Forging the Darksword (40 page)

Taking a dish from Simkin, Joram sat down upon the stone floor and began to eat, using the tool to shovel food into his mouth, never raising his eyes from his dish. Accepting his dish, Mosiah did the same, manipulating the unfamiliar spoon awkwardly. Simkin offered a dish to the catalyst, who took it and a spoon. But Saryon did not eat, he was still looking at Joram.

“I have been thinking,” he said to the scowling young man. “Since no records exist of your Testing, it is possible that Father Tolban might have, in the excitement of the moment, made a mistake in your case. Return with me of your own accord and let the case be examined. There were extenuating circumstances involved in the murder, I’ve heard. “Your mother—”

“Do not speak of my mother. Let us talk of my father, instead. Did you know him, Catalyst?” Joram asked coldly. “Were you there, watching, when they turned his body to stone?”

Saryon had picked up his bowl, but now he set it down with shaking hands.

“I say, Mosiah,” remarked Simkin, chewing vigorously, “this squirrel didn’t happen to stagger in here and die of old age in your arms, did it, dear boy? If so, you should have given it a decent burial. I’ve been chewing on this piece for ten minutes—”

“No, no … I wasn’t present during your father’s execution,” replied Saryon in a low voice, his eyes on the stone floor. “I was a Deacon, then. Only the higher-ranking of my Order—”

“Got to see the show?” Joram sneered.

“Water! I need water!” Simkin gestured, and a water-skin, hanging in a cool part of the cavern, floated over to them. “I must have something to wash down this elderly party.” Taking a drink, he wiped his mouth with the bit of orange silk, then gave a prodigious yawn. “I say, I’m frightfully bored with this conversation. Let’s play tarok.” Reaching
into the air, he produced a pack of colorful, gilt-edged cards.

“Where did
you
get a deck?” Mosiah demanded, thankful for the interruption. “Wait a minute, those aren’t Blachloch’s, are they?”

“Of course not.” Simkin looked hurt. “He’s playing over in the corner, didn’t you notice? As for this”—he spread the cards out on the ground with an expert flick of his hand—“I picked it up at court. This is the newest deck. The artisans did a superb job. The court cards are drawn to look like everyone in the Royal House of Merilon. It was quite the rage, I assure you. Overly flattering to the Empress, of course. She doesn’t look nearly this good now, especially up close. But the artisans have no choice in the matter, I suppose. Notice the lovely azure color to the sky around the Sun card? Crushed lapis lazuli. No, truly, I assure you. And see the Kings? Each suit is a different Emperor of one of the realms. King of Swords—Emperor of Merilon. King of Staves is Zith-el. King of Cups is the notorious lover, Emperor of Balzab. A perfect likeness, and the King of Coins is that money-grubber Sharakan—”

“We’ll play, won’t we, Joram?” Mosiah interrupted hurriedly, seeing Simkin about to proceed to the Queens. “What about you, Father? Or is playing tarok against your vows or something?”

“Only three players,” Simkin said, shuffling the deck. “The catalyst will have to wait his turn.”

“Thank you,” said Saryon. Gathering his robes around him, he started to rise, leaving his untouched stew on the floor. “We are permitted to play but I would not break up your game. Perhaps another time …”

“Go ahead, Catalyst.” Shoving his plate away, Joram stood up, his face dark and sullen, a wild, strange look in his eyes. “I don’t want to play. You can have my place.”

“Don’t, Joram!” Mosiah said in low tones. A note of anxiety in his voice, he caught hold of Joram’s muscular arm.

“See here,” said Simkin cheerfully, cutting the deck and stacking it back with a swift gesture of his hand. “We won’t play if Joram’s going to go off into one of his sulking (fits. Look, I’ll tell your fortunes. Sit back down, Catalyst. I think you will find this interesting. You first, Joram.”

