Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [182]
“The walls of the Font have eyes and ears and mouths as well,” the Bishop remarked testily, his face flushing at the suspicion he saw clearly in the dark eyes of The DKarn-Duuk. “He has learned the truth.”
It seemed for an instant that Xavier lost his famous composure, much to the Bishop’s satisfaction.
Leaning close, he hissed. “If the young man talks, if he makes this public in the Emperor’s presence —”
“He won’t,” Vanya interrupted. Lips pursed in smug satisfaction, his squinting eyes went to Lord Samuels and his daughter, standing forlornly in the sand behind the circle of catalysts.
Understanding the Bishop’s meaning, Xavier relaxed. “Has the young man been told she will be here?”
“No. We hope the shock of the sight of her will keep him silent. If he tries to speak, the catalyst — Father Saryon — has instructions to warn him that the girl will suffer.”
“Mmmmm,” was all the warlock replied. But the sound had an ominous quality. The Bishop was reminded forcibly of the buzzing snake, which is said to emit a warning to its victims before it strikes. There was no time for further conversation, however, it being incumbent upon the two to attend their liege lord and his dead lady with a show of homage and respect.
A royal gallery was necessary now, of course, to provide seats for the Emperor and Empress. Bishop Vanya and the DKarn-Duuk would sit here as well, along with the Cardinal, these gentlemen having previously intended to simply stand on the outskirts of the circle in their haste to have this done quickly.
That was impossible now. Several Duuk-tsarith were summoned from the Corridor to conjure up the gallery with the assistance of the Cardinal himself, since none of the catalysts in the circle could spare the energy. The Cardinal granted the warlocks Life with an ill-humored air and was seen to fret over the delay, glancing continually into the mists that were growing brighter with every passing second.
But the warlocks did their job efficiently and the gallery took shape within the speaking of a word and the gesture of a hand. The air coalesced into hundreds of soft cushions, a silken canopy fell from the sky like a wayward cloud, and Their Majesties, the Bishop. The DKarn-Duuk, and the rest were soon settled. Sitting at the head of the circle of catalysts, they had an excellent view of the Executioner and the wheeled circle drawn in the sand. Beyond that, the mists of the Boundary of the World roiled and seethed in the morning light.
Heaving a sigh of relief, the Cardinal hastily signaled for the prisoner.
14
The Doom of the Darksword
The Corridor opened again, this time in the very center of the circle of catalysts.
Saryon stepped forth, bearing the Darksword in his arms, carrying it awkwardly and gingerly, as a father carries his newborn babe. The Cardinal appeared shocked at this — bringing a weapon of evil into the solemn rite — and he looked to his Bishop for instruction.
Rising from his seat, Bishop Vanya spoke sternly. “It has been decreed that Deacon Saryon is to stand at the side of the Executioner, the Darksword raised, so that the last sight this young man’s eyes see will be the thing of evil he has created.”
The Cardinal bowed. There were mutterings among the catalysts, a breach of discipline that was instantly hushed by a shocked hiss from the priest. All was silent once more, so silent that the whisper of the wind sliding along the sand spoke clearly to each present, though only Saryon understood its words, having heard the wind mourn long ago.
“The Prince is Dead….”
The Corridor opened, a final time. Flanked by two Duuk-tsarith, the prisoner stepped out onto the sand. Joram’s head was bowed, the black hair falling, disheveled, over his face. He was forced to move slowly and deliberately — the same fiery rings encircling his arms and upper body. Ugly, red, blistering weals were visible on his flesh, and rumor whispered quickly among the guests in the gallery that the young man had made a last foolish, furious