully, they tell me. The first to come close to matching was  you,
Joram, who revealed yourself to them when you killed the overseer. The
description of your mother fit Anja; you were the right age.

    "But Vanya couldn't be certain. Fortunately, you made matters easy
for the Bishop by  fleeing into the  Outland. A warlock  - one of  the
Dttuk-foaritbj  best,  known  as   Blachloch  -  was  there   already,
performing a covert operation with the Sorcerers. This man was alerted
to watch for you. His men found  you easily and he kept you under  his
surveillance.

    "Once more, however, the Bishop was in a quandary. He did not  now
dare try to  keep you in  the Font,  where, so the  saying goes,  'the
walls have  ears and  tongues. '  He  had too  many enemies  who  were
prepared to step into his place.  Vanya decided that it would be  just
as safe, keeping you  in the Outlands under  the watchful eyes of  not
only the warlock but a catalyst  as well." The DKarn-Duuk gestured  at
the huddled figure  of Saryon.  "But Vanya  had not  counted upon  you
discovering darkstone. Slowly, inexorably, Nephew, it seemed that  the
Prophecy was  being  fulfilled. You  were  - or  shall  we say  are  -
becoming too dangerous."

    Prince Xavier fell silent, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.  No
one else spoke. Vanya  sat in his chair,  his fingers crawling up  and
down the arm, staring at The DKarn-Duuk as a losing card player stares
at his opponent, trying to calculate  his next move. Joram, the  stern
mask of pride beginning to slip, appeared almost stupid from weariness
and shock. He  looked at nothing  with dull, glazed  eyes. Saryon  was
drowning in his own misery. Dulchase felt sorry for the man, but there
was little it seemed he could do.

    The old Deacons head ached; he was shivering from cold and  nerves
so that he had to keep his teeth firmly clamped together to stop  them
from rattling in  his head. He  was angry, too.  Angry at having  been
dragged into this absurd, dangerous  situation. He didn't know who  to
believe. Didn't, in fact, believe any of them. Oh, some of it he  must
concede was true. The kid was  obviously the Empress's son -that  hair
and those eyes couldn't lie. : But - a Prophecy to destroy the  world?
Every generation of mankind  had been told by  one prophet or  another
that it was doomed.  How this Prophecy came  about, the Deacon  didn't
know. But he could guess. Some old man living on bugs and honey for  a
year has a vision and sees the  end of the world. Probably all due  to
constipation. But now, hundreds of years  later, it was going to  cost
this kid his life.

    Forgetting himself, Dulchase snorted  in disgust. The sound  split
the tense atmosphere like thunder.  Everyone in the room started,  and
all eyes -even the  cold, flat eyes of  The DKarn-Duuk- turned on  the
old Deacon.

    "Head cold," Dulchase muttered, making  a show of wiping his  nose
on the sleeve of his robe.

    To his relief,  Bishop Vanya took  advantage of the  break in  the
charged atmosphere to stir his great bulk. "How did you find out?"  he
asked Prince Xavier once more.

    The warlock smiled. "Still trying  to save your skin, aren't  you,
Eminence? I don't  blame you. It  covers a large  quantity of  blubber
that would undoubtedly be an  extremely disgusting sight if it  leaked
out for all to see.  Who else knows? you're  wondering. Are they in  a
position to take your place? Am / in a position to put them there?"

    358 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM  OF THE DARKSWORD 359 Vanyas  complexion
went sallow. He started to make some reply, but Prince Xavier raised a
thin hand. "No  more blustering.  You may  relax, in  fact. Bishop.  I
could replace  you, but  I find  it suits  me not  to -  provided,  of
course, that you  and I  reach agreement on  a final  solution to  our
problems. But  we will  discuss  those further.  Now, to  answer  your
question. A gentlemen of the upper middle class came to me last night,
distraught over the disappearance of his daughter."

    Joram raised his head, the dark eyes flashing.

    Prince Xavier  turned  immediately from  the  seemingly  mollified
Bishop to the young  man seated at his  side. "Yes, Nephew, I  thought
that might stir your blood."

    "Gwendolyn!" Joram said, his voice  cracking. "Where is she.  What
have you "done to  her! By the Almin!"  His fist clenched. "If  you've
hurt her - "

    "Hurt her?" The DKarn-Duuk was  cool, his tone rebuking. "Give  us
some credit for common sense, Joram. What would it benefit us to  harm
this girl whose only crime has been the mis-fortune of falling  deeply
in love with you?"

    Prince Xavier turned back to the Bishop.

    "Lord Samuels came to me in the Palace last night at my request. I
was aware, of  course, that  the Duuk-foarith were  searching for  the
young man with what I thought unusual zeal. I was naturally curious to
know why, and Lord Samuels was  eager to answer my questions. He  told
me all, he knew of Joram and of the strange testimony of the Theldara.
There were many unaswered questions that piqued my curiosity. Why  had
the records on  Anja disappeared?  Why insist  that a  child had  been
stolen from among the waifs and  orphans when it was obvious that  one
had not?

    "I immediately sent for the  Head of the Duuk-faaritk-. At  first,
she was reluctant  to talk.  Upon my  exhibiting how  much I  al-ready
knew, and  upon  emphasizing the  advantages  of speaking  versus  the
disadvantages of remaining silent and loyal to one who du) not deserve
her loyalty" - Prince Xavier emphasized  this, to the renewed fury  of
the Bishop - "she decided  to cooperate, and told  me all I wanted  to
know. You need  not worry,  Nephew. Your young  lover is  back in  the
bosom of  her  family,  no  doubt shedding  copious  tears  over  your
capture. She has one more trial to undergo, which -though painful  -is
necessary. They tell that, in the  ancient world, it was customary  to
cut off a diseased hmb to save the life of the body as a whole. She is
young. She will recover from the wound, especially when she  discovers
that the man she loved is a Dead man being convicted for the murder of
two citizens of the realm and for dabbling in the Dark Arts."

    Color was returning to Bishop Vanyas bloated face. He cleared  his
throat, coughing.

    • "Yes, Eminence,"  Prince Xavier continued,  a sneer curling  the
thin lip, "I will keep your secret. It is in the best interests of the
people to do so. There is, ol course, a condition."

    "The Empress," Vanya said.

    "Precisely."

    "Her  death  will  be  made  known  tomorrow,"  the  Bishop  said,
swallowing. "We have long  counseled this course  of action" -  Vanyas
eyes went to the two catalysts- present-"as being only fitting to give
the poor soil the eternal rests it seeks. But the Emperor opposed  our
will. There is no doubt"-the Bishop glanced at Prince Xavier nervously
- "that the Emperor is insane?"

    "None," responded the warlock dryly.

    The Bishop nodded in relief, licking his lips.

    "There is just one other small matter," Prince Xavier said.

    Vanyas face darkened. "What is that?" he asked suspiciously.

    "The Darksword - " began the warlock.

