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    LEGACYOFTHEDARKSWORD

    LEGACY OF THE DARKSWORD

    CHAPTER ONE

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

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    Saryon, now somewhere in his sixties or seventies, as reckoned  by
Earth time, lived very quietly in a small flat in Oxford, England.  He
was uncertain of the year of his birth in Thimhallan, and thus I,  who
write this story  out for him,  cannot provide his  exact age.  Saryon
never did adapt well to the concept of Earth

    time relative  to Thimhallan  time. History  has meaning  only  to
those who  are its  products and  time  is but  a means  of  measuring
history, whether it be the history  of the past moment or the  history
of the past billion moments. For Saryon,  as for so many of those  who
came to Earth from the once-magical land of Thimhallan, time began  in
another realm-a beautiful, wondrous, fragile  bubble of a realm.  Time
ended  when  that  bubble  burst,  when  Joram  pricked  it  with  the
Darksword.

    Saryon had no need for measuring time anyway. The catalyst (though
no longer  required  in this  world,  that  is how  he  always  termed
himself) had no  appointments, kept  no calendar,  rarely watched  the
evening news, met no one for lunch. I was his amanuensis, or so he was
pleased to call me. I preferred  the less formal term of secretary.  I
was sent to Saryon by command of Prince Garald.

    I had been a servant in the Prince's household and was supposed to
have been Saryon's servant, too, but this he would not allow. The only
small tasks I was able to perform for him were those I could sneak  in
before he was aware of  it or those which I  wrested from him by  main
force.

    I would  have been  a catalyst  myself, had  our people  not  been
banished from Thimhallan. I  had very little magic  in me when I  left
that world as a  child, and none  at all now  after living for  twenty
years in the world of the mundane. But I do have a gift for words  and
this was one reason my prince sent me to Saryon. Prince Garald  deemed
it essential that the story of  the Darksword be told. In  particular,
he hoped that by reading these  tales, the people of Earth would  come
to understand the exiled people of Thimhallan.

    I wrote three  books, which  were immensely well  received by  the
populace of Earth, less well received among my own kind. Who among  us
likes to look  upon himself and  see that  his life was  one of  cruel
waste and overindulgence, greed, selfishness,  and rapacity? I held  a
mirror to the people  of Thimhallan. They looked  into it and did  not
like the ugly  visage that  glared back  at them.  Instead of  blaming
themselves, they blamed the mirror. My master and I had few  visitors.
He had  decided to  pursue his  study of  mathematics, which  was  one
reason that he had moved from the relocation camps to Oxford, in order
to be near  the libraries  connected with that  ancient and  venerable
university. He did not  attend classes, but had  a tutor, who came  to
the flat to instruct him. When it became apparent that the teacher had
nothing more to teach and that, indeed, the teacher was learning  from
the pupil, the tutor ceased to make regular visits, although she still
dropped by occasionally for tea.

    This was  a calm  and blessed  time in  Saryon's tumultuous  life,
for-although he  does not  say so-I  can see  his face  light when  he
speaks of it and I hear a sadness in his voice, as if regretting  that
such a  peaceful existence  could  not have  lasted until  middle  age
faded, like comfortable jeans, into  old age, from thence to  peaceful
eternal sleep.

    That was not to be, of course,  and that brings me to the  evening
that seems to me, looking back on  it, to be the first pearl to  slide
off the broken  string, the pearls  that were days  of Earth time  and
that would start falling  faster and faster from  that night on  until
there would be  no more  pearls left, only  the empty  string and  the
clasp that once held it together.  And those would be tossed away,  as
useless.

    Saryon and  I  were pottering  about  his flat  late  that  night,
putting on the teakettle, an act  which always reminded him-so he  was
telling me-of another  time when  he'd picked  up a  teakettle and  it
wasn't a teakettle. It was Simkin.

    We had just  finished listening  to the news  on the  radio. As  I
said, Saryon had not up until now been particularly interested in  the
news of what  was happening on  Earth, news which  he always felt  had
little to do with him. But this news appeared, unfortunately, to  have
more to do  with him  than he  or anyone else  wanted and  so he  paid
attention to it.

    The war with Hch'nyv  was not going  well. The mysterious  aliens,
who had appeared so suddenly,  with such deadly intent, had  conquered
yet another one  of our  colonies. Refugees, arriving  back on  Earth,
told terrible  tales  of the  destruction  of their  colony,  reported
innumerable casualties, and stated that  the Hch'nyv had no desire  to
negotiate. They had, in fact, slain  those sent to offer the  colony's
surrender.  The  objective   of  the  Hch'nyv   appeared  to  be   the
annihilation and eradication of every human in the galaxy.

    This was somber  news. We  were discussing  it when  I saw  Saryon
jump, as if he had been startled by some sudden noise, though I myself
heard nothing.

    "I must go to the front door," he said. "Someone's there."

    Saryon, who is reading the manuscript,  stops me at this point  to
tell me, somewhat testily, that I  should break here and elaborate  on
the story of  J or  am and  Simkin and the  Darksword or  no one  will
understand what is to come.

    I reply that if we backtrack  and drag our readers along that  old
trail with us (a trail most have walked themselves already!) we  would
likely lose more than a few along the way. I assure him that the  past
will unfold  as  we go  along.  I hint  gently  that I  am  a  skilled
journalist, with some experience in this  field. I remind him that  he
was fairly well satisfied  with the work I'd  done on the first  three
books, and I beg him to allow me to return to this story.

    Being essentially a  very humble  man, who  finds it  overwhelming
that his memoirs should be considered so important that Prince  Garald
had hired me to record them,  Saryon readily acknowledges my skill  in
this field and permits me to continue.

    "How odd," Saryon remarked. "I wonder who is here at this time  of
night?"

    I wondered  why they  did not  ring the  doorbell, as  any  normal
visitor would do. I indicated as much.

    "They have rung it,"  Saryon said softly. "In  my mind, if not  my
ears. Can't you hear it?"

    I could not, but this was not surprising. Having lived most of his
life in Thimhallan, he  was far more attuned  to the mysteries of  its
magicks than I,  who had  been only five  when Saryon  rescued me,  an
orphan, from the abandoned Font.

    Saryon had just lit the  flame beneath the teakettle,  preparatory
to heating water for a bedtime tisane which we both enjoyed and  which
he insisted on making for  me. He turned from  the kettle to stare  at
the door and,  like so  many of us,  instead of  going immediately  to
answer it or to look through the window to see who was there, he stood
in the  kitchen in  his  nightshirt and  slippers and  wondered  again
aloud.

    "Who could be wanting to see me at this time of night?"

    Hope's wings caused his  heart to flutter.  His face flushed  with
anticipation. I, who had served him so long, knew exactly what he  was
thinking.

    Many years ago (twenty years ago, to be precise, although I  doubt
if he himself had any concept of the passage of so much time),  Saryon
had said good-bye  to two  people he loved.  He had  neither seen  nor
heard from those two in all this time. He had no reason to think  that
he should ever hear from them  again, except that Joram had  promised,
when they parted, that when  his son was of  age, he should send  that
son to Saryon.

    Now, whenever the  doorbell rang  or the  knocker knocked,  Saryon
envisioned Joram's son standing on the doorstoop. Saryon pictured that
child with  his  father's  long,  curling  black  hair,  but  lacking,
hopefully, his father's red-black inner fire.

    The psychic demand for Saryon to go to the front door came  again,
this time with such a forceful intensity and impatience that I  myself
was aware of it-a startling sensation for me. Had the doorbell in fact
been sounding,  I could  envision the  person leaning  on the  button.
There were lights  on in  the kitchen, which  could be  seen from  the
street, and whoever was out there, mentally issuing us commands,  knew
that Saryon and I were home.

    Jolted out of his reverie  by the second command, Saryon  shouted,
"I'm coming," which statement had no  hope of being heard through  the
thick door that led from the kitchen.

    Retiring to his bedroom,  he grabbed his flannel  robe, put it  on
over his nightshirt.  I was  still dressed, having  never developed  a
liking for nightshirts.  He walked hastily  back through the  kitchen,
where I joined him. We went from there through the living room and out
of the living room into the  small entryway. He turned on the  outside
light, only to discover that it didn't work.

    "The bulb must have burned out," he said, irritated. "Turn on  the
hall light."

    I flipped the switch. It did not work either.

    Strange, that both bulbs should have chosen this time to burn out.

    "I don't  like  this,  Master,"  I  signed,  even  as  Saryon  was
unlocking the door, preparing to open it.

    I had tried many times to convince Saryon that, in this  dangerous
world, there might  be those who  would do him  harm, who would  break
into his house, rob and beat him, perhaps even murder him.  Thimhallan
may have had its  faults, but such sordid  crimes were unknown to  its
inhabitants, who feared centaurs and  giants, dragons and faeries  and
peasant revolts, not hoodlums and thugs and serial killers.

    "Look through the peephole," I admonished.

    "Nonsense," Saryon returned.  "It must be  Joram's child. And  how
could I see him through the peephole in the dark?"

    Picturing a baby in a basket on our doorstoop (he had, as I  said,
only the vaguest notion of time), Saryon flung open the door.

    We did not find a baby. What we saw was a shadow darker than night
standing on the doorstoop, blotting  out the lights of our  neighbors,
blotting out the light of the stars.

    The shadow coalesced  into a  person dressed in  black robes,  who
wore a black  cowl pulled up  over the head.  All I could  see of  the
person by the feeble  light reflected from the  kitchen far behind  me
were two white hands,  folded correctly in front  of the black  robes,
and two eyes, glittering.

    Saryon recoiled. He  pressed his  hand over his  heart, which  had
stopped fluttering, very nearly  stopped altogether. Fearful  memories
leapt out of the darkness brought  on us by the black-clothed  figure.
The fearful memories jumped on the catalyst. "Duuk-tsarith!" he  cried
through trembling  lips. Duuk-tsarith,  the dreaded  Enforcers of  the
world of  Thimhallan. On  our first  coming-under duress-to  this  new
world, where magic was diluted,  the Duuk-tsarith had lost almost  all
of their magical power. We had heard vague rumors to the effect  that,
over the past twenty  years, they had found  the means to regain  what
had been lost. Whether or not this was true, the Duuk-tsarith had lost
none of their ability to terrify.

    Saryon fell back into the entryway. He stumbled into me and, so  I
vaguely recollect, put his arm out as though he would protect me.  Me!
Who was supposed to protect him!

    He pressed me back against the wall of the small entryway, leaving
the door standing  wide open, with  no thought of  slamming it in  the
visitor's face, with no thought  of denying this dread visitor  entry.
This was one who would not be  denied. I knew that as well as  Saryon,
and though I did make an attempt to  put my own body in front of  that
of the middle-aged catalyst, I had no thought of doing battle.

    The Duuk-tsarith glided over the  threshold. With a brief  gesture
of his hand, he caused the door to swing silently shut behind him.  He
put back the cowl,  revealed his face, and  stared intently at  Saryon
for several seconds, almost as if expecting some response. Saryon  was
too flustered, too upset  to do anything except  stand on the  braided
rug and shiver and tremble.

    The Enforcer's gaze  shifted to  me, entered my  soul, caught  and
held fast to my  heart, so that  I feared if  I disobeyed, my  beating
heart would stop.

    The Duuk-tsarith  spoke.  "First, I  caution  you both  to  remain
silent. It is for your own protection. Do you understand?"

    The words were not spoken  aloud. They were fiery letters,  traced
across the back of my eyes.

    Saryon nodded. He didn't  understand what was  going on, any  more
than I did, but neither of us was going to argue.

    "Good," said the  Enforcer. "Now  I am  going to  perform a  magic
spell. Do not be alarmed. It will not harm you."

    The Duuk-tsarith spoke inaudible  words, that came  to me only  in
whispers. Fearfully,  not  terribly reassured  by  the  Duuk-tsarith's
promise, we stared around, waiting for the Almin knew what to happen.

    Nothing happened, at least that I could see. The Duuk-tsarith, his
finger on his  lips, again  to enjoin silence,  led the  way into  the
living room.  We shuffled  along  behind him,  keeping close  to  each
other. Once we were in the living room, the Enforcer pointed one long,
white finger.

    A painting hung on  the wall, a painting  which had been  acquired
along with the flat and which depicted  a pastoral scene of cows in  a
field. From behind that painting now glowed an eerie green light.

    The Duuk-tsarith pointed again, this  time to the phone. The  same
green light surrounded the phone.

    The Duuk-tsarith nodded to  himself, as if  he'd expected to  find
this phenomenon, whatever it  was. He didn't  bother to explain.  Once
again, and this  time emphatically,  he silently cautioned  us not  to
speak.

    And then the  Duuk-tsarith did  a most peculiar  thing. He  turned
with the calm repose of a guest who has been invited to remove his hat
and coat and stay to tea. Moving with quiet grace among the furniture,
the Enforcer  walked to  the window,  parted the  curtain a  minuscule
crack, and looked outside.

    I was overwhelmed by a series of fleeting impressions as my  brain
tried frantically to grapple with the strange occurrence. At first,  I
thought that  the  Duuk-tsarith was  signaling  reinforcements.  Logic
arrived to remark dryly that the apprehension of one elderly  catalyst
and his  scribe  would  hardly  call  for  a  SWAT  team.  That  first
impression was replaced by another.

    The Duuk-tsarith  was  looking  outside  to see  if  he  had  been
followed.

    Not knowing  what  else to  do  and,  by now,  more  curious  than
fearful, both Saryon and I stayed with the Duuk-tsarith in the  living
room. Through force of habit, I fumbled for the light switch.

    "You needn't bother. It will not work."

    The voice of the Duuk-tsarith inside my head was vibrant and  sent
a mild  shock  through  me, reminding  me  of  the first  time  I  had
encountered electricity on this strange world.

    "Don't move," the inner voice commanded.

    We remained standing in  the darkened living  room. I could  sense
Saryon shivering in his nightshirt, for  he'd turned the heat down  in
the flat and his thin robe was woefully inadequate. I was wondering if
I might be allowed to bring my master a sweater, when the Duuk-tsarith
spoke silently again. And though the words were not addressed to me, I
understood them.

    "You don't remember me, do you, Saryon?"

    Having had  many  encounters  with the  Duuk-tsarith-all  of  them
extremely unpleasant-Saryon later told me that he feared this must  be
one of the Enforcers  who had caught him  in the forbidden library  of
the Font, or maybe  even one who had  performed the Turning to  Stone,
that excruciatingly painful  punishment inflicted  on those  catalysts
who rebelled against the Church's  authority. Why one of these  people
should drop by Saryon's  house for a  chat in the  small hours of  the
night was beyond him. He could  only stare and stammer and whisper  to
me something to the effect that, if the person would permit us to turn
on the lights and let us see a face, such an act would aid recognition
considerably.

    "All will be made  clear soon enough," said  the Enforcer, and  it
seemed to me  that there was  a sad quality  to his words,  as if  the
man-it was a man, I had at last ascertained that much-was disappointed
that Saryon  had not  recognized him.  "Now, follow  my  instructions.
Return to the kitchen and prepare  your tea, as you normally do.  Take
the cup to your bedroom, as you  normally do, and lie down to read  to
this young man, as  you normally do. Don't  deviate from your  nightly
habits in even one instance, either of  you. You can be seen from  the
bedroom window. I do  not think that  I was followed,  but I can't  be
certain."

    This  last   sentence  was   not   conducive  to   relieving   our
apprehension. We did  as we  were commanded, however.  As a  catalyst,
Saryon was accustomed  to obedience, as  was I, having  been raised  a
servant in the royal household. In this case, it made no sense for  my
master to stand  around in  his nightshirt,  arguing. We  went to  the
kitchen.

    The Duuk-tsarith remained in the darkened living room, but I could
feel the man's  eyes on  me. It  was extremely  unnerving. Until  now,
neither Saryon  nor I  had  realized that  we had  developed  "nightly
habits." Consequently, when  this fact was  brought to our  attention,
and we were forced to think about what we did every night, we couldn't
remember doing any of it.

    "Don't think," came the voice of the Duuk-tsarith. "Let your  body
take over. When  you are  settled in your  bed, Father,  then we  will
talk."

    This was not  exactly the way  we would have  chosen to spend  our
evening, but we didn't  have much choice.  Saryon took the  Enforcer's
advice and tried not to think about  what he was doing. He turned  off
the kettle,  which had  been whistling  loudly, though  we'd been  too
distraught to notice. He poured the water, stirred the tea. I added to
it a plate  of digestible  biscuits. We tottered-tea  and biscuits  in
hand-off to his bedroom.

    The Duuk-tsarith glided along silently behind.

    Saryon, remembering the duties of a host, paused, turned, and held
up the teacup, asking in dumb show if his visitor would like to  share
our repast.

    "Keep moving!" The voice in my head was urgent. Then it added,  in
softer tones, "No, thank you."

    Saryon went to his small bedroom, where he placed the tea and  the
biscuits on the  nightstand beside  his bed.  I pulled  up the  chair.
Picking up the book, I found the  place where we had left off  reading
last night.

    Saryon climbed into bed and it was only when he was safely  tucked
beneath the sheets that he remembered he usually brushed his teeth  at
this point. He looked at  me, made a motion  of using a toothbrush.  I
shrugged my shoulders, helpless to advise or assist.

    Flustered, he  was  about to  mention  it to  the  Enforcer,  then
changed his mind.  Giving me  another glance, he  settled himself.  He
opened the book, and drank a sip of tea. I usually ate a biscuit,  but
at that  moment, due  to the  dryness  in my  mouth, I  couldn't  have
swallowed one and I feared I would choke.

    The Duuk-tsarith, watching us from the shadowed hallway,  appeared
satisfied. He  left  momentarily,  returned  with  a  chair  from  the
kitchen, and sat down in the  hall. Again came the whispered words  of
magic, and both Saryon and I looked about expectantly, wondering which
of the pictures on the wall was going to turn green.

    None did.

    "I believe," said the  silent voice, "that  you usually listen  to
music, do you not?"

    Of course! Saryon  had forgotten.  He switched on  the CD  player,
which was, as far as he was concerned, one of the most miraculous  and
wondrous devices of this technological world. Beautiful music-I recall
that it was Mozart-filled  the room. Saryon began  to read aloud  from
the book Right Ho, Jeeves by

    P. G. Wodehouse, one of our  favorite authors. We would have  been
quite content  had not  the shadowy  figure been  perched, like  Poe's
raven, in the hall.

    "It is now safe to talk," said the Duuk-tsarith, and this time  he
spoke the words aloud, albeit  in a low voice.  He drew the cowl  back
from his  face. "But  keep your  voice down.  I have  deactivated  the
devices of the D'karn-kair, but there may be others present of which I
am not aware."

    Now that we could talk, all the questions which had been  crowding
my mind fled. Not that  I could have spoken  them myself, but I  could
have let my master speak for me.  I could see that Saryon was in  much
the same state.

    He could only munch his biscuit, sip his tea, and stare. The  face
of the Duuk-tsarith was in the direct light and Saryon seemed to  find
something vaguely familiar about the  man. Saryon would later tell  me
that he did  not experience  the sensation of  overwhelming dread  one
usually feels in  the presence  of the  Enforcers. Indeed,  he felt  a
small thrill of pleasure at the sight of the man and, if he could only
have remembered who he was, knew that he would be glad to see him.

    "I'm sorry, sir." Saryon  faltered. "I know that  I know you,  but
between age and failing eyesight ..."

    The man smiled.

    "I am Mosiah," he said.

    CHAPTER TWO One by one, after each had been coldly rebuffed by the
strange, dark-haired  child, the  other  children let  Joram  severely
alone. But there was one among  them who persisted in his attempts  to
be friendly. This was Mosiah.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    I believe that Saryon would  have exclaimed aloud in  astonishment
and pleasure, but  he remembered in  time the injunction  to keep  our
voices down. He  started to rise  from his  bed to go  enfold his  old
friend in a  fond embrace,  but the  Duuk-tsarith shook  his head  and
motioned with  his  hand that  Saryon  was  to remain  where  he  was.
Although the bedroom  shades were  drawn, the light  was visible  from
outside and so was the catalyst's silhouette.

    Saryon could only stammer, "Mosiah ... I can't . . . I'm so sorry,
my dear boy . . . twenty years . . . I'm getting old, you see, and  my
memory . . . not to mention my eyesight . . ."

    "Don't apologize, Father,"  Mosiah said, falling  back on the  old
form of address, though it was hardly applicable now. "I have  changed
a lot, over the years. It is small wonder you did not recognize me."

    "Indeed you have changed," said  Saryon gravely, with a  sorrowful
glance at the black clothing of the Enforcer which Mosiah wore.

    Mosiah seemed surprised. "I thought  perhaps you might have  heard
that I had become one of the Duuk-tsarith. Prince Garald knew."

    "We rarely speak, the Prince  and I," said Saryon  apologetically.
"He felt it was best, for my own  safety, or so he was kind enough  to
say. Remaining in contact with me would have damaged him  politically.
I could see that clearly. It was the main reason I left the relocation
camp."

    And now  it was  Mosiah  who looked  sadly  upon Saryon,  and  the
catalyst who was stricken with confusion and guilt.

    "I ... deemed  it was  best," Saryon said,  flushing. "There  were
those who looked at  me ... if  they didn't blame  me, I brought  back
memories. . . ." His voice died away to silence.

    "There are those who say you abandoned them in return for favors,"
Mosiah said.

    I could  no longer  contain myself.  I made  a quick  and  violent
gesture with my hand,  to negate these cruel  words, for I could  tell
that they wounded my master.

    Mosiah looked wonderingly at me, not so much in astonishment  that
I did not speak-for he, as  an Enforcer, must already know  everything
there was to know about me, including  the fact that I was a  mute-but
that I was so quick to defend Saryon.

    "This is Reuven," said Saryon, introducing me.

    Mosiah nodded. As I said, he must have known all about me.

    "He is your secretary," Mosiah said.

    "That is what  he has me  call him," Saryon  said, glancing in  my
direction with a fond smile. "Though  it has always seemed to me  that
'son' would be the more appropriate term."

    I felt my skin burn  with pleasure, but I  only shook my head.  He
was dear as a father  to me, the Almin knows,  but I would never  take
such a liberty.

    "He is mute," Saryon  continued, explaining my affliction  without
embarrassment.

    Nor did I feel  any embarrassment myself.  The handicap which  one
has had a  lifetime seems  more normal than  not. As  I had  foreseen,
Mosiah had advance knowledge of this, as his next words proved.

    "Reuven was only a small  child when the Shattering"-the term  the
people of  Thimhallan now  use for  the destruction  of their  way  of
life-"occurred. He was left an orphan. Whatever happened to him was so
traumatizing that it bereft him  of speech. You found him,  critically
ill and  alone  in  the abandoned  Font.  He  was brought  up  in  the
household of Prince Garald, educated in the relocation camp, and  sent
to you by the Prince to record the story of the Darksword. I read it,"
Mosiah added, with a polite smile for me. "It was accurate, as far  as
it went."

    I am  used  to  receiving  mixed  compliments  for  my  work,  and
therefore I  made no  reply. It  is never  dignified to  defend  one's
creative endeavors. And I made allowances for the fact that Mosiah had
been one of the central participants.

    "As for my leaving the  relocation camp," Saryon said,  continuing
the  earlier  conversation,  "I  did  what  I  thought  was  best  for
everyone."

    His hand holding the teacup began  to shake. I rose, went to  him,
and removed the cup, placing it on the nightstand.

    "This house is quite nice," said Mosiah, glancing around, somewhat
coldly. "Your work in  the field of mathematics  and Reuven's work  in
literature have  made you  a  comfortable living.  Our people  in  the
relocation camps don't live as well as this-"

    "They could if they wanted to,"  Saryon said, with a flash of  the
old spirit.

    Knowing him as I do, and knowing his history, I guessed that  this
must be  the  same  driving spirit  which  led  him to  seek  out  the
forbidden books in the Font library. The same spirit that helped Joram
forge the Darksword. The same spirit that faced the Turning with  such
courage and kept his soul alive, though his flesh had been changed  to
rock.

    "No barbed wire surrounds those camps," Saryon said, speaking with
increasing passion. "The guards at the gates were placed there when we
first came to  keep out the  curious, not to  prevent our people  from
leaving. Those guards should have been  gone long ago, but our  people
begged for them to stay. Every  person in the camp could have  entered
into this new world and found his or her place.

    "But do they? No! They cling  to some hopeless dream of  returning
to Thimhallan, of going back there  to find-what? A land that is  dead
and blasted. Thimhallan  has not changed  since we left.  It will  not
change, no  matter  how much  we  wish for  it.  The magic  is  gone!"
Saryon's voice was soft and aching  and thrilling. "It is gone and  we
should accept that and go on."

    "The people of Earth do not like us," said Mosiah.

    "They like me!" Saryon said  crisply. "Of course, they don't  like
you. You  refuse to  mingle with  the 'mundane,  ' as  you call  them,
although many of them have as much magic in their bodies as you do  in
yours. Still, you shun them and isolate yourselves from them and it is
no wonder they look upon you with distrust and suspicion. It was  this
same pride and arrogance which brought about the collapse of our world
and put  us into  those relocation  camps,  and it  is our  pride  and
arrogance which keep us there!"

    Mosiah would have spoken, I think, but he could not do so  without
raising his voice to interrupt my  master, who, now conversing on  his
pet topic, was  on his soapbox-a  quaint term used  by the natives  of
this world.

    Indeed, Mosiah appeared moved by this speech. He did not reply, at
first, but remained seated in thought a short space of time.

    "What you say is true, Father," he said. "Or, rather, it was  true
at the beginning. We  should have left the  camp, gone forth into  the
world. But it was not pride which kept us behind those barricades.  It
was fear. Such  a strange  and terrifying world!  Oh, admittedly,  the
Earthers brought in their sociologists and their psychologists,  their
counselors and teachers to try to help  us 'fit in. ' But I am  afraid
that they did  more harm than  good. The  more they showed  us of  the
wonders of this world, the more our people shrank away from them.

    "Pride, yes, we had our share," he continued. "And not  misplaced.
Our world was beautiful. There was good in it." Mosiah leaned forward,
his elbows  resting on  his knees,  gazing earnestly  at Saryon.  "The
Earthers could not believe  in it, Father. Even  the soldiers who  had
been there had difficulty believing what they had seen with their  own
eyes! On their return, they were ridiculed, and so they began to doubt
their own senses, saying  that we drugged them,  made them see  things
that weren't there."

    Mosiah shrugged.  "The  'ologists' were  kind  and they  tried  to
understand, but it was beyond their  capacity to do so. Such an  alien
existence to them! When they looked at a young woman of twenty, to all
appearances healthy and normal-by their standards-who did nothing  all
day but lie in bed, they could not understand what was wrong with her.
When they  were  told  that she  was  lying  in bed  because  she  was
accustomed to floating through the air on wings of magic, that she had
never walked a step in her life and  had no idea how to walk, nor  any
inclination to do  so, now  that her magic  was gone,  they could  not
believe it.

    "Oh, yes, I know that they  appeared to accept it on the  surface.
All their medical  tests confirmed the  fact that the  girl had  never
walked. But deep inside,  in the inner core  of their being, they  did
not believe. It is like asking them to believe in the faeries of which
you wrote in your book, Reuven.

    "Do you  talk to  your neighbors  of your  visit to  the  faeries,
Father? Have  you  told  the woman  who  lives  next door,  who  is  a
secretary for a real-estate  broker, that you  were nearly seduced  by
the faerie queen?"

    Saryon's face was exceedingly red.  He stared down at the  sheets,
absently brushed  away  a  few  biscuit crumbs.  "Of  course  not.  It
wouldn't be fair of me  to expect her to  understand. Her world is  so
... dissimilar. . . ."

    "Your books."  Mosiah's penetrating  gaze shifted  to me.  "People
read them and enjoy them. But they don't believe the stories, do they?
They don't  believe that  such a  world ever  existed or  that such  a
person as Joram ever  lived. I have even  heard it suggested that  you
pretend to have this affliction of yours to avoid interviews,  because
you are afraid that you would be revealed as a fraud and a fake."

    Saryon glanced anxiously at  me, for he was  not aware that I  had
heard these accusations. He had gone  to great lengths to spare me.  I
therefore took care to indicate that they caused me no concern, which,
in truth, they did not,  for so long as my  work pleased one man,  and
that my master, I cared nothing for what others thought.

    "And herein was created a  strange dichotomy," said Mosiah.  "They
do not believe us, they do not understand us, and yet they are  afraid
of us. They are afraid that we will regain powers they do not  believe
we possessed in the first place.  They try to prove to themselves  and
to us that such power never existed. What they fear, they destroy.  Or
try to."

    An uncomfortable  silence  fell  between us.  Saryon  blinked  and
attempted to stifle a yawn.

    "It is your normal time  to retire," Mosiah said, suddenly  coming
back to the present. "Do so. Keep to your routine."

    It was my custom to bid my master good night and go to my room, to
spend some time writing before  I, too, went to  bed. I did so,  going
upstairs and turning on the light.  Then I crept back down the  stairs
in the darkness. Mosiah did not  look particularly pleased to see  me,
but I think he knew that nothing short of my death would keep me  from
my master's side.

    Saryon's room was now dark. We sat in the darkness, which was not,
after all, very  dark, due  a street  lamp right  outside the  window.
Mosiah drew his chair closer to  Saryon's bed. The CD player  remained
on, for it was  Saryon's habit to  fall asleep to  music. It was  much
past his usual hour for retiring,  but he stubbornly refused to  admit
he was tired. Curiosity  kept him awake and  fighting his body's  need
for rest. I know because I felt the same.

    "Forgive me, Father," said Mosiah at  last. "I did not mean to  be
drawn down that  old road, which,  in truth, has  long been  overgrown
with weeds and now leads nowhere. Twenty years have passed. That young
girl of twenty is now a matron of forty. She learned to walk,  learned
to do for herself what had previously been done for her by magic.  She
learned to live in  this world. Perhaps she  has even come to  believe
something of what the mundanes tell  her. Thimhallan is nothing but  a
charming memory to her, a  world more real in  her dreams than in  her
waking life. And if, at first, she chose to cling to the hope that she
would return to that  enchanted world of  such miraculous beauty,  who
can blame her?"

    "A world of  beauty, yes,"  said Saryon, "but  there was  ugliness
there, too. Ugliness made more hideous by being denied."

    "The ugliness was  in the  hearts of men  and women,  was it  not,
Father?" Mosiah asked. "Not in the world itself."

    "True, very true," Saryon said,  and he sighed. "And the  ugliness
lives still," Mosiah continued, and there came a change in his tone, a
tension, which caused both  my master and me  to glance at each  other
and brace ourselves, for we each felt that a blow was coming.

    "You have not been back to the camps for many years," Mosiah  said
abruptly.

    Saryon shook his head.

    "You have not been in contact  with Prince Garald or anyone  else?
You truly know nothing of what has been going on with our people?"

    Saryon looked ashamed,  but he was  forced to shake  his head.  At
that moment I would have  given all I own to  be able to talk, for  it
seemed to me that there was  accusation in Mosiah's tone, and I  would
have spoken most vehemently in my master's defense. As it was,  Saryon
heard me stir in restless anger. He set his hand on mine and patted it
gently, counseling patience.

    Mosiah was silent, wondering, perhaps, how to begin. At length  he
said, "You maintain that our people could leave the camps of their own
free will, as you did. In the beginning, that might have been true. It
is not true now.

    "The guards of the mundane left us years ago. To give them credit,
they fought to  protect us, as  they were ordered,  but they were  not
equal to the task. After several  had died and more had deserted,  the
army pulled out. The guards of the mundane were replaced-by our own."

    "Fought against  whom? Who  attacked you?  I've heard  nothing  of
this!" Saryon protested.  "Forgive me  for doubting  you, Mosiah,  but
surely, if such dreadful things  were happening, journalists from  all
over the world would have descended on the camp."

    "They  did,  Father.  The  Khandic   Sages  spoke  to  them.   The
journalists believed the lie-they could  not help themselves, for  the
Khandic Sages coat all their bitter lies with the sweet honey of their
magic."

    "Khandic Sages!  Who are  they?"  Saryon was  bewildered,  shocked
beyond coherent speech. "And Prince Garald .  . . How could he ...  He
would have never allowed ..."

    "Prince Garald is  a prisoner, held  hostage by his  love for  his
people."

    "A prisoner!" Saryon gaped. "Of ... of the mundanes?"

    "No, not of the mundanes. And not of us Enforcers, either," Mosiah
added, with another  slight smile, "for  I see that  question in  your
mind."

    "Then of whom? Or what?" Saryon asked.

    "They  call  themselves  T'kon-Duuk.   In  the  language  of   the
mundanes-Technomancers. They give  Life to  that which  is Dead.  Most
horribly"-Mosiah's voice lowered-"they  draw Life from  that which  is
dead. The power of  their magic does not  come from living things,  as
was true  in Thimhallan,  but from  the death  of the  living. Do  you
remember the man who  called himself Menju the  Sorcerer? The man  who
sought to murder Joram?"

    Saryon shuddered. "Yes," he said in a low voice.

    "He was one of them. I know  them well," Mosiah added. "I used  to
be one of them myself."

    Saryon stared  aghast, unable  to  speak. It  was left  to  me-the
mute-to communicate. I made a gesture, pointing from Mosiah to  Saryon
and myself, asking in dumb  show why Mosiah had  come to us with  this
information now, at this time,  and what this all  had to do with  us.
And either he  understood my  gesture or he  read the  question in  my
mind.

    "I have come," he said, "because they are coming. Their leader,  a
Khandic Sage known as Kevon Smythe, is coming tomorrow to talk to you,
Father. The Duuk-tsarith chose me to  warn you, knowing that I am  the
only one of that order you would trust."

    "The Duuk-tsarith," Saryon murmured, perplexed. "I am to trust the
Duuk-tsarith and so they send Mosiah, who  is now one of them and  who
used to be a Technomancer. Technomancy. Life from death."

    Then Saryon looked up. "Why me?" he asked. But he knew the answer,
as well as I did.

    "Joram," Mosiah replied.  "They want  Joram. Or  perhaps I  should
say, they want the Darksword."

    Saryon's mouth  twitched.  I  realized then  the  subtlety  of  my
master, one might almost  say cunning, if a  man as gentle and  honest
could be accused of  such a thing.  Though he had  not known the  news
Mosiah had imparted, Saryon  had known from the  outset that this  was
why Mosiah had come, and  yet my master had  not mentioned it. He  had
been stalling, gaining information. I regarded him in admiration.

    "I am sorry, Mosiah,"  said Saryon, "but you  and King Garald  and
this Kevon Smythe and apparently a great many other people have wasted
your time. I cannot take  you to Joram and  Joram cannot give you  the
Darksword. The circumstances are all detailed in Reuven's book."

    Saryon shrugged.  "The  Darksword  no longer  exists.  When  Joram
thrust the  sword  into  the  altar  in  the  Temple,  the  sword  was
destroyed. Joram could not give you the sword if he wanted to."

    Mosiah did not appear astonished or chagrined; nor did he rise  to
his feet and apologize for having disturbed us over nothing.

    "A Darksword exists, Father. Not  the original. That, as you  say,
was destroyed. Joram has forged a new one. We know the truth of  this,
because an attempt was made to steal it."

    CHAPTER THREE This is what the Duuk-tsarith are trained for-to  be
aware of  everything  going  on  around them,  to  be  in  control  of
everything, yet manage to keep themselves above and apart from it.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    Saryon was angry. His  hand clenched, his  anger flickered in  his
eyes. "You had no right! If Joram did forge a new sword, it must  have
been because he felt threatened. Was King Garald behind this? His  own
law clearly forbids-"

    "What  care  do  they  have  for  the  law?"  Mosiah   interrupted
impatiently. "They know no laws but their own."

    "They?"

    "The Technomancers.  Don't you  understand yet,  Father?"  Slowly,
Saryon's hand unclenched. Fear replaced his anger. "Is Joram safe?  He
was supposed to send the boy to me to be educated. I've heard  nothing
and I feared-"

    "Joram is alive, Father," Mosiah  said, smiling slightly. "And  he
is well and so is Gwendolyn. As for Joram not sending his son to  you,
he did not do so because he and  Gwen did not have a son. They have  a
daughter. His only child, she is precious in his sight. He is loath to
send such a jewel  to this world-and  I can't say  that I blame  him."
Mosiah sighed.

    "How do you know this?" Saryon demanded, his voice sharp. "You are
spying on him!"

    "Protecting him, Father," said Mosiah softly. "Protecting him.  He
doesn't know of  our watchfulness.  He doesn't suspect.  How could  he
know, who has no magic Life within him? We are careful not to  disturb
him or his family. Unlike others.

    "Just  recently,  an  arm  of  the  Technomancers  known  as   the
D'karn-darah defied the law which prohibits any person from  traveling
to  Thimhallan.  They  had  read  Reuven's  book"-he  gave  me  a  wry
smile-"and they went to the altar at the Temple of the Necromancers to
try to recover the Darksword. They found what one might have expected.
As you know, Father, the altar itself was made of darkstone. The sword
had fused with the stone.

    "The Technomancers used every device known  to man to try to  free
the  sword,  from  the  most  sophisticated  laser  cutting  tools  to
old-fashioned blowtorches. They attempted to cut the altar itself into
pieces, to  haul it  back to  their laboratories.  They did  not  even
scratch its surface."

    Saryon appeared relieved. "Good." He nodded. "Excellent. Thank the
Almin."

    "Don't be  so  quick to  thank  Him, yet,  Father,"  Mosiah  said.
"Failing to  make a  dent  in the  altar,  the Technomancers  went  to
Joram."

    "They were wasting their time. He would have been furious," Saryon
predicted.

    Mosiah's smile twisted.  "He was  furious. The  Khandic Sages  had
never seen such  fury. His  anger astonished  them, and  they are  not
easily astonished. Kevon  Smythe himself talked  to Joram, though  now
Smythe denies that he did so. He thought to win Joram with his  charm,
but, as you  know, Father, our  friend is not  easily charmed.  Smythe
offered Joram vast wealth, power,  whatever he wanted in exchange  for
the location  of  raw darkstone  and  the  secret of  the  forging  of
Darkswords.

    "Smythe  barely  escaped  with  his  life.  Joram  threw   Smythe-
literally picked him up and threw him-out the door and warned him that
the next time he returned he could count his life as nothing. By  this
time, the Border Patrol had arrived.  You ask what took them so  long?
How the Technomancers evaded their defenses? Easily. Several of  their
own had managed to get themselves assigned to the duty. They shut down
the alarm  signals,  permitted  their brethren  to  cross  the  Border
without notice.

    "When the  Border Patrol  arrived, they  escorted Smythe  and  his
followers off-planet. To our  relief, the Technomancers lost  interest
in the  Darksword after  that. Their  scientists studied  the  reports
brought back  from  Thimhallan and  made  the determination  that  the
original sword  could never  be  removed from  the  altar and  it  was
therefore useless  to them.  Without Joram's  assistance, and  without
permission to  take teams  of  workers to  Thimhallan-permission  that
would never  be granted-the  search  for raw  darkstone would  be  too
difficult and too costly to undertake.

    "King Garald  hoped that  this incident  would be  an end  of  the
Technomancers' desire  for  the  Darksword and  it  might  have  been,
Father, except that Joram did a very foolish thing."

    Saryon looked as  pained and  unhappy as  if he  himself had  been
responsible for Joram's behavior. "He forged a new sword."

    "Precisely. We are not certain how. Smythe's visit had made  Joram
suspicious and paranoid-"

    "Made him feel as if he were being watched," Saryon interrupted.

    Mosiah paused a moment, then slightly smiled. "I have never  known
you to be sarcastic,  Father. Very well. I  grant that Joram had  some
basis for his  feelings. But if  he had  only gone to  King Garald  or
General Boris  instead of  trying  to fight  the  whole world  all  by
himself!"

    "Battling life alone was always Joram's way," Saryon said, and his
voice was  filled with  affectionate  sorrow and  understanding.  "His
blood is that of  Emperors. He comes  from a long  line of rulers  who
held the fate of nations  in their hands. To ask  for help would be  a
sign of weakness. You recall the effort it took him to ask me to  help
him create the Darksword. He was-"

    Saryon paused. I had been wondering when this would occur to him.

    "Joram could not have forged a Darksword," he said excitedly. "Not
without a  catalyst. I  drew Life  from the  world, gave  Life to  the
Darksword, which in turn used that  Life to drain Life from those  who
possessed it."

    "He didn't need  you to forge  the sword itself,  Father. He  only
needed you to enhance its abilities."

    "But without a catalyst to do that, the sword is no more dangerous
than any other sword. Why would the Technomancers still want it?"

    "Consider the  number  of  catalysts  among  our  people,  Father.
Catalysts living in poverty in the relocation camps, who would be more
than willing to  exchange their gifts  for the promise  of wealth  and
power from the Technomancers. Though  the corrupt Bishop Vanya is  now
dead, his legacy lives on among some of his followers."

    "Yes, I can see how that  could be true," said Saryon sadly.  "How
did Joram manage to escape the  watchful eye of the Duuk-tsarith  long
enough to forge the sword?"

    Mosiah shrugged  and spread  his hands.  "Who knows?  Such a  feat
would be relatively  simple, especially if  he had an  amulet made  of
darkstone. Or, for all we know, he forged this sword years ago, before
we began  to  keep  watch.  None of  that  matters  now,  however.  We
attempted  to  keep  word  of  this  new  Darksword  secret,  but  the
Technomancers found out. Their interest has been rekindled."

    "Are Joram and his family in danger?" Saryon asked anxiously.

    "Not for  the  moment,  mainly  because  of  the  efforts  of  the
Duuk-tsarith. Ironic, isn't it, Father. Those who once sought  Joram's
death now risk death themselves to guard his life."

    "You?" Saryon asked. "You're risking death?"

    "Yes,"  Mosiah  replied,  very  calmly.  He  gestured  around  the
darkened room. "Thus the reason for these precautions. The  T'kon-Duuk
are eager to get their hands on me. I know too many of their  secrets,
you see, Father. I am a great danger to them. I have come to warn  you
of them, of the  techniques they will  try to use  to persuade you  to
take them with you to Joram-"

    Saryon raised a  hand to  halt the  flow of  words. Mosiah  ceased
speaking instantly,  with a  quiet respect  for the  elderly  catalyst
which did much to increase his favor with me. I could never trust  him
completely, not while he  wore the black robes  of the Enforcers.  The
Duuk-tsarith never worked for  just one end.  They worked for  several
and sought to gain the middle into the bargain.

    "I will not  go," Saryon  said firmly. "Have  no fear  of that.  I
would be of  no use.  I don't  know what you  or they  or anyone  else
thinks I could do."

    "Joram respects and  trusts you, Father.  Your influence with  him
is-" Mosiah broke off.

    He was staring at me. They were  both staring at me. I had made  a
noise. It must, I realize,  have sounded very strange-a guttural  sort
of croak in my throat. I made a signal to my master.

    "Reuven says that there is something out there," Saryon said.

    The words  had  not  yet  left Saryon's  lips  before  Mosiah  was
standing next  to me.  This sudden  movement of  his was  at least  as
startling as the apparition I thought  I had seen outside the  window.
One moment he  was across the  room from me,  sitting in the  darkened
hallway, and  the next  instant he  was by  my side,  peering out  the
window. In his  fluid, silent  motion, he  was one  with the  shadows.
Imagine my astonishment when, glancing back at my master to be certain
he was all right, I caught a glimpse of Mosiah, seated in his chair!

    I realized, then, that the Enforcer next to me was  insubstantial.
Mosiah's shadow,  so to  speak, had  been  sent on  an errand  by  its
master.

    "What did you see? Tell  me! Immediately!" he demanded. The  words
blazed in my mind.

    I signaled with my hands. Saryon translated.

    "Reuven says he thinks he saw a person dressed all in silver-"

    Mosiah-the Mosiah seated in the chair-was on his feet. His  shadow
had returned to its body.

    "They are here," he  said. "The D'karn-darah. Blood-doom  knights.
Either they followed  me or they  have come for  their own reasons.  I
fear it is the latter. You are not safe here, either of you. You  must
come with me. Now!"

    "We're not dressed!" Saryon protested.

    It must be a very real  and present danger which sends an  elderly
man dashing out into the cold winter night clad only in his nightshirt
and bedslippers.

    "You don't need to be," Mosiah replied. "Your bodies aren't  going
anywhere, except  to  bed.  Follow my  instructions  exactly.  Father,
remain where you are. Reuven, go upstairs to your room and climb  into
your bed."

    I was not happy at the thought of leaving my master, though what I
could have done  against the  power of  the Duuk-tsarith  was open  to
question. Saryon indicated with a nod that we were to obey Mosiah  and
that is what I did. I urged Mosiah  to care for my master and left  to
go upstairs to my small room.

    Saryon always waited until he heard  me in the bedroom, which  was
on the  level above  his,  before turning  out the  downstairs  light.
Tonight was the exception since his  light was already off. As I  have
said,  it  was  usually  my  practice  to  spend  some  time  writing,
but-acting on  Mosiah's orders-I  abandoned  this custom  and  retired
immediately to my bed. I turned out my light and the house was dark.

    Lying alone in the darkness, I began  to be afraid. It is easy  to
frighten oneself at this time  of night. I recalled childhood  terrors
of monsters lurking in the closet. The fear I experienced could not be
banished by a flashlight, however.  I wondered why I was  experiencing
this feeling of dread  and I realized it  was because I felt  Mosiah's
fear.

    Whatever is out there in the night must be terrible, I thought, to
have frightened someone as powerful as the Duuk-tsarith.

    I lay in my  bed, ears stretched to  catch every sound. The  night
had its usual noises, I suppose, but they were all alarming to me, who
had never before paid them much heed. The bark of a dog, the whine and
snarl of fighting cats, a lone  automobile traveling up the street.  I
invested these with  such sinister meanings  that when Mosiah's  words
again lit up my mind, I was so startled that my shudder shook the  bed
frame.

    "Come to me," said Mosiah. "Not your body. Leave that behind.  Let
your soul rise from its shell and walk with me."

    I had no idea what the man was talking about.

    I think  I would  have laughed-in  fact, I  am afraid  that I  did
giggle, perhaps  from  nervous tension-except  that  I felt  his  dire
urgency. Bewildered, I lay in my bed, wondering what I was supposed to
do, wondering if my master knew what to do. Mosiah-or perhaps I should
say the "shadow" of Mosiah-took form in the darkness, standing at  the
foot of the bed.

    He held out his hand  to me. "It is  quite simple," he said.  "You
are coming with me. Your body is staying behind. My body is downstairs
right now. Yet here I stand before you. Picture yourself rising up out
of bed and walking with me. You  are a writer. You must have  traveled
like this in your imagination many times. When I read your description
of Merilon, I could see it again in my mind, it was so vivid. You  are
a professional day-dreamer, one might say. Simply concentrate a little
bit more."

    And when  I did  not immediately  move, Mosiah's  tone  sharpened.
"Saryon will not leave without you. You are putting him in danger."

    He knew  that would  rouse me.  It would  have roused  me from  my
grave. I closed my eyes and imagined myself rising up from my bed  and
joining Mosiah. At first, nothing happened. I was in such a flutter of
excitement and fear that it was difficult to concentrate.

    "Relax," Mosiah said softly,  hypnotically. "Relax and slough  off
the heaviness of the body that weighs you down."

    His words no longer burned in my mind, but seemed to flow  through
it like running water. I found myself relaxing, letting the water  run
over me. My body did, in fact, feel very heavy, so heavy that I knew I
could not lift it.  And yet, there  was the imperative  that I had  to
leave] I stood  up and I  walked over  to join Mosiah.  When I  looked
back, I was not  surprised to see  the heavy body  still lying in  the
bed, slumbering soundly, to all appearances.

    My fears were forgotten in my wonder and awe.

    I started to move toward the  door, thinking to go through it  and
down the  stairs to  my master's  bedroom, as  I was  accustomed,  but
Mosiah stopped me.

    "You are no  longer constrained  by physical  barriers, Reuven.  A
thought will take you to Saryon."

    And he  spoke truly.  The moment  I thought  about being  with  my
master, I was there beside him. At the sight of me, Saryon smiled  and
nodded and  then, hesitantly,  as  if having  to relearn  skills  long
forgotten, his soul left his body.

    I was not surprised to see his spirit suffused with a soft radiant
white glow; a distinct contrast to Mosiah, whose spirit seemed cloaked
with the same black robes his body wore.

    My master  was pained  by this,  as  I could  tell. And  so  could
Mosiah.

    "Once-you remember, Father-my soul was bright and crystal clear as
Reuven's. The dark  and terrible things  I have seen  since have  left
their mark upon me. But we must hurry. They will wait only until  they
think you are asleep. Don't be afraid, I will not let them harm either
of you."

    Mosiah's soul slid back  into its body. He  spoke a word,  reached
out with his hand as if to some invisible door, pushed on nothing, and
walked inside.

    "Hurry!" he commanded. "Follow me."

    The mind thinks of the strangest things at the most  inappropriate
times. I remembered, suddenly,  a television cartoon I  had seen as  a
child, in which  the character-perhaps  a rabbit,  I'm not  certain-is
being chased through the forest by a hunter with a gun. The rabbit  is
cornered, apparently, until  he opens  a hole in  the cartoon,  crawls
inside, and pulls the hole in after him, leaving the hunter  extremely
befuddled.

    Mosiah had done the very same thing.  He had opened a hole in  our
bedroom and was urging us to crawl inside!

    Saryon, having lived for many, many years in the magical world  of
Thimhallan, was  much more  accustomed to  such arcane  manifestations
than I was. He  immediately entered the hole,  then beckoned to me  to
follow. I started to cross the room, remembered that I didn't have  to
rely on my feet, and wished myself at my master's side.

    I was in the hole. The hole  closed behind me and formed a  bubble
around us, holding us  suspended in the  air, floating somewhere  near
the ceiling of Saryon's bedroom.

    "A Corridor?" Saryon asked, amazed. "Here on Earth?"

    I  must  mention,  by  the  way,  that  we  did  not  speak,   but
communicated mind to mind. And it occurred to me that, in this  spirit
realm, I was no longer mute. I could talk and be heard. The  knowledge
filled me with such  trembling joy and terrible  confusion that I  was
immediately rendered more silent than I had ever been in the  physical
realm.

    "Not as you mean it, Father. Not a Corridor in time and space such
as we had on Thimhallan," Mosiah replied. "That skill has been lost to
us, and we have not  regained it. But we do  have the ability to  slip
inside one of time's folds."

    I must try to explain the sensation of being hidden in a "fold" of
time, as Mosiah called it. The only way I can put this is to say  that
it was very much like hiding behind the folds of a heavy curtain. And,
in fact, I  began to  feel an  almost smothering  constraint upon  me,
which is caused by,  so I learned later,  the knowledge that time  was
passing for my body and I-the spirit- was standing still.

    The sensation is not as bad, I understand, for those who enter the
fold with both mind and body, for one has only to step out again to be
caught up  in time's  flow. But,  despite the  fact that  my body  was
slumbering, I began to  feel a panic  inside me akin  to that felt  by
someone fearing he may  miss the last train  home. The train-i.e.,  my
body-was moving on ahead, and I was running frantically to catch up. I
think I would have  attempted to escape, then  and there, but I  would
not leave Saryon.

    I found out later  that he felt  the same, but  that he would  not
leave because  of me.  We  laughed over  that,  but our  laughter  was
hollow.

    "Shh, hush! Look!" Mosiah cautioned.

    He did not silence us so that  we would not be heard-for that  was
not possible, not even  for the D'karn-darah. He  silenced us that  we
might hear them. What we heard and what we saw chilled us.

    Though we could move through  physical barriers, we could not  see
through them. Trapped inside time's fold, we could not move to another
part of the house or see what was transpiring in any other part of the
house except Saryon's bedroom. My  hearing is acute, however, and  the
nervous tension I was under accentuated it. I heard a slight  clicking
sound, which was  our front-door  lock giving  way. The  creak of  the
door's hinges (which Saryon had been asking me to oil) meant that  the
front door was being stealthily opened.  At the same time I heard  the
snick of  the lock  of the  back door,  heard the  door itself  scrape
across the mud rug which we had placed at the entrance.

    Whoever had been out there had entered the house by the front  and
by the back. But try as I might,  I could not hear them moving at  all
through the front part of  the house. One of  them was in the  bedroom
before I was fully aware of his coming.

    He was clad all in paper-thin silver robes that clung to his  body
and crackled  faintly as  he moved,  occasionally emitting  tiny  blue
sparks, like the fur of a cat in the darkness. His face was  plastered
with  the  same  paper-thin  silver,  so  that  only  the  outline  of
features-a nose  and mouth-were  visible.  Silver fabric  covered  his
hands and feet like a second skin.

    He stood  in the  bedroom and  Mosiah, with  a whispered  thought,
called our  attention to  a strange  phenomenon. The  machines in  the
bedroom knew the D'karn-darah was there. The machines responded to his
coming.

    The machines' response was not overt or dramatic. I would not have
noticed it, except for Mosiah's mention. The bedroom's overhead light,
which had, of course,  been turned off, flickered  on. A faint hum  of
music came  from the  compact-disc  player. The  reading lamp  gave  a
feeble gleam.

    The D'karn-darah ignored all this and went immediately to Saryon's
body, which continued to  sleep soundly. He  put out a  silver-covered
hand and shook the catalyst by the shoulder.

    "Saryon!" he said loudly.

    Beside me, I could  feel Saryon's spirit  shiver. I was  thankful,
then, for Mosiah's arrival  and his timely warning.  If my master  had
been wakened in the night and seen such a horrific sight bending  over
him, he might never have recovered from the shock.

    At that moment I heard a female voice say "Reuven!" loudly. I felt
a slight brushing sensation across my  shoulder. Then I knew that  the
second person, the one who had entered  by the back door, had gone  to
my room. She was standing over my body.

    The D'karn-darah shook  Saryon again, more  forcibly, turning  the
sleeping body over  in the bed.  "Saryon!" the man  repeated, and  his
voice was harsh.

    I trembled, for I was afraid he would do Saryon some harm.  Mosiah
again reassured both of us.

    "They will not  hurt you," he  repeated. "They do  not dare.  They
know you may be of use to them."

    The one  who  had  been  in  my  room  now  appeared  in  Saryon's
bedchamber.

    "Same thing?" she asked.

    "Yes," answered  the  D'karn-darah  who stood  beside  my  master.
"Their souls have fled. They were alerted to our coming."

    "Duuk-tsarith."

    "Of course. Undoubtedly  the one named  Mosiah, that Enforcer  who
was once the catalyst's friend."

    "You were right, then. You said we would find him here."

    "He has been  here. He is  probably still here,  hiding in one  of
their cursed time folds, no doubt. And the other two are probably with
him right now.  Very possibly"-the man's  silver faceless face  turned
and gazed  around  the  bedroom-"they  are listening  to  us  at  this
moment."

    "Then it  is  simple. Torture  the  body. Pain  will  cause  their
spirits to return. They will be only too glad, after a while, to  tell
us where to find the Enforcer."

    The female D'karn-darah raised her hand, and where before had been
five fingers were now  five long steel  needles. Electricity began  to
arc from  one to  another.  She reached  the  hand with  the  horribly
crackling needles toward Saryon's defenseless form.

    Her partner halted her, his own hand closing around her wrist.

    "The Khandic  Sages  will  be here  tomorrow,  working  their  own
methods of persuasion. They would know that we had been here and  they
would not be pleased."

    "They know that  we are hunting  this Enforcer. They  want him  as
much as we do."

    "Yes, but they want this catalyst more." The D'karn-darah  sounded
irritated. "Very well, we will leave him to them. A pity we could  not
have arrived a few moments sooner. We would have been able to  capture
the Duuk-tsarith. As it is, our meeting is only delayed, Enforcer!" He
spoke to the air. "And, you, Catalyst." The silver face turned  toward
the figure in the bed. "I leave this, my . . . business card."

    He opened the  palm of  his gloved  hand, reached  into his  other
palm, gave  a twist,  freeing some  object-I could  not see  what.  He
tossed that object onto  the bed, at the  feet of Saryon's  slumbering
figure. Then the two of them left  the bedroom, left the house by  the
back door.

    At their departure, the machines in the house returned to  normal.
The lights went off, the CD player ceased to play.

    We waited, hidden, for some time, to make certain the D'karn-darah
were gone and that this  was no trick to lure  us out of hiding.  When
Mosiah permitted us to return, my spirit drifted back to find my body.
I looked down upon myself.

    This was much different than looking into a mirror, for the mirror
shows us  what we  see every  day, what  we have  grown accustomed  to
seeing. Before now,  I had never  seen myself with  such clarity.  And
though I was eager  to return to  Saryon and had  questions to ask  of
Mosiah, I was so entranced by this  ability to see myself as a  casual
observer might see me that I took a few moments to do just that.

    Physical attributes I knew well.  The mirror shows us these.  Fair
hair, worn long, that someone in my childhood once called "corn silk."
Brown eyes beneath eyebrows that I  did not like. They were thick  and
dark brown, in stark contrast to my fair hair, and gave me a grave and
overly serious aspect.  The features of  my face tended  to be  sharp,
with prominent  cheekbones and  a nose  that was  called aquiline.  It
would grow beaky as I aged.

    Being young, my  body was  lithe, although  certainly not  strong.
Exercise of the mind suited me far better than running very fast on  a
machine that took me nowhere. Yet now I looked at those thin hands and
spindly arms  with disfavor.  If Saryon  was in  danger, how  could  I
defend him?

    I found that  I did not  have the  leisure to spend  long on  this
inspection. The nearer my spirit drew  to my body, the more it  longed
to return, and I had the impression that I dove down to my body from a
great height. I awoke, shaking, stomach clenching, as one does from  a
falling dream.  And I  have  wondered, ever  since, if  perhaps  those
dreams aren't really the first tentative journeys our spirits make.

    I sat up in my bed, shaking  off the feelings of sleep that  clung
to my body. Hurriedly  grabbing my robe, I  wrapped it around  myself,
and switching on the hall light, hastened down the stairs. Light  came
from Saryon's bedroom. I found my master, looking as groggy as I felt,
staring at  the  object  which  the D'karn-darah  had  left  upon  the
blanket.

    "It will not harm you," Mosiah  was saying as I entered. "You  may
pick it up, if you like."

    "I will do so, sir," I  signed, and swooped down upon the  object,
gathering it into my hand before Saryon could touch it.

    Mosiah watched  me  with  a  slight smile,  which  was,  I  think,
approving. Saryon just shook his head with fond exasperation.

    When I  was certain  that the  object was  benign, not  likely  to
explode or  burst  into  flame  or-I  don't  know  what  I'd  expected
exactly-I opened my hand and held it out. Saryon and I peered down  on
it wonderingly.

    "What is it?" he asked, puzzled.

    "Death," said Mosiah.

    CHAPTER FOUR

    Like a Living being, the sword sucked the magic from him,  drained
him dry, then used him to continue to absorb magic from all around it.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD  Death!" Saryon tried  to snatch the  object
from me,  but I  was too  quick for  him. I  clasped my  hand over  it
tightly.

    "I do not  mean for any  of us,  here and now,"  Mosiah said.  His
voice held a note of gentle rebuke. "I would not have allowed this  to
remain in this room if it had been dangerous."

    Saryon and I exchanged glances, both considerably ashamed.

    "Of course, Mosiah," Saryon  said. "Forgive me-forgive us-for  not
trusting you. . . . It's  just ... it has all  been so strange. . .  .
Those dreadful people.  . . ."  He shivered and  drew his robe  closer
around his tall, spare form.

    "Who were they?" I gestured. "And what is this?"

    I opened my palm. In it lay a round medallion about two inches  in
diameter made  of very  hard, heavy  plastic. The  medallion had  what
appeared to be a  sort of magnet  on the back. One  side was clear.  I
could see  inside and  what I  saw was  very strange.  Encased in  the
medallion was some sort of bluish-green, thick, and viscous sludge. As
I held the medallion in my  hand the sludge began undulating,  surging
against the sides of the medallion, as if it were trying to escape. It
was not a pleasant sight and made me feel queasy to watch it.

    I was loath to hold on to the medallion longer and I fidgeted with
it in my hand.

    "It ...  it looks  as if  it's alive!"  Saryon said,  frowning  in
disgust.

    "They are,"  Mosiah  answered.  "Or rather  they  were.  Most  are
already dead, which  is why the  D'karn-darah gave this  up. The  rest
will be dead shortly."

    "The rest of what! What's trapped in there?" Saryon was  horrified
and looked about vaguely,  as if for something  he could use to  crack
the medallion open.

    "I will  explain in  a moment.  I  am first  going to  remove  the
listening devices which  the D'karn-darah placed  in your living  room
and in the phone. They made  their presence known. There is no  longer
any reason to keep up the pretense."

    He left the  room, returned  a moment  later. "There.  Now we  may
speak freely."

    I handed over the medallion, thankful to be rid of it.

    "A very elemental organism," Mosiah said, holding it to the light.
"A sort of organic soup, if you will. Single-celled creatures, who are
born and bred by the Technomancers for one purpose- to die."

    "How terrible!" said Saryon, shocked.

    "But not much different from calves," I pointed out, "who are born
only to become veal."

    "Perhaps," Saryon said with a smile and a shake of his head.

    The only disagreements-I can't even call them arguments- he and  I
have ever had have been over the fact that I am a vegetarian, while he
enjoys a bit of chicken  or beef on occasion.  Early in my arrival,  I
made the attempt-in my  zeal-to convert him to  my way of thinking.  I
made life  very unhappy  for us  both, I  am sorry  to say,  until  we
reached an agreement to respect each other's opinions. He now views my
bean curd  with equanimity  and I  no longer  stage a  protest over  a
hamburger.

    "The living  always feed  off the  dead," said  Mosiah. "The  hawk
kills the mouse. Big fish eat their smaller cousins. The rabbit  kills
the dandelion it devours, if it comes to that. The dandelion feeds off
the nutrients in the soil,  nutrients which come from the  decomposing
bodies of other plants and animals. Life thrives on death. Such is the
cycle."

    Saryon was quite struck by this. "I never looked at it that way."

    "Nor have I," I signed, thoughtful.

    "The Dark Cultists have, for generations," Mosiah continued. "They
carried their beliefs  one step further.  If death was  the basis  for
life-"

    "Then Death would be  the basis for  Life!" Saryon said,  suddenly
understanding.

    It took me  a moment longer  to understand, mainly  because I  did
not, at the time, hear the capital letters in his words.

    Of course, when he spoke of  Life, he was referring to magic,  for
the people of  Thimhallan believe that  magic is Life  and that  those
born without the ability  to use magic are  Dead. And that, one  might
say, was the beginning of the story of Joram and the Darksword.

    The magic-or Life-is present in  all things living. The  dandelion
possesses its tiny share, as do the rabbit and the hawk, the fish, and
we humans ourselves. In very  ancient times certain people  discovered
how to take the Life  from things around them  and used it to  perform
what others considered miracles. They termed such miracles "magic" and
those who could not use the magic feared and distrusted it  immensely.
Wizards and witches were persecuted and slain.

    "But who are the Dark Cultists?" Saryon asked.

    "Recall your history  lessons, Father," Mosiah  said. "Recall  how
the magi of ancient times came together and determined to leave  Earth
and find another world-a  world where magic  could flourish and  grow,
not wither and die as it was bound to do on this one.

    "Recall how Merlyn, the  greatest of us all,  led his people  into
the stars and how  he founded the new  world, Thimhallan, where  magic
was concentrated, trapped, so that it seemed to have disappeared  from
Earth completely."

    " 'Seemed to have'?" Saryon repeated.

    "Excuse me," I signed,  "but if we  are going to  stay up for  the
rest of the night,  may I suggest  that we move  to the kitchen?  I'll
turn up the heat and make tea for everyone."

    We had  been  standing,  shivering-at  least  Saryon  and  I  were
shivering-in Saryon's  bedroom.  He  looked  haggard  and  weary,  but
neither he  nor  I could  sleep  now,  after so  many  astounding  and
puzzling events.

    "That is," I added, "unless  you think those terrible beings  will
return."

    Saryon translated my gestures, but  I had the feeling that  wasn't
necessary.  Mosiah  understood  me-either  my  thoughts  or  the  sign
language.

    "The D'karn-darah will not come back this night," Mosiah said with
confidence. "They thought to ambush me,  to take me by surprise.  They
know now that  I am aware  of them. They  will not face  me in  direct
battle. They would be forced to kill me and they do not want my death.
They want to capture me-they must capture me-alive."

    "Why?" Saryon asked.

    "Because I infiltrated their organization. I am the only  disciple
of the blood-doom knights to have ever escaped their clutches alive. I
know their secrets. The D'karn-darah want to find out how much I  know
and, most importantly,  who else  knows. They hope,  by capturing  me,
that I will tell them. They are wrong," he said simply, but with  firm
conviction. "I would die first."

    "Let us have some tea," Saryon said quietly.

    He put his hand  on Mosiah's arm,  and I knew  now that my  master
trusted this man implicitly. I wanted  to, but it was all so  strange.
It was hard for  me to trust  my own senses,  let alone trust  another
person. Had what happened really happened?  Had I truly left my  body?
Had I hidden away in a fold of time?

    I filled the teakettle with water,  put it on the burner,  brought
out the teapot and cups. Mosiah sat at the table. He declined to  have
tea. He held, in his hand, the medallion. None of us spoke, the entire
time we waited for the water to boil, the tea to steep. When, at last,
I poured my master's tea, I had begun to believe.

    "Start at the beginning," said Saryon.

    "Do you mind," I indicated, "if I take notes?"

    Saryon frowned and shook his head, but Mosiah said he did not mind
and that our experiences might, someday, make an interesting book.  He
only hoped people would still be left alive on Earth to read it.

    I retrieved my small computer from my bedroom, and seated with the
computer in my lap, I wrote down his words.

    "The Dark Cultists have existed down through time, although we, in
Thimhallan, had no record of them. What we knew as the Council of Nine
on Thimhallan,  representing  the  nine magical  arts,  was  once  the
Council of Thirteen here on Earth.  At that time the Council  believed
that all  magi should  be  represented, even  those who  held  diverse
ethical views, and so those who practiced the dark side of magic  were
included. Perhaps some of the more  naive members hoped to turn  their
brothers and sisters who walked in  the shadows back to the light.  If
so, they did  not succeed and,  in fact, they  incorporated their  own
eventual downfall.

    "It was  the  Dark Cultists  who  poisoned the  mundane  of  Earth
against  magi.  Life  did  not  come  from  life,  for  them.  Life-or
magic-came from death.  They engaged  in human  and animal  sacrifice,
believing that the deaths  of others enhanced  their power. Cruel  and
selfish, they used their  arcane arts only  to indulge themselves,  to
further their own ambition, to enslave and seduce, to destroy.

    "The mundane fought  back. They held  witch trials,  inquisitions.
Magi were rounded up, tortured  until they confessed, and were  burned
or hanged or drowned. Among these were many members of the Council who
had used their magic for good, not evil. Shocked and saddened by their
losses, the Council of Thirteen met to consider what to do.

    "The Four Dark Cults-the Cult of the White Steed, the Black Steed,
the Red Steed, and the Pale Steed-all advocated war and conquest. They
would rise up and  destroy those who opposed  them, enslaving all  who
survived. The  Nine  Cults of  Light  refused even  to  consider  this
option. Furious, the Four members stormed out of the meeting. In their
absence, the other members made their decision. They would leave Earth
forever. Realizing now  the danger  the Dark  Cultists represented  to
their order,  the  Council  took  care that  the  Dark  Cultists  were
excluded from all their plans.

    "In A.D.  1600, when  Merlyn and  the Council  of Nine  left  this
world, the Dark Cultists found out about the exodus, but-so well  kept
was the secret-they were  too late either to  impede the exodus or  to
force their way along. They were left behind on Earth.

    "At first, they welcomed the change,  for the Council of Nine  had
long  curtailed  the  activities  of  the  Dark  Cultists.  They   saw
themselves as rulers of  the people of  Earth and so  they set out  to
advance their  goals.  But  during this  time  on  Thimhallan,  Merlyn
established the Well  of the World,  which drew magic  from Earth  and
concentrated it within the boundaries of Thimhallan. The Dark Cultists
found themselves bereft of their magical power.

    "They  were  enraged,  but  helpless.  They  knew  well  what  had
happened, that magic  was being kept  within Thimhallan. Their  powers
dwindled, except for  times of  famine or  plague or  war, when  Death
stalked the world  and increased  their power. Even  then, they  could
perform only small  magicks, mostly  for their  own personal  benefit.
They never lost their ambition, nor their memory of how powerful  they
had once been. They  believed that there would  come a time when  they
would rise again.

    "And so, down  through the  ages, the Four  kept their  loose-knit
organization. Parents would  pass on  this dark  inheritance to  their
children. Worthy recruits  were brought  into the  circle. Fearful  of
discovery, the Four worked their Dark Arts in isolation, keeping apart
from others. Yet they always knew  each other, one mage recognizing  a
fellow mage by certain secret signs and countersigns.

    "A central  organization existed,  run by  the Khandic  Sages.  So
secret was this that few of the members ever knew who was in  control.
Once a year  the Sol-huena, the  Collectors, appeared at  the door  of
every Dark Cultist,  demanding a  tithe, which  was used  to keep  the
Council operational. The only time  members ever came together was  if
one of their own had been lax in payment of funds or had broken one of
their strict rules. The wizards of  the Black Steed, the Sol-t'kan  or
Judges, sat in judgment and passed sentence. The Sol-huena carried out
that sentence.

    "Eventually, as time passed, the  modern world no longer  believed
in witches and warlocks.  The Dark Cultists were  able to leave  their
cellars and their  caves, where  they had once  practiced their  arts,
move into apartments  and town houses.  They entered politics,  became
government ministers and rulers of  nations, and when it suited  their
purposes, fomented war  and rebellion. They  delight in suffering  and
death, for by such is their power enhanced.

