Forging the Darksword (9 page)

Certainly not Saryon. Sitting in the carriage created to resemble half a walnut shell made of gold and silver and drawn by a fanciful, winged squirrel, he looked at the wonders around him and could barely see them for his tears. This was nothing for him to be ashamed of, however. Most of the other catalysts in Bishop Vanya’s retinue were affected in a similar manner, the exception being the cynical Dulchase. Having been born and raised in Merilon, he had seen it all before and now he sat in the carriage gazing upon the wonders with a bored air much envied by his fellows.

For Saryon, the tears he shed were both a relief and a blessing. The last few days in the Font had not been easy for him. Bishop Vanya had succeeded in keeping the matter of the young man’s transgression quiet, and he had impressed upon Saryon that it was in the Church’s best interest for him to keep silent upon the subject as well. Saryon was a very poor dissembler however. His guilt made him feel as though the words
Ninth Mystery
were blazing above his head in letters of fire for everyone to see. So wretched was he, despite Vanya’s kind words, that he must sooner or later have blurted out his guilt to the first person who mentioned “Library” to him. The only thing that saved him and kept him too occupied to think of his crime was the flurry of activity into which he was plunged getting ready for this journey.

Precisely what Vanya had foreseen.

The Bishop himself, riding ahead of his retinue in the Cathedral’s carriage that was formed of leaves of burnished gold and drawn by two birds of bright red plumage, was reflecting on this and wondering idly how his young sinner was getting along as he gazed about the city. Vanya, too, was unimpressed by the beauties of Merilon. He had seen it all many, many times.

The Bishop’s bored gaze darted over the crystal walls of the three Guild Houses that could been seen, standing each upon its matching marble platform that together were known as the Three Sisters. He glanced once at the Inn of the Silken Dragon, so called because its crystal walls were decorated with a series of over five hundred fabulous tapestries, one for each room, which, when lowered simultaneously in the evening, formed the picture of a dragon whose colors flamed against the sky like a rainbow. He yawned when driven past
the houses of the nobility, whose crystal walls shone with curtains of roses, or silks, or swirling fogs. Upon glancing up into the sky at the Royal Palace that shown above the city like a star, however, Bishop Vanya sighed. It was not a sigh of wonder and awe, such as his retinue was sighing behind him. It was a sigh of worry and of care, or perhaps exasperation.

The only building in all of the upper levels of Merilon that captured the Bishop’s attention completely was the building to which the carriages were heading—the Cathedral of Merilon. Thirty years in the shaping, its crystal spires and buttresses burned like flame in the light of the sun, whose ordinary natural yellowish color had been changed to brilliant red and fiery gold this day by the practitioners of the Shadow Mystery, the illusionists, for the enjoyment of the populace. Vanya’s attention was caught, not by the shimmering beauty of the Cathedral—the sight of which filled his followers with reverence—but by a flaw he noticed in the building.

One of the living gargoyles had shifted slightly in its attitude and was now facing the wrong direction. The Bishop mentioned this to the Cardinal sitting beside him, who appeared properly shocked. The secretary, sitting opposite the Bishop, made a mental note and mentioned it to the Regional Cardinal, who directed the affairs of the Church in Merilon and its surrounding environs and who now stood, resplendent in his green robes with their gold and silver trim, upon the crystal stairs waiting to greet his Bishop. Glancing upward, the Regional Cardinal paled. Two novitiates were immediately sent to deal with the offending gargoyle.

The infraction corrected, the Bishop and his retinue entered the Cathedral, accompanied by the cheers of people lining the bridges that connected the marble platforms of Merilon with cobweb strands of silver and gold. The Bishop paused to invoke a blessing upon the crowd, who hushed in reverence. Then Vanya and his retinue disappeared inside the Cathedral and the crowd dispersed to continue their merriment.

The city of Merilon, both Above and Below, was jammed with people. Merilon had not known such excitement since the coronation. Nobles from outlying districts who had relations in the city honored them with their presence. Nobles
not so fortunate stayed in the Inn. From the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, the Silken Dragon was filled to capacity. The
Pron-alban
and the
Quin-alban
, craftsmen and conjurers, had been working overtime to add on guest rooms to the wealthy dwellings of Merilon’s best families. Thus the Guild Houses were alive with unusual activity, many of their members having journeyed from far-distant places to assist with the extra work.

Day-to-day life in Merilon had practically come to a standstill as everyone prepared for the grandest holiday and celebration to be held in the city’s history. The air was filled with the sounds of music being practiced in the gardens and courtyards, or with the sounds of poetry being rehearsed by the players in the theaters, or with the cries of the merchants selling their wares, or with the mysterious shrouds of smoke that hid the artists’ work until it could be unveiled upon the grand occasion.

But no matter how busy, the eyes of every person in Merilon looked constantly upward, gazing at the Royal Castle that glittered so serenely in the burning sun. It would become a perfect rainbow of colored silks when the great event was at hand, when the Royal Child was born.

When that event occurred, the holiday would be declared and the city of Merilon would, for two weeks, dance and sing and glitter and revel and drink and eat itself into a state of bliss.

Within the Cathedral itself, all was quiet and cool and dark as the sun sank down behind the mountains and night covered Merilon with its velvet wings. For an instant, an evening star gleaming above the tip of a spire was the only light. But it faded almost immediately when the rest of the city burst into a blaze of flame and color. Only the Cathedral remained serenely dark; and, oddly enough, thought Saryon, staring up through the transparent crystal ceiling to where the castle floated in the sky above, there were no lights in the Royal Palace either.

But perhaps it was not so odd that the castle was dark. Saryon recalled hearing his mother mention that the Empress was expected to have a difficult time with this birth, her health being delicate and fragile at the best of times. Undoubtedly
the normal routine of gay, glittering palace life had been curtailed.