    "None shall touch that weapon  of abomination!" Vanya roared,  his
face flushing red.  Veins popped out  in his forehead;  his eyes  were
nearly engulfed by swelling flesh. "Not even you, DKarn-Duuk! It  will
be present at the Judgment as evidence of this young mans guilt.  Then
it will return to the Font, where it will be locked away forever!"

    There was no doubting, from the Bishops tone, that Prince  Xavier,
in cultivating the soil of a newly plowed field, had suddenly struck a
gigantic boulder.  He might  move it,  but that  would take  time  and
patience. Much better,  for the  moment, to go  around. Shrugging,  he
bowed in acquiescence.

    "You have my sword, but what  is to become of me?" Joram  demanded
in low, proud tones.  A bitter smile twisted  his face. "It seems  you
have a  true  dilemma on  your  hands.  You cannot  kill  me,  without
fulfilling the Prophecy. Yet  you can't afford to  let me live.  There
have been too many 'mistakes' made already. Lock me up in the  deepest
dungeon -  there wouldn't  be one  360 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 361 night you slept  easily without wondering if I  haven't,
somehow, managed to escape."

    "I grow fonder o ( you by the minute, Nephew," Prince Xavier  said
with a sigh, rising to his feet.  "Your fate is, I fear, in the  hands
of the catalysts, since you are a threat to the realm. And, I have  no
doubt, Bishop Vanya  has -at last  - found a  solution to this  thorny
problem. My work  here is concluded.  Eminence." The DKarn-Duuk  bowed
slightly. "Revered Brethren." He nodded to Saryon, who was staring  at
Vanya with wide,  terror-stricken eyes, and  to Dulchase, who  shifted
uneasily in his chair and refused to meet the mans Hat gaze.

    Casting the red  hood of  his luxuriant  robe over  his head,  The
DKarn-Duuk turned last to Joram.

    "Rise and bid me farewell, Nephew," said the warlock.

    Reluctantly, with the defiant  toss of his  black hair, the  young
man obeyed. He stood up, but he made no movement beyond that. Clasping
his hands behind him, he stared  straight ahead, into the darkness  of
the empty Hall.

    Stepping forward, Prince Xavier took hold of the young man by  the
shoulders with his thin hands. Flinching, Joram instinctively tried to
free himself from  the warlock's  grasp, but he  checked himself,  too
proud to struggle.

    Smiling, The DKarn-Duuk  leaned near  the young  man. Placing  his
hooded head next  to Jorams cheek,  he kissed him,  first on the  left
side, then on the right. Now the young man faltered, cringing visibly,
his  flesh  shrinking  from  the  touch  of  the  cold  lips.  Jerking
spasmodically, he  pulled himself  from the  mans grasp,  rubbing  the
flesh of his bare arms as though to rid himself of the touch.

    A corridor  opened  behind Prince  Xavier.  Stepping into  it,  he
vanished. The light he had brought with him disappeared as well.  Most
of the Hall was plunged into  darkness, except for the faint,  ghastly
radiance emanating from the Well of Life in the center and the  harsh,
bright fight streaming out from behind the Bishops throne.

    Though still obviously shaken, Vanya appeared to be regaining  his
composure. At a gesture  from the Bishop,  the young Duuk-harith  came
forward from the shadows.  He spoke a word  and, once more, Joram  was
surrounded by three fiery rings, their flaming light casting an  eerie
glow in the deep gloom  of the Hall. The  Bishop stared in silence  at
the young man, sucking air in loudly through his nose.

    "Holiness," began Saryon, rising slowly and haltingly to his feet,
"you promised  he  would not  be  killed." The  catalyst  clasped  his
trembling hands  before him.  "You swore  to me  by the  blood of  the
Almin. …"

    "Get down  on  your  knees, Brother  Saryon,"  said  Bishop  Vanya
sternly, "and beg Him for your own redemption!"

    "No!" Saryon cried, throwing himself forward.

    Struggling to  his feet,  Vanya  heaved his  great bulk  from  the
throne and, thrusting  the catalyst  out of  his way,  walked over  to
stand before the young man. Joram watched him without speak-* ing, the
bitter half smile on his lips.

    "Joram, son of-" Vanya began, then stopped, confused.

    ^ The half  smile on  the young man's  face widened  into a  proud
smile of triumph.  The Bishops face  grew livid with  anger. "You  are
correct, young man!" he  said, his voice quivering.  "We dare not  let
you live. We dare not let you die.  As you have been Dead ; among  the
Living, so now you will find a living Death."

    . Dulchase sprang up,  his throat constricting.  No! he wanted  to
shout. I won't be a party to this! He tried to speak, but nothing came
out. For once, his tongue failed him. They had trapped him neatly.  He
knew too much. He would go to Zith-el, where they had a remarkable zoo
. . .

    Saryon gave an anguished  cry, falling on his  knees to the  floor
before Vanyas throne.

    The Bishop paid no attention to either of his catalysts.

    Jorams gaze went once  to the wretched Saryon,  but it was cool  ;
and unforgiving and almost immediately returned to the Bishop.

    "Joram.  Having  been  found  guilty  as  charged  of  all  counts
presented against you by three catalysts as prescribed by the laws  of
Thimhallan, I hereby sentence you to the Turning. This dawn, you  will
be taken to the Border  where your flesh shall  be ^ turned to  stone,
your soul left to  live within your body  to contemplate your  crimes.
Forever more, you  will stand  Guard at  the Border,  dead but  alive,
staring eternally into Beyond."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORo 363 Obedire Est Vivere T2 I.

    here came a soft knock upon the closed door.

    "Father Saryon?" called a gentle voice.

    "Is it time?"

    There were no windows in the small chapel. The harsh, bright  dawn
of a new  day might  come to  the world  outside, but  it would  never
penetrate the cool darkness of this sanctuary.

    '"Yes, Father," said" the voice in hushed tones.

    Slowly, Saryon raised his head. He had spent the remainder of  the
night kneeling on the^  stone floor of one  of the private chapels  in
the Font, seeking solace in prayer. Now his body was stiff, his  knees
bruised. His legs had long ago lost any feeling.

    How he wished the same might be said of his heart!

    Reaching out a hand, Saryon grasped the prayer rail before him and
struggled to  stand.  A  stifled groan  escaped  his  lips,  returning
circulation sending sharp needles of pain through his limbs. He  tried
to move his  legs and discovered  he was too  weak. Leaning his  weary
head upon his hand, he blinked back the tears.

    "You who  have denied  me everything  else, grant  me strength  to
walk," he prayed bitterly. "I will not  fail him in this, at least.  I
will be with him at the end."

    Placing both hands on the  prayer rail, gritting his teeth  Saryon
struggled to his feet. He  stood still for several moments,  breathing
heavily, until he was certain Re could move.

    "Father Saryon?" came the voice again, a tinge of worry. There was
a scratching on the chapel door.

    "Yes, I'm coming," Saryon snapped. "What is your hurry?  Impatient
to see the show?"

    Shuffling forward, his shoes dragging the ground as he forced  his
hurting muscles to move, the catalyst crossed the small room in a  few
steps and fell against the door, his strength giving way.

