Forging the Darksword by Margaret Weis Page A

about in shadows as the weather magi, the
Sif-Hanar
, hid the sun’s harsh brilliance beneath a blanket of pearl-gray clouds, more restful to the eye and conducive to prayer and meditation.
    Night fell. The lights in the Palace shone with an ominous intensity. The catalysts, once more called to prayer after the evening meal, gathered in the great Cathedral. Kneeling on the marble floor, Saryon nodded as sleep overcame him and, looking up through the crystal ceiling, endeavored to concentrate on those lights to stay awake.
    Then, near morning, the bells on the Royal Palace pealed out in triumph. The magical sphere surrounding the city exploded with dazzling flags of fire and of silk. The people of Merilon danced in the streets as word came from the Palace that the Empress had been safely delivered of a son and that both she and the baby were doing well. Saryon rose from the hard floor thankfully and joined the other catalysts in the courtyard of the Cathedral to watch the spectacle but not to join in the merriment. Not yet.
    Though the Tests for Life were only a formality, the catalysts would not celebrate the child’s birth until it was proven that the child was Alive.

    It was not the Tests, however, that were occupying Saryon’s mind when, ten days after the child’s birth, he and Deacon Dulchase descended the marble stairs leading down into one of the subterranean levels of the Cathedral. “So just what are the duties of a Father in one of the noble houses?” Saryon asked.
    Dulchase started to answer but, just at that moment, they arrived in an unfamiliar hallway that branched off in three directions. The two Deacons paused, staring about them uncertainly. Finally, Dulchase hailed a passing novitiate.
    “Pardon me, Sister,” he said, “but we are searching for the room where the Royal Child will be tested. Can you give us direction?”
    “I will be honored to escort you, Deacons of the Font,” murmured the novitiate, a charming young woman, who, when her eyes went to the tall figure of Saryon, smiled at him shyly and led the way, occasionally glancing behind her at the young Deacon out of the corner of her eye.
    Conscious of this, and conscious also of Dulchase’s amused grin, Saryon flushed and repeated his earlier question.
    “House Catalyst,” Dulchase reflected. “So that’s what old Vanya’s got in mind for you. Didn’t think you’d be interested in that sort of life,” he added with a sidelong glance of his own at the young Deacon. “I thought all you cared about was mathematics.”
    Saryon’s flush deepened, and he mumbled something confused about the Bishop having decided that he needed to broaden his horizons, realize his potential, that sort of thing.
    Dulchase raised an eyebrow as they descended still another staircase, but, though he obviously suspected deeper waters here than were visible on the surface, he did not question the young man further, much to Saryon’s relief.
    “Be warned, Brother,” he said in solemn tones. “The duties of a catalyst in one of the noble houses are strenuous in the extreme. Let’s see, how to break this to you gently. You will be awakened some time around midmorning by servants bearing your breakfast on a tray of gold—”
    “What about the Ritual of the Dawn?” Saryon interrupted, eyeing Dulchase uncertainly, as though suspecting he were being made the brunt of some joke.
    Dulchase’s lip curled in a sneer, a habitual expression for the older Deacon who, because of his sharp tongue and irreverent attitude, would probably be a Deacon the rest of his life. He had been brought along in Vanya’s retinue only because he knew everyone and everything that lived or occurred in Merilon. “Dawn? Bosh! Dawn comes to Merilon whenever you open your eyes. You’d have the house in an uproar if you rose with the sun. Come to think of it, the sun itself isn’t even permitted to rise at dawn. The
Sif-Hanar
see to that. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Your first order