    "And then came the day when the Darksword was created."

    Mosiah glanced at Saryon, who smiled gently and sighed softly  and
shook his head. For though he did not regret his part in the  creation
of the Darksword  and the  eventual downfall of  Thimhallan and  often
said that he  would do  it again,  he as  often added  that he  wished
change could have been accomplished with much less pain and suffering.

    "The Four knew  of the  sword's creation," said  Mosiah. "Some  of
them said that they were aware of  it from the very hour it came  into
being."

    Saryon was perplexed. "But how is that possible? They were so  far
away. ..."

    "Not far  enough.  Like  it  or not,  threads  of  magic  bind  us
together, like the gossamer strands of  a spiderweb. If one strand  is
broken, the shock  is felt throughout  the web. The  Four had no  idea
what had happened,  but they felt  the sword's dark  energy. They  had
strange dreams and  portents. Some saw  the shadow of  a black  sword,
shaped like a man, rise out of flames. Others saw the same image of  a
black sword  shattering a  fragile glass  globe. They  took it  for  a
symbol of hope. They believed that its creation would bring magic back
to them. They were right.

    "Twenty years  ago, by  Earth time,  Joram used  the Darksword  to
shatter the Well of the World. Magic spewed out into the universe. The
magic was diluted when it reached Earth, but to the parched members of
the Dark Cults, the magic fell upon them like a renewing shower."

    "But I don't understand  why they should  want the sword,"  Saryon
protested. "The Darksword nullifies magic. It was invaluable to  Joram
in Thimhallan,  because he  was  the only  person  alive who  did  not
possess any magical powers. It was his only means of defense against a
world of  magi.  But  what  would  these  Technomancers  do  with  the
Darksword here on Earth? Its power is nothing compared to that of  ...
of ... a nuclear bomb."

    "On the  contrary,  Father.  The Technomancers  believe  that  the
Darksword would give them  immense power. Power similar  to that of  a
nuclear weapon, in that they could control entire populations. And the
Darksword would provide such power on an individual basis in a  handy,
compact, and  inexpensive form.  Far  more convenient  to use  than  a
nuclear bomb and not nearly so messy."

    "I am afraid I still don't understand-"

    "The Darksword absorbs  Life, Father. You  have said  yourself-and
your young friend has  written-how the sword drew  from you the  magic
that you were drawing  from the world. 'The  magic surged through  him
like a blast of wind, ' is, I believe, how Reuven phrased it."

    Saryon paled. He  had lifted  his teacup,  to drink,  set it  down
again with haste. His  hand shook. He gazed  at Mosiah with  sorrowful
anguish.

    "I am afraid so, Father,"  Mosiah answered the look, the  unspoken
protest. "The Technomancers know that  the Darksword has the power  to
absorb Life. Once the sword is in their possession, they plan to study
it, determine how  to mass-produce  it, and  distribute Darkswords  to
their followers. The swords will absorb magic, then give up that Life,
much as a living being gives up life when the being dies. And  because
the Technomancers are

    accustomed to taking magic  from the dead,  they believe they  can
use Darkswords to fuel  their power-a far  cheaper and more  efficient
means than that which they are now using."

    A kind of magic battery, I typed.

    "What are they using to fuel their power?" Saryon asked, his voice
low. His  gaze  was  on  the medallion,  which  had  now  gone  almost
completely dark-a brownish, blackish green.

    Mosiah picked up the medallion, held it to the light.

    "Imagine these organisms  grown in immense  vats-vats seven  times
the size  of  this house,  whose  circumference would  encompass  this
block. Various gases are pumped  into the vats. An electrical  current
is passed through the gases. The  result is this simple form of  life.
Great quantities are manufactured. The living mass seethes and bubbles
in the vats as  it grows and reproduces.  Now imagine many more  vats,
dedicated to  the  death  of  these  organisms.  Again,  the  electric
current. But this time it destroys, it does not create.

    "As the catalysts  give us Life  . . ."  Mosiah paused, looked  at
Saryon. "As you used to give me Life, Father. Do you remember? We were
fighting Blachloch's henchmen and I transformed into a gigantic tiger.
... I was very young,"  he added, with a  slight smile, "and prone  to
flaunt my power."

    Saryon smiled. "I remember.  And I remember  being quite happy  to
see that tiger at the time."

    "At any rate"-Mosiah  shook off memory-"as  the catalysts give  us
Life, drawing the  magic from all  living beings and  pouring it  into
those of us who use it, so the Technomancers receive their power  from
the deaths-not  only of  these manufactured  organisms, but  from  the
deaths of all things  in this universe. The  war with the Hch'nyv  has
been a blessing to them," he added, his tone bitter.

    "I will never take the  Technomancers to Joram," Saryon said  with
absolute conviction. "Never.  Like you"-he looked  at Mosiah-"I  would
die first. You need have no worry."

    "On the contrary, Father," said Mosiah. "We want you to take  them
to Joram."

    Saryon stared at Mosiah, stared a  long time in silence. His  pain
was so great that it grieved me to look at him.

    "You want the Darksword," he  said. His brows drew together.  "Who
sent you?"

    Mosiah  leaned   forward,  his   hands  clasped   together.   "The
Technomancers are  extremely powerful,  Father.  They have  seduced  a
great number of our people, who  are now finding it easier and  faster
to gain  what  they  want  in  this  world  by  exchanging  magic  for
technomancy. King Garald-"

    "Ah!" Saryon exclaimed, and he nodded.

    "King  Garald  dares  not  openly  defy  them,"  Mosiah  continued
resolutely. "Not  now, not  yet.  But secretly,  we are  building  our
strength, readying our  resources. When  the day comes,  we will  take
action and-"

    "And what?" Saryon cried. "Kill them? More killing?"

    "If you do not acquire the Darksword from Joram, what do you think
they will do to him and  to his family, Father?" Mosiah asked  coldly.
"The only reason they have  left him in peace thus  far is due to  the
laws of  the  mundane, which  prohibit  anyone from  setting  foot  on
Thimhallan. The  Technomancers  have  not yet  been  ready  to  reveal
themselves to the mundane.

    "All that is about to change, however. Their leader-this man Kevon
Smythe-has gained great political power among the mundane, who do  not
know he is a Technomancer and  wouldn't believe it if they were  told.
Smythe has convinced the heads of Earth Force that, using the power of
the Darksword,  the  Technomancers can  defeat  the Hch'nyv.  At  this
juncture in the war Earth Force  is desperate enough to try  anything.
Tomorrow, Kevon Smythe, King  Garald, and General  Boris will call  on
you, Father Saryon. They will urge you to go to Joram and, speaking in
the name  of  all the  people  of Earth,  beg  him to  hand  over  the
Darksword."

    "He will not." Saryon shook  his head, firm with conviction.  "You
know that, Mosiah. You know him."

    Mosiah hesitated a  moment, then said,  "Yes, I know  him. And  so
does King Garald. We are  counting on the fact  that he won't give  up
the Darksword. We don't want the Technomancers to obtain it."

    Saryon blinked in confusion.  "You want me to  ask him to give  up
the sword that you don't want him to give up?"

    "In a way,  yes, Father. Simply  ask Joram to  show you where  the
sword is hidden. Once we know where it is, we will take over. We  will
retrieve it and keep it in our possession. We will keep it secret  and
safe, guard it with  our very lives,  as we will  guard Joram and  his
family. Of that, you can rest assured."

    Saryon's long hair  was quite gray  and very thin  and lay on  his
shoulders, soft as a child's. He had acquired a stoop, and sometimes a
slight palsy  made  his  hands  tremble.  These  physical  attributes,
combined with a generally benign expression, caused people to take him
for a weak, gentle old man. There was nothing gentle about him now  as
he sat bolt upright, his body  rigid, the warmth in his eyes  igniting
to fire.

    "You've tried before to find the Darksword, haven't you? Tried and
failed!"

    Mosiah regarded Saryon  steadily. "It would  have been better  for
Joram if we bad been able to discover the sword's location and  safely
remove it. The Technomancers would then have no interest in him.  Rest
assured, Father,  if you  do  not acquire  the Darksword  by  peaceful
means, they will take it by whatever means they can."

    "And what  about  the  Duuk-tsarith}" Saryon  demanded,  the  fire
within him  burning bright.  "What  means will  you  use to  take  the
sword?"

    Mosiah rose to his feet. His black robes fell in folds about  him.
He clasped his hands together. "Know this, Father. We will not let the
Darksword fall into the hands of the Technomancers."

    "Why not?"  I signed.  "What if  they  can use  it to  defeat  the
Hch'nyv? Wouldn't it be worth it?"

    "The Hch'nyv plan to  exterminate humankind, the Technomancers  to
enslave us.  An unhappy  choice,  wouldn't you  say, Reuven?  And,  of
course, for me and  those like me,  there would be  no choice at  all.
And, there are those among the  Duuk-tsarith who think that we may  be
able to use the sword in the battle against the Hch'nyv.

    "Well,  Father?"  Mosiah  waited  for  an  answer.  "Through  King
Garald's  intercession,  we  give  you  this  chance  to  acquire  the
Darksword by peaceful  means. If  you do not,  the Technomancers  will
take it from Joram by force. Surely your choice is clear."

    "And what o^ Joram?"  Saryon rose to face  him. "What of his  wife
and child? He is the most hated man in the universe. The  Duuk-tsarith
once pledged his death. Perhaps the only reason you haven't killed him
before now is because you don't know where he's hidden the sword!"

    Mosiah's face was stern, pale. "We will protect Joram-"

    Saryon gazed steadily at the  Enforcer. "Will you? And what  about
the rest of  our people? How  many countless thousands  have vowed  to
kill Joram and his wife and child on sight?"

    "How many people  will the Hch'nyv  kill?" Mosiah countered.  "You
speak of  Joram's child,  Father.  What of  the millions  of  innocent
children who will die if we  lose the battle against the Hch'nyv?  And
we are losing, Father! Every day they draw nearer Earth. We must  have
the sword! We must!"

    Saryon sighed. The fire died  within him. He seemed suddenly  very
old, very frail and feeble. He  sank back down into his chair,  rested
his head in his hands. "I don't know. I can't promise."

    Mosiah frowned, appeared prepared to add to his arguments.

    I rose from my chair, confronted the Enforcer.

    "My master is very tired, sir," I signed. "It is time you left."

    Mosiah glanced from one of us to the other.

    "This has been  an unnerving  experience for you  both," he  said.
"You're not  thinking  clearly.  Go  to bed,  Father.  Sleep  on  your
decision. The Almin grant that it be the right one."

    To  our  intense  astonishment,  two  Duuk-tsarith   materialized.
Black-hooded, black-robed, faces hidden, they appeared, one on  either
side of Mosiah.

    Bodyguards, reinforcements, witnesses . . . Perhaps all of  these.
Certainly they had  been here  this entire  time, watching,  guarding,
protecting, spying. The  three formed  a triangle.  They raised  their
hands, each placed the palm of one hand on the palm of the hand of the
person beside him. Thus linked, their power merged, they vanished.

    Saryon and I  stared at the  place where they  had been  standing,
both of us shaken and disturbed.

    "They planned this!" I signed, when I was over my shock enough  to
be able to give expression to my thoughts. "They had advance knowledge
that the Technomancers were coming here

    this night. King  Garald could have  sent us warning,  told us  to
leave."

    "But he didn't. Yes,  Reuven," Saryon agreed.  "It was all  staged
for our benefit,  to make us  fear the Technomancers  and force us  to
join sides with the Duuk-tsarith.

    "Do you know, Reuven?" my master  added, glancing at the chair  in
which Mosiah  had been  sitting. "I  grieve for  him. He  was  Joram's
friend, when it was  not easy to  be Joram's friend.  He was loyal  to
Joram, even to death. Now  he has become like  all the rest. Joram  is
alone now. Very much alone."

    "He has  you," I  said,  touching my  master  very gently  on  his
breast.

    Saryon looked  at me.  The  sorrow and  anguish  on his  pale  and
haggard face brought tears to my eyes.

    "Does he, Reuven? How can  I say no to them?  How can I turn  them
down?" He stood  up, leaning heavily  upon the chair.  "I am going  to
bed."

    I bid him have  a good night, though  I knew that was  impossible.
Taking my computer,  I went up  to my  room and entered  all that  had
happened while the incidents were still  fresh in my mind. Then I  lay
down, but I could not sleep.

    Every time I drifted off, I  saw, once again, my spirit rise  from
my body. And I  was afraid that  next time, it would  not know how  to
return.

    CHAPTER FIVE

    "What you did was right, my  son. Always believe that! And  always
know that I love you and honor you."

    SARYON'S FAREWELL TO JORAM; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKS WORD

    The next  morning, quite  early,  an army  of police  entered  our
neighborhood and took over  our quiet row  of flats. Arriving  shortly
after the police was  a cadre of reporters  in huge vans with  various
gadgets all pointing skyward.

    I can only imagine what the neighbors thought. Again it struck  me
as odd, how the human mind  dwells on the most inconsequential  issues
at times  of crisis.  While  I was  busily  engaged in  preparing  our
dwelling to receive  three such  notable dignitaries-  the three  most
powerful men in the  world-my biggest worry was  how we were going  to
explain this to Mrs. Mumford, who lived in the flat across the street.

    She was (or thought she was) the conductor of the orchestra of our
lives here on  our street  and nothing  was supposed  to happen-be  it
divorce or a  case of breaking  and entering-without the  wave of  her
baton.

    So far she had left  Saryon and me in  peace, our lives being,  up
until this  juncture, extremely  uninteresting. Now  I could  see  her
pinched, inquisitive  face  pressed close  against  the glass  of  her
living-room window, avid with frustration and curiosity. She even made
a tentative foray out into the street, to accost a policeman. I  don't
know what he told her, but she dashed like a rabbit to the home of her
assistant conductor,  Mrs. Billingsgate,  and  now two  faces  pressed
against the latter's living-room window. They'd be pressed against our
front door tomorrow.

    I was  arranging  some last-of-the-season  roses  in a  vase,  and
trying to think  what we  would say  to our  neighbors in  the way  of
explanation, when Saryon entered the  room. The idle curiosity of  two
snoopy old ladies vanished from my mind.

    My master had not  risen for breakfast, nor  had I disturbed  him.
Knowing he had been up late, I left him to sleep as long as he  could.
He didn't look to have slept a moment. He had aged twenty years during
the night; his face was bleak and drawn, his stoop more pronounced. He
peered about the room vacantly and  smiled and thanked me for  tidying
up, but I knew well that he wasn't seeing any of it.

    He went to  the kitchen.  I brewed  tea and  brought him  buttered
toast. He stared hopelessly at the toast, but he drank his tea.

    "Sit down, Reuven," he said in  his quiet, gentle manner. "I  have
made a decision."

    I sat down,  hoping to  persuade him to  eat. At  that moment  the
doorbell rang, and  at the same  time there  was a knock  on the  back
door. I gave my master a helpless glance, and with a wry

    smile and a shrug, he went to  answer the front door while I  took
care of the back.

    The army of policemen, having  secured the street, now moved  into
our house. A woman in a business suit, who said she was head of  Earth
Force security, took  charge of  Saryon and  me, telling  us that  her
people would be searching  and securing the  premises. She marched  us
back into the kitchen, sat us down,  and laid out The Plan. A team  of
cool-eyed, professional,  and thorough  people  moved in  behind  her,
bringing with them cool-eyed, professional dogs.

    I could soon hear them upstairs, down in the cellar, and in  every
room in the house.  Whether or not they  found any more  green-glowing
devices I do not know. I assume they did, they found everything  else,
including a half-eaten biscuit from beneath a couch cushion, which one
of the men politely handed  over to me. I offered  it to his dog,  who
was, however, far too professional to accept such treats while on  the
job.

    Seeing that Saryon's thoughts were  turned inward and that he  was
not paying  the slightest  bit of  attention to  The Plan,  I  devoted
myself to listening and understanding what  it was we were to do.  All
the while I wondered what decision he had made.

    "His Majesty King  Garald and  General Boris and  their aides  and
entourage will  arrive  in  the same  vehicle  at  precisely  thirteen
hundred hours.  The Right  Honorable Kevon  Smythe and  his aides  and
entourage will travel in a second vehicle and will arrive at precisely
thirteen-thirty. They will all depart at fourteen hundred."

    Pardon me, ma'am. I started to write my words on a tablet, which I
usually kept  with me,  but  she indicated  that she  understood  sign
language, for which I was grateful. "How many aides and entourage will
there be?"

    I was thinking  of our small  living room and  wondering where  on
earth we would put  them all. Also  if we would  be expected to  serve
tea. If so, I was going to have to make a run to the store!

    She reassured me. We were not to worry about a thing. She and  her
staff would handle all the arrangements.  I could tell, by the  sounds
of furniture scraping over the floor,  that the living room was  being
adjusted.

    At this  point Saryon,  with a  blink and  a sigh,  rose from  the
table, and with  a slight bow  and a  vague smile for  the woman-  I'm
convinced he had no  idea who she  was or why  she was there-he  left,
saying something to the effect  that he would be  in his study and  to
call him when it was time.

    The woman frowned, displeased.  "He appears completely  insensible
to the fact that he is being paid a great honor. For such eminent  and
important  figures  to  completely  rearrange  their  schedules,   and
travel-some of  them-halfway  around  the world,  all  to  honor  this
gentleman on his birthday! . . .  Well! It seems to me that he  should
be exhibiting far more gratitude."

    His birthday! I had forgotten, in all the turmoil, that this  date
corresponded approximately to the date he had been born in Thimhallan.
I was the  one who had  figured it  all out (Saryon  would have  never
bothered) and I had, in fact, planned a small celebration for us  that
evening. His gift, a  new chessboard, with  figures formed of  dragons
and griffins and other supposedly  mythic animals, was neatly  wrapped
upstairs in  my room.  I wondered  how  anyone else  knew it  was  his
birthday, for we had  shared this with no  one. Then I remembered  the
green-glowing eavesdropping devices.

    So this was  to be  the excuse-visiting  the old  catalyst on  his
birthday. How fortunate for them that it fell on this date. I wondered
what other excuse  they would have  cooked up, had  this one not  been
conveniently provided. I  was extremely  angry, more  angered at  this
than at the invasion of our house by the silver-robed Technomancers.

    It is, sometimes, a blessing to be mute. Had I the gift of speech,
I would have used it to lash out at this woman and probably would have
spoiled everything. As it  was, being forced to  sign my words, I  had
time to consider them. I could see, on reflection, that it was  wisdom
on the part of  the King and  the General to keep  the true nature  of
this meeting secret.

    "You must forgive Saryon," I signed to the woman. "My master is  a
very humble man, and completely overwhelmed by such a great honor,  to
the point where  he is dazed  by all the  attention. He feels  himself
very unworthy and he deplores all the fuss and bother."

    She was somewhat mollified by this,  and we went over the rest  of
the details.  The guests  would  be staying  one  hour, no  more,  and
fortunately, there would be no need to serve them tea. She hinted that
Saryon might want to change out of the brown robes he was  wearing-the
robes of a catalyst, such as he had worn all his life-and into a suit,
and that it would be well if I also changed out of my blue jeans  into
something more appropriate to the occasion. I replied that neither  of
us owned a suit, at which point she gave up on us both and left to  go
check on how things were proceeding.

    I went  to  my master's  study,  to inform  him  that it  was  his
birthday, which I was sure he had forgotten. I made more hot toast and
took a plate of it and the tea with me.

    I  explained  everything-rather   heatedly,  I'm  afraid.   Saryon
regarded my flashing hands with a weary, indulgent smile and shook his
head.

    "Intrigue. Politics. All  of them  were born into  the game.  They
live in the game. They have no idea how to leave the game and so  they
will play the game until they die." He sighed again and absentmindedly
ate the toast. "Even Prince Garald. King Garald, I should say. He held
himself above  it,  when  he  was  young.  But  I  suppose  it's  like
quicksand. It sucks even good men down."

    "Father," I asked him, "what decision have you made?"

    He did not speak aloud, but signed back to me, "The men were  just
in this room,  Reuven. For all  we know, they  may have planted  their
electronic ears  and  eyes in  this  room.  And there  may  be  others
watching, listening, as well."

    I remembered the two Duuk-tsarith who had appeared out of the  air
of our kitchen,  and I understood.  It seemed strange  to me to  think
that there might be a dozen  people crowded into that small study  and
my master and I  the only two  visible. I felt  nervous when I  walked
out, returning the plate to the  kitchen. I kept fearing I would  bump
into one of them.

    The dignitaries arrived  precisely on time.  First came the  black
limousine with flags of Thimhallan flying  and the royal coat of  arms
upon the door. Mrs. Mumford and Mrs. Billingsgate had,

    by this time, abandoned all pretense. They were standing on  their
front doorstoops, openmouthed and jabbering. I couldn't help but  feel
a swelling of pride as His Majesty, dressed quite conservatively in  a
dark suit, but wearing his medallions and ceremonial sash, accompanied
by the General in his uniform with all his medals and ribbons, stepped
out of the  limo. Aides  trailed after  them. Soldiers  came to  stiff
attention and saluted. Mrs. Mumford and Mrs. Billingsgate stared until
I thought it likely they might strain something.

    My pride advanced a step further as I imagined having tea with the
two women tomorrow,  explaining, with suitable  modesty, how the  King
was an old friend of my master's; the General once a worthy adversary.
It was a harmless, if vain, fantasy-one that unfortunately never  came
about. I was never to see either of our neighbors again.

    King and General entered our house, where Saryon and I both waited
with extreme trepidation. My master knew  these men were going to  put
enormous pressure on him  and he feared this  meeting. I was  nervous,
for Saryon's sake,  but I  must admit that  I was  looking forward  to
seeing once again two people whom I had written about, especially  the
King, who had once had such a notable effect on Joram's life.

    King Garald had been Prince Garald then. Of him I had written: 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.

    My description, taken from my early memories and Saryon's account,
was accurate, even  now, when the  King was in  his middle years.  The
lines around  the  firm  mouth  had darkened,  graven  by  sorrow  and
suffering and wearisome  toil. But  when the mouth  smiled, the  lines
softened. The smile  was warm and  genuine, the source  of its  warmth
coming from  deep within.  I saw  at once  how this  man had  won  the
respect and perhaps  even the  affection of the  sullen, obdurate  boy
Joram.

    Saryon started  to  bow, but  Garald  took my  master's  hand  and
clasped it in both his own.

    "Father Saryon,"  he  said,  "let  me be  the  one  who  does  you
reverence."

    And the King bowed to my master.

    Between pleasure and confusion, Saryon was completely taken aback.
His fears and trepidation melted in the warmth of the King's smile. He
stammered and blushed  and could  only protest  incoherently that  His
Majesty did  him  far  too  much honor.  Garald,  seeing  my  master's
embarrassment, said something light  and inconsequential, to put  them
both at ease.

    Saryon gazed at the King,  now without restraint, and clasped  his
hand and said over and over with  true pleasure, "How do you do,  Your
Highness? How do you do?"

    "I could be better,  Father," the King replied,  and the lines  on
his face deepened and darkened. "Times are very difficult, right  now.
You remember James Boris?"

    But the spell was broken. Garald  had lifted, for one moment,  the
burden from my master's shoulders, only  to cast it back on the  next.
James  Boris-short,  square-shouldered,  solid  as  one  of  his   own
tanks-was a  good  man, a  good  soldier.  He had  been  merciful,  in
Thimhallan, when,  by rights,  he  could have  been vengeful.  He  was
genuinely pleased to see Saryon and  shook hands with my master  quite
cordially. So cordially  that Saryon  winced as he  smiled. But  James
Boris and his army  represented Thimhallan's doom.  He could not  help
but be a bleak omen.

    "General Boris, welcome to my home," Saryon said gravely.

    He led the way  into the living room,  the move being an  absolute
necessity, for four of us were a  tight fit in the small entryway  and
the aides and entourage were forced to camp out on the front lawn.  In
the living room, Saryon  presented me. The King  and the General  both
made polite  comments  on  my  work in  writing  the  history  of  the
Darksword. The King, with  his innate charm,  relaxed into another  of
those warm and disarming smiles and told me he thought my portrayal of
him far too flattering.

    "Not half  so  flattering,  Your Majesty,"  I  signed  and  Saryon
translated, "as some would have had me make it." I cast a fond  glance
at my master. "I had to dig very hard to discover some human flaws  in
you, to make you an interesting and believable character."

    "I have flaws enough, the Almin knows," Garald said with a  slight
smile, adding,  "Several  of  my  staff members  have  taken  a  great
interest in your work, Reuven. Perhaps you  would be so kind as to  do
them the favor of answering their questions while your master and  the
General and I talk over old times."

    I admired and appreciated the smooth way he was getting rid of me.
Rising to my feet, I was about to leave when Saryon reached out a hand
and clasped me by the wrist.

    "Reuven is in my confidence."

    Garald and  General  Boris exchanged  looks.  The General  gave  a
slight nod, and the King responded with a nod in his turn.

    "Very well. General, if you please?"

    The General went to the entrance  to the living room, spoke a  few
words to a member of his staff. The soldier gestured to several of his
men and they departed,  leaving the four  of us in  the room. I  heard
booted footsteps resound throughout the house, making one last  check,
then the booted footsteps departed and  the front door closed. I  saw,
through the window, the soldiers deploying, securing the area.

    Though four  of us  remained in  the house,  it seemed  empty  and
alone, the house of a stranger who  has moved away. A chill raised  my
flesh. It was as if we had already left this house, never to return.

    Of the four of us, Saryon was the most at ease. His decision made,
he was calm, gracious,  and-oddly enough, with a  King and General  in
attendance-it was my master who was in command of the situation.

    In fact, when Garald was about to speak, Saryon interrupted him.

    "Your  Majesty,  your  emissary  Mosiah  explained  matters  quite
clearly to me last  night. The visit from  the Technomancers was  also
quite instructive."

    At this, King Garald shifted uncomfortably on the couch and

    would have  again  spoken, but  Saryon  continued on,  placid  and
imperturbable.

    "I have reached a tentative  decision," Saryon said. "I need  more
information before  I can  make  my decision  final.  I hope  you  two
gentlemen, as well as the gentleman  who is expected to arrive  later,
will be able to provide it."

    "About the one expected later,"  General Boris said. "There are  a
few things you should know, Father, in regard to Kevon Smythe."

    "I know quite a bit about him, already," Saryon said, with a  half
smile. "I spent the night researching him on the World Wide Weave."

    "Web," I signed, correcting him.

    "Web," Saryon replied. "I always get that confused."

    The two gentlemen seemed amazed. If they knew Saryon at all,  they
should not have been. Though the technology of the combustible  engine
left him baffled, he had adapted to the computer world like a duck  to
water.

    "I tapped into various sources," he continued, and I suppressed  a
smile, for I knew now he was innocently showing off. "I read  articles
on Smythe written by political analysts. I read newspaper reports, and
even scanned a  biography, which  is in the  works. Not  one of  these
mentioned that Kevon Smythe is a Technomancer."

    "Of course not, Father," said Garald.  "He has taken care to  keep
that part of his  life secret. And, after  all, who would believe  it?
Only those of  us who  were born and  raised on  Thimhallan. And,"  he
added, including General Boris, "those who once visited there. Surely,
you don't doubt it! After last night . . ."

    "Indeed, Your Majesty." Saryon  was calm. "As  I said, last  night
was most instructive. All  the accounts of Kevon  Smythe speak of  his
ambition, his  meteoric  rise to  fortune  and fame,  his  charismatic
ability to  sway  people  to  his cause.  They  all  marveled  at  his
luck-what they term 'lucky breaks'-that gained him wealth, or put  him
in the right place at  the right time, or  caused him to make  exactly
the right decision."

    "What they call luck, some of us call magic," said King Garald.

    "How is it possible that no one knows?" Saryon asked mildly.

    "Are you doubting His Majesty?" General Boris's face flushed.

    Garald waved him  to silence.  "I can  understand Father  Saryon's
concern. It was difficult for me to believe, at first. But this is how
the Technomancers have long worked in this world.

    "You've  heard,  undoubtedly,  stories   of  those  who   practice
so-called Black Magic; cults of Satan worshipers, who don black  robes
and mutilate animals and dance around graveyards at midnight. This  is
what most of the people  on Earth equate with  the dark arts. This  is
not the Technomancer. They laugh at such nonsense and even use it  for
their own purposes-it deflects attention away from them.

    "Who would believe  that the businessman  in the three-piece  suit
who is  said to  be a  genius at  playing the  stock market  uses  his
magical ability to make himself  invisible, sits in on board  meetings
of various companies,  and thus  gains inside  information? Who  would
believe that the  embezzler who left  her firm in  financial ruin  was
able to mislead everyone because of the magical hold she had on  their
minds?"

    It sounded ludicrous, even to me, and I had seen with my own  eyes
the silver-robed Technomancers invade our house.

    King Garald grew bitter.  "When I first  discovered that the  Four
Cults of Dark  Magic still existed,  I tried to  warn people in  Earth
government. Even my  best friend  did not  believe me."  He looked  at
James Boris, who smiled ruefully and shook his head. "I will not waste
time by relating what occurred  that finally convinced him. It  nearly
cost us  both  our lives,  but-in  the end-he  believed.  The  General
suggested that I was  wasting my time and  energy attempting to  fight
the Technomancers in the open. I must adopt their own strategy."

    "Mosiah told you  he had been  one of them,"  said General  Boris.
"Did he tell  you that he  volunteered to  become one of  them? To  go
undercover? To risk his life ferreting out their dark secrets?"

    "No," said Saryon, and he looked relieved. "No, he did not."

    "Through him  we  found  out much  about  their  organization;  we
discovered the  true  nature of  this  'chemical factory'  which  they
operate and  for which"-King  Garald smiled  wryly-"they even  receive
lucrative government grants!"

    "You work with Smythe," Saryon said. "You do not denounce him."

    "We have no choice," said King Garald, and his voice was grim  and
harsh. "He holds our people and the people of Earth hostage."

    "The Technomancers have infiltrated  every part of the  military,"
said General Boris. "They do not commit sabotage. Oh, no. They are far
too clever for that.  They have made  themselves indispensable to  us.
Because of their power and their skill, we are holding our own against
the Hch'nyv. Should they withdraw their magical assistance-worse  yet,
should they turn their magic against us-we would be lost."

    "How do they do this?" Saryon was perplexed.

    "I'll give a very  simple example. We have  a torpedo that has  an
electronic brain. We can program that brain to aim the torpedo to  hit
its target. The  enemy detects  the torpedo, sends  out an  electronic
signal which scrambles its brain. But they can't send out a signal  to
scramble magic. A Technomancer,  magically guiding that torpedo,  will
send it unerringly to its target.

    "And if"-General  Boris's voice  dropped-"they were  to  magically
alter that  torpedo's  programming, cause  it  to turn  and  strike  a
different target. Not an enemy target  . . ." He shrugged his  massive
shoulders.

    "From what they have  told us, they  control nuclear armaments  in
the same way,"  said King  Garald. "From our  investigations, we  have
reason to believe that they are telling the truth."

    "To put it another  way, we dare not  call their bluff," said  the
General bluntly.

    "I don't see how the Darksword  could possibly aid you in any  way
against these people," said  Saryon, and I was  convinced then that  I
knew his decision.

    "Frankly, we don't either," said King Garald.

    "Then why-"

    "Because they fear  it," said  the King.  "We don't  know why.  We
don't know what they've found out or how they found out, but they have
received  a  warning   from  their  researchers,   those  called   the
D'karn-kair, that the Darksword could be  both an asset to them and  a
danger."

    Saryon shook his head.

    Garald  regarded  him  silently,  then  said,  "There  is  another
reason."

    "I thought as  much," said  Saryon, adding dryly,  "You would  not
have gone to this much trouble to recruit me otherwise."

    "No one knows  about this  except the Duuk-tsarith,  and they,  as
always, are sworn  by their  oaths of loyalty  to secrecy.  Otherwise,
Mosiah would  have  told  you  last  night.  Do  you  remember  Bishop
Radisovik, whom you used to know as Cardinal Radisovik?"

    "Yes, yes. I remember. A good, sensible man. So he is Bishop  now.
Excellent!" said Saryon.

    "The Bishop was working alone in his study one day when he  sensed
someone in the room with him. He lifted his head and was astonished to
find a woman seated in  a chair in front of  his desk. Now this was  a
very unusual occurrence, for the Bishop's secretary has strict  orders
never  to  introduce  anyone  into  the  Bishop's  office  without  an
appointment.

    "Fearing that perhaps the woman was  there to do him some type  of
harm, the  Bishop talked  to her  pleasantly, all  the while  using  a
secret button, hidden beneath his desk, to alert the guards.

    "The button  apparently  did not  work.  No guards  appeared.  The
woman, however, assured the Bishop that he had no reason to be afraid.

    " 'I have  come to  give you information,  ' she  said. 'First,  I
suggest that you discontinue your war against the Hch'nyv. You have no
chance-absolutely none-of  defeating  the  aliens. They  are  far  too
strong and too  powerful. You  have seen  only a  smattering of  their
entire force, which numbers in the billions of billions. They will not
negotiate with you. They have no need. They intend to destroy you  and
they will succeed. '

    "The Bishop was astonished. The woman, he said, was very calm  and
imparted this terrible information  in a tone which  left no doubt  in
his mind but that she spoke the truth.

    " 'Excuse me, madam, ' the Bishop said, 'but who are you? Whom  do
you represent? '

    "She smiled at him and said, 'Someone very close to you, who takes
a personal interest in  you. ' Then she  continued, telling him,  'You
and the people of Earth and  Thimhallan have one chance for  survival.
The Darksword destroyed the world. It may now be used to save it. '

    "  'But  the  Darksword  no  longer  exists,  '  Bishop  Radisovik
protested. 'It was itself destroyed. '

    " 'It has  been forged anew.  Offer it to  Thimhallan's maker  and
find salvation. '

    "At that moment the Bishop's intercom buzzed. He turned to  answer
it, and when he looked back, the woman was gone. He had not heard  her
leave, any  more  than he  had  heard  her enter.  He  questioned  his
secretary and the building's security people, who said that no one had
either gone into or come out of the Bishop's office. The button on the
desk was  discovered to  be operational.  No one  could say  why  they
hadn't heard the alarm.

    "What was truly remarkable," Garald  added, "is that the  security
cameras in the building show no  evidence of this woman, not even  the
camera which is placed in  the Bishop's office. Even stranger-at  that
point in time  we knew nothing  of the  fact that Smythe  had been  to
visit Joram  or  that Joram  had,  as the  woman  said, forged  a  new
Darksword."

    "To what  does  the Bishop  attribute  this visit,  then?"  Saryon
asked.

    Garald hesitated, then replied, "Judging from what the woman said,
about representing someone very close to the Bishop, someone who takes
a personal  interest in  him,  the Bishop  is  convinced that  he  was
visited by an agent of the Almin. An angel, if you will."

    I noted  that  General  Boris  shifted in  his  chair  and  looked
extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable.

    "An agent, maybe," said the General. "CIA, Interpol, Her Majesty's
Secret Service, FBI. But not of God."

    "How very interesting," said Saryon,  and I could see him  mulling
over this in his mind.

    "Whoever brought us this information, our own researchers now want
that sword," said General Boris. "To determine if there really is some
way we can use it to stop the Hch'nyv."

    "But that wasn't what the  an-the woman said," Saryon  interposed.
"She said that the sword must be returned to Thimhallan's maker."

    General Boris  had the  look on  his  face of  a man  indulging  a
child's whim  to hear  a fairy  tale.  "Who is  that supposed  to  be-
Merlyn? You find him, Father, and I'll give him the Darksword."

    Saryon appeared very stern, considering this sacrilegious.

    "At the very  least," said  King Garald in  mollifying tones,  "we
must keep the Darksword out of the hands of the Technomancers."

    Saryon  now  appeared  troubled,  as  if  he  were  rethinking  an
already-thought-out determination. The  other two  would have  pressed
him further, had  not an enormous  black limousine rolled  up at  that
moment.

    General Boris put his hand to his ear.

    "I see it," he said, speaking  to an aide through a  communicator.
The General looked around grimly at us, adding, "Smythe is here."

    CHAPTER SIX

    "This is my magic," said Joram, his gaze going to the sword  lying
on the floor.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD Saryon  and I had  watched a performance  of
Gounod's Faust on the BBC recently  and Mephistopheles was much in  my
mind as  I  waited to  meet  the  head of  the  Technomancers.  Smythe
certainly did not  look the  part of Mephistopheles,  being of  medium
height with flaming red hair and  a smattering of freckles across  his
nose. But in the light blue eyes, that were glittering and  changeable
and cold as diamond, was the reputed charm which the devil purportedly
possesses and which he uses to tempt mankind to its downfall.

    Smythe was witty and effervescent  and brought light and air  into
our house,  which  seemed  gloomy  and  suffocating  by  contrast.  He
undoubtedly knew what  terrible things  the King and  the General  had
been saying about him and he didn't care. Smythe spoke no word in  his
own defense,  he said  nothing against  either of  them. In  fact,  he
greeted them  both with  deference  and pleasure.  In their  cold  and
stilted greeting of him, they seemed, by contrast, ungracious, bitter,
twisted.

    "Father Saryon." Kevon Smythe took my master's hand and a radiance
shone from  him that  engulfed  Saryon, who  actually blinked,  as  if
looking into a blinding light. "I am honored to meet you at long last.
I have heard much of you, all good, and of Joram. It is a subject that
fascinates me. Tell me,  Father," he said as  he accepted a  proffered
seat in a chair, not on the  couch where sat the other two, stiff  and
upright. "Tell me the story of Joram and of the Darksword. I know bits
of it, but I would like to hear it from your own lips.

    "I am sorry to say, Reuven," he added, looking at me, "that I have
not read your account, of which  I've had the most favorable  reports.
My time is such that it does not give me leisure to read as much as  I
would like. Your  books are in  a prominent place  in my library,  and
someday, when the pressures of leadership are removed, I look  forward
to reading them."

    It was very odd, but I felt  a glow of pleasure suffuse me, as  if
he had paid my books the best of compliments, when-in bald  truth-part
of me knew perfectly well  that he had undoubtedly received  distilled
accounts of what  was in  the books  from his  subordinates and  that,
though he might indeed own them,  he had no intention of ever  looking
at them.

    What was even stranger was that  he was aware of the dichotomy  of
feelings he produced in others  and that he did  so on purpose. I  was
fascinated and repulsed at the same  time. In his presence, all  other
men, including the King and the General, appeared petty and  ordinary.
And although I liked and trusted them  and I did not like and did  not
trust him, I had the uneasy impression  that if he called me, I  would
follow.

    Saryon felt the same. I knew  because he was talking about  Joram,
something he was always very reluctant to do with any stranger.

    ". . . Thimhallan was founded by the wizard Merlyn as a land where
those blessed with the  art of magic could  live in peace, using  that
art to  create beautiful  things. There  were Nine  Mysteries of  Life
present in  the world,  then. Each  person born  into that  world  was
gifted with one of these mysteries."

    Kevon Smythe's lips  parted, he whispered  beneath his breath  the
number "thirteen" and a chill went  over me. The Four Dark Cults,  who
had remained behind, would have made the number thirteen.

    Saryon, unconscious of the interruption, continued on. "There  are
Nine Mysteries, eight  of them deal  with Life or  Magic, for, in  the
world of Thimhallan,  Life is  Magic. Everything that  exists in  this
land exists either by the will of the Almin, who placed it here before
even the ancients arrived, or  has since been either 'shaped,  formed,
summoned, or conjured, '  these being the four  Laws of Nature.  These
Laws are  controlled  through  at  least  one  of  the  eight  of  the
Mysteries: Time, Spirit, Air, Fire, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Life. Of
these Mysteries, only the first five currently survived at the time of
the Darksword's creation. The Mysteries  of Time and Spirit were  lost
during the Iron Wars.  With them vanished  the knowledge possessed  by
the ancients- the  ability to  divine the  future and  the ability  to
communicate with those who had passed from this life into Beyond.

    "As for the last Mystery, it  is practiced, but only by those  who
walk in darkness. Known as Death, its other name is Technology."

    "Quaint." Kevon Smythe was amused. "I was told you people believed
something along  those lines.  And  the other  two  . .  .  um .  .  .
Mysteries, you called  them. Time  and-what was it-  Spirit? They  are
lost? Perhaps just as  well. As Macbeth  discovered, looking into  the
future is dangerous. Are we doing what  was truly destined or is it  a
self-fulfilling prophecy? I  think it is  safer-and more honest-to  be
guided by one's vision of the future. Don't you agree, Father Saryon?"

    My master was thoughtful, introspective.  "I don't know," he  said
at last. "The tragedy that befell Joram and all of Thimhallan was,  in
a way,  brought  about  by  a vision  of  the  future-a  vision  which
terrified. Would  we have  caused our  own destruction  if we'd  never
heard the Prophecy concerning the Dead child?"

    "Yes, we  would  have.  So  I believe,"  said  King  Garald.  "Our
downfall began long before Joram was born, as early as the Iron  Wars.
Intolerance, prejudice,  fear,  blind faith,  greed,  ambition-  these
would have  destroyed us  eventually, with  or without  Joram and  the
Darksword."

    He looked  pointedly at  Kevon  Smythe as  he  spoke, but  if  His
Majesty meant those words for  the edification of Smythe, His  Majesty
wasted his breath. Smythe's attention-and  perhaps his magic, if  that
was what he used to charm-was  focused on Saryon, to the exclusion  of
all else.

    "To me, Thimhallan was symbolized by Joram's mother, the Empress,"
said Saryon softly, sadly. "Her husband refused to admit that she  was
dead, though all  in court  knew it. He  kept her  corpse animated  by
magicks. The courtiers  bowed, paid homage,  gossiped with her  . .  .
reveled with a lifeless and corrupt  shell of something that had  once
been alive, vibrant, beautiful. Such a dreadful charade could not have
gone on forever.

    "Joram's story  is  really  very  simple.  A  Prophecy  was  given
immediately following the Iron Wars, which stated: 'There will be born
to the royal house one who is  dead but will live, who will die  again
and live again.  And when he  returns, he  will hold in  his hand  the
destruction of the world. ' Joram was a child of the royal house, born
to the Empress and  Emperor of Merilon. He  was born Dead-that is,  he
had no magic in him at all. I know," said Saryon, with a sigh. "I  was
present when they performed the tests on him.

    "Bishop Vanya, knowing of and  fearing the Prophecy, ordered  that
the baby be refused all sustenance.  Vanya took the baby away to  die.
But the Almin is not so  easily thwarted. A madwoman named Anja  found
the baby  and stole  him, took  him to  the farms  near the  Outlands,
raised him as her own child.

    "Anja knew Joram  was deficient in  magic. She knew  that if  this
deficiency were discovered, the Duuk-tsarith would seize him and  that
would be the end of him. She taught him sleight-of-hand tricks so that
he could keep up a pretense of possessing magic.

    "Joram was raised as a field magus, a peasant. It was here he  met
Mosiah, who became  Joram's one true  friend. It was  also here  that,
when he was a teenager, Joram killed a man, a harsh overseer, who  had
discovered Joram's  secret. In  an  effort to  protect her  son,  Anja
attacked the overseer, who killed her in self-defense. Furious,  Joram
killed the overseer.

    "Joram fled to the  Outlands, where he was  found by the Order  of
the Ninth Mystery, who were  also living out there-the  Technologists.
They had broken the laws of Thimhallan, used Technology to  supplement
their magic. It was  here, among them, that  Joram learned the art  of
forging metal. It was here he discovered darkstone and its ability  to
nullify magic. Joram developed  the idea of forging  a weapon made  of
darkstone, a weapon  that would compensate  for his lack  of magic,  a
weapon that would give him the power he craved.

    "For reasons of my own, I  assisted him in making the  Darksword,"
Saryon said, adding pointedly,  for Smythe's benefit, "Darkstone  must
be  given  magical  Life  through  the  intercession  of  a  catalyst.
Otherwise, its properties are those of any other metal."

    Smythe was gracious. "How interesting. Please continue, Father."

    Saryon shrugged. "There is  not much more  to tell. Rather,  there
is, but the story is a long  one. Suffice to say, through a series  of
circumstances, Joram came to learn who he was. He came to learn of the
Prophecy. He  was sentenced  to  death. He  could have  destroyed  his
attackers, but he  chose instead to  leave the world.  He crossed  the
Border into what we  all thought was the  realm of Death. Instead,  he
traveled to another part of the planet we know as Thimhallan. Here, he
and the woman who loved him were  found by a member of Earth's  Border
Patrol. He was taken to Earth and dwelled there for ten years with his
wife, Gwendolyn.

    "Discovering that there were  some on Earth  who were plotting  to
travel to  Thimhallan and  conquer it,  Joram returned,  bringing  the
Darksword, to fight those who sought to destroy our people, our way of
life. He  was  betrayed and  would  have been  assassinated,  but  for
another strange  twist of  fate. Realizing  that Earth  Forces"-Saryon
glanced  at   General  Boris,   who   was  red-faced   and   extremely
uncomfortable-"were winning  and  that our  people  were going  to  be
either enslaved or slaughtered, Joram chose to end the war. He plunged
the Darksword into the sacred altar, released the magic that was  pent
up in  the Well.  The magic  flowed back  into the  universe. The  war
ended.

    "The magical shell that had been cast protectively over Thimhallan
was broken. The terrible storms that had once swept the land returned.
The people had to  be transported to  a place of  safety, and so  they
were brought here, to Earth, and placed in relocation camps. Only  two
remained behind: Joram and his wife, Gwendolyn. Now the most hated man
in the universe, Joram  knew that his  life would be  in danger if  he
ever returned to  Earth. He  chose to  stay alone  on Thimhallan,  the
world he had destroyed, as the Prophecy predicted."

    Saryon's tale had gone on rather  longer than the half hour  Kevon
Smythe had allowed for this business. He made no motion to  interrupt,
however, nor  even  glanced  at  his  timepiece,  but  sat  immovable,
completely immersed in the catalyst's  story. King Garald and  General
Boris, who had lived parts of the story, glanced at their own  watches
and fidgeted, yet  they would not  leave Smythe alone  with us and  so
they were forced to sit and  wait. Looking outside, I saw their  aides
speaking into handheld phones, undoubtedly rearranging schedules.

    I was just thinking that if  they stayed much longer, we would  be
expected to offer them  something to eat and  drink, and wondering  if
there were enough biscuits to go around, when Saryon ended his tale.

    "Truly," said Kevon Smythe, and he appeared to be much affected by
the story, "the  Darksword is  an interesting  object. Its  properties
should be analyzed, to  see of what  benefit it may  be to mankind.  I
know that several theories have been advanced concerning it. It  seems
to me important that these theories be tested.

    "In one  of  my corporations,  I  have a  team  of  scientists-top
professionals in their fields-who are even now making preparations  to
study the  weapon. They  understand"-Smythe glanced  smilingly at  the
irate King,  who was  on  his feet-"that  this artifact  is  extremely
valuable. These scientists  would treat  it with  the utmost  respect,
removing only small portions as necessary for study. Once the  testing
was completed, the weapon would be returned to the people formerly  of
Thimhallan-"

    "Like hell you would!" General Boris stood up as well.

    King Garald was livid.  "Of course, we all  know that the  testing
would never be completed, would it, Smythe? There would always be  one
more test  to perform,  one more  theory to  either support  or  deny.
Meanwhile you would be using the Dark-sword's power-"

    "For good," said Kevon Smythe quietly, "as opposed to those,  such
as your black-robed Enforcers, who would use it for evil."

    King Garald's face muscles contracted and stiffened, so that  when
he tried to speak,  no words would come  through his fury. Smythe  was
able to continue.

    "Father, it  is your  duty as  one of  the brotherhood  of men  to
persuade Joram of his duty in  these troubled and dangerous times.  He
used the Darksword to destroy. Let  him now redeem himself and use  it
to create. Create a better life for us all."

    At this, I saw King Garald pause  in his attempt to speak. He  was
keeping close  watch on  Saryon. The  King knew,  as well  as I,  that
Smythe had made a mistake. His  vaunted charm-be it of magical  origin
or born in  his blood-would not  cover his error.  He would have  done
much  better  to  have  read  my  books,  not  left  his  research  to
underlings. He would have then known  the nature of the man with  whom
he dealt.

    Saryon's face grew shadowed.

    But if King  Garald thought that  he had gained  a victory by  his
enemy's mistake, he, too, was  mistaken. I knew my master's  decision,
even before he spoke it. I, alone in that room, was not surprised.

    Saryon rose to his feet. His  gaze encompassed all three men.  His
voice was rebuking.

    "Joram and his wife and child  live alone on Thimhallan now.  They
are under the protection of Earth Forces. They are not to be  hounded,
or bothered, or mistreated in any way. That is the law." He turned  to
Kevon Smythe. "You speak very glibly of redemption, sir. Redemption is
the Almin's province. He alone will judge Joram, not you, not me,  not
the King, nor any other mortal!"

    Saryon took a step  backward, raised his  head, regarded them  all
with a gaze that was steady and unwavering. "I have made my  decision.
I made it last night. I  will not go to Joram.  I will not be part  of
any attempt  to  trick  him  into revealing  the  whereabouts  of  the
Darksword. He has suffered enough. Let  him live out the remainder  of
his days in peace."

    The three men were bitter enemies,  yet they had the same  desire.
They glanced at each other.

    Kevon Smythe spoke. "The Hch'nyv will not permit Joram to live  in
peace."

    "They will slay him,"  General Boris said,  "as they have  already
slain tens of thousands of our people. All the outposts that remain in
our system are being evacuated, their people brought back to Earth for
protection. Our fleet is too decimated to be divided. Here, on  Earth,
we will make our final stand against the invaders."

    Saryon regarded  them  gravely, troubled.  "I  had not  heard  the
situation was that critical."

    Garald sighed. "We have made a  mistake with you, Father. We  have
put our worst argument first and we have done it badly. Now you  don't
trust us, and I  can't say that  I blame you. But  very few people  on
Earth know just  how desperate the  situation is. We  want to keep  it
that way, for as long as possible."

    "The panic that would follow, the damage it would do our cause, is
incalculable," said the General. "We need troops prepared to fight the
enemy, not used to quell riots in the streets."

    "What you have heard here,  Father," said Kevon Smythe, "you  must
not repeat, except to one person, and that is Joram. You may tell  him
the truth, if only to  make him understand the  danger. Then it is  my
hope and  my prayer,  Father, that  he will  relinquish the  Darksword
willingly-to whomever he chooses. We are fighting for the same  cause,
after all."

    He looked like a saint, in his self-sacrificing humility, and  the
King and General came  off shabbily by contrast.  Yet the charm,  once
dispelled, could not be recast.

    Saryon sank  down in  his  chair. He  looked  ill from  worry  and
anxiety. It  wasn't  proper etiquette  or  protocol, but  I  was  past
caring. Ignoring the  three, I went  to Saryon and,  leaning over  his
chair, asked him with a sign if I should bring him some tea.

    He smiled at me  and thanked me,  shook his head  no. He kept  his
hand on mine, however, indicating that I was to remain at his side. He
sat and thought a long time, in distraught, unhappy silence.

    The King and General returned to their seats. Smythe had not  left
his. All three tried to look sympathetic, but they could none of  them
hide an air of smugness. They were certain they had won.

    At length, Saryon raised his head.  "I will go to Joram," he  said
quietly. "I will tell him what you have told me. I will warn him  that
he and  his family  are in  danger and  that they  should evacuate  to
Earth. I will say  nothing to him  of the Darksword.  If he brings  it
with him, you may each go to him and present your own need. If he does
not, then you may each go to Thimhallan-once Joram and his family have
departed-and search for it."

    It was a victory for them-of  sorts. They were wise enough not  to
continue to argue or cajole.

    "And now, gentlemen," said Saryon,  "you have been kept here  past
your time. I don't mean to  seem rude, but I have travel  arrangements
to make-"

    "All that has been  taken care of for  you, Father," said  General
Boris, adding lamely,  "on the ...  er ... off  chance that you  would
decide to make this trip."

    "How convenient,"  said  Saryon,  and  one  corner  of  his  mouth
twitched.

    We were to  leave that  night. One  of the  General's aides  would
remain with us and assist us with packing, drive us to the  spaceport,
escort us on board ship.

    Kevon Smythe  left with  gracious  words and  seemed to  take  the
sunlight with him. General Boris hurried out, relieved to have it  all
over with, and was immediately surrounded  by his staff, who had  been
impatiently awaiting  his  release.  King  Garald  remained  a  moment
behind.

    Saryon and I  had gone to  the door  to see our  guests out.  King
Garald looked almost as ill  as my master, and  he, at least, had  the
grace to apologize.

    "I am sorry to put this burden on you, Father," he said. "But what
could I do? You've met  the man." We knew who  he meant. There was  no
need to name him. "What could I do?" he repeated.

    "You could have faith, Your Majesty," said Saryon gently.

    King  Garald  smiled,  then.  Turning  to  Saryon,  there  on  the
doorstoop, the King reached out his  hand and clasped my master's.  "I
do, Father. I have faith in you."

    Saryon was  so extremely  startled by  this response  that it  was
difficult for me to hide my smile. Garald left, walking tall, with his
shoulders back;  a  kingly  air.  General Boris  was  waiting  in  the
limousine. Kevon Smythe had already departed.

    Saryon and I ducked hastily  back inside, narrowly avoiding a  mob
of reporters,  who clamored  for interviews.  The General's  aide  was
skilled in handling the press,  and all in all,  they did not give  us
too much trouble.  After breaking  only one window  and trampling  the
flower  beds,  they  eventually  left  us  in  peace.  I  saw  several
interviewing Mrs. Mumford.

    I suppose that a birthday  celebration for one elderly cleric  was
not considered worth the expenditure of time and money. Had they known
the true story, they would have stormed the house.

    Another of the  General's aides was  in the study,  on the  phone,
confirming and updating arrangements for our transport to Thimhallan.

    Saryon paused a moment  in the hallway.  Noting the expression  on
his face, I touched his arm, drew his attention.

    "You  did  the  right  thing,"  I  signed,  and  added,  a  little
teasingly, I'm  afraid,  hoping to  cheer  his mood.  "You  must  have
faith."

    He smiled, but it was a wan, pale smile. "Yes, Reuven. So I must."

    Sighing, his head bowed,  he went to his  room to prepare for  our
journey.

    CHAPTER SEVEN

    The Watchers had guarded the  Border of Thimhallan for  centuries.
It was their enforced task, through sleepless night and dreary day, to
keep watch along the  boundary that separated  the magical realm  from
whatever lay Beyond.

    What did lie Beyond?

    TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

    I will spare you the details of our journey, which was, I suppose,
the same as any other  interplanetary flight, with the exception  that
we were in a military  ship with a military  escort. For me, the  trip
into space was  awe-inspiring and  exciting. This was  only my  second
flight and the  first I  remembered clearly.  I had  only the  vaguest
recollection of leaving Thimhallan, traveling on the evacuation ships.

    Saryon kept to his  quarters, on the pretext  that he had work  to
do. He was,  as I believe  I have neglected  to mention, developing  a
mathematical  theorem  having  to  do  with  light-wave  particles  or
something of  the  sort. Not  being  mathematically inclined,  I  knew
little about it. The moment  he and his tutor  began to discuss it,  I
began to feel  a throbbing in  my temples  and was glad  to leave.  He
claimed to be working on this, but  every time I entered his room,  to
see if he needed anything, I found him staring out the porthole at the
stars gliding past us.

    He was reliving his life in Merilon, I guessed. Maybe he was  once
more in the court of the faerie queen or standing, a stone statue,  on
the border of Beyond. The past  was for him both painful and  blessed.
At the expression on his face, I silently withdrew, my heart aching.

    We landed on the world he and I had known as Thimhallan, the first
ship from Earth in twenty years, not counting those that arrived  only
to off-load supplies to the station then left again, and not  counting
those  that  arrived  secretly,  carrying  the  Duuk-tsarith  and  the
Technomancers.

    Saryon remained alone in his quarters  for so long after the  ship
settled to the ground  that I began to  think he had reconsidered  his
decision, that  he was  not going  to  talk to  Joram after  all.  The
General's aide was exceedingly worried and panicked calls were made to
both General  Boris  and King  Garald.  Their images  were  on-screen,
prepared to badger and plead, when Saryon appeared.

    Motioning me to  follow him,  he walked  past the  aide without  a
word, did not even glance at the screens. He moved so swiftly  through
the ship that I barely  had time to grab the  knapsack in which I  had
packed a few necessaries for us both and hurry after him.

    By the  beatific expression  on his  face, Saryon  was lifted  far
above the remembrance of  such things as  clean socks, bottled  water,
and shaving kits. Blessing  the forethought which  had prompted me  to
pack for both of us,  I slung the knapsack  over my shoulders and  was
following at his heels when he reached the hatch.

    Whatever doubts he may have  entertained were gone. The weight  of
his responsibility and even  the weight of  the intervening years  had
fallen from him. This was more than a dream come true, for my  master.
He had never dared dream the dream. He had never thought this  reunion
would take  place.  He had  believed  that Joram-in  his  self-imposed
exile-was lost to him forever.

    When the hatch opened, Saryon shot out the doorway and dashed down
the ramp, his robes flapping wildly about his ankles. I clattered down
behind, struggling with the heavy knapsack, which was throwing me  off
balance. We were met at the foot of the ramp by a contingent of people
from the research station.  Saryon halted only  because it was  either
stop or run them over.

    He paid them very little attention, however; his hungry gaze going
above their heads to the land beyond, a land that, as he had known it,
would have been  shrouded in  magical, protective mist.  The mist  was
gone. The land was now laid bare for all to see.

    Saryon tried to see  it, tried to see  everything he could of  his
homeland. Craning his neck and peering  above the heads of the  group,
he made only brief and  generally incomprehensible statements and,  at
length, gave up all attempts at politeness. He walked off, leaving the
commander  and  the  urgent  message  he  was  trying  to  impart   in
mid-sentence.

    Saryon walked  across the  rock-strewn ground,  walked toward  the
land of his birth.

    The base commander would have gone  after him, but I had seen  the
tears on my master's face.  I intervened, indicating to the  commander
by emphatic signs that Saryon wanted  to be left alone. The  General's
aide had arrived by now.  She and the commander  and I made the  plans
necessary for our stay.

    "You  must  make  him   understand,"  said  the  base   commander,
frustrated. "As I was attempting to  tell the priest, we received  our
orders to pull out yesterday, evacuate the station. So don't linger.

    Remind the  priest  he's not  on  holiday. The  last  ship  leaves
seventy-two hours from now."

    I was shocked.  I stared at  the man, who  understood my  wordless
question.

    "Yes. The  Hch'nyv are  that  close," he  said grimly.  "We'll  be
taking you and the prisoner  and his family out  of here. I guess  you
and the priest there are responsible for making him see reason, eh?

    "Well, I don't envy you." The commander turned his gaze toward the
distant hills. "That  Joram-he's gone insane,  if you ask  me. He  was
like a wild man when  we went up there  to rescue Senator Smythe.  Not
but what he had cause, I grant you. Still, no harm was done and  there
was Joram  standing over  the poor  Senator, fists  clenched,  seeming
ready to bash the life out of him. And such a look Joram gave me, when
I asked him if  his wife and  daughter were well?  He fair roasted  me
with those black eyes of his and told me that the health of his family
was none of my concern.  No, sir. I don't envy  you and the priest.  I
recommend an armed escort."

    I knew that would  be out of  the question, as  far as Saryon  was
concerned, and so did the General's aide.

    "They do not have far to travel and the catalyst is familiar  with
this land," she told the base commander. "The priest is an old  friend
of Joram's.  They  will not  be  in any  danger.  And they  will  have
communicators in the air car, which they can use should they run  into
any unforeseen circumstances."

    She gave  me  a  sideways glance  as  she  said this,  to  see  my
reaction. I guessed then that we would have escorts-of an unseen kind.
The Duuk-tsarith,  perhaps hidden  in their  folds of  time, would  be
guarding us.

    "What about a driver?" asked the commander.

    "I will drive-" the aide began.

    I shook my head emphatically and tapped myself on the chest. On my
handheld computer, I typed out, I will drive.

    "Can you?" the aide asked me, clearly dubious.

    Yes, I replied stoutly, which was almost the truth.

    I had driven an air car once before, at an amusement park, and had
just about got the  hang of it.  It was the  other cars, coming  every
which way at me,  which had confused  me and caused  my driving to  be
slightly erratic. If mine  was the only  air car in  this part of  the
solar system, I figured I would be fairly safe.

    Besides-I held up  the computer  for the aide  to see  what I  had
written-you know that he  will not let anyone  else come with us.  She
did know, but she didn't like it. My guess was that this had all  been
arranged-the air car,  I mean-with  the understanding  that she  would
drive us, keep an eye on us,  make her reports. Haven't you got  spies
enough? I thought bitterly, but did not put into words. I had won this
round and could afford to be magnanimous.

    "Keep in contact," the base commander warned. "Circumstances  with
the enemy could change. And probably not for the better."

    The aide returned  to the ship,  to complain to  the General.  The
base commander accompanied me to the air car, gave me quick  refresher
lessons in  operating the  thing-lessons which  served to  confuse  me
thoroughly. I tossed the knapsack in the backseat and left the air car
to fetch Saryon,  who, in his  eagerness, had started  walking in  the
direction of the distant mountains.

    I hadn't taken  six steps when  the commander called  after me.  I
turned to see him picking something up off the ground.

    "Here." The commander handed it to me. "The priest dropped this."

    He held out Saryon's leather scrip, one of the few objects he  had
brought with him from Thimhallan. I recalled it well, for it was given
an honored place in his study,  carefully arranged upon a small  table
near his desk. I always knew  when Saryon was thinking about Joram  or
about the past, for he would rest his hand upon the scrip, his fingers
stroking the worn leather.

    I thought it  touching that  he had  brought the  scrip with  him,
perhaps as  a  holy relic,  to  be rededicated.  I  couldn't  imagine,
though-cherishing the scrip as  he did-how he  had come to  carelessly
drop it. Thanking the  commander, I placed the  scrip in the  backseat
along with the knapsack. Then I went to retrieve my master.

    "Air car," he said, and gave me a sharp look. "And who's to be the
driver?"

    "I am, sir,"  I signed. "It's  either that or  the General's  aide
will drive us, and I knew you wouldn't like to have a stranger along."

    "I would much prefer that alternative to being splattered  against
a tree," said Saryon irritably.

    "I have driven an air car before, sir," I returned.

    "In an amusement park!" Saryon snorted.

    I was hoping that in his  excitement, he would have forgotten  the
circumstances. Apparently not.

    "I will go find the General's aide, sir," I signed, and started to
head back toward the ship.

    "Wait, Reuven."

    I turned around.

    "Can you . . . really drive one of those contraptions?" He cast  a
nervous glance at the air car.

    "Well, sir." I relaxed, smiled, and shrugged. "I can try."

    "All right, then," he said.

    "Do you know the way?" I asked. "Where are we going?"

    He looked out  again across  the landscape,  toward the  mountains
that rose, snowcapped, on the horizon.

    "There," he  said. "The  Font. The  only building  left  standing,
after the terrible storms broke over the world with the destruction of
the Well of Life.  Joram and Gwendolyn took  refuge there, and  there,
according to King Garald, is where they live still."

    We started  walking back  to  the air  car. "We  have  seventy-two
hours," I told him, "before the last ship leaves."

    He gave me the  same shocked look I  had given the commander.  "So
short a time?"

    "Yes, sir. But  surely it won't  take nearly that  long. Once  you
explain the danger to Joram . . ."

    Saryon was shaking his head. I wondered if I should tell him  what
the base commander had said about Joram's being insane, decided that I
would keep  that to  myself. I  did not  want to  add to  my  master's
worries. My research on the book had seemed to indicate that Joram was
a manic-depressive and I thought it quite possible that the  isolation
of  his  life,  plus  the  tension  created  by  the  arrival  of  the
Technomancers, might well have driven him to the breaking point.

    Reaching the car, I opened the door for Saryon and saw the leather
scrip draped over the backseat. I pointed at it.

    "You dropped it," I signed. "The base commander found it for you."

    Saryon stared at the scrip in perplexity. "I couldn't have dropped
it. I didn't bring it. Why would I?"

    "Is it yours?" I asked, thinking  that perhaps it might belong  to
someone on the base.

    Saryon peered  closely  at it.  "It  looks very  much  like  mine.
Somewhat newer, perhaps, not  quite as worn. Odd.  Such a thing  could
not come into the possession of  anyone on base, because such a  thing
has not been made for twenty years! It must be mine, only . . .  Mmmm.
How strange."

    I reminded him that he had been distracted and upset, that perhaps
he had brought it  and not remembered. I  also hinted that his  memory
had failed him before-he  was constantly forgetting  where he put  his
reading spectacles.

    He cheerfully acknowledged that I  was right and admitted that  it
had crossed his mind to take the  scrip, but that he had been  fearful
of losing it. He  thought that he  had put it  back in its  accustomed
place.

    The scrip remained lying on the  backseat. We entered the car  and
my thoughts centered on trying to remember all that the commander  had
told me about the operation of  the vehicle. The odd discovery of  the
leather scrip passed  clean out of  my mind. Saryon  settled into  the
passenger's seat. I assisted him with his seat belt and then  fastened
my own. He asked worriedly if there weren't more safety restraints and
I said,  with  more  confidence  than I  felt,  that  these  would  be
adequate.

    I pushed the ON  button. The air  car began to  hum. I pushed  the
button marked JETS. The humming grew  louder, followed by a whoosh  of
the jets. The air car rose off the ground. Saryon had fast hold of the
door handle.

    All was  going very  smoothly. The  car was  drifting upward  when
Saryon spoke. "Aren't we going too high?" he asked in a cracked voice.

    I shook my head, and taking the wheel, I pressed on it,  intending
to level us off.

    The wheel was far more sensitive than I had anticipated, certainly
more sensitive than the  wheel of the air  car in the amusement  park.
The car lurched downward and headed  at a high rate of speed  straight
for the ground.

    I jerked back on the wheel, pulled up the nose. At the same time I
inadvertently increased the power and we soared up and jumped forward,
the sudden thrust nearly snapping our necks in the process.

    "Almin save us!" Saryon gasped.

    "Amen to that, Father," came a sepulchral voice.

    Saryon stared at me and  I think it was  in his mind that  perhaps
the whiplash  had miraculously  restored my  speech. I  shook my  head
emphatically and  motioned with  my chin-my  hands were  gripping  the
wheel so tightly that I dared not let go-that the voice had come  from
the backseat.

    Twisting around, Saryon stared.

    "I know that voice," he muttered. "But it can't be!"

    I don't  know what  I expected-the  Duuk-tsarith, I  suppose.  Not
completely certain how to stop the air car, I kept driving and at last
managed to stabilize it. I cast a quick look in the rearview mirror.

    There was no one in the backseat.

    "Ouch! I say!" The  voice had a peevish  quality to it now.  "This
great smelly green bag has fallen on top of me. I'm being  frightfully
dented."

    Saryon was  searching  wildly  around the  backseat  and  was  now
groping about with his hands. "Where? What?"

    I managed at last to halt the air car. I kept the jets on, and  we
remained floating  in  the air.  Reaching  back, I  shoved  aside  the
knapsack.

    "Thanks awfully," said the leather scrip.

    CHAPTER EIGHT

    "Let me be your fool, sire. You need one, I assure you."

    "Why, idiot?" asked Joram, the half smile in his dark eyes.

    "Because only a fool dares tell you the truth," said Simkin.

    FORGING THE DARKS WORD Simkin!" Saryon gulped, swallowed. "Is that
you? "In the flesh. Leather, actually," replied the scrip. "You  can't
be," Saryon said and he sounded shaken.  "You're . . . you're dead.  I
saw your corpse."

    "Never buried," the  scrip returned. "Grave  mistake. Speaking  of
stakes, one through the heart. That or silver bullet or sprig of holly
in the heel. But everyone was so busy those last few days,  destroying
the world and so forth, I can see how I came to be overlooked."

    "Stop the nonsense." Saryon was stern. "If it is you, change  into
yourself. Your human self,  that is. I  find this very  disconcerting.
Talking to a ... a leather scrip!"

    "Ah, bit  of a  problem."  The scrip  wriggled, its  leather  ties
curled in upon themselves  in what might  have been embarrassment.  "I
don't seem to be  able to do that  anymore. Become human. Rather  lost
the knack. Death  takes a  lot out  of a fellow,  you know,  as I  was
saying just  the other  day to  my dear  friend Merlyn.  You  remember
Merlyn? Founder of  Merilon? Adequate  wizard, though not  as good  as
some would have you believe. His fame due entirely to his press agent,
of course. And spelling his name with ay! I mean-how pretentious!  But
then anyone who goes around dressed in a blue-and-white  star-spangled
bathrobe-"

    "I insist." Saryon  was firm,  ignoring the  desperate attempt  to
change the subject.  He reached out  his hand for  the leather  scrip.
"Now. Or I shall toss you out the window."

    "You won't get rid of me that easily!" said the scrip coolly. "I'm
coming with you, no matter what.  You can't imagine how boring it  has
been! No amusement, absolutely none. Toss me out," the scrip warned as
Saryon's hand drew  nearer, "and I'll  change into an  engine part  on
this simply fascinating vehicle. And  I know very little about  engine
parts," he added, as an afterthought.

    Recovering from the initial shock of hearing what I considered  to
be an inanimate object speaking, I  was regarding Simkin with a  great
deal of interest.  Of all  those whose  stories I  had written,  those
concerning Simkin intrigued me  the most. Saryon and  I had argued  in
friendly fashion over just exactly what Simkin was.

    I maintained that he was a wizard of Thimhallan with extraordinary
powers-a prodigy,  a genius  of magic,  like Mozart  was a  genius  of
music. Add to this a chaotic  nature, an addictive lust for  adventure
and excitement and a self-centered, shallow personality, and you  have
a man who  would betray  his friends  at the  drop of  an orange  silk
scarf.

