Forging the Darksword (6 page)

“No,” said Saryon hurriedly, in some confusion. “No, not bothered by them—I didn’t outgrow, I don’t think. That is … Mathematics,” he said finally. “I—I discovered that what had once been … a game was my … salvation!” Sitting up, he looked at the Druid, his face brightening. “When I am in the world of my studies, I forget all about everything! Don’t you see, Healer?
That
is why I miss Evening Prayers. I forget all about eating, the exercise period; it’s all a waste of time! Knowledge! To study and learn and create—new theories, new calculations. I’ve cut the magical force needed to form glass from rock in half! And this is nothing—
nothing—
to compare to some of the things I’ve been planning! Why, I’ve even discovered—” Saryon broke off abruptly.

“Discovered what?” asked the Druid casually.

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” the catalyst said shortly. Staring down at the cushion, he suddenly noticed the hole he had made in it. Flushing, he began trying, without much success, to repair the damage he had done.

“I may not understand the mathematics,” the
Theldara
said, “but I’d be very interested to listen to you talk about it.”

“No. It’s not anything, really.” Saryon stood up, somewhat unsteadily. “I’m sorry about the cushion …”

“Easily repaired,” the Druid said, rising to his feet and smiling, though he was once more studying the young catalyst intently. “Perhaps you will come back and we can discuss this new discovery of yours?”

“Possibly. I … I don’t know. Like I said, it isn’t really important. What is important in my life is the mathematics. It’s more important to me than anything else! Don’t you see? The gaining of knowledge …
any
type of knowledge! Even that which is—” Saryon broke off abruptly. “May I go now?” he asked. “Are you finished with me?”

“I’m not ‘finished’ with you, because I never ‘started’ with you in the first place,” the
Theldara
reproved gently. “
You
were advised to come here because your Master was concerned for your health. So am I. You are obviously overworking yourself, Brother Saryon. That fine mind of yours depends upon its body. As I said before, if you neglect one, the other will suffer as well.”

“Yes,” Saryon murmured, ashamed of his outburst. “I am sorry. Healer. Perhaps you are right.”

“I will see you at meals … and out in the exercise yard?”

“Yes,” the catalyst answered, checking an exasperated sigh; and turning, he started for the door.

“And quit spending
all your
hours in the Library,” the Druid continued, following. “There are other—”

“The Library?” Saryon whirled about, his face deathly pale. “What did you mean, the Library?”

The
Theldara
blinked, startled. “Why, nothing, Brother Saryon. You mentioned studying. Naturally, I assumed you must spend much of your time in the Library …”

“Well, you assumed wrong! I haven’t been there in a month!” Saryon snapped vehemently. “A month, do you hear me?”

“Why, yes …”

“May the Almin be with you,” the catalyst muttered. “No need to show me out. I know the way.” Bowing awkwardly, he hurried through the door of the Druid’s quarters, his too-short robes flapped about his bony ankles as he walked rapidly through the infirmary and out the far door.

The Druid stared after the young man thoughtfully for long moments after he had gone, absently stroking the feathers of the raven, who had flown in the window and perched on his shoulder.

“What was that?” he asked the bird. “Did you say something?”

The bird croaked a response, cleaning its bill with its foot, as it, too, stared after the catalyst with its glittering black eyes.

“Yes,” answered the
Theldara
, “you are right, my friend. That soul flies on very dark wings indeed.”

The Chamber of the Ninth Mystery

T
he Master Librarian was not on duty when the incident occurred. It was late at night, long past the hour of Rest. The only person on duty was an elderly deacon known as the Undermaster.

Actually, the term Undermaster was a misnomer, since he wasn’t really master of anything, either Under or Over. He was, in reality, nothing more than a caretaker, his main responsibility in the Inner Library being to discourage the rats who, not caring for scholarly pursuits, had taken to digesting the books rather than the knowledge imprinted therein.

The Undermaster was one of the few in the Font permitted to stay up during the Resting Time. This mattered little to him since he had the habit of nodding off at no particular time whatsoever anyway. His yellow-skinned bald head was, in fact, just beginning to droop a bit closer to the pages of the tome he told himself he was perusing when he heard a rustling, shuffling noise at the far end of the Library.

The sound made him start and gave his heart an uncomfortable jolt. Coughing nervously, he peered across the vast
distance of the Library into the shadows in the hope (or fear) of seeing what caused the sound. At that point he remembered the rats, and it struck the Undermaster rather forcibly that a rat large enough to make a sound heard from that distance must be an uncommonly large specimen of the species. It also struck him that he would have to cross a very dark section of the Library in order to deal with the miscreant. Putting these two thoughts together in his head, he decided, after a moments profound consideration, that he had heard no sound at all, but had only imagined it.

Vastly comforted, he returned to his reading, beginning with the same paragraph he had been beginning to read for a week and which never failed to put him to sleep about halfway through.

This time was no exception. His nose was actually touching the page when there came the rustling, shuffling sound again.

This Deacon had seen marvelous things in his youth, having witnessed a skirmish between the kingdoms of Merilon and Zith-el. He had seen the skies rain fire, the trees sprout spears. He had seen the Masters of War transform men into centaurs, cats into lions, lizards into dragons, rats into slavering monsters. The rat having now grown in his mind proportionate with his memories, the Deacon rose, trembling, from his chair and hastened for the door.

