Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [1]
“So we stand here and sigh about it and go to our deaths in silence,” the young man interrupted bitterly.
“No!”
The old mans grip tightened on his arm. “No!” he repeated in a voice that sent a thrill of hope and a shiver of fear through the younger man, who turned to stare at him. “No, we do not! I have been thinking long on this, weighing the dangers, the alternatives. Now I am satisfied. Now I see that we have no choice. We must leave.”
“Leave?” repeated the younger man in soft, dazed tones. “But, where will we go? There is no place that is safe, for our brethren tell us that this persecution exists wherever the sun rises …”
As if his words had conjured it up, the sun appeared from behind the gray clouds. But the charred remains of the corpse gave more warmth than did the shriveled orb that shone pale and bleak in the winter sky.
Staring at it, the old man smiled grimly.
“Wherever the sun rises? Yes, that is true.”
“Then—”
“There are other suns, my boy,” said the old man thoughtfully, staring into the heavens and caressing the carven symbols upon his staff. “Other suns ….”
The Prophecy
When a Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan receives in solemn ceremony the miter that marks his standing as spiritual head and heart of the world, his first official act as Bishop is one that is secret, private, unseen by the eyes even of those he calls Ruler.
Acting upon orders from the Duuk-tsarith, the Bishop retires to his chambers and activates the enchantments that seal him off from the world. Then he admits one person—a warlock, Head of the dread Order of Duuk-tsarith, who brings His Holiness a box, of the purest gold, made by the alchemists. This box is surrounded by such spells of warding and protection that only the warlock himself may open it and remove that which the box contains. This is nothing more than a single sheet of old parchment covered with handwriting. Carefully, reverently, the warlock places this bit of paper before the mystified Bishop.
Lifting the sheet of parchment, the Bishop examines the document carefully. It is old, dating back centuries. There are spots on the paper, as though tears have stained it, and the handwriting, though obviously that of a trained scribe, is practically unreadable.
As the Bishop endeavors to decipher this missive, his expression changes from one of mystification to a look of shock and horror. Invariably, he looks up at the Head of the Order of Duuk-tsarith, as if asking the man whether he knows what the letter contains and if it is true. The Head of the Order simply nods, since these people rarely speak. Ascertaining that the Bishop has absorbed the document’s contents, the warlock makes a motion and the parchment leaves the Bishop’s hand and returns to the box. The Duuk-tsarith then withdraws from the Bishop’s presence, leaving behind a man shaken and distraught, the words on the parchment burning in his mind.
Forgive me, those of you who are reading this at some future date. My hand is unsteady—the Almin help me! I wonder if I will ever cease to tremble! No, I know I will not, while I still picture so clearly that tragic event it is my duty to record and while I still hear those words ring in my ears.
Be it known then that in the dark days following the Iron Wars, when the land is in chaos and many predict the end of our world, the Bishop of the Realm undertook to see into the future, that we might calm the people. For one year, he prepared himself to endure the casting of this spell. Our beloved Bishop prayed daily to the Almin. He listened to the proper music recommended by the Theldara, music that would attune the spiritual with the physical. He ate the proper foods, abstaining from all strong spirits. His eyes saw only those colors soothing to the mind, he breathed the prescribed incense and perfumes. The month prior to the Prophecy, he lasted, drinking only water, purging his body