    Saryon admitted that  all this was  true and that  I was  probably
right; still, he had reservations.

    "There are things about Simkin that your theory doesn't  resolve,"
Saryon had once said. "I think he is old, very old, perhaps as old  as
Thimhallan itself. No, I can't prove  it. Just a feeling I have,  from
things he's mentioned. And I know  for a fact, Reuven, that the  magic
he performed  is  not  possible. It  is  simply,  mathematically,  not
possible. It would take far more  Life than a hundred catalysts  could
give for  him to  transform himself  into a  teapot or  a bucket.  And
Simkin could perform this magic, as you say, at the drop of his orange
silk scarf! He died when Technology invaded the realm."

    "What do you think  he is, then?" I  had asked. Saryon had  smiled
and shrugged. "I have absolutely no idea." My master was about to pick
up the scrip. "I'm warning you!"  Simkin told us. "Carburetor! I  have
no notion what one  is or what  it does, but the  name attracts me.  I
will become Carburetor if you so much as lay a finger-"

    "Don't worry, I'm not going to throw you out," Saryon said mildly.
"On the contrary, I'm going to carry you safely-where I would normally
carry my scrip. Around my waist. Beneath my robes. Next to my skin."

    The scrip vanished  so suddenly  that I found  myself doubting  my
senses, wondering if I had actually seen (and heard) it. In its place,
in the backseat  of the air  car, was the  pale and  ephemeral-looking
image of a young man.

    He was not ghostlike. Ghosts, from what I've read about them,  are
more substantial. It  is difficult  to describe,  but imagine  someone
taking watercolors, painting the figure of Simkin, then pouring  water
over it. Ethereal, transparent, he faded into the background and would
not have been noticed if you weren't already looking for him. The only
bright spot of color anywhere about him was a wisp of defiant orange.

    "You see what I've become!" Simkin was doleful. "A mere shadow  of
my former self. And  who is your silent  friend here, Father? Cat  got
his tongue? I recall the Earl of Marchbank. Cat got his tongue,  once.
Earl ate tuna  for lunch. Fell  asleep, mouth open.  Cat enters  room,
smells tuna. Ghastly sight."

    "Reuven is mu-" Saryon began.

    "Let him speak for himself, Father," Simkin interrupted.

    "Mute," Saryon resumed. "He is mute. He can't speak."

    "Saves  his  breath  to  cool   his  porridge,  eh?  Must  eat   a
considerable amount  of  cold porridge.  This  finger-wiggling.  Means
something, I presume?"

    "It is  sign language.  That  is how  he communicates.  One  way,"
Saryon amended.

    "How jolly," said Simkin, with a yawn. "I say! Could we get a move
on? Nice to see you again and all that, Father, but you were always  a
bit of a bore.  I'm quite looking forward  to talking to Joram  again.
Been ages. Simply ages."

    "You haven't seen Joram? All this time?" Saryon was skeptical.

    "Well, there's  'seen' and  then there's  'seen, '  " Simkin  said
evasively. " 'Seen' from a  distance, 'seen' to one's best  advantage,
'seen' to the  task at  hand, 'seen'  off on  a long  ocean voyage.  I
suppose you might say that I have, in fact, 'seen' Joram. On the other
hand, I haven't 'seen' him, if you take my meaning.

    "To put it another way," he  added, having seen that we were  both
lost, "Joram doesn't know I'm alive. Quite literally."

    "You propose to go with  us, to have us  take you to Joram,"  said
Saryon.

    "Jolly reunion!" Simkin was enthusiastic. "In your  ecclesiastical
company, Padre, our dark and temperamental friend might be willing  to
overlook that harmless little  joke I played on  him there toward  the
end."

    "When you  betrayed  him?  Plotted to  murder  him?"  Saryon  said
grimly.

    "It all turned out  right in the end!"  Simkin protested. "And  it
wouldn't have, you know, if it hadn't been for me."

    Saryon and I looked at each other. We really had no choice in  the
matter, as Simkin well knew. It was  either take him with us or  throw
him out, and although his magic might  be weakened, he was, as he  had
so cleverly proved, still adept at altering his form.

    "Very well," Saryon said testily. "You  may come with us. But  you
are on your own. What Joram chooses to do with you or to you is up  to
him."

    "What Joram chooses .  . ." Simkin repeated  softly. "It seems  to
me, from what I've heard-Merlyn  is such a gossipy old  busybody-Joram
is running out of choices. I say,  you don't mind if I change back  to
the scrip, do  you? Very  fatiguing in  this form-  breathing and  all
that. You must promise, though, Father, that you won't put me next  to
your skin!" Simkin shivered. "No offense, Father, but you've gone  all
wrinkly and prunelike."

    "What do  you mean  about Joram  running out  of choices?"  Saryon
demanded, alarmed. "Simkin! What-the Almin take him!"

    The watercolor image was gone. The leather scrip was back, resting
on the seat of the air car. And it had gone mute, apparently. As  mute
as myself.

    Nothing Saryon did or said could induce it to talk. I wondered  if
the scrip had ever talked at all. And if it hadn't, what did that make
me? Delusional? That would be a kind  word. I glanced at my master  to
see if he was prey to the same uncomfortable feelings.

    He was certainly regarding the scrip very grimly. "We better drive
on, Reuven," Saryon said,  adding with a frown  for the scrip.  "We've
wasted precious time as it is."

    We crossed the Borderland which  had, for endless ages,  separated
Thimhallan from the rest of the universe and separated magic from  the
rest of the universe  as well. A field  of magical energy, created  by
the founders of Thimhallan, the Border permitted people to leave,  but
prevented them  and all  others from  entering or  reentering. It  was
Joram, the Dead  child of  a dying world,  who not  only crossed  that
Border, but was  able to  return. He  had brought  the two  realms-one
magical, one technological-together. They had met with the violence of
a thunderclap. Keeping the speed  of the air car  slow, I was able  to
handle the vehicle with some proficiency, although our ride was  still
rough and  we were  jounced about  considerably. Not  having had  much
experience with air cars-or cars of any type, for that matter-

    Saryon attributed  the  roughness to  the  buffeting winds.  I  am
ashamed to say that I did not disabuse him.

    As for Simkin, we  had barely started off  again when the  leather
scrip slid to the floor.  The knapsack tumbled down  on top of it.  We
heard a muffled shriek, but Saryon couldn't reach the scrip.

    "Should I stop?" I mouthed. With  the wind tossing around the  air
car, I was reluctant to do so.

    "No. Serves him right," Saryon said.

    I had not thought my master could be so vindictive.

    We  drove  past  a  red  beacon  light  that  was  now  no  longer
operational. Saryon stared at it, twisting  around to gaze at it  when
it was behind us.

    "That must be the alarm beacon," he said, turning back around.  He
was holding fast to a hand strap above the door on his side. "The  one
that used to alert those in the outpost to anyone crossing the Border.
Next, we should see the Stone Watchers. Or what is left of them."

    Along the Borderland had once stood enormous statues known as  the
Watchers, the  guardians of  the  Border. They  had been  living  men,
before their flesh was  changed to rock,  frozen forever, while  their
minds remained active.

    Such a dreadful fate had once been Saryon's.

    I recognized the site, when we reached it, though I had never seen
it. During the last days of Thimhallan, when violent quakes and fierce
storms swept the land, the Watchers fell; the spirits in them freed at
last. Now  the shattered  remains littered  the ground,  some of  them
completely covered over by windblown sand. The mounds looked very much
like graves.

    Noticing the pain of memory contort Saryon's face, I was about  to
increase our speed by giving more power to the rear thrusters,  taking
us quickly away from  this tragic site.  Saryon understood my  attempt
and forestalled it. I hoped  he was not going to  ask me to stop,  for
the wind, though lessened  somewhat, was still strong.  If I tried  to
halt the air  car, we  might be blown  out of  control. Stinging  sand
blasted our windshield, rattled against the doors.

    "Slow down  a moment,  Reuven," he  said. He  stared long  at  the
mounds as we drove slowly past. "They cried their warning, but no  one
paid heed. The people  were too intent on  their own ambitions,  their
own plots and schemes to listen to the voices of the past. What voices
call to us  now, I  wonder?" Saryon mused.  "And are  we listening  to
them?"

    He fell silent, thoughtful. The only voice I heard was a faint one
coming from the floor of the backseat of the air car. The language  it
was using was shocking. Fortunately Saryon could not hear Simkin  over
the rush of the jets and his sad reverie remained undisturbed.

    We left the Border behind, crossing over the vast stretch of  sand
dunes, and entered the grasslands.  Saryon gazed around blankly and  I
realized that he recognized nothing,  no landmarks looked familiar  to
him. Not only had  the land changed  during the cataclysmic  upheavals
that followed the emptying  of the Well of  Life, but, I reasoned,  my
master had been accustomed to  traveling the magical Corridors,  built
by the  long-lost Diviners,  which whisked  the people  of  Thimhallan
through time and space from one place to another.

    I continued flying toward the mountains on the horizon, that being
our general destination,  but I was  growing worried. Heavy  blue-gray
clouds were  massing;  lightning  flickered on  their  fringes,  which
dragged the  desolate ground.  The  wind was  increasing. One  of  the
fierce storms for which Thimhallan is noted was fast approaching.  The
mountains were my only  guide and I  would lose sight  of them in  the
driving rain. The air car was  equipped with all manner of devices  to
assist one in navigation, but I did not know how they worked.

    Bitterly I regretted  the impulse  which had prompted  me to  turn
down the offer of a driver. We would have to stop the air car when the
storm hit, not only because we might easily lose our way, but  because
we ran  the risk  of slamming  into a  tree or  the side  of a  cliff.
Heavily forested lands lay ahead and, beyond that, the foothills.

    A gust of wind hit the car, blew it sideways about three feet. The
rain began, large drops  splatting into the  windshield. I thought  of
the small,  lightweight tent  we  had brought  and  shook my  head.  I
couldn't share my fears and doubts  with Saryon, for my hands were  my
voice and I was forced to keep both hands on the steering mechanism.

    There was only one thing  to do and that  was to turn back  before
the storm grew  any worse. I  cut the  power, lowered the  car to  the
ground. Saryon turned to  look questioningly at me.  Once the air  car
had settled, I was about to  explain to him our predicament, when  his
eyes-looking at me-suddenly widened and shifted their gaze to a  point
behind me. I turned swiftly and shrank back, startled, at the sight of
the apparition which loomed in the window.

    I don't know why I was  surprised. I should have known they  would
be around.

    The black-robed and -hooded Enforcer made a motion. I touched  the
button, the window slid into the side of the car. Rain struck me in my
face. The wind blew my  hair into my eyes and  howled so that I  could
barely hear. Yet the black robe of the Duuk-tsarith remained dry,  its
folds still and unruffled. He might  have been standing in the eye  of
the cyclone, while we-only  inches from him-were in  the teeth of  the
storm.

    He pushed back his hood and I recognized Mosiah.

    "What do you want?" Saryon shouted. He didn't look pleased.

    "You are wasting time,"  Mosiah said. "Abandon this  technological
monstrosity. You  can be  with Joram  in  an instant  if you  use  the
magic."

    Saryon looked questioningly at me.

    "We don't know the  way, sir," I signed  to him. "The storms  will
only  grow  worse.  We  dare  not  travel  blind.  And  we  have  only
seventy-two hours."

    "It seems we have no choice," Saryon admitted. "How will you  take
us there?"

    "The Corridors," said Mosiah. "You  must leave the vehicle.  Bring
your things with you."

    I opened the door. The wind nearly pulled it out of my hand. I was
instantly soaked. Reaching into the backseat for my knapsack, I lifted
it from the  floor and  looked beneath it  for the  leather scrip.  At
least this would be an opportunity to rid ourselves of Simkin.

    The leather scrip was gone.

    With deep misgivings, I pulled the knapsack out of the backseat. I
wondered what strange object I was now carrying inside the  knapsack-a
teapot, perhaps.

    Saryon, his  robes whipping  about his  lean body,  stood next  to
Mosiah. With  some  difficulty  caused  by the  wind,  I  hoisted  the
knapsack onto my shoulders.

    "Did you bring my leather scrip?" Saryon shouted.

    "No, sir!" I signed back. "I couldn't find it."

    "Oh, dear,"  said Saryon,  and looked  extremely worried.  "It  is
always better to know where Simkin is than where he isn't," he said to
me in a low voice.

    "Have you lost something?" Mosiah asked.

    "Probably not," Saryon said gloomily. He peered at Mosiah  through
the rain.  "How  do we  travel  the  Corridors? I  thought  they  were
destroyed!"

    "We thought so, too," Mosiah said. "We searched for the Corridors,
after the  destruction  of  Thimhallan, and  couldn't  find  them.  We
assumed that  they  were  lost  to us,  because  the  magic  that  had
supported them  was gone.  But  it seems  that  they had  only  moved,
shifted with the upheaval of the land."

    Saryon frowned. "I don't  see how that's possible!  Mathematically
speaking, it isn't! Admittedly we never knew exactly how the Corridors
functioned, but  the calculations  necessary  to open  them  precluded
any-"

    "Father!" Mosiah interrupted,  with a  smile, as  if reliving  old
memories. "I would be interested to hear about these calculations, but
at a later date. Now shouldn't we be going?"

    "Yes, of course, I'm sorry. Here's poor Reuven soaked to the skin.
I told you to  wear something heavier than  that jacket," he added  in
concern. "Didn't you bring a warmer coat?"

    I indicated that I was warm enough, only very wet. I was wearing a
white cable-knit sweater and  blue jeans, with a  jacket over that.  I
knew my master, however. Had I been wearing fur, wrapped up from  head
to toe, Saryon would have still been worried about me.

    "We should hurry, sir," I signed.

    Not only was I looking forward to  getting out of the rain, I  was
eager to see the magic.

    "Am I supposed to open the Corridor?" Saryon asked. "I'm not  sure
I remember ..."

    "No,  Father,"  Mosiah  replied.  "The  days  are  gone  when  you
catalysts controlled the Corridors. Now anyone who knows the magic may
use them."

    He spoke a word and an oval void appeared in the midst of the rain
and the wind. The void elongated, until  it was tall enough for us  to
enter. Saryon looked back uncertainly at Mosiah.

    "Are you coming with us? Joram would be glad to see you."

    Mosiah shook his head. "I do not think so. Step into the Corridor,
before you catch your death." He turned to me. "The sensation you will
feel is  very frightening  at first,  but it  will soon  pass.  Remain
calm."

    Saryon started to enter the void,  then he halted. "Where will  it
take us?"

    "To the Font, where Joram lives."

    "Are you sure? I don't want to end up in some shattered castle  in
Merilon-"

    "I am  certain, Father.  I said  the Corridors  had shifted.  Like
spokes in a wheel, they now all  lead either to the Font or away  from
it."

    "How strange," said Saryon. "How very strange."

    He entered the void. Urged by Mosiah, I followed quickly after  my
master, almost tripping on his heels. I lost sight of him immediately,
however. The Corridor  closed around me,  as if it  would compress  me
into nothingness. I felt squeezed and smothered, unable to breathe.

    Remain calm. . . .

    All very  well  for  Mosiah  to  say!  He  wasn't  suffocating!  I
struggled for air, struggled  to free myself.  I was drowning,  dying,
losing consciousness. . . .

    Then suddenly the Corridor opened, like  a window shade in a  dark
room springing up to let in bright sunlight. I could breathe. I was on
a mountaintop. The  air was crisp  and cool. No  rain fell. The  storm
clouds were in the valleys beneath us.

    I looked into blue  sky, saw white, scudding  clouds that were  so
close I felt as if I might snag one.

    Saryon stood next to  me, gazing around  with the eager,  wistful,
hungry look of  one who  has returned  at long  last to  a site  where
memories, painful and pleasant, were forged. We stood on the  ramparts
of what had once been an immense city-fortress.

    He shook his head, looking a little dazed. "So much has  changed,"
he murmured. He drew near, took me by the arm, and pointed. "Up there,
on  the  mountain's  peak-made   from  the  mountain's  peak-was   the
cathedral. It is gone. Entirely gone. It must have collapsed later on,
after we left. I never knew."

    He stared at the ruins, which lay scattered over the mountainside,
then he  turned  and looked  in  a different  direction.  His  sadness
brightened somewhat. "The University is still here. Look, Reuven.  The
building on the side  of the mountain. Magi  from all over  Thimhallan
came to  study there,  to  perfect their  art. I  studied  mathematics
there. What happy hours!"

    Tunnels and corridors burrowed into the mountain. The work of  the
Church had been done  here, its catalysts  living, working inside  the
mountain, worshiping at  its peak.  Deep within the  mountain was  the
Well of Life,  the source of  the magic on  Thimhallan, now empty  and
broken.

    It  occurred  to  me,  suddenly,   that-but  for  Joram  and   the
Darksword-I might now  be a  catalyst, walking  these very  corridors,
bustling about  importantly on  the business  of the  Church. I  could
picture myself here very clearly, as  if that same shade that  snapped
open to reveal the sunshine had also afforded me a glimpse of  another
life. I looked out that window and saw myself looking back in.

    Saryon saw his  past. I saw  my present. It  was exhilarating  and
unnerving, yet eminently satisfying. This was the land of my birth.  I
was a part of this  mountain, the sand, the trees,  the sky. I took  a
deep breath of the crisp air, and  felt uplifted. And though I had  no
idea how to go about it, I think-at that moment-Icould have drawn Life
from the world  around me,  focused it within  my body,  and given  it
away.

    A sound touched my reverie. Concern for my master drew me back  to
reality.

    Saryon stood with bowed head.  He brushed his hand swiftly  across
his eyes.

    "Never mind," he said, when  I would have offered comfort.  "Never
mind. It was  for the best,  I know. I  weep for the  beauty that  was
ruined, that is all. It could not have lasted long. The ugliness would
have overwhelmed it, and  like Camelot, it  might have been  destroyed
and irretrievably  lost. At  least  our people  still live  and  their
memories live and the magic lives, for those who seek it."

    I had not sought  it, yet it had  come to me anyway.  I was not  a
stranger to this land. It remembered me, though I had no memory of it.

    Like Saryon, I had come home.

    CHAPTER NINE

    "I will run to Joram and he will  take me in his arms and we  will
be together forever and ever. ..."

    GWENDOLYN; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD

    "I say!" came a  peeved voice from the  vicinity of the  knapsack.
"Are you two  going to stand  around and slobber  over each other  all
day? I'm dying  of ennui-the  same sad fate  that befell  the Duke  of
Uberville, who was such  a boring old fart  that he bored himself  and
died for lack of interest."

    I considered overturning  the knapsack and  searching for  Simkin,
but to do so would have wasted precious time. I had spent hours trying
to see to it that everything fit  inside and I dreaded the thought  of
having to do all that over again.

    I signed to Saryon, "If we ignore him, perhaps he'll go away."

    "I heard  that," Simkin  said. "And  I can  assure you,  it  won't
work!"

    I was astonished,  for I had  not spoken, and  I don't think  that
even Simkin could have learned sign  language in the space of the  few
hours we had known each other.

    Saryon shrugged and wryly smiled. "The magic lives," he whispered,
and there was  a warmth in  his eyes  that was rapidly  drying up  the
tears.

    "Where are we?" I asked.

    "I was  just  trying to  figure  that out  myself,"  said  Saryon,
peering down from our perch on the ramparts.

    "7 know," said a  muffled voice from  inside the knapsack,  adding
huffily, "but I'm not telling."

    Below us was a courtyard, its paving stones cracked and  overgrown
with a  wide variety  of plant  life, including  several varieties  of
wildflower. Across the courtyard was a long, low building with a great
many windows, to  let in the  sunlight. Some of  the windows had  been
broken, but the  holes had  been neatly  covered over  with pieces  of
wood. Here and there, in the courtyard, some attempt had been made  to
cut back the weeds, sweep away the dead leaves, and make the area more
attractive.

    "Ah, yes! In  that building"-Saryon pointed  to the building  past
the courtyard-"the Theldara, the healers,  had their infirmary. Now  I
know where I am."

    "Did I ever tell you about the time the Theldara came to treat  my
little sister for  ringworm? Or was  it tapeworm? I'm  sure there's  a
difference. One eats you and you eat one. Not that it mattered to poor
little Nan, for  she was eaten  by bears.  Where was I?  Ah, yes,  the
Theldara. He-"

    Simkin prattled  on. Saryon  turned and  began to  walk along  the
ramparts, making his way toward a flight of stairs which led down into
the courtyard. "There was a garden here, on the other side, where they
grew herbs  and other  plants which  they used  in healing.  A  quiet,
restful, soothing  place. I  came here  once. A  very fine  man,  that
Theldara. He tried to help me, but that proved impossible. I was quite
unable to help myself, which is always the first step."

    "It looks as though someone lives here," I signed, pointing to the
boarded-up windows.

    "Yes," Saryon agreed  eagerly. "Yes,  this would  be an  excellent
place for Joram and his family to reside, with access to the  interior
portions of the Font."

    "Oh, jolly," was the opinion of the knapsack.

    Rounding a corner of the retaining wall, we found further evidence
of habitation. One part of the courtyard, where the great Bishop Vanya
had once walked in ceremony and  state, was now apparently a  laundry.
Several large washtubs occupied the paving stones and lengths of  rope
had been  strung between  two ornamental  trees. Fluttering  from  the
ropes were shirts and petticoats, sheets and undergarments, drying  in
the sun.

    "They are here!"  Saryon said to  himself, and he  had to pause  a
moment, to gather his strength.

    Up to this  point he had  refused to let  himself believe that  at
last, after all these years, he would see the man he loved as well  or
better than he could have ever loved a son.

    Courage regained, Saryon hurried  ahead, not thinking  consciously
of where he was  going, but allowing  his memory to  show the way.  We
circled around the laundry tubs, ducked beneath the clothes.

    "Joram's flag-a nightshirt. Well, it figures," said Simkin.

    A door led into the dwelling.  Looking through a window, we  could
see a sunlit  room, with  comfortable couches and  chairs, and  tables
decorated with bowls of blooming  flowers. Saryon hesitated a  moment,
his hand trembling, then he knocked at the door. We waited.

    No answer.

    He knocked again, staring  intently, hopefully, through the  glass
windowpane.

    I took the opportunity to search  the area. Walking the length  of
the building, I  looked around  the corner  and into  a large  garden.
Hastening back to my master, I  tugged on his sleeve and motioned  him
to follow me.

    "You've found them?" he said.

    I nodded and held up two fingers. I had found two of them.

    I stayed behind  as he  entered that  garden. The  women would  be
startled, frightened, perhaps. It was best that they saw him, at first
and alone.

    The two  were working  in the  garden, their  long,  cream-colored
skirts kilted up around their  waists, their heads protected from  the
sun by wide, broad-brimmed  straw hats. Their  sleeves were rolled  up
past the elbow, their arms were  tanned brown from the sun. Both  were
hoeing, their arms  and the tools  they held rising  and falling  with
swift, strong chopping strokes.

    Wind chimes, hanging on a porch behind them, made music for  them,
to lighten  their work.  The air  was filled  with the  rich smell  of
freshly turned loam.

    Saryon walked forward on  unsteady legs. He  opened the gate  that
led into the garden, and that was  as far as his strength and  courage
would bear him. He  put out a  hand to support  himself on the  garden
wall. He tried, I think several times,  to call a name, but his  voice
was mute as my own.

    "Gwendolyn!" he said  at last, and  spoke that name  with so  much
love and longing that no  one who heard it  could have been the  least
bit frightened.

    She wasn't fearful.  Startled, perhaps,  to hear  a strange  voice
where no strange  voice had  spoken in  twenty years.  But she  wasn't
afraid. She stopped her hoeing, lifted her head, and turned toward the
sound.

    She recognized my master in an instant. Dropping her hoe, she  ran
to him straight across the garden, heedless of the plants she crushed,
the flowers she trampled. Her hat flew  off, in her haste, and a  mass
of hair, long and  golden, tumbled down  behind. "Father Saryon!"  she
cried, and flung her arms about him.

    He clasped  her tightly,  and they  both held  on to  each  other,
weeping and laughing simultaneously.

    Their reunion was sacred,  a private special  moment for only  the
two of them. It seemed to me that even watching must intrude, and  so,
deferentially and with some considerable  curiosity, I turned my  gaze
on the daughter.

    She had ceased her work.  Standing straight, she regarded us  from
beneath the broad brim of her hat. In figure and stature, she was  the
twin of her mother, of medium  build, graceful in her movements.  That
she was  accustomed  to  physical labor  showed  in  the  well-defined
muscles of her bare arms and  legs, her upright stance and posture.  I
could not see her face, which was hidden by the shadow of the hat. She
came no closer, but stood where she was.

    She is afraid, I thought, and  who can blame her? Having grown  up
apart, isolated, alone.

    Gwendolyn had taken a step back, out of Saryon's arms, though  not
out of his hold, to gaze fondly at him and he at her.

    "Father, it is good to see you again! How well you look!"

    "For an old man," said Saryon,  smiling down on her. "And you  are
lovely as ever, Gwen.  Or lovelier, if that  is possible. For now  you
are happy."

    "Yes," she said, glancing behind her  at her daughter, "yes, I  am
happy, Father. We are happy." She laid emphasis on the word.

    A shadow  crossed her  face.  Her grip  on Saryon  tightened.  She
looked back up  at him, with  earnest pleading. "And  that is why  you
must leave, Father. Go  quickly. I thank you  for coming. Joram and  I
have often  wondered what  became  of you.  He  was worried.  You  had
suffered much for his  sake and he feared  it might have damaged  your
health. Now I can give him ease, tell him you are well and prospering.
Thank you for coming, but go quickly, now."

    "Pulled the welcome  mat right  out from under  him, didn't  she?"
said Simkin.

    I gave the knapsack a whack.

    "Where is Joram?" Saryon asked.

    "Out tending the sheep."

    A muffled, derisive snort came  from the knapsack. Gwen heard  it.
Glancing at me, she frowned and said defiantly, "Yes, he is a shepherd
now. And he is happy, Father. Happy and content. For the first time in
his life! And though he loves  and honors you, Father Saryon, you  are
from the past,  you are  from the dark  and unhappy  times. Like  that
dreadful man who came here before, you will bring those terrible times
back to us!"

    She meant that we would  bring the memory to  them. I saw, by  the
pain in Saryon's face, that he gave her words another meaning, a truer
meaning. It  was not  the memory  we were  bringing to  them, but  the
reality.

    He swallowed. His hands on her arms trembled. His eyes grew moist.
He tried several times  to speak, before the  words finally came  out.
"Gwen, I stayed away from Joram all these years for this very  reason.
Much as I longed to see him, much as I longed to know he was well  and
happy, I feared I would only disturb his tranquility. I would not have
come now, Gwen, but that I have  no choice. I must see Joram,"  Saryon
said gently, and now his  voice was firm. "I must  talk to him and  to
you together. There is no help for it. I am sorry."

    Gwen gazed long into his face. She saw the pain, the sadness,  the
understanding. She saw the resolution.

    "Do you . . .  have you come for the  Darksword? He won't give  it
up, not even to you, Father."

    Saryon was shaking his head. "I have not come for the Darksword. I
have come for Joram, for you and your daughter."

    Gwen kept fast hold of him, for  support. When she let go, it  was
only to lift her hand, to wipe her eyes.

    I had been so  intent on their conversation  that I had  forgotten
the daughter. At the sight of  her mother's distress, she dropped  the
hoe and ran toward us, moving with long, free strides. She pushed back
the hat, to see better, and I  realized that I had misjudged her.  She
hadn't been afraid  of us.  She had been  pausing to  consider us,  to
study us and to study herself, to determine how she felt about us.

    I paused  to consider  her. My  life paused,  at that  moment,  to
consider her. When life resumed, a second later, it would never be the
same. If I never saw  her again, from that moment  on I would see  her
forever.

    Thick, black,  and unruly  hair fell  in disordered  curls from  a
central part, glistened in luxuriant clusters about her shoulders. Her
brows were also thick and black and straight, giving her a

    stern and introspective aspect that  was dispelled by the  sudden,
dazzling light of large, crystalline blue eyes. That was her  father's
legacy. Her mother bequeathed the oval face and pointed chin, the ease
and grace of movement.

    I did not love her. Love  was impossible, at that first moment  of
our meeting,  for  love  is  between  humans  and  she  was  something
extraordinary, not truly  human. It  would have been  like falling  in
love with the image in a painting or with a statue in a gallery. I was
awed, admiring.

    Prospero's daughter, I  said inwardly,  recalling my  Shakespeare.
And then  I smiled  derisively  at myself,  remembering her  words  on
seeing the  strangers washed  ashore by  her father's  art: "How  many
goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is!"

    I could tell from her glance  that raked across me with  curiosity
and little more that I was  not providing images of brave new  worlds.
And yet I  interested her.  Though she  had her  parents for  company,
youth yearns for  its own, to  share the newfound  dreams and  budding
hopes that belong to youth alone.

    But for now, her first care was  for her mother. She put her  arms
protectively around  her  mother's  shoulders  and  faced  us  boldly,
accusingly, her black brows a straight, heavy line.

    "Who are you? What have you said  to upset her? Why do you  people
keep intruding upon us?"

    Gwen lifted her head, dashed away her tears, and managed a  smile.
"No, Eliza, don't talk in that tone. This man is not like the  others.
He is one of us. This is Father Saryon. You've heard us speak of  him.
He is an old friend and very dear to both your father and to me."

    "Father Saryon!" Eliza  repeated, and the  heavy line lifted,  the
blue eyes were light  and radiant, like the  sun shining down after  a
thunderstorm. "Of course, I have heard of Father Saryon. You have come
to teach me! Father said  I was to go to  you, but he kept putting  it
off and now I know why-you have come to me!"

    Saryon reddened, swallowed again, and, embarrassed, looked to Gwen
for guidance, to know what to say.

    She was unable to assist him, but her assistance wasn't  necessary
because Eliza's quick gaze went from one to the other and she realized
her mistake. The light dimmed. "That is not why you've come. Of course
not. My mother would not be crying if that were the case. Why are  you
here, then? You and your"-she turned her brilliant gaze on me, made  a
guess- "your son?"

    "Reuven!" said  Saryon. He  turned around  and stretched  out  his
hand, urging me forward.  "My boy, forgive me!  You're so quiet ...  I
forgot you were here. He is my son by affection, though not by  birth.
He was born in Thimhallan, born here in the Font, as a matter of fact,
for his mother was a catalyst."

    Eliza regarded me with cool  intensity and suddenly I had  another
of those strange flashes, such as  I had experienced earlier, where  I
seemed to be looking through a window into another lifetime.

    I saw myself a catalyst, standing in a crowd of catalysts. We were
dressed in  our  best ceremonial  robes,  all blending  together,  our
tonsured heads  bowed  in respect.  And  she walked  past  us,  regal,
gracious, clad  in silks  and jewels,  our queen.  I lifted  my  head,
greatly daring, to  look at her  and she, at  that moment, turned  her
head and looked at me. She had been searching for me in the crowd  and
she smiled to see me.

    I smiled at her, we shared  a secret moment, and then, fearing  my
superiors would notice,  I lowered  my gaze.  When I  next dared  look
again-hoping that perhaps she was still  looking at me-I saw only  her
back, and  even  that  vanished,  for she  was  followed  by  all  her
courtiers, every  one of  them  walking. Walking.  Why did  that  seem
strange to me?

    The image faded from before my eyes, but did not fade in my  mind.
Indeed, it was so clear and  well defined that the words Your  Majesty
were on my lips and I think I would have spoken them aloud, had I been
able to speak. As it was,  I felt bewildered and disoriented, much  as
when Mosiah released us to return to our own bodies.

    Recovering, I signed that I was honored and pleased to meet  those
who held a special place in my master's heart.

    Eliza's eyes widened at the sight  of my flashing hands. "What  is
he doing?" she demanded, with the frank and open honesty of a child.

    "Reuven is mute," Saryon explained. "He talks with his hands." And
he repeated to them aloud what I had said.

    Gwendolyn gave  me a  preoccupied smile  and said  I was  welcome.
Eliza appraised me, those blue eyes studying everything about me  with
unabashed curiosity. What she  saw was a young  man of medium  height,
medium build, long  blond hair  pulled back  from a  face that  always
seemed to inspire women with sisterly affection. Honest, sweet, gentle
were words women used to describe me.  "At last, a man we can  trust,"
they would say. And then they would  proceed to tell me all about  the
men they loved.

    As for  what I  saw in  Eliza,  the statue  was gaining  life  and
warmth, becoming human.

    Gwendolyn cast a glance at me and it seemed that she suddenly  had
a new worry. A glance at Eliza reassured her somewhat. Turning back to
Saryon, Gwen drew him away, to speak  to him in a low, pleading  tone.
Eliza remained, staring at me.

    My situation was extremely  embarrassing and uncomfortable.  Never
before had I cursed my handicap as I  cursed it now. Had I been a  man
like any other, I could have made polite conversation.

    I considered bringing  out my electronic  notepad, writing on  it.
Writing what? Some inanity? What a lovely day. Do you suppose we shall
have rain?

    No, I thought. Better to keep my notepad shut.

    And yet  I wanted  to do  something to  hold her  interest on  me.
Already, she was starting to turn her head, to look back to her mother
and Saryon. I had some notion of  plucking a flower and handing it  to
her, when I heard a plop at my feet.

    Eliza gave a glad cry. "Teddy!"

    At my feet sat a  stuffed teddy bear; well  worn, most of its  fur
rubbed off, one ear missing.

    Eliza swooped down, picked up the bear, and held it up, calling in
delight, "Look, Mother, Reuven's found Teddy!"

    Gwen and Saryon  turned from  their conversation.  Gwen smiled,  a
strained smile. "How nice, dear."

    Saryon flashed me an alarmed glance. All I could do was helplessly
shrug.

    Around his neck, Teddy wore an orange ribbon.

    CHAPTER TEN "Nevertheless, there I sat, a perfect teapot upon  his
desk."

    SIMKIN; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

    I've had  Teddy ever  since  I was  a  little girl,"  Eliza  said,
cuddling Teddy in her arms.

    I have never seen a  more self-satisfied and smug-looking  stuffed
bear. I wanted very much to throttle it.

    "I found him in one of the old parts of the Font," she  continued,
"where I used to play. It must have been a nursery, because there were
other toys there. But I  liked Teddy best. I used  to tell him all  my
secrets. He was my  companion, my playmate," she  said, and a  wistful
tone crept into her voice. "He kept me from being alone."

    I wondered if Eliza's  mother knew the truth,  that Teddy was,  in
reality, Simkin-although one might contend that Simkin and reality had
little to do with one another.

    Gwendolyn bit her lip and cast a warning glance at Saryon,  asking
him to keep silent.

    "I lost  Teddy years  ago," Eliza  was saying.  "I don't  remember
quite how. One day he was there and the next day, when I went to  look
for him, he was gone. We searched and searched, didn't we, Mama?"

    Eliza looked to me, then to Saryon. "Where did you find him?"

    My master  was, for  the moment,  struck mute  as myself.  He  was
hopeless at lying. I made a sign, indicating that we'd found the  bear
somewhere near the Borderlands. It was  not quite a lie. Saryon, in  a
faint voice, repeated what I had said.

    "I wonder how he came to be there!" Eliza exclaimed, marveling.

    "Who knows, child?" Gwendolyn said briskly. She smoothed her skirt
with her hands. "And now you should go find your father. Tell  him-no,
wait! Please, Father? Is there no other way?"

    "Gwendolyn," said Saryon patiently, "the matter on which I come is
very urgent. And very serious."

    She sighed, bowed her head. Then,  with a forced smile, she  said,
"Tell Joram that Father Saryon is here."

    Eliza was doubtful. Her  delight in recovering  the bear faded  at
the sight of her mother's troubled face.  For a moment she had been  a
child again. The moment passed, gone forever.

    "Yes, Mama," she said in a subdued voice. "It may take me a while.
He is in the far pasture." And  then she looked at me and  brightened.
"Could I-could Reuven come with me? You  say he was born in the  Font.
We must go through it on our way. He might like to see it again."

    Gwen was  doubtful. "I  don't know  how your  father would  react,
child. To have a stranger come  suddenly on him, without any  warning.
It would be better if you went by yourself."

    Eliza's brightness began to  dim. You could see  it fade, as if  a
cloud had passed over the sun.

    Her mother relented. "Very well. Reuven may go if he wishes.  Make
yourself presentable  first, Eliza.  I can  refuse her  nothing,"  she
added to Saryon in an undertone, half-proud, half-ashamed.

    And that was why they had  not taken "Teddy" away, when both  Gwen
and Joram knew quite well that the  bear was not a real bear. I  could
imagine the guilt both felt, forced to raise their child in isolation.
Joram's  own  childhood  had  been   one  of  bitter  loneliness   and
deprivation. He must have  believed it a  sad legacy to  pass on to  a
daughter, a legacy that pained him deeply.

    Eliza set  Teddy  in a  flower  basket  and gave  him  a  laughing
admonition not to go and get himself lost again.

    "This way, Reuven," she said to me, smiling.

    I had gained great favor with her by the "discovery" of the  bear,
which hadn't been my  doing at all.  I glanced back at  the bear as  I
followed after Eliza. Teddy's black button eyes rolled. He winked.

    I deposited  the knapsack  next  to the  bear,  though I  took  my
electronic notepad with  me. Saryon  and Gwendolyn sat  together on  a
stone bench in  the shade.  Eliza and  I walked  together through  the
garden. Eliza shook her skirts down, covering her legs. She pulled the
broad-brimmed hat over  her head,  hiding the shining  black hair  and
leaving her face in shadow. She walked swiftly, with long strides,  so
that I had to adjust my normally slower pace to match hers.

    She said nothing the entire way  across the garden. I, of  course,
maintained my accustomed  silence. But  the moment  was a  comfortable
one. The silence was not empty. We filled it with our thoughts, making
it companionable. That her thoughts were  serious I could tell by  the
somber expression on her shadowed face.

    A wall surrounded the garden. She opened a gate and led me through
it, down a flight of stone  steps, which crisscrossed the cliff  face.
The view from  the mountain,  overlooking the other  buildings of  the
Font-some whole,  many  crumbling-was  breathtaking.  The  gray  stone
against the green hillsides. The mountain peaks against the blue  sky.
The trees dark green clumps against  the light green of the grass.  As
of one accord, unspoken, we both  stopped on the narrow steps to  gaze
and admire.

    She had gone down before me, to lead the way. Now she looked  back
up at me,  tilting her head  to see me  from beneath the  brim of  her
straw hat.

    "You find it beautiful?" she asked.

    I nodded. I could not have spoken had I wanted to.

    "So do I," she  said with satisfaction. "I  often stop here on  my
way back. We  live down  there," she added,  pointing to  a long,  low
building attached to another, much larger building. "My father says it
is the part of the Font where  the catalysts used to live. There is  a
kitchen there and a well for water.

    "Father made looms for Mother and me. We use the rooms up here for
our work. We  spin our own  thread, weave our  own woolen cloth.  That
comes from the sheep,  of course. And the  library is here, too.  When
our  work  is  finished,   we  read.  Sometimes  together,   sometimes
separately."

    We were walking down the stairs as we talked. Or I should say,  as
she talked. But with her  I did not feel as  if I were in a  one-sided
conversation. Sometimes  people,  embarrassed  by  my  handicap,  talk
around me instead of talking to me.

    Eliza continued  to  discuss  books.  "Papa  reads  the  books  on
carpentry and gardening and anything he can find on sheep. Mama  reads
cookery books, though she likes best  the books about Merilon and  the
treatises on  magic. She  never  reads those  when Father  is  around,
though. It makes him sad."

    "And what books do you like?"  I asked with sign language,  moving
my hands slowly.

    I could have used the notepad, but it seemed out of place in  this
world, an intrusion.

    "What books do I like? That's what you said, wasn't it?" Eliza was
delighted to understand  me. "The  Earth books.  I know  a great  deal
about Earth's geography and history, science and art. But my favorites
are fiction."

    I looked my astonishment.  If there had ever  been Earth books  on
Thimhallan, they must have been ancient,  brought here at the time  of
Merlyn and the  founders. If  she has  learned science  from those,  I
thought, she must think  the Earth is flat  and that the sun  revolves
around it.

    I remembered  then  that, according  to  Saryon, Simkin  had  once
gotten hold of  a copy of  Shakespeare's plays. How  he managed to  do
this, Saryon was not certain. He speculated that back before the  Iron
Wars, before Simkin's magical power began to wane as the magic Life in
Thimhallan began  to wane,  Simkin had  once traveled  freely  between
Earth and Thimhallan.  It's possible that  he either knew  Shakespeare
or-as Saryon used  to say ironically-perhaps  Simkin was  Shakespeare!
Had "Teddy" given Eliza books?

    Eliza  answered  my  questioning   look.  "After  Thimhallan   was
destroyed, the evacuation ships came to  take the people to Earth.  My
father knew he would be staying  here and he requested that the  ships
bring supplies, tools, food until we could raise our own. And he asked
them to bring books."

    Of course. It  all made sense.  Joram had spent  ten years of  his
life on Earth, before returning  to Thimhallan. He would know  exactly
what he needed to  survive with his family  in exile, what was  needed
for both body and mind.

    We had, by this time, reached the portion of the Font where  Joram
had taken up residence. We did not enter, however, but skirted  around
the Gothic-style buildings  (I was  reminded of  Oxford). We  followed
various meandering paths and walkways past the enormous edifice and  I
soon became quite  lost. Leaving  the buildings  behind, we  continued
down the mountainside, but only for a short distance. Ahead of me  was
lush green hillside. Running  against the green grass  of the hill,  I
saw a white blotch-a flock of sheep, and one dark spot-the man tending
them.

    At the sight of Joram, I halted.  My coming did not now seem  like
such a good idea. I pointed to Eliza, then out to her father. Touching
my breast, I  patted the top  of the  stone fence, which  was, by  the
smell and the sight of  one or two sheep  resting in sheds, the  sheep
pen. I indicated I would wait here for their return.

    Eliza looked at  me and frowned.  She knew quite  well what I  had
said; indeed, the two of us were communicating with an ease which, had
I thought  about it,  was  quite remarkable.  I  was too  dazzled  and
overwhelmed to think coherently about anything then.

    "But I want you to come with me," she said petulantly, as if  that
would make all the difference.

    I shook  my head,  indicated  that I  was  tired, which  was  true
enough. I am not much accustomed to physical exertion and we must have
walked two kilometers already.  Taking out my  notepad, I typed,  Your
mother is right. You should see him alone.

    She looked  at  the  notepad  and  read  the  words.  "Father  has
something like  this,"  she  said, touching  it  hesitantly  with  one
finger. "Only much larger. He keeps records on it."

    She was silent. Her frowning gaze turned from me to the sheep  and
the distant, dark, roving figure that kept watch over them. Her  frown
eased; her gaze was troubled. She  turned back to me. "Mother lied  to
Father Saryon, Reuven," Eliza said calmly. "She lied to herself at the
same time, so perhaps it  doesn't really count as  a lie. Papa is  not
happy. He was  content, before that  man Smythe came,  but ever  since
then Papa has been  brooding and silent, except  for when he talks  to
himself. He won't tell us what's wrong. He doesn't want to worry us. I
think it will be good for him  to have Father Saryon to talk to.  What
is it," she  asked, in  a pretty, wheedling  tone, "that  he plans  to
say?"

    I shook my  head. It was  not my  place to tell  her. I  indicated
again that I would wait for them here and motioned that she should  go
to her father. She pouted some, but I think that was mostly reflexive,
for  she   was  really   very  sensible   and  finally   agreed-though
reluctantly-that perhaps this way was best.

    She ran off down the hill, her skirts flying, her hat blown  back,
her dark curls rampant.

    I thought about her,  when she was gone.  I remembered every  word
she said,  every expression  on her  face, the  lilt and  tone of  her
voice. I was not  falling in love.  Not yet. Oh,  maybe just a  little
bit. I had dated several women  before now-some of them seriously,  or
so I thought-but I had  never been this at  ease, this relaxed with  a
woman. I tried  to figure out  why. The unusual  circumstances of  our
meeting, the fact that she was so open and unabashed and free to speak
her mind. Perhaps the simple  fact that we had  been born on the  same
world. And then the oddest thought came to me.

    You did not meet as strangers. Somewhere, somehow, your souls know
each other.

    I grinned at this impossibly romantic notion, though the grin  was
a little shaky, considering the  vivid image I'd experienced of  Eliza
as Queen and myself as one more dull, plodding catalyst.

    Banishing such  foolish notions  from my  mind, I  reveled in  the
beauty of my surroundings.  Though I could see  wounds upon the  land,
wounds caused  by  the  war  and  later  the  storms  and  quakes  and
firestorms which had raged over  Thimhallan, the wounds were  healing.
Young trees grew amid the ashes  of the old. Grass covered the  ragged
scars and gouges on the landscape. The constant wind was softening the
tooth-sharp cliffs.

    The solitude  was peaceful,  quiet. No  jets roared  overhead,  no
televisions yammered, no sirens  wailed. The air  was crisp and  clean
and smelled of flowers and grass and far-off rain, not petrol and  the
neighbor's dinner. I was immensely content and happy as I sat there on
the low stone wall.  I could picture Joram  and Eliza and Gwen  living
here, reading, working in the garden, tending sheep, weaving fabric. I
could picture myself here and my heart suddenly yearned for a life  so
simple and serene.

    Of  course,   I   was  oversimplifying,   romanticizing.   I   was
deliberately leaving out the hard work, the drudgery, the  loneliness.
Earth was not the horrid place I was picturing by contrast. There  was
beauty to be found there, as well as here.

    But what  beauty  would  be left  to  any  of us  if  the  Hch'nyv
destroyed our defenses, reached our world, and ravaged it as they  had
ravaged all others? If the power of the Darksword could truly be  used
to defeat the aliens, then why shouldn't Joram relinquish it? Was this
the conclusion Saryon had reached?

    I worried  and  wondered and  dreamed  as  I sat  upon  the  wall,
watching Eliza on the  hillside, a bright speck  against the green.  I
saw her meeting with her father. I could not see, from this  distance,
but I could imagine him staring over  to where I sat. They both  stood
still, talking, for long moments. Then they both began to round up the
sheep, driving them down the hill and back toward their pen.

    The stone wall on which I sat grew suddenly very cold, very hard.

    CHAPTER ELEVEN

    The sword  was  made of  a  solid  mass of  metal-hilt  and  blade
together, possessing neither  grace nor form.  The blade was  straight
and almost  indistinguishable  from  the hilt.  A  short,  blunt-edged
crosspiece separated the two.  The hilt was  slightly rounded, to  fit
the hand.  . .  .  There was  something  horrifying about  the  sword,
something devilish.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    Elliza and her father came back, driving the sheep before them.  I
watched them the  entire way,  the sheep  flowing like  a huge  woolly
caterpillar across  the  grassy  hillside.  Joram  walked  steadfastly
behind, reaching out now and then  with his shepherd's crook to  guide
an errant ewe  back into  the flock. Eliza  dashed about  them like  a
sheepdog, waving her hat and flapping her long skirts. I have no idea,
knowing nothing of the tending of sheep, if she did harm or good,  but
her grace and exuberance brought joy to her father's dark eyes and  so
of course she was permitted to have her own way.

    That joy dimmed  considerably and vanished  altogether when  those
dark eyes turned their intense and unsettling gaze upon me.

    The sheep flowed past  me in a woolly  wave, smelling strongly  of
damp wool-for it had rained  upon the hillside-bleating and baaing  so
that it was impossible to  hear. I stood to  one side, keeping out  of
the way, trying not to hinder  Joram's work. I was very  uncomfortable
and wished devotedly I had not come.

    Joram's gaze raked me from head to toe as he came up the hillside.
When he  was level  with  me and  I started  to  bow my  greeting,  he
abruptly withdrew his  gaze and did  not once glance  in my  direction
again. His face was so cold and set that it might have substituted for
the granite cliff face opposite me  and no one would have noticed  the
difference.

    He paid me not the slightest attention. Since he was involved with
his work, I was able to study  him, curious to see the man whose  life
story I had written.

    Joram was in his late forties  at this time. Of a serious,  somber
mien, he  looked older  than he  was. The  rugged life,  spent  mostly
out-of-doors, in the wayward and harsh Thimhallan weather, had  tanned
his skin a deep brown, left  his face weathered and seamed. His  black
hair was as  thick and  luxuriant as  his daughter's,  though his  was
touched with gray  at the temples  and gray strands  mingled with  the
black throughout.

    He  had  always  been  strong  and  muscular  and  his  well-knit,
well-muscled body might have belonged to an Olympic athlete. The  face
had too many years etched on it, however; years of sorrow and  tragedy
which those happier years following could never smooth away.

    No wonder he paid me scant attention and probably wished with  all
his heart that I would evaporate on the spot. And he did not even know
the portent of our coming, though I am sure he must have suspected.  I
was Joram's doom.

    The sheep being safely penned and watered and bedded down for  the
night, Eliza  took her  father by  his calloused,  work-hard hand  and
would have brought him over to where I stood. He removed his hand from
hers, however; not roughly, he could never be rough or harsh with  his
heart's treasure. But he made it very clear that the two of us-he  and
I-would not be connected in any way, especially not through her.

    I could  not fault  him or  blame him.  I felt  such guilt  within
myself-as if this were all my doing-and such grief and compassion  for
him, whose idyllic life we were destined to destroy, that tears  stung
my eyelids.

    Hurriedly, I blinked them back, for he would despise any  weakness
on my part.

    "Papa," said Eliza, "this is Reuven. He is Father Saryon's  almost
son. He cannot  speak, Papa.  At least not  with his  mouth. He  talks
whole books with his eyes."

    She smiled,  teasing me.  That smile  and her  beauty-for she  was
flushed with her exertion, her hair tousled and windblown- did nothing
to add to my composure. Charmed  by Eliza, awed by Joram, consumed  by
guilt and unhappiness,  I bowed my  respects, glad for  the chance  to
hide my face and try to regain my self-command.

    This was not easy. Joram said  no word of greeting. When I  raised
my head, I saw that  he had folded his arms  across his chest and  was
regarding me  with dark  displeasure,  his heavy  brows drawn  into  a
frown.

    His cold forbidding darkness dimmed his daughter's sunshine. Eliza
faltered, looked uncertainly from him to me.

    "Papa," she said, chiding gently, "where are your manners?  Reuven
is our guest. He has come all the  way from Earth just to see us.  You
must make him welcome."

    She did  not understand.  She could  not understand.  I raised  my
hand, to ward off her words, and shook my head slightly, all the while
keeping my gaze fixed on Joram. If,  as Eliza had said, I could  speak
with my eyes, I hoped he would read in them understanding. Perhaps  he
did. He still  did not speak  to me.  Turning away, he  walked up  the
steps that crisscrossed the hillside. But before he turned, I saw that
his frowning aspect had lightened a little, if only to be replaced  by
sorrow.

    I think, all in all, I would have preferred his displeasure.

    He strode up the steps very rapidly, taking them two or three at a
time. I marveled at his endurance, for the steps went directly up  the
hill; there  must have  been  seventy-five of  them,  and I  was  soon
panting for breath. Eliza  kept beside me, and  she was troubled,  for
she was silent and her gaze was on her father's back.

    "He is eager to see Father Saryon," she said abruptly, in  apology
for Joram's rudeness.

    I nodded yes, that  I understood. Pausing to  catch my breath  and
try to ease the cramps in my calves, I signed to her that I was not in
the least offended and that she was not to worry about me.

    This she didn't understand. I took out the electronic notepad  and
typed it in, showing the words to her. She read them, looked at me.  I
nodded, smiled,  reassuring.  She  smiled back,  tentative,  and  then
sighed.

    "Things are  going to  change, aren't  they, Reuven?  Our life  is
going to change. His life is going to change." Her gaze went again  to
her father. "And it's all my  fault. I've longed for this day,  prayed
for it to come.  I didn't realize .  . . Oh, Papa,  I'm sorry! I'm  so
sorry!"

    Gathering her long skirts, she left me, running up the stairs with
the long stride that  matched Joram's. I could  not have kept up  with
her if my life had depended on  it. As it was, I was not  disappointed
to be  left behind.  I needed  time to  sort out  my own  thoughts.  I
trudged slowly and painfully after them.

    Eliza caught up with her father.  She twined her arm through  his,
rested her head on  his shoulder. He folded  her in a loving  embrace,
stroked and smoothed her black curls.

    His arm around  her, her  arm around  him, they  continued up  the
stairs until they reached their  living quarters, where they  vanished
from my sight.

    I kept climbing, my  strength sapped by the  ache in my legs,  the
burning in my lungs and my heart. Below, I could hear the sheep,  snug
and safe in their barn, bleating contentedly as they settled down  for
the night.  In the  distance,  the rumble  of thunder-  another  storm
ravaging the land below.

    I wondered, then,  what would  happen to  the sheep  when we  took
Joram and his  family away  from their home.  Without their  shepherd,
they would die.

    CHAPTER TWELVE

    The rounded knob on the sword's hilt, combined with the long  neck
of the hilt  itself, the handle's  short, blunt arms,  and the  narrow
body of the blade,  turned the weapon  into a grim  parody of a  human
being.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    It occurred to me that I would miss the reunion, the first meeting
between my master and Joram, and  that fear impelled me up the  stairs
at a much more rapid pace than I would have thought myself capable of.
I was gasping for breath when I reached the top. Dusk was falling  and
the lights had been lit inside the dwelling place and so I was able to
find their rooms, when most of the  rest of the building was dark  and
deserted.

    Entering a door nearest the lights, I made my way along a  shadowy
hall into what must have been, in the days of the Font's grandeur, the
dortoir, where  lived the  young catalysts  in training.  I say  this,
because of  the  innumerable  small  rooms  opening  off  the  central
corridor. In each room was a bed  and desk and a washstand. The  stone
walls were chill, the  rooms dusty and darkened  by the sadness  which
comes to a place when the life that once filled it is withdrawn.

    In this corridor, I lost sight of the lights of Joram's  dwelling,
but found  them again  when I  entered  a large,  open room  that  had
probably been a dining hall. I heard voices through a door to my left.
I walked from darkness and chill to light and warmth. A kitchen, which
had once fed several hundred, was now not only kitchen but the central
living area for Joram and his family.

    I could see easily why they chose it. An enormous stone  fireplace
provided heat and light. Twenty years before, when the Font had teemed
with life, magi hired to work  with the catalysts would have  conjured
up fire to  cook the food  and warm  the body. Possessed  of no  magic
whatsoever, Joram cut  and hauled  wood to the  fireplace. The  flames
crackled and danced, smoke and sparks  fled up the chimney. I  reveled
in the warmth. The air was  growing cool outside, with the setting  of
the sun.

    Saryon and  Gwen sat  near the  fire. Gwen  was pale  and  silent,
staring into the flames. Occasionally she would shift her gaze to  the
back part of the room, in part expectation, part dread. Saryon, ill at
ease, suddenly stood up  and began roaming  aimlessly about the  room.
Just as abruptly, he sat back down. Joram was not present and I feared
he might refuse to see Saryon at all, which would have hurt my  master
terribly. Then Eliza entered at almost  the same time I did,  although
from a door opposite.

    "Papa bids you welcome, Father Saryon," she said, coming to  stand
before the catalyst,  who rose to  meet her. "Please  sit down and  be
comfortable. Papa has  gone to wash  and change his  clothes. He  will
join us shortly."

    I was relieved and I think Saryon was, too, for he smiled and gave
a deep sigh before resuming his chair. Gwen stirred, at this, and said
we must be hungry and she would fix the evening meal. Though Eliza had
done a very good job of attempting to wash away the traces, I saw that
she had been crying.

    She said she was certain I would like to wash up, which was  true,
and offered to show  me the way.  I crossed the room  to join her.  We
were both  being watched  by the  teddy bear  with the  orange  ribbon
around his neck, who was seated in  a small chair that must have  been
specially made for a child. Just  at the moment we were walking  past,
the bear gave a  lurch and tumbled  out of the  chair, landing on  his
nose on the floor.

    "Poor Teddy,"  Eliza  said playfully.  Picking  up the  bear,  she
dusted him  off, kissed  him on  the top  of his  well-worn head,  and
settled him more  comfortably in the  chair. "Be a  sweet Teddy,"  she
admonished, still in her playful tone,  "and you shall have bread  and
honey for your supper."

    Glancing back at the bear, I  saw Simkin smirk. Eliza led me  into
the sleeping quarters of the family, rooms which she told me had  once
belonged to the higher-ranking catalysts. These rooms were larger  and
much more comfortable than the narrow cells I had passed. She took  me
to one at the end of the hallway.

    "Here's where you  will spend  the night," she  said, opening  the
door.

    A fire burned on the small hearth. The bed was covered with clean,
sweet-smelling sheets,  scented with  lavender.  The floor  was  newly
swept. My knapsack rested near the  bed. On the night-stand was a  jug
of steaming water and  a washbasin. Eliza told  me, where to find  the
outbuildings.

    "No need to  hurry," she  said. "Papa  is bathing  and taking  his
evening swim. He won't be ready for at least another half hour."

    Like her mother, she was pale  and preoccupied. The only time  I'd
seen her smile was when she was playing with Teddy and that smile  had
faded quickly. She was about to leave when I stopped her.

    Since we had  time, I typed  on the notebook.  Tell me more  about
Teddy.

    Her smile  returned.  "I told  you  how I  found  him in  the  old
nursery. I took him everywhere with  me-he went with Papa to tend  the
sheep, with Mama to work in the garden or wash the clothes.

    "You're going to think this is silly." Her cheeks flushed faintly.
"But I seem to remember Teddy telling me stories-all about faeries and
giants,  dragons  and  unicorns."  She  laughed  self-consciously.  "I
suppose I must have made them up myself and told them to Teddy, though
I H*ave the oddest impression that  it was the other way around.  What
do you think?"

    I don't remember what I responded. Something about lonely children
having vivid imaginations. What could  I say? It was  not up to me  to
tell her the truth about Simkin!

    She said that this must be true and started to leave, but  paused,
just before she shut the door. "Now that I recall them, some of  those
stories were  quite horrible.  Tales  about duchesses  sneezing  their
heads off and  the heads landing  in the soup  and earls being  buried
alive by mistake and faerie queens who took men captive and used  them
as slaves. What a morbid little imp I must have been!"

    Laughing again, she left me, shutting the door behind her.

    Chaotic, treacherous, Simkin  was quite capable  of leading  grown
people to ruin  just for  the entertainment  value. It  shocked me  to
think that Joram and  Gwen-Joram in particular,  who knew what  Simkin
was-had allowed him  to be  the playmate  of their  child. Yet  Simkin
obviously had not harmed her and had provided her with pleasant-albeit
strange-childhood memories.

    And what would happen  when we took Joram  and his family back  to
Earth? Eliza would  undoubtedly want  to take along  her "Teddy."  The
image of Simkin loosed upon Earth was appalling. I made a mental  note
to myself to discuss  this with Saryon,  who, worried and  preoccupied
himself, had probably not given this matter much thought.

    I found the outbuildings-one for men and one for women- which must
have dated back to the very early days of life in the Font. They  were
as clean as was  possible, but being open-air,  they made me  consider
that one  of mankind's  most wonderful  achievements had  been  indoor
plumbing.

    Back in my room, I washed myself from the basin-envying

    Joram his  swim-combed  my hair,  and  changed my  clothes,  which
smelled strongly of  sheep. Dressed  in clean  blue jeans  and a  blue
cable-knit sweater I'd purchased  in Ireland and which  was one of  my
favorites, I returned to the living quarters.

    Eliza and  her mother  were  busy in  the  kitchen. I  offered  my
services and was  put in  charge of  slicing loaves  of freshly  baked
bread, which had been cooling on a rack. Eliza set out bowls of  dried
fruit and honeycombs filled with honey that tasted of clover. Gwen was
stirring a pot of  beans, cooked with mutton.  I understood then  that
the sheep meant not  only wool for their  clothes, but meat for  their
table.

    Saryon looked at me rather  anxiously, when Gwen talked about  the
mutton, for I had been known, when younger, to express my  disapproval
of meat-eaters at  the dinner tables  of our hosts,  usually over  the
prime rib. I smiled at  him and shook my  head, and even accepted  the
responsibility of tasting the beans,  when Eliza offered them, to  see
if they  were seasoned  properly. I  think they  were bland.  I  don't
remember. It was then, when she held the wooden spoon to my lips, that
I realized I was falling in love with her.

    At that moment Joram entered the  room. I could not see him,  from
my angle in the  kitchen, but I  knew by the  sight of Saryon's  face,
which had  become  as white  as  polished bone.  Gwendolyn  and  Eliza
exchanged glances-conspiratorial glances. It had been by their  design
that we three were in the back part of the kitchen, leaving Saryon and
Joram in the living area alone.

    Joram advanced in my view, and my heart sank, for he was every bit
as grim and stoic and cold as  I had seen him on the hillside.  Saryon
stood tall and straight, his hands at his sides. The two gazed at each
other long minutes  without moving or  speaking. I don't  know what  I
feared-that Joram would denounce his mentor  and order him out of  the
house. I could envision this stern, proud man doing anything.

    Eliza and Gwen clasped  hands. My own hands  grew chill and I  was
worried for Saryon, who had begun to  sag and was looking very ill.  I
was going to go to him. I had already taken a step in that direction.

    Joram reached out, clasped his arms around Saryon, and held him in
a fast embrace.

    "My boy," Saryon murmured brokenly, stroking the grown man on  the
back as perhaps the catalyst had  once lovingly stroked the baby.  "My
dear boy! How good  it is ... You  and Gwen . .  ." Saryon broke  down
completely.

    Gwen was  sobbing  into her  apron.  Eliza stood  watching,  tears
rolling unheeded down her  cheeks, on her lips  a sweet, sad smile.  I
had tears in my own eyes, and  quickly dried them on the sleeve of  my
sweater.

    Joram straightened.  He  was taller  than  my master  now;  Saryon
having become stooped with the years. Joram placed his hands-brown and
rough-on Saryon's shoulders  and smiled briefly,  darkly. "Welcome  to
our home,  Father," he  said,  and his  tone belied  his  affectionate
gesture, for his voice was cool and shadowed. "Gwen and I are  pleased
that you have come to visit us."

    He turned to her and his dark countenance lightened somewhat  when
his eyes fell upon her,  as if the sun  had broken through the  clouds
and was shining on his face. His tone to her softened.

    "Our guests must be hungry. Is supper ready?"

    Gwen hurriedly wiped  her eyes on  the tail end  of her apron  and
replied, in a faint voice, that the  table was laid and invited us  to
sit down. I was going to help serve,  but Eliza said no, I was to  sit
with the other men.

    Joram took  his place  at the  head of  the long  plank table.  He
placed Saryon at  his right hand.  I sat  down next to  Saryon, on  my
master's right.

    "I believe you have met Reuven," Saryon said mildly. "My assistant
and scribe. Reuven wrote your  story, Joram. At King Garald's  behest,
so that the  people of Earth  could understand our  people. The  books
were very well received. You would like them, I think."

    "I would  like to  read them!"  said Eliza,  placing the  bowl  of
steaming beans on the table. She clasped her hands and stared at me in
awe. "You write books! You didn't tell me. How splendid!"

    My face was  hot enough that  we could have  toasted the bread  by
holding it to my  cheek. Joram said  nothing. Gwen murmured  something
polite; I'm not sure what, I  couldn't hear for the pounding of  blood
in my head and the confusion  of my thoughts. Eliza was so  beautiful.
She was regarding me with respect and admiration.

    Shipboard romance, I expostulated with myself sternly. You are  in
a strange and  exotic location, meeting  under unusual  circumstances.
Not only that, but I  am the first man near  her own age she has  ever
met. It would  be completely  wrong of me  to take  advantage of  this
situation. She would need a friend,  in that brave new world to  which
she was going. I would  be that friend and if,  after she had met  the
hundreds of thousands of  other young men who  would be clamoring  for
her attention, she  happened to  still think well  of me,  I would  be
there for her. One more catalyst in the throng . . .

    Saryon nudged me  with his bony  knee beneath the  stone table.  I
came back to reality  with a jolt,  to find that  Gwen and Eliza  were
taking their seats; Eliza sitting directly across from Saryon and Gwen
across from her husband. As the women sat down Joram rose to his  feet
in respect. Saryon and I did the same. We all returned to our seats.

    "Father," said Joram,  "would you offer  a prayer?" Saryon  looked
astonished, as well he might, for in the past Joram had never been  at
all religious. Indeed, he  had once held a  grudge against the  Almin,
blaming Him for the tragic circumstances  of his life, when by  rights
the blame should have fallen on the greed and evil ambition of men.

    We bowed our heads. I thought  I heard a snigger, coming from  the
vicinity of Teddy, but no one else seemed to hear anything.

    "Almin," Saryon  prayed, "bless  and  keep us  in these  dark  and
dangerous times. Help us to work together to defeat this dread  enemy,
who seeks to destroy and defile the glory of Your creation. Amen."

    Eliza and  Gwen murmured  "Amen" in  response. I  said it  myself,
silently. Joram said nothing. Lifting his  head, he sent a black  look
at Saryon that, if he had seen it, must have struck him to the  heart.
Fortunately, he did not. My master was studying Eliza, who sat  across
the table from him.

    "You are very much like your grandmother, my dear," Saryon said to
her. "The Empress of  Merilon. She was said  to be the most  beautiful
woman in Thimhallan.  And she was,  one of them."  He turned his  mild
gaze to Gwen. "The other, of course, was your mother."

    Gwendolyn and Eliza both flushed at the compliment and Eliza asked
Saryon to tell her about the Empress, her grandmother.

    "Papa never talks about the old  days," Eliza said. "He says  that
they are gone and it is useless  to think about them. I've read  about
Merilon and the rest in the books, but that isn't the same. Mother has
told me some, but not much. . . ."

    "Did she tell  you about how  she saved us  from the  Duuk-tsarith
when we first came to Merilon?" Saryon asked.

    "No! Did you, Mama? Will you tell the story?"

    Gwen smiled, but she, too, had  seen the look her husband cast  on
Saryon. She  said  something  to  the  effect  that  she  was  a  poor
storyteller and would leave that  to the good father. Saryon  launched
into his tale. Eliza listened with rapt attention. Gwen stared at  her
plate, made only the barest pretense of eating. Joram ate his food  in
silence, looked at nothing and everything.

    "Simkin changed himself into a tulip," Saryon was saying, bringing
the story to its conclusion. "He  planted himself in the bouquet  your
mother was carrying and urged her to tell the guards at the city  gate
that my young friends and  I were all guests  of her father's! And  so
they admitted us-who  were in  reality fugitives  from the  law-safely
into Merilon. She told a lie, of course, but I believe that the  Almin
forgave her, for she acted out of love."

    Saryon smiled  benignly  and  gave  a  gentle  nod  toward  Joram.
Gwendolyn lifted her head, looked at her husband. He returned the look
and  again  I  saw  the  darkness,  that  seemed  to  hang  over   him
perpetually, lift.  The love  that  had been  kindled that  day  still
burned, its warmth surrounded us and blessed us.

    "Mama! You were a  heroine! How romantic. But  tell me more  about
this Simkin," Eliza said, laughing.

    At this,  Saryon  looked  extremely discomfited.  My  glance  went
involuntarily to the stuffed bear,  which seemed to be quivering  with
either anticipation or suppressed  laughter. Saryon opened his  mouth.
I'm not sure what he would have replied, but at that moment Joram, his
face grim, shoved his plate back and rose to his feet.

    "We've had  enough stories  for the  night. You  came here  for  a
reason, or so  I understand, Father.  Come into the  warming room  and
tell us.  Leave  the  dishes,  Gwen," he  added.  "Father  Saryon  has
important work to do back on Earth. We don't want to prolong his visit
unnecessarily. You and Reuven will be our guests tonight, of course."

    "Thank you," said Saryon faintly.

    "It will only take a moment to clear the table, Joram,"  Gwendolyn
said nervously. "You and Father Saryon go into the warming room. Eliza
and Reuven and I will-"

    Her chill, trembling hands  dropped a plate.  It struck the  stone
floor and shattered.

    All of us stood and stared  at it in unhappy silence. Everyone  in
that room read its dread portent.

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    The sword lay like a corpse at Saryon's feet, the  personification
of the catalyst's sin.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    Eliza brought a broom and swept up the remnants of the plate.

    "Reuven and  I will  do the  dishes, Mama,"  Eliza said  in a  low
voice. "You stay with Papa."

    Gwendolyn did not reply, but she  nodded, and going to Joram,  she
put her arm around him, rested her head on his chest.

    He held her  fast, bowed his  dark head over  her blond hair,  and
kissed her gently.

    I cleared the table,  carried the plates  into the kitchen.  Eliza
tossed the broken plate into a bin,  then filled a tub with hot  water
from a kettle that had been steaming on the hearth. She didn't look at
me once, but kept her eyes on her work.

    I guessed what  she must  be feeling:  guilt, remorse.  Prospero's
daughter wanted to see  this brave new world.  She was certain in  her
own mind that this was why we  had come-to take her back with us.  She
wanted to go, to see  the wonders about which  she had only read.  Yet
she realized, perhaps for the first  time, how her going would  grieve
her parents. She would never leave them.

    She won't have to. They will come with her. The knowledge  cheered
me.

    Joram made certain  that Saryon was  settled comfortably near  the
fire, then sat down  in what I must  assume was his accustomed  chair.
Gwendolyn took her place in a  chair beside Joram's, near enough  that
they could reach out and touch hands.

    On tables beside each  chair were several  books and, near  Gwen's
chair, a basket holding balls  of yarn, hand-carved knitting  needles,
and another  basket of  mending. She  reached, by  habit, for  one  of
these. Only when  the basket was  in her  lap did she  look at  Father
Saryon, and with a sigh,  she put her work  away and folded her  hands
together tightly.

