Forging the Darksword (3 page)

“Dear Evenue,” Vanya said, abandoning her formal title. “The waiting time may be long and painful. You need rest to recover your health. Think of the loving husband, whose grief is equal to your own and yet must endure in addition your suffering as well. Grant me that I may take the child and perform the Deathwatch for all Thimhallan—”

Raising her tear-streaked face, the Empress stared at Vanya with brown eyes that now glittered as black as her hair. Suddenly she drew upon the power, sucking Life from the catalyst. The conduit of magic, normally not visible to the eye, flared brilliantly between the two of them, arcing with a blinding white light as, with a motion of her hand, the Empress sent the Bishop flying backward five feet in the air. No one in the court dared move, each staring in awe at the tremendous flow of power as Vanya landed heavily upon the weeping-blue marble floor.

Drawing the Life force flowing through the Bishop’s conduit, the weakened Empress gained strength from him that she herself did not possess. Springing into the air, the wizardess hovered above her child’s cradle. Words of magic crackled. Spreading her hands wide, she caused a flaming globe to appear, encasing herself and the child safely within its fiery walls.

“Never! Get out!” she shrieked, her voice searing like the heat of the fire. “Get out, you bastard! I don’t believe you, any of you! Get out! You lied! My baby did not fail your Tests! He is not Dead! You fear him! You fear he’ll usurp your own precious power!”

A murmur and a rustle spread through the Illustrious Circle, no one knowing where to look. It was unseemly to stare at the Bishop in his undignified position. His miter on the floor, his tonsured head gleaming in the moonlight, the Bishop had become entangled in his ceremonial robes and was struggling to stand up. A few people glanced at the Empress, but it was painful to look upon her, and more painful still to hear her sacrilegious words.

Saryon took refuge in staring at his shoes, wishing most desperately that he were a hundred miles from this pathetic scene. It was obvious that most of those in the court shared his feeling. The colors of
Weeping Blue
, so carefully gradated
to reflect rank and status, shifted with each wearers nervousness so that the overall effect was one of ripples passing over a calm and placid lake.

With the Cardinal’s help, the Bishop at last managed to stand up. Seeing his livid face, everyone in the court shrank back, many of the magi sinking weakly nearer the floor. Even the Emperor, who had turned around, paled visibly at the sight of the Bishop’s anger. As the Cardinal replaced the miter upon his head, Vanya twitched his robes into place—the man had such control that they had not changed color in the slightest degree—and, gathering what strength he had remaining, abruptly closed off the conduit to the Empress.

The fiery globe vanished. The Empress had gained enough Life from the Bishop, however, that she continued to float above the child, her crystal tears falling upon the baby. As the tears hit the tiny, naked chest, they shattered, causing the child to shriek louder, screaming in a hysterical paroxysm of terror and pain. Everyone in the court could see blood running down the baby’s skin.

Vanya’s lips tightened. This had gone too far. The child would have to be washed and purified all over again. The Bishop cast another look at the Emperor. This time, Vanya’s look was not questioning. He was commanding, and everyone in the court knew it.

The Emperor’s stern expression softened. Floating through the air, he came to rest beside his wife and, reaching out his hand, gently stroked her lovely, glistening hair. It was said among the members of the Royal Household that he doted on this woman and would have given anything in his vast power to please her. But the one thing she wanted, apparently, he could not give her—a living child.

“Bishop Vanya,” the Emperor said to the catalyst, though he did not look at him directly, “take the child. Send us the sign when it is ended.”

Relief flooded through the court. Saryon could hear it sigh upon the air. Glancing around, he saw that the color of nearly everyone’s robes had shifted slightly again. Where there had once been a perfect blue spectrum of mourning, now the shades and hues wobbled and wandered among sickly greens and woeful grays.

Relief mingled with anger was obvious on the Bishop’s face, as well. Even he was too weakened to conceal it any longer. A trickle of sweat rolled down his shaved head from beneath the miter Wiping it away, he exhaled deeply, then bowed to the Emperor.

Moving much more hurriedly than was proper for such a solemn occasion, all the while keeping his eyes on the Empress, who was still hovering above him, the Bishop reached out and lifted the frantic baby in his arms. Turning to a warlock, a Marshal of the Enforcers, Vanya said in a low, husky voice, “Through your talent, take me to the Font.” Then he added, speaking to the Emperor. “I shall send the sign, Your Majesty. Be waiting.”

The Emperor, his eyes still on his frail wife, did not appear to hear. But the Bishop wasted no more time. Beckoning to the Cardinal, the next highest ranking of the Order beneath himself, Vanya whispered several words. The Cardinal bowed and, turning to the Marshal, opened a conduit to the warlock full force, granting him more than sufficient Life to make the journey through the Corridors back to the mountain fastness of the Font, the center of the Church in Thimhallan.

Even in his distraught state of mind, Saryon found himself routinely making the tricky mathematical calculations for a journey of such distance. Within moments, he had it completed, and he realized that the Cardinal had wasted his energy—a grievous sin among catalysts, for it leaves them weak and vulnerable and grants the magi extra energy that they can store and use again at will. But, Saryon supposed, it didn’t matter this time. Though a skilled mathematician, it would take the Cardinal long moments of study to arrive at the same answer that Saryon had reached in seconds. Both Saryon and the Cardinal knew that those were long moments he didn’t dare waste.

Acting quickly upon Vanya’s order, the warlock entered the Corridor that opened up, a gaping blue disk, before him. The Bishop, carrying his tiny burden, followed. When all three were inside, the disk elongated, compressed, and vanished.

It was over. The Bishop and the baby were gone.

The court began to function again. Members of the Royal Household floated up to the Emperor to offer their condolences and their sympathy and to remind him of their presence. The Cardinal, who had given his all to the Marshal, dropped over like a rock, sending most of the brethren of his Order running to his aid.

