Part 24 (1/2)
Saryon felt his skin burn with shame. Now it was he who s.h.i.+fted in his bed, but he kept his gaze fixed upon his Bishop.
”Ordinarily” - Vanya waved a pudgy hand - ”this would not have been anything we could not handle. There have been disturbances in the past, not quite this serious, but we dealt with them, using the Duuk-tsarith Duuk-tsarith, the DKarn-Duuk DKarn-Duuk, the Field of Contest. But this ... This is different. There is another factor involved.... Another factor.”
Vanya fell silent again, the struggle in his mind clearly visible on his face, on his entire body in fact. He frowned; the hand curled over the arm of the chair; the knuckles turned white. ”What I am about to tell you, Saryon, is not in the histories.”
Saryon tensed.
”In order that they might rule better, the catalysts of the time of the Iron Wars sought to look into the future. There is neither the need nor the time to describe to you how that is done. It is a skill we have lost. Perhaps” - Vanya sighed again - ”it is just as well. At any rate, the Bishop of that era along with one of the sole surviving Diviners undertook to use this powerful magic that involves direct contact with the Almin Himself. It worked, Saryon.” Vanya's voice was hushed with awe. ”The Bishop was allowed to look into the future. But it was not as he had foreseen, as anyone had foreseen. These were the words he spoke to the astounded members of the Order who were gathered around him.
”'There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world -'”
The words were meaningless to Saryon. It was as if he were hearing a tale told by one of the House Magi before bedtime. He stared at the Bishop, who said nothing more. He was regarding Saryon intently, letting the impact of the words come from within the man rather than without, knowing that this way it would have the most profound effect.
It did. Understanding hit Saryon like the thrust of a sword, sliding into his body, cutting through to his very soul.
”Born to the Royal House ... one who is dead ... live ... die again ... destruction of the world....”
”Name of the Almin!” Saryon choked. The sword of his realization might have been made of steel, draining him of life. ”What have I done? What have I done?” he cried in despair. A wild hope throbbed in his heart. He's lying! He's lied to me before....
But there was no lie on Vanya's face. There was only fear - stark and real.
Saryon moaned. ”What have I done?” he repeated in misery.
”Nothing that can't be undone!” Vanya said urgently, leaning forward to grasp the catalyst's hand. ”Give us Joram! You must! Never mind how it happened, but the Prophecy is slowly being fulfilled! He was born Dead, he lived. Now he has darkstone - the weapon of the Dark Arts that came near destroying our world the last time!”
Saryon shook his head. ”I don't know,” he cried brokenly. ”I can't think....”
Bishop Vanya's face flushed an ugly red, the pudgy hand clenched in frustration and anger. ”You fool!” he began furiously, his voice breaking.
This is it, Saryon thought fearfully. Now he will send for the warlocks. And what will I tell them? Can I betray him, even now?
But Vanya regained control of himself, though it was with an obvious effort. Sucking in several deep breaths through his nose, he forced his hand to relax and he even managed to look at the catalyst with a smile, though it was closer to the smile of a corpse than of living man.
”Saryon,” he said in hollow tones, ”I know why you are protecting this young man, and it is very commendable of you. To love and help one's fellow man is why the Almin places us in this world. And I promise you, Saryon - by all that is holy, by all I believe in - that this young man will not be killed.” The Bishop's red face became mottled, splotched with white. ”Indeed,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe, ”how can we kill him? 'Die again.' That's what the Prophecy says. We must insure that he lives. That will be our care....”
The tension on Saryon's face eased. ”Yes!” he whispered to himself. ”Yes, that is true. Joram must not die! He must live -”
”It was what I sought to do when he was a babe,” Vanya said softly, his eyes on Saryon. ”He would have been nurtured, protected, sheltered. But that wretched, insane woman ...” He stopped talking, holding his breath.
Saryon's face was bathed in radiance, his eyes turned upward to heaven. ”Blessed Almin!” the catalyst whispered, tears coursing down his cheeks. ”Forgive me! Forgive me!”
Dropping his head into his hands, Saryon began to weep, feeling the darkness pour out of his soul, purging it as the Theldara Theldara purges a festering wound. purges a festering wound.
Bishop Vanya smiled. Standing up, he walked over to the bed and sat down beside the sobbing catalyst. He put his arm around Saryon and drew him close.
”You are forgiven, my son,” said the Bishop smoothly. ”You are forgiven.... Now, tell me ...”
BOOK THREE.
1.
Among the Clouds.
