Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [131]
“Saryon …”
“Obedire est vivere. Vivere est obedire,” Saryon muttered feverishly.
“To obey is to live. To live is to obey.” The voice was very sad. “Our most holy precept. And you have forgotten that, my son. Wake up now, Saryon. Let us help you through the to see his father — the gentle wizard barely remembered — the catalyst saw, instead, Bishop Vanya.
Saryon gasped, and struggled to sit up. He had some dim remembrance of being bound, and he thrashed against his bonds, only to find that they were nothing more than sweetly scented sheets. At a gesture from Bishop Vanya, a young Druid caught hold of the wild-eyed catalyst by the shoulders and pressed him gently back into the bed.
“Relax, Father Saryon,” the Druid said kindly. “You have suffered much. But you are home now, and all will be well … if you let us help you.”
“My — my name — It’s not Saryon,” said the shaken catalyst, glancing about him as the Druid arranged the cool pillows beneath his head.
He was not, as he had dreamed, being held prisoner in a dark and fearful dungeon surrounded by figures in black robes. He was lying in a sunlit room filled with blooming plants. He recognized this place … Home, the Druid said. Yes, thought Saryon, filled with a sense of peace and relief that brought tears to eyes. Yes, I am home! The Font….
“My son,” said Bishop Vanya, and the voice was tinged with such profound grief and disappointment that tears fell down Saryon’s face, his strange face, the face that belonged to another man, “do not blacken your soul further with this lie. Its corruption has spread from your heart to your body. It is poisoning you. Look here. I want you meet someone.”
Saryon turned his head as a figure stepped into his view.
“Saryon,” said Bishop Vanya, “I want you to meet Father Dunstable, the real Father Dunstable.”
Swallowing a bitter taste in his mouth, Saryon closed his eyes. It was all over. He was doomed. There was nothing he could do now, nothing but protect Joram. And he would do that, though it cost him his life. After all, what was that life worth anyway, he thought in despair. Nothing much … Even his god had abandoned him….
He heard murmured voices and he had the impression that Bishop Vanya was dismissing both the Druid and the catalyst. Saryon didn’t know and he didn’t care. The Bishop will send for the Duuk-tsarith now, he thought. They have ways, they say, of seeing into a man’s mind, of boring through the flesh and blood and bone, of penetrating the skull and dragging out the truth. The pain is excruciating, if you “fight it, so they say. Likely I won’t live through it. He felt lighthearted at the thought and suddenly impatient that nothing was happening. Get on with it, he ordered them silently, irritably.
“Deacon Saryon,” began Bishop Vanya, and the catalyst was surprised at hearing his old title. He was surprised, too, at the continued tone of sadness in the Bishop’s voice. “I want you to tell me where we can find the young man, Joram.”
Ah! Saryon had been waiting for this. Firmly, he shook his head. Now they’ll come, he thought.
Instead, however, there was only silence. He heard the rustle of Vanya’s rich, silken robes as he shifted his bulk in the chair. He heard the Bishop’s slow, labored breathing. It was the breathing of an elderly man, Saryon realized suddenly. He’d never thought of the Bishop as old. Yet he himself was in his mid-forties. Vanya had been middle-aged when Saryon was a youth. The Bishop must be, what, seventy, eighty? Still there was only silence, interrupted by the breathing….
Cautiously, Saryon opened his eyes. The Bishop was staring at him, regarding him with a thoughtful air, as though undecided on a course of action. Now that the catalyst looked at his superior closely, he could