Forging the Darksword (45 page)

“According to the texts,” Joram said, careful to speak calmly and suppress his rising excitement, “the ancients mixed darkstone with iron to form an alloy—”

“What?” Saryon interrupted.

“An alloy a mixture of two or more metals.”

“Was this done by alchemy?” Saryon asked, a note of fear in his voice. “By changing the base form of the metal through magic?”

“No.” Joram shook his head, noticing the catalysts increasing pallor with amusement. “No. It is done according to the rituals of the Dark Arts, Catalyst. The ores are ground, heated to their melting points, then physically joined together. They are then cast in molds, beaten and tempered, and formed into swords or daggers. Quite deadly”—Joram’s gaze went back to the stone he held in his hand—“as you can imagine. First the sword drains a wizard of his magic, then is able to penetrate his flesh.”

Beside him, Joram felt the catalyst’s body shudder. Saryon set the stone down hastily. “You have tried this?” he asked in a low, trembling voice.

“Yes,” Joram answered coldly. “It didn’t work. I formed the alloy and poured it into a mold. But the dagger I created shattered when I put it into water …”

Closing his eyes, Saryon sighed. It may have been with relief, certainly that’s what he told himself. But the young man watching closely wondered if there was not an underlying tinge of disappointment.

“Perhaps this rock is nothing more than some strange-looking stone,” Saryon said after a moment. “Perhaps it is not the ore you read about in the texts. Or perhaps the texts themselves lied. You would not be able to tell if it could absorb magic—” He hesitated.

“—since I am Dead,” finished Joram. “No, you are right.” He pushed the ore across the table toward the catalyst. “Yet you should be able to tell. Try it, Catalyst. What do you sense about this ore?”

Saryon lifted the stone in his hand. For long moments he looked at it, then, shutting his eyes, he sensed for the magic.

Watching closely, Joram saw the catalyst’s face grow peaceful, the man’s concentration turning inward. His expression became one of awe and bliss, he was absorbing the magic. But then, slowly, the catalyst’s expression changed to one of horror. Quickly he opened his eyes, and set the stone down upon the table, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from it.

“This is the darkstone!” Joram said softly.

“I do not see why it should excite you,” Saryon said. He licked his lips as though he had a bitter taste in his mouth. “The secret to forming the ancient alloy is apparently one you cannot unlock.”

“Not me,” said Joram softly. “You, Catalyst. You see”—he leaned near—“the formula for the alloy is given in the text, but I cannot read it. It is—”

“—mathematics.” Saryon’s lips twisted.

“Mathematics,” Joram repeated. “Something my mother never taught me, of course, since it is an art of the catalysts.” Shaking his head, the young man clenched his fist, forgetting himself in his earnestness. “The texts are filled with mathematical equations! You cannot know, Saryon, how frustrating this was to me! To be so close, to have found the ore they spoke of, and then to have my way blocked by what is so much gibberish dancing across the page. I did all I could. I thought maybe by experimenting I could come across the right answer by accident. But my time was short, and Blachloch began to suspect. He is having me watched.” Picking up the rock, Joram held it in his open palm, then slowly closed his fingers over it, as though he would crush it in his hand. “I don’t believe I would have ever gotten it right anyway,” he continued with growing bitterness. “There’s a lot about catalysts in there. Directions to them. I thought I could ignore that, but apparently not.”

“You called me ‘Saryon,’” the catalyst said to Joram quietly.

Looking up, Joram flushed. He hadn’t meant to do that, this wasn’t part of his plan. There was something about this man, something he hadn’t counted on finding, particularly not in a catalyst. Someone who understood.

Angrily, Joram’s face hardened; the black brows drew together threateningly. No, he must stick to the plan. This man was a tool, nothing more.

“If we’re going to be working together, I suppose I must call you by name,” he said sullenly. “I will
not
call you ‘Father’!” he added with a sneer.

“I haven’t agreed to work with you,” Saryon replied steadily. “Tell me, if you create this … this weapon, what will you do with it?”

