Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [105]
The Priest’s sorrowful face grew so pale that the words fell flat. Joram heard Saryon sigh heavily. The catalyst passed his hand over his eyes. “Come, sit by me, Joram,” he said, making room on the bench.
Joram did so. Sitting down beside the catalyst, he relaxed and listened — for the first time — to the silence of the garden at night. Its peace and tranquility drifted down upon him like a gentle snowfall, its cool shadows easing his burning mind.
“Do you know, Saryon,” Joram said hesitantly, unaccustomed to speaking his thoughts, yet feeling somehow that he owed this man something and longed to pay the debt, “the other day — when we were together in the chapel — was the first time I had ever been inside a … a holy place. Oh” — he shrugged — “there was a church of sorts in Walren, a crude building where the Field Magi went once a week to get their daily dose of guilt from Father Tolban. My mother never darkened the door, as I suppose you can guess.”
“Yes,” murmured Saryon, looking at Joram with a puzzled expression, astonished at this unusual outpouring of words.
“Anja talked about god, about the Almin,” Joram continued, his gaze fixed upon the moonlit roses, “but only to give thanks to him that I was better than the others. I never bothered to pray. Why should I? What did I have to be thankful for?” the young man said, the old bitterness creeping into his voice. He grew quiet, his gaze going from the delicate white flowers on the vine to his hands — so skilled and supple, so deadly. Clasping his hands together, he continued to stare at them, unseeing, as he spoke.
“My mother hated catalysts — for what they had done to my father — and she fed me on hatred. You told me once — Do you remember?” he glanced at Saryon, “— that it is easier to hate than to love? You were right! Oh, how right you were, Father!” Joram’s hands parted, clenched into fists. “All my life, I have hated,” the young man said in a low, passionate voice. “I’m beginning to wonder if I can love! It’s so hard, it hurts … so much….”
“Joram,” Saryon began, his heart full.
“Wait, just let me finish, Father,” Joram said, the words almost exploding out of him with pent-up frustration. “Coming in here, tonight, I suddenly thought of my father.” The dark brows came together. “I’ve never thought of him, much,” he said, staring at his hands once more. “When I did, it was to see him standing there on the Borderland, his stone face frozen and unmoving, the tears dropping from eyes that stare eternally into a death he’ll never know. But now, in here” — lifting his head, glancing around the garden, Joram’s face softened — “I think of him as he must have been — a man like myself. With … passions like mine, passions he could not control. I see my mother as she must have been then, a young girl, graceful and beautiful and …” He hesitated, swallowing.
“Innocent, trusting,” Saryon said gently.
“Yes,” Joram answered inaudibly. Looking at the catalyst, he was astounded at the sight of the anguish he saw in the man’s face.
Saryon caught hold of the young man’s hands, gripping them with an intensity as painful as his words.
“Leave! Now, Joram!” the catalyst said urgently. “There is nothing for you here! Nothing for her but bitter unhappiness — as there was for your poor mother!”
Stubbornly, Joram shook his head, the curling black hair falling down over his face. He broke free of the catalyst’s grip.
“My boy, my son!” Saryon said, clasping his own hands together. “It pleases me more than anything that you feel you can confide in me. I would be but a poor recipient of your confidence if I did not advise you to the best of my ability. If only you knew — If only I could —”
“Knew what?” Joram asked, looking up swiftly at the catalyst.
Saryon blinked and bit off his words, swallowing them hastily. “If only I could make you understand,” he finished lamely, sweat beading on hs lips. “I know you plan to marry this girl,” he said slowly, his brows knotted.
“Yes,” Joram answered coolly. “When my inheritance is settled, of course.