Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [168]
“I am here,” Vanya said to the impression in his mind. “What do you want? We have not spoken in some time. I assumed everything was going well.”
“Everything is not going well,” the voice replied, responding with such immediacy that Vanya knew it had been waiting for him. “Joram has discovered darkstone.”
It was well the minion could not see the change that came over the master at this point, or his confidence might have been shaken. Vanya’s heavy-jowled face sagged; the hand that had been crawling spiderlike upon the arm of the chair in irritable restlessness suddenly twitched, the fingers curling in upon themselves, forming a tight ball. How cold this place was. He had never noticed it before. His heavy robes were inadequate ….
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” Vanya replied, licking his dry lips. “I thought perhaps you had made a mistake in what you said. I was waiting for you to correct yourself.”
“If a mistake has been made, I haven’t been the one to make it,” the voice in the Bishop’s head retorted. “I told you the ancient texts existed here.”
“Impossible. According to the records, they were all accounted for and destroyed.”
“The records are wrong. Not that it matters now. The damage has been done. He knows of the darkstone, and not only that, but with the help of your catalyst, he has learned to forge it!”
Vanya closed his eyes. The darkness whirled around him. For a startling moment, he actually felt his chair begin to slide, tilting him backward. Grasping hold of the armrests in desperation, he forced himself to relax and consider the matter calmly. No good would come of panic. There was no need for panic. This was an unexpected development, but one that could be handled.
“Waiting for me to correct a mistake again?”
“No,” said Vanya coldly, “I am merely considering all the ramifications of this terrible occurrence.”
“Well, here’s one you may not have considered. Now that we have the darkstone, Sharakan and the Technologists could win this war. No need to maintain the balance of power. Balance becomes meaningless if we hold the scales in our hands.”
“An interesting thought, my friend, and one worthy of you,” remarked Vanya dryly, the slow fire of anger burning away his fear. “But I remind you that there are matters working here of which you have no conception. You are just one card in the deck, so to speak. No, this alters our plans, but only slightly. It is imperative, of course, that I have the boy immediately now, plus whatever it is he has created out of the darkstone. You must send me that fool catalyst, as well, I suppose. What on earth did you do to the man?” Vanya found vent for his frustration. “He had the spine of a brittle twig when he left here. You were supposed to break him, not strengthen it!”
“Twig! You have mistaken him as you have mistaken other things. As for sending the boy to you, that is risky. Let me kill him and the catalyst—”
“No!” The word exploded from Vanya. His pudgy hands clenched over the armrest, white dents appearing in the region where a thinner man’s knuckles might have been. “No,” Vanya repeated, swallowing. “The boy must not be killed. Is that completely understood? Disobey me in this and you will think mutation a beneficent fate compared to yours!”
“You have to catch me first, Bishop, and I remind you that you are very far away …”
Vanya drew a deep, quivering breath. “The boy is the Prince of Merilon,” he said through clenched teeth.
There was a moment’s silence, then a mental shrug. “All the better. The Prince is supposed to be dead. I will simply correct what I assume was another of your mistakes—”
“Not a mistake,” Vanya said, his mouth parched. “I tell you again, the boy must not die! If you insist on knowing the reason, I ask you to remember this—the