“Stop Blachloch,” Joram answered with a shrug. “Believe me, Cata—Saryon—it is only a matter of time before he destroys me. He has so much as told me so already. As for you—Well, do you want to be part of another raiding party?”

“No,” Saryon said in a low voice. “Will you take over leadership of the coven then?”

“Me?” Joram shook his head with a mirthless laugh. “Are you mad? Why should I want such responsibility? No, I will give the leadership of the coven back to Andon. He and these people can live in peace once more. As for me, I want only one thing. To return to Merilon and claim what is mine. With this weapon,” he said grimly, “I can do it.”

“You forget one thing,” Saryon said. “I was sent to bring you back to … to stand trial.”

“You
are right,” Joram said after a pause, “I had forgotten. Very well”—he shrugged—“open a Corridor. Call the
Duuk-tsarith.
”

“I cannot open a Corridor without the assistance of a magic-user,” Saryon replied. “If you had sufficient Life, I could use yours …”

“That was the plan?”

“Yes,” Saryon murmured inaudibly.

“A pity it didn’t work out, Catalyst,” Joram answered coolly. “Weak though you may be, I am weaker yet. Now, that is. Once I have the weapon, however … Well, you will do what you have to do when the time comes. Perhaps your Bishop might consider Blachloch an acceptable trade for me. As for now—Saryon—are you with me? Will you help free us both, and help free Andon and his people? You know they will keep their vow, and you know what Blachloch will do to them.”

“Yes,” Saryon said. Clasping his hands, he looked down at them, noticing the blueness in his fingernails. “I’m losing the feeling in my fingers,” he murmured. Rising to his feet, he walked from the table to the feeble fire. “I wonder what the Almin is doing now,” he said to himself, holding his hands to the warmth. “Getting ready to attend Evening Prayers in the Font? Preparing Himself to listen to Bishop Vanya praying for guidance that he probably doesn’t need? No wonder the Almin stays there, safe and secure, within the walls of the Font.

“What an easy job.”

Fallen

“I
t cannot be done,” said Saryon, looking up from the text he was reading, his face pale and strained.

“What do you mean, it can’t be done?” Joram demanded, ceasing his restless pacing and coming to stand next to the catalyst. “Don’t you understand it? Can’t you read the math? Is there something we lack? Something we’re missing? If so—”

“I mean it cannot be done because I will not do it,” Saryon said wearily, leaning his head upon his hand. He gestured at the text. “I understand it,” he continued in a hollow voice. “I understand it all too well. And I will not do it!” He closed his eyes. “I will not do it.”

Joram’s face twisted in fury, his fist clenched, and for an instant it seemed as though he might strike the catalyst. With a visible effort, the young man controlled himself and, taking another turn about the small, underground chamber, forced himself to calm down.

As he heard Joram walk away, Saryon opened his eyes, his wistful gaze falling on the volumes and volumes of leather,
hand-bound texts that stood neatly arranged on wooden bookshelves, so crudely fashioned that it appeared they might have been the work of children. An early example of woodworking without the use of magic, the catalyst guessed. He felt Joram’s anger—it radiated from him like a wave of heat from the forge—and Saryon sat tense and expectant, waiting for the attack, either verbal or physical. But none came. Only a seething silence and the steady, measured pacing of the young man walking out his frustration. Saryon sighed. He would almost have preferred an outburst. This coolness in one so young, this control over a nature so obviously in turmoil, was frightening.

Where did it come from? Saryon wondered. Surely not from his parents, who—if reports were true—gave way to passions that encompassed their downfall. Perhaps this was some sort of attempt at reparation, Joram’s father reaching out to him with his stone hands. Or then there was that other possibility, the one that had come to Saryon out of the darkness, out of the pain of his injury. The one he had shut out, the one he would never think of again ….

Saryon shook his head angrily. What nonsense. It was the influence of this room, it had to be.

Joram sat down in a chair beside him.