Leaning his head out of the library, but not venturing out himself (let it never be said that he abandoned his post!) the Deacon started to call to the
Duuk-tsarith
for help. But the sight of the tall black-robed and black-hooded figure standing still and motionless, its hands clasped before it, gave him pause, filling him with a fear almost equal to that of the mysterious noise. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps only a
small
rat …

There it was again! And this time, a sound of a door shutting!

“Enforcer!” hissed the Deacon, gesturing with a palsied hand. “Enforcer!”

The hooded head turned his direction. The Deacon was aware of two glittering eyes and then, within the drawing of a breath and without seeming to move at all, the black-robed figure stood silently before him.

Though the warlock did not speak, the Deacon heard, quite clearly, a question in his mind. “I—I’m not cer-certain,” stammered the Deacon in answer. “I—I heard a noise.”

The
Duuk-tsarith
inclined his head, as the Deacon could see by the tip of the black, pointed hood shivering slightly. “It—it sounded rather large, not the noise, that is. I mean, as if it were made by something rather large and—and I
thought
I heard a door shut.”

A breath of warm, moist air whispered from the black hood.

“Of course not!” The Deacon appeared shocked. “It is Resting Time. No one is allowed in here. I have dispen—dispensation,” he added, fumbling over the word in his nervousness.

The hooded head turned to look into the shadowy corridors formed by the crystalline shelves and their valuable contents.

“Th-there,” quavered the Deacon, pointing toward the very back of the Library. “I didn’t see anything. I only heard a sound, sort of a rustle, and then—then the door—”

He paused, at another whisper of breath. “What’s back there? Just a moment. Let me think.” His entire bald head wrinkled as he laboriously traversed the Inner Library in his mind. Eventually his halting mental footsteps evidently led him to a startling realization, for his eyes grew wide, and he stared at the
Duuk-tsarith
in alarm. “The Ninth Mystery!”

The Enforcer’s black hood snapped around.

“The Chamber of the Ninth Mystery!” The Deacon wrung his hands. “The forbidden books! But the door is always sealed. How—What—”

But he was talking to empty air. The warlock had vanished from his sight.

It took a moment for the Deacon, in his rattled state, to assimilate this occurrence. Thinking at first that the
Duuk-tsarith
might have fled in terror, the Deacon was about to join him when more rational thought took over. Of course. The Enforcer had gone to investigate.

Visions of the giant rat loomed into the Deacon’s view. Perhaps he should stay here and keep watch on the doorway. Then a vision of the Master Librarian replaced the giant rat. With a sigh, the Deacon grasped the skirts of his white flowing
robes in his hands, to keep them out of the dust, and hastened through the Library toward the forbidden room.

Momentarily losing himself in a maze of crystal shelving, he heard the sound of voices to his right and somewhat ahead. This showed him the way, and he scurried on, arriving at the door to the forbidden chamber just as another silent, black-robed, black-hooded
Duuk-tsarith
materialized out of the air. The first Enforcer having removed the seal from the door, the second entered immediately. The Deacon started to follow, but the Enforcer’s unexpected appearance had so unnerved him that he was forced to lean against the doorway for a few moments, his hand pressed over his palpitating heart.

Then, feeling more himself and not wanting to miss the sight of two
Duuk-tsarith
battling a giant rat, the Deacon cautiously peered into the chamber. Although its ancient shadows had been driven back into their corners by the light of a candle, they seemed to be waiting for any chance at all to leap out and once more take possession of their sealed home. As he stared into the room, the giant rat wafted away into the thin air of the Deacon’s imagination, replaced by a horror more real and profound. He knew now that he had to deal with something much darker, much more terrible.

Someone had entered the forbidden room. Someone was studying its dark and arcane secrets. Someone had been seduced by the dread power of the Ninth Mystery.

Blinking, trying to accustom his eyes to the bright beam of candlelight, the Deacon could not recognize, at first, the figure that cowered in the grasp of the two dark warlocks. He could see only a white robe with gray trim like his own. A Deacon of the Font, then. But who—

A gaunt and miserable face looked up at him.

“Brother Saryon!”

The Chamber of the Bishop

R
ising ponderously to his feet from performing the Ritual of Dawn, Bishop Vanya smoothed his red robes and, walking to his window, stared out at the rising sun, his lips pursed, his brow frowning. As if aware of this severe scrutiny, the sun peeped timidly over the ranges of the distant Vannheim Mountains. It even appeared to hesitate for a few seconds, teetering on the sharp edges of the snow-capped peaks, seemingly ready to set again in an instant if Bishop Vanya but spoke the word.

The Bishop turned from the window, however, thoughtfully lifting and placing around his neck the gold and silver chain that was the mark of his office and matched the gold and silver trim upon his robe. As if it had been waiting for this moment, the sun sprang into the sky, flooding the Bishop’s room with light. His frown deepening in annoyance, Bishop Vanya stalked back over to the window and closed the heavy velvet curtains.

A soft, self-deprecating knock interrupted Vanya as he was sitting down at his desk, preparatory to beginning the days business.

“Enter with the Almin’s blessing,” he said in a mild, pleasant voice, though he heaved a sigh immediately after, scowling to himself irritably at the interruption as his glance went to the stack of missives, newly delivered by the Ariels, that sat upon the polished wood.