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Informationen zum Autor Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Klappentext Born without magic, Joram was one of the Dead, denied the throne of Merilon. For years, he lived among outlaws, surviving by wit and sleight-of-hand. Now, wielding the powerful, magic absorbing Darksword, Joram retums to the enchanted Kingdom that once was his home to win revenge and claim his birthright. Here he will test Bishop Vanya and his fierce army of Duuk-tsarith in a battle unlike any their world has known. Joined by the scholarly catalyst Saryon, the young mage Mosiah, and the trickster Simkin, Jorma confronts the shattering secret of his past and discovers the ancient prophecy that puts the fate of the world in his hands--the hands that forged the Darksword.The Summons “Saryon….” The catalyst floated between unconsciousness and the waking nightmare of his life. “Holiness, forgive me!” he muttered feverishly. “Take me back to our sanctuary! Free me of this terrible burden. I cannot bear it!” Tossing on his crude bed, Saryon put his hands over his closed eyes as though he could blot out the dreadful visions that sleep only intensified and made more frightening. “Murder!” he cried. “I have done murder! Not once! Oh, no, Holiness! Twice. Two men have died because of me!” “Saryon!” The voice repeated the catalyst’s name, and there was a hint of irritation in it. The catalyst cringed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. “Let me confess to you, Holiness!” he cried. “Punish me as you will. I deserve it, desire it! Then I will be free of their faces, their eyes … haunting me!” Saryon sat up on his bed, half-asleep. He had not slept in days; exhaustion and excitement had temporarily overthrown his mind. He had no conscious thought of where he was or why this voice — that he knew to be hundreds of miles away — should be speaking to him so clearly. “The first, a young man of our Order,” the catalyst continued brokenly. “The warlock used my Life-giving force to murder him. The wretched catalyst never had a chance. And now the warlock, too, is dead! He lay before me helpless, drained of his magic by my arts! Joram —” The catalyst’s voice sank to a hushed whisper. “Joram….” “Saryon!” The voice was stern, urgent and commanding, and it finally roused the catalyst from his confused exhaustion. “What?” Shivering in his wet robes, Saryon looked around. He was not in the sanctuary of the Font. He was in a chill prison cell. Death surrounded him. Brick walls — stone made by the hands of man, not shaped by magic. The wood-beam ceiling above bore the gouges of tools. Cold metal bars forged by the hand of the Dark Arts seemed a barrier against Life itself. “Joram?” Saryon called softly through teeth clenched against the cold. But a glance told him the young man was not in the prison cell, his bed had not been slept in. “Of course not,” Saryon said to himself, shuddering. Joram was in the wilderness, disposing of the body…. But then, whose had been the voice he heard so clearly? The catalyst’s head sank into his shaking hands. “Take my life, Almin!” he prayed fervently. “If you truly do exist, take my life and end this torment, this misery. For now I am going mad —” “Saryon! You cannot avoid me, if such is your intent! You will listen to me! You have no choice!” The catalyst raised his head, his eyes wide and staring, his body convulsing with a chill that was colder than the breath of the bitterest winter wind. “Holiness?” he called through trembling lips. Rising stiffly to his feet, the catalyst looked around the small cell. “Holiness? Where are you? I can’t see you, yet I hear — I don’t understand …” “I am present in your mind, Saryon,” the voice said. “I speak to you from the Font. How I am able to accomplish this need be of little importance to you, Father. My powers are very great. Are you alone?”...