    Pausing to wipe the chill sweat from his brow with a shaking hand,
Saryon at last  found the  energy to remove  the magical  seal he  had
placed last night  upon the  door. It was  not a  powerful spell;  the
catalyst had cast it himself using the small amount of Life within his
body. But he  wondered if  he had  the ability  to break  it. After  a
moments hesitation, the door opened, swinging inward silently.

    The pale face of  a novitiate looked in  at him. The woman's  eyes
were wide and frightened; she  bit her lip at  the sight of his  ashen
face, and lowered her gaze.

    "I - I was concerned about  you, Father," she said in a  quivering
voice. "That is all." Passing a slender hand over her eyes, she  added
brokenly, "I do not want to see this, but it is required - " Her words
failed.

    "I am sorry,  Sister," Saryon  said wearily. "Forgive  me. It  has
been … a long night."

    "Yes, Father," she said  more strongly, lifting  her gaze to  meet
his. "I understand.  I have asked  the Al'min for  courage to  undergo
this trial. He will not fail me."

    "How fortunate for you," Saryon sneered.

    The priests tone of sudden,  bitter anger startled the  novitiate,
who stared at him, half-frightened.  Saryon sighed and started to  ask
her forgiveness  again, then  gave  it up.  What did  her  forgiveness
matter? What did anyones matter except for one persons. . . . And that
he would never have, did not deserve.

    "Is … is that . . . the sword?" The novitiate's frightened eyes  -
as bright and soft as a rabbits, Saryon thought - went to a  shapeless
mass of darkness lying  on the rosewood altar,  barely visible in  the
light cast from the small globe she held in her hand.

    "Yes, Sister," Saryon said briefly.

    364 WEIS AND H1CKMAN That was the reason for the magical seal upon
the door. Only one person had been considered fit to handle the weapon
of darkness.

    "This will be part of  your penance, Father Saryon," Bishop  Vanya
had decreed. "Since  you assisted in  creating this foul  tool of  the
Sorcerers of the Ninth Mystery, you  will spend the rest of your  life
guarding it.  Of course,"  the  Bishop had  added  in a  softer,  more
pleasant voice, "there will be those of our Order required to study it
that we may  learn more about  its evil nature.  You will grant  those
elected to undertake this  task all the benefit  of your knowledge  of
the Dark Arts."

    Humbly,  Saryon  had  bowed   his  head,  accepting  his   penance
gratefully, firm in his  belief that this would  cleanse his soul  and
grant him the peace he sought  so desperately. But the promised  peace
had not come. He thought it had - until last night, when he had looked
into Joram's dark eyes. The young man's bitter words, "I trusted you!"
seemed to the  Priest to  have been scribed  in flame  upon his  soul.
Forever they would  burn within  him; he would  never be  free of  the
agony.

    It was that flame,  he supposed dully, burning  up his prayers  of
supplication to the AJmm - prayers begging for mercy, for  forgiveness
of his sins. The words drifted like ashes from his mouth and scattered
in the wind,  leaving his heart  a charred and  blackened lump in  his
chest.

    The novitiate glanced at a window in the corridor where the  light
of the night stars was slowly beginning to fade.

    "Father, we must go."

    "Yes." Saryon turned,  and with  slow and  faltering steps  walked
over to the altar.

    The Darksword lay like a dead thing. The light the novitiate  held
in her hand  gleamed softly  in the  highly polished  rosewood of  the
intricately shaped altar; it did not  gleam in the black metal of  the
sword. His heart heavy with grief and sorrow, Saryon lifted the weapon
awkwardly, his flesh shrinking  from the touch.  Clumsily, he slid  it
back into  the scabbard  - nearly  dropping it.  Bowing his  head,  he
gripped the sword in clenched  hands and raised it heavenward,  crying
out the most earnest prayer he had ever uttered in his life.

    "Blessed Almm, I  care no longer  for myself. I  am lost. Be  with
Joram! Somehow, help him to find the light he struggles to attain!"

    DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  365 The  only sound  in the  chapel was  a
muffled, pitying "amen" from the young novitiate.

    Cradling the  heavy sword  in  his arms,  Saryon walked  from  the
chapel.

    13 The Borderland The | ne Borderland.

    The edge  of the  world.  Snowcapped peaks  and pine  forests  and
sparkling  rivers  in  the  center  of  the  land  flow  into  rolling
meadowlands and populated cities  and vast forests  that in turn  give
way to tall stands  of waving prairie grass.  The grass dies out,  and
then there is  nothing but  empty, windswept dunes  of shifting  sand.
Beyond the sands hang the mists of Beyond. Staring eternally into  the
mist, with their unseeing stone eyes, are the Watchers.

    Condemned humans, transformed magically into statues of stone that
nevertheless retain  life within  their  frozen bodies,  the  Watchers
stand thirty feet tall. Male and  female, each is spaced about  twenty
feet from its fellow. Almost all  are catalysts. Magi are punished  by
being sent  Beyond; it  being considered  too dangerous  to allow  the
powerful magi to remain in the world,  even in a frozen form. But  the
humble catalyst is a different matter, and when it was determined that
Guards were needed  upon the  Borderlands, this seemed  a fitting  and
suitable way to provide for them.

    What do they  watch for, these  silent beings, some  of whom  have
withstood the stinging of the  blowing sand for centuries? What  would
they do if they saw something materialize within DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
367 the  drifting  mists? None  know,  the answers  having  been  long
forgotten. There  is  nothing out  there  except Beyond-the  Realm  of
Death. And from that Realm none have ever returned.

    Located to the east of Thimhallan, the Borders are the first  part
of the land touched by  the rays of the  rising sun. Upon rising,  the
sun's light is  a pearly  gray, shining  through curtains  of mist  so
thick that even  heavens ball  of fire  cannot burn  them away.  Then,
gleaming pale  and  cold -  a  ghost of  itself-the  sun can  be  seen
shimmering faintly above the horizon where  the mists give way to  the
blue, clear sky. When the sun is  finally free of the Realm of  Death,
its  light  bursts  forth,  pouring  down  upon  the  land  below   in
thankfulness, bringing the living of Thimhallan a new day.

    It was at  this time,  when the suns  first full  rays struck  the
earth, that Joram's flesh would be changed to stone.

    Thus it was in  the gray of early  dawn that the participants  and
witnesses of  the solemn  rite  began to  gather  on the  sand  dunes.
Twenty-five catalysts are needed to grant Life to the Executioner  for
the Turning,  and  these men  and  women  were the  first  to  arrive.
Although generally summoned from all parts of Thimhallan to  represent
the entire population, so hurried was this trial that these  catalysts
were taken entirely  from the Font.  \ Many of  the younger had  never
seen the  ceremony,  most  of  the"; elder  had  forgotten  it.  Those
catalysts chosen to take  part in the ritual  could be seen  stumbling
sleepily from the Corridors  onto the sand, many  with books in  their
hands, hastily studying the rite.

