Triumph of the Darksword (38 page)

S
aryon struggled frantically to escape a deep chasm in which he was trapped. Sheer walls, rising on either side of him, blocked his view of the sky. A raging river that cut through the rock cliffs threatened to engulf him in its white, foaming water. Vines wrapped around his feet; tree limbs stretched out their clawlike fingers to drag him back. Lost and alone he wandered, seeking a way out. Suddenly, there it was! A cut in the sheer rock face, a glimpse of sunlight and blue sky. It seemed an easy climb and, strength renewed, he hurried toward it.

At first it
was
easy and he soon left the chasm floor behind. Unfortunately, he drew no nearer the blue sky. Then he realized that the higher he climbed, the taller rose the cliff. The side of the wall became more difficult to negotiate. Black bats swooped out of caves, darting at him, causing him to lose his footing, threatening to send him sliding back down into the chasm. Still he struggled on and, at last, he reached
the top. With a final effort, he pulled himself over the edge and stared into a huge, unblinking eye.

Pressing his face down on the rock, Saryon cowered away from the eye. But he knew he could not hide anywhere that it did not see him.

“Up, Catalyst!” called a voice.

Saryon lifted his head. Beside him stood a tree. Gathering his robes about him, Saryon scrambled up the trunk. Sheltered by the green leaves, he breathed a sigh of relief. The Eye could not see him here. Just as he said this, the leaves turned brown and, one by one, began to drop off. The Eye found him again. Then a branch broke beneath his feet. And another.

“Father!” A hand was shaking his shoulder. “Time to get up.”

Waking with a start, Saryon clutched at the hand as the world fell away beneath him. The hand’s grip was strong and firm and he clung to it thankfully. The hand let loose of him, however, and the catalyst fell back among his pillows, feeling as exhausted and bruised as if he had—in reality—spent the night climbing cliffs.

Joram walked over to the window and drew back the shutters. Cold, bleak light from a chill, white sun streamed into the room, causing Saryon to wince.

“What time is it?” he asked, blinking in the bright light.

“It lacks an hour until noon. You have slept away the morning, Catalyst, and there is much to be done this day.”

“Have I? I’m…. I’m sorry,” said Saryon, sitting up dazedly. He kept his face averted from the sun. Was that the Eye? Watching him?

What nonsense? It was only a dream.

Leaving his bed, Saryon bathed his face in cold water and dressed hurriedly, conscious of Joram’s mounting impatience. Pacing the room, a tense, eager look on his usually stern, impassive face, Joram was dressed for travel, Saryon noted uneasily. Over his white robes was thrown a gray cloak. Though Saryon could not see it, he knew that beneath this cloak Joram wore the Darksword, strapped to his back.

“You have decided to go to the Temple,” Saryon said in a low voice. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he started to draw on his shoes. Dizziness assailed him as he bent over,
however, and he was forced to pause a moment until the weakness passed.

“There was never any decision to be made. It was a foregone conclusion.” Joram noticed Saryon resting, doing nothing. “Hurry, Catalyst!” He made an irritated gesture with his hand toward the window and the sunlight. “We must arrive there at noon today, not noon tomorrow! You said you would go with us. Did you mean that? Or are these dawdlings a priestly trick to try to keep me from going?”

“I will go with you,” Saryon said slowly, looking up from his shoes to Joram. “You should know that without asking, my son. What cause have I given you to doubt me?”

“You’re a Priest. Isn’t that cause enough!” Joram sneered and started for the door.

Rising to his feet, Saryon followed. “Joram, what is wrong?” he asked, gently touching him on the sleeve of his white robes. “You are not yourself.”

“I’m certain I don’t know who else I would be this morning, Catalyst!” Joram retorted, jerking his arm away from Saryon’s hand. Seeing the. Priests look of concern, Joram hesitated, the stern face relaxed. Running his fingers through his thick, black hair, he shook his head. “Forgive me, Father,” he said with a sigh. “I have not slept well. And I do not foresee any sleep this night or perhaps many nights to come. I want only to go to this place and find help for Gwendolyn! Are you ready?”

“Yes, and I understand how you feel, Joram,” Saryon began, “but—”

Joram impatiently broke off his words. “No time for that now, Father! We must find Gwen and leave before Garald or any of the rest of those fools attempt to stop me!”

