Triumph of the Darksword by Margaret Weis Page B

Even the few steps that he had taken from the desk in his office in the Font to the Corridor and out of the Corridor into the study of the Crystal Palace of Merilon had exhausted him. Collapsing into a chair, Vanya gasped and wheezed for breath while Xavier stood waiting, outwardly calm, inwardly seething with suppressed impatience—and fear.
    When he had recovered somewhat, Bishop Vanya shot a sharp glance at the warlock from beneath half-closed eyelids. Seeing that The DKarn-Duuk was staring intently out the wall and, apparently, not looking at the Bishop, Vanya hurriedly lifted his paralyzed left hand with his right, and placed it upon the arm of the chair, carefully arranging the limp fingers so that he might hide all signs of paralysis. Everyone knew the Bishop did this, of course, and everyone deliberately kept their eyes politely averted until Vanya had managed to arrange himself. These were a people accustomed to dissembling. After all, they had pretended the corpse of their Empress was alive for a year.
    Hearing the Bishop finally settled in his chair, Xavier half-turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Well, Eminence?” he demanded abruptly. “What kept you? I expected you last night.”
    “The
Duuk-tsarith
did not return until early this morning,” Vanya said, leaning back cautiously in the chair, careful not to disturb the placement of his arm. He spoke clearly and distinctly, with only a slight slurring due to the paralysis of the left side of his face, a disfigurement barely noticeable (through the help of magic) by a downward slant to the corner of his lips and an almost imperceptible droop of the left eyelid. The Bishop would have considered this intolerable, had not the
Theldara
who treated him assured Vanya that he should thank the Almin he was alive, and not complain about such mundane matters.
    “I know from your expression the news isn’t good,” Xavier said, turning back to glare down upon the city. “The Darksword is gone.”
    “Yes, Highness,” Vanya replied, the fingers of his good hand crawling spiderlike over the arm of the chair.
    “What took them so long to discover that?” Xavier demanded bitterly.
    “The storm on the Border is worsening,” Vanya said, moistening his lips. “By the time the
Duuk-tsarith
arrived, the statue of the catalyst had been completely covered by sand. The entire landscape has changed, Highness. They could not even recognize the Borderland and they were present during the Execu—”
    “I am aware of when they were there, Eminence,” Xavier interrupted impatiently. The man’s hands, clasped correctly before him, were white from the strain of maintaining this semblance of outward calm. “Get on with your report!”
    “Yes, Highness,” Vanya muttered. Irritated at the imperious tone, he took advantage of the man’s turned back to glower at him in hatred. “It took the warlocks some time even to discover the location of the statue, then they had to remove the mounds of sand covering it. The
Duuk-tsarith
were forced to work under magical shields to protect themselves from the storm that blew fiercely about them. It took two warlocks and four catalysts alone just to maintain the shield so that work could proceed. Finally, they dug down to the remains of the statue.”
    “Is the catalyst—that Saryon—dead?” Xavier asked.
    Vanya paused to mop his sweating forehead with a white cloth. He was either too hot or too cold these days. There never seemed any in-between.
    When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. “Certainly the spell was broken, the spirit fled. But whether to the realm of the dead or the living, no one is certain.”
    “Damn!” Xavier muttered beneath his breath, the fingers of one hand clenching. “And the sword is gone?”
    “Sword and scabbard.”
    “You are certain?”
    “The
Duuk-tsarith
do not make mistakes, Highness,” Vanya replied acidly. “They combed a wide area around the site of the statue and found nothing. What is