    No one said a word.  We might have been  a party of mutes,  except
that then the silence would have been alive, with thoughts flying from
one to another, faces animated, eyes bright and speaking. Each  person
in that room stood behind a wall-a wall of time and distance, fear and
mistrust and, in my master's case, deep sorrow.

    Finishing the dishes, we joined  the others. Eliza lit candles.  I
added another log to  the fire. Eliza  went to her  own chair, near  a
table piled with books and another basket of handwork. There not being
any more chairs, I retrieved one  from the kitchen and placed it  near
my master.

    Joram regarded Saryon with grim expectation, black brows drawn  in
a straight  heavy  line  above  his eyes,  his  expression  stern  and
impregnable, a solid  rock cliff, challenging  Saryon to hurl  himself
against it.

    Saryon had  known this  would  not be  easy.  I don't  believe  he
imagined it would be  this hard. He  drew in a  breath, but before  he
could speak, Joram forestalled him.

    "I want you  to take a  message to Prince  Garald, Father,"  Joram
said abruptly. "Tell him that his commands have been thwarted, the law
broken. My family and I were to  have been left alone and in peace  on
this world. That peace has been  disturbed by a man named Smythe,  who
came seeking the Darksword.  He dared to threaten  my family. I  threw
him out with orders to never return.  If he does come back, I take  no
responsibility for  what  might  happen. That  goes  for  anyone  else
seeking the Darksword as well."

    This statement obviously  included us  and made  Saryon's task  no
easier.

    "I cannot think  why they  have come  in the  first place,"  Joram
continued. "The Darksword was destroyed when the world was  shattered.
They are  wasting  their time  searching  for something  that  doesn't
exist."

    He was not lying, not  outright. True, the original Darksword  had
been destroyed.  But what  about the  new  one, the  one he  had  most
recently made? Or did  it truly exist?  Perhaps the Duuk-tsarith  were
mistaken. Saryon did not  dare ask. To  do so would  be to admit  that
Joram was being spied upon and that would send him into a rage.

    My master had the  look of a  man about to go  swimming in an  icy
lake. He knows  that entering  the water  little by  little will  only
prolong the agony and so he plunged straight in.

    "Joram,  Gwendolyn"-Saryon's  compassionate  gaze  included   them
both-"my business here does  not concern the Darksword.  I am here  to
take you and your family back to Earth, where you will be safe."

    "We are safe here," said Joram sternly, glowering, "or we would be
if Garald would keep his word and enforce his law! Or does he want the
Darksword, too? That's  it, isn't it?"  He bounded out  of his  chair,
loomed over us threateningly. "That's why you've come, Father!"

    I knew then, of course, that the reports were true. Joram had made
another Darksword. He had as good as admitted it.

    Saryon stood  to face  him.  His cheeks  were flushed,  his  voice
shook, not  with weakness,  but with  anger. "I  am not  here for  the
sword, Joram. I have stated as  much. You know-or at least you  should
know-that I would not lie to you."

    Gwendolyn was  on her  feet,  her hands  on Joram's  arm.  "Joram,
please!" she said softly. "You don't know what you're saying. This  is
Father Saryon!"

    Joram's fury subsided. He had the grace to look ashamed of himself
and to  apologize. But  the apology  was  brief and  it was  cold.  He
returned to his  chair. Gwen  did not go  back to  hers, but  remained
standing behind Joram, her  presence strong and supportive,  defending
him, though he had been in the wrong.

    Eliza was troubled,  confused, and a  little frightened. This  was
not what she had expected.

    Saryon sat back down, looked  gently, grievingly, on Joram.  '"'My
son, do you think this  is easy for me? I  see the life you have  made
for yourself and your family. I  see that it is peaceful and  blessed.
And I am the one telling you it  must end. I wish I could add that  it
would be  possible to  regain such  peace back  on Earth,  but that  I
cannot promise. Who knows  whether any of us  will find peace when  we
return, or if we will all be plunged into terrible war.

    "Smythe spoke  to you  of the  Hch'nyv, the  aliens who  have  one
avowed purpose and  that is to  destroy the human  race. They have  no
interest in negotiating, they  refuse all contact  with us. They  have
slaughtered those we sent to them in hopes of obtaining a truce.  They
are closing in on us. Our  military forces have pulled back, in  order
to make  a final  stand  on Earth.  This outpost  is  the last  to  be
evacuated.

    "I cannot even  promise that you  will be safe  on Earth,"  Saryon
admitted, "I can't promise that any of us will. But at least there you
will have the protection of the  combined Earth Forces. Here, you  and
Gwen and Eliza would be at the  aliens' mercy. And, from what we  have
seen, they have no concept of mercy."

    Joram's mouth twisted. "And if you have the Darksword-"

    Saryon was shaking his head.

    Joram amended  his  statement,  though  the  twist  of  his  mouth
deepened and  his tone  was bitter  and ironic.  "If someone  has  the
Darksword, then someone could use it to stop these fiendish aliens and
save the world. Still trying to redeem yourself, Father?"

    Saryon gazed at him sadly. "You  don't believe me. You think I  am
lying to you. I am sorry, my son. Very sorry."

    "Joram," Gwen whispered in gentle reproof, and placed her hand  on
his shoulder.

    Joram sighed. Reaching up, he took hold of her hand and rested his
cheek against it. He kept fast hold of her as he talked.

    "I do not say  you are lying, Father."  Joram spoke in a  softened
tone. "I  am  saying that  you  have  been tricked.  You  were  always
gullible,"  he  added,  and  the  bitter  smile  warmed  into  one  of
affection. "You are too  good for this world,  Father. Much too  good.
People take advantage of you."

    "I do not know that I am particularly good," Saryon said, speaking
slowly, earnestly, his words gathering force  as he went, "but I  have
always tried to do what I believed was right. This does not mean  that
I am weak,  Joram, nor that  I am foolish,  though you always  equated
goodness with weakness. You imply that these aliens do not exist. I've
seen the news  reports, Joram!  I've seen  the pictures  of the  ships
attacking and destroying our colonies!  I've read the accounts of  the
terrible slaughter, the senseless butchery.

    "No, I have not seen these aliens  with my own eyes. Few men  have
and lived to tell of it. But I have seen the anxiety, the concern, the
fear in the eyes  of General Boris and  King Garald. They are  afraid,
Joram. Afraid for you, afraid  for all of us.  What do you think  this
is-an elaborate hoax?  To what purpose?  All to trick  you out of  the
Darksword? How is that possible, when  you have said yourself that  it
was destroyed?"

    Joram made no response.

    Saryon sighed again. "My  son, I will be  honest with you. I  will
leave nothing hidden, though  what I have to  tell will anger you  and
rightly so. They know you have forged a new Darksword.

    The Duuk-tsarith  have  been  watching you-only  to  protect  you,
Joram! Only to  protect you  from Smythe  and his  associates! So  the
Duuk-tsarith claim, and I ... I believe them."

    Joram was indeed  furious, so furious  that he was  choked by  his
rage and could not speak. And so my master was able to continue.

    "I know  why you  made the  sword, Joram-to  protect yourself  and
those you love from the magic. And  that is why you cling to it.  And,
yes, I admit  that they  want the  Darksword and  its secrets,  Joram.
Bishop Radisovik-you remember  him? You know  him to be  a good,  wise
man. Bishop Radisovik received a  message which he believes came  from
the Almin concerning the  Darksword and how it  might be used to  save
our people.  Whether  you take  the  sword to  Earth  or not  is  your
decision. I will not try to influence you. I care only for the  safety
of yourself and your family. Do you care about the Darksword so  much,
my son, that you would sacrifice your family for it?"

    Joram rose to  his feet.  Releasing Gwen's hand,  he stepped  away
from her placating touch.  His voice was deep  with anger. "How can  I
trust them? What have I known  from these people in the past,  Father?
Treachery, deceit, murder-"

    "Honor,  love,   compassion,"  Saryon   countered.  Joram's   face
darkened. He was not  accustomed to being  contradicted. I don't  know
what he might have said next, but Gwendolyn intervened.

    "Father, tell us what King Garald plans for us," she said.

    Saryon did so. He related how a  ship was waiting for them at  the
outpost. The ship  would take them  back to Earth,  where housing  had
been arranged. He spoke with regret  of things left behind, but  there
was not enough room on the ship to store many personal belongings.

    "Just room enough for the Darksword," Joram said, and sneered.

    "The  hell  with  the  Darksword!"  Saryon  said  angrily,  losing
patience. "Consign it to perdition! I do not want to see it! I do  not
want to hear of it! Leave it! Bury it! Destroy it! I do not care  what
you do with it. You,  Joram! You and your  wife and your child.  These
are all that matter to me."

    "To you!" Joram countered. "And that is why they sent you! To make
exactly this plea in this tone! To scare us into running. And when  we
are gone, then they will be free to come and search and take what they
know I would die before I give up!"

    "You can't mean  this, Father!"  Eliza spoke for  the first  time.
Rising to her feet, she  faced him. "What if  they are right? What  if
the power of the  Darksword could save lives?  Millions of lives!  You
have no right to withhold it. You must give it to them!"

    "Daughter," said Gwendolyn sharply,  "hold your tongue! You  can't
possibly understand!"

    "I understand  that my  father is  being selfish  and  obstinate,"
Eliza returned. "And that he doesn't  care about us! About any of  us!
He cares only for himself!"

    Joram glared darkly at Saryon.  "You have accomplished your  task,
Father. You have turned my child  against me. No doubt that, too,  was
part of your plan. She can go with you to Earth, if she wants. I  will
not stop her. You may stay the night, you and your accomplice. But you
will be gone in the morning."

    He turned and started to leave the room.

    "Father!" Eliza  pleaded, heartbroken.  "I  don't want  to  leave!
Father, I didn't mean . . ."  She stretched out her hands to him,  but
he walked past her without a glance and disappeared into the darkness.
"Father!"

    He did not return.

    With a ragged cry, Eliza ran  from the room, into another part  of
the dwelling. I heard her footsteps and then, in the distance, a  door
slam.

    Gwendolyn stood alone, drooping and pale as a cut flower.

    Saryon began to stammer out an apology, though the Almin knows  he
had nothing for which to apologize.

    Gwendolyn lifted her gaze  to meet his. "They  are so alike,"  she
said. "Flint striking flint.  The sparks fly. And  yet they love  each
other. . . ."  Her hand went to  her mouth and then  to her eyes.  She
drew in a shuddering breath. "He will reconsider. He will think  about
this through the night.  His answer will be  different by morning.  He
will do what is right. You know him, Father."

    "Yes," said Saryon gently. "I know him."

    Perhaps, I thought. But in the meantime it will be a long night.

    Gwendolyn gave Saryon a kiss on his cheek. She bid me good  night.
I bowed silently, and she left us.

    The fire had died to embers. The room was dark and growing  chill.
I was afraid for Saryon, who looked very ill. I knew how exhausted  he
must be, for the  day had been a  tiring one. The evening's  stressful
and unpleasant scene had left him empty and shaken.

    "Master," I signed, going to him,  "come to bed. There is  nothing
more we can do this night."

    He did not  move, nor did  he seem  to see my  speaking hands.  He
stared into the glowing coals, and from his words, spoken to  himself,
I shared his vision. He was seeing  the forge fire, the making of  the
sword.

    "I gave the first Darksword life,"  he said. "A thing of evil,  it
sucked the light from  the world and changed  it into darkness. He  is
right. I am still searching for redemption."

    He was shivering. I looked around the room, spotted a woolen throw
tossed on a stool near the fireplace. As I went to retrieve it, my eye
caught a  tiny  flash of  orange  light,  in the  corner  between  the
fireplace and the wall. Thinking it might be a cinder that had  caught
the wood on fire,  I started to  brush it off,  intending to stamp  it
out.

    The moment my  hand touched  it, a  shiver went  through my  body.
Smooth, plastic, it was not of this  world. It did not belong here.  I
saw again the green glowing listening devices Mosiah had discovered in
our house. Except why should this one glow orange . . . ?

    "No reason," said  a furry voice,  near my elbow.  "Except that  I
happen to like orange."

    Teddy sat upon the stool. The orange glow of the listening  device
was reflected in his button eyes.

    I might have asked how Simkin knew what such a device was, or even
if he did know what it was. I  might have asked why he waited to  show
it to us now, now that it was too late. I might have asked, but I  did
not. I think I feared the answer. Perhaps that was a mistake.

    And I did not tell Saryon that all we had said had been  overheard
by the Technomancers.  Perhaps that,  too, was  a mistake,  but I  was
afraid it would only add to his misery. Whereas, if Gwen was right-and
she should surely know Joram-by morning he would have reconsidered. By
morning, we would all  be gone from this  place and the  Technomancers
could listen to the silence.

    Picking up the  throw, I  placed it over  Saryon's shoulders,  and
rousing him from his bleak reverie, I  persuaded him to go to bed.  We
walked together down the dark hallway, with only the lambent light  of
the stars to guide us. I offered to make his tea for him, but he  said
no, he was too tired. He would go straight to bed.

    Any doubts I had  about concealing my  knowledge of the  listening
device vanished. It would only worry him to no purpose, when he needed
rest.

    And if that was  a mistake, then  it was the first  of many to  be
made that night. Still another mistake, and perhaps the most  drastic,
was that I neglected to keep an eye on "Teddy."

    CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    "Wrap the sword in these rags. If anyone stops you, tell them  you
are carrying a child. A dead child."

    JORAM; FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    I woke up, thinking I heard a sound, but unable to place what  the
sound had been. Lying in bed, trying to recollect what it was and  not
making much headway, I heard the creak  of hinges, as of a door  being
either opened or shut very slowly, so as not to disturb anyone.

    Thinking perhaps it was Saryon and  that he might need me, I  left
my bed, pulled on my sweater and jeans, and went out into the hall and
down to  his room.  Listening at  the door,  I could  hear his  gentle
snoring. Whoever was up and wandering around in the night, it was  not
my master.

    "Joram," I thought, and though I had been angered by his  obduracy
and his show of disrespect  for Saryon, I felt  sorry for the man.  He
was being forced to leave a home he loved, a life he had made.

    "Almin give him guidance," I prayed, and returned to my room.

    Restless, knowing  I would  not be  able to  go back  to sleep,  I
walked to the  window and  parted the curtains  to look  out upon  the
night.

    My window opened up  onto one of the  many gardens with which  the
Font was surrounded. I have no idea  of the name of the flowers  which
grew out there; some  sort of large, white  blooms that hung heavy  on
their stems and seemed, to my  imagination, to be hanging their  heads
in sorrow.  I was  thinking to  myself  that this  would make  a  good
metaphor to use in a new book I was then planning. I was about to turn
away, to note it down, when I saw someone enter the garden.

    Of course, Joram has taken his worries outside, I thought. I  felt
uneasy about disturbing his privacy and also about the possibility  of
him seeing me through the window and  thinking I was spying on him.  I
was about to draw shut the  curtains when the figure stepped out  into
an open walkway, almost  directly opposite me, and  I saw that it  was
not Joram.

    It was a woman, wearing a cloak and hood and carrying a bundle  in
her arms.

    "Eliza!" I said to myself. "She's running away from home!"

    I went cold all over. My heart constricted. I stood bolted to  the
floor in that terrible indecision which sometimes comes over one in  a
crisis. I had to do something, but what?

    Run and  wake Saryon  and have  him talk  to her?  I recalled  his
weariness and how ill he had looked and decided against that.

    Wake her parents?

    No. I would not  betray Eliza. I  would go to  her myself, try  to
persuade her to stay.

    Grabbing up my jacket, I threw it on and dashed out into the hall.
I had only the vaguest  idea where I was  going, but on reflection,  I
seemed to remember passing the garden on my way to the outbuildings. I
found the door  after only  one wrong turn  and stepped  out into  the
night. The creak  of the  hinges, as I  passed through,  was the  same
creak I'd heard earlier.

    The night was  bright and it  was easy to  see the shadowy  figure
ahead of me. She had been moving  at a fairly rapid pace when I  first
saw her  from my  window, and  I  was afraid  she might  have  already
crossed the garden and disappeared over the wall before I could  reach
her. As it  was, she  had reached  the wall,  but the  bundle she  was
carrying had slowed her down. She had placed the bundle on the top  of
the wall  and with  it something  else,  the sight  of which  gave  me
another cold chill- Teddy.

    Teddy, a.k.a. Simkin, sat on the top of the wall beside the bundle
while Eliza vaulted  over the wall,  in a flurry  of cloak and  skirt.
Turning, she reached for the bundle  with one hand and Teddy with  the
other. She saw me.

    Her face, framed by its night-dark cloud of hair, was pale as  the
heavy flowers; pale but  resolute. Her eyes widened  when she saw  me,
and then narrowed in displeasure.

    Frantically, I waved my hands,  though what I hoped to  accomplish
by this gesturing was beyond me. Whatever it was, it didn't work.  She
snatched up the  bundle, and  it was obviously  heavy, for  she had  a
difficult time managing it. She was forced to drop Teddy-on his  head,
I hoped-and use both hands to grasp the bundle.

    There was a muffled clang-steel wrapped in cloth striking stone.

    I knew then what she carried and the knowledge knocked the  breath
from my body. I faltered, came to a halt.

    She saw that  I knew,  which served  only to  increase her  haste.
Securing her burden, she turned away from me and I heard her footsteps
slipping on the rocks of the hillside.

    I came to my  senses and hurried  after her, for  now it was  more
imperative than ever that I catch up to her.

    The Technomancers  were listening.  But according  to Mosiah,  the
Duuk-tsarith were watching!

    Expecting to see  their dark  forms leap  out of  the shadows  any
moment, I scaled the  wall, scrambling over it  clumsily. I have  said
that I was not very athletic. I could not see the ground beneath me in
the dark  shadow cast  by the  wall.  I misjudged  the drop  and  fell
heavily, bruising my knees against the wall and scraping away the skin
on the palms of my hands.

    "Oof! Zounds! Oaf! You've knocked the stuffing out of me!" came  a
voice.

    I was too busy trying to regain purchase on the steep slope to pay
any attention to  the lamenting Teddy.  My feet scrabbled  on a  loose
rock, which bounded down the hillside and started a small avalanche. I
slipped and slithered and then she  hovered over me. The folds of  her
cloak settled around me. Hands grasped my arms and pinched my flesh.

    "Stop it!" she whispered furiously. "You're making enough noise to
wake the dead!"

    "Happened once," said  a doleful voice,  somewhere near my  elbow.
"The Duke  of  Esterhouse.  Dropped dead,  sitting  in  his  armchair,
reading the paper.  Everyone afraid to  tell him. Knew  he'd take  the
news frightfully hard.  So we left  him there. And  then one day  cook
forgot and rang the dinner bell-"

    Startled, Eliza let go of me and sat back on her heels.

    "You can talk!"  she said  to me  in a  tight voice.  She was  not
carrying the bundle.

    I shook my head emphatically. Reaching underneath my scraped rump,
I pulled out the alleged stuffed bear and gave it a -shake.

    Eliza looked at  the bear  and bit her  lower lip  and the  sudden
inkling of the truth formed in my mind.

    "Are you hurt?" she asked in a grudging tone.

    I shook my head.

    "Good," she said. "Go back to bed, Reuven. I know what I'm doing."

    And without another word, she snatched  the bear from my hand  and
was up and  gone in a  flutter of  skirt and cloak.  She stopped  some
distance on the hill  below to pick  up her heavy  bundle, and then  I
lost her in the darkness.

    She knew where  she was going.  I did not.  She was accustomed  to
climbing and walking these steep hills.  I was not. I could not  shout
after her, although  I wouldn't have,  in any case.  The last thing  I
wanted to do was call attention to  her and what she carried. I  hoped
to be able to persuade  her to return home  before any harm was  done.
But first I had to catch her.

    It would cost more time in the long run, I reasoned, if I stumbled
blindly down the hillside. There had to  be a trail; she could not  be
moving so fast otherwise. I took  time to search, my knees  stiffening
and my palms burning. My patience  was rewarded. Not far from where  I
had fallen I found a crude trail, half-natural, half-man-made,  carved
into the hillside. It was an old trail; the feet of many catalysts had
trodden it  before me.  The trail  was formed  of deep  gouges in  the
hillside, reinforced  here  and there  with  large embedded  rocks  or
exposed tree roots.

    The rocks gleamed white in the starlit night; the tree roots, worn
by the passage of many feet, were slick and shiny. I made my way  down
the trail, wondering as I did so where it led.

    The way was steep, and despite the help from rocks and other  foot
and handholds, my going was difficult and slow. I could no longer hear
Eliza's footfalls and knew she must be far ahead of me. My taking this
route was a  foolish idea.  If I slipped  and fell,  I would  probably
break my leg or my ankle, and be forced to lie out here all night with
no hope of rescue.

    If only  I could  move faster!  I  could see,  in my  mind,  those
catalysts who  had once  made  this trail  and  walked it  every  day,
bounding down it like goats. . . .

    I was bounding down it, if not  like a goat, at least swiftly  and
easily. Brown robes hiked up to  my waist, sandals flapping, a bag  of
scrolls flung over  my shoulder, I  ran down the  trail in the  bright
sunshine of a fine day. All the young catalysts and occasionally  some
of the old ones took this route  when they were late for classes,  for
this trail led straight to the University.

    The vision was eerie and startling, just like the other vision I'd
had before-of myself  in brown  robes, of  Eliza my  queen. .  . .  Of
course, as an author, I was accustomed to living in my imagination and
my fancies and dreams are  very real to me. But  not as real as  this.
Again, I lifted a curtain to look  out a window and saw myself on  the
other side, looking back in.

    But-could I use this to my benefit? Did I dare?

    I was light-headed from  exhaustion and the thin  air of the  high
altitude. Plus I was desperate, fearful for Eliza's safety.  Otherwise
I do not believe that I could have done what I did. I let go of myself
in this life  and gave myself  to the  other life, if  that's what  it
truly was. I became  that catalyst, late for  class, certain to be  in
trouble with the master, and I plunged down the hillside.

    My feet knew  where the stones  would be, my  hands knew where  to
grasp. I knew where I could safely  slide and once I even jumped  from
one ledge to another.  It was madness, it  was exhilarating. If I  had
stopped to think about what I was doing, I would have frozen in  place
and been unable to move another step.

    When I finally reached the bottom, I gasped for breath and  stared
up the hillside and the catalyst that I was vanished. I realized  what
I had done and my stomach turned within me. Quickly, I looked away and
started to  search for  Eliza. I  had a  final image  of the  catalyst
running in the opposite direction from  the one I was taking and  part
of me was sorry to let him go.

    I had reached a  broad, flat, white-stone-paved  road. It must  be
the main highway, leading down from the Font to the foothills and  the
long abandoned city below, a city whose sole reason for being had been
to support  the Font  and the  University. This  road must  have  been
clogged with wheelless carts  that floated on the  wings of magic  and
the exotic and fanciful carriages of the nobility coming to pay  their
respects or to ask  for favors or visit  sons and daughters  attending
the University.

    I stared down the road's  bending, winding length, shining like  a
white ribbon in  the night, and  after a  moment I saw  a dark  shadow
moving along  it,  keeping to  the  side,  but not  taking  any  other
precautions. She was not far ahead of me and moving slowly. I  guessed
her burden  must  have  weighed  more than  she'd  imagined  when  she
started. I was thankful to see that she was still alone, not  counting
Teddy, of course.

    I hastened after her, my way comparatively easy now. She heard  my
footsteps, when  I  drew  near,  and made  a  halfhearted  attempt  to
increase the speed of her pace,  but that didn't last long.  Realizing
the futility of trying to escape,  she stopped and turned to face  me.
Her extreme pallor made her face  ghostly in the starlight; her  black
eyes beneath their thick  brows were bright  with anger and  defiance.
But I saw that  she was tired, too,  and perhaps a little  frightened,
and that there was something in her  which was glad she was no  longer
alone.

    I caught hold of her arm beneath her cloak and started to draw her
into the  shadows of  the trees  that lined  the road.  "What are  you
doing?" she demanded, breaking free. I pointed to the shadows, then to
the gleaming white road, and shook my head.

    "He's trying to  tell you that  we stand  out like a  mole on  the
Countess D'Arymple's backside. She had a very white, smooth backside,"
Teddy added helpfully.

    "I don't see what difference it makes," Eliza said petulantly. She
held the bear tucked under one arm, the heavy bundle awkwardly in  the
other hand. "No one is around to notice us, anyway."

    "From your mouth to the Almin's ear," said Teddy, which was,  more
or less, exactly what I had been thinking.

    I took hold of Eliza's arm again  and this time she allowed me  to
lead her off that gleaming highway and into the shadows of the  trees.
She carried the bundle. I did not try to take it from her. Once in the
deep shadows,  she dropped  the burden  on the  ground, in  a pile  of
leaves. Then she sank down on a low, crumbling wall and stared at  the
bundle at her feet.

    "I didn't know it  would be so heavy,"  she said. "It didn't  seem
heavy when I first picked it up. But now it weighs more and more.  And
it's awkward and difficult to carry."

    I pulled out my electronic notebook from the pocket of my  jacket;
thanking the Almin that I'd put it there earlier, for such had been my
haste at departure that I had not  thought to bring it along. I  typed
the words.  The Darksword.  "Yes,"  said Eliza,  looking at  what  I'd
written.

    What are you doing with it? Where are you taking it? I asked.

    "To the army base," she replied.

    I was so astonished, I stared at her and forgot to type.

    "My father is wrong," she said in a low, determined voice, looking
down at the sword at her feet. "It's not his fault." She defended  him
loyally, glanced at me  defiantly, as if I'd  accused him. "You  don't
know him! If he finds it hard to trust people, can you blame him? Time
and again he was betrayed by those he trusted."

    It was  not  quite  as simple  as  that,  but I  honored  her  for
defending him.

    "I'm taking the sword to the army  base, to give it to the  Border
Patrol to take back to Earth. Then people will leave us alone and  our
lives will be peaceful once more. And  when the sword is gone, no  one
will hurt Father, ever again."

    I saw the tears shine in  her dark eyes that were looking  forward
to that life, a life that would  be empty for her, isolated and  alone
on this  deserted world.  I saw  her generous,  noble spirit  in  that
moment and I loved her. I could not tell her. It would not be fair  to
take advantage of her. But silently I pledged my heart and my soul  to
her service, as I knew in that other life the catalyst had pledged his
heart and soul to serve his queen.

    How do you know about the army base? I typed.

    "I've been there," she said with  a smile at my surprise.  "Simkin
showed me. It was his idea to take the sword there tonight."

    She fondled the bear, rubbing his head.

    "Oh, no one at the base ever saw me," she said. "I made certain of
that. Simkin  used his  magic to  keep me  invisible. I  would sit  on
crates and watch the people come and  go and listen to them talk.  I'd
do that for hours,  when Mama and  Papa thought I  was in the  library
studying." She grinned impishly.  "I used to  watch the skyships  take
off, blasting fire  and roaring  like thunder. Simkin  said they  were
traveling to Earth. I  would imagine what  it would be  like to be  on
one. Yesterday, when you and Father Saryon came, I thought-"

    Her smile faded. Resolutely, she buried her dream. "I was  wrong,"
she said, and started to stand up.

    I stopped her.  I had  a great many  questions, mostly  concerning
Simkin. I thought it extremely odd  and perhaps even sinister that  he
was suggesting giving  the Darksword away.  But those questions  could
wait.

    The army  base is  a long  distance from  here, I  told her.  Many
miles. You could  not reach it  tonight or even  tomorrow by  walking.
Certainly not carrying the heavy sword.

    "We weren't planning to walk all  the way," she said, avoiding  my
eyes. "We can't use the magical routes we normally travel, because  of
the Darksword destroying the magic. But Simkin said that you . . .  um
. . . had an air  car. We were only going  to borrow it. I would  have
brought it back.  I know  how they operate.  I've even  ridden in  one
before, though no one knew I was there."

    So much for Prospero's daughter. The  brave new world was old  hat
to her.

    Please come back home,  I wrote. This burden  is not your  burden.
That is why it seems  so heavy. It is your  father's and he alone  can
cast it off or choose to carry it. Besides, you could be in danger.

    "What?" She stared at me, amazed and disbelieving. "How? There  is
no one  here beyond  the Border  but Father  Saryon, my  parents,  and
ourselves!"

    I did not feel that I could offer adequate explanation. Come back.
Talk to Father Saryon. Besides, I added, your mother told us that,  by
morning, Joram will have had a change of heart. He is reacting out  of
hurt and  anger. When  he thinks  about  things, he  will do  what  is
necessary. You shouldn't take that decision away from him.

    "You are right,"  Eliza said,  after a moment's  thought. "It  was
only by accident I  found the sword. We  missed Papa one  afternoon-it
was the day after that horrible Smythe-man came. Mama was worried  and
sent me to look for him. I searched all over and no sign of him.  When
I finally found him, where do you think he was?"

    I shook my head.

    "In the chapel," she said. "I came  in the door and there he  was.
He wasn't praying,  like I  thought at first.  He was  sitting on  the
stair beneath the altar and  this-the Darksword-was across his  knees.
He was staring at it as if he  hated and loathed it, but yet as if  he
loved it and was proud of it."

    Eliza shivered  and drew  her  cloak more  closely around  her.  I
pressed my body a little nearer, to warm her and warm myself both. The
picture she painted with her words was not a pleasant one.

    "The look on his face frightened me. I was afraid to say anything,
because I knew he would be furious. I wanted to leave. I knew I should
leave, but I couldn't.  I sneaked into a  little alcove near the  door
and I watched him. He sat for  a long, long time, just staring at  the
sword. And then he gave  a great sigh and  shook his head. He  wrapped
the sword up in this cloth and  opened up a little hidden door  inside
the altar itself. He put the sword in there, inside the altar, and  he
shut the door  and left. I  waited until  he was gone  before I  dared
move. I felt  ashamed. I knew  I had seen  something I shouldn't  have
seen. Something that  was secret  and private  to my  father. And  now
he'll know." Her head  drooped. "He'll find out  I was spying on  him.
He'll be so terribly disappointed."

    Maybe not, I typed. We'll take the sword back to its hiding  place
and he'll never realize it was gone.

    "Are you  sure  that would  be  right?" she  asked  me,  troubled.
"Wouldn't that be lying, in a way?"

    The truth  will serve  no purpose,  I wrote,  and only  hurt  him.
hater, when all this is passed, then  you can confess to him what  you
did.

    She liked that. She agreed to return to the Font with me, although
she refused to let me carry the sword.

    "It is my burden now," she said with a half smile. "At least for a
little while."

    I was given the honor of carrying Teddy. Trying to ignore the fact
that the bear winked its button eye at me as I took hold of it, I  was
about to ask Eliza  how long she  had known Teddy  was Simkin or  vice
versa, when  suddenly the  bear said,  in quite  a different  tone,  a
serious alarming tone, "We are not alone."

    "What?" Eliza asked, pausing and staring around. "Who's there?  Is
it Papa?"

    "No, it is not Papa! Keep  quiet! Don't move! Don't even  breathe!
Too late." Teddy groaned. "They've heard us."

    Silver shimmered in the night.  Two figures clad in silver  robes,
their faces hooded and  masked, were walking  along the highway.  They
were twenty paces from  us and coming up  on us rapidly. Eliza  opened
her mouth. I put my fingers on  her lips, to warn her to keep  silent.
We stood  in the  shadows,  hardly daring  to  breathe, as  Teddy  had
cautioned. The  figures continued  walking and  they came  to a  halt,
right  opposite  us.  Their  faceless  faces  turned  slowly  in   our
direction.

    "This is where  we heard  voices, sir," one  was saying,  speaking
into some  sort of  communication device.  "They came  from  somewhere
around here. Yes, sir, we'll check it out."

    Eliza shrank close to me. Her free hand clutched mine. She pressed
the Darksword to her body. I put my arm around her, held fast to  her,
and thought  frantically of  what to  do if  they found  us, which  it
seemed they must do any moment. Should we make a break for it?  Should
we- "Almin's blood," said Simkin irritably.  "It seems I must get  you
out of this."

    The bear vanished  from my hand.  A translucent form,  much as  if
smoke had taken the shape of  a young and foppish nobleman from  about
the  time  of  Louis   XIV,  materialized  right   in  front  of   the
Technomancers.

    "Oh, I say! Lovely night for  a walk, isn't it?" Simkin  languidly
waved his orange scarf in the air.

    I must give the  Technomancers credit. They  would have been  more
than  human  if  they  had   not  been  startled  by  the   apparition
materializing before them,  but they kept  amazingly calm. One  thrust
her hand into the molten fabric of  the silver robe, held up a gob  of
it, and a device shaped itself out of the fabric.

    "What is this thing?" asked the other Technomancer, a male by  his
voice. The faceless head was gazing at Simkin.

    "I'm analyzing it now," the woman replied.

    "Analyzing me?  With  that?" Simkin  cast  the device  a  scathing
glance and smiled smugly. He seemed to find the entire idea hilarious.
"What does it say I am? Spirit? Specter? Spook? Ghost?

    Ghoul? Wraith? I know-doppelganger! No, better yet. Poltergeist."

    He sidled around,  craned his head  to try  to get a  look at  the
device. "Perhaps I'm  not here at  all. Perhaps you're  hallucinating.
Sleep deprivation. A  bad acid trip.  Or maybe you're  going mad."  He
appeared eager to help.

    "Residual magic," the  woman reported. Snapping  shut the  device,
she slid it back into the robe, which seemed to swallow it whole.  "We
postulated that there are likely to  be pockets of leftover magic  all
over Thimhallan."

    "Residual magic!" Simkin quivered, his voice cracked with outrage.
He could barely  speak for his  emotion. "Me! Simkin!  The darling  of
Kings, the play toy of Emperors! Me! Magical leftovers! Like some damn
moldy sandwich!"

    The Technomancer was reporting in again.

    "The voices checked  out, sir.  Nothing to  worry about.  Residual
magic. A  substanceless phantasm,  possibly an  Echo. We  were  warned
about such. It poses no threat."

    He paused a moment, listening, then said, "Yes, sir."

    "Our orders?" the woman asked.

    "Continue. The other teams are on site and advancing."

    "What do we do with this thing?" The woman gestured at Simkin. "It
has a voice. It could warn the subject."

    "Unlikely," the  man responded.  "Echoes mindlessly  repeat  words
they've heard  others  speak.  They  mimic,  like  parrots,  and  like
parrots, sometimes give the illusion of appearing intelligent."

    I cannot describe the look on Simkin's face. His eyes bulged,  his
mouth opened and shut. Perhaps for the first time in his life-  which,
considering that he was probably  immortal, had certainly been a  long
one-he was struck dumb.

    The man started to walk on. The woman was more dubious. Her silver
face was turned toward Simkin.

    He hung in the air, appearing more nebulous than when he had first
taken shape; a  wisp of smoke  and orange  silk that looked  as if  it
could be puffed away in a breath.

    "I think we should disrupt it," the woman said.

    "Against orders," the man returned. "Someone might see the

    flash and raise the alarm.  Remember, those damn Duuk-tsarith  are
around here, too."

    "I suppose you are right," the woman agreed charily.

    The two walked on,  moving at a rapid  pace up the highway  toward
the Font.

    Eliza and I kept still, waiting until they were out of earshot and
beyond. I hushed Eliza when she would have spoken, for I could see  by
the Technomancers' swift and easy movement that they had some sort  of
night vision  and I  was  afraid they  might have  technologies  which
enhanced their hearing, as well.

    When they had  disappeared, going  down a  dip in  the highway,  I
moved cautiously to where  I could get a  better view. I guessed  from
their words what was going forward, but I needed to see it for myself.

    Here and there across the hillside, figures, shining silver in the
lambent light,  formed a  cordon around  the Font,  moving  inexorably
toward it, closing in.

    "Who are they? What are they?" Eliza demanded.

    "Evil," I signed, and she needed no translation.

    "They've  come  for  the  Darksword,  haven't  they?"  she   asked
fearfully.

    I nodded and recalled the glowing listening devices in the  living
room.

    "Would they ..." She  had to pause to  find the courage to  speak.
"Would they kill to get it?"

    I nodded again, reluctantly.

    "They won't believe Papa when he says he doesn't have the  sword,"
Eliza said, thinking through the  scenario, as I was myself.  "They'll
think he's lying, trying to keep it from them. If we give it to  them,
perhaps they'll leave us  alone. We must take  it back! We'll use  the
shortcut."

    I agreed. I could  see no other  way. But it  occurred to me  that
even taking the shortcut, burdened as we were with the heavy sword and
forced to  keep  to  the  shadows, we  would  arrive  long  after  the
Technomancers had stormed the building.

    Simkin! Simkin could warn  Joram, could tell him  that we had  the
sword and we were bringing it back.

    I turned to see the  diaphanous figure floating over the  highway.
The words residual magic blew hot  against my face, like a dry  desert
wind.

    "No threat? Well,  we'll see about  that!" cried Simkin.  "Merlyn?
Merlyn, where are you? Never around when you might be of the slightest
use, of course. The old fool!" and with that, he was gone.

    CHAPTER FIFTEEN

    "Your fool is here to save you from your folly. Rather a nice ring
to that. I must remember it."

    SIMKIN; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD

    I hoped that  Simkin had read  my thoughts and  was gone to  alert
Joram and the others to their danger. Capricious and erratic as I knew
Simkin to be, however, my hope was a forlorn one. And I did not  think
it likely we could count on Merlyn-with a y or an i-to save us.

    "Hurry!" urged Eliza, taking my hand and drawing me back among the
trees. "This way is faster! Through the fields."

    We had to  cross the wall,  not difficult,  as it was  low to  the
ground. Eliza was hampered by her long skirt and her cloak, and needed
both her hands  to climb over.  She hesitated only  a moment,  looking
into my eyes, then she handed  me the Darksword, wrapped in its  cloth
blanket.

    I knew immediately what she'd  meant about the physical burden  of
the sword. The  sword's weight was  considerable, for it  was made  of
iron, mixed with darkstone, and had  been designed to be wielded by  a
grown man with immense  physical strength. But as  heavy as the  sword
was to carry, it weighed far more heavily on the heart than it did  on
the hands. Holding it, I glimpsed the soul that had produced it-a dark
maelstrom of fear and anger.

    Bitter lessons learned, Joram had  struggled up from the  darkness
of his soul, saved himself from drowning beneath the perilous  waters.
He had returned the original Darksword to the stone from which it  was
made. He  had released  magic into  the universe.  And though  he  had
destroyed a world, he had saved the lives of many thousands who  would
otherwise have perished in the  great war Earth waged for  Thimhallan.
If Joram did not  walk in the  light, at least he  could feel the  sun
upon his upturned face.

    The Darksword had passed out of his life.

    Through anger and fear, it had been reforged.

    Eliza climbed over the  wall. Turning, she held  out her hands.  I
gave the Darksword back to her  and the biblical quote about the  sins
of the fathers came to mind.

    We trudged  up a  long,  grass-covered slope,  moving  cautiously,
keeping watch in all directions for the silver-shining  Technomancers.
We didn't see any; probably-I said to myself-because they are  already
nearing their goal. We did not  make very good time. Clouds moved  in,
hiding the stars, thickening the darkness, and making it difficult  to
find our way.

    We reached the crest of the hill. Not far from us, I could  barely
make out  the scattered  white rocks  which marked  the trail.  I  was
already winded and  Eliza, keeping  up gamely,  was breathing  heavily
from the exertion of climbing and  carrying the sword. I gazed at  the
trail in despair. It had not seemed so steep or so long, coming  down.
Tired as we  were, I wondered  how we would  manage, even without  the
sword.

    I turned to Eliza  and saw my dismay  reflected on her pale  face.
Her shoulders and arms must have been burning with fatigue. The  point
of the sword dropped to the  rocky ground, hitting it with a  metallic
thunk.

    "We have to  keep going,"  she said,  and it  was not  me she  was
exhorting to further effort but herself.

    I was about to offer to take  the sword, to give her rest, when  a
concussive blast rocked  the land.  The ground  shuddered beneath  our
feet. The blast echoed among the mountains and then finally died away.

    "What was that?" Eliza gasped.

    I had no idea.  Though storms raged in  the valley below us,  that
sound had  not been  thunder.  It was  too sharp  and  I had  seen  no
lightning. I looked up toward the  Font, terrified of seeing fire  and
smoke erupt from the building.

    Logic eased my  fear. The  Technomancers would  never destroy  the
Font if they could not find the sword.

    The blast and the concern it brought lent us strength. Eliza and I
resumed our climb when, for a  second time, a strange sound caused  us
to halt. This was nearer and more frightening-the sound of  footfalls,
coming from very close behind us.

    We were  caught out  in the  open, with  no cover.  We lacked  the
strength to run and would not have been able to run far, in any  case,
hampered as we were by the heavy sword.

    Eliza heard the steps the same  moment I did. We both turned,  and
such are the incongruities of the  mind that my first thought was  one
of relief. At least, if the Technomancers captured us, I wouldn't have
to climb that damn hill!

    The person was a dark shadow against the backdrop of the trees, so
dark that I couldn't  distinguish features. At  least,. I thought,  my
heart resuming its beat, the person was not clad in silver.

    "Wait there a moment, Reuven and Eliza, will you?" called a  clear
voice, a woman's voice.

    The woman materialized out of the night, and as she came to us she
flicked on a flashlight and played it swiftly over us.

    We blinked painfully in  the harsh light,  averted our faces,  and
she switched the flashlight off us and played it down around her feet.

    "What do you want?"  Eliza asked, her  voice strong and  unafraid.
"Why do you stop us?"

    "Because," answered  the  woman,  "you  should  not  return  home.
There's nothing you can do to help, and much you might do to harm.  By
great good fortune, the Darksword has been kept out of their hands. It
would be folly to cast away this opportunity."

    "Who are you?" Eliza asked  coldly, keeping both hands around  the
sword's blanket-covered hilt.

    The woman stood before  us, held the light  on herself so that  we
could get a good look at her. Of all the strange sights we'd seen that
night, this woman seemed the strangest, the most incongruous.

    She was wearing military-style fatigues and a green flight jacket.
Her hair  was  cut  very short,  almost  a  crew cut.  Her  eyes  were
overlarge, her cheekbones strong, her jaw and chin jutting, her  mouth
wide. She  was  tall-over  six  feet-and  muscular  and  her  age  was
difficult to guess. Older than I was, by perhaps ten years. Nine  tiny
earrings, in the shape  of suns, moons, stars,  glittered up and  down
her left ear. Her nose was pierced  and so was her right eyebrow.  She
could have stepped out of some bar in Soho.

    The woman fumbled in a zippered pocket, pulled out something.  She
flicked the light on  it, snapped open a  well-worn leather case,  and
exhibited an ID card. The light was so bright that I couldn't read the
card very  well and  she moved  the light  off the  card again  almost
immediately. She was an agent of something, or at least that's what  I
think the card read, but I wasn't clear on what.

    "It doesn't matter. You've never heard of the people I work  for,"
she said. "We're a very low-profile organization."

    "I  have  to  go  back,"  Eliza  said,  her  gaze  going  up   the
mountainside, straining  to see  her home  through the  darkness.  "My
father and mother and Father Saryon  are there alone. And without  the
sword, they're in danger."

    "They'd be in worse danger with the sword. There's nothing you can
do, Eliza," said the woman quietly.

    "How  do  you  know  my  name?"  Eliza  regarded  the  woman  with
suspicion. "And Reuven's. You knew his name, too."

    "Our agency has  files on  both of you.  Don't be  upset. We  have
files on everyone. My name's Scylla," the woman continued.

    CIA, I thought,  or maybe  Interpol. FBI or  Her Majesty's  Secret
Service. Some  sort of  government  agency. It's  strange, for  I  had
always been extremely cynical about the government, but as we stood in
the darkness the thought that  some immense and powerful  organization
was looking after us was rather comforting.

    "Look, do we really  have time for all  this?" Scylla was  saying.
"You should take the sword to a place of safety."

    "Yes," said Eliza. "A place of safety. That's with my father.  I'm
going home." She lifted the  sword, or at least  tried to lift it.  It
appeared heavier than ever.

    Scylla gazed at Eliza, measuring her, perhaps; trying to determine
if she was serious. A glance at Eliza's pale, rigid, and resolute face
could leave no doubt, as Scylla herself must have seen.

    "Look, if you're  set on  this, my air  car's not  far back,"  she
said. "I'll drive you there. It will be faster."

    Eliza was tempted. I don't think she could have carried that sword
another three feet, though she would  have made the attempt until  she
dropped down on top of it. And  she was desperate to reach her  father
and mother. I was desperate to reach Father Saryon. I nodded my head.

    "Very well," Eliza answered grudgingly.

    Scylla gave me an  approving clap on my  shoulder that knocked  me
two or three paces back down the  hillside. I had the feeling she  had
done that deliberately, to prove  her strength, to intimidate us.  She
turned and  left, running  at an  easy lope  toward the  highway,  her
flashlight guiding her steps.

    Eliza and I  stood alone  in the  darkness that  was beginning  to
lighten. It was near dawn, I realized in amazement.

    "We could leave, before she comes back," Eliza said.

    It was a statement of fact, nothing more. Yes, we could leave. But
we wouldn't. We were both too tired, the sword was too heavy, our fear
and anxiety  too great.  We didn't  have  long to  wait. The  air  car
appeared, a blot against the night.

    The car  soared  over  the  wall, over  the  trees  alongside  the
highway. It slid quiet as a whisper through the air toward us. When it
was near us, Scylla lowered the car to the ground.

    "Climb in," she said, twisting around to open the back door.

    We did  so,  bringing  the  Darksword  with  us.  Settled  in  the
backseat, Eliza placed the sword across both our knees and held on  to
it, to keep  it from  sliding off.  I was  uncomfortable, holding  the
sword. The touch of it was disquieting, unnerving, as if there were  a
leech on my  skin, sucking  out my  blood. I  had the  feeling it  was
drawing something out of me, something that, before now, I wasn't even
aware I possessed. I wanted  to be rid of the  sword, yet I could  not
cast it off,  not without  losing Eliza's  trust and  respect. If  she
could bear its incubus touch, then so could I, for her sake.

    Scylla sent the  air car into  a steep  climb and we  sped up  the
hill, traveling smooth and fleet as the wind. Eliza stared fixedly out
the front window, straining to see her home.

    We approached the garden, then the building came in sight.  Scylla
cut the air  car's engines.  It hovered noiselessly  above the  garden
wall near the spot where I'd fallen while trying to climb over.

    I  don't  know  what  I'd  expected-anything  from  the   building
surrounded by Technomancers to  flames leaping from  the roof. What  I
had not expected was to find the building dark and quiet and seemingly
as peaceful as when I'd left.

    The air car crept  forward, drifting over  the white flowers  with
their heavy, drooping  heads. The car  came to rest  not far from  the
back door.

    "There's no one here!"  Eliza exclaimed, clasping  my hand in  her
excitement. "They didn't come! Or maybe we're ahead of them! Open  the
door, Reuven!"

    My hand was on the button.

    "They've been here,"  said Scylla.  "They've been  and gone.  It's
over."

    "You're wrong!" Eliza cried. "How do you know? You can't know. . .
. Reuven, open this door!"

    She was frantic. I hit the button. The door swung open. Eliza slid
out. She turned to retrieve the Darksword, which I was still holding.

    "You should leave the  sword hidden in  the car," Scylla  advised,
climbing out.  "It  will  be  safe  here.  You'll  need  it  later-for
bargaining."

    "Bargaining . . ." Eliza repeated the word, licked dry lips.

    I slid across the seat, out from under the sword. Even in my worry
and fear, I  was relieved  to be free  of its  loathsome touch.  Eliza
stared suspiciously at Scylla, then made a grab for the sword's hilt.

    "If I leave it, you'll take it!" she said, struggling to lift  the
Darksword.

    Scylla shrugged. "I can take the  sword anytime I want." Hands  on
her hips, she  smiled at us  and her smile  seemed menacing. "I  don't
think you two could do much to stop me."

    Eliza and I looked at  each other and reluctantly we  acknowledged
the truth.  Neither of  us was  in  any shape  to battle  this  woman,
although, I recalled, I had not seen her carrying a weapon, either  on
her person or in the air car.

    "But I don't want it," Scylla continued. She slammed shut the  car
door on her side. To my astonishment, she tossed me the keys.

    "What do you want?" Eliza demanded.

    "Ah, now that's a bit more difficult to explain," Scylla replied.

    Turning on her heel, she walked across the garden, leaving us with
keys to the air car. We could do what we pleased with the Darksword.

    I drew out my electronic notepad, typed swiftly. The Technomancers
could be waiting for us inside! Leave the sword here.

    "Do you trust her?" Eliza asked me, agonized.

    Maybe, I hedged. What she said  makes sense. She could have  taken
the sword from us back there on  the highway. It would have been  like
taking candy from two babies.

    "I hope you're right," Eliza said fervently. She shut the door and
I locked it. The Darksword, wrapped in its cloth, lay on the  backseat
of the air car.

    I, for  one,  was glad  to  be rid  of  it. I  felt  stronger,  my
weariness eased. I was more hopeful. Eliza also seemed relieved to  be
rid of the burden.  We hastened after Scylla  and reached her just  as
she was entering the door through which I'd come out.

    The hallway was  dark and  silent. Perhaps it  was my  overwrought
imagination, but the silence had  a chill feel to  it. It was not  the
blessed silence of a house asleep. It was the silence of a house  that
is empty. A tinge of  smoke hung in the air.  We came to my room.  The
door was partially  open and  I distinctly remembered  having shut  it
when I left.

    I stepped to the door, looked inside, and stood, transfixed.

    The bed had been ripped open  by what appeared to be giant  claws.
Long slashes cut through the mattress. Gouts of feathers lay in  heaps
on the floor. My knapsack had been torn apart, my clothes strewn about
the room. My other possessions-shaving kit, comb, brush-were scattered
everywhere.

    "You see," said Scylla. "They were searching for the Darksword."

    Despair robbed me of breath. I  ran to Saryon's room. Eliza  stood
dazed in the hall, staring with disbelief at the destruction.

    The door to my master's room was wide open. His bed had been  torn
apart as well, his  possessions trampled and flung  about. He was  not
there, though whether that was good or bad, I didn't know.

    With a  wild  and incoherent  cry,  Eliza ran  down  the  hallway,
heading for the main living quarters. I followed after her, adrenaline
pumping, sparking my tired legs to exertion.

    Scylla, shaking her head in sorrow, followed more slowly behind.

    We reached the  door leading  to the  warming room.  Eliza gave  a
moan, as if she'd  been struck, and  her body sagged.  I was there  to
catch her, hold  her, support her,  though it  was all I  could do  to
support myself. I was sick with horror.

    Dawn's light filtered through the window, filtered through a faint
and rapidly dissipating haze of  smoke. Recalling the blast, my  first
thought was that a  bomb had exploded. The  floor was strewn with  the
wreckage of  shattered, smoldering  furniture. The  curtains had  been
torn from the windows;  the glass was cracked  and broken. Beyond  the
warming room, in the  kitchen, the table  had been overturned.  Chairs
were smashed.

    "Father! Mother!" Eliza called.

    Coughing in the smoke, she pushed  me away and started toward  the
door opposite, the door which led to her parents' rooms.

    A figure, clad in black robes, took shape and form from the smoke.
Eliza halted, appalled and frightened.

    "You won't find them," he said. "They are gone."

    "What have you done with them?" Eliza cried.

    The man cast his  hood from his face  and I recognized Mosiah.  He
folded his hands together before him. "I did not take them. I tried to
stop the Technomancers, but  there were too many  of them." He  turned
his face to me. "They took Father Saryon as well, Reuven. I am sorry."

    I could make no response. My hands  hung limp at my sides. On  the
floor, near the hem of  Mosiah's black robe, was  a smear of blood.  I
dreaded lest Eliza should see it.  Moving close to Mosiah, I shoved  a
broken chair over the stain. But either  I was too late or else  Eliza
read my thoughts.

    "Are they all right?" she demanded, confronting Mosiah. "Were they
hurt?"

    Mosiah hesitated, before  reluctantly replying,  "Your father  was
injured."

    "Very . . . very badly?" Eliza faltered.

    "I am afraid so. But Father Saryon is with him. I don't think your
mother was harmed."

    "You don't think! Don't you  know?" Eliza cried. Her voice  broke;
she coughed again. The smoke stung  our throats, brought tears to  the
eyes. Both of us were coughing-but not Mosiah.

    "No. I do not know for  certain what happened to your mother,"  he
replied. "It was all very confused.  At least, they did not find  what
they sought. They did not find the Darksword. You were wise to take it
away." Mosiah's gaze  went from me  to Eliza. His  eyes narrowed,  his
voice softened. "Where is it?"

    "Safe," answered Scylla, emerging from the shadows of the hallway.

    Mosiah's head jerked. "Who the devil are you?"

    "Scylla," she replied, as if that were all anyone needed to  know.
She strode into  the room,  glanced around.  Again she  showed her  ID
card.

    Mosiah took a  good look  at it.  His brow  wrinkled. "I've  never
heard of this organization. Are you part of the CIA?"

    "If I  were, I  couldn't  tell you  now,  could I?"  Scylla  said,
putting away the card. "I thought you Duuk-tsarith were standing guard
on Joram. What happened? Take the night off?"

    Mosiah was angry. His lips tightened.  "We did not expect them  to
attack Joram. Why should they, when it was probable they were going to
get what they wanted?"

    "Ah, but they knew they weren't," Scylla said. "Kevon Smythe  once
paid a visit here. He  sat in that very chair,  or what's left of  it.
Does that give you a hint?"

    "A listening device! Of course." Mosiah was grim. "We should  have
foreseen the possibility. They knew,  then, that Joram had refused  to
relinquish the sword." He regarded Scylla with suspicion. "You know  a
lot about the D'karn-darah."

    "I know a lot about you, too," Scylla retorted. "That doesn't make
me Duuk-tsarith."

    "You're from the government?"

    "In a manner  of speaking.  Let's lay our  cards on  the table.  I
can't talk about the work  I do any more than  you can talk about  the
work you do. You don't trust me.  I accept that. I'll work to  correct
your mistake.  I trust  you, but  then I've  read your  file."  Scylla
regarded him with increased interest. "You're much better-looking than
your file photo. What happened here?"

    Mosiah appeared  somewhat taken  aback  by this  direct  approach,
though I could see he wasn't pleased with that reference to his file.

    "General Boris sent you," he said.

    "I know the General. A good man." Scylla smiled. "What happened?"

    "It was all over in a matter of moments, too fast for me to summon
help."  Mosiah's  voice  was  cold,  perhaps  to  keep  from  sounding
defensive. "I was  alone, standing watch  unseen, remaining hidden  in
the corridors, as was our custom, so  as not to disturb Joram and  his
family."

    "And where were the rest of the Duuk-tsarith?" Scylla asked.  "You
might have been left alone on guard duty, but I know you weren't alone
here in the Font."

    Mosiah's face darkened.  He did not  reply. I knew  the answer  to
that question well enough, as I'm sure Eliza did, though she was  only
now gradually coming  to understand. The  other Duuk-tsarith had  been
searching for the Darksword.  They knew as  well as the  Technomancers
that Joram had refused  to give it  up. I thought  of all these  dread
forces, with their dread powers, mundane and arcane, searching for the
sword, and of  Eliza and me,  in our innocence,  walking off with  it,
snatching it out from under their very noses. A shiver crept over  me.
I had guessed we  might be in  some danger. I  had never realized  how
great. They  needed Joram  and  the Darksword.  The  rest of  us  were
expendable.

    "And so the other Duuk-tsarith were off on a little treasure  hunt
of their  own,  leaving you  alone  to  stand guard.  What  made  them
think-wait! I know." Scylla glanced  toward Eliza. "The Darksword  had
been moved. You sensed  its absence, though you  could not detect  its
presence. Very well. You were alone. And then the Technomancers came."

    "Yes, they came," said Mosiah curtly.  "There is not much to  tell
after that." He spoke to Eliza, ignored Scylla pointedly, which seemed
to afford her mild  amusement. "I never thought  I'd say this, but  we
have that fool Simkin  to thank for  giving us as  much warning as  we
had."

    Eliza and I exchanged  glances. "I knew it,"  she said softly,  so
that only I heard her.

    "Joram could  not  sleep,"  Mosiah continued.  "He  had  been  out
walking, down by  the sheep, and  had just returned.  Your mother  was
waiting up for him. They spoke  together. I left them alone," he  said
in answer  to Eliza's  accusing  look. "I  did  not intrude  on  their
privacy. Perhaps, if I had been there . . ." He shrugged.

    "It would have made no difference," Scylla said quietly.

    "I suppose not. I was here in the warming room when I heard  Joram
cry out  the  word  Simkin!  I  returned,  still  inside  the  magical
Corridors, to find what looked  like a watered-down version of  Simkin
waving that ridiculous orange  scarf of his and  going on about  Joram
coming under attack from a  horde of silver salt-shakers or  something
equally nonsensical, although I must admit that pretty well  describes
the D'karn-darah.

    "I guessed  what  was happening  and  sent  out a  warning  to  my
brethren. Joram  blazed like  fire and  left the  room. I  started  to
follow, when the D'karn-darah stormed the house. It was then I made  a
mistake."

    Mosiah gazed at us  steadily. "I thought .  . . Well, you'll  see.
Joram had  left  the room.  Where  else would  he  go, but  after  the
Darksword? The one weapon which would protect him and Gwendolyn-"

    "Oh!" Eliza gave a smothered cry, covered her mouth with her hand.
"Oh, no!"

    "Don't blame  yourself, Eliza,"  Scylla said  quickly. "There  was
nothing your father could have done. They would have captured him  and
the Darksword and all would have been at an end. At least now there is
hope."

    But Eliza was not comforted.

    Mosiah was talking, reliving the event, as if trying to figure out
what had gone wrong. "I knew he had gone after the Darksword! When  he
came back almost immediately without it, what was I to think?"

    "You thought he  was deliberately keeping  it hidden, refusing  to
use it even in his own defense," Scylla said.

    "Yes!" Mosiah was frustrated, angry. "I revealed myself to him. He
recognized me and  he didn't  seem all that  surprised to  see me.  We
didn't have much time. I could  hear the D'karn-darah coming. I  asked
him to give me the  Darksword. 'I'll take it  away! ' I promised  him.
'I'll keep it safe! ' "

    "How  could  you?"  Scylla  asked.  "Its  null-magic  would   have
destroyed the Corridors."

    "We had designed a special sheath for it," Mosiah said. "Once  the
Darksword was inside this sheath, we could have transported it easily.
Joram refused, of course. He wouldn't give me the sword. I thought ...
I thought  he was  being stubborn,  as usual.  I didn't  know that  he
couldn't give me the sword. I didn't know then that he knew or guessed
who had taken it."

    Mosiah raised his head, looked at Eliza. "If he had trusted me. If
he had told me the truth-I know. Why should he? It was obvious at that
point that I'd been spying on him.

    "After that,  there's  not  much to  tell.  Within  moments  three
D'karn-darah entered the bedroom. We could hear more inside the  other
parts of the house. Then another  came to us, dragging Father  Saryon.
He was all right," Mosiah reassured me, and he smiled slightly. "He is
a tough one, Reuven. The first thing the good father said when he  saw
us was, 'Don't give it to them, Joram! '

    "The D'karn-darah demanded the Darksword. Joram refused. They told
him to give them the sword or he would see those he loved suffer. They
had seized hold of Gwendolyn. What  was Joram to do? He couldn't  give
them the sword even if he had wanted to, because he didn't have it.

    " 'Take me.  ' He tried  to bargain  with them. 'Let  my wife  and
Father Saryon go. Take me and I'll tell you where the sword is hidden.
'

    "I doubt if  they would have  ever agreed to  such a bargain,  not
when they held all the cards, but  we'll never know. At that moment  a
teddy bear, which had been  lying on the bed,  flew up and struck  the
D'karn-darah who was holding Gwen captive."

    "Good old Simkin," Scylla said, smiling.

    "Yes, good old Simkin," Mosiah echoed dryly. "The D'karn-darah was
taken by  surprise, as  you  can well  imagine.  The bear  struck  the
Technomancer on the  forehead. The  blow was not  a hard  one, but  it
rocked her back on her feet. In her astonishment, she let go of  Gwen.
The bear continued  to pummel  the D'karn-darah, smacking  her on  the
face, buffeting her  head, and  eventually ended  by clamping  himself
over her nose and mouth. He appeared  to be trying to smother her.  At
that moment Gwendolyn disappeared."

    "Disappeared?"  Eliza   repeated,   bewildered.   "What   do   you
mean-disappeared? Did my mother run away? What happened to her?"

    "I don't  know,"  Mosiah  said,  angry  at  himself,  at  his  own
impotence. "If I did, I would tell you. She vanished. One moment  Gwen
was there. The next she was gone. I thought at first that perhaps some
of my people had taken her into the Corridors, but later investigation
revealed that they knew nothing of what happened to her.

    "But Joram  thought the  worst. He  assumed the  D'karn-darah  had
taken Gwen. He went  wild with rage, flung  himself barehanded at  the
D'karn-darah. He caught them off guard. They had not been expecting an
attack by  a stuffed  toy, nor  one of  their hostages  to  disappear.
Joram's lunge  carried  two of  them  to the  floor.  I took  out  the
fourth."

    Mosiah smiled grimly. "You'll find  a charred spot on the  bedroom
floor. By that time, however, more D'karn-darah arrived. They  subdued
Joram . . . and took him away."

    "Subdued him," Eliza said, noting that Mosiah had averted his gaze
once more. "How? Tell me. What did they do to my father?"

    "Tell her," Scylla said.  "She needs to  understand the nature  of
the enemy against which we fight."

    Mosiah shrugged.  "Very well.  They struck  Joram over  the  head,
dazing him. Then  they inserted the  needles. You may  have read of  a
practice known  as acupuncture.  Needles  are inserted  into  specific
areas of the  body to  produce regional  anesthesia. The  D'karn-darah
have developed the reverse. Each needle is charged with  electromagic.
The stimulus it produces  in the body  is extraordinarily painful  and
debilitating. The pain is only temporary, however, and goes away  when
the needles are  removed. But  until then, a  person is  reduced to  a
state of helpless  agony. When  Joram was  sufficiently subdued,  they
took him away. Father Saryon demanded to be allowed to accompany  him,
and of course, they were grateful to have an extra hostage."

    "You escaped," said Scylla.

    "There was nothing I could do," Mosiah returned coldly. "I  risked
being captured myself and they have no reason to keep me

    alive. I deemed  that I could  be more useful  surviving to  fight
them than throwing away my life needlessly."

    Eliza had gone very  pale during the  description of her  father's
torment, but she stood strong and quiet. "What happened to my mother?"
she asked, her voice quavering only slightly. She was fighting hard to
remain under control.

    "I don't know," Mosiah confessed. "If I had to guess, I would  say
that the  D'karn-darah  took  her.  But,  if  so  .  .  ."He  appeared
thoughtful, then shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

    "Do you know?" Eliza turned to Scylla.

    "Me? How could I know?"  Scylla demanded, astonished that she  was
even asked. "I wasn't  there. I wish I  had been, though." She  looked
quite grim.

    "Well, what do  we do now?"  Eliza was calm,  very calm, much  too
calm. Her hands  were clenched together,  the fingers twined  tightly,
the knuckles white.

    "We wait," said Mosiah.

    "Wait! Wait for what?"

    "We must wait for them to contact us," said Mosiah.

    "To tell us where to bring the Darksword," Scylla added. "To  make
the exchange. The Darksword for your father's life."

    "And I will give it to them," Eliza said.

    "No," said Mosiah. "You will not."

    CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    "Now the game begins in earnest."

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    I will give it  to them," Eliza countered.  "You won't stop me.  I
should never have taken the Darksword in the first place. What they do
with it doesn't matter-"

    "It does," said Mosiah. "They will use it to enslave a world."

    "My  father's  life  is   all  that  matters,"  Eliza   maintained
stubbornly.

    She swayed where she stood. She was exhausted, her strength almost
gone. There was nowhere to sit  down; every piece of furniture in  the
room had been smashed. Scylla put her arm around the young woman, gave
her a bracing hug.

    "I know it all looks very bleak now, Eliza, but things are not  as
bad as they seem.  We'll feel better  for a cup  of tea. Reuven,  find
something for us to sit on."

    She did not speak the instruction  aloud. She signed the words  to
me! Smiling, she quirked her pierced eyebrow as much as to say, See, I
do know you!

    Of course. All  that would be  in my  "file." Once I  was over  my
astonishment, I left the room in search of chairs. And I felt  better,
having a task to perform. I had to go to distant and long-unused parts
of the building to  find any furniture that  was still intact.  Surely
the D'karn-darah could not imagine that they would find the  Darksword
hidden in a straight-backed wooden chair, but that's how it  appeared.
The destruction was wanton and cruel  and seemed, to my mind, to  have
been the result  of fury and  frustration over not  finding what  they
sought rather than of any true hope of discovery.

    If this is what they do to objects, what will they do to people? I
asked myself, and the thought was chilling.

    I found no  chairs, but  I did  come across  several short  wooden
stools from one  of the lower  level rooms which  must have, I  think,
been used  as  a  classroom  for  children. I  do  not  know  how  the
Technomancers missed this room, except that  it stood at an odd  angle
off a corridor and would have been in pitch-darkness during the night.

    As I picked up one of the stools I noticed, even in my  weariness,
how it had  been crafted out  of a  single piece of  wood. Crafted  by
magic, held together by  magic, which prohibited the  use of nails  or
glue. The wood had not been  cut, but lovingly shaped and coaxed  into
taking the form the creator wanted.

    I rubbed my hand over the smooth wood and suddenly,  inexplicably,
tears came to my  eyes. I wept  for the loss,  for all the  losses-the
loss of my master, the loss of Joram and Gwendolyn,

    the loss of  their daughter's  peaceful, serene way  of life,  the
loss of Thimhallan, the  loss of such  simple beauty as  I held in  my
hands, the loss of that  other life of my own,  the life of which  I'd
had such tantalizing glimpses.

    I startled myself,  for I  am not given  to tears  and sobbing.  I
don't believe that I had cried since I was a child. I was half-ashamed
of myself, when I finally forced  myself to quit, but the outburst  of
emotion had done me good, acting  like a release valve. I felt  calmer
and oddly rested, more capable of handling whatever might come.

    Picking up  four  stools,  slinging  the rungs  over  my  arms,  I
returned to the main living quarters.

    I found  I had  not  been the  only  one working.  The  smoldering
furniture had been carried  outdoors, either by  Mosiah or his  magic.
The smoke was clearing  from the room, blown  away on a crisp  morning
breeze. A  fire crackled  in the  fireplace. Water  was heating  in  a
kettle which, though dented, had survived the destruction. Scylla  was
scooping loose  tea  leaves into  a  cracked pot.  Eliza  was  sorting
through broken  crockery,  searching  for any  cups  that  might  have
escaped intact. She looked up at me  with a wan smile when I  entered.
She, too, was better for having something to do.

    Lifting one half of a large broken platter, she found Teddy  lying
beneath it.

    The bear was in a sorry state. One arm was completely ripped  off,
one button eye missing. His right  leg hung by a thread, his  stuffing
dribbled out  of  torn seams.  His  orange scarf  was  bedraggled  and
singed.

    "Poor Teddy!" Eliza said,  and taking the  maltreated bear in  her
arms, she began to sob.

    She had borne up bravely until  that moment. That was her  release
valve.

    Mosiah, with  a wry  smile,  seemed about  to say  something,  but
Scylla forestalled him  with a look  and a shake  of her head.  Mosiah
certainly wasn't taking orders from Scylla  and would have gone on  to
have his say, except that even he could see this wasn't the time.

    I longed  to  comfort Eliza,  but  I  felt myself  in  an  awkward
position. I had only known her a  day and a night-a traumatic day  and
night, to be sure, but that wasn't really relevant. Her grief was hers
alone, and there was really nothing I could say or do to ease it.

    I set down the  stools near the fire.  Mosiah walked over to  gaze
out the window, his black robes leaving a sinuous trail in the ash  on
the floor. Scylla  poured water from  the kettle into  the teapot.  By
this time Eliza had dried her tears.

    "I'll sew him back  together," she said, using  the sleeve of  her
shirt to wipe her eyes.

    "Don't bother," came a weak voice. "I'm done for. Finished. Kaput.
The sands of  my hourglass  are running low.  My goose  is cooked.  My
stuffing left to  be nibbled by  mice. What happened?  Did we win?  Is
your dear father safe, child? That's all that matters. If so, my  life
has not been spent  in vain. Tell  me, before I slip  away to meet  my
Maker-"

    "He'd only  throw  you back,"  Mosiah  said shortly.  Leaving  the
window, he came to stare grimly  down at Teddy. "Don't fret over  this
fool, Eliza. Simkin is immortal. And a very bad actor."

    "So this is  Simkin," said  Scylla, joining them.  She stood  over
him, her  hands  on her  hips.  "You  were my  favorite  character  in
Reuven's books, you know."

    Teddy gazed up at her with his one remaining button eye.

    "Pardon me, madam," he said stiffly, "but I don't believe we  have
been introduced."

    "I'm Scylla," she answered, and handed me a cup of tea.

    Perhaps it was my fatigued imagination,  but at the sound of  that
name, Teddy's black button eye  glittered in the firelight and  stared
very hard at Scylla.

    "Put me together  again, will  you? There's a  dear child."  Teddy
spoke to Eliza, but he continued staring at Scylla.

    "Put yourself together, fool!"  Mosiah said irritably. "Let  Eliza
alone."

    "No, I don't mind," Eliza said.

    She found  her  mother's workbasket,  tossed  into a  corner,  and
though her lips tightened a moment  when she picked up the basket  and
its scattered contents, she retained control over herself.

    Sitting down on the stool, she took the amputee bear into her  lap
and restuffed him, then began to stitch his arm on.

