Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [1]
The Empress—a fly that would soon be dead.
Her brother — heir to throne. A different type of fly, he demanded special consideration.
The Emperor — his sanity at the best of times precarious, the death of his beloved wife and the loss of his position might well topple a mind weak to begin with.
Sharakan — the other empires in Thimhallan were watching this rebellious state with too much interest. It must be crushed, the people taught a lesson. And with them, the Sorcerers of the Ninth Art wiped out completely. That was shaping up nicely … or had been.
Vanya fidgeted uncomfortably and glanced at the timeglass. The tiny moon was just now appearing over the horizon. With a growl, the Bishop poured himself another brandy.
The boy. — Damn the boy. And damn that blasted catalyst, too. Darkstone. Vanya closed his eyes, shuddering. He was in peril, deadly peril. If anyone ever discovered the incredible blunder he had made …
Vanya saw the greedy eyes watching him, waiting for his downfall. The eyes of the Lord Cardinal of Merilon, who had — so rumor told — already drawn up plans for redecorating the Bishops chambers in the Font. The eyes of his own Cardinal, a slow-thinking man, to be sure, but one who had risen through the ranks by plodding along slowly and surely, trampling over anything or anyone who got in his way. And there were others. Watching, waiting, hungry …
If they got so much as a sniff of his failure, they’d be on him like griffins, rending his flesh with their talons.
But no! Vanya clenched the pudgy hand, then forced himself to relax. All was well. He had planned for every contingency, even the unlikely ones.
With this thought in mind and noticing that the moon was finally nearing the top of the timeglass, the Bishop heaved his bulk out of the chair and made his way, walking at a slow, measured pace, to the Chamber of Discretion.
The darkness was empty and silent. No sign of mental disturbance. Perhaps that was a good sign, Vanya told himself as he sat down in the center of the round room. But a tremor of fear shivered through the web as he sent forth his summons to his minion.
He waited, spider fingers twitching.
The darkness was still, cold, unspeaking.
Vanya called again, the fingers curling in upon themselves.
I may or may not respond, the voice had told him. Yes, that would be like him, the arrogant —
Vanya swore, his hands gripping the chair, sweat pouring down his head. He had to know! It was too important! He would —
Yes
The hands relaxed. Vanya considered, turning the idea over in his mind. He had planned for every contingency, even the unlikely ones. And this one he had planned for without even knowing it. Such are the ways of genius.
Sitting back in the chair, Bishop Vanya’s mind touched another strand on the web, sending an urgent summons to one who would, he knew, be little prepared to receive it.
BOOK ONE
1
The Summons
“Saryon….”
The catalyst floated between unconsciousness and the waking nightmare of his life.
“Holiness, forgive me!” he muttered feverishly. “Take me back to our sanctuary! Free me of this terrible burden. I cannot bear it!” Tossing on his crude bed, Saryon put his hands over his closed eyes as though he could blot out the dreadful visions that sleep only intensified and made more frightening. “Murder!” he cried. “I have done murder! Not once! Oh, no, Holiness! Twice. Two men have died because of me!”
“Saryon!” The voice repeated the catalyst’s name, and there was a hint of irritation in it.
The catalyst cringed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Let me confess to you, Holiness!” he cried. “Punish me as you will. I deserve it, desire it! Then I will be free of their faces, their eyes … haunting me!”
Saryon sat up on his bed, half-asleep. He had not slept in days; exhaustion and excitement had temporarily overthrown his mind. He had no conscious thought of where he was or why this voice — that he knew to be hundreds of miles away — should be speaking to him so clearly. “The first, a young man