Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [130]
The night deepened around Merilon — as deep as night was allowed to sink, that is. This was not very far, the darkness merely moistening the populace, never drowning it. Though Saryon was weak and exhausted, he drifted along on the top of sleep, restless and troubled, neither falling into peaceful oblivion nor quite bobbing to the surface.
The catalyst’s room was dark and quiet; the harp — refusing to play — sat in sullen silence in a corner. The tapestries were drawn to blot out any harmful effects of either sun or moon. The aromatic herbs had been removed; Saryon said they choked him. The only sound in the room was the catalyst’s rasping breathing.
Rising out of nights flood tide, silent as the night itself, two figures robed in black appeared in the catalyst’s room. They floated over to the man’s bed. Leaning down, a soft female voice called quietly, “Father Dunstable.”
No response from the slumbering figure.
“Father Dunstable,” said the voice again, this time more urgently.
The catalyst shifted uneasily at the sound, turning his head upon the pillow as though to blot it out, his hand starting to draw the bedclothes up around his neck.
Then, “Saryon!” called the black-robed woman.
“What?” The catalyst sat upright, staring about him in confusion. At first he could see nothing — the shapes hovering over his bed like dark angels were one with the night. When he did see them, his eyes opened wide, a strangled sound came from his throat.
“Act swiftly,” ordered the woman. “He may suffer another attack.”
Her companion was already casting his spell, however. Saryon’s body went limp, his head sank back onto the pillow, his eyes shut in an enthralled sleep.
The witch and the warlock regarded each other with satisfaction over the inert body.
“I told you the Church would handle the matter,” the witch said. She motioned to their victim. “He is to be taken immediately to the Font.”
The warlock, hands folded in front of him, nodded.
“Have you searched the house?” she continued.
“The young men are gone.”
“I expected they would be.” The witch gave an almost-imperceptible shrug. The hood of her black robe turned ever so slightly in the direction of the catalyst. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “It doesn’t matter all all.” She made a gesture with one slender hand. “Go.”
Her companion bowed. With a word of command, he caused the catalyst’s body to rise up into the air. Filaments finer than silk shot from the fingers of the warlock, winding themselves rapidly about Saryon until he was firmly encased in a cocoon of enchantment. The warlock spoke another word and a Corridor gaped open before him; the Thon-Li had been awaiting his signal. Another motion of the hand sent the bound catalyst floating through the night air and into the Corridor. The warlock followed. The Corridor shut swiftly and silently behind them.
The witch remained standing a moment longer in the quiet room, allowing herself a moment of well-earned congratulation. But there was still much to be done. Putting her hands together in a prayerlike attitude, the witch raised them to her forehead, then drew them down before her face, continuing downward. As her hands moved, she murmured arcane words. Her appearance changed. Within moments, the image of the Theldara who had been treating Saryon stood in the room.
The witch spoke aloud now, testing her voice’s pitch and modulation to make certain it was correct. “Lord Samuels, I regret to tell you that Father Dunstable was taken ill during the night. His young friend sent for me. I have removed the catalyst to the Houses of Healing….”
Postlude
Hands of night gripped him, winding their enchantments around him. He traveled Corridors of darkness that took him to more darkness. There he lay and waited for the horror that he knew was coming. A voice called his name and he knew the voice and did not want to listen to it. Frantically he grabbed for the charm around his neck, knowing it would protect him, but it wasn’t there! It was gone,