Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [114]
It was well known that those who slept too long in lunar light were subject to its curse….
Joram spent the night at the catalyst’s bedside. No moonlight shone upon his thoughts, for the Theldara had made certain its unsettling influence did not disturb her patient. The harp in the corner of the room continued to play its soothing airs — the music of a shepherd playing his flute, greeting the dawn that eases his night’s watchfulness and relaxes his cares. A crystal globe hovered over the catalyst, shedding a soft light upon his face to keep away the terrors that lurk in darkness. Near it, liquid bubbled in another globe, sending forth aromatic fumes that cleansed the lungs and purged the blood of impurities.
How much good this did for Saryon was open to question, since, as the Theldara said, the secret of Joram’s true identity was more deadly to him than a cancerous growth. No herbs could draw out its poison, no healing gifts of the Theldara could call upon his body to use its own magic and fight the destroyer. Saryon lay sleeping under a sedating enchantment cast by the Theldara, apparently oblivious to all around him. That was probably the only treatment that could benefit him now, and it was only temporary, for the enchantment would soon wear off and he would be left to struggle along beneath his burden once more.
But if the soothing music and the aromatic herbs did little for the catalyst, they were a blessing to Joram. Sitting at the bedside of the man who had done so much for him — had done so much and received such small thanks — Joram remembered vividly the lost and lonely feeling he had experienced when he thought the catalyst might have died.
“You understand me, Father,” he said, holding onto the wasted hand that lay upon the coverlet. “None of the others do. Not Mosiah, not Simkin. They have magic, they have Life. You know, Saryon, what it is to yearn for the magic! Do you recall? You told me that once. You told me that as a child you were bitter at the Almin for making you a catalyst, for denying you the magic.
“Forgive me! I’ve been blind, so blind!” Joram laid his head down upon the catalysts hand. “Blessed Almin!” he cried in stifled agony. “I look at my soul and I see a dark and loathsome monster! Prince Garald was right. I was beginning to enjoy killing. I enjoyed the feeling of power it gave me! Now I see it wasn’t power at all. It was a weakness, a cowardice. I couldn’t face myself, I couldn’t face my enemy. I had to catch him unaware, strike from behind, strike while he was helpless! But for Garald and you, Father, I might have become that dark and loathsome monster within. But for you — and for Gwendolyn. Her love brings light to my soul.”
Raising his head, Joram stared down at his hands in disgust. “But how can I touch her with these hands, stained with blood? You are right, Saryon!” He stood up feverishly. “We must leave! But no!” He stopped, half turning. “How can I? She is my light! Without her, I am plunged into darkness once more. The truth. I must tell her the truth. Everything! That I’m Dead. That I’m a murderer…. After all, it doesn’t really sound that badly when I explain…. The overseer killed my mother. I was in danger. It was self-defense.” Joram sat down beside Saryon once more. “Blachloch was an evil man who deserved death not once but ten times over to pay for the suffering he inflicted on others. I will make her see that. I will make her understand. And she will forgive me, as you have forgiven me, Father. Between her love and forgiveness and your own, I will be cleansed….”
Joram fell silent, listening to the playing of the harp that was now