    Next to arrive was the Executioner. A powerful magus - one of  the
top-ranking members of the Duuk-foaritk - this man was the  catalysts'
own warlock. He worked for them alone,  and was in charge not only  of
security within the Font, but also  attending to duties such as  this.
His black robes changed to the gray of judgment for this occasion, the
Executioner stepped silently from the Corridor, He was alone, his face
covered by his hood. The  catalysts, glancing at him askance,  shunned
him, moving hastily from his path. He paid them no heed. Hands  folded
within the cavernous sleeves of his robes, he stood as still as  stone
himself in the sand, perhaps  rehearsing the complicated spell in  his
mind, perhaps concentrating the  massive mental and physical  energies
that would be needed for its casting.

    368 WEIS AND H1CKMAN Next came from the Corridor two Dauk-foarith,
escorting a man of lordly, if  weary, bearing, and a young woman,  who
appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Cringing away from the  touch
of the warlocks, the  girl clung to  her father. At  the sight of  the
stone Watchers, she gave a  heartbroken cry. Her father supported  her
in his arms, or it  seemed she would have  fallen where she stood  and
never risen again.

    Several of the catalysts shook their heads and a few of the  older
ones stepped forward to offer the Almins consolation and blessing. But
the girl turned from them as she turned from the Duuk-foarUh,  burying
her head in her fathers breast and refusing to look at them.

    The warlocks who accompanied the two led them near a place in  the
sand that was empty except for a mark that had been hastily drawn upon
it. When she saw the mark - a wheel with nine spokes - the young woman
collapsed and a Thtldara was hastily summoned.

    •The Cardinal came next, remembering  just as he stepped from  the
Corridor to change his silver-trimmed white robes of his office to the
gray, silver-trimmed robes of judgment.  Joining several of the  older
catalysts, who bowed  reverently, the Cardinal  glanced at the  slowly
brightening mists and frowned. He  was overheard to mention  irritably
that they were running behind  schedule. Gathering the twenty-five  of
his Order together, he  arranged them in a  circle around the mark  of
the spoked wheel. When the  catalysts were placed to his  satisfaction
and each had turned his or her robe to gray, the Cardinal bowed to the
Executioner, who slowly and solemnly took  his place in the center  of
the circle.

    All was in readiness. The Cardinal sent word via the Corridor back
to the Font, and,  after a moments  breathless anticipation, the  void
gaped open. Expecting the Bishops entourage, everyone twisted his head
and strained to see. But  it was only the  TheQara, coming to tend  to
the  young  woman.  This  provided   a  small  amount  of   diversion.
Restorative potions were administered, and within moments the girl was
on her feet, some  semblance of color coming  and going in her  pallid
face.

    There was  a  moments  restless  movement  around  the  circle  of
catalysts - the Cardinal  frowned terribly and made  a mental note  of
the most flagrant transgressors. But their patience was rewarded.  The
Corridor gaped again, a hole of nothing.

    DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD  369 The  crowd gasped.  A most  unexpected
phenomenon occurred.

    Stepping out of the Corridor was the Emperor. As everyone  watched
in shock, another flurry of movement within the void brought forth the
Empress as  well, seated  in  a white-winged  chair. Her  eyes  stared
straight ahead into the Realm of Beyond; many would whisper  afterward
(when her  death had  been  officially announced)  that there  was  an
expression of wistful longing in them, as though yearning for the rest
being denied her. The two were alone, no attendants accompanied  them,
and the Emperor hovered above the sand, looking about him expectantly.

    Stunned, the Cardinal stared,  openmouthed; the catalysts  glanced
at each  other in  amazement  and consternation.  It even  caught  the
attention of the girl;  she raised her head  and glanced at the  royal
couple - particularly the dead  Empress - then hurriedly diverted  her
gaze with a shudder. Only the Executioner remained unmoved, his hooded
head faced forward, the shadowed eyes fixed upon the circle.

    Finally, the  Cardinal left  the circle  of catalysts  and took  a
hesitant step toward the Emperor, though he hadn't any idea what to do
with the man.  Fortunately, at  that moment, the  Corridor gaped  once
more, producing Bishop Vanya and  The DKarn-Duuk, the red and  crimson
of their robes like splashes of blood against the background of  white
sand.

    Both appeared considerably taken aback at the sight of the Emperor
and his wife.

    "What is  he  doing here?"  Bishop  Vanya said  in  an  undertone,
glancing at Prince Xavier with a scowl.

    "I have no idea, 1" the warlock replied coldly, glancing at Bishop
Vanya  in  turn.   "Perhaps  he  is   in  need  of   a  little   light
entertainment."

    "The walls of the Font have eyes and ears and mouths as well," the
Bishop remarked testily,  his face  flushing at the  suspicion he  saw
clearly in  the dark  eyes  of The  DKarn-Duuk.  "He has  learned  the
truth."

    It seemed for an  instant that Xavier  lost his famous  composure,
much to the Bishops satisfaction.

    Leaning close, he  hissed. "If the  young man talks,  if he  makes
this public in the Emperors presence - "

    370 WEIS AND HICKMAN "He won't," Vanya interrupted. Lips pursed in
smug satisfaction, his  squinting eyes  went to Lord  Samuels and  his
daughter,  standing  forlornly  in  the  sand  behind  the  circle  of
catalysts.

    Understanding the Bishops meaning, Xavier relaxed. "Has the  young
man been told she will be here?"

    "No. We hope the shock of the  sight of her will keep him  silent.
If he tries to speak, the  catalyst - Father Saryon -has  instructions
to warn him that the girl will suffer."

    "Mmmmm," was all the warlock replied. But the sound had an ominous
quality. The Bishop was reminded forcibly of the buzzing snake,  which
is said to emit a warning to its victims before it strikes. There  was
no time tor further conversation, however, it being incumbent upon the
two to attend their liege lord and his dead lady with a show of homage
and respect.

    A royal gallery was necessary now, of course, to provide seats for
the Emperor and  Empress. Bishop  Vanya and the  DKarn-Duuk would  sit
here  as  well,  along  with  the  Cardinal,  these  gentlemen  having
previously intended to simply stand on the outskirts of the circle  in
their haste to have this done quickly.

    That was impossible now.  Several Duuk-faarith were summoned  from
the Corridor to  conjure up  the gallery  with the  assistance of  the
Cardinal himself,  since none  of the  catalysts in  the circle  could
spare the  energy. The  Cardinal granted  the warlocks  Liffe with  an
ill-humored air  and  was  seen  to  fret  over  the  delay,  glancing
continually into  the  mists that  were  growing brighter  with  every
passing second.

    But the warlocks did  their job efficiently  and the gallery  took
shape within the speaking of a word and the gesture of a hand. The air
coalesced into hundreds of  soft cushions, a  silken canopy fell  from
the sky like  a wayward cloud,  and Their Majesties,  the Bishop.  The
DKarn-Duuk, and the rest were soon settled. Sitting at the head of the
circle of catalysts, they had an excellent view of the Executioner and
the wheeled circle drawn  in the sand. Beyond  that, the mists of  the
Boundary of the World roiled and seethed in the morning light.