Anciently, the Diviners had used the tarot deck to enable them to see into the future. Brought from the Dark World, the cards were originally cherished as a sacred artifact. The Diviners alone, it was said, knew how to translate the complex images painted on the cards. But the Diviners were no more, having perished in the Iron Wars. The cards still existed, preserved for their quaint beauty, and after a time someone recalled that they had once been used in an ancient game known as tarok. The game caught on, particularly among the members of the noble houses. The art of fortune-telling did not die out either, but dwindled (with the encouragement of the catalysts) into a harmless pastime suitable for entertainment at parties.

“Come, Joram. I’m quite skilled at this, you know,” said Simkin persuasively, tugging at Joram’s sleeve until the young man sat down. Even Saryon hesitated, regarding the cards with the fascination all feel when they try to lift the veil that hides the future. “The Empress simply dotes on me. Now, Joram, using your left hand—the hand closest to your heart—choose three cards. Past, present, future. This is your past.”

Simkin turned up the first card. A figure robed in black riding a pale horse stared out at them with the grinning face of a skull.

“Death,” said Simkin softly.

Despite himself, Saryon could not repress a shiver. He glanced quickly at the young man, but Joram was staring at the cards with nothing but a half-smile upon his lips, a smile that might have been a sneer.

The second card pictured a man in royal robes, seated on a throne.

“The King of Swords. Oh, ho!” Simkin said, laughing. “Maybe you’re destined to wrest control from Blachloch, Joram. Emperor of the Sorcerers!”

“Hush! Don’t even joke about that!” Mosiah said with a nervous glance into the corner of the cavern where Blachloch and his men played their own game.

“I’m not joking,” Simkin said in aggrieved tones. “I’m really quite good at this. The Duke of Osborne said—”

“Turn over the third card,” Joram muttered. “So we can get to bed.”

Obediently, Simkin turned over the card. At the sight of it, Joram’s eyes dickered with amusement.

“Two cards exactly alike! I might have known you’d have a crooked deck,” Mosiah said in disgust, though Saryon noted the relief in the young man’s voice as he saw the wild look fade from Joram’s face. “Fortune-telling! Turn over the Fool card for yourself, Simkin, and I’d believe it. Come on, Joram. Good night, Father.” The two left, heading for their bedrolls.

“Good night,” Saryon said absently. His attention was caught by Simkin, who was staring at the cards in bewilderment.

“That’s impossible,” Simkin said, frowning. “I’m certain that the last time I looked at this deck, it was perfectly normal. I recall it quite well. I told the Marquis de Lucien that he was going to meet a tall, dark stranger. He did, too. The
Duuk-tsarith
picked him up the next day. Mmm, very odd. Oh, well.” Shrugging again, he draped his bit of orange silk over the cards and, tapping them once on top, caused them to disappear. “I say, are you going to eat your stew, Bald One?”

“What? Oh … no,” Saryon answered, shaking his head. “Go ahead.”

“I hate to see it go to waste, though I do wish Mosiah had more respect for the aged.” Simkin said, picking up the bowl and spooning in a mouthful of squirrel. Lying back on the velvet cushion, he began to chew resignedly.

Saryon did not reply. Walking away, the catalyst went to a corner of the cavern that was in relative shadow. Wrapping himself in his robes and his blanket, he lay down on the cold stone and tried to get as comfortable as possible. But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the cards spread out on the stone floor.

The third card had been Death again; this time, though, the grinning figure had been reversed.

Grant Me Life …

T
he rain and the journey continued, as did Saryon’s misery. Only now, it was misery tempered with growing fear as they drew nearer and nearer their goal—the small Field Magi settlement of Dunam north of the border of the Outland, about one hundred miles from the sea coast. At least once a day Blachloch called upon the catalyst to grant him Life; never much, just sufficient for defensive purposes or to give his men the magical power to rise above the tops of the trees on the wings of the air to scout the trail ahead.

But, although minor in nature, Saryon knew these for what they were—conditioning, the conditioning of a slave to obey his master’s voice. Each command was always a little more difficult, each required more expenditure of energy on the catalyst’s part, each drained him a little more every day. And always the cold, impassionate eyes of the warlock stared at him from the shadows of the black hood, watching him for the least sign of weakness, of hesitation or resistance.