His face hardened. Saryon stared at Joram, wondering at this change. Yet why should it amaze me? he asked himself sadly. I’ve seen it coming. I’ve seen the light of the forge fires shine in his eyes. It is as if all the intervening years, the suffering and hardship that taught him compassion, have been stripped from him,
his
warm flesh changed to stone.

The chasm Saryon had just escaped yawned before him. Each step drew him nearer its edge. Surely, surely there is a path away from it! Let me turn around and find it.

A hand gripped his arm painfully. “Where are you going, Catalyst? It is time to leave?”

“Please reconsider!” Saryon faltered “There must be another way, Joram!”

The forge fire flared, scorching the Priest. “You have a choice, Father,” Joram said bitingly. “Either come with me or stay behind. Which will it be?”

A choice. Saryon almost laughed. He could see the path leading away from the cliff. It was blocked by boulders that had fallen years before. He could not go back.

“I will come,” the catalyst said, bowing his head.

The white sun filled Lord Samuels’s house with light for the first time in many days. Glinting blindingly off the surface of the melting snow, it was not a warm light or a cheerful one. The garden was lovely beneath its white shroud, but it was a lethal loveliness. The plants were frozen solid, encased in snow. The weight of the ice broke off huge tree limbs. Giant trees split in two.

Despite the discomfort of the cold weather, the streets outside Lord Samuels’s house were packed with people, milling around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Joram, begging those that came out for news. A continual stream of War Masters, Ariels, Guildmasters,
Albanara
, and others had been flowing into and out of the house since dawn. The preparations for war were well underway.

Inside, Lord Samuels, the Prince, Cardinal Radisovik, several members of the nobility, and the War Masters were assembled in one of the upstairs ballrooms that had been hastily converted into a War Room.

Prince Garald, maps spread out on a large table, began explaining his plans to the assembled leaders. If he noticed that the atmosphere within the ballroom was nearly as chill as the atmosphere without, he ignored it.

“We’ll strike at night, come at them out of the darkness while they’re asleep. They’ll be confused and unorganized. We should seem like a continuation of some terrible night-dream for them, so we’ll use the Illusionists first. Count Marat, you’ll lead your forces in here”—Garald pointed to a
grouping of geodesic domes that sprang up magically beneath his fingertips—“and you’ll—”

“Begging your pardon, Prince Garald,” interrupted Count Marat in a smooth voice. “These plans of yours are all very well, but the Emperor is our leader. I came here this morning expecting to discuss matters with him. Where is he?”

Prince Garald glanced swiftly at one of the
Duuk-tsarith
, hovering like a shadow in the corner. The hood shivered slightly in answer. Frowning, Garald turned back to the Count. Marat was not alone in his demands. Many others of the
Albanara
of Merilon were nodding agreement.

“The Emperor has not had any sleep in the past two nights,” Prince Garald returned coolly. “Since these are his plans, which I am attempting to discuss with you, I did not feel that his presence was required. I have, however,” he added, seeing the Count about to speak, “sent Mosiah after him. The Emperor should be here—”

A pounding on the sealed door to the War Room interrupted him.

Garald nodded and one of the
Duuk-tsarith
removed the magical seal from the door. Everyone turned to look, the nobles prepared to bow before their Emperor. But they saw only Mosiah … alone.

“Where is Jor—the Emperor?” Garald demanded.

“He’s … he’s sent me with a message,” Mosiah stammered, giving Garald a swift glance.

“He’s sent me with a message,
Your Grace,”
rebuked Cardinal Radisovik, but Mosiah didn’t hear him. He continued to look intently at Prince Garald.

“It’s … uh … confidential, Your Grace.” He made a motion with his hand, indicating that they step near the window.

Prince Garald straightened from bending over the map. “A message?” he repeated irritably. “Did you tell him we have been needing him this past half-hour? Isn’t he—Oh, very well. Excuse me, milords.”

Ignoring the nobles, who were muttering among themselves, Mosiah walked swiftly over to the large glass windows. Prince Garald and Lord Samuels went with him, the
Albanara
suspiciously watching every move they made.

“Your Grace!” Mosiah said softly. “It’s nearly noon!”

