Triumph of the Darksword (50 page)

I was overwhelmed by a series of fleeting impressions as my brain tried frantically to grapple with the strange occurrence At first, I thought that the
Duuk-tsarith
was signaling reinforcements. Logic arrived to remark dryly that the apprehension of one elderly catalyst and his scribe would hardly call for a SWAT team. That first impression was replaced by another.

The
Duuk-tsarith
was looking outside to see if he had been followed.

Not knowing what else to do and, by now, more curious than fearful, both Saryon and I stayed with
the
Duuk-tsarith
in the living room. Through force of habit, I fumbled for the light switch.

“You needn’t bother. It will not work.”

The voice of the
Duuk-tsarith
inside the my head was vibrant and sent a mild shock through me, reminding me of the first time I had encountered electricity on this strange world.

“Don’t move,” the inner voice commanded.

We remained standing in the darkened living room. I could sense Saryon shivering his nightshirt, for he’d turned the heat down in the flat and this thin robe was woefully inadequate. I was wondering if I might be allowed to bring my master a sweater, when the
Duuk-tsarith
spoke silently again. And though the words were not addressed to me, I understood them.

“You don’t remember me, do you, Saryon?”

Having had many encounters with the
Duuk-tsarith—all
of them extremely unpleasant—Saryon later told me that he feared this must be one of the Enforcers who had caught him in the forbidden library of the Font, or maybe even one who had performed the Turning to Stone, that excruciatingly painful punishment inflicted on those catalysts who rebelled against the Church’s authority. Why one of these people should drop by Saryon’s house for a chat in the small hours of the night was beyond him. He could only stare and stammer and mumble something to the effect that, if the person would permit us to turn on the lights and let us see a face, such an act would aid recognition considerably.

“All will be made clear soon enough,” said the Enforcer, and it seemed to me that there was a sad
quality to his words, as if the man—it was a man, I had at last ascertained that much—was disappointed that Saryon had not recognized him. “Now, follow my instructions. Return to the kitchen and prepare your tea, as you normally do. Take the cup to your bedroom, as you normally do, and lie down to read to this young man, as you normally do. Don’t deviate from your nightly habits in even one instance, either of you. You can be seen from the bedroom window. I do not think that I was followed, but I can’t be certain.”

This last sentence was not conducive to relieving our apprehension. We did as we were commanded, however. Saryon was, as a catalyst, accustomed to obedience, as was I, having been raised a servant in the royal household. In this case, it made no sense for my master to stand around in his nightshirt, arguing. We went to the kitchen.

The
Duuk-tsarith
remained in the darkened living room, but I could feel the man’s eyes on me. It was extremely unnerving. Until now, neither Saryon nor I had realized that we had developed “nightly habits.” Consequently, when this fact was brought to our attention, and we were forced to think about what we did every night, we couldn’t remember doing any of it.

“Don’t think,” came the voice of the
Duuk-tsarith.
“Let your body take over. When you are settled in your bed, Father, then we will talk.”

This was not exactly the way we would have chosen to spend our evening, but we didn’t have much choice. Saryon took the Enforcer’s advice and tried not to think about what he was doing. He turned off
the kettle, which had been whistling loudly, though we’d been too distraught to notice. He poured the water, stirred the tea. I added to it a plate of digestible biscuits. We tottered—tea and biscuits in hand—off to his bedroom.

The Duuk-tsarith, remaining in the shadows, glided along silently behind.

Saryon, remembering the duties of a host, paused, turned, and held up the teacup, asking in dumb show if his visitor would like to share our repast.

“Keep moving!” The voice in my head was urgent. Then it added, in softer tones, “No, thank you.”

Saryon went to his small bedroom, where he placed the tea and the biscuits on the nightstand beside his bed. I pulled up the chair. Picking up the book, I found the place where we had left off reading last night.

Saryon climbed into bed and it was only when he was safely tucked beneath the sheets that he remembered he usually brushed his teeth at this point. He looked at me, made a motion of using a toothbrush. I shrugged my shoulders, helpless to advise or assist.

Flustered, he was about to mention it to the Enforcer, then changed his mind. Giving me another glance, he settled himself. I opened the book, and drank a sip of tea. I usually ate a biscuit, but at that moment, due to the dryness in my mouth, I couldn’t have swallowed one and I feared I would choke.

The
Duuk-tsarith
, watching us from the shadowed hallway, appeared satisfied. He left momentarily, returned with a chair from the kitchen, and
sat down in the hall. Again came the whispered words, and both Saryon and I looked about expectantly, wondering which of the pictures on the wall was going to turn green.

None did.

“I believe,” said the silent voice, “that you usually listen to music, do you not?”

Of course! Saryon had forgotten. He switched on the CD player, which was, as far as he was concerned, one of the most miraculous and wondrous devices of this technological world. Beautiful music—I recall that it was Mozart—filled the room. Saryon began to read aloud from the book Right Ho, Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse, one of our favorite authors. We would have been quite content had not the shadowy figure been perched, like Poe’s raven, in the hall.

“It is now safe to talk,” said the
Duuk-tsarith
, and this time he spoke the words aloud, albeit in a low voice. He drew the cowl back from his face. “But keep your voice down. I have deactivated the devices of the D’karn-kair, but there may be others present of which I am not aware.”

Now that we could talk, all the questions which had been crowding my mind fled. Not that I could have spoken them myself, but I could have let my master speak for me. I could see that Saryon was in much the same state.

He could only munch his biscuit, sip his tea, and stare. Now that the face of the
Duuk-tsarith
was in the direct light, Saryon seemed to find something vaguely familiar about the man. Saryon would later tell me that he did not experience the sensation of
overwhelming dread one usually feels in the presence of the Enforcers. Indeed, he felt a small thrill of pleasure at the sight of the man and, if he could only have remembered who he was, I knew that he would be glad to see him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Saryon faltered. “I know that I know you, but between age and failing eyesight…”

The man smiled.

“I am Mosiah,” he said.

TRIUMPH OF THE DARKSWORD

A Bantam Spectra Book/September 1988

SPECTRA
and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved.
Copyright
©
1988 by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman.
Map by Steve Sullivan.
Interior art by Valerie Valusek.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-43468-5

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