    Teddy smirked insufferably, when Eliza  was not looking, and  made
such suggestive noises-particularly when  she was poking the  stuffing
back into him-that I could have  cheerfully torn him apart again.  But
his foolery ceased whenever his black-button gaze fell on Scylla.

    We sat down on the short-legged  stools, drew them near the  fire.
Eliza sipped her tea and sewed up Teddy.

    "How long will we have to wait?" she asked, trying to sound calm.

    "Not long," Mosiah replied.

    "According to General Boris's  scouting reports, the Hch'nyv  will
be within attacking range of  Earth and Thimhallan within  forty-eight
hours," Scylla said.

    "The Technomancers must have the Darksword away from here and back
on Earth before then," Mosiah added.

    Eliza glanced at me and a faint flush stained her cheek. "So these
. . . aliens really are a threat? It's not a trick? They would  really
kill us all?"

    "Without hesitation. Without compunction. Without pity or  mercy,"
Scylla replied, grave and somber. "We have found no level on which  we
can communicate with them, although it is rumored that others have."

    "The Technomancers have made contact," said Mosiah. "That much  we
know. We fear that Smythe has made some sort of deal with them."

    Forty-eight hours. Not very much time. No one spoke, but each  sat
silent, absorbed in his or her own thoughts. Mine were very black  and
despairing. And, as if conjured up from the darkness of the mind,  the
smoke, and the fire, an image took shape and form upon the hearth.

    Kevon Smythe stood before us.

    "Don't be afraid," Mosiah said swiftly. "It is a hologram."

    It was well he  said this, for the  image appeared very real,  not
watery, as do many holograms. I would have sworn that the man  himself
stood before us. It must be the magic of the

    Technomancers, which so enhanced the electronically created image.

    "I have read of such things!" Eliza gasped. "But I have never seen
one. Can he ... can he hear us?"

    She asked this because Scylla had her finger to her lips and  she,
along with Mosiah, was hunting for the source of the hologram. Finding
it-a small boxlike object tucked  into a recess in the  fireplace-they
both examined  it,  both  careful  not to  touch  it.  They  exchanged
glances-the first  time, I  believe,  they had  looked at  each  other
directly-and Mosiah, nodding his head, drew his hood over his face and
clasped his hands together.

    Eliza stood  up. Teddy  slid,  forgotten, from  her lap.  When  he
looked as if  he was  about to  protest, I set  my foot  upon him  and
kicked him backward, none too gently, underneath my stool.

    If I had not admired Eliza before now, I would have done so  then.
She was exhausted, frightened, grieving,  anxious. She was well  aware
that this was  the man who  was responsible for  the abduction of  her
parents and  Father  Saryon. Yet  she  faced him  with  the  dignified
reserve of a Queen who  knows that any overt  show of anger will  only
demean herself and never faze her enemy.

    When I look back on  that moment in memory,  I see her clothed  in
gold, shining more brightly than the  paltry light of the hologram  of
the Technomancer. She did not beg  or plead, knowing both those to  be
fruitless. She asked  of him  what she might  have asked  of any  base
intruder.

    "What do you want, sir?"

    He was not wearing his  suit, but was clad  in white robes that  I
later learned were the ceremonial  robes of the Khandic Sages.  Around
the sleeves and  hem and neck  were laid  out in a  grid pattern  tiny
filaments of metal, which glinted and winked as they caught the light.
I thought at the time they were merely fanciful decoration.

    Kevon Smythe smiled  his ingratiating  smile. "Since  you come  so
swiftly to the point, mistress, I will myself be brief. Your father is
with us. He is our guest. He has come with us voluntarily, because  he
knows our  need is  great. He  left home  in haste  and  unfortunately
neglected to bring with him an object of which he is quite fond.  That
object is the Darksword. Its absence distresses him greatly. He  fears
it could fall  into the  wrong hands  and cause  inestimable harm.  He
would like to have it  safely back in his  possession. If you tell  us
where to find  the Darksword, Mistress  Eliza, we will  secure it  and
deliver it to your father."

    Half of  me  believed  him. I  knew  the  truth. I  had  seen  the
wreckage, the destruction, I had seen  the blood on the floor. He  was
so persuasive that I  saw, in my  mind, exactly what  he wanted me  to
see-Joram, concerned, willingly going with  them. I was certain  Eliza
must believe him. Mosiah  thought so, too,  apparently, for he  glided
forward, prepared to confront the  Technomancer. Scylla did not  move,
but watched Eliza.

    "I want to see my father and mother," Eliza said.

    "I am sorry, mistress, that  is not possible," said Smythe.  "Your
father had a long journey and he is fatigued, plus being most  anxious
over the fate of the Darksword. He fears for your safety, my dear. The
blade is sharp, the  sword unwieldy. You might  cut yourself. Tell  us
where to find  it and  perhaps, by that  time, your  father will  have
recovered sufficiently to be able to talk to you."

    His smooth voice and  benign manner slid over  his threats like  a
silken scarf.

    "Sir," Eliza stated calmly, "you lie. Your minions took my  father
and mother and Father Saryon by  force. Then they destroyed our  home,
searching for the object which my  father would never give to you,  so
long as he lived. And the same may be said of his daughter. If that is
all you came for, you have my leave to go."

    Kevon Smythe's expression softened.  He seemed truly grieved.  "It
is not my place  to chastise you, mistress,  but your father will  not
like to hear  of your  refusal. He  will be  angry with  you and  will
punish you  for your  disobedience.  He has  warned  me that  you  are
sometimes a willful, stubborn child. We have his authorization to take
the sword from you by force, if that becomes necessary."

    Eliza's lashes  were  wet  with  tears,  but  she  maintained  her
control. "You do not know my father  if you think he would say such  a
thing. You do not know me if you think I would believe it. Get out."

    Kevon Smythe shook his head  resignedly, then shifted his head  to
gaze at me. "Reuven, it is good to see you again, though, I regret  to
say, under sad  circumstances. It  seems that Father  Saryon has  been
afflicted with a terrible disease,  which will cause his death  unless
he receives prompt treatment  back on Earth.  Our physicians give  him
thirty-six hours to live.  You know the good  father, Reuven. He  will
not  leave  without  Joram  and  Joram  will  not  leave  without  the
Darksword. If I were you, I would  do my best to find it, wherever  it
may be hidden."

    His gaze shifted back to Eliza.  "Bring the Darksword to the  city
of Zithel. Come  to the  Eastroad Gate.  Someone will  be waiting  for
you."

    The image  went out.  Mosiah  removed the  holographic  projector,
which had been stashed  inside the fireplace. A  stone had been  pried
loose, the  projection machine  placed  inside. He  tossed it  on  the
floor.

    "You knew that was there," Scylla said.

    "Yes. They had to have some means to communicate with us. I  found
it before you arrived."

    Scylla stomped on it with her  heavy boot, crushed it. "Are  there
any listening devices?"

    "I removed them. I decided to  leave this. We needed to hear  what
they had  to say.  Zithel." He  mused. "So  they have  taken Joram  to
Zithel."

    "Yes." Scylla slapped her  hands on her thighs.  "Now we can  make
plans."

    "We!" Mosiah looked at her very balefully. "What do you have to do
with this? With any of this?"

    "I'm here," said Scylla, with a  sly smile. "And the Darksword  is
in my air car. I'd say I have a lot to do with this."

    "I was right. General Boris did  send you," Mosiah said, his  tone
harsh. "You're one of his people. Damn it, he promised he would  leave
this to us!"

    "You've done such a wonderful job so far," Scylla commented wryly.

    Mosiah flushed,  stiffened.  "I didn't  see  you around  when  the
D'karn-darah attacked."

    "Stop it!" Eliza said sharply. "You both want the Darksword.

    That's all you care about. Well,  you can't have it. I'm going  to
do what he says. I'm going to take it to Zithel."

    Eliza's defiance might  have seemed  childish and  silly, but  her
grief and  her  own self-recrimination  loaned  her the  strength  she
lacked. She  spoke with  dignity and  resolve, and  those two  people,
older and stronger and more powerful, both regarded her with respect.

    "You know that you can't trust Smythe," Mosiah told her. "He  will
try to take the sword and make us all prisoners. Or worse."

    "I know that I don't seem to be able to trust anybody," Eliza said
with a quaver in her  voice. She glanced at me,  gave me a sweet,  sad
smile, and added softly, "Except Reuven."

    The pain in my  heart was blessed,  but it was  also too great  to
bear and overflowed  my eyes.  I turned away,  ashamed of  my lack  of
self-control, when she was so strong.

    "I do not  see what  other choice  I have,"  Eliza continued,  now
speaking quite calmly. "I will take  the Darksword to Smythe and  hope
that he will keep his promise to  free my father and Father Saryon.  I
will go alone-"

    I made an emphatic gesture, which caught her eye. She amended  her
statement. "Reuven and I will go together. The two of you will  remain
here."

    "I have told you  the truth, Eliza," said  Scylla. "I do not  want
the Darksword. There is only one man who can wield it and that is  the
one who forged it."

    Suddenly, Scylla  knelt  down  on  one knee  in  front  of  Eliza.
Pressing the palms of  her hands together, in  an attitude of  prayer,
Scylla raised them. "I promise you, Eliza, I swear by the Almin,  that
I will do whatever lies in my power to rescue Joram and to restore  to
him the Darksword."

    The sight of Scylla-her army  fatigues and cropped hair-  kneeling
there, seemed ludicrous at  first. Then I was  reminded forcibly of  a
drawing I had once seen of Joan of Arc, pledging her duty to her king.
There burned the same holy fervor in Scylla, so bright and clear  that
her military fatigues disappeared and I saw her clad in shining armor,
offering her pledge to her queen.

    The vision lasted only an instant, but it was detailed perfectly

    in my mind. I saw the throne room, the crystal throne room of  the
kingdom of  Merilon. Crystal  throne,  crystal dais,  crystal  chairs,
crystal pillars-everything  in  the  room was  transparent,  the  only
reality was  the  queen  in  her  gown  of  gold  who  stood  on  that
translucent platform, uplifted, exalted. Before her, kneeling,  gazing
upward, shining in silver armor, her knight.

    And I was not alone. Mosiah saw the vision, too, or so I  believe.
Certainly he saw something, for he  stared at Scylla in awe, though  I
heard him mutter, "What trick is this?"

    Eliza clasped her hands over Scylla's. "I accept your pledge.  You
will accompany us."

    Scylla bowed her head. "My life is yours, Your Majesty."

    The title seemed so right, that none of us caught it, until  Eliza
blinked.

    "What did you call me?"

    Scylla stood and the vision  vanished. She was once again  wearing
the combat fatigues and boots, her ear lined with the tiny earrings.

    "Just my  little joke."  Scylla  grinned and  went to  refill  the
teapot. She glanced  back at Mosiah.  "You are much  more handsome  in
person. Say, why  don't you  take the  same oath?  Pledge yourself  to
rescue Joram and  restore the Darksword  to its owner.  You must,  you
know. Otherwise we won't take you with us to Zithel."

    Mosiah was angry.  "You are fools  if you think  that Smythe  will
give  up  any  of  the  hostages  once  he  has  the  Darksword!   The
Technomancers need Joram to teach them  how to forge more." He  turned
to Eliza.  "Come  with me  back  to Earth.  Give  the sword  into  the
safekeeping of King Garald. We will return with an army to rescue your
father and mother."

    "The army is mobilizing to make a last stand against the Hch'nyv,"
countered Scylla. "You will get no help from them. And I doubt if they
could do much against  the Technomancers anyway.  They have long  been
building up  their  strength  in Zithel,  surrounding  it  with  their
defenses. An army could not take it. It's all in our files," she added
in answer to Mosiah's flashing look of suspicion. "You're not the only
people keeping tabs on Smythe."

    Mosiah ignored her, continued speaking to Eliza, his tone  growing
softer. "I am Joram's friend. If I thought surrendering the  Darksword
would free him, I would be the  first to advocate such a venture.  But
it won't. It can't possibly. Surely you can see that?"

    "What you  say  makes  sense,  Mosiah,"  Eliza  agreed.  "But  the
Darksword is not mine and so any decisions concerning it are not  mine
to make. I am  taking the sword  back to my father.  I will make  that
clear to this Smythe. My father will  make the decision as to what  to
do with the sword."

    "Place the Darksword in the hand of its gloomy and doomy  creator,
and you  might be  surprised at  what happens,"  advised a  sepulchral
voice from underneath my stool. "Personally, I think he should give it
to my  friend Merlyn.  I did  mention that  I knew  Merlyn, didn't  I?
You'll find him  hanging around down  by that moldy  old tomb of  his.
Quite a depressing place. I can't  think what he sees in it.  Merlyn's
been looking for a sword for a  number of years now. Some dolt  tossed
his into a lake. This isn't it, but the old boy's a bit dotty now  and
he probably wouldn't know the difference."

    We had forgotten Teddy.

    I fished him out, dusty and indignant, but otherwise unharmed.

    I signed, "Simkin has a point. Not about Merlyn," I added hastily.
"About Joram. Once the Darksword is in Joram's hand, it might be  used
to defeat the Technomancers."

    "Have you forgotten that this Darksword is not magically enhanced?
No catalyst  has given  it Life.  The Darksword  stands no  chance  of
getting anywhere near  Joram's hand," Mosiah  stated bitterly.  "Kevon
Smythe will take  hold of it  and that will  be an end.  We go upon  a
fool's journey."

    "Just like old times," Teddy remarked with a nostalgic sigh.

    "You're not coming!" Mosiah said firmly.

    "I wouldn't  leave  me  behind,"  Teddy warned  us.  "I  can't  be
trusted. Not in the  slightest. Much better to  have me where you  can
keep an eye on me as the Duchess of Winifred said regarding the  table
where she kept her  eyeball collection. She had  one for every day  of
the year, different colors. Used to pop them out after

    breakfast. I recall the  day one got loose  and rolled across  the
marble floor. The house  catalyst mistakenly trod  upon it. You  can't
imagine the squi-"

    "I'll take him,"  Eliza said hurriedly.  Snatching Teddy from  me,
she tucked him  securely into the  pocket of her  skirt. "He can  stay
with me."

    Mosiah glared around at all of us. "Are you determined to do this?
Reuven?"

    I nodded. My duty  was to Father  Saryon. And even  if it had  not
been, I would go wherever Eliza went, support her in whatever she did.

    "I go with Eliza," said Scylla.

    "And I am going to Zithel," said Eliza.

    "If you are resolved on this,  we should leave. You said you  have
an air car?" Mosiah looked at Scylla. His expression was not friendly.

    "You're coming with us?" she asked, delighted.

    "Of course. I will not leave Joram and his wife and Father  Saryon
in the hands of the Technomancers."

    "You will not leave  the Darksword in our  hands, isn't that  what
you mean?" Scylla said with a sly grin.

    "Take my words however you want," Mosiah returned. "I am tired  of
arguing with the lot of you. Well,  are you coming? Even with the  air
car, we will be lucky to arrive in Zithel before dark."

    "And will your friends, the  rest of the Duuk-tsarith, be  joining
us there?" Scylla asked, raising the eyebrow that was pierced with the
tiny gold ring.

    Mosiah stared out the window,  into the distance, a far  distance,
that only he could see. "There is no Life in Zithel," he said  softly.
"Only death. Countless of our people died there when the quakes struck
and the ground  shifted, toppling  the buildings.  They lie  unburied,
their spirits troubled, demanding  to know the  reason why they  died.
No, the Duuk-tsarith will not go to Zithel. There they would suffocate
and their magic would be stifled, smothered."

    "But you will go," Scylla said.

    "I will go," Mosiah said, and he was grim. "As I told you, my

    friends are being  held captive  there. Besides,  it doesn't  make
much difference to me  whether or not my  magic is stifled. After  the
battle I  have little  Life left  within  me. Unless  we bump  into  a
catalyst on the way, I will be good for nothing except throwing rocks.
Don't count on me to defend you!"

    Or defend himself, I thought, recalling how the Technomancers were
hunting him.

    "And how do we know we can trust you?" Eliza asked.

    "I will take your oath," Mosiah said, "on one condition. I will do
all in my power to restore the Darksword to Joram, its creator. But if
we fail, then I claim the right to transport the Darksword back to  my
king."

    "If we fail, you will have no king. The Technomancers will see  to
that," said Scylla.

    Suddenly, astonishingly, she flung her arms around Mosiah and gave
him a hug. She was taller than he was by a head and far stronger.  Her
hug squeezed his shoulders  together and caved in  his chest. "I  like
you," she said. "And I never thought  I'd say that to an Enforcer.  If
you give me  the keys, Reuven,  I'll drive the  air car around  front.
We'll need food and blankets. I have water with me."

    Releasing him,  she  clapped  him  on the  back  and  then  strode
purposefully from the room. I  could hear her heavy, booted  footsteps
all the way down the hall.

    As I went to help Eliza with the food and blankets, I looked  back
and saw Mosiah standing in the center of the empty, decimated room.  A
gentle breeze from the window stirred his black robes. His hands  were
clasped before him, he had drawn his hood over his head. I judged,  by
the tilt of his hooded  head, that he still  stared far off into  that
distance which was  his alone to  view. But now  he was searching  for
someone or something and not finding it, apparently.

    "Who the hell are you?" . The  words hung like the taint of  smoke
in the air.

    CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    "And then the magic filled me! It was like the Life of  everything
around me, pouring into me, surging through me. I felt a hundred times
more alive!"

    MOSIAH; DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD

    By the time Eliza and I  had gathered up bedding and food,  Scylla
had driven the air car around to the front of the building. We  loaded
the bedding and the food into the luggage area in the back. That done,
we stood looking somewhat bemusedly at the air car, which only  seated
four-two in the front and two  in the back. The Darksword, wrapped  in
its blanket, lay across the backseat.

    "That should go in the rear," said Mosiah.

    "No," Eliza said swiftly. "I want it where I can see it."

    "Put it on the floor in the backseat," suggested Scylla.

    Eliza grasped hold of the sword,  tugged the blanket over it  more
securely, and laid it  across the floor of  the backseat. Mosiah  took
his place in the front, next to Scylla-if Eliza wanted to keep an  eye
on the sword, I think Mosiah was determined to keep an eye on  Scylla.
That suited me well,  however, leaving me to  sit in back with  Eliza.
She started to climb in beside me.

    "Blessed Almin!" she cried suddenly, straightening and turning  to
look down the hillside. "The sheep! I can't leave them penned up. I'll
water them and turn them out to pasture. It won't take a moment.  I'll
be right back."

    She was gone, running down the hillside.

    "We have to stop her!" Scylla  said, starting to climb out of  the
air car.

    "No," Mosiah countered, his voice harsh. "Let her see for herself.
Then maybe she will understand."

    See what? I didn't like  this. Jumping out of  the air car, I  ran
after Eliza  and soon  caught up  with her.  My legs  were stiff,  the
muscles starting  to tighten  after the  physical exertion  from  last
night. I gritted my teeth against  the soreness as we dashed down  the
hillside toward the sheep pen.

    Even from this distance, I could see something was terribly wrong.
I tried  to halt  Eliza's wild  rush,  but she  angrily flung  off  my
restraining hand and  plunged ahead.  I slowed  my pace,  to ease  the
burning in my legs. There was no  need to hurry, nothing we could  do.
Nothing anyone could do.

    When I arrived, I  found Eliza leaning  heavily against the  stone
fence. Her  eyes  were  wide,  the  lids  stretched  with  horror  and
disbelief.

    The sheep were dead. All of  them, slaughtered. Each of them  bled
from the ears. Pools  of blood had formed  under each mouth and  nose.
Eyes stared, clouded over. Each lay where it had fallen, with no  sign
of a struggle. I recalled the blast we had heard. Even from a distance
we'd felt the concussive force. The Technomancers, their power running
low, had used the deaths of these animals to replenish their supply.

    Eliza's head sank to her hands, but she did not cry. She  remained
standing, her head bowed, so still and rigid that I was frightened.  I
did what I could, in my poor silence, to comfort her, letting her feel
my touch, to know that human warmth and sympathy surrounded her.

    The air car slid soundlessly down the hill, pulled up in front  of
us. Scylla  climbed out.  Mosiah remained  in the  car, regarding  the
slaughter with equanimity.

    "Come, Your Majesty," said Scylla. "There is nothing we can do."

    "Why?" Eliza asked, in muffled tones, keeping her head down.  "Why
did they do this?"

    "They feed  off death."  Mosiah's  voice came  from the  air  car.
"These are the  fiends to whom  you are taking  the Darksword,  Eliza.
Think about it."

    I hated him at that moment.  She could have been spared this.  She
knew well enough, having  seen the destruction in  her own home,  what
she faced. But I  was wrong, as  it turned out, and  he was right.  He
gauged her strength and quality better than I.

    She raised her face and she  was composed, almost serene. "I  will
go alone. I alone will take the sword to them. The rest of you  should
not come. It is too dangerous."

    That could not be, as Scylla pointed out with great  practicality,
refraining from mentioning  anything in regard  to Eliza herself,  but
talking only of our own needs. Who would drive the air car? We  needed
Scylla. As  for  Reuven,  I  would not  leave  Father  Saryon  to  the
Technomancers. And Mosiah would never permit the Darksword to  venture
far from his sight. Each of us had our reasons for going.

    Eliza accepted the logic of all  this quietly, did not argue.  She
returned to the air car and slid inside. She glanced once more at  the
dead sheep and her lips tightened, her hands clasped. She looked away.
I climbed in beside her, as Scylla returned to the driver's seat.

    The air car skimmed over the surface of the ground, much  smoother
than when I  had driven  a similar  vehicle. I  fumbled for  something
which had  struck a  strange chord  in my  mind. Not  an  ill-sounding
chord. It was pleasant, in fact. But strange. I tried to remember what
it was.

    Your Majesty, Scylla had called Eliza twice now. Your Majesty.

    How odd. Yet how fitting.

    The start of our journey was uneventful. Scylla had brought a  map
of the land of Thimhallan,  obtained from some archives  somewhere-she
was vague  as  to  details.  Mosiah  was  both  intrigued  by  it  and
suspicious of  it, for  it was  apparently recently  drawn,  contained
changes in the landscape that had been made by the devastating  quakes
and storms following the release of the magic.

    The two spent several minutes arguing over the map. Mosiah claimed
it had been drawn by General Boris's people, which meant that they had
violated the treaty. Scylla countered by saying that the  Duuk-tsarith
had violated the treaty themselves. Mosiah had better look to his  own
sins before he accused others.

    I'm not sure how much  longer the bickering would have  continued,
but Eliza, who had been sitting  in the back, white-faced and  silent,
asked quietly, "Is the map useful?"

    Scylla looked at Mosiah, who muttered something to the effect that
he supposed it was.

    "Then I  suggest we  use it,"  Eliza said.  She curled  up in  the
corner of the seat and closed her eyes.

    After that, Scylla and Mosiah spoke to each other only when it was
necessary to  discuss directions.  The  air car  soared off  down  the
mountainside, heading for the interior of Thimhallan.

    I made certain Eliza was comfortable, covered her with my  jacket,
for which consideration I received a  wan smile, but she did not  open
her eyes. She held Teddy in the crook of her arm, pressed close to her
breast for comfort,  as a child  might. I was  certain that Teddy  had
arranged himself in this enviable position,  but I dared not move  him
for fear of disturbing her rest.

    I settled  back in  my  corner, feeling  somewhat cramped  in  the
backseat,  which-so  far  as  I   could  tell-was  not  intended   for
transporting any creature possessed  of legs. I  knew I should  sleep,
for I would need to  be well rested to face  whatever it was we  would
face at the end of our journey.

    I closed my eyes, but  sleep would not come.  My body was in  that
state of  overfatigue where  the nerves  twitch and  the mind  travels
restlessly over past events.

    I felt guilty for having abandoned Father Saryon, although I don't
know what good I could have done had I been there. And at least I  had
warned Eliza away from the  Technomancers, although if they had  taken
the sword then and there, Joram and Gwendolyn and Father Saryon  might
not have been abducted.

    What's done is done, I told myself. You acted for the best.

    I spent a few more fruitless  moments worrying about what we  were
going to do when we arrived at  Zithel, for I was certain that  Mosiah
would never permit Eliza to relinquish the Darksword. Would he try  to
stop her? Would  he try  to take  the sword?  Was he  truly devoid  of
magical Life or was that  a deceit to throw  us off guard? Scylla  had
pledged her loyalty to  Eliza. Would she fight  Mosiah, if it came  to
that? And who was Scylla anyway?

    Was Father Saryon all right? Would the Technomancers kill him,  as
they had promised, if we didn't give up the sword? Was it wise to give
up the sword to these evil people? Was this all wasted effort, if  the
Hch'nyv were going to wipe us out?

    Eventually,  these  concerns-over  which   admittedly  I  had   no
control-so wore  out my  brain  that it  gave  up and  surrendered  to
weariness. I slept.

    I awoke to darkness,  a driving rainstorm, and  an urgent need  to
relieve my bladder.

    There being a distinct lack of bathroom facilities on  Thimhallan,
I would have to make do with the bushes. The rain pelting down on  top
of the air car did not fill me with any great enthusiasm for going out
into the violent  storm, but  the urgency of  my need  gave me  little
choice.

    Eliza slumbered in her  corner, undisturbed by  the tumult of  the
storm. By her  placid face and  even breathing, she  slept deeply  and
dreamlessly. Fearful of waking her, I leaned forward as noiselessly as
I could and tapped Scylla on the shoulder.

    Scylla glanced around swiftly, keeping a tight grip on the  wheel.
Driving the air  car must have  been difficult, due  to the storm.  We
were being buffeted by strong  winds, the windshield wipers could  not
keep the window clear of the rain.  If it had not been for the  radar,
with which  the air  car was  equipped and  which provided  us with  a
virtual map of the terrain, we could  not have kept going. As it  was,
we crept along, with  Scylla fixing her gaze  on the radar screen  and
Mosiah peering out the blurred window.

    I made  known  my request.  A  bright burst  of  lightning  nearly
blinded us. Thunder cracked overhead, the rumble shaking the air car.

    "Can't you hold it?" Scylla asked.

    I shook  my head.  She checked  the radar  screen, found  a  clear
place, and lowered the air car down onto the ground.

    "I'll go with him," Mosiah  offered. "There are dangers out  there
for those who don't know the land."

    I indicated  that I  would be  grateful for  his company,  but  it
wasn't necessary for him to get  drenched on my account. He  shrugged,
smiled, and opened the car door.

    I opened the door on my side and started to climb out.

    "What? What's happening?" Eliza said sleepily, blinking her eyes.

    "Pit stop," said Scylla.

    "What?" asked Eliza.

    Embarrassed, I didn't wait to hear more.

    The wind nearly ripped the door  from my hand, pulling me  halfway
out of the car. I struggled out the rest of the way. Rain soaked me to
the skin in an instant. I  wrestled with the door, finally managed  to
slam it shut. The force of the  wind blew me several steps toward  the
front of the car. Mosiah fought his way around the vehicle, his  black
robes sodden and  clinging to his  body. He had  thrown off his  hood,
which was ineffectual against the wind and rain. It was at that moment
I knew that he truly was devoid of Life. No wizard with any power left
would have subjected himself to such a wetting.

    "Watch out!" he shouted, grabbing hold of my arm. "Kij vines!"

    He pointed, and  by the lights  of the  air car, I  could see  the
deadly vines. I  had written  about them in  my books,  about how  the
vines wrapped around the  limbs of the unwary,  dug their thorns  into
the flesh, and sucked the blood of their victims, blood upon which the
plants thrived. I had,  of course, never seen  one. I could have  gone
much longer without the pleasure. The heart-shaped leaves shone  black
in the night, glistening  with rain, the thorns  small and sharp.  The
plant appeared quite healthy, with gigantic tendrils curling over each
other, layer upon layer.

    Making certain to keep clear  of the entangling vines, I  finished
my business  as quickly  as possible.  Mosiah stood  near me,  keeping
watch in all directions, and I  was glad for his presence. Zipping  up
my jeans, I started back  for the car. Mosiah  walked at my side.  The
storm actually seemed to be abating;  the rain was a windswept  shower
now instead of a torrent. I  was looking forward to climbing into  the
warm interior of  the air  car when I  felt something  like wire  wrap
around my ankle.

    The Kij vine! Frantically, I lurched forward, trying to break  its
hold. Its grip was strong. The  tendril pulled my foot out from  under
me and began dragging me back into the main body of the plant! I  gave
a strangled  cry and  dug my  fingers into  the mud,  trying to  brace
myself.

    Needle-sharp thorns pierced  the flesh of  my leg, sliding  easily
through my blue jeans and heavy socks. The pain was excruciating.

    At my cry, Mosiah sprang to help  me. Scylla had seen me fall  and
was opening the car door.

    "What is it?" she shouted. "What's happening?"

    "Stay inside!" Mosiah yelled back. "Turn the air car around! Shine
the lights on us! Kij vines! They're all over!"

    He stomped on something with his foot. I was being dragged  slowly
along the rain-soaked ground, my ringers scrabbling to gain  purchase,
digging deep trenches  in the  mud. The pain  was intense-the  jabbing
sensation of a thorn probing for  a vein, and then came the  sickening
ache of the blood being sucked out.

    Mosiah stood above me, peering into the darkness. He spoke a  word
and pointed with his finger. There was a flash of light, a sizzle, and
a snap.

    The vine released me.

    I crawled forward, only  to feel other tendrils  grab hold of  me.
Snaking out of the darkness from all directions, they wound around  my
wrists and my feet. One curled around the calf of my leg.

    The air car had turned. By  the car's headlights, I could see  the
raindrops glistening off  the heart-shaped  leaves of  the deadly  Kij
vines, and shining on the terrible, sharp thorns.

    "Damn!" Mosiah swore, and  glared in frustration  at the vine.  He
turned and ran back to the air car.

    I thought-I don't know why-that he had abandoned me. Panic  welled
up inside me,  bringing with  it a surge  of adrenaline.  I will  free
myself! I determined. I tried not to give way to fear, tried to remain
calm and think clearly. With all the strength I possessed and a  great
deal I did not,  I jerked my wrist  and actually succeeded in  freeing
myself from one of the vines.

    But that was only one, and now four more at least had hold of me.

    Eliza was out of the car, ignoring Mosiah's orders.

    "The Darksword!"  Mosiah  was  saying. "Hand  me  the  Dark-sword!
That's the only thing that will save him!"

    My face  was covered  with muck  and my  hair was  in my  eyes.  I
continued to fight the vine, but my strength was failing. The pain  of
the thorns was debilitating. I felt sick and faint.

    "To me!" Mosiah yelled. "Give it to me! No! Don't risk-"

    I heard footsteps and the swish of long skirts.

    I shook the hair from my eyes. Eliza stood over me, the  Darksword
in her hand.

    "Don't move, Reuven! I don't want to hit you!"

    I forced  myself to  lie  still, though  I  could feel  the  vines
tightening, the thorns drinking deep.

    The car lights illuminated her from behind, forming a halo  around
her dark hair, an aura  around her body. The  light did not touch  the
Darksword. Either that or it absorbed the light into

    itself. Eliza raised the sword and  slashed down with it. I  heard
it slice  through the  vines,  but to  my  pain-dulled mind,  she  was
fighting the lethal plant with the night itself.

    Suddenly I was free. The plant gave up its hold; the tendrils went
limp and lifeless as a hand that has been cut off at the wrist.

    Mosiah and Scylla were there  to help me to  my feet. I wiped  the
muck from my face and, with their help, stumbled to the air car. Eliza
came after us, holding  the Darksword ready in  her hand, but the  Kij
vine had apparently given up the attack. Looking back on it, I saw its
leaves withered and curling wherever the Darksword had touched it.

    They assisted me  to the car.  Fortunately, the rain  had all  but
ceased now.

    "Will he be all right?" Eliza hovered over me. Her obvious concern
eased me like a soothing balm.

    "The pain fades  quickly," Mosiah  said. "And the  thorns are  not
poisonous. I know from experience."

    "You were always stumbling into them, as I recall," offered  Teddy
from the floor. He sounded peevish.  "I warned you against them,  time
and again-"

    "You did not. You said they  were edible," Mosiah recalled with  a
half smile.

    "Well, I knew  one of  us was,"  Teddy muttered,  then raised  his
voice in ire. "Is it absolutely necessary  for the lot of you to  drip
all over me?"

    "I'd feed you to the Kij  vines," said Mosiah, reaching inside  to
pick up Teddy,  "but even they  must have some  taste." He started  to
return the bear to the seat, but  instead held him, stared at him.  "I
wonder . . ."

    "Put me down!" Teddy complained. "You're pinching me!"

    Mosiah plunked the stuffed bear on the seat beside me.

    "How are you feeling?" Scylla asked.

    "Not well," said Teddy, groaning.

    "I was talking to Reuven," Scylla said severely. She rolled up  my
pants leg and began examining my injuries.

    I nodded, to indicate I was better. The pain was fading, as Mosiah
had predicted. The horror was not.  I could still feel those  tendrils
tightening around my legs.  I shivered from cold  and reaction to  the
ordeal.

    "You should change out of those wet clothes," Eliza said.

    "Not here," Mosiah stated. "Not now."

    "For once, I agree with the wizard," Scylla said. "Get back in the
car, all of you. I'll turn the heat on. Reuven, take off what  clothes
you can. Eliza,  cover him with  as many blankets  as we have.  You'll
find a first-aid kit back there. Use the ointment on those wounds."

    Eliza returned the Darksword to its place on the floor, sliding it
under the blanket,  out of sight.  She said no  word about what  she'd
done to save me,  and refused to look  at me when I  tried to sign  my
thanks. Instead, she  searched for and  discovered the first-aid  kit,
then busied herself with  the blankets, pulling them  out of the  back
compartment.

    The air car rose  up from that ill-fated  place and slid  smoothly
forward, making better time  now that the storm  had abated. A  watery
sun peered down at us, blinking,  as the clouds scudded over its  weak
eye.

    "Mid-afternoon," Mosiah said, gazing at the sky.

    "As dark as it was, I thought it was night," Eliza said.

    She  began  treating  my  cuts  and  wounds  with  the   ointment.
Embarrassed at this attention, I had endeavored to take the tube  from
her, but she refused to let me. "Lie back and rest," she ordered,  and
helped me peel off my sodden woolen sweater.

    She dabbed ointment on the thorn wounds, which were red and fiery,
with dark blood  oozing from them.  When Eliza spread  the salve  over
them, the redness vanished, the  bleeding stopped, the pain eased  and
was soon completely gone. Eliza's eyes widened at the change.

    "This is wonderful," she said, looking at the small tube. "We have
medical supplies sent  to us  by the  Earth Forces,  but nothing  like
this!"

    "Standard government issue," said Scylla, with a shrug.

    Mosiah twisted  around  in his  seat,  studied the  almost  healed
wounds on my arms and legs. He looked at Scylla.

    "What government issues miracles these days?" he asked.

    She glanced  at him  and grinned.  "And where  did you  find  that
thunderbolt you launched, Enforcer?  Just happen to  have one up  your
sleeve? I thought  you said  your magic  was depleted.  No Life."  She
shook her head in mock sorrow,  and continued on. "And you asking  for
the Darksword. Quick thinking. Yet what would you have done with it, I
wonder?"

    "Used it  to free  Reuven,"  Mosiah replied.  "Then I  would  have
changed myself into a bat  and flown away with  it, of course. Or  did
you think I'd take it and try to run with it, through this godforsaken
wilderness, and you with an air car to catch me!"

    He sat hunched and huddled in his  robes, which were as wet as  my
clothes. He held his shoulders rigid,  to keep from revealing that  he
was shivering.

    "I thought  the sword  too heavy  for Eliza  to wield,"  he  added
coldly. "I see now that I was wrong."

    Scylla made no reply, but from the faint flush I could see  rising
up the back of her neck, I believe that she was ashamed of having made
the accusation. He had given his word to help us and we had no  reason
to doubt him. If he had a small reserve of Life left to him, that  was
only sensible. No wizard  depleted himself utterly,  if he could  help
it. He had voluntarily gone out into the drenching rainstorm to  guard
me, and if he  hadn't warned me  of the Kij vines,  I might well  have
floundered in among them so deeply  that not even the Darksword  could
have saved me.

    Eliza offered him a blanket, which he refused with a curt shake of
his head. She said  nothing; her face was  calm and smooth. She  still
did not trust  him and  she made  no apology  for it.  She tucked  the
blanket around me, made  certain I was  comfortable. She repacked  the
first-aid kit, then asked if there was anything else she could do  for
me. She offered me the electronic  notepad, in case I wanted to  write
anything.

    I indicated no, smiling, to show her that I was much better.  And,
indeed, I was.  The horror  was starting to  recede. The  air car  was
warming up  rapidly.  My shivering  ceased,  the pain  was  gone.  The
ointment deserved some credit, undoubtedly, but no salve can heal  the
terrors of the soul. Eliza's touch had been the true cure.

    Some emotions need no words. Eliza saw in my eyes what I could not
speak. A slight flush mantled her cheeks and she looked away from  me,
to the notepad in her hand. The  pad provided her an excuse to  change
the subject.

    "I don't want to disturb you, Reuven, if you're tired-"

    I shook my head. She could never  disturb me, nor could I ever  be
too tired to do anything she might ask of me.

    "I would like  to learn  sign language," she  said, almost  shyly.
"Would you mind teaching me?"

    Would I mind! I knew she was  doing this only out of kindness,  to
take my mind off the terrible experience I had suffered. I agreed,  of
course, hoping it might take her  mind off her own horrors. She  moved
closer to me. I began by  teaching her the alphabet, spelling out  her
name. She understood immediately. She was a quick student, and  within
a very short time  she had the entire  alphabet and could run  through
it, hand and ringers flashing.

    The air car soared over rain-soaked grasslands, lifted and climbed
up over treetops. We were traveling  very fast now, though I  wondered
if our speed  would make up  for the time  we had lost  in the  storm.
Mosiah maintained his cool, offended silence.

    The sun continued to shine, though  it was often hidden by  racing
clouds. Scylla turned down  the heat in the  air car, which- with  the
wet clothes-was beginning to resemble a sauna.

    "Those Kij vines," she said abruptly. "They behaved rather  oddly,
don't you think?"

    Mosiah looked at her, and  though I was busy  with Eliza, I saw  a
glint of interest  flicker in  his eyes.  "Perhaps," was  all he  said
noncommittally. "What do you mean?"

    "They came  after Reuven,"  Scylla said.  "Did you  ever know  the
vines to be that aggressive? And those vines had grown tall and thick.
Isn't that unusual?"

    Mosiah shrugged. "The Finhanish are no longer around to keep  them
thinned out. The Sif-Hanar are no longer here to control the  weather.
Of course, left alone, the Kij vines would thrive."

    "Plants born of magic," Scylla mused. "Created by magic. One would
think that when the magic in this land was depleted, the plants  would
lose their source of sustenance and they would die off. Not grow  more
abundantly."

    "Born of magic?" Eliza interrupted our lesson to ask. "What do you
mean? We grow  corn and carrots  and wheat and  there's nothing  magic
about them."

    "But there is about the Kij vine," Mosiah replied. "It was created
at the end of the Iron Wars, when some of the D'karn-duuk-the warlocks
and war masters-saw the  battle ending with  themselves on the  losing
side. They had already used their magic to turn humans into giants, or
twist humans into  a combination of  beast and man,  which became  the
centaur. The warlocks  perverted plant life,  developing the Kij  vine
and other deadly vegetation, used them to ambush the unwary.

    "When the wars ended, the ranks of the D'karn-duuk were  depleted.
They could no longer  control their own creations,  and so the  giants
and the centaur and the Kij vines  were left on their own, to do  what
they could to survive."

    "I heard stories about the centaur," Eliza said. "They captured my
father once and nearly killed him.  He said they were cruel and  loved
to inflict pain, but that this came  out of their own great anger  and
suffering."

    "I have  to work  very hard  to feel  sympathy for  the  centaur,"
Mosiah said dryly, "but I suppose this is true. Or should I say it was
true, for they must have died when the magic died."

    "Like the Kij  vines," said Scylla,  her pierced eyebrow  arching.
"And certain bears of my acquaintance." She glanced back at Teddy, who
smirked at her and winked.

    "Here's a thought," she said. "What if the first Darksword did not
destroy the Well of  Life, as everyone has  always supposed. What  if,
instead, the Darksword capped it?"

    "Impossible. The  magic was  released into  the universe,"  Mosiah
stated.

    "The magic of Thimhallan was released, and perhaps a gush of magic
from the Well. Then the Well was sealed. And ever since, the magic has
been building beneath the surface. . . ."

    "Well, really!"  Simkin  cried  suddenly.  "I  won't  stay  to  be
insulted."

    With that and a flash of orange scarf, Teddy vanished.

    "What was all that about?" Eliza asked, bewildered. "Where did  he
go?"

    "I wonder." Mosiah glanced sidelong  at Scylla. "I wonder about  a
lot of things."

    So did I.  If Scylla's  theory was right  and the  magic had  been
building beneath Thimhallan all these years  . . . what would  happen?
One effect was most  obvious. Magic-strong and powerful-was  available
to whoever might be able to use it.

    But surely,  I  argued  with  myself,  if  that  were  true,  then
certainly the Duuk-tsarith would have discovered it long ago.

    Perhaps they had.  Perhaps that is  why they are  so desperate  to
attain the Darksword. Not only could it destroy the Life that might be
building beneath the Well, but if  the new Darksword were to be  given
this powerful Life, its own power might be increased.

    I turned the question  upside down and inside  out in my mind  and
never came to a satisfactory answer.  It didn't seem to me that  there
could ever be an answer. Within forty-eight hours, we would flee  this
place, most likely never to return.

    Mosiah said nothing more. Scylla appeared lost in thought. The two
lapsed into  an  uncomfortable silence.  I  continued my  lesson  with
Eliza.

    I was relieved that Teddy was gone, until I remembered my master's
warning-that it was always better to know where Simkin was than  where
he wasn't.

    CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

    "It takes nerves of stone to enter Zithel in this manner."

    DARKSWORD ADVENTURES

    We reached Zithel  not long  after sunset.  The afterglow-  bright
beneath gray storm clouds-tinged the sky with a lurid red that  tipped
the snow-covered mountains of  the Ekard range with  blood. It was  an
ominous sign and one that was not lost on my companions.

    "Of all the cities on Thimhallan, Zithel was the one that suffered
the most damage when the Well of Life was destroyed," Mosiah told  us.
"The buildings of Zithel  soared countless stories  into the air.  The
people also tunneled deep into the  ground in search of living  space.
When the magic was withdrawn and  the fearsome quakes shook the  land,
the buildings fell, the tunnels collapsed. Thousands died, crushed  to
death, trapped in the rubble, or buried alive beneath the ground."

    The air car slowed. Zithel's  Outer Wall, which had protected  the
city from invasion, had  been a wall  of magic, completely  invisible,
much like what we on Earth know as a force field. The wall should have
been destroyed.

    Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't.

    We had no  way of knowing,  and after  the Kij vines  we could  no
longer assume that magic on Thimhallan was as depleted as we had  once
thought. I remembered what the Technomancers had said about  "residual
pockets."

    All that could be seen inside the city was the thick forest, which
had been part of the marvelous Zoo, for which Zithel was known. Oddly,
if the  wall  was  gone,  the  forest  had  not  encroached  onto  the
grasslands.

    "Were there any survivors in  Zithel?" Eliza asked. Her voice  was
strained. Mosiah said no  word of blame, but  the daughter of the  man
who had caused the downfall of Thimhallan must feel defensive.

    "Yes," Mosiah answered,  "and they  were the  most unfortunate  of
all. When the magic  was weakened, the creatures  of the Zoo were  set
free and took their revenge on those who had kept them prisoner."

    Eliza gazed on  the city  that had  once teemed  with life,  whose
walls now encompassed nothing but death.  She knew the history of  her
father and what he had done and why he had done it. Joram was  honest,
brutally honest,  and I  do  not believe  that  he would  have  spared
himself in the telling. In all probability he had judged himself  more
harshly than even his detractors.

    But sealed up, safe and secure,  inside the Font, Eliza had  never
been brought face-to-face with  the knowledge of  what her father  had
done to this world and to its people. Father Saryon and I had

    disturbed  Eliza's  tranquility  by  bringing  her  visions  of  a
different world. The Technomancers had  shattered her happy life,  her
innocent pleasure in her home and  her family. Mosiah's words and  the
crumbled walls of Zithel shook her faith in her father, the worst  and
most painful shock of all.

    The air car had slowed. Scylla lowered it into the tall stands  of
grass that  surrounded the  city.  The shadows  of the  mountains  had
brought dusk to  us on  the plains, though  the sky  was still  bright
behind them. She kept the lights off.

    She and Mosiah discussed how best to proceed, arguing over whether
it would be better to  remain in the air car  or leave it outside  the
city and enter Zithel on foot.

    "The Technomancers know we are here," Mosiah observed. "With their
sensor equipment, they've probably been following us since we left the
Font."

    "Yes, but  they don't  know how  many we  are or  if we  have  the
Darksword," Scylla argued.

    "We're here, aren't we?" Mosiah returned bluntly. "Why else  would
we come?"

    Scylla admitted that he had a  valid point, but she urged  stealth
as opposed to driving right up to  the gate. "At the least, we  should
not turn over  the Darksword  until we  are assured  of the  hostages'
safety."

    Mosiah shook his head.

    I left that decision to  them. With four of  us facing an army  of
Technomancers, it  didn't seem  to me  to make  the slightest  bit  of
difference what we did.  Pulling out my  electronic notebook, I  began
looking up some reference material I had acquired on Zithel,  thinking
to let Eliza read my notes.

    When I found  them, I started  to show them  to her, then  checked
myself.

    Believing herself unobserved,  shrouded in  the twilight  shadows,
she had leaned down and, with one hand, drawn off the blanket from the
Darksword. It was dark against darkness.

    Her father had forged the first Darksword. Father Saryon had given
it Life. The  blood of thousands  had consecrated it.  Now here was  a
second, another. Would blood stain its blade as well?

    Her face  was  so open,  so  honest, emotions  passed  across  its
surface like ripples on still water.  I could guess her thoughts.  Her
words, spoken softly to herself, proved my guess right.

    "Why did he forge it anew? Why  did it have to come back into  the
world? And what should I do with it now?"

    Sighing, she  leaned  against the  seat,  her expression  sad  and
troubled.

    And yet, what choice did she have?

    None that I could see. Unable to offer help, I did not intrude  on
Eliza's private  pain.  I  reread  the notes  written  by  an  unnamed
adventurer in the land of Thimhallan, notes that King Garald had taken
with him into exile.

    Zithel is a  compact city whose  major distinction is  that it  is
surrounded by the most  wonderful Zoo in  all of Thimhallan.  Visitors
traveling from other cities to see  the Zoo's wonders provide a  large
portion of Zithel's income.

    History: Zithel-a Finhanish  druid of the  Vanjnan Clans-was  born
about 352 YL.  He purchased  a wife from  a fellow  clansman, who  had
captured the woman during  a raid on Trandar.  The woman, named  Tara,
was a talented Theldara. Despite  a turbulent beginning, the two  grew
to love each other. Zithel gave up his wandering ways and promised  to
settle in one place with his beloved.

    He, his wife, and  their family traveled up  the Hira River  until
Tara called a halt. Dismounting  from her horse, she investigated  the
river, the trees,  and the lands,  and if legend  is correct, she  sat
down on the spot and declared it to be her home.

    The city was built around her.

    Zithel believed that the ground was sacred and . . . vowed to  the
Almin that he would never allow the city to expand beyond its original
borders.

    And that was the  reason why, as its  population grew, Zithel  was
forced to build up and down. It could never expand outward.

    I glanced up from my reading.  The air car glided forward  through
the tall grass,  which brushed  against its sides  with an  irritating
swishing sound. At first, we were able to see the trees of

    the Zoo above the waving sea of  green, but we soon lost sight  of
them in the gathering gloom of  night. The city itself was dark,  that
once must have glittered with light.

    Moving out of  the foothills  toward the  gate specified-the  East
Road Gate-we came upon  the East Road, a  trail once used by  overland
traders. So packed  and rutted was  the dirt that  not even the  tough
prairie grasses had yet covered it  over. It stretched out before  us,
visible in the faint afterglow that purpled the sky.

    The stars  were coming  out. I  looked at  them and  found  myself
wondering if any of  those sparkling points of  light were the  battle
cruisers of the Hch'nyv, bearing down on us. That reminded me forcibly
of the time constraint. We had this night, the next day, and the  next
night before the window of safety slammed shut.

    The moon shone, as well, silvering the ragged storm clouds,  which
had continued to keep clear of us. About three-quarters full, the moon
was faint  now,  but  would  brighten  as  the  night  darkened.  That
comforted me, though,  when I  thought of  it, I  had no  idea why  it
should.

    Scylla brought the  car to a  halt. The East  Road Gate was  built
into a small section of the Outer  Wall to the west of the city.  East
Road therefore seemed a misnomer, but the East Road actually took  its
name as meaning "east road leading away from the Font," all directions
in  Thimhallan  having  been  determined  from  the  Font,  which  was
considered the center of the world.

    I went back to my notes.

    There are two walls around the  city, the Outer Wall and the  City
Wall. The  City Wall  runs along  the lines  originally laid  down  by
Zithel (the city's founder)  and marks the place  where the city  ends
and the  Zoo begins.  The  Outer Wall  surrounds the  Zoo.  Completely
invisible, it allows a marvelous view of all the creatures, yet  keeps
them well confined. Its (the Zoo's) nearest point to the city is  some
four mila from the City Wall.

    Four gates in both walls provide the only entrances and exits  for
overland travelers. These gates are one-way only. You step through the
open portal, only to find the back sealed shut. Gates leading into the
city are located on the east and west sides of the walls, while  gates
leading out of the city are located  on the north and south sides.  It
is said that all the gates through the City Wall can be deactivated by
a word from the  Lord of Zithel  in order to  keep the city  protected
from attack.

    The gates  have  a  second and  highly  startling  function.  Upon
entering the gate in  the Outer Wall, the  traveler must pass  through
the Zoo that  surrounds the city  in order to  enter the city  proper.
Since it would disturb the sensibilities  of those touring the Zoo  to
see  other  humans   like  themselves  wandering   about,  the   gates
temporarily transform the  unsuspecting entrant into  the illusion  of
some animal.

    We might all turn into Teddies, I thought.

    Scylla shut off the  engine to the air  car. It settled down  upon
the road and we sat in darkness and in silence, watching the gate.

    Nothing, no one appeared.

    "They are  waiting for  us to  show ourselves,"  Mosiah said,  his
voice harsh and overloud in the stillness. "Let's get this over with."

    He drew his hood up  over his head and put  his hand on the  door.
Scylla reached out, clasped hold of his arm, halting him.

    "You should not go. The Technomancers  have no reason to harm  any
of the three of us. But you .  . ." She leaned near him, said  softly,
"We are close  to the  Borderland. Stay hidden  in the  car. When  the
Technomancers are  gone, return  to the  base. Go  back to  Earth  and
prepare King Garald and General Boris. They have to face the fact that
the Technomancers will soon  be in possession  of the Darksword.  They
need to be forewarned, to make what plans they can."

    He regarded her in silence for long moments, such profound silence
that I  could hear  his breath  come  and go.  I could  hear  Scylla's
breathing, hear  Eliza's, hear  my  own. I  could  hear my  own  heart
beating.

    "I wish I knew," Mosiah said at last, "whether you were just

    trying to  get  rid of  me  or  whether you  truly  cared  about"-
pausing, he  then said,  somewhat lamely-"about  King Garald  and  the
Darksword."

    Scylla grinned. I could see her face in the lambent light of stars
and moon and the setting sun. Her eyes flashed with laughter and  that
cheered me, too, as had the moonglow.

    "I care," she said, and her grasp on his arm tightened.

    "About the people of Earth, I meant," he said gruffly.

    "Them, too," Scylla responded, her grin widening.

    He regarded her  in frowning  perplexity, for he  thought she  was
teasing him and this was certainly no time for kidding around.

    "All right, Mosiah, so  I was wrong about  you at the  beginning,"
Scylla said, shrugging.  "You're not your  typical Enforcer,  probably
because  you  weren't  born  to  it.  And,  as  I  said,  you're  much
better-looking than your file photos. Return to Earth. There's nothing
you can do here and  you'll only put yourself  in danger and maybe  us
along with you."

    "Very well," he  agreed, after another  moment's thought. "I  will
remain inside the car. But leave the Darksword here with me, at  least
until you have proof that the hostages are alive. If the Technomancers
try to seize it, they will  find me guarding it; something they  might
not expect."

    "A fine guard,"  Scylla scoffed. "You  with no Life  and no  other
weapon."

    Mosiah smiled,  for  the  first  time  since  I'd  met  him.  "The
Technomancers don't know that."

    Scylla looked  startled, then  she chuckled.  "You have  a  point,
Mosiah. If your plan is okay with Eliza, it's okay with me."

    Eliza did not  answer. I wasn't  certain she had  even heard,  but
then she nodded, once, slowly.

    "The Almin go with you," Mosiah said.

    "And with you,"  said Scylla,  and she clapped  him in  boisterous
good humor on  the shoulder. "Ready?"  We might have  been going to  a
carnival, for her ebullient spirits.

    Eliza's face glimmered  pale in the  darkness. It seemed  as if  I
were sitting beside  a ghost.  She stretched  out her  hand, to  touch
either Scylla or Mosiah,  but she hesitated, then  rested her hand  on
the back of the front seat.

    "Did my father do the right thing?" she asked, and my heart  ached
for the  agony in  her voice.  "All  those people  dying ...  I  never
realized ... I need to know."

    Mosiah turned his face  away. He stared out  the front of the  car
window, toward the city that had become a tomb.

    Scylla's grin vanished. Her expression somber, she rested her hand
on Eliza's, and the touch that had been so brash was now gentle.

    "How can  we ever  know, Eliza?  Toss a  pebble in  the lake.  The
ripples spread out far beyond the entry point, continue long after the
pebble sinks to the  bottom. Each and every  action we take, from  the
smallest to the largest, has ramifications that we will never see.  We
can only do what we believe is best and right at the time. Your father
did  that,  Eliza.   Given  the  circumstances,   he  made  the   best
decision-perhaps the only decision-he could."

    Eliza was not speaking  only of her father.  She was speaking  for
herself. In returning the sword  to the Technomancers, was she  making
the right decision? Would  the ripples from her  action fade into  the
placid smoothness of time's lake or build into a crushing tidal wave?

    Eliza drew in a deep breath. She had made her decision.

    "I am ready," she said. She drew the blanket over the Darksword.

    We opened the  doors of the  air car and  climbed out, all  except
Mosiah, who hunkered down in the front seat. We left the Darksword  on
the floor in the back.

    Scylla had brought with  her a pair  of infrared binoculars.  With
these, she scanned  the strange  forest, a forest  which had  remained
inside boundaries that were  supposedly no longer  there. Ahead of  us
was the  East Road  Gate-at least  that's what  I assumed  it was.  An
invisible gate in an invisible wall is not easy to find.

    "No one," Scylla said, lowering the binoculars.

    "I feel as  if someone  was watching me,"  said Eliza,  shivering,
though the night wind was warm.

    "Yes," Scylla  agreed.  "So do  I."  She kept  her  gaze  forward,
shifting, seeking, searching.

    "What do we do?" Eliza demanded. Her voice cracked. The strain was
starting to wear her down. "Why is no one here?"

    "Patience," counseled Scylla. "This is their game. We have to play
by their rules. Remember-we must  see for ourselves that the  hostages
are alive and well. Look inside the gate. Do you see anything?"

    I recalled what I  had read. In the  past, anyone who entered  the
gate was  immediately transformed  into  the likeness  of one  of  the
inmates of the Zoo-a daunting  possibility. For if the Kan-Hanar,  the
gatekeepers, discovered that  you had been  erroneously admitted,  you
might become a permanent resident of the Zoo.

    This edict maintained the integrity of  the Zoo. The sight of  fat
tradesmen tramping through the hunting grounds of the fierce  centaurs
would  spoil  the  effect.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  the
centaurs-who were not illusion, but very real-might decide to feast on
a fat tradesman. And so the tradesmen were transformed into images  of
centaurs and thus-if  they kept to  the path- passed  through the  Zoo
swiftly and safely.

    Of course,  the elite  magi  who either  lived  in Zithel  or  had
business there entered that city by  way of the Corridors, and so  did
not have to  go through the  demeaning process of  entering the  gate.
This experience was reserved  for peasants, students, peddlers,  field
magi, and the lower ranks of the catalysts.

    "I see  nothing inside  the gate,"  Eliza said.  "Nothing at  all.
That's very strange. It's as if there were a huge hole cut out of  the
forest."

    I nodded, to indicate that my view was the same.

    "And yet the magic is supposed to be gone," Scylla murmured.

    "Not according to your theory," I signed.

    I have  no  idea  whether  she understood  me  or  not,  it  being
difficult to read sign language in near darkness.

    "Are we . . .  are we supposed to  meet them inside there?"  Eliza
asked, daunted at the  prospect of entering the  dark maw which  gaped
before us.

    "No," said Scylla  reassuringly. "They  said to  meet outside  the
East Road Gate. If the Technomancers  are in Zithel, my guess is  that
they found some means of entering that did not involve passing through
the Zoo."

    I could well believe that the Technomancers would be reluctant  to
enter. Standing before the  gate was like standing  in the mouth of  a
cave, feeling the  chill air  that comes from  deep underground  touch
your skin with clammy fingers. A strange smell emanated from the  Zoo,
drifting only occasionally to the nostrils, then vanishing. It was the
smell of living things, of excrement and rotten food, mingled with the
odor of verdure and loam, and, underneath it, decay.

    We stood  waiting  for  perhaps fifteen  minutes,  our  uneasiness
growing. If the Technomancers meant to unnerve us, they succeeded,  at
least with Eliza and myself. I'm not sure what it would have taken  to
unnerve Scylla, who stood beside us,  arms folded across her chest,  a
slight smile on her lips.

    Eliza shivered again.  I offered  to go back  to the  car for  her
wrap, but Scylla stopped me.

    "Look!" she said softly, and pointed.

    A figure was moving toward us, on our side of the invisible  wall.
It did not walk, but glided over the ground. It was alone and was,  by
its dress, a woman. Eliza gasped and clasped her hands.

    "Mother!" she whispered.

    The figure  was Gwendolyn,  coming toward  us, drifting  over  the
ground. I recalled then that she was  one of the magi, that she  could
float where the mundane were forced to walk. But I also recalled  that
I had  not once  seen her  use her  magic when  we were  at her  home.
Perhaps that was out of respect for Joram.

    Gwen floated toward us, her gaze focused lovingly on her daughter.

    "Mother?" Eliza repeated, perplexed, hopeful, afraid.

    Gwendolyn dropped gracefully to the ground and held out her  arms.
"My child," she said  in choked tones. "How  frightened you must  have
been!"

    Eliza held back. "Mother, why are  you here? Did you escape  them?
Where is Papa?"

    Gwendolyn took a  step toward  her daughter. "Are  you all  right,
love?" Reaching out, she took one of Eliza's hands.

    Eliza flinched, but then, seeing her mother's worried, loving face
so near, she seemed to melt.

    "I'm fine, Mother. Only so worried about you and Papa! I heard  he
was hurt. How is he?"

    "Eliza,  have  you  brought   the  Darksword?"  Gwendolyn   asked,
smoothing her daughter's black curls.

    "Yes," said Eliza. "But Papa! Is he well? And Father Saryon? Is he
all right?"

    "Of course,  child.  I would  not  have come  to  you  otherwise,"
Gwendolyn replied, with a reassuring smile. "Your father is angry with
you for taking the  Darksword, but if you  return it, he will  forgive
you."

    "Mother, I'm frightened for Papa. I saw the blood! And they killed
the sheep. All the sheep are dead, Mother!"

    "You know how hot-tempered your  father is." Gwen sighed. "He  was
caught off  guard  when the  Technomancers  entered our  house.  Their
leader admits  that they  acted  rashly and  he has  apologized.  Your
father suffered a  slight injury. Nothing  serious. His greatest  hurt
lies with you, Eliza. He believes you have betrayed him!"

    "I didn't mean to betray him," Eliza said, her voice quavering. "I
thought if I  gave them the  sword, they  would go away  and leave  us
alone and we could be happy again! That's all I meant to do."

    "I understand, daughter, and  so will your  father. Come and  tell
him this yourself. My pet!" Gwendolyn  extended her hand. "We have  so
little time! Give me the Darksword and our family will be reunited."

    I looked at  Scylla, wondering if  she would remind  Eliza of  the
admonition to see for herself that  the hostages were alive and  well.
Not that I  didn't trust Gwendolyn,  but the thought  came to me  that
perhaps she was acting under duress.

    Eliza gave  a deep  sigh, as  if  she were  throwing off  a  heavy
burden. "Yes, Mother. I will give you the Darksword."

    Turning, she walked back to  the car. Gwendolyn remained  standing
near the wall. Her fond gaze never left her daughter.

    I thought Scylla would make some protest, but she kept silent.  It
was Eliza's decision to make, after all.

    Returning to the car,  she opened the back  door and bent down  to
pick up  the sword.  I think  Mosiah tried  arguing with  her,  but-if
so-their conversation was brief. Eliza slammed the door irritably  and
started to walk back to us.  She carried with her the Darksword,  both
hands clasped around the hilt, the sword's blade pointed down.

    Mosiah climbed  out  of  the  car,  following  after  her,  moving
swiftly, silently.

    Eliza had her back turned to  him. She was facing her mother.  She
did not  see him  or hear  him and  Gwendolyn had  eyes only  for  her
daughter. Mosiah, in his black robes, was difficult to distinguish  in
the half-light.  I saw  him because  I had  been expecting  him to  do
something like this.  I had no  doubt at all  in my mind  that he  had
deceived us, that he was going to try to take the Darksword by  force.
Scylla saw him, but she only  stood, watching, that same slight  smile
on her lips.

    Well, she had as good as  admitted that she was attracted to  him.
But what about her pledge to Eliza? I could trust neither of these two
apparently. Perhaps they were in league with each other.

    It was up to me.

    If I could have, I would have shouted a warning to Eliza. I  could
not, however,  and so,  with  an inarticulate  cry, I  pointed  toward
Mosiah.

    At the strange sound  of my cry, Eliza  looked at me, alarmed  and
startled.

    I pointed again, frantically.

    She was just starting to turn when Mosiah reached her. He  grabbed
hold of the Darksword.

    Taken by surprise, she tried valiantly to keep hold of the weapon,
but Mosiah was strong and wrested it  from her with ease. Then, to  my
intense astonishment, he turned and, with all his strength, flung  the
Darksword as far  from him as  he could manage.  He flung it  directly
into the gate.

    The sword disappeared as if it had become one with the darkness.

    Gwendolyn reached out to seize hold of Eliza.

    Mosiah barreled  into  the  woman, knocking  her  heavily  to  the
ground.

    Eliza screamed, a scream that ended in a strangled gasp.

    Gwendolyn vanished. Mosiah  wrestled with  a being  clad in  short
white robes,  white boots,  white  gloves, and  a smiling  skull  mask
beneath a white hood.

    "An Interrogator!" Scylla sucked in her breath.

    "Run!" Mosiah cried, pinning the white-robed person to the ground.
"More will be coming!"

    Indeed, we  could  see  the silver  shimmer  of  the  D'karn-darah
surround us as they  sprang up from the  tall grass and surged  toward
us.

    "Run where?" Scylla demanded.

    The D'karn-darah  stood between  us  and the  air car.  They  were
bearing down on us. Mosiah slammed  the head of the Interrogator  into
the ground. The skull mask lolled to one side, lay quiet. Mosiah leapt
to his feet and made a scrambling dash toward us.

    "The gate!" he gasped. "Run for it!"

    The D'karn-darah had formed  a semicircle and  were closing in  on
us, though not very fast. It almost looked as if they were herding  us
toward the gate, which was now the only retreat open to us.

    Eliza stood numb with shock, staring at the hideous being that had
taken the form of her  mother. I caught hold  of her hand, pulled  her
away, nearly dragged her  off her feet. Scylla  took hold of her  from
the other side.

    "Your Majesty, we must get you  safely away from these evil  men,"
Scylla said firmly. "This way! Through the gate!"

    Eliza nodded and started  to run, but she  stumbled over her  long
skirts. Scylla and I helped her up and propelled her toward the  gate.
By now, Mosiah  had joined us.  We were within  a foot or  two of  the
gate, about to enter, when he gave  a loud cry and held out his  arms,
blocking our  way. He  pointed  to what  looked  like a  silver  coin,
shining on the ground.

    "Look out! It's a stasis mine! Go around! Don't step on it!"

    Glancing back, I saw the D'karn-darah increase their speed.

    They had been expecting the stasis mine to stop us. Seeing it  had
failed, they started to close in. But we had already reached the gate.

    What made me think  that, once inside the  gate, we would be  safe
from our pursuers? For all  I knew, they would  come in after us.  The
most we could hope for was to lose them in the forest's darkness,  but
they were so close behind that this hope seemed a forlorn one.

    Of course, I now know what drew me forward. A good thing I did not
know then, I would never have believed it. As it was, I had no  chance
to believe or  disbelieve. I  entered the Eastroad  Gate, entered  the
city of Zithel, and I knew immediately that Scylla's theory was right.

    Magic was very much alive on Thimhallan.

    CHAPTER NINETEEN

    Magic is the substance and essence of Life-that is the  philosophy
of this land and all  who dwell here. Life and  magic are one and  the
same. They are inseparable and indistinguishable.

    "DARKSWORD AD VENTURES

    I did not recall losing consciousness, yet it seemed to me that  I
awoke  from  sleep.  Then  came  a  frightening  sensation  of   being
compressed, the air  squeezed from  my lungs,  as if  some force  were
trying to flatten me. That sensation  ended almost before I was  fully
aware of it.  All I could  see around  me was a  dreamlike shimmer  of
color. I could hear only indistinct sounds.

    I experienced a sickening feeling  of falling, as when one  dreams
of falling.  The  fall was  gentle,  however,  and I  hit  the  ground
running, fearful of pursuit. I almost immediately tripped over the hem
of a long robe.

    I tumbled  forward and  landed painfully  on my  hands and  knees,
scraping my knees against the cloth of the robes and cutting my  right
hand on an exposed tree root.

    The fall left me shaken. My entrance through the gate left me more
shaken still. I  sat back on  my heels, drew  a shivering breath,  and
looked around. My first thought was of Eliza: was she safe? My  second
thought was  in question  marks and  exclamation points:  what in  the
Almin's name had happened to me?!

    My blue jeans and sweater were gone. In their place, I was wearing
a long robe,  made of cloth  that was  white in color.  The cloth  was
velvet, and very fine, soft and smooth. Though well made, the robe was
plain, devoid of any decoration save for a red band of trim around the
hem of the sleeves, and the skirt, which reached to my ankles.

    Feeling an  unusual coolness  on  my head,  I  lifted my  hand  to
discover that  my  long  hair  was  gone,  cut  short,  and  tonsured!
Gingerly, and with a certain amount of horror, I felt the smooth round
bald spot on the top  of my head, where my  hair had been shaved,  and
now grew in  a ring that  framed my  face and just  barely covered  my
ears.

    The magic of the gate must have done this, I realized  confusedly,
yet the information I had just read on Zithel indicated that the  gate
would change us into creatures of the  Zoo. I had never read that  the
people of  Zithel  kept catalysts  in  their  Zoo, yet  that  is  most
certainly what I was dressed as-a catalyst in Thimhallan.

    A catalyst in a Thimhallan which no longer existed!

    I pondered  this amazing  and perplexing  occurrence and  wondered
what I should do next. I was alone, so far as I could tell, in a thick
and shadowed forest. Had I not fallen over my robes, I would have  run
headlong into a large oak tree. I was encircled by

    trees-oaks, mostly, though  here and  there some  pines and  ferns
grew, vying for the meager  sunlight which filtered through the  oaks'
green foliage. I  was just noting  in relief  that I did  not see  the
heart-shaped leaves of the Kij vine, when it occurred to me that  what
I was seeing, I was seeing by the light of the sun.

    It had been near nightfall when we ran into the gate.

    Slowly I rose  to my feet,  the white robe  falling in soft  folds
around me. I  could not call  out to  my companions to  let them  know
where I  was, which  was-on second  thought-probably just  as well.  I
might have been discovered by our pursuers. I looked around, trying to
see some sign of my companions. Almost  the moment I moved, I heard  a
soft voice.

    "Reuven? Is that you? Over here."

    I heard at almost  the same instant  another voice say  worriedly,
"Your Majesty! Are you all right?"

    I stumbled through the undergrowth toward the first voice, which I
had recognized as Mosiah's, and emerged into a small clearing. He  had
his back to me, for he had turned at the sound of the other voice.  It
resembled Scylla's, though its accent was strange.

    We heard the clink of metal and the rattle of chain and a crashing
in the brush and Scylla's voice again calling to Her Majesty.

    I touched Mosiah on the arm to attract his attention.

    He turned and  looked at me  and his eyebrows  shot up, his  mouth
gaped, and his eyes widened. By that  I knew that the white robes  and
tonsured hair were not  an illusion of  my own making,  as I had  been
most desperately hoping.

    "Reuven?" He gasped  out my name,  and it was  more question  than
recognition.

    "I think so," I signed. "I'm not  sure. Do you know what is  going
on?"

    "I have no idea!" he replied. His words were heartfelt and uttered
with such sincerity that I believed him. My first thought was that  he
or  the   other   Duuk-tsarith   had   been   responsible   for   this
transformation. I knew now that was not the case.

    A flash of sunlight glinting  off metal some distance away  caught
my eye.

    A knight clad  in silver-plate  armor worn over  chain mail  burst
through the forest cover, sword drawn. The knight bent over  something
on the ground and quickly sheathed the sword.

    "Your Majesty!" cried the knight. "Are you hurt?"

    "I am all  right, Sir  Knight. Only a  bruise here  and there  and
those more to my dignity than my person."

