Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [130]
Anciently, the Diviners had used the tarot deck to enable them to see into the future. Brought from the Dark World, the cards were originally cherished as a sacred artifact. The Diviners alone, it was said, knew how to translate the complex images painted on the cards. But the Diviners were no more, having perished in the Iron Wars. The cards still existed, preserved for their quaint beauty, and after a time someone recalled that they had once been used in an ancient game known as tarok. The game caught on, particularly among the members of the noble houses. The art of fortune-telling did not die out either, but dwindled (with the encouragement of the catalysts) into a harmless pastime suitable for entertainment at parties.
“Come, Joram. I’m quite skilled at this, you know,” said Simkin persuasively, tugging at Joram’s sleeve until the young man sat down. Even Saryon hesitated, regarding the cards with the fascination all feel when they try to lift the veil that hides the future. “The Empress simply dotes on me. Now, Joram, using your left hand—the hand closest to your heart—choose three cards. Past, present, future. This is your past.”
Simkin turned up the first card. A figure robed in black riding a pale horse stared out at them with the grinning face of a skull.
“Death,” said Simkin softly.
Despite himself, Saryon could not repress a shiver. He glanced quickly at the young man, but Joram was staring at the cards with nothing but a half-smile upon his lips, a smile that might have been a sneer.
The second card pictured a man in royal robes, seated on a throne.
“The King of Swords. Oh, ho!” Simkin said, laughing. “Maybe you’re destined to wrest control from Blachloch, Joram. Emperor of the Sorcerers!”
“Hush! Don’t even joke about that!” Mosiah said with a nervous glance into the corner of the cavern where Blachloch and his men played their own game.
“I’m not joking,” Simkin said in aggrieved tones. “I’m really quite good at this. The Duke of Osborne said—”
“Turn over the third card,” Joram muttered. “So we can get to bed.”
Obediently, Simkin turned over the card. At the sight of it, Joram’s eyes dickered with amusement.
“Two cards exactly alike! I might have known you’d have a crooked deck,” Mosiah said in disgust, though Saryon noted the relief in the young man’s voice as he saw the wild look fade from Joram’s face. “Fortune-telling! Turn over the Fool card for yourself, Simkin, and I’d believe it. Come on, Joram. Good night, Father.” The two left, heading for their bedrolls.
“Good night,” Saryon said absently. His attention was caught by Simkin, who was staring at the cards in bewilderment.
“That’s impossible,” Simkin said, frowning. “I’m certain that the last time I looked at this deck, it was perfectly normal. I recall it quite well. I told the Marquis de Lucien that he was going to meet a tall, dark stranger. He did, too. The Duuk-tsarith picked him up the next day. Mmm, very odd. Oh, well.” Shrugging again, he draped his bit of orange silk over the cards and, tapping them once on top, caused them to disappear. “I say, are you going to eat your stew, Bald One?”
“What? Oh … no,” Saryon answered, shaking his head. “Go ahead.”
“I hate to see it go to waste, though I do wish Mosiah had more respect for the aged.” Simkin said, picking up the bowl and spooning in a mouthful of squirrel. Lying back on the velvet cushion, he began to chew resignedly.
Saryon did not reply. Walking away, the catalyst went to a corner of the cavern that was in relative shadow. Wrapping himself in his robes and his blanket, he lay down on the cold stone and tried to get as comfortable as possible. But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the cards spread out on the stone floor.
The third card had been Death again; this time, though, the grinning figure