    Heaving a sigh of  relief, the Cardinal  hastily signaled for  the
prisoner.

    14- The Doom of the Darkswond • he • thi he Corridor opened again,
, this time in the very center of the circle of catalysts.

    Saryon stepped forth, bearing the Darksword in his arms,  carrying
it awkwardly and gingerly, as a  father carries his newborn babe.  The
Cardinal appeared shocked at this - bringing a weapon of evil into the
solemn rite - and he looked to his Bishop for instruction.

    Rising from his  seat, Bishop  Vanya spoke sternly.  "It has  been
decreed that Deacon Saryon is to stand at the side of the Executioner,
the Darksword raised, so that the last sight this young man's eyes see
will be the thing of evil he has created."

    The Cardinal bowed. There were  mutterings among the catalysts,  a
breach of discipline that was instantly hushed by a shocked hiss  from
the priest. All was  silent once more, so  silent that the whisper  of
the wind sliding along the sand spoke clearly to each present,  though
only Saryon understood its  words, having heard  the wind niourn  long
ago.

    "The Prince is Dead. …"

    The Corridor opened,  a final time.  Flanked by two  Duuk-tjaritb,
the prisoner stepped  out onto the  sand. Jorams head  was bowed,  the
black hair falling,  disheveled, over his  face. He was  572 WEIS  AND
HICKMAN  DOOM  OF  THE  DARKSWORD  373  forced  to  move  slowly   and
deliberately -  the same  fiery rings  encircling his  arms and  upper
body. Ugly, red, blistering weals were visible on his flesh, and rumor
whispered quickly among the guests in  the gallery that the young  man
had made a last foolish, furious struggle to avoid his fate.

    It seemed he had  learned his lesson, for  now he stood as  though
struck senseless by despair, unseeing, uncaring. The Duuk-foarith  led
his stumbling footsteps to the spoked wheel in the sand and positioned
him in its center. He moved mechanically, no wili of his own remaining
in the body.  The Bishop found  his gaze drawn  irresistibly from  the
young man to the corpse of his mother. The resemblance was uncanny and
Vanya hastily shifted his gaze, a  shudder making the rolls of fat  at
the back of his head quiver.

    The prisoner was  now the responsibility  of the Executioner.  The
gray-robed  warlock  made  a  subtle   gesture  with  his  hand.   The
Duuk-foaritk guarding the young man prepared to leave.

    "Joram!" cried a broken voice from outside the circle. " Joramt  I
- "

    The words were cut off in a choked sob.

    Joram raised his  head, saw who  it was that  cried his name,  and
turned his gaze on the Executioner. "Take her away. Make them take her
away!" he said  in low,  fierce tones. His  eyes burned  with a  dull,
sullen, dying glow. The muscles in the arms bunched spasmodically, the
hands clenched, and the Duuk-t^arith remained standing near.

    "Let me speak to him," Saryon said.

    "I want  no  words  of yours,  catalyst!"  Joram  snarled."!  want
nothing for myself!" He lifted his voice; it was tinged with darkness,
madness, and the Duuk-Ltarith drew closer. "Take the girl away! She is
innocent! Take her away or I swear by die Almin I'll scream the  truth
until my mouth is stone-Ahbb!"

    The young man cried  out in pain, the  fiery rings closing  around
him, burning his flesh.

    "Please!" Saryon pleaded desperately.

    The Executioners hooded  head moved  slightly. He  made a  gesture
with his hand and the Duuk-Uaritb backed away. Dropping the  Darksword
in the sand  at the  Executioners feet, Saryon  turned and  floundered
through the  sand toward  Joram.  The young  man watched  him,  bitter
hatred in  his  eyes.  When  Saryon drew  close,  Joram  spit  on  the
catalysts shoes. Saryon cringed, as  though he had been struck  across
the face.

    "With my next breath,  I call the Emperor  'Father, '" Joram  said
through clenched teeth. "Tell them that, traitor! Unless she is  freed
- "

    "Joram, don't you  understand?" Saryon said  softly. "That is  why
she is here! To insure your silence. I have been told to tell you that
- if you speak - she will meet  the same fate as your moth - as  Anja.
She will be cast out of herTamily and out of the city." .

    , Saryon saw the flame in Joram's soul burning violently and,  for
a moment, be  thought the  fire might  consume whatever  was good  and
noble in the young man.

    What can I  say? the catalyst  thought frantically. No  platitudes
will save him now. Only the truth. Yet it may drive him over the  edge
and he will drag her down with him.

    "I warned you, my son,"  Saryon said, looking into the  smoldering
eyes. "I warned you of the grief  that you would bring upon her,  upon
us all. You would not listen. Your  iife has been so centered on  your
own pain that you  have never felt  the pain of  others. Feei it  now,
Joram. Feel it and cherish it, because it will be the last thing  upon
this earth that you will ever feel. That pain will be your  salvation.
I would to God" -the catalyst bowed his head - "that it were mine."

    For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the whisper of the
wind through  the sand  and by  Joram's harsh  breathing. Then  Saryon
heard a catch in the  breath and looked up  quickly. The flame in  the
eyes flickered, then - drowned by tears - it died. A sob wrenched  the
body, the shoulders heaved. Joram sank to his knees in the sand.

    "Help me,  Father!" He  gagged  on his  tears.  "I am  afraid!  So
afraid!"

    "Get rid  of these!"  Saryon ordered  the Duuk-foaritk,  making  a
furious gesture at the fiery rings. Hesitating, the warlocks looked to
the Executioner, who nodded peremptorily. Time was running out.

    The fiery rings vanished.

    Kneeling beside Joram,  Saryon clasped his  arms around the  young
man. The muscular body  stiffened, then relaxed.  Burying his head  in
the catalysts shoulder, Joram shut his eyes, shut out the sight of the
Executioner in his  gray robes,  shut out  the sight  of the  Watchers
lined up in the sand, shut out  the sight of the corpse of his  mother
watching - unknowing - her Dead son  374 WEIS AND HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE
DARKSWORD 575 forced into eternal life. He could not bear it. The fear
that had haunted  him in the  long darkness of  the night  overwhelmed
him.

    To stand, forever, year  after year, gnawed at  by the passage  of
time, always waking, always dreaming, never to find rest . . .

    "Help me!"

    "My son!" Saryon cradled the burned, anguished body, smoothing the
long black hair. "For you are my son! It was I who gave you life,"  he
muttered. "And now I will give you life again!"

    The catalysts  arms tightened  their grip  on the  young man.  "Be
ready!" Saryon whispered with sudden intensity into Joram's ear.

    Hands took hold  of Saryon;  the Duuk-harith pulled  him back  and
shoved him aside. Grabbing hold of  Joram, they dragged the young  man
to his feet and  positioned him once  more in the  center of what  had
once been a  spoked wheel drawn  in the  sand but was  now a  confused
muddle. Taking  a position  on either  side of  him, the  Duuk-faarith
grasped Jorams arms firmly and held him in readiness for the Turning.