“I don’t need to know the time,” Garald snapped. Then, realization slowly dawning, he fell abruptly silent, his gaze drawn reluctantly to the magical timeglass that stood on one of the mantelpieces in
the
elegant ballroom The tiny sun trapped inside had nearly reached its topmost point and was blinking brightly in its arc halfway above a tiny world.

“Damn!” the Prince swore softly, turning from the nobles to face the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “I thought I had convinced him not to go!”

“Perhaps he’s just walking in the garden.” Lord Samuels suggested.

“I’ve looked! He isn’t! And Father Saryon and Gwendolyn are gone, too!” Moving nearer Prince Garald, Mosiah pretended to be studying the garden with interest. “There’s worse news!” he murmured. “Simkin’s disappeared as well!”

“Lord Samuels, question the servants,” ordered Garald quietly. “Ask if any of them have seen Joram or Father Saryon this morning. Try to do it without alarming anyone,” he added, but it was too late. Before he could stop him, the distraught lord dashed across the length of the ballroom and ran out into the hallway, shouting for the servants. The nobles watched him go, their faces growing increasingly grim and cold.

“Prince Garald!” called out Count Marat loudly. “I insist on knowing what is going on? Where is the Emperor?”

“Where is the Emperor?” The cry was taken up. Chaos erupted, everyone talking at once and no one making himself heard.

“Silence!” Garald roared finally, and the clamor died away “You’d think we were faeriefolk gone mad!” he added sternly. “Mosiah has just told me that the Emperor’s wife is extremely ill this morning and he does not want to leave her. Lord Samuels has just sent the servants for the
Theldara.
Lord Samuels also informs me that luncheon is being served. I suggest that you take this opportunity to dine. The Emperor will be meeting with you after dinner. My lords, this way. The servants will show you. Thank you, go ahead without me. I will join you presently.”

Exchanging dark glances and continuing to grumble among themselves, the nobles and the War Masters of Merilon
slowly left the room. Those with a mind to stay were assisted politely but firmly on their way by Prince Garald’s warlocks. Once everyone was gone, the Prince gestured to the
Duuk-tsarith
to seal the door.

“Wait outside,” Garald instructed the warlock. “Admit Lord Samuels, but no one else.”

The
Duuk-tsarith
vanished, leaving the Prince, Cardinal Radisovik, and Mosiah alone in the room. Sunlight glared through the many windows, streaming down upon the marble floor, illuminating the maps rolled up on the table. No one spoke. Radisovik looked questioningly at the Prince, but Garald, toying with the maps, refused to meet his ministers eyes. Mosiah endeavored to stand calmly and wait, but he shifted nervously from one foot to the other, wiping his sweating palms upon his archers uniform. Everyone looked up in relief when Lord Samuels reappeared, bringing a flustered maid with him.

Abashed at being in the presence of the Prince, the maid was at first incoherent. It took some time for Garald’s gentle, courteous manner to calm her and enable her to answer his questions.

Yes, she had seen the Emperor. She was changing the bed linens that morning when she saw Joram, dressed in a traveling cloak, going into Father Saryon’s room. Sometime later, she saw them emerge from that room and walk down the hall. She overheard them talking of Lady Gwendolyn.

Yes, the Emperor appeared tense and nervous, but so was everyone else in the house. She was that upset herself it was a wonder she didn’t faint dead away.

Yes, now that she thought of it, Father Saryon had seemed nervous as well. He was very pale and walked as though he was being cast into Beyond. These were terrible times, as she’d been saying to Cook only this morning.

No, she couldn’t recall having seen the gaudy young man with the beard and that suited her fine, due to certain shocking things he’d said to her last night, which she hoped she was never to be put in the way of hearing again or she would be forced to give notice.

“Thank you, my girl,” said Prince Garald abruptly. With a curtsey and a sly smile for Mosiah, the maid departed. The
Duuk-tsarith
once more sealed the door shut. “Well, that
seems clear enough,” Garald continued with a heavy sigh. “Joram’s gone to the Temple, and he’s taken Father Saryon and Gwen with him.”

“Temple? What temple, Your Grace?” asked Cardinal Radisovik, mystified.

“The Temple of the Necromancers.”

“The Almin go with them!” the Cardinal said fervently, making the sign against evil.

“Begging your pardon. Holiness, but I don’t think the Almin’s going to be enough,” Mosiah said. “I think we should be there, too. This is some kind of trap, isn’t it, Your Grace?”