    "Allow me to assist you, Your Majesty."

    The knight reached out a gloved hand.

    A slender, delicate hand that flashed with jewels reached up  from
the forest floor and grasped the  knight's hand. A figure clad in  the
long, straight skirts  of an  old-fashioned riding habit  rose to  her
feet. It was Eliza, or  rather it had been Eliza,  I was not sure  who
she was now, any more than I was  sure who I was. The knight in  plate
and chain mail was undoubtedly Scylla.

    "Blessed Almin," whispered  Mosiah, and  I would  have echoed  his
prayer if I'd had the voice to do so.

    "What is going on?" I signed to Mosiah.

    He made no answer, but he stared hard at Scylla.

    I tried again. "The Technomancers? Did they follow us?"

    He glanced around,  shrugged, and  then shook his  head. "If  they
have followed us, they're nowhere in  sight and that's not like  them.
The D'karn-darah don't deal in subtleties."

    By which I gathered that if they had followed us we would be their
captives by now. I breathed a little easier. Some good had come out of
this, it seemed,  though the old  saying about frying  pans and  fires
came into my mind.

    The knight was respectfully brushing dirt from Eliza's gown, which
was made of blue velvet, trimmed  in black. A golden crown gleamed  in
her black hair, jewels  sparkled on her hands.  I realized in  baffled
amazement and with a  sense of growing wonder  that I recognized  her.
This was the  Eliza I had  seen in that  brief glimpse inside  another
life. Her dress was different, but  everything else about her was  the
same: her hair, now intricately  braided and coiffed, her stance,  her
bearing, the jewels on her fingers. Eliza was ruefully plucking  twigs
from her hair and wiping the mud and grass stains from her hands,  her
every movement graceful and regal.

    "Where are  our Enforcer  and our  priest?" she  asked  worriedly,
glancing around. "I hope they escaped the mob safely."

    "I trust they did  so, Your Majesty. The  catalyst was to my  left
when we entered the gate, the Duuk-tsarith was behind us. The mob  was
not that  close. Most  were at  the West  Gate, trying  to attack  the
carriage. Our ruse worked perfectly. Everyone thought you were in  the
carriage, Your Majesty. It never occurred to them that you would  dare
to enter the Eastroad Gate on foot."

    "My brave knights,"  Eliza said with  a sigh. "We  fear many  have
suffered grievous harm for our sake."

    "Their lives are pledged to Your Majesty, as is my own."

    Mosiah started forward, slipping silently through the undergrowth.
I followed after him,  trying to emulate his  stealth, but at my  very
first step my foot snapped a tree branch with a sound like a gunshot.

    Scylla raised her sword and  moved to stand protectively in  front
of her  charge.  Eliza  looked  curiously  and  without  fear  in  our
direction as Mosiah and  I walked into the  light filtering down  from
the oak leaves. I was expecting  the same astonishment in their  faces
which I had  seen in  Mosiah's, even laughter  at my  expense, at  the
sight of my odd haircut.

    But the  only expression  on  the faces  of  both was  relief  and
gladness, which emotions were echoed in Scylla's voice.

    "Thank the Almin! You are  safe!" Scylla's tone altered,  becoming
commanding. "Were any of the mob bold enough to follow us through  the
gate, Enforcer?"

    Mosiah glanced around. "Why ask me? You can see as well as I."

    "Pardon, Enforcer," Scylla returned coolly, "but you  Duuk-tsarith
have magical means at your disposal, means which I lack."

    "Pardon me, Sir Knight"-Mosiah's tone was sarcastic-"but have  you
forgotten that I am devoid of Life and cannot work my magic?"

    Scylla indicated  me with  a nod  of  her head.  "But you  have  a
catalyst with you. He may be a  house catalyst and not trained to  the
specific needs of  you warlocks, but  he would do  in an emergency,  I
suppose."

    They were all looking at me now.

    "Father Reuven, you  are hurt!"  Eliza pointed  at my  hand and  I
noticed, for the first time, that it was bleeding. Before I could sign
that it was nothing more than a scratch, she had taken hold of my hand
and was stanching the flow of blood with a handkerchief that she  drew
from out of the cuff of her long sleeve. The handkerchief was lacy and
appeared to be made of the finest cloth. I drew my hand back.

    "Don't be ridiculous, Father," she said in an imperious tone which
indicated she was accustomed to being obeyed. She clasped my hand  and
dabbed at the wound  with the handkerchief, wiping  off the blood  and
dirt.

    "We will send for the Theldara  when our meeting is concluded  and
we are safe within the walls of the city," she continued.

    Her touch was gentle, so as not to give me pain. But her touch did
give me pain, a pain that was not of the flesh but shivered through my
body as if I had been pierced with a sword.

    She continued, "The cut  is not deep, but  it is fouled with  dirt
and likely to putrefy if it is not treated."

    I bowed  my  head in  humble  acknowledgment of  her  command  and
gratitude for the kindness she showed  to me. I noticed that she  kept
her eyes  lowered so  as not  to look  into mine,  and that  her  hand
holding my hand trembled ever so slightly.

    "Father Reuven," said Mosiah sharply. "Why do you call him that?"

    Eliza gazed at  Mosiah in astonishment.  "Do you speak,  Enforcer,
even though no one spoke to you? We must have been in danger, to  have
so loosened  your tongue!  But,  you are  right." Her  cheeks  flushed
prettily and she glanced up at me from beneath her long eyelashes. "We
should say 'Lord Father' now that Reuven has been raised in rank.  You
must pardon us, Lord Father,"  she added gravely, "for this  promotion
was so newly done that we are not yet accustomed to the new title."

    My hand signed the words, "I owe it all to Your Gracious Majesty's
intercession on my behalf with Bishop Radisovik."

    She gave me a cool, slight smile with her lips and a sparkling,

    pleased smile with her eyes. She understood me! She understood the
sign language, as if we had been speaking it for years, not for only a
few hours to pass the  time in the air car.  And I had known before  I
signed that she would understand me.

    I only wished I understood myself! Who was this Bishop Radisovik I
had mentioned? The only Radisovik I knew of was with King Garald  back
on Earth. Some part  of me was  cognizant of what  I was saying,  some
part of me had guided my hand to sign the words. If I looked deep into
myself, I was certain I would see and understand.

    Coward that I was, I turned my  face away. I wasn't ready to  know
the truth. Not yet.

    Half turning his body, his  motions concealed by his black  robes,
Mosiah mouthed the words, "Do you know what is going on?"

    Slowly, I shook my head.

    Scylla looked to the blue sky, that was barely visible beneath the
oak trees. "It  is midmorning,  the time  set for  the rendezvous.  We
should make  our  way to  the  meeting place  without  further  delay.
Centaurs  still  roam  this  forest,  or  so  I  have  heard.   First,
though"-her gaze went to  Mosiah-"we should make  certain that we  are
not being followed."

    Mosiah turned to me and held out his black-robed arm.

    "Open the Conduit. Give me Life, Catalyst," he commanded, his tone
mocking, as if he would have added, Now we'll see this charade come to
an end!

    I wanted  to run.  Nothing I  had yet  encountered, not  even  the
Technomancers, had frightened me as much  as this command. It was  not
the fear  that I  couldn't grant  Life  that daunted  me. It  was  the
knowledge that I could do it which made me want to flee in panic.

    I would have run, I think, if Eliza's eyes had not been on me. She
was watching me with pride and affection. I stretched out a  trembling
hand and grasped Mosiah's  arm. I stepped back  and allowed the  other
Reuven to move forward.

    "Almin," he prayed with my thoughts, "grant me Life."

    The Conduit opened. The magic of Thimhallan flowed through me.

    I felt the Life  thrumming beneath my feet,  swelling up from  the
living organisms underground.  I was  aware of  the roots  of the  oak
trees digging in the soil, drawing in nourishment and water. Like  the
oak, I was drawing in nourishment. I was drawing in the magic.

    I breathed it. I heard it singing.  I smelled it and tasted it  as
it flowed through my being. I concentrated it within me and then  gave
it, a wondrous gift, to Mosiah.

    His eyes widened with astonishment as  he felt the Life flow  into
his body. His arm jerked in my grasp. He wanted at first to break  the
connection. He didn't want  to believe this any  more than I did.  But
common sense prevailed. We  were in danger. He  needed Life and I  was
supplying it. He held his arm still in my grasp.

    And then it was over. The Life was drained from me. As a catalyst,
I could neither  use magic  nor retain  it. I  could act  only as  the
intermediary. I was exhausted. It would take many hours of rest for me
to recover, still  more before  I would be  able to  open the  Conduit
again. Yet I knew that  I had been blessed, for  I felt within me  the
touch of this  world and  all its beings,  a touch  which would  never
leave me.

    Suffused with  Life,  looking  considerably confused  by  it  all,
Mosiah stared from one to the other of us-from me, drained and  tired,
but left with a feeling of serenity; to Scylla, who was frowning  with
impatience and tapping  the hilt  of her  sword with  her fingers;  to
Eliza, calm and aloof, standing somewhat apart from the rest of us, in
a shaft of sunlight that glittered  on the golden circlet she wore  in
her black hair.

    "I wish  I  knew what  the  hell was  going  on," he  muttered  to
himself, and then, shrugging, he placed his hand on the nearest of the
oak trees, bent his head near it as if he were conversing with it.

    Branches above my head began to creak and rattle together as if in
a high wind, rubbing against  the intermingled branches of the  tree's
neighbor, who stirred and began  conversation with its neighbor.  Soon
all the trees around us were shifting branches and dropping twigs  and
reaching out their long arms to touch other trees.

    The leaves rustled  and shadows shifted.  Mosiah stood beside  the
oak, his cheek pressed against its rough trunk. At length the rustling
and creaking seemed to die down somewhat.

    "This part of the Zoo is safe  to walk in," he reported, "for  the
time being.  A band  of centaurs  live  near here,  but they  are  out
hunting and will not be back before nightfall. Because of them, no one
else dares enter. That includes the mob, Your Majesty," he said,  with
a slight  touch of  cynical disbelief  remaining in  his voice.  "Your
knights entered the West Gate safely,  though I fear your carriage  is
destroyed."

    Eliza received  this  news with  equanimity,  bowing her  head  in
gracious appreciation and smiling to hear those who risked their lives
to protect her had not met with any harm.

    "Also," he added,  watching the  reaction of the  other two,  "the
Darksword is nowhere to be seen. The trees have no knowledge of such a
weapon."

    "Well, I  should hope  not," said  Scylla. "You  don't suppose  it
would be lying right out in the open!"

    "I might suppose that, since I threw it in here," Mosiah said, but
his voice was low. I was the only one who heard him.

    "There is one other  person inside this part  of the Zoo,"  Mosiah
continued. "A catalyst, by his garb. He is in a clearing about  twenty
paces to the east of our current position."

    "Excellent!" Scylla  grinned  and  nodded. "That  will  be  Father
Saryon."

    I gasped and would have signed something, but Mosiah halted me.

    His eyes narrowed  with suspicion  and displeasure.  "What do  you
mean? You mentioned  a rendezvous.  Is that  with Saryon?  How did  he
escape? Is Joram with him?"

    Now it was  Scylla who  looked astonished. Eliza  drew herself  up
straight and regarded Mosiah with a cold gaze.

    "What sort of cruel joke  do you make, Enforcer?" Scylla  demanded
angrily. "To ask of Joram!"

    "I make no joke, believe me,"  Mosiah returned. "Tell me- what  of
Joram?"

    "You know the answer very well, Enforcer," Scylla retorted.

    "The Emperor of Merilon is dead. He died twenty years ago, in  the
Temple of the Necromancers."

    "How did he die?" Mosiah asked, and his voice was calm.

    "At the hands of the Executioner."

    "Ah," said Mosiah, and  he sighed in relief.  "Now I know what  is
going on!"

    CHAPTER TWENTY

    "For returning to this realm  and bringing upon it untold  danger,
the sentence of death is placed upon this man Joram."

    BISHOP VANYA; TRIUMPH  OF THE DARKSWORD  Scylla frowned, her  brow
creased. "I fear you have taken serious hurt, Enforcer. A blow on  the
head, perhaps?"

    Mosiah put his  hand to  his forehead. "Yes,  for a  moment I  was
quite disoriented. I was loath to tell you. I did not want to

    worry  Her  Majesty."  Hands  folded,  he  bowed.  His  tone   was
respectful, all trace of sarcasm gone.

    Eliza had been cold and  withdrawn. At this statement, she  warmed
and drew  near  him,  looking  concerned.  "Are  you  all  right  now,
Enforcer?"

    "Thank you, Your Majesty. I  am recovering. I fear, however,  that
there may be gaps in  my memory. If anything that  I say or do  sounds
odd, you must put  it down to  that account. I beg  you to be  patient
with any questions I may ask."

    How very clever! I thought. Now  he frees himself to ask  whatever
questions he will and they will think it's nothing more than the  bump
on his head.

    "Certainly, Enforcer." The Queen was gracious. "And now we  should
be going to meet with Father Saryon.  We are already late and he  will
be worried. Sir Knight, will you lead the way?"

    "Yes, Your Majesty."

    Scylla, sword drawn, took a moment to get her bearings, which  she
did by looking again at the sun, then searched the ground for signs of
a  trail.  She  found  one,  not  far  distant,  which-by  the  cloven
hoofprints-had been made by some sort of beast.

    "This is a centaur trail," Mosiah warned. "Isn't that dangerous?"

    "You said yourself they were  off hunting," Scylla countered.  "We
have need of speed and this is faster and easier than slogging through
the undergrowth.  Besides,  centaur prefer  ambushing  lone,  helpless
travelers-such as Father Saryon."

    "True," Mosiah conceded. "If you will take the lead, Sir Knight. I
will guard the rear."

    As she walked near him, to take her place at the head of our small
group, Scylla paused and looked Mosiah squarely in the eyes. "Are  you
certain you're all  right, Enforcer?"  she asked, and  there was  true
caring and concern in her voice, softness in her bright eyes.

    "Yes, lady," he said, astonished. "Thank you."

    She grinned at him and clapped him on the upper arm with an

    enthusiasm that  made him  wince, then  she turned  and  continued
moving cautiously and  watchfully along the  path. Eliza gathered  her
long skirts and followed.

    Mosiah stood  a  moment  staring  after  Scylla  in  confusion,  a
confusion which did not  all arise from  the strange and  inexplicable
situation in which  we found  ourselves, but which  was the  confusion
experienced by any man in any  place in any time when confronted  with
the strange and inexplicable motives of a woman.

    Shaking his head, he shrugged and gestured to me to join him.

    The trail was  wide enough for  two people to  walk side by  side,
though, by the prints, the centaurs walked along it in single file.

    I signed to Mosiah, "You seem to have some idea what is  happening
to us."

    "So do you, I believe," he said, glancing at me sidelong.

    I felt called upon to explain. "I've caught glimpses of myself  in
... another life,"  was the best  way I could  describe it. "And  I've
seen Eliza and Scylla there, too. I didn't say anything before because
I wasn't sure."

    "Tell me what you saw."

    I did so, adding that it wasn't much and wasn't likely to help us.
"It didn't seem to make any sense."

    "It doesn't make sense now," he  said, and his face was grim.  "We
have been sent to another time, an alternate time. But why? How did we
get here? And  why do  you recall another  time and  I recall  another
time, yet neither Scylla nor Eliza seems to. And how do we get back?"

    "The Technomancers?" I suggested.  "Perhaps they are  responsible.
What was that . . . thing . . . you attacked out beyond the Wall.  The
thing in the white mask that looked like Gwendolyn."

    "She was one of the Kylanistic order of the Technomancers," Mosiah
replied. "They are known as  the Interrogators. They have the  ability
to take on the face and form  and voice of another person in order  to
induce the victim to do precisely what Eliza was about to do-hand over
our valuables, our  secrets. They can  infiltrate any organization  by
using such disguises."

    "How did you know it wasn't  Gwendolyn? Could you see through  the
disguise?"

    "Their disguises are not easy to penetrate. They overplayed  their
hand by having the woman use magic. In all the time we have kept watch
on Joram,  I've never  seen Gwen  rely on  Life. Not  even when  she's
alone. Eliza noticed and thought it  was odd, but she was too  willing
to believe  it was  her mother  to question  it. Then,  I saw  Joram's
injuries. I know it was more serious than they let on."

    "Why did she abandon the disguise?"

    "It takes a great deal of magical energy to maintain the illusion.
She could not  expend the energy  necessary and fight  me at the  same
time, which is why I attacked her."

    "If you had been wrong?" I hinted.

    "But I wasn't.  If I had  been, however, and  it really was  Gwen,
then I would have had a chance of rescuing her."

    "Do you believe that the Technomancers have her prisoner?"

    "I would say yes, since they were able to create such a  realistic
illusion. On  the other  hand, I  would say  no, since  Smythe  didn't
mention her as one of the hostages."

    "But what else could have happened to her?"

    Mosiah shook his head. Either he didn't know or he wasn't saying.

    I tried another question.  "That thing you  called a stasis  mine.
What was that?"

    "If one of us had stepped on it, it would have trapped us all in a
stasis field. We could not have moved until the Technomancers released
us."

    I hesitated to ask my next question, because I feared his  answer.
Finally,  I  ventured,  "What  if   this  experience  is  not   real-a
hallucination. Maybe they're controlling our minds."

    "If that  is  true," he  said  with a  wry  smile, "and  they  are
controlling our minds, then I doubt if they would permit your mind  to
consider the  possibility. The  Technomancers may  be responsible  for
this, though I can't fathom why they would want to send us to  another
time when they  so clearly had  us where  they wanted us  in the  last
one."

    He was silent a moment, then  said quietly, "There were those  who
once practiced the Mystery of Time upon Thimhallan. The Diviners."

    "Yes, but  they perished  during the  Iron Wars,"  I pointed  out.
"Their kind was never seen or heard of after that."

    "True. Well, we must keep our eyes and ears open and see if we can
solve this  mystery.  Joram is  dead."  Mosiah pondered.  "What  would
Thimhallan have  been like  if Joram  had  died at  the hands  of  the
Executioner? If Joram had  died before he destroyed  the Well of  Life
and released the magic? I wonder. . . ."

    He retreated into his own thoughts, fell back a pace or two behind
me to indicate that he wanted to be alone. I was intent on my thoughts
for a moment or two and then  I noticed that Eliza was glancing at  me
out of the corner  of her eye  and that, by her  smile, she seemed  to
invite me to come walk beside her.

    My heartbeat  quickened. I  drew near  her. With  a small  gesture
toward Scylla's armored back, to  enjoin silence, Eliza began to  sign
to me. It  amused me to  find that my  language of the  hands- a  poor
second to a voice-was becoming a language of intrigue and secrecy.

    "I am sorry for my part  in our quarrel last night," Eliza  signed
to me. "Will you forgive me, Reuven?"

    I knew well the  quarrel she meant, though  I could not have  said
that a  second ago.  As words  or images  will trigger  memories of  a
dream, so her reference brought the entire scene to me, only much more
real than any dream. It was not  a dream. It had happened-at least  in
this here and now, it had happened.

    Perhaps it was the influence  of the magical Life flowing  through
my veins, but my other self-the self of Earth-was rapidly fading  into
the background.

    "There is nothing to forgive, my dear one," I signed in return.

    I looked at her, the sun glistening on her black curls, the golden
shimmer of  her  crown, the  dappled  sunlight now  sparkling  on  her
jewels, the shadows  of the trees  now gliding over  her, dimming  all
light but her own.

    I loved her. My love for her flowed  out of me to her as the  Life
had flowed out of me to Mosiah.

    I had loved her since we were children together and I would go  on
loving her, no matter what happened,  until the day came when I  would
present that love as  a gift to  the Almin and  reside forever in  His
blessedness.

    The images of  our past,  our youth,  and our  present were  still
confused-I  remembered  her  as  a  newborn  child,  I  remembered  an
undercurrent of fear throughout my childhood. I remembered years spent
in study at the Font, holiday time  spent in my home with the one  who
was my foster sister, and so much more. I remembered leaving a  sassy,
willful child and returning to  find a beautiful, spirited woman.  But
who had raised us? Where had we lived? That was hidden from me.

    "Your safety was my only concern," I signed.

    "You understand that there could  be no other way," she  returned.
"That this was  something I had  to do, being  my father's heir."  She
regarded me intently, awaiting my answer.

    "I understand," I signed.  "I understood then.  I only said  those
things to provoke you. It worked. I  thought you'd take a swing at  me
again, like in the old days."

    I was hoping to make her laugh. My mischievous delight as a child,
I am sorry to say, had been to tease her until she lost her temper and
struck at me with  her small fists. Though  I always protested that  I
was the innocent victim, I was not  believed and we were both sent  to
bed without our suppers on those occasions.

    She did not laugh, though  she smiled at the memory.  Impulsively,
she reached out, took hold of my hand, and whispered, "Like in the old
days, Reuven, I  can count  on you  and you  alone to  brush away  the
glittering faerie  dust the  rest would  scatter over  my duties.  You
alone show me the ugly  reality beneath. You force  me to look at  the
ugliness and  then to  see  beyond it,  to  hope. Admit  it"-her  eyes
gleamed with a hint of triumph- "if  I had refused to come, you  would
have been disappointed in me."

    "I would have thought that  for once in your  life you had made  a
sensible and rational decision," I  signed, attempting to look  stern.
"As it  is, my  only disappointment  would have  been if  you had  not
permitted me to come with you."

    "And how could I leave you behind?" she asked, smiling and

    mocking me. Forgetting herself, she  spoke out loud. "I'd have  to
hear you whine about it for days. 'Eliza  got to go and I didn't! '  "
she concluded in a childish voice, talking through her nose.

    "Hush!" said Scylla,  turning. "I beg  your pardon, Your  Majesty.
It's just that-"

    "We're not on a picnic, Your Majesty," Mosiah said dourly, gliding
up to stand beside us.

    "You are right, both of you," Eliza murmured, her cheeks  flushed.
"It won't happen again."

    "We are very near the meeting place," Scylla said. "Enforcer?"

    The oak trees  had creaked and  rattled their limbs  as we  walked
along and I  guessed that they  must be continuing  to provide  Mosiah
with information.

    "Father Saryon  is  in the  clearing  and  he is  alone.  He  has,
however, heard our  approach and  is more  than a  little unnerved.  I
suggest we ease his fears."

    "I will go forth  into the glade," said  Scylla. "You remain  here
with Her Majesty."

    "Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Eliza,  losing  patience.  "We'll  all  go
together. If  it  is a  trap,  we've  already walked  into  it.  Come,
Reuven."

    Emerging into a  glade, we came  upon an elderly  priest, who  had
been  looking  nervously  to  his  right  and  left  previous  to  our
appearance.

    At the  sight of  us, he  breathed a  gentle sigh.  He smiled  and
extended his hands, one to either of us.

    "My children," Saryon said in heartfelt tones.

    My eyes  blurred with  tears. I  knew then  the man  who had  been
father to Eliza and to me, the man who had taken two orphans into  his
home and into his heart.

    No wonder I had felt the love of a son for a father in that  other
life. Such love  knows no  bounds, would  stretch across  the gulf  of
time.

    He gave me  his hand and  looked with pleasure  and pride upon  my
white robes with their red trim. The white marked me a house catalyst,
one who is in the employ of some noble family. The red indicated  that
I was a Lord Father, a high rank for one of my years.

    He would have bowed and  kissed Eliza's hand, but she  forestalled
him by flinging her arms around  his neck and kissing him heartily  on
the cheek. He  hugged her and  held her close,  all the while  keeping
firm hold of my hand, and we had a most joyous family reunion there in
the glade in the Zoo of Zithel.

    "It has  been so  long since  I've  seen both  of you,"  he  said,
releasing us to look at us fondly.

    "We do  think  the Emperor  might  let you  come  to visit  us  in
Merilon," said Eliza, a tiny furrow creasing her forehead.

    "No, no, Emperor Garald is right," Saryon said, sighing. "The ways
are dangerous, very dangerous."

    "The Conduits are safe."

    "The Thon-li refuse to guarantee it these days. Menju the Sorcerer
has many allies  on Thimhallan.  Not that I  care for  any danger  for
myself, mind you," he added  with a touch of  spirit. "I am more  than
ready to go  to my  rest, to  be reunited  with your  father and  your
mother." He patted  Eliza's hand.  "But I  cannot put  down the  great
burden I bear. Not yet. Not yet."

    I blinked my eyes free of the glad tears, and now that I could see
Father Saryon more clearly,  I was shocked at  his appearance. He  had
aged far beyond his years, was gray  and stooped, as if the burden  of
which he spoke  was a physical  one. He  was not frail  or fragile  in
spirit, only in body.

    Scylla and Mosiah had held back at the edge of the glade, to  give
us a moment's privacy for our reunion and also to make certain no  one
and nothing was lying  in wait. Now they  walked forward, both  making
respectful bows to  Father Saryon.  He greeted  Mosiah with  pleasure,
mentioning that he had heard Mosiah was now in Queen Eliza's  service.
Mosiah stood with hands folded before him, silent and observant.

    Scylla was not known to  Saryon, apparently, for Eliza  introduced
her as her knight and captain of her guard. Scylla was polite, but her
manner was brisk. She was obviously ill at ease.

    "We should stay here  no longer than  is necessary, Your  Majesty.
With  your  gracious  permission,  I  would  suggest  that  we   leave
immediately."

    "Is that well with you, Father Saryon?" Eliza asked him, regarding
him anxiously.  She,  too,  was  concerned and  dismayed  at  his  wan
appearance. "You look tired.  Did you walk all  this way? The  journey
must have been a strenuous one for you. Do you need to rest?"

    "There can be no rest for me until I have completed my task. Yet,"
he added, looking earnestly and searchingly at Eliza, "yet I would  go
to my  grave bearing  this secret  if you  are the  least bit  unsure,
Daughter. Will  you  take  on  this  heavy  responsibility?  Have  you
considered well the perils you will face?"

    Eliza gripped him by  both hands. "Yes,  Father, dear Father,  the
only father I  have ever  known. Yes,  I have  considered the  perils.
They've been shown to me in vivid detail," she added with a glance and
a smile for me, before  she turned back to  Saryon. "I am prepared  to
take the responsibility; to finish, if need be, what my father began."

    "He would have been proud of you, Eliza," Saryon said gently.  "So
proud."

    "Your Majesty-"

    "Yes, Scylla, we are leaving. Father,  you must guide us, for  you
are the only one who knows the way."

    Saryon shook his head and I guessed  that the way of which he  was
thinking was not the sun-dappled path through the forest, but the path
forever cloaked with darkness which leads into the future.

    Eliza walked at his  side, holding on  to his arm  in a close  and
confiding manner which pleased him immensely. The trail not being wide
enough for three  of us to  walk side by  side, I fell  a pace or  two
behind, which put me between Saryon and Eliza in front and Scylla  and
Mosiah in back.

    "Perhaps I  am still  suffering from  the effects  of my  injury,"
Mosiah said, "but what is there to fear, besides the usual fears which
always attend anyone insane enough to walk through the Zoo of  Zithel?
You said yourself that the centaurs would not attack us."

    Scylla made a disparaging sound in her throat. "Short work to them
if they did. No, it  is not the centaurs  I fear, nor darkrovers,  nor
giants, nor  faeries." She  paused  a moment,  then said  quietly,  "I
wonder that you cannot guess."

    "You fear the Duuk-tsarith. Of which I am one."

    "True, but you have always  been of an independent nature  Mosiah,
and were not afraid to go your  own way, if you thought the other  way
wrong. That was why Her Majesty chose you to accompany us. You are the
only one of her Enforcers she felt she could trust."

    "What is it you fear the Duuk-tsarith will do?"

    "Why, try to seize the Darks word, of course," Scylla responded.

    "So that is  why we're here,"  Mosiah said thoughtfully.  " 'I  am
prepared to take the responsibility, ' the Queen said. Eliza means  to
use the Darksword. And Father Saryon knows where it is."

    "Certainly. Didn't  Her  Majesty explain  this  to you  before  we
left?"

    "Perhaps Her Majesty does not put as much faith in me as you  do,"
Mosiah said wryly.

    Scylla  sighed.  "One  can  hardly  blame  her-after  all   that's
happened. Emperor Garald believes that the Duuk-tsarith are under  his
control and will obey  his commands. Certainly,  they've given him  no
reason to think otherwise, but still . . ."

    "You don't trust them."

    "The Darksword  is a  great  prize. It  could give  them  enormous
power, especially  if  they  discovered  the  secret  to  making  more
swords."

    "I don't see how. No one with Life can use it. The Darksword would
drain them of their magic and leave them helpless."

    "That bump you took must be severe," Scylla said. "Or maybe it's a
recurrence of  those injuries  you suffered  in the  collapse of  Lord
Samuel's house during the battle. Whatever it is, you're obviously not
thinking straight. The  Dead among  the Duuk-tsarith  would wield  the
Darksword. You were  the one who  told me  that is why  the Dead  were
recruited in the  first place.  And then  it's widely  known that  the
Duuk-tsarith don't believe in the Bishop's prophecy. Like many others,
they think  it's a  political  device cooked  up  by the  Emperor  and
Radisovik to frighten the rebels."

    "My head  throbs," Mosiah  said, and  he sounded  very  plaintive.
"Remind me of this prophecy."

    Scylla lowered her voice, spoke solemnly. "That the Devil

    himself was raising an army  against us. Demons armed with  Hell's
Light would come down  on us from the  skies and destroy every  living
thing in Thimhallan."

    So startled and alarmed  was I by this  prophecy that I turned  in
consternation and stared at Mosiah.

    "The Hch'nyv!" I signed.

    "What?" Scylla demanded. "I don't  understand. What is he  talking
about?"

    "A previous conversation we had. It is not important." Mosiah made
a swift  motion with  his hand,  counseling me  to keep  quiet.  "This
prophecy . . . when is it to be fulfilled?"

    "This time tomorrow,  the demons  will launch  their attack.  Thus
Bishop Radisovik was told: 'Only the Darksword in the hands of Joram's
heir can save us. ' "

    "And who gave the Bishop this infor-this prophecy?"

    "A being of  light," said  Scylla, sounding awed.  "An angel  sent
from the Almin."

    "I can understand  how my  brethren in the  Duuk-tsarith could  be
skeptical," Mosiah said. "I must admit I find it hard to believe."

    Scylla drew in a deep breath, seeming about to argue or reprimand.
Slowly, however, she released it. "This is not the time for another of
our theological debates. Though  I do worry about  your soul and  pray
for you nightly."

    Mosiah appeared  considerably taken  aback by  this statement  and
didn't seem to know what to say. Scylla was also silent, preoccupied.

    I was watching them  and listening as best  I could while  keeping
one eye on the  path ahead. He started  to speak, but she  interrupted
him.

    "I wish Her Majesty had discussed  this with you!" she said,  then
added decisively, "Still,  it is only  right that you  know. But  this
must be kept secret. The Emperor  sent a message to Earth, to  General
Boris."

    Scylla paused, expecting Mosiah to look shocked. He accepted  this
news very calmly.

    "What is wrong with  that? General Boris  and King-I mean  Emperor
Garald are friends, after all."

    "Hush! Never say such a thing aloud! Don't even think it! It would
be worth the price of the Emperor's life if it were known that he  had
ties with the enemy."

    "The enemy. I see.  What did our enemy  General Boris have to  say
about this heavenly missive?"

    "That the Devil is indeed coming,  though not perhaps in the  form
we might expect. Boris went on to add details about an invasion  force
that had destroyed Earth's outposts and was now rapidly closing in  on
Earth. He said that Earth Forces  would do what they could to  protect
Thimhallan, although he added  in a closing note  that he feared  they
fought a losing battle and warned us to ready our defenses."

    Mosiah and I again exchanged looks. I turned away with a sigh. The
Hch'nyv. It had to  be. I had  hoped that we had  left them behind  in
that other  time, but  that apparently  was not  the case.  They  were
coming and they were right on  schedule. We had less than  forty-eight
hours to stop them.

    The Darksword  in the  hands  of Joram's  heir. The  Darksword  in
Joram's hands. How could a sword  in anybody's hands halt the  advance
of  an  alien  horde,  when  neutron  bombs,  photon  missiles,  laser
cannons-the most sophisticated, powerful  killing machines humans  had
ever devised-had not put even a dent in their armor?

    I felt suddenly very tired, my footsteps dragged. This was all  so
futile! Hopeless! Our  feeble struggles were  doing nothing more  than
alerting the spider to the fact that we were tangled in its web. I was
thinking it would be far better to sit down beneath these lovely  oaks
with a couple  of bottles  of good  wine and  drink a  final toast  to
humanity, when a hand smote me between the shoulder blades.

    "Cheer up, Lord Father!" Scylla said, and after nearly knocking me
flat, she very kindly  assisted me to keep  my balance. "Joram's  heir
will soon have the Darksword and then all will be well."

    She strode past me, going to the front of the line in response  to
a gesture from Eliza, a gesture that I had not even seen, so dark were
the thoughts surrounding me.

    All during this conversation, our path had been veering down-

    ward at a  gentle slope. The  oaks gave way  to poplar and  aspen,
these gave way  to willows.  I had long  heard the  sounds of  rushing
water,  and  rounding  a  bend,  we   came  in  sight  of  a   narrow,
swift-flowing river.  The  Hira  River,  or  so  I  recalled  from  my
research; it  cuts  right  through  the  heart  of  Zithel.  Like  the
inhabitants of Zithel, the Hira was tame and placid when it was inside
the city, but became rough and dangerous and wild when it entered  the
Zoo.

    The sun shone  bright on  the water, its  light warm  on my  face.
Looking into the heavens, I saw  the white wisps of clouds drawn  like
flimsy veils over the  blue sky. Cotton  from the cottonwoods  drifted
down around us, a summer snowstorm.

    The water was green  where it ran smooth,  foaming white where  it
leapt over rocks, black where it ran beneath the overhanging limbs  of
the trees lining  the bank.  Some distance  from us  was one  enormous
willow, which  leaned far  out  over the  river, its  arms  gracefully
outstretched, its leaves trailing through the water. Its exposed roots
were gnarled and huge,  like knuckles on a  boxer, from the effort  of
keeping fast hold on the soil.

    "There." Father Saryon pointed. "That is our destination."

    We walked along the bank, approaching  the willow, and none of  us
said a word. I do  not know what the others  were thinking, but in  my
mind I saw the  river red with blood,  the willow withering in  flame,
the  blue  sky  gray  with  smoke.  But  whereas  before  I  had  been
despairing, now I was angry.

    We would fight  to save this:  the sun, the  sky, the clouds,  the
willow. Hopeless though it might be, though no one would be left alive
to tell of it, we would fight to the very end.

    Father Saryon  pointed  at  something  else  downstream  from  our
position and said something; I couldn't hear what, due to the bubbling
of the water.  I moved  closer, coming  level with  Scylla and  Eliza.
Mosiah did not immediately join us. When I looked back for him, I  saw
him kneeling  down  on the  path,  in apparent  conversation  with  an
enormous  raven  with  bristling  black  feathers,  which  gave  it  a
hunchbacked appearance.

    The  Duuk-tsarith  often  used  ravens  as  an  extension  of  the
Enforcer's ears and eyes.

    "-not far," Saryon was saying. "There at the bend. Be careful. The
path along the riverbank is muddy and very slippery."

    There was a slight drop-off from the path in the woods to the path
along the riverbank, caused  by the churning of  the water in a  small
pool below us, which had eroded the  bank. Saryon was about to make  a
clumsy descent. I interceded, offering to go first and stand ready  to
assist those who came after.

    Scylla remained on the highest part  of the path, her hand on  her
sword hilt, keeping watch all around  us. I gathered up the skirts  of
my robes and half jumped,  half slid down to  the river trail. Once  I
had regained my feet, I turned and  reached out my arms to Eliza.  She
did not hesitate,  but made the  jump with skill.  She did not  really
need my help, but she ended up in my arms anyway.

    For a brief moment we held fast to each other. She looked up  into
my eyes and I gazed down into hers. She loved me! I knew then that she
loved me, as I  loved her. My  joy was bright as  the sunshine on  the
water, but the  next moment the  joy flowed into  a shallow,  stagnant
pool, dark and dismal.

    Our love could never  come to anything. She  was Queen of  Merilon
and I was her house catalyst, a mute catalyst at that. She had  duties
and responsibilities to  her people,  duties in which  I could  assist
her, in my  humble calling,  but only in  my humble  calling. She  was
betrothed. I knew her future husband  well; he was the son of  Emperor
Garald and was much younger than Eliza. They were waiting for the  boy
to come  of age.  The marriage  would strengthen  the Empire,  forever
bonding the kingdoms of Merilon and Sharakan.

    Provided, of course, that the Hch'nyv did not kill us all first.

    Eliza slipped  out  of my  grasp.  "You help  Father  Saryon  now,
Reuven," she said softly, and walking  a slight distance from me,  she
turned away from  me and  stared out  across the  glistening water.  I
watched her a  moment, saw  her hand  reach up  to her  eyes, but  the
movement was swift and was not repeated.

    She had accepted her duty and was resigned to it. Could I do less,
with her brave example before me?

    I held out my hand to Father Saryon, and helped him safely to  the
bank below.

    "It wasn't this difficult  twenty years ago,"  he said. "At  least
not that I remember. I managed by myself without any trouble at all. I
was much younger then, of course." He came level with me and looked at
me intently. "Are you all right, Reuven?"

    "Yes, sir, I am," I signed.

    He looked from me to Eliza, who remained standing with her back to
us all, and his expression grew sad and sorrowful. I saw that he knew,
that he must have known for some time.

    "I am sorry, my son," he said. "I wish-"

    But I was  never to  know what  he wished,  for he  was unable  to
express it. Shaking  his head, he  went to Eliza  and rested his  hand
gently upon her arm.

    Scylla jumped and landed beside me,  with a rattle of armor and  a
thud that shook the  ground. She brushed off  brusquely my attempt  at
assistance.

    "Where is the Enforcer?" she asked impatiently, and turned back to
peer up the bank.

    Mosiah stood above  us, a  dark and  ominous figure  in his  black
robes, which fluttered in the wind. The raven hopped on the ground  at
his side.

    "Father Saryon," he called. "Where are you bound?"

    Saryon gazed  up at  him. "There  is a  cave in  the bend  of  the
river-"

    "No, Father," said Mosiah, and his voice was deep and stern.  "You
must find some other path.  We dare not go  near that cave. The  raven
has warned me. That cave is the dwelling of a Dragon of the Night."

    Scylla looked alarmed.  Eliza paled and  her eyes widened.  Father
Saryon was not the least bit disconcerted by this news. He nodded  and
smiled. "Yes, I know."

    "You know!" Mosiah leapt from  the bank. His black robes  billowed
around him. He drifted like a sooty wisp of cottonwood to the bank and
landed in  front  of  Saryon.  The raven,  taking  wing,  flapped  and
fluttered at his shoulder. "You know and you will go anyway?"

    "Do you realize, Father," Scylla added, "the risk we run? An  army
of warlocks could  not win  a battle against  a Dragon  of the  Night,
should it awake and attack us."

    "I know  the risk  well," Saryon  said, with  a flash  of his  old
spirit. "I ran that risk myself, all alone, twenty years ago. Not  out
of choice, mind you, but out of desperation. I don't need you three to
remind me."

    He gazed at  us, his eyes  narrowed. "If you  want to recover  the
Darksword, that is where we  must go. The Dragon  of the Night is  the
Darksword's guardian."

    CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

    Saryon caught  Joram  in his  arms.  Touching the  fabric  of  the
crimson-stained robes, the  catalyst felt the  warm wetness of  life's
blood draining  from Joram's  body, falling  through Saryon's  fingers
like the petals of a shattered tulip.

    TRIUMPH OF  THE  DARKSWORD  Eliza  listened  gravely  to  Mosiah's
arguments against going. She asked Father Saryon if there was any  way
to retrieve the Darksword without  facing the dragon. On his  replying
that there was not, she  said it was her  intention to go with  Father
Saryon,

    but that she would not ask any of  the rest of us to go with  her.
In fact, it was her express command that we remain behind.

    Needless to say, that was one  command in her reign she could  not
convince any of us  to obey. After some  further discussion we  headed
for the cave-all five of us.

    "Now at least,"  said Mosiah as  he trudged along  behind me,  "we
won't have to worry about dying at the hands of the Hch'nyv."

    "According to Father Saryon," I signed, "the dragon is charmed. As
I recall, a  person is  able to  control one  of these  dragons if  he
touches the charm the warlocks embedded in the dragon's head."

    "Thank you, Mister  Encyclopedia," Mosiah retorted  sarcastically.
We had left the sunshine and returned to the shadows, walking  beneath
the willows and cottonwoods that bordered the river. "It takes a  very
strong and  powerful personality  to  cast a  charm  on a  dragon.  My
respect for Father Saryon is vast, but 'strong' and 'powerful' are not
words I would use to describe him."

    "I think you  underestimate him," I  signed back defensively.  "He
was strong enough  to sacrifice  himself when they  would have  turned
Joram to stone.  He was strong  enough and powerful  enough to  assist
Joram in fighting Blachloch."

    Mosiah remained unconvinced.  "Twenty years have  passed since  he
left the Darksword with the dragon! Even if Father Saryon did actually
charm the beast, the charm could not possibly hold it that long!"

    I felt regretfully that Mosiah was right. The Dragons of Night had
been designed by their creators as killing machines, made to slaughter
on command. During  the Iron Wars  some of these  dragons had  escaped
their creators and wreaked havoc among their own forces. After the war
the D'karn-duuk, who had  made the dragons  and controlled them,  were
mostly dead. Those who survived were too battle-shocked and  exhausted
to deal with  the Warchanged. The  Dragons of Night  escaped and  fled
below ground,  seeking to  hide  from the  light  of day,  which  they
loathed and feared, in the endless night of tunnel and cave.

    They have no love for man, remembering always who had doomed  them
to this dark life and hating them for it.

    We had  now  arrived  at  the  cavern  entrance.  Halting  on  the
riverbank, we stared at it bleakly. The opening-dark against the  gray
rock face-was an enormous archway of gray stone, easy for all of us to
enter, or it would have been had not most of it been sunk  underwater!
A part of the river had branched off, flowed, swift and deep, into the
cavern.

    "You're out of luck, Father," Mosiah said. "The river has  changed
course. Unless you would have  us swim these treacherous currents,  we
can't go inside." The  raven, perched on a  tree limb, gave a  raucous
caw.

    I am ashamed  to say  that my first  reaction was  one of  relief,
until I saw Eliza.

    Up to this time she had borne calmly and courageously all  dangers
and setbacks. This disappointment  was too much for  her to bear.  She
clenched her fists.

    "We must  get inside!"  she cried,  her face  white to  the  lips,
adding wildly, "I will swim if I have to."

    The water  flowing  into the  cave  was fast-moving,  with  small,
swirling whirlpools  and dangerous  eddies  that splashed  and  foamed
among sharp rocks. Swimming was not an option.

    "We could build a  raft," said Scylla.  "Lash together some  logs.
Perhaps the Enforcer with his magic-"

    "I am not  a conjurer,  nor am  I Pron-alban,  a craftsman,"  said
Mosiah coldly. "I am  not learned in boatbuilding,  and I don't  think
you want to wait while I study up on the subject."

    "I wasn't asking you to build a full-blown sailing vessel," Scylla
returned, her eyes  flashing in anger.  "But I do  think you might  be
able to use one of your fire spells to burn out the inside of a log so
that we could make a canoe."

    "Canoe!" Mosiah snorted. "Perhaps we'll use your head, Sir Knight.
It must be hollow enough! Has it ever occurred to you that I will need
to conserve all the Life I have left to extricate us from the clutches
of this dragon,  which-I have  the feeling-isn't going  to be  exactly
charmed to see us."

    All this time Father Saryon had been attempting to say  something.
At last, he had  his chance. "Do  you have so little  faith in me,  to
think I would bring you to a drowned cave?"

    He smiled as he said the words, but we felt the rebuke, especially
myself and Eliza.

    "Forgive me,  Father," Eliza  said, looking  remorseful. "You  are
right. I should have had faith in you."

    "If not me, then at least in the Almin," Saryon said, and he  cast
a glance at Mosiah  which indicated that the  elderly priest had  also
heard at least part of our former conversation.

    Mosiah said nothing, made no  apology. He stood stoic and  silent,
his arms crossed,  his hands  concealed in  the black  sleeves of  his
robes.

    Saryon continued, adding briskly, "There  is a path, over here.  A
rock ledge runs above the water  level. This path leads to a  corridor
which takes  us away  from the  river,  down into  the bowels  of  the
cavern."

    The path along the riverbank made  a meandering turn to the  left,
circling around a large willow,  whose limbs and trunk sheltered  part
of the  cave entrance  from  view. Saryon  parted the  swaying,  leafy
branches and there was the rock ledge, leading into the cavern.

    Mosiah offered to go first and I thought perhaps this was his  way
of making amends for having been so short-tempered.

    "Don't follow me until you receive my signal," he cautioned.

    He entered the cave,  taking the raven with  him, and soon  passed
beyond our sight. I  wondered why the bird  had been invited to  come,
then realized-when it  came flapping  back out of  the cave  entrance,
like an overlarge bat-that the raven was to be the messenger.

    "Come ahead," the bird croaked in a raspy voice. "One of you at  a
time."

    Eliza went next, entering the cavern stalwartly and without  fear.
My fear for her was enough for  both of us, however. I watched her  as
long as I could, as if my will alone would hold her on that ledge  and
she must fall when she was out of my sight.

    The raven had flown in  with her and I  waited in agony until  the
bird returned. "She is safe. Send the next."

    "You go, Reuven," said Saryon, a smile in his eyes.

    I could not believe I was  actually eager to enter that cave,  but
now nothing could have kept me from it.

    Chill damp air  washed over me  and I  had to wait  until my  eyes
adjusted to the darkness. The light shining outside the cavern gleamed
off the rushing water and  lit my way for  a short distance. The  path
was wide here and I was able to make fairly good time.

    But then the path narrowed, until I could barely place my two feet
side by side. The ledge rounded a bend in the wall, which cut off  the
light. I expected this part to be dark and was astonished to find  the
way bathed in  a warm reddish  glow. One of  the stalactites  overhead
radiated light and warmth, as if the rock had been heated. I could see
the path, a shimmering ribbon of  gray above the black and  shimmering
water. The raven winged past me, returning to Mosiah.

    I understood now why the Enforcer had offered to go first. He  had
walked the darkness in order to light the way for the rest of us.

    The path began to rise and  here it narrowed farther, until I  was
forced to place my back against the wall and shuffle sideways. I crept
along, out of sight of my friends  behind me, not yet within sight  of
Mosiah and Eliza ahead of me. One  false step and I would plunge  into
the murky, foaming water below. Sweat  beaded on my brow and  trickled
down my breast; the cold air set me shivering. I had never in my  life
felt so alone.

    I took another step  and I could see  the end, and there,  waiting
for me, were Mosiah and Eliza. I was so eager to reach them that I was
tempted to fling caution to the winds and make a dash for safety.

    "Easy now," Mosiah warned. "This is the hardest part."

    I controlled the urge to bolt. I pressed so hard against the  rock
that I scraped  the flesh off  my back and  edged carefully along  the
path. It grew wider  as I went and  I was able to  quicken my pace.  I
stumbled into Eliza's arms and we clung to each other for comfort, our
shared warmth driving away  the thought of  falling into the  swirling
water. I blessed  Saryon for having  sent me ahead  to have this  time
with her.

    Mosiah watched  us with  a  faintly sardonic  smile on  his  lips,
though he  said  nothing,  merely  sending the  raven  back  with  the
message, "Next!"

    Father Saryon arrived, his movements so awkward and ungainly  upon
the ledge that we thought more than once he must topple over. He would
always  manage  to  save  himself,  however,  his  hands  snagging  an
outcropping of rock when  his foot slipped or  his feet maintaining  a
toehold when his hands could not find purchase.

    He reached us  at last and  wiped dirt from  his palms. "That  was
much easier than the  first time I made  that trip," he said,  keeping
his voice low. Though the  dragon was far down  in the very bottom  of
the cavern, we dared not take a  chance on its hearing us. "I did  not
have a  wizard with  me to  provide light."  He nodded  his thanks  to
Mosiah. "And I was carrying the Dark-sword at the time."

    "What drove you to  make the trip at  all, Father?" Mosiah  asked,
his eyes visible in the shadows  of his hood only by their  reflection
of the red-glowing stalactite. He had sent the raven back for  Scylla.
"Were you pursued?"

    Saryon was  silent a  moment, his  face pale  and haggard  at  the
memory. "I think, on reflection, that I probably was not, but I had no
way of knowing that at the time. Besides, to be safe, I had to believe
that they  were in  pursuit. What  led me  into this  cave?  Instinct,
maybe, the instinct of  the hunted to  seek a dark  place in which  to
hide. Or maybe the hand of the Almin."

    Mosiah lifted an eyebrow,  turned away, and  watched the path.  We
heard the clash of  steel against rock and  Mosiah muttered, "So  much
for stealth."

    The sound was immediately muffled.  A short wait, and then  Scylla
appeared,  rounding  that  same  treacherous  bend,  the  red  of  the
stalactite burning like flame in her silver armor.

    She was having a difficult  time of it. The breastplate  prevented
her from flattening her back against the  wall, as the rest of us  had
done. She was  inching her way  along, clinging to  the wall with  her
hands. And then she came to a  halt, leaned her head back against  the
wall, and closed her eyes.

    "Tell her," Mosiah said to the raven, "that this is no time for  a
nap!"

    The raven floated  over, hovered  near Scylla. We  could not  hear
what she said,  but the words  seemed forced  out in a  gasp that  was
audible from where we stood.

    "She says she can't move," the raven reported. Landing on the path
beside Mosiah, it  began to clean  its beak with  a clawed foot.  "She
knows she's going to fall."

    Frozen in terror,  Scylla clung to  the wall. My  heart ached  for
her. I had known the same fear  and the Almin only knew what had  kept
me going. The sight of Eliza, I think.

    "She needs help," said  Father Saryon, gathering  up the skirt  of
his robe.

    "I'll go," said Mosiah. "I don't want to have to drag both of  you
out of the river!"

    He returned along the treacherous path. Facing the wall, he  edged
his way forward, until he was within an arm's length of Scylla.

    "What's the matter?" he asked.

    Scylla could not move  her head to look  at him. She could  barely
move her lips. "I ... I can't swim!"

    "Bless the girl!" Mosiah said  in exasperation. "If you fall  into
the water, you won't have to worry about swimming. You'll sink like  a
boulder in that armor."

    At this,  Scylla gave  a brief,  mirthless laugh.  "You're such  a
comfort!" she said through clenched teeth.

    "I have  my magic,"  Mosiah told  her. "I  don't want  to use  it,
unless I have to. But I will not let you fall. Look at me. Look at me,
Scylla."

    Scylla managed to twist her head, looked at Mosiah.

    He extended his hand. "Here, take hold."

    She raised  her arm,  the  armor scraping  against the  rock,  and
slowly reached toward  Mosiah, her hand  outstretched. He clasped  his
hand over  hers, and  held on  to her  tightly. Her  face smoothed  in
relief. She ventured forward. He drew her along the path, holding  her
steady.

    At the end,  when they reached  safe ground, Scylla  gave a  great
shuddering sob and  covered her face  with her hands.  I think  Mosiah
would have put his arms around her, but for her armor.

    Hugging her would have been tantamount to embracing an iron stove.

    "I have  shamed myself,"  Scylla  whispered fiercely.  "Before  my
queen!"

    "By what? Proving you're  human like the rest  of us. I, for  one,
was happy to see it. I was beginning to wonder."

    Scylla uncovered  her  eyes  and  looked  at  Mosiah,  as  if  she
suspected there might be more to this statement than appeared. He  was
half-amused, half-sympathetic, nothing deeper.

    "Thank you," Scylla  said, her  voice husky. "You  saved my  life,
Enforcer. I am in  your debt." Subdued, she  walked over to Eliza  and
knelt before  her on  one  knee. "Forgive  me,  Your Majesty,  for  my
cowardice in the face  of danger. If  you wish to  remove me from  the
position of  trust  in  which  you have  placed  me,  I  will  readily
understand."

    "Oh, Scylla!" cried Eliza warmly. "We are of Mosiah's opinion.  We
are glad to see that  you are flawed, like the  rest of us. It's  very
difficult to love a paragon."

    Scylla was overcome and, for a moment, could not speak. At length,
wiping her hand across her nose and eyes, she stood up and threw  back
her head, faced us proudly, if somewhat defiantly.

    "Which way do we go now, Father?" Eliza asked.

    We had been concentrating  so hard on the  path behind us that  we
had given no consideration to the path before us. The river veered off
to the right. Our ledge ended, but we could see the shadowy opening of
what appeared to be a tunnel.

    "We go down," said Saryon.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

    "Perhaps the killer's gone. ..."

    "I doubt it. He didn't get what he came for."

    SARYON AND JORAM; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

    We went down.  And down. And  down. A flaming  brand lit our  way.
Mosiah had been going  to expend more of  his magical Life to  provide
light, but that proved unnecessary.

    "You will find a  brand, tinderbox, and flint  in a small  chamber
near the entrance  to the  tunnel," Saryon  advised us.  "I left  them
there myself, on the chance that someday I would return."

    "Tools of  the  Dark Arts,"  Mosiah  said, with  a  slight  smile,
harkening back to a time on Thimhallan when the use of such "tools" as
a tinderbox and flint was prohibited.  Such objects gave Life to  that
which was Dead.

    Scylla carried the brand, walked in front with Saryon. I  remained
at Eliza's side, our  hands twined together. From  this point on,  our
lives would be changed for good or  ill. Perhaps, in a short time,  we
would be dead. It didn't matter anymore that she was a queen and I was
her house catalyst. Our love, a love  that had sent down its roots  in
early childhood, had grown  strong like the oak,  and though the  tree
might be cut down, it could never be uprooted.

    Mosiah  followed  behind  alone,  the  raven  having  refused   to
accompany us anywhere near the dragon.

    The path ran  smooth, cutting  down through  the rock  in a  steep
spiral that was almost  a corkscrew. It was  easy to walk, almost  too
easy. It seemed  to be  hurrying us downward-a  circumstance which  we
found ominous.

    "This was never formed by nature," Mosiah observed.

    "No," Saryon agreed. "So I thought when I first discovered it."

    Mosiah came  to a  halt. "And  you descended  this all  unknowing,
Father? When anything from griffins  to darkrovers could have been  at
the bottom? Forgive  me, Father,  but you were  never the  adventurous
sort. I think you should tell us how you first found this cave. Before
we go on."

    "We will  not have  this!"  Eliza was  angry. "You  have  insulted
Father Saryon for the last time, Enforcer-"

    "No, child," Saryon said. Looking  about, he found an  outcropping
of rock  and sank  down upon  it.  "Mosiah is  right. Don't  tell  me,
Daughter," he added with a smile  for her, "that you yourself are  not
curious about what  we will find  when we reach  the dragon's lair.  I
could use the rest.  We must not  be long, though.  We must reach  the
dragon's lair  before  night  falls,  while it  is  still  sleepy  and
lethargic."

    "Amen to that," Mosiah said.

    What I write now is Father Saryon's story, in his own words.

    I have sometimes wondered what  would have happened if Simkin  had
not tricked Menju  the Sorcerer  into sending  him to  Earth. I  think
matters might have turned out much differently. Had Simkin been  here,
I am certain  that he might  have saved Joram's  life. Emperor  Garald
does not agree with me and I must admit that I see his view. There  is
no doubt that Simkin set  Joram up for the  ambush, for it was  Simkin
who suggested that Joram find help for your poor mother in the  Temple
of the Necromancers. And it was  there the Executioner waited for  him
and killed him.

    I will never forget that terrible day.

    I had gone  to the  Temple with Gwen  and Joram,  at his  request,
though I  feared  traveling  to  such  a  dreadful  place.  Joram  was
desperate. Gwendolyn  was  drifting  further from  us  every  day,  it
seemed. She spoke only  to those who  were dead and  gone. She had  no
care for the living, not even for  her own husband, whom she had  once
dearly loved. Her parents  were sick with grief.  When Simkin told  us
his fool story  about having  a little brother  who was  cured by  the
dead, Joram grasped it as a drowning man grasps at a bit of wood.

    I tried to dissuade him, but he refused to listen. Simkin told  us
to be at the  Temple at noon,  when the power of  the Temple would  be
greatest. The Emperor believes  that Simkin knew  in advance that  the
Executioner would be there waiting for Joram, but I don't think so.  I
think  Simkin  merely   wanted  Joram   out  of  the   way,  so   that
he-Simkin-could pretend to be Joram and  so travel to Earth, which  is
exactly what he did.

    I don't suppose it matters now, one way or the other. Your  father
and I went to  the Temple. I remained  with Gwen, who was  exceedingly
troubled by the voices of the dead. Joram stood by the altar. I  heard
four sharp, distinct cracks, one after the other.

    I was paralyzed with fear, not knowing what dread fate these awful
sounds portended.

    The cracking sounds stopped. I looked about and saw nothing amiss,
at first. I  was about to  take Gwendolyn into  the Temple, where  she
would be safe, when I saw Joram slump against the altar.

    His hand was pressed over his chest and blood welled from  between
his fingers.

    I ran to  him and  caught him  in my arms.  I lowered  him to  the
ground. I did not know then what had happened to him. Later I  learned
that he had been killed by a  heinous tool of the Dark Arts, a  weapon
known as a "gun."

    All I knew  then was that  he was  dying and there  was nothing  I
could do except hold him.

    "The Darksword . . ." he said, his voice coming in painful  gasps.
"Take it, Father. . . . Hide  it ... from them. My child!" He  clasped
my hand with his dying strength, and I believe that he willed  himself
to live the few moments longer it took him to impart this message. "If
my child is in need . . . you must give the sword. . . ."

    I had not known then that Gwen was pregnant. Joram knew, and  that
was another reason he had wanted so desperately to find a way to  help
her.

    "Yes, Joram!" I promised, through my tears.

    He looked past me, to Gwen, who stood above him.

    "I am coming,"  he said to  her, and closed  his eyes and  slipped
away to join the dead.

    She reached out her hand,  not to the body,  but to his soul.  "My
beloved. I have waited for you a long, long time."

    You know  what  happened  after  that. The  forces  of  Menju  the
Sorcerer  attacked  Thimhallan.  Our  armies  were  crushed,   utterly
defeated. If Menju had  had his way, we  would have been  exterminated
into the bargain, but the man  we know now as General Boris  protected
us.

    Menju did not insist on our destruction. He had what he wanted. He
sealed up the Well  of Life so  that magic no  longer flowed into  the
world of Thimhallan.  Bereft of  their magic,  most of  the people  in
Thimhallan said bitterly  that they might  as well be  dead. Many  did
kill themselves. It was a terrible time.

    Fortunately, Garald, who was then King of Sharakan, following  the
death of his  father, was  able to act  quickly and  take control.  He
brought in the Sorcerers, the practitioners of the Dark Arts, and they
taught our people how to  use tools to do  what magic had always  done
for them in the past. Gradually, as the years went by, we rebuilt  the
cities, though the buildings were  crude and ugly, compared with  what
they had once been.

    But all  that  would  come  later.  Joram  was  dead.  I  had  two
responsibilities now, or  rather three. The  Darksword, Gwen, and  the
child she bore. Whoever had killed  Joram must still be in the  Temple
and, indeed, I saw the Executioner rise and start to move toward us.

    He was a powerful  Duuk-tsarith. I could not  hope to escape  him.
Suddenly, however, he was pushed backward,  almost to the edge of  the
cliff. I saw him struggling, but he fought an invisible foe!

    And then I knew-the dead were giving us a chance to escape.

    Picking up the Darksword, I grabbed Gwen's hand. She came with  me
docilely. We fled that sorrowful  place. Later, when the Emperor  sent
to recover Joram's  body, it was  found laid out  in state inside  the
Temple of the Necromancers. The hands of the dead tended him, who  had
been Dead in his lifetime.

    All of Thimhallan  was in confusion,  as you can  imagine. Bad  as
that was  for some,  it was  good for  me, for  no one  cared about  a
middle-aged catalyst and a young woman  they took for my daughter.  My
first thought was to go to the Font. I am not sure why, except that it
had been my home for so  long. Arriving there, I realized my  mistake,
for though the place was in an  uproar, there were people who knew  me
and connected me with Joram. In order  to be truly safe, I would  have
to take Gwen and travel to a  part of the country where neither of  us
were known.

    It was while  I was at  the Font,  however, that I  came across  a
child, a little boy of about five years of age. He was an orphan, they
said. His parents  were catalysts, and  had been killed  in the  first
assault. The boy was  mute. He could not  speak, and whether that  was
due to the shock of seeing his parents slain before his eyes or if  he
had been born mute, none could say.

    I looked  at that  silent  boy and  I saw  in  his eyes  the  same
emptiness, the same grief,  the same loss  I felt in  my own heart.  I
took him with me. I named him Reuven.

    We started our journey. I chose to relocate to Zithel. Although  I
had heard that the  city was heavily  damaged in the  war, it was  one
place where I was certain that no one would know me.

    The magical wall that guarded the city was gone. The Zoo creatures
had mostly  escaped and  returned to  the wild.  The inhabitants  were
dazed and disbelieving. All of the tall buildings had been  destroyed,
but Zithel  is  also  a  city of  tunnels,  and  the  survivors  moved
underground.

    We found a small place for ourselves, little more than a niche  in
one of the tunnels. Here Gwen and little Reuven and I dwelt, living on
the sustenance that was brought to us by our conquerors.

    Gwen never did return  to the world of  the living. She was  happy
with the dead, for Joram was with her. She remained with me only  long
enough to bring her child into  this world, and then she died.  Reuven
and I were left alone with the baby. I named her Eliza.

    But I am getting ahead of myself.

    I had carried with me, all this time, the Darksword. And not a day
dawned but that  I feared someone  would find me  and then they  would
find it. Menju  the Sorcerer  was searching  for the  Darksword, so  I
heard. Fearing the use he might make  of it, I determined to hide  the
sword in a place where it would never be discovered.

    I prayed to the Almin for guidance and that night I dreamed I  was
walking in the  Zoo. The  next morning I  wrapped the  Darksword in  a
blanket and carried it to the Zoo. This was dangerous, even foolhardy,
you might say,  for though many  of the Zoo's  creatures had run  off,
others had stayed behind. I might run into a centaur or worse.

    But it seemed to me that the  Almin guided me and though my  faith
had wavered in the days before Joram's death, when I saw the rest  and
peace he found  in death-a peace  he had never  known in life-I  could
only believe that all had happened for the best.

    I wandered through the forest,  searching for something, though  I
didn't know what. And then, coming down the same path we walked, I saw
this cave.

    I saw something else, too. A black dragon.

    The dragon was  lying outside the  cave and my  first thought  was
that it was sunning itself, for it lay stretched out full-length, with
its head upon a rock, basking in the sunlight.

    As Mosiah has said-I am not much of an adventurer. My impulse  was
to flee, but I turned in such haste that I lost my footing. I  dropped
the Darksword. It fell among the rocks on the riverbank, landing  with
a clang that must have been heard by the dead back in my small house.

    I froze, terrified, and waited for the dragon to rear up its  head
and attack me.

    But the dragon never moved.

    Of course, you  are all laughing  at me, because  you know that  a
black dragon-a  Dragon  of  the  Night-would never  be  out  taking  a
sunbath. The creatures loathe the sunlight, which burns into the eyes,
causing such intense pain that the dragons lose consciousness.

    At last, I  remembered what I  should have known  all along.  This
Dragon of the Night was either unconscious or dead.

    Cautiously, I approached the dragon, and as I drew near I saw  its
body rise and fall with its breathing. It was not dead.

    I knew then why the Almin had sent me this way. A comatose  Dragon
of the Night can  be easily controlled  by means of  the charm on  its
forehead. Here  was  the  perfect  guardian  for  the  Darksword,  the
dragon's cave the perfect hiding place.

    I did not have much time. As I told you, I was fearful of pursuit.
That fear gave me courage, for otherwise I do not believe I would ever
have found the nerve to do what I did.

    I had  never  seen a  dragon  this  close before.  The  beast  was
monstrous, beautiful, awful. It  was so black that  it seemed to be  a
hole cut through  daytime, revealing  night beneath. I  saw the  charm
upon its head, an oval diamond, shaped smooth, without any facets.  It
alone sparkled in the  sunlight, which did not  touch any part of  the
dragon, did not gleam on the scales or shine on the leathery wings.

    I stretched  out my  hand, which  was trembling  so that  I  first
missed the diamond completely  and touched the  dragon's hide. It  was
dry and rough and hot  from the sun and I  jumped as if I had  touched
flame. Then, finally, I put my hand upon the diamond.

    A feeling of power and authority suffused me. I knew that I  could
prevail over anything.  You will laugh  again, but I  tell you that  I
never experienced the like before. I had such confidence in myself and
my own abilities that I felt as if I alone could rebuild Zithel, brick
by brick. (Yes,  we were  using bricks,  those creations  of the  Dark
Arts.) To charm this dragon and bend the creature to my will seemed  a
paltry thing. A child could do it. Words of potent magic flared in  my
brain. I spoke them aloud.

    The dragon did not move, did not respond at all.

    My power and my confidence began to ebb.

    I pulled back my hand and noted that it was wet. Wet with blood.

    Of course!  That  was  why  the dragon  had  been  caught  in  the
sunlight! The creature had been wounded. It had emerged from its  cave
at night, probably to drink from the river, when it collapsed and  was
now caught out in the sun.

    Had the  charm worked?  Would it  work on  an unconscious  dragon?
Surely it would, I argued.  The charm was meant  to work on the  beast
when it was comatose.

    Yet, argued  that cursed  part of  me which  never fails  to  play
devil's advocate, the  charm was  meant to  work when  the dragon  was
comatose from lying in the  sun, not from being  struck by one of  the
mundane's killing lights. Plus,  for all I knew,  the dragon might  be
dying.

    A sensible man-or a less desperate one-would have walked away. But
here was  the perfect  guardian and  the ideal  hiding place  for  the
Darksword. I could  not rid myself  of the notion  that the Almin  had
guided me here for this reason. I settled down to wait, at least until
nightfall. If the charm  had not worked, the  wounded dragon would  be
sluggish and I had  some chance of escaping.  I settled down upon  the
rocks a short distance from the dragon and waited for night.

    The hours  I  passed  provided me  an  excellent  opportunity  for
studying  the  dragon.  I  found   myself  awed  by  the  beauty   and
magnificence of the creature and saddened by the fact that it had been
bred to nothing but dealing death.  The Dragon of Night has an  inborn
hatred for all  other living beings,  even those of  its own kind.  It
cannot bear young and when the  last of these great beasts dies,  that
will be the end of them.

    A good thing, you say. Perhaps. The Almin knows best.

    I watched  its even  breathing,  which seemed  strong, so  that  I
eventually concluded the dragon was not dying.

    Night came early to the forest. When the deepening shadows blocked
the sunlight from its eyes, the beast began to stir. The dragon's huge
body lay on the  rocks, but one  wing dipped into  the river water.  I
heard the  water lap  against  the rocks  and  saw the  shoulder  bone
twitch. The dragon  snuffled and  blew and its  lower jawbone  scraped
along the rock as it shifted  its head, endeavoring to move into  even
deeper shadows.

    My heart was  in my throat.  I would  have run then,  but for  one
hopeful sign. The diamond on the head of the dragon had begun to  glow
dimly. Which meant that the charm had worked.

    I hoped. And prayed.

    I had spent the daylight hours waiting impatiently for night.  Now
it seemed to me that night came all too fast. Darkness closed in  with
a vengeance. The dragon was one  with the darkness. I could no  longer
see it at all.

    The diamond's light was  very bright now,  shining with a  prickly
brilliance. It did not  radiate light. I could  not see the dragon  by
the gem's glow. I could see only the diamond itself. When it  suddenly
lurched into the air, I knew that  the dragon was fully awake and  had
lifted its head.

    I rose hastily  to my  feet, leaving  the Darksword  lying on  the
ground nearby. I  could have used  it to defend  myself, but I  feared
that the sword's powerful null-magic might undo the charm. Time enough
to pick it up if I needed it.

    The dragon rotated its head. I could see the diamond moving and  I
could hear the dragon-its  claws pushing its body  up from the  rocks,
its wings lifting with a mighty splash from the water.

    The dragon  was searching  for  me. Certain  that all  vestige  of
sunlight was gone, the dragon opened its eyes.

    They shone pale and cold as moonlight.

    I averted my gaze, for even  though the beast was charmed, if  you
look into the  eyes of a  Dragon of Night,  you will end  up a  raving
lunatic.

    The dragon  reared up  on  its hind  legs  and lifted  its  wings,
spreading them out like the wings of a bat.

    I was struck with such  awe that if I had  died then and there,  I
believe I would have deemed it worth death to have seen that terrible,
magnificent sight.

    A thousand thousand tiny pinpoints of white light glittered in the
blackness of the  wings, as  if the dragon's  wings were  made of  the
starlit sky. Thus, in  battle, do the dragons  mimic the night sky  in
order to swoop down unseen upon their enemies. Those tiny pinpoints of
light not only resemble stars, they are also deadly weapons. A flip of
the wing causes them  to fall like meteors.  The small shooting  stars
burn easily through flesh.

    The lights glittered  before my  eyes, but  none fell  on me.  The
charm had worked. I gave fervent thanks to the Almin.

    The lunar-white eyes stared at me, bathing me in moonlight. I kept
my eyes lowered.

    "You are the master," the dragon said, and hatred shook its voice.

    "Yes," I replied, as boldly as I could. "I am the master."

    "I am constrained to do your  bidding," the dragon said with  cold
fury. "What do you want of me?"