Saryon’s gaze returned to the city that was more beautiful than anything he had ever imagined, and he was momentarily sorry he hadn’t gone out with Dulchase and the others to see the sights. On reflection, however, he felt content to stay where he was, surrounded by a comfortable darkness, listening to the sweet music of the novitiates practicing a celebratory
Te Deum.
He would go out tomorrow night, he decided, as he made his way to the guest quarters in the Abbey.

Neither Saryon nor any of the others in the Cathedral went out the next night, however. They had just finished the evening meal when Bishop Vanya received an urgent summons to the Palace, along with several of the
Sharak-Li
, the catalysts who work with the Healers. The Bishop left immediately, his round face stern and cold.

No one in the Cathedral slept that night. Everyone from the youngest novitiate to the Cardinal of the Realm remained awake to offer their prayers to the Almin. Above them, the Royal Palace was now ablaze with lights, their warmth a striking contrast to the cold stars. By dawn, no word had been received. As the starlight faded, dwindling with the rising of the sun, the catalysts were allowed to leave their prayers to attend to their duties, though the Cardinal exhorted them to be constantly praying to the Almin in their hearts.

Saryon, who had no duties to perform since he was a visitor, spent most of his time wandering the great halls of the Cathedral, looking through the crystal walls with untiring curiosity at the wonders of the city around him. He watched the people float past, their thin robes rippling around their bodies as they went about their daily business. He watched the carriages and their wondrous steeds; he even smiled at the antics of the University students who, knowing a holiday was imminent, were in high spirits.

Could I live here? he asked himself. Could I leave my quiet, studious life and enter into this world of splendor and gaiety? A month ago, I would have said no. I was content. But not now. I could never go into the Inner Library again, not without seeing that sealed chamber with the runes above
the door. No, this is much better, he decided. The Bishop was right. I have let myself get too involved with my studies. I have forgotten the world. Now I must be a part of it again and let it be a part of me. I will attend the parties. I will put myself forward. I will do my best to be invited into one of the noble houses.

Pleased with his change of circumstance, Saryon’s only misgivings came from being totally unaware of the duties of a House Catalyst in Merilon, and he resolved to discuss this with Deacon Dulchase at his earliest opportunity.

The opportunity did not come soon, however. During the Highhour, ooth Cardinals were summoned to the Palace and left, looking grave. The rest of the catalysts were called once again to prayer. By now, rumors had reached the street, and soon everyone in Merilon knew that the Empress was in labor and having a difficult time of it. The sounds of music ceased. The atmosphere of merriment was smothered in gloom. People gathered together upon the glittering spans of silver or gold, talking in hushed voices and looking up at the Palace with serious faces. Even the Silken Dragon did not flaunt his colors that day but lurked about in shadows as the weather magi, the
Sif-Hanar
, hid the sun’s harsh brilliance beneath a blanket of pearl-gray clouds, more restful to the eye and conducive to prayer and meditation.

Night fell. The lights in the Palace shone with an ominous intensity. The catalysts, once more called to prayer after the evening meal, gathered in the great Cathedral. Kneeling on the marble floor, Saryon nodded as sleep overcame him and, looking up through the crystal ceiling, endeavored to concentrate on those lights to stay awake.

Then, near morning, the bells on the Royal Palace pealed out in triumph. The magical sphere surrounding the city exploded with dazzling flags of fire and of silk. The people of Merilon danced in the streets as word came from the Palace that the Empress had been safely delivered of a son and that both she and the baby were doing well. Saryon rose from the hard floor thankfully and joined the other catalysts in the courtyard of the Cathedral to watch the spectacle but not to join in the merriment. Not yet.

Though the Tests for Life were only a formality, the catalysts would not celebrate the child’s birth until it was proven that the child was Alive.

It was not the Tests, however, that were occupying Saryon’s mind when, ten days after the child’s birth, he and Deacon Dulchase descended the marble stairs leading down into one of the subterranean levels of the Cathedral. “So just what are the duties of a Father in one of the noble houses?” Saryon asked.

Dulchase started to answer but, just at that moment, they arrived in an unfamiliar hallway that branched off in three directions. The two Deacons paused, staring about them uncertainly. Finally, Dulchase hailed a passing novitiate.

“Pardon me, Sister,” he said, “but we are searching for the room where the Royal Child will be tested. Can you give us direction?”

“I will be honored to escort you, Deacons of the Font,” murmured the novitiate, a charming young woman, who, when her eyes went to the tall figure of Saryon, smiled at him shyly and led the way, occasionally glancing behind her at the young Deacon out of the corner of her eye.

Conscious of this, and conscious also of Dulchase’s amused grin, Saryon flushed and repeated his earlier question.

“House Catalyst,” Dulchase reflected. “So that’s what old Vanya’s got in mind for you. Didn’t think you’d be interested in that sort of life,” he added with a sidelong glance of his own at the young Deacon. “I thought all you cared about was mathematics.”

Saryon’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something confused about the Bishop having decided that he needed to broaden his horizons, realize his potential, that sort of thing.

Dulchase raised an eyebrow as they descended still another staircase, but, though he obviously suspected deeper waters here than were visible on the surface, he did not question the young man further, much to Saryon’s relief.

“Be warned, Brother,” he said in solemn tones. “The duties of a catalyst in one of the noble houses are strenuous in the extreme. Let’s see, how to break this to you gently. You will be awakened some time around midmorning by servants bearing your breakfast on a tray of gold—”

“What about the Ritual of the Dawn?” Saryon interrupted, eyeing Dulchase uncertainly, as though suspecting he were being made the brunt of some joke.