Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [113]
Most of those born with the Mystery of Fire become Duuk-tsarith, the Enforcers, the lawkeepers of Thimhallan. A few, the most powerful, become DKarn-Duuk, the War Masters. There are, of course, those who fail. Nothing is said of these. They do not return to their homes. They simply vanish. It is widely believed that they are sent Beyond.
What is their reward for this strict, dark life? Limitless power. The knowledge that even the Emperors themselves, though they do their best to hide it, look with fear upon those black-robed figures that glide silently about the Royal Palaces. For the Duuk-tsarith possess a magical spell that is theirs and theirs alone. As the catalyst has the power to grant Life, the Enforcer has the power to take that Life away. Rarely seen, rarely speaking, the Duuk-tsarith walk the streets or halls or fields, cloaked in invisibility, armed with the Null-magic that can drain the Life from mage or wizard, leaving him as helpless and powerless as a babe.
Blachloch was one of the failures. Not content with power, the story had it that he sought richer, more material reward. No one knew how he had managed to escape. It must have been no easy task, and proved the man’s extraordinary skill and cool courage, for the Duuk-tsarith live together, isolated in their own small community, keeping themselves under a surveillance as strict as the surveillance of the populace.
Saryon considered all of this as he sat, chilled and nervous, in the presence of the black-robed warlock. Blachloch had been working in his ledgers again and had, indeed, only laid such work aside once the catalyst and Simkin had been introduced by one of the henchmen.
Wrapped in the accustomed silence of his kind, Blachloch stared at Saryon, learning more from the way the man sat, from the lines on the face, from the position of the hands and arms, than he could have learned in an hour of interrogation.
Though he fought to remain calm and unmoved, Saryon fidgeted under the scrutiny. Terrifying memories of his own brief encounter with the Enforcers in the Font at the time of his crime made his throat dry and the palms of his hands sweat. Part of their effectiveness lay in their ability to intimidate by their presence alone. The black robes, the folded hands, the enforced silence, the expressionless face—all this was carefully taught. Taught to engender one emotion—fear.
“Your name, Father,” was Blachloch’s first spoken words, not so much a question as a verification.
“Saryon,” the catalyst replied after a first unsuccessful attempt to speak.
The warlock’s hands rested on his desk, the fingers interlacing. Silence as thick and heavy as the black robes he wore blanketed the room. Blachloch stared at the catalyst impassively.
Gradually becoming more and more unnerved, feeling those penetrating eyes plunging deep into his soul, Saryon was not comforted by the fact that even Simkin appeared subdued, the gaudy colors of his attire seeming to fade in the dark shadow of the warlock’s presence.
“Father,” said Blachloch at last, “it is a custom in this village that no one questions a man’s past. I allow this custom to continue, generally because a man’s past doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. But there is something in your face I don’t like, Catalyst. In the lines around your eyes I see scholar, not renegade. In the sunburned skin I see one who is accustomed to spending long hours in libraries, not fields. In the mouth, the set of the shoulders, the