“Very well—Saryon,” he said, his voice cool and even, “tell me what must be done and why you will not do it.”

The catalyst sighed again. Raising his head, he looked back at the text that lay before him on the table. Smiling sadly, he ran his hand over the pages with a touch almost caressing. “Do you have any idea of the wonders within these pages?” he asked Joram softly.

Joram’s eyes devoured the catalyst, watching every nuance of expression upon the man’s tired, lined face. “With these wonders, we could rule the world,” he replied.

“No, no, no!” Saryon said impatiently. “I meant wonders, wonders of learning. The mathematics …” His eyes closed again in exquisite agony. “I am the best mathematician of this age,” he murmured. “A genius they call me. Yet here, within these pages, I find such knowledge that makes me feel like a child crouched at my mother’s knee. I don’t begin to understand them. I could study for months, years …” The look of pain faded from his face, replaced by one of longing. His
hand stroked the pages of the text. “What joy,” he whispered, “if I had found
this
when I was young ….” His voice died.

Joram waited, watching, as patient as a cat.

“But I didn’t,” Saryon said. Opening his eyes, he moved his hand away from the pages of the text swiftly, as another might move his hand from a burning brand. “I have found them now that I am old, my conscience fixed, my morals formed. Perhaps those morals are not right,” he added, seeing Joram frown, “but, such as they are, they are fixed within me. To deny them or fight them might drive me mad.”

“So you are saying that you understand what this means”—Joram gestured toward the text—“and that you could do what must be done except that it goes against your conscience?”

Saryon nodded.

“And did it go against this conscience of yours to kill that young catalyst in the village—”

“Stop!” Saryon cried in a low voice.

“No, I won’t stop,” Joram returned bitterly. “You’re so good at preaching sermons, Catalyst. Preach one to Blachloch. Show him the evil of his ways as he ties old Andon by his hands to the whipping post. You watch while his men flail the flesh from that old man’s bones. You watch, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that it may be wrong but it isn’t going against
your
conscience—”

“Stop!” Saryon’s fist clenched. He glared angrily at the young man. “I don’t want to see that happen anymore than you—”

“Then, help me to stop it!” Joram hissed. “It’s up to you, Catalyst! You’re the only one who can!”

Saryon shut his eyes again, resting his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped.

Sitting back, Joram watched and waited. The catalyst raised a haggard face. “According to the text, I must give Life … to that which is Dead.”

Joram’s face darkened, the thick brows drew together. “What do you mean?” he asked tightly. “Not to me—”

“No.” Drawing a deep breath, Saryon turned to the text. Moistening a finger, he carefully turned one of the brittle parchment pages, his touch gentle and reverential. “You have failed for two reasons. You have not been mixing the alloy in
the correct proportions. According to this formula, that is quite important. A deviation of a few drops can mean the difference between success and failure. Then, once it is taken from the mold, the metal must be heated to a extremely high temperature—”

“But it will lose its form,” Joram protested.

“Wait …” Saryon raised his hand. “This second heating is not done in the fires of the forge.” Licking his lips, he paused a moment, then continued, speaking slowly and reluctantly. “It is heated within the flame of magic ….”

Joram stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“I must open a conduit, take the magic from the world, and infuse it into the metal.” Saryon looked at Joram steadily. “Can’t you understand, young man? I must give the Life of this world to something Dead, made by the hands of men. This goes against everything I have ever believed. It is truly the blackest of the Dark Arts.”

“So what will you do, Catalyst?” Joram asked, sitting back and regarding Saryon with triumph.

But Saryon had lived over forty years in the world. Sheltered years, as he had come to learn, but he had lived them nonetheless. He was not the fool Joram thought him, walking near the edge of the cliff, his eyes staring at the sun shining above him instead of at the reality of the world around him. No, Saryon saw the chasm. He saw that in a very few steps he would fall over the edge. He saw it because this was a familiar path he walked, one he had trod before, though it had been a long time ago.