    "I have an object here," I  said, and very carefully I lifted  the
Darksword. I had to control  the fear in my  heart, or else the  sword
would sense that I  was threatened and start  to disrupt the magic  of
the charm. "I command you to take it with you into your cave and guard
it well. You  must give it  up to no  one except to  me or to  Joram's
heir."

    I held up the Darksword and it was now the dragon's turn to shield
its eyes. The lids dropped, the  white light was hooded. The  dragon's
wings shivered, the false stars winked out. I could not see the  sword
for the  darkness, yet  its  null-magic must  have been  piercing  and
deadly as daylight in the eyes of this creature of magic.

    "Wrap it! Cover it!" the dragon cried in anger and in pain.

    Hurriedly, I did so, shrouding the Darksword with the blanket.

    Once the sword was  concealed, the dragon  again opened its  eyes.
Its loathing for  me had  increased tenfold,  a thought  that was  not
comforting.

    "I will guard the Darksword," the dragon said. "I have no  choice.
You are the master. But you must  take it down to my cavern and  there
bury it under a cairn of rock so  that no part of it is visible. I  am
hungry. I will go to hunt food now. But do not fear. I will return and
I will do what you ask of me. You are the master."

    Spreading its wings,  the dragon  leapt from the  rock and  soared
into the air. I  lost sight of  it immediately, for  I could not  tell
what was night sky and what was the dragon.

    But now my heart was lightened with hope. Carrying the  Darksword,
I entered the cave and  made my way down to  the very bottom, where  I
found the  floor littered  with shining  black scales  and bones.  The
dragon's lair.

    I placed the Darksword on the floor  of the cavern, in a part  far
distant from what I took to be the dragon's nest. I covered the  sword
with rocks, forming a large mound.

    I had just finished when  the dragon returned, entering through  a
back way, for it emerged  suddenly into the cave.  The body of a  male
centaur hung from its cruel teeth.

    The dragon eyed the cairn, which was now illuminated with a  pale,
chill light.

    "Leave," it  commanded,  adding  the  single  word,  "Master,"  in
grudging tones.

    I was glad  to obey, for  the smell  of the blood  of the  freshly
slaughtered centaur sickened me. I made my way back up to the world of
true starlight.  By  the  time  I reached  the  cave  opening,  I  was
exhausted and  could go  no  farther. I  rested there  until  morning.
Leaving behind  the tinderbox  and flint  and the  brand which  I  had
carried in the tunnel, I returned home.

    The Darksword was as safe as I could possibly make it. Many  times
I have  wondered  if it  was  still there,  if  the dragon  was  still
guarding it, if the charm was still holding. Many times I was  tempted
to go to see for myself, but then a peaceful feeling would steal  over
me. Now was not the time.

    It was the Almin, reassuring me.

    And so I have not been back  here since that day twenty years  ago
when I left the  Darksword beneath the rock  cairn with the Dragon  of
Night.

    I would not  have come back  now, but the  peaceful feeling is  no
longer in my heart. In its place is an urgency, a fear, which leads me
to believe  that  it  is  the  Almin's  will  that  the  Darksword  be
recovered.

    That it be given to Joram's heir, to Joram's daughter.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

    "Have they truly found peace in death? Are they happy?"

    "They will be, when you free them."

    JORAM AND GWENDOLYN; TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

    I could not help  but cast Mosiah a  glance of triumph, hoping  to
impress upon him how thoroughly he had misjudged Saryon.

    Mosiah appeared preoccupied,  and did  not notice.  "You made  one
statement which I find curious, Father. You said that magic.

    had vanished from Thimhallan. Yet Father Reuven gave me Life.  The
magic lives around us. I can feel it."

    Father Saryon regarded Mosiah with an expression of  astonishment.
"Well, certainly,  my son.  You were  partly responsible  for  magic's
return. The raid upon the Well of Life . . ."

    "Forgive him, Father," Scylla interrupted. "He received a blow  to
the head during our fight with  the thugs outside the East Road  Gate.
He has great gaps in his memory."

    "I would be  obliged if  you would refresh  that memory,  Father,"
Mosiah said. "Just so that I know what to expect."

    "Well . . ."  Father Saryon was nonplussed.  "There isn't much  to
tell, I suppose. Or rather, there is  a lot to tell but we don't  have
time for most of  it. How those calling  themselves the Dark  Cultists
arrived from Earth. A  man named Kevon Smythe  drove King Garald  from
power, almost succeeded  in having  him assassinated,  but Garald  was
warned in time and escaped.

    "How you  and  King Garald  lived  the  lives of  outlaws  in  the
wilderness. You  don't  remember  that?"  Saryon  gazed  anxiously  at
Mosiah, who merely smiled and remained silent.

    "And then Simkin returned from Earth-"

    "Ah," said Mosiah, and then he again fell silent.

    "Simkin returned. He told Garald how the Well of Life had not been
destroyed. It had been merely capped-"

    At this, which was exactly the theory we had postulated, I made  a
sign to Mosiah, who made me a sign to keep silent.

    "The Dark  Cultists  had  a  secret  source,  however.  They  were
bleeding off the magical  Life, using it for  themselves. In a  daring
raid, you, Mosiah, Garald, and his  friend James Boris broke open  the
Well and released the magic back into the world. We were then able  to
fight Smythe and the Dark Cultists. Smythe fled back to Earth.

    "Garald returned to  the rulership  of Sharakan and  also that  of
Merilon. I traveled to Sharakan to congratulate him and to present  to
him my wards." Saryon looked fondly at Eliza and me. "King Garald  was
struck by Eliza's beauty and was  deeply touched to hear that she  was
Joram's daughter. He  granted her  the right  to claim  the throne  of
Merilon, as Joram's heir.

    "Garald made Eliza Queen of Merilon. Reuven traveled to the  Font,
to enter into his training as a catalyst. Merilon and Sharakan  became
allies. Cardinal Radisovik  was made  Bishop, following  the death  of
Vanya. The Bishop  was kind enough  to appoint me  as Eliza's  adviser
until she came of age." Saryon  smiled, shook his head. "I  considered
myself most unsuited  to the task,  but Radisovik turned  all my  noes
into yes before I truly knew what was happening. Besides, Eliza needed
very little advice."

    Eliza reached out, pressed Saryon's hand gratefully.

    "Times are  difficult,"  Saryon  said, sighing.  "Magic  has  been
restored, but it  is weak.  Though the barrier  around Thimhallan  has
been rebuilt,  we know  that magic  is  seeping out  of it  and  there
doesn't appear  to be  anything we  can do  to stop  it.  Undoubtedly,
Smythe and his Dark Cultists are responsible.

    "We are forced to live on a combination of sorcery and steel.  The
Duuk-tsarith have grown ever more powerful, since they are capable  of
absorbing more  Life than  anyone else  in the  world. Emperor  Garald
trusts them, but I-" Saryon halted, somewhat confused.

    "I understand, Father," Mosiah said  quietly. "Now that you  talk,
much of my own memory returns. You have good reason not to trust  many
among the Duuk-tsarith."

    "I  trust  you,  Mosiah,"  Saryon  said.  "And  that  is  what  is
important. Knights"-he smiled at  Scylla-"now guard the realm.  Though
at first Garald was  viewed as a  savior, he has  come to be  reviled.
Smythe, in exile on Earth, has his followers upon Thimhallan. They are
managing to foment  unrest among  the lower  classes, foretelling  the
coming of the end of the world unless Smythe is permitted to return to
save it.

    "You heard about the warning which came to Bishop Radisovik?"

    We nodded in silence.

    "The Darksword must be  returned to the maker  of the world.  That
was the message, though we are not certain what it means. The maker of
the world was Merlyn, but he's been dead and gone these many years . .
."

    Not according to Simkin! I thought suddenly and, pondering this, I
lost, for a moment, the thread of what Saryon was saying.

    ". . . recovered by Joram's descendant. Emperor Garald came to  me
in person"-Saryon flushed,  embarrassed-"to ask for  the Darksword.  I
agreed, but only  if I were  permitted to  seek it in  secret and,  in
secret, give it directly  into the hands  of Eliza, Joram's  daughter.
The Emperor gave me his word of  honor that we would not be  followed,
that no one would attempt to take the sword from us."

    "The Emperor's word  is not  the word of  the Duuk-tsarith,"  said
Mosiah.

    "But, surely, they would be constrained to obey," Saryon said, and
it seemed to me that he was pleading for reassurance.

    "Since when, Father? There is a saying on Earth. 'They have  their
own agenda. ' I do not see  them being impressed by a visitation  from
an angel."

    "Do you think we were followed?" Eliza asked him.

    "I think we should be very careful," Mosiah answered her  gravely.
"And that we have taken enough time."

    We resumed  our  journey, moving  with  greater caution  but  more
speed. It was  already late  afternoon. We had  less than  twenty-four
hours before  the  arrival  of  the  Hch'nyv.  The  part  of  me  that
remembered Earth wondered, with  a pang, if our  planet was now  under
attack.

    No use fretting about events over which I had no control. I  would
do my part here.  We continued following  the corkscrew tunnel,  which
delved straight down and which had perhaps been shaped by the warlocks
who had brought the Dragons of Night into being.

    We walked at a good pace, for  the way was easy, and we made  good
time. Still, our  walk lasted over  an hour from  our starting  point,
which leads me to believe that  we must have descended at least  three
or four miles below the surface of Thimhallan.

    Though we could neither  see nor hear the  dragon, which would  be
slumbering during  the  daylight hours,  we  could smell  it  and  its
refuse. The air grew fetid and various odors of a most

    unpleasant nature-stale urine and dung and decay-soon caused us to
gag and cover our noses with  handkerchiefs or whatever cloth came  to
hand.

    The one  consolation  we had,  if  you  could call  it  such,  was
Mosiah's pronouncement. "The  dung smells fresh,"  he observed.  "This
must mean that your  dragon is still alive,  Father, and still  making
this cave its residence."

    "I don't  remember the  smell being  this bad,"  Saryon said,  his
voice muffled by the sleeve of his robe.

    "The dragon's had twenty years to add to it," Scylla observed.  "I
don't like to think of  what else we'll find  in that lair. Mounds  of
rotting corpses, among other things."

    "Fortunately, dragons will not eat humans," Eliza said, shivering,
"or so we've heard. We taste bad."

    "Don't believe all you hear, Your Majesty," Mosiah said, and  that
effectively ended that conversation.

    Our enthusiasm had begun to wane, though not our hope and hope  is
what carried us on. We were tired, our legs ached, and we were all  of
us half-sick with the stench, which tainted everything, even the water
we had  brought with  us.  We rounded  yet  another corner,  our  feet
dragging, when Scylla, who was in the lead, came to a sudden halt, her
hand raised.

    The torchlight that had  before gleamed off  curve after curve  in
the rock wall now illuminated  nothing. A vast yawning darkness  gaped
before us.

    "This is the dragon's lair,"  Saryon whispered, and so quiet  were
we that his whisper carried clearly.

    We hardly dared  breathe, for  we could  hear the  sound of  other
breathing, stentorian breathing,  as if someone  were pumping a  giant
bellows.

    We hesitated, at that  tense point when the  gambler at the  craps
table breathes  on the  dice, then  clutches them  in his  hand for  a
single, heart-stopping instant, asking for the win. And then throws.

    "I will go first," Saryon said. "Do not come until I call that all
is safe. If the  dragon attacks me, Scylla,  Mosiah"-he gazed at  them
intently-"I expect you  two to  do everything possible  to protect  my
children."

    "I promise, Father," Scylla said reverently, and raised her sword,
hilt first.

    "I promise, as well, Father," Mosiah said, his hands folded. "Good
luck. I'm sorry . . ." He paused, and did not finish his sentence.

    "Sorry?" Saryon repeated mildly. "Sorry for what, my son?"

    "I'm sorry about Joram," Mosiah said.

    Saryon lifted his eyebrows. Joram had, after all, been dead twenty
years.

    He had been dead to them, but not to Mosiah.

    Eliza hugged Saryon close. Blinking back her tears, she managed  a
smile. "The Almin go with you, Father," she whispered. "My father, the
only father I have ever known."

    I, too,  embraced  him  in  the name  of  father.  It  was  right,
eminently right.

    He asked the Almin's blessing on  us all and he alone entered  the
chamber.

    We waited  in the  tunnel,  ears strained  to hear  the  slightest
sound. I was so tense, I no longer noticed the stench.

    "Dragon of the Night," came Saryon's voice from the darkness. "You
know me. You know who I am."

    Scraping sounds,  as of  a  massive head  sliding along  the  rock
floor, a gigantic body shifting position. And then a pale, cold  white
light lit the chamber.

    We could see Saryon, a  stark black silhouette against that  white
light. We could not see  the dragon, for its  head was far, far  above
Saryon, out of our view. I remembered that I was not to look  directly
into the dragon's eyes.

    We held our breath for the  answer, which might be instant  death.
Eliza and I clasped each other by the hand.

    "I know you," said the Dragon of Night, hating him. "Why have  you
come to disturb my rest?"

    We breathed again. The charm  had held! Impulsively, Eliza  hugged
me. I put my arm around her.

    Mosiah flashed us a stern, reproving glance. Neither he nor Scylla
had lowered their  guard. She stood  with the torch  held high in  one
hand, her sword in the other. He had his hands clenched, magic  spells
in his mind and on  his lips. He reminded  us silently that there  was
still great danger.

    Accepting the rebuke, Eliza and I drew apart, yet our hands  again
found each other's in the darkness.

    "I come to relieve you of your burden," Saryon said. "And to  free
you of the charm. This young woman is Joram's heir."

    "I am here," Eliza called.

    Releasing my hand, she walked into the chamber. Scylla and I  both
would have followed, but Mosiah held out his arms, blocking the way.

    "Neither of you were mentioned in the charming!" he said  swiftly.
"You could break it!"

    His caution was sensible. He certainly knew more about charms  and
spells than I did. I was forced  to stay behind, though it took  every
ounce of self-control I  possessed to remain there  in the tunnel  and
watch Eliza walk away from me, walk into deadly peril.

    Scylla was pale, her eyes dark and huge. She, too, understood  the
wisdom of Mosiah's words, yet she was  in agony at the thought of  her
charge going where her  knight could not follow.  Sweat beaded on  the
knight's brow. She bit her nether lip.

    We could do nothing but wait.

    Eliza and Saryon stood in silhouette before the dragon, bathed  in
that pale, white light,  which did not illuminate,  but turned all  it
touched a ghostly gray.

    "She is Dead," said the dragon. And then, in a terrible voice, the
dragon repeated the Prophecy. " '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. ' "

    "That was spoken of my father," said Eliza, proudly, calmly.

    "You are indeed what you claim.  Take that which is yours.  Remove
it from my lair. It has troubled my sleep these past twenty years."

    The two walked to a large mound of rocks, which stood just to  the
left of our line  of sight. With Eliza's  help, Saryon began to  shift
the rocks, working swiftly. Neither wanted to stay in there any longer
than they had to. The three of  us, waiting for them, dared not  stir.
Though we could not see the dragon,  we knew that it was aware of  our
presence. Its hatred and loathing  were almost palpable. It longed  to
slaughter us, not for food, but  for revenge. The charm held it  back,
but just barely.

    And then the work was finished.  Saryon and Eliza stood above  the
cairn. She saw for the first time her father's creation. Repulsed, her
courage failed her. Then, jaw tightening, she reached down and  picked
up the Darksword.

    Without warning,  black-robed  figures  materialized  out  of  the
darkness. Five  surrounded us.  More appeared  in the  dragon's  lair,
their black robes  and hoods  standing out  in stark  contrast to  the
white light.

    "Keep still!" Mosiah warned  softly, urgently. "Go quickly  before
it is too late! You will destroy us all!"

    "Silence, traitor."

    One of the Duuk-tsarith raised his hand and Mosiah doubled over in
wrenching pain and fell to his knees. Still he was defiant.

    "Fools!" he managed to gasp.

    Scylla advanced a step, her sword raised.

    The same Duuk-tsarith again moved  his hand. Scylla's steel  blade
changed to water,  ran down  her upraised  arm, and  dripped upon  the
stone at her  feet. She  stared, in openmouthed  astonishment, at  her
empty hand.

    "What is the meaning of this?" Father Saryon demanded angrily.

    "Relinquish the Darksword," another of the Duuk-tsarith commanded.
He approached Eliza. "Relinquish it and you will come to no harm."

    "We have no need of you. Leave  us. We will take the Darksword  to
the Emperor!" Eliza said imperiously.

    "Emperor no  more," countered  the Duuk-tsarith.  "Garald and  his
false, lying bishop have been deposed. We rule Thimhallan now. Give us
the Darksword."

    Eliza fell back before them. "You have no right-"

    Red flame sprang from the  fingertips of the Duuk-tsarith,  formed
into fiery tentacles that reached out  to encircle Eliza and make  her
captive.

    Instinctively, she lifted the Darksword to shield herself from the
magic.

    Tentacles of flame struck the Darksword. The darkstone drank  them
in greedily and began to glow with a white-blue flame of its own.

    "The child of the traitor Joram is hereby sentenced to death," the
Duuk-tsarith pronounced.

    Magic surged and heaved and sparked.

    "Stop! Cast  no  spells!"  Saryon cried  in  terror.  He  stumbled
forward, to  put  himself between  Eliza  and the  Duuk-tsarith.  "The
dragon-"

    The Darksword sucked in the  magic. The metal seemed  superheated,
the white-blue glow of the flame was dazzling, blinding. . . .

    The Dragon of  the Night roared  in pain and  fury. It lifted  its
wings, the deadly stars  glittered. The dragon  opened its eyes  wide.
Its mind-shattering light  flared within the  cavern. Saryon  clutched
his head and reeled in pain,  then he collapsed upon the stone  floor.
White stars of death showered down around us. The Duuk-tsarith's black
robes burst into flame. They and their spells withered in the horrific
blaze.

    "Fools!" Mosiah repeated,  with the  grim quiet  of despair.  "You
have doomed us all!"

    I looked for Scylla, but could not find her. Weaponless and alone,
she must have gone forth to do battle with the dragon.

    "Eliza!" I cried,  and ran  into the cave,  not to  save her,  for
nothing could do that, but to die with her.

    I ran and it was as if I had leapt off an immense cliff. I  spread
my arms and discovered I could fly.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

    "Simkin's a monumental liar. I don't  see how you can put up  with
him!"

    "Because he's an amusing liar. And that makes him different."

    "Different?"

    "From the rest of you."

    MOSIAH AND JORAM; FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    Again, the frightening sensation of being squeezed, the air forced
from my lungs, my body compressed  and flattened like that of a  mouse
squeezing itself  into a  tiny  crack. My  flight ended  abruptly  and
painfully in a  tumble. I rolled  down a rocky  incline, came up  hard
against a stone wall.

    For a moment I lay there,  dazed and bruised and cut, gasping  for
air like a landed fish. Fearing the dragon, I opened my eyes, prepared
to do what little I could to defend myself and Eliza. I looked around,
blinked.

    The dragon was gone. The Duuk-tsarith were gone. Father Saryon was
gone. Scylla was there,  and Mosiah, and Eliza.  We were in a  cavern,
the same  cavern. It  smelled the  same. The  floor was  covered  with
refuse, bones lay scattered  about. Eliza stood in  the center of  the
cavern, holding the Darksword.

    Dropping the sword, she hurried to me, bent over me. "Reuven! That
was a nasty fall! Are you all right?" Was I? No, I wasn't.

    Eliza no longer wore the blue velvet riding outfit, no  glittering
golden circlet adorned her head. She  was dressed in the plain  woolen
skirt and simple  blouse she had  been wearing when  we first set  out
upon this strange journey.

    I started to push  myself up, mindful of  entangling myself in  my
robes, except that I wasn't wearing  robes. I was wearing jeans and  a
blue sweater.

    "Scylla! Quick! He's hurt!" Eliza cried.

    Scylla,  clad  in  combat  fatigues,  her  earrings  winking   and
sparkling in the light of a flashlight, squatted down and peered at me
intently. Reaching out  her hand,  she brushed  aside the  hair on  my
forehead.

    "The cut's not deep. The bleeding's already stopped. He may have a
headache for a while, but no permanent damage."

    Eliza drew  out a  handkerchief-a plain,  white handkerchief-  and
began to dab at the cut on my forehead.

    Angrily, I thrust away her hand.  Scrambling to my feet, I  backed
up against the wall and glared at the two women, who were regarding me
in astonishment. Had it been a  dream? A hallucination? If so, it  was
the most incredibly real dream I had ever experienced.

    "What's going on here?" Mosiah demanded, coming over to us.

    "Reuven's foot turned on  a stone and he  fell and hit his  head,"
Eliza said.  "Scylla says  it's not  serious, but  look at  him.  He's
staring at me as if I were a dragon about to tear him apart!"

    "And you," said Scylla, confronting Mosiah. "Where have you been?"

    "I don't know," he said harshly. "Where have I been?"

    "How the hell  should I  know?" Scylla  demanded, looking  amazed.
"What's wrong? Did you hit your head, too?"

    Mosiah was  suddenly grave,  thoughtful. "Yes,"  he said  quietly.
"Come to think of it, I did."

    He knew! He had been there,  wherever it was! Limp with relief,  I
leaned back against the  cave wall and tried  to collect my  thoughts.
Most of them were  too far scattered  to get hold of,  but at least  I
knew I  wasn't  going insane.  I  started to  ask  Mosiah one  of  the
thousand questions that was in my mind, but he made me a discreet sign
with his hand.

    "Say nothing. Not yet," he counseled.

    "There," Scylla said,  dusting off my  clothes with an  enthusiasm
which nearly had me back on the stone floor again. "You look a  little
better."

    Eliza bent  down,  picked  up  the  Darksword.  I  had  a  sudden,
horrifying vision of  a black  dragon, claws stained  red with  blood,
knocking the Darksword from her hands. She fell. The claws ripped  and
tore her flesh. Her screams . . .

    The vision faded,  though not  the horror.  My body  was wet  with
sweat and I shivered in the cavern's dank air.

    "You do realize that we are  standing in a dragon's lair,"  Mosiah
said sharply.

    "That's  what  Scylla  told  me."  Eliza  shrugged.  She  was  too
preoccupied with worry over her father to evince much interest.

    "It's an old  one," Scylla said.  "No need to  be afraid. All  the
dragons died when the Well of Life was destroyed."

    "It certainly smells occupied," Mosiah maintained, frowning.  "And
how did the Darksword end up here} I threw it through the gate-"

    "And damn near made me into a shish kebab," came a plaintive voice
from a dark corner. "Bear-on-a-Spit.  Teriyaki Teddy. Lucky for you  I
was around. Those silver-plated goons would  have snapped it up if  it
hadn't been for me.  As for the cave,  it's hermetically sealed.  Like
Tupperware. Keeps the rot fresh for centuries."

    Flashing her light around the cavern, Scylla located the source of
the voice.

    "Teddy!" Eliza cried in delight.

    The stuffed bear sat propped  up against a stalagmite. "I  thought
you'd never get here," he said  peevishly. "What have you been  doing?
Going on picnics, I suppose. Taking  bus trips to Brighton. I've  been
waiting and waiting. It's been frightfully dull, I don't mind  telling
you."

    Still carrying the  Darksword, Eliza  walked over  to Teddy,  bent
down to pick him up.

    The bear's beady black eyes  glittered in alarm. The stuffed  body
squirmed out of her reach. "Don't bring that ugly thing near me!"

    "The Darksword?"  Eliza  said,  wondering,  then  added,  "Oh,  of
course. I understand."

    "I don't," Mosiah said sharply. "The Darksword disrupts his magic.
He can't stand  to have  it near  him. And  yet he  maintains that  he
brought it here!"

    "You'd be amazed what I can do  when I put my mind to it,"  Simkin
said, sniffing. "And I never said I brought it here. I do have friends
left in this world, you know. People who appreciate me. My dear friend
Merlyn, for one."

    "Merlyn. Of  course."  Mosiah's  lip  curled.  "Kevon  Smythe  for
another?"

    "Sticks and stones may  break my bones  but Darkswords will  never
hurt me," Teddy said, and the bear grinned.

    "What does it matter how the  sword came to be here?" Eliza  asked
impatiently. "Now that we have it,  we must find my father and  mother
and Father Saryon."

    Startled, I looked at Mosiah.

    "Your father. Joram," Mosiah asked. "He's alive?"

    "Of course he  is!" she answered,  and repeated emphatically,  "Of
course he is."

    "Oh, yes,  Joram's alive,  all right,"  the bear  said in  languid
tones. "In a  foul temper,  though. Can't blame  him. Locked  up in  a
prison cell with only the elderly bald party for company."

    Eliza grasped the  Darksword tightly, her  knuckles whitening,  on
the hilt. "You've found him? He's safe?"

    "He's seen better days,  as the Duchess of  Orleans said when  she
discovered her husband  impaled on the  door knocker. He's  conscious,
and taking solid food.  Your father. Not the  Duke. There was  nothing
much we could do for him, beyond polish his head every Sunday."

    "What about my mother?"

    "Nada. Nothing. Zip.  Sorry and  all that, but  I sighted  neither
hide nor  hair of  her. She  is not  being held  captive in  the  same
location as your father and the catalyst, that much I can tell you."

    "You've been there." Mosiah was skeptical.

    "Certainly," replied the bear.

    "To the Technomancers'  prison. Where they're  holding Saryon  and
Joram."

    "If you would remove that black hood from over your head, Mosiah,"
the bear said in nasty tones, "you might be able to hear better. Isn't
that what I said? I was just  returning from there, in fact, when  you
hurled that great bloody sword at me."

    "And where is this prison?"

    "Right there," the bear replied, and gave a bored glance upward.

    "Above us!" Eliza exclaimed. She  had looked pale and downcast  at
hearing no news of her mother, but now the color came flooding back to
her cheeks.

    "In the upper chambers of the cave. Not far. A good, brisk walk on
a summer's day, straight uphill, of course, but think what wonders the
climb will do for your calves."

    While this  may  have  been  good news  in  one  respect,  it  was
certainly chilling  in another.  We flashed  alarmed glances  at  each
other.

    "I'll watch  the  door," Scylla  offered.  "And keep  your  voices
down!"

    That warning came  a bit  late. We  hadn't been  shouting, but  we
hadn't been talking in whispers, either. And noise echoes in caverns.

    "If the Technomancers are  in the chambers above  us, why did  you
bring the  Darksword here?"  Mosiah demanded  of Simkin.  "Unless  you
meant to give it to them."

    "If I did, I wouldn't be down here in this smelly, dank hole  with
the lot of you, now, would I?" Simkin said, his nose button twitching.
"I'd be up there where it's dry and comfy and stinks of nothing  worse
than Kevon Smythe's cheap cologne. He may be a man of the people,  but
I don't see why he has to smell like one."

    "Why bring the Darksword here?" Mosiah pursued with  extraordinary
patience.

    "Because, my dear thickheaded clodhopper friend, this is obviously
the last place  they would think  to look! Having  lost you, they  are
this moment  turning Zithel  upside  down searching  for you  and  the
sword. You don't see them searching down here, do you?"

    "He's got a point," Scylla admitted.

    "He  always  does,"  Mosiah  grumbled.  "Why  didn't  we  see  the
Technomancers or they see us when we entered the cave?"

    "You would have, if you'd come in the front."

    "You're saying we came in the back?"

    "I didn't see any flashing signs, exit or egress, don't you  know,
but if you want to think of it that way, yes, you came in the back."

    "Is my father in a cell?"  Eliza asked. "Is he being guarded?  How
many guards?"

    "Two. As I said, everyone is certain you're in Zithel-"

    Scylla moved away from the cavern door, back toward us. "We should
go now," she said. "Quickly."

    "I don't trust him." Mosiah was grim. "He betrayed Joram once  and
caused his  death-almost  caused  his death,"  he  amended.  "Whatever
Simkin does,  he does  for  his own  amusement. Don't  fool  yourself,
Eliza. He cares nothing for you, nothing for Joram, nothing for any of
us. I have no doubt that if he thinks the Hch'nyv would provide him  a
moment's entertainment, he'd wave that orange scarf of his and  direct
them to the landing site."

    Eliza turned to  the bear, only  to find its  eyes closed. It  was
gently snoring. "Simkin!" she said, imploring.

    The eyes  snapped open.  "What? Oh,  pardon. Must  have dozed  off
during that long harangue. As for me, what our cow-turd-kicking friend
says is absolutely true. I'm not to be trusted. Not in the slightest."

    The black button eyes  glinted. The black-stitched mouth  quirked.
"Listen to Mosiah, the wise  Duuk-tsarith. Now, there's a  trustworthy
bunch. We  are all  ears, my  friend. I  could be,  if I  wanted,  you
know-all ears, that is. What is your suggested plan of action?"

    Mosiah's lips tightened. He  said nothing, however.  I am sure  he
was  remembering  that  in  that  other  life  of  ours,  it  was  the
Duuk-tsarith who had betrayed us. Simkin knew this, too. I could  tell
from the squint in the bear's eye. He knew and he was laughing at us.

    Eliza made  her  decision.  "If the  Technomancers  are  searching
somewhere else  for us,  we should  not pass  up this  opportunity  to
rescue my father and Saryon. We may never have another chance."

    "It could be  a trap,"  Mosiah warned. "Just  as the  Interrogator
impersonating your mother was a trap."

    "It could be," Eliza  said calmly. "But if  so, it really  doesn't
matter, does it? We're running out of time."

    "But which time? That's the question," Mosiah muttered.

    Eliza hadn't heard him. I did, and it gave me cause for thought.

    "What about the  Darksword?" she  was saying. "Should  we take  it
with us?"

    "Too dangerous," Scylla  advised. "If  they capture  us, at  least
they won't have  the Darksword.  We may  still be  able to  use it  to
bargain our way out. Why not leave it here where it will be safe?"

    "Out in the open?"

    Scylla flashed  the  light around  the  cavern, halted  the  beam.
"There's all these rocks  stacked up over here.  We'll hide the  sword
underneath them. Build a cairn over it."

    Eliza placed the  Darksword on  the cavern floor.  She and  Scylla
gathered stones,  began  to build  a  cairn  around it.  It  was  like
watching a video rewind. I saw  them build the cairn up, whereas  only
moments before, I  had seen  Eliza and  Father Saryon  tear the  cairn
down. At this, my mind rebelled.

    I hurried  over to  join Mosiah,  who was  standing silent,  hands
folded, watching.

    "Tell me what is happening!" I signed frantically.

    "Do you mean our little game of time hopscotch? I'm not sure,"  he
mused, sotto  voce. "It  appears that  there is  a time  line  running
parallel to the one in which we now find ourselves. An alternate  time
line, for in that one Joram died  twenty years ago and in this one  it
was Simkin,  disguised  as Joram,  who  'died'  at the  hands  of  the
assassin. But  why is  this happening?  And if  Scylla and  Eliza  are
present in both worlds, why is it that you and I appear to be the only
ones conscious of both worlds?"

    "Do you know the answer?"

    He shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Reuven. I am sure  of
one thing,  though.  The Hch'nyv  were  coming in  that  other  world.
They're coming in this one. As Her Majesty says, time is running out."

    I asked the question I had  most feared asking. "Time ran out  for
us in that last world, didn't it? We were all killed. I know,  because
when I  try to  catch a  glimpse of  that other  life, I  see  nothing
anymore. I only feel a great and terrible anger at those who  betrayed
us, and bitter sorrow over what will be lost."

    "You are right," Mosiah  said. "The dragon  slaughtered us. I  saw
you die. I  saw Eliza die.  I saw  my own death  approaching. The  one
person I didn't see, though, was  Scylla," he added. "Now, isn't  that
interesting?"

    I waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more.

    I signed, "Do you think we've been given another chance?"

    "Either  that,"  Mosiah  replied,  "or  someone  is  being  highly
entertained by our struggles against the inevitable."

    We both looked at the  bear, who was again slumbering  contentedly
against the stalagmite.  And it may  have been my  imagination, but  I
thought I saw Teddy smile.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

    "Strike me dead. I'm rotten."

    SIMKIN, UPON CHANGING HIMSELF INTO A TREE; FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    The Darksword was buried under the cairn, a cairn that was exactly
like the one  I had seen  before, down  to the placement  of the  last
rock. I could not look at it without feeling a shiver creep up from my
tailbone and I was glad when we left the chamber. We moved  cautiously
through the spiraling tunnel, this time

    going  up  instead  of  down.  It   did  not  appear  as  if   the
Technomancers had searched  the lower levels-there  was no reason  why
they should. To judge  by the thick layer  of undisturbed dust on  the
smooth floor, no one had  been here for perhaps  as many years as  the
magically shaped tunnel  had been  in existence. We  took no  chances,
however, and  crept  along as  silently  as possible,  guided  by  the
ghostly image of Simkin  and the faint eerie  glow of his orange  silk
scarf.

    Simkin's  transformation  had  come  about  under  duress.  Before
leaving the chamber, Mosiah had  insisted on carrying Teddy, in  order
to keep an eye on him.

    "Absolutely not!" Teddy was appalled at the indignity and  pleaded
and bleated. Finding Mosiah proof against both the bear's threats  and
Eliza's intercessions on his behalf, Simkin had abandoned his  stuffed
self and condescended to appear before us "naked," as he put it.

    "It takes a great  deal out of me,  maintaining this form, as  you
can see. Or can't see," Simkin said in gloomy undertones as we  walked
through the tunnel.  The orange glow  from his scarf  lit the way  for
Mosiah and  me.  Scylla  and  Eliza came  behind  us,  using  Scylla's
flashlight.

    "Odd," said Mosiah.  "The Kij  vine finds enough  magical Life  to
thrive. I am surprised you don't."

    "The Kij vine," Simkin observed, "is a weed."

    "Precisely," Mosiah said dryly.

    "Oh, very funny. Ha-ha and all that. According to you, I have Life
coming out my ears and I'm  just frittering it away, scattering it  to
the four winds in a blithe and  merry dance of revelry. I'll have  you
know," Simkin  added  in  aggrieved tones,  "that  I  haven't  changed
clothes in twenty years! Twenty years!"

    He dabbed at  his eyes with  the scarf, which  was the only  solid
piece of him.

    "Perhaps you're  using  your  magic for  other  purposes,"  Mosiah
suggested. "Such as sending us hopscotching through time."

    "What do you take  me for?" Simkin  demanded, sniffing. "A  bloody
amusement park? There are lots of places I would be glad to send  you,
Mosiah, but bounding  gleefully among  the nanoseconds is  not one  of
them.

    "I say!" Simkin came  to a halt, glared  at us indignantly.  "Have
you been leaping the years? Annus touristi? And you didn't take me!"

    "What now?" Scylla demanded, coming  up from her position as  rear
guard. "What's the matter?"

    "Nothing," Mosiah said.

    "Then keep  moving! This  is no  time to  stop and  have a  chat!"
Scylla stalked on ahead of us.

    "Got  you  in  trouble!"  Simkin  said  in  smothered  tones,  and
laughing, he flitted  back to walk  beside Eliza and  flirt with  her,
most shamefully.

    "An interesting point, don't you think?" Mosiah said to me softly.
"Simkin wasn't with  us in  that other  time. And  Simkin would  never
throw a party that he himself didn't attend!"

    I conceded that this might be true. Still, as I glanced behind me,
watching uneasily the orange glow bob along close to Eliza, I recalled
that in  each of  the alternate  lines of  time, Simkin  had  betrayed
Joram. Why were we to suppose that this one would be any different?

    Except that now he would  not be betraying Joram. The  treacherous
kiss would be given to Joram's daughter.

    The tunnel seemed much  longer going up than  coming down. By  the
time we neared the top, my legs  ached, I was gulping for breath,  and
the difficult part was only beginning.

    I had pictured the top portion of the cavern as being the same  as
in the alternate time, if that's  truly where (or should I say  when!)
we had been. I soon realized I was wrong. Rounding a bend, Scylla,  in
the lead, suddenly switched off her light and jumped backward.

    "Light!" she whispered. "It's coming from ahead!"

    Now that her flashlight  was turned off, I  could see the glow  of
another light reflected on the cavern  walls. There had been no  light
in the other cavern,  I recalled, remembering that  Saryon had left  a
tinderbox and flint and a brand behind.

    "What's up there?" Mosiah asked Simkin.

    "Rock, air, water." Simkin waved  the orange scarf. "Oh! You  want
specifics! Well, let's see." He frowned in deep thought. "This  tunnel
ends at the  river. At the  opening to  the tunnel, there  is a  small
chamber, just off to the right as  you're facing the tunnel. Or is  it
the left, as  you're facing  the river? Of  course, if  you're in  the
river, it's rather behind you and-"

    "Simkin, please!"  Eliza  said,  and her  voice  quavered.  "What?
Sorry, dear girl.  Truly." Simkin looked  very contrite. "Forgot  that
you're taking this personally. Let's see. Where was I? In the river  .
. . Right. We don't want to go in the river. Not if it can be avoided.
No need  to, really.  Joram and  the Father  Skinhead are  being  held
prisoner in the  small chamber  which is  to the  right-no, make  that
left. . . . Anyway, the small chamber. You can't miss it."

    "No, and  they won't  be able  to miss  us," Mosiah  said  grimly.
"They'll spot us the moment we walk into the light. If only I had Life
enough-"

    "I don't see what's  stopping you, Enforcer.  You have a  catalyst
right here," Eliza said.  "Father Reuven. He may  be a house  catalyst
and not trained to the specific needs of you warlocks, but he would do
in an emergency, I suppose."

    "Father Reuven!" Scylla  chuckled. "How funny."  Mosiah and I  did
not laugh. We stared at Eliza. She had  spoken of me as if we were  in
that other  time, using  the very  same  words Scylla  had used  in  a
similar situation.

    "Why are you looking  at me like that?  What did I say-oh."  Eliza
blinked in confusion. "What did  I say? And why  did I say it?  Father
Reuven. House catalyst. But it sounds so natural. . . ."

    Mosiah was looking at me now, his expression thoughtful.  Suddenly
he thrust his black-robed arm  out. "Catalyst," he said softly,  "give
me Life."

    I would have laughed. My hand lifted  to sign that I did not  know
how. . . .  And yet, I  did know how. I  remembered. I remembered  the
wonderful feeling as  the Life  flowed into  me. I  remembered how  to
reach out for the  magic with one hand  while the other held  Mosiah's
arm. I was  the vessel,  the magic  ran into  me, and  for that  brief
moment I was blessed.

    I closed my eyes and willed the Life of Thimhallan to come to me.

    At first I felt nothing, and  fear that I would fail, fail  Eliza,
twisted inside me. I concentrated all my effort, praying to the Almin,
pleading. . . . The Life came suddenly, in a great surge, as if it had
been pent up and was  waiting only for release.  The energy gave me  a
severe jolt. My body tingled and burned, as if each drop of blood  was
a tiny spark. The sensation was excruciatingly painful, not  pleasant,
as it had been in the alternate time.

    Frightened and hurting, I tried to end it, tried to snatch my hand
from Mosiah's  arm, but  he refused  to  let me  go. The  magic  leapt
between us in a blue arc that twined around his arm and mine.

    The flame of the arc crackled out. I was empty, the fire  replaced
by a sensation of  cold that left  me numb and shaking.  I sank to  my
knees, my strength sapped.

    Eliza knelt and put her arm around me.

    "Reuven, are you all right?"

    I nodded, though I felt sick and dizzy.

    "Blessed Almin," said Scylla, awed. "I've never seen anything like
that!"

    "I doubt you  ever will  again," said Mosiah,  massaging his  arm.
"That was the Life transference of a catalyst to a warlock. We thought
such transferences  had died  with  the magic,  for  it has  not  been
successfully performed since the war  ended. Strange," he murmured  to
himself. "Very strange."

    "Not so strange if the magic hasn't died," Scylla observed.

    Simkin yawned. "While you all are  playing at being magi, I'm  off
to reconnoiter. Wait  for me  here. Do  you know,  I'm quite  enjoying
this!"

    "Wait-damn!"

    Mosiah clutched empty air. Simkin had vanished.

    "Now what do we do?" I signed.

    "Hand ourselves over to the Technomancers," Mosiah said  bitterly.
"We might as well."

    "Nonsense," Eliza  said  crisply.  "We'll wait  here  for  him  to
return. He will return. I have faith in Ted-Simkin."

    "So did  your  father," Mosiah  said  grimly. He  glanced  around,
stiffened. "We're missing someone else."

    We could  see  a short  distance  down  the tunnel  by  the  light
reflecting off the rocks. Scylla was nowhere in sight.

    "Back!" Mosiah urged, and he started herding Eliza and me down the
tunnel. "Back the way we came! We can hold out-"

    "Psst! Over here!" came a piercing whisper.

    A hand waved at us from the darkness.

    An arm attached to the hand  appeared and Scylla emerged from  the
shadows. "I've found  another chamber. We  can hide in  here and  keep
watch!"

    Eliza gave Mosiah a reproachful glance and went to join Scylla.  I
started after her. Mosiah clamped hold of my arm.

    "Do you remember another chamber in the cave the last time we were
inside it?"

    I shook my head. "But it was dark and confused."

    "Wasn't it," Mosiah said coolly.

    The chamber  Scylla  had found  was  located directly  across  the
tunnel from where we had been standing. It provided a clear view of  a
small cavern.  Two Technomancers,  in their  silver masks  and  robes,
stood guard outside the entrance.

    Long minutes passed. Nothing happened, and the thought occurred to
me that  Simkin  had  been  right  about  one  thing,  at  least.  The
Technomancers must have felt their  prisoners were secure and that  we
were far away. Either that or the prisoners were not in there at  all.
I was wondering if Simkin had led us on a wild-goose chase when one of
the Technomancers spoke.

    "Time to check on them," he said.

    The other nodded  and turned on  his heel, took  a step, and  fell
headlong, sprawling on the cavern floor.

    "Son-of-a-bitch!" the man swore as he picked himself up.

    "What the hell happened to  you?" his companion asked, turning  to
stare.

    "I fell  over a  rock!  That rock!"  The Technomancer  glared  and
pointed.

    "Well, watch where you're going next time."

    The Technomancer stared balefully at  the rock. "I'll swear,  that
wasn't there before."

    "You're just clumsy," said the other Technomancer, shrugging.

    "No, I'm serious. I've been in and out of this blasted prison cell
thirty times  today  and  I'll  swear that  rock  wasn't  there!"  The
Technomancer picked it up.  "I'll be damned!"  he said, amazed.  "This
rock has . . . eyes!"

    Those of us hunkered down  in the chamber exchanged glances.  None
of us said the word, but we were all thinking it.

    Simkin.

    "What the devil  are you  two doing? Standing  there discussing  a
rock," came another voice. I recognized it and so did Mosiah.

    "Smythe!" he whispered.

    "If you've taken  up geology,"  Smythe continued, "do  it on  your
time. Not mine."

    The two  Technomancers  snapped  to  attention.  Smythe  appeared,
coming from the direction of the  cavern entrance. He was not  wearing
the business suit in which I'd last  seen him, but was dressed in  the
robes, trimmed in gold, that he'd  worn in the hologram. His face  was
in the light and  it was a  good thing I had  recognized him from  his
voice. I might not have done so  otherwise. The face that had been  so
handsome and charming  was grim  and contorted  with suppressed  rage.
Four bodyguards in silver trooped after him.

    "But, sir, look at this rock-"

    "Is it darkstone?" Smythe demanded impatiently.

    "No, sir, it doesn't appear to be. Ordinary limestone, maybe.  But
it-"

    "Darkstone is the only  rock in which I'm  interested. Toss it  in
the river."

    The Technomancer looked again  at the rock and  seemed to want  to
argue. A glance at Smythe's scowling face, and the Technomancer gave a
heave, flung the rock into the dark, swiftly flowing water.

    I could swear that  I heard a faint  indignant shriek as the  rock
sailed through the air. It hit the water with a splash and sank . .  .
like a rock.

    "How are the prisoners?" Smythe asked. "Any change?"

    "That Joram's growing worse, sir. He  won't be with us long if  he
doesn't get help."

    Eliza, beside me, made a choked sound. "Hush!" Scylla breathed.

    Mosiah cast them both a warning glance. I found Eliza's hand.  Her
flesh was  chill  to the  touch.  Her fingers  tightened  convulsively
around mine.

    "I'm going to talk to Joram," Smythe was saying. "If he's that bad
off, he may be willing to cooperate. Two of you come with me. The rest
of you wait outside."

    Smythe entered the  chamber where the  prisoners were being  held.
Two of his guards followed after him. The others took up positions out
in the corridor.

    There was nothing we could do but wait. Not only would we endanger
ourselves if we  tried to  fight such overwhelming  numbers, we  would
place the prisoners'  lives in jeopardy.  There was every  possibility
the Technomancers would kill their  prisoners rather than let them  be
rescued.

    We hid in  the darkness,  straining to  hear. The  first voice  we
heard was Father Saryon's.  His tone was  strong and indignant,  which
meant that he was well. I closed my eyes and breathed a prayer to  the
Almin in thankfulness.

    "Joram is very ill,  as you can see,  Mr. Smythe. My friend  needs
medical attention  immediately. I  insist  that you  take him  to  the
outpost. They have a medical facility there-"

    "Certainly," said Smythe, and  his voice was  smooth and eager  to
please. "We will provide him with the antidote to the poison- as  soon
as he tells me where to find the Darksword."

    "Poison?" Saryon was horrified. "You poisoned him?"

    "A slow-acting variety. We use the same to cause the deaths of the
organisms in our  perpetual generators.  Death comes  very slowly  and
very painfully, I  am told. Now,  my friend. Where  is the  Darksword?
Tell us that,  and you will  feel much better.".  "He does not  know!"
Saryon said angrily. "Ah, but I think he does," said Smythe. "He  gave
it to his daughter to hide. We saw her in possession of the sword,  so
you needn't trouble to lie about it. We are on her trail-"

    "If you hurt her . . ." The voice was weak, but it was  definitely
Joram's.

    We heard scuffling sounds and a stifled cry.

    Eliza turned her head into my shoulder. I held her tightly and the
rage I felt  toward Smythe at  that moment appalled  me. I had  always
thought of myself as a pacifist. Now I knew I had it in me to kill.

    "Don't! Leave him alone!"  Saryon cried, and  we heard a  rustling
sound, as if he threw himself  protectively in front of Joram. "He  is
weak and ill."

    "He will be far more ill if he does not cooperate."

    "He can be of no use to you dead!"

    "He isn't going to die. At least not yet. As you say, I have  need
of him. Give  him the  stimulant. There. That  will keep  him alive  a
little longer. He won't feel very good, but he'll live, which is  more
than I  can say  for you,  Father  Saryon. You  are of  no use  to  me
whatsoever. I have catalysts of my own, prepared to give the Darksword
Life, once it is recovered.

    "Listen to me,  Joram. You  have five minutes  to reconsider  your
stubborn refusal to tell me where  your daughter is hiding. If you  do
not, Father Saryon will be flayed  alive, a particularly nasty way  to
die. Bind his feet and his hands."

    We four stared, horrified, at each  other. We had five minutes  to
act, five minutes to rescue the hostages, or Father Saryon would  most
certainly be tortured and murdered. There were six guards, plus  Kevon
Smythe, and only four of us.

    "Scylla, you have  your gun,"  Mosiah began, speaking  in a  tense
whisper. "You-"

    "Gun," she said. "I don't have a gun."

    Mosiah glared at her. "You don't  carry a gun! What kind of  agent
are you?"

    "A smart one," Scylla returned.  "From what I've seen, carrying  a
gun is an open invitation for someone to shoot you."

    Mosiah was grim. "We have no choice,  I guess. We have to take  on
all six of the D'karn-darah-"

    "Make that seven," Scylla said.

    Another  silver-robed  Technomancer  had  apparently  entered  the
cavern. I  say "apparently"  because I  had been  watching the  cavern
entrance and I had not seen anyone come inside. The new arrival glided
up behind  the two  guards waiting  at the  entrance. Reaching  out  a
silver-gloved hand,  the  D'karn-darah  tapped  one  of  them  on  the
shoulder.

    It was the Technomancer who had  thrown the rock in the river.  He
jumped, turned. His robes flowed around him like liquid mercury.

    "What the devil-who are you?" he demanded. "What do you want?  And
don't come sneaking up on someone like that. It's bad enough being  on
this blasted planet,  with rocks  that have  eyes and  God knows  what
else! What do you want?" he repeated nervously.

    "A message from HQ for the master."

    "He's inside the prison cell."

    "It's urgent," said the D'karn-darah.

    "I'll go tell him," volunteered the other Technomancer.

    "Wait," said the first. His tone was suspicious. "Why didn't  they
just send the message the usual way-using the seerstones?"

    "None of your seerstones are working. Try them."

    The first Technomancer put  his wrist to his  ear. The second  did
the same. The second looked at the first, who shrugged and jerked  his
head toward the prison cell. The Technomancer left to report.

    Smythe emerged.  His choleric  face was  a fierce  red, his  brows
drawn tight in a vicious scowl.

    "What do you mean the seerstones aren't working?" he demanded.

    "We don't  know, sir,"  returned the  newly arrived  Technomancer.
"Perhaps it's this cave, blocking the signal. I have an urgent message
for you, sir."

    "Deliver it!" Smythe snapped.

    The silver-hooded head revolved, glanced  in the direction of  the
other D'karn-darah. "It is for you  alone, Master. We should speak  in
private. It is most urgent, sir."

    Smythe looked back in frustration toward the prison. His unhealthy
choler increased. "Of all the damn luck. I just about had, him broken!
This better be good!" He turned to one of the guards. "Remind the good
father that he has three minutes left. Three minutes."

    "Come  over   here,   Master,"   said  the   messenger,   and   he
gestured-alarmingly-in the direction of our small hidden cavern.

    The two walked  toward us.  The silver robes  of the  D'karn-darah
swished about his ankles, revealing  his silver-slippered feet, and  I
suddenly noticed that this Technomancer was wearing orange socks.

    "Simkin!" Mosiah breathed into my ear.

    Beyond all reason,  it was, it  had to be  Simkin, disguised as  a
Technomancer and  leading  Kevon  Smythe straight  toward  our  hiding
place.

    "That bastard!" Mosiah whispered.  "If it's the  last thing I  do,
I'll-"

    "Shhh!" Scylla hushed him.

    Eliza gripped my hand tightly. We didn't dare move, for fear  he'd
hear us. We  went completely  immobile in the  darkness, every  breath
seeming to  whistle loud  as a  cyclone, our  heartbeats booming  like
thunder. Mosiah's  body tensed.  He  was readying  his magic  for  one
gigantic, lethal burst.

    Desperate, frantic  plans rushed  through my  mind, none  of  them
making any sense, or offering any hope.

    Four more paces and Kevon Smythe would bump right into us. At  the
second pace, the D'karn-darah that was Simkin came to a halt.

    Smythe stopped, turned to face him.

    "What's all this about?" he asked irritably.

    "Sir," said  Simkin,  "the  representatives of  the  Hch'nyv  have
arrived in Zithel."

    I heard a soft gasp,  as if Mosiah had  been punched in the  solar
plexus. Scylla exhaled softly.

    Smythe's color went from red to  sallow yellow, as if someone  had
opened a major artery  and drained all his  blood in an instant.  Such
stark terror was on his face that  I could almost have felt sorry  for
him. He quickly  recovered his  equanimity, but the  vestiges of  that
fear remained.

    "What do they want?" he asked, his voice under tight control.

    "The Darksword," said Simkin laconically.

    Smythe cast a furious glance  back toward the prison. "We  haven't
recovered it yet. We will. They must give us more time."

    "Earth Forces are  in retreat.  Earth takeover  is beginning.  You
haven't much time. Such were their words to us. It is their  religious
leaders that are pushing the issue, sir. Their gods or whatever it  is
they worship  have  warned  them  that the  Darksword  is  a  distinct
threat."

    "I know  all about  their blasted  gods!" Smythe  said, his  voice
shaking with  fury and  fear.  Once again,  he  clamped down  hard  on
himself. "We  made a  deal. Remind  them  of it.  They have  Earth  in
exchange for the Darksword. We  have Thimhallan. They provide us  with
Death. We provide them with Life. We will recover the Darksword and we
will give it to them, but in our own good time. Tell them that."

    Simkin shook  his silver-hooded  head. "They  will not  listen  to
those they consider underlings."

    Smythe fumed,  glanced  again  at  the  prison,  in  an  agony  of
indecision. "Very well. I'll  go deal with the  matter." He turned  on
his heel, stalked away, shouting orders. "My guards! Come with me. I'm
needed back at HQ. You two. Kill  the priest. I don't care how. Do  it
slowly and make certain Joram has a ringside seat."

    "What if he decides to talk, Master?"

    "Get his information, then transport him immediately to me at  HQ.
Use the teleporter."

    "Yes, sir. Do we still kill the priest?"

    "What do you think?" Smythe demanded impatiently. "He's of no  use
to me."

    "Yes, sir. Could you leave someone to help us, sir? The teleporter
is not functioning efficiently on this planet."

    "I'll stay here and  give them a hand,"  said Simkin from  beneath
his silver hood.

    "Very well." Smythe was obviously anxious to be gone. He left  the
cavern, his four bodyguards trooping after him.

    I looked  at the  others, to  see my  own feelings  of  revulsion,
horror, and fury reflected on their faces. I could not comprehend  how
any human could be so  consumed with power that  he would make a  deal
with a heinous enemy, a deal sacrificing millions of his fellow humans
on the altar of his own ambition.

    The two  Technomancers  went  into  the  prison  to  retrieve  the
captives. Simkin remained outside, rocking back and forth on his heels
and humming to himself. The humming was off-key and extremely  jarring
to the nerves. He did  not once look in our  direction or give us  the
slightest sign.

    I was beginning to  think that we had  been mistaken. Perhaps  the
Technomancer wasn't  Simkin,  after  all.  Perhaps  it  was  merely  a
Technomancer with an odd taste in footwear.

    Mosiah shared my doubts. "That fool! What's he doing? If it is him
. . ."

    "Whether it is or it isn't, he got rid of Smythe," Scylla  pointed
out. "And four of the guards. We should attack now."

    "Let them bring the hostages out of the cell first," said  Mosiah.
"They're probably using a stasis field to hold them and we'd never  be
able to remove it ourselves."

    "Good point, Enforcer," said Scylla admiringly. "What's the plan?"

    "Plan!" Mosiah snorted. "I'm the only one with a weapon and that's
my magic."

    "Not even a laser pistol would have any effect on that  protective
armor of theirs,"  Scylla returned  in a hoarse  whisper. "Besides,  I
have my own weapons."

    "Which are?"

    "You'll see. I guarantee you that I'll put one out of  commission,
if you can handle the other."

    Mosiah didn't like  it, but this  was no time  to argue. We  could
hear scuffling sounds  from inside the  prison. Simkin's humming  grew
louder and more nerve-racking, if that was possible.

    "At my signal, Scylla, you  attack," Mosiah ordered. "Reuven,  you
and Eliza rescue Joram and Father Saryon."

    "Where do we take them?" Eliza asked.

    "Down the tunnel. Back to the cavern where you hid the Darksword."

    "What then?"

    "Let's get that far first," Mosiah said.

    Simkin's humming was setting  my teeth on  edge. I've never  heard
such a  strange and  ear-piercing  sound come  from any  living  human
throat. But  then,  this  was  Simkin.  The  two  Technomancer  guards
emerged. One had hold of Father  Saryon. He looked upset and  anxious,
but I knew that his anxiety was for Joram, not for himself, though  he
was the one who was about to be put to death. Saryon kept twisting his
head, trying to see  over his shoulder, trying  to see Joram, who  was
being dragged out behind him.

    At  the  sight  of  her  father,  Eliza  gave  a  small  moan  and
immediately covered her  mouth with  her hand to  prevent any  further
cries from escaping her.

    Joram's skin was a grayish white, beaded with sweat. Blood  matted
his hair and was  caked on one  side of his face,  where a deep,  ugly
wound crossed over his cheek, almost  laying the bone bare. His  right
hand was clasped  over his left  arm, which hung  limp. His shirt  was
torn, blood covered the shirtfront, and the sleeve of the left arm was
saturated. The stimulant, his  fever, and his anger  gave his eyes  an
unnatural luster. He was weak, but grimly alert and defiant.

    "Release Father Saryon. Then and only  then will I tell you  where
to find the Darksword."

    "You'll tell us," said one of the Technomancers. "When you see the
priest lying there with half his flesh flayed from his body, screaming
for us to end his torment in death, you'll tell us."

    The Technomancer flung Father Saryon to the ground. His hands were
bound, he was unable to break his fall, and he landed heavily,  crying
out in pain. I  would have rushed forward  then and there, but  common
sense and Mosiah's whispered warning prevailed.

    Simkin approached Father Saryon, looked down at him.

    There was a sharp snapping sound.

    The Technomancer standing  nearest Simkin  stared wildly,  gasped,
and backed away.

    "What are you doing?" he cried shrilly.

    "Following orders," said Simkin. "Giving you a hand."

    He held out his own hand, which he had broken off at the wrist.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

    The magic that Joram longed for  and sought every morning to  feel
burning in his soul never came to him.

    When he was fifteen, he stopped asking Anja when he would gain the
magic.

    Deep inside of him, he already knew the answer.

    FORGING THE DARKSWORD

    "In addition, I'll help  you get ahead,"  Simkin added. He  lifted
his head from his shoulders-unscrewed his head would be more precisely
the term-and flung it straight at one of the Technomancers.

    The man may have had some small magical powers, although from what
I had seen,  the Technomancers were  so beholden to  Technology as  to
make the magic almost irrelevant. Certainly he had never seen magic in
such maniacal form. He gaped when  Simkin broke off his own hand.  But
when Simkin's head,  covered with  a silver hood,  the ends  flapping,
flew through the air at him, the Technomancer gave a strangled cry and
flung his arms over his face. Simkin's head exploded with a force that
stopped my heart, shook  the cave .  . . and resulted  in a shower  of
daisies. "Now!" Mosiah yelled.

    The Life flowed  through him and  transformed him as  he ran.  His
black robes writhed around him, flattened  to cover his body in  spiky
black fur. His head elongated, changed  to a muzzle with yellow  fangs
protruding from beneath black, curled lips. His legs transformed  into
the legs of a beast, his  forearms were covered with black fur,  claws
sprouted from the  fingernails. The hem  of his robes  twisted into  a
tail with a barb sharp as a razor. Mosiah had become a darkrover,  the
type known  as  a  hunterkill, one  of  the  most feared  of  all  the
creations of the ancient war masters.

    The Technomancer uncovered  his eyes, gazed  in bafflement at  the
daisies drifting down around his head. They might have been  scattered
over his grave. The next sight he saw was a terrible one-a  hunterkill
bounding across the cavern floor, running upright on its powerful hind
legs, jaws snapping, its claws reaching for the Technomancer's throat.

    His silver robes acted  as armor, capable-as  Scylla had said-  of
deflecting all  attacks by  conventional  weapons. The  darkrover  was
certainly not a conventional weapon, however. Mosiah hurled himself on
the Technomancer. The silver robes crackled and the darkrover shrieked
in pain, but Mosiah's claws scratched and tore. His weight carried the
Technomancer to the ground.

    The other Technomancer  guard was  not quite as  befuddled by  the
magic surging around him as his fellow. A weapon appeared in his hand,
a scythe,  that gleamed  with  a fell  energy.  He stood  over  Father
Saryon, swinging the  scythe in a  vicious arc. The  blade sang as  it
whipped through the air, reminding me of Simkin's off-key humming.

    Eliza and  I held  back, agonized,  afraid for  the captives.  But
there was nothing  we could do.  Saryon lay flattened  on the  ground.
Every sweep  of the  scythe came  a little  closer to  him. Joram  was
behind the scythe-wielding Technomancer, leaning up against the cavern
wall, his eyes bright and burning  with the effects of the poison.  He
lurched forward, with the idea of knocking down the Technomancer  from
behind.

    The guard  heard  him, however.  Whipping  the scythe  around,  he
struck Joram on  the side  of the head  with its  handle. Joram  fell,
landed near  Father Saryon.  Even then,  defiantly, Joram  raised  his
head. Blood, fresh blood, covered his face. His head sank between  his
arms. He lay still.

    Eliza cried out and  would have run to  her father, regardless  of
her own danger. I caught hold of her, held her.

    "Allow me, Your Majesty,"  said Scylla, and advanced,  barehanded,
on the Technomancer wielding the scythe.

    "Be careful, Scylla!" the darkrover shouted, using Mosiah's voice.

    The jaws of the  hunterkill dribbled blood  and saliva, its  claws
were red, blood smeared its black fur. I glanced over at its prey  and
was sorry I did. Hastily, I averted my gaze from what was left of  the
Technomancer's body. It was covered with blood and daisies.

    "That scythe can drain a person of Life," Mosiah cautioned.

    "I don't know why  you think that would  affect me," Scylla  said,
flashing Mosiah a grin and a wink.

    She advanced  on the  Technomancer,  watching his  movements,  and
suddenly kicked out her leg in the path of the swinging scythe.  Eliza
covered her eyes. I watched in  horror, expecting to see Scylla's  leg
hacked off by the vicious blade.

    The blade struck her  combat boot and  shattered, flying apart  in
thousands of  tiny sparkling  shards as  if it  had been  brittle  and
fragile as ice. I  could not see the  expression on the  silver-hooded
head, but  I  could  guess  that  he was  staring  at  his  weapon  in
astonishment. He quickly recovered, however, shifted his hands to  use
the scythe's handle as a club, and tried to jab Scylla.

    She  struck  out  with  the   heel  of  her  boot,  catching   the
Technomancer full in  the nose of  his silver-hooded head.  I heard  a
sickening, crackling  sound and  thought at  first it  was the  silver
armor's defensive shield activating. A smear of blood blossomed on the
silver hood. The sound  had been the man's  nose breaking. He  toppled
over backward. A kick to the head while he was on the ground  finished
him.

    "What's going  on in  there?"  a voice  shouted from  outside  the
cavern. "Is everything all right?"

    "More Technos," said Mosiah. He had retained his darkrover  shape,
his eyes glowed red and hideous.  "They must be the ones guarding  the
teleporter. They'll be here quickly.  They've got a hover barge!  Go!"
he urged, waving bloody claws at us. "Take Father Saryon and Joram and
go! I will deal with these."

    Saryon was on his knees, bending over the unconscious Joram. Eliza
was at her father's  side, holding his hand.  I wondered how we  would
manage to carry him with us, for he was a tall man and muscular.

    "I won't leave Joram," said Saryon firmly.

    "Nor will I," Eliza said. Tears streamed down her face but I don't
believe that she was aware of them.

    "Smythe has the  antidote to  the poison." Saryon's  gaze went  to
Eliza. "Do you know where the Darksword is?"

    "Yes, Father."

    "Then we must find it  and give it to him.  It is the only way  to
save your father's life."

    "He may not keep his end of the bargain," Scylla cautioned.

    "Perhaps he will," Saryon said bleakly. "He must."

    "We must carry him away from this place," Scylla urged. "We should
not leave him here for them to  find. They might take out their  wrath
at your escape on him."

    She touched Joram on the forehead. Her deft hands glided  smoothly
over the broken skin, wiping away the blood.

    Joram opened  his eyes,  blinked, as  if he  were looking  into  a
dazzling light.

    "The guards aren't answering.  Something's wrong," came the  voice
from outside the cavern. "I'm going to go check." .

    "Go!" Mosiah snarled. He bounded over to hide in the shadows  near
the cavern entrance.

    "I can make it," Joram said, fending off all offers of assistance.
"I don't need any help."

    As it  was, he  stumbled when  he tried  to rise,  but Scylla  was
there, her strong arm and shoulder supporting him.

    "Reuven," she called, "take hold of him from the other side."

    I did as she commanded. Hastening  to Joram's side, I caught  hold
of him around the waist. He glowered  at both Scylla and me and for  a
moment I thought he was going to defy us.

    "If you don't  allow us to  help you, sir,"  Scylla said  quietly,
"you will  not move  ten paces  from this  spot. When  you fall,  your
daughter  will  remain   with  you,   as  will   Father  Saryon.   The
Technomancers will catch them and that will be an end to all which you
have struggled to protect. Is that what you want?"

    Joram's forbidding expression dissolved. He shook his head. "No. I
will accept your help." He glanced over at me. "And Reuven's."

    "Eliza, you lead the way," Scylla said. "Hurry now."

    "Wait!" Eliza turned to Father  Saryon. "Where is Mother? Was  she
in that prison with you?"

    "No, child,"  Saryon  said, looking  concerned.  "She was  not.  I
thought perhaps you might know-"

    Eliza shook her head.

    "She is not here,"  Saryon said. "And that  is a hopeful sign.  If
the Technomancers had made  her captive, they would  have made use  of
her by now. I think that somehow she managed to escape them."

    "Then where is she?" Eliza demanded.

    "Perhaps I have an  idea," Saryon said. "Do  not worry. I  believe
that wherever she is, she is safe. Safer than we are."

    Eliza gave her  father a  gentle kiss on  his bloodstained  cheek,
then grabbing hold  of Saryon's hand,  she led the  way back down  the
spiraling tunnel. Scylla and I,  half carrying Joram, hastened  after.
He groaned with pain  only once, when we  first started to move,  then
gritted his teeth and tightened his lips over his agony.

    Behind us, we heard a savage howl and a scream.

    It occurred to me to  wonder, just as we  left the area, what  had
become of Simkin.

    I glanced back. There, lying on an empty pile of silver robes, was
a teddy bear. Its head was missing and so were both of its

    arms. The orange ribbon that had been tied in a jaunty bow  around
Teddy's neck lay limply across the body.

    I hurried on, thankful  that Eliza had  been too preoccupied  with
her father to see.

    "It's very strange," said  Saryon, after we  had traveled about  a
mile down the corkscrew tunnel, "but this place seems familiar to  me.
And I know I've never been here in my life."

    "Not in this life, perhaps,  Father," said Scylla, "but who  knows
where you've been gallivanting around in other lives?"

    Saryon glanced back  at her with  a weak smile,  thinking she  was
joking and politely  pretending to  be amused, although  he must  have
been thinking  that  this was  not  the  time for  levity.  Eliza  was
endeavoring to find our way, using Scylla's flashlight as a guide, and
paying no attention to  what was being said.  Joram was too intent  on
combating his pain to search for hidden meanings.

    I alone realized that  there might be  more to Scylla's  statement
than appeared. I glanced at her  sidelong, with Joram between us,  and
caught her looking at me,  a smile on her  lips. I could not  question
her; my hands were occupied in supporting Joram.

    I had no thought, then, of the truth. I'm not certain I would ever
have figured it out, but I began to see how a few small pieces of  the
puzzle might fit together. I wished that Mosiah were here, to see what
he would have made of her peculiar statement.

    But for all I knew, Mosiah might  very well be dead. We had  heard
nothing of him since  we left. Our  only sign that  he had lived  long
enough to perform his task was that  we had not been overtaken by  the
guards.

    We continued on. Joram grew heavier as his strength flagged and he
relied more on us to support him. Scylla bore most of the weight,  but
I had my share and  my shoulders burned and  ached with the strain.  I
thought of the pain he must be enduring in silence, with no complaint,
and I felt ashamed. Resolutely, I put the thought of my own discomfort
out of my mind and trudged on.

    Saryon came  to a  sudden  halt. "I  don't  like this,"  he  said.
"Something lives down here. Can't you  smell it? A dragon," he  added,
his brow furrowed. "A Dragon of the Night."

    "Something used  to  live  down  here,  Father,"  Eliza  answered,
flashing the  light around  the smooth-sided,  smooth-floored  tunnel.
"I'm not sure what it was, but  it's gone now. It must have died  when
the magic died. Why do you think it's a dragon?"

    "I don't know."  Saryon was  perplexed. "The thought  came to  me,
that's all."  He was  shrewd and  he had  lived most  of his  life  in
magical Thimhallan. He  looked at Scylla,  his expression puzzled  and
uneasy. He was beginning to take her joke more seriously. "Perhaps  we
should wait here for Mosiah. Not travel any farther until we find  out
what has happened to him.  Are you certain we  have to go deeper  into
this awful place?"

    "Yes, Father," said  Eliza. "I'm  sorry, but  we must  go on.  The
Darksword is down here."

    At this, Joram raised  his head. His  pallor was frightening,  the
blood formed dark streaks over his face. He had once again lapsed into
unconsciousness, his  feet dragged,  his eyes  closed. Except  that  I
could feel the beat of his heart beneath my arm, I might have  thought
he had died. The word Darksword on his daughter's lips was perhaps the
only thing that could have roused him.

    "Where is it?"  he gasped, and  his voice was  little more than  a
breath. "Is it safe?"

    "Yes, Father," Eliza answered, and her suffering for his suffering
choked her. "It is safe. Oh, Father, I am so sorry! I had no right-"

    He was shaking  his head. "I  was the  one who had  no right,"  he
said, and then his head lolled. His  eyes closed and he sagged in  our
arms.

    "Whatever happens, I have  to rest!" I  signed urgently, afraid  I
would drop him.

    Scylla nodded and we lowered him to the cavern floor.

    Painful warmth flooded through my cramped shoulders. I bit my lips
to keep from crying out.

    "Is he going to be all right?" Eliza asked fearfully, crouching

    down beside him. She smoothed the black curly hair from his  face,
the hair that, but  for the streaks  of gray at  his temples, was  the
exact match of her own. "He looks so ill."

    "We don't have much time,"  Scylla admitted. "Either for Joram  or
for ourselves and the rest of those who are counting on us."

    "I am confused," I  signed. "I have lost  track of time-any  time!
How long do we have?"

    "Until  midnight   this   night,"  Scylla   said,   consulting   a
green-glowing watch she wore on her wrist.

    "That's when the last ship leaves the outpost?" Saryon asked.

    Scylla gave him  a strange  look. "The  last ship  has left,"  she
replied coolly. "Midnight is when the Hch'nyv will arrive."

    "What?" My frantic gestures revealed my fear and alarm. "How  will
we return the Darksword  to Earth? What  good would it  do? Why do  we
persist in this folly? We're all going to die anyway!"