    Blinking back his tears, Joram ignored the warlocks. He stared  at
the catalyst  in  wonder  and  saw unusual  firmness  and  resolve  on
Saryon's haggard  face as  he  slowly, and  with seeming  disgust  and
reluctance, lifted the  Darksword in  its scabbard from  the sand.  He
held it up before him, one hand just below the hilt.

    Joram, watching intently, saw  Saryon - with a  quick jerk of  his
hand - loosen the sword in the scabbard. The young man glanced  around
swiftly to make certain no one had noticed. No one did. All eyes  were
fixed upon the Executioner. Joram tensed, ready, though he had no idea
what Saryon's plan might be.

    The young  man heard  Gwendolyn sobbing;  he heard  the  catalysts
begin their prayers, drawing the  Life from the world. Gasping  hands,
they began  to focus  their energies  upon the  Ex- -ecutioner.  Joram
heard the Executioner begin to chant,  but he shut the sound from  his
mind. He shut out all the sounds as  he had shut out the sight of  the
world from his eyes moments before. He concentrated on Saryon with his
entire sou), his entire being. He knew  that if he let it, fear  would
take hold of him again and claim him for its own.

    Bishop Vanya rose ponderously, once again, to his feet. In a loud,
sonorous voice  that  carried above  the  sound of  the  chanting  and
praying and blowing wind, he read the charges.

    "Joram. (Dispensing with parenting to  the puzzlement of some,  he
cast a sidelong, uncomfortable glance at the Emperor, who was seen  to
smile slightly.) You are  a Dead man who  walks among the Living.  You
are  charged  with  the  taking  of  the  lives  of  two  citizens  of
Thimhallan. Further, and  most heinous,  you are  charged with  having
consorted with Sorcerers  of the  Dark Arts and  with having  created,
while living among them,  a weapon of evil  that is an abomination  in
this world. You have been found guilty of these charges by a  tribunal
of catalysts.

    "Their judgment is that you be Turned to Stone, set to stand  here
upon the Borders of our land, an eternal warning to those who might be
tempted to walk the same  dark paths you trod.  The last "ght of  your
eyes will fall upon the tool of demons you forged. When all is  ended,
the symbol of  the foul arts  that ensnared you  will. be carven  upon
your chest. May the Almin  grant that in the  long years to come,  you
repent of your crimes and that you find forgiveness in His sight.

    "May He have mercy upon your soul. Executioner, do your duty."

    Joram heard the words and there  was an instant when he  struggled
with himself, anger welling up within him so that it seemed the  truth
must burst out. He longed  to wipe the sanctimonious expressions  from
the faces of those around him,  longed to see them sweating and  pale.
His gaze went to the Emperor, his father, and a wild hope sprang up in
Jorams breast. He will support me! the young man thought. He knows who
I am, that's why he is here. He has come to save me!

    Jorams gaze shifted abruptly, as  though drawn by some word  meant
for his ears alone. He stared, once  again, into the dead eyes of  his
mother. The corpse sat motionless, eyes fixed in the translucent face.
Joram understood then, and he sighed.  His glance flicked back to  the
Emperor. His  father stared  not at  the young  man but  through  him,
giving no sign of recognition. There was only that strange, sad  smile
on the lips that had appeared  when Vanya left out the customary  name
of family from the pronouncement.

    You are my <w", echoed the catalysts words. I gave you life.

    The chanting of  the Executioner grew  louder. The warlock  raised
his hands.

    Saryon stepped to the warlocks side, standing on the man's left as
catalysts are taught to  do when entering battle  with their 576  WEIS
AND HICKMAN wizards. Slowly, Saryon  raised the Darksword, holding  it
with both hands just beneath the hilt.

    Joram, his eyes  on the  catalyst, saw  that Saryon  held not  the
sword itself,  but  the  scabbard. His  pulse'quickened,  his  muscles
twitched. It was all he could do to hold himself stiffly in the center
of the wheel  that had been  trampled almost to  oblivion in the  sand
beneath his feet.  He kept  his gaze upon  Saryon and  the sword.  The
Duuk-foarith moved  away from  him,  retreating to  the edges  of  the
circle of catalysts.

    Joram stood alone upon the sand.

    With a loud cry, muffled by  his hood, the Executioner called  for
Life. Head bowed, each catalyst  concentrated all his energy upon  the
warlock, drawing magic  from the world.  Opening their conduits,  they
sent Life flowing into the wizards body. So powerful were the  focused
energies of all the catalysts that the magic was visible - blue  flame
swirled about the  bodies and  clasped hands of  the priests.  Flaring
like blue  lightning,  it  leaped  from them  into  the  body  of  the
Executioner.

    Sufhised with power, the man pointed both hands at Joram. When  he
spoke next, the spell would be cast, the Turning would begin.

    The Executioner drew a breath. The gray hood quivered. He  uttered
the first  syllable of  the first  word and,  at that  moment,  Saryon
hurled himself forward, the catalysts body interposing itself  between
the Executioner and Joram. The  blue light, darting from the  warlocks
hand, struck Saryon. Gasping in p^in, he tried to take a step, but  he
could not move.

    His feet and ankles were white, solid stone.

    "My son!" Saryon cried, his  gaze never shifting from Joram,  "the
sword!" With his last  strength, even as  the terrible, cold  numbness
was spreading up into his knees, Saryon flung the weapon from him.

    The Darksword fell at Joram's feet.  But the young man might  have
been changed to stone  as well. He could  only stare at Saryon,  dazed
and horror-stricken.

    "Joram, escape!" Saryon cried in  an anguished voice, writhing  in
excruciating pain, his feet frozen to the sand.

    Black shadows seen out of the  corner of his eye brought Joram  to
his senses. Anger and grief propelled him to action. Reaching down, he
drew the sword  from its scabbard  in one swift  stroke and turned  to
meet his enemies.

    DOOM OF THE  DARKSWORD 377  Garald's teaching came  to him.  Joram
swung the sword in  front of him,  meaning at first  only to keep  the
Duuk-foaritb at bay until he could fall back and assess his  position.
But he had not counted upon the swords own power.

    The Darksword came forth into air  that was charged with magic  as
Life flowed from the catalysts  into the Executioner, i Thirsting  for
that Life, the Darksword began to suck the magic into itself. The  arc
of blue light jumped, flaming, from the Executioner to the sword.  The
catalysts cried out in fear, many trying to close the conduits. But it
was too late. The Darksword gained  in power every second and it  kept
the conduits  open forcibly,  draining the  Life from  everything  and
everyone around it.

    Running  forward  to  stop   Joram,  spells  crackling  at   their
fingertips, the warlocks saw  a radiant blue  light flare from  within
deep darkness. A ball  of pure energy  hit them with  the force of  an
exploding star and the black-robed bodies disintegrated in a  blinding
flash. '

    The Darksword  hummed triumphantly  in Joram's  hands. Blue  light
twined from its blade around the  young man's body like a fiery  vine.
Dazed by the shattering explosion and the sudden disappearance of  his
enemies, Joram stared at the sword in disbelief and uncertainty.  Then
the knowledge of  the tremendous power  he held swept  over the  young
man. With  this,  he  could  conquer the  world!  With  this,  he  was
invincible!

