Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [110]
Seeing this, Saryon reached out his hand and laid it restrainingly upon Joram’s arm, causing the young man to sink slowly back into his chair.
“I’ll get proof! What proof do you want?” Joram demanded, breathing heavily. His hands clutched the armrests of the chair in his effort to control his temper.
Lord Samuels sighed. “According to my friend, the midwife he spoke to in the Font is of the opinion that the former midwife — the one who was there at the time of your birth — remembered that occasion, due to the … um … unusual circumstances surrounding it. If you had a birthmark” — milord shrugged — “anything that she might recall, the Church would undoubtedly accept her testimony. She is now a high-ranking Theldara attending the Empress,” Lord Samuels added by way of explanation to Saryon, who wasn’t listening.
The catalyst’s head was bursting with intense pain; blood beat in his ears. He knew what Joram was going to say, he could see the light of hope dawning upon the young man’s face, he could see the lips moving, his hands going to the fabric of the shirt that covered his chest.
I must stop him! the catalyst thought desperately, but a paralyzing fear gripped him. Saryon’s lips were rigid, he could not speak. He could not draw breath. He might have been turned to stone. He could hear Joram talking, but the words came to him with a muffled sound as if spoken out of a thick mist.
“I do have a birthmark!” The young man’s hands tore his shirt open. “One she’s certain to remember! Look! These scars … on my chest! Anja said they were caused by the clumsy midwife who delivered me! Her nails dug into my flesh as she drew me from my mother’s womb! These will prove my true identity!”
No! No! Saryon screamed silently. Not the nails of a clumsy midwife! He remembered it all with vivid, aching clarity. Those scars — the tears of your mother! Your real mother, the Empress, weeping over you in the magnificent Cathedral of Merilon; her crystal tears falling upon her Dead baby, shattering, cutting; the blood running red down the baby’s white skin; Bishop Vanya’s look of annoyance, for now the tiny baby would have to be purified all over again …
The books were caving in on Saryon … The books … forbidden books … forbidden knowledge … The Duuk-tsarith surrounding him … Their black robes, smothering him … He was suffocating … He couldn’t breathe …
These … will prove my true identity….
Darkness.
8
In the Night
“Will he live?”
“Yes,” said the Theldara, coming out of the room to which they had carried the inert, and to all appearances lifeless, catalyst. She studied the young man standing before her intently. In the stern face and thick black hair, she saw little resemblance to the features of the sick man. Yet the pain and anguish and even fear visible in the dark eyes made the Druidess doubt.
“Are you his son?” she asked.
“No … no,” responded the young man, shaking his head. “I am a … friend.” He said this almost wistfully. “We have traveled far together.”
The Theldara frowned. “Yes. I can tell from the body’s impulses that this man has long been separated from his home. He is a man accustomed to peace and quiet pursuits, his colors are grays and soft blues. Yet I see auras of fiery red emanating from his skin. If it were not impossible in these days of peace,” the Theldara continued, “I would say this catalyst had been involved in a battle! But there is no war …”
Stopping, the Druidess eyed Joram questioningly.
“No,” he replied.
“Therefore,” the Theldara continued, “I must judge the turmoil to be internal. This is affecting his fluids; indeed, it is affecting the total harmony of his body! And there is something else, some dread secret he bears …”
“We all bear secrets,” Joram said impatiently. Looking beyond the Theldara, he tried to see into the darkened room. “Can I visit him?”
“Just a moment, young man,” said the Theldara sternly, catching hold of Joram’s arm in her hand.
The Theldara was a large woman of middle age. Considered one