Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [71]
“The darkstone,” interrupted the witch coolly, her hands clasped before her once again. “It would shield him as effectively from your summons as it shields the boy from our sight.”
The witch was silent a moment, then she glided nearer the Bishop, causing him a certain amount of uneasiness. “Holiness” — she spoke in gentle, persuasive tones — “if you would grant us permission to go to the Sorcerers Coven, we could learn what he looks like, who his companions are —”
“No!” said Vanya emphatically. “We must not alert them to their danger! Even though Blachloch is dead, he has advanced matters sufficiently that the Sorcerers will continue to work with Sharakan and so become involved in the war.”
“Undoubtedly the catalyst has warned them …”
“Then, would you confirm his story by appearing in person, asking questions that sooner or later must start the dullest of them thinking?”
“An army of the DKarn-duuk could move against them —” suggested the warlock deferentially.
“— and start a panic.” Bishop Vanya bit the words. “News of their existence would spread like flame through dry grass. Our people believe the Sorcerers were destroyed in the Iron Wars. Let them hear that these practitioners of the Dark Arts not only exist but have discovered darkstone and there would be an uproar. No, we will not move until we are prepared to crush them completely.”
“And His Eminence can save his skin at the same time!” The witch exchanged mental notes with her companion.
“You must search for the catalyst,” continued Vanya, drawing in air through his nose and exhaling with a snort, scowling at the two before him all the while. “I will provide you with a description of the catalyst and Joram, plus another person with whom Joram once associated — a young Field Magus named Mosiah. Though, undoubtedly, they will be disguised,” he added as an afterthought.
“Disguise — unless it is very clever — is generally easy to penetrate. Holiness,” said the witch coldly. “People think only of changing their outward appearance, not their chemical structure or thought patterns. It should be relatively easy to find a Field Magus among the nobility of Merilon.”
“I trust so,” the Bishop said, regarding the Duuk-tsarith sternly.
“How certain are you that the boy — this Joram — will come to Merilon, Holiness?” the warlock asked.
“Merilon is an obsession with him,” said Vanya, waving a bejeweled hand. “According to the Field Catalyst who lived in the village where he grew up, the madwoman, Anja, told him more than once that he could find his birthright here. If you were seventeen, had come across a remarkable source of power such as the darkstone, and believed that you were heir to a fortune, where would you go?”
The Duuk-tsarith bowed in silent response.
“Now,” said the Bishop briskly, “if you find the catalyst, deliver him to me. If you find this Mosiah —”
“You need not tell us our duties, Eminence,” the witch remarked, a dangerous edge in her voice. “If there is nothing further —”
“There is. One thing.” Vanya held up a restraining hand as the two appeared ready to depart. “I emphasize! Nothing must happen to the young man! He must be taken alive! You both know why.”
“Yes, Holiness,” they murmured. Bowing, hands folded before them, they stepped backward. The Corridors magical aperture gaped open, admitted them, and swallowed them up within seconds.
Left alone with the fading sunset and the darkening evening sky, Bishop Vanya was about to ring for the House Magi to lower the silken tapestries and light the lights of the Bishop’s sitting room. But Vanya’s hand upon the bell was stilled by the sight of the Corridor gaping open once again. A figure stepped out of the void and moved with confident stride to stand before the Bishops desk. mained seated long enough to give the delay meaning. Then he rose to his feet with elaborate slowness, making a great show of smoothing his own robes about him and adjusting the heavy miter upon his bald head.
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