    She was  about  to answer  when  the sound  of  footfalls,  moving
rapidly, echoed down the tunnel. The noise silenced us all. Scylla was
on her feet, placing  herself between us and  whoever was coming  down
the tunnel.

    "Douse the light!" she hissed.

    Eliza shut off the  flashlight. We huddled  together in the  dark,
our fear a living thing that seemed to take shape and form around  us.
Then I heard a  voice, a soft voice,  Saryon's voice, speaking to  the
Almin in prayer. His hand, strong  and warm, closed over mine. He  was
offering me comfort and  a gentle reminder that  our lives were  being
guided, watched over, protected by one greater than ourselves.  Though
this should all come to  some terrible end, we  would not be alone.  I
said a prayer myself, asking for forgiveness for my lack of faith  and
strength to go on.

    A figure lurched  out of  the darkness, nearly  ran headlong  into
Scylla. "What the-" came a voice.

    "Mosiah!" Scylla breathed a sigh in relief.

    Eliza switched on the light.

    Mosiah glared around at us. "What the devil are you all doing?" he
demanded angrily. "Having a picnic? Why-"

    He caught sight of Joram,  lying unconscious on the tunnel  floor.
"Oh," Mosiah said,  and he shook  his head. His  gaze shifted back  to
Scylla. "Is he dead?"

    "No, but  he's not  doing well,"  she answered  guardedly, with  a
glance at Eliza.

    "We can't wait. I took care of the Technomancers, but more will be
coming through the teleporter at any moment. I could not prevent  them
from sounding the alarm. We must recover the Darksword and get out  of
here quickly! You and I will carry him."

    "You don't look able to carry yourself," Scylla said as they  bent
together to lift up Joram. "Do you have any Life left?"

    "Not much." Mosiah grunted from the exertion. He had changed  back
to his usual form, but the  alteration must have been a draining  one.
He looked exhausted to the point of dropping.

    "Perhaps I could give you Life again," I said, feeling guilty that
I had failed them.

    Saryon regarded me with amazement. "You gave Mosiah Life,  Reuven?
How? When?"

    "It will take too  long to explain, Father,"  said Mosiah. He  and
Scylla, supporting Joram between them, started moving down the tunnel.
He refused my offer, stating that  I should conserve my strength,  for
we were not out of this yet.

    The Hch'nyv would be attacking Thimhallan at midnight. Smythe  and
his Technomancers  would be  desperate to  find the  Darksword.  Where
could we go that they  would not discover us?  And how would we  fight
the massive armies of the Hch'nyv with one sword, however powerful? On
a more mundane  level, the  word picnic reminded  me that  we had  not
eaten. Our water supply  was running low. All  of us were thirsty  and
hungry and who knew how long it would be before we could find food and
water? Joram was near death. Perhaps he was the lucky one among us,  I
caught myself thinking.

    Of course, I should have faith, as Saryon had silently  counseled.
But it was  very hard for  me to trust  in the Almin  when reason  and
logic were so overwhelmingly against us.

    I was trying  to nurture hope's  flickering flame when  I heard  a
sound that doused it utterly.

    It was a  sound I had  heard before  in this tunnel,  a sound  I'd
heard in that other life, a life that had come to such a horrible end.

    Stentorian breathing rumbled from the cavern that was not all that
far below us.

    CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

    "Here's to folly,"  Simkin announced, and  together they  tottered
forward into the fiery illusions, the champagne glasses clinking along
behind.

    DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD

    The dragon," Mosiah said. "A Dragon of the Night."

    "But  that's  impossible!"  Saryon   gasped.  "The  dragons   were
creations of the magic. They must have all died when Life  disappeared
from Thimhallan."

    "The Life didn't  disappear, Father. The  Well was shattered,  but
the magic didn't escape, as we had thought."

    "We believe that the  Well may have  been capped, Father,"  Scylla
added.

    "I don't believe there's a dragon. There can't be," Eliza  argued.
"We were just down there."

    "If you  remember,  I said  that  cave smelled  occupied,"  Mosiah
returned.

    "But ...  I  still  don't  understand.  .  .  ."  Saryon  appeared
bewildered. "How do you know that a Dragon of the Night lives in  that
cavern? It could be anything! A bear, maybe."

    "A bear? Yes, of  course. Dear Teddy! Well,  that explains it.  Or
doesn't, as  the case  may be.  As  to the  cavern, we've  been  there
before. In fact, we've died there before." Mosiah was looking directly
at Scylla. "Haven't we, Sir Knight?"

    Scylla shrugged. "If you say so." She rolled her eyes and, leaning
over to me, whispered, "Humor him."

    "The Darksword is there, too," Eliza reminded us. "We must  return
to the cavern to recover the sword."

    "We cannot  challenge a  Dragon of  the Night,"  Saryon  protested
vigorously. "They are terrible creatures. Terrible!"

    "The dragon is before  us, but the  Technomancers are behind  us,"
Mosiah pointed out. "We can't very well go back."

    At last,  as  I  said,  I  was beginning  to  have  a  glimmer  of
understanding. I touched Saryon's arm, to draw attention to myself.

    "You can charm the dragon, Father," I signed.

    "No," he returned hurriedly. "Absolutely not."

    "Yes," I repeated. "You did it before, in the other life."

    "What other life?" Saryon stared at me in perplexity. "I charmed a
dragon? I am certain I would recall doing such a thing," he added more
testily, "and I assure you that I do not."

    "If he's going  to do  it, he  must act  swiftly," Mosiah  warned.
"While the sun  is still shining.  When night falls,  the dragon  will
awaken and go out in search of food. It is twilight now."

    Eliza kept watch beside her father, her attention divided  between
ourselves and  him. She  did not  understand completely  what we  were
saying, but she understood the urgency  and did not interrupt us  with
demands  for  us  to  explain.  She  trusted  us.  I  smiled  at   her
reassuringly.

    "I tell you  I know  nothing about charming  dragons!" Saryon  was
shaking his head.

    "You do," said Mosiah.  "You are the  only one of  us who does.  I
cannot."

    "You are Duuk-tsarith?" Saryon argued.

    "But I was  trained on  Earth. The only  dragons I  ever saw  were
created by special effects.  I can't take time  to explain, but in  an
alternate time, Father, a time in  which Joram died twenty years  ago,
you came  upon  a  Dragon of  the  Night-this  very dragon,  or  so  I
believe-and you  were able  to charm  it. Think,  Father! Lessons  you
learned at the Font. All catalysts  were taught the spells of the  war
wizards."

    "I ...  It's been  so long.  . .  ." Saryon  put his  hand to  his
temples, as if  they ached. "If  I fail,  we would all  die. Die  most
horribly."

    "We know," Mosiah said.

    I noticed in all this that Scylla kept silent. She did not venture
to persuade or argue. I could not yet understand, but I was  beginning
to understand, if that makes any sense.

    "Father Saryon." It was Joram who spoke.

    So intent had we been on our discussion I had not noticed that  he
had regained consciousness.  His head was  pillowed in his  daughter's
lap. She wiped the sweat from  his brow, smoothed back the damp  hair,
and watched over him anxiously, lovingly.

    Joram smiled. He lifted his hand. Saryon knelt and clasped Joram's
hand to his breast. It  was obvious to him, to  all of us, that  Joram
had very little time left to live.

    "Father Saryon," he said, and it took an effort for him to  speak.
"You were able to charm me. What is a dragon, compared to that?"

    "I will," Saryon said brokenly. "I will . . . try. The rest of you
. . . wait here."

    He stood up and would have rushed down the tunnel, then and there,
if we hadn't stopped him.

    "You cannot charm the dragon and retrieve the Darksword at

    the same time," Mosiah pointed  out. "The Darksword would  disrupt
the charm."

    "That's true," Saryon admitted.

    "I will recover the Darksword-" Mosiah began.

    "I will  recover the  Darksword,"  said Eliza  firmly. "It  is  my
legacy."

    A spasm of agony contorted Joram's face. He shook his head, but he
was too  weak to  argue or  try to  stop her.  A single  tear  tracked
through the blood on his cheek. A tear that was not wrung from him  by
his own physical pain, but by the pain of regret, remorse.

    Eliza saw the tear and gathered  her father close, hugging him  to
her. "Don't, Father!"  She wept with  him. "I am  proud to bear  this!
Proud to be your daughter. You shattered the world. Perhaps it is left
to me to save it!"

    Kissing him, she rose quickly to her feet. "I am ready."

    I was  afraid  Mosiah would  argue  or  try to  dissuade  her.  He
regarded her intently for  a moment, then he  bowed. "Very well,  Your
Majesty," he said. "I will go, and of course Reuven will go as well. I
may need my catalyst," he added.

    I was filled  with pride,  so much that  it almost  pushed out  my
fear. Almost. I could not  forget the terror of  the last time we  had
faced the Dragon of the  Night. The terror and  pain of my own  death.
Worse-the horror of seeing Eliza die. Resolutely, I trampled down  the
memory. I would never have found the courage to stir a step otherwise.

    "Someone must stay with my father," Eliza said, looking at me.  "I
had hoped that Reuven-"

    "I will stay with Joram,"  Scylla volunteered. She grinned at  us.
The ring in her eyebrow glinted. "You're on your own now."

    "I do not understand any of this," Saryon said plaintively.

    "You must have faith," I signed to him.

    "And you are  impertinent to  your teacher,"  he said  with a  wan
smile. He  gave a  bleak sigh.  "Come,  then. We  will go  charm  this
dragon."

    The Dragons of the  Night loathe sunlight to  such an extent  that
even though  they  burrow down  into  the deepest,  darkest  parts  of
Thimhallan they can find, they  sleep during the daytime. This  dragon
was asleep, to judge by its rhythmic breathing, but its sleep appeared
restless and shallow.  We could  hear the gigantic  body move,  scales
scraping against the rock  floor. I recalled in  that other life  what
the dragon had said about the  presence of the Darksword in its  lair,
how it had  disturbed its rest.  Either that, or  its waking time  was
very near.

    I remembered the  stench from  my last  visit to  this place.  The
smell seemed worse,  this time.  We all of  us covered  our noses  and
mouths, to keep from retching. We  brought no light with us, for  fear
that even the beam of the flashlight might wake the dragon and  arouse
its ire. Moving slowly and silently,  feeling our way with our  hands,
we crept along the last few yards of the tunnel. We rounded a  corner,
and came upon the dragon's lair.

    The diamond  embedded in  its forehead  shone with  a cold,  sharp
brilliance. It did  not illuminate. We  could not see  the dragon.  We
could see  nothing,  not even  each  other, though  we  stood  bunched
together, side by side.

    The dragon's breathing reverberated through the tunnel. It shifted
its body again as we stood outside its lair, and the floor shook as it
flopped over on  its side, its  tail thrashing against  the wall.  The
diamond lowered,  the  dragon  had  settled  its  head  on  its  side,
apparently. We stood in the darkness, immersed in fear and awe.

    I could not have ventured inside  that cavern. I don't know  where
Saryon found the courage to  do so. But then,  where had he found  the
courage to suffer himself to be turned into living stone?

    "Wait here," he said to  us, his words no  more than a breath.  "I
must do this alone."

    He left us and walked into the cavern. I could not see him, but  I
could hear his  robes rustle  and the soft  padding of  his feet.  His
figure passed in front of me, blotting from my sight the light of  the
diamond.

    Eliza clasped my  hand. I  held on  to her  tightly. Mosiah  stood
beside us, tense. Sometimes I could hear whispered words and I guessed
that he was rehearsing his magic in his mind. Not that it would do  us
much good. We'd been through that before.

    The Duuk-tsarith! Were they here now as they had been here in that
other time? Would they try to seize the sword?

    Taking hold of Mosiah's hand, I signed my question with my fingers
pressed against his palm. If  he could not see  my words, at least  he
could feel them.

    "I thought of that myself," he said back to me, his mouth  against
my ear. "I have sought my brethren. They are not here."

    At least that was one worry off my mind.

    I had not forgotten Saryon. I walked with him in spirit every step
of the way.  The dragon snuffled  and shifted once  again. A gleam  of
pale light beamed from a slit in its eyelids. My heart stopped.  Eliza
gripped my hand so  tightly that she  left bruise marks  on it, yet  I
don't recall feeling any pain at the time.

    Saryon halted, held still. The  dragon breathed a great sigh,  and
the eyelids closed.  The light  vanished. Those  of us  in the  cavern
added our sighs to the dragon's.

    Saryon moved  forward once  more. He  must be  very close  to  the
dragon's head now, I thought. I could see the diamond again, since the
dragon had changed position. The massive head was lying completely  on
its side, resting  on the  jawbone. And then  I saw  a hand,  Saryon's
hand, looking  frail and  fragile, silhouetted  against the  diamond's
bright chill light.

    The hand  hesitated a  moment. He  must be  asking the  Almin  for
strength, as I  was praying to  the Almin to  protect him, protect  us
all.

    Saryon's hand touched the diamond.

    The diamond flashed. The  dragon twitched, muscles contracting,  a
tremor passed through  it. In  the alternate  time the  Dragon of  the
Night had been injured, caught out  in full sunlight. This dragon  was
probably very healthy and it was inside its dark lair. The dragon made
a rumbling sound, deep in its  chest. Its claws scrabbled against  the
floor.

    "Now!" Mosiah  whispered urgently,  though Saryon  could not  hear
him. "What is he waiting for? Cast the spell now!"

    I cannot imagine what it would have been like to have had my  hand
on the  dragon's  head, to  feel  that  great beast  move  beneath  my
fingers. I could not blame my  master for faltering at this  juncture.
His hand jerked back, the fingers clenched.

    Mosiah took a  step forward.  Eliza pressed her  cheek against  my
arm.

    The diamond moved. The dragon was raising its head.

    Saryon gave a great gasp, that  I could hear distinctly, and  then
his hand pressed down hard against the diamond.

    He spoke  words  that I  didn't  understand. Words  of  power  and
authority. The dragon ceased  to move. It might  have melded with  the
stone around us.

    Saryon finished speaking the charm and stepped back, removing  his
hand from the diamond.

    This was the moment when we would know whether we lived or died.

    The dragon  reared its  head up  off the  cavern floor.  The  eyes
opened and the pale light  that was like the  light of a gibbous  moon
bathed us.

    "Do not look into the eyes!" Mosiah cautioned loudly, loud  enough
for Saryon to hear.

    The dragon  spread its  wings. I  could hear  the rustle  and  the
creaking of  its  tendons, and  thousands  of tiny,  sparkling  deadly
lights appeared in the cavern's darkness.

    The dragon spoke,  the voice  vibrated with fury,  and I  breathed
easier.

    "You are the master," it said.

    "I am," Saryon  replied, his  own voice firm.  "You will  do as  I
command."

    "I do so because I am constrained to do so," the dragon  answered.
"Take care that  you do not  lose your hold  over me. What  is it  you
want?"

    "In your lair  is an  object which we  greatly value.  We want  to
retrieve it  safely and  take it  away with  us. After  that, we  will
trouble you no more."

    "I know of that object," said the dragon. "It is a sword of light.
It hurts my eyes, destroys my rest. Take it and be gone."

    "A sword of light?" Eliza whispered wonderingly.

    "Eliza," Saryon called to her, without turning his gaze away  from
the dragon. "Come and take the Darksword."

    "Go with her, Reuven," said Mosiah.

    I could not have  stayed behind. We walked  forward, Eliza and  I,
into the dragon's lair.  The light of the  eyes focused on us,  flared
around us.

    Though spellbound and constrained not  to harm us, the dragon  was
tempting us to lift our gaze and  meet its eyes, hoping we would  fall
victim to  the madness.  The feeling  was in  my heart  that it  would
almost be worth  the madness  in exchange for  a single  glimpse of  a
creature of such wondrous, cruel beauty.

    To banish the temptation, I kept  my gaze on Eliza. She looked  to
the rock cairn that covered the Darksword.

    "Make haste, my children," urged Saryon quietly.

    Was he at  last recalling that  other time? The  time in which  we
were his children? I hoped he was.  Though it had ended in tragedy,  I
wanted him to know the love I bore him flowed from that time, as  well
as my own. He was my father.

    Reaching the rock cairn,  Eliza and I began  to take it apart.  We
worked as swiftly  as we  could, lifting  the rocks  and tossing  them
aside. At last, the Darksword came into  view. It did not shine, as  I
had almost expected from  the dragon's words. It  did not reflect  the
moonlight of the  dragon's eyes.  It seemed, instead,  to reflect  the
dragon's darkness. Eliza took hold of the Darksword by the handle  and
raised it up.

    "Cover it!" the dragon shrieked, and  the light from its eyes  was
hooded, plunging us into darkness.

    Hastily, Eliza wrapped  the Darksword  in its  blanket, which  had
been lying near it.

    "Take it and get out!" The  dragon writhed and thrashed, as if  it
was in the most terrible pain.

    "This way!"  Saryon called,  his voice  alone guiding  us, for  we
could not see.

    Clasping hands, finding comfort in each other's touch, Eliza and I
advanced cautiously toward his voice. We  tried to hurry, but we  were
afraid of falling over  the rocks, bones,  and other debris  scattered
around. The journey  across the  dragon's lair, with  the great  beast
roaring and lashing out  so near us,  was terrifying. Saryon's  voice,
calm and steady, guided us through the nightmare.

    "Here, I am  here!" Saryon cried,  and his hands  found us in  the
darkness, his arms gathered us to  him. "My children!" His embrace  on
us tightened and  I knew  then that he  had seen  into that  alternate
time. "My children!" he repeated.

    My heart swelled with love for him, love that enhanced the love  I
felt for  Eliza, expanded  that love  until it  filled me  completely,
admitted no room for fear. I was  no longer afraid of the darkness  or
the dragon, the Technomancers, or  even the Hch'nyv. The future  might
be filled with horror. I might never see the sunrise, I might be  dead
by morning. But this moment, with this blessed feeling warm inside me,
would be enough.

    Saryon's grip tightened still further. I felt his body tense.

    "Be careful," he warned softly. "Someone is in here."

    "Father," came Mosiah's voice at almost the same moment. "Get  out
of there! Now!"

    The dragon had ceased  its pain-filled roar. It  lay still on  the
cavern floor, its eyes hooded, so that only a slit of pale light shone
from them. I could still sense its  hatred of us, but that hatred  was
now tempered with fear.

    "Father!" Mosiah's call was urgent.

    "Wait," said Saryon quietly.

    A figure stood before us in the middle of the dragon's lair.  Calm
and relaxed, she  might have  been standing  in our  living room  back
home. She took no notice of the dragon, who had pressed its body  back
up against the wall, as far from her as it could manage.

    "Mother!" Eliza breathed.

    Mosiah was beside us. "It could be another trick!"

    My first thought was that the Technomancers must be very brave  or
very desperate to enact a charade  before such a dreadful audience  as
the Dragon of  the Night. Then  I realized that  desperate was an  apt
description of Kevon Smythe as we had last seen him.

    Gwendolyn looked exactly  as I  had seen  her when  we first  met,
except that the  lines of care  and worry had  been smoothed from  her
face. Her expression was serene. She  had eyes for only her  daughter,
and no Interrogator could have mimicked the love and pride with  which
she gazed upon Eliza.

    "It is my mother," Eliza said,  her voice aching with longing.  "I
am sure of it."

    "Wait," Mosiah counseled. "Don't go near. Not yet."

    Remembering the horror of the last meeting with the  Interrogator,
Eliza remained standing beside Saryon. She wanted this to be real. Yet
how could it? From where had Gwendolyn  come? And why had she come  to
us now, in the middle of the dragon's lair?

    "I want you to meet someone, Daughter," Gwen said.

    She reached out her hand,  reached into the darkness, and  another
figure appeared,  shimmering  into view  at  Gwendolyn's side.  I  was
reminded of Simkin, for  this second figure  had the same  watercolor,
transparent look  to  it that  Simkin  had exhibited  when  he  wasn't
playing at being stuffed.  Gwen led the figure  by the hand, drew  the
figure close to us.

    And then I recognized  the person. I gasped  and looked wildly  at
Eliza. I even  reached out and  touched her, to  make certain she  was
real. Eliza stood  beside me and  Eliza stood before  me, both at  the
same time or,  rather, one in  one time  and one in  another. The  one
before me I recognized as Queen  Eliza. She wore the same blue  riding
habit, the same circlet of gold glinted in her dark hair.

    Mosiah sucked in  his breath. Saryon  smiled wistfully, sadly.  He
kept his arm around Eliza, supporting her.

    "What . . . what is  this?" Eliza, my true Eliza, cried  brokenly.
She stared at her reflection in time's mirror. "Who is this?"

    "You, my daughter," said Gwendolyn. "You as you might have been in
another time. She cannot speak to you, for in her time she is dead.  I
alone can understand her words. She wanted to prove to you, to all  of
you"-her gaze  swept  over  every  one  of  us,  lingered  longest  on
Mosiah-"that everything you have experienced has been real. That I  am
real."

    "I don't understand!" Eliza faltered.

    "Look at yourself, Eliza. Look at  yourself and open your mind  to
the impossible."

    Eliza stared long at the  shimmering figure and then she  suddenly
looked around at  Saryon, who smiled  and nodded yes  to her  unspoken
question. She next  looked wildly at  me and  I signed, "I  am as  you
remember, in this time and the other."

    Her lips parted, her eyes glistened. Her gaze next went to Mosiah,
who grudgingly and reluctantly inclined his hooded head.

    "I am your Enforcer,  Your Majesty," he said,  a hint of irony  in
his voice.

    "Your Majesty.  So Scylla  called me.  I never  even noticed  that
until now. So some part of me did know, even then," Eliza said softly,
wonderingly, to herself.

    "And  now,  my  daughter,"  Gwendolyn  said,  "you  must  heed  my
instructions and obey them.  You must take  the Darksword to  Merlyn's
tomb. Now.  This  moment.  It  must  be  lying  on  Merlyn's  tomb  at
midnight."

    "Merlyn!" Eliza was amazed. "Teddy  kept talking about Merlyn.  He
said something about giving the sword to Merlyn-"

    "Oh, Blessed Almin!" Mosiah snorted in disgust.

    "But . . . Father. You don't know, Mother!" Eliza went back to her
point of main  concern. "They've poisoned  him! I must  give them  the
sword or Father will die."

    "Take the sword to Merlyn's tomb," Gwen repeated.

    "Why?" Mosiah asked harshly. "Why take it there?"

    "Trust me,  Daughter,"  said Gwendolyn,  ignoring  Mosiah.  "Trust
yourself. Follow your heart."

    A cry shattered the darkness. From  back in the tunnel, where  she
was guarding Joram, Scylla shouted, "Mosiah! They're coming! Look out!
I can't stop-" Her voice was cut short.

    We heard scuffling sounds and then  the tramping of many pairs  of
booted feet. The dragon lifted its  head, anger rumbled in its  chest.
The eyes opened  wider, the light  that drove men  to madness  gleamed
more brightly.

    Gwendolyn was gone and so was the image of Eliza.

    "Father!" Eliza cried.

    "No time!" Mosiah said urgently, catching hold of her. "We have to
find a way out. Simkin said there was another exit. Father Saryon! The
dragon! It must know another way. You must command it to show us."

    "What? Oh, dear, no!" Saryon was alarmed and appalled. He

    cast the dragon a sidelong  glance and shuddered. "Not again.  The
spell is slipping. I can feel it."

    "Father Saryon," Eliza pleaded. She held the Darksword, wrapped in
the blanket. "Mosiah is right. This  is our only chance. How else  can
we take the sword to the tomb in time?"

    Leaning down, he kissed her on  the forehead. "I could never  deny
you anything. Reuven used  to complain that I  spoiled you. But  then,
you two were all I had."

    Saryon left us. He  walked over to stand,  once more, in front  of
the dragon. He kept his eyes lowered.

    "Make certain the  sword is  hidden," Mosiah said  to Eliza.  "You
remember what happened the last time."

    Then it had been the Duuk-tsarith who had attacked us. Then  Eliza
had wielded the Darksword and its power had broken the spell. Outside,
in this time,  I could hear  the footsteps coming  nearer. I  wondered
what had happened to Scylla and hoped  with all my heart that she  was
safe. I trusted that they would not hurt Joram any more than he'd been
hurt already. They needed him alive still, so long as his daughter was
in possession of the Darksword.

    "Dragon," said Saryon. "I command you.  We are in danger. Help  us
to escape those who pursue us."

    "You are in danger, old man," said the dragon, its lip curling  to
reveal hideous, yellowed,  and bloodstained fangs.  "Your danger  lies
ahead of you, not behind."

    The diamond's light was rapidly dimming. As Saryon had warned, the
spell was slipping. The dragon started to crawl toward us. It began to
lift the  night-dark wings.  I could  see the  sparkle of  the  deadly
stars.

    Saryon drew himself up tall. I saw  in him now what I had seen  in
him before, in  our living  room, facing a  king, a  general, and  the
dread leader of the  Dark Cultists. His inner  strength, his love  for
us, his faith in his Creator shone brighter than the dragon's  hideous
light.

    "Dragon, you will obey me," said Saryon.

    The  diamond  on   the  dragon's  head   flared,  glittered   with
brilliance. The dragon glared at him balefully, but it was constrained
by the charm's unseen force to lower its head. The Dragon of the Night
bowed before  Saryon. The  pale eyes  were slits  of enmity,  but  the
dragon kept them hooded.

    "If you dare, old man, climb upon my back."

    "Quickly, children!" Saryon urged. "Mosiah?"

    "I will stay behind to cover your escape," Mosiah said.

    "But they'll kill you!" Saryon cried.

    "Come with  them,  Duuk-tsarith, '"  the  dragon said,  its  voice
grating. "I will deal with  those who pursue you.  I feel the need  to
kill something!"

    Mosiah did not wait to be asked  twice. I now trusted him. He  was
loyal to his  word and would  have defended  us to the  death, but  he
still had hopes of obtaining the Darksword and was loath to let it out
of his sight.

    By this time I was climbing up onto the dragon. I followed Saryon,
who appeared to have been riding  dragons all his life, though I  know
for certain he had  never done such  a thing. We  crawled up the  bony
structure of  the  enormous black  wing,  being careful-as  he  warned
us-not to step on the membrane or we might tear it. The dragon's  body
quivered beneath us, as the ground in the vicinity of a volcano quakes
from the pent-up  fire within.  Saryon and  I both  helped Eliza,  who
would not relinquish the  sword to anyone, not  even for a moment.  We
were settling  on  the  dragon's bony  back,  which  proved  extremely
uncomfortable, Mosiah had just climbed off the wing and onto the back,
when the Technomancers in their silver robes entered the cavern.

    "Hide your eyes!" Mosiah shouted to  us, and pulled his hood  over
his head.

    I did as he ordered,  covered my eyes with  my hands, but I  could
still see the white glare, so intense was the pale light beaming  from
the dragon's eyes. The beast roared and reared its head and lifted its
wings, but even as it  attacked it took care  not to dislodge us,  who
were seated on its back.

    I heard dreadful,  agonized screams.  Star bursts  flashed on  the
backs of my closed eyelids. The screams ended very suddenly.

    The body beneath  me began  to move,  to ripple  into motion.  The
wings creaked, the glow of the white light faded. A rush of fresh air,
cool and sweet smelling after the rank stench of the cavern, struck me
in the face. I opened my eyes. Before me was a gigantic opening,  like
a huge chimney, large enough for the dragon to ascend.

    We soared  out  and upward,  the  dragon's wings  beating  slowly,
carrying our weight without effort. We were nothing more than annoying
insects, clinging to its hide.

    I looked up into the night sky and I gasped.

    It was filled with stars, more stars than I remembered having seen
when we first arrived. And then the truth hit me a terrible blow, even
as Mosiah put it into words.

    "Those aren't  stars. Those  are  spaceships. Refugees.  The  last
survivors from Earth. They have come here, the final hope. The Hch'nyv
are behind them."

    CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

    Merlyn looked  upon it  with eyes  that had  seen centuries  pass,
chose this  place  for  his tomb,  and  now  lies bound  by  the  Last
Enchantment in the glade he loved.

    FORGING  THE  DARKSWORD  We  flew   over  the  darkened  land   of
Thimhallan, while  above us  the sky  was bright  with the  lights  of
thousands of  starships, carrying  millions of  people. Hope  sparkled
above us. Hope  and desperation. They  must have sighted  us on  their
sophisticated instruments. I wondered what they made of us-a  gigantic
black winged shape  flying just  above tree  level. Probably  nothing.
Dismissed as animal life indigenous to the region.

    A few knew the truth, perhaps;  knew that the image showing up  on
their radar screens was a  dragon. King Garald, Bishop Radisovik,  and
General Boris would have recognized  the creature. But they could  not
know that we rode the Dragon of  the Night. They had come here out  of
faith and because this was  the last place to  run to. They could  not
know where we  were bound or  upon what errand.  For that matter,  now
that I thought of it, we knew little more. Did the Technomancers  know
it all? Was this a trap? Had Gwen and Queen Eliza been an illusion?

    Mosiah thought  so, apparently,  but  then he  was one  who  would
always term  the glass  half-empty.  I did  not  know what  to  think.
Gwendolyn had seemed so real, the love and affection for her  daughter
had  been  genuine,  of  that  I   am  certain.  And  how  could   the
Technomancers have conjured up an illusion of Eliza from an  alternate
time? When I thought of all this, my spirit soared with the dragon.

    But they could have knowledge about that time, I realized, and  my
spirit plummeted to the ground. Kevon Smythe and the Dark Cultists had
been  present  in  that  time  as  well.  Perhaps  everything  we  had
experienced had been their doing.

    I looked up into the sky again, the sky that was pocked with life.
I thought of  the millions up  there, afraid, despairing,  bewildered.
All that remained  of mankind, who  had fled the  only home he'd  ever
known and embarked  into space, a  cold and lonely  place to die.  The
assault ships of the Hch'nyv would  come soon, once their conquest  of
Earth was assured. I imagined the sky bright with fire. . . .

    Shivering, I turned my gaze away. When I looked back, the sky  was
covered over with storm clouds and all was darkness. I felt a  certain
amount of relief,  hidden away  from the  pleading, trusting,  frantic
gazes of those who were-all unknowing-depending on us.

    The ride was not a pleasant one. We flew through a rain squall and
were thoroughly soaked. The chill air rushing over the dragon's  wings
set our teeth  to chattering.  We huddled together  for warmth,  clung
together to keep from falling off. The dragon's back was broad and  we
sat between the wings, but the bones  of the spine were sharp and  dug
painfully into  my  backside, while  my  thighs soon  ached  from  the
uncomfortable position. And though the dragon was under a geis to  fly
us to Merilon and the tomb of Merlyn, the beast's enmity toward us was
strong.

    The dragon loathed  our touch, our  smell, and, if  the charm  had
failed, would  have  immediately rolled  over  and dumped  us  to  our
deaths. As it  was, the dragon  would occasionally veer  to one  side,
forcing us to cling to its mane and scales to avoid sliding off before
it would reluctantly  and slowly  level off. I  suppose it  considered
that if one of us was clumsy enough to fall, that was our own  concern
and it could not be held responsible.

    Eliza grasped  the Darksword.  Mosiah  kept hold  of her,  as  did
Father Saryon. I hung on to  a bony protuberance right above the  main
tendon for the wings.  I could see nothing  below us, except when  the
frequent flashes of lightning illuminated  the ground and then it  was
only for an instant. All I saw at first were thick stands of forest or
the smooth grass of the plains. Then I located a winding river.

    "The Famirish," shouted Saryon over the rush of air swirling  past
us. "We are getting close!"

    We flew along the course of the Famirish, the dragon sinking lower
until it seemed  to me  that we must  crash among  the tree-tops.  The
dragon knew  its  business, however,  and  though it  came  perilously
close, so close that I should think the treetops must have tickled its
belly, it never collided with any of them.

    A flash of lightning  more brilliant than  the rest spread  across
the sky in  a blanket  of flame.  By its  light, I  obtained my  first
glimpse of the city of Merilon.

    According to lore, when the ancient wizard Merlyn had removed  his
followers from the persecutions of  Earth and led them to  Thimhallan,
the first place  they came  to was  a grove of  oak trees  on a  plain
between two ranges of mountains. Merlyn  was so taken with the  beauty
that he founded his city here and proclaimed that this grove would  be
his final resting place.

    He and the other conjurers and shapers created a floating platform
of delicately carved,  translucent marble and  quartz, which they  had
called the  Pedestal.  Upon this  Pedestal,  which drifted  among  the
clouds, they  built  the city  of  Merilon.  But what  had  once  been
considered a wonder in a world of magic where wonders abounded now lay
in ruin, its  broken body  slowly being covered  over by  a shroud  of
encroaching wilderness.

    It was a  sad sight,  an oppressive  sight, reminding  us all  too
clearly that man's works, no  matter how glorious, are but  temporary,
that there must  come a time  when the workman's  hand falls,  forever
stilled, and then Nature will do her best to erase all trace of him.

    "Did Merlyn's tomb even survive, Father?" Mosiah asked.

    "Why, yes,  don't  you remember?  No,  of course,  you  wouldn't."
Saryon answered his own  question. "I forgot  how grievously you  were
injured in the attack on the city. The grove burned to the ground, but
the tomb remained untouched. The firestorms swept right over it.  Some
have later  claimed  that the  grass  around  the tomb  was  not  even
scorched, but that is not true." Saryon shook his head and sighed, his
memories sad ones.

    Another flash  revealed  Eliza's  face. She  was  very  pale,  her
expression one of awe, mingled  with profound sorrow. She was  seeing,
as I  myself saw  it, Merilon  rebuilt, in  that other  lifetime,  and
contrasting that image with the bleak, bitter reality.

    I closed  my eyes  and I  saw, in  that other  time, Merilon.  The
floating platform was gone; no one was able to summon up the  powerful
magicks needed to perform such a feat. The buildings- made of ordinary
stone, not crystal-stood  on the  ground. The palace  was a  fortress,
solid and thick-walled, made  to withstand attacks,  not play host  to
glittering parties. The Grove of Merlyn had been replanted. A stand of
young oak trees, small but sturdy, kept guard over Merlyn's tomb.

    I looked into  that time and  saw the  end. I saw  the young  oaks
wither and die in the laser fire of the Hch'nyv. I turned my gaze away
and looked into that time no more.

    The dragon began to spiral downward. We could see nothing of where
we were headed, because another of those fierce, sudden storms  closed
in on us. Rain slashed my face,  forced me to shut my eyes.  Lightning
flared much too close,  thunder cracked and boomed.  I saw the  ground
only when we were  almost upon it, a  flash of lightning  illuminating
wet grass and  the burned-out  stumps of  dead trees.  The dragon  was
descending much too fast it seemed to me, and I wondered if the  beast
might be going to kill itself, and us along with it, thereby relieving
itself of the geis and a foe at the same time.

    At the last possible moment, when I was certain that we were going
to crash headlong,  the dragon  lifted its  wings, gracefully  swooped
upward, and reached out  for the ground with  its powerful hind  legs.
The landing  was rough  for us,  though not  for the  dragon. We  were
thrown forward by the force of the  impact. I hit my head on the  bony
mane and scraped my hands on the scales.

    "I have brought you to the tomb," said the dragon. "Now leave  and
trouble me no more."

    We were only too happy to obey. I slid down the dragon's  rain-wet
back and landed heavily on the  ground. I helped Eliza, who was  still
clutching the sword. She was shivering  with the cold, her skirt  hung
in sodden folds around her, her blouse clung to her breasts. Her  hair
was a mass of wet, tangled ringlets, straggling over her face. She was
grim, composed, resolute, prepared  to do whatever  might be asked  of
her.

    Saryon and  Mosiah joined  us.  The dragon  reared up,  its  wings
spread, the starlike  deadly darts shining  through the lashing  rain.
The pale eyes flared.

    "I have obeyed your command," the dragon declared. "Release me  of
the spell."

    "I do not release you," Saryon  said, seeing the trick the  dragon
was attempting to play  upon him. "Once you  return to your lair,  the
spell will be lifted."

    The Dragon of the Night gave  us a parting snarl and a  frustrated
snap in the air  with its jaws,  then it leapt  into the storm,  wings
beating, and soared upward to disappear into the clouds.

    Saryon slumped when the  dragon was gone,  relieved of a  terrible
burden.

    "Perhaps we  should have  ordered the  dragon to  remain,"  Mosiah
said, "or at least return if we called. We might need to make a  swift
retreat."

    Saryon shook his  head. "My  strength was giving  out. The  dragon
fought me every second. I could  not have held the spell much  longer.
Besides"-he looked around at where we stood in

    the wind  and the  rain-"for good  or for  ill, our  journey  ends
here."

    "Where is the tomb?" Eliza asked,  the first words she had  spoken
since we left the dragon's lair.

    "I'm not sure," said Saryon. "It's all so different. . . ."

    The storm was beginning to subside. Thunder still rumbled, but now
from a distance. The clouds  remained overhead, however, blotting  out
the starlight and  the lights  of the starships.  Without the  flaring
lightning, we were all but blind.

    "We could stumble around for hours searching for the tomb," Saryon
said, frustrated. "And we don't have hours. It's nearly midnight."

    Mosiah spoke a word, lifted his hand. A globe of soft yellow light
appeared in his  palm. I don't  know when the  sight of something  has
been more comforting. It was  as if he had  reached back to Earth  and
snatched a bit of sunshine from a summer day, brought it here to cheer
us and light  our path. The  light seemed  even to ease  the chill.  I
stopped shivering. Eliza managed a sad smile.

    "There is the tomb," said Saryon, pointing.

    The light shone on the ruins of  the oak trees that had once  been
the tomb's guardians. It was a  dismal sight until, moving forward,  I
saw where several  thin, supple  saplings, growing from  the seeds  of
their parents, were preparing to take over the guardianship duties.

    The tomb, made of  pure white marble, stood  in the center of  the
circle of trees. The rest of  the grove was overgrown with plant  life
run amok, but no  plants had come near  the tomb. Vines creeping  that
direction twined away, went around it.  The grass had grown tall,  but
the blades bent away, as if they would not, from respect, touch it.

    Mosiah held the  light high,  for us to  see. "I  remember when  I
first came here," he said quietly. "I felt very peaceful. This was the
only part of  Merilon where I  was truly at  home. I am  glad to  know
that, though much has changed around it, the feel of the place remains
the same."

    "It is a blessed place," said Saryon. "Merlyn's spirit remains."

    "Now that we are here, what  should I do?" Eliza asked. "Should  I
lay the Darksword on the tomb or-"

    She caught her breath. I did the same, both of us having seen  the
same thing at the same time.

    Something already lay on the tomb, a dark form against the  tomb's
whiteness.

    "I knew it!"  Mosiah muttered,  with a  bitter oath.  "This was  a
trap. We-don't! Eliza! Stop!"

    He reached out  to grasp  hold of  her but  he was  too late.  Her
loving eyes had seen clearly what was only a vague shadow to the  rest
of us. With a wild, stricken,  hollow cry, Eliza ran toward the  tomb.
Reaching the marble sarcophagus, she flung the Darksword down onto the
wet grass. Hands outstretched, sobbing, she threw herself on the  body
that lay on the tomb's cold white surface.

    The body was Joram's.

    Mosiah  paid  no  attention   to  the  body   on  the  tomb.   His
responsibility was the Darksword and he hastened to retrieve it, where
it lay in the grass, a thing of ugly darkness, not illuminated by  his
magical light. He had his hand almost on it when he halted.

    "Scylla!" Mosiah shone his light upon her.

    It was not surprising  we had not noticed  her earlier. She was  a
huddled mass, leaning against the tomb. Blood covered one side of  her
face. She opened her eyes and looked up at Mosiah.

    "Flee!" she warned,  with a  gasping breath.  "Take the  Darksword
and-"

    "Too late for that, I'm afraid."

    A man clad in white robes emerged from the shadows of the  charred
oaks. Mosiah made a dive for the Darksword. A beam of light flared out
from the  darkness,  struck Mosiah  in  the chest,  slammed  him  back
against the tomb. He slid down it, collapsed onto the wet grass.

    Bending down, Kevon Smythe picked up the Darksword.

    "A pity you came too late,  my dear," he said, speaking to  Eliza.
He did not even glance at the two wounded people at his feet. "We  had
the antidote all prepared, but  as you can see,  it will do your  poor
father little good now. His last words were to you. He said he forgave
you."

    I lunged  at the  smug, triumphant  man. I  had no  weapon, but  I
think-I know-I could have strangled him.

    I did not go far. Strong hands caught hold of me, hands covered in
silver gloves. They affixed a silver  disk on my breast. Pain  tingled
through my body and I found myself unable to move. Just to breathe was
a struggle. My limbs were paralyzed.

    They attached silver disks  to Saryon, who stood  near me, and  to
Mosiah. I was glad to see that  they feared him, for it meant that  he
was not dead.  Scylla's hands remained  free. Her feet  were bound  by
some type  of metal  restraints that  clamped over  her combat  boots.
Weakly, she pushed  herself into  a sitting position,  and I  realized
that she could not move the lower  portion of her body. She looked  up
at Eliza.

    "Forgive me ... Your Majesty,"  Scylla said softly. "I ...  failed
you. I failed him."

    Eliza said nothing. I don't believe  she even heard. She was  lost
in her grief.  Her head  lay on her  father's still  breast, her  arms
cradled him.  She urged  him to  come back  to her  by every  term  of
endearment, but he could not respond, not even to her loved voice.

    "Bring the  mother," Smythe  called. "We  might as  well have  the
entire family."

    A Technomancer  emerged  from the  shadows  of the  burned  trees,
dragging Gwendolyn by the arm. She was disheveled, her clothes stained
and torn, but she did not appear to have been harmed.

    The image we had seen in the dragon's lair must have been a trick,
I thought. Yet even now, with proof at hand, I doubted I had seen  the
love in  her eyes.  No disguise,  however clever,  could have  feigned
that. Her first concern was  for her grieving daughter. Gwendolyn  put
her arms around Eliza, who sobbed against her mother's breast.

    "Oh, Mother, it is all my fault!"

    "Hush, child!" Gwen smoothed Eliza's  black curls, the curls  that
were so like her father's. "It would not have mattered. If you had not
taken the Darksword,  your father would  have used it  and they  would
have killed him. Your father loved  you, Eliza, and he was very  proud
of you."

    Eliza shook her  head, unable  to talk. Gwen  continued to  soothe
her.

    "Your father is well, now, child. At long last, he is well and  he
is happy."

    Silence fell, a silence broken  only by Eliza's lessening sobs.  I
glanced worriedly at Saryon.  His body trembled  with the enormity  of
his own emotion. Tears  slid unchecked down his  cheeks. He could  not
lift his hand to wipe them away.

    Kevon Smythe  stood  before us,  holding  the Darksword.  His  lip
curled slightly. "An ugly thing, isn't it?"

    "You're no beauty yourself."

    I knew that voice. Simkin!

    I looked  about  expectantly,  hopefully, my  eyes  searching  the
darkness.

    Nothing appeared,  not  a  teapot,  not  a  stuffed  bear,  not  a
washed-out, watercolor transparency of the foppish young man.

    I began to doubt myself. Had I really heard the voice? Had  anyone
else heard it? Smythe was still gazing triumphantly at the sword.  The
Technomancers, who outnumbered us at least three to one, were at ease,
relaxed. Why not? Their  captives were completely immobilized.  Scylla
was concerned with Mosiah, who  was starting to regain  consciousness.
Gwen and Eliza comforted each other. Saryon wept for the man that  had
been dearer than a son.

    I must have imagined it, I thought, despair closing in on me.

    "It is  almost  midnight, sir,"  said  one of  the  Technomancers,
speaking to Smythe.

    "Yes, thank you  for reminding me.  I will take  the sword to  the
meeting place. Once I hand it over to the Hch'nyv-"

    "You'll be a fool  if you do," Scylla  told him. "They will  never
keep their  bargain with  you. They  will allow  no humans  to  remain
alive."

    "On the  contrary, they  appear quite  well disposed  toward  us,"
Smythe countered smoothly. "Perhaps because we have shown them how  we
can be of use to them."

    "What are your  orders while you're  away, sir?" the  Technomancer
asked. "What do we  do with these?"  The silver-gloved hand  gestured,
included all of us. "Kill them?"

    "Not all of them," Smythe replied after a moment's thought.  "Hand
the Enforcer over  to the Interrogators.  He'll soon be  glad to  die.
Turn the girl and her mother over to the Interrogators as well.  Joram
must have told them something about how he forged the Darksword, where
he discovered the darkstone, and so forth.  They may yet be of use  to
us."

    I bent every  ounce of my  strength, my will,  into attempting  to
break free. I focused all my energy upon lifting my hand, to tear  the
paralyzing disk from my chest. I could  not move so much as my  little
finger.

    "As for the priest and the mute and the CIA agent or whatever  she
is," Smythe continued, "we will give them to the Hch'nyv, as a  symbol
of our good  faith. The  rest of you,  make the  arrangements for  the
first of those refugee ships to land. Go aboard and start the  culling
process. You know those we want: those who are young, fit, and strong.
Pull out the  elderly, children below  an age where  they might be  of
use, and any who are  sick or handicapped. They  will be given to  the
Hch'nyv, as we agreed. Also remove  any magi who possess Life and  who
refuse to join our ranks. Execute them immediately. Once they are back
on their homeland, they might be a danger to us."

    Smythe held up the Darksword,  his two hands clasped just  beneath
the hilt. "Now that the Darksword is mine-"

    "Am I yours?" cried the sword in a mocking voice. "Oh, this is the
happiest day of my life! Give us a hug, snookums!"

    The Darksword began to wriggle  and writhe. The bulbous head  atop
the hilt  nodded back  and  forth, the  crosspiece-that was  like  two
arms-waved up and down. The blade  twitched this way and that.  Smythe
stared wildly at the undulating sword,  clutching it as he might  have
clutched a snake which he fears will bite him if he lets it fall.

    The crosspiece arms elongated. The bulbous head expanded, the hilt
became a neck, the blade transformed into  the body of a man not  old,
not young,  with a  face like  a fox  wearing a  silky beard.  He  was
dressed all in orange, from his feathered hat to his velvet doublet to
his shapely legs and glittering shoes.

    The  astonished   Smythe  still   held  on   to  Simkin-a   solid,
flesh-and-blood Simkin-who  laughed  and,  flinging  his  arms  around
Smythe, gave him a smacking kiss on the lips.

    "Did you  mean it?  Did you  truly mean  it? Am  I yours?"  Simkin
asked, holding Smythe  at arm's  length and regarding  him with  grave
solemnity.

    "Seize him!" Smythe shouted in rage, and struck at Simkin with his
hands.

    "Wrong answer," said Simkin softly.

    A Technomancer ran  forward, fixed  one of  the silver  paralyzing
disks onto the orange velvet doublet.

    "Why, how  kind!"  Simkin regarded  the  disk with  an  appraising
frown, then looked up at the Technomancer. "But I don't think it  goes
with my outfit." Casually, he plucked  off the silver disk and  placed
it neatly on the breast of the startled Technomancer.

    The man's body jerked, went rigid.

    "Tell me what you have done with the Darksword," Smythe  demanded,
almost choked with rage, "or I'll order them to shoot! You'll be  dead
before you can draw your next breath."

    "Fire away," said Simkin with a  yawn. He leaned against the  tomb
and stared very hard at his  fingernails. "What was that, Smythe?  The
Darksword? I'll tell you exactly where it is. It is being guarded by a
dragon, a Dragon of the  Night. You might be  able to recover it,  but
not before midnight. Poor Cinderella. I'm afraid you're going to  turn
into a pumpkin."

    Smythe gnashed his teeth in fury. "Shoot him!"

    Silver robes  shimmered and  coalesced. Each  Technomancer held  a
sleek, shining silver handgun.

    A beam of blinding light slashed through the darkness. It did  not
hit Simkin,  but  struck  the  tomb right  next  to  him.  The  marble
exploded, fragments of  rock flew through  the air. A  second beam  of
laser flared. Simkin caught the light in his hands. Molding the  laser
light as if it were clay, he made it into a shining ball, and flung it
up in the  air. The ball  transformed into a  raven, which took  wing,
flew once around Simkin's  head, then fluttered down  to perch on  the
tomb. The raven began to clean its beak with a claw.

    Kevon Smythe's face was mottled red and white. Saliva flecked  his
lips. "Shoot him!"  he tried to  command again, but  he was so  hoarse
with fury and fear that  his lips formed the  words but no sound  came
out.

    "Oh, I say. I find  this quite fatiguing," said Simkin  languidly.
He waved an orange silk  handkerchief and the Technomancers'  handguns
changed into bouquets of tulips. The  silver disk fell from my  breast
onto the ground, where it turned  into a mouse and scampered off  into
the grass. I could move again, breathe again.

    Scylla reached down, plucked off the ankle manacles, as she  might
have plucked off a pair of shoes. She assisted Mosiah to stand. He was
very pale,  but fully  conscious and  alert. He  regarded Simkin  with
narrowed eyes,  not  trusting  him.  Saryon was  freed  as  well.  His
expression was troubled. Simkin was  having a good time, playing  with
us all, not just the Technomancers. Certainly, it appeared that he was
on our side, but we  had no way of knowing  how long that might  last,
especially if he grew bored. Right  now, though, he was simply  having
fun. The Technomancers produced other weapons: stasis grenades,  morph
guns, reaper  scythes,  only to  have  them transformed  into  objects
strange, useless, and grotesque-anything from saltshakers to  bananas,
clock radios, and  pink gin  fizzes adorned with  tiny umbrellas.  The
magic burst around us in a  dazzling array like a fireworks show  gone
berserk.

    I began to fear I  was losing my mind and  I was not surprised  to
see some of the Technomancers bolt and run.

    In the midst of all his foolery, Simkin caught sight of Eliza. She
stood near her mother, staring at him in bewildered astonishment.

    He ceased his magic show.  Doffing his feathered hat, he  extended
his leg, and made a graceful bow. "Your Majesty." Rising, he  replaced
the hat at  a jaunty  angle on  his head and  asked, "Do  you like  my
outfit? I call it Apocalypse Apricot."

    Eliza  looked  dazed.  The  sight  of  Simkin  emerging  from  the
Darksword had shocked her from her grief. But she didn't know what  to
make of this. Like the rest of us, she wondered if he brought  victory
or if he was fixing the lock and seal on our doom.

    "Who are you?" Kevon Smythe demanded.

    "A pocket  of  residual magic,"  said  Simkin with  a  sly  smile.
"That's the problem, isn't  it? You don't know  me. You and your  kind
never did. Oh, you tried to manipulate me. You tried to use me. But it
never truly worked, because you never really believed in me."

    Simkin turned on his fancy orange heel. He gave the raven a pat on
the head and smoothed its feathers, to which affectionate gesture  the
bird answered with a  rude croak. Grinning,  Simkin walked around  the
marble tomb to stand at Joram's head.

    We watched him in silence. None of us moved, not Eliza nor Saryon,
not Mosiah, Smythe, nor the  Technomancers who still had nerve  enough
to remain. Simkin held us all in thrall.

    He gazed down at Joram's ashen face that was still and cold as the
marble on which he lay. Simkin  ran his fingers through Joram's  black
curls, carefully arranged them on the dead man's shoulders.

    "He  believed,"  Simkin  said.  "He  could  make  no  use  of   me
whatsoever. I betrayed him, I mocked  him, I used him. He shattered  a
world to free me, he gave his life to protect me. What I do now, I  do
for him."

    Again, Simkin transformed, shriveling and shrinking, withering  in
upon himself. He was,  once again, the  black and unlovely  Darksword.
Except that this time  I noted the sword  had a flashing orange  jewel
embedded in the hilt.

    The Darksword placed itself across Joram's chest.

    A wind rose from  the west, strong and  biting cold. Above us,  in
the night sky, the storm clouds blew away, torn to shreds by the wind.
The light of star and  starship glittered white against the  darkness.
And then the wind died. The air was still.

    All waited, stars and wind and ourselves.

    Scylla stretched out her hand. "You can wake up now, Joram. Hurry.
It's nearly midnight."

    Joram slowly opened his eyes. He looked first at Scylla.

    She nodded. "All is well."

    I knew then that my vague  understandings had been right. She  was
the one who had sent us hopscotching through time. She was the one who
had brought all this about. She was an agent, as she had claimed,  but
she did not work for the CIA or the FBI. She was an agent of God.

    Joram turned his head, looked over at Gwen and Eliza.

    Gwen smiled, as  if she had  been a  party to the  charade. I  saw
then, gathered  around her,  shadowy figures,  hundreds of  them.  The
dead. She had once spoken for them and they had not forsaken her.  She
had escaped capture by  the Technomancers. The  dead had rescued  her.
The vision we had seen in the dragon's lair was true.

    Eliza gasped, wanting to believe, yet not daring to believe.

    "No!" Kevon Smythe cried, half-strangled.  "It can't be! You  were
dead!"

    " 'There will be born to the royal house one who is dead but  will
live, who will die again and live again, ' " Joram quoted. He sat  up,
hearty and vigorous, and jumped down from the tomb.

    "Quidquid deliqusti. Amen," said the Darksword.

    Joram laid the Darksword on Merlyn's tomb.

    A man appeared beside the tomb. He was tall, with short-cut  white
hair and a gray,  grizzled beard. He wore  armor of an ancient  design
over chain mail. He bore no weapon,  other than a staff of oak  twined
with holly.

    Reaching down, he clasped his hand around the Darksword and picked
it up.

    "You're no Excalibur," he said, "but you'll do."

    "Thank you," the sword said coldly.

    The old man held the  sword high in the  air and spoke words  long
forgotten. Light  began to  shine from  the sword,  a light  that  was
blinding to some, for Smythe cried out in pain and flung his arms over
his head. His followers clapped  their hands over their eyes,  lowered
their heads, unable to look.

    I could not take my eyes away.

    The light expanded, spreading  outward, banishing the darkness.  A
globe of  light  surrounded  the  tomb, and  then  a  globe  of  light
surrounded those  of  us standing  near  the tomb.  The  light  flowed
outward, to the grove, the broken city of Merilon, the shattered world
of Thimhallan.

    The light lit the heavens, encompassed the starships.

    The light lifted us up.

    I stood in  a radiant globe  that was bearing  me upward.  Looking
down, I saw the dark rain-wet grass below my feet. I saw Smythe gazing
up in wonder and horror; seeing his own doom swarming out of the skies
to claim him. Thimhallan,  a world founded by  exiles, fell away  from
me.

    We would be exiles ourselves, refugees fleeing to some new  world,
lit by some far distant star.

    But we bore the magic with us.

    EPILOGUE

    Having read and  reviewed my  manuscript, Saryon  suggests that  I
include a detailed  explanation of our  time "hopscotching," for  fear
that many of my readers may be confused. Certainly, as he said, it was
confusing enough just living through  it. When Scylla explained it  to
me later, after  we had settled  ourselves in our  new world, it  made
much more sense.  I have  therefore included her  descriptions of  the
alternate time lines in an appendix, which follows.

    I have written  before about  the various Mysteries  of Life  that
existed on Thimhallan. There  were nine of them,  seven of them  which
existed  in   the  world   during  Joram's   lifetime.  Two   of   the
Mysteries-that of Time and  that of Spirit-were  lost during the  Iron
Wars. It was believed  that all the  practitioners of these  Mysteries
died. That  was  not the  case.  Scylla  herself was  of  the  Seventh
Mystery, that of Time. She was a Diviner.

    Possessing the ability to  look into the future,  as well as  into
the past, the Diviners were said to  be closest to seeing the Mind  of
God.

    "We do not  view the  future as one  long path,"  Scylla told  me.
"Rather, we see it as several paths branching off a main road. Mortals
can walk but one path at a  time, the paths of their choice. The  rest
are alternate futures, what might have been."

    The Diviners looked into the future and saw the Hch'nyv. They  saw
the ultimate defeat  of Earth  Forces, the eradication  of human  life
from the universe.

    "That existed in all paths," said Scylla. "All except one and that
in only one  of his many  paths. If Joram  could come to  the tomb  of
Merlyn on the very last night at the very last second of the very last
minute of the very last hour and in that second present the  Darksword
to Merlyn, the greatest of all magi would be able to cast a spell that
would save humankind from destruction, transport them to a new world.

    "Unfortunately, every path we took  to reach that second ended  in
disaster.

    "We generally do not meddle in time, but this was critical.  There
was a chance, a slim one, but that chance could be obtained only by  a
manipulation of times-of  jumping between times.  It would be  tricky,
for the participants must  be rescued from one  time before they  died
and transported to another. The four of you had to be dropped down  in
the middle of alternate lives you never knew you had been leading.

    "It  was   imperative   that   two   of   you-you,   Reuven,   and
Mosiah-recalled the alternate time, even though it would confuse  you,
for you had to be able to take what you learned in one and transfer it
to another.

    "As for Eliza  and Father Saryon,  the tasks each  had to  perform
were so dangerous that I deemed it best, for their own peace of  mind,
if neither knew of the alternate time. Such knowledge might cause them
to hesitate at  a critical moment.  Also, the fact  that they were  so
comfortable in their  own times helped  you and Mosiah  to adapt  more
quickly."

    Scylla grinned at me. "Better to have two of you confused than all
of you."

    That depends on how you look at it, I suppose.

    And this, I believe, wraps up  my story. I must put my  manuscript
aside now, for it  is my wedding day.  It has been a  year to the  day
that we have spent  on this wonderful  new world and  Eliza and I  are
marking the anniversary with our wedding.

    Her father, Joram,  has accepted  our union, though  of course  he
does not consider  me at  all good enough  for his  daughter. He  will
never love me,  but I  think he  is at least  beginning to  like me  a
little. He says that he sees much of Father Saryon in me and he smiles
his dark  smile when  he says  this,  so that  I believe  it to  be  a
compliment. Most of it, anyway.

    In Gwendolyn,  I have  found  the mother  I  never knew.  She  has
learned sign language for my sake and  we spend a part of each day  in
study, for she is teaching me much  I need to know about how she  uses
Life. Magic is abundant on this  new world of ours. Even we  catalysts
can use it.

    All but Father Saryon. And Joram.

    He will not even try, though both  Gwen and Eliza tease him to  do
so. He is content with  himself as he is,  which must be the  greatest
blessing to come to him in this lifetime.

    As for Scylla and Mosiah, they  were married almost as soon as  we
arrived in our new part of the universe. Theirs is an interesting  and
exciting life, if dangerous. For, just as there are dark and  shadowed
parts to the human heart, so there are dark and shadowed parts to  the
world of our creation.

    Father Saryon is, at last, truly happy and content. He is spending
his time formulating a  new theory of  relativity, having figured  out
where Einstein went wrong on the last one.

    As for Simkin, we have not seen him since we left Thimhallan.

    But I always look twice at anything orange. . . .

    APPENDIX

    THE FIRST TIME LINE

    This  was   taken  from   Scylla's   description  of   our   "time
hop-scotching," as Mosiah so  inelegantly put it.  I have written  out
each of the  three time lines  involved. You can  see where they  have
been cut and spliced in my story.

    The Darksword is  forged. Joram goes  Beyond and is  gone for  ten
years. He comes back  to Thimhallan to warn  of Menju the Sorcerer,  a
Dark Cultist (one of the blood-doom  knights) who has plans to  attack
Thimhallan. Earth  Forces attack.  Joram  goes to  the Temple  of  the
Necromancers, seeking  help  for his  wife,  Gwendolyn, who  does  not
communicate with the living but talks  only to the dead. Here, due  to
Simkin's betrayal, Joram is killed by an assassin's bullet.

    The Darksword  is recovered  by the  grieving Father  Saryon,  who
rescues Gwen and flees with her to the Font. Earth soldiers attack the
Font, and some of the catalysts are killed. Many more are able to hide
in  the  numerous   catacombs  and  tunnels.   Here  Saryon  finds   a
five-year-old boy whom he  names Reuven, crouched  near the bodies  of
his dead parents. Saryon  rescues the child and  takes him along  with
Gwen to safety.

    Gwen continues in her madness, only  now she is happy for she  can
talk to Joram, who has become one  of the dead. She longs to join  him
and remains among  the living only  to give birth  to their  daughter,
Eliza. Gwen dies soon after. Saryon is left to raise Eliza and Reuven.
Keeping Eliza's identity a secret,  Saryon flees with the children  to
Zithel.

    The armies of  Earth win. Menju  the Sorcerer plans  to take  over
Thimhallan. Fearful of attack from the  magi, he orders that the  Well
of Life be  sealed. The source  of magic  is shut off,  except from  a
chosen  few-Menju  and  the  other   Dark  Cultists.  Magic  dies   in
Thimhallan. The people are  forced to learn to  live without it.  They
must rebuild their cities and they turn to the Sorcerers to help them.

    A schism arises among the Dark Cults. Menju is put on trial before
the Sol-t'kan. He is found guilty of innumerable crimes, the main  one
being that he intended to  rule Thimhallan alone, without offering  to
share any of its resources with  his brethren. Menju is put to  death.
Kevon Smythe takes over rulership of the Dark Cultists.

    Smythe travels to Thimhallan.

    Saryon discovers  that the  Dark Cultists  are searching  for  the
Darksword. Guided by the  Almin, he ventures into  the Zoo, which  has
been damaged in  the assault  on Zithel. The  magical boundaries  that
surrounded the  Zoo  have been  destroyed,  its creatures  roam  free.
Saryon comes across the  lair of a Dragon  of Night. The creature  was
stunned during the attack on Zithel. Having been caught outside in the
light, it is comatose.

    Saryon charms the dragon,  who swears its  loyalty to him.  Saryon
leaves the Darksword  with the  Dragon of  Night, telling  it that  it
should give the  sword only to  himself or the  heir of Joram,  Eliza.
Bound by  the charm,  the  dragon agrees.  Saryon returns  to  Zithel,
continues to live there with his adopted children, Eliza and Reuven.

    Smythe was going to put Prince Garald to death, but foreseeing his
doom, the Prince fled Sharakan before the soldiers could capture  him.
He and his followers hid out in  the Outlands, always on the run  from
the Technomancers. Garald  dreams of driving  Smythe from  Thimhallan,
but without magic,  there is  little he  can do  against the  powerful
Technomancers.

    At this juncture Simkin returns from his travels to Earth.  Garald
accuses Simkin of betraying Joram and orders him put to death.

    Simkin bargains for his  life. He knows of  a source of magic,  if
Garald is interested.

    The Well of  Life is sealed,  but Simkin reveals  that there is  a
tap, used by  Smythe and his  people to  renew their own  magic. In  a
daring raid, Prince Garald, his friend James Boris, Mosiah, and  their
knights steal into  the Well  and, following a  swift, bitter  battle,
unseal the Well.

    Magic is once again released into Thimhallan. Garald forces Smythe
and his Technomancers to retreat to Earth.

    Garald's one  worry is  the  Darksword. He  knows that  Smythe  is
searching for it  and fears that  if the Technomancers  find it,  they
will use it to once more  rule the world. Garald believes that  Saryon
knows  where  the  Darksword  is  hidden.  He  finds  Saryon  and  his
wards-Reuven and Eliza. Garald is struck by Eliza's beauty and guesses
her parentage. Saryon reveals her true identity. Garald asks about the
Darksword. Saryon is evasive.

    Garald puts Joram's  daughter, Eliza,  on the  throne of  Merilon.
Merilon and  Sharakan  are allies.  Bishop  Vanya has  died.  Cardinal
Radisovik has  been made  Bishop  and he  decrees that  Father  Saryon
should be  Eliza's  adviser until  she  comes of  age.  Father  Saryon
accepts this task reluctantly,  thinking himself un-suited. He  leaves
Reuven behind at the Font, in training as a catalyst.

    Magic is restored, but it is weak. Though the barrier  surrounding
Thimhallan is rebuilt,  magic is  found to be  seeping out  of it  and
there doesn't appear to be anything anyone can do to stop it.

    The people  live  on  a  combination of  sorcery  and  steel.  The
Duuk-tsarith are the wizards, they being the ones with the most  power
left in magic. Prince Garald trains more knights to guard the realm.

    Times are  difficult.  Though at  first  Garald was  viewed  as  a
savior, he has come to be reviled. Smythe, in exile on Earth, has  his
followers upon  Thimhallan  and they  foment  unrest among  the  lower
classes, foretelling the coming of the end of the world unless  Smythe
is permitted to return to save it.

    The Hch'nyv have attacked  outposts and are  closing in on  Earth.
Smythe is secretly plotting  with the Hch'nyv,  agreeing to give  them
Earth if he  is given  Thimhallan. The  Hch'nyv have  no intention  of
honoring the agreement, planning  to kill Smythe as  soon as he  hands
over the Darksword, which  their own Diviners  have warned them  means
ultimate defeat.

    Taking the form of  an angel, Scylla  appears to Bishop  Radisovik
and warns him  of a  great doom  coming to  all peoples  on Earth  and
Thimhallan. The Darksword must be taken to the tomb of Merlyn and this
must be done  by Joram's  descendant, Queen  Eliza. Radisovik  informs
King Garald. At the same time a messenger arrives from General  Boris,
telling of the Hch'nyv's approach. Garald is convinced of its truth.

    Garald sends the Duuk-tsarith  for Father Saryon. Garald  explains
their desperate situation and  begs Saryon to  reveal the location  of
the Darksword. Saryon at length agrees,  but he will give it into  the
hands only of the heir. Garald gives his word of honor that this  will
happen.

    More and more  people are  being drawn under  Smythe's sway.  Mobs
roam the  countryside.  Eliza,  guarded by  her  knights,  travels  to
Zithel. On the way, the carriage  is attacked. Alerted ahead of  time,
the Queen; her house catalyst,  Reuven; her Enforcer, Mosiah; and  one
of her knights, Scylla, sneak in the side gate.

    They are met in  the forest by Father  Saryon, who guides them  to
the cave of the Dragon of Night.

    The dragon  recognizes  Saryon,  who introduces  Eliza.  She  goes
forward to recover the sword. As  she picks it up Duuk-tsarith  appear
in the cavern. They  do not believe Radisovik's  vision of the  angel,
they think  that  the Hch'nyv  are  part of  a  plot designed  by  the
Technomancers. The Duuk-tsarith have deposed King Garald and taken  up
rulership of the world. They demand the Darksword.

    Eliza raises the sword to defend herself. The Darksword begins  to
draw Life from  the Duuk-tsarith.  The sword's  null-magic breaks  the
charmed hold Saryon has on the dragon.

    The Dragon of  Night kills  Eliza and  everyone in  the cave.  The
dragon hurls  the  Darksword  into  the  deepest  part  of  the  River
Famirish.

    The Hch'nyv  destroy  Earth  and Thimhallan.  The  human  race  is
extinct.

    THE SECOND TIME LINE Saryon  and Reuven travel to Thimhallan  from
Earth to  meet Joram.  They warn  him of  the coming  of the  Hch'nyv.
Saryon tries to persuade Joram to return to Earth with his family.

    Fearing that  this  is  a  trick to  steal  the  Darksword,  Joram
refuses.

    His daughter, Eliza,  steals the Darksword  during the night.  She
leaves the house, intending to take the sword to the military outpost,
hand it  over to  the people  of  Earth. Reuven  sees her  leave  and,
realizing her danger, goes after her.

    The Technomancers arrive, confront Joram, and demand that he  hand
over the  Darksword.  Joram seeks  the  weapon in  its  hiding  place,
discovers that it is gone. Eliza is gone as well. Joram realizes  what
has happened. He battles the Technomancers and is joined in his  fight
by Mosiah, who has been keeping Joram and his family under guard.

    The Technomancers capture Joram and Father Saryon. They are  about
to capture Gwen, but she is rescued by the dead, who take her away  to
their realm.

    Scylla finds Reuven and Eliza. They return to the house,  discover
Mosiah, and hear that  Joram has been  captured by the  Technomancers.
Smythe appears and tells Eliza that he will exchange her father's life
for the sword. She is to  meet him in Zithel, where the  Technomancers
have their headquarters.

    Scylla, Eliza, and Mosiah travel to Zithel, accompanied by Simkin,
in the form of a teddy bear.

    Eliza and her escort reach the gate. An Interrogator, disguised as
Gwen, tricks Eliza into giving up the Darksword.

    Mosiah recognizes  the  Interrogator, seizes  the  Darksword,  and
hurls it into the gate. He, Reuven,  and Eliza enter the gate and  run
straight into the arms of the waiting Technomancers.

    In the ensuing  battle, Eliza is  killed. The Technomancers  seize
the Darksword. They transport it and their prisoners to Earth.

    Despondent  over  the  death  of  his  beloved  daughter,  blaming
himself, Joram dies of his wounds on the trip back.

    The Hch'nyv attack Earth. Kevon  Smythe hands over the  Darksword,
expects his life to be spared.

    It isn't.

    The Hch'nyv destroy Earth and Thimhallan. The human race is  wiped
out.

    THE THIRD TIME  LINE As  you know,  having read  the book,  Scylla
managed, by jumping between time lines,  to create a third time  line,
one in which we had a chance to survive. Simkin was the key and Scylla
admitted that she herself  didn't know until the  very end whether  he
would help us or blithely cast us all aside.

    "We were fortunate that the  Technomancers lost no opportunity  to
insult him. As  he told Smythe,  they didn't believe  in him,"  Scylla
said. "In the end, that's why he decided to help."

    Not even she  knew, or so  she claims, that  Simkin had taken  the
form of the Darksword. But thinking  back, I realize now that was  why
the dragon complained so bitterly of the sword's bright light, hurting
its eyes. The dragon could see more than we could, apparently.

    As for the Darksword itself, does  it still lie in some cave  back
on flame-ravaged Thimhallan?

    We will not discover  the answer in our  lifetime, but who  knows?
Perhaps, when thousands of years have passed and the Hch'nyv have been
vanquished by some more  powerful race, one  of our descendants  might
read this book  of mine and  return to Thimhallan,  to Zithel, to  the
cave of the dragon. . . .