Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [176]
When he held up his hands, he half expected to find them shaking, but they were perfectly steady. He wanted to die. He saw, suddenly, that his inevitable death would be not an execution, but an assisted suicide. For years he’d felt like an empty, hollow farce of a man; now the thin, false shell he presented to the world would collapse and be swallowed up by the void inside him. The long weariness would be over. He smiled again, and as he did, he felt a warm calm envelop him, as if he floated in a hot perfumed bath, as if he floated a few inches off the floor, so light and calm and safe did he feel now that he wanted to die. No one would ever force him to go against his own will again; no one would ever hurt him again. Still smiling, he drew over the tray of food. He was perfectly calm and very hungry.
By the time he finished eating, the calm had become a weariness so deep that he could no longer hold up his head. He lay down on his stomach, pillowed his head on folded arms, and watched the shadows thrown along the floor by the lantern. At times he floated out of his body, then slid back, moving back and forth between the etheric and the physical without any conscious effort or control. He was out of the body, in fact, when the cell door opened and Nevyn strode in, accompanied by the dwarf who’d brought the food. Even though Sarcyn had never seen the old man before, he knew that he was facing the Master of the Aethyr by his aura, a near-blinding blaze of pale-gold light.
“Worms and slimes!” the dwarf snapped. “Is he dead?”
“I doubt it.” Nevyn knelt down by Sarcyn’s body and laid a hand on the back of his neck. “He’s not, but in a trance.”
All at once Sarcyn felt the blue light swirl around him. He felt as if his body were sucking at him; no matter how hard he fought, it pulled him down the silver cord until at last he heard a rushy hiss and a click. With a grunt he opened his eyes and saw Nevyn leaning over him.
“Good,” the dwarf said. “Well, I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
Sarcyn stared down at the floor until he heard the door slamming shut; then, very slowly, he turned his head and looked at his adversary. It seemed that he should say something, some cry of defiance, perhaps, or make the simple remark that he was ready and willing to die, but he was weary again, and no words came. For what seemed like a long time Nevyn simply looked at him.
“I arranged your rescue,” Nevyn said at last. “Did they tell you?”
“They did. Rescue or another trap?”
“You young dolt! What do you think I’m going to do, torture you or suchlike?”
“I’m sure you’ve no need for anything so crude.”
“Ye gods, isn’t there anything between your two ears? I was the one who spoke through the fire, telling you to call upon the Light. You did, and here I am.”
He smiled. Sarcyn wondered at it for a long time, that he would smile.
“Tell me,” Nevyn went on. “Are you willing to make restitution?”
“All I want is to die.”
“Oh, you’ll get that wish, I’m afraid.” Nevyn turned sad. “But then you’ll be given the chance to get free of the Darkness forever.”
“What? Where? In the wretched Otherlands?”
“Oh, come now, lad! Do you truly believe that when a man dies, there’s an end to him? What sloppy training you’ve been given!”
Sarcyn stared bewildered, yet he suddenly began to remember hints and clues—traveling in the etheric in a consciousness free of flesh, Alastyr’s boasts