Carriages for hire stood in line on Conveyance Lane, waiting for customers. Beautiful, bizarre, ofttimes both, the equipages were fantastic beyond imagining. Winged squirrels drawing gilded nutsh.e.l.ls, diamond-encrusted pumpkins pulled by teams of mice (these were quite popular with teenage girls), and the more staid and conservative a.s.sortment of griffin- and unicorn-pulled conveyances, designed for Guildmasters and others who preferred less ostentatious means of travel. Impatient to be gone, Joram would have chosen the first carriage at the stand - a giant lizard magically altered to resemble a dragon. But Simkin, p.r.o.nouncing this to be in shocking bad taste (much to the ire of the carriage's owner), moved along the row of conveyances, examining each with a critical eye.
A black swan, mutated by the Kan-Hanar Kan-Hanar to gigantic proportions, was finally - after much thoughtful scrutiny on Simkin's part and much impatient fuming on Joram's - p.r.o.nounced suitable. to gigantic proportions, was finally - after much thoughtful scrutiny on Simkin's part and much impatient fuming on Joram's - p.r.o.nounced suitable.
”We'll have it,” Simkin announced majestically to the driver.
”Where are you going?” asked the driver, a young woman clothed in white swan's down, her eyes magically touched to resemble the eyes of the bird.
”To the Palace, of course,” said Simkin languidly, taking his place with calm aplomb on the swan's back. Nestling down amidst the s.h.i.+ning black feathers, he sighed in contentment and motioned for Joram to join him. As Joram climbed up beside his friend, the driver scrutinized both young men and her black-rimmed eyes narrowed.
”I need to see the official invitation to get through the Border clouds,” she said crisply, her gaze of disfavor going in particular to Joram, who had refused to allow Simkin to dress him up for the occasion.
”My dear boy,” Simkin had said to Joram mournfully, ”you'd be a sensation if you'd only put yourself in my hands! What I could do with you! With that beautiful hair and those muscular arms! Women would be dropping at your feet like poisoned pigeons!”
Joram had pointed out that this might be somewhat of an inconvenience, but Simkin was not to be so easily deterred.
”I have just the color for you - I call it Coals of Fire! Coals of Fire! A burnt orange, don't you know. I can make it hot to the touch, small flames licking about your ankles. Of course, you'd have to be careful who you danced with. The Emperor had a party once where a guest went up in flames. Heartburn got out of hand ...” A burnt orange, don't you know. I can make it hot to the touch, small flames licking about your ankles. Of course, you'd have to be careful who you danced with. The Emperor had a party once where a guest went up in flames. Heartburn got out of hand ...”
Joram had refused the Coals Coals, choosing instead to wear an almost exact copy of the style of clothes Prince Garald wore - a long, flowing robe devoid of decoration with a simple collar (”No neck ruff?” Simkin had cried in agony).
Joram had chosen green velvet for the robe's fabric, in memory of the green dress Anja had worn until the day she died. That tattered green dress was the only remnant of her happy life in Merilon, and it seemed most fitting that her son should wear this color the night he went to reclaim the place in his family. Joram felt very close to Anja tonight, running his hand over the smooth velvet. Perhaps this was because he had seen her standing before him last night in a dream, and he knew that her restless, wandering spirit would not find peace until her wrongs had been redressed. At least that is what he a.s.sumed the dream meant. She had been reaching out to him, her hands folded in supplication, begging ...
”Well, if you're going to go to the Palace the walking personification of a wet blanket, then I'll do likewise,” Simkin had announced gloomily, changing his flamboyant regalia that had included, among other things, a six-foot-high rooster's tail. With a wave of his hand, he had then clothed himself in a long robe of pure white.
”Name of the Almin!” Mosiah had said, staring at Simkin in disgust. ”Change back! That last combination was ghastly but it was better than this! You look just like a pallbearer.”
”Do I?” Simkin had appeared pleased, the notion taking his fancy. ”Why, then, it's suitable to the occasion, don't you see? Anniversary of the Dead Prince and all that. I'm quite glad I thought it up.”
Nothing they had said could talk him out of it after that, and it was only after long argument that Simkin had foregone adding a white hood to cover his head in the manner of those who escort the crystal coffins of the dead to their final resting place.
”I want my fee in advance, too,” the driver continued. ”It's a strange thing, people hiring carriages to take them to the Palace. Most of those who are invited” invited” - - she laid emphasis on the word - ”own their own carriages and have no need to hire mine.” she laid emphasis on the word - ”own their own carriages and have no need to hire mine.”
”Egad, m'dear! But I'm Simkin,” the young man replied as if that quite settled the matter. Gathering his white robes comfortably about him, Simkin waved the orange silk at the driver. ”Proceed,” he ordered.
The young woman blinked her swanlike eyes in astonishment at this, staring at Simkin in either speechless wonder or speechless rage, neither of which made the slightest impression on the young man.
”Go along!” he said impatiently. ”We'll be late.”
After another moment's hesitation, the driver took her place at the great bird's neck and, grasping the reins, ordered the black swan to rise. ”If we're stopped at the Border,” she said ominously. ”it's on your head. I'm not going to lose my permit over the likes of you two.”