One catalyst, however, did not move. Saryon remained standing in place in the now-broken Circle, his plans and hopes and dreams falling around him, shattering like the Empress’s tears upon the weeping-blue floor. Lost in his own grief, Saryon fancied he could still hear, lingering upon the air, the faint wail of the baby, and the mournful whispering of the trees.

“The Prince is Dead.”

The Gift of Life

T
he wizard stood in the doorway of his manor house. A plain, serviceable dwelling, it was neither opulent nor ostentatious, for this wizard, though of noble birth, was yet of low rank. Though he could have afforded a glittering crystal palace, this would have been considered unseemly for one of his station. He was content with his life, however, and now stood looking out over his lands in the early morning with an air of calm satisfaction.

At a sound behind him in the hall, he turned. “Hurry, Saryon,” he said with a smile for his little boy, who was sprawled on the floor, struggling to put on his shoes. “Hurry, if you want to see the Ariels deliver the disks.”

With a final, desperate wrench, the child tugged his shoe over his heel; then, leaping to his feet, he ran to his father. Catching the child up in his arms, the wizard spoke the words that summoned the air to do his bidding. Stepping into the wind, he was lifted from the ground and floated over the land, his silken robes fluttering about him like the wings of a bright butterfly.

The child, one hand clinging to his father’s neck, opened the other to greet the dawn.

“Teach me to do this, Father!” Saryon cried, delighting in the rushing of the spring air past his face. “Tell me the words that summon the wind.”

Saryon’s father smiled and, shaking his head, solemnly tweaked one of the little boy’s feet encased in its leather prison. “No word of yours will ever summon the wind, my son,” he said, fondly brushing back the child’s flaxen hair from the disappointed face. “Such is not your gift.”

“Maybe not now,” Saryon said stubbornly as they drifted above the long rows of newly plowed ground, smelling the rich, dark fragrance of wet earth. “But when I am older, like Janji—”

But his father was shaking his head again. “No, child, not even when you are older.”

“But that’s not fair!” Saryon cried. “Janji is only a servant, like his father, yet he can tell the air to take him on its back. Why—”

He stopped, catching his father’s gaze. “It’s because of these, isn’t it!” he said suddenly. “Janji doesn’t wear shoes. You don’t either. Only me and Mother. Well, I’ll get rid of them!” Kicking his feet, he sent one of the shoes flying, to tumble down onto the plowed ground where it would lie until a Field Magus, happening to come across it in her work, picked it up and took it home as a curiosity. Saryon kicked at his other shoe, but his father’s hand closed over the little boy’s feet.

“My son, you are not strong enough in Life—”

“I am, too, Father,” Saryon insisted, interrupting. “Look! Look at this!” With a wave of his small hand, he caused his own knee-length robe to change from green to a vivid orange. He was about to add blotches of blue in order to create a costume of which he was quite fond, but one that his mother never allowed him to wear at home. His father didn’t mind, however, and so he was generally permitted to wear it when they were alone together, traveling about the estate. But today the child saw his father’s usually kind face grow stern, so, with a sigh, he held his tongue and checked his impulse.

“Saryon,” said the wizard, “you are five years old. Within a year, you will begin your studies as a catalyst. It is time you
listened and tried to understand what I am about to tell you. You have the Gift of Life. Thank the Almin! Some are born without it. Therefore, be grateful for this gift and use it wisely, never wishing for more than you have been blessedly allotted. That is a path of dark and bitter despair, my son. To walk that path leads to madness or worse.”

“But if I have the gift, why can’t I do with it what I want?” Saryon asked, his lower lip trembling at both his father’s unaccustomed seriousness and the knowledge deep within the child that he knew the answer already but refused to accept it.

“My son,” his father replied with a sigh, “I am
Albanara
, learned in the arts of ruling those under my care, of running and maintaining my house, of seeing to it that my land brings forth its fruit and that my animals give their gifts as they were born to do. That is my talent, given to me by the Almin, and I use it to find favor in his eyes.”

Dropping down from the sky, the wizard came to rest in a wooded glade at the edge of the plowed land, shivering slightly as his bare feet touched the dew-damp grass.

“Why are we stopping?” the child asked. “We’re not there yet.”

“Because I want to walk,” the wizard answered. “There is a stiffness in my muscles this morning that I need to work out.” Setting his son down, he started off, his robes trailing in the grass.

Head bowed, Saryon trudged through the grass after his father, one shoe off and one shoe on, forced to walk with an awkward, waddling gait. Glancing back, the wizard saw his son lagging behind and, with a wave of his hand, caused the child’s remaining shoe to disappear.

Looking down at his bare foot in momentary astonishment, Saryon laughed, enjoying the tickling sensation of the new grass.

“Race me, Father!” he called and dashed ahead.

Mindful of his dignity, the wizard hesitated, then shrugged and grinned. The wizard, was, after all, only a young man himself, being in his late twenties. Gathering up his long robes in his hand, he ran after his son. Across the glade they raced, the child screeching in excitement as his father pretended to be always on the verge of (but never
quite) catching up with him. Unaccustomed to such strenuous exercise, the wizard was soon out of breath, however, and was forced to bring the race to a halt.

A jagged-edged boulder jutted up out of the earth near them. Panting slightly, the wizard walked over to the boulder and, touching it gently with his hand, caused it to grow smooth and polished. Then, sinking down upon the newly shaped rock in relief, he motioned his son to come to him. After catching his breath, he opened up the subject of their previous conversation.

“Do you see what I have done, Saryon?” the wizard asked, patting the rock with his hand. “Do you see how I have shaped the stone that, before, was useless to us but is now a bench that we may sit upon?”

Saryon nodded, his eyes fixed intently upon his father’s face.