Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [50]
“Darkstone.”
“Yes, milord. It is an ore, similar in appearance and properties to iron, and is ideal for use as a weapon. The sword, in particular, was the favored weapon of the ancient Sorcerers. The wielder uses the sword to protect himself against any magical spells cast upon him. He then uses it to penetrate the magical defenses of his enemy, and finally has the weapon itself to end his enemy’s life.”
“So, knowing this, Joram forged the Darksword,”
“Yes, Your Grace. He forged it … with my help. A catalyst must be present, to give the ore Life.”
Garald’s eyes widened.
“I, too, am damned, you see,” Saryon said quietly. “I have broken the holy laws of our Order and given Life to … a … thing of darkness. Yet what could I do? Blachloch knew about the darkstone. He was planning to use it for his own terrible purposes. At least, that is what we believed. Too late I found out he was working for the Church….”
“It would have made no difference,” Garald said. “I have no doubt that when he came to realize the darkstone’s power, he would have broken faith with the Church and used it himself.”
“Undoubtedly you are right.” Saryon lowered his head. “Still, how can I forgive myself? Joram murdered him, you see. The warlock lay helpless at his feet. I had drained the Life from him, the Darksword had absorbed his magic. We … were going to turn the warlock over to … the Duuk-tsarith. Set him in the Corridor for them to find. There was a yell —”
Saryon could not continue, his voice broke. Garald laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“When I looked around” — the catalyst spoke in a horror-filled whisper — “I saw Joram standing over the body, the Darksword wet with blood. He thought I planned to betray him, to turn him over to the Duuk-tsarith as well. I told him I did not …” Saryon sighed. “But Joram trusts no one.
“He hid the body, and that morning I was contacted by Bishop Vanya, who demanded I bring Joram and the Darksword to the Font.” Saryon raised his haunted eyes. “How can I, Your Grace?” he cried, wringing his hands. “How can I take him back to be sent … into Beyond! To hear that frightful yell and know that it is his! The last place he should go is to Merilon! Yet I cannot stop him! You can, Your Grace,” Saryon cried suddenly, feverishly. “Persuade him to come to Sharakan with you. He might listen …”
“And what do I tell him?” Garald demanded. “Come to Sharakan and be nobody? When he can go to Merilon and discover his name, his title, his birthright? It is a risk any man would take, and rightly so. I will not dissuade him.”
“His birthright …” Saryon repeated softly, in agony.
“What?”
“Nothing, milord.” The catalyst rubbed his eyes again. “I suppose you are right.”
But Saryon appeared so upset and distraught that Garald added more kindly, “I tell you what, Father. I will do what I can to help the young man at least have a chance of succeeding in his goal. I will teach how to protect himself if he should get into trouble. That much, at least, I owe him. He saved us from Blachloch’s double-dealings, after all. We are in his debt.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Saryon seemed somewhat eased in his mind. “Now, if you will forgive me, milord, I believe that I can sleep now….”
“Certainly, Father.” The Prince was on his feet, helping the catalyst to rise. “I apologize for having kept you up, but the subject is a fascinating one. To make amends, I have had a bed prepared. The finest silken sheets and blankets. But perhaps you would prefer a tent? I can conjure —”
“No, a bed by the fire is fine. Much better than what I am accustomed to, in fact, Your Grace.” Saryon bowed wearily. “Besides, I am suddenly so tired that I will probably never know whether I am lying on swan’s down or pine needles.”
“Very well, Father. I bid you good-night. And, Father” — Garald rested