Forging the Darksword (37 page)

The Spy

“B
ishop Vanya has retired to his private chambers for the evening,” was the message the Deacon who acted as secretary gave to all who asked to see His Holiness.

These were not many; everyone living in the Font, and a good majority of those who did not, being very familiar with the Bishop’s habits. He retired to his chambers to have the evening meal in private or with those few fortunate enough to be invited as guests. While in his chambers, he was not to be disturbed for anything short of the assassination of any of the Emperors. (Death of the Emperors by natural causes could wait until morning.)
Duuk-tsarith
stood outside the Bishop’s chambers, their sole task to make certain that His Holiness remained undisturbed.

There were several reasons for this well-guarded privacy, reasons both public and private. Publicly it was known all over Thimhallan that Bishop Vanya was something of a gourmand and refused to allow any sort of unpleasantness to interrupt his dinner. Guests at his table were carefully selected
to provide interesting and noncontroversial dinnertime conversation, which was viewed as important to the digestion.

Publicly it was known that Bishop Vanya worked extremely hard during the day, devoting himself completely to matters of the Church (and state). Rising before the sun, he rarely left his office until it had set. After such a rigorous day, it was important to his health to have these hours of unbroken rest and relaxation in the evening.

Publicly it was known that the Bishop used these quiet hours in meditation and discussion with the Almin.

These were the public reasons. The real reason, of course, was a private one, known only to the Bishop. Vanya used these quiet hours for discussion—but not with the Almin. Those to whom he talked were of a more worldly nature ….

There had been guests to dinner this autumn night, but they had left early, the Bishop indicating that he felt unusually tired that evening. After the guests had gone, however, Vanya did not proceed to his bedchambers as might have been expected. Instead, moving with a swiftness and an alacrity that accorded ill with pleas of exhaustion, the Bishop removed the spell that sealed off a small, private chapel, and opened the door.

A beautiful and peaceful place, the chapel was built along ancient lines and traditions. Its dark interior was illuminated by stained glass windows conjured up many centuries ago by the most skilled of artisans whose speciality lay in glass shaping. Benches of rosewood stood before an altar of crystal, also centuries old, decorated with the symbols of the Nine Mysteries.

Here Vanya performed the Ritual of Dawn, the Evening Prayers, and sought guidance and counsel of the Almin—something he did infrequently, if at all, it being Bishop Vanya’s private opinion that it was the Almin who could use the guidance and counseling of his minister, not the other way around.

Vanya entered the chapel, which was illuminated by a perpetual gleam of light shining from the altar, as pale and restful as moonbeams, gracing the chamber with an air of peaceful tranquility.

There was neither peace nor tranquility in the Bishop as he walked through the chapel, however. Moving swiftly, without a glance at the altar, Vanya crossed the room and came to stand before one of the handsomely decorated wooden panels that formed the interior of the small chapel. Laying his hand upon the panel, the Bishop murmured secret, arcane words and the panel dissolved beneath his fingertips. Before him opened up a vast void, empty and dark—a Corridor. But it was not an ordinary Corridor, not part of that vast network of time-dimensional tunnels created long ago by the Diviners that crossed and crisscrossed Thimhallan. This Corridor had been created by the Diviners, but it connected to no other Corridor. Only one man knew of its existence—the Bishop of the Realm—and it went to only one place.

It was to that place that Bishop Vanya proceeded, arriving there within the space of a heartbeat. Stepping out of the Corridor, the Bishop was in a pocket made of the very material of the Corridors themselves, a pocket that existed only in the warped fabric of space and time. It seemed to Vanya that whenever he entered this place he was entering some dark and inner part of his own mind.

He could see nothing within this place, nor could he touch walls or feel a floor, though he had the sensation that he walked in it. He had the impression that the pocket of time and space was round. There was a chair in the center where he could sit down, if his business proved long. But the chair may have well been in his mind, for it seemed to have armrests when he wanted them and to lack them when he didn’t. At times it was soft, at others times firm, and sometimes, when he was irritated or pressed for time or felt like walking as he talked, the chair wasn’t there at all.

This evening, the chair was there and, this evening, it was soft and comfortable. Sitting in it, Vanya relaxed. This was not a meeting that demanded the application of subtle pressures, threats, or coercion. It was not one of delicate negotiation. This was a meeting of an informative nature, clarification, reassurance that all was proceeding according to plan.

Settling back, Vanya allowed himself a moment to absorb and activate the magic in the room that permitted this communication to work, then he spoke aloud into the darkness.

“My friend, a word with you.”

The magic pulsed around him, he could feel it whisper against his cheek and stir across the fingers of his hand.

“I am at your service.”

It was the darkness that spoke to Vanya, though human lips well over hundreds of miles distant formed the words. Because of the magic within the room, the Bishop heard the words as his own mind formed them, not necessarily as the person on the other end of his conscious thought spoke them. Thus the room was known as the Chamber of Discretion, for two people could converse with each other, neither knowing the other’s identity unless it was revealed, neither ever being able to recognize the other by sight or sound. In the ancient days, so legend had it, there had been several of these chambers built—each of the Royal Houses, for example, had one, as did the various Guilds. Following the Second Rectification, however, the catalysts had moved swiftly to see that the other pockets in the Corridors were sealed up, giving as pretext the reasoning that in a world of peace, no one need have secrets from each other.

