Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [165]
A summons to Bishop Vanyas’s in the dead of night. A Duuk-tsarith sent to escort him — not a novitiate as was customary. He was not being punished but told he was to sit in judgment. He was wearing robes of state that he had not worn in eighteen years — eighteen years almost to the very day, he realized — the anniversary of the Prince’s death having been held last night. Deacon Dulchase could make nothing of it, however. Immensely curious, he turned back to the waiting Duuk-tsarith, who actually started to breathe a sigh of relief before he caught himself in time.
A young one, that, Dulchase noted, grinning inwardly.
“Well, let’s get on with it,” the Deacon muttered, taking a step toward the door. To his astonishment, he felt the cold hand on his arm again.
“The Corridors, Father,” said the Duuk-tsarith.
“To His Holiness’s chambers?” Dulchase glowered at the warlock. “You may be new around here, young man, but surely you know that this is forbidden —”
“Follow me, if you please, Father.” The Duuk-tsarith, perhaps nettled by the Deacon’s remark about his age, was obviously out of patience. A Corridor gaped in Dulchase’s room; the cold hand propelled the old Deacon into it. An instants sensation of being squeezed and compressed, then Dulchase stood in a huge, cavernous hall carved from the heart of the mountain fastness by — legend had it — the hand of the powerful wizard who had led them here.
This was the Hall of Life. (Its name from ancient times had been originally the Hall of Life and Death, in order to represent both sides of the world. This had become frowned upon in modern times and — with the banishment of the Sorcerers — it had been officially renamed.) Legend being true or not, the Hall did look very much as though it had been scooped out of the granite like the fruit from the rind of a melon. Located in the very center of the Font, built around the Well of Life from which the magic in the world gushed forth like unseen water, it was dome-shaped, extending hundreds of feet into the air, its rock ceiling ornamented by carved arches of polished stone. Four gigantic grooves gashed out of the rock wall at the front of the Hall were known as the Fingers of Merlyn and formed four alcoves where sat the four Cardinals of the Realm during occasions of state. Another large gouge in the rock wall, on the opposite side of the vast Hall, was known somewhat irreverently and unofficially as Merlyn’s Thumb. Here sat the Bishop of the Realm, across from his ministers. Spanning the length of the stone floor between them were row after row of stone pews. Cold and uncomfortable to sit upon, these stone pews had an even more irreverent name that was whispered and sniggered over by new novitiates.
The Hall’s vast expanse was usually illuminated by the magical lights sent dancing upward by the magi who served the catalysts. Yet on this occasion the lights had not been brought to Life. Dulchase stared around in the cold darkness.
“Name of the Almin!” breathed the Deacon, nearly staggering in complete and total amazement as he realized where he was. “The Hall of Life! I haven’t been here since … since …”
The memory of eighteen years ago came quickly, though Dulchase often found he had trouble recalling incidents that occurred only yesterday. That was a hallmark of growing old, so he’d been told. One tended to live in the past. Well, and why not? It was a hell of a lot more interesting than the present. Although that seemed likely to change, he thought, glancing about the dark Hall with a frown.
“Where is everyone?” he snapped at the young Duuk-tsarith, who — hand on his arm — was guiding him through the maze of pews toward Merlyn’s Thumb.
At least