What Blachloch would have done had his slave rebelled, Saryon did not know. Not once during the entire month-long
journey through the Outland did the catalyst ever see the warlock mistreat, threaten, or even speak harshly to anyone. The
Duuk-tsarith
had no need to resort to such measures. The warlock’s presence alone commanded respect, his eyes turned toward anyone filled them with a vague feeling of terror. To be included as one of the threesome of Blachloch’s nightly tarok games—the warlock’s only indulgence and one to which he was passionately addicted—took either great fortitude or large quantities of fiery spirits. Some simply could not take playing cards for hours in the gaze of those blue, expressionless eyes. Saryon saw men slink into the shadows when evening came and Blachloch drew forth his pack of cards.

Saryon’s guilt and misery deepened. Day after day, the catalyst rode through the rain, his head bowed almost as low as his horse’s. Nothing occurred to mar the drudgery of the ride. Though the bandits saw centaur tracks, they were not attacked. Centaur prefer catching one or two lone humans and will think twice about striking such a large, well-equipped group. Once Saryon thought he caught a glimpse of a giant peering at them from above the treetops, the huge shaggy-haired head seemingly at variance with the popping, childlike eyes and the gaping mouth that grinned in the delight at this tiny parade through his homeland. Before the catalyst could speak or shout an alarm, the figure was gone. Saryon might have doubted his senses, but he felt the ground tremble beneath the thuds of gigantic feet. Later, he was glad he had not mentioned it, listening to some of Blachloch’s men tell stories about the sport they had when they caught one of these big, gentle, dim-witted creatures.

The only sips of pleasure in the catalyst’s bitter cup were the few moments he spent each day with Mosiah. The young man took to riding with Saryon for short spells, most of the time by himself, occasionally (when Mosiah couldn’t get rid of him) with Simkin. Joram, of course, never joined them, although Saryon always noticed the young man riding a short distance behind them, within hearing range. But when the catalyst started to mention this to Mosiah, he only received a quick shake of the head, a swift backward glance, and the whispered words “Don’t pay any attention to him” in return.

The two were an unlikely pair—the tall, stoop-shouldered, middle-aged priest and the fair-haired, handsome youth. Their talk ranged over a wide variety of subjects, nearly always starting with the small doings of the people in Mosiah’s village, which the homesick youth never tired of discussing. After that, however, it ranged far afield, Saryon finding himself talking about his studies, about life in court and the city of Merilon. It was during these times, particularly when he talked about Merilon or when he was discoursing on mathematics (his favorite topic), that he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Joram edging his horse nearer.

“Tell me, Father”—Mosiah’s voice carried clearly over the thudding of the horses’ hooves and the dripping of the water from the trees beneath which they rode—“when Simkin talks about the court at Merilon … You know, when he mentions those Dukes and Duchesses and Earls and all that, is he … well … making these people up? Or do they really exist?”

“Is he lying?” Joram muttered to himself as he rode behind them, that strange inner smile lighting his eyes. “Of course he’s lying. Still trying to catch the wily Simkin, are you, Mosiah? Well, give up. Better people than you have tried, my friend.”

“I really can’t say,” Joram heard the catalyst reply in a perplexed tone. “You see, I wasn’t at court much myself and … I’m terrible at names. Some of them he mentions
do
sound familiar, yet I can’t ever seem to call them to mind. I suppose it’s entirely possible …”

“See there?” Joram said to Mosiah’s back. He often made such comments during the course of the conversation. But they were always made to himself, always unheard by the principals involved. For Joram never joined them, and if either glanced back, he always feigned looking at his surroundings to the exclusion of all else.

But he was listening, listening carefully and with intense interest. A change had come over Joram in the months he had spent living among the Sorcerers of Technology. Sick and exhausted upon his arrival, it had been easy for the young man to fall into his old, accustomed ways of leaving people severely alone and expecting them to leave him alone.
But he discovered after long weeks of this that being left alone was … lonely. Worse than that, he realized that if his self-imposed solitude continued, he would soon end up as insane as poor Anja.