It was assumed by all parties that when the catalysts sealed off the other Chambers of Discretion, they sealed off their own in the Font as well. Which only goes to prove the old adage that assumptions are lies believed by the blind.

“Are you alone?” Vanya’s mind queried his unseen minion.

“For the moment. But I am busy. We ride within the week.”

“I am aware of that. Did the catalyst arrive?”

“Yes.”

“Safely?”

“In a manner of speaking. He is better now, if that is what you mean. At least he has no desire to venture by himself into the Outland.”

“Good. He will perform adequately?”

“I see no problem. He
seems
, as you described him, naive and weak, easily intimidated, but—”

“Bah! The man is a mass of quivering jelly. He may cause trouble once, but that will be dealt with harshly, I presume. Once he has learned his lesson, I foresee no further problems.”

“I hope not.” The voice in Vanya’s head sounded skeptical, causing the Bishop to frown.

“Where are the Technologists in terms of the forging of the weapons?” Vanya continued.

“With this catalyst’s help, production should accelerate rapidly.”

“How are matters progressing in Sharakan? Have you contacted His Majesty there?”

“You probably know more about that than I do, Holiness. I must move cautiously, of course. I cannot afford to reveal my hand. It is a dangerous game I play His Majesty has been discreetly informed of the acquisition of a catalyst and how it will affect us. That is the best I could do.”

“Adequate. His Majesty must be confident of you. His demeanor is becoming increasingly warlike. We are, of course, attempting to quell this storm”—Vanya made a gesture with his hand as of smoothing turbulent water—“and when the time comes we will be grieved to admit our failure. Things are moving here. The Empress’s brother is becoming a nuisance, but he is easily dealt with. When war is declared, we will be ready to act. Is there anything else?”

“Yes. What about Joram? What does this catalyst intend to do with him?”

“What does it matter to you? The boy is a cat’s-paw, nothing more. The only thing you need concern yourself with is keeping him alive.”

“What are the catalyst’s instructions? What will he do?”

“Do? I doubt if he has the guts to do anything. I have recommended caution to him. He is to report to me in a month or so. I will entreat him to move slowly in the matter. But make your preparations. When I give you the word, you will need to move swiftly. You have your orders. Do I need to remind you of them?” Vanya’s frown deepened. “I sense dissatisfaction in you, my friend. I am not accustomed to this questioning. What is wrong? Has your disguise been penetrated?”

“Of course not, Bishop.” The voice grew cold. “We both know my talents. That was why you chose me. But certain matters have arisen that were unexpected. Someone is taking a greater interest in this than I like.”

“Who?” Vanya demanded.

“I think you know.” The voice inside Vanya’s head was smooth. “I think, in fact, that you have dealt me marked cards.”

“How dare—”

“I dare because of who I am. And now, I must go. Someone is coming. Remember, Holiness, in my hand, I hold the king.”

The magical link between the two broke, leaving Vanya sitting, staring into the darkness, his lips pursed, his fingers crawling spiderlike over the arm of his chair. “King? Yes, my friend. But I hold swords.”

W
e are many, but we are not one.

If the Technologists had risen in a group and rebelled against Blachloch, the warlock and his henchmen must have fallen. Without a catalyst to grant him Life, the Enforcer’s magical powers were limited. His henchmen, few in number, could not have held out long against hundreds. These hundreds did not arise, however. Most of the Sorcerers were, in fact, in complete agreement with Blachloch’s plans for joining with the people of Sharakan and declaring war. It was time for the Sorcerers to bring the power of the Ninth Mystery back to the world, to once more take their rightful place among the inhabitants of Thimhallan. And if they had to bring death and destruction back to the world as well, wouldn’t this be mitigated by the wonders they would introduce, wonders that would improve life?

There were those among the Technologists who were wise enough to see that in this kind of dream, the Sorcerers were simply repeating the tragic mistakes of the past. But
these people were in the minority. It was all very well for Andon, an old man, to talk of patience and peace. The young were sick and tired of skulking about in the wilderness, leading dreary lives of drudgery when the riches and wealth of the world could be theirs,
should
be theirs.

Thus they followed Blachloch wholeheartedly, abandoning their farms, working with a will in the mines and the forge to craft the weapons that were to carve them a future.

This future came to be embodied for them in the monument that stood in the center of the village—the Great Wheel. Older than the village itself, the Wheel had been rescued from the destruction of the Sorcerers’ Temples by the persecuted Technologists following the Iron Wars. They brought it with them as they fled for their lives into the Outlands, and now it hangs in the center of an arch formed of black rock. The huge wheel with its nine spokes has become the center of a ritual known in the village as the Scianc.

Who knows how the ritual began? Its roots are buried in the mud and blood of the past. Perhaps, long ago, when the Sorcerers saw the knowledge they had worked so hard to acquire sinking into the darkness of their harsh lives, they used this method to try to pass on what they had learned to the next generations. Unfortunately, next generations remembered only the words, the knowledge and the wisdom dwindled and burned out like the flame of a guttered candle.