Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [14]
“Who holds the Fool card?” Simkin asked sternly, the unexpected voice causing the catalysts heart to leap into his throat. Shaking, Saryon glared at the young man angrily.
Simkin appeared to be sound asleep. Rolling over on his stomach, he clutched the hard pillow to his chest and rested his cheek against the mattress. “Do you hold the Fool card, Catalyst?” he asked dreamily. “If not, your King must fall….”
The King must fall. Yes, there was no doubt about that. Once Vanya knew his agent was dead, nothing his catalyst could do or say would prevent the Bishop from sending the Duuk-tsarith immediately to bring Joram to the Font.
“What am I doing?” Saryon gripped the edge of the mattress, digging his fingers through the worn fabric. “What am I thinking? Joram is Dead! They will not be able to locate him! That is why Vanya must have me or Blachloch. He cannot find the boy on his own. The Duuk-tsarith track us by the Life, the magic within our bodies! They will find me, but they cannot track the Dead. Or maybe they won’t find me. Maybe they won’t find Joram.”
An idea struck Saryon a blow that was physical in its intensity. Trembling in excitement, he stood up and began to pace the small cell. His mind went over the calculations swiftly in search of a flaw. There were none. It would work. He was as certain of it as he was certain of the very first mathematical formula he had learned at his mothers knee.
For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. So the ancients taught. In a world that exudes magic, there is a force that absorbs it as well — the darkstone. Known to the Sorcerers at the time of the Iron Wars, they had used it to forge weapons of tremendous power. When the Sorcerers were defeated, their Technology was labeled a Dark Art. Their kind was persecuted, banished from the land or forced into hiding, as were those in this small colony where Saryon now lived. The knowledge of darkstone had sunk under the turbulent harshness of their lives and their fight for survival. It had sunk beyond memory, becoming only meaningless words in a ritual chant, unreadable words in old, half-forgotten books.
Unreadable except to Joram. He had found the ore, learned its secrets, forged a sword….
Slowly, Saryon reached beneath Joram’s mattress. He touched the cold metal of the sword, wrapped in torn cloth, and he cringed away from its evil feel. His hands kept searching, however, and found what they sought — a small leather bag. Pulling it out from its hiding place, Saryon held it in his hand, pondering. It would work, but did he have the strength, the courage?
Did he have a choice?
Slowly, he tugged open the leather string that held the bag shut. Inside were three pieces of rock. Plain and unlovely, they looked very much like iron ore.
Saryon hesitated, holding the bag in his hand, staring inside in rapt fascination.
Darkstone — this would protect him from Vanya! This was the card he could play that would keep the Bishop from winning the game! Reaching inside the bag, Saryon drew forth one of the rocks. It felt heavy and strangely warm in his palm. Thoughtfully, he closed his hand over it and, with an unconscious movement, pressed it against his heart. Bishop Vanya contacted him through the magic. The darkstone would absorb that magic, act as a shield. He would be — to Vanya — as one of the Dead.
“And I might as well be one of the Dead,” Saryon murmured, clutching