"Weis, Margaret & Hickman, Tracy - Darksword 02 - Doom of the Darksword UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

"Outcast? He is no more an outcast warlock than you are an outcast priest, Saryon! He t╗ one of the Duuk-baritb, a high-ranking member of their organization, hand-picked for this delicate assignment, just as you were." l
Saryon pressed his hands against his head as though he might actually keep his scattered thoughts from tumbling about his brain. Blachloch, the cruel, mudererous warlock, was Duuk-foaritb, a member of the secret society whose duty it was to enforce the laws in Thimhallan. He was an agent for the Church! And he was also responsible for cold-blooded murder, for raiding a village and stealing its provisions, for leaving its people to starve in the winter. . . .
"Holiness" ЧSaryon licked his dry, cracked lips Ч"this warlock was ... an evil man! A wicked man! He Ч I saw him kill a young Deacon of our Order in the village ofЧ "
The Bishop interrupted. "Have you not heard the old saying, 'Night's shadows are deepest to those who walk in the light'? Let us not be too hasty in our judgment of ordinary mortals, Father. If you reflect back calmly upon the incident of which you speak, I am certain you will find the killing was motivated by necessity, or perhaps it was accidental."
Saryon saw the warlock call upon the wind, he saw the gale-force blast pick up the defenseless Deacon as though he were a leaf and toss him against the side of a dwelling. He saw the young body crumple lifelessly to the ground.
"Holiness," ventured Saryon, shuddering.
"Enough, Father!" the Bishop said sternly. "I do not have time for your sanctimonious whinings. Biachloch does what is necessary to maintain his disguise as a renegade warlock. He plays a dangerous game among those Sorcerers of the Dark Arts who surround you, Saryon. What is one life, after all, compared
DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
to the lives of thousands or the souls of millions! And that is what he holds in his hand."
"I don't understand Ч "
"Then give me a chance to explain! I tell you this in the strictest confidence. Father. I told you before you left of the trouble we are having in the northern kingdom of Sharakan. It worsens daily. The catalysts who have abandoned the laws of our Order are growing in popularity and in numbers. They are giving freely of their power of Life to anyone who asks. Because of this, the king of Sharakan believes he can treat us with impunity. He has impounded Church funds and put them into his treasury. He has sent the Cardinal into exile, and replaced him with one of these renegade catalysts. He plans to invade and conquer Merilon, and he is in league with the Sorcerers of Technology among whom you live to provide him with their demonic weapons. ..."
"Yes, Holiness," Saryon murmured, only half listening, trying desperately to think what to do.
"The king of Sharakan plans to use the Sorcerers' weapons to help him in his conquest. Although Blachloch appears to be furthering the ambitions of Sharakan and helping the Sorcerers, he is Ч in reality Ч preparing to lead them into a deadly trap. Thus we will be able to defeat Sharakan and crush the Sorcerers utterly, finally banishing them from this world. Blachloch has everything under control, or at least he had until the young man Ч this Joram Ч discovered darkstone."
As Vanya grew angrier, his thoughts became gradually more rambling and incoherent. Saryon could no longer follow them. Sensing this, there was a moment of seething silence as Vanya attempted to regain control, then his communication continued, somewhat calmer.
"The discovery of darkstone is catastrophic, Father! Surely you see that? It can give Sharakan the power to win! That is why it is imperative that you and Blachloch bring the young man and the dreadful force he has brought back into this world to the Font at once, before Sharakan discovers it."
Saryon's head began to ache with the strain. Fortunately, his own thoughts were in such turmoil that he must have transmitted only confused and scattered fragments: Blachloch a double agent . . . the darkstone a threat to the world . . . the Sorcerers walking into a trap. . . .
Joram . . . Joram . . . Joram. . . .
10
WEIS AND HICKMAN
Saryon grew calmer. He knew now what he must do. None of the rest of it was important. Wars between kingdoms. The lives of thousands. It was too enormous to comprehend. But the life of one?
How can I take him back, knowing the fate he faces? And I do know it now, Saryon admitted to himself. I was blind to it before, but only because I deliberately shut my eyes.
The catalyst lifted his head, staring intently into the darkness. "Holiness," he said out loud, interrupting the Bishops tirade. "I know who Joram is."