    Shouting  in  exultation,  Joram   whirled  around  to  face   the
Executioner - - and saw Saryon.

    The spell had been cast. The power of the Darksword could  neither
alter it, change it, nor stop it.

    Saryons feet,  limbs,  and lower  body  were white  stone,  solid,
unmoving. The  bitter-cold numbness  was rising;  Joram could  see  it
freeze the catalyst's flesh as  he watched, advancing upward from  the
groin to the waist.

    "No!" Joram cried in a hollow voice, lowering the sword.

    The DKarn-Duuk was shouting something. Bishop Vanya roared like  a
wounded animal. Joram  had a  vague impression  of Corridors  opening,
black-robed figures streaming from them like ants. But that's all they
were to him - insects, nothing more.

    Springing forward, Joram  grasped Saryons arms.  With a  wrenching
effort, the catalyst raised his hands in supplication.

    378 WEIS  AND HICKMAN  DOOM  OF THE  DARKSWORD J79  "Run!"  Saryon
managed to utter the single  word before his diaphragm froze,  choking
off his voice. "Run" pleaded the mans eyes through a shadow of pain.

    Rage filled Joram. Floundering through the sand, he came to  stand
before the Executioner. The Darksword burned blue, continuing to  suck
Life from the world, and the  Executioner had fallen to one knee.  The
casting of the spell had cost him much of his energy and the Darksword
was draining  even more.  But  he managed  to  lift his  hooded  head,
staring at Joram with cool detachment.

    "Reverse the spell!" Joram demanded, raising the sword, "or by the
Almin I swear I will strike your head from your body!"

    "Do what  you like!"  the warlock  said weakly.  "The spell,  once
cast, cannot be  called back.  Not even the  power of  that weapon  of
darkness can change that!"

    Blinded by tears, Joram lifted tbe sword to carry out his  threat.
The warlock waited, too  drained of enrgy to  move, facing his  killer
with grim courage.

    Joram paused, raising his eyes from his enemy to look around  him.
Most of the catalysts  had fallen to their  knees in exhaustion;  some
had lost consciousness and lay unmoving in the sand. The  Duuk-foarith
hovered on  the  fringes  of  the broken  circle  of  fallen  priests,
uncertain what to do.  The warlocks had felt  their Life being  sucked
from them  the  moment they  stepped  from the  Corridor.  None  dared
approach Joram while the sword still retained its awesome power.

    Their fear was reflected in the  mottled skin of Bishop Vanya  and
the fearful eyes of Prince Xavier. Joram saw it clearly, and he smiled
the bitter half smile  that darkened his face.  No one could stop  him
now and they knew  it. The Darksword could  blast open the  Corridors,
carry him anywhere in this world, and he would be . lost to them  once
again.

    A sound came  from behind him,  barely heard even  in the  deathly
silence that surrounded him. It was  a sigh, the last breath  escaping
from lungs solidified to rock.

    Joram abruptly  lowered the  sword. Ignoring  the Executioner,  in
whose eyes he saw swift, if puzzled relief; ignoring the Duuk-faaritb,
waiting tensely to make  their move; Joram turned  his back upon  them
all and slowly  made his  Way through  the shifting  sands. Coming  to
stand before the catalyst,  he saw the entire  body changed to  stone;
the only living  flesh being  the head  and neck.  Reaching up,  Joram
touched the warm cheek with his  hand, stroking it gently, feeling  it
cool beneath his touch even as he did so.

    "I understand  now what  I must  do, Father,"  Joram said  softly,
picking up the  scabbard lying  in the  sand at  the catalyst's  stone
feet.

    Lifting the Darksword, he slid it back into its scabbard and  laid
it gently and reverently in the catalysts outstretched arms.

    A single tear trickled down Saryon s face and then the eyes turned
white and fixed. The  spell was complete. From  the feet to the  head,
the warm, living flesh was cold, solid rock. But the expression frozen
forever on the stone face was one of sublime peace, the lips  slightly
parted in a last prayer of thankfulness uttered by the soul.

    Comforted by that look, Joram laid his head for a moment upon  the
stone breast.  "Grant  me a  measure  of your  strength,  Father,"  he
prayed.

    Then he stepped back from the living statue, staring defiantly  at
the pale and fearful faces watching him.

    "You call me  Dead!" he  shouted. His  gaze went  to the  Empress.
Bereft of the magic that gave the corpse a semblance of life, the body
of the woman lay in  a crumpled heap at the  feet of her husband,  who
had not once looked down. He might have been a corpse as well, for the
lifeless expression on his face.

    Joram looked away, up into the blue sky. The sun had freed  itself
from the mists of death and was shining down upon the world in serene,
uncaring bliss. The young  man sighed, it might  have been an echo  of
Saryon's last breath.

    "But it is you who have died," he said softly, sorrowfully. "It is
this world that is dead. You have nothing to fear from me."

    Turning on his heel, he walked away from the stone statue,  moving
slowly and resolutely across the  sand. He heard the sudden  commotion
behind him as the warlocks surged into action, no longer afraid of the
sword that lay dark  and lifeless in the  catalysts frozen grasp.  But
Joram did not quicken  his pace. He walked  with the Almin, no  mortal
could touch him.

    "Stop him!"  Bishop  Vanya's voice  was  hoarse with  terror,  for
suddenly he saw Jorams intent. The DKarn-Duuk leaped from the gallery,
his face contorted with fury.

    "Stop him  at all  costs!"  the warlock  shrieked, his  red  robes
swirling about him like blood-tinged water.

    The black-robed Duuk-foarith cast their spells, but many had  been
weakened already  by the  power  of the  Darksword.  Or 380  WEIS  AND
HICKMAN DOOM OF  THE DARKSWORD 381  perhaps some trace  of that  power
lingered still about its master, for no magic touched or halted Joram.
He did not even  glance behind him, but  continued walking, his  dark,
black hair blown back from  his face by a  chill wind. Shreds of  mist
reached out to him, curling about his feet. Still he kept walking.

    One sound made him hesitate, however. It was a woman's voice,  and
it cried to him not in pleading or in regret but in love. "Joram," she
called. "Wait!"

    Gwendolyn's father, a look  of horror on his  face tried to  clasp
his arms around his daughter. They closed on nothing but air. She  had
vanished. Some  watching say  that -  at this  moment- they  caught  a
glimpse of a white gown and saw the sunlight glinting upon golden hair
before it was swallowed in the mists.

    Joram kept walking.  The mists  of Beyond  gathered thickly  about
him, then he was completely lost from sight. The fog boiled,  frothing
and rolling like a pearl-gray wave to crash in utter silence upon  the
sandy shore at the edge of the world.

