Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [180]
“Blessed Almin, I care no longer for myself. I am lost. Be with Joram! Somehow, help him to find the light he struggles to attain!”
The only sound in the chapel was a muffled, pitying “amen” from the young novitiate.
Cradling the heavy sword in his arms, Saryon walked from the chapel.
13
The Borderland
The Borderland.
The edge of the world. Snowcapped peaks and pine forests and sparkling rivers in the center of the land flow into rolling meadowlands and populated cities and vast forests that in turn give way to tall stands of waving prairie grass. The grass dies out, and then there is nothing but empty, windswept dunes of shifting sand. Beyond the sands hang the mists of Beyond. Staring eternally into the mist, with their unseeing stone eyes, are the Watchers.
Condemned humans, transformed magically into statues of stone that nevertheless retain life within their frozen bodies, the Watchers stand thirty feet tall. Male and female, each is spaced about twenty feet from its fellow. Almost all are catalysts. Magi are punished by being sent Beyond; it being considered too dangerous to allow the powerful magi to remain in the world, even in a frozen form. But the humble catalyst is a different matter, and when it was determined that Guards were needed upon the Borderlands, this seemed a fitting and suitable way to provide for them.
What do they watch for, these silent beings, some of whom have withstood the stinging of the blowing sand for centuries? What would they do if they saw something materialize within the drifting mists? None know, the answers having been long forgotten. There is nothing out there except Beyond — the Realm of Death. And from that Realm none have ever returned.
Located to the east of Thimhallan, the Borders are the first part of the land touched by the rays of the rising sun. Upon rising, the sun’s light is a pearly gray, shining through curtains of mist so thick that even heavens ball of fire cannot burn them away. Then, gleaming pale and cold — a ghost of itself — the sun can be seen shimmering faintly above the horizon where the mists give way to the blue, clear sky. When the sun is finally free of the Realm of Death, its light bursts forth, pouring down upon the land below in thankfulness, bringing the living of Thimhallan a new day.
It was at this time, when the sun’s first full rays struck the earth, that Joram’s flesh would be changed to stone.
Thus it was in the gray of early dawn that the participants and witnesses of the solemn rite began to gather on the sand dunes. Twenty-five catalysts are needed to grant Life to the Executioner for the Turning, and these men and women were the first to arrive. Although generally summoned from all parts of Thimhallan to represent the entire population, so hurried was this trial that these catalysts were taken entirely from the Font. Many of the younger had never seen the ceremony, most of the elder had forgotten it. Those catalysts chosen to take part in the ritual could be seen stumbling sleepily from the Corridors onto the sand, many with books in their hands, hastily studying the rite.
Next to arrive was the Executioner. A powerful magus — one of the top-ranking members of the Duuk-tsarith — this man was the catalysts’ own warlock. He worked for them alone, and was in charge not only of security within the Font, but also attending to duties such as this. His black robes changed to the gray of judgment for this occasion, the Executioner stepped silently from the Corridor. He was alone, his face covered by his hood. The catalysts, glancing at him askance, shunned him, moving hastily from his path. He paid them no heed. Hands folded within the cavernous sleeves of his robes, he stood as still as stone himself in the sand, perhaps rehearsing