Vanya stopped cold. Saryon sensed doubt, caution, fear. But these were gone almost immediately. Nearly eighty years old, the Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan had held his position for over forty of those years. He was highly skilled at his job.
"What do you mean" Ч the Bishop's thoughts came across as genuinely confused Ч "you know who he is? He is Joram, son of a mad woman named Anja. . . ."
Saryon felt himself gaining strength- At last, he was able to confront the truth.
"He is Joram," the catalyst said in low tones, "son of the Emperor of Merilon."
A State of Grace
Ihei
Х ler
here was silence within the si-. lence of the cell. So deep was it that, for a moment, Saryon thought Ч hoped Ч that Vanya had broken contact.
Then the words reverberated in his head once more. "Hew did you come by this supposed knowledge. Father Saryon?" The catalyst could feel the Bishop treading carefully on the soft, unknown ground. "Did Blachloch Ч "
"By the Almin, did he know?" Saryon spoke aloud again in his amazement. "No," he continued in some confusion, "no one told me. No one had to. I just . . . knew. How?" He shrugged helplessly. "How do I know how much magic to draw from thл world and give to a shaper of wood so that he may mold a chair? It is a matter of calculation, of adding all factors together Ч the mans weight and height, his ability, his age, the degree of difficulty jn his project. . . . Do I think of these things consciously? No! I have done it so often, the answer comes to me without thinking about how I have obtained it.
"And so, Holiness, this was how I came to know Jorams true identity." Saryon shook his head, closing his eyes. "My god, I held him in my arms! That baby, born Dead, doomed to die! I was the last person to hold him!" Tears crept beneath his eyelids.
12
WEIS AND HICKMAN
DOOM OF THE DARKSWORD
13
"I took him to the nursery that terrible day and I sat beside his crib and rocked him in my arms for hours. I knew that once I laid Him down, no other person would be permitted to touch him until you took him to ... to the Font." Saryon's emotion lifted him from his cot to pace the small cell. "Maybe it is my fancy, but I have come to believe this created a bond between us. The first time I saw Joram, my soul recognized him if my eyes did not. It was when I began to listen to my soul that I knew the truth."
"You are so certain it is the truth?" The words were strained.
"Do you deny it?" Saryon cried grimly. Halting in his pacing, he stared up into the rafters of the prison cell as though his Bishop hovered among them. "Do you deny that you sent me here purposefully, hoping that I would find out?"
There was a long moments hesitation; Saryon had a mental image of a man looking over a hand of tarok cards, wondering which to play.
"Have you told Joram?"
There was very real fear in this question, a fear that was palpable to Saryon, a fear he thought he understood.
"No, of course not," the catalyst replied. "How could I tell him such a fantastic tale? He would not believe me, not without proof. And I have none to give."
"Yet you mentioned adding all factors?" Vanya persisted.
Saryon shook his head impatiently. He began to pace again, but stopped short at the cell window. Day had dawned completely now. Light streamed into the cold prison house, and the village of the Sorcerers was beginning to waken. Smoke curled upward, blown raggedly in the whipping wind. A few early risers were up and trudging to work already, or were .inspecting their dwellings for damage from last nights storm. Off in the distance, he saw one of Blachloch's guards hurrying between the buildings at a run.
Where was Joram? Why hasn't he returned? Saryon wondered. Immediately he shoved the thought from his mind and began pacing again, hoping the activity would help him concentrate and warm him at the same time.
"All factors?" he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, there are . . . other factors. The young man looks like his mother, the Empress. Oh, not a striking resemblance. His face is Hardened by the difficult life he has led. His brows are thick and brooding, he rarely smiles. But he has her hair, beautiful black hair that curls
down around his shoulders. I am told his mother Ч that is, the woman who raised him Ч refused to let it be cut. And there is an expression in his eyes sometimes Ч regal, haughty. ..." Saryon sighed. His mouth was dry. The tears in his throat tasted like blood. "Then, of course, he is Dead, Holiness Ч " - "There are many Dead who walk this world."
The Bishop is trying to find out how much I know, Saryon realized suddenly. Or maybe looking for proof. His legs weak, the catalyst sank down at the small, plain table standing near the firepit. Lifting the hand-fashioned clay pitcher, he started to pour himself a drink, only to discover that the water inside was covered with a layer of ice. Casting a bitter glance at the cold ashes of the firepit, Saryon set the pitcher back upon the table with a thud.