    There was vast confusion among those left standing upon the beach.
Bishop Vanya gave a  strangled cry, clutched  his throat, and  pitched
forward, senseless.

    The DKarn-Duuk, seeing his  prey escape, ran  to the stone  statue
and tried to grab the Darksword. But the stone catalyst held it  fast,
some property of the metal, perhaps,  fusing it to the man's arms.  Or
maybe it was the scabbard,  for the runes upon  it glowed with a  holy
silver light. Whatever the case. Prince Xavier could not budge it.

    Lord Samuels ran distractedly along* the shoreline, crying out for
his daughter. Accosting  the Duuk-foartih, he  begged for their  help.
The  black-robed  figures  only  looked  at  him  in  cool  pity  and,
disengaging themselves  from his  clutching  hands, stepped  into  the
Corridors, returning to their duties within the world.

    The catalysts helped each other  to stand, the stronger  assisting
the weaker. Staggering through  the sand, they made  their way to  the
Corridors that would take them home again 16 the Font. Any who  looked
at the stone statue of Saryon hastily averted their eyes.

    Slowly, the Executioner rose to his feet and limped haltingly over
to the  DKarn-Duuk. The  warlock was  still staring  longingly at  the
Darksword held fast  in the statues  grip- "Shall I  make the man  the
same size as  the rest,  my lord?"  -the Executioner  asked, his  gaze
going to the other Watchers that stood thirty feet tall.

    "No!" snarled Prince Xavier, his  eyes glittering. "There must  be
some way to retrieve that damn sword!" His hands reached out to  touch
it. "Some way . . ."he muttered.

    Corridors  opened  and  cleared  rapidly.  Thetiara  carried   the
stricken Bishop back to the Font. The body of the Empress, wrapped  in
white linen, was taken  to the Palace.  The DKarn-Duuk, surrounded  by
Dtiuk-tsarith and accompanied by the Executioner, returned to whatever
dark and  hidden place  his Order  inhabited, there  to begin  frantic
studies into  the  properties  of darkstone.  Lord  Samuels,  stricken
nearly mad with grief, returned to his home to break the news of their
dreadful loss to his wife.

    Soon, the only one standing on  the beach was the Emperor. No  one
had spoken a word to him. They  had removed the body of his wife  from
where it lay at his feet and  he had never even looked down. He  stood
as still  as stone  himself, staring  fixedly into  the mists  -  that
strange, sad smile upon his lips.

    Joram had passed Beyond, and the wind blowing among the sand dunes
whispered, "The Prince is Dead. . -. . The Prince is Dead."

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD 383 Coda T-  • Wl M toi wilight came to  the
Border, touching the mists  with whorls of red  anil pink, purple  and
orange.

    The beach was empty, except for the stone statue that stood there,
staring out into  the Realm  of Death. Even  the Emperor  had gone  at
last, though no one knew where.. He had not returned to the Palace and
they were searching for him, needing  him to begin the ceremonies  for
his dead wife.

    A palm tree - a rather tall,  thin, and sleek palm tree -  located
on the fringes of  the grass near the  beach shook itself,  stretched,
and gave a cavernous yawn.

    "Egad," stated the palm irritably. "I'm stiff. Should know  better
than to fall asleep standing  up like that. And  I've been out in  the
sun all day. I've probably ruined my complexion!"

    With a shiver of  leaves, the palm changed  form - turning into  a
bearded young man  of indistinguishable age,  dressed in a  flamboyant
costume consisting of skintight trousers over silken hose and a velvet
coat that came  to his knees.  Trimmed in ostrich  feathers, the  coat
parted in  front to  reveal  a matching  vest  - likewise  trimmed  in
ostrich feathers. Lace  spilled from the  feather-decorated cuffs  and
bubbled up  around his  neck. The  entire ensemble  was done  in  wide
stripes of brownish orange and dark red.

    "Perfect for the funeral. I'll call it Rust in Puce," Simkin said,
conjuring up  a mirror  and  examining himself  in it  critically.  He
stared intently  at his  nose.  "Ah, I  did  get sunburned.  Now  I'll
freckle." He sent the mirror away with an irritated gesture.

    Thrusting his hands  into pockets  that appeared when  he put  his
hands into them, Simkin flitted moodily along the beach.

    "Perhaps I'll cover my skin all over with spots, ' he remarked  to
the empty sand. Drifting  across the beach, he  came to a halt  before
the statue of  the catalyst  and slowly  lowered himself  to stand  in
front of it.

    "Sink me!" Simkin  said after  a moment, profoundly  moved. "I  am
impressed! A remarkable likeness! Bald pate and all."

    Turning from the statue, Simkin  looked into the mists of  Beyond.
The mists took  on night's  blackness, their bright  colors fading  as
twilight's dying grasp slipped from the world. Creeping and curling in
upon the shore,  they seemed,  like the  incoming tide,  to advance  a
little farther  each time.  Simkin watched,  smiling to  himself,  and
smoothing his beard.

    "Now the game begins in earnest," he murmured.

    Drawing forth the  bit of orange  silk from the  air, he tied  the
silk around  Saryon's stone  neck. Then,  humming to  himself,  Simkin
disappeared into the  evening, leaving  the statue to  stand in  awful
solitude on the silent  shore, the orange  banner fluttering from  its
neck; a tiny flicker of flame in the gathering gloom.

    THE DARKSWORDTRIIOGY  About  the  Authors  Born  in  Independence,
Missouri, Margaret Weis graduated from the University of Missouri  and
worked as  a book  editor  before teaming  up  with Tracy  Hickman  to
develop the Dragonlance novels. Margaret lives in a renovated barn  in
Wisconsin with  her  . two  teen-aged  children, David  and  Elizabeth
Baldwin, and her  three cats. She  enjoys reading (especially  Charles
Dickens), opera, and rollerskating.

    Bom in Salt  Lake City, Tracy  Hickman resides in  Wisconsin in  a
100-year-old Victorian home with his wife and three children. When  he
isn't reading or  writing, he is  eating or sleeping.  On Sundays,  he
conducts the hymns at the local Mormon church.

    The Darksword Trilogy marked Margaret and Tracy's first appearance
as Bantam Spectra authors. They followed up with Darksword Adventures,
a companion volume and game book  set in the same world. They've  just
finished writing  the Rose  of  the Prophet  trilogy-The Will  of  the
Wanderer, The Paladin  of the  Night, and  The Prophet  ofAkhran-which
will be  published in  1989. Margaret  and Tracy  are about  to  begin
working on the first  volume of their new  series, which Spectra  will
publish in hardcover in early 1990.

    Volume Three in The Darksword  Trilogy by Margaret Weis and  Tracy
Hickman TRIUMPH OF  THE DARKSWORD  After years of  struggle in  brutal
exile, Joram returns to Merilon  intent on preventing the  fulfillment
of the ancient prophecy. Allying himself with Prince Garald in a final
effort to defend Thimhallan from the invading army, Joram appears with
him before the  people to  rally them  to the  prince's support.  What
follows is the astonishing result.